I don’t do well in a sky without stars.
And by “stars,” I really mean “goals.”
I walked out of the office tonight in a foul mood. I rushed through Times Square cranking All American Reject’s “Move Along.” I’ve been rushing around to a bruiser of a soundtrack lately: Guster’s “One Man Wrecking Machine,” Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar, We’re Going Down,” Pearl Jam’s “World Wide Suicide.” I’ve been trying to drown everything out.
As I walked down 80th Street towards my apartment, I thought to myself, ‘Dude, it’s spring. You should be happy. What’s wrong with you?’
It’s a case of the let downs. I had to tackle Sundance. Done. I had to rock The Grammys. Done. I had to get dive certification in Honduras. Done. I had to pull together a lesson plan for Syracuse University. Done. I had to finish up The Desert Star.” Done.
I called my brother this afternoon, and said, “I’ve been thinking about the Mr. Rogers documentary every day for the last four years. We have to get the trailer done, and start shooting the thing.”
I IM’d Heather last night and said, “I have to finish this fucking book.”
What if I don’t? Who cares?
I told Abbi, “I have nothing planned. There’s nothing on the horizon: no trips, no records, no tours. I have to find stasis. I have to find my every day.”
I don’t like every day. There are no plumes. There are no fireworks. There’s no applause. But I know I have to find it, whatever “it” is, whatever Pipin describes as “trapped, but happy.” That’s the challenge. That’s growing up.
It feels impossible.