Friday, December 26, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
What a delicious proposition, to forfeit life. I think people only fear suicide because it prevents them from seeing how all the stories end. Instead everyone murders themselves just enough to stay numb, but remain just enough to keep their minds on the stories. The stories of the people they know, the stories of nations, celebrities, and good samaritans. The stories of the world keep people tuned in, but not turned on.
It is painful to be at the bottom of this hole I've dug, however shallow. My body doesn't know where to start. It's just getting over the shock of having to stop digging.
At the impasses of life the roads are always shifting and the signs turn themselves around for fun. I need to go to bed before I get to serous for my own good and all the poetic thinking makes me vomit.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
He took to my mom from the first. She named him and all day while working, burning up brush and watering, the air would be filled with that name. She'd call it out like an amazon battle cry, with trills on every R. "Da Regal Red. It's da Regal Red. Oh look at him, isn't he so majestic?" She'd say over and over. And me too, it was true. This cat so fluffy like a house cat was more at home in the underbrush and on top of boulders than any of the strays. He looked like a lion and could kill like one too. They felled squirrels, birds, and rats all the time, dragging them around to sunnier spots to gnaw on. We felt bad for the wildlife (well, not the rats), and it was disgusting, but awesome! We couldn't help but anthropomorphize our companions into a band of warriors with Red as their worthy and wise king. He was the biggest and eldest, as all the others were timid young kittens when they came to us. He strode through our property like he owned it. We loved him so much for it. Since my grandfather's house was torn down a few years ago, the place had felt about as live as a doorknob. The cats breathed fresh life into the brush and rock heaps. It was now a home to something and things moved and vibrated with that energy.
There was the saga of Itty Bitty the skinny new kitten that found it's way to us. Some shunned her, some tolerated her, to all she was the whipping boy. Gradually she was absorbed and now sleeps with the rest like a true warrior. Adorable! And there was the never ending crusade to pet their shinny fur. My mother, god it was hilarious and so touching, she got so much joy from every day trying and trying to get closer to them. She would tell me how they followed her when she walked the property, staying just a few yards away and playing or lounging in the sun. She started playing with them, with sticks and her hand like a spider or some pink fleshy beast. If they got closer by just a little bit she'd come home gushing. She would take them to the biggest greenest spot under the big walnut tree and roll around acting like a cat and purring! I saw her do it one time, she tried to get me to join in. It was wonderful fun. We were kitties! After a while of that Red decided he could be petted. It was so slow but eventually we could pet him and he'd rub up against our legs. The others followed his lead, like always, and they would let us put our hands on them sometimes too, but Red always loved it the best. He was my mothers pet. Or she was his. It was such a true and loving friendship. She'd always make sure to pet him first and call and call till he came from across the creek to eat supper. That big fluffy monster of the forest. My wild and woodsy mother. She said she could herd cats and, no shit, she could. She'd call and they'd come, she'd walk and they'd follow. She put her hands to the ground and like a shot her Regal Red would run to be stroked.
Leaning up against the big walnut tree, on the other side from where we used to play, there's these two rocks that look like cats. They're finds from when we used to get dirt from the cemeteries and had to haul out all the big rocks. That was years ago, but everything eventually has a purpose if you look for it. I thought it might make a good head stone and when we walked over there today the big red rock, like a cat seen in profile, was just like Red. I never noticed that before.
Regal Red died running to my mommy, the human he loved so much. I wasn't there but she said he was running to her as she crossed the street. She didn't see it happen, she was turning around, but she was there so close. It's a poor thing. But you know his last thought was of my mommy, and her big wrinkled hands petting all over that fluffy fur.
We're gonna bury him later today, but no cats are invited to the service. Last week when we buried Lori, Red was the only one who showed up. Nobody goes this time. Our garden doesn't need anymore headstones.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Right away I was offered the opportunity to perform in a concert reading of a student written play. I did. It was good. It was very new. Still, when I thought of theatre I thought of cliched, boring blocking and atmosphere, shitty bright lighting, and rehearsed-til-not-unlike-the-living-dead painful performances. In short a waste of my time. However, its the Experimental Student Performance Lab. I had hope. I was encouraged to audition for a play. I did, and got in. I was greener than grass. It was hard. But it was experimental, and it was good.
Now, faced with a semester that will very probably be chalk full of free time, I look for new opportunities, and I've been plotting. At this point the concept I have of theatre still stands, as there haven't been many times its been contradicted. Also it seems pretty easy to slip into that swamp of shittiness - gotta be weary of this theatre thing. I want to take that little disclaimer that follows behind the ESPL and light it on fire. Completely fucking destroy that shit ...that is if the club's constitution will let me. I believe the club chose than name because drama club has been played out, not because they meant many of the words. No matter, it's filled with an awful lot of talented creative people that are interested in stretching the bounds of performance. Maybe.
I'm really fascinated with the idea of performance parties, like Warhol's factory used to hold and like that crazy scene in Midnight Cowboy. Parties where reality is turned on its head and the audience is thrown into the performance. They don't know what will happen to them next, and they aren't strapped to a seat so they can always have that slight impulse to run if need be. I want to have performances that invite strangers to join the troupe in playing and be accepted. With projectors and stuff crunching under your feet and shit hanging above your head and art grabbing your eyes and people laughing and strangers talking to you and the entire fucking thing challenging your perceptions to be sharp as tacks.
Wouldn't that be beautiful? Wouldn't that be an evening worth more than yet another rendition of something by Shakespeare?!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Does anyone feel this is as much bullshit as I do? Really, that sounds so fucking complicated. You know what else is complicated...
A note on a paper: To avoid the “him/her,” “he/she” clutter, make the initial noun plural so you can use a plural pronoun to replace it.
My god why is that necessary? Must we always speak of many people and leave out the individual for fear of offending some with different body parts? ...if that's what defines gender anyway. What about the transgendered?
I propose to clear up the confusion that we eliminate the word woman and all its conjugations. Woman, woman is what's really the problem here. Not only do we have male and female classifications of the human race, for taxonomic reasons, but also the more commonly used social groupings of Man, and Woman. It's unnecessary and only further separates 'the sexes', making woman no more than a slightly altered form of man. As the years go on we see the groupings falling to shambles ever so slowly. Bit by bit our common perceptions of gender are being blurred and changed to include a whole range of individuals with unique characteristics and sexual orientations. Soon I hope there will be no more need for these labels, and humans will be humans. It is in that time when we can proudly state that the person who delivers my mail and has big tatas is my Mailman. Yeah this has a good point but I'm tired and finding it hard to make a dignified case.
Anyhow - my point stands! Eliminating the word Woman and all its conjugations (women, she, her, herself, etc.) is much simpler than tiptoeing around archaic ideas with complicated language. Come on! Then we can't complain anymore about the plight of woman, or tumble over ourselves to live up to the idea of woman. No longer will I be held down by the chains of owning a vagina!
Eh, one can wish.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
I could have gone to the garden.
I could have sat freezing with the kitties.
Yeah. Or I could go to my appartment. But its pretty cold there in there too this time of year. My only heater seems to be reaching the end of its lifespan. In the evenings it never gets above 65 in there. I've taken to sleeping with a heating pad tucked under the blankets. Quite a fire hazard I believe. I need a puppy to keep me warm. Or a bigger bed and a... nevermind.
This brings me to a really cool thought though. Wouldn't it be awesome to have 2 big beds side by side - taking up an entire half of my appartment. I could have whole parties just on the beds. Mmmm like a bouncy room. I also dig being really high up, so the beds would have to be very lofty. Instead of wasting money and space on spring box things, I was thinking you built a frame a few feet off the ground, then threw the matresses on top, you could totally have a fort underneath! If I ever get to live somewhere with a built in fort there will be a smile on my face all the time. All the time. Mmmm. "Party in the fort 10 o'clock!"
This is helping somewhat. You know I could have hung out with a friend... aw but yesterday (and this morning) was pleanty enough social contact for the entire weekend. Being um, an introvert (?) or uh whatever I am can be silly sometimes.
To quote the ever usefull Wikipedia "[Introverts] tend to have smaller circles of friends, and are less likely to thrive on making new social contacts. They generally do not need to seek out excitement in others because they are already stimulated with their own thoughts and imagination." I suppose that's just about right. Although I love being around people I can only handle it in ratios of about 2 hours of just me to 3 hours of me + others.
Ok I've had it with the television, and short of shooting the damn thing out the next best course of action is to retire to my room. Adios!
Eyes close, mind spits more than ears can hear, than body can handle. Imperfect computer your facts are flawed. Can we please be quiet now my god these picture shows and animations are unholy nothings. You're steeling my moments. Shiny metal claws corroded pick me up carry me into the distance far from the very essence of being alive. More than I can count on ten fingers ten toes ten fold hours this little life you've stolen my mind
Bankers, leave your banks
Lawyers, let 'lone the law
Builders, build your own houses
Men, answer the call
Mailmen, set free your mail for the wild things to read
Teachers, leave your chalk
Students, leave your seats
Men, begin to walk, begin to live
Begin to breathe
Your modern condition is nothing more than a disease, so
Doctors treat your neighbors, treat yourselves
and be free
Use those hands for working
Thanks James for writing so honestly and writing things that inspire, whether or not you intend them to. All that came out of my head today was murky and dark but it feels good to have things moving on a page unforced.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The definition of an Intentional Community sounds simple. A community formed intentionally. Right. A thing is only the sum of its parts, however, and what the hell is community? That's what comes to mind anyway when reading the classifieds on ic.org. It's a heated debate I'm sure. The second thing that comes to mind is that I have no skills. I am least marketable to those I most wish to work with. I can analyze poetry, write essays, multiply polynomials, perform monologues, improvise a scene, paint a picture, light a film, speak a lil bit of French, and define big words... But I can't tell you the best way to plant a garden, I can't tell you the principles of solar energy, I am not familiar with building shelters. These are the things I want to know but seriously there is no major for it. It would be great to see what the options are around town for learning these things. Checking the monkey wrench website for information, or not. I can't get it to come up on this computer... hmmm Interesting. Gotta Go!
I am tired of writing.
When I drove here a few moments ago I had the cd player on and the windows down and I was singin' to modest mouse and bein young and it felt really good to just let my chattery head be still for a little bit and just be. I'd like to do that more. I don't think I'll be able to do that for a while due to finals and all. I'm just a vessel for knowledge as far as anyone's concerned at this point.
Here in the classroom everything is quiet, academic quiet, a sad sort of resignation to quiet and white noise... and being productive, in a special sort of not-productive way. It's makin me overly aware of my body temperature, the only thing I have left to destract me in here. My nipples are hard or my pits are wet... gross. Those words are not words I'm used to typing in an academic atmosphere.
At this point I'm waitin for my number to come up. For the professor to call my name. For the reckonin to be had. I'm waitin to pass or to fail, just like at the pearly gates. Waitin. Waitin. No magazines in here, no muzak to please my ears, nothin to do but type and worry about my nipples. Type, type, type til somethin happens. Maybe I could have some fun in the mean while.
Cool Quotes from Dead People*
- We are born with two incurable diseases; life, from which we die, and hope, which says maybe death isn't the end. - Andrew Greeley
- Even the most horrible, catastrophic ending to something beautiful can't erase the beauty that has already occurred. - E.W.
- Where does beauty begin? Where does it end? Where it ends is where the artist begins. - John Cage
- The end is inherent in the means. - Gandhi
- I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be. - Douglas Adams
- It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end. - Ursula LeGuin
- Our greatest fear should be not that our lives will some day come to an end, but rather, that they may never begin. - Somebody
- The end is never as satisfying as the journey. To have achieved everything but to have done so without integrity and excitement is to have achieved nothing. - Somebody
That last one was spot on wasn't it?! I think so for definitely. More?! Yes.
- In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends. - MLK Jr.
- Whatsoever thou takest in hand, remember the end, and thou shalt never do amiss. - God
- A morning sun and a wine-bred child and a Latin-bred woman seldom end well. - George Herbert
- The end crowns all. - Dutch People
- All's well that ends well; still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown. - William Shakespeare
- The end crowns all, And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. - William Shakespeare
That was nice. I think we've all learned a lot.
*Might not actually be dead. Don't believe the reports! Have hope.
1square = 1square foot
That's 240 square feet! The floor plan you see pictured was made by The person who runs this blog, and this flicker account. I don't have the time right now to decide just who they are or what their about but the floor plan is a wonderful illustration of what I'm here to talk to you about today dear readers. Tiny houses. Small spaces to live in. I love the idea and perhaps all the more so because if you have a tiny house, then you don't have to room to acquire as much crap. It's sort of a neat game to play with the more greedy sides of yourself. Whether it is used with that intended purpose or not (probably a bad idea for that to be any one's sole purpose to do something), it's a great way to live that I'm eager to experiment with and discover.
As it stands, my living situation is sort of unique. I live in an apartment behind my mothers house, what used to be out pool house. It has no running water, no bathroom or sink in it to need running water, or any gas kitchen set up, but it does have electricity and internet access. Basically it's a large bedroom disconnected from the rest of the house. Its about the size of this little floor plan I believe, maybe bigger. I think its about 20 by 15 feet. Not sure about that, could be very wrong. I'm pretty awful when it comes to estimating distances, but it certainly is uh something by something about the size of a living room. This floor plan is so wonderful. I wonder how it stands up to city building codes... In the future I would like to live on my grandfather's old property, that my mother now owns, in south Austin. Well, its only a block from my current house, but miles away in atmosphere. The property is a giant garden that backs up to a creak with a pretty rock wall and two old sheds that are so cute you could see them on a postcard. The largest, most respectable looking one is actually framed out to be a tiny house, though not as smartly planned as the one above. All that remains are to get power, water, insulation, drywall, fixtures and cabinetry, permits ad nauseam. The other building is smaller, and made of tin. It's nearly fifty years old and looks it. To see it on a moon lit night all alone with the wind howling is to truly be scared to the bones. As of this moment both are filled with shit. No doubt that if the shit happened to be liquidated the proceeds could pay for at least one, if not both, to be renovated. If I had my way I'd quit school and get to work building myself a living down there. My mother I think just likes the thought of it but seems scared as shit to work towards anything without being forced. We'll see how it all turns out soon enough. The money we've had saved is starting to run very thin as the months of unemployment rage on. Soon enough the only money to be found will be in the sale of her antiques and paperweights. We had a garage sale once (without putting a dent in the great mass of our property) and sold so many valuable things for pennies on the dollar. We made sever hundred bucks but probably lost much more than that. I remember this one guy got a whole stack of collectible records... I don't even remember what, but things I'm sure a conessour would drool at. We sold it to him for a five! What a shame. Anyway, the clutter and fill will be extracted soon enough and left with be the shell of a tiny building, waiting for me to fix it up and live a simple life. Dreams? Oh now I'm getting melancholy. Not what I intended for this post.
Another idea I enjoy very much is the Underground House. I bought the book last year and was positively obsessed with the idea for a few months. Unfortunately the my grandfather's property is in the floodplain, being so close to the creek and all. I'm afraid the land isn't near high enough to be dug into for anything. As soon as a rain hit the whole side wall could be washed away. I'm not sure but I think it's probably not suitable. Doesn't mean there isn't more land in the world. Do they shoot squatters now a'days? Well who knows. Their book gives some pretty good instructions for acquiring country land... but who wants to live there? I like my little garden because its a bit of country inside, but right on a major bus line with a gas station across the street and a 15 minute drive from down town. Hard to beat. The underground houses are beautiful though. They offer so many advantages I can't see why someone in a less wet situation wouldn't build one. Hah, maybe to avoid being called a quack. If you visit that link you can see that of the benefits listed the sixth is protection from mobs, gunfire, blasts, and similar results of social disintegration. Mhmm. Indeed.
Besides the negligible social stigma you might develop for your underground dwelling, you can enjoy the monetary freedom from air conditioning costs! Ooo it just makes me all tingly inside thinking of hanging out in one of these. I've always been a fervent supporter of building forts, clubhouses, and the like. These mole holes are awesome! Gah look at the pictures, really. How can you pass that up?!
I am a slave to my possessions; I know this very well. There are boxes and boxes, chests and trunks, cabinets upon cabinets all around me filled with the physical 'memories' of my past. Yesterday evening I seriously contemplated having a bonfire to burn all the fucking certificates I've accumulated. If a group wants to congratulate someone, through them a fucking party! Get your happy little graduate drunk or high or silly or what have you but please do not hand him a slip of paper and call it an honor. It is bullshit and everyone knows all those embossed sheets will rot in a box anyway! Can we as a people, as a collection of individuals, as sovereign entities in ourselves stop cluttering up true life with hollow symbols that we have 'lived'.
The reasons for my coming down on this so strongly are many and varied. However, chiefly it is because I am so very much at fault concerning this particular sin. I used to think there was no higher pleasure than riffling through old shit, pulling out memories and mysterious secret hunks of matter not meant for my eyes. I wished to preserve myself, every step of the way through life, by preserving the things I touched, the pieces of plastic and glass and cloth that meant something to me at one time, if not anymore. I have an extensive collection of piles representing the contents of various purses and backpacks I've toted around going back at least 6 years. Yeah it seems fucked up now. At the time I was packing these things, saving them lovingly, burying my life in dust and fragments of paper, I thought it was nothing less than my duty! For if I was to die, or to bear children future generations would surely like to know who I was, and what better way than to leave them a physical history.
It's bullshit. Total, complete bullshit.
I think I will have that bonfire. Who really cares about my high school diploma? No one asks to see that. Colleges want transcripts, but no one cares about this shit I have around me. I think what I'll do is go through all the boxes, trunks, cabinets, etc. pulling out the valuable sellable stuff as I go and burn up the rest to a crispy sweet freedom.Who wants s'mores?
This morning I woke up speaking in poetic tongues as I am wont to do in the early hours of the day. All the dreams from the hours before rush to my bedside again and force me to tell their stories. Because its so very very early my mind can't make much sense, the stories I tell are less like the news reports their meant to be and more like the ravings of an LSD taking, bad smelling, wine drinking, book writing, snapping, clapping beat poet. Like morning dew it evaporates quickly when the light of awareness hits me. Still, I'm finding it hard to escape it's rhyme. My mind's not used to being awake at this time. Shit, help me! I don't like being chained to flow of thought crap-ass poetry.
There was this old british man who hosted mike nights in a place I used to go. It is amazing how this plump old man in his fishing vest can stand on stage with only a faint idea and spit beauty into the eyes and ears of his assembled audience - with musical accompaniment! He tapes all the Monday evenings on this little cassette recorder, then throws them out to the audience when they get full. I have the tape from my very first night there. I found it by accident but it was exactly what I wanted. Last time I was there the old man was not. Now the place seems full of shit ass self absorbed software repairmen who write about their lunch and out of shape kinda gross feminist "I only use the word herstory" poets yelling about loving sex and ripping buildings down like Godzilla.
I'm being harsh.
I've lost the beauty of the morning for some sort of spiteful tirade. Yet again. I'm only being honest is the common consolatory phrase. Is that true? It's all in word choice. Or maybe it isn't. You can't see my face to read the nuances and true meanings. I think maybe my words can be mean and vicious but are usually delivered with a playful silly tone. I'm sweet as pie when you see my face. Really I am. It was a problem when I first started doing improv, all my characters were protagonists, or overly sweet disney knock offs, or spoiled brats and other teenage girl stereotypes. I've since grown out of that and my mean face has improved dramatically, as I'm sure all the men of the Bacchae know well by now. Sorry, it was for the character.
Where was I? Hmmmm.... Oh yeah poetry. The majority of poets kinda make me not want to listen to them. I'll give them support, and a look of intense interest, I only would like to shut my ears off. That way I could dub their lips over with something better, like poetry of my own or wisps of remembered phrases from high school. They seem to all right about the same things, none of which really lights my fire. They tend to use the same few tones too, as if the whole spectrum of human emotion was summed up in: Curious, Questioning, Fiercely Powerful, Nostalgic, and Blue. It's not by the way.
Ahh All this ranting has made me hungry!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
There is a certain time at night past which I become unintelligible. Friends and boyfriends can all attest to the fact that my brain gets mush when I'm tired. I'll stay up late, prove myself, and party with the big boys, I'll just be partying in baby talk. Giggling and making false accusations, undertaking endeavours I have no intention of dealing with for more than a few moments but which should really take much longer, bumping into walls, people, and pets all are things I do when sleepy. Tomorrow morning I will be better. I will get more done. I will be productive and efficient and ruthless in the pursuit of this success. The success this blog is titled after. What will happen to us once tomorrow has faded? Will we still be friends in school on Monday? That is to be seen. I think so. Don't listen to me know though, its getting late and my ass is as numb as my eyeball by now.
In other news we shall start the rundown of unimportant things on my mind to fill space before I retire for the evening. My mouth tastes like garlic. I haven't spoken and are therefore not concerned with the odour of my breath but still am totally grossed out on the inside. My teeth are moving. The retainers that I promised to wear for years and years till my chitlits be strait as a fence post have slipped out of my mouth and into the recesses of existence. Ever so slowly the bastards are moving back into those cursed positions I went through so much pain to annihilate. Futile, all is futile. Let's go live in the woods and eat moss and sleep in trees shall we? Then I wont have to worry so much about the state of my chompers. There is also a sore developing in my cheek, and my lips are chapped and cracking. My mouth is having a hard time. Too bad body parts can't be sent on vacation. My knees would be off to the Bahamas in a heartbeat. Those poor joints are getting old and grumbling as often as if I had an old man strapped to each leg. Speaking of that, did you know Thoreau did not respect his elders? He has a whole few paragraphs on it in the first chapter of Walden. My knowledge of italics is a complete farce; I just throw them around when it pleases me, with hardly any rhyme or reason... the respect shown to their proper placement in classes is only to avoid scoldings. Speaking of that, I have to write a work cited page. I haven't a clue where to begin. All I did in my essay was quote dead philosophers and call it support. Eh, good thing I didn't use all those extremely enjoyable but poorly attributed quotes that are constantly floating around on the internet. *lightbulb* The internet is mostly just a big gossip ring isn't it?! How terrible. I would imagine Emily Post turning over in her grave... or doing something else more refined to show displeasure. Ew I've started talking about the undead. Time to sleep, or try to distract my mind from the thought of petticoats and rotting flesh, or call Ryan, or read more of Henry's sordid thoughts... Good night world, and Good night dear readers.
Thats the truth, this awful evil, take-advantage of my confusion establishment is doing agian. Please ecuse my aingry typing.
OK I'm better. It's just so terrible the way nothing seems to work over there yet they set up shit to give the students free pizza and berritos and s'mores fore chrissake but can't spend a dime to make sure their technology is working propperly I could fucking strangle the computerized bitch on the automated help line shit If only I
Better? Maybe. I just would like to be able to register for some classes, pay on time, get my shit together and be done with it.
Did I mention I want to change my major? Yeah, but not to theatre or some other dumb useless shit like that. No, I want to study PHILOSOPHY!
Sigh, ok I'm better for reals. Still I think philosophy might not be such a foul course of action as everyone makes it out to be. Besides, I've decided to tweak what my aim in life is anyway. Perhaps I leave that starting a business shit for when the economy is better, or worse, or when the idea doesn't make my skin crawl anymore. I could retire that thought of powering my way through college in just a few years also. I have more than a few years. Probably. And even if I didn't I know sure as anything I wouldn't want to spend them in class worrying about papers and midterms and whether that guy's ass really does look better when he's not talking.
Oh! That reminds me of a cool exercise my mother told me about. See post Sixteen for the juicy details.
Did I ever mention how poor of a speller I am? In one of those moments of youth which is never forgotten but often recalled when speaking fondly of family members after everyone is good and liquered up I was once called into a parent techer conference because teachers at the baptist private school, named Christian Christ Community School mind you, I attended were convenced I was retarted. Litteraly they thought I was slow and would need special care. For fuck's sake I scored off the charts on thier standardized tests, but no I was retarted. Sure I didn't pay too much attention. I doodled and filled the time not doodling by finding ways to 'lose' my homework and make my desk more homely (mission acomplished with doilies and a decritively croched pencil holder!). Yeah and I also couldn't spell. To practice punctuation one day I was assigned a paragraph with no punctuation at all to transcribe onto my own paper, adding the punctuation as I went. When I turned the paragraph in to the teacher (that cold bitch Mrs. T.) she was horrified to find that I mispelled nearly every other word and I was copying! She said it was a sure sign I was troubled and not fit for any good christian education. Hah!
I suppose it's a bit true, formal education was never my thing and I have years of frustrated teachers to back that up. Back to spelling. As you've noticed by now I haven't spellchecked. I wish you all the luck you can find to decipher some of this stuff. It's hard for me sometimes looking back to figure out just what the hell I meant. I blame our phonetic language, or the myth there of. Why oh why is of not spelled O-V-E?!
You know what though? This little handicap of mine has proved to be quite a tool. It's a lot like how people with no arms get really awesome at eating with their feet; I learned to compensate. When writing a sentence that included a word I couldn't spell I'd have to replace it with something I could. This habit got me really good at being detailed in my writing, I also now know way to many synonyms than is necessary. Spell check makes it easier. Like prosthetic arms I can do anything I want with them, use words I only dreamed of writing before. It's a good thing. I can be understood. Anyway, the C-test scares the shit out of me mostly because you are not allowed a dictionary ...or I don't think you are. I will check. Normally I would have deleted that part but its getting down to the wire so I need all the text I can get. These spelling errors might be the better way to go, fill up space accidentaly you know? Fuck phonics. Phuk fawniks! PHUK UE!
Because this blog is all about filling pages not hearts, or minds, or those voids we all carry between us like magnetic repulsion, I have full licence to be lame and have a creepy thirteenth post post!
List of Very Creepy Things:
- The soulless stares of successful people as they listen to the sob stories of the abject poor on the reality series The Secret Millionaire
- Text messages. From anyone. But mostly text messages from acquaintances. It's a hollow medium with a great potential to be taken the wrong way
- Air currents that swirl around my house and push doors around. Like ghosts, but actually real. How creepy is that?!
- Me, when there are pretty people on the bus just a few feet away. Sorry! You're all very nice to look at. WOOOoooOO!
- The woodland creatures that live under my apartment and scurry around loudly at night when I'm least expecting it
- Commercials made by local car dealerships that are contemplating bankruptcy. "If you buy a truck during the holidays you'll get a free TV! ...dear god please buy a truck, please!"
- Computers that malfunction. Was it something I said? Do you resent using free software? Are you shutting down to plot my demise?
- Socks. Little scummy grey ones that once were white but will never be that way again. You make my skin crawl; I don't even want to touch you
- Thanksgiving leftovers a week after they were prepared. It's like with every new layer of mold and funk that stomach ache you had on Friday slowly reveals itself
- Piano music
Those are just a few things sending shivers down my spine on this thirteenth post of the blog. Its a scary scary world dear readers. I want you to know deep in your hearts that from the bottom of my heart I truly care, with no end to the caring, about the health of the bodies and spirits of your's dear readers. Honestly when looking at this thin list I have constructed here today, a list so minuscule in its scope and depth as to be almost comical, all I see are your weeping faces, and the faces of weeping future generations. The number thirteen will always loom over us. Surely the bureaucrats and mathematicians wouldn't hear of removing the wretched constant, justifying their nonsense with the weak excuses of feeble minded men, "all calculations would cease to be correct! The world will crumble!" They'll say in those shaky faux-british accents all academics seem to cultivate.
"Poppycock! Let me say now and state with all infinite truth and reason, the only thing we have to fear is...."
Never mind. It was cliched and unimportant anyway. What is important is that I keep typing. Only a few hours left to go in this marathon and the tortoise of time is catching up to my Hair-like methods. Time to do the... the.... you know. As of now it is nine o'clock. My class is at 3 pm tomorrow afternoon- that's 18 hours. I have about 13 more posts to make, for a very scanty grade, perhaps not an A... 20 more posts to be safe. That's a rate of at least a new blog post every hour and a half. Holy shit. Looks like I've saved myself a big piece of pie for the end of the meal and now I'm too full to finish. Yum pie. This little exercises may very well... I shan't think the thought. It's a brilliant challenge and I will rise up and kick ass. On to the next post!
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Now that Zombie-morning Sally has spewed her intended point, with nothing else planned out and sitting before her wan body, I fear that the rest of this post will quickly go down hill.
So a few minutes ago I swear I had a dream where we performed the Bacchae as a musical. Same dialogue for the most part, only sung, with full orchestration. I'm not sure where the orchestra was hiding though, we were sill performing in the ACC theatre you see. It's much to small for a full broadway production... I'm so ignorant when it comes to theatre - what do I know? They could have been in the seats! What a hoot that would have been. When Arthur stopped the show (something he did very often in this dream, much to my dismay, we apparently couldn't keep the new format agoin') he spoke normally but the audience answered him in full harmony! That was a pretty height point in the film, especially since they were insulting us. It takes balls to insult people on stage to their face and I'm sure it wasn't an easy task to assign the parts either. Some people (myself included) have that one set part they really want to sing, no matter if their voices cant fully reach it, no matter if when they try to sing it children cry, no matter! They'll fight for their right tooth and nail till death do we part.
It was a really awful dream. I fell on my face a lot in it, and was told to act prettier. Eh. The singing was totally cool. "...Where in the wild wood didst thou tame? Kithaeron! Kithaeron! Mountain! By whose hand did he fall?...."
Monday, December 1, 2008
It started on the first day of the fall semester. I had a class within its halls at Eleven AM. Even though I only new the general area of town the campus was in, had never been there during daylight hours, and had no idea of where to park, I decided winging it would be my best option. Just in case that happened to be a bad idea I planned to get there thirty minutes early to deal with any problems. The ride was good. I was hopeful and eager. I had brought one sharpened pencil and some old journal in case there were notes or anything - and I had the text book! I even had the book! All in all it was shaping up to be a pretty successful morning.
Then I turned onto twelfth street... Then Rio Grande, and before I could process what was happening there were college students all around me - all around me. My little red convertible was buffed by the asses of men with beards and women with Uggs as they squeezed off to classes in that huge building looming beside me. There were cars too. Those cars! Way too many of them to be aligned neatly along the streets, or in that one abysmally tiny parking lot with all the blue paint on it. I scrambled for an exit.
The top was down on the convertible, and I knew those casually cool veterans of the college system could smell my fear. They could see it on my face as I stepped on the gas, the breaks, the gas, the clutch, the breaks.... that's when I killed the car and nearly cried.
Back on to Martin Luther King Blv. and down the street to somewhere, anywhere with less people and more open slots for wayward vehicles. I didn't find it and didn't stop until I was 20 blocks away in a familiar spot by my mom's old bank. When she answered the phone I unloaded the story, started sobbing, apologizing etc. It was really hot that day too, mind you, so not only was my face covered with salty tears but the rest of my body was slowly drowning in salty, smelly, stick-to-your-clothes sweat. It was a pathetic sight I'm sure, and quickly turning into a not so successful first morning of college. So, anyway, I skipped that class that day and drove home as fast and shamefully as possible.
The thought of even being in a car at 12th and Rio Grande at that time in the morning stresses me out. Really, I've gotten panicky when Mike, or um Ron or whatever that guy's name has given me rides. I find myself asking, "Are you sure there'll be parking?" and "Uh, do you think I have time to just take the bus?" I'm not fucking behind the helm in those situations. Jeeze!
[Editor's Note: Ok enough is enough, I think we've squeezed the intro section for all it's worth tonight, time to move on to actual content.]
My mother wouldn't give me a ride, that was clear. The possibility of catching 9:50 AM bus had come and gone, that was also clear. Yet another clear point worth pointing out to my sleepy procrastinatin'ass self was that I really can't afford to miss another one of these algebra classes. It was go or else... How could I? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I could drive. It was a little after ten; If I left then I could be there by half past... Fuck. And as for parking? I'd soon find out. With a tip of my hat and a brief hunt for that cat food box that was probably maybe in the back of the van, but no not really cause it was in the kitchen, I was off.
The ride was good. Like before I was hopeful and eager. The cd in the player added just the right touch to my mood and the normally hellish traffic on Lamar was surprisingly light. Palms were dry, as was brow, throat was lumpless, eyes seemingly free of tears... But that was expected, the true test wouldn't come until twelfth street.
The parking lot around the back was full. I expected that also. There was a fist full of change in my pocket to prove it. On to fifteenth street, to more possible parking places. I couldn't turn on West, there were bad memories there; not on Rio Grande eather, that was asking for a heart attack. Nueces, I could deal with that. Bam! Right in front of me, an open meeter. Holy Shit. My eyes were stunned. I passed it up accidentally. Had to turn around, did it quickly. I just fucking knew that when I got back it'd be a fist fight with some other college bitch on her way to class. But no, that space was mine. I slid in with trepidation. The van is long, the length of a giant. The space was small, smart car small. I squeezed on in anyway and tried with all my might to look cool and not scared shitless as I fed the hungry little bastard charged with guarding my ride for a while. Almost 2 bucks and what did it buy me? Not enough time that's fucking what. No matter, I had to attend class, not stay the whole time. The break would be a welcome release. Skipping off to school the smile on my face was huge, almost bigger than the portion of law office driveway partially covered by my bulging bumper. A very successful morning, indeed.
When I cut out of Algebra an hour an some later the van was fine, not ticketed, nor towed (nor bashed in by that big ass truck that had been wedged impossibly between my van and another vehicle). The meeter man on patrol even gave me a friendly smile when he realized my inspection sticker was four months out of date and there was nothing he could do about it. Walking back I saw plenty of free spaces dotting the streets, any number of which I could have picked earlier if not for the fact that I couldn't see them because my head was up my ass. Eh, there's always next time, because I did it!!!! Woo!
Boys and Girls, if the world frightens you and sends shivers down your little spines while sweat pools under your arms, think but this: It is better to have lived and fucked up than to have never lived at all. ...and uh, theres a huge amount of satisfaction to be gained by sticking it to your fears. Maybe tomorrow I'll.... never mind. Goodnight!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Looks like this is a book written by some sci-fi author Andre Norton in the 50s. Now because I can't possibly read the article, become informed, develop opinions, and structure arguments in a very short period of time I'll just take this as inspiration for a story. Woo, story time. What have we got here... There is a devil on the cover, and a dude with a bow and arrow and a falcon on his back. It apparently has something to do with Native Americans. Cool.
The following story, like the 1982 feature film and late 90s Canadian television series by the same name, does not significantly follow the novel's plot or setting.
Never had the Compound produced such a marvel as the little pink blob she held in her hands. No one else saw it at the time, but Mary knew. With her last breath she named him Andre.
At only seventeen Andre became the Compound's youngest public relations committee member. At the age of twenty three, armed with only his wits, he lead a bloodless coup d'etat against the head of the committee, Margret Compote-Williams. After realising she had been so cleverly overthrown she threw herself to the ground pledging her unwavering devotion to the bright faced youth now wearing her crown. Margret, while one of the oldest and most passionate, was not the first of his disciples. She soon fell nicely in line with the rest of Andre's following bringing the total number to sixty one. The years waxed on in much the same way.
Andre had kept his mother's maiden name but had wiped his father's from all written record. Thus he was the only person in the compound to have a single last name. No matter, his charm won out and nothing could stop him from attaining the position of Grand Master, Lord, and Leader in the 5042 election. Andre was twenty nine, yet another record broken.
His father had fled to distant lands shortly before the tribunal, but a body holds slim odds of surviving outside the Compound. It was assumed he had been punished accordingly by the gods. What was out of sight in the Compound was also out of mind and his mother's name and her scandal had almost completely been forgotten.
In 5046 there was trouble brewing on the radar boards. His time had come. He prepared the craft and himself to live and to die for the Compound.
Enough sappy shit for now, till next time on... THE BEAST MASTER
Like I said, I've kept a journal before. There was a time when I would always be scribbling in my little books. I'd carry one with me everywhere I went and never feel lonely, you know? It was like opening up a dialogue with my future self. One day you'll read this and be reminded of how young you were. How sad you were, how happy. How clever... I'd think to myself while tucking the pen and paper away, another little treasure of emotions and thoughts saved from the ravages of memory, preserved for the ages.
I dig up those books from the piles of my bedroom mostly on accident when I'm not expecting it. That little bitch comes wandering into my life with all her ancient ideas to cast judgement on my time, something she simply knows nothing about. But she knows me, and better than anyone. We sit there looking at each other, both wise and endlessly ignorant, spouting of observations trying to make them fit like puzzle pieces in the gaps of time between us.
Sometimes it happens before the audience of a close friend who has made the mistake of grabbing for things closed and covered, to my shock and horror. We defend our secrets fiercely, us private writers. Jumping between prey and predator my past is safe... 'til five minutes later when I'm absorbed in the ritual and reading aloud without a thought to who's watching.
I used to write poetry. I used to write prose. I used to give detailed accounts of conversations, people, and dreams. I bared my soul on a regular basis to pieces of thinned out, dried up wood. Now I never do, or always do, but to people now. I'm not sure. It feels easier to talk and talk to the air, to other people's ears where once it's gone it's gone and I can't look back to save my life. What has changed?
March 24, 2008 6.15pm
Has it been proven that I am happier when I keep a journal? Nope, but regardless I still end up writing to myself. Either in "Notes to Self:" on loose leaf in my binder or as short sentementalities scrawled on bits of trash it happens...
Saturday, November 29, 2008
When the television in on my mind can't focus on anything else for more than a few moments. Even though I despise every second that bastard is on my ears still strain to hear it through the walls and put the pieces of dialogue together. When I'm in the kitchen my legs carry me around the corner to peer at the screen regardless of what I'm doing or whats on. It sickens me that I was raised by our shining black box. All my knowledge of our culture and social mores came from that awful box. Every bit of story-telling talent I have in me came from the one eyed monster. When I was in middle school I added it up and realised I spent as much time watching television per week as I did sitting in a classroom. So much of my time was wasted that way, and I didn't even have cable!
I only watch a few hours of television a day now, if that. Maybe less than 10 hours a week - which is more than I'd like. Come February it will be no more. I don't have cable, and I wont be getting one of those fucking converters. The TV will be soled. While it's a blessing for me, my mother might go through withdrawals. I really love her but couldn't care less about that. It's been hell trying to block out the fucking noise while studying.
I thought this would be a rant to make me angry but now that the TV is off and I have a moment of peace I am so overjoyed. February 17, 2009... Only 80 days until freedom... Hallelujah
[Oh and another thing, the bill thats causing all this, the Deficit Reduction Act of 2005 was intended to streamline governenment programs like medicare and medicade making them more efficient and less costly. Sure. Ok. Somewhere along the line an asshole added in the maditory switch to digital television at the price of 990 million tax dollars (to pay for those $40 converter coupons each american is supposd to get). Woo, irony.]
It's hard to live "Sparten-like" in this day and age. There aren't many woods around anymore and they certainly are far out of my price range. The comforts of american life are overwhelming and ever present. Being poor in a U.S. city has little to do with the life of a woodsman. The life of a slave is a much closer approximation.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Today, Black Friday, was a time to sit, to be quiet, and to read. There is a history test Monday on the Civil War and, until this morning, a thick layer of dust on my textbook. Weary-eyed, tired and filled with pounds of food I was not a pretty sight to behold. So I turned to my new favorite remedy...
Let me start by saying my father is a chemist. I grew up watching him mix substances I wasn't allowed to touch with names I couldn't pronounce. I remember sneaking off to the kitchen, getting out anything I could reach from the cabinets and reproducing all those experiments on my own. It's stuck with me and to this day few things are comparable to the joy of mixing up strange potions with stuff in the fridge.
A few spoons of Malt-O-Meal, an equal amount of granulated sugar, a spoonful of coffee grounds a dash of milk and swish of vanilla extract - TaDa! A body scrub that smells like a latte and feels expensive. I heard once that a dip in the sea is good for the skin. In goes a cup of salt to my bath. Somewhere I read a palm full of olive oil does hair good; I do that too and when I'm out I use the left over sour cream for the salad dressing to slather on my face!
Pampering yourself is divine. Really I try to meditate while scrubbing off dead layers of skin and getting the dirt from my toenails. Your body is your temple, your center, the one thing you can't take off. If you loose your mind body connection everything else suffers. In the past few months I've gained a new respect for taking time out to reconnect with yourself through your body. The Bacchae no doubt is the reason for this shift in perspective. I'm not one to be religious; I haven't been in years and years. To fulfil the demands of the role I absolutely had to find the spiritual side of my life, and there it be. Respect for one's mind is a thinking thing, naturally, but respect for one's body requires an abandonment of the sensible and a surrender to the sensual, much like religion. [wow what a convoluted sentence...] All of that is probably really simple for spiritual people to understand. It's in the definition of spiritual. I'm getting there...
I'm glad to have had the opportunity to feel these things and to find a fun way to get there. My hair smells awesome.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Fear, and confusion keep the magic from happening. Contradictory direction, missing cues, choreography, worrying about how everything looks - all these things spoil the moment when they run though my head. I guess that's because its not real anymore and it becomes painfully obvious that it's a performance put on by a little actor who's more concerned about hitting his cues than actually entertaining.
Last night both of these things happened to me. There were horrible hours of jumping through hoops, screwing up, and generally being dull to watch, and there was one beautiful moment of just not giving a fuck. That moment came after the director made a poetic speech about his intentions to change the blocking every single night to keep us off balance to get a better performance. I couldn't believe it. My jaw hung to the floor and my eyes began to water with frustration. If anything his artful intentions would turn me into a puddle of trembling waste - not a talented actor.
He asked if I was going to cry - when I said no feebly he congratulated me and told the cast to all get to this point of distress. He said I was "almost there."
I went off. I told him I had been there, and this was only a mild form of frustration compared to previous evenings of this glorious experience he'd created. I explained my problems as mentioned above. When he told me to disregard all cues and direction an just do something good because he didn't care ...I did exactly that and reaped enough complements to last me the week.
It would be a grave mistake however, if our brave director thought it was his methods at work last night when that moment happened. It owed little to him and much much more to an actor grabbing her instincts and owning the moment - free from fear, free from bullshit. It was beautiful.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Chronicle and the Statesman aren't depressing because they are filled with the tragic events of the day - that's the way the world turns, bad stuff happens. However, they are so dull to read and the quality of journalism is often so low it makes reading news a chore. The Onion on the other hand...
I like the fact that it forces you to read between the lines to get the biting commentary, and it still is so entertaining. Even though it's all fake it's soo much better than anything else you can pick up at news stands.
I myself am not a funny writer. When diving into the creative waters of my brain I find mostly serious things and pretty pictures. All the comedy in there is sprouted from the seeds of others. Like Dave. Thanks Dave. His bold, brash bullshitting does wonders and makes me giggly for the whole day. Hmmm The Onion has internship opportunities. That would be fantastic.
Somehow all the funny moments I have in improv are accidental. My mouth makes words and sentences without me thinking about it, then people laugh and I get confused. Hehe. Yeah. The kind of funny that comes easiest is the driest kind: Irony. Comedic juxtaposition is about the only thing I can structure on my own. That's why narrative improv gets me so excited! It'll be great, as soon as I start attending class on a regular basis...
Ah, well, till' next time. Off to class!
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Everyday is a new day. You can tell yourself that, but to what affect? Will you rise earlier and make pancakes in honor of this fresh dawn, or rush off to chores left undone by the end of the last "new day"? Will you skip class to walk by the river, pick flowers, make eyes at an interesting stranger, or what have you? Perhaps, you'll simply go to class and focus really fucking hard.
As this new day closes I worry I've made the wrong choices. I rose early from disturbing dreams to curse my mother and the cold. I made breakfast slow and patiently. Moving from the TV to the kitchen to the TV eating as I went. I watched Saturday morning cartoons, sipped coffee in the garden, drove to rehearsal and nearly wrecked several times. I meditated, played, forgot my lines, and wore myself out. When I cried the tears weren't of me, but came from me. It was the fear of failure seeping out to settle just a little farther away. I drug myself to the car, came home, and made dinner slow and patiently. I moved from the TV to the kitchen to the TV to the computer eating as I went, listlessly. I came to rest here three and a half hours left and counting. Exciting? No.
I shouldn't punish myself at so soon a juncture for I do not know how I live, nor how I should be living. The frame of reference is as of yet too small to make comparisons. Answers lie in the future, and I eagerly await a brand new day.
[Edt. Is this enough? Fingers crossed!]
- The Twenty-ninth: Is It True?
- The Twenty-eighth: Revelation, or Something
- The Twenty-seventh: Regal Red
- The Twenty Sixth: The Limits of Performance
- The Twenty Fifth: Sexist Language
- The Twenty Fourth: Sunday
- The Twenty Third: Thank You James
- The Twenty Second: Intentional Communities
- The Twenty First: From the Other Side
- The Twentieth: My God Only Hours Left
- The Ninteenth: Lil' Houses for Big People II
- The Eighteenth: Lil' Houses for Big People
- The Seventeenth: Good Morning
- The Sixteenth: Not the Intended One
- The Fifteenth: Frustration
- The Fourteenth
- The Thirteenth: Boo!
- The Twelfth: Walden
- The Eleventh: Slightly More Awake
- The Tenth: Not Fully Awake
- The Ninth: A Milestone
- ▼ December (21)