Two Weeks In, Three Week Contract

The green digits square out a 3:40. If this were any other home, in any other profession, we would only be awake because of a terrible emergency. But. Tulsa quotes a Billy Collins poem--the one about angels. The one that ends, "and now it is very late, even for musicians." He gives a resigned smile: "it is very late, even for actors."

The men who have passed through these nail-up halls are all so physically fit. I see a lot of squats happening. In the yard, in the living room, on the deck outside the theatre. They drink ice cube blue liquor on lit patios but somehow eat chard in the morning.

Everyone is working on "projects" that are loosely named and lightly described because it all sounds moronic, but we dare not judge lest we be judged. And sometimes I stare for thirty minutes at this screenplay while the jack and jill door is the only thing between another tortured soul scribbling madly on a pad sketch ideas for a podcast. What possible words in the English language are more embarrassing than "podcast" and "sketch." We all toss up and serve the worst offender of all. "Comedy" we say. And we do bits in the parking lot. Writing that it sounds like a euphemism for drugs, and to some extent we have numbed ourselves and simultaneously depressed. Or upped.

I hope the fences we mended,

fall down beneath their won weight.

And I hope we hang on past the last exit,

I hope its already too late.