Inaction
I am not going to tell you about my act. I am not going to tell you about my act. Seriously, I am not interested in building up a whole lot of anticipation only to injure myself or get sick at the last minute. I don't want to stand in another audience at another Hubba watching Miss Information skip the card with my name on it and explaining why I am not on stage.
I am rehearsing. It seems to be going well. It could still go terribly wrong. That is all. Pretend that I didn't even write this much. If I show up thirty feet above the dance floor at the show a few weeks from now, have the courtesy to look surprised.
When I wasn't rehearsing this week, I went to shows. I have seen the Lords of Acid/Thrill Kill Kult show, which was an alarmingly-crowded little slice of 1994. I got squished between hairy, sweaty, unwashed fans of nineties industrial music and wondered why the dessicated Praga Khan looked so much like Andy Warhol. I hesitate to describe the show as "good," but it was high energy and fun. I went to Mortified, which only featured one reader I had already heard before. Teenage poetry was read. Teenage song lyrics were sung. Guitars were strummed. Acts of beat boxing were committed. I winced as only a person who wrote a lot of teenage poetry can wince. In a fit of inhuman snarkiness, I began to compose teenage diary entries for people I know. I will not share these because I would like to keep my friends. I did not attend the pirate-themed Bootie/Hubba Hubba Revue. I meant to! I had fine intentions. Unfortunately, those intentions dissolved on contact with China Mieville's Kraken, which is a novel about eldritch squid-worshippers in London. I sat on the patio at Waterbar, where I managed to get my first sunburn in many years. I went to the Crucible fire cabaret with S, which was an orgy of aerialist geekery: two tissu performers, a stationary trapeze, Jenny on the cloud swing hanging from a crane that moved her around the room, and a fantastic doubles lyra act. There may have also been a jazz singer and some contortion and acrobatics and I thought I saw a firedancer.
Tonight the tiny little Russian woman at the Very Serious Circus School will spend some time trying to kill me, and then I will write monologues for a computer in the desert. Tomorrow, I will rehearse some more. And I'm not telling you about it. Not at all.
I am rehearsing. It seems to be going well. It could still go terribly wrong. That is all. Pretend that I didn't even write this much. If I show up thirty feet above the dance floor at the show a few weeks from now, have the courtesy to look surprised.
When I wasn't rehearsing this week, I went to shows. I have seen the Lords of Acid/Thrill Kill Kult show, which was an alarmingly-crowded little slice of 1994. I got squished between hairy, sweaty, unwashed fans of nineties industrial music and wondered why the dessicated Praga Khan looked so much like Andy Warhol. I hesitate to describe the show as "good," but it was high energy and fun. I went to Mortified, which only featured one reader I had already heard before. Teenage poetry was read. Teenage song lyrics were sung. Guitars were strummed. Acts of beat boxing were committed. I winced as only a person who wrote a lot of teenage poetry can wince. In a fit of inhuman snarkiness, I began to compose teenage diary entries for people I know. I will not share these because I would like to keep my friends. I did not attend the pirate-themed Bootie/Hubba Hubba Revue. I meant to! I had fine intentions. Unfortunately, those intentions dissolved on contact with China Mieville's Kraken, which is a novel about eldritch squid-worshippers in London. I sat on the patio at Waterbar, where I managed to get my first sunburn in many years. I went to the Crucible fire cabaret with S, which was an orgy of aerialist geekery: two tissu performers, a stationary trapeze, Jenny on the cloud swing hanging from a crane that moved her around the room, and a fantastic doubles lyra act. There may have also been a jazz singer and some contortion and acrobatics and I thought I saw a firedancer.
Tonight the tiny little Russian woman at the Very Serious Circus School will spend some time trying to kill me, and then I will write monologues for a computer in the desert. Tomorrow, I will rehearse some more. And I'm not telling you about it. Not at all.