dulled.
��������� �����still in the wake of the show. i feel like a little rowboat, tossed malevolently by the shrieking gale we have outside today. missed both classes, because i'd left the window open and the cold wind kept me awake intermittently throughout the night. a pleasing sort of discomfort, though - not something altogether unfamiliar, and so i left the window open.my body's playing tricks on me. catching me asleep and taking the advantage to catch up on the years of insomnia i've had. at the expense of my schoolwork - but i'm struggling to get it done. laziness & apathy just keeps winning. a tired uphill battle - why do i care, i keep asking myself - i know this already. i know this play, i know this authour, this incident in history. i know this acting technique, i can cold read ... i feel hungry, manifest-destinying myself over the theatre department. directing is the American West which i want to capture now, and after that, the California of set & light design. i want to play with technical stuff, to know everything. i feel Faustian.
the rain's impressive today. it's barely midafternoon - it's as though the winter is crying, begging to be let in, and its harsh tears are stripping the proud autumn leaves from the branches ... but i'm just frozen here on the same old spot // and all i have to do is press the pedal // but i'm not there's a peril in society today, i feel evasive, like an army trying to infiltrate a foreign land. and ... i have no idea why. trying to write, still, finding myself entirely blocked -- everything that comes out is like a fucking urinary tract infection. burning, bad, and painful. like i have to pass this kidney stone of writer's block in order to write successfully again.
well you walked into town without making a sound / and you slipped, and you slammed your face into the ground / and you tried to forget all the words that were said / to deny all the things that you keep in your head
back to quoting lyrics. the shift of season does this to me. but i have in my possession now the "book of blues" by jack kerouac, something i've been meaning to acquire for quite some time -
and you know what it is? i'm seethingly angry at nothing. misdirected, undirected cringing. i have acquired a persona, to those in the department. i have projected an image of being "gleefully eccentric" and yet i'm known, mostly, as the "angry young man" - i think. personality's always been a stumbling block for me. twisting, dizzy images like the falling of leaves through the gray skies of my skull.
//
the sun was hot on the desert sands. they wanted to flip over, but couldn't, and so their unreleased energy sizzled up into the air, hissing fitfully. cars trundle by on the cracked asphalt, and the sun rises ever more arrogantly, chin-lifted, over the man in the white t-shirt and ripped jeans ..
//
ah this broiling mass of insanity. peter suggested when i turn 21, i keep a bottle of rye under my desk.
just to be perverse, i think i'll keep a - bottle of Hi-C. or some such. there's this girl i keep running into everywhere. she doesn't say much. she hugged me once, i think. and elevator-meetings when you don't expect it ... a kind of elfin face, constantly lost in a thought that might seem somewhat happy - what is the desire that tickles the bones of my spine like it's playing a keyboard ... minor chords, all the way ... little etudes & nocturnes of jealousy creeping through and pulling at the strings inside the piano -
this simile's gone on long enough. and i feel the day beginning to crawl over my skin, deja-vu fashion. wish i was more coherent. it's like kaylen says.
"are you trying to write // or are you trying to be brilliant?"
fuck.