Every time I run into one of my roommates around the house, which isn’t that often, we say hi, we start talking, and we end up in a 45 minute discussion about the musical structure of West Side Story but also the racial problems of the lyrics, obviously, and end up singing the medley. Or. We start talking about a friend of a friend and end up in a talk about life, what we want, hope for, what success really is. I love living here.
I sit in my office on my persian rug and I look at my air plants and I soak them and I write, I try to not only write horoscopes but horoscopes are my job and I keep answering the kids questions about life and love and it’s similar to my writing, it’s ok, I get to write and think on my tiny persian rug bought on the Chelsea flea from a man from Teheran who loves Sweden for giving home to many of his friends and family and gave me a good price and I didn’t care that much about the price, I needed the rug for other reasons.
It’s hard to wake up in the mornings and that’s just something I need to figure out. I keep pushing deadlines and that’s just something I need to figure out. A bunch of my friends in New York right now won’t be here come 2015 and that’s just something I need to figure out. I make tea and coffee and serve myself and I cheat my dietary restrictions and I’ve lost my ability to choose the perfect color at the nail salon. I get to excited and try too much.
I consider studying and I consider rewriting everything and I wonder where the urge to tell a specific story went and I wait for it to return and I don’t doubt for a moment that it will. That’s just something I need to figure out.