turn and face the strange....
I read Red today, saddended and encouraged at the same time. She wonders if she no longer writes about sex, will anyone find her interesting.
An interesting question, and one that I refused to bite bait on when she suggested that I needed a separate blog, one with anonymity. I responded that I didn't have enough sex to make a sexblog interesting.
She sent back specific instructions on phonesex; I haven't had the guts to try yet.
Unready, but not unwilling, I will begin to share memories.
Hard, hard, it's hard to designate as memories what I wish to be present experiences.
Harder still that I wasn't at full consciousness to enjoy these memories fully when they were present experiences.
Unless that was the point: skull clogged with mucos, brain function impaired by constant headache keeps me functioning at minimum, therefore taking notes on show and audience reaction rather than:
* moving set pieces
* giving light cues
* running errands
* etc. ad nauseum
I sit with J. of the lovely long stocking-clad legs (the lace tops showed when she dipped, ahhh...) quoting from the Bombshell Manual of Style. "I don't think I have any foolish shoes," she responded to one of the criteria. "Well, maybe one pair. Or two, but I never wear them."
"Whereas I own maybe two pairs of sensible shoes. That I never wear."
(There are those who are pleased by my choice of foolish shoes. More on that later.)
I watch my Cubans take my sketchy instructions and, on their own impetus, invent themselves as a unit, becoming the darlings of the show, as they were my darlings when I wrote them.
L. braids my hair for me, warning me that she might pull, but never doing so.
I listen to cast members singing songs that were never their own, because they love them so much, and the tunes are so catchy.
I squeeze into the corner with all the band's equipment to turn pages for JB as he plays warmups for the cast, not because he needs me, but because that's where I want to be, by his side for this project, together, as we started.
As we started. And have now ended.
Which is why it's still too painful to touch.
31 March, 2004
30 March, 2004
Apologies...
...to those who are not fanatics, but for those that are, I thought I'd share this:
"Due to territorial copyright restrictions, we cannot sell English language editions to customers in the US, although we can sell the Latin and Welsh editions to our US customers. US customers: please visit Amazon."
This from Bloomsbury, publishers of the English (as opposed to American) Harry Potter books, which are available only through Scholastic.
When my friend D. gave me the prezzie he'd brought from the UK, he doubtfully wondered whether I'd find much difference. Structurally and plotwise, none at all. However, there were a great many substitutions: studying for revisions, sweater for jumper are two that spring to mind immediately, though there were others.
Now here's where I begin to get irritated.
I figured I could go to the website and order English versions of these books, on principle, because I object to Americanized versions of things. I cut my teeth on Lewis Carroll, Jonathan Swift and Agatha Christie, unedited. I know what a lorry is, and a bonnet.
What I don't know is how these publishing giants get so powerful and omnipresent that they can curtail not only my reading material in this country, but my ability to purchase it from abroad.
I am outraged, which may be a good thing. I haven't worked up a good indignity about anything for quite a while.
Now the problem becomes one of getting these "contraband" items into my hands.
Creative suggestions welcomed here.
"Due to territorial copyright restrictions, we cannot sell English language editions to customers in the US, although we can sell the Latin and Welsh editions to our US customers. US customers: please visit Amazon."
This from Bloomsbury, publishers of the English (as opposed to American) Harry Potter books, which are available only through Scholastic.
When my friend D. gave me the prezzie he'd brought from the UK, he doubtfully wondered whether I'd find much difference. Structurally and plotwise, none at all. However, there were a great many substitutions: studying for revisions, sweater for jumper are two that spring to mind immediately, though there were others.
Now here's where I begin to get irritated.
I figured I could go to the website and order English versions of these books, on principle, because I object to Americanized versions of things. I cut my teeth on Lewis Carroll, Jonathan Swift and Agatha Christie, unedited. I know what a lorry is, and a bonnet.
What I don't know is how these publishing giants get so powerful and omnipresent that they can curtail not only my reading material in this country, but my ability to purchase it from abroad.
I am outraged, which may be a good thing. I haven't worked up a good indignity about anything for quite a while.
Now the problem becomes one of getting these "contraband" items into my hands.
Creative suggestions welcomed here.
29 March, 2004
Too Painful to Touch
...so I won't just yet. Instead, a series of He Saids.
"Balloon flowers for the Playwright!"
(thank you)
"I don't know why I thought you were single."
(two kids and a wedding band, that's not obvious?)
"It'll be warm tomorrow. You can wear sandals."
(mmmm.... my favorite)
"I've got your video, and I have a prezzie for you, too."
(damn fine one, at that)
"I'm proud of you, kiddo."
(always a goal for me)
"No, Cyb, thank YOU."
(say again?)
"Hey, Beautiful."
(hey, Beautiful, yourself)
He Said, He Said, He Said ...flattering, all.
But no single comment more welcome than this:
"What kind of tea would you like, honey?"
Whatever kind you're making for me.
"Balloon flowers for the Playwright!"
(thank you)
"I don't know why I thought you were single."
(two kids and a wedding band, that's not obvious?)
"It'll be warm tomorrow. You can wear sandals."
(mmmm.... my favorite)
"I've got your video, and I have a prezzie for you, too."
(damn fine one, at that)
"I'm proud of you, kiddo."
(always a goal for me)
"No, Cyb, thank YOU."
(say again?)
"Hey, Beautiful."
(hey, Beautiful, yourself)
He Said, He Said, He Said ...flattering, all.
But no single comment more welcome than this:
"What kind of tea would you like, honey?"
Whatever kind you're making for me.
26 March, 2004
can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Have I abused or neglected my body to make it revolt, work against me? Many tasks to do today- and I feel like doing nothing at all, not even crawling back into bed.
Miserable night, the best bit being a dream about reenactors doing Lord of The Rings shit in chain mail and velvet gowns, using long sentences to frame short ideas, combined with a lunch trip with my mother and grandmother, in which we argued because I insisted on overtipping.
NOT the sort of transcendant, angel visitation type dream I prefer, but this is what fevered delusion gets me.
Okay, so that's enough whining.
Today is Opening Night of Closing Weekend. Rumor has it that Critics and Money are dropping by to see the show, and nothing could make me happier but that they had arrived LAST weekend, in order to pump sales and audience size for this weekend. Of course, I have no specifics, but my plan is to be at my most charming, just in case. That will challenge my acting skills a bit.
Today is That Girl's birthday, and there are plans...which, depending, I may or may not be included in, if you'll pardon the preposition. But it sounds like fun, and I wonder how much trouble I'll get in. She leads me astray, she does.
I lie on the waterbed, nearly naked. He strokes me, waist, hip, thigh and back again, absently, like one would a cat, and tells me of the girls he and Billy used to pick up in Ocean City when they were randy young bucks.
I struggle not to smile at the irony. Non sequiter:
"I think I can't love them any more, " he says, "then suddenly I do."
Yeah. Kids are like that.
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Have I abused or neglected my body to make it revolt, work against me? Many tasks to do today- and I feel like doing nothing at all, not even crawling back into bed.
Miserable night, the best bit being a dream about reenactors doing Lord of The Rings shit in chain mail and velvet gowns, using long sentences to frame short ideas, combined with a lunch trip with my mother and grandmother, in which we argued because I insisted on overtipping.
NOT the sort of transcendant, angel visitation type dream I prefer, but this is what fevered delusion gets me.
Okay, so that's enough whining.
Today is Opening Night of Closing Weekend. Rumor has it that Critics and Money are dropping by to see the show, and nothing could make me happier but that they had arrived LAST weekend, in order to pump sales and audience size for this weekend. Of course, I have no specifics, but my plan is to be at my most charming, just in case. That will challenge my acting skills a bit.
Today is That Girl's birthday, and there are plans...which, depending, I may or may not be included in, if you'll pardon the preposition. But it sounds like fun, and I wonder how much trouble I'll get in. She leads me astray, she does.
I lie on the waterbed, nearly naked. He strokes me, waist, hip, thigh and back again, absently, like one would a cat, and tells me of the girls he and Billy used to pick up in Ocean City when they were randy young bucks.
I struggle not to smile at the irony. Non sequiter:
"I think I can't love them any more, " he says, "then suddenly I do."
Yeah. Kids are like that.
25 March, 2004
Image
can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Steve asks when I'll have something ready for him to read, and I can't answer. It's impossible to write through the blockage in my head. A sinus headache seven days running or more (I've lost count) makes anything more than the most basic of mental functions next to impossible.
Not that I don't try; I do. I sit at the screen, poking at the keyboard with willing fingers, but it isn't WRITING, not the kind I mean, or the kind he wants.
But today will perhaps be better: An early drive coaxed some poetry from me; head-clearing, that.
And the images along the way serve to break up some of the sludge in my skull.
A plastic wrapping unwinds from a covered load, sheer streamer making sinuous shapes behind the bulky truck.
Smear of clothing on the shoulder, like a man disintegrated from within.
Tight traffic, sandwiched between a Mustang and an unmarked trooper. Ahead, in the Mustang, a nearly shaved head bobs to unheard music. Behind, in my rearview, the trooper chews gum. I watch, hoping he'll blow a bubble. I lose both companions at the tollbooth before he does. I imagine unmarked trooper blowing bubbles as he drives down 95.
Whether he does or not is immaterial to my amusement.
The Inner Harbor is a toy city built upon a sheet of glass. Sun shines into my eyes, onto my skin. I am, it is, we are, all come together at once. I am the Universe and the Universe is me.
Inhale. Exhale. Return to the mortal coil, finish driving.
Yes. A good day to write.
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Steve asks when I'll have something ready for him to read, and I can't answer. It's impossible to write through the blockage in my head. A sinus headache seven days running or more (I've lost count) makes anything more than the most basic of mental functions next to impossible.
Not that I don't try; I do. I sit at the screen, poking at the keyboard with willing fingers, but it isn't WRITING, not the kind I mean, or the kind he wants.
But today will perhaps be better: An early drive coaxed some poetry from me; head-clearing, that.
And the images along the way serve to break up some of the sludge in my skull.
A plastic wrapping unwinds from a covered load, sheer streamer making sinuous shapes behind the bulky truck.
Smear of clothing on the shoulder, like a man disintegrated from within.
Tight traffic, sandwiched between a Mustang and an unmarked trooper. Ahead, in the Mustang, a nearly shaved head bobs to unheard music. Behind, in my rearview, the trooper chews gum. I watch, hoping he'll blow a bubble. I lose both companions at the tollbooth before he does. I imagine unmarked trooper blowing bubbles as he drives down 95.
Whether he does or not is immaterial to my amusement.
The Inner Harbor is a toy city built upon a sheet of glass. Sun shines into my eyes, onto my skin. I am, it is, we are, all come together at once. I am the Universe and the Universe is me.
Inhale. Exhale. Return to the mortal coil, finish driving.
Yes. A good day to write.
24 March, 2004
Pitiful Again
can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
All things being unequal, I've grown accustomed to the idea that I occupy a smaller portion of his heart than he does mine.
(Once, I called him on my birthday, so he wouldn't feel badly about missing it, not that he would have. Not everyone has a brother, and most that do, haven't had the luxury of choosing. Why I chose a red-headed Italian Scorpio for a brother is beyond reason, beyond imagining, but hey, that's what love's all about, right?)
I called him on Opening Night, but only got voice mail. I left a message.
Surprise, surprise, he left one for me on Sunday evening, wanting to know how Opening Weekend went! Gave me courage to call, perhaps find him at home.
Which I did, and was overjoyed (oh, yes, all out of proportion, I know...so what?) to chat with him for more than his usual two-point-five minutes. Just hearing his voice, ahh... he talked about work, his wife, his plans, the Faire ( he wonders why I don't do a show with That Girl, did not dismiss out of hand the notion that Firespiel might make a return)....then I made the mistake of saying "I miss you."
And that was about the end of that. Still, maybe he'll show up this weekend. He didn't promise.
But it did make me brave enough to make another call, one that I was certain would yield a cold shoulder, at best, and an answering machine at worst.
It was somewhat warmer than I had imagined.
Life. So full of surprises.
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
All things being unequal, I've grown accustomed to the idea that I occupy a smaller portion of his heart than he does mine.
(Once, I called him on my birthday, so he wouldn't feel badly about missing it, not that he would have. Not everyone has a brother, and most that do, haven't had the luxury of choosing. Why I chose a red-headed Italian Scorpio for a brother is beyond reason, beyond imagining, but hey, that's what love's all about, right?)
I called him on Opening Night, but only got voice mail. I left a message.
Surprise, surprise, he left one for me on Sunday evening, wanting to know how Opening Weekend went! Gave me courage to call, perhaps find him at home.
Which I did, and was overjoyed (oh, yes, all out of proportion, I know...so what?) to chat with him for more than his usual two-point-five minutes. Just hearing his voice, ahh... he talked about work, his wife, his plans, the Faire ( he wonders why I don't do a show with That Girl, did not dismiss out of hand the notion that Firespiel might make a return)....then I made the mistake of saying "I miss you."
And that was about the end of that. Still, maybe he'll show up this weekend. He didn't promise.
But it did make me brave enough to make another call, one that I was certain would yield a cold shoulder, at best, and an answering machine at worst.
It was somewhat warmer than I had imagined.
Life. So full of surprises.
22 March, 2004
Miss Me?
can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Yeah, I miss me, too. Who are you when you're not yourself? I haven't been myself for the last month, or if I have, only in fits and spurts. Mostly, I've been this strung-out, wired, tense, cranky, unhappy creature, so jagged and ready to shatter that even I didn't care for my company...and yet, I didn't want to be alone (with my thoughts) either. Fortunately, I have tolerant friends who put up with me when I am someone else.
Opening night went well. The Saturday show looked good. Sunday was quiet. At intermission, I reassured the cast that the audience WAS enjoying them, just quietly. There was nothing wrong with the show. Well...maybe there was, but it was my fault, not the fault of the actors. Saturday I watched the show, and Sunday I watched the audience watching the show, for clues to what works and what doesn't. Though with a Sunday matinee crowd, it's much harder to get an accurate read, since they are a bit weird.
I had hoped for larger audiences, especially with the cable TV ad that's running, but maybe word of mouth will create a buzz that will pack the house this coming weekend. Fingers crossed.
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)
Yeah, I miss me, too. Who are you when you're not yourself? I haven't been myself for the last month, or if I have, only in fits and spurts. Mostly, I've been this strung-out, wired, tense, cranky, unhappy creature, so jagged and ready to shatter that even I didn't care for my company...and yet, I didn't want to be alone (with my thoughts) either. Fortunately, I have tolerant friends who put up with me when I am someone else.
Opening night went well. The Saturday show looked good. Sunday was quiet. At intermission, I reassured the cast that the audience WAS enjoying them, just quietly. There was nothing wrong with the show. Well...maybe there was, but it was my fault, not the fault of the actors. Saturday I watched the show, and Sunday I watched the audience watching the show, for clues to what works and what doesn't. Though with a Sunday matinee crowd, it's much harder to get an accurate read, since they are a bit weird.
I had hoped for larger audiences, especially with the cable TV ad that's running, but maybe word of mouth will create a buzz that will pack the house this coming weekend. Fingers crossed.