A writing prompt I give my playwriting students is to write a scene in a specific location--a beach, a kitchen, a jail cell, a stadium--in which someone says "It's not how I imagined it" which may refer to anything, not necessarily the location.
Well, I am drunk on Plungerhead red from Whole Foods. I'm listening to Bauhaus' "Bela Legosi's Dead." [Sing along, if you're so inclined.] I just got off the phone with someone who loves me who called all the way from Singapore to see that I was all right. Last night, as the polls were still being tallied, I fielded another such call from Berlin.
Downside: we are in the midst of an international disaster.
Bright side: I am looked after the world over.
I canceled my French class this evening due to mourning and, with my extra hour, planned to go to the mattress store (oh how the mattress woes continue to plague me), but Daniel posted a reminder to Facebook that there was live music to be had at the bar just down the street, so I traded another sleepless night (damn you, mattress) for an evening of connection. The place was packed. The music was great. A woman newly arrived from New York sang "The Sunny Side of the Street." Bright sides were all around us.
Nevertheless... today. It's not how I imagined it. Not at all.
God bless America, my home sweet home.