Precision

There is a traditional trajectory now, a physical response to the life at hand. A smoothing over of the skin, the rare nonchalance of a curl, a curbing of consumption, a piquing of wit. The body acts too, and in the stillness of constant movement a new lane runs forward and all around, like the automated belt at an airport, suitcase in hand, in heart, in mind, in form.

Weekly Wisdom from Mr. Trollope

When I sit down to write a novel I do not at all know, and I do not very much care, how it is to end.

Sabbatical

As I prepare to depart for my next show, my mind has started to operate in either a more disorderly or more pristine fashion--depending on how you look at it. Yes, I walked into a glass wall today at TD Bank on Montague Street after using the Penny Arcade and waiting in line for 20 minutes to get my 20 dollars worth of dimes. Yes, I haven't slept more than six hours a night for the past few days, my thoughts maintaining an awareness too keen for rest. A child walked by me on Harrison Street two days ago carrying a red balloon. "I don't like you," she said, staring up at me. My gmail account has started to talk to me--"Is He Avoiding You?" Astrology.com wants to know. "Entertaining is Scary," it announces half an hour before a small group of my friends will appear on my doorstep. Pandora chooses to play Trouble at the same moment. "Do you want to take the GRE?" an ad on my phone asks. itunes reveals that I've listened to a particular song 34 times in the past four days. It doesn't have the count from my pod. Doesn't matter. Wrong. Yes. No. OCD. I anticipate that this blog will experience a temporary disruption as I settle into Dial M, and hopefully into the Dial M Blog. Dial Mlog. Dialogue. Am I a one blog kinda girl? We'll have to wait and see. And in the meantime, Margot Wendice's perfume makes my heart beat a little faster. . .