(no subject)
Memphis is a big bowl of crap.
all the teachers are too uptight. i should go somewhere more open minded, like Pennland (spelling?), which isn't a school but an artist colony. maybe i should go to the Bread and Puppet company in Vermont, learn what i can there. maybe i should take a year off, join a sailing crew. maybe i should take the rest of my life off, be a sailor until i'm dead.
i'm hoping i can live in Jackson this summer. maybe help Brent with the Theater, or New Stage.
i'm just like Yambo the book dealer these days. he's the main charcter in Umberto Eco's "the mysterious flame of queen loana". a sixty-something antique book dealer who's lost his emotional memories so he speaks in literary quotes and historical references, searching desperately through his childhood home to somehow regain his memory. a picture on the wall may bring a vulva to his mind but he doesn't know why, he discovers his long strange obsession with fog, and each time he encounters something he should recognize and doesn't, he experience a twinge, a mysterious flame, as if the memory is trying to come to him but then slips away.
I'm just like him. i can't talk to anybody about anything having to do with me. i'm all technique and smarts and no feeling. nobody else has a right to what i feel except me, but not always me.
i knew i was ennuiboy for a reason.
I guess Andrew's right, though. I am alive.
all the teachers are too uptight. i should go somewhere more open minded, like Pennland (spelling?), which isn't a school but an artist colony. maybe i should go to the Bread and Puppet company in Vermont, learn what i can there. maybe i should take a year off, join a sailing crew. maybe i should take the rest of my life off, be a sailor until i'm dead.
i'm hoping i can live in Jackson this summer. maybe help Brent with the Theater, or New Stage.
i'm just like Yambo the book dealer these days. he's the main charcter in Umberto Eco's "the mysterious flame of queen loana". a sixty-something antique book dealer who's lost his emotional memories so he speaks in literary quotes and historical references, searching desperately through his childhood home to somehow regain his memory. a picture on the wall may bring a vulva to his mind but he doesn't know why, he discovers his long strange obsession with fog, and each time he encounters something he should recognize and doesn't, he experience a twinge, a mysterious flame, as if the memory is trying to come to him but then slips away.
I'm just like him. i can't talk to anybody about anything having to do with me. i'm all technique and smarts and no feeling. nobody else has a right to what i feel except me, but not always me.
i knew i was ennuiboy for a reason.
I guess Andrew's right, though. I am alive.