Nov 10 18

It's been a long Sunday. The night begins at 4:45, so I'm left anxious like I wasted a day that was not, after all, wasted. Have a show tonight. I feel out of practice and don't want to go, but if I don't go when I can, then I'm even more out of practice, so I always go. When asked.

My anxiety has been topping out around 11 AM this week. I have to be on set by 12 or 1 or 2, and I've learned that isn't good for me. I don't want to go hard working in the mornings because I'll be on the clock until midnight, but I get frantic by the time I'm shoving my junk in a purse, trying to get out the door in the late morning. "I didn't even do anything!" I mutter.

My nails look great. I opted for a bright purple, which seems Novembery. I also put two stickers on my laptop today, which I have never done before. I thought about it for a long time. First, do I want to deface valuable object. Second, do I want to put stickers I like on an object that will eventually be valueless. I thought about a mural in a Thai restaurant by i_ in Chicago. It's downstairs by the bathroom. Something like, "Use the good China, you only get one life." I'm sure the person who painted those words in a restaurant basement didn't consider me, a decade later, putting a cartoon clam on my computer.

Friday afternoon I decided to spend some quiet time cracking this screenplay I'm outlining. But I didn't feel like my usual pastry antics, so I went to Del Taco for Beyond ground beef and Diet Coke. I set out my pens and paper and started going at it, but a very dirty man three booths from me was truly hacking so hard I thought he might die right there. He accentuated each cough with a loud, angry swear. "Can't even read the paper," he'd be yelling. I was afraid of him and afraid for him. I think I want to help people, but I can't help everyone. Perhaps I can help at least the people in front of me, but then sometimes the person in front of you is too scary or you've decided they don't deserve it for some other reason.

I've always had this belief that anyone can do anything I have done. I guess it sort of makes all my accomplishments less shiny. But I really really do believe any old person, given a couple weeks rehearsal could pop off an improvised musical, run a marathon, write a play, be in a healthy relationship, pitch jokes to their own high school comedy idol (current job). Lo tells me she is sure she could not do it. But I know she could. But also I don't know that!

I'm grateful to have been so close to shimmery possibilities this year and watch myself come to dislike half of them once they're out of my view. It's not fun, but it is telling.

Six Weeks in LA in No Order at All

Glitter: I saw Maria Bamford at 3 PM for free in a tiny theatre with 6 other people. Oat milk lattes. Pink brick walls. Walk to the grocery store. Never need a coat, never get too hot. The pool, even if I have yet to dunk in, seeing it when I walk in and out of the creamsicle complex makes me feel like I’m in 1950s showbiz. Happy new used Prius. Scream in a cemetery—it shaped me and shows me, over and over, the power of women. Shant is here, and we can talk about the city we came from. The Poltergeist haunted house. An email from an idol. The library with the patio, the church with the incredible soloist. Long long honest Frank talks. The sushi house that is our own. The cream colored IKEA reading chair. Yosh and his date and my date. Walk-in closet and scale. A narrow way to kick off our shoes. The club I am in. The very good bosses and excellent co-workers. The shows I do. The ghost of a skinny kid who remembers he was stupid. Puhg bought me the tiniest pumpkin. It lives on my nightstand. How many times have I already laughed?

Gutter: How many times have I already cried? The cutest street is anything but at noon on a Saturday. Too many people. Too small of spaces. I have to sit down on a bench and breathe. Once you are living the dream there are fewer off-roads to run on. The highway can be boring. I made up a whole relationship with my brand-new bubblegum scooter and it died Day Two. I did set up a tiny CSI investigation and get a full refund. They said it couldn’t and wouldn’t be done. It was done. Brett Kavanaugh. I haven’t not thought of him a single day since moving. I want it to go away and I don’t want it to go away. That “did I share too much” feeling. That “do I even know who I am” feeling. THE NEVER ENDING PRESSURE TO BE A SMART WOMAN. The canopy of 2040 used as a punchline but so real, so real. I write this at my desk. Work is over, but I'm waiting for traffic to die down before I make my way to U_B to sing my guts out. We let people escape, I know, which I know is part of healing and getting better, but at the same time at what point should people not be able to escape? When they no longer can? I miss getting on stage and futzing around however I want. I never knew I could until I left, and now I know that's exactly what I could do and did (sometimes).

Account

My new job makes my weeks whoosh by. It's like, "What did I even DO this week? Today? This hour?" I'm constantly crittering away, writing, and planning, and grading, and phone calls, and speed walking in the frigid winds. So, perhaps it is important to sometimes take account of one's actions.

Today I:

-woke up at 5 AM to grade papers and drink coffee with extra cream
-spent six hours in mid-term student meetings
-finished my first draft of my first ever full-length musical (!)
-loved some friends via text
-sent some key emails
-had a particularly good batch of chips from Chipotle
-watched a House of Cards
-held my big stuffed Peep close

Sparklers in Minnesota.