We have this expression around here called “collection time” which is a reference to our days in our twenties and early thirties when we worked in fashion. The two weeks leading up to collection time and typically some kind of runway show entailed waking up going to work for sixteen-to-twenty hours, passing out and doing it again, during a solid fortnight. It was a drag but there was no way around it. Many things in our lives have had this dynamic and we still say collection time.
Two weeks from tonight is the first night of performances for the Afterglow Festival, followed the next week by the kick off of the Glowberon series in Cambridge. I know myself and I will kick myself if I leave any stone uncovered in my fundraising efforts. So that becomes the priority now, getting in as much money as possible to ensure I at least break even. I have worked fairly steadily over the last six months, as I do every year leading up to festival, to bring this series of productions to light. Typically I get a terrible head cold just after festival ends. But my cold has come early this year. If I were to listen to my body as I should I would lie down and get some rest. Unfortunately there has been no slow down in the Starsky + Cox work—if anything this is our busiest week in months—and people who have taken all summer to socialize suddenly have to be seen—how I wish I could just not show up for social plans right now but then, you see, I’m not “cultivating my friendships.” Not my words by the way. And anyway, I’m of the mind that I do much of the cultivation in any case in many instances. To be honest, I’m feeling very hell-is-others right about now and don’t really give a shit about socializing. So there.
Case in point: Someone I know well and whom I write often during the course of the year to check in and chat and so forth (who mostly doesn’t reply to emails or goes into some kind of monologue, as people do, about “how busy I am”—we’re all fucking busy, meanwhile) wrote a note that they’re having a little something tomorrow night and could we come. Well from the sound of what this little something is it’s a biggish something and certainly the planning has been going on for ages. I’m all for spontaneity but I hate feeling like an afterthought or worse: Like someone who might see that this event happened and wasn’t invited so I better be invited just as a precautionary measure against censure. Paranoid of me? Probably. But the way I feel these days I’m going to trust my gut, even if my gut is acting gutted.
Now I’m perfectly aware that I run a risk here of spewing negativity—who wants to read that. But sometimes even those of us who work as professional cheerleaders (especially we in this position) need to get all the yuckies out somehow somewhere. So that’s what I’m doing today. I’m venting. I’m releasing. I’m saying I’m fucking tired and pissed off and all I want to do is watch TCM for the next twelve hours. I don’t want to be on. I don’t want to be professional. I don’t want to be wise or in any way all knowing. I don’t want to channel psychic power. I’m effing exhausted (I’m writing this post the same day as the previous one if you’re catching that theme) and I need a major time out.
Why do I always have to be so Johnny on the spot? Why do I always have to have perfect follow through. Don’t other people who haven’t returned professional emails in the last two months feel even the slightest guilt about it? Even if they’re British? Are friends not aware that it’s always me reaching out and that they rarely initiate. Even if they have kids (and I don’t), I feel like that excuse has worn pretty thin. Anyway people my age are no longer young parents. They are becoming grandparents for Chrissake. Anyway, I’m definitely down a hole and I’m not coming out until I feel better and I’m not going to mask my feelings for this fucking Blague today. Today I need to be a fucking whining complaining douchebag.
I’m tired of the uphill battle. I’m tired of doing the same thing everyday, including this stupid thing. I’m tired of other people. I’m tired of rolling this stupid boulder up the mountain with a stick. Mainly I’m just tired of myself.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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