Yeah, the whole fast thing feels over. Big deal. That won't impact the existence of this blog. It might change it some, but like V said,"Just because I would date a 23 year old, doesn't mean a 23 year old will date me." Congress is still out on if my decision will be ratified.
The thing that is getting me, that is really kicking me in the ass, is that for 28 days for 24 hours a day, I got to be an artist. I got to say, "I am a writer and a performer and a myriad of other things," and I didn't have to qualify the statement. And it was validated by people who applauded my work, were enthusiastic to hear more, and seemed grateful to the point of embarrassing me to have us there.
They made us soup, people.
For 28 days, I got to write my own ticket in life. I got to choose the projects that were inspiring me at that moment and only for the sake of teaching a class or doing a radio interview or getting to a massage appointment, did I have to wake up to the sound of an alarm clock. I woke up at the same time I do anyway but for once it was because the sea air was beckoning and I had pages yearning to get out of my head.
It was a beautiful way to live a life. And I know that that can't last forever but coming back and trying to squeeze my artistry in at the end of the day, when I am exhausted and physically drained from nine hours under florescent lights, that is challenging. It is no wonder that the first book sat in a drawer for the better part of the last two years.
There was a momentum gained at sea. There were parties filled with snowbirds who liked to pose naked for calendars - yeah I will let you take a minute to process the visual of that one - there were parties with art lovers and artists alike, there were dinner readings of the work we created, and a group of NICE ladies that took care of us on our stay. Part of me wished I had written mire about the experience, and there are not books strewn here and there around my un-unpacked apartment that tell the tales of some of the experiences but for most of the time I was to busy writing to write. And that was a great new problem to have.
The book is pretty much completed. The essence is there. All the foul expletives are tucked carefully in place. All the nicknames created to protect the innocent and the guilty. I need to clean it up. Obviously someone else will need to fix all my spelling mistakes, although I am not sure who that is going to be since none of my friends or family featured in the book are allowed to read it until if and when it is shared with the general public. I would like them to like me just a little bit longer.
So I am not sure what is next. The trip didn't make me desperate to get the hell out of KC like I thought it might - though it feels so much smaller on my return. I didn't make me want to run, from my life, my friends, my apartment - well maybe the last one - to someplace a little more glamorous. It didn't make me loath my job like I worried it might, but it did make me want to take a sledge hammer to the florescent lights that make me exhausted and blur my sense of reality. No, I came back and realized I like my job. I work with good people who are fun and smart and inspiring. It just made me a little sad to see them again, as some, many even, have found their life's passion and it made me miss the twenty 28 days I got to spend fully enraptured in mine.
For 28 days I got to be an artist. Just an artist. And for 28 days I got to feel like the truest form of me. It was indescribable.