101618 I was telling my wandering mind a story while I was folding megan’s laundry I was folding her laundry because she said she had anatomy homework and then was going to go to sleep so could i please do it for her. I said OK. It’s a little weird hanging up her little itty bitty underwears. Where the fuck did she even get those from, anyway? Honestly, like, actually, it’s not really that weird. It’s not that big a deal. I just had that experience where you’re like, should this be weird? Do people think this is weird? Do they expect me to think it’s weird? and it’s like your mind suddenly turns into a clichéd sitcom where you have to mug it up and say the ha ha funny thing everyone in the studio audience is expecting you to say, although in this case the studio audience is—you guessed it—your own phantom fears and the quirky little chaotic family of voices inside your own mind. I don’t actually remember what the story was anymore. It had something to do with folding laundry. Reaching up with both arms over my head in the aquatic wan light of the basement feet bare against cool, earth-smelling concrete thinking about feudalism; feeling like a servant thinking a little bit about megan’s boyfriend but then the clichéd sitcom’s producers are like, nah, we don’t wanna air that episode at this time But the little worm that lives in my head and tells me stories was telling me one. There was a dramatic pulse; a wave of something mirthful and rueful ran through this one character, and he said something, but I don’t remember any of it now. Don’t you realize? That kind of thing is going on ALL THE TIME. But now here’s the catch: If you increase your time spent in front of the keyboard, will you proportionately increase the amount of those stories you *are* able to remember and “capture”? Or will they happen less because you’re spending less time doing other things that encourage the stories to happen in the first place—like, for instance, doing laundry, reaching over your head, feeling old, feeling like a serf in the basement of a hovel somewhere, working and getting creased and old and more feminine and doting every day? Only one way to find out. There should be like a safe word or something I can use whenever I get to that pause—maybe there’s 7 minutes left; maybe there’s 3; maybe there’s only 20 seconds, but either way, it’s that pause when you feel like you were saying or thinking something important and you don’t want to befoul it by continuing to type. You’re like, ooh, I’m *writing something,* I can’t be bothered to sit and go back to typing non-genius boring stuff! It’s better if I just sit here in silence, because then no one will ever know that the next thing I was going to say wasn’t going to be brilliant. Better to let everyone (who?) think I’m a golden goose with constipation than a (shudder) *regular goose.* But I am a regular goose. I feel exhausted after an all-day workshop, same as any other teacher. I’m socially awkward, same as any other submissive introvert. I don’t always know what to say next, same as any student. Whatever. I knew this wasn’t going to be a good one. Wasn’t going to be good because I don’t know the answers, right? So all that stuff you tell your students about how it’s the questioning that counts—that was all a bunch of hooey? Ha ha, no. You’re right. As long as I’m here actually typing, it’s “good.” It’s just sometimes tiresome to walk into it knowing that nothing magical is going to accidentally happen. But how could you possibly know that? You’ve surprised yourself so many times, when you were least expecting it! Sometimes you don’t even see the magic until years later, or discern which part of it even *was* the magic, and what *kind* of magic it was and what it was *really for,* not to mention sometimes you have to relearn what the meaning of *magic* even is. God, it’s good to be alive. I will tell you one good thing about being whatever age I am right now: I’m old enough to enjoy a certain amount of uncertainty and conflict and adversity. Like, I’m old enough to enjoy the play I’m acting in, even if the character I am in the play isn’t who I thought it was supposed to be or going to be, or even if this part of the plot of the play is scary or sad or disturbing or suspenseful or even boring. I think to a large extent that’s what being grateful to be alive is. It’s being more interested in the story-magic of *whatever is about to happen next* than you are afraid of it. It’s a weird kind of inverted, subtle, invisible, quiet strength. How do you know when you’re dead? I guess when the play’s finally over. As far as I know, it’s never been over yet. So I don’t see why I can’t live forever.