Somebody got fancy… and then he retired.
In case being a playwright doesn’t work out, I finally discovered what else I’d be good at.
I went to the Labyrinth. I thought it would be picturesque and quaint and that I would skip blithely through the hedge-rows while thinking about peace and calm and the bounteous life of the Harmonists. There were THREE MILLION BEES living in the hedges, and they all wanted to eat my face off (even if they didn’t do it, they secretly wanted to), and I may or may not have had a nervous breakdown.
Generally, new writing involves a lot of muttering and scribbling and coffee-drinking and singing scraps of whatever is playing (on loop) on iTunes, and getting up to wander around the room listlessly and stare out windows and sigh and say things like, “OH MY GOD JUST DO IT WHAT ARE YOU DOING” and sit back down and watch youTube videos of baby sloths/ hedgehogs/ slow lorises/ naked mole-rats and then close that tab and drink some (now cold) coffee and sit back down and say “OK NOW I’M GOING TO DO IT” and then call a friend and discuss how we need to leave for Azerbaijan / Tibet / Mongolia / Tangiers / Iceland / Tierra del Fuego immediately, and google plane tickets, and compare time frames, and discuss who speaks what and if they’d go with us, and then around 1 am, I start to Do It, and by 8 am I have Done It.
Writing, walking, and making new friends:
Two years later it’s just as green and calm and nice…and I’m just as over-caffeinated, strung-out, and happy to be here.
At a certain point in the next 9 days, I will also be calm and nice…but maybe not green.