Called off yesterday, happily. Spent the day napping and reading. Then to a play in the evening. Much needed, very tired lately. (I have had to repost this several times for severe grammar and spelling issues.)
Too bad the book was The Children's Book. I suspect there is a decent novel in there, somewhere, smothered by polemic and research and a blather of names. Perhaps were I British, I'd get enough out of that to not mind. Or a designer, then all the minute descriptions of costume and pottery would flow in a ripple of recognition. Instead, I just plowed through, skipping swathes of text lacking recognizable characters names. The extensive fairy tales, as written by the central character, were interesting, until they simply stopped the progression of the plot. All too much, and a stern editor seemed much needed.
I may have missed a bit, since I had no clear idea of why one character disintegrated so badly. In such a thick book with so much detail to skimp on that explanation seemed stingy. But then, these are people who don't talk about personal feeling, only squandering burbles of words on ideals. I did want to know how they all turned out, such a cast of thousands. Most died, some were merely broken badly, others seemed to have been forgotten. WWI is a handy literary mechanism for killing off inconvenient characters.
Immersed and irritated as I was with this, seeing a preview performance of a play about Margaret Fuller was perhaps not an ideal situation. I see myself as a dyed in the wool feminist, but I wearied of the screed and shrill insistence over twenty years ago. Revolution, progress, reform, absolutely necessary, although all the abstract theorizing and pseudo-scientific posturing written at the time is tough to swallow, or comprehend. I understand the desperate stridency in the face of such dire poverty and systemic, oppressive injustice. Doesn't make it easier to listen to.
The play had it's funny and absurd moments, thankfully. And I think the bumps and hard edges will ease as the run continues. It is rather good, or will be. But we got the tickets free, it was essentially a dress rehearsal, or the first performance past. I should have looked the main character up before, so that I could know she died young. Depictions of grief always beat tears out of me, sometimes very much against my will, especially if I'm tired. Walking out of a theater in tears, when I generally didn't much like the performance, annoyed me greatly.
As we walked to the car, two young women behind us were saying how much they liked it, calling it the best play they'd ever seen, by far. When we got in the car, I asked D if I had really gotten that cynical. He agreed with me, I'm relieved to add.
Last night, early this morning, I dreamed I was holding an elderly woman as she emerged from anesthesia. She kept wriggling, so that I had to keep pulling her back up, nudging her back to center. This is not so unusual, though it's generally younger men who are most difficult to keep on the gurney. And then, the anesthesiologist turned his head away, and she rolled off onto the floor. I couldn't stop it, couldn't reach her, being on the other side of the OR table at this point, and as I called for help, as she rolled off, no one seemed to react, and there were several in the room. With difficulty, as happens in dreams, I eventually got to her, and got help getting her up off the floor and on the gurney again, and we took her for x-rays.
Today is better, and I must tidy up the place.