all those things I have scattered about the greater midwest.

Tonight these 4 hotel walls, a bland, fake-cracked brown are lonely. I am trying, hard. TRYING to remember what it was I am getting better for. I am trying to remember what I liked and what made life better. Yes, I'm there.

I just finished a 600 page novel, of which I remember only descriptions and a few philosophical quirks. Fiction mostly, completely disengages my emotiona connection. However, I started a new Edward Abby book today. Nonfiction. The mere description of the desert, the animals and our connection hit hard. The walls are lonely, forgeign.

I've become empty, like a hotel room. For rental with the next person on task. I have disengaged with life. I care not. I haven't worn makeup in weeks. I don't care.

And I am missing all of myself. All those things I love have been taken from me. And I am angry but not angry enough to get out of bed in the morning and find all those things that I lost. All those things I have scattered about the greater midwest. This is survival in the most alien of worlds to me.

Where is the ground? Between the bus and the carpet and the darkened backstage I can't find it. I don't feel it. Where is the theater I set about to do--to challenge, anoint and teach. I feel like a seller and I can't put on that proud for-the-arts face anymore. Did I ever like this job?

I need a road trip. To touch something real. TO FEEL. In need of more than this... only 2 weeks left.