On my calendar today it says: ALONE.
My first day alone, with nothing scheduled. I haven't been alone for weeks, I won't be alone for weeks to come. There are three Australian house guests who do a slapstick variety routine of hangover comedy in the morning. Last night they came home at 4am, broke a mirror, left the glass on the bathroom floor. They are tan, with hard bodies, boisterous and full of energy to be in New York. The boy has long black wavy hair, like a wig. I stare for long time while he puts on his zebra striped pants. The girls are covered in tattoos. I luxuriate in the accents. They bring me fancy sea-salt chocolate to thank me for my hospitality. I like them.
Last week I played four shows. Had five rehearsals. Hosted a friend. Went to two other concerts. And met a British man - Malcolm - who was stranded by the ash cloud and became my best friend for a few days. He's gone now, and with him his friend Paulo who worried that once they stopped buying me dinner I would never eat again. I still eat, and for my size I eat a lot. But now I eat at home instead of at the table next to Susan Sarandon in that fancy place with red velvet booths and chandeliers.
It's all spit and glitter here. Shiny teeth and introductions. Everyone is maneuvering all the time. I intrigue them with my genuine nature. Or is it the pink hair and leopard print cape? Whatever it is: doors are opened, dinners paid for, emails sent, kisses on both cheeks, please stand here while we take your picture.
Yes, it's all red carpets, art openings, celebrities, guest lists, PR, interviews, secret clubs, and more. And more.
Am I empty? Am I full? Is any of it substantial or will it all fade if I try to grasp the treasures that are flashed before me?
My shows are still badly attended. It's not like I'm suddenly famous. I just fall into the light sometimes.
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