barely left house during bank holiday weekend, but it wasn't as productive as i'd have liked. have started next short story collection in earnest, and it's shaping up ok. also getting used to being the zombie overlord of webzine write collective project, but it's too early to say how closely glorious minions will obey.
illness largely departed, though there's a vestigial cough racking me unawares. but no fatal flaw. i bought a book on notable bohemians yesterday. maybe i can rock the consumptive look or something.
the ever-circling rivers of paranoia round my heart having been swollen to bursting by last month's disastrous second (11:20-12:00) set, i've painstakingly constructed what i hope will be a foolproof dancefloor assault. if i am wrong, i shall kill myself at 12:01.
the other, most important thing i've been wasting my time on is synopses for the next two plays i'm considering writing this summer, once i've put second draft of film and story collection to bed. also: a twelve-page primer of previous unperformed extracts from the four full-length plays so far. gonna mail them to theatres with a painfully-honest, sincere letter confessing how lost i am at this point. fingers crossed someone will at least point me in some direction. all i need is some encouragement every couple of years. i can eke out compliments pretty well, and insults (at this point at least) are spurs, wounds to revenge.
i probably shd have taken at least one day off. it makes me feel better, it's healthier. to be honest, the first two days most of my time was spent staring blankly at monitor - light scalding tired eyes - or lying on back hating myself for lying on my back hating myself. there's just so much to do right now. i sleepwalk from one task to another, no enthusiasm, much as if i'm playing a kind of lifestyle tetris with endless artistic chores for the spaces in schedule. but, whatever, slow progress is my curse and my reward. i'm not ripe for burial just yet.