i hit my sexual peak during harold night...

[GoldDustWoman]

wha' happened?

I think it's been really hard to write anything down since the computer ate my last post. Although if it's that easy to set me back, then I really must suck as a journal writer, or writer of anything, for that matter. I've been tighter than my jeans on the 21st of the month; tighter than, well, insert your gratuitously prurient analogies here, I'm not going to do it for you. Just tightly wound, spinning my wheels, creatively and otherwise. So I'm sitting home, post-blackout, trying to have a productive day. One of my air-conditioners and my stereo seem to be blown out somehow, or at least inoperative.

I tried to get some fresh dairy products at the Greenmarket today. There was a huge line at the Ronnybrook farms stand, with people scurrying away with expensive glassbottled milk. Looked like at least a half hour wait, and I'd already gotten a bunch of veggies, chicken and eggs, so I passed on the unnecessary dairy and scored some aged goat cheese instead and hit the road.

Mr. balls&chain is still pretty cranky, post-blackout, and I probably should be a nicer person, considering he's worked his ass off the past few days with plenty more to go. I did whip up some breakfast, and have held off on cleaning out the fridge (and tossing all the pestilent frozen clams and such) until he left.

Listening to "Nichols and May Examine Doctors" is a very cool way to pass this kind of day. At some point, I will get off my ass, I promise, physically and mentally. Gotta start somewhere.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor" is friggin' hysterical - it's the bit about the analyst and the patient, where the patient (Nichols) informs the analyst (May) he wants Christmas off to spend with the family, and the analyst totally breaks down. Hee-larious!

The first character referred to in the next bit is named "Mrs. Latke." Also, heeeeelarious!

Is everyone soooooo friggin' moody because it's August and every shrink in New York is moored on a sandy barge off the coast of Shrink Hampton, downing cocktails and furtively scoping eachother at poolside barbecues by night, moodily poring over NY Times Bestsellers under beach umbrellas and layers of comfy cotton clothing by day?

Just a theory. Our time here is up.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

to reiterate -

fuck it.


(replacing endless amounts of roiling internal monologue and acid indigestion. but any card-carrying member of the human race ought to know that. if you've temporarily misplaced your card, by the way, i'm probably enough of a soft-hearted sucker to try and help you dig through your sofa-cushions and find it. and thank you, Gentle Reader, for allowing me to put it all into some sort of hazy, beery perspective.)

on a queasily unrelated note, i think my crush may have been crushed. although, that could be the ice cubes talking. why blame the booze for everything?

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Unanswered/Unanswerable

1. Am I part of the "improv community?"

2. If I have to ask, is the answer to #1 "no?"

3. Do I really believe the answer to #1 is "no"? If I am really a part of this, that must mean I have something to contribute. Or, that means I better start contributing something. Seriously. Is that the strange and scary part? Why is figuring that out harder than doing the fucking scenework?

3B. Is this the stupidest fucking internal monologue ever posted on the IRC??

FUCK. Remind me to start writing about sex again soon. I've got some tales from my Wild Younger Days, kiddies - and there's that Harold Night thing - But enough about me.

SCENE.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

spinning wheels

First thought of the morning.

I don't want to do this anymore.

This phrase applies/can apply/may apply to a number of different things. It may include this journal. I don't know.

I'll get back to you, whoever "you" are.

I still don't know.

This is not the best part of waking up. If someone can tell me what is, that would be warmly appreciated.



Still not writing about improv. Or sex. I hope this doesn't get me forumed out of this forum somehow. Sigh. Just one more damn thing to worry about.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

An Experiment in Attitude Adjustment

I'm going to try it. (Taking a deep breath.)

I'm going to, as they say,* try to "blow a little sunshine up my ass." Find the happy, as it were. Turn that frown upside down; agree to agree, for a change.

In improv. And, in life.

Couldn't hurt!

Except, I'm not sure I know how. This goes against all that is me, you see.

But wait - Perhaps, this is where the "Yes and" of it really, truly, comes in. Maybe this is what "Yes, and" really means. It's easy to say, not so easy to do.

(Seriously. In improv. And, in life?)

Hmmmmmm.

We'll see.

An interesting experiment. And I'm nothing, if not a scientist, born and bred.

*Speaking of scientists, ever see the Far Side cartoon, with the middle-aged guy in the undershirt in the basement, with all the phone lines, whose wife comes down and says "So, Herbert, you're the THEY in that's what THEY say!" Or something like that. I love that one. The connection is, is that scientists LOVE the Far Side. But I digress. I seem to be in a footnote phase lately. This too shall pass, and I will adopt some other equally annoying textual device.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

See how well it's working?

I changed my signature line today.

That pretty much sums it up.

I borrowed a new video game yesterday - Civilization III. Although I haven't yet loaded it - it looks wildly complicated, I'm perusing the manual, an atypically cautious move for me - l look forward to becoming the president for life of a developing civilization over which I have complete warlike control and dominance.

I'm also planning on strolling over to Fifth Avenue to CompUSA and picking up the latest version of the Sims for the Mac (I think it's "Unleashed" - I don't think that "Superstar" is out yet, but let me know if I'm wrong) and creating my ideal group of cute, funny, stylin', yes-andin' improvisers (in the style of the Fall of the House of Harold ).

Or, what other things can I do when people (including myself) start to become an unwanted distraction, a force for annoyance, in otherwords, just start to PISS ME OFF.

Simple. Put them in the room with no door, no pizza, no chair and no toilet. Toss in the sick guinea pig and the fireworks game. Watch the fun!

Bwah ha ha.

Bwah ha ha ha.

Love and kisses,

GDW

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Analyze THIS

I had the craaziest improv dream this morning...


So we were all at some type of convention in a city I didn't recognize - it was clearly some mid-level city, that shuts up at ten pm, with no exciting places to go or sights to see. (I don't know why I had this impression from the dream, but I did.) I was sharing a room with a gorgeous, tall, improviser, but I wasn't sure why - it was a messy room (we had hastily unpacked, clothes and stuff were strewn everywhere), with two double beds. I was vaguely and oddly uncomfortable about the situation. He had two or three Kodak disposable cameras on the bed. We have some stilted conversation and we both establish the fact that yes, we each have keys, and leave the room together, traveling in separate directions.

I next find myself in some type of faux-English pub/restaurant, which is too brightly lit for the type of restaurant it is. It's halfway between a bad local joint and a mall-theme restaurant ripoff. There is a middle-aged cartoonish gentleman barkeep/waiter with enormous gray muttonchops who keeps filling pitchers and imploring us to "be jolly" in a horrible-infomercial Brit accent. I'm drinking some lightish beer with improv people I kind of know and eating hamburgers; it's packed in there, and there are soccer matches on badly positioned big-screened TVs. Soon, a bunch of guys enter the bar, and they appear to be Australian rugby players - dirty, loud, accented - looking for a fight - the improv guys start gathering together in small groups, proclaiming that they can take them, when it seems that they really couldn't, these guys look vicious and we are outnumbered, there are lots of these rugby players, there's a tournament in town - in fact we may actually be in Australia or something.

I get outside and see my husband - it's clear that he's been on the trip too (I don't know why I'm not staying with him, but it doesn't seem to be a big deal.) He's walking with a buddy/classmate of mine who's wearing a pretty dress and high high heels. We're chatting and having a nice walk along a partially-darkened, windswept street back to the where the hotels are - we are the only ones on the street, but we're not concerned that it's unsafe, and we're not lost - it turns out we're staying in separate hotels. One of her heels breaks and so he swings her over his shoulder and carries her the rest of the way to another hotel where they are staying. We part amicably and agree to meet later.

I am back at my hotel room and am somehow completely naked (I don't remember the rest of the walk). I hear the shower running and announce my presence, telling him not to come out, while I gather up towels and such and try to cover up with something because somehow, clothes are not handy. His voice is muffled and I can't understand. From another part of the room, or another room, I can't tell, comes a woman - she's probably about 30, attractive but somehow not sexy, with brown "beauty queen" big sprayed helmet hair and a big toothy smile. She's wearing a turtleneck shirt and nothing else, and has tons of pubic hair. She smiles and says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to see my bush" and she sort of struts around for a little while, smiling. I am puzzled by her appearance. She then leaves the room in the same direction she came in. There are now about twenty Kodak disposable cameras on the bed, in several multipack boxes, partially opened, which creeps me out for some reason.

I'm now in a room down the hall, another room with two double beds, where there are two young, adorable female improvisers in T-shirts and shorts, who are nervous about a performance. One is holding her stomach and repeating "Zantac Zantac" (zantac = a stomach medication) - I ask if she wants Xanax instead, half-joking, because I have some. She looks at me, puzzled, like she's never heard of Xanax, and I think that's strange.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Addenda

More like a followup, a tangent -

My former best friend is, among other things, a psychoanalyst. If she were here (when I say here, I mean, speaking to me), I'm sure she could make short work of the above. I'd like to think that we would have a lengthy, engaging discussion of what each aspect of the dream meant in my life, about what each particular person, known and symbolic, represented (all of the people, except for the beauty queen, the loopy waiter, and the rugby players, were known people in my life), and I would come away with some insight; I would somehow feel better, more focused or more enlightened; it would be an evening well spent, or, more likely, part of an evening well spent, smoking smoky-treats, drinking beer and eating pizza and watching bad movies and chatting about stuff and doing fun fun smart girly things.

Or maybe, as I now realize, she probably would've just dismissed the whole thing, or I would have hesitated to bring it up at all - maybe because things were probably getting distant and bitchy and strange well before she'd picked that ridiculous fight and stopped speaking to me. (Or maybe not, and the whole thing was, in fact, fucking stupidity! Back to square one!)

So, at any rate, I'm left with my own dreams. How do you feeeeeeel about that?? Although considering the good friends I'm fortunate enough to have, amateur shrinks but loyal and cool, I'm sure I've got the better end of the deal.

Of course, the whole thing's probably just about sex.

Duh.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

:mope:

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Homework - A Character we haven't met yet

She is nineteen years old and superconfident on the outside. She is about 5-5, compact and angular in build - but not what you'd call thin - and looks like she could easily kick your ass, if necessary. Backpack, not messenger bag, that is way too full. Large dark intense eyes, probably her best feature. No makeup at the moment - has a weakness for Kiehl's products and has a million bottles of cleansers and toners and stuff. Things tend to fly out of it at the least provocation. Canvas sneakers - Converse Chuck Taylors, black. Smokes like a fiend and is generous about sharing butts. Raised in NYC - comes from a wealthy family - doesn't wear the money, but does, in subtle ways. Good posture from years of expensive dance training. Always wearing some kind of dingy hat - one of those cabbie hats from "taxi driver," or a battered cowboy hat which looks fabulous on her somehow. She's got long dark hair, with two stark blond streaks framing her face on either side - no bangs, just longish parts on the sides that don't match up with the rest (bangs growing out from her HS graduation photo). She went to an all-girls private school, but her best friend is a gay guy who lives in her building that she knew since she was three and they are in college together, and still sit around trash-talking people for HOURS. She's one of those girls who inherently mistrusts other girls - relates better to guys as friends - and isn't superclose with many people. If she doesn't know you well, she'll go quiet, let you go on and on about yourself, so people think she's aloof, distant (or fabulous if they like to talk about themselves!) Hasn't settled on a major - taking classes in anthropology, psych, writing - She likes getting into people's heads, finding out what makes them tick - but doesn't really know what she wants out of life. She doesn't live in NYU student housing but in an apartment in the way West Village that once belonged to an elderly aunt who moved to Florida - crowded with student debris - a guitar, textbooks, incense, overflowing ashtrays - and peculiar old-lady knickknacks - dusty picture frames, overstuffed furniture. She lives alone with a cat named Gingerroot (because it's sharp and sweet), and is madly madly in love with her thirty-four year old Fiction Writing teacher who won't give her the time of day. She spends too many hours typing into her journal on her iBook, surrounded by scented candles, chainsmoking and bemoaning her unrequited love. Had an defining encounter at a party when she was sixteen - kind of liked having the sex with the guy, kind of hated the girls for thinking she was a slut when they found out. She loves sex toys and has lots of them. She's secretly mushy/romantic, however, and would rather die than admit it. You'll find her in the park, reading battered paperback classics (She's been known to read and go all gushy and weepy reading Austen, Wharton and the like), sitting off on a bench by herself, happily eating horrible meat on a stick sandwiches with extra hot sauce. If you meet her, she'll look at you sideways and remember your face but not your name.

EDITING FOR ANALYSIS: It seems like a cheap trick to mistake shyness for snobbiness/aloofness but it's at least partly true in her case. You want to get to know her, but it's hard. I don't know if she's shy or just scared to get involved, taken in to the lives of others.

Let's see where she takes us.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Cold Showers?

I've been watching a lot of baseball.

I've been doing a lot of improv.

I've been working up a sweat.

My crush has been crushing, but hovering in an odd anonymous place, maybe on the back of a milk carton.

I've been doing some drinking and smoking.

I've been watching a fair amount of improv.

I've been working out some, but not enough.

I haven't been getting nearly enough of what I want or need.

I want to take me on a long train trip, ride the rails across the country. Balance a laptop on a shaky tray table and stare out the window, bouncing across America.

I am glad that I have managed to squeeze in under the definition of "improviser."

how the hell did that happen? I still feel really, really "off-topic."

I've got a show coming up really, really, soon and the scaredy is setting in NOW.

Maybe I'm not working hard enough.

Or just not paying attention.

HEY!

I want a guardian angel. Grab me by the shoulders and give me whathaveyou in a loud clear voice.
HEY!
SUCK IT.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Panting, laughing, out of breath - doing that runwalk that you do when you get off the ride, lurching forward because you can't quite feel your legs yet and you've just sprung forth from being belted in, free from restraint -

"I can't believe we rode the Rebel Yell AGAIN! Ohmigod, that was AWESOME!" We laugh hysterically. "I can't believe YOU were singing opera the whole way up the first hill! Wasn't that a HUGE rush?!"

you and your friends have driven four hours to the theme park, laughing and singing and scattering cigarette butts and stale Poptarts and cans of soda all over the back of the car - no matter, that's what cars are for, and getting out of the city is always a kick in the pants - but it's all about adventure, and you guys can't get enough -

even when you doze off in the car and are suddently, rudely awakened by the falling of wayward bodies on top of you, as your own drool-puddle splatters inadvertently across them, midway through a screeching screaming speeding u-turn just short of a rest-stop entrance off the highway - it's hilarious hilarious hilarious -

yet you crave the adventure, you keep going further and further, you strap yourself in with like-minded soldiers and hurl yourself off the bungee-jumping bridge cliff with nothing but brightly colored nylon cord to snatch you from certain cranium-splattering spine-shattering death; skydive out of the roaring twin-engine plane grabbing on to a nylon-suited partner barely half your weight but substantially more skilled; grab a paddle and hit the whitest of whitewater and scream and get soaked in the frigid June water and pray that you aren't hurled into the sharpest of river rocks face first -

you're always on the move - you can't sit still anymore, and you crave the adventure, you crave it and you look back at the ones you've left behind and they get smaller and smaller and smaller until -

but you wonder how long you can keep up the pace and your back is aching and your mind is racing and your days come into sharp and painful relief -

 

[GoldDustWoman]

FUCK MY HEARTSTRINGS - or, random rainyday silliness

Clearly, they're still a bit TAUT.

The long-lamented Evil Chick would like to point out that she's still a bit MOODY in light of lack of exposure to her objet d'lust...as her fabulous female partners in Evil will attest, the mere MENTION of the man's name recently sent shivers down my finely aligned spine and flapped my normally cooool exterior into a full-tilt flap...yes, I Have been thinking of sublimating my hard-drivin' sexuality through a New Exercise Routine, but that would be Truly Truly Evil!!! Although aren't those machines at the gym so terribly terribly sexy?? All those metal and chains - all that grunting and sweating - sigh....

Yes, darlings, I've TRIED forgetting all about it - even switching crushes too! developing a new wacky obsessive mad lust! - but it's like team loyalties - one is simply NOT raised a Mets fan and then goes and roots for those nasty old Yankees in the World Series. No matter that they're all so fine-looking in those tight little pants of theirs...but there I go, swoooning over the unattainable...silly silly me...

*****************************************

SEASONS CHANGE WITH THE SCENERY....

******************************************

Not Only is the MAN temporarily back in Chez Doghouse, he's leaving town next week ... temporarily, of course, but oh, the evil which lurks in a young lady's heart...

*******************************************

I'm thinking - Longer Hair, Pinker Sweaters, a New Look

*******************************************

Gotta go - There's some CDs I gotta be burning

******************************************

true fact about me - i have never played a real live game of spin the bottle - well, once in college but everyone was waaaay too uncomfortable because there was all this history and not drunk enough and i neither kissed nor got kissed it was PURELY HYPOTHETICAL WHAT A BUNCH OF FRIGGIN' GEEKS!

anyone up for a round?? heh heh

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Don't Fuck With The Protector

<img src="http://images.quizilla.com/N/novemberhorse/1047168577_zprotector.jpg" border="0" alt="HASH(0x871f1e0)"><br>Protector

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Fair 'n Balanced

Meant to put this in earlier, but Mr. IHM (Improv Hatin' Man) has actually Left the Doghouse - his exile was Improperly Based this time - on appeal, his Exile has Been Reversed.

Takes a big woman to admit she's sometimes wrong....Thought I was being slammed on Yet Again - Turns out he was guilty of no more than Bad Punnery.

Had to make amends before his big old solo road trip, commencing tomorrow (sunday, that is). And amend I did. GDW is nothing if not fair, balanced, and eminently thorough.

AN ASIDE - HYPOTHETICALLY SPEAKING, OF COURSE OF COURSE -

is confession really good for the soul? :angel: (Spiritual Chick is on the top of a mountain in upstate New York, awaiting her own private vision - left her cell phone in her other flowing robe, apparently, and just cannot be reached) Or are some things better left unsaid, even to your nearest and dearest? hmmmmmm

"are we talking about it or just speaking about it" - glengarry glen ross

Edit - Fuck the hypothetical. Everyone is entitled to their own thoughts. Thoughts are not actions. Thoughts are thoughts. Actions are actions. Moreover, the past is the past, the future is the future. This applies to ALL OF THOSE THINGS!!!

NO

That's what I'm SAYING.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Beware The Drunken Asshole

FUCK IT. NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR IT. EVEN I BORE AND ANNOY MYSELF.

************

A PERFORMANCE ASIDE -

THE KEY RULE OF PERFORMING =

FULL FUCKING COMMITMENT!!!

DON'T YOU FORGET IT!!

NOTHING LESS WILL DO!

 

[GoldDustWoman]

some notable exceptions to my anti-poetry stance

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats,
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle upon the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin,
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.

For I have known them already, known them all-
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,
I know the voices dying with a dying fall,
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling ton he wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all,
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare,
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie around a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And how should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep... tired... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all," --
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant, at all."
"That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and dooryards and sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worthwhile
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning towards the window, should say:
"That is not it, at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous,
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves,
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,
By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed, red and brown,
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

- T.S. Eliot

************************************
HIS heart that flutters near my heart
My hope and all my riches is,
Unhappy when we draw apart
And happy between kiss and kiss;
My hope and all my riches--yes!--
And all my happiness.

For there, as in some mossy nest
The wrens will divers treasures keep,
I laid those treasures I possessed
Ere that mine eyes had learned to weep.
Shall we not be as wise as they
Though love live but a day?

- James Joyce

***********************************

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas

 

[GoldDustWoman]

Compare 'n Contrast

They say that the order in a woman's purse reflects the order in her life:

CONTENTS OF A SMALLISH HANDBAG: (Not a backpack or tote. A smallish black leather handbag that barely closes.)

Two half-used packs of cigarettes (Parliaments, Dunhill blue. Remember how I quit smoking? Righto.)
Hard eyeglass case.
$21 in wadded-up fives and ones
Palm Pilot and cell phone (missed 2 calls bcs phone at bottom of bag)
Three-month old foil covered chocolate covered date
NY International Pickle Day program + 2 packages pickle salt
Numerous crushed up ATM, Kim's, bank, drugstore and food receipts
Copy of marriage certificate
Flyers for Wet Hot American Summer and local "womyn's" bookstore
Business card case + 7 loose business cards
Xanax
Ginger hand lotion
Cloth purse from Guatemalen women's village collective with credit cards, club cards, matches, Leatherman tool and UCBT student ID good till September
Mini mint Skittles in cool box
Housekeys
2 Metrocards of unknown amounts
Crackerjack tatoo from Fight Night
Stash box with WTC towers on it
Cool wire bracelet from Lane Bryant
Miss Piggy Pez dispenser
Vanilla lip gloss
Pfizer mini-Flashlight
Swarm tatoo
Spare housekeys
2 pencils, 1 pen
Condom/lube (freebie from GMHC)
Floss (Freebie from dentist)
Lipstick, 2 cheap lipglosses
Stamps
WeightWatchers snack bar (Crushed) and candies (Disgusting)
unidentified pain reliever samples (Freebie from MD)
Shampoo samples from Kiehl's (HOWL festival)
BONUS: I just found a folded-up $20

Big Fucking Mess. This is why it's a ten-minute process to ask me for a match. Clearly, time to re-group. Toss the receipts, take down the stray phone numbers, figure out why I have two sets of keys, etc. Try and get a grip. Organization, focus is always something that comes in fits and starts for me.

HOWEVER: When it comes to the improv life I'm leading - THERE EXISTS SOME SEMBLANCE OF ORDER -

I organize my practice groups.
My email lists are all accurate.
I am ALWAYS on time now. People get timely reminders for practice/rehearsals.
My paperwork is in one place for each group/class.
When my teacher says "read this book" or "see this movie" - It gets done. I buy (AND read) the book, I rent the movie, I see the show. (Sat through the ALEC BALDWIN VERSION of "Streetcar Named Desire" just for the freaking dialogue. Sheesh. But I thought I needed to do it, so I did.)
I do my best to actually set aside money for classes.
I AM listening to you, my teachers, my classmates.
I am becoming more evenhanded and patient with others. At the same time, creating my own structure that will keep me from stressing on things.
I take direction and learn lessons, and I SUCK IT UP when it's appropriate to do so.
I want to learn new things - I'm planning on broadening my experience, with different teachers, and in different areas (like sketch).
I want to do standup again, I'm taking my time and writing - and I'm finding places I can test the waters on my own. A rare display of patience and impulse control on my part.
I am attempting to realistically know myself and my level of talent and experience. I'm always open to new opportunities, and I'm never afraid of new players, or new experiences, or new opportunities to play. Yet, I'm wise enough to hang back, assess the situation, and jump when I know I should.
That being said, I'm learning not to hold myself back. It's a subtle difference.
I'm learning how to learn, really.

The way I see it - one or two things can happen. Or, both, if I'm super lucky. Or, not lucky, but smart and good to myself:

1. Use this focus in other parts of your life that need to be better.
2. Focus on parts of your life that are this good. Like this part.

I get the feeling that things can come together. Something's coming, something good. . .

Let's be awake, and let's be careful out there . . .

Let's see.

 

[GoldDustWoman]

if I don't watch out, this will sound like a frigging poem and I HATE poems -

does LOVE mean never having to say -

so, why DID you come back from vacation anyway?
so, why do you say HELLO TO THE CAT FIRST?
I don't know what to do for you anymore -
I can't care just a little bit -
Which TV do you want? The couch? I never liked the couch -
I know I'm not perfect, but I'm trying so hard
jesus christ, I can't fucking RAISE you -
I was EVEN willing to quit doing improv
It's just a matter of respect - I try, I adapt - do you?
I'm just fucking tired. Reruns, reruns, endless reruns.

**************************************

Not that I think it'll be better with some hot busted up comedy guy. Just different. Oh no, not better at all. Not from the standpoint of Practical Girl. But from the view of Libidinous Escapist Masochistic Chick????? Oooooyah.

**************************************

AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH


AAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH

 

[GoldDustWoman]

That's what I'm saying.

No.