Movie day

Spent the early afternoon watching Othello with Kenneth Brannaugh as Iago. Spent the mid-to-late afternoon in Berkeley watching Legend with the Playreaders crowd. Sure, it's an 80s fantasy movie with dated special effects, cheesy dialogue, and a young Tom Cruise without pants, but it still has its charms. Spent the evening watching When Harry Met Sally.

Depending on who you ask I look like either Hamlet (wearing all soft black) or Hitler (hair).

I feel tired unusually early. Better turn in.

More demotivation

Dun, dun, dun, dunn-da dun, dunn-da dun...

Are the Peruvian police's fashion designers feeling a bit...evil today?

I didn't want to believe people like this existed...

"Just so you know, I signed a contract with the venture capitalists."

"What did the contract say?"

"I don't know. It was dark."

...My saying anything else would only detract from it.

Pun troubles.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMGBsucl7Z0

It is very funny. Watch it. Now.

Such classic themes

Semester grades arrived the other day. All things considered, I came through all right, and I'm still on the Dean's List *wipes brow*. But the reason I am posting is one of the comments that came with my grade in Poetry:

"His poems are honest, but deeply personal on the universal themes of love, loneliness, technology, angst of teenage life, repressed emotions, darkness of human nature, and even romantic style gothic ballades."

Wait, back up. Technology? The only poems I can remember writing with any sort of technological bent are The Black Machine, which is symbolic and a reference to Cuckoo's Nest, and my second slam poem, which targets the culture of the Internet. I can't say either of those poems are particularly personal. And since when is technology a universal theme? At any rate, it seems a bit incongruous with its neighbors. *shrug, smile*

Speculations

Over dinner my parents challenged me with using the Venetians/Riotous Knights to cast One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. Here's my list:

McMurphy: Sexmeister.

Ratched: Sunshine.

Chief: Loyal.

Harding: Gift.

Bibbit: Bedlam.

Cheswick: Knight.

Scanlon: Loquacious.

Ruckley: Gentleman.

Spivey: Atlas.

Warren: Slasher.

Williams: Rose.

Candy: Seductress.

Sandy: Pixar.

Turkle: Song.

Disintegrations

During meditations today I had some more images of my body coming apart, and Bruce suggested I start keeping a journal of them. Here's what I've seen so far:

1. The aforementioned "sand crumbling."
2. Cracks radiating from my face across my body with black syrup flowing from the cracks.
3. My body slowly being vanished by fire from the feet up. Okay, at least I know where this one came from. It was the image in my head during the "blow, wind, and crack your cheeks" monologue.
4. A small grey whirlpool appearing at my center and growing.
5. My body tightening and contracting until it shattered like a block of ice.
6. Expanding and widening, but losing its substance simultaneously until it faded away completely, revealing a shriveled, spaghetti-thin version of my body as what might have been the frame.
7. A tiny hole opening in my forehead from which reality fountained.
8. Collapsing into a pile of children's blocks.

'Tis strange. Now to sing, take a shower, and see what the night has in store.

*head scratch*

Why do I always seems to wear my tuna-papaya shirt on a Tuesday?

Excerpt from Divine Comedy

Zeus: ...so it appears that the universal inclination is "to be."

Me: What about the suicidal?

Zeus: Consider the language used by the suicidal: "I'd be better off dead." In this case, death is a means, not an end.

Me: To be or not to be.

Zeus: That is the question.

Student: Damn you both.

Yum.

Peaches are good. Everybody should eat peaches. Barbossa wasted who-knows-how-many years of his life on them apples when he could have been stuffing his face with peaches.

*cackle*

I just finished my AP Stats quiz. Methinks the teacher should have payed a little more attention when he wrote up that quiz, as one of the questions ended up testing my almighty powers of simple subtraction! It was literally a more wordy version of, "What is 100%-10%?" Not that I'm complaining.

Blech.

Hopefully that name poem will fulfill the assignment reqs, but it's probably the worst I've written in a few years.

The horizon's on fire, and the moon, seeing, has come to smother it.
Some people run, but they'll all float in the same darkness during the last seconds.
Does he even know what he's doing anymore?
C, B, G, Bb, A

Blurbs 1 and 2

1. Musical hasn't started college yet (no fair!), so she was visiting campus today. It was great to see her again.

2. You can make just about anything funny by sticking Gerard Butler's bearded, screaming head onto it. I haven't even seen 300 and these pictures crack me up. I think my favorite is "This is OPERAAAAA!!!" Either that or Chibi Leonidas.

Veg bad

I really need to get out more.

Gah. I appear to be developing a sore throat.

Let's discuss some topics in a slightly more positive vein, hmm?

I'll come back to this post when I have something interesting on my mind.

So what was the point of clicking the New Post button in the first place?

Sometimes you just need to talk, and hearing the words bounce off the walls of your room isn't sufficient. Broadcasting in some form or another becomes necessary or else you go stir-crazy. Was it really only yesterday I was at school? I even slept in this morning, and yet the weekend feels as though it has dragged on since Wednesday.

Do you ever have trouble recalling the appearances of people you know well? That is happening to me right now. I remember what they look like, but I can't correctly visualize them for long before the images distort or simplify.

A freewrite would do me some good right now.

The window is open in front. How much attention do passersby pay? Can they hear me talking to myself, and if they looked inside how much would they see? If I knw the answer, would it change how I compose myself in the "privacy" of my own home? At least they cannot take from me the use of mine own house. Ah, here we go: Shakespeare on the brain. I'll be seeing King Lear either next month or at the end of this month with the other Riotous Knights. The old crowd--the Venetians that didn't return this year, that is--has been awfully quiet for the last couple of months. I ought to send them an email. That reminds me that I have a couple of calls to make over the next day or two. But enough about that. Shakespeare is more interesting to think about. So is my style of typing. I never learned how to type properly, but this method seems to work fine. I don't know what my words-per-minute rate is. I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write. Don't get stuck here. Uncertainty leads to grounding. That seems to be the case in most if not all facets of my life, as opposed merely to acting. Ask me a question that I can't immediately answer, and it's likely that I'll freeze. This can be quite embarassing, which only exacerabtes the situation. I don't know what to write. Freewrites remind me of Softy's upcoming class. All the students who took it last year, were Venetians, and have not gone on to college--all four of us, that is--are returning. Song and Knight have also voiced their interest. I spread news of it to Nixon and Vince as well. Might they be interested? I have no idea. Vince might not, as he'll be performing in Fiddler on the Roof around that same time as the class begins.

Whee.

Freewriting snippets

Where, my children, have you gone?
Papa's lonely, hungry, too.
But all will be well if you
Come back with your prey by dawn.

The above is the result of my twisted little mind at nine in the evening.

Funny how nitrous oxide lets you realize that your mind is being tampered with even as it happens. That makes it not so bad, I suppose. At least you don't hallucinate.

The fourth wall is the most fragile thing in existence. You can't even notice it without breaking it. Or is it the most fragile thing in nonexistence?

When packing for school, my instincts are terrible. If I think I've forgotten something, I never have. The reverse is often true.

How much would you pay for a mobius pretzel? And is that with or without extra salt?

If moths shot arrows, the pantry would be the Battle of Thermopylae. Could a moth-sized arrow kill me?

The numbers don't matter. What the numbers count for matters.

Tomorrow is philosophy all morning. But I won't go to bed at noon.

Shakespeare. Ha. I love it when people use Shakespeare off the stage. Not that I object to Shakespeare onstage.

NO, I DON'T HAVE A QUARTER!

Your guess is as good as mine where I got the above. Sort of like Song's "Nemo, where the fuck are you!?" in acting class.

Miss them all! Lear in September or October?

I wish I were evil. Then belly laughing would be easy.

What was that plum doing on my bed, anyway?

If people could tinker with their emotions and memories at will, how many would better themselves, and how many would destroy themselves?

I don't know kung fu. But my click-pen does.

That's it...you're almost there...just climb over one more body and...Whoops. I got there first. All because I said "please."

School tomorrow...associations.

What to say?

What has been at my fingertips for these last few days? Everything or nothing?

Either way, it's about to get very specific again.

I should get to bed soon. It's relatively early, but I don't want to risk sleeping in.

Then again, isn't that what alarms are for?

I suppose I'll learn the play tomorrow. Please be TLI.

Cuckoo's Nest would be fine, but I'm really hoping for a chance to play Wargrave.

Can with blue people on it.

Pig's head on a stick.

Rolling rock.

Indiana Jones.

Harrison Ford.

How to save your marriage in seven easy steps.

Dramatic reading.

Dramatic writing.

F.

Fun and failure.

Arrested Development.

Bygone.

Graduation.

One Year.

Looking back.

Uneasy.

Snap out of it.

Glass of water.

Ice.

Liquid nitrogen.

Hasta la vista, baby.

Governator.

Eh.

Shrugging.

Gestures.

Vocal gestures.

Voice and Movement.

Omnipotent. Softy.

Goddess.

Greek Mythology.

Classical.

Beethoven.

Amadeus.

Zombies!

Survival.

Survive the coming year.

I'm a senior.

I still don't feel like it.

No choice.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go.
My master calls me; I must not say no.

In memoriam

This post is dedicated to my rolling backback, which finally died today when the handle fell apart entirely. Rest in peace, backpack, completely ignorant of the fact that I will just get a new one and not grieve in the slightest.

Time to kill

...so why not kill it (DIE! DIE! DIE!) by blogging? Blogging something to death. Interesting concept.

Creative writing in-class assignment was a "word salad" poem made only using words put up on the board by the students. I, being me, wrote up the words "wicked, " "ravenous," and "apocalyptic."

This just in: Impulse and Lilith like my use of "DIE! DIE! DIE!"

Must think of more to say.

Ah, yes: I have had Rhythm of Life stuck in my head for the last day and a half! Grrr! Nothing against the song per se, but still. Head-stuck songs can be some of the most irritating things ever!

I'm just going to write a string of morbid words until I run out or think of something better to say.

Death blood pain doom helpless fear undead scream hatred suicide Republican whoa how'd that get in there? *shifty eyes*

Bad idea. Let's think of something else to do.

The Venetians will finally have their Secret Santa gift exchange this Saturday.

Still 10-15 minutes to go before I need to head to the chorus room.

Why is my brain so blank right now?!?

A lesson from lunch: Watching a button and screw dance about on top of a set of ipod speakers can be surprisingly fun.

Me so smart. Me so smart me can't keep track of which of my friends have met each other. Me can't use proper grammar either.

14 minutes left. *checks schedule* No, closer to 40 minutes. D'oh!

I need to work on memorizing my lines. So I'm going to do that and cut this blog. Later!

I need to write, but I have nothing.

I need to write, but I have nothing. Why do I need to write? I wrote less than an hour ago, and again earlier today. Normally I would have attended class with Omnipotent and five other Venetians today, but it doesn't pick up again until next week. Too long! I miss everybody! I saw them, not everybody, but some Venetians a week ago, and we broke up even more recently than wold have if it had been a regular class day, but the space between then and now feels endless. I've made another friend over the last week. Thank you, Lilith. I mean, yes, I did know of you before, but only over the past few days have I really started getting to know you. Tangent. Why isn't the italics hotkey working? End tangent.

I need to write, but now I have something. Not enough. I need to talk. Can't talk. Writing will have to do. Math papers are waiting to be graded. They can wait. I have huge chunks of freedom tomorrow, and more on Tuesday, and more on Wednesday. Enough to finish grading easily, and then maybe to grade them all over again. Why would I grade them a second time except to prove a point, but not even then. There are other things I can do with my time. Like wonder if and how I'll be cast in Sweet Charity. Tangent. It's been a while since I wrote a long post like this one. End of tangent.

I still need to write. What to say? Names. Why not names? Peter. Trotsky. Tubal. Disconcerting. I am all these and more. Emperor of Carthage. Whoo, that's and old one. I forget whether Emperor of Rome (Poppet) was the first to bestow my title on me or I on him. I doubt he even remembers. I don't know why I even remember. It's pointless. I am afraid that any possible reason to remember is fading away anyway. I count on my fingers. Some 14 fingers, and 12 Venetian (+3 really, but they have, for all intents and purposes, disappeared). But as Finger 14 is rising, is Finger 1 dropping? I don't know what larger implications it would have, or even if it would have any, but I don't want to cut what may be my last tie to the first half of my life. No tangent this time.

ARGH! It's not enough! I still need to write! Why?! Why now am I possessed with this urge to write and write and wite and then to come back and write some more?! I'm going to look for and post one of those 50-word stories I had to write last year in Lit class. The funny one. Well, you might not find it funny. It's funny in a rather sick way. But the class and my Lit teacher liked it. I'll go look for it now.

Wow. I still have my notebook. My sad, ratty little literature notebook with six pages still attached and more written on the inside front cover than on the pages theselves. There's the beginning of on another poem in there, but I know I'm not going to ever finish it. It was going to be similar in style to the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I didn't even like that poem. But what matter? It's just another half-finished project. Another dead sheet of paper in the mass grave of such projects of mine. I'll get halfway, or a third, or a tenth of the way, and then drop off. But on to the 50-word story.

"I'm sorry, Dave, I can't write the story," I said. "Sure you can," Dave replied. "No, my disease is preventing me from writing," I countered. "What disease?" "Leprosy." "If you're well enough to come to class, you're well enough to write." I lifted my arm. "My writing hand fell off."

As a bonus, here are the other three I wrote that day. Yes, there is an element of morbidity here. I was by no means the only one with a morbid mind that day. One classmate wrote about a guy who takes a bite of a piece of bread with "butter" that turns out to be sodium! And then there's the "Time for you to say bye-bye" story. Dave wasn't surprised. He said that when you need to keep it short, morbid is easy. Now on to the other 50-wor stories. Really.

I sat down on Santa's lap unable to keep a grin off my face. Jovial as ever, he inqured, "What would you like for Christmas, little boy?" Imagine his face when I replied, "A five hundred-page book on demonic summoning!" Yes, we Dungeons & Dragons players are often misunderstood.

The janitor watched the tax collector enter the building. His employer escorted the guest into the next room. After the door closed, the janitor sighed and went ot get his mop. He returned to clean up the mess, wondering why they never learned: Assassins' guilds do not pay their taxes.

Having finished off all my classmates, he killer turned to face me. I leaped for the window, but his strong hand plled me back. Terrified, I shrieked, "Why are you doing this to us all?" His response chilled me to the core: "What else to do on a rainy day?"

The third story there was not my only assassin-related piece of writing last year. When we had sentence-writing competitions (adhering to structural guideline XYZ), my sentences were almost always assassin-related. My sentences almost always won. Coincidence?

Here's an example I found just now. We each had to write an extremely short sentence ("I am smart," for example). We then had to expand our sentences to 50 words or more without using lists. Here was my end result: "In those sleepy hours just before dawn on a Wednesday morning, the cackling and emotionally disturbed assassin whose divorced parents had molested him in his youth, utilizing sodium and a barrel of lukewarm tapwater, immolated the homeless, hapless, weepy-eyed orphan clad in only a few scant, oily rags, who wailed and wondered what sick twist of fate had condemned her to this most gruesome, even by pyrotechnic stabdards, of demises." Really, I am not wrong in the head! I promise!

I also wrote essays attacking Thoreau (specifically, referring to him as "an arrogant little snot" at one point) and The Great Gatsby. I believe both received good grades; I know the Thoreau paper did.

Whew! My need to write seems to have been sated for now. Back to the math papers for me!