Everyone here is painfully interesting. What they create.
Small talk drains me but I wait it out to get to the real thing. I don't want to look through the front windows, I want to know what's in the shoebox at the back of the bedroom closet. The best writers take you by the hand and show you.
So much time spent on travel arrangements that it distracts and detracts.
Broken plane. Scrambling to find another flight that would get me there the same day. Yes, but to a different city, need to find another ride. All week looking for a ride back to the airport that wouldn’t mean missing a day of activities. Had one, didn’t. Had one, didn’t. Couldn’t.
Other turmoil ensues and my inner chemistry is werewolfing. The vibe is wrong. The weather. People are missing. Even the ghosts are gone.
Usually I try to convince myself that the universe is trying to tell me something. But what – don’t count on other people? That this is a taste of what it’s like to be stone poor, you’d better get used to it? Have more compassion? Or it's just my turn to have a shitty week?
A friend who waits for me for four hours in Seattle and, later in the week, insists I take her car to get away for a little while. Another who says something that still shines.
Speaking in class before realizing that the heart-closing terror that had always accompanied speaking in class was gone. Just gone.
Loving the beauty of other people’s work without fearing the comparison against my own. Beginning to see things I hadn’t seen before.
A locked door unlocks.