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I’m printing and binding my own copy of someone else’s monologue that I love. In general this category of thing often gets printed and bound so badly, and you’re left holding this thing that doesn’t feel as wonderful or considered as the text inside it. I’m not even saying it has to be expensive or fancy. It could be a simple chapbook (and in fact, mine will be) but could have a wonderful cover. It could be typeset beautifully. It could be just the right size, with just the right margins. Perhaps it shouldn’t really matter, but it does matter.

I’ve got nothing today. Things happened, of course, but I just don’t feel like writing about the things that did happen. Not because they’re bad or secret, I just feel like keeping most of a day to myself from time to time. I’m sat here now with a strong cup of tea and the sound of the ocean in my ears. The pacific is such a force.

I still want to live a in a lighthouse and read books in front of an open fire. I want to be surrounded by books. I want a comfy chair. I want wind howling at the windows, a gentle rattle reminding me of how completely vulnerable we are and how absolutely bonkers glass is. Hot sand that turns invisible and protects us. Weird stuff.

Alright, I’m going to finish this tea and go to bed. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to read. I’m exhausted and trying to get better sleep. It turns out that getting more sleep and drinking more water is just demonstrably good for you and it’s completely devastating because I’m terrible at both. Alas, I’ll just have to learn.

A slow Sunday after a weekend camping with great friends and our dogs. What a gift it is to spend time in nature with people and animals you love. I bought (and brought) entirely too much food, and basically everything else. At least we didn’t have to hike a mile uphill in the sun with carts or anything like that.

I spent the day listening to Sea Wall performed by Tom Sturridge in New York. There’s something so fucking great about that play. Performed by one person. No music, natural lighting, written in just three weeks. Three bloody weeks! The published playscript is slightly different to the New York one, so I transcribed it. I practiced it over and over because, well… I’m not sure, actually. I suppose I just wanted to, and that’s reason enough.

Without other responsibilities I think I’d just write things to perform and perform those things. I could do that now, of course, but it’s easier to imagine that you’d do it if only you had more time, or more energy, or more insert-excuse-here. I’m writing that down here because I want to acknowledge that it’s partly an excuse, and I want to figure out how to stop using that excuse.

What’s the shortest play I could write? What’s the smallest audience that would make me feel like I performed, and crucially (for me) with the chance that the person might not like it and might actually tell me that (i.e. they’re a critic or a stranger)? I’m sure a handful of words and a resident of the World Wide Web would do, but I’m almost certain I could do better than that.