Fickle Capacity (or how my lungs are doing today)

My planner is a laughing abyss. My planner is old school, nothing but hardbound paper and my schedule is tracked in pen. And I carry this thing with me, along with journals and books and the script I have to memorize.


Today I stared at the days in my planner, and thought, TWO WEEKS. TWO WEEKS and I leave for three months cause I got a gig and my apartment will be a ghost town again, minus the tumble weeds and oddly hot and scruffy stranger who randomly strolls by with a deep seeded, personal sense of revenge that makes you think, “I shouldn’t but I would totally tap that.”



I reckon so

 This is the fourth time I am leaving my apartment for a theater gig. I am lucky, I am happy but TWO WEEKS. I got things to do, places to see, things to clean, money to spend, money to save, and meetings meetings meetings before I get in my car and head to the Lincoln Tunnel with a final destination of San Francisco, land of non-humid summers and indulgent Journey car singing.

TWO WEEKS means too much to do in so little time and it is weighs on my chest. I stopped breathing today, just stopped breathing, I was staring at the days in my planner and the air stopped moving. This happens at least once every month. I look at my schedule and hear phrases like “existence is futile,” “holy hell,” “get to da choppa!”



Florence and I have something in common

 And forgetting not to breathe is not like that one time you had that contest in the deep end of the pool to determine whose ten year old lung capacity rocked the hardest.

No, no, no, no. I can hold my breath (thank you voice classes) till the cows come home.


No, no, no, no.

 My shallow breaths, my nonexistent breathes, that pressured feeling is like…

1.  A dog pile where your lungs stack up cause they want to have a serious conversation with your heart but your heart doesn’t want to hear it. And you’re pissed that after all these years, your body is still in a complicated relationship.

2.  Trying to meditate while running and your body is thrown into an existential crisis of “Am I at peace or am I moving or am I both or what is peace and what is both and who is me?”

3.  Drinking a liter of Pepsi then getting on a roller coaster and right before you go down a 90 story drop, you somehow learn (maybe it gets written in the sky?) that your first love is getting married.

4.  A rock hard soccer ball slams into your chest, you fall and to celebrate the moment, the entire opposing team jumps on you and then no one says anything. They stay there and there is extended awkward silence. Maybe a cricket chirps ten minutes in.

5.  It’s pitch black in your room, it’s around 3am and you hear a clear sharp clicking sound on the wall and you look up to see a giant black roach with a shell that’s stronger than a Buick, and before your primitive self forces you to scream or slam the nearest shoe against the wall, you stare in horror. And you stay in that paralyzed state of stare and all you can think is, “I hate evolution.”



Where's da choppa?