I look around/ until I've found/someone/who laughs like you

I write fiction. I act. I improvise. I make up wild stories about wild people. An ex-ballerina who now coaches her daughter on how to pick oranges more gracefully. I've been told that my writing has always the breath of sadness on it. The way in winter if you blow on a restaurant window, it fogs up. The inverse of that with cold. Real life always cuts deeper. It hopes harder, too. But that trickle of ice slices like no story could. At least, if it's happening to you.

This should be a thrilled entry, an ectatic, my GOD your life is happening to YOU entry. A national arts and entertainment guide asked me to be their local editor. This-is-great. I can see myself once more. But, that song. By madeleine Peyroux. I listened to it like a zombie for months after leaving ireland. Feeling like I'd never find anyone who laughed this high pitched chortle so ugly it was adorable. I still haven't. And that is no story.

But, hey, lets cheers anyways. Because I'm an american--who couldn't you tell--values the merits of work over the merits of anything else. Deny them as I'd like, they're evident in the story of my life which feels, sometimes, like fiction.

Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye~