Can I Go Where You Go?

Incredibly in love with writing lately. I am working on a new Huge Toy Conglomerate series, which is a fine job. Truly. But also, it's a job. We are in post for the podcast, which is a more than fine job! But also a job! I am grateful and still spend all my time in the google docs and editing software daydreaming about the newest play I am writing, my thriller series, essays--too many to keep track of.

I don't want to do anything else. I want to sit alone for 365 days to get it all out. She says songs arrive to her on a glittery cloud. I admire how even her process is a symbolism of her femme power. It emboldens me to step into mine. And I do.

The thing is happening when I get this way, where I begin seeing people as an obstacle. A maze to wander before I arrive at my treasured working time. But I know I know I have learned I have learned I can't do that. I become grey and insane, feverish and hurt. So I make plans with friends as preventative medicine. I grumble putting on my shoes. Last night I met up with an old friend on a couch-y patio. Within twenty minutes I felt my wire brain start to uncrinkle. This has been a big year for old friends. They mean so much to me, it turns out. Folks who have been there, even if in the nosebleeds, for all the eras. I worried we wouldn't have enough to talk about, but a blinked and realized I was running late for my friend's standup show. I sat alone at the back right high top munching a flatbread and laughing loud and proud. She was incredible! The excitement I felt, watching a shooting star, jetted me all the way home.

I had such a beautiful day Wednesday too. Morning dance, coffee with my writers' group, working diligently, an afternoon picket shift with two gals who clicked. Monday I went to the beach and got good news. Tuesday I saw a different friend's remarkable show at ___, went down the street after with an improv guy from ten years ago. I've felt so lonely most of my artist career. A psychic told me last week, I am meant to do things alone. She is right. We can only be the artists we are.

Who Loves Ya

The cool thing about grad school workshop is that people are super accountable to reading your garbage and giving you feedback. Also your group doesn't meet in coffee houses and get distracted by gossip and sometimes half the people don't come. In school you are going to meet every Wednesday at 2 PM for three hours. But in school you do not pick your people. Not at all.

I wish I had realized this as a wide-eyed candidate: if you don't like someone's work, it's probable they won't like yours. That is definitely okay, but maybe don't care as much about their opinions? By year three I knew what feedback to love or leave. And yet, I still forget this base lesson pretty frequently. And it's not just about writing. Or art.

Happened to reach out to some of my old comedy squad recently. People I think are funnier than anyone I've met in Chicago. But I had flecks of gold in my eyes then, so I could be remembering everything wrong. Initially we weren't talking about comedy at all, but eventually. I expressed I've been slumped. Immediately, my friends pummeled me with support and memories and ideas and advice. I could breathe again. I knew who I was. I remembered what I do right and what I don't care about. Duh duh duh.

For some reason we are built to strive to meet the standards of people we don't even mesh with. (Or, at least, I am.) Just because they are there? No, no, who loves ya?

Last Night I Had Caramel Corn for Dinner

With these wonderful people from Arizona. Beyond everything there are still old friends.

Pocket change and subway cars.

Our big ideas filled empty bars.

You might be from the moon or mars.

Either way, I'm never going home.