My clothes all smell like clever musician. I’m almost too tired to be writing.
Running late today, trying to figure out what I’m doing this week. I suppose today I’ll try to buy fabric for my All Hallow’s costume, as Wednesday I’m going over to Jenn’s to try and make it. Can’t forget Thursday dance class. There’s a chance I might be pulled out of town for a few days instead, but I don’t know when. The phonecall hasn’t come in yet. There’s a chance I might work tonight or tomorrow night at the Dance Center, but I have to hear back from Jay. Everything’s on hiatus until I hear from other people. Damned are we whose pleasures depend on other people, because the chocolate cake breakfast was probably a mistake. Grocery shopping, need to get around to that, find time. Make time. Create, from thinnest air, the illusion of minutes to give to the store.
Barely a sky today, except for the fig tree outside the window. Barely an straight thought in my head. We’re waking up slowly, drifting up out of the covers like bubbles through water. The shrill alarm is terrible. I need to get home, check messages, take my daily little pink pill. Walk past Oliver’s house and refuse to look. I need to get home, change clothes, pick up music, write down instructions, measurements, phone numbers. The last time I checked the clock was when I took my glasses off. Five in the morning. I’m not going to have a chance to call that dancing man from the Portuguese Club. Too busy, too bad. Bloody Monday, nothing graceful about these except our crawl from the house. I think this could become a weekly thing, though, something I could prepare for with more than the perpetual toothbrush in my bag. I haven’t forgotten the tricks of urban traveling.