lump in my throat
��������� �����the time between - morninghour, and the annoyance of crows in the trees just outside. a steady sort of sound as backdrop, and profligate fog, everywhere, dousing ...not moody. not entirely unsure. but for some reason somehow incredibly awkward, stick-like figurehands jiving and scratching against invisible winds. am writing more, though, now, and thinking and plotting, drying up pens as quick as slurping up soda. my throat hurts, and it feels like i'm continually trying to swallow something. i wonder if it's tonsilitis. and if that's anything like appendicitis and it will burst & kill me. or maybe it's just strep throat. but i have no other symptoms ... it'd be rather untimely if i had to get a tonsilectomy, i think. very untimely. but better now than later - i should get this checked out if it continues.
callbacks in an hour, for romeo & juliet and i am hoping to get some sort of part. abruptly, i feel uncomfortable writing in here. even moreso than before, when everyone and their uncle read this - which surprises me in some way. i guess now there are thoughts that i would rather keep to myself... and i don't like it when it's talked about in front of me. rampant anger & depression take visceral forms before my eyes (...is this a dagger i see before me...) oh overload of shakespeare! but i'm allowed to feel it, and then, hopefully, move onwards ..
i hate it when my body mutinies against me. this pain is uncomfortable rather than ubitquitous... ah well. something else, now, to whittle hours down before i go to portland. undraw the curtains and .. well, maybe something a little less intellectual. my brain feels kinda tumourous.
maybe i'll start going for a run every morning. that might feel good. something physical, wishfulthought, that conjures up like rooks from trees every fall about this time. winter approaches, leonine, through the half-naked trees of fall. like skinny women, they clutch their foliage closer to their bodies, but the wind of lion's passage snarls & catches at their clothing. suddenly bared, like concentration camp inmates, they weep, and tears form icicles.
more ... later.