I went running this morning on the Georgia Tech campus, past the sign on Marietta Street marking the surrender of the city of Atlanta. I did laps on the Astroturf, listening to Cisco’s hip-hop mix, which I got from him at the start of this year. It’s humid here, and my hair is curly. Running reminds me how small everything is, how insignificant – breathing in the rhythm of the grass and the asphalt, and realizing your own life is only a breath. And is mine an exhale or an inhale? When I’m not making theater, I don’t know what to make of myself.

Now Zack is making pancakes while Pam and I hang out. They live by a freight shipping train line, and an endless stream of tanks and armored cars on flatbed train cars is running by their window – going to war.

Waiting for news, undistractable, distracted. Pam suggested I read Pratchett’s The Hogfather, which I did. I begin every Pratchett book loving it and then he loses me stylistically at some point. I want to like it more than I do. But I enjoyed this one, particularly this quote:

“The universe clearly operates for the benefit of humanity. This can be readily seen from the convenient way the sun comes up in the morning, when people are ready to start the day.”

A point well taken in a time of needless self-importance. I’m going to write my delayed Texas post now.