what propels the journey? the journey of this play i am going to - supposed to - create. i am supposed to act like god and decide what happens to everyone in this little world that i have made.


meanwhile, i think i might have make a play about theatre vs. sorority girl - show everyone that all of my preoccupation with sisterhood has really been research. why does everyone want a piece of my time? like 4 oatmeal cookies in a class of 5, there just aren't enough to go around - and no one wants to eat just half... this reminds me of a comic strip from calvin and hobbes.

this is how i feel... like there are so many pressures that are no longer allowing me to be innocent, have fun, imagine. all of the stress of trying to create something is squelching the one thing i need in order to create. my imagination. i want to see my tiger again.

touche rilke, sure if it's ment to be there, it will grow - be fostered, and if not it shall fall away and perish, shrivled and forgotten on the floor. how great that sounds, how - poetic. i, however, disagree, not just becuase of the friends i've seen, wrists dancing on the edges of razor blades - attempting to slice into that part of them that just wouldn't grow, or grew too fast and like ivy on a tree, left them strangled, suffocated, covered.

i also disagree becuase of those i've seen chasing with lungs full of determination and pride toward and ending that wasn't written for them, but to which it would be inevitably bestowed, a degree labled M.D. that will provide the lost pianist a lifetime of medical malpractice.

so, shall i wait to see what will become of me? shall i see which layers of my onion's core make my eyes water harshest? or shall i chose for myself? free will motherfucker - let me do what i want to, and end up where i choose? why wait to be peeled when it's the juice you want anyways?

Dig...
trust me.

Dig.
nono, not too fast.
Dig.
feel anything yet?

Dig, dig....
go deeper. the well of life! get it
Dig, dig deep..
dig deeper deeper DEEPER DEEPER.


oops. i think you knicked a piece of soul.

Stressless art.

i wasn't meant to be a writer i suppose. "if i couldn't write... i'd die?!" nonono. if i couldn't write, i'd, well, i'd talk. I do more of that anyway. Why does art have to be so stressful?

Seriously, the stress level of what art has become, especially as far as what i've experienced, is so high, i'm quite surprised we haven't lost more great artists to strokes and heart attacks instead of overdoses and suicides (or maybe they came first... stress does in fact cause need for escape).

Does great art need to scare you to your core, shake you out of reality, stir the inner-most private piece of you? i guess it does to have any true effect... i mean, how the fuck can you expect to shake someone elses world to a point of outlandish catharsis without first getting that jolt to your own sub-level soul.

Maybe there's no such thing as stressless art... why, why can't it be?

My First BLOG! (i hope it works!)

Hokay: Heeeere we go! If... if I have actually done this correctly (and knowing my lack of computer skills, I would not be too surprised if the answer to aforementioned question is a resounding "NO!") someone out there is reading this right now. That is also provided my letters and words have not flown away into the never-ending web of cyberspace that has already stolen more of my work than I'd care to admit. ANYWHO, 'tis time for me to "post?" (I suppose that is the correct term) my work from class on monday. I hope you enjoy.

As I said before, most things that I write end up being some crazy-ass stream of consciousness thing that I hope you don't mind... I also hope you readers are not against ellipses, quotation marks, parenthesis, and the ever-useful-and-never-disappointing hyphen.

From a covered past to a naked present... the goals?

Comfort.Knowledge. Understanding. Clarity. Trancendence. Transparency??

From a covered past to a naked present... but don't go too far or you'll be invisible.

transparent. clear. defined...

We all seek definition - a definition of self.

Can we get it through being transparent?

Can your solid truth be as effervescent as a single strand of silk.

And that's all she wrote. Till nexttime.