I am getting ready for a large performance that involves me and two other versions of myself. We all wear identical wigs and black dresses. The performance is in a diner from the east coast with tall booths and shiny chrome tables. I tell the other versions of myself that the performance is about to begin. We are to walk around the restaurant and ask people how their food is and then ask them other questions that will somehow lead to them being transported onto a ferry ride across a vast waterbody. I have a timer set and prepare the other versions of myself to rehearse one more time. We begin to perform. I walk around the corner and see Laurie Anderson sitting at a table with Lou Reed's body draped over her like a heavy blanket. She sits very still, unperturbed, occasionally moving her hand through Lou's arm to sip a warm cup of tea from the table. I approach her and am immediately taken out of character. I ask her how she is. I begin to cry. She nods and continues to look forward. Lou's head is propped on her shoulder. He looks gray and his body is beginning to decompose. His eyes open. They are full of life. He says something to me but I can't remember what it is. I ask them how I can help. Laurie asks me to please grab the body bag from the car.
A list for now
The first sweet and sour bit of a mandarin orange in December. Tiny sunshines for chilly days.
A warm cup of lavender tea between two frozen palms. This is an instinctive, ceremonial gesture.
Pine needles in my nose. Sap on my knees.
Opening mail from folks I haven't heard from all year. I draft letters back to them taking too-long pauses in the process. I don't have enough paper to collect all of the thoughts. Paper may not even be the solution for these thoughts. There isn't a substitution for breath and eyeball.
Avoiding buying crap for myself or other people. The crap pile is getting out of hand. I can't even find crap in all this crap.
Which brings me to thoughts of simplicity and living more simplistically. I've done it before, five or six times. I've donated books and clothes, and paired down my crap into a few boxes. The first was the time I moved to NYC when I was 18 with just two complete outfits, a trench coat, paint, a blank book, shoes, a pen, three mixed tapes and a walkman.
My art direction contract with a mega corporation ends soon. I've begun to plant some seeds for (f)art projects that have nothing at all to do with making money.
My manchowder is currently assaulting me with loud pickle crunch. Time to strap on the headphones and listen to this:
Happenings
The heater hums through a vent in my studio. Beckett is napping. I appreciate the quiet pause. The rain drizzles. A subtle throbbing pounds at the left side of my brain. I rub my neck. I pull on my gray cardigan. I rotate my foot right and then left. I take a swig of kombucha. The chair creaks. I think about travel, about flying, about freedom. I think about the ocean and keeping my eyes open under water. I think about a dream I had last night. Only pieces of this dream I can remember. It's fuzz. A man in red. A series of activities involving firewood. I think about my adrenal glands and whether or not they are functioning properly. I think about work and how I work too much, but not enough on stuff that matters. I think about how I am actively changing that pattern. I think about wild boars and the hawk I saw perched atop a street lamp this morning. It sat there calmly, awaiting something freshly dead or on its way to death. I think about dying and how I don't want to for a long, long time. I think about how ridiculous this want is. But I still want it. I think about forgetting things and remembering things and what my mind chooses to remember and forget. I think about some of the names I've forgotten and match those forgotten names to faces. Beckett is now awake. My heart pounds heavier. It's time to put on the clown suit. It's time to stay awake. I breathe.
