(no subject)

I detest feeling restless and useless on top of that.

[locked to those that know what happened]

I was sick of Cait's bedroom after a few days and now I'm sick of my entire apartment. Pretty much disgusted with wandering around Ro's as well. I want to do something, anything that resembles my normal routine and yet--I can't.

I want to work in my studio but I know better. I'd only be asking for trouble at this point and I've never been one for safety hazards when blowing glass. Too many things can go wrong if you aren't focused. It's safe to say that my mind wanders a lot lately. Any little thing sets me off and I can't seem to ignore the constant worry and fear, the feeling as if I am going to jump out of my skin at any moment.

Then there's the matter of...my hand. I don't want to look at it. It's hideous. I get nauseous every time I catch a glimpse of it. Of that side of it. If I can't look at my hands, I can't work the glass. It's really that simple. And to be honest, I'm not even sure how I'm going to be able to hold the rods and pontils, the blocks...balance is SO very essential to what I do. Did. Balance and steadiness. It's the difference between excellent artwork and a damned mess. I won't spend my time creating anything less than the forms I see in my mind's eye. I just won't.

I'm afraid to go back and find that I'm not capable of adjusting.

The same can be said of work at Last Call. Mike has said time and again that I don't have to hurry back, whenever I'm ready he'll put me on the schedule. I want to work. I miss it. I miss the staff, the regulars, even most of the music. At this point, even karaoke nights sound appealing. I know, too, that Mike's having to juggle all of the things he hates about running a bar. The things I always handle. Dealing with the vendors and suppliers, payroll and scheduling. The tedium of owning a small business. All things I can pretty much do by rote these days and I actually enjoy most of it.

But then I start thinking about all the questions people will have. The stares that I know will come. And I have no idea what to say to them, should I say anything or let the idle gossip run wild? People are going to talk no matter what, I know that but I really wish they wouldn't. Staff, the regular customers and acts, the new patrons...and it's the unknowns that frighten me too. I don't feel like I can trust anyone I don't already count as a friend.

[locked from Rory]

And the nights Breaker Street play there...they have always been my favorite nights to work. Always. You'd think that having Ro there would make me feel better, but the truth is I don't think I could bear to be in the building while they play their music. I haven't been able to listen to anything of theirs since--

I hate that I can't stand to hear Ro sing. I never realized how often he hums random tunes as he does things or sings under his breath, but he does. And it's all I can do not to scream at the sound of it. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! That's all I think when he starts and it breaks my heart as much as it turns my stomach.

I can't tell him this, I simply can't. How can I, when so much of our relationship has been built around his music, his band...he's a singer, it's what he does and it's what he's so very good at. And I'm proud of him but I just can't listen to him any more. What if I never can? And it's not that I don't think he's talented or that the band isn't amazing. Rory is and Breaker Street are and I really want to be supportive of them, I do. I just can't hear their music without remembering what he did.

I haven't even been able to make myself bring them up in casual conversation with anyone. I've tried. The words just stick in my throat. Me. The band's free PR campaign girl. And I can't find it in myself to speak about them.

What if he doesn't want to be with me if I can't share in that part of his life any more?

[/locked from Rory]

I refuse to even think about after closing. I know that Mike isn't about to let me do that alone any more. And I know Ro wouldn't let me even if Mike did. It's the thought of walking out of the bar and into the parking lot that makes my chest feel tight and I forget how to breathe. Alone or not, I'm not sure I can do it.

So where does that leave me? Not in my studio and not at work. Home. Going stir crazy.

Maybe I really should do what I was talking to Bobby about and go back to Venice for a while. I'd love to see Alessandro. I'd love to be in his studio and I know that he'd help me figure out the solution to my problems there. I've always felt safe in his capable hands and if I have to relearn anything, there is no one I'd rather have teach me. No one. Only, I don't know if I could leave Ro even for a little while. And I certainly don't know what I'd do with Mr. Beaker. I can't take him with me and subject my poor puppy to quarantine like that.

I wish someone would just tell me what to do.

[/unlocked]

Aryn, do you want to have lunch sometime this week?

Friday on the Upper East Side [RP for Aryn Wakefield]

A lunch date with a casual friend, at noon and in Manhattan no less, meant Pippa had to do something she normally shied away from: wake up early. So much for reclaiming her life and her routine, she thought to herself as she stumbled around her kitchen making coffee. Mornings were not her favorite time of day. But she had to shower and dress, talk herself into a state of semi-normalcy so she could even face Aryn at the upscale bistro. And then of course, there was the drive.

"You're doing this, Kerr." Muttering to herself, coffee mug in hand, Pippa went back into her bedroom. She even managed a smile as she caught sight of her puppy curled against the sprawled form of her lover, both still sound asleep. She'd be tempted to rejoin them and cancel on Aryn if there were any room for her in the bed.

Instead, she showered and dressed in a favorite fall ensemble, something with long sleeves that afforded her the opportunity to hide her hands from view. From there she played with the hopelessly choppy lengths of her hair, finally giving up and leaving them in what she hoped passed for artful disarray. After Larch had butchered her long curly locks, Pippa resorted to straightening and further trimming her auburn mane in an attempt to rectify the damage. She wasn't satisfied with the results but until her hair grew out, there was little else she could do with it.

She left the apartment with those thoughts in her head, turned off the alarm on her car (recently returned to her after the mechanic's massive repairs) and set out for the bridge that would connect her with the much larger city. The radio was conspicuously silent for the duration of her drive. She hadn't been able to listen to anything by Breaker Street and other music held even less appeal to her.

Reaching her destination, she opted to valet park at Jaques'. Finding a place to self-park was never something she enjoyed and if she was going to put on her happy face and pretend life was wonderful, she didn't need that aggravation. Pippa shrugged her purse onto her right shoulder and tugged the sleeve of her left over her hand, holding the hem with her fingertips, hiding the missing pinky and the dark bruising as she handed over her car keys and got out of the green VW Bug.

Showtime.