After our walk and exercise at the clubhouse, I didn't leave the house all day. Did wash, made Dump Soup, a big salad, and broccoli, and proofed the February Breeze. Talked to my friend, Naomi P. Had an annoying exchange with the gas company re a mix up in the address to whence I send payment. It seems my bank has to send an actual check--I think--as opposed to transmitting info through the cyber-vapor. Or something.
Reformatted my ten-minute play, I Have Something To Tell You, into the approved script arrangement, as I intend to take it the the Playwrights, Inc. meeting on the twenty-ninth. Went over my lines, using the tape recorder. My method,which works fine for me, is to record the cue speeches, then leave a "blank" space. When I play it back, I recite my lines in response to the cues.
Aside from that, I read some of Lady Blue Eyes by, of all people, Frank Sinatra's widow. I was struck throughout by three things: Sinatra was even more of a self-centered, arrogant jerk than I had realized before; the rich live lives of such opulence it's almost impossible for ordinary people to fathom; virtually all the famous and/or wealthy entertainers, politicians, financiers, and potentates the Sinatras hung out with are dead. Barbara Sinatra herself is now 86. Far from being meanly gratified by that fact, I'm musing over it.
I've always been fixated on the mystery of time passing. When I consider this, it occurs to me that one day, everybody I know, from my 100-year-old former neighbor, Margie, to my baby granddaughter, will be dead. Not only that, but nobody living at some future time will remember that or even know anyone who remembers them.
That just stops me in my tracks.