My little corner of the sky

You know the kind of day that I’m talking about. The kind of day when, from the moment your little toes hit the laminate in the early a.m. nothing quite fits. Like you are a complete stranger waking up in a body and life that can’t possibly really be yours? Can it? Really?

You stare at the clothes you’ve selected to wear and don’t remember buying them or when you last wore them. Your body seems to be so incredibly plastic that from one moment to the next a roll of flesh shifts 3 inches up and your shoes don’t fit and the exact same pair of pants that was, just yesterday, tight on the thighs and loose on the waist, is now tight on the waist and loose on the thighs?

A voice is speaking - apparently issuing from your throat, your body, but you are hearing it through some weird echo chamber. What did you just say? Why are you telling that story that is stupid. You are being boring and offensesive. This person you are talking to is just wishing you’d shut up and walk away. Jeepers YOU wish you’d just shut up and walk away. Seriously did every word out of you mouth today not sound completely contrived and wrong? The words from your fingers were great, even good, as was the music you coaxed from the guitar. In person though, like a movie shot out of focus and out of synch, what the frack? – who am I ?

Happens sometimes, days like this. Usually after a day where I’ve caught a glimpse of my little corner of the sky – I feel brilliant. I shimmer in the light – gorgeous. Then an awkward view of the Buddha belly in the mirror, a stretch that results in popping noises so loud your office worker, from behind her headphones, looks startled.

My little corner of the sky. For you Glee geeks that is from the Broadway Musical “Pippin” the lyric goes something like this. “Rivers belong where they can ramble. Eagles belong where they can fly. I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free. Gotta find my corner of the sky.”

That’s what I’m gonna go work on right now. I am a writer of story, a spinner of tales. With that talent I am going to build my own castle, slay my own dragons, rescue one (or six) prince(s)and bring in a bumper crop, then a nice late night glass of brandy on a turret top and a long deep gaze into the stars above before the prince(s) calls me into the warmth and embrace of bed and love and dreams.

Are you kidding me?

So what is the deal with new guitar strings. Do they seriously have to be tuned halfway thru a song? Are you kidding me? I put them on when? I’ve re-tuned how many times?

And what is with my incredibly well developed avoidance of success thing. Though I can report 9 pages on the Rain Girls pilot and 7 pages on episode 6.
How long did it take to write 10 thank you cards and send 7 follow up emails for PitchMarket 2010? Two Weeks? Are you kidding me?

By the way, anyone looking for a new technology – I have successfully bonded sockeye salmon skin to metal and absolutely no clue how to separate them. I seem to have created an entirely new substance. Perhaps useful for shoring up wormholes.

Wondering if I can get away with Glade plug-ins and blindfolds for book club on Wednesday.

And I’m cranky because now they’ve been on Oprah and everyone is a Canadian Tenor’s fan what do they need me for?

OOOOhhhh. Where’d that little toad come from? Though they did make nice comments about fans flying from afar and bringing treats. I guess that’s me, as long as I send chocolate and don’t show up on anyone’s doorstep I’m going to say that makes me a good fan not a stalker fan. The CTs incandescent success is a good thing, right? To do with them making the world happy. Which I want for them and they want for them. Hah! I have fan jealously. That is just silly. So.

Okay, moving on to the next pothole of the day. Now the reminder to breathe. I did get the acknowledgement that though the three videos I prepared fell short of everyone’s expectations, my hard work and effort was noted. Thanks. At least no-one complained about the font.

Are you kidding me? Last night as I was approaching the realization that there was nothing on TV that I was remotely interested in watching, I caught myself wishing I could catch that next episode of that series about the drug-addicted, wheelchair-bound sorceress. You’ve seen the promo’s surely of “Shadows Gather” with the next episode being after a long dark night of the soul the hot Cop shows up to make her and her almost-but-not-quite-jail-bait-live-in-boy-toy French toast for breakfast. Then the flash of realization that it's not a TV series Carolynne – it is the next chapter of your novel that you haven’t quite written yet. Really? Seriously? I actually had a moment of pining for the next chapter of one of MY stories. Good sign. It’s a good sign, right?

Thinking of the Shy One and our conversation about never feeling good enough. Never being able to receive love or praise or affection of any kind because you have this deep rooted feeling that if someone actually likes you it is because they are mistaken about who you really are and misguided about the quality of what you do. At some point they will come to their senses and walk away.

I was well and truly shocked when the Cossack admitted not having read my scripts yet. I actually looked and him and thought, “Then what are you sitting here for?” Yes. The concept that an attractive successful smart man just liked me for my company and not what I could do for them was kind of cataclysmic. And sad. And maybe misguided. Perhaps he is only interested in whether or not I can advance his career. But I hope it is only because I make him laugh. That’s what I hope.