Confusion

Cr — t and cr — t both have wickets. One's boring, the other's chess on the run.

Croquet's wickets I confused with cricket's, as a kid, so gave cricket a miss for too long. Love it now, though I don't know it very well.

Croquet is varnished wooden pieces peeled, worn, greyed and split by summer rains, wire and wood pieces lost in overgrown grasses, toes cut or stubbed when the pieces are found by oblivious bare feet in shadowed, still-uncut lawns at summers' ends.

Cricket is something else.

Sketches

I think of plans as promises. Since, all too often, life's crazinesses interfere with promises, my solution is compromise - I don't plan tightly. Instead, I sketch ideas and allow life to interfere.

Yesterday, the sketched-in day had included treks to the top and bottom of Manhattan island, for note-taking for a novel that's been in-work for a while. But life had slapped me with a strong reaction to a toxic environment at work, so, feeling stiff and feverish, home and bed became my substitute mode du jour, and instead of trekking and working, a mix of sleep with streamed films via Netflix, Amazon and Hulu filled the day and night. 

Telling a story

Uninflected, well-paced, textured.

Inflection, via Mamet on film direction.