Blogger never saves spacing quite rightly. Oh well.

Dispassionate

Burned into ashes, pressed into dust, wildness decomposes beneath the floorboards:
eager to echo with a valiant last breath
if ever he would knock with more than passing interest.

What soaring colors once was this room painted?
the crumbling cobweb question drifts to the floor
nearly unnoticed. (It was attached to something once.)
But now--

For what
half-felt purpose does he so
implore the dispassionate gray of aged walls?
For there was something bright there,
briefly,
once.

In passing he considers the possibility of a figure, kneeling:
Asking.

For what?
For a flash of lightning to set this house ablaze--
A relief-sighing body
burned into ashes, pressed into dust.
And under the dust--



fertile ground.

I only know that summer sang in me

Since I rarely have anything of note to put here, I might make it a habit to occasionally post poems I really really like.

This is from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay.


---


What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
a little while, that in me sings no more.

BLASPHEMY

[Mom thought that my most recent tour blog post might offend my apparently very religious grandparents (I didn't even know they went to church) so I'm editing it down and posting it in its entirety here instead.]

Whenever we’re loading into a new theatre and the pasta-shaped gobo lights are being focused, I make a passing mention of our lord and creator, the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I am disappointed by the sparseness of my Pastafarian brethren. The following is a dramatization:

------------------------------
KEVIN
(Nonchalantly) Check out that gobo. It’s almost as if we’ve been graced by the noodly presence of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, albeit sans-eye-stalks.

LOCAL CREW-MEMBER
Mumblemumblesghettimonster? Haha generic polite laughter.

KEVIN
Ah, yes. Have you been touched by His noodly appendange?

LOCAL CREW-MEMBER
Mumblemumblenoodly appendage. That’s good. Mumble.

Kevin shakes head and walks away, disappointed. Local Crew-Member remains, incredulous.

------------------------------

People are so quick to assume His Noodliness to be a joke. They do this because they fear Him, and they fear Him because they don’t understand him. But I assure you, friend, Pastafarianism is not to be understood. Just accepted.

For those of you that have not yet been touched by His noodly appendage, more information can be found at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_Spaghetti_Monsterism

I hesitate to share this link because it asserts that Pastafarianism is a “parody religion,” by I assure you, the truth and beauty of His noodly presence is undeniable.


The current time is 7:54am. We’ve been at the theatre for two hours, and I have been awake for three and a half. Happy birthday to me! Really though, I’m fine with being up early. It just means I get to appreciate my birthday for three more hours than usual.I feel like a lot has happened in the past couple days, but when I sit down to write about it little feels noteworthy. How about a list of idiosyncrasies?-The Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts can transform into 7 or so different seating arrangements. Check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ySLMyAYwuFo-We have stayed at three La Quinta hotels in a row and their quality has been, in order: pretty bad, not so bad, kind of bad.-At yesterday’s lunch stop, I bought a monstrous bottle of Orangina, intending it to last me a couple days. It was empty by dinnertime.-Last night I washed two shirts in the sink so that I can wait until Phoenix to do a full load of laundry.-Tonight I will be celebrating my first birthday away from home. In Blythe, AZ.

I'm twelve years old. I'm TWENTY-EIGHT!!

Happy birthday to me. One more hour concludes my oddest and most anti-climactic birthday yet. Early waking, lots of driving, two shows. Tiring, but coo'.

We made a quick stop at Target today, and I spent a few minutes wistful in the Halloween decorations section. Luckily I'll get to have a pretty legit Halloween. I'll be with my aunt/uncle/cousins in Durango, CO, playing guitars and eating candy.

I haven't touched a guitar in hella days.

Being home will be nice.

Beeteedubs,

The first sentence on the Tabaluga Wikipedia article:

The little green Dragon Tabaluga is a cartoon character, who lives in the fictional place Greenland.

I just love that, according to Germany, Greenland is a fictional place.

Oh baby down on Dream Street.

I hate putting real-life effort into dream situations.

Last night I dreamt that we were taking Carly LaPlaca to buy books for her first day of 2nd grade. Except Carly was actually Sarah's younger sister. Alex was there too, but more as just a presence than a character. I remember him looming in the background of many scenes with a bowler and a drawn-on mustache, looking suspicious.

There was a specific author we were looking for, and I was supposed to suggest good titles to Carly, since I am apparently familiar with every Young Readers book sold by dream-book-stores. But lo, when I leaned in to look at the spines, none of them looked familiar. I remember being confused that illustrations supposedly of "Dunston the Dragon" were actually of Tabaluga, a little green dragon from a German children's show. I then proceeded to throw books off the shelves in a frenzy, trying in vain to find the right books for Carly LaPlaca-Rogers. I awoke breathing heavy with a real-life furrowed brow.

My brain and I aren't on good terms right now. When I sleep, it should just let me sleep.

I'm so angry, I don't think it'll ever pass

For your viewing pleasure, here is one of my application essays. While writing the first half, I felt cynical and ferocious--a feeling I quite enjoyed.





I seem to have been a late bloomer in some respects. Toward the beginning of senior year, when most of my fellow AP students had known EXACTLY where they wanted to go to college and EXACTLY what they wanted to be, I was just beginning to feel a shadow of an inkling that acting might be something that I wanted to pursue further. When November came around, I went through the motions of selecting and applying to half a dozen schools or so, but my heart wasn't in it. After many years of poor instruction, condescension, and unanswered questions about why-the-system-was-the-way-it-was, I was a volatile whirlwind of angsty, vengeful fury when it came to schooling. Most of my applications went unfinished and when springtime pranced into town, my mailbox was desolate for want of a single acceptance letter.

Faced with the age-old question of what in the world I was going to do with myself for the next little while, I decided to give credence to my shadow of an inkling and audition for the two-year acting conservatory at a local community college. What I discovered through attending this program was just how important I believe the arts are. In an age where most of the careers available to my peers and me are herding our already hectic and escapism-ridden society further toward our over-industrialized, sleep-deprived doom, I see the arts as a healing force. Instead of the typical concerns of achieving higher efficiency and dumping more responsibilities on workers, the arts are concerned with encouraging love and understanding, and figuring out how we can possibly survive in a lonely, frightening world.

One day I would love to create an arts school for young children that would chiefly focus on kindling their natural love for storytelling. With roots in traditions such as Commedia Dell'arte and Mime rather than contemporary realism, I would like the kids to understand how the imagination and sense of humor that is already a part of their daily lives can focus and expand into works of art. My choice to pursue a BFA despite my dissatisfaction with most of the schooling in our country has to do with my desire to--after my goals as a performer have been achieved or abandoned--teach. The degree is necessary to this end, and before I can solidify my theories about actor training, I need to explore the art of acting as fully as I possibly can.





Also, here's a sentence that I eventually decided to leave out:

I now have the drive to deal with the bureaucratic shitstorm that seems to be an all-but-inevitable part of organized education.

No I ain't hoed a row since I don't know when...

I need SAT dates for some applications, so I sifted through the Kevin file that my mom keeps in her desk. Among other gems which I may post bits of later, I found old piano newsletters. Mrs. Davis would do a newsletter every month including a feature article on one student. Some highlights from my feature:

"Kevin also had brief encounters with the violin and the saxophone, but piano won."

"He is always willing to perform and would probably play for the Queen of England if he had the chance."

"One of Kevin's 2001 claims to fame is that he broke two arms and a finger. Mrs. D can vouch that he can play the piano with a cast on. He was going to perform the Spinning Song with his finger in a cast, but he broke the cast."

But you did wear cowboy boots...

Sometimes I spend the wee hours poring (I just checked, that's the correct spelling in this case) over old blogs. I'm amazed by most people's ability to speak candidly about real life happenings. Irrational worries about what will be made of this and that lead me to speak in riddles and generalities about mostly insignificance.



Why do I think I have anything to hide? And if I don't want people to understand what I mean, why am I intent on releasing these things into cyberspace?





I look for clues in everything. The intent is to discreetly put together a complete picture of whichever mysterious someone, but my hyper-scrutiny finds puzzle pieces that may not exist, and the final portrait is obscured by flourishes of my own design.

WHAT

There's no way it's raining right now.

No... it is.


Somebody come dance with me! Quick!

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you...

Perhaps I would blog more often if I didn't feel the need to post complete paragraphs.
Let's give it a try:

With a definite not-too-distant return date, missing someone might be kind of nice.

Figure eight is double four...

I just got back from running figure eights in front of my house. I completed three and a half, then saw a car turning onto the other end of my street and sprinted back into the house.

"What the hell?" you ask.
I respond with a dismissive shrug.

Lately my mood bounces between woeful with longing for things I don't have, to giddy for things I've had and future possibilities. Sometimes these moods meet in the middle. And sometimes that makes me skip out the front door.


Warm summer nights are intoxicating. The feeling of welcome in the air harkens back to strangers with glowing frisbees and related ridiculocity. Where does it go?

Sometimes I am wild and untamable. Sometimes I am resigned and feeble.

I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare

Tonight I decided to relive my middle school years by watching all of Simple Plan's music videos in one sitting. I got to watch them evolve from their wild and reckless "GUYS WE ARE SO PUNK ROCK" days to their more mature "Guys, we're really eclectic and never said we were punk rock" days. Pierre's spiky hair flattened, David's eye makeup thickened, and the focus of the songwriting turned from heartbreak and ennui to issues like drunk driving and how crazy the world has turned.

Their more dramatic turns probably garnered critical praise, but I think there's something magical about whiny, spunky kids with guitars that is lost in the process. Listening to their angsty anthems gives the impression that their only real goal was to make music that would reach out to all the kids who feel lost, alone, confused, rejected.

Early adolescence sucks, and continues to get suckier. Expectations are rising, and nobody can really explain why. As much as us old fogeys (hah) may ridicule our younger selves, preteen listlessness is fully justified, and music can be a haven from all that. Simple Plan's songwriting ability may not be dazzling, but that is far outweighed by their dedication to making lonely kids feel less so.

And besides, we're babies ourselves. Who are we to judge?


In other news, "Angst," aside from being a word for nonspecific nervous feelings, is the name of a Romanian super-market chain.

He was waiting, looking kind of spooky and withdrawn...

Earlier this summer, when I felt overwhelmed, I looked forward to when work would end and all I would have to worry about were rehearsals and shows. That time has come and I find that I don't feel any less overwhelmed. There is time to do things during the day, but I always have to leave by 5pm, and when my day doesn't typically start until about noon, that's only five free hours. In theory this is enough time to do all sorts of things, but with a definite end time looming ahead it becomes difficult to feel free.

I prefer evening hangouts and conversations because schedules are always limited during the daylight, but you can extend yourself as far into the night as you want, and the only thing you lose is sleep. I appreciate the shared isolation of darkness, being the only ones up in a sleepy house, made all the sweeter when an afternoon of bustle winds down into a night of aimless musing. Calling someone up just for late-night rambling seems forced and inorganic, or like an intrusion on whoever already has a right to a shared night because of a shared afternoon.

Lately I've felt restless and morose, probably because I'm surrounded by polite acquaintances all the time and friends rarely. I spend my afternoons and evenings with the Shady Shakes cast, most of whom I've met before, but none of whom I am close with. I spend my days and nights in a house of people I barely talk to, save to say goodbye when I leave and hello to whoever's awake when I come home. I feel like I flounder hopelessly in most social situations and so don't have the means or motivation to turn any acquaintances into friends. The friends I do have seem remote due to distance or scheduling. I don't generally make phone calls because I have too little to say to make it worth anyone's time.

What human component am I lacking that makes it so difficult to be friendly? Most people have no problem spending an hour or two just catching up.

I am now looking forward to September 21st, which will be my first night off since last Monday.

Ignis Fatuus

The dawn that morning swelled with patient grace
into the room--it did not break, but breathed
small drops of darkness on the patient face
of one lone jack o' lantern. Brownies sheathed
their daggers, dragged their tired feet to bed
preparing for much bigger tasks to come
as in the growing light my fingers shed
the last hints of your touch. The distant hum
of songs we could have sung melted into
small drops of morning dew upon the grass.
I didn't question or cry out as you
retreated too--I simply let you pass.
Unreachable stayed so as we returned
to life--But still, the jack o' lantern burned.

Big booty number... guys? Hey guys?

...Are you there?

Will you hold my hand as the world ends? Will you still think of me?

Today marked the first wedding I'd been to as an appreciated personal invitee, rather than an obligatory extended family member. It's strange that family members who I've known all my life and who I'm supposedly important to usually leave me feeling distant and out of place, but this gal and her hubby whom I've known for barely a year and haven't spent a whole lot of time with left me glowing and tearing up with all the rest.

Actually it's not strange at all: of course someone who I'm connected to by choice will touch me more deeply than someone who I'm connected to by cultural obligation. Which is exactly why marriage is so strange to me--it turns voluntary relationships into obligation.

Now you have to stay with me and love me and share with me. Don't want to? Too bad, you made a vow.

Obviously, the divorce rate is evidence that these vows aren't quite that sacred and unbreakable. But if you believe in divorce, and intend on leaving yourself an escape route should things turn sour, why make vows in the first place? There seems to be a belief that's beaten into us from childhood that love is only "true" if it lasts forever. In order to believe that they are loved, people want that promise as proof. This is the ideal that most of us are taught to seek, but eventually most people need freedom, and promises are broken. How many young couples (maybe old couples too, I don't know) swear that they'll always be together? How many actually are?

"I've never been in love before. I only thought I was."

Or maybe you were in love, but something changed and things didn't work out. People aren't static, so why should relationships be?

The other thing that confuses me about marriage is how public it is. Even if it's a small wedding for family and a few friends, how can two people reveal their feelings to anyone but each other? I imagine myself in the position where I actually want to promise the rest of my life to someone. No one else in the world would be able to truly understand what that meant except for that one person, so why should we try to communicate it to a group of gawking spectators? Marriage is like a common ground for lovers to land on so that onlookers can watch and say yes that is or no that isn't love. An attempt to communicate the incommunicable.

Why put boundaries on something so wild and boundless?

So glad to meet you, Angeles

I decided to take up recording my dreams again after a long hiatus. I woke up three or four times last night before waking up for real, and the above is the result.

The bottom (legible) portion reads:

I was in Japan crossing the street back to where we were staying and Eddie Hoffman walked up.
"Excuse me."
"Yeah?"
"Is so-and-so on this trip?"
"I don't know who that is so I don't know."
Eddie kept walking and ran into the kid he was looking for. The kid yelled across the street that I didn't know he was there because I'm Gay! GAY! blah blah blah.

So apparently I even give off that impression in dreams. I'm not gay, I just have a dancer's body and unusually sparkly eyes.

The upper (illegible) portion reads, as best I can discern or remember:

Dr. Faustus flops horribly but just a rough night. We are all do--[I tried to scribble out my mistake but missed] going to hell. Trying to figure out if it's all worth it.

Only my parents and sister [somethingsomething]
We're all dreading if we [scribbles] excercize [scribblescribbles] someone from an overflowing ship.

[I believe the following hyphen is to indicate a new, separate dream]
--no I didn't. That was the new Pixar movie. I seated us and we had to look to find each other.

............

I hope that tickled you half as much as it tickled me.

On another note, I transfered all of my dates into my little calendar majig and finally realized how daunting my schedule is for the next few months. At the moment I'm at school all afternoon then go straight to either a Faustus performance or Shady Shakespeare rehearsal. In a couple weeks I'll be at work at 9, leave for school at 12:30, then go straight to rehearsal in the evenings. After that week school will be out so I'll have a little break in the afternoon. After looking more closely at my rehearsal schedule I am surprised to see that I am called almost every night despite having small roles in both shows. Rehearsal for Strega Nona starts the week after As You Like it opens which is the week that Richard III opens and also happens to be the first week of my acting camp at The Dragon. I rehearse for Strega Nona every day that I'm not performing with Shady, and then that opens the week after Richard III closes. We perform in Berkeley until Octover 4, then move to San Ramon until the 18th, and then embark on my first tour the following Tuesday. This means that I'm going to be gone for my birthday and Halloween. I'm still very excited, and I think I'm going to love travelling around with a show for the first time, but it's a little disheartening that the first week after we embark is the week that I'm likely to miss being home the most.

After that I'm home from November 23 to January 10. This will be the first time between now and then that I have a break of more than two consecutive days, which means I'll finally have time to get my wisdom teeth removed and safely recuperate.

In conclusion: holy shit.

I was still as the sun rose

Scribbled furiously onto scraps of car-floor paper a week or so ago:

---

It's uncommon for my speech to reach too far above a whisper. Words released hang delicate in the air, awaiting theives or gluttons--hunters with their hungry mouths and eager nets. Better for me to hold tight until the softest, safest moment, then to slacken my jaw and watch my secrets drift into obscurity.

My words stumble out like puffs of vapor and survival instinct kicks in: darting, dashing, hiding, but you never seek to steal. You strain to hear; a puff of smoke blows across your face and disippates, gone but for the water droplets resting on your eyelashes. Could you hold my deepest secret there? Not quite in vision, but close enough to blur the edges and let your mind make what it will of unclear peripheral shapes. Securely perched until the moment when with a flutter and a smile you shake them free to roll down your cheeks and gobble them up.

It's uncommon for my speech to reach too far, but if you lean in close there may be meaning in my mumbles.

Big booty, numbah whocares!

Whocares, big... whatever.

And you can rest your pretty eyes tonight

I just uploaded three new Sarevin videos to www.youtube.com/boristhegoatthing. Yeah.

Big booty, twenty-nine!
Twenty-nine, numbah thirty.
Numbah thirty, thirty-one.
THIRTY-ONE, BIG BOOTAY!

You know it's nothing new

The first of our "Goodbye for Now Video Collection". But fortunately, Sarah is now home for keeps.
And it only took me 7 months to start editing these, because I don't procrastinate!
Let that be a lesson to ya.

Big booty, twenty-eight!
Twenty-eight, big booty.

I saw a spaceship fly by your window

What happens when the flames of passion fade
To glowing embers; when the embers cool?
The threads that sewed us into one lie frayed
And frail, tangled beneath the empty spool--
What then? When magnetism doesn't hold
As well as it once did our cores in place
And clumsy bodies in the dark grow cold
And late-night talks trail off at quicker pace?
Can you imagine you and me with age-
Admitting slippers curling round our toes?
Discussing (feigning interest at) each page
Of news I survey down a crooked nose...
    How could one love such a conceding shell--
    A life that's being spent, but never well?

------

In other news:
-The Golfland arcade is still excellent
-Nerds Ropes are best enjoyed in groups of 5 or less
-I'll be teaching a two week acting camp at the Dragon in August! Tell any 12-16 year olds you know to sign up!

Big booty, twenty-seven!
Twenty-seven, big booty.

♠♣♠

A curtain draws itself shut in my mind
Whene'er I search for words to set this to.
Uncertain of your thoughts, what I might find
You feel if I reveal my heart to you.
Your hands are like the softest melody
When they entwine their fingers in my own--
'Tis beautiful, but played so haltingly,
Each note restrained, uncertain of its tone.

These words fall out so smoothly every night
When safely distanced from your clever tongue
But when I'm in your presence, I must fight
To keep the simplest sentence neatly strung.
    You kill me in the slowest, sweetest way
    Is what I--when grown silent--mean to say.

Big booty, twenty-six!
Twenty-six, big booty.

COME SEE BROWN BAG

Big booty, twenty-five!
Twenty-five, big booty.

HAPPY HOUR-AND-ELEVEN-MINUTES-LATE BIRTHDAY, SARAH!!!

I was jealous of Sarah's new 'do, so we straightened mine.

The requisite sexy photoshoot soon followed.







And a cookie.

Oh, and I'm also charging my laser vision.

Big booty, twenty-four!
Twenty-four, big booty.

Because I don't want to get too attached...

...to writing nothing but sonnets:

a haiku for you.

A breif pause--reflect:
What is it I'm doing here?
The street light changes.

BB23!
23bb.

This wasn't intentionally Edward....

My latest sonnets are not for public eyes, so here is a limerick to hold you over!

There once was a child made of knives
Who gave the most deadly high fives!
He tried making friends,
But they met dismal ends.
That poor, lonely child made of knives.

Big booty, numbah twenty-two!
Numbah twenty-two, big booty.

This is the result of me failing to write a villanelle

-------------

Less in love with your lover than with love,
You paint her face between heart-wrenching sighs--
But can't recall the color of her eyes
Or what precise complexion she is of.

'Tis just a tale when push does come to shove
But be that as it may, you realize
What admiration can be wrung from lies,
And many knees grow weak to share your love.

-------------

Lately I'm in the mood for iambic pentameter and romantic ruminations.

Big booty, numbah twenty-one!
Numbah twenty-one, big booty.

Sonnets on Possibility

   I.
A question dances, flutters 'cross my heart
As my hand into yours unsurely slips,
And though unsureties cause our hands to part,
I treasure ev'ry brush of fingertips.
I meet your gaze and try to read your face,
Amaz'd that you are more remote than I--
yet I can sense your secret care and grace,
And if that grace would grace me, meet mine eye...
I cannot help but dream while waking, for
The possibilities assault my mind:
A vision of you standing in the door--
"Can I come in?" you breathe, hopeful and kind.
   Is't just a dream I dream on, nothing true,
   Or do you dream the same dream that I do?


   II.
You are a tricky thing but I have no
Desire to solve you, crack your cryptic beauty--
Keep hidden what you will, and if you show
Your secrets, do so by your choice, not duty.
I am content to wonder as I see
Your mysteries unfolding one by one,
And as they unfold let them enfold me
And carry me where e'er their currents run.
I want to witness for myself the place
From which your shameless laughter is inspir'd
And though I'll never understand the space
I'll know 'tis where our shy hearts first conspir'd--
   So give me something certain, let me know,
   And hand in hand to mysteries we'll go.


   III.
Uncertainty and trepidation reign
Upon my body, chain my listless soul
Onto th'ungiving ground, and I would feign
Break free, lest freedom take its taming toll.
I think in may-bes, could-bes when you slide
Beneath my ever hesitating arm,
Of what might change with you there by my side;
If 'twould bring us to comfort or to harm.
You are a shining star in blackest night,
Surrounded by a sky as cold as ice
And I take solace in your nightly light--
A warmth that I would not soon sacrifice,
   But if you wish for hands to hold onto,
   I may open my hidden heart to you.


   IV.
My face was jealous when you took my hand
And brought my bruiséd finger to your lips.
My lips are bruiséd too, and they could stand
A touch from yours to heal their cracks and rips-
And yet, the touch you gave me when my heart
Was weighted down in bitterness was sweet
Enough a taste that I'd not choose to part
With what from you--a friend--I am receipt.
To know the reckless flavors of your kiss
Would stay the growing hunger in my breast,
But would it all the comfort and the bliss
That comes from being simple friends arrest?
   I wish that I could know your heart's design
   But please do not wish to discover mine.


   V.
It seems that I am ever doom'd to dream,
And, dreaming, let each oppurtunity
Slip through resignéd fingers as I deem
all possibilities unfit for me.
When e'er I close my eyes the visions come,
All stagg'ring in the scope of love I bear
To you, my love, but waking I am dumb
To any of my deepest longings share.
The web of love I spin is fragile, please
Don't hasten to be caught betwixt its thread
And weigh it down with harsh realities
Until it breaks, leaving you and it dead.
   There is so much at risk, I cannot say
   If we will both entangl'd be someday.

Big booty numbahs sixteen through twenty!
Numbahs sixteen through twenty, big booty.

I didn't write it,

but I love it. This won't count for one of my 365.




As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O let my books be, then, the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.



From The Sonnets. I'm in a Shakesy mood of late.

Sometimes I make even myself uncomfortable.

Don't judge me.

Big booty numbah, fifteen!

Numbah fifteen, big booty.

MIDGEEEE

MIDGET VIDEO IS POSTED! BELOW!

Only, maybe, slightly rearranged...

Today I rearranged my room and moved a computer in here! I would post pictures, but so far the computer isn't recognizing my camera.

Big booty, numbah fourteen!

Numbah fourteen, big booty.

Snippet #1

I apologize in advance for the audio/video not being remotely synched. Not my fault.


Stone by stone, I build up my tower
To where I can be alone.
By the minute, by the hour
Building up into that vast expanse of nobody but me
Building up until the people down there grow to small to see.

Had a dream that your hair
Grew into curly red wings
And you went sailing by my window with a smile.
You beckoned me to join you up in outer space
Without our masks and silly voices for a while.

But I can't do anything but hope and dream
And wile away my time
And I can't make anything but fantasies
Where I am reckless in the safety of my mind.

In case it seems disjointed: there's supposed to be something in between the two verses, I just haven't written it yet.
The problem with this song is that I like the part about the hair so much that whenever I work on it, instead of writing anymore, I just play that much over and over.

I think I'll call it "Wings."

Big booty, numbah thirteen!
Numbah thirteen, big booty.

Zehbrah!

Today I:

-Was picked up and provided with candy.
-Went to the zoo.
-Ate so much food.
-Hung out with a dachsund and a beagle.
-Hung out with a bearded dragon.
-Played and WON two rousing games of Sorry.
-Saw the Fleet Foxes' performance on SNL.
-Actually talked to someone I didn't expect to ever actually talk to.
-Finished The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold.

If these aren't accomplishments, I don't know what are.

In other news:
1) I am not surprised to discover that I have no idea what I want.
2) Squirrel monkeys are excellent.
3) Megan and I are going to be playing a show at the Dragon soon and you should come.

Big booty, numbah twelve!

Numbah twelve, big booty.

I don't wanna do another fat song...

I think the final verse is pretty powerful.

Big booty, numbah eleven!
Numbah eleven, big booty.

MINDY SMASH

Today's creation was the next installment in the saga of Li'l Mindy, co-written by Kirsten and myself.

If you didn't see the night show from last Brown Bag, then you probably don't know who Li'l Mindy is, and should probably read Extra Special Holiday Surprise by Martin Gutfeldt first.

I'm not going to post it here because I don't want to spoil anything, but here is a preview:

NARRATOR
Okay. (He clears his throat uncomfortably and reads) Li’l Mindy presents… In association with… Li’l Mindy… The long awaited prequel to Extra Special Holiday Surprise… A work of non-fiction by Li’l Mindy: The Origin of All Them Stuffs.

Mindy takes her place center stage.

NARRATOR
In the beginning there was nothing. Then there was Mindy.

MINDY
MINDY SUHMASH!!!!

NARRATOR
But there was nothing around to smash. And so Mindy said:

MINDY
BE THERE LET… STUFFS!!!

NARRATOR
And drew from the void the Heavens and the Earth and all the celestial bodies. (Celestial bodies spin on from the wings) And Mindy saw that it was smashable.

MINDY
MINDY STOMP ON PLANUTZZ.

NARRATOR
But the planets felt no fear, and Mindy could not give chase. And so Mindy said:

MINDY
BE THERE LET AMINULZ!!

Animals of all shape and size enter. Mindy gives chase.

NARRATOR
And drew from the clay of the earth all the animals, and plants for the animals to feed on. And Mindy saw that it was chaseable.

MINDY
MINDY EETZ THU AMINULLLLLZ!!!

Big booty, numbah ten!

Numbah ten, big booty.

Since I figured out how to record from my keyboard...

...Serenade by Franz Schubert.

The keyboard kinda sucks, and I kinda sucked. We match.

Big booty, numbah nine!

Numbah nine, big booty.

You just don't get the art.

Big booty, numbah eight!

Numbah eight, big booty.

with just seconds to spare...

GAY!!!!!

Abraham Lincoln's Big Gay Dance Party was EXCELLENT.
The end.

Big booty, numbah seven!

Numbah seven, big booty.

Like a banjo in a case...

I recently was inspired by the book Bloomability to start keeping a dream-journal. The coolest thing about it is that I write the entries when I'm still half asleep, so everything that happened in my dream still seems a little bit real and incredibly important, but then when I go back and read it later after I've woken up, it's always the most ridiculous stuff. Just this morning I wrote one, and I'm pretty sure I was more asleep than I usually am while writing, because I think I wrote it in dream speak or something. Names have been changed for protection, but the rest is word for word.
Enjoy:


I was feeling flugged and drugged like a banjo in a case and was trying to articulate this to Chennifron. I think someone had put something in the food. I also gave Fricharius my old redundant school I.D. People were trading them like school pictures. Earlier I think Porthon was telling me about Amrein dumping Vanderboot for someone that reminded her of Chuman and I. We walked to Chuman's house, which was nearby, for some holiday.

In other news:
1) The following lyric has been floating around in my head for days, but didn't seem like an appropriate title for this post:
"I'll write this song to win your kiss, but stay asleep instead."
2) I'm seeing Abraham Lincoln's Big Gay Dance Party tomorrow. Yuss.

Big booty, numbah six!

Numbah six, big booty.

I think I'll call it "Irrational"

The Choice:
To be safe or to be human?
Confronted with tragedy, logic takes over.
What's been lost?

Quantify it.
Objectify it.
You're irrational. Stop it.
Isolate the problem and make the incision.

Are you happy now that nobody's looking?
Are you anything now that nobody's looking?
Are you anything?

…

I'm safe here, sewn up inside my makeshift womb, but there are such lovely things outside. I miss the light, I miss the air, I miss the voices. One stitch can't hurt.

Just one…

…

The tears welled up and were met by the joy of a sprinter in the starting blocks:
This is it. I am human. Watch me live!

The final score: four droplets of water on the end of the nose,
one caught half-formed in the corner of the left eye.
There's some satisfaction to be had in improvement
(no matter how small).

Big booty, numbah five!

Numbah five, big booty.

All that is gold does not glitter

The thirty second trumpet trio I made up is playable here!

Recorded on a keyboard since I can't play trumpet.** It goes along with the opening chords of Windowsill, though I don't know that the two mesh tonally.


The second draft of my thingamajig is viewable here!

It's not much different, generally just wording changes since I was half-asleep and clumsy when I wrote most of it, but I think the characters are more consistent now.



Two creations in one post! Impressed? Well you shouldn't be, since I've already skipped one day and am likely to skip many more.

In other news:
1) Comedy Sportz is incredibly fun. Everyone should go. And take me with them.
2) I need someone to play chess with.
3) American Gods is an excellent book. More on that later.

Big booty, numbah four!

Numbah four, big booty.

**Note to self: learn to play your brother's old trumpet.

Missed a day...

...but have a short play to make up for it!

The rough draft is viewable here!

Big booty, numbah three!

Numbah three, big booty.

Just an anecdote...

So I've always thought the weirdest part about MySpace and Facebook are those friends that you have, not because you talk to them, but because you sort of vaguely know them, and don't want to make them think you don't like them by denying their friend request. And then even weirder is when they ask you how you've been and such, especially if you've never actually talked to them before.

I got one of those not too long ago, and did that thing where I'm like I'll think of something to say tomorrow... and then never actually think of something to say. It's happened before, and I didn't think much of it until last night when, during an emergency ghetto Safeway Craisin run, that very person was cruising the dairy section, ten or so feet in front of me. My options were to go say hi, catch up and shoot the breeze for a bit, or hide.

I chose to hide.

On the one hand, I felt pretty cool for being able to position myself at the perfect angle when they appeared at the check-out aisle next to mine so that their view of me would be obscured by the overweight cashier, but I also felt pretty stupid for being that averse to casual conversation. It shouldn't bother me to be friendly to someone I'm not quite friends with, since I spend time with people I'm not too fond of every single day, but for some reason I just wasn't in the mood to be smiley with someone who I have absolutely no feelings good or bad for. It seems like such a waste of effort.

Because of course, dancing around cashiers and stacks of on-sale items isn't a waste of effort at all.

Are other people ever this avoidant? Of me?
It also just makes me wonder how often I'm in a building with someone I know and don't even notice.



In other news:
1) I was creative and productive today, I just haven't finished anything and don't feel like posting snippets tonight.
2) Spontaneous scrabble games are pretty great, especially when I own with 48 points for "Equine."

Big booty numbah two!

Numbah two... sure, I guess this counts... Big booty!

Meta-painting?

Since he is this blog's namesake, I figured I'd start with something Boris-related.








This is my portrait of Boris working on his portrait of me.
Today's other accomplishments include creating this blog and starting a new song while sitting in Le Boulanger fuming over something insignificant. Later, I may post some unfinished snippets or first drafts of songs. For feedback, if I decide people should see this.

Big booty, numbah one!

Numbah one, big booty.

365, give or take...

I was intrigued enough to start my own log of 365 daily creations or personal fulfillments. If I am persistent with it and happy enough with the results, this blog may eventually become public! Keep your fingers crossed, nonexistent readers.