It’s been a long time since my last piercing, and I’m all healed and great. Thus it’s time for a new round of cleaning and moaning about not being able to sleep on my favourite side. At least both holes are on the same side this time around. I learn from my mistakes, you see.
Picture will be added when i get one worth showing.
I’m not Catholic.
Can only Catholics go to confession?
Do you have to confess, or can you just have a cathartic talk with a person you will never see again?
I seriously want to know, so please reply if you’ve got something for me.
Waiting for my entrance.
Tomorrow is opening night, and The Producers are going to wreak havoc three nights at the local theatre.
Love, Shirley Markowitz
Today I’m having a long day. First, I’m going to work for eight hours, and then it’s off to the theatre for rehearsals.
Sitting at my desk, doing this and that, writing, talking on the phone.
View from my desk. And my fibonacci spiral.
Lunch! Absolutely necessary at this point.
Meeting. It’s cold and I’m hugging my cup of coffee. When in not writing, talking or taking a photo of it.
I’ve just order my sushi dinner and am on the bus travelling downtown.
Waiting for the bus
The wheels on the bus go round and round
Queuing for mic
New, wet shoes
Ready for action
Food, water, new costume
Patiently waiting for my great entrance
15 minutes break!
Makeup between scenes
An empty stage
Newly sharpened pencil, ready for audition scene!
Relaxing between scenes
Off with the makeup!
Breathing fresh air again!
Hitting the shower
Feeding Little Black Missy twice.
Don’t let the bed bugs bite!
Sometimes I wonder if I would pursue a career as an actor if I could live again and make other choices. And I suspect the answer is “maybe”
Listen carefully, legislatures of northern Europe. Camelot knew how to manage weather and seasons. It’s glorious.
Or I write horrible stories. Is there a difference? I think there is.
It’s interesting. I’m usually writing stuff I come up with myself. I don’t ever run my prompts by anyone, and thus I write what’s in my brain. I’ve never said my brain was brilliant. It has some dark nooks and crannies, and I love to explore feelings. If that is what makes my stories horrible, so be it. I’m far more worried if I’m a crappy writer as well.
How come I feel like I’m a floating island?
When I’m anchored, I’m just like the solid land. You can’t see difference in the grass growing on me or on the neighbour.
But then my anchors are cut, and I start to drift.
Maybe we all are islands?