This morning I write to you from bed. I am waking up slowly, and taking pleasure in it, as yesterday was a whirlwind. By 7:15 I was out of the apartment, scuttling toward the subway stop, snaking my way toward New Jersey. And then I spent the morning teaching seven (eight? I could be muddled) high school English classes, bam bam bam, one after the other, tag-teaming with my friend Holly . . . a job that was completely unplanned on my part and thus equal parts exhilarating and O my lord.

Then a quick Cuban sandwich and back to Manhattan, where I met P for the first of the two plays we saw yesterday: the invited dress rehearsal of Islander, a two-woman musical set on a Scottish isle, which was charming and beautifully performed. And, then, after months of anticipation, we climbed into our balcony seats for The Scottish Play. It was tremendous, everything I'd hoped for. I cried over MacDuff's "what, all my pretty chickens" speech; I cried over Macbeth's "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" speech. Daniel Craig's command of the language was glorious: it was an extraordinary verbal performance. I don't think I'll ever be the same.