Funny, I think, to know this. Last night in Chicago before I take a couple of weeks off. When I get back it will be a new year and I will be a new man. A lot of things that are true now will most likely have changed. Thank you, Kristin, for everything.

God rest ye, marry gentlemen.

You'll never guess who I talked to tonight.

Corey Felgenhour, that's who.

Wendesday night. Please, dear Lord, deliver me.

My mind just doesn't seem to work in this textual manner these days. My life is so wrapped up in images.

Fuckin' flat tires. Fuckin' limp dick half cocked false starting days.

So now what do I say? Now what do I do? If you were here I would go to you, dry your eyes, rest your head on my chest and sleep. I would say nothing. There is nothing to be said.

Yet here I am, my glass of wine, my obscene erection, my endless needing and my deep desire to know. To top it all off, I'm scared. Scared I can't finish what I start. Scared that I'm low class and low brow and that all of poetry in my soul is nothing more than the chirping of a song bird, nice but nothing worth paying a lot of attention to. I'm in love with you. You know that. If you don't know that, if you still have to ask then there's nothing left here. This is all dross and we're going though the motions of our painful joust for no reason. There are some things that should be known, that should be understood. This is one of them.

Beyond that, though, I fear I am bad at it. At loving you. At loving. I am a man with ideals. Whatever that means. But what I think it means is that I'm better able to deal with ideas than I am with people. Ideas aren't tired on some days, weak on others. People fail ideals. Ideals rarely fail people. Part of me loving, I think, is wrapped up in idealizing. The flaws of this way of thinking (living) are obvious, I'm sure.

Touch me here, touch me there. Listen as I moan softly; spent. Dig your thumb into my eye until you reach the very core of me. Pull it out. Eat it like a plumb. Rest easy. Tomorrow will come with or without me. Your ideals are higher than mine. Better, stronger. Simpler. Throw down boiling tar. Toss my ladder from your battlements. I have fallen before. I am walking now, it is okay. All is well. I am not insurmountable. Your dreams will still dance, no matter how many crutches I need.

Girls who smoke and drink Jack. Seriously.

What's next? After gorging myself on Dance Chicago already I'm hungry.

I've gotta admit, teching with a bunch of gay guys is a lot of fun.

I had a dream the other night that Gina forgave me. Redemption, though, is a bit harder to come by these days.

Dance Chicago compleate.

I have just realized that I have no idea what the person I'm meeting this morning looks like.

Happy Birthday, Kristin Helfrich!

Why can't I have socks without holes in them? I mean, come on.

Had a meal or so today. Did some drafting. Nothing too special. Though I did finish Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night after three nights of failing to do so for various reasons. Small victories. Simple things.

Fever dreams this afternoon. Passionate kisses and snake bites on the back of the hand. Running though the woods. Terror. Confusion. Anticipation; the not-so-good kind. The less than sweetest moment. The falling and knowing that right now, this moment, will always look better than the moments that are about to follow. Mysical realism. Jessie Kluge in Kristin's appartment:

	JP:	But don't you want to touch it? Don't you want to go out and grab it? It's right there for the taking.
	JK:	You've just gotta get though.
	JP:	Is that what life is? Just getting though? Just getting by? What the fuck am I waiting for? Why can't I be living now?
	JK:	You're really busy, Josh.
	JP:	What does it mean?
	JK:	You're really busy, Josh.
	JP:	What does it all mean?
	JK:	You're really busy, Josh.
	JP:	[seizing him by the collar] Tell me what it means!

Happy Birthday, grace sterna!

I made it a pretty long way, I think, without sheading any tears. Having dinner, though, good idea.

So today I was wondering if I could break that mirror with my forehead.

It's been far too long since I've heard any David Gray.

I'm sure it's pretty obvious, but I'd like to take this moment to say that reading poetry and drinking with Kristin is one of my favorite things.

I don't want it, I just need it.

I wanted to touch your face. So I did. And you were sweating and I loved it. You were alive; breathing deep. Feeling deep. And I loved it.

There's this thing that I hear. This voice that I've been ignoring for so long that it's so quiet and soft that it's hard for me to know the sound of it. But you put your arm on my shoulder, your head on my chest and it gets a little louder. I can almost hear it. And I'm making my way to the ground, and I said, "There. That's better." And I didn't know there was a right answer. And it's true, there's not. But it was nice, in that way that things are nice when they're left unsaid. And mostly unknown. Soft feelings and deep thoughts.

That bagel was nice, after a long day. Knowing that I was fully among friends.

I still want to wake up next to you. Despite what I say. And, perhaps because of that, is what I say. I am waiting for you, too, despite what I say.

There's this physical part of me, this part of me that isn't obvious, that isn't plainly sexual or utilitarian, but something else. Something I want to call ethereal. And it's nice to be without your shoes every now and again, to have no tool with you other than your two hands and your wits. A shoe shine and a smile.

Dream last night about having an affair with a married woman. Something else that I can't really remember.

TinyDancer30982: you are fabulous
TinyDancer30982: i don't know why you talking about how much you are going to drink makes me think that
TinyDancer30982: but it does

Had a strange dream last night that I couldn't find my pants.

I think it's kind of terrible that I'm done here and I don't really want to leave.

1210 killed and nearly 9000 wounded in Iraq since last March. What the fuck is going on here? More so, what the fuck is going on there? And why?

Still feeling a little bit tired, but mostly really good about myself. Despite the fact that I'm falling behind in school. Depite the fact that I'm not being the best designer that I could be. I'm moving foward with my show, I'm getting calls for work. I am getting paid doing what I love to do. I am spending everyday surrounded by people that have refused to give up their dreams.

There is something about Sprite and pizza that does, in fact, go together. My guess it would be my memories.

Had a strange dream last night about a field trip to a light house, and oil drilling. Blue, blue water, the bluest water I've ever seen. Speed boats. Bending my glasses and someone telling me to bake them. Chris driving down the interstate in his car, that somehow seated five and ramping over a dirt ridge that served as a medium.

Fred, whereever you are, I'm glad you got your coffee. Thank you for the tape. Have a good night.

I don't know why I went to hang that other show after I was done with Dance Chicago. I just don't fucking know.

Hedwig Dances is teching right now, and I can't help but be reminded that I've compleatly lost touch with Katie Jean. That's a damn shame, really.

Does it make me a sick person that I'm really enjoying drafting this afternoon?

"I think that's really great for someone your age to be thinking about."

Woah. Hold on. Back up? My age? First off, you are my age. We're the same damn age! Well, maybe I'm older. I do remember buying you a shot and making out with you on your twenty first birthday. But that's a year, at best. So, really, we're the same damn age. At my age? At your age! At every age. Once you reach the age of reason (which is what? Seven?) shouldn't you start asking questions like this one? Maybe the answers will be simpler, when you're seven, but they should be. The answers should be simple anyway. Perhaps enacting them might be hard and complex, but the answer should be simple. What do you want out of life? I want to live. What that means, I don't know. How do I want to live? Simply. I want (I endevor) to live simply. I want to identify the important things in life and let all of this other dross go. It's hard to find these things. It's hard not to entertain yourself with this other shit. Because it's there. Of course someone my age. Someone all ages. I want to think about this now, because the decisions I'm making in life now will affect everything that comes after. Which is true for all times. So why not make the best decisions that I know how to make? My age? Come now.

Sometimes I bitch about things and sometimes things aren't as bad as they seem. Like I said tonight, "I usually feel better on nights where there's a show."

Ran a show tonight and then had a couple of techs. Was nice to sit in the drivers seat for a bit. The last one was Molly's, which was like cake, really, and then we went to have a drink. I feel better than I have all week about the whole project.

On a totally unrelated noted I've been having some interesting fantasies about you today. And I promise they don't involve dismemberment this time.

So I just realized that I have blown Kristin off not once but twice today. God, I feel like an asshole. So this increases the level of valid complaints to raise against me to being a bad assistant, being a bad designer, being a bad person, and (worst) being a bad friend.

Taking off my pants is one of the biggest pains in the ass that I face these days.

I don't know what it is about going to DeKalb and drinking, but it's there. There's no denying it. Last night I get to Chris' around eleven-ish. I get my RDC information that I'm looking for, email it to myself, find my file folders and sketchbook, then pour myself a drink. Have a shot somewhere in there. After the first drink is done I pour myself another drink. And after that another. Then I stop. I'm drunk at this point. Not gone beyond beyond, but I'm sure as shit not driving, but I knew that anyway. I'm not sure what it is, I hadn't really planned on getting drunk at all. I had planned on having a drink or two, and then stealing Chris' bed before he had the chance. This time, though, unlike Halloween, I'm up. I'm staying up, I'm closing out the party, as is my habit. And this time it's around five-ish when I'm finally putting my head down on the couch. Five. Shit. Jason wakes me up around seven thirty, I take a quick shower, have some of this Emer'gen-C that Kentuck gave me and I'm on the road for the Windy City. When I finally get to the Athenaeum I realized that I never would have had that much to drink (or anything at all, really) if I had stayed in the city.

I feel like I should be shaving right now.

And merrily we roll along. El Kentuck is really something else. I've been impressed with that kid from the first day I worked with him (al la Pure Dynamism) and I continue to be impressed with him to this very day. I have this feeling that he'll go far in the theatre. Most likely father than I will. And I intend to go to the farthest reaches. And then, of course, back again. The obligitory back again. The obligitory scene. The climax. The dénouement. Who would want to go on forever? I mean, I can't say I'd mind dying along the way, the never making it back again is okay, really. It's the never intending to make it back again that I think I would have a problem with. It's the intentions really.

Note to self: Don't order pasta from a pizza place, even in Chicago.

So it's election day. Pretty exciting, no? I know I'm all a titter. I'm sure it's fairly obvious how I feel about the issue, so I don't feel too much need to get into it at the moment. Though I will go so far to say that if this one doesn't go the way I'm hoping and things continue as they have been, hopefully I'll get my happy ass outside of this country before the next election. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to see the end of America in my lifetime, and for that I am eternally greatful. And I also can't claim to know for sure that I've ever lived in the America that I've dreamed of. My world was very small and idealic. While my world is still very small and idealic, there are certian aspects that I have noticed which don't fit into my ideals. Where my ideals every true? Are they even possible? I don't know, but I'd rather not see my beloved country shit upon them on a day to day basis.

With the rest of my day today I'm chillin' at the Athenaeum working on the famed Dance Chicago. At the moment River North is here, and they're, you know, dancing. I am, you know, wishing I was sleeping. Chris Ash is their LD and he does a really good job of freaking out during breaks. Which isn't so much his fault as it is mine; because of this fopah (word?) that happened yesterday (last week) in regard to River North specials in the DC plot. I'm assisting Margaret on this whole shebang and, as such, I was the plot drafter. For various reasons River North is renting the shit out of the space today, doing those things that River North does. Mainly, as I said before, dance. Anyway, they're teching two pieces that aren't even in the damn show. Not even pretend. And there was a huge miscommunication between Chris and Margaret and I regarding how and when specials for those pieces were going to be delt with. I didn't hang them, Chris thought I did. Margaret hadn't cared. You hear that? That's a train. Wrecking. On that train were a cluster of people. Fucking.

No one died. We're getting it done. Though I am hearing dripping. Drip drop, drip drop. What a fantastic space this is.

Happy Halloween!

I'm a bit tired today, you know how it goes. Did another one of those in and out days with DeKalb and the like. The first real weekend I've had in a while. Not that it really matters, I'm as lame as lame can be. The party at Chris' place was great and all, but I passed out early on the couch. I rallied, if barely. Then I took a reprieve in his room, telling him to wake me up when reinforcements arrived. They never did, so he never did. I woke up this morning a bloody mess. Something I seem to be getting better and better at.

Katie Sebald came and rocked it out in DeKalb with me last night. Which was all kinda of awesome. She was Jocasta to my Oedipus, and no, I'm not talking about some kinky incestual sex thing, I'm talking about Halloween. I had this whole Oedipus thing planned out and she had no costume picked out, so, well, shitballs, why don't I just buy another sheet and find me a broch? So I did, dammit!

She also convinced me to go see 1984 at Lookingglass today, which was fucking awesome. Well, by awesome I mean I out and out sobbed in my seat for five or six minutes at the end. I was shaken. I am still shaken. I hurt for him. I hurt for me. I hurt for everything it is to be human, to stand up tall and know that standing means that you can fall. I hurt because love can be so cruel, because there is nothing (nothing) that one many can have that other cannot, given the resources and drive, take away. I cried at the betrayal and the soul-crushing disappointment that it leaves in its wake. I go to theatre to be knocked around like that. It was good.

In response to other aspects of the performance I think that the set was nice. I loved the rolling and the moving. The lighting was nice, the hard pathways, the flashing transitions. The fluorescents were nice, the flickering cueing on them was right on. Textually they only covered the "War is Peace" aspect of the three that Orwell brought up. But it was the most relevant, considering the current War on Terror that we have going down. Also, the biggest deal to me about the whole book is at the end with the rats and O'Brian and O'Brian says that they used to use rats to torture people in ancient China. And I've been wondering for years now how he would be able to casually know about China. There had never been any such thing as China. Also, the change from the Eurasisans to the Eastasians in the war effort was only mildly touched, not well and good enough. Not for my tastes. They also pulled a Madman with the audience abuse and then the black to cover some of the changes. Right on.

The other intellectual thing I want to comment on is something that wasn’t so much played as said. When they’re talking to O’Brian about joining The Brotherhood he tells them that they will work for a while, they will be caught (“Not if. When.”), they will confess, and they will die. That is all. There will be no support. There will be no tears. They are living for the future. A future they will never see. They are dust and bone fragments in the future. Yet they are willing to die for it. This sounds surprisingly like what I hear about our contemporary terrorists; doesn’t it?

I got a new mouse for my laptop. It's cute.

So I've been listening to NPR today while I was finishing up the plot for Dance Chicago and, as they were talking about insurgence in Iraq, the 9/11 attacks and so on, I realized something. They were reporting from Germany, apparently the staging and planning location of the 9/11 attack terrorist cell, and there was no indication that the terrorists were terrorists when they first came to Germany. Why is that? Because they weren't. They came to study, and not study in the way they came to America to study, not study in the "how do we learn to fly a plane so we know how to crash it better" sort of way, but to study in the "I think it's time I learned something to make a better life for myself" sort of way. It was while they were in Germany that they became so radical. Something, and there was no speculation as to what, pushed them over the edge, as it were. What I realized though, is that similar things could be said about me. Not that I'm meeting in coffee shops with other religious zealots to plan the destruction of western society, and the most glowing example of that society: America. Far from that. I can still safely say that I love America. What I can't safely say is that I love and support cataplasm. I can safely say I love the Constitution, but I can't say that I love the system that has been created based upon it.

I remember the days when I said communism works in theory. Then I remember the days when I started to come to the conclusion that it was EVIL. And I mean that, EVIL. There is no way to take away the rewards of a man's labor and expect that man to take any pride in said labor. Common good or no common good. Regard for your fellow man or not. You cannot destroy the ego without destroying the man. But pardon me for getting all Randian. Communism doesn't work in theory, in my mind. However, capitalism does. Or, at least, it should. But where as, in theory, communism is warm and encompassing and "we're all comrades," capitalism is cold and unfeeling and "I've got mine so fuck you." Capitalism is very much how New York is viewed by the rest of the world. And communism like San Francisco in the 60's. But that's neither here nor there. I've said that communism would work if people would stop being people. Perhaps the same could be said about capitalism.

That being said I have no good alternatives. Which, unfortunately in this regard, really makes me a pessimist.

In other news, I also heard a story about that unspeakable name for anyone perusing a theatre degree at Northern Illinois University in the fall of 2000: Senaock. He's the king of Cambodia. Or he was. He was the king of Cambodia. He's stepped down. His son has taken the throne. Fifty plus years he's been king. He saw Vietnam though and the Cold War (see how American I can be?) and was even disposed. And NIU did a play about him about four years ago. And I watched it. And I liked the second part better than the first. And it's just another chapter in the Terrible but Unfinished Story.

It was crazy interesting to hear all of those names come tumbling back to me. Come crashing back down. Along with those names I remembered Ping and Michelle living together, flirting with grace, feeling on the outside of the NIU theatre community. I remember David Morrison being in the show, most of the freshman BFA class being in the show, but Dave having a real speaking roll. I remember the huge fucking stage with nothing on it and the unbearably long monologues speech (soliloquy). The second half they had scaffolding flanking the stage left and right at the plaster line. That was good/better/best times. The show, both parts, full out, was about seven and a half hours long. And they did it once in one day. On the Sunday. Then the curtain came down and everything was taken away. A foam Budda made its way to a college apartment, where I heard it sat in the living room, was used as a chair and witnessed many a drunken revelry.

Went to Rockford tonight. Had a meeting with the RDC people and Kristin about The Nutcracker. All in all, I'm excited about the project. I'm also excited to hear about Kristin's response to first walking into the Coronado. It's one of those moments, one of those times in life where I really get to feel like I'm bragging. I don't want to brag a whole lot, really, and I also know there's a lot of what I do that isn't glamorous, but, shit, the Coronado is. Plus, arrangements like this seem, to me at least, to be a good precedent for the future of how I would like to work.

We also had some dinner with John Gillenwater out in good ol' Rockford. John had left the Coronado recently because he wasn't getting a raise. Well, shitballs, really. John's great for that space and it's a damn shame that they're too fuckin' stupid to realize that. What the fuck are they thinking? I get irritated at shit like this a lot of the time. Why do people have to be so shitty to people? Especially when money is concerned. Do you think it's money that's evil? Fuck no, it's what people take money to represent, power and authority and tight-assed-ness. He loves that theatre. He should. It's beautiful. It sparkles. It's why the proscenium works. It's how the proscenium should work. I'm glad he's confident that he'll be back, that sort of thing makes me feel good. A space like that should be used.

Total eclipse of the moon tonight. Crazy right now. Tired much earlier than I should be. Also, I suppose, crazy right now.

Lit a show for Mad Shak tonight. "My name is a Blackbird." Had all of the closet-like good feelings of home that Eye Cycle evoked at Links Hall with a bit more of the trappings of a theatre. And the type-writer and the silk and the photo albums cast upon me all of these feelings of memory. Just memory, nothing necessarily good or bad about it, but just remembering, what it is like to wallow in memory, to actually remember. All I can really say about it is that I liked it. I liked all four cues in ten minutes of it. All two lights (one no color and one G365). I could think of worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening.

So I guess I have a laptop now. (w00t!)

I remember when I used to hold you like that. When your head would rest next to mine like that. When I could feel your breath on my cheek, when I could feel your heart on my breast. I do remember these things. And I do long for them. Though, darling, and I mean no offense, they seem so very far away.

I've been wearing my "Support your SAC" underpants for three days now. You may feel free to make your own judgements.

What can you say about days like yesterday? Not too much, really. A bit of cursing. A little violence, maybe. What can you do about days like yesterday? Rum. Lots of rum. And quickly.

Didn't feel so awkward last night when you were here. Do though now, in the morning, when you're gone.

Holy fucking shit. And I used to be so good with computers too. Push Up my balls, if you know what I'm saying.

Tap your mountians, the winds of change are blowing. The wheel of fortune is turning. Soon we'll all have new hands.

Tough show tonight. Just a couple of things that went ill in the worst way. I think we got through it alright, though. No worse for wear.

Goddammit. I feel like an asshole and I smell like a wet cat.

LaLuna620: you are comming to my pimpsw and hoes party this saturday night. 5$ for a cup but BYOB is a totally kosher option.

I'm learning by watching. I'm learning by doing. The point is, I'm learning.

I'm going to give myself a goddamned ulcer if I keep this up. Nevermind the cold I know that's setting in. Breathe deep.

Look, just because you know me better than I know myself, and watch me closer than I watch myself, that's no reason to use it against me.

Further proof that Jack does not play nice.

I need some slacks. Some I'm-going-to-the-theatre slacks. And a haircut. Maybe a real job. A real blow job.

The White Stick: What time is it there?
Eemmy7: almost 3pm
The White Stick: Holy shit, you are on the other side of the world.

Some old habits die hard. In fact, most do.

The water was cold. But, really, what does it matter?

I haven't spoken to Todd in a while. He sounds ... his voice sounds deeper.

Happy Birthday, Emily Jane!

So somehow classes started today and I found that I'm still a student.