Perhaps it's the non-stop rain that meant no long walk for Buster and me this morning. Perhaps it's because I've still been feeling punk all week and not sleeping well, waking myself up coughing. In any case, I am blue tonight.
I've been sewing for over twenty-four hours and have lots to show for it: costumes for next weekend's photo shoot on my new project, costumes to perform in, various bits and pieces. I'm working on the final piece tonight, a virginal white batiste apron, like the nuns would sew. I should feel good about all this productivity and a whole new performance wardrobe.
I should feel happy because I love burlesque dance class, and because I have my first pole dance class tomorrow to look forward to.
But the iTunes plays French music, and Brazilian music, and it all seems to speak to me of melancholy. When it rains, I always long to be in bed with someone I'm madly in love with, making sweet, sweet love. Last night the rain was driving, melodious, so romantic. And I lay in bed and thought, "I'm not in love with anyone. I'm alone."
It will pass. Vivre sans vivre.
And, anyway, I go to Paris in a month. Once there, I can always run off with the Gypsies.