one thing today

I was up for about an hour this morning and realized I didn't have a clue as to what day it is. Most of the time I can figure it out by something I did yesterday. not this day. finally, I decided it's Wednesday. not even close. its Saturday. The Goo tells me to use The Farmers Almanac Method ... i.e. ... add the last two digits of the year, one-quarter of that number (ignoring the remainder), the day of the month, and a specific month key number, then divide the total by 7 and use the remainder.  believe it or not, they're not kidding.

Am I worried or excited? Scared or intrigued beyond words?  I go on Chat GBT. I submit my short play and ask for critique. In an instant, an instant, it delivers a twelve page document full of extremely sharp comments, praise, questions, observations, recommendations.  i.e. I think there's a genuinely interesting play here. It has philosophical ambition, an unusual premise, and a surprisingly moving emotional center. My overall reaction: The play is strongest when it stops discussing the nature of existence and starts dramatizing what it means to love being alive. That's the heart of it. I'll approach this as a dramaturg, looking at both the writing on the page and how it might work in performance. The play appears to be about a creator confronting his own creation and deciding to destroy it. Joe Wright is perhaps a writer, God, playwright, or some combination of all three. Pop and Suzie are characters who have become more than the circumstances that produced them.  ...

 

 

  With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal  Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;  They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound,  Felt as a well-spring ...

                              DO THE THING