The very essence of romance is uncertainty

-Oscar Wilde

Passion dies when you know for a fact they won't leave

-BT

Shameless self promotion, take one:

Well I'm writing to tell you of an event happening this weekend. A one-act play I wrote is being produced at the Georgia room on South Transit Rd, at the Jimmy B's Entertainment Complex. The play is entitled, Untitled (and yes it is intentional). The play is a bit on the absurd side, but then, what isn't. Anyway, the information is below. If you have any questions, I'll try to answer, but really, what you see below is what I know.

So hopefully I'll see you there. This is my world debut with real actors reading my play. I'm psyched but well, there's a sickness involved too. Come see me pace back and forth wearing out the carpet in the back of the theater. It'll be a good time.

There is a bit more information in Artvoice about it, but here's the gist.

ONE-ACT PLAY FESTIVAL. 7:30 p.m. next Friday and May 15; 4 p.m. May 16. New plays and dramatic readings by regional playwrights presented by Actors Anonymous Theatre Company. Georgia Room Theatre at Jimmy B.'s, 6856 S. Transit Road,
Lockport. Call to reserve a seat if ya feel like it, 633-4355. $8.50.

Thanks y'all, I hope to see you there.

-brian

accuracy - on the level of something else, as in to say that I was an idiot for leaving a plastic cutting board on the stove whilst turning the burner it was laying upon, on (read below), is accurate. It is not precise. To be accurate is to get in the realm of what's expected, because really people don't expect that much, especially when it comes to flaming cutting boards.

precise - numbers. It's all about numbers, position and mathematics, within reason. It is the obtaining of what you expect, but it must be exact. Like that cutting board was precisely in the wrong place when I turned on that burner because I was accurately an idiot. Although I didn't expect it, it's precisely what would have happened, and did happen because again, to say I was an idiot is accurate.

Or I may be wrong.

That's accurate.

Just so you all know, when you refresh the page, while having a dissertation's amount of words in your box, because you walk away because of course you just set fire to, and had to figure out a way to stop the blazinging inferno on your cutting board that you left on the burner, the wrong burner that you didn't mean to turn on, when all you really just wanted to do was to make some hot chocolate because you ran out of fucking coffee and you don't feel like tea because you're not sick and you see teas and sickness as analogous, you lose that entire page, never to get it back. Just so's you all know.

The answer for everything I have have found, especially dealing with a huge cutting board that looks like a torch in a Medievil movie, is to stick into the toilet.

I don't care what anyone says, The Cat in the Hat was a funny movie. I wonder if there was a book prior too. It's looks very Dr. Seuss.

So yeah, if anyone's interested apparently there will be a few of us at the pink tonight. Paul, perhaps a note on the front page would work because chances are some people won't read this . . . hey, I'm just being realistic. Hell I don't even read my own journal.

Okay, back to the Moobers of Shooberville. This is what I do by the way.

The Moobers of Shooberville
Have so much to say and play
Which is why they want to visit
And maybe even stay
They won't sit still for long
Cause they love to jump around
They do this in sweet sneakers
And they do this all o'er the ground
Shooberville is all fun and games
And the Moobers will rock your town
So make them feel at home
Cause for your town, the Moobers are bound

15 pages. 15 FULL pages of nonstop interesting shit. And through it all I fell in love with Kierkegaard. Who knew it was possible . . .

So that's that. Sort of. Well at least for this semester. Still gotta finish writing a book, but hey that's neither here nor there.

So it's amazing out and I don't want to clean my apartment, so's I wont. This is what the nightime is for . . . that and thinking of crazy odd characters for a Fisher-Price line of toys (hypocritical? perhaps. But working at home, or in a coffee shop, by yourself, thinking of why Bobble Moober likes to be thrown in the air is undeniably a good time. Especially with the pay. Oh yeah. I love Fisher-Price when I'm not working there.)

So I'm going to be wandering around elmwood now. Then I will get on my bike (motor) and ride all over Western New York and Canada, listening to U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," wishing there were no helmet laws.

But yet, what do we have here? Leonard Cohen on WFUV in New York (via internet) singing, "Who by Fire." Oh I wish my door led to 14th street. Union Square is calling my name right now. I know it.

Or I may just sit outside and convice my dog to stay still and read a goddamn good book for once. He's missing out on so much.

It's always Clifford, Clifford, why can't I be red, why can't I be big . . .

One goddamn page left and I'm fucking spent. This is the last paper and then I'm free (for about two weeks when I have to take physics for some stupid fucking state requirement bullshit).

Actually not even one page, I just need about 3/4's. The prof said 15-20 and I have 14 and 1/4. How's that for shitness. Fuck me. I made my point tenfold, but I have to . . . ah fuck it. I'm gonna go eat an artichoke.

That just pisses me off though. If I finish the paper, I can do things again. I can do laundry. I can do dishes. I can masturbate. I don't even have time for that now. What the fuck is going on here . . .

Shit stains on the silk sheets of life is what it is.

Anyone want to send me 3/4's of a page about Flannery O'Connor's Misfit character's reasons for shooting the grandmother in "A Good Man Is Hard to Find?"

Talk about the need for faith and grace . . .

ah go figure . . . y'all play my favorite game and I'm not there.

Tell me there will be a rematch. My bods not exactly well, it's all marked up and shit, so I suppose I need to attempt to really know how to play. Of course there is the strategy of losing on purpose which I know a lot of you peeps play with.

Oh look at that innuendo . . . in't that special.

I knew it was going to happen. So when it did I wasn't at all surprised.

The full moon came and went with nothing out of the ordinary happening to me. This is absurd because I'm a firm believer that people change when the moon is full - very werewolf. BUt alas nothing happened, and I know why. Because I wanted it to.

This leads me to my night and the head shaking that I'm doing now. I knew I would see someone tonight at my favorite think tank. It was going well and I was encouraged because no one cared what I was doing and I obviously was so engrossed in inner-turmoil and self-loathing that I seemed to be a touch unapproachable. I like that. But no, the one person I didn't feel like seeing, walks in half way through my drink. Shit, I think. Just deal with it. I'm thinking some of my epeeps would be hangin around, ready to dicuss life over 2 ounces of whiskey, but hey, tonight was just not the night. Good thing too, I wasn't too sociable.

The odd thing here is that I knew I would see someone that I didn't feel like talking to. I just knew it would happen. It's not a stretch, I mean this town is on the small side. But it happened. If I could only utilize this power, or learn to harness it, I would avoid and probably miss a lot of situations. Good for everyone.

But I left. I just felt like it, besides I did not go in prepared. I wanted to take a night off anyway. So for the first time in a long time, I did not take a pen. It worked out well, but here I am, writing again. For who though? For you? Maybe. For me, yes. I hope so. I was talking with a friend of mine tonight and I told him that I see similarities in me and the artists I like and the people I read. He mention that I've put myself on a pedistal. I replied, why not? If you don't no one else will, besides, I want to change the world, I'm not just hanging out here, and you should to.

What?

Change the world.

I miss my girlfriend, sorry what were you saying?

And I am bored with many things, but I want to be bored about something I can't help, not someone who wants to talk about absolutely nothing relevant. Hey it happens. So in essence, I'm therefore doomed to constant dissection of the structure of my being in hopes that I will trip over a small clue as what the hell will happen. But as they say, "The one gift which I'd adore, unwrap a package of the next 10 years unfolding. But you told me if I had my way, I'd be bored." Yes, maybe I would be, but then, there is such respite in boredom sometimes.

I've resigned to feel the way I feel about many other things - do what comes naturally. Trouble is, even the most absurd situation is so incredibly natural to me. Place your bets my friends.

um . . . what?

Paul, I think I'm with you. What does that quote mean. Of course it is bright and early and I did have the moxie to drag my ass out of bed at this bewitching hour so I might still be sleeping, but, well, uh yeah . . . who's Keith?

And why would you ever leave a porn site to come here, no pun intended. "To write about the lake," Thoreau said, "You must go to the lake."

You don't go to a country road.

That makes sense to me at least.

What a strange quote.