wrong ocean, bub
��������� �����mike doughty on the old winamp. the morning-become-eclectic broadcast from sometime in 2k.i feel wild tonight, something overgrown.
(ever feel like the something you're trying to reach is like a song you're singing offkey? and you've just now noticed it - so your fingers slacken & slip off of the guitarstrings, making that wet gull-noise, the noise i associate with gulls flying over beaches, and coney island though i've never been there)
skittering cold like cats after mice today. first time since march my leather jacket came out. the pleasant weight across my shoulders. a quickened crispness to my gait across our small campus, back & forth from the theatre to the cafeteria, to the dorms ... a perpetual triangle that i seem to trace and re-trace, over and over, from vertex to vertex - i'm waiting for something to happen, i think, though many things are happening all at once.
spending a lot of time immersed in thought, in the philosophical process of analysing education, lack thereof, talent, lack thereof ... everything sort of melds together in this broiling mass of lumpy self-examination. but this time people are engaged in it. i spend hours sitting or standing in various terminal-like hallways, with someone else or various someones, pacing idly, voice rising and falling in excited tones (sometimes too shrill for my liking) - watching their eyes flare up, feeling their energy take off alongside mine, twotrains running on two tracks, accelerating until we bang out of one another's orbit, and suddenly exhausted.
and blue smoke will be left in our wake ...
i feel artistically frustrated. as someone who does things in many different arenas, acting, directing, writing, "doodling," i feel that i go from phase to phase like slipping a disk in my back. with a loud, painful noise and sloppy extrication. - and there's different schools of each artform! there's poetry/prose/playwriting, for writing, and .. well, as for directing, it's something entirely different .. and being the stage manager, and being in directing, and being in an ACTING class, it's all i can think about. i'm drained for most writing ability, right now - and it's entirely frustrating, since this IS the season for it -
but the poetry i'm cranking out is prosepoetry, little paragraphs of splintery badness. like overhead, airplanes jump people into the next life. outside, muzzled dogs bark. non sequiturs that make me feel as creative as the remnants of a popped red balloon languishing in misery on the ground. pinioned between grassblades.
i wish i lived in california just so i could get this radio-station. kcrw, and in particular, this program ... such great artists. the formation of music, of soundwaves, of frequencies.
[like an itch i can't scratch. growl, snap, claw, bite.] but, frustration always explodes in one way or another ... there's just so much i NEED to apply creative process to, and so much i WANT to apply it to, but ... for some reason i'm locked into a different mode right now.
it's ... like paddling a rowboat through the indian ocean only to find out you've somehow rounded the cape of good hope and ended up in the atlantic, and is that a hurricane i see on the horizon?
#(*&(*&@(*#&!!!