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Mar. 19th, 2005 09:25 amDespite what probably looked like me being majorly angsty yesterday, I feel much much more clear, at least on a number of short term matters. Amusingly, in the midst of all that I got email from someone from my studio group asking if he'd see me at NIDA next year. Yeah... well.... we'll see.
In the meantime, this show wraps up this weekend. I've an audition to play a 13th Century nun on Monday. Megan and I are going to work on our website project after her show wraps up (and I'll probably put the physical structure of the site together next weekend), she may be able to provide me an opportunity to put one of the monologues from Handbag (Cate's play) on its feet. The screenplay sits on my desktop and states at me... part of my frustration is a lack of a title... I realize, stupid and possibly procrastinate-y thing to get hung up on, but it's one of those things that's critical to my ability to function. It's like needing to distill the purpose of the project to an elevator pitch -- at least a temporary one.
Actually read tons of geeky stuff about camera and dolly equiment the other day -- mostly because I was bored, but it was all interesting to understand the tools and their prices. Mostly though I'm somewhat glad for my ignorance on the technology end of things, or else I swear I'd be writing this script to find a way to use the really really cool carbon fiber flexible dolly track. *headdesk*. Geek at heart. Only not.
It's got spring-like here (I am careful not to say whether or not this is really spring) and while it makes the ache less bad, it underscores that I didn't just like Oz for the weather.
I am having tea or some such with someone I haven't seen in years today. Part of the wonderful world of Mindvox (*snerk*). We spoke briefly on the phone last night, and her voice was so much older, deeper, mature, that it really sincerely startled me, and I worried somehow that she had grown up, but I hadn't. We were not close (but she is here on LJ and will eventually read this, I feel I should say), but I remember a hysterical night spent with her and some friends at her uni housing, laughing our arses off over this really creepy stuffed animal she had (creeepybunnyman!). There are so few people from that period of time I talk to, her included really, although in that case for no other reason than our lives are our lives. For all the many and somewhat horrid things I've to say about the Mindvox years, what I rarely say is this: We were so good at accidentally stumbling into each other's disasters, pulling ourselves up straight, and pretending, like cats, that we meant to do that. This artificial grace from children and the poorly socialized alike, caused more problems than perhaps anything else.
The person I am currently seeing has a lover on the West Coast, and I have spent the last several weeks being amazed that I don't really give a damn, that they'll be flying out for a visit next week. This should be obvious, considering my own poly- inclinations, _but_ I have a history of trying to do poly with people who don't know or don't care what they are doing, or use the idea to wound or manipulate, to get away with more, instead of less. Others have been poor at communication, or over-communicated and over-promised forgetting that the heart is a fickle thing. Some have interpretted my lack of jealousy as a lack of serious interest in them, and others have offered words only in moments of desperation. Of course, sometimes I was simply too young and needy as well. While all those things are exciting, at least in the plot arc sense of it all, I am enjoying this current unremarkable facet of my remarkable world.
In the strange history of mishaps in my life, I often worry that when seeing someone after a long time, they will feel the need to apologize or remark on a past circumstance no longer of any import that once caused stress. This tends to embarass me, and makes me worry that they feel I've not grown up, that I seize in anger every night on these old hurts and wrongs and confusions. I dread the meetings, dread apologies that aren't only unnecessary, but ungainly. I said as much to Kat the other day. What's interesting to me this morning, is my sudden desire to be that ungainly one. To say I'm sorry you got caught up in it, I'm sorry if I were ever unkind for that, and as ironic as this perhaps is, I'm sorry I apologized for him so much that something like what happened could happen and seem reasonable.
And then there is Dana. A small story of unknowable truths. But I don't think anything could be said there to make it better. We're both so proud. And, I suppose most importantly, not seventeen-year-old slashers anymore.
It is strange, telling entire stories, without plot or characters, but just the memory of the shape of wounds, lingering without their deeper natures.
There is a line in an Ani DiFranco song "Birmingham" -- "I was once escorted through the doors of a clinic in a bulletproof vest." I sing and say the first half of it to myself often, just the small phrase, "I was once escorted" - I've yet to be entirely sure what it means to me, I know only that I've seperated it from the meaning of the song, and that it has something to do with posture and meeting private, self-proclaimed destiny. It was with me often in Sydney, and it is with me often here. A Kate Bush line offers me something similar, "You come walking into that room, like you're walking in to my arms" which may not even be the precisely right line -- but it's never about the relationship woes of the rest of that song for me, but a certain stride, a certain sense of arrival with a glow that most people only know how to associate with the romance felt for people, instead of moment, or place.
The two fragments are really part of the strange shorthand I use for all things, that I described earlier, in I think a locked post. On a chain of ideas from A to Q, sometimes I'll jot down C, but it always means Q to me, even if the notation makes no sense to someone else. These two both have a secret narrative for me, of being presented for your approval -- the narrative and the heroine splits though on the subject of public and private, eventhough that is a mere three seconds at the in medias res point where we pick up each of their stories.
The inner landscape has changed in a somewhat radical way in the last 24 hours. Because I've gone from trying to sledgehammer the world into the shape I wish it to be, to thinking maybe about sliding in, and turning it inside out.
In the meantime, this show wraps up this weekend. I've an audition to play a 13th Century nun on Monday. Megan and I are going to work on our website project after her show wraps up (and I'll probably put the physical structure of the site together next weekend), she may be able to provide me an opportunity to put one of the monologues from Handbag (Cate's play) on its feet. The screenplay sits on my desktop and states at me... part of my frustration is a lack of a title... I realize, stupid and possibly procrastinate-y thing to get hung up on, but it's one of those things that's critical to my ability to function. It's like needing to distill the purpose of the project to an elevator pitch -- at least a temporary one.
Actually read tons of geeky stuff about camera and dolly equiment the other day -- mostly because I was bored, but it was all interesting to understand the tools and their prices. Mostly though I'm somewhat glad for my ignorance on the technology end of things, or else I swear I'd be writing this script to find a way to use the really really cool carbon fiber flexible dolly track. *headdesk*. Geek at heart. Only not.
It's got spring-like here (I am careful not to say whether or not this is really spring) and while it makes the ache less bad, it underscores that I didn't just like Oz for the weather.
I am having tea or some such with someone I haven't seen in years today. Part of the wonderful world of Mindvox (*snerk*). We spoke briefly on the phone last night, and her voice was so much older, deeper, mature, that it really sincerely startled me, and I worried somehow that she had grown up, but I hadn't. We were not close (but she is here on LJ and will eventually read this, I feel I should say), but I remember a hysterical night spent with her and some friends at her uni housing, laughing our arses off over this really creepy stuffed animal she had (creeepybunnyman!). There are so few people from that period of time I talk to, her included really, although in that case for no other reason than our lives are our lives. For all the many and somewhat horrid things I've to say about the Mindvox years, what I rarely say is this: We were so good at accidentally stumbling into each other's disasters, pulling ourselves up straight, and pretending, like cats, that we meant to do that. This artificial grace from children and the poorly socialized alike, caused more problems than perhaps anything else.
The person I am currently seeing has a lover on the West Coast, and I have spent the last several weeks being amazed that I don't really give a damn, that they'll be flying out for a visit next week. This should be obvious, considering my own poly- inclinations, _but_ I have a history of trying to do poly with people who don't know or don't care what they are doing, or use the idea to wound or manipulate, to get away with more, instead of less. Others have been poor at communication, or over-communicated and over-promised forgetting that the heart is a fickle thing. Some have interpretted my lack of jealousy as a lack of serious interest in them, and others have offered words only in moments of desperation. Of course, sometimes I was simply too young and needy as well. While all those things are exciting, at least in the plot arc sense of it all, I am enjoying this current unremarkable facet of my remarkable world.
In the strange history of mishaps in my life, I often worry that when seeing someone after a long time, they will feel the need to apologize or remark on a past circumstance no longer of any import that once caused stress. This tends to embarass me, and makes me worry that they feel I've not grown up, that I seize in anger every night on these old hurts and wrongs and confusions. I dread the meetings, dread apologies that aren't only unnecessary, but ungainly. I said as much to Kat the other day. What's interesting to me this morning, is my sudden desire to be that ungainly one. To say I'm sorry you got caught up in it, I'm sorry if I were ever unkind for that, and as ironic as this perhaps is, I'm sorry I apologized for him so much that something like what happened could happen and seem reasonable.
And then there is Dana. A small story of unknowable truths. But I don't think anything could be said there to make it better. We're both so proud. And, I suppose most importantly, not seventeen-year-old slashers anymore.
It is strange, telling entire stories, without plot or characters, but just the memory of the shape of wounds, lingering without their deeper natures.
There is a line in an Ani DiFranco song "Birmingham" -- "I was once escorted through the doors of a clinic in a bulletproof vest." I sing and say the first half of it to myself often, just the small phrase, "I was once escorted" - I've yet to be entirely sure what it means to me, I know only that I've seperated it from the meaning of the song, and that it has something to do with posture and meeting private, self-proclaimed destiny. It was with me often in Sydney, and it is with me often here. A Kate Bush line offers me something similar, "You come walking into that room, like you're walking in to my arms" which may not even be the precisely right line -- but it's never about the relationship woes of the rest of that song for me, but a certain stride, a certain sense of arrival with a glow that most people only know how to associate with the romance felt for people, instead of moment, or place.
The two fragments are really part of the strange shorthand I use for all things, that I described earlier, in I think a locked post. On a chain of ideas from A to Q, sometimes I'll jot down C, but it always means Q to me, even if the notation makes no sense to someone else. These two both have a secret narrative for me, of being presented for your approval -- the narrative and the heroine splits though on the subject of public and private, eventhough that is a mere three seconds at the in medias res point where we pick up each of their stories.
The inner landscape has changed in a somewhat radical way in the last 24 hours. Because I've gone from trying to sledgehammer the world into the shape I wish it to be, to thinking maybe about sliding in, and turning it inside out.
