Oh, I wish I could write all night. I’d like to be 22 again and not the 47 year-old who has hard boiled eggs – literal, literal, the chicken kind – she’s got to put in the fridge. I’m listening to the Rolling Stones and there are glass shards on my kitchen floor, still, from this morning’s clash of the dishes.
I have spent a good portion of my day searching the web for queer poets who’d be interested in the work of richard witherspoon, which has led me all over the e-verse. My favorite site for today was “Sweet Tea,” link away, OK, but come back. I love a simple web site that conveys deep meaning and a sincere commitment to public good, with just the right pinch of charm.
Now the night should be mine! I should be able to crank my music, boil up some caffeine and let the keyboard TAKE OVER. I should led my ears bleed and free-write, and my SLAM characters (the play I’m writing, link here, but come back; there was a short version premiered not two weeks ago) will venture ever closer. I’ll capture them with plot and release them to actors and a director, with a design team shortly following. Or vice versa: ask the producer, she’ll know. That’s what I need. NOW. Stomp.
But, incomplete and tacky, I can’t always get what I want. I can’t always be 22, and besides, when I was 22 I was running from creditors, both academic and financial, sometimes a combination of both. In other words, I wasted my health, freedom and time. Responsibility, eggs and dirty sauce pans await.