Saturday, August 17, 2002
I'm back again in New York, the life I've made. Last night I was grumpy. Today I'm a - o - k, just accepting things more gracefully. Perhaps Stanley Tucci and Edie Falco helped me tonight, and today my friend Steve. On the plane ride home I was composing a great little ditty in my head entitled "Turbulence" that I hope debuts sometime soon. But back to my hot-a apartment and la vida loca . . .
I was wrong to be judgemental about our houseguests. They're quite a lovely bunch. Tomorow we may all head to Coney Island! See what I'm talking about? (sometimes I don't even know if I'm being sarcastic, but often times I do know that I hate myself for it). Really, they're great. Everyone's great. Calm, concerned for one another's happiness, a connected group I'd say. However, they're off right now at the Brooklyn Inn whilst I sit gloriously alone at my screen's side. Who's the pooper?
Today was something--all over the map. Steve and I started off lunching at West 79th, meandered through the park in the rain, heading towards Frick's house of oil paintings and bronzed sculpture. We meandered afterwards to the Algonquin and then to Frankie and Johnny on Broadway. At the Algonquin Steve and I had one of our famous chats about life, love, lonliness, and, yes, the ever-present search, but this time things were different. We have indeed grown and the fight has lessened. I'm so tired of the fight.
But a new thing to fear came right up in my face that has something to do with my brain and the depths that I traverse, which seem to get in the way of my coveted human connection, especially with that someone special. I'm special. Your'e special, but today the kind of special we all want to avoid was planted on me. It's the kind of special that keeps you from getting picked for kickball or the typing team. "Fingers ready! Go!"
And then I am cradled in a dark balcony seat, first row, by this woman about my mom's age. She spins a good tale--chit chat, but the kind that's like peach pie, making you want to hug goodbye. Frankie and Johnny worked for two hours to climb through a jungle of love insecurity, relationship insecurity. The thrity-some-odd minutes of in-the-flesh nakedness are the perfect metaphor for the play: you have to reveal yourself to love.
In the middle of applause where you hold your breath and take one, stop-motion plunge together with the whole audience, I hear the woman I'd been chatting with two hours earlier say, "I hope you get everything they're dreaming of." And then in my awkward giggle of surprise and thanks it was gone. But the gift of those words planted in me, for me to take on home. Thank you fair lady, thank you Stanley and Edie, thank you Steve . . . gifts of the day.