There to meet with Macbeth

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace, from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
told by and idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.


Famous words from Macbeth. Interesting to see a character who behave in such villainous ways say some of the most moving and human words in Shakespeare. And interesting to see them said at the end of the play instead of in their usual spot after Lady Macbeth's death.
Joel Sass, ladies and gentlemen. What a visionary director! He's the same man who created that stunning Pericles from a couple years ago, which I don't think I'll forget as long as I live. I'm not liable to forget this Macbeth either. Wow. Just wow. One of the production interns said it was basically a modern interpretation, but set in a nightmare about the English Blitzkrieg. That's not a bad description. It really was nightmarish. The Wyrd Sisters were completely terrifying and fantastic. Also, they didn't have faces.
This is what I want to do when I grow up.
Completely strong cast. Eerie and amazing design on costumes, music, props, and SET. Visually and auditorially entrancing, all of it. And the gods created a perfect night for it: Rolling mist and swirling winds that picked up at uncannily appropriate moments.
THEATER.

A Full Day

I've broken the habit of writing in here, maybe because I am much happier now than I used to be. But I want to write tonight, and I don't want to be slowed by the speed of my hands. Typing is still not as fast as my mind, few things are, but it is certainly severa steps up in that particular arena. Am I being conceited? I think I am being accurate. I am far more intelligent than the majority of people, and I bear both the advantages and disadvantages of that. I like to know what I am capable of. For example: I am an excellent actress. I am a rubbish basketball player. I am very empathic and kind. I am also overly emotional and spoiled.
There. Balance. As I said to Kailyn earlier today, Life is a grand balancing act. Everything is balance. Even story is balance. That's why I hated the Pursuit of Happyness. No balance. Some artistry, yes, but no balance and a great deal of emotional manipulation and pandering to boot.
Well.
I miss people terribly. Kailyn and Caleb and Hanin and Ilian and Jaren and Danielle and Javier. I miss everyone. I miss Holden Caulfield. Ha. I miss what I have just left, even as I rejoice in having finally found the road I have craved for so many years. The problem with wishing for something with such conviction is that when you get it, even when it makes you happy, it is rarely what you dreamed.
Today is a day of grieving. It took me by surprise. The morning was one of happy lazy-active summeriness, just as the rest of the weekend was. The tears hit me by surprise.
I miss my Grandpa. I love my Grandpa.
There is a taughtness across the roof of my mouth sometimes when I cry. I wonder what it stems from.

Jane Eyre and Orson Welles

Why do I love Jane Eyre so much? I've only read it all the way through once. I love Jane, but I am not really much like her, excepting that we are both intelligent. She is much more humble and quiet than I will ever be. I would love to have that subtle sort of sophistication, but what class I do have must be brash. I must aspire to be like Mark Twain. Hm. For all my oddities, there is no escaping the fact that I am really quite American.
I think I have become more casual about romantic love in my own life, and I wonder what it means in terms of my own identity. Have I given up on something, or have I simply recognized that life does not always align itself with narrative archetypes? Maybe this love I've has for Jane Eyre these past two years is a symptom of this. It presents me with a love story for the ages that belongs to a character who is very much set, if not in reality, at least with her feet on the ground. Jane Eyre brings together to dramatic and the romantic with the plain and sensible. Maybe that is why the story has endured so well, and why so many people are caught by it.

I have just finished watching Citizen Kane for the first time. In spite (and perhaps because) of being told repeatedly that it is supposed to be the greatest film ever made, I think I was expecting to be a bit bored by it. Not that I wanted to be. But it's definitely an experience I've had with certain film masterpieces (as I said earlier, I am insufficiently sophisticated. Insufficiently for what? I don't know. I do a mean impression of a baby dinosaur though.) Anyway, the point is, I thought Citizen Kane really was fantastic. The way it's shot is amazing. The lighting and composition whore in my heart kept swooning and making come hither motions to Orson Welles, who incidentally I have decided looks like Cameron White, only not as good looking. Stupid Cameron. (I think well of Cameron and am slightly confused by him. Sssssh!) It was wonderfully acted all over the place and well written. It really is a masterpiece. Who knew!
Everyone but me, apparently.
I don't know. A lot of people have also told me that they think it is highly over-rated. I do not feel qualified to say. Ask me again in a week. I liked it, though. It's a damned fine piece of cinema.
Dear Lord in Heaven, if you exist, please help me do reasonably well on my film quiz tomorrow and save me from losing credit in my film lecture in spite of being a lazy bum who doesn't do her homework or go to class. Please, please, please. For all my faults, I am well intentioned. Also, I want my parents to be proud of me, because I love them. Please, please, please.
Amen.

A drunken musing on faith

Yo there be raaaain outside my window. I once blogged under the influence of ambien. tonight I am doing it under the influence of sonataaaaaaaa. bobobobobobwwwwwwwwwwwwwoo. Did you know that this is true? Life is incredibly profound, because life is narrative. People worship god because they need things to mean something. The fact of the matter is, things mean something whether we like it or not, though we cannot always gleanm, and there is certainly something under the fabric of existence that gives it this poignancy, but I don't know about this whole god thing. There are patterns. There is the rise and fall and the rise and fall and the rise. The great swell. In short, there is story. It is the only thing I can have unalienable faith in. I believe that I exist. I believe that the people around me exists. I even believe my imagination exists, but imaginarily so. God? What is god? I do not know what people are asking me when the ask me if I believe in god. If there is a god of my world, he would be the great storyteller, who's words for things are the things themselves, so perfect are his words. But I do not know that there is such a conciousness. I know only that there are stories and that I am in one.

On Anger and Spoiled

I'm not very good at anger. I never used to think of this as a problem, but now I am starting to wonder. I can rail against people very well when they are not present and I tend to speak my mind no matter the company (a failing and a virtue both), but when actually confronted with the source of my anger... well.
Part of the problem: Most of the time, the people who make me angry are people I love. I may want justice, but in the end I WANT to forgive the people I love. Life is really much nicer that way.
A note about the grudges I have held in my life, which are few but deep: they were a betrayal of love, in some form. If not love, at least trust, and I rarely trust with out at least some small measure of love. If not love, respect.
Hm.

I did a naughty thing today.
What did you do Carla?
Oh, now, I really shouldn't say...
Oh no, now you HAVE to tell...
Well, if you really want to know...
Out with it!
I threw a carton of spoiled milk out my window, which is, by the way, on the third story. In the middle of campus. If I were a properly behaved, responsible, and environmental person, I would simply have put it in the trash bin. Alas, it was not to be! Not only did I loathe the notion of having to carry the repugnant carton down the stairs and outside to the trash when I wasn't even wearing any pants yet, but the carton was... inflated. With some sort of gas, I think. There was only one course of action. I HAD to, don't you see? For SCIENCE.
So I flung it out the window. And you know what happened when it hit the ground? IT WENT BOOM. I mean it. There was an actual "BOOM" sound, a big one, as milk sprayed and spread across the grass in a deformed puddle that looked like nothing so much as the white blood of my enemies. I looked down triumphantly at the pathetic carton who had moments ago been so puffed up with pride and noxious gas. Victory was mine.

Late Night TV on the Internet

The title says it.

You know what world? I like TV. There, I said it. Er, wrote it. DECLARED it. I loves me some True Blood, Dexter, Carnivale, Firefly, Glee, Mad Men, Buffy, Samurai Jack, Lost, 30 Rock, Pushing Daisies, etc. When done properly, it gives me much of the fun of a novel and a movie at the same time. WIN. Alas, there is a great deal of shitty TV one must dig through to get to the good stuff.
My bane: reality tv. However, I am not above looking at pieces from So You Think You Can Dance on youtube. You know why? Cause they really CAN dance, and that is a mighty fine thing to see. It takes talent. Athletisism. Passion. It is actually ART. And it's shiny.
Shiny. I will not pretend that I just enjoy the narrative structure and writing and stuff in proper television. Let's be frank. The people on television are easy on the eyes, and they like making out with one another. The hopeless romantic and the terrible lecher in me are able to bond at times like this, and thus able to reconcile themselves with eachother.
SHINY.
What I want to do: popularize the miniseries. I think, when done properly, it is my favorite form of video storytelling. You have the oppurtiny for depth of a longer series as well as the elegance of a shorter story arch. It strikes the perfect balance. Also, it is the best format for adaptation. For example: we all acknowledge that properly adapting Watchmen into a movie was impossible. Why? Insufficient time to plumb the delicious depths of the story, its plot and characters. So, you need more time. What is the perfect solution? THE MINISERIES, THAT'S WHAT.
Examples of wonderful miniseries: Slings and Arrows, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, North and South, 10th Kingdom (ok, that was a little silly, but I enjoyed it). Basically, England and Canada are all over this. Now it's our turn.

Speaking of which, I cannot stop thinking about going to London. LondonLondonLondon. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

This may be the silliest thing I have written on this blog. No one reads it though, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. Unless, of course, Kailyn is still checking it. Are you reading this Kailyn? It's very silly.

In other news: I think watching me play Jerry this summer caused a shift in my father's view of my acting. He was supportive before and thought I was good. Now, he is super bummed that he can;t see my show and has said so repeatedly. He is excited to see my growth as an artist. He doesn't merely support my being an actor, he actively WANTS me to be one now, he is excited about it. I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world.

Also, when I bowed tonight: The audience got louder. For me. For ME. It was wonderful.

But I am not satisfied yet. I was good, but still nowhere close to as good as I can be. I to,d that to my Dad and he said, "Good. That's the way to be." His voice radiated pride. He is proud of me for being an actor.

I am being redundant now. Life is a very occupied space.

Mired

I feel like one of the more problematic aspects of depression is that it works like quicksand. This makes it very difficult to get out.
I am getting more and more mired, but not in the traditional way. The last time I was depressed it was a more constant ailment. My current mental state has swung back and forth, with poor me helplessly strapped to the end of the pendulum, clinging for dear life and unable to move. Perhaps this lack of movement will allow me to survive long enough for someone to get me out of the quicksand.
I think this metaphor is getting messy.
Why do people cry when they are upset? I'm sure it's been asked before many times, but for some reason it only just occurred to me tonight. I asked Ilian, and he said that he doesn't think anybody knows. Curious.
An interesting fact: My eyes turn bright sea-green when I cry. I originally thought this was simply a trick of the light, a consequence of contrast with the red eyes that so often accompany tears, but I have found that the color persists when I cry even if my eyes aren't red. So. Something about how the excess water bends the light? I don't know. It looks kind of cool though.
Silver linings, right?
I should go to bed, but I'd like to exhaust my mind first. It has a habit of puttering about when I want it, just for a little while, for once, to just be silent. I can't turn myself off. I know that it has to do with my intelligence, and my mind's own unique way of working, and that, for all it's flaws, that this is part of what makes me interesting, but. Butbutbutbutbut. It is also part of what makes me insane. I'm not saying insane-good or insane-bad. I'm saying mild insanity, with what perks and detriments that entails. I hope it's a good sign, in some way. I've never heard of a sane genius, for example.
I like physical activity. It makes me feel awake, focused. I should try to be more physically active. Then I could be focused more, and then my brain would actually tired by bedtime.
Focus. Beautiful, glorious focus. My elusive holy grail, my cure-all. When I reach it, in those rare moments where it lingers a bit, I feel as if I actually am living, and the rest of the time I have been half-asleep, living in a daze. Bittersweet as fuck.
You've identified your problems Ms. Lerner, as well as the solutions for the majority of them. Why haven't you fixed them yet? Well??
I don't know. I'm sorry. Please stop looking at me. I mean, please, don't go away, I mean, leave me alone, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean.
I don't know. I'm trying though. I swear to God I'm trying.
"Do or do not," says Byron's voice in my ear, "there is no try."
Fuck off.

Hardly deserves a title

I haven't written here in a while. Hm. It's a good place to go when I grow bored with the internet, a very easy thing to do. It is late, my brother is aggravating, I am sleepy, my dinner was tasty and I am excited about my new art supplies, which I think I should use a little before bed.
Goodnight.

The Book of Flying

The Book of Flying by Keith Miller

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
I finished it few days ago. Having allowed it to sit in my head for a bit, I think it is safe to say that this is my favorite book. Yes, my favorite.

The writing is the most superb combination of prose and poetic language I have ever seen. It is a pleasure to read and to speak out loud. The characters are beloved and entrancing, the world beautiful and fascinating, Pico's journey perfect and poignant. It is a story about stories, an ode to journeys, dreams, love, and flight in every form.

I loved it so much. Read it. You won't be sorry.


View all my reviews.

Odds, Bobs, and Tidbits.

I was supposed to be working on my Genetics essay. Instead, I was sifting through old files, things from high school I had forgotten about. I was expecting to shudder a lot. I didn't. A lot of it, I don't remember writing it. Most of the time, when I looked at my writing from high school in the past, it was much worse than I had thought at the time. Not so today. Did some of it need polishing? Duh. Were there mistakes there that I wouldn't have made now? Of course.
Nevertheless: it was actually quite good, a lot of it. Even with the hyper-unpolished stuff, the ideas were still solid. I had all sorts of tidbits floating around on old Sheila, scattered streams-of-conciousness and little pieces of prose.
It was cool.
Here is a tidbit I found. There file's name was Darkness.doc. No title is stated in the text. I can tell I wrote it, but don't remember doing so.

Wasn’t your usual absence-of-light sort of darkness, wasn’t nearly passive enough. Existed in its own right, like sun beams, but wasn’t as direct as light, coiled around everything, sought to fill as much space as possible, seeped into the marrow of things. Was alive. Could smell fear.

The girl stared at the wisps of shadow winding themselves around her ankles. Think of them as a blanket. A nice, soft, protective blanket. Keep moving. She closed her eyes, found her own darkness, took a deep breath, and slowly blew out her own smoky trail of dark. This one, warm and human, comforted, similar to the darkness of the womb or a deep sleep, but with a life of its own. Spirals moved around her, reminding the greater dark that she was not theirs.

The deeper dark moved in on the spirals, coating them, but not suffocating, like a large, dangerous dog deciding that you had it’s approval. Frightening but harmless, so long as she kept her head straight.

Not bad. I wonder where it came from.
Another tidbit, this one rather priceless and not in the least written by me. The file's name is Letter to Carla.doc. When you open it, your eyes get a nice shock, as the blank parts of the page, usually white, are now neon blue. The text is as follows.

Hey Carla it’s me Armand I just want to say I love you and am so happy that you're coming back!!!! You’re the best sister I ever hade!! Do you want to whach I am legend with Danielle and my Friend and I? IL never ferret you when your gone Carla. Has any one told you that you’re beautiful? Hi Yoshiro what’s up? Take care of her; don’t make her sad our some thing is going to Happen to you. Am watching you.

I like the fact that Happen is capitalized. Also, I love my little brother.
In other news, I actually did get work done today. Yay.
Also, I've realized why, even though I'm not going through a dry spell, I haven't had much to report to Kailyn. Sure I get lots of ideas, but unless I'm actively doing something with them, they drift off. I could try to formulate and plan my stories out, but that always makes for the stiff stuff. I mean, obviously that's important, you can't write a novel as you would a spontaneous scene. But. Butbutbut. All the good stuff I write... I just write it. I won't say I don't think when I do it, cause I do, but only as much as is necessary.
So, I'm just going to make things, and not worry about the fact that I don't have much to say at the story-telling pow-wows.
It's not like when I stopped working on my comic, because I am still storytelling.
The play felt good, and I can feel more stirring from where it came from.
Things are going to be picking up speed soon.

Snow

Transcribed from a journal entry:

12/7/08, 3:30ish am, bed, home
Outside, everything is dressed in a thin mask of snow. It reminded me of that one Christmas we spent in Great Neck, where it started snowing a few hours after we got there. I stepped out the front door and stood, arms out, face and palms up, watching with the purest breed of joy. It was a miracle. Soft, fragile, enveloping. As though the sky were raining dreams. After a while I got cold, and went back inside. It was already night when the snow had started falling, so the scene I woke up to still held awezen*. I must have woken up early, because the streets were deserted. Or maybe people simply didn't want to be out in the cold. I don't know. But I remember the thick carpet of quiet bundled around everything, the trees, the pavement, the broken telephone cord calmly bisecting the street, as if it had every right to be there. The lampposts, the rooftops, but most of all the willow tree. Each tendril had its own delicate coat. The snow had preserved every perfect intricacy of the willow in pristine white. Like something out of a fairtytale. I remember explaining it to Nick last year, on that perfect afternoon where we sat at the window and watched the blizzard swirl, whirl, tumble, and flow about. Right after it snows, when everything is still carpeted in quiet - it looks like someone's face when they are sleeping.


*awezen - that which inspires awe

During the Wine-and-Cheese Party

Presenting: A text message written and sent by Carla while drunk to one Adam Bass.

If I were a day, I would contain every sort of weather, my clouds would flow though a myriad of forms, each more fantastic than the last. My winds would plays songs on leaves and lakes and would whisper a thousand inspirations into the ears of poets. My sky would end in flames, followed by a chorus of rain. All would sigh away in a starry night. How is your evening going?

I am a geek, and god do I enjoy it. Being a geek, I mean.
I also like wine. And boys named Adam. And conversations about secrets that break into song in the deep hours of the night.
I should get ready for bed.

Carla Loves Autumn

Written on the Yoko Ono, 10/14/08:
There was piano in the background this morning. I think it may have been coming from the Canon, but I'm not sure. The really impressive thing about it was how far it spread. All around main campus, people were cocking their heads at the sound of plinking keys. There was an actual piano. I know it, because the music was louder in some places than others. Unimportant.
What is important is that it was beautiful. No, it'd be more accurate to say that it made other things more beautiful. There is a difference, you know.
Today is one of those beautiful (a word I know I know I over-use) days one sometimes finds in September or November, but really belong to October. Just cold enough to feel awake and autumnal without being frigid. A tilting breeze caresses the trees, carrying away their leaves. As each of them falls, I imagine they are notes from the mysterious piano, gently plinking down.
The breeze swirls back around again, taking with it a whole new flurry of notes. Its melody teases my hair and explores the contours of my face. An ink-wash sky glows on my back, just for a moment, as I breathe in and take the music with me.

There. I've been meaning to transcribe that for a couple days now. The Octoberness of everything is almost making me dizzy. This is my favorite time of year. I can see the lovely, old, slightly eerie lamps that dot their light along the paths from my front window. The wind is even more talkative than usual, buzzing with the ghosts of a thousand leaves as it sweeps its way across my room. An enchanting trumpet tenders its way through my side window, the shyer of the two. I hear crunching footsteps from who-knows-where, and a series of curled, crinkly, little memories tumble against my screens during their descent.
There is a reason Halloween happens in October.
It's a good thing study-days have arrived, because Autumn is tugging at the running, beating core of me, and I really don't think I can sit still for much longer.

When I close my eyes, I am covered in tattoos. They are a mix of stylized images and tribal markings and odd symbols (some of them I know, others I do not) and it all comes together as one giant expression of me. I wish everyone was covered in tattoos, so that I could read them as they walk by. I have been on edge today and wish to calm down.
I wish I could get that damned Dr. Horrible song out of my head.
Meg did a tarot reading for me last night. It was cool. And highly positive. Apparently, I'm doing pretty well for myself. I guess that's true. It all felt true, which is kind of funny, but I guess that's why people believe in fortune-telling in the first place. It's interesting at any rate. She said something to me that meant a lot. She said, "Carla, you can't help but live a wonderful life. It would be against who your are." Actually, I don't remember if she said wonderful, or extraordinary, or what. Hm. But yeah. I wish I could remember exactly what word she used.
I think I should get out of my room.

For the moment, this blog will remain a secret. I type faster than I write, and I don't feel like saving a bunch of silly rantings to my computer.
So, in reading past journals of my life, I have gotten frustrated with myself for being fixated on boys. They are not all I write about, but I really wish that they were a smaller percentage of it.
That being said, I'm going to talk about my current fixation with a boy. It started out as the teeniest of crushes, and now, like an untended stress fracture or an unpruned blackberry bush, has gotten out of hand. It is not an issue of taking up too much pen and paper, it is an issue of taking up far too much of my though time. I could be doing homework, or getting a brilliant idea for a story, or noticing the way the light in the theater building cause cloud patterns to be reflected on the tile floor in an unusual and mesmerizing manner. But no. I have to be thinking about him. And I mean, he's nice to think of to a certain extent... he makes me smile, and then hide my face in my jacket. But there is a such thing as too much. We are getting into pining territory here! I hate pining. Also, I'm out of alcohol.
Flahargablarg!
People are being all social-like outside my room. I think I will do that tomorrow. Maybe if Emily and I see a movie we can invite Taylor and Gowri, and if we invite Taylor and Gowri, maybe we can invite him.
Bah!
A sane person would just ask him out to coffee or something. Let me rephrase. A person who actually had some balls would ask him out to coffee or something.
Why is playwriting only once a week? Why?!
On a side note, I wish playwriting was more than once a week, regardless of the fact that we know have a patter of sitting together and making faces at each other. That class is just made of awesome. Stuart Spencer is my hero.
See, and what's scary is, this is a REAL crush. Like, I had a pretty bad crush on Calder I guess, but... in retrospect, I wonder if it was only because Calder seems like the sort of person who it would make sense for me to have a crush on.
Lukas on the other hand...
He took me on an adventure! What was I supposed to do? And he likes whimsy, and oral story-telling, and macabre stuff, and gets people to act like the children they are, and writes well, and sings well and often and without shame, and has eyes that flash a really bright green when the sun hits them right. And he smells nice.
He adventures!
I... see, I think it's bewildering because I think he might have been showing interest in me. BUT I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M BAD AT THAT SORT OF THING.
Man, it's two in the morning, but I'm not really tired on account of the giant nap I took.
Everywhere I go, I keep looking for him, hoping we'll run into each other. That makes me feel like a creeper.
You know what? I'm probably just extra cranky cause I haven't eaten or done my homework. I think that having done both of those will make me feel better.

All Eras End.

In searching through the odd, hodge-podge, treasure-house, wonderland of our grandparents house, Ilian and I came upon an old literary magazine. It appears to have been from a school of some sort, but it does not say where and none of our family members names are on it or in it anywhere. it has beautiful, dark illustrations, and the first poem in it was extremely striking and oddly appropriate for the whole situation. I transcribe it here, though I couldn't tell you why exactly, since I still haven't shared this with the public, but I feel compelled to do so. I transcribe as it is formatted in the book, knowing that phrases would fit differently on that page when they were more than one line than if I went by the standard of this blog, and wish to stay as close to the author's design as possible.
Without any further ado.

BE QUIET NOW AND STILL

Be quiet now and still.
Be unafraid: that hiss and garden tinkle is the rain,
that face you saw breath on the window pane
was just my startled cat with eyes of jade--cats
worry in the rain, you know, and are afraid.
That nervous laugh that creeps into your room is throated
in a phonographic voice below the floor. We hear
it once and then no more, a distant echo tumbling
in its loom. Our time is measured in another room.
We know days pass because we're told.
We lie alone disputing actions on a crazy earth.
(You whisper in my ear it has some worth.)
And I lean near to keep you from the cold.
There are so many things that must be told.
I speak of lost regimes and distant times,
and moon-eyed children smiling in the womb,
and legless beggars prophesying doom,
and afternoons of rain spun into rhyme.
(The patter of the rainfall marks our time
As does the waning moon
or muted sun.
As do the nodding gods who ride the sea.)
For even now, alone and still with me,
you (as I) sense that bonds cannot be undone;
Our pulse is in the rain and moon and sun,
we take our breaths together and are one.

GORDON KLAUBER

It feels beautiful when spoken out-loud.
I realized today that I will never see that house again.
One thing I have learned in the past year-and-a-half is that life is always hard, even when it's easy.
But I am, mostly, happy.
It is October. It is difficult to say, but October might be my favorite month of the year. Real October started last night. It was very beautiful, and very cold.

Word on the street

So, word on the street is, I'm a bit highstrung tonight. So, here I am, writing. I wish I had my own computer, since I've been in the mood for keyboard-style journaling the past few days, but hey, I'm here now, right?
A moment of honesty: my mind hadn't been as story and odd-J.D.-esque fantasy-vignettes as before in the past few years. It was still there, of course, but not as much as before, and it made me extremely uncomfortable, like I had lost something. Now it's back, full force, and I couldn't tell you why exactly, but I'm glad it's back.
There are so many reasons to be scared and angry and cynical, and I'm just not interested. Why do people do that? Why would anyone choose to carry that bitterness around with them? I've had moments of my own, where I felt that acrid knot of simmering-sobbing-sneering twisting up my torso, but I fight it. I try to let go of it. I came back.
I know this sounds childish, but why are people ever mean in the first place? I know that a lot of mean people are mean because they are sad, or because someone was mean to them. Why, the fuck, is anyone mean to someone who has not done anything to them? It just doesn't seem logical. If it's the whole unhappiness thing a la "misery loves company" I still have no sympathy for such people. Easy as my life has been relative to others, I would not wish my sorrow on anyone.
But do not despair, dear (imaginary) reader! I still hope! I know that there are other good people out there.
I just wish the fucktards would shut up or go away.

A House

I have just arrived in New York with Ilian. We are in the house on Elmridge Road. Just the two of us. It is strange.
Smell is more connected to memory than any other sense, and I find that true here more than anywhere else. This place has a smell all its own, not only unique but very specific. You get used to it pretty quickly, to the point where it becomes almost undetectable. Almost. But that moment where you first step in to the house it is incredibly strong, thick with memories and permeating everything.

I have drunk. It is important to dream at times like these. I meant drink, but some typos are best left uncorrected.

Is it possible for a place to be on its deathbed?
More than people or things, the places that have been home to both deserve immortality.

Bing Boom There Goes the Room

Iiiii. I.
I am writing under the influence of aaaaambien. It is a sleeping medication. Tahoe tomorrow. sunshine and mountains and lakes and stars, so many the they crowd and some crumble down getting caught under your eyelids where you'll be seeing starts for eternity an eternity of stars leave wishing scars when you cry them away, constellations on your face to trace a memory map or a floorplan for the future, which twinkles in the corner of everyones eyes, except for pregnant woman, they have twinkles in their tummies nummy tummies little worlds floating in water as the big bang circles they sleep, like monsters of the deep, a child's birth is it's mother's judgement day and father's too, what will you do with this universe? Do not be a tyrannous god and do not abandon them to doubt and complete chaos, or there will be no truth to emerge from these ashes, these floodgates, the deaf girl the deaf girl her song will soar above the rest pass the test of time and give us all our freedom to understand all these shifting patterns in the sand.
I am a maker, a thieving renovator. There will be a day where the colossal has happened and you'll sing me a song and I'll tell you a tale and we'll break down the wall, we'll wail on the wall, the cracks will look like lines of light the floodgates will open and our time of silence will end as we ascend to fulfillment of purpose, as we ride the current, look the world in the eye, laugh and laugh and laugh and
stop
the noise calms around and we are the most important in this moment this moment it the most important and
and we look out into the buzzing something-nothing
and begin.

Pericles

It's amazing how Calshakes, almost without fail, makes my heart rise. I cannot think of any better way to spend an evening than seeing a production in that amphitheater. The smell of the eucalyptus as you climb through the forest, the strings of lights, people bundled up holding steamy beverages, the rolling hills in the background, and the twilight sky that gradually fades into a starry ink. This is just added atmosphere. There is a magic on the stage itself, the potential of held breath, which could soar out as a sigh, scream, or song. I remember that night, after seeing Restoration Comedy, how perfect I felt. I walked around the theater, ran my hand along the edge of the stage, through the entire space, feeling the full emptiness of it, and laughing out of sheer joy.
Purpose is a wonderful thing. Knowledge of intention itself. For a moment, it can make you feel almost invincible. Especially, I think, when you're young. I can't say for sure though, as I've never been anything but young.
Tonight's performance was of Pericles. The center of the set involved a gnarled tree of an archway, with oriental sort of rugs and drapings to either side of it. The play was a Shakespearean fairytale, a tragicomical odyssey. What could be better than that? It's a later play, so the writing makes lifts you, even as William plays with the nature of storytelling in a time where surreality and the mixing of the tragic and comic were considered taboo by the established rules of theater (according to the program notes.)
I think part of what I love is how alive their theater is. There is such a sense of community there, you recognize the actors, and you know that they are children playing pretend, just like the rest of us. The sound and lighting design was incredible. It did not look like the ocean actually does, but it felt like the ocean, and that is what most film directors don't know how to do.
Pericles says to Marina, emphatically, "Tell thy story!" I think that sentiment is much of what lent the play so much power. For one thing, I've never seen a Shakespeare play with a narrator. I mean, he might bring one in for an introduction or epilogue in some cases, but this one was an integral part of the story. He was my favorite character.
Really, seeing plays there is rejuvenating. It reminds me of who I am, or rather, who I want to be, because it shows me what I aim to do. There is no other theater I have been to that embodies living story so well. I hope that someday I will be given the chance to act on that stage.
I want to spin fiction that is truer than life itself.