Clarity

I love feeling in control. I imagine everyone does. But every once in a while I get the feeling that I am on top. I can do one thing after another with singular focus, and I can do these things well. Because, when all is right, as busy as it gets, I feel very still and calm.

Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes I am able to focus and achieve one thing after another, the more the better, because I am being driven by a sort of mania-lite. The manic phase of manic depression, which I experience much less severely than the symptoms you might associate with it. I tell you this much. Being manic feels good.

But, it does not feel like clarity. There is a big difference between reacting fluidly, and being pushed, pulled and prodded. In the former case, there is ease; in the latter, tension and a clenched jaw.

I don't feel that super-focus or crystal clarity right now. But it's close enough that it seems within reach. There are times when it seems impossibly unattainable. Like my head is a lead weight, and each application of energy requires supreme effort. Getting out of bed, tearing away from the computer. These can seem like impossible tasks, indefinitely put off for the next moment, and the next and the next.

There is only now.

Idiot Ax

Today, I got 50 dollars worth of tickets for the mega ball lottery. It's 390 million dollars. That'd be so grate to win, it's definitely worth the 50 bucks. I'd get mom a new house and one for me, too. But not too close together. Like I'd get her a place in East Egg, and me a place in West Egg. Close, but not too close. And I'd get a new car. I mean, it's not too bad having a Colt, since I can get it fixed at the station for pretty cheap, but it would be really grate to have like a Mustang or a Porsh or something like that.

What's not so grate is that I had to go to another station for the tickets. And since I didn't get off work until 2:00, the only place open was the Exxon over by the Applebee's. It was like an extra twenty minutes before I got home. But It's worth it, like I said, even if Troy over there is a jerk. He kept saying he always knew I was a weiner. Like that's real funny. I wish I coulda bought the tickets from the station, but we can't buy tickets there ever since Lavonne got caught with all those scratch offs. She got caught cause she tried to cash them in bunch of winners, and they found out she worked at the station and figured it out I guess.

I got a good feeling on the numbers. I got all quickpik except for one, which I got 232323, for my lucky number. It'd be grate if I had enough left over from the money to get everyone at the station something nice. I'd get a heater for the hut for sure. Most people would quit, but I don't know what I'd do if I didn't go to work.

Right before I left for the night to go get the tickets, Vijay said I had to go pay my stupid ax or something like that. I never figured out what he was talking about. I don't think it was positive.

Un-Thoughts

Many people would call raking sand stupid, pointless, crazy, even.

Most people think to live as a monk is crazy.

To me there is an undeniable serenity in these gardens. A movement within stasis. An asymmetric balance.

And their pointlessness seems to be the point.

Of course, the gardens are simply beautiful.

Up All Night. Never Again.

I ended up being out all night from Friday at 6:00 until Saturday at 7:00 am. But I was not wild partying. Oh, no. I was working. What's worse, I was working outside in the freezing cold. I got to witness firsthand the first flurries of the year. I only wish it had snowed like it did last night. At least then, the shoot would have been called. No such luck.

You see, I was on the set of a film. But not as any ordinary actor. I was there in the most ignoble and detestable of roles. I was there as an extra. For many people, the chance to be an extra is an axciting prospect. They travel in from Westchester or New Jersey and feel like professionals. For me, it's a degrading and abject experience.

Extras are atmosphere. The director (in this case Julie Taymore) never deigns to talk to them. Instead it's an assistant with a bullhorn. Extras are talked down to. Like they are retarded. Like they are kindergarteners. The only thing lower than being an extra is being a nonunion extra. Nonunion extras don't even get to eat form the same table as the union members. They get payed a lower rate, and are not guaranteed the same protections.

I have always known that I would hate being an extra. I don't like following orders and I loathe being talked down to, and so, I've never done it before. But, I thought, this job might be worth it. A job on a Julie Taymore Beatles movie. Sweet. I'll get to see her work maybe. And, since it's an outdoor shoot, it'll be done early and I can head to my day job. Not even close. Itwasn't a day shoot...a fact I was informed of same day. And there were hundreds of us poor saps suffering in the cold. With hand warmers that gave out halfway through the night and toe warmers that gave out even sooner.

By the end of the night, as a group we were delirious and angry. I had lost my voice from the cold and shouting. The one thing done right this night was that they saved for last a shot where police are dragging protesters through an angry crowd onto a police bus. The crowd (the extras) are surging around them, hurling abuse. By the time they got to this, we were all really at the end of our rope, so the artist may have gotten what she wanted.

What I find most interesting about the whole experience is how traumatic it was. I think back to the times I stayed out all night drinking or ingesting other harmful substances and realize that a good part of the effects I felt after a long night were simply sleep deprivation. I hadn't touched a substance, but after a night in the freezing cold, I felt like an alien on the way home. I lost my glasses in the holding area, but was too stupefied to effectively look for them. And, after a 4-hour meeting the next day, which I went to on one hour of sleep, I slept from 4 pm to 1 pm. 21 hours.

I hope I get my glasses back. And I hereby solemnly swear, I will never be an extra again.

Cocrabitation

I got a hermit crab. A hermit crab is a little crab that chooses its shell instead of having a shell that grows on it. You can put a few shells in with one, and it'll change shells after a while, and that's pretty cool to see. I named him Glen, but I don't really know if it's a boy or a girl. I try to make him feel safe and warm and happy. His plastic cage is pretty small right now, but I'm going to save up aned get him a bigger one and maybe a friend. Until then, I take him out as much as I can and let him crawl around the floor. I think his pet store food must get pretty boring, so I let him have some lettuce today. Tomorrow, I'm going to see if Glen likes peanut butter.And I always talk to him and make him feel good. I say I love you Glen. I'm so glad you're here. I think you're the best. I know it must make him feel good.

Things for Which Beckett Gives Thanks

1. Divine retribution (the wrath of Khan)
2. The color pink
3. The sun
4. Coffee
5. Sex
6. The riches he been snatchin from you bitches
7. Stephen Hawking
8. Lawyers
9. Cats, dogs, and all things cuddly
10. Salt mines
11. Sleep
12. LASERS (the car & the beam)

Pain Jar

I had an existential feast this weekend, seeing "Thom Pain, Based on Nothing," at DR2 Theater on 15th St. on Saturday night, and then, on Sunday afternoon, "Jarhead."

Neither was perfect, but both were thoughtful and provocative.

Thom Pain has been extended several times, and now T. Ryder Smith has replaced James Urbaniak as the show's sole performer. He's an engaging presence as he tells the discursive story of a boy, his dog, the dog's electrocution, bee stings and a failed relationship. The script, by Will Eno requires him to trip back and forth between the narrative and discursions and asides. He doesn't know if he's good enough. For life, for this show, for love. Life is pain for Mr. Thom. It's a smart-alecky, knowing treatise, shot through with real feeling, and Smith is generally up to the challenge. He fills the earlier moments of passion with genuine feeling, and several moments achieve the sublime. But, toward the end, as tears and sobbing are required of him, he doesn't seem to quite have it in him, and is forced to go through the forms of feeling, ending the evening flatly. My heart goes out to Smith. The show is performed two times a night, at six and nine, in order to maximize sales from the small DR2 theater, I presume. And the performance I witnessed was peopled largely by TKTS (a discount ticket booth) who were probable expecting a play of some sort, or at least some kind of attempt at spectacle. Not the best audience for a performer to have to bare himself before. I, myself, had brought four people along: my aunt, her wife, and two friends of theirs. I was accutely aware once the show started that it was a poor choice for tourists. Smith must have been aware of this, too as he fought his way to the end.

As for Jarhead, there is no shortage of writing on this Hollywood offering, so I'll keep it short. It is not nearly so hollow as many reviewers would have you believe. And it is well worth seeing for an askew view of the Marines, as well as some incredibly haunting visuals. It also happens to be funny and interesting the whole way through without ever dragging. It even manages a few moments of genuine pathos. Peter Sarsgaard and Jake "Beefcake" Gyllenhaal are great, and Foxx does his job competently.

Both works ask not just "Why?", but "Why bother?", and because the question is more important than the answer, do not, cannot answer the question more fully than with a "Because." True to life, but "Because" does not make for a dramatic ending. Reality doesn't follow a conventional story arc, and neither do "Thom Pain" and "Jarhead." Which is fine, but as audience members we've been trained to expect catharsis, and I was disappointed at the fizzles that capped each show, even as I left the theater deep in thought. Sure, it's smart, it's honest, but how bout a just one big old bang? Please? No? Okay. Stinking art.

Tomorrow Tomorrow

I'm sitting here with headphones on, absolutely transported by a musician I thought I'd become complacent with, and it's just overwhelming to me in this moment how impossiby beautiful Elliott Smith's music is. The melodies, the harmonies, the build and flow. Every song is well crafted, meaningful and moving. I've heard "X/O," which I'm listening to at the moment, dozens of times before, yet I'm delighted as each song starts again as if the first time I'm hearing it.

There's nothing quite like the beauty of tragedy and depsair. Misery, sorrow, fear, and longing become profundity in the right artist's hands. I'm glad I can again revel in his music. Since his knife-through-the-chest suicide, I'd been too disturbed by the reality of his demise to escape into the music. And, just as every single Alice in Chains song is about heroin, every single Elliot Smith song treats with depression, low self esteem, self loathing, and addiction. Sounds horrific, but no, in fact, it does not sound horrific. It sounds heartfelt. It sounds true. It sounds sublime.

Check out his profile at allmusic: http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:m95f8qtnbtz4~T1

Sacriliscious

The Smoking Gun can always be counted on for items which will make you tremble in fear for the fragile future of this planet.
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/1107051jesusjuice1.html



Yes, it's for real.

Hairoics

Another pun for a title as I follow the example set by my collaborator Glen's posts. I am a new man today. A fresh and bold individual, facing the world with renewed confidence and vigor. Because I, after at least two months, purchased for myself a hair cut. It's a good cut. Short, low maintenance. I begin to understand the traditionally female fascination with the stylist. It really does make a differenc in one's outlook. Wheeee!

When I was a child I had blonde hair. I was proud of it. I loved it. Adults consistently complemented my downy locks. Then my hair got browner. And greasier. And browner. And greasier. By the time I was in junior high, I had a greasy, cowlicked tangle of bland brown hair. But this year, I've noticed my hair becoming lighter. And when I've described its color as brown, folks have dissented. I'd like to think that what is occuring is a magical reblonding. But the white hairs that have appeared here and there tell a different story. And today, as I examined my shorne hair in my lap, I was able to pick out a fairly large number of crackers. Never have I witnessed so much unabashed honkey-ism in my hair color. So it begins. I am now undoubtedly on the (hopefully) long descent into white hair.

There is a silver lining to this loss of color. I have a young face, and a bit of greying may do a little to give me that distinguished look. Yeah, that's it!

One more thing: I went to a place with a semi-pretentious name like David Concept Studios. Here in the city the predeliction for punny salon names seems less prevalent than in the suburbs, where one always has a choice between Hair Today, E-clips, and A Cut Above. I wonder if any of the owners who decided to go with "Hair Today" considered the ill favor of its implication: "Gone Tomorrow."