Thursday Night

At Melbourne University I took a creative writing class called 'Journals, Diaries, Autobiography'. The professor had a favourite line, 'Begin with now...' she would say. When in doubt, 'begin with now'.

To begin with now:

It is 8.03pm. I am sitting alone in a converted loft apartment in an area of Brooklyn the hipsters call 'East Williamsburg', and those too cool to be hip acknowledge as what it is; 'Bushwick'.

I am drinking my second glass of Cavit pinot grigio. Cheap at double the price.

An ice cream truck keeps driving past. Would not have imagined this industrial neighborhood to be his demographic. He keeps it real by mixing up his electronic musak, and I keep thinking my mobile phone is ringing.

I am in Brooklyn because a dispute over the long standing 'open wardrobe policy' I have with my crazy scandinavian flatmate flared up on Monday due to an overdue pair of black pants on her part, built up frustration on my part, and aforementioned craziness (again on her part) drove me out of the west village in search of some peace. So here I am at Zay's apartment, while he is out at a Laure Anderson concert with his boss.

It's 8.07pm. School finished on Monday. On Tuesday I began to have guilt at not being productive enough so I read through the day's casting breakdowns and discovered the perfect acting job for the summer; 'Black Comedy' a British farce being performed in the Berkshires. I even knew the director. Perfect! Today, I went in for an audition. 'Twas not perfect. Though I couldn't even tell you what was actually wrong with it. Just sometimes you know, and sometimes you don't, and today I knew, and the reaction was a very polite 'ho hum'. David Mamet says when you're done (performing, auditioning, whatever), you should wipe your feet at the door. I did; the door to a wine store.

Time to myself extremely weird. I guess this is the come-down from the high of school. Need to make a list of intelligent books to read, need to figure out my tax, need to find a way not to spend forty hours a week in the admissions office, need another glass of wine.

8.13pm. A guy outside the window keeps yelling 'Noooo....' loudly and weirdly. This is definitely not Williamsburg. Makes me think of the stalker phone call in 'The Bodyguard', and my father's subsequent impression of him at frighteningly regular intervals.

To end with now:

It's 8.21pm. The ice-cream truck is back, and the musak has looped back to 'Music Box Dancer'. It's actually kinda catchy. I am considering changing my cell phone tone.