My days now involve a predictable set of pitched battles for power, almost all internal.
Mornings bring the usual pleasure to be waking up alive, a rustle around the bed to see if there is someone next to me to kiss and snuggle and pet. Usually there is at least a cat; in the best of circumstances there is Bill: tall, clever, kind, dreamy. Full of love.
With waking also comes a suite of other feelings, more confusing. My body is weary from two years of sitting intently over bead board, computer and camera setup, and my hands and arms are starting to show the strain. I stretch, I swim, I get acupuncture, I ice, I get massage, I drink water, I eat good food and too much ibuprofen. But still, I am drastically overusing the system. A standing desk is absurd to me, I cannot even contemplate writing at one and it would not help my hands.
Freezer packs rest on either side of my laptop and bead board, so I can ice my wrists while I read, or think. I am proactive; I have an appointment with a hand specialist this afternoon to talk to her about how to make it through the next month intact.
Temptation is equally overwhelming to cut to print and also to slow down; my problem, if it can actually be called one, is that every day of extra work now brings another layer of clarity that seems as profound as opening a curtain and letting more sunlight in. Who knew there were so many layers still to reveal? New pieces are created every day; many of them are genius.
I’ve given up my summer break to keep working, because I cannot finish and I also cannot seem to cut the cord and say “good enough”. I’m both proud of and disgusted at myself for this, I laugh. What the hell? But I am this close to being able to bring tens of thousands more people off of the architectural launchpad with me, all I have to do is speak clearly. It’s thrilling, exhausting, it makes me Feel Things. Mostly gratitude. It’s work that I love, work of my choice.
I am, however, also longing to seriously begin my next project, Love Letters, which has been bubbling on the side burner for over a year now. Technically I am already criminally late delivering, without even properly starting. I marvel at that. My interview subjects are actually starting to call ME, which is unheard of. Every single one of them is a person who would never dream of doing less than their best; each of them is devoted to doing original work. How can I do less than what I admire in them? How could I look them in the eye? I must keep moving forward. Surely, any week now, it will be done.
I console myself with the reminder that none of us in the next project have died. We are all only getting better, which will by definition make a better book.
I dance around to Editions Of You, testing this post, and briefly gloat over the luscious FAN of orchestra seats Doriot and I scored from TicketMonster this morning, for Ferry shows in Boston and Philly, Oct 2 and 4. Please let me know fairly immediately if you are planning on joining our party in either city, so we can make sure you get a ticket.
Just in case you wonder if he’s still got it….the answer is yes. My panties just threw THEMSELVES at the screen.