The Sun published my third poem in three months; Willing, which I wrote, oh, four years ago (although I only found the final lines this year.) I feel like it could make a good art song; I hope C sets it to music.

I'm glad for the publication because left, right, and center, I'm getting rejected. All the essays I wrote this spring with airy confidence that they would finance the Malawi trip, are languishing, "not quite right" for whatever editors I sent them to. "Not quite right," the dating equivalent of "Not enough chemistry," or "It's not you, it's me."

Today, C and I played basketball in the blazing sun, guarding each other hard (alright: fouling,) using elbows, pinching, tickling, jostling. (Honesty compels me to admit that I may have fouled him a few more times than he fouled me, however this was justified because his arms are two feet longer than mine are, plus he's taller.)

We both shoot about the same I think, that is, okay. No one in the NBA need lose any sleep; their jobs are safe from us. But C took more shots than me, and thus had more misses, but also made more baskets. I tell myself that's what's happening now with sending out and publishing. I'm taking more shots, thus getting rejected more.

And, as with everything, so much depends on timing. A few days ago I showed C some new lyrics I'd developed; he was preoccupied and didn't have a very enthusiastic response. Today he read them carefully and now he thinks they're great and has started writing great music to go with them.

I sent my friend Suzanne My Hot Tub With Andrea, She's a good director who directed a reading of Kaddish back in '04 or '05. She didn't like Andrea at all--in fact, she didn't like either of the characters, the set-up, the dialogue, or anything about the play.

On the other hand, Carla loves the play. Ellen loves the play. Nike loves the play--and all of them are pretty sharp critics who would not lie to me. So I'm thinking maybe Suzanne was preoccupied when she read it--maybe she didn't give it enough of her attention. Or maybe it's just not for her. Or maybe the play does suck--that is always a possibility. At any rate, my mantra remains the same: just keep going.