Well, I started this day off with acceptance and a sense of adventure. I tried to make the best of this new life in the cramped, little West Village apartment. Today, I did my daily reading on the "couch", which is more like a love seat and can fit two people uncomfortably when it's not cluttered. However, today various fertility and wedding books, magazine clippings and my daily reading books were edging uncomfortably close to me, sliding into my personal space as my weight concaved the cushions like a sink hole drawing them near me. I, in the meantime, was hunched over Eat, Pray, Love with my plated sandwich perched on the left arm of the couch and the cat perched on the right. My corn chips were on the floor between my feet, held upright with my legs. I had to be careful while reaching down for a delicious, lime-flavored chip, lest I knock my sandwich over, not to mention the bottle of coke which was sitting on top of a match box (the only flat surface on a cluttered coffee table).
I was hopeful, even after my painful, cumbersome and amateur attempt at meditation. I tried the ol' cross-legged on the floor approach. My inflexible hips did not like that as any attempt at focusing on my breathing or any sort of mantra was met by painful protests. I was still hopeful that I could find a nice, quiet, artsy coffee shop to write. Nope! I sat down at the one that played dance music, loudly. Just what I wanted on a sunny afternoon: a cup of coffee and The Party Rock Anthem! Who wouldn't want to have a pleasant conversation, work on some school work, rehearse a scene or do some writing with Nicki Minaj in the background? "Hey! Where's the dance floor!" Am I getting old?
Needless to say, I was a little pissed. I couldn't even focus on writing about what I read today. The repetitive thump of the base drove out the peace and serenity of the Ashram.
I can try to gather a little perspective. I'm in transition now. I have no footing, yet. I have yet to establish a routine. Perhaps, with the money I get from my ex-roommate, I can get a membership at that writing space on 14th street. Because coffee shops like that one just won't work! Then, I had to wiz. I just wanted to gulp down the rest of my coffee and get out of there.
On the bright side, I do get to spend more time with my fiancee. I could look at this aggravating experience at the coffee shop as part of a Thomas Edison approach: I've eliminated one place to write. And, the right place will come along if I'm patient.
I'm afraid that I may have to jump right back into a new job. I dread that because to me that spells death for my creativity. And, why would I go right back into an industry that keeps firing me (I've been fired from three restaurants)? Why does this seem a sign to me and no one else? Men who have that many ex-wives just stop marrying, right? Of course, then I could be assuming too big of a role in controlling my future. This could be my ego stepping in and trying to run the show. So, instead of risking the tantrum of a red-faced, stomping child, I'm just going to call it a day.
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