Days

"Mm-mm-mm these dreams
Keep me goin' these days."

-- Jim Croce, "These Dreams"

--

It is seventy degrees in my room and seven degrees outside. My girlfriend's roommate showed us her middle finger last night; the blood had drained from the cold skin cylinder, leaving it numb. Cars everywhere start on the third or fourth try, after clearing so many engine throats.

It is cold in Cincinnati.

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We have finished rehearsals for Coretta Scott King, and are enjoying two days off before a very sparse and calm-looking tour. Two consecutive four-day weekends in February.

Before February, with its Valentine's Day and (hopefully) warmth, there are the Illinois Theatre Association auditions in Chicago at the end of this month. Preparing is today's project: Headshots copied and printed, resumes glued to the backs, all of these packed into envelopes and shipped off, priority, to the art farts in Chi-Town.

Can't wait to start cutting and gluing with these icicle fingers, these glacial digits.

--

I dreamed that I was an old woman in church last night, stuck in a bathtub. Weird stuff happening in dreams lately. (Was I being baptized? I don't get it.)

--

My tiny room smells like vanilla and orange. I ate an orange, and the vanilla is from the air freshener my mom gave me. It plugs into a wall. It's science.