What I really want for Christmas is to fix my broken and wasted relationship with Chris. For Christmas I want JR to pick up after himself, do the dishes and take the trash out. Punch my folks in the mouth for the way I got fucked into taking out a shit ton of money last year without the time to consider what the hell I was doing. Punch Bill O'Reilly in the face on principle. Become the lighting designer for nandanse. I want the arts to be moderately more respected and moderately more funded in America (the world). I want this bullshit war in Iraq to end. In fact, one better, I want it to have never of happened. I want all of the dead soldiers and dead martyrs and dead victims to come back to life and have dinner at my place. And shake hands, eating at the preverbal table of brotherhood, and realize that maybe God is love after all. I want to feed the whole world even if that means I never eat another burger again. Even if it means that I must starve to death; that the whole Western march of progress must choke to death on whatever part of capitalism allows things like Wal-Mart and Halliburton and Karl Rove to exist. Even if it means there will never be another ball game on television, that I never see another piece of dance, that the art I know ceases to be made. Even if it means that everything I take comfort in and love is raised and burned and salted, as Ilium was once destroyed. All of it turned to ash and blown away and stricken from the annals of history. Because there has to be a better way. But I'll be damned if I have any idea what it is. Or of I can even begin to point to the systematic problems with this one. I know they are there, but they seem always behind my view, part of some blurred peripheral vision. I want to stop my futile tears for Christmas, with my middle class white straight male problems (the most privileged demographic on the planet), my over drawn bank account, my messy roommate, my less-than-certain career path, and stop feeling this creeping suspicion that all of my wishes aren't part of the solution, but just part of the problem. That my whole way of life and the things that I find good and just and beautiful in the world are all upside down, as I myself am upside down. But my tears still flow towards my chin and drop towards my feet. They don't freeze, though, because I have heat. And, when it comes right down to it, I think I'm okay. I think I have enough. And if I want more I want it for a reason. So if you don't know what to get me for Christmas, it's okay, don't get me anything. The best gifts in life reveal both the giver and the receiver and the relationship between the two. And they are rare. And they are precious.

I hate all of that relationship bullshit. Those serious conversations when all you want to do is care about someone but all you actually do is get offended. Offended about stupid shit. "You didn't call me back quick enough." "You didn't sound sincere when you said good night last night." I don't know what it is; maybe it's the meeting all the way, the giving 100% that causes the problem. You cross in the middle, find yourself on their side and when you turn to look around they are on your side, just as far away as you were when you started. You no longer expect the person to stop in the middle and are aware that you must then move to meet them. You are no longer equals now but slaves to one another.

I am part of a TV nation. I am part of an internet generation. It is an on-demand world. On-demand is the buzz word of business (like I know shit about business) these days. And I reflect on what Molly had said last night. A couple of things about Goat Island. That this performance group holds an almost legendary space in her mind. But she's never seen them. She says she heard about Goat Island neigh on twelve years ago (which is an impressive run time for a performance group) but in the intervening time has seen nada. Nothing.

And I wonder how you can respect a company without seeing them. I have huge respect for Blue Man. I have huge respect for Lucky Plush. I have seen them do shows. But I wonder about this respect without seeing. This idea about an idea. I respect your concept, not your execution. Perhaps because, for me, the proof is in the pudding. The reason for the season is in the show. The show is the be all and the end all. Of course I'm a lighting designer, I light shows. Without a show there's nothing for me to light. Of course I understand and respect process, but, again, there's no lighting a process. Maybe it's just a different view. But if Molly, who is a fellow performing artist and who respects the hell about them and who has known about them for twelve years has never seen a show, then who will?

Which brings me to my next point, which is also kind of my first point. I live in an on-demand world. People want access all the time. Access to whatever, whenever. Closed? Fuck that. So why hasn't Molly seen a show? "They don't perform in Chicago that often." Her words. True enough. I know a touch about Goat Island, Margaret Nelson being a goat and all of that. They don't perform in Chicago that often. They go to places like Venice, Manchester and so on. Across the sea, Europe. Their's is what one would call 'performance art' and doesn't seem to have a huge following in the States. They are what one would call 'Americans' and as such they tend to live here. But they export their work, as it seems better received there. And they have a following over there. (Overthere, overthere!) And I wonder how this happens and I wonder where this following comes from, and where this booking comes from and I wonder who does what when where and how. And I realize there's a part of theatre (of live performance) that I haven't tapped into, that I'm not aware of. Which is funny, because I'm sitting in the living breathing hub of this blind spot right now. Here at this NPN conference, where we have been brought on someone else's money to do a show (which we did) and now hang out and see and do these things. Which, despite this packet that I have, seems intelligible to me. Unknown and unknowable. But I digress.

Where do these audiences come from? I would think they would be the sort of people like Molly Shanahan. People like me. But we are busy making art, not seeing it. And I wonder if it's not as masturbatory a field as education. And not to say that education is useless, because, of course, it's not. But when you look at the huge amount of things that have been written and written and written, who cares? And when you look at the number of shows that have been done and been done and been done, who cares? And that size scares me at times, the old childhood fear, the falling that isn't falling in a literal sense, but metaphorical. But I still believe in that person on the street. That if I touch one person then it's worth it, then the art is justified and credible. But that doesn't speak towards sustainability. Of the art and of me. Of my rent and food needs, of my arts constant budget needs. And so on, and so fourth. And so it goes.

Got drunk on Mi ties (sp?) last night. Show tonight. Here we go. Missed a shit-ton of snow in Chicago last night, which I am not at all upset about.

What the hell kind of good is it to have a paper delivered to your door if it doesn't have any comics? Damn you, Miami Herald! Damn you!

Spent a shit-ton of money at the bar tonight.

It appears that I have slow drains in my hotel room.

So guess whose theatre I walked into tonight? Matt. The painter from Coldwater neigh on two years ago. The guy I spent a couple of months in a basement with.

So I'm making five hundered dollars this week. I'm going to Miami. I have no social commitments. I only have the one show to focus on. Freakin' sweet.

I'm here now. I have landed. I have settled. My novermber has come and gone. A haze of dance and shows and not enough sleep. And tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane. And endings never quite turn out the way they should when the sun comes up in the morning. And beginnings can only be seen in retrospect, not in anticipation. Which is a shame, because anticipation is the sweetest moment. The best moment. But I know that I'll be back again. And I know I'll be the same. That, in its own way, is comforting. Like an old lover's kiss, waking up next to the same face day after day. Your nose full of their smell and it smells like home.

Last day of Dance Chicago. I think all of it made worth it last night as Clyde comes lumbering into the theatre. His typical gripe just rolling, rolling, rolling out of him. "Margaret should know better / Class One house / Fire curtian / etc." I eventually come to realize that he's talking about the insturment that's placed DSC, on the apron, facing upstage. He believes that it will prevent the fire curtian from reaching the deck. I'm standing right next to it, look at the fire curtian line, make a judgement. "Clyde, I think it'll clear." Cylde doesn't want to hear this kind of thing. He'd rather us be wrong than ~~be safe~~ anything. So he askes me if I want to bring the fire curtian in and test it. I tell him it'd be my pleasue. So I drop it down. And it's coming down, down, down. And I'm standing just upstage of it. Six feet. Five feet. Three feet. The height of the unit. The deck. Touchdown! It cleared it! I'm out the door. I'm leaving the unit on the apron.

Happy Birthday, Kristin Helfrich!

Break. Can you believe it? Almost done. Almost. Amazing. Miami, here I come.

I've gotta make my way to the train. And then another show. And lo, and lo. And all I want is a bit of tenderness, a touch of warmth and falling a sleep with a book on my chest.

Those breaks are fucking killer (see above).

Damn freakin' laptop. Everything sets me off these days. The light at the end of the tunnel may be you. But, somehow, I don't think any person is there, I think I'd see them silhouetted. (Note: Silhouetted is a hard word to spell, without the aid of modern computer technology I don't think I would have managed it)

I downloaded a game for my phone today. Frogger. I am weak.

I'm back. In the saddle. Just is time for Christmas. (Note: Take that to mean what you like)

The rate at which my new printer prints is alarming.

-[the intervening days have been removed due to faulty equipment and Dance Chicago]-

Happy Birthday, Rosie Lathrop!

Rumor has it we're limited to a 500 cue a day limit.

Goddamn these days go by so fast.

Stood up for Bar Night tonight on a couple of fronts. But, on the other hand, Grant Saban and Famous Linda showed up. So, all in all, I think I came out ahead.

I sewed my Dick back on today.

Sometimes I hate being OCD about my socks. They're all black, dammit!

There's this Lauri Stallings piece that we teched tonight. It premiered in Dance Chicago last year. This one section just makes me ache. There's a poem read. I asked her about it last night. By Paublo Neruda (the poem). The dance and the lights and the costumes and the sound. All of the cynicism that I have learned from other technicians and all of the critical thought I have learned in school and all of the tiredness I have learned from my life style melt away. And my heart aches at the thought of it. And I think if once, once, I could bring something that beautiful into this world, if only for a moment, I would die happy, be turned to dust and forgotten and still be happy. The meaning of the world is in a moment. Not tomorrow and yesterday, not in time measured by calendars or watches, but in a moment, between blinks.

Kinda pissed about losing my morning. But you do it to yourself, and that's what really hurts.

Another dream, recent, but not last night, in which Will (Kristin's paramore) called her. Told her that he thought he had wasted his time in Chicago and was otherwise irate. I believed in this dream so much that I asked her about it. In real life. She denies all charges.

nothingtoprove2: I demand the revival of your blog because it was my source of amusement in dark unentertaining times such as this. That is all.

Had a dream sometime recently that I had bought a new sound card, or at least fixed the sound problem on my computer.

God, I'm so scared. And I don't know what of.

Happy Birthday, KP Kickin' it Old Skool!

Hey, look at that, Kristin graduated.

Got a new pair of lucky boxers. Not lucky so much as I was seen wearing only them on stage, but lucky because they are orange (like their predicessors).

Really fuckin' agitated. Wish I could put my finger on it. But, alas, tis not to be. Though I might be able to name the cause, what good does it do to point fingers at people that would be fighting phantoms of your own mind?

I think I'm boozing it up way too much.

Two kisses in one was all it took, a comfort, a warmth, perhaps temporary, perhaps false, but reassuring nonetheless, and mine, and theirs, ours, all three of us giggling, insane giggles and laughter with still more kisses on the way, and I remember a brief instant then, out of the blue, when I suddenly glimpsed my own father, a rare but oddly peaceful recollection, as if he actually approved of my play in the way he himself had always laughed and played, always laughing, surrendering to its ease, especially when he soared in great updrafts of light, burning off distant plateaus of bistre & sage, throwing him up like an angel, high about the red earth, deep into the sparkling blank, the tender sky that never once let him down, preserving his attachment to youth, propriety and kindness, his plane almost, but never quite, out racing his whoops of joy, trailing him in his sudden turn to the wind, followed then by a near vertical climb to the angles of the sun, and I was barely eight and still with him and yes, that was the thought that flickered madly though me, a brief instant of communion, possessing me with warmth and ageless ease, causing me to smile again and relax as if memory alone could lift the heart like the wind lifts a wing, and so I renewed my kisses with even greater enthusiasm, caressing and in turn devouring their dark lips, dark with wine and fleeting love, an ancient memory love had promised but finally never gave, until there were too many kisses to count or remember, and the memory of love proved not love at all and needed a replacement, which our bodies found, and then the giggles subsided, and the laughter dimmed, and darkness enfolded all of us and we gave away our childhood for nothing and we died and condoms littered the floor and Christina threw up in the sink and Amber chuckled a little and kissed me a little more, but in a way that told me it was time to leave.

-Mark Z. Danielewski; House of Leaves

Dream last night that JR shaved his chops.

Sox win! Sox win! Wow. And right now I should be out having some drunken sex with some crazy baseball fan.

I'm trying pretty hard not to be offended. Not that I have any good reason to be, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm jumping off the handle.

Dream last night. Some sort of informal event. Fund raiser, perhaps? Large area, somehow relating to The Seldoms wig show that's going down next week, somehow completely different. A circular area, like an area. Like the Pantheon, meaning with a roof, but obviously smaller. And I was outside, looking in the window with others next to me (Kristin for sure). And there's a fellow, someone I know in the dream, but not a figure from the waking world. And he's doing some high flying stuff. Something like stilts or tight wire. Or stilts on a tight wire. He says something about clearing out of the way, because he's going to do this in the real show (like I said, fund raiser), so we clear. And he jumps down some fifty or so feet, hits the window sill in front (and I might add, above) me, tucks into a roll and rolls away on the grass. And I sob and sob and sob. Excellent and beautiful and far beyond the realm of my own ability. Flash forward to after the event. I'm hanging out with Tracy Nunnally of NIU fame. There's a reconciliation of sorts. He gave me a scratch-and-win lotto card. Told me not to tell anyone what the winner was, but to get back in touch with him with what the winning thing was. Somehow he gave me the key perhaps? Woke up before I had the chance to scratch it off.

I have just come to realize that the source of all of my problems in life come from the fact that I am not black.

You son of a bitch, I shouldn't be this drunk (or drunk at all) right now. But at least I won at darts.

I bought a shit-ton of pants today. Three dollars a piece.

Went shopping with Laura today. Did the Belmont/Clark thing. Belmont Army, Jive Monkey, The Alley, Hollyword Mirror and Ragstock. Still, I gotta say, the best shopping in town. I must now exercise my blogging might (which is about nil), but fuck that mother fucking poster place on Belmont. Right in the ear. This guy in there was so goddamned rude to me today. Rude. And it's petty of me to go over it, but he says to me, "Don't slam my books," or some shit. But fucking rude. Goddamn. I haven't been this pissed about retal in ... ever. I'm never going back there and I suggest you do not either. In fact, I suggest you throw eggs at their windows, which I will be doing ~~tomorrow night~~. As soon as I buy eggs.

Sometimes I get the impression that the only thing I'm fighting is myself.

There comes a time, I believe, that everyone starts to mistake familiarity for quality.

I am ~~everyone's~~ my favorite malcontent.

Pool party over. Hip hip.

Breakfast with Ma and Pa Kentuck.

All I really want is a pretty girl. But the problem with pretty girls is that once you get to know them they stop being simply pretty girls. They become real people, with real problems and real concerns and minor imperfections and serious issues. They become your friends, your lovers, your confidants. They become your enemies, your exes, your betrayers. The whole breath and width of human interaction when all you wanted was to languish in the wading pool of non-emotion.

I haven't taken a shower while it was dark out in quarter to a long fuckin' time.

Locked out. Climbed wall. Hurt knee. Enough said.

As if it wasn't offical before: Kristin is my coolest friend.

One advantage to the cold: Hot showers feel really damn good.

I'm going with the soul patch, on Margaret's (bad) advice.

I made my way ot the Taulouse-Lautrec exibit at the art institute today. Funny the quiet way we observe the art of a man who drank himself to an early grave. Funny, too, how shocking this 100 year old art is. Funny, also, the images I liked the best were not his.

The problem, sometimes, is that you sit right there. And I could reach out and touch you. Or I could not reach out and touch you. Either thing that I do, one way or the other, you'll still be sitting right there. With that fact, this moment becomes as good as the next or the last, or any moment, really. I can no longer wonder how sex becomes casual, it becomes casual as we can no longer allow ourselves to take ourselves too seriously. Once all of the great, vast unknown about another person becomes the great, vast known there comes a change between being on your guard and being at ease. And once you ease into a person it becomes harder to just fuck them, to objectify them as 'woman' or as 'man,' but rather they have a place in your heart and your mind, as a full bodied person, which a past and a present and a future. Someone who has likes and dislikes that are not new to you, but known. Stillness is just as good as movement in this place.

Dream last night that I was staying at the old place on Walnut. I was staying with Matt Hugues (whose wedding I recently attended in real life) and this girl named Sarah (who does not exist in real life). I was staying in the basement, as in traditional for me. Matt, I believe, had taken up residence in my mother's bedroom and Sarah stayed in the living room, I believe on the floor. Problem was we kept being raided by Ferengi (no joke). That's right, of Star Trek fame. They were lead by Quark of Deep Space Nine fame. So, on a fairly regular basis he would kidnap Sarah, leave a message, and Matt and I would then deal with it. I don't know why we didn't get a shield or a guard or something, I guess we kept thinking that he'd stop. So one day I wake up, there's another note, this time in Sarah's handwriting. And I think, "What a devious bastard." Now, in the waking world, I can't help but think that she was in league with them. But I knock on the bathroom door, Matt is doing his hair. "Again?" he asks. I show him the note, ask him what he's doing tomorrow (I guess we have two days to respond to the randsom note). He's not doing much. I say we should call everyone we know, raid the damn place and kill them all, especailly Quark. It was around here my alarm went off.