we assembled a cast w/o too much trouble (despite my constant muttering, 'this is like pulling teeth ...'). we had a perhaps unprecedented level of haranguing recruiting and negotiation; in the end tho no compromises were made. either 5 or 6 very talented young women of color will be joining us in putting on this crazy play. i was really happy w/ how it turned out. our crew is excellent, too: very sharp. our stage manager lillian is quietly efficient and very calming.

after skipping around mccabe in celebration, i barned it. (to ross, who is alone this morning and adorable in a flannel shirt: "what did i do?" ross: "you said, i have a lull. you sat and worked at my computer.") ahh right. i started my article for the phoenix that su wants about weblogging. or more specifically my weblog. i finished that last nite sitting on the floor in the corner of the common room by myself at 1 a.m. with ross's computer on my lap. i kinda like it: i tried to strike a chord betweeen presenting an accomplishment and being self-deprecating about same. i mentioned justin hall as a direct inspiration, quoted from his Relationship Resume. i told an abbreviated version of the ben story. at the end, i also paid tribute to the other swatties who have webpages. i have no idea what of it or how much she'll print. very vague assignment.

talked to the other ben briefly, we discussed him coming here which he seemed briefly excited about tho it never panned out. talked to marc briefly, he invited me to a late dinner and promised that he rob and jolly would rush home to hear me read at the wrc coffeehouse. that didn't pan out either as it happened; and ross and becca, who i reminded nervously three times before i walked out the door, didn't make it in time to hear me either. no worries: ben was there as was stefanie fox, who later read, and r. block. and dan schneider, this crazy freshman, who declared my poetry "fabulous!" he laughed loudest of anyone during the 4th poem, runway model:

The sun sets, like a woman gently laying her bruised body
down, over me on the runway
while I think of your next girlfriend:
the lights of the runway forecast the
smart, tidy shine of her hair;
its length, the length of her thighs.
Maybe she will be a fireman�s pole like you:
I�m always shimmying up and sliding down you; maybe
she will simply lie there
nobly.
Maybe she will not tell you to smile more
or anything so frivolous; she�ll encourage
the growth of a goatee into a bonzai tree that she can cultivate. She will be spiritual and serious and tall, so you won�t have to stoop
to kiss her, and composed, so she�ll never laugh
during love when you cover her mouth to stifle
her impassioned �ah�s. She will not �ah.� Perhaps
she will say �Yes.� Perhaps �Precisely!� Perhaps
she will orgasm in japanese. Regardless,
she will be suave.
She will you call Benjamin.
She will not have a stomach like a rabbit curled up
beneath her skin or breasts like pots of water for which
your hands are lids; she will not have a stomach,
and her breasts will be perky-tight like
dashboard dolls. And it goes without saying
she will never wear the same outfit twice.
I cannot compete with her. Superiority is her nature:
it would be foolish to try. You may grow old withher
but Ben, oh Ben, if you want to be young,
come find me in this plane, lost in the night as in
the shadow of a lover leaving, flinging me hours states
months away from you.

i asked ben after if he had been embarassed or anything. 'no,' he said, 'there was only one girl who turned around to look at me and she was looking at me anyway.' you know, he doessmile more now. it's wonderful.
after, a contrite, melancholy rebecca, ben, and i went to see Raising Arizona, which made becca sniffle. it's not my favorite coens but 'twill serve. and now to work all day, and email jill at ross's behest.