Saturday, April 4, 2009

New Works Festival.

I have seen such incredible young, raw, fresh, vibrant works. For a whole week now. But now my feet are killing me from traipsing around to all these spaces wearing ridiculous shoes, trying to look nice out of respect for all the shows and their young directors, choreographers and performers. And I'm sleep deprived. I started just crashing on the couch when I came in at midnight -- stripped out of my clothes, left them lying on the floor. Didn't have time to do laundry this week, go to the grocery store or eat any vegetables most days. The festival's over tonight though. Wah :(

But (sigh) of relief. I will try to clean house tomorrow. And I just went and got a massage, which I sorely needed after this long, long packed week. Another unbelievably marvelous festival.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

A box arrived.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, second part of 11, 13. And a bunch of other objects, once gifts from me to the sender -- or little things of mine with no value at all.

Still missing:
6, 7, 9, first part of 11, 12.

What kind of head-trip is this anyway? It's baffling. It's my things and the sender's things, not clearly one or the other, in these expensive-to-send boxes full of pathetic, unwanted objects.

I suppose I'm meant to feel erased? Whatever comfort he can find for himself is good. Or perhaps I'm meant to feel grateful that he went to the trouble and expense to send the things after I asked him not to? I don't feel at all grateful. It seems so ungrateful to the universe for the rare gift of love and intimacy it once bestowed on us to now return the symbols of our romance. I find all this endless box-sending, frankly, inexplicable in motive, materialistic and, really, quite sad.

Life is, after all, simultaneously so long, so short, so rich, so painful. And all we have is today, and when today ends, only our memories, which are our treasures.

But I guess I'm a romantic...