I woke up this morning with the ridiculous idea to write a blog entry every day for 30 days. So, I apologize in advance.
Today marks four weeks in New York. I suppose if you really pressed me I'd say we're about where I thought we'd be four weeks in. Things are slower work-wise than we'd hoped they'd be which is mildly terrifying, but in truth I know fires take a while to get going, so I'm trying not to panic. I'm battling a bit of I'mAFailureitis, but that's pretty par for the course. We've been shuttling back and forth between Brooklyn and upstate with a couple stops in Newburgh to visit Monty's adoptive grandparents. We're in the car heading to Brooklyn now, hoping Monty will fall asleep. He's whining that he wants to go home. We don't know where home is right now.
Despite the right wing gun nuts, Kurt and I love being upstate. We love the house and have dreams about what improvements we would make to it if it were ours. If we could wave a magic wand and have life the way we want it Kurt would find a job in the area possibly working for the county and I would be making my living as a writer, only coming to NYC for projects I really want to do. Actually, that's dream scenario two. Dream scenario one involves independent wealth and driving around Europe in a tricked out Airstream. But I tend toward pessimism. Even in my fantasies. (Sidebar: I am nearly incapable of having sexual fantasies. I spend too much time justifying everything. In elementary school I had my first crush and first attempted sexual fantasy. I wanted to think about kissing him under the cover of the trees in the yard of the church that housed our after-school program. What I did think about was trying to find a moment in which our teachers were distracted enough so that we could slip away. And then there were the other kids to worry about. How were we going to do this without being caught? And then there was the small issue of his never having noticed me. So then I had to imagine the scenario in which he did notice me and then I had to imagine myself being charming enough so that he wanted to kiss me. I had to come up with small talk. What was I going to say to make him want to kiss me in the trees under the constant threat of being caught? "Boy, how about that quiz in math today?" "Did you have the pizza at lunch today?" "Sure glad I missed that last round of lice, huh?" And then, obviously I'd have to imagine our entire conversation because no one's going to be like, "Why, yes, I did have the pizza. Let's make out." By the time I was done composing this dialogue I'd decided he wasn't much of a conversationalist and I was no longer interested in kissing him. Then when I was a teenager in the latter years of the AIDS crisis I would try to imagine meeting a handsome stranger on an airplane and doing him in the bathroom but then it was like, did one of us have a condom? And once you've introduced a condom into a sexual fantasy you might as well call the whole thing off. I've learned to embrace this shortcoming of imagination and allow myself to construct elaborate scenarios that include drinking white wine on a patio overlooking a placid lake (maybe Lake Placid?) with Jake Gyllenhaal. Or getting caught in a sudden downpour on the beach at Coney Island with Jake Gyllenhaal. Or having Jake Gyllenhaal visit me in my dressing room of my hit Broadway play. We never actually get to anything sexual, but I've learned that it's really just the suggestion of sex that I need. And Jake Gyllenhaal.) Anyway, the scenario in which I make a living as a writer requires a lot of steps. The steps include, but are not limited to the following: 1. Admitting I'm a writer. 2. Taking myself seriously as a writer. 3. Writing. 4. Figuring out how to make a living as a writer which is like, no one actually does that, right?
I'm pretty sure that four weeks from now I'll have this whole "life" thing figured out. For now it's all a fantasy. And no Jake Gyllenhaal.
Here's where I spout my brilliance.