the ice cream had melted overnight, and as we ate our now-milkshakes, we deliberated over the mood of the sky. he said that this was the kind of overcast he liked, and after a moment, i agreed. clouds sat grey and low, and the energy in the atmosphere promised a storm. shortly after we began walking, the rain started to fall in slow, indecisive drops. by the time we finished our shopping and coffee, it had picked up and we chuckled against the wind, platic bags snapping at our sides.
along the way home, we each sang softly to ourselves, our voices each rising and falling against the other's although the songs were not the same.
"and i am walking, out in the rain..." :: 19:55
(speak)
...
:: march 8, 2002 ::
acting for cameras is completely different than acting on a stage.
the set is strange and incomplete and there is no audience. there's no audience, and therefore all the basic rules of blocking and projecting are changed.
the director tells me to move up a foot, stand right in front of him, and all my stage instincts scream. i can't stand there, i'll be blocking him, the audience --
watching the first take, i think that i should have held myself differently, turned more to the left, you can't see my face...and then they switch to camera two, and it turns out i was standing perfectly.
the sky is a warm grey, and the air is soft. the weather, after much deliberation, seems to have come down on the side of spring.
in the omnipresent damp of northern california, all the seasons are muted. winter is fog with occasional rain; summer is fog with occasional sun. autumn here had me scurrying about in delight, carefully selecting favorite trees to watch ease through the spectrum. i took half a roll of film during our first snowstorm. and now, spring is sneaking in, and i'm thrilled all over again.
we had wildflowers, of course, and a semi-annual hike to see them. but the trees never lost their leaves, and therefore had no incentive to cover themselves in beautiful little pink blossoms come spring.
walking along, i find myself alternately distracted by the incredible beauty of the world around me, and the incredible joy of the world inside me. :: 14:57
(speak)
...
:: march 7, 2002 ::
"i can see you staring at the sky
undressing the moonlight with your eyes"
:: 17:46
(speak)
...
and - in a complete reversal of one of my long-held life tenents - i love waking up. :: 15:28
(speak)
...
:: march 6, 2002 ::
i've forgotton the shape of my head.
my hair sits in a ridiculous little explosion, rebelling against the confining sting of elastic which i've forced around it. by definition, then, it must be long enough to be put into a ponytail; a very recent development, and for the first time in years. at just-barely-shoulder-length, the ponytail is almost as thick as my wrist. an embarrasingly long time yesterday was spent in front of the mirror, pulling it all back tight against my head, releasing it and feeling the curls against my face, pulling it back again.
should i shave it again?
there are alot of strangely potent associations with shaving my head.
part of it has to do with image, and the breaking thereof. part of it is a deep sense of self-defiance, because i have now the opportunity to hide behind my hair. days when i feel bland and drab and avoid mirrors, i can tilt my head forward and be safely within a curtain of voracious curls. it's a psychological crutch, and i have a strong visceral aversion to those.
there is a head-shaving mood, when i feel stagnated and angsty and need something changed, drastic, now. cutting my hair is better than other things i could cut - though usually i don't do either.
strangely, i'm not in that mood. i am, in fact, about as far from that mood as i've ever been. certainly i've never been so far from it for so long.
i'm not craving change, i don't need to shock people any more, and i quite like my hair as it is.
and i am
just
tired enough
that the
scattering
of paint
paper
dried glue
on the floor
wouldn't matter
in the face
of softquiet bed
but
i have
a roommate
and thus
a responsibility
to clean up.
(which is okay
because i should
anyway) :: 01:52
(speak)
once i put my pajamas on, i'm out of "work" mode and into "mmm-i'm-wearing-soft-pajamas" mode.
once i'm in my pajamas, i'm almost in bed.
i can't afford to be almost in bed, i have far too much work to do.
i should not put my pajamas on.
but they are so, so soft.
and i am so, so weak. :: 00:37
(speak)
...
:: march 5, 2002 ::
in the process of doing research for a script, i find myself having this conversation:
would the secretary of state have military guards at his office? probably
ok good I would assume they would be secret service
but there could be uniformed military as well
why ... planning at assassination of old Don? ::grin:: nothing of the sort uh huh... sure besides, isn't colin powell sec of state now? very good point
Donald Rumsfeld is Sec. of Defense
my bad well, close got my Secretaries mixed up all those silly secretaries, i can hardly blame you you'd think they'd come up with a more aggressive title then secretary heh, really. but what? Minister of Defense would be cool supreme commander of the defense
::grin:: master of state Defender of the Universe heh wait.. isn't that He-Man minor detail
and colin powell is sorta like he-man thats true somewhere between he-man and shaft.
heh WHOA
.....WHOA
I am blown away oh yeah? yeah
its so true we should write to him and tell him that he's like a very polite He-Man/Shaft hybrid
in a suit well its better than that loin cloth that He-Man is always strutting around in
i miss driving.
i miss coming over the hill to see a universe of lights reflected in the bay, the sky so clear and cold, so much like flying that i laugh out loud. i miss nosing through a wall of fog, following the disembodied red glow of the car in front of me, praying to every god i know that those hazy dots aren't leading me off a cliff and into the ocean. i miss doing my hair by running straight from the shower to eighty miles an hour on the freeway, all the windows down and the sunroof open, dave matthew's "watchtower" as loud as my poor VW speakers can go. i miss highway 68 S-curves at night, trees like fingerpaint in my rearview mirror.
i miss the freedom, the feeling that the world is a tank of gas and a gear shift away, the intricate weaving in and out of traffic, hitting the gas to make yellow lights, backseats, slow drives along the beach with the windows down and the heat up, aimless wanderings that always end up at the coffeeshop.
i love the rhythm of walking, the sense of musclemovement and weight against the earth, but it's no substitue when you want eighty miles an hour. :: 14:37
(speak)
"take these eyes, take these hands, take my soul... i say oh, you are my home" -michael kovacs
i feel so, so alive.
walking out of class at six, we pause in front of the elevators, where a huge span of windows frames the sunset. the light hits a few cotton-ball clouds like the set of a movie, bouncing off the windows of buildings and filtering through the grimy glass to rest on our faces.
almost out of sight is some factory, spewing steam into the evening air. the marmalade light tumbles inside that fickle cloud, chased by strange blue shadows.
that sunset was probably the second most beautiful thing that happened today. :: 18:18
(speak)
...
the red cross informs me that "if you get a bruise, a rainbow of colors may occur for about 10 days."
not a rainbow, per se, but well into the yellow-green-yellows around through to some blue-violets.
lovely. :: 13:57
(speak)
...
it doesn't look nearly different enough to justify the hours i spent figuring out the HTML i needed to use, but hey, i like it anyway.
i can't believe i got up at 830.
the things we do for love. sigh. :: 09:44
(speak)
the path from dorm to dining hall passes the trolley station on thirty third and market. as we walked down to breakfast this morning, a delegation of the local skateboard hoard was gathered there. they were, more specifically, gathered around the little hutch that sits over the stairs leading down to the station, all peering upwards expectantly.
one of them was atop the roof of said hutch, and appeared to be preparing to skate off. he was probably twelve years old. the roof was probably ten feet up. the landing area was definitely cement.
as we continued along, we passed a group - all male - headed the opposite direction, watching him. hey man, i'll give you two dollars if you do a double backflip!
a few moments later, we passed another group, this time all female. they spoke low, under their breaths. don't do it, c'mon, don't do it. you'll kill yourself, don't do it.
we crossed the street, holding hands. "nice little snapshot of the difference between the genders, huh?"
he turned to me, "yeah, i guess you're right. i didn't even notice." :: 00:24
(speak)
