Those the River Keeps...

Yesterday's poetry extravaganza warmed 'me heart. And kept me giggling through most of the day.

Other than that, yesterday was a frenzy of running around town and not having enough time to do anything. I went to the employment agency and could only fill out the forms in the time allotted for lunch. I have to go back and test today. And then interview tomorrow. I've kinda given up on the idea that I will ever have a lunch sitting down--usually wolfing a hot dog on the way to somewhere else.

I get off work. And then I have to rush home to wolf some semblance of dinner before bolting to babysitting. I do what I do when funds are low (which seems to be a persistent state of being for me). I pick up egg drop soup--$1.65 and somewhat filling. At the place I go, they have this cute little Yorkie that hangs out all day. He knows me so well that when I walk in, he comes over and rolls onto his back. I rub his belly until my soup is ready. I know he knows it's me because he does not do this to other patrons. It's our moment.

And it repeats often.

I've decided a good portion of my life is like a Beckett play. Existential repetitiveness. The other portion is like a Durang play. Wildly absurd. And a small fraction of the debauchery and self-destruction is like Rabe. Utter Hurly Burly.

That's a lot of theatre references for those who read this and don't know theatre. I apologize. In non-theatre speak: my life is a combination of same shit different day, freakish occurrences, mixed with an excess of chemicals.

There. Theatre History 301 for Druggies: An Application of Theatre into Your Own Fucked-Up Life.

I helped Max (the 15 year old) pick out a perfect song for the bit of filming (he's gonna be the next Tim Burton, kids) he did on Broadway. Just filming random homeless people and cabs and the blowing of tulips in the wind. But when you put it with the right song, it's lovely.

Sunday morning I'm waking up
Can't even focus on a coffee cup
Don't even know whose bed I'm in
Where do I start?
Where do I begin?

Perhaps I felt it was so perfect because it's kinda exactly how I feel currently--especially after the past two months.

And then Dustin called me.

"I'm going to ask you a question and then I'm going to hang up and you can only call back when you know the answer."

He does stuff like this. I figure it's just some random artistic thing he wants me to do.

"Alright. What's the question?"

"Where do we go from here?"

Wow. Appropriate.

I sit down and freestyle, figuring I can find an answer somewhere in my rambling, jumbling, mumbling mind.

What I wrote:

Where do we go from here?
This is the question posed before me.
So I imagine if I put one foot in front
of the other
I'll step right into it-
Right into the question.
And then we're knee deep in it.
When I was little the snow was once as tall as me
(My eyes peeked over the edge)
But that was then
And this is now
And I'm knee-deep in a question
I trust my feet know which way to go
One step at a time is how they've always gone
And that seems an acceptable plan.
So there's your answer
Where do we go from here?
I suppose wherever our mind takes us
And we hope our feet can
Catch up.

Turns out it was for Dustin's friend's advertising project. She loved my ideas about feet in regard to direction, and she's going to do something with that.

Glad I could be of service.

These are the questions that flow through my mind.

Where do I start?
Where do I begin?
Where do we go from here?

There's got to be a cheat sheet somewhere.