Since making my "Books" posts last week, I've been re-reading some of James Ellroy's essays. Ellroy jacks me up in weird ways. It gets my brain jazzed up on a staccato beat. I buzz into a dark wet place. I observe the world through glasses of sharpened glass. It sends me hardcore into the present. I want to write long liturgies of loving alliteration.
I bought a kabob pita in the Village to eat at home. It leaks its white juices on the subway home. I get weird about it. Self-consciously I try to hide the fact that my brown paper bag is growing a wet spot of tahini.
I have special spot at every subway stop to wait for the train. They lead me right to the stair at my destination. At the Brooklyn bound Q Canal station, the spot is marked. Sometime this summer, as they spread hot tar unto the street above, the tar dripped down. I witnessed it once. Long thing drips of black goo occasionally falling from above. My special spot is no littered with dried tar strips. They look like a pile of giant leeches now.
A girl on the Q grips the center pole. She looks tired and beaten by the night. Not drunk, just close to destroyed by the city.
I am finding it hard to write about things as of late. At least here. The things I am thinking about aren't blog material. They aren't things of which I am ashamed. Far from it. But, even in the abstract, they are personal. To even whisper of them gives too much of myself away. I should write about the past but it holds little interest for me. And even my choice of past events to write about would say too much about my Now.
I am beginning to expect the my view on improv differs from 95% of the improv community. I am also starting to take myself too seriously.
I hold pride in my ability to play devil's advocate. I was once called out on it. Someone close to me said that it showed I had no opinion of my own. Bullshit. I feel strongly enough about things to not want to hold my opinions blindly.
I don't believe people think about language enough. Not other languages, but their own.
I hate shows that are run poorly. It takes so little effort to do it right.
Obama has already tried to sell me a first edition Obama-Biden magnet... twice. I can't imagine how much DNC spam I will get during the convention. I also couldn't give a crap about how many homes McCain has or doesn't have or how he answered the question. If he had answered it and answered wrong, they would be all over him. Let's get some damn discourse back.
I must have the ability to ignore huge portions of my brain/body. I give them little though for 17 months and then, once they get turned back on, I can think of little else.
Russia's The Dead Hand
8 years ago