Moments & Memory

This disease is hanging around like a door-to-door seventh day adventist. It just won't go away. And it showed up at a terrible time. Not that there's ever a good time. I think I've got it on the run, though.

I've felt foggy all week. I can't think. Cold medicine only gets partial credit. The rest is my own fault. I don't get over stuff. I dwell. For some reason, I've been swamped with memory, and that makes it hard to concentrate on what is going on. And there's this weird feeling following me around that is reminding me of what I was doing a year ago. Or what I was about to do. I was about to be someone I didn't think I would ever be. I was about to fall in love. Maybe for the last time. With someone who helps me be the kind of me I want to be. I was about to find and lose control at the same time.

My phone finally rang last night. It was a good thing. It was 'just because'. That's better than having a reason. Now it's ringing because my producer is flaking out and making decisions without the rest of us. Which of course doesn't work for the rest of us. The blonde psycho in me wants to freak out and declare the project a disaster, but I can't do that. I have to buck up and have faith in the people I'm working with. With whom I'm working. Please god, let this work out. Without everyone killing everyone else. That's all I ask. And I want an awesome film. (Is that asking too much?)

I saw my best friend today, pretty much for the first time since Monday. I was feeling bad about that. I missed him a lot. Maybe he missed me too. Maybe not. But he knew I was lonely this week. You'd think he'd say something. No.

Better.

He looked at me and put his hand on my shoulder. And then on my other shoulder. So did I. We walked that way for a while. I would have liked to know what he was thinking, but in a way, it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I felt better. Better than anything he could have said. For a hundred feet, I didn't feel so lonely anymore. It was a nice moment. I like those best.