Archive for September, 2002

This past weekend will live

This past weekend will live in my puny brain as memorable for many reasons. I am not going to go into those reasons, other than to say that there was some nudity involved, a hot tub, and much drunken kissing.

Today is one of those hot and windy fall days. The kind that screams that fall is fast approaching, but does not (yet) blow leaves across the streets and sidewalks.

I just want to sit on a concrete slab downtown, and people watch.
I feel diffuse and exuberant.
Tonight we are juggling fire.

My eyelid is swoolen. I

My eyelid is swoolen. I think I might have some kind of strep. I’m going to the doctor this afternoon.

The movable type conversion isn’t happening as fast or easy as I’d like. Maybe after I get back from the doctor I’ll work on it some more. On the other hand, I have a character here that is almost to level 10!

I’m trying to import into

I’m trying to import into mt.

Just had a 2 minute

Just had a 2 minute “team meeting” to announce the firing of a co-worker. (His last day was yesterday.) He’s not dead, but I’ll mourn his passing anyway. Nice start to this particuarly rainy and misserable day.

On the plus side, he “willed” me his java books and Pessimism poster!

He’s in a better place, believe me.

While I’m talking about juggling,

While I’m talking about juggling, let me say that it’s a mixed bag. Like anything you do, you’re good at it sometimes, and other times you just suck.

Tonight I was ok. Sunday, I was terrible.

Sunday afternoon, I went to see cirque again. 2 for 1 tickets courtesy of dan, who worked as an usher. Awesome, awesome, awesome. Made me want to do something, anything, for cirque du soleil. I would run lights, sound, backstage makeup, clean the theater, or be a fucking usher… just made me want to be a part of it.

But then we bustled out to fest right after, brought along my friend Kristin to watch me play volley club. I sucked. No, to say I sucked is an understatement. To do badly, you have to at least DO. I just didn’t. I basically just stood there and dropped the club whenever it came to me.

It’s like a performance, volley club. And I choked, big time.

Anyway, tonight was practice. Monday nights at the neverthriving.

I played some good combat, and flashed six balls a few more times. I don’t really know why I care, but suddenly I really want to be able to do six balls. It’s just that one tiny step more impressive than five, and all of a sudden–for the first time–it seems remotely possible… remotely.

So yeah, performance sucks. But I would give my left leg to be a part of cirque du soleil. Go figure.

I don’t really like performing.

I don’t really like performing. I have to pipe up and quickly note that, while I unerstand what Buddah and MJ are saying (over on Meghan’s blog,) generally for me the rush you get performing doesn’t outweigh–in importance–the feeling of dread. (and yes, I’m too lazy to find the deep link…you may have to search through her archives if you’re seeing this later than, say, next week.)

And then there is a second feeling of dread if I receive no feedback after the performance. With good feedback, I feel better–bad feedback, it’s like a relief that at least I know I was right–I did suck! But no feedback, and I sit there the rest of the night, thinking… did I suck? Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t even think about the performers still up on stage. (we’re talking open mics here… when I used to perform an actual act–yes, juggling–that was different, because I felt a sort of “Whew! Glad that’s over!” after every show.)

I agree with the sentiment that the “true artist” is never satisfied with their work. And given the chance, a good poet would keep revising their work forever. (Lets not get into the beat movement, or my favorite poet, Frank O’Hara.) Point is, taking the stage to read something (or sing something) that you’ve written is like saying “this is done”–or at least done enough to perform. It’s a bit like publishing something, I guess. Stage publishing.

When do you let go? when is something “done enough” to perform, or whatever… I don’t know…

This isn’t even making sense to me. I’m going to go play unicycle hockey now. Yes really, unicycle hockey.

Last night I went to

Last night I went to see Alegría. I can’t possibly express with words the beauty and magical nature of cirque shows, and this was no exception. I feel like reality is this dull grey blanket now.

Speaking of dull grey blankets, there is one in the sky outside my window, casting a heavy pal over the Rainbow foods parking lot. What a view.

ugh, today and yesterday — fastfoodpoem

ugh, today and yesterday have been extremely frustrating for me. I have a project due on wed that I have not been able to move on. I don’t know why. It’s not even a dificult project. I just don’t want to do it for some reason. I find myself procrastinating on all kinds of fronts (reinstalling office for OSX, for instance, or reading FAR too long transcripts of conversations with the IRS on this site). Even worse, I’m suppose to have some poems printed up tonight for our chapbook meeting, and that’s all I really want to do… work on poetry.

Here’s one I found in my laptop last night:

=====

untitled — 4.8.2

In a world full of Big Macs, and Big Macs with cheese,
I sometimes feel like a lowly cheeseburger,
shoved ungratefully into a happymeal.

And eventfully, the afternoon graduates into night,
throwing its hat into the air; and it plummets
over the edge of the earth.

singing a brief anthem to wordsex

sylables as actions
words asphyxiate on paragraphs
pharagraphs smother in novels
seeing the vowel-forest for the trees

syntax is reflex
semantics, the poetry-killer
drown linguistically, drown

OK, right now there are

OK, right now there are strange construction worker men on my floor, creating a new kitchen-type-area RIGHT behind my cubicle.

This is normal, they’ve been at this for a week. There is a nice new curved wall where none used to be. The buildout may be nice even. Not as nice as the stuff the first floor folks got, but nice.

But for the love of god AND ALL THAT IS HOLY… they were not DRILLING INTO SHEETROCK until only JUST TODAY!!~!!!~!~!!!!!

If you can’t imagine the sound of drilling sheetrock, think of the dentist’s chair. Then amplify the sound, if you can, but move it out of your mouth, to an area near to (but no longer inside of) your head.

I want to KILL. I will be going home early now. Yes I will.

PS, I do not love god, or holy things. In fact, I often despise them. Amen.