Sunday, March 29, 2015

Amanda Bynes is in the freezer aisle

I wake up at 7:30pm. I stumble to the kitchen and open the freezer and pull out the ice cream. I stand, leaning against the counter, eating it. My whole mouth burns it's so cold, and my tongue goes numb.

I dreamed a childhood acquaintance emailed, asking me out on a date. Immediately after, he got engaged to someone else. He emailed again saying we could no longer see each other. Last night, which seems at least three nights ago (was it my mother's birthday yesterday? Was I at Heidi's apartment yesterday? Was I petting Zula, and in the kitchen with leftover enchiladas talking about spirituality, and letting myself out to meet him at the gate yesterday? Was I in that dark, loud place listening to dark, loud music yesterday? Have I really worked an entire shift since then? Is it really the same day, still?) I dreamed a coworker and I started going out, and in the dream she was emotionally vulnerable, which I've never seen her be. I wanted to hold her, like a little bird.

I am noticing the negative thoughts I have. I want to be so clear that if my thoughts were loudspeakered out I'd have no problem. I care less about people knowing certain feelings I have and more about the unbidden diatribe where I thoughtlessly think things, mostly to do with strangers, like this person is an idiot and way to fuck that up. What's up with that?

I hear my roommate walking around, I hear her say "oww." In the kitchen there is a plate with uneaten eggs and traces of mashed potatoes. I know that feeling, when even scrambled eggs hurt to eat. I replace the ice cream in the freezer, where there are about eight other containers also containing ice cream. Häagen-Dazs Peppermint Bark, two of them read, and I think, yum.

I close the door to the freezer and walk back to my room. I close the door to my room and I start to write. It's 8:30pm now. I might just go back to sleep.

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

a notice

A small, hunched over black woman parked her car, windows down, singing along to Carrie Underwood. "I doooooon't even knooooow his last name!" she warbled. As she got out of her car, she started talking, real loud. "If I can find a man, then I can be free to do what I want. Stupid bitch. If I can find a man, then I can stop doing whatever a man tells me to. Ha ha. Stupid bitch! Stupid bitch gotta find a man!" She went on, and on, and on like this. All in the same vein. She was shouting it like she was trying to get me to hear.


His hands as he places them on the steering wheel are very beautiful. This is the thought I have, noticing them. The smoothness of them, the perfect color of the skin. He's talking and I keep wondering what are you afraid of and if you weren't what is it you want.


Across the street from my apartment, a man moved onto the sidewalk. He has a radio and sofa chairs and a homemade bong using a soda bottle and a long, tall straw. There's steam coming out of it and I can smell the grass. He has all kinds of possessions, and he's arranged everything like a living room on the sidewalk and ground facing an empty lot. He sings real loud, but I don't recognize the song.


I'm holding pre-made salads and I'm laughing. At myself, at my feelings, at my imperfection and my desire.


She wrote to her friend in Africa, and I tried to read the message over her shoulder but it was in German and the only word I recognized was gut. If we go it's because of a book and a man and a game he and I played two new years ago. Trisha brought Filipino pastries from a bakery in Eagle Rock and they were sweet and soft and strange-tasting. I mean that as a good thing. The grapes Brett and I bought from El Super were the size of eyeballs and crunchy with seeds.


Everything moves so fast. There is so much to be paying attention to. There is not time to be distracted. Concentrate: an audition, an interview, a date, volunteering. Notes, feedback, reworking, new working, editing, meeting, making, shooting. Print something, read something, think about things. Call people and make music. Co-create, make sure she gets how much you mean it and are behind it. Go to parties, plays, see your father, do your homework, do your taxes, check your tires, go to work, taste things, cook the fresh vegetables that sit in your kitchen and eat the fruit. Not all poetry is useful poetry. Mandy Patinkon said it: I don't know, I don't need to know, forgettabout it, just shut up and keep swimming. A song plays: what a beautiful life, what a beautiful world.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

merely players

Speak Easy Mag is a (fairly) new online journal, and they’re awesome, and they just published a personal essay I wrote last summer about acting and theater, but/and/also the ephemeral nature of everything, of which theater is just an amplified microcosm. We have our exits and our entrances. It goes on, until it doesn't. Things are there. Until they're not.

(perfect gorgeous illustration by Rachel Wheeler)