I'm feeling swamped. Trying to keep my email inbox at less than 30, and within the blink of an eye, it's over 70, all kinds of things clamouring to be read and dealt with and responded to, let alone the rest of life. Entire days go by without any creative work at all, just keeping the plant running - there's a leak in the roof and the roofer is a week late in coming, spent much of yesterday getting the deck plants cleaned, pruned and hauled inside - ETC.
Oh shut up. First world problems. I spent part of today reading my diary from 1977 as background for my work on the 1979 memoir - I was in a musical on a cross-country tour with a wild and crazy bunch of alcoholics, and reading about it was upsetting; I hadn't realized how vulnerable and needy I was, how lost and foolish, adoring the wrong men hopelessly, allowing myself to be mistreated and hurt over and over. Oh so grateful to be far away from all that! I've forgotten so much about that year, that tour, that 27-year old woman. Diaries are a mixed blessing - perhaps it's better, sometimes, to forget. But for better or worse, I can re-discover my entire life in detail, day by day, thanks to the stacks of scribblers under my bed.
Tomorrow is a most exciting day - my beloved Macca is in town, and I'm going to his soundcheck and then to his concert. Apparently it might snow. Well, let it, as they say - I'll be singing, dancing and weeping, in a three hour bath of my favourite music. Hey Jude! And then I'll go off for a hot date with Justin Trudeau. My guys.
No, here are my guys.
And though I don't really care - Go Blue Jays.
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