A cab ride home from a story meeting stuck me in a taxi with a very friendly very old driver who’s a month away from his retirement. At 70 years of age (ouf!). Turns out he used to be a railroad man. I hoped he knew my grandfather. But he didn’t. He did, however, wax elaborately about mortality. By the time I got out of the cab my heart was racing like mad. The two cups of coffee and can of Diet Coke over lunch with Myr might have contributed to this. But he went on and on — “time flies.” “When you’re my age…” “Life is short.” Cliche, yes, absolutely. And yet the fact that it caused my heart to race so much is a testament to its truth (or at least to my belief in its truth). This is what Myr and I kept saying this weekend. Me throwing my hands up in the air.
Speaking of hands up in the air…
Myr and Celeste: dream (creative) team. Sending pitch and development documents back and forth, working in sync, minds fully engaged, her with her David’s Tea and Nicorette, me with my Diet Coke and avocados with lemon juice and sea salt. Clock a-ticking. No smoke-filled room but this is how we roll. A Madison Marcus hanging in the hallway, Bajada’s new album blasting (including a song MJ would have entitled “Don’t Feed the Shit Wolf”) and my faux-fireplace faux-roaring. The faint scent of Dior Addict on the collar of my sweater. The perfume I was told wasn’t “me” — but I aspire to be it, so I wear it till I make it. Deadlines getting met. Breaks spent working on other material. Translating, reading, enjoying. The rest of the week continues to be arduous, but time has been made for Florence and the Machine. Delight!
Keeping my eye on the ball.
the ball.
Enjoy this brilliant tune…
