I'm not willing to write right now, but I feel like I ought to anyway. Eight days of silence are too many. And if I can't sit down and write, just because I'm mentally and physically exhausted, just because my world has been turned upside-down and shaken, just because I have so much else to do, what right have I to call myself a writer?
So here I sit in my new office, at my old desk and old computer, forcing myself to write:
I feel weird sitting here in this new place... the novelty hasn't worn off yet, and I just feel like I've sneaked into someone else's office and don't really belong here. I've been unpacking slowly, but no matter how many of my personal tchotchkes I scatter around on my desktop, I just don't feel at home. Perhaps I should jack off in each of the corners or something, to mark my territory.
The move was unbelievably chaotic. I spent so much time and energy packing, and then moving (one of the movers was cute, but not all that cute), and then rearranging everything when I discovered that my computer-generated plans wouldn't work out in practice, and then getting the necessities all set up...unpacking the things we needed immediately, setting up our computers and printers and such, and wrangling with the phone company and the wiring people about getting our phones turned on correctly... that I came home unbearably exhausted every evening all last week.
Most evenings when I got home I fell asleep immediately upon achieving my room, and had to be wakened for dinner. And sore! I didn't go to the gym all week, but I don't really think I needed to after all that physical labor. My hands are wrecked, all these cuts and tears and abrasions all over them from box edges and runaway furniture and packing-tape guns (but my nails didn't break, at least).
And that was pretty much what my whole week was about. Over the weekend I spoke at an AA meeting in the City and then went out to brunch and did some shopping; then I stopped in at Cookie's house and watched her and some other friends making Art (in the form of a short horror film); the next day was church, and then I had a show, Cookie After Dark, and I brought my Daddy to see it (I'll post pictures as soon as I get them).
It was really neat sharing that part of my life with him... he'd never seen me perform before, had never even seen me in drag, except in photographs; he told me after the show (dining at Baghdad Cafe) that he was very impressed with my realistic illusion and my performance style, and that he is very proud of me. If I could weep with makeup on, I would have, I was kvelling so (something about the eyeliner and loose powder clogs the ducts, though, so no tears).
And now here I am, unable to summon up the energy to go on and on about the trivial minutiae of my life. Instead, I am going to go to the hardware store and buy a mailbox and a padlock for our security gate... and on the way back, there's a furniture outlet I want to look in on. So, I guess I'll be back sometime soon with something more riveting than a picture of me, typing.