Two Weeks
I just got off the phone with a few Le Grand Macabre cast members in Graz. Tonight they were celebrating in grand style: the final performance of my sweet, disgusting, fabulous first big-house remount. Very bittersweet for your still-ailing-but-pretty-much-past-this-bullshit-but-not-cos-she’s-still-deaf narrator here in Berlin.
Apparently the crowd was great. Big. Very responsive.
Tonight I’m celebrating…well celebrating is too strong, really…observing, or possibly even just acknowledging two entire weeks without any alcohol or tobacco (for those who’d care, it’s been over two months without green already). Strangely enough, it’s easier to give up the pair than to kick either on it’s own.
I’ve also had painfully little work to do. That means, without my three favorite vices, my fourth pillar of compulsion is picking up some overtime. Oh, sweet food.
It’s lame, sort of ironic and perhaps oddly fitting that it is this particular period of frustrated, necessary lethargy that has coincidentally been magnified by this tyrannical sobriety.
Just day after day. No fog in the mornings to remind me of the dramatic travails of the previous evening, and to provide that salty delicious undertone of mortality throughout the day. No stink to my coat. I have to near-consciously step down into a lukewarm pool of sleep at night rather than falling into that cool dark sea of nothing.
Everything is so clear. All the time. Nothing tilts or throbs or blurs or stinks or races. Nothing has a story. Situations don’t wink at me like sick private jokes only I can decipher.
Even after two weeks of heavy drugs and pain, people who see me keep saying I look better. Well rested. Healthy.
You know, fuck. Who needs to live to ninety, I say.
Prost.
