Art is not real life, not is it even it’s reflection. Art is in itself a creator, it creates its own life, beautiful in its abstraction, beyond the limits of time and space.
Coquelin (School of Representation)
How is it that one person can be both a mind without a voice and a voice without a mind.
6/20
My chest feels vulnerable to stabbing. Last night I went to a movie. In the darkness, sitting upon a laddered row, I rubbed the bald man’s head in front of me like a good luck accident. I leaned slightly towards the man sitting next to me. I listened as he talked to his girlfriend and in my head responded better than she. Today I drank a mimosa at our Fatherless day brunch. It left me with a headache. The man sitting next to us was white, he sat across a beautiful black woman. The man was missing his left arm. I feel rejected and betrayed by all the men in the life. This is a shame. What is true is that I am alone. Drawn by an artist with a sense of humor. Drawn to them, and wanting, and why? What is true.
I get excited about people when i think of every person as an artist of something
I want to go to sleep and not wake up until I’m happy
Depression
Please, please I want to be a prostitute. Mayme, in “Intimate Apparel
hopeful me
Does it make you want to vomit?
Yes?
Then it’s good art.
Beth Wilmurt said she was sick to her stomach the first two weeks of starring in “God’s Ear” at the Shotgun Theater in Berkeley, Ca. She plays a mother grieving the death of her six year old son. He drowned outside while she was in the house. She talks in cliche phrases and echos. She is unreachable until the very end of the play.
After I saw her scream her emotion in a raspy, hollow tone, her mouth looking like the one in Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream, I felt sick too; although it very well could have been the birth control I had for dinner. “Closed mouths never get fed?”, hey there is one of those cliches from the play.
I was in a rush to get the theater on time, in which case it is not “better to be late than never.”
So anyway I felt sick leaving the theater, tears drying on my cheeks for the grief but also the work. The painstaking work that this ACTress had to do, has to do, to do a role like that. Always on stage, tongue twisting, emotional deep as the pool her son drowned in; a journey that is visible from beginning to end, and comedic timing! (did i mention it’s a comedy?) all this while the audience laughs at the absurd language. Hard work.
“I’m so ready to quit acting” she said though I didn’t want to believe her. And then I imagined myself doing it and I couldn’t imagine getting through it. It is hard, hard work and anyone that believes different just doesn’t know that to seem out of your mind takes technique as well as letting go. I don’t really know what that means but I want to gain the experience and the training so I can know.
And I know that the more you know the less you know, and that knowing is half the battle, and No way jose!, and not in my house, and take it to the house, and a house is not a home, and home home on the range, and ride em cowboy!, but don’t have a cow, and holy cow, and I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.
She People
The grass is so in need of trimming it has forgotten which way to grow. Smell the stems of rosemary and the trace of mint growing in it’s afternoon shadow. She wades through the teased strands of green to the opposite side of the yard; to the roses. The rose heads fan their petals as she inspects them carefully. She choses and open face and swiftly snaps it’s long neck from the bush. “Sorry” slips out of some voice in her head, one most likely influenced by the ageless hippies she spent summers with in the Trinity Alps. “Make me an Angel, that flies from Montgomery” she sings, placing the white rose above her ear, knowing that its presence makes her resemblance to Billie Holiday that much more apparent. Her red shorts hug her hips high. She tip toes back to the house, it’s ruby grapefruit color glowing like a sunset. She swoops up a handful of mint on her way, excitingly swaying her hips for the promise of mojitos. She drinks.
Eleanore’s yellow vw bug wears it’s age in rust stains along its mid section. Eleanore wears a black turtle neck that accentuates the sharp angles at her shoulders and elbows. She speeds the yellow bug down a street lined with palm trees. All the windows are open and her long silver hair flies out the window, painting white flames along the driver’s side. She turns up the volume on Joni Mitchell and peels tightly around a corner. “I been sitting up waiting, for my sugar to show, I been listening to the sirens and radio,” she sings and consults her wrist watch with a knowing glance. She is the sugar.
Dena paints the inside of her bedroom a mute green. The phone rings. She puts down her brush. Her footsteps crinkle over yesterday’s headlines. Her warm, brown hands pick up the white telephone. “Hello? No she’s not here. Who? Billie. I’ll tell her you called. sure, goodbye” She hangs up and stars out the open kitchen window at the Lavender growing softly in the front yard. The front gate swings open and clicks shut, shaking the white pickets all the way down the line. She hears sirens.
