Not to be confused with Gorey's The Gashlycrumb Tinies... I suppose it is inevitable that the gratitude of not having any major broken bones is wearing off. Part of the problem is that my hands are still in quite a bit of pain. Some things, such as typing, aren't too bad, but writing, opening doors and even peeling oranges is extremely painful. I went back to the clinic and they said that the healing seemed to be going fairly well, but I should wait another two weeks to let my hands heal more completely. That definitely means no cycling (and almost nothing I can actually do at the gym). Also I'll have to put my other wood-working project (to build a Little Free Library) off until next spring. The doctor did say I could try heat compresses, so I picked up one of those at the mall today.
Still, this kind of casts a pall over this weekend, not that I had huge plans, other than to go to the symphony tomorrow. I did try to get rush tickets at Coal Mine last night. Even though I was first in line, they were completely sold out. I then stopped and asked myself if I really wanted to spend the time (next week) to try to see a piece of feel-bad theatre that will just bring me down (basically the plot of The Nether involves an internet salon where pedophiles can act out their impulses). And I told myself no -- life is tough enough already and it's going to be getting much worse in my lifetime as climate change really kicks in. I don't need to wallow in something that is just going to make me feel even worse about the world (and all the shitty people in it). I've decided that Hand to God (their third production this season) is also just going to be a huge downer, so I'm going to take a total pass on Coal Mine this year. I've seen a few provocative plays there, but really the only one that was unmissable (and didn't actually leave me more depressed than when I started) was Annie Baker's The Aliens.
I have been very slowly making my way through von Rezzori's The Death of My Brother Abel. I am very sorry to report that I don't like it at all; it's so pretentious and boring (all about a failed novelist who goes on and on and on about why he can't write his novel). A few months I would absolutely have jumped at the chance to get the NYRB edition of Abel and Cain that adds Kain to My Brother Abel. Well, it finally turned up as an Amazon pre-order. However, it's pretty clear I would have to force myself to get through it (and I have no interest in reading Abel a second time!). Sadly, I can't be 100% sure that any library here will pick this up, but I'll just have to rely on ILL and save my money for books that I at least have a chance of enjoying (such as the feel-good epic Stalingrad by Vasily Grossman...).
I could go on, but I'd just wind myself up even more. Now is as good a time as any for a nap...
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