Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
T-minus eight days to Graveyard launch and I’m less freaked out than I thought I would be. There are a thousand and one things that still can and probably will go wrong, but the machine is in motion, and before long I’ll just be along for the ride. I’ll have no choice but to take each day as it comes and after weeks upon weeks of manic planning and preparation, even that will be a weird relief.
Luckily most of the work needed from me this week is work I can do at home, so I’m soaking up the comforts of my own space while I can. I’ll be at the mercy of hotels and airlines and rest stops for most of the rest of the year.
Here’s what else is somehow keeping me sane:
The farmers market
I developed a weekend ritual of a long Saturday morning walk to the farmers market during the pandemic. It was better and easier to be outside than in the claustrophobic dystopia of the grocery store during the first COVID years. It also gave me a way to support other small businesses in a tough time and get better nourishment for myself at the same time. Apples are a favorite, but I’m picky about them. I like a bit of a bite. They’re best straight out of the fridge—the cold makes them crisper and sweeter somehow. And they’re best if they come from not too far away, haven’t been bouncing around the back of a truck for three weeks. I made time to stop by the farmstands at my local park this week and I’m planning to gorge myself on quality produce before I start my own Oregon Trail journey west and have to rely on prepackaged and restaurant food more than I’d like.
Random acts of kindness
In an effort to feel more prepared and less panicky about this tour, I bought some more basics to keep costume changes simple, which promptly got lost in the mail. The driver delivered the bag to the wrong house and UPS told me the shipper would have to submit an appeal and I might get my money back in 1-2 weeks. Problem was, I really need the stuff, and it woulnd’t arrive in time if I ordered again. This morning a stranger knocked on my door and said, “I think this is for you—it was delivered to us.” They drove blocks out of their way just to drop it off for no other reason than to be good to another human. It was a small thing, but it mattered, and I’m going to do my best to pay it forward.
Household aliens
I’ve had a problem with fruit flies here. I don’t know how they’re getting in, but it’s driving me nuts. I bought a Venus flytrap on a whim the other day, thinking that might be an elegant solution. Anything so macabre and bizarre is bound to be up my alley, but I also puppeteered a custom-built Audrey II in a production of Little Shop once upon a time, so there’s a kinship there. I’ve had my miniature version on my windowsill for a few days, and I wasn’t sure whether it was, well, eating. Until yesterday, when I spotted a fly buzzing around and stopped to watch. I waited a long time but my patience paid off and I got to witness Mother Nature do her thing. It was weirdly thrilling. There’s definitely something alien about a carnivorous plant in action. Aristotle’s early definition of anything “ensouled”—in other words, thinking and feeling—is something that can move on its own. This explains why some people get overly attached to their robot vacuum: we associate independent motion with sentience. Though plants do, of course, move, they don’t usually do it at a speed that we can perceive. Watching a flytrap catch a bug shakes up what you take for granted about the world beyond the human. It’s a fitting companion to my Graveyard Shift era.
What’s piqued your curiosity this week?