After a day of work — hauling, lifting, bending, cutting, holding, Zooming, careering — I catch my breath and then do it again. Days involve multiple scenes, multiple acts. I’m reminded at times of The Theatre and Its Double, a book before which I hesitate, filled with trepidation. Artaud troubles me. I let Susan Sontag usher me toward him years ago with her essay “Approaching Artaud.” I’m turned off, though, by the angst of it all. The hero I seek is a joyous wanderer — the one who forgoes despair.