  It’s been sort of a strange couple of days. Every once and a while, I sort of move into brief periods like this where everything seems mildly surreal, as if I’m seeing things through a slightly skewed reflection and I’m not immersed in anything around me but instead drifting along in parallel, idly headed along somewhere. It’s a very odd feeling of detachment that sort of permeates everything that I do. It’s a sort of “catcher in the rye” type of feeling, isolation, sinking between curbs, and all that—I don’t really know.
I saw a play last night called “I Am My Own Wife.” It was quite interesting and very well done, and in fact won the Pulitzer recently. It’s a one-man performance (something which always impresses me) and the plot is fairly complex—it’s largely based on the life of a transvestite Berliner—who’s also a furniture collector and restorer and lives in a museum filled with old phonographs—born in the early 20th century and his (her) experiences as a homosexual living through two oppressive regimes: the Nazis and the communists.
The story is told, however, from the point of view of the author (an American homosexual man and the only actor in the play) who visits Berlin and tapes interviews that he conducts with her about her life for the purpose of—yes—writing a play. So, it’s sort of both an autobiography of the author’s interactions with her, and a biography of her life, and scenes from both are interspersed to create a pretty powerful performance.
I would recommend it to anyone who has the chance to see it. Going up to the country for a bit of a vacation tomorrow, which should be nice. It’s summer, so I should be relaxed, but somehow I feel guilty about being relaxed, which makes it impossible to be relaxed. So, yeah, hopefully I can just chill out. Ciao. 
