absurdity is the mother of invention.

Sorry I've been off the blogging map this weekend. I'd love to recount tales of sun-drenched beaches and rum-soaked tropical fruits, but the reality is closer to this: family engagements and long hours at the laptop writing The Play, which is not Damon and Callie's play, and also not the 10 minute play which I am in the process of analyzing and revising, but Another The Play, in which a sadistic male muse forces a female writer to atone for firing her previous muse by forcing her to write a romantic comedy about a workaholic who lives at her antipode (which incidentally is the middle of the Indian Ocean, where no one actually lives or works), so she initiates a battle of wills with the muse, allowing her three-year-old self an opening to mutiny and take over the writing process, only to fall in love with aformentioned workaholic when he tells her that the East River is quite possibly comprised of slow-flowing soft-serve strawberry ice cream.

In unrelated news, I took more photos of the peonies yesterday.

Happy Birthday Kiki!