montauk

i wrote this while walking around the rocky beaches at montauk. of course- you really needn't know that, considering it has no relevance to the poem.



you arrive exhaling timorous fog


and coughing on weeds, unkempt hair


and a little mercury-mad

-
you’re breathing and singing and sifting through every listed question


making philosophy teachers seats creak and backs ache –


i can almost smell the pages


burning as i watch them slither past

two by two



you’ve been gone finding yourself.

but all you found


      was everything else. 

Sputnik Sweetheart by Murakami

So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us - that’s snatched right out of our hands - even if are left completely changed people with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this wat, in silence. We draw ever nearer to our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.

the sum of my parts

simplify simply... said thoreau and i shall do just that
based solely on my surroundings and the materials and sentiments that make them up, this is about how the rest of my life should go.


next year. junior year. oh damn, here comes the big one, right? i continue on my downward spiral- school is shoved to the wayside and i focus solely on what i want to do, what i create and who i want to be. my friends begin getting frustrated with me around winter time, when my depression peaks and i begin binging constantly. i isolate myself further and my grades falter a bit, but not enough to set off my parents.  my work in theatre progresses slowly and my parents get worried about me. i worry about myself. [enter excessive kafka] junior year ends. no dates. no boyfriend. nothing. senior year. whatever, no big deal. nothing again. i audition for a while, hoping to be ok but i only get disappointed. i end up going to vassar or bard or nyu. lonely among the crowds of other equally lonely angel-headed hipsters. 


-enter Cassie Dempsey- 


shes a bright, dreamy young thing. probably wears pastels and dresses and oxfords and has pale skin. shes a hopeful, dewy faced girl from london maybe, or perhaps edinburgh. comes from an extremely wealthy family but secretly despises them. we are kindred spirits. i become obsessed. i change my appearance, demeanor, views for her. she takes a liking to me. we talk about philosophy. we eat exotic foods and shop at farm stands for tulips. we both graduate- her with a degree in philosophy, me with one in english, or maybe musical theatre. we move to new york together.


she immediately is hired by a law firm. that doesnt do it. interns for the new yorker. job at vanity fair. works her way up. im stuck here. nowhere. in our ever-smoky apartment in the village writing uninspired articles for cheap tabloids, pretending im a 'freelance journalist'. meanwhile i audition for shows and face utter rejection. classic new york, right there. dreams that die before they start. 


she dominates the household, becoming colder, harsher. i love it. she refuses to have sex with me and commands my obedience, all the while lecturing me about the crap i'm producing. i bathe in her exquisite cruelty. i do a workshop or two, for musicals going absolutely nowhere. she's junior editor. im nowhere.


she cheats on me with the man she said she despised- stiff, conservative, traditional, double breasted. rubs his cock as we dine together. 


i leave, wander a bit. maybe have a nice little company moment being alive at the piano but i dont remember the chords. maybe i get a show.... a lot of the same fake bitches. discouragement. failure. disappointment. depression (again) (how deeply unexpected, right?)


-pause- *Epiphany!*


and then i remember that im gay and have parents i can steal money from and i find a nice guy in the theatre, maybe he's currently playing the role of jimmy in a millie revival or maybe the emcee in a cabaret revival. 


we get married.
i get back to writing and auditioning for shows.
maybe i get to be berger like i always wanted.


no kids. never liked 'em much, to be quite honest. he works 6 days a week and i do too, whenever i manage to land a job. he plays jamie from last 5 years, then jon from tick tick boom and finally originates the part of steven sondheim in the inevitable musical about him when he dies.


flash forward to us happily co-directing the revival of peter and the starcatcher 




*end scene*

guilded

it's 6 o clock and i'm already uncomfortable in the silence. smog and concrete give way to sprawl. i really hate hearing myself think and no matter how hard i try, crickets will never be car horns or the screams of slowly dying dreams. wine, wicker, white and blue. forget, regret- that's what jonathan larson would've done. just roll down the windows and drown in the fresh, forgiving, foreign tide. shorts and t shirts and flip flops don't leave much to the imagination. [glance up contemplatively] bracelets and anklets. tacky and cheap. they'll do. or maybe beaten up, beachy high tops. 


daughter of dionysus, son of Beats and the beaten: give me safety and solitude and sanity on the sand and a pair of rose colored glasses. a notebook to hide in, a pen for more than marking. give me solace in the sun and sleep. a bath and rest. wash it all away with watercolors, pastels, khaki, and tans. scars are not bruises that wash off with time and salt water .


scrub scrub scrub 

Monologue [?]

I was in verdant [boring and pretentious] Connecticut today and I wrote this monologue during the car rides there and back. It's really no good at all and at the end of the day it's just a watered down stew of all the sentiments expressed in Chbosky or John Green books. *sigh* Here goes:


I’m pretty sure I sold her an ice pop last night. She’s probably in the background of some of my photos. I only recognized her because...well… I was always thinking about what great taste she had in shoes. I’m not really sure if she even said anything to me or if she even recognized me from school. I actually really wasn’t quite sure how to spell her last name before I saw it in the paper this morning. Eriksson- with two S’s and a K. There really wasn’t much to read there. Our journalists are neither skilled nor interested. I already knew she was a junior and I already knew she was on the tennis team. Oh. And she was Swedish. Not really sure why they expected us to care about that. Apparently she liked to swim and did ballet. I’m actually a bit surprised I remember this much… There was a black and white picture of her kind of under and to the side of the column. I think it had been taken from her facebook profile- she was in the city and I think they had cropped out some of her friends that were next to her in the photo…Her eyes looking up right at the bold, times new roman ‘-C-I-D-E’. She was smiling I suppose…with her mouth at least. Perfect teeth actually, yes, really pretty teeth….Crest white strips I would imagine.

Yesterday…. Yesterday she seemed fine I guess. But that’s the sort of answer you’d get from anyone if you asked how they were doing. She looked happy enough. I think she was my sister’s friend. Her name’s Dana. And you know- there is really nothing I could have done differently yesterday or the day before or last month or last year. I couldn’t have known how she felt or why or what she was thinking or how long she’d been thinking it. You know…We’re all just ‘fine’. We’re fine when it’s cold and raining. When we’ve failed a test or when our parents hit us or when we’re bleeding under our sleeves. We’re all ‘fine’ when people ask if we are but then they stop asking and…. And then people wonder why they didn’t realize it sooner.

such curious devices

In the hazy aftermath of a wild thursday night I came upon an article regarding a room that audio technicians managed to soundproof 99%, an amount unheard of and incredibly difficult to achieve. The most fascinating point of this article though, was not the precision science involved, but the eerie effect this room has on those that enter for more than 45 minutes. According to the findings, the absolute silence heightens your hearing to the point that you become innately aware of your breathing, your pulse, your stomach growling and all other sounds of your churning bodily functions. Even more frightening is the fact that in the noiseless room, your mind will begin to fabricate sounds that aren't really there in a manner analogous to visual hallucination. Eventually, people experience such utterly bizarre fantasies that they can no longer stand upright and collapse to the floor or are forced to lie down.

---

I find mirrors and glass transfixing. Perhaps that is why I have always discovered myself drawn to Lewis Carroll and his luxurious prose illustrating mirrors as mist and glass as permeable gateways into fantastical realms. Though I have yet to stumble into such dimensions I know the feeling of entering and escaping bubbles too well. 

My friends and I often speak in jest about the (i'm sad to say) pathetic number of teenagers obsessed with appearing artistic and independent. I must agree, it's a relatively understandable sentiment- the romanticized escapism and hedonism of On the Road is both appealing and accessible. (wander?)Lust. Libido. Pressure. Suffocation. Do they know what the Beat generation is? Do they know Ginsberg, Dada, Kerouac? Burroughs? Not even Kama Sutra? Well then..... [no eye contact....fade into awkward pause....] Sparking a new movement you say? How non-conformist of you. And how much did those vintage jeans cost you again? You're against animal cruelty, huh? Well you look ravishing in that leather jacket. But go ahead. Toke. Have another needle, hope, pray, plead it's clean. Oxycontin before class? Cute. What are you having? Prozac. To drink? rum and coke? {eyebrow raise} High waisted shorts and studs? Do you know any Bob Dylan songs? Descend Descend Descend. Downtown, you say? This is midtown. Ghetto? This is 2nd Avenue. Collect the ashes. Fold. Fix the hair. Fishtail is in, right? Write? no. Think? no. Create? no. Discover? no. Chalk one up for the onlookers. The moon disappears out of spite and ridicule and I've passed back into the dormant midnight glaze of E 60th.

[shrug] 

Rebellion is healthy they say. Self discovery is healthy they say. Personality is beautiful they say. Different is beautiful they say. 

"Different is the same," I say, "dance to release, bitch."  And cross the street.

[sirens (?)... or morning disappointment]

mise en scène

words with friends (in real life, can you imagine?): 

"can't say i found the gaultier spring show very inspiring"

"can i get another sangria"

"i'm boycotting urban outfitters and all it's associated brands. have you heard about that asshole CEO"

"it's such a gorgeous day, i feel like thoreau in walden" 

*eyeroll* "this is central park"

*scoff* [pan out. fade out: sun drenched view of sheep's meadow]  

she prances out all legs and leather. yves saint laurent opium? aren't we a little old for that? at once, a cougar and a minx. [i wonder how many minks when into that vest] flaming with lascivious vulgarity and coordinating coral lipstick. pause. scowl at the blackberry. so i suppose not even heiresses are immune to this city. a vestige of exasperation behind those chanel shades? last season? shame. she grimaces and her rings gleam with garish unease. 

she is the reason i hate where i've been. got pregnant in the dressing room at saks? no. no children. monthly dye jobs. mr. stuffed shirt has a mistress. she knows. a little too tired for the 5 inch thigh highs? too tired and too plastic. out of breath and out of time and mind and love. brush the hair, curl the lashes, rouge the cheeks, blow him. 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3. waltz with a smile and a short skirt. "I'm home." [deliver with absolute dispassion] 

"I have a Bobby Van's skirt steak here for you"

"No time. Dinner with Anjelica tonight"

"You're screwing her aren't you"

"Yeah"

"Alright, see you at 11" 

[eyes wide shut. mimed kisses on the cheek. emphasis on the sound of the kissing.]

the elevator arrives. he enters. [3 beats of silence] the elevator leaves. she remains. 

Introduction

I don't imagine many thespians will stumble upon this soon-to-be amalgam of phantasmagorical nonsense but let it be known that, for all intents and purposes, this is a theatre blog. I'm putting on a show and the overture has finally petered out, vomiting its last few pockmarked notes into the crowded loneliness of an unknowing audience. The squeal of rusting pulleys. Velvet anticipation. Faces in the wary dust. We were always taught to honor melody and disdain cacophony. Fledglings sing but who are we to tell them which are songbirds? Me? I am a set piece, a vestibule of Grecian lechery, an optimist [fool]. I never told Janus what a two faced bitch he was and I used to think that I could escape losing a part of myself in becoming whole. When someone passes me on the sidewalk I can't help but feel inadequate and, in the silence of everyone I have ever come across: "shakespeare, sondheim and sedaris did it before you, and better than you." The scrim evaporates. I don't suppose I will make it far past the mambo, but the aria I think I can manage. Sissone, arabesque.... a five, six, seven, eight!