(no subject)
I finally got a copy of the DVD from the NYC poetry trip last year.
I can't believe it's been a year.
I don't like to think about it.
It hurts to think of anything that good not being constant.
It wasn't even the poetry, per se. But New York.
But the poetry was always good.
Well, not always.
It's been so long since I've done anything. Since I've been thrust into theatre by accident.
It's not that much of a change.
I'm behind the scenes. Or reading someone else's words.
At least there is no soul-crushing fear in theatre. I enjoy it.
It's just weird to think that that stage in my life is basically over.
The club disintergrated. New York City is far, far away.
All I have is this dvd of me, rushing my words with a lisp I never noticed before. With the creepy guy who made it only highlighting my bit about porn, and nothing else.
All I have is this dvd of me, fucking up one part and stuttering over the next.
And the words, still floating around in my head. I think I'll know them until I die.
Last year was the year of poetry. This year is the year of drama.
The year before was the year of nothing and car accidents. The year before that was the year of friends I now hate and Wal-mart.
Like the photographer in this book I'm reading.
Just give me progress.
Flash.
Give me patience.
Flash.
Give me rhymed meter.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Flash.
I can't believe it's been a year.
I don't like to think about it.
It hurts to think of anything that good not being constant.
It wasn't even the poetry, per se. But New York.
But the poetry was always good.
Well, not always.
It's been so long since I've done anything. Since I've been thrust into theatre by accident.
It's not that much of a change.
I'm behind the scenes. Or reading someone else's words.
At least there is no soul-crushing fear in theatre. I enjoy it.
It's just weird to think that that stage in my life is basically over.
The club disintergrated. New York City is far, far away.
All I have is this dvd of me, rushing my words with a lisp I never noticed before. With the creepy guy who made it only highlighting my bit about porn, and nothing else.
All I have is this dvd of me, fucking up one part and stuttering over the next.
And the words, still floating around in my head. I think I'll know them until I die.
Last year was the year of poetry. This year is the year of drama.
The year before was the year of nothing and car accidents. The year before that was the year of friends I now hate and Wal-mart.
Like the photographer in this book I'm reading.
Just give me progress.
Flash.
Give me patience.
Flash.
Give me rhymed meter.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Flash.