New moon, time to plant seeds, intentions. See How We Almost Fly, the poetry manuscript is chugging out of my printer as I type this. I'm also copying over the song lyrics I scribbled in my notebook last night while I was teaching a Writing Salon Creative Writing class for the musical, to send to C.

Masankho's wireless internet service went out yesterday and the modem is in my room, so he came up here and tried to get it going again and in the process killed my internet service. We spend an hour and a half on the phone this morning with a very patient tech support woman named April who walked me and then him through a bewisldering and frustrating series of steps which culminated in me getting my email again.

But he came up to my room fifteen minutes later complaining his service was off again. Then he left for an interview. So I'm madly trying to type up and email the first scene of the musical (which I also wrote last night) to C before Masankho comes back and potentially disrupts my service again. I love him but I want to scream, This is my only day off! I need to get everything out now!! But of course that's not true. Next week I'll have Friday as well as Wednesday and the week after that the high school will be finished and I'll be an almost free woman.

Meanwhile, scenes for the musical are bubbling to the surface of my mind.

It helps that I had this idea before, did a little work on it and then put it away. In the time since, it's simmered away quietly in my subconscious.

Monday night I went to see The Lives of Others with G because Dad loved it so much he called and urged me to see it. It was powerful, especially the actor who played the Stasi agent, his big hungry eyes that seemed to swallow up his face. He looked almost like a bug--I don't mean that in a bad way (what other way is there in which to mean it?)--but like one of those cartoon bugs that are all expressive eyes and no body. The scene where he had sex with the fat middle-aged prostitute and begged her to stay for an extra minute of warmth was heartbreaking.

I love European films because the actors look like real people--the prostitute was dumpy and tired-looking with sagging breasts. If it were an American movie she'd be played by Julia Roberts and they would end up getting married or something.

Okay, I have to get back to planting seeds now.