A bit of a headache. When I have not had one for a while I tend to forget that I get them. Then they come and it seems so wrong. I hope to quell this one somehow. I just read that lidocaine cream can help. I think I have some of that somewhere around here.
I woke up thinking of ...damn, what?? I knew it wasn't important to write it down but I still wish I had.
In one important way, my father was not like Eugene O'Neill. He wanted to see his children, he welcomed us, wanted us to stay. He seemed put out when we had to leave. He would often disagree with us and take these disagreements personally, yet he always wanted us to be there. Not so our children, however. He seemed not able to comprehend anyone under the age of twelve.
I am finally dressed. I am also finally at the point in O'Neill's biography where he is working on Moon.
I often feel like writing after reading about O'Neill. Part of it may be that there is so much description of how he worked.
Themes, characters. Because O'Neill was a "great man" he did not have to follow the rules of ordinary mortals. I see this sentiment expressed (hesitantly) by the author, as well as by his wife Carlotta.
I saw the same thing with my father. Always being excused from his fatherly, husbdandly, other duties, because he was a "great architect". Perhaps this is why it is so difficult for me to accept O'Neill's failings with his children. Too close to home.
Dim feelings of foreboding. I don't know why, I just feel lost.