It is entirely possible that when the homeless person smashed in my car window Saturday night, he/she also opened the window to a way for me to get myself to Gay Paree. Because he left a one-way, first-class Lufthansa plane ticket on the seat. No. Not at all. He left a crapload of broken glass on the seat – NOT easy to clean up, by the way.
But the next morning, I got an email from Dana the Artist. She's leaving town for a month and offered me her studio. She leaves soon. Soon soon. Like, in less than a month there is an excellent possibility I could be in Paris. OUI. MERCI.
Before this, I could see no solution to what I'd begun to think of as The Paris Problem. The Paris Problem included having no clue about anything related in any way to how or when or if I was ever getting my ass back to Paris. Absolutely NOTHING was clear to me. Where the money was coming from. When I would go. Whether I should book a ticket now or wait. Where I'd stay. How long I'd stay. If me going back to Paris was just me clinging to some dried crust of a misspent dream. If I should go somewhere else like Haiti or Hamilton, Ontario. I'm telling you: clueless.
Now, I don't want to get too woo-woo on you here, but every time I ask the question, "What's next?" CRAZY stuff happens. What's next? BOOM – I'm acting on a roof. What's next? BOOM – massive studio in Paris. This question packs a serious punch. An exciting punch. A totally-unexpected-yet-not-sucker-punch.
A friend of mine got laid-off last week and he's basking in this weird mix of abject fear and delicious possibility. He told me that he has no idea what he wants to do with his life. May I make a small suggestion? Say the words "What's next" and then WATCH THE F*CK OUT.
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1 comment:
Hmm. What's Next?
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