In the mail yesterday, to my great delight, was my almost-as-good-as-new copy of FORMS OF HEAVEN, the second collection of plays by the talented and polymathic Clive Barker - out of print these last few years, but had at bargain price through www.addALL.com. And this is significant because, aside from the fact that it now pretty much fills in the last empty slot in my Clive library (and has, to boot, that beautiful mid-90s cigar-in-hand shot of the the author on the back - Mr. Barker is SO on my freebie list), it will allow me to read CRAZYFACE, the Tyl Eulenspiegel play, and write up a proposal for it for the local theatre company that's looking for directors next season.

Bit of a longshot, of course, as this is likely enough to bring every damn bargain-basement would-be Roman Polanski waving a well-thumbed copy of YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU or similar out of the woodwork, and I've barely looked at a stage from either direction in nearly six years. Sigh. But I'd rather be turned down legitimately than sit around kicking myself for the next two years for not giving it a try at all. Welcome to the Industry. Sitting around at home being brilliant is, shockingly enough, only a beginning.

So I've got my work cut out for me this week, and I can hear the cobwebby wheels start to turn in my head as I'm reading - already trying to solve problems of staging and multiple roles and French scenes and whatnot. Can I sell it? Is the world truly prepared for a Dan L-K vision of CRAZYFACE? I guess we'll know soon enough. And I'm sending in a treament for THE TEMPEST at the same time, just in case this one's too, y'know. . . askew for the public palette. May the Mystery smile on my lovely wife, in any case; she's the one I owe for spotting the ad in the first place, and not allowing me to waffle about giving it a go, longshot or not. I'm often surprised at times like that, though I shouldn't be; I have myself all convinced that Stacy's more or less just as glad I'm not gallivanting around at all hours away from home trying to create Theatre, and then she turns around and knows how to become exactly the right combination of cheerleader and drill sergeant to get me off in the right direction. I don't know why I don't know better. Damn guilt's a bitch.