It’s late. I started writing. It has been awhile so I couldn’t stop. I will spare you the novel. I just wanted to say I’m back and I have missed it. I’ll write soon x
It is Tuesday and I feel like a Thursday… Yesterday (or was that this morning??) I
got described as ‘ancient’ by my darling 20-year old friend, who obviously sees thirty as the pinnacle of decrepitude. For the first time in my life I’m hanging with people slightly younger than me. What is age but a number? As it turns out they are my blessing in disguise.
Last time I wrote, I mentioned that my face was falling off. Shortly after, I met up with a friend from London who was on a stop-over in NYC. The first thing she asked was whether I had stress. Stress? No. Not really.
When we established that I have a) no house b) no job c) no clue upon my return to London, she smirked that it sure was a good thing I didn’t feel stressed… So there it was. Even in a gorgeous city, doing what I love doing, hanging out with great people, my nature gets the best of me and whatever I don’t (want to) feel , my skin seems to show.
Obviously it is tricky to remedy: what are you going to do? Stress about not feeling stressed?
Well, this is where my new friends come in. Their ways are strange and wonderful:
– They limit me to one cup of coffee a day (haha, to limit caffeine and make me buzz less. I need one to wake up – but I had to drive a hard bargain!)
-They will still be seen in public places with me, even if I did look like Frankenstein’s bride at one point.
-They keep telling me not to touch my face! (DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT IS?!)
Most importantly, they tell me to Stop. Worrying. I’ve heard every variation possible: Go with the flow; Don’t let things wind you up, make you explode; Let it go! And a family favourite: Just. Go. With. It.
The meaning of which I discovered last night, when I found myself in a studio-apartment in Manhattan; surrounded by 10 hours worth of empty beer bottles and a huge empty pizza box, after a workshop led to an impromptu party.
My feeble attempt to a ” Maybe we should go?” was drowned out by the guitar that was being played on the bed. Then I looked around at my friends slouching on sofas and the bed and I realised they didn’t look unhappy. Why worry about class in another 10 hours: that would come and they would be there.
I got up to get a comfier seat and decided to let their spirits lead mine, and from the bed the words of Mr Marley came to me, in light Italian accent:
Won’t you help me sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever have
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our minds…