September 20. Writing studio for the second time. Having a range of texts spread out in front of you and talking about them, how I’ve missed that. Turns out they have that in America too, you just have to pay a few hundred dollars for it. I just want so much more. I want the very finest sense and the most engaged discussion about what works and what’s better and why.

September 19. At the gym a woman I’ve never seen there before. I go from the weight bench to the machine she was using a few minutes earlier, do a set. She comes, hostile. Earplugs out. Did you see I was using this? – Did you reserve it? – She points to the bench: And did you wipe that down after you lied on it? – I silently take the cleaning spray and paper and wipe down the bench, then finish my sets on the machine. This could be the beginning of a long grudge. To prevent that, I walk over to her: Hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t see you were still using the machine. – That’s okay, thanks for wiping down the bench. I really appreciate that. – Now we’ll probably be able to meet kindly in the elevator..

September 18. The metronome is an outrageously accurate gauge of my condition. A few days ago 70 bpm, today 64.

September 17. At first, people were pandemic-zealous and rushed ahead of what was officially mandated, so regulations struggled to keep up with what people were doing anyway. And now, with no change in the situation, people are pandemic-weary and ignore the regulations, which in turn are being relaxed more slowly than people’s behavior is changing. And of course, when it comes to behavior and regulations, it is always about only one thing: the mask. No one has removed the signs on the front doors of stores that mandate masks, but no one, not even the employees in the stores, not even the owners abide by them anymore. Exception: my Liquor Store across the street, whose owner has always been easily identifiable as the most pandemic-zealous, pandemic-fearful, pandemic-conscientious. His mask sign is clearly visible on the front door, looking as new as on the first day. For a long time, this Liquor Store was the only store where, for the owner’s sake, I continued to put on a mask before entering, but not anymore. Neither do the other customers. The owner is letting it happen and now wears two masks on top of each other.

September 16. In the team meeting, someone explains the guidelines for writing reports. I stay as quiet as a mouse because I don’t follow the guidelines. Later, I ask J if I would be ridiculous if I suggested a few of my deviations for inclusion in the guidelines. For example: If a report is less than ten pages, it doesn’t need a title page or table of contents. J laughs and doesn’t know what she should find funnier: that someone would insist on the title page and table of contents, or that I would try to translate the exception into a special rule instead of just doing it. The colleague in charge of enforcing the guidelines says he has never seen an acceptable report that was less than ten pages. I have never written a report that was more than ten pages.

September 15. The moment you call yourself a writer or musician, it becomes indifferent. (And you can tell good writers or musicians by how indifferent they are about it.) The problem is the time when you think you are not allowed to do it.

September 14. Why would you even want to call yourself a writer or a musician?

September 13. The deep-seated feeling that I have no right to call myself a writer or a musician, even though I’ve spent thousands of hours doing both. It’s more than impostor syndrome, it’s a feeling of being excluded, as if it’s been decreed by someone. My lack of ability is just a consequence of it.

September 12. I’ve signed up for the writing studio now and even before it’s started it feels like a roller coaster. It could be that I’m doing complete nonsense right now or making just the right move. I’ve been barricading myself inside for so long, while wishing I could break out of the immunity to criticism.

September 11. Back from Newburgh in the evening. At Times Square, the subway stands still for half an hour. More and more people run the last steps on the platform, push their way through the doors, relieved to have made it into the train, a relief that is soon replaced by the disappointment that this subway is not moving. It’s hot; the air conditioning has little chance with the doors open. I set time limits for myself: At eleven-thirty I will get up and order an Uber, no, at eleven-forty. When I finally do, barely a minute after I stepped onto Forty-second Street, the message arrives via Twitter that the subways have started moving again. That was to be expected. From eleven-ten to eleven-forty, I could have been listening to music or reading instead of counting the minutes, but to spend these times aimlessly with myself is often more important to me in some mysterious way.