The Twenty-ninth: Is It True?

TANNER: The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He steals the mother's milk and blackens it to make printer's ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to spare her the pangs of childbearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a bloodsucker, a hypocrite and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist's work is to show us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they love one another.

OCTAVIUS: Even if it were so—and I don't admit it for a moment—it is out of the deadliest struggles that we get the noblest characters.

TANNER: Remember that the next time you meet a grizzly bear or a Bengal tiger, Tavy.

OCTAVIUS: I meant where there is love, Jack.

TANNER: Oh, the tiger will love you. There is no love sincerer than the love of food. I think Ann loves you that way: she patted your cheek as if it were a nicely underdone chop.

-Man and Superman, Goerge Bernard Shaw

The Twenty Sixth: The Limits of Performance

I am a member of the ACC Experimental Student Performance Lab. Usually when that phrase is uttered it is followed by the words basically the Drama Club. Thankfully I hadn't heard those words until after I had joined. At the time of the first meeting I didn't know what to expect and didn't have more than a mild interest in theatre, other than improv, I'd heard they were interested in that. That's why I showed up,I was an improviser and I like the experimental. I figured it was worth a shot.
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?!

The Twenty Fifth: Sexist Language

"Gender-neutral language, gender-inclusive language, or gender neutrality is language use that aims at minimizing assumptions regarding the gender, or biological sex, of human referents. For example, this may include replacing words such as chairman and stewardess with terms such as chairperson and flight attendant."
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.
Goodnight folks!

The Twenty Second: Intentional Communities

I've been screwing around researching! Hehe.
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!

The Twenty First: From the Other Side

So I'm sittin here on a computer in class. I mean, I mean I'm just sittin here on a computer in this god forsaken class typin up essays an editin an getting my rightful dose of american education, and let me tell you somthin
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.

The Twentieth: My God Only Hours Left

1.5 to be exact. I need to also stop and have lunch, and write the rest of my paper. Never fear, I believe the workshop style class that I was confused about earlier is a time and place for busting ass to pass get my drift? In a room lined with computers and nothing to do but work I think that might be the teacher's intent. OK, well, time to resort to some of the tricks I have hiding under my sleeve.

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.

The Seventeenth: Good Morning

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!

The Eighth

I have to write yet another of these! Damn... Lets see how fast I can get it done... hmm Wikipedia > Random article > The Beast Master
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.

THE BEAST MASTER

When Mary Norton-Legree gave birth to her first child she wept with joy.
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

The Seventh: In Pursuit of an A

I'm at five and a half pages or so of the wretched 25 I must have written for my Comp 1 class... by Thursday. It's not a cruel assignment by any stretch. It was assigned the first day of class as just a looming grade somewhere off in the distance after after Halloween, after Thanksgiving, after I've lived the first semester of my college experience and learned all the tricks... Here we are and I must keep typing. The math is terrible. Since I have completed six blogs, each averaging about 9/10 of a page on microsoft word (the unit of measurement), that leaves 19.5 yet unfilled pages with a little less than five days to complete them in. It's about 4 blogs per day, with a little extra on the side. Shit.
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...

The Second: Thoughts on Comedic Writing

I've been reading the Onion lately, for a lot of reasons, but mostly because its the only reading material I can manage to consume while eating. Yum. Also, it burns well and isn't as depressing to look over as other news publications of a similar paper weight.
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!