It disturbs me even thinking about it. I don’t embarrass easily, but this was such a disaster. The sound of one hand clapping.
Sometimes I think about performing, all the performing I’ve done, and I know I have been carrying out someone else’s vision. And as I write that I think, bull! I interpreted someone else’s work, and I was good at it. Yeah. Not that I had no voice. It disturbs me to think I have no voice now. No imagination.
Oh. That’s horribly disturbing, the idea, the knowledge that my imagination is being sucked dry. Is sucked dry.
Where do I nurture the well?
Being married disturbs me. Being alive often disturbs me.
I think our new neighbors downstairs are going to disturb me.