I’ve got a secret. I spend my nights puking in the hundred acre woods. I know what you’re thinking, how the fuck did I get there, drunk, in the middle of the night mid winter? Well friends, that is the magic trick, the magic trick I am wonderful at. Waking up in the morning under a bronzed leafy tree, standing, and following my own reliable trail back to where it all began.
That’s from a play I’ve been working on for a year, its not much for you here, but the rest isn’t ready to be out of context yet. Here’s some poetry:
There is a sincerity that only I can see
In your face, when you’re quiet
Which never happens,
And you look at me, not expecting a single
Thought or notion, or word, expecting
Nothing at all. Nothing at all.
Just quiet, still observation.
Your face, eyes too far for me to reach,
Mouth closed, indifferent,
You are expecting nothing at all
And yet it feels as though you’ve pressed your cheek against mine,
Not to dance
Or to make love,
But to exist so close.
As if we can bypass speaking
And could speak through our skulls
And through the moments like this,
Where we expect nothing
But to be accepted.
Nov 6, 2015
I thought it was about time some of my creative work was put here, but that’s about as much as I can put out there for now. There is something so weird about rereading the work that I’ve been working on for so long but had to leave dormant for a bit for the theory that I’ve been working on.
Actually, that’s not true, because both of these exerpts were written during classwork time, so that is wonderful news and I am glad upon reflection that I have been able to get a bunch of creative work done while still reading theory and attending seminrs. It feels weird not to be doing creative work regularly for class, but now I’m taking a few courses in dramaturgy and practical creative research, so those times are a-changin’.
And for now, sleep.