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.)
I can’t stand pumpkin spice anything. (I feel like this goes without saying.) I can’t stand when holiday music starts playing in November. I can’t stand holiday music period unless Otis Redding is singing it. But it kind of cracks me up when holiday festivities heat up even before Thanksgiving rolls around. Three times this week I have gotten home only hours before I normally rise, which is a fact I’d find even more fun if I weren’t a grown-up lady who still got up at 5:30 am every day. (I’m still having fun, to be clear; my cobwebs are officially being shaken out.) I think I am going to pen a song entitled “This Is How We Trick Our Circadian Rhythms.” You’ll be able to sing it to the melody of “Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly.” Fa la la la la.
I’ve been awake for hours, early even for me except it’s not really my time I’m on but the time of the Parisians, many of whom will not be able to wake up from this nightmare for months to come. We longtime New Yorkers have a sense of how this feels. But each time the insouciance of daily life is replaced by an unanticipated human-made disaster of this scale, the nature of the living nightmare is horribly unique. Only one thing remains the same: that there is no true rest for a long, long time. I am sending love, so much love–the energetic equivalent of a cool hand upon the forehead. At this rawest of hours (at every hour, really) it is everything that we can give.
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.)
I can’t stand pumpkin spice anything. (I feel like this goes without saying.) I can’t stand when holiday music starts playing in November. I can’t stand holiday music period unless Otis Redding is singing it. But it kind of cracks me up when holiday festivities heat up even before Thanksgiving rolls around. Three times this week I have gotten home only hours before I normally rise, which is a fact I’d find even more fun if I weren’t a grown-up lady who still got up at 5:30 am every day. (I’m still having fun, to be clear; my cobwebs are officially being shaken out.) I think I am going to pen a song entitled “This Is How We Trick Our Circadian Rhythms.” You’ll be able to sing it to the melody of “Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly.” Fa la la la la.
I’ve been awake for hours, early even for me except it’s not really my time I’m on but the time of the Parisians, many of whom will not be able to wake up from this nightmare for months to come. We longtime New Yorkers have a sense of how this feels. But each time the insouciance of daily life is replaced by an unanticipated human-made disaster of this scale, the nature of the living nightmare is horribly unique. Only one thing remains the same: that there is no true rest for a long, long time. I am sending love, so much love–the energetic equivalent of a cool hand upon the forehead. At this rawest of hours (at every hour, really) it is everything that we can give.