Parla italiano?
Si? Allora: http://www.radio.rai.it/radio2/amnesia/
One of the best radio programmes out there.
"Ogni volta e la prima volta" "Each time is the first time"
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Kernel
This is the centerpiece of ... something I am writing. I don't know exactly what yet. So far, it is about an encounter between two people and all the possibilities that come from their meeting. Based on my life? Yeah, very much so.
"Up From Under"
- How I said the 'L' word
ONE: You know what? That's alright. Because I said what has been eating me from the inside out and, damn it, it feels good to get it out. You don't have to say anything back. And, frankly, I didn't expect you to. And this place, this place and you, aren't exactly the way I'd imagined but I had to say it. I had to say that I love you because I do. And I've been fighting against myself for weeks.
(pause) And trust me, this isn't something I've looked forward to telling you. I knew it would be a mess and I would piss around and avoid it for as long as possible. It wasn't a burst of happiness or a huge feeling of satisfaction I just had to share with you. It hurts and it is awful. It has ruined me a little. And now it makes me worry because I have given you a piece of me and who knows what you'll do with it. Will you take it with you if you run off with someone else? Will you give yourself back to me? Or ... will that part of me die there and we will both have to give up? I don't know. But I can hope.
(line cut by OTHER)
You can't say it back. It hurts, a little, but you know? That's alright! Because when you figure it out and it boils in your heart and you have to tell me, I'll listen. And we'll be worse off then we were before. Won't that be perfect.
It is quite a gloomy outlook on the whole thing. But I am so sick of the moon, spoon, June that I needed to write something about that unshakable ache that being in love gives you. Or, that feeling of needing to give a secret and not being able to.
"Up From Under"
- How I said the 'L' word
ONE: You know what? That's alright. Because I said what has been eating me from the inside out and, damn it, it feels good to get it out. You don't have to say anything back. And, frankly, I didn't expect you to. And this place, this place and you, aren't exactly the way I'd imagined but I had to say it. I had to say that I love you because I do. And I've been fighting against myself for weeks.
(pause) And trust me, this isn't something I've looked forward to telling you. I knew it would be a mess and I would piss around and avoid it for as long as possible. It wasn't a burst of happiness or a huge feeling of satisfaction I just had to share with you. It hurts and it is awful. It has ruined me a little. And now it makes me worry because I have given you a piece of me and who knows what you'll do with it. Will you take it with you if you run off with someone else? Will you give yourself back to me? Or ... will that part of me die there and we will both have to give up? I don't know. But I can hope.
(line cut by OTHER)
You can't say it back. It hurts, a little, but you know? That's alright! Because when you figure it out and it boils in your heart and you have to tell me, I'll listen. And we'll be worse off then we were before. Won't that be perfect.
It is quite a gloomy outlook on the whole thing. But I am so sick of the moon, spoon, June that I needed to write something about that unshakable ache that being in love gives you. Or, that feeling of needing to give a secret and not being able to.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Great
Isn't it wonderful when you have a moment when you stop doing and start being? I was brushing my teeth this morning and was suddenly hit with the realization of the fact that I am alive. I am a living being.
So, no. Maybe this is not a life-changing epiphany. But, damn, is it nice to know. No matter what happens to my poor little ego, I will always be able to breathe and my body will still be warm. And what possibilities come with being alive! Really: what on earth can't I do? I'm just, perhaps, not willing to do some of it, or waiting to be ready to do others.
Aren't we lucky to be here? You and me? To have loves that brings us to our knees and makes time invisible. Even to eat, and to be kissed, and to laugh! Oh, goodness. Even to fall and bleed. To make friends and to find enemies.
How is it that my blog entries start off semi-normal and end up being very obnoxious rants where I wax poetic about nearly everything? I am so silly. My muse is probably a Sapphic re-incarnate...
Today I did the best in-character imporov that I have ever done. The whole situation felt very real and I fell into the character as one does with a script. You know that feeling? When everything feels dangerous and real, but the sliver of the actor left in you feels safe knowing where this scene is going to go. Roughly. The rest is up to greatness.
So, no. Maybe this is not a life-changing epiphany. But, damn, is it nice to know. No matter what happens to my poor little ego, I will always be able to breathe and my body will still be warm. And what possibilities come with being alive! Really: what on earth can't I do? I'm just, perhaps, not willing to do some of it, or waiting to be ready to do others.
Aren't we lucky to be here? You and me? To have loves that brings us to our knees and makes time invisible. Even to eat, and to be kissed, and to laugh! Oh, goodness. Even to fall and bleed. To make friends and to find enemies.
How is it that my blog entries start off semi-normal and end up being very obnoxious rants where I wax poetic about nearly everything? I am so silly. My muse is probably a Sapphic re-incarnate...
Today I did the best in-character imporov that I have ever done. The whole situation felt very real and I fell into the character as one does with a script. You know that feeling? When everything feels dangerous and real, but the sliver of the actor left in you feels safe knowing where this scene is going to go. Roughly. The rest is up to greatness.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Ciel
Si je tire, et tire encore, qu'es ce que passerais?
Si j'oublis de tirer,
encore, quoi?
Je te pousse, et pousse encore.
Presque jamais tu en ai besoin d'un pousse.
Et comme une bombe, comme une grande tirage:
Je sais que je suis amoureux.
Encore, je pousse. Sur ton dos, et tu tires a mon coer.
REGARDE-MOI! Dit-moi quelque chose, n'importe quoi, de vrai.
Parce que, mon beau, mon ciel, je ne te crai jamais.
Si j'oublis de tirer,
encore, quoi?
Je te pousse, et pousse encore.
Presque jamais tu en ai besoin d'un pousse.
Et comme une bombe, comme une grande tirage:
Je sais que je suis amoureux.
Encore, je pousse. Sur ton dos, et tu tires a mon coer.
REGARDE-MOI! Dit-moi quelque chose, n'importe quoi, de vrai.
Parce que, mon beau, mon ciel, je ne te crai jamais.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Book
I came from the bookstore and then the library smelling of stale thoughts and antique ink. Books are sense-bending beauties with spines that crack and pages that thin and yellow. Flip pages flip flip.
And I bought a book that I have read so much, but never enough to catch everything. That is the beauty of the book. I write this in a room of books & pages and stories. There is so much I have to know. Only now am I finding the confidence to read it all.
When I read, I can feel the whole of my brain become full again, lit up and ready. My body tingles and I am ready for anything. Is there anything both so solitary and social than reading? I have said hello to the dead and lived with them for a moment.
Time has become nothing. Sometimes I can make it swing forward or stop dead. It is nothing. So much that is supposed to be important to me has become fiction. Time is not real. Money is not real. And I am barely here.
Who am I to write this? To write any of this? Not one moment is mine. You don't notice wind until it picks up a leaf.
So, leaves, LIFT! Let yourself fall up into the currents of air that have never left you.
I now return to hold the soul of a man who I will never know. Flip pages flip flip.
And I bought a book that I have read so much, but never enough to catch everything. That is the beauty of the book. I write this in a room of books & pages and stories. There is so much I have to know. Only now am I finding the confidence to read it all.
When I read, I can feel the whole of my brain become full again, lit up and ready. My body tingles and I am ready for anything. Is there anything both so solitary and social than reading? I have said hello to the dead and lived with them for a moment.
Time has become nothing. Sometimes I can make it swing forward or stop dead. It is nothing. So much that is supposed to be important to me has become fiction. Time is not real. Money is not real. And I am barely here.
Who am I to write this? To write any of this? Not one moment is mine. You don't notice wind until it picks up a leaf.
So, leaves, LIFT! Let yourself fall up into the currents of air that have never left you.
I now return to hold the soul of a man who I will never know. Flip pages flip flip.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Hold
There are so many things that really should be said. But they hold no meaning.
Not for me, anyways.
There are things that need to be said. Now. They hold my whole being and squeeze.
And threaten to make me burst.
You can't hear me, anyways.
Empty pilgrim, solamente una macchina. Seulment une machine.
Knock, shake, hold.
Are you listening?
[reflections on C, from 2002, edit. 2009]
Not for me, anyways.
There are things that need to be said. Now. They hold my whole being and squeeze.
And threaten to make me burst.
You can't hear me, anyways.
Empty pilgrim, solamente una macchina. Seulment une machine.
Knock, shake, hold.
Are you listening?
[reflections on C, from 2002, edit. 2009]
Monday, March 9, 2009
Chances
In school, I am always told that mine is the generation that will make everything change. We are on the brink of something big, and it is our time to make things better.
No pressure.
We learn about the philosophers and the writers, the Angry Young Men that lived and wrote and died before us. We study them in class now, and for a moment, in my plush lecture seat, my heart races and my blood rises and I feel the push of revolution deep inside me. I know what we will do. We will write, and talk and we will be a voice in the thousands-year long conversation of the undying young. Our voice will carry in to the textbooks of our great-grandchildren, and people will hear our words and feel the rushing call to words as we did. And then, the lecture is over.
My ideas, the plays and words in my head still tug at my as forgotten children do. "Will you not show me?" they say, "Will you not let me live?" It aches. It aches and pulls too hard to let them die and float away. Some days I try to give them life on the page. Sometimes, they are half-formed, tragic. Little wretches I have forgotten to love. I am sorry, beauties.
When assignments and groceries occupy the time and my world, I let them go. And I mourn them. Sometimes the sadness is crushing. My stillborn thoughts.
But, sometimes, they stay. They live and thrive in a deep corner of my self. So, stubborn, they push out of my head like Athena and INSIST on being real. "WRITE ME! I AM ALIVE. Let me live." And they push out of my head and force pen to paper, fingers to keys. And I am the flute that the wind blows through. The music is never mine.
And sometimes, they push into every corner of me and I become a new being. They slip into my skin like a glove, and I die. I leave my body. I am no longer what I ever was before. I die, and I go, and there they are. And when it is over, I fall back into my skin, cold.
I am never trying to take chances to make change. And I am never striving to be the new voice. But sometimes, the voice holds my throat still and sings a note through my lips.
I am the flute that the wind blows through. The music is never mine.
No pressure.
We learn about the philosophers and the writers, the Angry Young Men that lived and wrote and died before us. We study them in class now, and for a moment, in my plush lecture seat, my heart races and my blood rises and I feel the push of revolution deep inside me. I know what we will do. We will write, and talk and we will be a voice in the thousands-year long conversation of the undying young. Our voice will carry in to the textbooks of our great-grandchildren, and people will hear our words and feel the rushing call to words as we did. And then, the lecture is over.
My ideas, the plays and words in my head still tug at my as forgotten children do. "Will you not show me?" they say, "Will you not let me live?" It aches. It aches and pulls too hard to let them die and float away. Some days I try to give them life on the page. Sometimes, they are half-formed, tragic. Little wretches I have forgotten to love. I am sorry, beauties.
When assignments and groceries occupy the time and my world, I let them go. And I mourn them. Sometimes the sadness is crushing. My stillborn thoughts.
But, sometimes, they stay. They live and thrive in a deep corner of my self. So, stubborn, they push out of my head like Athena and INSIST on being real. "WRITE ME! I AM ALIVE. Let me live." And they push out of my head and force pen to paper, fingers to keys. And I am the flute that the wind blows through. The music is never mine.
And sometimes, they push into every corner of me and I become a new being. They slip into my skin like a glove, and I die. I leave my body. I am no longer what I ever was before. I die, and I go, and there they are. And when it is over, I fall back into my skin, cold.
I am never trying to take chances to make change. And I am never striving to be the new voice. But sometimes, the voice holds my throat still and sings a note through my lips.
I am the flute that the wind blows through. The music is never mine.
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