I never would have thought it possible that Penny Arcade would do a really super job of representing Chris and I, but this one sure did the trick. There is also the chips one that I put on our dorm room door last year. But Chris and I would never really fight about chips. This was exemplified when I took his full bag of nacho chips to eMOTION, ate about half of them and then left the bag there to be finished the following day. His response? "Meh." My point is proven. Chris is awesome.

She said, "give it to me straight" as if my metaphors were not straight. I tasted copper. As if the poetry that I try very much to hold on to in my life was not only not descriptive enough, but wholly incorrect. I was hurt as it was, having trouble finding the appeal in stability. Stability and predictability are so close to stagnation, to dying slowly from the inside that right now they scare me. It seems almost like choosing death. I tired to tell her, but I couldn't find the words, able only to drown in my confusion. She said that I owed it to her, being "straight," when all I've ever wanted to do was share poetry with her; making the moments in life that are so simple and boring so much more. It's not practical, it doesn't have to be. I want to lay my hands on her forehead, my thumbs pressed lightly on her eyelids and say "be well" with enough authority to make it so.

Somehow that word just doesn't make me feel any better. I was saying the other day that when one person dissents, when one person says "no" that that'd the end of it, there's no more discussion. Life, like improv, is a game of yes; there is nothing after the no. I guess three times is a charm.

Eve 6 is pretty good. Who would have thunk it?

"My dog is sitting with me, blind and deaf, happy as I have ever seen her. I want to know what she knows, what keeps her content in her world, fighting the cancer that consumes relentless and the isolation I know she must feel." This is an excerpt from a letter dated December 24, 2002. I miss you, Stormy. There is no comfort here anymore.

I don't want to wake up sometime in the future to find that I have a room in which I'm surrounded by pictures of the dead.

Closing last night of the Rasa premiere. My credit in the program was that of "Lights." Funny stuff. The impression I got from Van, that artistic director, was that he liked me, he was happy with me, that he wanted to work with me again. I'm pretty sure that along with Madeline's constant voice in his ear means I'm the lighting designer for RASA Dance Theatre. That's really, really cool.

There are times in which I'm not doing and/or thinking about the stage, but they're rare. In those times I like candle lit dinners and long walks on the beach holding hands and talking about Locke's Perfect State of Nature. I find it hard to take life, and especially myself, seriously. I listen to good music. I write crappy poetry. I wear yellow sunglasses. I dance like an asshole. I can't sing. I'm teaching myself to whistle. I limp on occasion, with dignity.

Yesterday I was talking to Dave about various life shattering events and he said that he knows these sorts of things can't happen without someone being hurt, but that he wishes that wasn't the case. I said no. I told him that we are mortal, that we die. And that because we die we might as well live. If we knew we would live forever then I would say, by all means, avoid pain at all times. Stay away from that which will hurt you, because you have an eternity in which to remember it. But that is not the case, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I condone pain, allow pain, welcome it even. In moderation, of course, I do not believe that life is pain and the path to salvation is to remove want. Desire all things, have a taste for living. It came out of nowhere. I had never realized before that I had even thought about mortality, being so concerned as I am with life before death, that the death at the end never seemed to matter so much.

Had a dream last night that Chris cracked my super security system on my webpage and had started updating it himself. He has made five updates, I know this because he had put a little number at the bottom of each update. The strange thing is that he had been talking with Kathy and updating for her as well, but not using a different numbering system. Yeah.
[1]

Super Sonic Salmon.

I'm trying to remember falling. I remember the visuals of the seats rushing towards my face thinking that this was going to hurt. I vagely remember talking to the people in the company about how I was staying. I was young and dumb. My foot still hurts. I can't really remember, though, much about it. I remember the show. I liked the show. I finished the show.

Dream last night. Blue tile. I was somewhere around NIU, waiting for a ride to Columbia. Flash. We're sitting on a bench in the city, Margaret's there, we're going to meet some guy named Leonard. I'm in this class, and the rest of the kids are supposed to be bowling while we go do this. Margaret is in an irate mood. We're going to see this guy and suddenly, I think, we're on a stage. Mili is suddenly standing next to me looking at the blue tile. Then she says, "With these road shows the floor won't tell you how they feel about the character." She had a point, but I hadn't realized Leonard was a character. I was about to point this out to her when my alarm went off.

Got a letter from Katie today.

I had a dream last night that I was sitting in some parking lot in Chicago. It was raining. I was waiting for something, I don't remember exactly what. There was this older black man who had a cell phone and was talking loudly to someone in a concerned voice. To occupy my time I eavesdropped (yeah, I'm a wholesome figure). Anyway, I eventually was ready to go, there was some creepy person across the street, too. So I got in the car, was about to drive off but I rolled down my window and wished him good luck with the crisis on the phone. He asked me if I could call a number for him. I said sure, it being a big deal to him and all. So I call the number and I'm talking to this guy on the phone, trying to explain to him who I am and the situation and how he needs to talk to this older black man next to me when this police officer comes up and tells me he's giving me a parking ticket. See, when I pulled over the make the call I left the car crossing like four parking spots. I was upset. I was standing right next to the car, I could easily move it, not to mention that my blinkers were on, which everyone knows makes it okay. Plus there was the emergency I was dealing with on the phone. I tried to explain to the officer that I couldn't pay it and that he was being as asshole in the nicest, non-frantic, way possible. Judging from his reaction I think I failed. I woke up angry and defensive. I don't quite know what to make of it. Somehow I feel that the total lack of what could be considered absurd symbolism is a symbol of some sort. But what it represents, I can't even begin to guess.

Alderamin1: Conversation! Conversation!
The White Stick: Define your pronouns!

Rockford. Who knew?

Now I'm finding imposter socks. Socks that look like mine, but aren't mine, in my laundry basket. It's a terrible state of affairs.

"I'm in Mexico, I'll have to call you back." *click*
"Mexico?"

My dog died. Found out last night. My mother, bless her, broke the news rather well, all things considered, but she never has known when to shut up. I'm okay, I guess, and I'm pretty sure I will be until I go home. Which will be hard. Not that home was ever the right word, nor could it hope to be now.

Sarah's in town, and we're Chicago bound.

Inside every house is a story. There are doors not quite square, and old furniture and ceilings that desperately need to be repainted. There are shelves filled with books that you've never read or that someone else read for reasons you couldn't begin to imagine. Next to these books, trinkets of no value or those given by past lovers, or friends, or family. Fridges filled with food that you never knew you'd eat, appetites totally foreign. Every house there is a life contained therein, every room. Every soul passed on a busy sidewalk. Being introduced to a new story is amazing, makes me realize how small I actually am.

Happy Birthday, David Morrison!

Did you know that if you drink a glass of red wine followed shortly there after by a glass of milk you will spit purple?

I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Katie and we were in my room, laughing about something, and I asked if she was hungry. She said yes. So I asked her what she wanted and she said whatever you're getting. I said I was getting a salami sandwich, and smiled devilishly. Then she mispronounced salami and said she didn't want any. It was very cute. Sometimes it sucks when you realize it was just a dream.

Emily called this morning. Means I'm up early and will most likely be taking a nap later today. Been working hard for my month off, but then again, I'm really happy about it.

Got a new phone up and running today (same number). I had twenty seven messages. People were leaving messages on the phone last night even. Luckily my message diverting them to the home phone seemed to be working. But not as completely as I would have liked. A couple of messages from a week or so ago that I never got at home. Oh well, such is life.

Where do we go, and what do we do? What is it that always makes me think of you?

If only you could choose your dreams, Chris. If only you could choose the moments of your life that matter, Aaron. If only you had enough faith to deal with my doubt, Dave. If only we could see eye to eye, Michelle. If only we had more time, Laura. If only, if only, whatever. That's the way things are, I don't choose my dreams, I can't make things matter the way they should, I live with doubts, I disagree, I don't have enough time. Such is life, shit happens. I have to be at work at nine this morning. I sent a letter today.

I am sore in so many ways.

It's tiring to be angry. It's also trying to get up at six and haul some heavy lighting equipment around the stage for five hours. Knowing I'm going back sure doesn't make me bright eyed and bushy tailed. Sometimes all it takes is a little bit of sleep and a little bit of work. When you're exhausted it’s hard to be mad at people you care about.

Usually when I make a CD for someone that's the end of it. But this past CD that I made, I've been listening to the track lineup for the past couple of days. Seeing as that CD was composed of a pretty accurate cross-section of the music I listen to I happen to bump into the songs in a fairly regular basis. It's getting to the point that I hear them and think, 'Oh, that's the song I put on that CD.' Very much in the same way when I hear a song that I lit a dance to I think, 'Oh, that's the song I lit that dance to. The dance went like this...' It's dangerous, I guess, as music is a very fragile thing. Still cleaning. Still cleaning.

It is so terribly nerve racking to be a young professional.

While "grease" may still be very popular, I would have to say that "drama" is actually the word. I'd like to put this in a play. There are a bunch of things in my life right now that I want to find the words for, find the characters for, find the action for and put it down on paper so that it can go up on the stage. I'm leaving. I know this. Despite what I might think, what I may tell some acquaintances, I'm pretty much beyond the point of no return, good, bad or ugly. Subtle things mean the world to me, especially as I'm forced to realize how fleeting it all is. When you say you want to have a special connection with them, one that you cannot have with me, I think I can understand. When you feel the need to flaunt it in my face, and I don't give a damn if that's what you meant, it's how I saw it, then I guess grace (of all people) said it best when she said "wow...you sound pretty pissed." I am.

I was standing at Edwardo's the other night, tornado warning, so I was in the basement. The bar remained open though the whole ordeal, god bless America. I remained calm though the whole process, much to the surprise of those who I was with. I told them that I can deal with the catastrophe when it happens, if it happens, me worrying about it isn't going to change things. Standing in the basement was about all I could do, and that's what I did do, sucking on a mint I had grabbed on my way down. It got me thinking, if a catastrophe had struck, tornados and earthquakes and nuclear explosions, a global sort of thing, I'd become a librarian, a rogue librarian, a scavenger librarian. I would wonder the country side looking for the remains of Barns and Noble and Borders and public libraries. I would collect these books and guard them fiercely. From the rain and looters alike. I would call it Alexandria. I'm not much compelled to do so now, in a pre-apocalyptic world, as the information is readily available, there are many libraries about. I surprised myself though.

I stood in the rain, content in waiting, listening to the song that she had put into my mind. I stood in the basement, laughing at how the bar had remained open and blinking as the smoke stung my eyes. I sat at the table, deeply thoughtful, completely happy and I held her hand. Gifts, as if gifts could say anything that I wanted them to. Nothing had to be said. Everything was said when I took off my hat and she kissed my ear. I do not know what now, what next, what else. I am not frightened by this. I don’t move on, I just keep moving. I will miss you. This is not an ending.

She wondered how it'd be different if it was the New Testament God. I don't know, and I mean it when I say that. The focus is the man, who feels very much like he is not chosen. Perhaps he would feel more so like he knew the party was going on, but never much felt invited. Maybe God would have been a good sport, would have taken the drink. Wouldn't have supplied the same sort of ending. I've been wondering about the title. The alliteration, of course, very nice, but I don't know how much seeking he's doing. Longing, sure, wishing, of course. But seeking. Is been bothering me since I wrote it, actually. Perhaps now I could touch it up some.

"So what are you doing today?"
"You're looking at it."
"Did you want to come home with me?"
Yes, yes, yes. I've felt this feeling before, this longing to go, hoping beyond hope to stay. What else could I possibly do with myself of value in comparison? I sat there, and I watched them sit in a circle, and talk about the things people do when they know each other too well and are tired. I joined them for a short while, throwing in my tousled personality and presently confused demeanor. They left, of course, having known each other too well, being tired and wholly unable to make new friends. My heart ached, knowing who they are, a moment of cognizance and self introspection. I stayed, of course, because they couldn't compare to you. Maybe because I couldn't compare to you. Maybe because there is no tomorrow and I don't believe in half measures. I talked about the theatre and art and philosophy and heard the ice fall like rain. Caution was something I used to know. We saw the dawn, after a fashion, the pinks and ambers and whites so bright, silhouetting your profile. The absurdness of my life stuck me as wholly beautiful. There is nothing I can think of that I enjoy more than a girl's head resting on my shoulder; the simple awe I feel is undeniable. They're long nights, all of them, and they aren't getting any shorter. My body complains only slightly knowing that soon there will be nothing worth staying up for.

Party Last. DeKalb style. I came back inside around four in the morning to find the place dark and everyone within it asleep. The case for the thermostat had been knocked off, indicative of a great party. The kitchen table was full of bottles. I stayed up until five, as I told myself I would. All in all, very therapeutic. Exactly what I had wanted.

I'm in the cleaning process. It's past four in the morning, which usually means I'm living in what I consider to be a good manner. I'm organizing my life, making it easier to move. It's somewhat refreshing, somewhat depressing. Been going crazy/wild about seeing whomever whenever I can, being a butterfly. I've been thinking about New York. She's leaving soon, and what then I don't know, other than she'll take the best parts of me with her.

You don't know how hard it was for me to refrain from calling you yesterday. A wave of melancholy would wash over me and I would feel blue, and I'd want to share it with you. Knowing without reason that whatever shadow stood before me you had the light to banish it away. But what would I say? I just wanted to hear your voice? The truth hurts sometimes and I don't want to try and hurt you. So I slept on the floor, in my clothes, as the Counting Crows sung to me about love and loss. It is a beautiful world, blue melancholy or no, and I'm glad you're in it.

Dawn is breaking over DeKalb.

I don't want to be poison for you. I don't want to be the churning feeling in your stomach that keeps you up and night and makes you nauseated. Why can't it all be running in the rain and kisses among the trees? I ask as if I don't know the answer. I know, I know. There is a question I don't know the answer to. Is the future empty now? What happens next? I am not angry or defensive or confused even. I'm just sad. And sad for you. I'll be sad for myself later, when the numbness wears off, when I remember what it's like to feel for myself. But right now, of course, always, I can feel for you, and I'm sad for you. I want to hold you tight until there are no more shakes and no more tears and I'm sad to know it's the fact that I was holding you tight to begin with that caused the shakes and caused the tears.

I don't want to cry for you. I don't want to ever think it can reach the point of tears.

"How do I look, Laura?"
"Worn."
"I suppose that's fair."
"And sad."

The birds were chriping and the sun was just about rising as I walked in the front door. I had a good night.

Dance Banquet tonight. Good times, all the way around. Even if she couldn't dance with me, at least she had a good point. What's amazing, though, is that none of the dancers I've known previously have made it. I expected it, the first time I went out dancing with Michelle, I expected her to say, "Look at you, look at this, there is no poise here, no technique." I was ready for it then. But now, after so many nights dancing, what am I to say? "You're right" or "You're a snob?" Both are correct, but neither what I mean. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Still a good point. Can't say I agree, but then again, I never do. I danced, though, to the best of my meager ability. I really do like to dance, perhaps more so because when I do so it has no poise or technique. Had a good time at it, too. Danced my way around the whole floor, got at least one dance with everyone I knew, and more than one with a few. I clean up really nice, I think. Feet are tired right now, sleeping in tomorrow. All is calm, all is bright.

Going though my photos today, a couple of months worth. My life in pictures shows me doing three things with my time. 1) Parties 2) Theatre 3) Vacation. Honestly, I can't say it's a bad life. I've also noticed that my sense of time, of congruence within time has fallen away. I had to ask about when SCS was in relation to things like spring break and Joel Hall. Sure, the cast party means something to me, there's an image in my mind and a feeling of it, but it's location within a linear cause/effect continuum is vague, at best. A little bit of chaos in everything. When I look back and somethings are unclear and somewhat undefined I'm sure I'll think to myself, "Yes, that was how it was."

So I've been doing a little looking at explodingdog as I haven't in a while. Yet I have two dedications to Ms. Katie Dahlseng. The first is a joke on her and the second is a joke on me.

Getting dressed again. Nervous this time.

Alone Exiting. An idea for a title of a play.

The theatre, perhaps maybe just my life in the theatre, has taught me that every decision you make, every affirmative is a negative choice towards something else. "Free time" is a myth, I believe. Choosing to do nothing is still a choice. I don't watch television too much for that reason, I can't imagine. Maybe people get tired, I could see that happening. This life thing, I have no answers, only questions. And I am happy with that.

It is May! In like a lion, for all kinds of reasons. The thunder storm is, of course, one of them.

It was nice, last night, sleeping from five to eight. Three hours that I honestly never thought would end. I dreamed a great deal many of things, and I remember Chris' voice, "Josh, Josh" floating down over the dream long before I realized there was a world outside he was calling me back to. I can't remember any of the dreams; only that it felt good to sleep. I went to Office Max with Michelle, bought some school supplies, talked about Katie. "There are no answers here." "Yep." Returned home to some homework, rendering on black paper with colored pencils, learning. An adventure. Starting reading a show with Laura, Within the Shadows, something I had wanted to do for a long time. Phone. Katie. Pause. My heart skips a beat. "Hello?" Tentative, not quite what I want, but who I am. She's afraid, in a different way this time. She likes me, I'm sure. She's afraid she'll lose me. Lose me. Amazing how this works, I never thought anyone would be afraid to lose me, I always figured it'd be the other way around. She asked me how I was feeling, and when I asked her what she thought she told me, could hear it in my voice. She was right, maybe, that she could have lost me and I didn't even realize. "Sweet dreams, I will see you tomorrow." Tomorrow when I'll wake up tired but hopeful. Press on, press on, the end is in sight, terrifying in its implications, in its freedoms. I finished the show with Laura, silence after. Then talking on my part and thoughtfulness on her's. I feel asleep with my arms wrapped around her leg, and she sat there thinking and I hope she knows how much it meant to me. Same clothes as yesterday, I've become someone I never expected, not at all dissatisfied with that either.

So there was this girl...

I just got home. I walked here. My roommates ditched me. They just left, didn't give a damn if I wanted to come with them or care how I was going to get home. Not a word. I turn around and they're nowhere to be seen. I wanted to scream, or cry, or cut myself and bleed on them. I wanted to run until I was out of breath and there was nothing left. I did none of these things. It's highly possible I was over reacting. I tried very hard to enjoy myself. At the very least I feel it was rude.

It's always better in the morning. Life has taught me that. The morning has taught me that. Strangely enough, though, I've noticed myself living for the night, and the mysterious shadows.

I bought her flowers and knocked on the door at four in the morning. No answers. No worries. Soon my head will clear of all of this else, all of this other, all of this uselessness and I will be able to smile at her simply, in the bright and piercing light of morning. I'll squint, of course, hung over and blushing. Then she'll laugh and giggle and say something I never thought possible I'd want to hear. And I'd eat every word like candy, and treat every moment as a blessing.

Still tired beyond belief. Need some rest. Some much-needed rest (pardon the repetition). Finishing up with tech this week, and some homework, but mostly tech. Going to try and do some laundry and clean my room, but mostly tech. Forces pulling me back to DeKalb, forces pulling me. I slept the evening away yesterday, somewhat wasteful, completely needed.

First responce: Mixed.

I'm glad there have been meteor showers in the past couple weeks as well. Maybe we can save each other, that there is such poetry in the world.

Best birthday. Ever. Period.

We have a show. Oh my, oh my, we have a show.

I got the most sleep in a single time than I have in two weeks last night. And I was drunk out of my mind.

As another day passes another number is added to the total. I always put such great emphasis on these days, and for no good reason. But still, happy birthday to me.

But maybe I can be taught, or maybe I can be shown the way. I have not closed my heart or my mind. I have just known the pain and the joys of life and I have loved them so deeply and so passionately and so possessively and I cannot believe there is something better. I feel it difficult to humble myself before that which could never humble itself. I find it hard to burn for something that loves so coldly. Maybe I am a bit afraid, I admit, I am so used to standing on my own. Maybe you could show me, with your batting eyelashes and eccentric phone messages. It seems I can never learn anything the right way, but only the hard way. Maybe if I stumble and fall you could show me how to lean on Him.

eMOTION. I'm still waiting on the videos, but from what I know, I'm happy with the outcome. I feel like I'm building towards something with these shows, like they're some sort of steping stone in the world of dance lighting design. I do believe that independent theatre is the best theatre. I like staying up late. I don't know why, I never have.

"I'm kinda glad that you're going to be working on Carmina until one in the morning, I was hoping to get some sleep tonight."

I wore my sunglasses today. Traditonally I think that means it's summer.

I might have been wrong. Which is wonderful. Fingertips moving and feeling, so innocent, so potent. So simple. In fact, I hope I am wrong. I hope I am over-reacting, that I was over-reacting before. It seems like there is always more. Which is good, as I always want more.

There are these people, these bright shiny bouncy people. Their eyes, so luminous and piercing. I want to hold on. The way their hair and their hips move when they dance. The dance, that is so much a part of who they are, that transcends, that overcomes, that explores. I want to squeeze so tight, to feel the warmth, to feel not so weak. I know I cannot, and I smile, one way or the other, just knowing that I've known, that I've been pierced by their eyes and by their hips. That they've touched my soul and I've touched their lips.

So I go to one party, and leave early. Then I spend a good deal of time sitting outside the second party, until it was busted by the police. I didn't even go to the third party, but instead went to Wal-Mart to buy a hat. I spent the evening talking on the phone with a girl. Regrets? None.

You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs, or burning your pants or something. It's events like that which make wonder if I have any fucking clue what I'm doing. Sure as hell doesn't feel like it when it's raining sparks on my head. The choreographers seemed pretty alright with it, though, which is always comforting. Tech tomorrow, and then, the world.

It is really scary to be terrifying. I didn't know I could invoke that in someone. You always have a choice, no one can force you into something you don't already want to do. Don't say no when you really mean yes. Emotion is right.

I look like hell. I need a shave. A haircut wouldn't hurt too bad, either.

So it's an movement in art and architecture. I found that here.

To the extent that everything seems strange and somewhat askew, the world is a very natural place.

Sometimes (most times) I'm an idiot. I should listen to myself when myself says, "Look, it might be April, but the snow is still beautiful and the night is surreal. Tomorrow the sun will rise, the romantic shadows of the night put to bed, soon enough the snow will melt and none of this will matter in the slightest. But tonight, right now, it matters. It matters to you. Don't plan for tomorrow, don't wish it here, don't worry about your silly infatuations, just enjoy the ride." And then I think maybe I won't be able to ask this tomorrow, and I feel bold, suddenly, and confident. Pride, I'm told, always comes before a fall. It's late, chaos and confusion await me tomorrow.

It's possible that I'll never know the weight of your head on my shoulder as I drift off to sleep, or the sound of your laughter, politely contained, over a candle-lit dinner. I may never be able to memorize the scent of your hair, see the way your sleeping face looks in the early morning light, or know the way the small of your back tastes. I know this is one of the mundane tragedies, the commonplace catastrophes that are rarely noted. When I say I want to hurt in life, I mean it, but I want to earn it, too.

A little bit of work will get your mind off of things. I've believed that for quite some time. A little bit of work will do you good, give you something to do, something to think about. Careful what you wish for.

Girls, all I really want is girls...

My life is a mess. Luckily, though, it seems to be a controlled mess, a planned mess. I didn't mean to plan it into a mess, shoving myself into a sleepless week full of too many deadlines and too many commitments, but the best laid plans of mice and men. I did not realize how much I relied on Chris' ever-present face in the living room until it hasn't been there for the past two days. Coming home in the middle of the afternoon to find the door locked, no Chris in sight, is shocking. To come home in the evening, finding the house dark, again the door locked against my easy entrance, is something I found hard to take. I am over-reacting, I know, and sleeplessness can do that to a man, however reasonable, and I am not wholly reasonable when I'm rested. I never imagined the day that I would push myself and push myself and push myself until I find it hard to stand and then use my key and have to enter without saying hello to my dear friend and sit for a moment, remembering what it is to be a person, just a person, as he told me about his newest video game adventure and we talked about menial things that mean the world to me. The world, I think, is wrapped up in menial things, and all of the things that have been getting me down are menial and unimportant. I will overcome this grayness, and this melodrama. I will sleep soon.

At least it's beautiful weather we're having.

Press on, press on. Things can be overcome. I've always wanted to run, but if you can face the uncomfortably with calm and poise then there is a time to sit and watch someone rewrite show that you're directing and is going up in a little more than a week. And that is a good thing, after all.

Still feeling bad. Not wanting to die, really, but rather not much wanting to live. I am not beautiful, there is nothing grand about this, no terrible fall of man. I am simply unworthy.

A bouquet of clumsy words wrapped in parable and myth, smelling of incense and ambrosia. A trinket of memories, glittering like a diamond. A present of hope, nailed together and stamped with the word 'Pandora.' A cornucopia of things I give to you, everything of value, but nothing of worth.

Maybe the difference between a friend and a lover is that a friend is one who knows of your struggles and helps you over come them and a lover is someone who you struggle for. Then, of course, the lines blur when your lover becomes your friend.

I feel terrible today. For the first time I am doubting my own inherent goodness. I have always considered myself empathetic. A little bit callous, perhaps, a little bit oblivious, but understanding and reasonable. But today I think I'm just a jackass.

I remember telling Kelli O'Toole when I was walking with her next to the dwarfing buildings of New York City, "I could easily start a life here." And I could have. Just following her around, the surroundings of the city, the wonderful people she knew that were so willing to know me. There are people in the world like that, that just their friendship and their physical presence in my sight would be the foundation on which I could build my happiness. I am reminded of My Antonia, how he was told that he could not stay in town, for the girl would destract him from his studies. I agree. I think about Chicago, as I think about that strong and beautiful city, the life I want there I want to carve for myself, to go and face down the winds of the Windy City and say that I was able to stand my ground. But life, it seems, knows no routine, despite how much it tries. It knows nothing that is normal, nothing that remains as it always has. There's nothing like new clothes, and talking to someone so late into the night that you never get to sleep.

This would be so much easier if you were just some other girl. Just some random girl who didn't have your thoughts on the theatre, who didn't excite my mind and make me think and feel deeply about that which I love. If you were just some girl, some passing fad that could fade away from me and never be seen again and I would never give it a second thought. My paranoia has made me manic, my concern made me blush. I am not your keeper; I am not your lover. I wish, though, to be your friend.

I just got a message on my phone that went something like this, "Hey Josh, this is Osama. I think they're on to me. I'm going to need to crash at your place. See ya in a few." The real question here is, are some men in some black suits going to come and knock on my door?

The problem, I think, is that I tend to think to much and do to little. Artistically I'll risk a great deal, personally I do not take such chances.

Is there something about my car that just causes me to burp? Maybe there's a gas leak or something. That would be bad. On a totally unrelated note I have three shows I'm lighting opening in April. Three. I'm a machine.

I love you. I fell in love with you long ago, pining away painlessly. A love though a passion that touched upon you and burned your image, red-hot, forever into my essence. I love you because you love me, because you did not trust me, but you needed me all the same. I love you because I touched you, because you touched me, because I could not calm you down. First, because I had never been so turned on, and second because I had never been so surprised. I am enraptured with your southwestern dreams and your European plans. I love the fact that I want to buy you soup and will think of any excuse to put my hands on you. I enjoy your petty jealousies and your deep emotional problems. You make me feel young and passionate and powerful. I hope I make you feel alive. There is no room for regret; there is no room for fear. What must be, must be. What has been is done. Take my hand, I may lead you astray, but I will not lead you into harm’s way.

"I want you to feel the back of my right shoulder. Yeah, you feel anything odd? Maybe a little dampness? Well that would be because Laura threw vodka on me!"

Yesterday was a beautiful day. Protests and hair dye and deep, solemn kisses. Tears and conflict and American flags. Classes and sleeping and alcohol. Good friends, good times and late nights. Erotic showers, hangovers and tender emotions. Chicken, rum and peace signs. Frantic phone calls, shouts and drama. Truth, beauty, love.

If the morning is nothing like tonight, tonight was still very much worth having.

Why can't the children dance? Children should always be able to dance. All people should always dance. If the music moves the feet then the feet should move to the music. I haven't cried like that in a long while.

Happy Birthday, Kelli O'Toole!

Why couldn't I have known you then? And loved you then? Why couldn't I have lost you before, and had it all done and over with now? Why do I think about you when I am resting and giggle at the silly messages you leave for me? And you have this beauty about you, so simple and elegant and I think I forget things I'm supposed to remember when I look into your eyes. The future is so vast and the past is so known, and why couldn't I have loved and lost and not have to worry if I'll never love at all? Silly infatuations. Why couldn't you have known me then, with all of my awkward clumsiness and you with your heedless reckless style. We could be talking about the old times, laughing and drinking lemonade with no worries. I would call you, right now, to tell you that spring was coming and promise emptily that I'd see you soon. Wouldn't it be a beautiful world? The future is where you now lie, and I am both tired and hopeful.

War. 9:45pm central/standard time bombs were dropped on Iraq. I would pray, I think, if I could believe it. If I could believe.

Happy Birthday, Chris Wright!

It is, as always, a bitter-sweet homecoming. I am, as always, living beyond my means.

This is for me and my wandering around New York.

One man, one week, one bag. One impossible dream. You know you need unique New York.

Happy Birthday, Laura Tennal!

A couple of things I want to reach out to people with as I have a moment right now, and I'm taking it to reflect. This is for Ms. Laura Tennal, who did, indeed, make me feel better. An old favorite for Kelli O'Toole, who I cannot wait to see. Another for Dave Morrison who has recently found what he was looking for. There is one for Alison Mahoney, who I have no idea when or where I will see her in New York. Something for Mr. Chris Wright, who will be packing up my things the moment he returns from dropping me off at the airport. And finally, I have this for Emily Jane Baldoni, who I miss very much. Of course, it's also Todd's speical day.

Happy Birthday, Todd Presson!

There is something beautiful, something peaceful, about a girl's head resting on your shoulder.

Today Dominique wrote "Jesus Loves You" on my cheek. On my cheek, that is my face. I was working at the time and not at all motivated to wash it off. I received a good dose of mocking from various people, I was also avoided, someone begged me to wash it off and two individuals showed open contempt. I wasn't even my profession of faith (though it was my face), so I had a bit of an emotional shield, but there is so much hostility out there for someone proclaiming.

My foot fucking hurts. Strike today. Been in Normal for a bit. My foot fucking hurts. Got new tires and a couple new videos. Saw some people, thought about Chicago. My foot fucking hurts. Chris was gone for the weekend, surprise, I as well, not so much a surprise. Strike was not fun, surprise. My foot fucking hurts. Bought some minidisks for Richard, a book for my mother, a flower for Kathy. My mother bought me rum. My foot fucking hurts. I sent a shirt to Alison, and well wishes never expressed to Emily. I miss her. My foot fucking hurts. I realized that I am not at all where I came from, this apple fell far from the tree. My mother is working class, artistic in a crafts sort of way. I can't imagine her position at work, if I really hated where I was working I would leave, there's always another theatre somewhere. I feel weak; what with the pain in my foot and the filth of strike on my hands and the way they're pealing and smelling of metal from all of the bolts that I've been twisting. Am I moving slower? Maybe I am. I feel that perhaps I'm not wanted at all, or, if so, wanted in the wrong way. I can't say what the wrong way is; I don't know what is right. What I know is that my foot hurts, and that is something I consider bad. Uplifting thoughts soon, underneath I am still hopeful.

This is for Mr. Chris Wright. I hugged Lucrecia today. I haven't done that before.

"When pop has lost it's flavor
And rock has lost it's kick
Because ska doesn't have our sound
Then let's do this
Yacka-Man Yacka-Man Yacka-Man, ah ah ah!
Yacka-Man Yacka-Man Yacka-Man, ah ah ah!"

-From my dream last night

I saw Marisol last night. This show had been trumped up pretty well in my mind. The set was gorgeous and the cueing I had seen Corey do had made me want to drool all over myself. Honestly I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had the same sort of feeling I went into The Mourning Bride with. This giant steel set and all of the moving lights. This show was not nearly so much a disappointment, but I did want to see more blood. Blood, blood everywhere. I seem to be obsessed. I should produce a show with blood in it, just to sate my appetite. Marisol is about a war in heaven. God is sick, senile and the angels are revolting. Marisol's own guardian angel is leading the rebellion. And then there's this plot, and these characters and these events that seem to have nothing to do with it. The constant reference to food. I don't know how many times different characters say something like, "I'm gonna be food." I wouldn't be surprised if the author is a cannibal. And this goddamned golf club. What the fuck was with the golf club? Richard said protection, but it's introduced in the first scene by a guy who attacks Marisol with it. In the third scene we find out that a Marisol Perez was beaten to death with a golf club. How can that be protection? Michelle said that perhaps Marisol died in the first scene and she spends the rest of the show in purgatory. I honestly don't think that's something that the director intended, but I would have enjoyed that. Marisol had a double on stage, at times, I don't know what the fuck for. I think that could have been used better, a lot better. Corey's lighting design was great. I think there were a couple of moments in the second scene when the angel was in Marisol's bedroom that there should have been more light down right on the rake, by where the salt feel, but that's the only thing I noticed, and I was looking. The moment at the end, with the angel and the war wings flying though the exalting light dressed for battle with the gun filled me with terror and joy all at once. The images of this show were beyond powerful. The text was beyond crap. It has so much potential, and failed, I think, to deliver. When it was over I thought of Mrs. Clesson and her warnings to show and not tell when we are writing. We had to be told most everything, almost like stage directions spoken by characters. The world is in ruin, the sun rises in the north and sets in the south, there is no protection. Mostly words, the feeling of it given after we're told. It was a good production. "The light and the hope." It sure changed its mood at the last moment. Those last moments, though, have stuck with me pretty well.

What a way to end the month. It seems that all of these no budget shows I do have hidden benefits somewhere.

Today I was walking back home and I saw one of those "Unity in Diversity" posters. The ones in which all of the letters are a different font and there are all these multi-colored blocks. Well this poster was facing out of doors and the sun had bleached leaving the background blocks to homogenize into a nice salmon and a neutral blue.

My name is not Bob. I am tall and thin and nondescript and I wear khaki tan clothes. I do not like spicy foods or listen to Prince. I have interest in sexy lingerie. In the summer I spend time in the shade. I have been known to share my inner feelings. I have problems and issues but I am not an alcoholic. I am funny and articulate and mysterious. I am not mean but I am unavailable. I am self-involved and charismatic. Sometimes I drive fast.

"As Michelle Drove Away From the City a Feeling of Peace Lulled me to Sleep"

(a title for a poem never written)

As I have been telling people recently, theatre is my passion and lighting is my profession and I am incredibly happy that I am able to professionally do something I am passionate about. The appeal of light to me comes from being drawn to the theatre, it is the light that comes down which informs the audience the play is about to begin, the light that comes up on the stage that gives the audience the feel of a theatre. It is all convention, I have nothing to do with it as a designer, but the simple beauty of it cannot be beat. The theatre is beautiful, and like all beautiful things can inspire and destroy, show amazing tenderness and incomprehensible cruelty. The theatre mimics life, mocks life, comments on life, contemplates life, creates life. There is nothing that is not within the domain of the theatre, nothing that it cannot in some way touch if it tries. We are creators, we are like gods. We come into an empty black space, our thought floating over the face of the void. And we say let there be light and let there be scenery and let there be bodies in costumes to move about in this space and say these words and do these things. Let us create a world from this blackness, a world that lives and breathes and for two hours a night we will let them come and sit in the dark and let them inhabit our space and see our world. They, the audience, like a chorus of angels, sitting and watching mankind, laughing and learning, crying and enjoying.

Contentment is deadly, it coddles the mind into a state of apathy. Constant restlessness leaves one weary, lost and unable to do anything of value. The theatre to me gives me enough of contentment without setting in of drudgery. The moment of anticipation is the sweetest moment. The great irony is that after such moments there comes a let down, the moment after wanting becomes having the wanting feeling has gone and the having is not nearly as strong. The theatre has always given me anticipation after anticipation. The world we create must come down, no matter how beautiful or terrible, it will fall to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And, drudgingly, joyously, we will rebuild. There is always something ahead, something new, while relishing and having the present I can anticipate the future. I am seeking peace somewhere within myself. The theatre has shown me more of that than I ever have found elsewhere. I am seeking to create art out of the darkness. Not just a show, some piece of entertainment, but art, however dirty and unpolished, art in its purest definition. I am looking for god in the theatre, in the dusty batons and the impossibly high grids. If creation is a step towards divinity then that is the step I choose to take. Perfection I know I cannot obtain, but moving towards perfection is what I desire to do.

Joel Hall has come and gone. Found out that Randy and Joel have been friends forever, and that they look almost exactly alike. Saw Danielle on a date tonight, and Dave on his date with Rosie. Michelle and Allison out with a couple of other dancers, none of whom came into strike with me. I've never been much for eavesdropping, but after the way the setup for this show went, a bit of people watching before the curtain opened was good for me. Strike went very well, the pain killers helped a great deal on my back. Did, however, do a great deal to my concentration, come to think of it. I had Mili on the electrics, Richard on the flies and Chris sorting out the rental equipment. The show came down like butter. Easier than butter, the show just made it down. Like when you untie a piece of tie line and the cable just falls off. There's no avoiding it. Times like tonight just make me feel beautiful, if only I had the staff in place to take care of what needed to be taken care of. Having skilled people taking care of things is just amazing. Totally and completely amazing. Very Randian sort of feeling. It's like a taste of ambrosia, I think, once you have it nothing else seems really worth it. Early morning. No rest for the wicked, and no rest for me, either.

Happy Birthday, Kathy Briggs!

I've never been very good at endings. I'm getting better, I suppose, with the strike of a show and how to go about it. When to tell people to go home and when to make them stay. What to lift and what to drag, that sort of thing, but that's just a part of the ending, not the ending itself. People peter out, they're cut, their job is done, it's time to go home. Eventually you are left with the stout few, just waiting, waiting to leave, no thought of food and laughter after, usually. The beginnings are what feel the best, what electify the blood and make the body quake with excitement. When a day breaks, and everything is fresh and new, like an untouched piece of paper, and the breath comes quick, it is anticipation. The unequaled feeling of freshness, of something new, perhaps something better. That's why things tend to be better in the morning, because they are.

You know SRO means Standing Room Only? You'd be amazed at what memories return to you and when.

Two strikes in two days. And I still feel on top of the world. There is this picture that I had wanted to link to on this bright and shiny day.

Struck SCS in a little over an hour. Amazing. I am the freakin' man. I have a number written on my hand. In one of the best moods ever today. Tired as all get out at the moment, but still lovely. A dirty sort of lovely, calloused hands, dusty shirts, that sort of thing. The breath in my lungs, every one so joyous.

I find it a personal weakness that I forgot to set my alarm last night.

I never thought I would have to say this, or at least I hoped that I would never have to say this. But ... You do not, do not, do not stop a show during its final tech. I don't give a damn if your the Lord Almighty, if the show is moving along you let it move. Once the show is dead (and then only maybe) can you stop it and try to bring life into it. But if the show is limping along, if the cues are coming late or early or not at all, you write this shit down, you talk about it after, you pray that everything comes together for the opening, then you go to bed. You do not stop the show in the middle of the goddamned final dress because you aren't happy with the way the lights look or the level of the sound. Fuck you! If your show isn't ready by final dress that is your failing as a director. Your punishment is that you have to sit and watch your failure for two hours writing a novel's worth of notes that must be fixed without another rehearsal. I'm sorry, you lose. Obviously I'm a little frustrated with the director of this show. The opening, though, I still believe will go well, and for that I am much pleased.

As my alarm woke me up this morning, and as I struggled to turn it off for just ten more minutes of precious sleep, I found my movements somewhat akin to that of a fish out of water. A thought struck me that perhaps the frantic flipping and flopping of a fish is perhaps not that of desperation and panic, but that of anger and indignity. Could it be that a fish is offended that its mussels, so refined, so powerful, have all at once proven so ineffectual? Perhaps it suffers from embarrassment that it's normally fluid motions have been reduced to a pitiful jerking. Perhaps it does not realize it is dying, perhaps it simply does not care, its pride will not let it fall limply to the earth when it knows there is water somewhere.

It sucks, I think, that there's some part of man's nature that allows us to 'get over' someone. The fact that you can care so deeply and so much, then, suddenly, cease to do so. At the same time, it's wonderful to be free.

Sitting around with a couple of people who can talk inside and outside of the theatre is very nice. Having a couple of drinks to go with that talk is also very nice. Getting up the next morning for a 9am call is not so nice, but knowing that there's rehearsal and you must be out of the space by then is nice. It's like getting a whole day off, can you imagine? Home at five? It's like it's the weekend or something.
[the previous statement is hyperbole]

Is it wrong to love someone just because you think they might love you?

Just got back from working on Flaubert. Wired a couple of dimmers for the light bulbs. My away message was crude, but it rhymed and made me very happy. It was, "Late night calls eat my balls." Aren't I clever?

The only resemblance between myself and Ethan Hawk is that I grow bad facial hair only when I forget to shave on consecutive days, I never do it on purpose. It should also be noted that any resemblance between myself and Harry Potter is a total flight of fancy which reflects more upon the desire of the viewer than my actual appearance.

Three days of work, straight. I got off work, I went to bed, got up, back to work. One word to describe how I feel: Good. To celebrate I'm taking tomorrow off. No work. It's amazing how that works. I've got a couple of meetings, which means I'll have to get dressed. During the show I was running the other day I wrote a lot, things about human nature as I've seen it, thoughts on girls, a bit on the theatre I believe, and so fourth. A whole act's worth of ramblings. Those thoughts are still spinning, still spinning.

Chris just talked to me in his sleep, he sounded a bit drunk, a bit high. Very happy. Was talking nonsense, but got around to eggs for a moment. Very exciting stuff.

Last night my roommate talked to me in his sleep. He said a whole bunch of things I did not understand. I questioned him about it, and he returned with real words. "Eggs," he said. I asked him about his eggs, he told me he had gotten them downstairs, laughed innocently, like a child, and then returned to the tongues he had been speaking. Tonight I went to my mentor's house, to dream and to see pictures of dreams realized. Her son was there, old enough to speak in the same tongues of my sleeping roommate, while occasionally saying, "ball" and "horsy." He could laugh, too, innocently, like a child. Is it perhaps in our sleep that we dream not of grandiose things, but rather see the world though the eyes of children?

Strange dream last night wherein Chris barrowed my glasses and then broke them out of sheer apathy.

I am exhausted. A good sort of tired. I'm getting up in the morning again, to work all day. Sunday it's a hang at NIU. Saw A Man's A Man last night. I gotta say, I think the show is a personal sort of drama, and not an anti-war play. It was a serious misinterpretation. Same problem I had with The Mourning Bride. Is this a trend? I doubt it, I think this show was trying to be more recent and relevant than it had to be.

A lot of snow today. For some reason it always reminds me of Kathy. Her constant references, thoughts about snow angels. That night freshman year when I walked back to Douglas and plod the only path in the freshly fallen snow. I had felt so Randian. It's so thick and fluffy. It makes me want to light a fire, cuddle up and watch a movie. I wouldn't mind staying home, staying in, I think, if I could do it with the right people.

This here dedication I'm going to have to put out to my current situation. Amusing as all get out.

It's nights like this that make me think that old friends are the best friends. You live though the day to day stuff that makes you friend, and then you get on with your life. Then, at some point they just chill when you can chill, and it's enough. And the petty things don't bother you. Thank you, Steven Vittitoe, for watching the Super Bowl with me.

Slept tonight. Took a nap, though a movie I was supposed to see. Woke up late, felt awful. Don't know if I would have felt if I hadn't missed the movie, I wasn't too refreshed. Went out to make my apologizes, faced stark apathy. Feel asleep watching High Fidelity this evening. Great movie. Reminds me of people. I want to buy it.

I've been thinking a lot about relationships, just ones that you have with people, in general. And there are the people that crash into your life, like a comet or something. Just smash and you change and grow around them and with them. And then there are the people that look at you, and you at them. And they see you as you are, they don't crash into you, but they touch you. In a more subtle way. They reach out and put a hand on your shoulder. Some people will run into you, sending you to the ground, knocking your books all over the place, and the second type will pick up a book and hand it to you if you happen to drop it. I'm sure there are more types, and shades of gray in-between, but those are the two main ones I've been thinking upon. Then there are just other people. The implied thing with the stated relationships, is that they care about you and you care about them. In whatever small way. You know, like playing magic with someone. You care that they have the cards, and if that's where it ends then that's where it ends. When the game's over and you both pack up your cards you know you have nothing else to talk about, but that's okay, that's the extent of the relationship. I've also noticed that friendship is rude. It is not nice, it is not polite. I mentioned this to Lucrecia the other day and she agreed saying, "Human relationships are dirty. That's the way they're supposed to be" in her insistent and persistent accent. In other cultures they kiss people hello. In other cultures they become more emotionally close more quickly. Ours is a polite culture, we believe in privacy. It does not breed friendship, I guess there could easily be a lot of people we know but are not friends with. The final analysis is I'm still confused, mostly, about the whole deal. Emotions can stretch halfway across the world at times, and at the same time not halfway down the block. Time and distance weathers and destroys some and casts others in steel. Lucrecia, in speaking as the voice for another culture said, "Where's the time for family? Where's the time for friends? Where's the time for art and philosophy?" And she sheepishly shrugged it off, saying that there wasn't any. There is, of course, time for everything, just not all things (I'm not sure if that makes since to me). One can make time for family, or friends, or art and philosophy.

Is there a time in life when you have to say goodbye? Does it come to a point when your intentions can never be good enough, your manner never correct and the only place to go is away? (I've been talking about the theatre today with someone that became an old friend before she became a new one)

Dinner is an art form. Not the actual eating of dinner, I think every sort of animal is equipped with the ability to intake and digest food. But having dinner. Sitting down with someone and eating. There's so much going on, there's the sitting and the eating. And, of course, the talking. One cannot forget the talking. Plus, if you're going out to eat there's the whole deal of ordering. What do you order, and how do you talk to the server when you do so? I love going out to dinner. Not that I'm an artist, or even that good at it, but that doesn't mean it fails to fill me up with a simple joy. Food is a great excuse for almost anything, everyone understands hunger, everyone is subject to it. When you talk about passion, or love, or even something like pain or fear it's possible that who you're talking to has never felt this things, or might be jaded, or just simply not care. But when you talk about food, they have to respect, everyone eats. You sit down, and you eat. You have no where else to go, there's nothing more important at this moment then eating. Just relax and eat. Talk a bit, shoot the breeze. Especially if the food and conversation is good. That's living. Good food and good friends and no worries on your mind. If you're eating a good dinner then there is nothing that can encroach upon you. I'd go out to dinner every night if it wasn't so expensive. That and repeating something to excess tends to render the importance of any single event nil.

This made me think of Todd.

Normal over the weekend. The name of the town even is starting to sound foreign even to me. The constant insistence, although I know it is a joke, that I am from Bloomington makes me sick, sick because it may be true, sick because I know it is false. That place makes me wonder about time, how it flows, and what part of our lives allow us to decide our direction in the current. All the while I listened to music that I never would have heard in that town, it filled me up, this music. I might have made mistakes, in fact I'm sure of it, but I do not regret them.

I am called in about an hour and a half. It's been a lazy gray Saturday thus far. Got up early, went back to bed as my rehearsal was going to start around noon. Sat around, watching. I'm going to read the show again, talk to Mili about some cues. She has all of these ideas, and I think it's great that she knows that we don't really have an inventory or a budget, but I don't think she realizes this fully. That means we're going to shoot for the stars, and I'm all for that. I'm drained from last night. First an argument, despite my best efforts to avoid such a confrontation. "The best laid plans of mice and men." If she calls me out, then I'm going to show. Maybe it shouldn't be that way, but it is. I want things to be okay, but when I say that I mean my own view of what is okay. After which I stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking to someone who could be considered new skool but is now an old friend about all kinds of things. One of those conversations that you have with people that means something and nothing. He gave me some things to think about, and I asked him questions I had been avoiding asking out of courtesy. I had missed him. He slept in his bed last night, amazingly enough. It was very exciting. All in all I'd say the night was a draw, which means I'm still riding on whatever cloud I managed to hop on to.

Last night I got a couple of messages on my phone and two of them mentioned something about my outgoing message, and how funny it was. All but laughing at me. I was very amused. I did change it though. How the mighty have fallen to peer pressure.

I have a couple of things:
1)		I got this spam from a friend of mine about how life was tough growing up in the 80's and there was this cute little quote in it: And we didn't have any fancy Sony Playstation videogames with high-resolution 3-D graphics! We had the Atari 2600! With games like "Space Invaders" and "Asteroids" and the graphics sucked a$$! Your guy was a little square! You had to use your imagination! And there were no multiple levels or screens, it was just one screen forever! And you could never win, the game just kept getting harder and faster until you died! Just like LIFE!
2)		I've been feeling rather guarded recently, professionally. I'm hoping to iron all of this stuff out, but I am aware that anticipation is one of the best feelings ever. And, perhaps, the newness and excitement of the future will fade when I reach it, and when I obtain the things I want so very much now that they will be not as important in the having than in the wanting.
3)		Strangely enough, I have another dedication to Ms. Laura Tennal. Thank you for talking to me last night, or more so listening to me as I talked at you. Thank you, also, for letting me fall asleep on the chair, I hope you didn't mind.
4)		I would like to quote myself, if I may be so bold. "The higher you raise him up the further he can fall." I'm sure it's a truism of some sort, it's in Gray Matter, all three versions. I only attempt divinity. As a mortal man, I of course cannot reach divinity. Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus, dragging and drudging, but getting that rock to the top of the hill. Sometimes I feel like Odysseus, distracted by all sorts of bewitching distractions when all I'm trying to do is go home. Sometimes I feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, but it is oh so bright. Most of the time I feel like Icarus. A lot of the time I do fly, and looking up the radiant glow that you see is the sun blocked by my silhouette. It seems that the people so blinded by that first look are so aghast when my wax wings melt and I come falling, falling. Falling is bad, my heel has taught me that. But what is worse, I think, is never being up so high. This is an apology, I think, for everyone that has seen me once when I was radiant and glowing. I am sorry that I cannot glow all the time. I did not mean to deceive. What I am not sorry for, though, is that I will never stop trying to fly into the sun.

This book taught me how to love her. Or maybe it taught me why I loved her. Or maybe it just showed me the nature of my love for her. It spoke to me in a way more personal and relevant than any book has previously. Perhaps, the thought comes to me, perhaps it did so too late. I do not believe so, though. I believe that with love, when it is love, it is never too late. I am reminded of Chekhov and a moment from The Seagull in which one character says to another (and I paraphrase) "Our feelings were like tender flowers." I have always been attracted to that idea. Tender flowers, that is what love is. Tender flowers with a core of steel. Love, I believe, does indeed endure all things. If she is gone, she is gone, and I will continue to love. Eventually all will fade away, all will burn on the pyre of time and tide leaving nothing but the steel core of love. It remains, as fluid and as unstoppable as the tides. This book forgives me while pointing a condemning finger. I condemn myself. I know not what to do. Nights like this, though, when I think of the book and I think of the night, and the closeness, Coleridge saying to me "water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink," I can't help but ponder the conquidence. Without the book my rage and my shame would burn and burn and burn, till perhaps even the steel core of love would be buried in ash I would declare sacred to never touch, meaning I would never unearth that most precious remains of the once tender flower. Such is not the case. If there is a divine plan, perhaps here is proof. A piece of me is missing, a feeling I know from all my waking hours much sharper than before. A song singing in my mind, "I hope you take a piece of me with you." I do hope that you take a piece of me with you. I hope.

I ran into Kelsey at the gas station. Well, I almost ran into her, literally, with my car. It seems that we were vying for the same pump. This person in front of me could have easily pulled forward, but they didn't. I, under the violent and familiar grip of road rage, pulled forward in a huff, engaging in turning maneuvers to get to the other side of the pump. At some point an time, while I was throwing my own little personal tantrum, I realized it was Kelsey in that car (it being her car and all). I was suddenly no longer mad at some nameless, faceless driver that stole my pump. Instead I was filled with an deep blue sadness. I was on my way out of town for work, thinking about the wonderful day I had behind me and the rather easy work night I was about to face. I thought about the nature of friendship, a topic I have been thinking about recently. I thought about Todd and how he had said on his page "I felt like I was losing touch with all of my friends ..., including to an extent those that I live with." Obviously I've lost touch with Kelsey. On a strictly personal level, I'm not too terribly hurt. I know that she's more than this, but my relationship with her has thought me to view her as vain and petty. Yet on a more general level, the idea of change, and that change causing me to loose people forced its way forward. I thought of Ben Russell, and how years after we had stopped being friends my newer and more aggressive friends beat the shit out of him for me. I had thought about how Matt Buckles had called me out of the blue in Coldwater this past summer while I was on dinner break. I thought about grace, who I am still unclear about my thoughts and feelings on. I thought about Chris Wright and how I feel I am growing apart from him despite my desire to try and maintain a closeness (I blame myself). I thought, full of melancholy about these things as I stood in the cold pumping gas into my car. I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, the funny thing being we were actually at different sides of the same pump, just as she hoped back into her car and sped off, and I had wanted to say, "Hey, this is stupid. Life is either too short or too long for this sort of thing. I don't give a damn if we never talk again, but I've never actually run into someone at a gas station before and it would be nice if I could just say hi." I said none of this things, though. I felt like Holden Caulfield, just so godamned strung out and depressed. It didn't last long, though, my pump thumped, letting me know my tank was full. I drove off, the sun was setting. I felt free. Cold and free.

So I had this dream last night that I over slept and was late for work. I woke up, actually woke up, enough to think, 'naw, my alarm is set, that won't happen in real life.' Then I went back to sleep. What did I do? I slept until eight, when I was supposed to be at work at eight. Turns out I had set my alarm for the PM. Prophetic dream? Creepy.

I had a dream last night about lighting designers. Not sure in what fashion, but I know that at some point someone said something, "But I found one that would do it and wouldn't scare you."

Richard wasn't in class today (jury duty). I don't have any other friends in the department.
[the previous statement could be false]

Happy Birthday, Bret Swanson!

I'm off to bed. I'm going to be getting up around six tomorrow, not because I like to get up crazy-early before my 8am class, but because I'm going to be working at 8am in the Coronado. While my peers are busy with their first day of class I myself am busy in a theatre. My feelings are mixed and incomprehensible. So not much is new.

Here I go, again, in comfortable socks. The city, she knows me. The city, she calls.

What the hell is it with people I live with and going to bed early? Laura tried to sleep once, we woke her up, then she actually retired for the evening. Michelle went while Chris was still playing on his computer, then old faithful himself passed out on the couch. I was left, as usual, to escort the guests out, lock the door and retire myself. Right now I'm finishing up on pictures from Sophistry for the old portfolio. After that I'm going to be off to bed for a little bit of reading and then some sleep. I had been thinking about truth earlier today, and perhaps human relationships. What I'm wondering, really, is what it is about someone I knew in high school, however poorly, that makes them important to me? It is some sort of illusional perception of a shared past? Maybe it's the time thing. That I feel like I've known them for so long. I think I'll get an idea of this after I've left this place, and I say, "Yeah, I went to college with them." It'll be interesting to think about at least. Ran into some guys at Steak 'n Shake a week or so ago, went to high school with them. They were saying things like, "I remember college," and "It seems like a long six months." Nostalgia, like arsenic, can kill in high doses.

The other day I was smelling my scarf and I thought it smelled like stale smoke. But the more I think about it, the more I think it just smells like me. Which makes a lot more since than it smelling like stale smoke. The question then is, do I smell like stale smoke?

Off to Rockford again tomorrow. Going to be teaching people about the board. Chicago on Friday, going to be selling myself to a school, maybe seeing some art.

Recently I told someone that "salvation always comes from within." There's a truth in that. Baring any sort of divine intervention, another person can only show you the door, at best, you are the one that must walk though. I have been walking in circles, or stumbling and falling, or some other sort of metaphorical impediment to my progression. It's all personal, I've been though what I consider very close to hell, and, oddly enough, it only looks that bad in retrospect. The past is worth remembering, most certainly worth remembering, but not worth reviving. It is dead and gone, mourn, if you must, but know that there is no way to bring the dead back to life. The future is where I will now turn. Chicago is calling. Or I am longing for it, little difference in my mind.

grace said I never mentioned her enough. What I think is funny is that these words, for the most part, were written for her. She was, in my mind, the audience for this text. Funny, too, that I never realized it until it ceased being true.

I made no resolutions. I have no regrets.

Happy New Year!
With the new year comes the official launch of the new Vasconia [v5.6]. This page and I have had a long trip though time, it's seen a lot of me, been much better to me than I ever have to it. It's going into its seventh year right now, which, I must say, isn't too shabby. I'd like to take a moment to point out the really cool stuff, like the message board or my fresh attempt at a webcomic, which I hope I have adeptly titled Agog. In fact, I've put up a comic to commemorate the occasion. On the right is some useless information about myself, but I do like the aesthetic appeal. Aesthetics is the main concern of this page, which is why all of the scrollbars that you find will be black. They're there, but you can't see them, I'm sorry, I know how terrible that is, but I've made my decision. If you're interested in coming back time and time again, check below to see the updates, what you see there now is stuff that has been updated from the old [v4.*] when the new look took place. This particular version has been a couple months in the making and the waiting. To acknowledge all of these changes I would like to link this.

They come flying, with all of the speed of the damned, these little drops of water. Surrounded on all sides by cold dryness they come crashing into my sleep-warmed body, like freezing little needles. I stand there, naked and half asleep, shivering at the prospect of another day.

It's times like this that I wish I had a squirt gun.

I've been working a lot, obviously, and have been somewhat busy. It's a blessing, pulling this show together. I feel something, somewhere. What it is, though, I can't quite say. Made the paper today.

Chris is leaving tomorrow, back to St. Charles to see his cousins and he'll be away for the New Year. Not that this bothers me too much, I myself am working though the New Year. But it was nice, in a way, I guess, to come home to someone being here. But not just someone, but Chris. I think it is his easy, accepting manner, and the fact that he kept telling me tonight to not go to sleep. I value his company a great deal and I think just sitting around, not doing much of anything, and talking a lot of shit about it is really the way to go to bring me back, to fight off this fog.

Merry Christmas!

There was something nice about coming back to Normal and seeing Jeff with an old friend over. They were just sitting and chatting, like I enjoy doing when I see an old friend. My mother never gave me such confidence that things do not fade away and fall by the wayside. My mother had friends when she was younger, I seem to remember her having friends when I was younger, but it seems now that her husband and her dying parents are what remain of those friendships. Family, beautiful and terrible, cannot complete me. I am not an island, much though I try, and I feel that friendship is important. Interestingly enough, I feel that for the first time some of these friendships are failing me. Failing where they should not be. Life will change, I know that. It was still nice to know that those who have come before me have endured the storms and changes of two lives, to remain friends, to sit around a table and talk about family and work and God and whatever else they see fit to discuss.

I have spent more days in my bed in this new place, than I did in four months at the other.

You can tell that I'm on break considering the amount of additions I'm putting up in the past couple of days. It seems, though, that after saying so much I had to surrender to other voices. So I'm leaving this place and going back to Normal for Christmas. I can't say I'm too terribly interested in the prospect. There are people I want to see, but somehow I feel like I should get away from there, far, far away. Or at least stay away. Maybe all will become clear as I spend time in town and, hopefully, my apprehension melts. Before I go I have a dedication to Ms. Laura Tennal, with wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year in her southern home. And I have one more with love and affection to Kelli O'Toole out in the Big Apple. There are so many more, but Sam Brown at explodingdog only does so much. The road is long, the sun it out. I am away.

What does it mean in the morning? Hell, I don't even know what it means now. I would really like to have some milk. Saying things makes them true, some people do like relationships. I've been doing a lot of thinking recently. I feel like, in some way, I'm recovering from a sickness. The circumstances that I'm living in now would be interesting and exciting, I think, but, of course, they will pass on long before they should. Bros before hoes doesn't mean that you're always choosing to spend your time with the guys, it's just that in regarding your romantic relationship you regard your friendships as well. Most of the time, I think, friendships take a back seat, and not the cool kind of double date backseat in which they're making out with their own date in the back while you're rounding second in the front, oh no. The lonely sort of backseat where they don't even have a date at all. Chris is asleep upstairs, Richard just left. My mind is a buzz. I want to try and put down some of what I'm feeling, but I know that's not going to happen, I'm thinking too many things and they all seem to be fleeing me. Honesty and truth, what is their place in this world. When we know that we can never fully know the full truth how much of the truth can we expect, how much can we demand? Is all really fair in love and war? I feel at the moment that I'm in love with life, does that make everything I do in life fair? Wanting seems to be far more intense than having, yet the theatre has never let me down in that regard. The performance has always been so much better than wanting the performance to happen. A grayness, like a fine silk, had fallen upon me. I am not sure when, but I feel as if it is being lifted. The sun does not hurt in its brightness, but it does seem crisper. I am disoriented and confused. I have lost my way. But I'm happy.

Holy shit, I thought Will had said, "I'll French your ass." But as it turns out Legat had said it about two years ago, as opposed to Will about five. Should this bother me, that I don't really remember?

I didn't fail anything. This has been my worst semester ever and I didn't fail anything. I wasn't prepared, I didn't do the work, and I didn't fail anything, no one failed me. I even got an A in my Biology class, which I was sure I was going to get a C in, at best. I was a terrible student this semester and my GPA for the term was still 3.2. I'm not sure how this makes me feel. Of course I'm happy that I did so well, considering I felt like I was doing so poorly. But that's the problem, I know I did so poorly. I don't deserve it, academically. I'd like to think that my personality deserves it, but that's stretching it. I shouldn't get graded on my personality. I'm still full of questions.

So I read that on someone's AIM profile last night. And I'm still thinking about it enough to keep it here. I find it a pleasant true-ism. I agree, too.

Hit Champaign yesterday. School, school, school. I'm more confused than I've ever been. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? I'm sure I'll deal with all of these questions soon. I am in love with Chicago, or if not Chicago per say, the idea of the city, of living in the city. I want that sort of change. I want to wake up next to someone, watch as the sun spills onto their skin, run my fingertips on their back. They wake and look at me not with love so much as appreciation? Respect? But I don't want to date anyone, per say. I confuse myself. Where I want to go is so clear in my mind, but how to get there seems foggy and dark. That's the challenge, I'd believe. Maybe I just want someone to hold on tight to me, not tell me it's going to be okay, not tell me anything, just run their fingers though my hair, and if I start crying they let me cry, always with their fingers in my hair. There's a beauty in silence, a moment between people that needs no words. I don't think I need to cry, but I know I'd sure like someone to hold me and run their fingers though my hair.

Given the chance I'd like to link to this explodingdog picture. I'd like to dedicate it, too. You know who you are. I'd also like to put out this one. You also know who you are.

I went to go see The Two Towers this evening. The film took more liberties with the original Tolkien story than that first one did. I, unlike many people, did not reread the novels from my original pleasure in junior high school. The stories have stayed with me throughout as a dim memory. I noticed tonight that my memory of the story is fragmented. I remember events specifically, if not fully understanding the cause and effect sequence that leads to such events. I wonder if I am not falling into a similar view in my life at the moment. It's strange.

Normal can't be my home. I think the Denny's on main street is closed, Steak 'n Shakes are now accepting credit cards. There's a Wal-Mart out by my house, for chrissake. A whole lot of problems and no solutions.

So it's one in the morning and I still haven't found the desire to leave for home. The more I think about it the more I really just want to stay here in DeKalb and bum around with Chris. It's not that I don't want to see all of my old skool Normal friends, I do, I just don't want to be there. I don't really want to be here, either, but here is easier, my stuff is here. Just relax, sleep in late, shower whenever and eat about the same time. Christmas in DeKalb, not so bad an idea, I don't think. I would, perhaps, like to travel around, visit people. That would be nice. Something new. I think that's what I'm longing for.

I'm sitting in the basement reading some online comics and chatting on AIM. Chris is upstairs, both of his computers sitting on the kitchen table, playing Dark Age of Camelot. It's break time and the girls have left. I feel pretty comfortable, pretty relaxed. I haven't been up before noon in the past couple of days. I could make some comments on laziness, but I think they're self-explanatory. Last night, though, before the drama broke out, I was in a conversation about socialism and it was brought to my attention that a lot of shareholders aren't actually involved in the creation of whatever good or service is provided by a place. It's an interesting dilemma.

Art, so to speak, inspired by fun. A Josh Weckesser original.

I've moved in. I'm being sued by my landlord. I am pretty happy with myself and with everything. Happy, happy, happy. The problem with learning things the hard way is the pain that goes along wtih it. The bennift, though, is that one tends to be a lot more thankful for the things you have.

It's early in the morning, I've slept most of the day away. I feel sick, made burgers for dinner. Chris and Allison, who I can now officially call my roommates, are asleep next to me in a somewhat grotesque, somewhat endearing pose on a couch that it too small for one of them, much less both of them. I've arrived. My semester has ended. My thoughts on school and on life now needed to be sorted out. I need to sleep, a great deal, and do a little bit of reading. Look into a mirror and see if I'm still looking back. Despite everything, I'm hopeful, and a little excited. Tomorrow is another day, a bright and crisp day. I'm moving tomorrow.

I just got my first phone call! YAY!