I’m sitting on the terrace of a hotel room built into a cliff perched over sparkling blue water and a rocky beach, watching the sun sinking on the horizon.
For several days I had no internet access, no email, no journal updates. This felt more than slightly strange, even though I periodically retreat from the world. Not wanting to stay in touch with people is entirely different from not being able to do so.
My mother, kids, agent, publicist, and a few friends know how to reach me if I’m needed, but so far no urgent matters have come up.
During the day I walk along the beach, staring at the water and listening to sad music, not quite escaping the month of January but also not terribly concerned because the sun is shining and the air is warm and I never imagined that I would spend part of my winter on the Cote d’ Azur.
At night I go out with mathematicians and behave myself until the East London Massive crew splinters off and then I tell them sketchy stories and laugh and laugh with friends until I can barely breathe.
This year I resolved not to think about what January represents, about all the dark cold winter days and nights shivering in hospital rooms.
The distance between the past, those rooms, that view across the Puget Sound to the Olympic mountains, and this view, this day, this anonymous hotel room, staring at the Mediterranean and a clear and distant flat horizon, is immense and at the same time minuscule.
I’m the same person. I just, unexpectedly, grew up.