The frenetic pace of Tuesday afternoon. Today's not bad. Today's great. But busy! When did I become one of those people, constantly breaking dates, planning for things months in advance? One of those people complaining about how busy they are? Oh, yeah: I became this person two weeks ago.
It's a good kind of busy. An unbelievable busy. The kind of busy where I keep asking myself "is this really happening?" and "if this is really happening what does it mean?" It might not mean anything. I can't extrapolate my circumstances into a judgment of myself. History has taught all of us, everyone ever in the world, that you do not always get what you deserve. As such, what you get may be unwarranted, or unfair. Right now what I'm getting isn't particularly fair or unfair, just a lateral shift outside the usual doldrums of my life. Again: being vague on the blog. I write horoscopes for a magazine under a pseudonym, I go-go dance, I do performance art downtown and then people talk to me about doing them in bigger art spaces the very next week, I'm working on songs with a producer, My friends and I make plans on my roof at sunset, I write stories and my friend puts them in his literary magazine, I'm in a dance group, we make movies, I'm planning a nightclub party. This is out of control. I'm reading my writing at a Chelsea gallery show. I'm running from work today to go to a Polaroid casting thing at a magazine. Who am I? (Who are you, Polly Maggoo?) There's both the insistent pull of feeling like I don't deserve this, and the inescapable inertia of living like this anyway.
What I want to know is: what's for dinner?