March Dispatch

On releasing control.

I’m eating a tube of mini M&Ms for breakfast and it feels like Christmas. I thought Taylor Frankie Paul was going to save Bachelor Nation but then it all went up in flames. It’s hard being a fan of an outdated franchise. Nevertheless, I persist.

🐇

I’m very depressed because I am trying, and failing, to manage scheduling conflicts that are outside of my control. I am looking at medieval art in the Met when I run into yet another setback. I think of Helene Schjerbeck’s haunting self-portraits when she is close to death, which I just observed in the Lehman Wing moments ago. I crumple in a folding chair and bow my head. Last night I watched the last fifteen minutes of Sirat through tiny windows between my fingers while covering my face with my hands. I wanted things to work out. I really did.

🐇

Rick and I are playing Crazy Eights over pints of pilsner and spätzle at Heidelberg uptown. There are stained glass windows and ceramic mugs hanging from hooks on old wooden beams above us. At night there is a big party at Baby’s All Right where I vent to friends and acquaintances about my grievances. God’s Plan by Drake plays in one room and a mariachi band plays at midnight in another. There is a male stripper in the green room in an FDNY hat. It’s good old fashioned New York City fun. I am filled with the sensation that everything will work out just as it’s meant to. Not yet, but eventually.