Читать книгу Letters from Max - Sarah Ruhl - Страница 41

JULY 21

Sarah,

First of all, thank you for the play: now I know what to do with myself for the next few days. My God. Sarah. I cannot begin to tell you how moved I am by your acknowledgment. No words.

I miss you. I owe you a call: it surfaces in my mind every day but I’m usually only lucid enough to follow through with something like that at night, and you’re a mom who needs her sleep. I will try to steal a reasonable hour from myself at which to call you.

Crisising on a lot of fronts. Chemo over: no change in tumors. This means—what the hell is going to happen to me with this experimental cocktail they’re going to inject into me? General feelings of anxiety have disconnected me a lot from art: starting to worry that my poetry work is indulgent and insulated. I’ve been living with my parents all summer and all of last year: I’m terrified of getting back on the horse of living alone, especially considering how supportive my parents have been emotionally and psychologically. I also really really want to live alone. I don’t think I’m capable of functioning properly without a Not-Mom-Woman in my life. (“Not-Mom-Woman” is a blues hit, by the by.) This isn’t a good thing, but it’s a fact. There are some potential romantic prospects, one of which makes me really hopeful—but I don’t want to need a Not-Mom-Woman. I want to just WANT a Not-Mom-Woman.

P.S. “I always thought I hated washing dishes. But it’s nice to just dry a dish in the rain.”

So. Beautiful. A universe of wetness surrounding a home of dryness.