At first, I was going to post a long, depressing entry about having to wait for a taxi for an hour and a half last night. And then I was going to write about getting home obscenely late and wanting nothing more than a long, hot shower, only to learn that my building's water supply was to be shut off sometime between midnight and 4am, yet I took my chances anyway, and I had just gotten damp when the raging torrent that was my shower quickly dribbled down to a measly trickle, and I finally had to put it out of its misery and turn the whole thing off, and then I stared woefully at the dripping faucets for a bit, and then I was going to further write about how I went to bed shivering and pathetic, thinking Farewell, hot shower, and the whole thing was going to be full of pathos and poignance, and you were all going to feel sorry for me.
This is not that blog entry.
Today was quite fab. My horrible haircut (which makes me look like Audrey Hepburn's dyke sister, not that that's a bad thing, but it's not an Astrid thing, and I don't think Hepburn even HAD a dyke sister, but whatever) is actually starting to look okay. Mod, even.
Also: my first-ever directing class went well—my students told me I have Magical & Astounding Brain Powers, which was rather nice, but it came at the price of spending three solid hours hammering out storyboards and shot lists with them. Phew.
And I actually returned (nearly) every phone call I've received over the past few days, which makes me feel like I am a better person than I was a few hours ago.
And I finally watched a bunch of of LonelyGirl15's blog entries (I'm two degrees of separation away from her, don't ask), and BOY HOWDY am I glad she's not the real deal. I mean, hey. She reads Feynman. She's self-possessed, well-spoken, beautiful—and she's supposed to be FIFTEEN. I was NOWHERE near that nifty when I was fifteen, fer chrissake—who the hell is? If I had seen these entries of hers prior to the big unveiling of the truth in the LA Times (the process of which reads like a William Gibson novel), I would have felt a retroactive shame for being a not-quite-as-smart, not-quite-as-glam, not-quite-as-cool fifteen-year-old. The entries are admittedly endearing, and kind of addictive, but they also make me feel vaguely worse about myself.
Onto a neat-o synergy I just experienced: go here, and play what you see. At the same time, go to this page, and look at it as the mp3 plays. Now, I don't know if this is just me and my unusual sensitivities to indigo, twilight skies, lone birds soaring overhead through said twilit skies, suggestions of poison, and silvery-voiced women with electronica flourishes, but this combo makes me Feel Something. Namely, it makes me very aware of my Inner Goth, a woman I have not spoken with in a while. Time was, she'd make me wear lots of black on black (for that messy, poetic, raven look), and quote Baudelaire in the original French. These days, I'm too groggy from blathering about shot lists and being abandoned by taxi men and lack of proper sleep to bother being goth, but this combo has brought her back up from my inner basement to my inner living room, where she is now curled up into a comfy little ball of black on black upon my inner couch, sipping some blood orange tea and darting her eyes around suspiciously. I don't think she likes the new wallpaper I put up—too many duckies, she says.
Wow, I really need to go to sleep. And maybe wear something floaty and black-on-black tomorrow.