Bloggy McBloggerson

It is 3:49 and this is me:

I’ll follow you into the dark lyrics stuck in my head.  Worries about my next source of income. Excitement about my untapped potential. Nervousness about my untapped potential. Focussing in and out of reality…I’m still itchy and in my underwear trying to figure out how I’m going to clean house, shop and cook before Tiffany gets home. A hydrocortisone box sits to my left. My cat, Paisan sits about six feet in front of me, laying on a TV that’s not technically mine. My other cat, Cleopatra, rests in the direction of my late mother, 17, holding her highschool diploma. Homemade flashcards are scattered on the floor. They contain info of enharmonic scales and scale degrees, key signatures.  They are EVERYWHERE. Wow…I’m turning into a college student. For free! YES!

Humming and tapping, clicking and licking, my universe.

Sunlight and itchy frights and messes abroad.

Longings and hopings, cheerings and mopings.

Music surrounds, it’s in my downtowns(if you’re going downtown, I might as well be on your way…).

Urgings and purgings, dreamings and schemings.

I gotta get goin but the shit keeps a flowin’ and I hope the winds a’blowin, cuz  I’m on a frickin’ bike.



Anxiety and Artistry.

I have it. I am currently covered in a rash from neck to ankle. Reason being? Auditions. Disney, more specifically. I got myself so worked up about an audition(that-surprise!-I missed), that I woke up covered in hives. I wish I would use this power for good…like, getting me to Canada, or on a film set. I’m blogging to slightly make up for not blogging. I try to blog whenever I am moved but I realized, I should blog because I need to. Whenever. So…The 48 hour film festival: Yes! Got that! Another audition that rendered me anxious but I somehow ended up with a good audition, filled with laughs, “she’s so funny” ‘s and shaking hands. My first film audtion, thank you, thank you. I just bowed. Regular job hunting, preparing myself for future auditions and GREATNESS. I’m reading The Artists’ Way: a spiritual pathway to creativity…or something like that. It’s gonna help me unblock and write beautiful songs that are gonna get me out of here and cause lots of people to sing along and have me meet other people like me. Cravings: sweet stuff and house parties and my guitar and my MacBookPro but mostly being around other artists. I got a taste last Saturday at an open mic night followed by a poetry slam. My friend Ben B. slayed(thank you, Tegan), and went home with the grand prize: 90 bucks! Amazing! He inspired me because-well-he is happiness, as a poem of his states. He also inspires me because he brings humanity to art. This should sound oxymoronic but then again, we live in the age of William Hungs and Paris Hiltons. He’s able to spit straight fire as a slam artist without falling into the slam trap: That-rhythm-that-trite-pattern-of-breaking-up-your-words-for-dramatic-effect…ugh… Your words should be your dramatic effect. Your passion should be your dramatic effect. I love poetry and I hear some really good shit that’s tainted by trying to appear a certain way. no disrespect, I get it. I’ve done it in my own way. Musical theatre has it’s patterns too. Anyhow, I was very grateful to be around artists and I thirst for the next encounter. I know they’re out here, I just gotta find ’em. Off to learn minor scales.


Artists, Irony and Nostalgia

I’m horribly nostalgic these days. I miss being around “theatre kids.” I miss the world where people saw crying out loud as passion and bold energy, before the world turned it into a bad thing because vulnerability is too scary.  I miss the world where, instead of being judged(first, anyhow), someone asked: “why did you do that?” 

I miss three-part harmonies in my dad’s truck.

I miss sitting up under my mother like I was five and her pretending that it annoyed her when we both knew it was awesome…and really fun.

I miss Piney Point and the family we built in one month. Flat.

I miss Hawaii. I wasn’t moody, worried, irritable and I never called myself fat(granted I dropped a dress size a month for three months from working 70+ hours EVERY week).

I miss my friends who could listen to my circled logic and warp-speed speech and actually understand. My mom did too. My sister still does.

I miss sharing a bedroom with my sister.

I miss being able to write good poetry-gotta get it back.

I miss NoDa. The gallery crawls, Kevin and Michael’s mojitos, the drum circles, the park, the parties at the HUMANS pad, the freestyle pieces that included singing, instruments-or not, rapping, poems and whatever else anyone felt, that could go on for hours…the fact I could get trashed and cross the street to get home.

I miss the old Children’s Theater and the people who made that place what it was.

I miss when I had friends who went out just to be around people.

I miss $2.50 pint night at the flying saucer.

I miss.

I miss.

I miss.