violent piano wishing.
��������� �����it's quite possible that it's just because right now, it happens to be 6am, my sleeping-schedule's all twisted around, and i've just finished watching one flew over the cuckoo's nest - mildly disappointing - and now am listening to the juliana theory - but i'm slightly depressed.depression tends to slide along my skin like a cold wind. the fog and the rain outside only corroborate this feeling, of a general numbness and frustration. things stagnate so quickly, and soon you're rooted in place. my eyes keep wanting to close, but through some superhuman effort i am keeping them open.
i had my first "actor's nightmare" tonight - only thing was that it was extra compounded with the fact that it wasn't only me forgetting my lines, it was everyone. and backstage, to get more into the "mood," the directors were providing glasses of champagne and white wine. then new cast members were introduced, and that was a disaster. girl scouts were potting plants in their brownie outfits and making a mess. naked elderly people sat in the audience, and the roof was caving in.
vague trumpets are going off in my head, half-muted. i keep hearing the voices of the chorus girls rotating around and around in my ears, singing "ragtime cowboy joe" mixed with "happy feet" and jessie coffin's solo. tap-tap-tap-tap on the roof of my brain. deranged santa's reindeer. found myself drifting earlier this evening, too, but it might just be the lack of food i've got in my system. i ate soup, but that never fails to make me feel somewhat queasy. the salt intake. slurping an ocean of broth from the blue mug.
annoyed because i hesitated to download a song that's listed as "queer as folk - happy feet (remix)" because someone would see it and jump to conclusions. annoyed that i would let myself care. and, appropriately, the song has now switched to "back here" by BBMak, which reminds me of when i would work in the supermarket and laugh with heather cramer and sing the harmonies with her. in time with the beeping of our cash registers. how i got yelled at, repeatedly, for turning my light off and going outside to watch lightning curl across the purpled, bruised sky. (now smiling because it reminds me of one flew over the cuckoo's nest - "get back inside, right now!" and the rain pouring down on my face, wanting to rip my apron off and do an irish jig out by one of the huge streetlights, hoping a shower of sparks would cascade down on top of me, oh demonic summers - )
i wonder if i'll ever see those people again, that i used to know. wondering about the phish quote i put in my AIM profile - waiting for the time when i can finally say, this has all been wonderful, but now i'm on my way - and reading through some of the old EOS graduate information on the database. "opening a new chapter" in their lives, how people move once or twice. i put down roots too easily. and don't germinate. locked-down here, too much, for some reason, if in the future i will look back and say "i'll miss those people" and imagine myself in the dark glow of 2am laying semi-recumbent on jason's bed making fun of the fat mexican woman on "CAN YOU TELL?"
terrifyingly alone recently, just in terms of how much i need to be able to express fondness and physicality. jason, as he explains, has it easy. people fall in love with him, since he has this utter charisma & charm. he just can't keep them away. people like a guy to make them laugh. what do most people look for in a guy?
"sense of humour."
well, shucky-darn. too bad most people don't look for a truth-seeker who isn't exactly a "hero" in the sense of the word. strictest sense, that is. too bad, too, because it would have been perfect. striving for honesty. tonight i wrote a scathing review of "journey through heartsongs" by mattie jt. stepanek on amazon.com. the 11 year old "poet" who has a rare form of muscular dystrophy and publishes books of his poetry. pity publishing. it's sickening.
i feel detestable and loathsome right now, slothful & blankfaced. kristin has a beautiful new dog. it's a terrier. they named it "winston" and it's a perfect name. i'm good for a laugh, a neutral smile, a handwave, and a pass-by.
i wish i had a bottle of wine, or a beer, or some vodka. greater than that, some drugs. something to fuck with my mind and toss me out a window to form some interest. if i was in a group of thrillseekers i would be one. if i was in a group of chessplayers i would be one. if i was in a group of actors -- ... if i was in a group of writers.
i am all of these & none of these alternately, like shifting electric currents and madness. pacifying hazel eyes and an oily complexion. thick annoying black hair and a fast tongue that trips like a car hitting the curb when i speak. glasses perpetually crooked on one side of my nose.
me, vain? never.
image: a burning on the inside, to resist stagnation, to rip the side of my scalp off that won't stop itching, to have things i don't have, to cease the relentless angst that i seem to be personified by now. the bitter scathing one. the intense one (in a bad way). not-fun. smile more.
i'm not going insane or anything. but it's a drooping sort of sad that stems from loneliness and my ability to continually categorise all of my emotions and their roots. wrongful need to comfort someone and to be comforted. to have peaceful supporting hands that i don't need to question.
sap. a crooked, disapproving grimace and spitting to one side. sleep.