Six hours never felt longer.
The wind laughed at me as it rustled through the spider web branches. The sun would have giggled too, if it had not been shaded by the impressionist like clouds. I am envious of the leaves. It would be lovely to be a leaf for a short while. Sucked dry of my green pigments from the cacaphanous chaos of fall and left to fry and freeze in the December month. But, not like a raisin that was formerly a grape that now rots hard in the back of the cupboard. I am a leaf, not a raisin. Nor do I wish to be a prune.
I have to do it again tommorrow.
I don't mean to complain. I strongly dislike the speech that is classified as "complaining."
But, tommorrow I wish not to go there. I wish to dissolve into my work, to reading Mamet, to rehearsing The Shadow Box, to French impressionist art, to psychology, to writing, to walking on the lovely streets downtown, to drinking tea, to John Coltrane, to love, to reading good literature, to individuals that care, to joy, to freedom, to tommorrow.
I have been sick for one month. This little virus that has shacked up in my immune system had a fiesta over Thanksgiving and now has an epic hang-over, the one-month long hang over of the annoying, slowly eating away at my lungs virus. The next time I cough I hope to hack out the little mucus laden creature, if this happens I will promptly crush the little creature with whatever is within reach. I expect that he will not be feeling very well, he has been hung over for a month.
Rufus Wainwright is amazing. Paris, Chocolate milk, poses, ahhhh.......
Cheers to love.
Cheers to those who do not hate.
Cheers to Spaulding Gray.
Cheers to those who say "thank you."
Cheers to John Coltrane, Miles too.
Cheers to snow.
Hope to raisins at the back of cupboards.
Prunes too.
Cheers to water.
Cheers to cough drops.
Cheers to art.
Good karma to leaves.
Cheers to tommorrow.

Snow. Beautiful. The chaotic clumps; a mass of love floating down.
Listening to a slosh of Dave and acoustic Mraz is like nicotine for my soul
Reading Stanislavski is amazing. Yet in contrast reading David Mamet and his dismissal of the Stanislavski method is also interesting. Both are brilliant. I have been reading them both constantly since yesterday morning, when I have a spare moment.
"We were excited as we waited for our first lesson with the Director, Tortsov, today."
Love. It amused me that he capitalized "Director" the same punctuation occurs when the word "God" is mentioned.
I would love to go to Vassar this summer. It would be an amazing experience; grueling, challenging and difficult but it would be worth it.
Talking with Angie last night about Manahattan and college and life was fabulous. She lives a gorgeously exciting life. Giddiness took over my soul as she described living in the upper East side, taking the subway, and the people and the amibance of New York.
I didn't think he had blue eyes. It was like discovering a few one-dollar bills or a five in the pocket of a winter coat. I once put twently dollars in my winter coat pocket so I could discover it the next winter. bizarre yet amusing.
I knew that he had brown eyes. The air around him whispered that he had brown eyes. It didn't surprise me. Brown eyes. A color of mystery. One would believe brown to be trusting yet either hazel, green, grey or other hues swirl beneath. Brown is a trusting color. Once I read that individuals tend to trust those who wear brown. Brown has character; secrets. One cannot be simply "brown" if one were to be simply "brown" they would have an occipatal component nor would they have a temperal component, no love, no life, no vibrance. That is what makes brown so beautiful. Other colors and lusters that create the beauty that is brown, nothing is simple with brown. I fall into the brown. Even brown can be exotic. I read a monologue about swimming in one's eyes. I wish to fall into his eyes, his soul. To nestle there and be content in his aura.
I am not brown. I have blue eyes. My mother's are green.
Orange jucie pulp.
"I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being"
-Thornton Wilder
look.

I had a mission. A dozen eggs, skim milk and orange juice. I approached the juice area illuminated by the piercing fluorescent lights. Some pulp. No pulp. 100% pulp. From Concentrate, no pulp. Fourth pulp. Half pulp. Isn't oranage juice supposed to have pulp?
Orange juice without pulp is like a human being without a soul.
Love!