The nerves have been close to the surface of late. There is too much to do and not enough time and never enough money and the surly, rebellious teenager in me is rising up like a scream. I think she wants to play. Or fuck. Or start a band.
I attended a book launch the other night, and in the middle of the reading I was struck almost breathless with wanting the stage. At first, it was just a slight yearning, as when one fondly remembers a good meal or a warm day. Then, it crept into my limbs like an ache, spreading out under the surface of the skin. Then, in an instant, it surged in me like desire surges: the pure, blind need to perform.
I have since realized that everything I write is meant to be voiced. Essays are meant to be lectures. Blog posts are meant to be stories. Emails are meant to be late-night phone conversations, or dialogue in a play. Suddenly, I want this as much as warmth or food or sex, but there is no corporeality in anything I do.
Last night, I dreamt that I was swimming with Spalding Gray. I shudder to think what this means.