A PILE TO STEP IN
Back in my starving artist days, I went to Teatro ZinZanni with my friend Paul. During a break between performances, the host pointed right at me.
“You,” he said. “Get up here.”
I complied. He was very short, I was very not, and he played the contrast for laughs while he circled me in his French outfit and accosted me in his English accent.
“And what is it that you do, Mark?”
“I’m a writer.”
“A WRITER, eh?”
“Who bought your ticket?”
It was funny because it hurt because it was true. (Paul got free tickets through his work.)
Life these days is the definition of full—but I still carve out time to stay on my creative grind. It scratches an itch nothing else can touch.
This page is so named as a kind of tombstone for my long-defunct blog: a pile to step in. It’s so strange to remember how much that thing mattered to me. I won’t even link to it b/c all the links are broken now and the formatting is covered in cobwebs and dust.
Sometimes a sinkhole just opens up
and swallows whole the paltry life on your list
Wherefore art the crux when the borders be in flux?
When your happy place gets parked up against the abyss
- They quickly realized I’m a dude.
- I don’t know very many Taylor Swift songs.
- Those I do I don’t much care for.
When your brain is compelled to rewire itself, relearn how to designate something for long-term memory, get it to stick, some weird shit happens.