I feel so much better this morning. I think it's cause it's the first Monday I've had off in ages, and I suddenly have two more days to work upon the art. If I look at what I wish to achieve today, it's two training sessions, transcription of narrative, and a further organization of the wild Nuit Blanche event Benjamin and I will be responsible for, upon the 3rd of October. If all three things happen today, then there is no reason why every single day can't be just as productive (I can forgive myself for only being able to train during the Wednesday-Friday period of time, as there is a studio I do have to buy, so I have to bend to the practical...) On a purely different subject last night, a very beautiful girl did point out to me that certain statements were just words, and she's right. Love, even of the self, isn't about declarations or songs or expressions of affections. No, love is about hard work. Love is about a depth of understanding and compassion and empathy, and the desire to push forward upon things regardless of the circumstances. I am definitely not the greatest when it comes to loving someone (especially myself, at times) but I'm working on it. At this moment of time in my life, upon the 13th of July, the defining acts of love I have to make are all within that narrative. There is no pursuit of anyone, and odd as it sounds, I have no time to pursue a single soul on a direct path. I'm not supposed to be singing love songs, or standing outside of a window at the moment, lamenting. The reality is, I have no cause to lament. Four weeks from now I'm going to be in Montreal performing. Twelve weeks from now I'll be boarding a flight to Paris to perform for two weeks. Two and a half months from now I'll be helping to stage one of the wildest events this town will ever see (all with such elegant simplicity) There is a girl waiting for me in another town who plays a mean guitar and backflips with the best of them, a friend who I will allow to become a lover (something tells me I won't become soft or passive from a touch, but wilder, and harder, as it should be) There is a novella to finish writing (a promise I made to Shannon before she left was that I would, and so I shall) about two dancers (One of them, regardless of circumstances, who I am grateful for, for sparking the voice again) Do I sit here, tired, and uninspired, or do I polish off this cup of coffee, stretch out, and get started with what is looking like one promising, wild day?
What do you think?
