What to Do when You End up on Someone's Celebrity Dinner Party List when You're Living out of a Cardbord Box

I'm sorry, I'm sick. And it's OK, really, it's just that when I'm sick, my tolerance for...stuff... goes from here (tolerably high) to here (down low-low).

And the thing is, this qualification for your wookie-like sociability might get you off the hook if you weren't sick, like, all the frickin' time.
Yeah, we know, why don't you get over it already? sounds in echoing harmony from inside your head, and outside your head, but the echoes from outside probably come from inside but who cares because it doesn't matter what they say because you know what a horrid beast you are. You're with yourself all the time, for crying out loud.

It's that moment of wondering when anything at all will work at all, or if you might not be better served to call it a day and head for Antarctica because, while it might be uncomfortably cold there, you could live out your wretched days (may they be short) in peace and solitude without disturbing anybody or -thing due to the miraculous sound-proofing qualities of ice caves.

And then you turn to some soothing activity, and find it inexplicably transformed into "the next calculus" and your mind goes blank with rage and you find yourself standing over the splintered remains of a tenor ukulele. This is what The Who must've felt like; I totally understand. Except that their smashing guitars-thing was related to being bad-asses, golden gods of the world of rock n' roll, not screw-ups. Oh, just...dammit.

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I'm in Seattle now, and there are waves of ohmygodthisissoexcitingicoulddoANYTHING. Often though, those moments are overshadowed by the more sustained feelings of whatthef*&#amiDOINGhere which send me the bathroom holding back my hair, coming out 10 minutes later looking sheepish and hoping that the TV was on a little louder than I know it really was.

Maybe I should just go for it. Do art, make prints and journals and sell them and play with kids and use my extra time to intern teaching creative writing to under-served urban communities. And become a vegan.

But I really like real ice cream. And brie. And doesn't the success of any artist ride first and foremost on the artist's ability to let go of their art, and in that release risk the implication that their art is good enough?

So maybe just switch from milk to soy milk. Mostly. And veggie-sausages seem an all-too-easy option, especially given my current employment status of...not. But what about that? The employment part? More than that employment part, the doinglivingbeing part?

There's this thing that happens to me sometimes, where I go to do something, but can't. It's not that I can't, rather it's that I can't decide the order in which to complete that activities or actions surrounding the thing I want to do. So I just end up standing there frozen, going over scenarios in which I complete the tasks in different orders, weighing the merits of, for example, putting the tea water on before going pee, because then the will start to heat up while I'm in the bathroom, but before I put the water on I need to wash the tea pot, which means that I wouldn't be going pee until after I've scrubbed out tea pot, filled it up, and put it on the stove, and I really have to go pee... And all the time, I'm standing there in the hall between the kitchen and the bathroom until someone comes up to me and asks if everything is OK, and when I try to explain the predicament it crumbles in my mouth and I end up spewing sawdust all over the hallway. Then there's a mess, but before I clean it up I have to go to the bathroom, so the decision's made.

And that's where I am, standing in the hall, trying to decide whether to pee first or put on the water. Friends seem to have gotten used to my camping out there in the hallway and greet me cheerily on their way to work and school and bowling and grocery shopping. There's a shadow of doubt that clouds my equating temporarily which seems to suggest that all this is in preparation for that and shouldn't I be doing things like grocery shopping?

BUT WHAT ABOUT THE TEA?!?

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If life is inherently risky, there are certain risks that feel bigger, more do-or-die. And what is it that we're so very frightened of? A broken heart? The prospect of returning in shambles? (Again?) That's all fair. But what of the notion that nothing worth having comes without struggle and risk? Are we looking down the barrel of a life lived without risk at the expense of all joy? What does it mean to find yourself in a moment of little faith, when everything fades to shades of gray?

Thank god and goodness for the things we can, with unabashed joy, pride, and assurance, declare to be ours and our loves.