backyard crowing


the mermaid notecard

i think i've found the reason why i can't seem to follow an hour-by-hour schedule: there's simply no spontaneity in it. knowing exactly what's coming is absolutely boring.

there's a quote that says "The essence of pleasure is spontaneity." so i suppose i am a hedonist. or a thrill seeker, or both. i wish to live my life as if it were a story, not a regimented battlefied, with soldiers all lined up and shooting in this order or that. marching band was so tedious...perhaps theater or creative writing would have suited me better. they do now, anyway. but even these subjects have due dates, i realize that.

saw "alfie" and "an ideal husband" night. neither was planned. even if i make my OWN schedule, i never seem to follow it. i must remember that this is a season i just have to bear with, make it through. or that's what everyone says, anyway.

the equation is this:

do X -> get X grade -> succeed-> graduate -> be happy? make money? have insurance? make more schedules that dull the mind? get away from real life, letting it fly right past you as you immerse yourself in your mundane, trivial pursuits?

when does life start being a duty and stop being an adventure?

i think perhaps this is all just an artful way to express only that i have no self-discipline.

there's something to the spontaneity argument, though. i probably am a pleasure-seeker.

I am thinking about Mark again, and that is Mr. 36 Mark, not marcus. It seems I am continually the piner, never the pinee. Iíve missed the slam two weeks in a row. I feel fat. But I need to goÖI hope his daughter isnít there next time, and that we go to kerb cafe afterward to talk about life like we did when I fell for him first that one evening. He has such beautiful, curious, mischievous brown eyes. The lack of hair doesnít mean a thing to me. He could so easily turn me on if he wanted to, and I mean he does anyway, he just doesnít know it. But itís not just that. Heís fascinating.

But thereís another older man on my mind at the moment as well: Cels, South American God of my playwriting class. He told us during the icebreaking that he wrote his first book whilst in prison, he got out, and now heís here illegallyÖor something, Iím not clear on the details because I wasnít really listening until I heard the word Ďprison.í Infact, I thought he was joking, which he might have been since the professor instructed us to eek in a bit of lies when telling our life story if we so desired. (I love these fantasy-full theater people, they are so my type.) The boy is beautiful, and when the class threw their prompt notecards into a pile, he drew mine. So his prompt is this:

Write three different 1.5-page scenes about the same spectacle. The spectacle can either be (a) a mermaid emerging from the sea or (b) an instant messaging conversation.

I hope he chooses the mermaid option, Iím dying to read a scene about a mermaid thatís written by a studious, scrumptious former prison inmate.

He asked a bunch of questions of the prof after she explained the instructions; I could tell he was struggling with the note cardís requirements, trying to make sense of them and have an idea of where to begin writing.

His drawing my note card was a bright glimmer of hope to my night-like day. I laughed periodically for a half hour after it happened. The people on the bus on my way home must have thought I was either crazy or incredibly rude! Oh, well! When joy is present, one must cling to it in dark hours!

- saturday, feb. 7, 2009


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