I’m home again.
From another thing.
Ninth night in a row, more or less.
That’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s what we think it is. Success. Celebrity.
Things. That do. That fête. Soirée. Nightly. Hourly, if possible. Good things on endless repeat.
And so I have succeeded. And so I am famous. In a world that is tiny, but splendid. Populated with my hand-picked crème de la crème.
Ooh la la. C’est si bon.
Vraiment, c’est si bon.
when my life fills like this –quickly as jammed gutters in the rain– I grow paradoxically thirsty for my old shyness, those wallflower blues. I stand aside from myself and wonder at my knee-jerk community making , my determined niceties.
Dazzled by the glamour, I worry, “Am I still good? Right? True?” In the quiets that come after, the worry deepens: do good, right, and true even matter?
Or perhaps I am just now noticing that life moves a little too fast for me, and I am disappointed.
I have another thing.
C’est si bon. La vie en rose.