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Last night I met a movie star. He was short. I couldn't have been more cool. New York has taught me the fine art of pretending not to give a shit. I pretend not to give a shit about a lot of things these days.

I recently asked a friend what to do when you can't stop thinking about the thing you aren't supposed to be thinking about. His advice:

busy yourself with hobbies

long runs

cold showers

kickboxing

Also: find a new fish.

I've been dealing with this free-wheeling anxiety by eating lots of crunchy foods: baby carrots, almonds. I take short jaunts around the block. I don't think it's just me - my whole office has been wound tight. When I walk by with a bag of carrots everyone reaches for a few. One of us thinks it is something in the stars. They blame the stars for a lot of things. They're poets. 

This morning my dad sent me an email with a thinly-veiled wish that I stay inside this weekend. The terror threats are credible. I know this because there's a cop standing on the corner near my office with a semi-automatic weapon held against his chest. One of the things we say, the collective we, we say it - We won't change our lives. We won't allow our lives to be changed. But that semi-automatic is new. And all of our shoulders are hunched a little higher.

Frankly, I was looking forward to having the most boring weekend I could possibly manage. I painted my walls "Mt. Rainier Gray" last weekend, which sounded appropriately moody and reminiscent of home. But the colour is closer to powder-prom blue, and I can't bear to go in there. So my furniture is still piled in the middle of the floor, and I continue to live out of my suitcases. That will change this weekend. I'll stay inside as long as I can stand it. I have a yen for a small, thin-winged trip: I'd like to take my bike and a backpack and head somewhere on the train, to the tip of an island, maybe, where there is an old boardwalk to bike along. I would be happiest alone, but you could tag along. We'd make sandwiches and I'd probably take off an inappropriate amount of clothing and make for the nearest, coldest body of water. This is just a thought. It is likely I'll spend the weekend doing laundry instead.

I wonder how this time will look when I am past it. Will I think back on these first few months in New York and wonder how I survived them? Or will they seem easier and easier, more restful than I knew? I saw a play last weekend. This girl, this beautiful naked girl, gave a rather beautiful speech about how we move on, or fail to. It's like walking a road, she said, and you're walking and walking and you think you're getting somewhere, and then you look down and realize: "He is the road." 

All photos from Cabin Porn, viciously addictive, pure torture.