I’m here to reiterate, there's no telling which plan you’re presently making, will or won't, come to fruition. It's all a roll of the dice. Let's say a crapshoot. As an instance, take January 10. Around 5:30. I was sitting on the Q train, expecting to be, by 6 PM, at a showing of an animated version of “The Little Prince,” in a screening-room in a building around Times Square. I was curious as to my reaction to that fable, having read it years ago and only once. That's where the fox claims, "It’s only with the heart that one can see rightly."
“It all depends on you,” was what I told myself and yet I couldn't get started. At night I'd dream I was holding the wheel of a vehicle that had plenty of gas and yet I sat there wondering, which direction offered me my best option. All I was doing was stalling. I could feel it. I simply lacked the technique how I could sustain believing in myself; to which I blamed my pursuit of perfection: the enemy of all art. As a result,I felt anxious. I had stopped writing my show and it took a stranger's words to snap me back into doing it.
This was my concern when I discussed vanity: my skin tone. I wanted it to reflect light;for illumination meant I was sustaining the life-force. The day my face took on a dull gray finish I knew my energy was going down and I had to do something. Unless I was slated to be the first female emblazoned onto Mount Rushmore, this low-grade granite tone I emitted had to go. But truth be, I was exhausted going nowhere on the circuitous route I'd taken. What I needed was a goal in which to channel my energy; shore up my resources; focus. That meant walking on the straight and narrow, which didn't exist anywhere on my personal topography until Wednesday April 22, 2015 at 10 AM.
If we can’t prepare for the unexpected, why bother to think about what could possibly happen. I advise: be oblivious. You’ll know soon enough what needs your attention. For me, what grabbed mine, was an incident Tuesday evening, May 24 at 6:40 PM. That's when I fell off a stool and hit the right-side of my head. And what made it worse, I was not alone; rather inside St. Marks in the Bowery where the Historic Districts Council was having its “Grassroots Preservation Awards.” Within minutes that ceremony, in the adjacent garden, would be over; and more than one hundred people would be milling around me, the food and booze. And whatever gait I could gather, I'd get myself out of here. In no way would I exit on some sort of stretcher.
On Wednesday, May 18, at 12:15 PM, my cell phone rang. The screen registered the call as coming from Bellevue, Washington. I picked it up figuring it had to be Microsoft. I had twice visited its store on 53rd and Fifth. Sure enough, a technician named Aakash Bakshi introduceed himself, with a voice clear and crisp and diction approaching perfection. “What part of India are you from?” I asked. “Pondicherry” he said. And I began reveling in this human contact, which came about as a result of my due diligence.