on new spaces and old, wise voices

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I’m sitting in the living room of our new apartment, rocking in a camping chair, staring at my smudged chalkboard that announces my next New York show, “Rockwood, August 19th.” This chair and a mattress are all we have. I've put up a picture of A dunking a basketball where our future TV will go, trying to fill the emptiness.

We moved on Tuesday, I started a new job on Monday, and my throat began burning on Sunday—a virus that I only feel when I swallow, but when I do, I’m 89% sure that my inner throat vessels will close in and I’ll never breathe again.

The new job is at a restaurant in the West Village, opening in two weeks. During training, I meet people who tell me how they used to write, act, and dance, but have since reframed their priorities. I tell myself, “You keep going. You keep singing.”

I worry this job will drain me, pulling me away from my artistry and partner. I worry it will make me too tired to write or share my day. I fear becoming fixated on climbing the restaurant’s ladder for the safety net it offers, while music's financial return remains uncertain.

I worry about everything except the present, like when I dragged the mini fridge across our shiny new floors and scratched them—zero thought, big consequence.

I worry about everything except my deep understanding to keep going, to keep singing. That’s what I’ll do on the 19th, and that’s what I’ll do today.