Hungry like the wolf

I’m going to sound like an ingrate, but I’m going to take the chance.

I need to get out of the United States. If only for a while. I have cabin fever and my cabin is this whole country.

I need to go some place where I’m not exotic. Where people don’t split checks to the penny. Where everyone agrees that Apple watches are tacky and so is a lunch that lasts less than 2 hours.

Where no one brags about how little they paid for an item of used clothing. Or where they went to college. Or even discusses yoga or CrossFit.

Get me someplace sophisticated but old monied. Where people have the kind of manners that work at a street stall just as well as the aft deck of a yacht.

There are times in my life where the pain and discomfort lead me to dream. Right now I dream of being an ex-pat. I dream that someone will mention to someone a video they saw about a woman’s life and ten steps down the road it gets greenlit into something that makes me enough money so that I never have to work if I don’t want to.

The thought makes me giggle. One project that would make it so I never had to do anything ever again. Like Harper Lee.

And then I could go into exile and let my hair grow white, my face sag, and become a grande dame.

The thing about Brooklyn is that it is a mythical place akin to Pleasure Island in Pinocchio or the home of the lost boys Peter Pan rules. People here have such asynchronous growth. Either they are straights with boring corporate jobs or industry people who come alive at night or artists who gig as anything until the dream comes true.

I stand alone because I have had the profession, the husband, the house, the dog. But also the lovers, the adventures, the fans. And the wisdom that comes from it.

I’m dying again not to be the smartest person in the room. This time it isn’t about facts. This time it’s about seeing through people to their motivations, learning how they tick and predicting how they will play out the game.

I’m too tired to pretend to be amused. Get me to Venice or Singapore or Geneva. I can handle it. Damn, with enough oxygen in my blood, I could master it. And then retreat like Old Ben Kenobi to a desert hideaway, with a little spring and quiet.

I could even stop caring about the growing disturbance in the force. The expanding threat of the empire. I would just enjoy the warmth of the two suns that hover in the evening sky on Tatooine.

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