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.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Guess Who's Back?
It is a beautiful thing to come into one's own again after being away for so long. I have just come from a conversation that I think I would have found very distressing for a grand portion of this year and I don't really care. Hell, I was practically accused of rape, and I don't really care. I'm smiling. See, I've returned to my beautiful Zen of not giving a shit about what people think of me. There are always exceptions to this rule, but to be so is a privilege granted to few, and not entirely to anyone. I don't have to prove myself. I've been sick for so long, I'd forgotten what it was like to be me. I remember how much people would wonder at how happy I was most of the time, and usually I simply shrugged it off as there being no reason why I should be sad (though certainly many reasons for which I could be), but there is another part of it. When I am myself, truly and fully inhabiting and manifesting what it is to be myself, being me is a wonderful thing! Being sick for so long,I'd forgotten that I'm actually a highly capable human being. There is a lot I have to do, but I'm not stressed by it anymore, because my confidence in my ability to take care of what I have to do has been restored. I'm not distressed by this recent business with Yoshi because he really doesn't matter to me. I'm done. I have no need for someone who has treated me and regarded me in such a manner.
Lordy Lou, but Jane Austen is unhealthy for my writing. I've been reading Mansfield Park for my Early Novel lecture, and it's seeping in. Based on what I'd heard about the book before reading it, I thought that I would hate Fanny Price, but I don't. I just feel really bad for Fanny. Everyone is a dick to her.
Hee. That's another word I got condemned for using. Dick. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I'm a dick, you're a dick, she's a dick, he's a dick, they are dicks, together we are all dicks.
Mmm. I need to avoid going to bed so early. Hopefully I can sleep again now that I've faffed about for a few hours. If not, I'll get some work done.
Here is a philosophy: Do what you will, and the world will come to you.
So long as you are doing.
Hahaaaa!
Lordy Lou, but Jane Austen is unhealthy for my writing. I've been reading Mansfield Park for my Early Novel lecture, and it's seeping in. Based on what I'd heard about the book before reading it, I thought that I would hate Fanny Price, but I don't. I just feel really bad for Fanny. Everyone is a dick to her.
Hee. That's another word I got condemned for using. Dick. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I'm a dick, you're a dick, she's a dick, he's a dick, they are dicks, together we are all dicks.
Mmm. I need to avoid going to bed so early. Hopefully I can sleep again now that I've faffed about for a few hours. If not, I'll get some work done.
Here is a philosophy: Do what you will, and the world will come to you.
So long as you are doing.
Hahaaaa!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Written during my early novel lecture this afternoon, and 0233!
There are places I never thought my mind would go that I live in now. It's not about trying to get attention from people, because if it was I'd tell someone. There are patterns in this world that are finally making me believe in God, and you'd think that'd make me more hopeful, but it doesn't really. My opinion of people falls a little lower every day. Perhaps this seems cliché to you, but it doesn't feel that way when you've spent your whole life thinking the best of people, forgiving them when they fuck up, and looking to your own heart and future with optimism and gusto. Things are only cliché when they happen to someone else.
Things here will come to a head soon, I will return home and heal. Either I'll come back in the fall, or I won't. I will push through the unpleasantness of the next two weeks to the sunshine on the other side. I will walk away from the errors of this year with my head held high and my eyes fully focused on the path stretched out in front of me, and I will let the weight of this unnecessary mass of humanity slip underneath the surface of my memory to dissolve into a blankness from which my freedom will emerge, I will breathe in deeply and step into the light.
Things here will come to a head soon, I will return home and heal. Either I'll come back in the fall, or I won't. I will push through the unpleasantness of the next two weeks to the sunshine on the other side. I will walk away from the errors of this year with my head held high and my eyes fully focused on the path stretched out in front of me, and I will let the weight of this unnecessary mass of humanity slip underneath the surface of my memory to dissolve into a blankness from which my freedom will emerge, I will breathe in deeply and step into the light.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Voo Doo Wall
Tessa is finger-painting on the wall.
Tessa: One, two, give me a rose
Three, four, I'll give you a kiss
Five, six, we'll promise eachother
Seven, eight, that nothing's remiss
One, two, give me the sun
Three, four, I'll give you the rain
Five, six, we'll trade in our hearts
Seven, eight, for a whole world of pain
Tessa puts the finishing touches on her painting, takes a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. Her hands are still covered in paint. She studies them, smiles, and puts tribal marks on her face. They are simple and savage. She starts slowly turning in circles, studying her surroundings with a reverence that is almost religious, but still wild. She turn, oh, let's say, three times before her gaze goes straight up and becomes very still. She goes into a wolf howl and bolts to a mirror on the other side of the room, stops hardly an inch away from it, ceasing sound and motion as abruptly as she began. Gently, she leans forward and kisses her reflection. Tessa closes her eyes and steps through the mirror.
Tessa: One, two, give me a rose
Three, four, I'll give you a kiss
Five, six, we'll promise eachother
Seven, eight, that nothing's remiss
One, two, give me the sun
Three, four, I'll give you the rain
Five, six, we'll trade in our hearts
Seven, eight, for a whole world of pain
Tessa puts the finishing touches on her painting, takes a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. Her hands are still covered in paint. She studies them, smiles, and puts tribal marks on her face. They are simple and savage. She starts slowly turning in circles, studying her surroundings with a reverence that is almost religious, but still wild. She turn, oh, let's say, three times before her gaze goes straight up and becomes very still. She goes into a wolf howl and bolts to a mirror on the other side of the room, stops hardly an inch away from it, ceasing sound and motion as abruptly as she began. Gently, she leans forward and kisses her reflection. Tessa closes her eyes and steps through the mirror.
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