Best shoes and glasses I bought today, GO!

David Letterman is not funny.

There's something to be said when you and your stage manager end up taking the same bus to work in the morning out of no where. I lowered my book and whisper, "Errrrrrriiiiic." He lowers his Kindle, sleepily recognizes me and we both go back to reading. At rehearsal tonight we tell the story. Eric says, "This is one of the reasons I love Lucille. She just went back to reading her book. I had a slight moment of panic that she was going to get up and sit next to me and talk my ear off, but she just went back to reading, and so did I." I say, "I was worried about the same thing." We laugh, "Ah ha ha." And the cast looks at us like we're trolls. 


I strayed from my usual break table, sit and read lunch today to stand and stare and stuff my face at the XM Radio screen hoping for a good song to come on the showtune station I chose. To no avail. But at least I felt a little bit more like myself. Or told myself I did.


Fuck. I have to do my taxes.

Continue the battle.

I just had found someone to share myself with, who shared himself as hard as he could for as long as he could stand to.


The hardest thing is feeling like I have no one to share that part of myself with now.


He loved himself more.

He loved me more than all his books, Bulworth, and directing plays.
He loved me more than he had loved anyone or anything in his entire life.


And then he didn't.


And sometimes the back of my neck or my scalp will feel the same way as it did then and I think about taking photos, and turning on the air conditioning in Toni and Glen's house, sitting in the passenger's seat, and waiting to be the only one who knew what he was writing about. I'm so lucky to have these kinds of things, these little little things still alive in there in my brain. Now I've read the book I would stare at the spine of day after sacred day of laying in that south side bed. I don't cry for days and think it'll all be better, and then can't sleep at night or write and suddenly tears are back and I don't want any more of them. I don't. 


To ever fall this deep deep in love again seems so unattainable. No amount of online dating [that I won't do], or searching for someone [that I also won't do] will give me what I had. It was pure, and new, and beautiful. It was everything I ever wanted. It was what I still want. I know that this, right now, will define the rest of my life in one way or another.  

Koala Beer.

I climbed.
I got to the highest part of the tree I could sit on and grabbed handles the eucalyptus knew I would need. The breeze shifted the tree every which where. It was the muscles I could feel. The inner workings of the tree, like blood coursing through the veins it doesn't have. The wind picked up and lifted my body up.
It's all right.

Under Haunted Skies I See.

I came here without question to find a headshot I could send Kevin Johnson for god knows what kind of postcard will be created for Steel Magnolias. I sifted and sifted through pages of my posts and wonder why I ever stopped writing. I'll watch people and think, "God I should write about this." I need a computer dammit. And a bed. My god, do I ever need a bed.
Page after page after page of Craigslist housing ads and I think / hope / wish someone will come to my rescue and let me even set foot in a house I could put a new bed in.
The weather is making my thirteen rings fall off, and new Neon Trees songs come on the radio and I think how this time last year the wind was in my face and I was singing about a decade I was never a part of. 
In actually vocalizing my daily morning routine of waking up and and counting to the number 123 I realized that this could be yet another mild[?] sign of OCD. If I get lost, or fall asleep, or skip ahead I have to start over until I count high enough in my head, "One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty, one two one, one two two, ONE TWO THREE." I didn't ever think it was weird until I explained it to someone. I don't remember when it started. A few years ago? I was still living with my parents. 64 was another number I would count two but that one's not appropriate to discuss. I don't think it's a full blown, something I should worry about kind of thing. But odd numbers are mine. I need to have a center in a group of numbers. I watch the clock until 12:34 hits. I'm doing it at this very second, as I type and breathe. It could just be because I'm such a visual person, but that doesn't explain the morning count. Morning after morning after morning. It makes me get out of bed late. I can't help it. I'll just sit there sometimes.
What is this on the TV? Swamp People? They cray-cray.
I've been to two sex shops in town and haven't been carded. Sex shops, tattoo parlors, cigarette buying... I bet ya'll I could buy you a draaank. I miss my music. I miss my music. Maybe I'll get that well dressed new guy at work to join the band I still haven't started, and my voice will echo and people will say, "Listen to how heavy her heart is. I can hear it on her tongue, and in her throat, and in her lungs, and deep deep in her stomach." And I will scream and whisper, and tell the world how much I feel. I will set hairspray on fire on top of a bar, and stick my body out the window of a car, and bring men and women home to my new, bedless, invisible blow-up doll filled home and I will laugh and laugh and wake up on a couch again. Or wont.
This is it, is it, is it, is it. 
I won't stop once I've started. I've just got to figure out how to do that first. 

Do You Know What I'm Seeing?

I read the previous two posts with a slight smile on my face. It's been five-ish months. I haven't been writing. Maybe this is part of the problem. Remember when in middle school you listened to music and you thought, "This is so deep," but really you only thought that because you knew it was, but weren't quite sure why. You'd listen to love songs and think, "This is cute", "I wish I had someone I could sing this to, or give this to." Or you would listen to sad music, fully aware that it came from somewhere deep in a person, but not quite sure how it got there. You'd try to write songs yourself, poetry, that would match in feeling these songs you somehow related to. And you never quite could. And then suddenly love songs had meaning! "Yes!" you thought, "This song was written to be played for me, or by me because it says everything I or the person who at this very moment is in love with me, needs to say." Suddenly all love songs are about you, and about how happy you are, and assured you feel, and confident that you're going to get married, and have a job, and maybe one day have some kids to feel like you've failed until they come running back to you. And then when things look bleak, and things change, and you can't help but for the first time in your life live in the past because you cannot believe what's happening to it all ... you understand where those dark, seductive, sad songs came from. They grin at you like an old friend that you never quite new the eye color of, and help you remember what it felt like before.
            Excuse, if you will, any unclear metaphors above. 
Right now, I'm on autopilot. Right now, melancholy is apparent, and as I try and scramble away from it I cannot help but think my way back.
Waa waa waa. Life is so hard.
Some day I'll write a book.
There are no synonyms for right now.