Some days I wonder if I'm doing it all wrong. I guess this is just one of those days.
I caught a bug from Rhee last week - or, at least, I'm demonstrating the exact same sequence of bizarre symptoms - and she told me that, if indeed we are nursing the same illness, I should expect to feel restless and ill-at-ease with the world for most of this week. I guess I'm either:
1. Happy it didn't take hold on Monday.
2. Actually, factually doing it all wrong and blaming the illness unfairly.
Yoga, lift my funk from me! You're my only hope.
I was going to see Exene Cervenka perform at her art show tonight in Santa Monica, but the drive wrung that desire out of me - that and the odd companionship I certainly would have found there. I wonder what's going on tomorrow night, or if I'll end up wandering out to see Jarhead instead of taking advantage of any of the billions of diversions I can only partake of in Los Angeles. Ooh! I could go see it at the Vista and follow up by taking everyone for tapas to Cobras & Matadors (the lowest corkage in the city - so maybe I'll start to chip away at the prodigious collection of Hatcher I'm hoarding...)
Stream of consciousness, I know. I'm yanking the leash to get to my weekend, yanking the leash to get to Hawai'i, yanking the leash to get to Christmas, and New Years', and... Sigh. The stuff in between seems like a sorry excuse for filler, and my cravings are only getting stronger.
Poetry can not express this.