Moon was void of course all day yesterday so naturally I arrived two hours early for the very long screening I had to attend on 42nd street. The good news is that flying off the beaten path is magical during these astrological downtimes. I wandered west and found a Catalan bar with a brilliant happy hour wine list and drank a pretty red while writing letters to people I love and eavesdropping on conversations in my favorite language. Ninety minutes later I emerged into the city’s splendor: velvet and gemstone night sky, high and low culture bumping shoulders, clattering high heels, the works. “Ah,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction. “This is where I live.”
The laundry list of this day extends out the door. The Monday anxiety is already screeching its high-pitched aria, the myriad things that could go wrong a metallic tang on my tongue. My bruja energies–invariably Carrie-style when I’m on high alert–have broken two glasses, popped one lightbulb, shorted out a pair of headphones. But I’ll take each step, one in front of the other, in the cutest shoes I can muster until I’ve done everything I can today. (G-d knows the universe has sent plenty of good wind on my back.) Given the options–busy living, busy dying–I’m, like, super in favor of the former.
Curtain rises on a subway tableau. A blond woman is sitting, quietly immersed in her book. She looks up, sneezes. An older man to her right wishes her “gesundheit.” Before she can thank him, she sneezes 20 more times in quick succession. Passengers offer her tissues; she waves them off as she continues to sneeze. Finally, she bellows, “Fuuuuuuck me” and everyone scurries away. Auto-repeat until audience also leaves. (This play is dedicated to the memory of my healthy sinuses.)
Moon was void of course all day yesterday so naturally I arrived two hours early for the very long screening I had to attend on 42nd street. The good news is that flying off the beaten path is magical during these astrological downtimes. I wandered west and found a Catalan bar with a brilliant happy hour wine list and drank a pretty red while writing letters to people I love and eavesdropping on conversations in my favorite language. Ninety minutes later I emerged into the city’s splendor: velvet and gemstone night sky, high and low culture bumping shoulders, clattering high heels, the works. “Ah,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction. “This is where I live.”
The laundry list of this day extends out the door. The Monday anxiety is already screeching its high-pitched aria, the myriad things that could go wrong a metallic tang on my tongue. My bruja energies–invariably Carrie-style when I’m on high alert–have broken two glasses, popped one lightbulb, shorted out a pair of headphones. But I’ll take each step, one in front of the other, in the cutest shoes I can muster until I’ve done everything I can today. (G-d knows the universe has sent plenty of good wind on my back.) Given the options–busy living, busy dying–I’m, like, super in favor of the former. 
Curtain rises on a subway tableau. A blond woman is sitting, quietly immersed in her book. She looks up, sneezes. An older man to her right wishes her “gesundheit.” Before she can thank him, she sneezes 20 more times in quick succession. Passengers offer her tissues; she waves them off as she continues to sneeze. Finally, she bellows, “Fuuuuuuck me” and everyone scurries away. Auto-repeat until audience also leaves. (This play is dedicated to the memory of my healthy sinuses.)