Hate It All

Today I feel like:

I don't have any desire to be any kind of writer.
Nothing is funny.
Comedy is frivolous.
I don't enjoy revision.
I don't enjoy ideas.
I am not creative.
I do not want to be.
Everything has been done.
Everything is also over.
I really enjoy this wind, blowing outside my window. It blew my navy polka-dot skirt up today. A stranger walked by and tried not to laugh.
Yosh made cookie Oreo brownies--AKA "slutty brownies"--and gave them to me and fellow sketchers at our Monday meeting. I wish I could have eaten the entire batch.
I did not wish I could grade these papers, do these rewrites, wander into a community, add some art, help some minds, jot things down, devise some movement, staple together some big stuff, produce a show, graduate with this degree, use it for something nice. I just don't want to. I just don't want to at all.

But tomorrow, my friends, is another day.


Appropriate. KKK sketch. 2011. (Yosh is in the get-up.)

I don't wanna job.
I don't wanna go to school.
I don't wanna job--
I've got more important things to do.

Cheese with That Wine

Ethiopian food with Lowsta & Splosian. December 2011.

Today I have been more unproductive than a bum ovary.

I know what would make me feel better is just doing my stupid work. But I cannot. I simply cannot. I wish I had no ideas sometimes. Then, I could just open my tuft of scalp and let everything in, instead of constantly cheese grating everything out. Truth.

I'm just an insect
trying to get out of the night.

Sunny Side Up

Part One

As soon as I saw it, I felt like the entire building was filled with gray clay. Thick, sad bubbles of muck. Two nights ago, somebody egged the beautiful and valuable painting that hangs in the campus concourse.

It made me sadder than if the eggs had been thrown at my own car, home, face. I understand aimed hatred. I don't like it, but I understand it. In fact, in a week in which our entire country felt it necessary to celebrate a murder, I don't blame someone for letting his rage get the best of him...but this? This was just senseless. Really senseless. All that happens: the Student Activities Fund is drained, everyone is sad, no one gets it.

To everyone passing the cherry picker of women scrubbing the yolk off, all we could ask was WHY? WHY? WHY? But, the truth is the answer could be, "Uh...I dunno."

Senselessness is big. It's poofs out sideways and slops over its waistline. We must live with complete alertness because these things MATTER. Yes, I'm a broken record, but choosing NOT to order the Meat Luvers Deluxe pizza is SENSE. Putting your gum in the trash is SENSE. Choosing to refrain from the mean gossip is SENSE.

It's little to us, but it explodes in pig guts, on someone's shoe, in someone's diary as she cries. Having a couple extra eggs and absentmindedly playing darts with a painted angel's wings is SENSELESS.

Part Two

I never look at the painting. But a FIRE within me sprang up yesterday. I noticed it. I pondered the rightness and wrongness of life, of crime and punishment, because of it. Probably given the option, the artist would have preferred her work be defaced in the name of rallying around Right instead of hanging stiffly for decades.

Like the tornado that wiped out the community theatre in one town over from my dad's--it reenergized the town into believing We Fight for Arts Here. And I was there last Saturday when on a new stage, the community players say "Let the Sunshine In."


The egged painting getting touched up today.

They caught the kid who did the egging. Don't know anything else.

Two castmates have just started dating. It's secret, I think. It's sly. I don't know when it happened. I want to think it was when he and I were talking when she walked by. I said, "She's so great at that part." And he said, "Yeah." He beamed like lilac soap and sunny side up in the pan.

Who died? Who made you king of anything?