Drained from a deadline that produced an amazing story that I’m actually proud of, the beginning of an ongoing process, an extended work of art and research and social change, I’ll write about it soon.
I’m getting ready to leave town, time to really concentrate on my writing, and my comedy writing. Time to process my life by being away from it, and moving toward it at the same time. Time to put life’s happenings into a form that will live on. Forever and ever. 21.
Stories like the little girl who I babysat today, who dropped her meatballs in her milk. And scooped them out. And ate them. And then drank the milk. And who makes me write things like this, to any of my friends who will listen and respond:
“Leah is an upside-down pineapple sitting in a tree. Rocking her big fat potato to sleep. Then she takes care of a bicycle that’s upside-down on the ceiling and rides it upside-down and then says ‘coocamanudi butt,’ and then she puts kitty sunglasses on and sings ‘Treasure cat, treasure cat…sitting in a tree’ and then she tells herself a spooky story and then wraps rope around her head and it looks like a headband. And then she watches Alice in Wonderland and knocks off her nose. And that’s the story of Leah’s life.”
Yes. Yes it is.