95 pages looks bigger that I thought. A healthy chunk of paper stacked up, the sheer size of it giving me support: you did it, you did it. My flippant statement that I’d probably carry it around with me doesn’t seem so flippant right now: my instinct is to find a binder, get it together, and on Friday in class when my teachers ask about our Christmas holiday, plop it down on the table and say ‘this is what I did’ (dat is wat ik deed).
I’m proud of myself. Just for completing it. I’ll deal with the is-the-story-good aspect later. For now, it’s a sizable chunk of work that can no longer be counted as one of the many things I never finished. The script goes into the other category, the one titled ‘yes, I do finish things and I’m not a complete loser’. It’s not full of typos, grammar errors (other than in the dialogue; that I kept real, which means poor grammar), or formatting issues. I’ve done the best I could this time ’round. People can judge it, as they will.
Heard from some friends, which was great. There’s still a couple of people gone AWOL from my life, and that continues to be sorrowful for me. But today I get to reconnect with an old friend I haven’t seen in 20 years. I find it both exciting and intimidating. Who was I, way back then? Will my friend look at me and think, wow, she’s changed? The last old friend I saw shocked me. I was shocked by his tired appearance, the deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. Do others see me like that?
Bah! Aging. I do not recommend it.
So to make life merry while showing an old friend around the city, the weather moved from ‘rain possible’ to ‘rain probable’ to just plain old rain, which is currently falling outside my window. January rain. There is no colder rain on Earth. You can tell I’m not thrilled. I also found a message from my old friend, asking about a club downtown. Maybe we can go there one evening? Oh, Gods! I forgot he’s 10 years my junior, and still going out. Not that I don’t want to go out; I do, very much. But I feel too old, too fat, not dressed well enough – shall I go on? There just gets to be a point in life when you CAN go to clubs, but you start to wonder if that just looks sad. Look at that old woman, out on the floor. Wow, you’re no spring chicken! Trust me, the horrors of stuff like that are very real. I’ve already heard the spring chicken line. It’ll be easier in a group, with my friend and my bro. The three of us. That’s a nice shield from ugly comments. But I bet I still catch some splatter from somewhere.
Can’t help but think this is the last week my routine will be topsy-turvy. By next Monday things will be quiet again. No more holiday time off, no more visitors from out of town. The gym and the pool will have regular hours. I’ll need to hop back on the homework bandwagon with Dutch.
I’m looking forward to it. Enough of a strange break from normalcy. I want back to my schedule.
My plans are to move forward as I said I would. Now that the script is done, I’ll start to focus on getting my music out of the studio. I’ve a few months to produce what needs producing and get some final takes. And I promise myself to send the script out to a minimum of one theater every week. It’ll take a while to get through my list at that rate, but at least I’ll be making headway. With luck (and good health), I’ll get my next album release finished in 12-16 weeks. That should bring me close to the beginning of summer break, when I’ve (again) promised myself I’d let my writing side take over. A major wrench could be thrown into my schedule IF (because it’s a big if) I land a role with the theater group. Then everything gets moved around, and I have more interruptions to my regular routine. But it’s an IF. Can’t plan well for an IF, other than to say you’ll accommodate it. I’ll accommodate an acting role in my life. Deal with the upsets to my normal schedule. A part of me is hoping for it, actually.
Damn that diva side, anyway. She’d toss all my plans for a choice role.
No wonder I can come off as ‘flighty’.
Well, Dad (’cause it was he who called me it), weigh that flighty comment down with 95 pages of script. Anchor it with my book. And load up my music, too: all 20 some releases, in total. Tie it in place with my poetry and performances.
I reject the adjective ‘flighty’. I’m multi-faceted.
Can’t help but feel a bit disappointed with myself. Here I am, right back where I began: struggling with flighty, struggling with ‘not finishing anything’ – despite the evidence. That same old rut. I’m tired of it.
And how can I feel so ambivalent? So proud of what I’ve done, yet so disparaging over my progress? I don’t know. All I do know is that I can. I do. I often find myself feeling two polar opposites at the same time. I often flip between extremes. Just read my work! It’s all me. The voices in my head. The imaginings and fantasies that play out. It’s not first one then the other; it’s simultaneous. I’ve got one person egging me on, telling me what I do is the best shit on earth, and another nagging at me, telling me my work is crap.
Goddamn it! Stop, already!
Oh, it’s important to find a binder today for my script. Drag the guys into the damned store if need be: I must get that thing bound and carry it with me.
My 95 page anchor.