I'm Still Here

I haven't written one word. The summer burst forth with such joy. I traveled, I worked all over the states - (thank you to all of you who continue to call me!) on some great sets. The full moon of September sucked all of the people out of Wellfleet. Overnight, the decrease in human energy was palpable. 
I wanted to. Write about these things, that is. I started a million times in my head, anxious to get in touch and hear from you as well.  

The truth is, I'm unhappy. I've been unhappy since I took a job I didn't like for the money. And it was the same job I didn't like LAST year and promised myself I'd never do again. So I have a double whammy against my heart and soul. "Doing something JUST for the money is never the right decision" my friend Debbie told. She's the same one who, at 15, gave me the wise advice that I didn't heed two months ago "If in doubt, the answer is 'no'". 

I don't like to write about when I'm unhappy. I seem to get a lot of flack for it. People want to hear when you're UP, but that isn't sustainable. And being out here in watery territories with monster full moons can be destablizing for sure. 

Then, this afternoon, on the eve of end October's full moon, exiting the yoga studio, my phone pinged and I received this heartbreakingly lovely poem from my friend David, whom I connected with by voice after too long... he on the Amtrak, me in my car.
 
Chopped salad and chocolate cake
is what I love and long from you, what I remember. Not all, a lot, just a taste

Placed on the train: rich bag lady in front tired of shopping. Cute boy behind on his tablet- college football

I smell the half-caf.

the only answer to the gallons of java we could consume while freeing our egos, our self crazy images, fending off the fat and oh so thin over a chocolate cake so rich we split it….sort of.

Wondering where we could find the perfect chopped salad and why was life so hard. Color palettes and theory chatting about the future, a past, a dream, necessary re-reminding and what the fuck happened to the theatre????

We connect on failing phones updating as quickly as the train hurls through space against yellows and reds of the lost-for-green leaves. We, headed for our own loss of color, laugh at our brilliance no longer noticed

The call is done with promises of more frequent ones.

Maybe.

It's ok if not, we know.
The woman in front sleeps on her bags wrinkling new clothes. The college kid is headed to a funeral, he says loudly before whispering of his straight love of musicals.

And we head on thru space and in spite of time. Clicking in step as trees pretend to die for a moment and I am left wondering if there is chocolate in the cafe and if chopped salads have, in our absence, been perfected.*

*(love you Lebarron!)

I pulled over. The tears stream down my face. I get it finally. What this horrible non-stop feeling resembling a stone against my heart is.  I miss my tribe. I am overcome with emptiness from not seeing your faces, stopping by, having dinner parties, meeting for coffee, laughing, double features at the movies, shows, activism, game night, birthdays  holidays, everyday. I miss my tribe.