The sporadic ramblings of Emily C. A. Snyder - devoted to God, theatre, writing, and much randominity.

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Location: New York, New York, United States

Artistic Director and Co-Founder of TURN TO FLESH PRODUCTIONS. | Author of "Nachtstürm Castle," "Niamh and the Hermit." | Playwright: "Cupid and Psyche," "Math for Actors." | Classical director and educator.

Sunday, August 13, 2006


Greatness. Sorrow. Anger. Satisfaction. More sorrow. Peace.

Waiting for the waterworks.

Strike tomorrow. Prep for Ireland. Know I'll love it. Hate hate hate prep - I'm such an...immobile. (The mobbled Queen, that's good.) Time happens too soon. Desire Heavenly time now. All is good. God is good. And that's the end.

Sometimes, I hate hate hate time. And yet, it's crucial. It's a gift, I know. I'm grateful for all it brings. And yet, although I strive to cherish what I have whilst I have it, I cannot help but grieve when it passes in this passing world. Oh, God! I so desire to be outside of all this, or rather more fully in all this, without it ever going, and without my ever changing from that cherishing of the cherished moment. How disgusting that part of our fall is the boredom or anxiety or fear that creeps into those moments we should treasure most! And now time beckons me to bed (as this fell sargent, death, is strict in his arrests). I can no more. Would these tears would come. (How grateful I am, now, that I let tears come!) Oh, God, God, God!


Mood: Cleft
Music: None - and were I put some certain ones on, I should break into a million pieces now
Prayer: Lord, let me love. Amen. And thank You.


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