An earlier start than usual, for I've been sleeping and the ratio of entries to hours has increased to two bloody entries every hour. One thing that's cool about writing verses speaking is that I can use slang from all over the glob and it wont sound strange at all. A little bit strange, but you know if it makes anyone laugh I can't hear them and we're all the better for it.
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!
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!
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