Slight fizz in the air. Potential improvements coming. Trees fluffy as wedding dresses. The first really pretty day, and we’re all frisking up. Ballet in the morning; my second class back since the foot has healed. -Ish; there’s a brace I have to wear when I dance. Mary keeps the tempo brisk and it’s a delight. (I still wish the iPhone plus speaker combo were in fact a Russian pianist in a pale green housedress banging away at an old Steinway )
Avery and Zach take us to dinner at Market street. I eat the burnt-to-order outer edges of my gf pizza. N, aka Jack Sprat, lines up the edges he’s cut off his pizza on his plate because that’s the part he doesn’t touch.
A residual check from SAG-Aftra for 29 cents, or as they spell it, 0.29 . I tell myself I’ve aged out of pretending to be someone else for not enough money.
Struck by how much of human interaction is a exchange of energy. Bruce , who was a magnificent writer, an adventurer, a traveler, an explorer, a raconteur and a beauty and also sick with AIDS, could muster the force to tell his perfect long story featuring a German general called Von Papen and somehow priests from Mount Athos , act it all out fully animated by arm puppetry and faces and pantomime moves , as long as we kept our full attention on him. The last such performance I saw — endless and wildly funny and very well rehearsed—was in the apartment at the end of the boulevard St.Germain, one afternoon in the spring of 1987. When he and Elizabeth left, I fell into the couch, drained. I’d given my all to his performance.
I wonder how old I’ll be when I will so efficiently use the energy of others as my own.