far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Tuesday, March 09, 2004

Hoping my already miminal credibility isn't about to go right out the window....

Got to bed late last night, woke up earlier than I would have preferred. Feeling tired, a bit disoriented at finding myself here, alone in bed. Wanting to turn over, sink immediately back into sleep. And no wonder -- all night long my dream self went from one wild adventure to another, climaxing during the early hours in a lengthy, emotional, vivid romance with a lovely English woman I met during my pre-Christmas swing through the U.K. [see entry of December 16, 2003], the dream ultimately giving way to lovemaking: intense, visceral, almost hypnotic. I surfaced from that, opening my eyes to discover myself back in the bedroom of my austere Madrid flat. A strange, jolting transition.

Remained stubbornly under the covers for a while, drifting, finally dragged myself to my feet, got the day underway.

Since finishing up the recent entries re: the jaunt to Casablanca, I have produced no writing. Not a state I'm wild about, that of zero production, but it is sometimes how things go. And there generally seems to be a reason for it, the reason usually being: if I crank out stuff without having anything of substance to say, the product generally blows. Not to put too fine a point on it.

But here I am, producing something I hope will have at least trace elements of substance and no more than a nose-wrinkling whiff of purplish prose.

This morning: once I'd pulled myself together, scraped away the morning's crop of facial hair, etc., I wandered out to pick up groceries, a morning paper, a cup of espresso, a croissant. Thinking about last night's nonstop activity, about the long, affecting dreamtime romantic encounter that wound it all up. I've been in regular contact with the woman in question, when I got home I sent an email telling her briefly about the dream, on impulse, hoping I wasn't doing something wildly inappropriate. Wondering, as soon as I'd sent it, if I should send another excusing it, apologizing, saying 'just ignore me!' Did none of that. Just waited.

Two, three hours later, an email shows up from England, saying she'd had a dream early this morning in which she found herself in my house in Vermont. In the kitchen, sunlight streaming in while she rolled out pastry dough. Everything in bright, vivid colors. And she heard me say, "Hi, sweetie!", coming up behind her, kissing her neck. After which she woke up, finding herself in her bed, alone, disoriented.

I read that, with no idea what to think, everything feeling slightly unreal. When I finally looked up, I found the hands on the living room clock had leaped forward, the day slipping by at startling, unruly velocity.

(A question: when did I take up residence in a New-Age Harlequin novel?)

As unlikely as it may sound, this is not the first time I've experienced the simultaneous-dream thing. It's happened twice before, both times during my college years -- a messy period of time I consider myself lucky to have survived -- both times with women I'd been involved with. One occasion intense, the other poignant, neither leaving me anywhere near as affected as I feel right now, but real damn interesting, both of them. Worth laying out here.

[this piece in progress]

*****************

A giant of what began as a maverick wing of contemporary theater has cashed in his chips.

Few people who happen across this journal know that I spent most of the years of my so-called adult life working in theater -- sometimes making a living at it, often not; often acting, sometimes (more with passing years) writing. Writing and acting in your own stuff is a fine way to get out of the audition grind.

I became aware of Spalding Gray in the early 80s, his work had an immediate impact on me. His focus, his intensity, his sense of humor and vulnerability, the way he developed of expressing his ongoing fascination with and fear of life, turning it into something pointed, remarkable, ground-breaking -- a manner of working that turned his limitations and weaknesses into strengths, to the point that he more or less single-handedly transformed a marginal performance form into something now commonplace.

I saw him perform many times in Boston and Cambridge during the 80s and 90s. I watched his films, read his novel, devoured the transcripts of his monologues over and over and over. His influence on my writing could not have been more pervasive, initially impelling me to scribble and perform autobiographical monologues, with time becoming far subtler (fortunately for everyone) -- becoming a point of light to which I periodically referred in the ongoing development of what some misguided arty types might call my voice. (So, yes, you should feel free to blame him to whatever degree you feel appropriate.)

Should you ever stumble across a copy of Swimming to Cambodia, his best known monologue, directed by Jonathan Demme (available on video and DVD) or Terrors of Pleasure (an hour-long version available on video (hard to find) and DVD (easier to locate), the full-length version available on audiotape), grab 'em. Unbelievably funny, complex enough to stand up to repeated viewings.

rws 10:12 AM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
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June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
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January 2006
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June 2006
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November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
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June 2008
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September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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