I don't write I don't write I don't write.
I can smell rain and it's driving me insane.
I want to dance long and grey, pavement to lamppost
Shoes scraping cement, knees cracking
Eyes rolled back, fingers snapping

One day out of seven isn't bad.

I can smell everything, these days.

 So.

It is the end of the year. Christmas in four days. I leave for Berlin in seven days. I have a production meeting for the first show of my next working year in five days. 

I'm looking forward to Christmas with my family. I'm looking forward to dinner, and hanging by the kitchen door listening to our ladies chatter in Hokkien. I'm looking forward to the children opening their presents. I'm looking forward to rain, and tv specials, and staying in, and the cat running about in wrapping.

I'm looking forward to Berlin. And Klagenfurt. And Frankfurt. And Hamburg. And Vienna. And watching huge, epic shows while I'm there. And getting new cities under my feet. Seeing bats in the zoo. Browsing comic stores there. Ice skating. Forest.

I'm equal parts excited and terrified of the snow, the winter. 

I'm looking forward to the first show, to pre-pro, to learning, to putting lessons in effect. To calm and competence. 

My back still hurts. Ach.

I'm here. I'm open.

The next two weeks are going to be grueling. 
But we'll get through. We always do. 

My spine feels disconnected from the rest of me, somehow.

Remember.

I feel better about what I do than I have for a long while now.

It's the feeling of working towards a clear goal; making visible progress everyday. Of feeling challenged and stepping up, and knowing that you can take this so so so much further and that you will. The primal sensation of having pushed your body physically.

My appetite is better, too: I'm ravenous in between bouts of movement and dance choreo; need to keep my blood sugar up. I feel clear-headed and bright-eyed.

It's getting on the other side of the desk again.

 Not well not well not well

Want to lose myself in daylight my nose smashed against someone's ribcage I am lost lost lost where do I go to win

Finished one show. Start another this week. Then the big one in three weeks.

I haven't been writing.

My life in stacks of bills and programs and bank statements and postcards from no where. Piles of clothes and empty raisin boxes. Half-read books.  

(Here's what I'm reading, or not reading: Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, picked up at an outdoor stock clearance sale. A collection of one-act plays, from the library. Surrealist love poetry, which I don't like at all.)

Piles of unwashed clothes. Unmade bed. Bottle of unopened vodka. (I'm trying to save it for something.)

Undone.

 Went badly.

My hands won't stop shaking. 
I'm better than that.

Welp. Live and learn and fuck-all.

Doing a lot of hiding, these days.
Coiling to spring. 
I'll come round. Give me time.