On love, In sadness

It is another reality.
I do not want to go home.
At all.
Work, college, money, high school and a gaggle of other things will soon swim furiously in my mind. The conscious Id, even though a conscious Id isn't really possible, in my soul protests whenever these topics litter my mind.
Independence is truly beautiful.
I read a poem that described touching the sky as "purple-black velvet, speckled with tiny diamonds." Or something like that. Seventy five other individuals have probably interperted the sky as a disgusting, cheap, fabric. The sky is not an ugly prom dress. It is classier than something worn in a sweaty high school gym on an expected right of passage into the world. Something never to be worn again, for lack of a purpose and lack of pride. It will rot in the back of the closet and rediscovered by a mother years later and then pawned off at a garage sale or send to Goodwill or Savers or perhaps turned into a stylish coat for a tiny dog or a fancy dish rag. Would the sky really feel like "velvet?" I think not. The stars wouldn't be diamonds. The stars would burn. The stars do burn. Blue. White. Yellow. The sky is simply nothing. A fabulous nothing. No one ever aspires to be "nothing" among the masses but the sky does a really lovely job of simply being a cloak of nothing, a cap of numbness. Perhaps because the sky is singular and therefore it is the masses.

Goodbye. Charlotte's Web style always depressed me.

Ahhhh..."on love, in sadness"

The sky was wonderful last night. Sitting on dewy grass for an embarassing amount of time, I absorbed the beauty of the impending storm that I never witnessed. Frightening yet intoxicatingly wonderful. Rather like theater.

In the early hours of the morning I visited sections of Eqqus. Even a year after first devouring the play it still leaves a creepy taste in my mouth. I was reading an essay (it is escapes me who wrote it, but I think it was David Mamet) about the dangers of acting in the theater. Not the sterotypical danger of vulnerable actors falling into alcohol, debt, Eugene O'Neil (ahh love!) and depression but about the danger of portraying a character that contemplates extreme emotions and motivations. In the case of Eqqus, playing the role of Alan, the seventeen year old boy, would be "dangerous" because of the emotions that the actor needs to inspire within his/herself in order to effectivly portray the role. The emotion of worshiping a hybrid Jesus Christ/Horse religion, hate (not to difficult for some) and feeling inspired enough to stab horses in the eyes. How bizarre, to truly experience and be present within oneself when portraying a character like that, it is frightenly amazing (sort of) what the human soul can regurgitate. Or Jerry in The Zoo Story, another play that still leaves me with a creepy sour taste in my mouth, in a good way. If all of the characters ever concieved in theater were put into a circle Jerry and Alan would be on the outskirts. But perhaps not. Individuals come to the theater to see and experience extreme emotions and situations, so perhaps it must be within an actors soul to be able to handle that danger and convey it efficiently. That's why theater is beautiful, one of the many reasons.

There should be an individual that is avalible for the purpose of simply listening. Not a therapist, perhaps an unconscious faux-therapist. Not for spilling the talkers soul or confessing their deepest secret but simply to talk to. For all of those individuals that are lonely. It really is my own fault. There are people that I could talk to, but I am just anti-social and a poor conversationalist. A very poor conversationalist. I will probably wander the earth as a vagabond, I will not want the term "vagabond" but I will simply earn this title because I cannot speak. I also like this word. Even though a vagabond has nothing to directly do with speech. It isn't a word that I am able to use very often, either because it doesn't really come up in conversation or perhaps it routes back to the fact that I don't have many conversations. When I do speak to people, I wonder if they really are intersted in speaking with me or if they just feel sorry for me. I know that I can have a conversation, maybe even a kind of intersting conversation but then my poor conversation skills kick in and I say something absurd. Argghh. If I were a man, I bet this would be a good back story for Jerry in The Zoo Story, he has to connect with something. If I ever end up behaving like Jerry I will hopefully realize this and have a good conversation with Ame*lie* about the trees in Owen park at midnight, Dave, locusts, seeing different colors, Bright Eyes, family, forensics, beautiful John Lennon look alike, UWEC happenings, Russ Feingold, the effects of my newspaper mache' obsession, the third ward, stars, the little prince, peonies, wisdom teeth (and chewing on rocks as a child) Nick Drake, the Wilson park fountain, the wonder of Acoustic and an assortment of other things. I am having a problem with parallel structure. Even if I am not having very many social conversations I feel as though I am getting alot out of being here. I love it here. I really love it here. I do not want to go back to Eau Claire.

Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
Love.

Ame*lie* and John and David and Conrad make me happy.
Thank you.

"There was a cabaret and there was a master of ceremonies and there was a city called Berlin...and I was dancing with Sally Bowels (bowals? Bowles? I haven't an idea) and we were both fast asleep..."

Owl.
Mysterous.
Cosmoplitan, in a woods-esque sense.
Confident.
Outcast.

Emersed in theater, learning, failing, scripts, love, performances, performing, walking, exploring, looking, highlighters, grass stains, bare feet, speaking, sun shine, rain, and knowledge. That was really poor parallel structure.

Thank you.