Thoughts on Tori, Synchronicity, and My Periodic Need to Cease to Exist

Last night, I went to the Pritzker Pavillion to worship at the altar of a red-haired goddess, sat rapt by her voice, the inhuman whines and growls, sharp leaps in tone, in pitch, which should not have come from a tiny little pixie wood nymph (thank you, Amanda for phrasing), but did. I was lucky enough to get to bring one of my dearest people in with me in the form of a spectral radio presence broadcast over a phone and to have her there with me almost until the very end of the show, when my battery died. Then went home, tired, gone, and slept soundly until the morning for the first time in a long while.

This morning, I woke up and set my feet on the floor of my apartment, which was not flooded with water, and took the train through my city, which has not been destroyed by water, to work at my kushy job where I sat in front of a desk and e-mailed with Bonnie.

Around noon, I called my apartment brokers to ask them if my lease had come in, and the woman on the line said yes, it had, and then "Oh...but it's dated for today." Which wouldn't have been a problem--she said she could just call them and change the date manually and sign off on it--but I had mistakenly put September 1 as my start date when I applied for the apartment, instead of October 1, and the landlords had accepted my application based on that assumed date. They would still let me have the apartment, but for a cost I couldn't afford. So I sat on pins and needles for several hours, waiting for one of their agents to call me, until the end of the day when I called him and he told me to call them and find out whether one of the other places he had shown me were still open (which they presumably could have done at noon, when I was talking to them, and I'm not sure why they didn't).

It was, so in the long run I had an immensely stressful day full of my worst imaginings, from which nothing has come except that I got an apartment I like better for less money. Which is what I should have done in the first place, but what can a fella do?

Tonight, as soon as I finish this entry, I am going to watch my friend Sue perform her one-woman show for...well, me...reason being that I'm her sound-board operator when she performs at the San Fransisco Fringe Festival. Tomorrow I have a rare night off, then Saturday I clean and pack, and Sunday I fly off to San Fransisco for a couple of weeks of theatre, exploration, visiting, joy, relaxation, late-night conversations into the depths of reality. Then back and packing and moving

I'm busy is what I mean. Good busy, but busy. I've been so stretched thin over the past couple of months that, lately, I feel like I'm not in the room a lot of the time when I am. San Fran seems like a dream. An abstraction. It seems like I'm going there worlds away from now in another lifetime, in another me. This is partly because for all that fills my days until then and after then, it might as well be. But it's also because I've never been there. It's a photograph to me, no more connected to an actual place than a molecular spring-model of an ethanol is to a glass of scotch. To use a distiller's metaphor.

It's very exciting, and a bit frightening, and everything that exploration is. Everything I've missed since I became comfortable here. I can't wait.

Talk to all of you after. Maybe during. Who can say?