Pain on Delivery (But You Already Know This)

I watched myself hide. I sought out attention, but when I received it, I refused it.
I was attracted to people who I could co-feel with, those who could relate to me.
Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to sit with you for so long, Bryan;
you don't relate with me, and you don't offer the expression for me to relate with you.
The kind that feels dark and lonely and passionate and deep.
I always get this feeling that I approach you because I need to be saved from something,
but that's heart-wrenching and disappointing. I just want us to feel together.
It's so clear to me now that I want to feel you so much closer.
I'm not trying as hard as I used to to shake that out of relationships.
Meisner has taught me that what I have is enough, and if that Enough
is growing deepening grooves for us to relate with and to Love by,
that is true and simple happiness that I never thought I had deserved.
Also, I've never met a man who I will allow to meet me dead center with relating.
I feel like I wouldn't be attracted to a man who would be able to.
The best co-feeling experience recently that I've had has been with Lucy,
and I know that 85% is because she is a woman and we feel as One.

Estrangement after Summer Rent Parties [unfinished]

I stood in the kitchen, and I was very aware that I taste like some animal took a shit in my mouth.
So I sliced up some tofu and mushrooms and as soon as I put that over rice, I had no desire for it.
So I shook out some granola and fruit and as soon as I poured milk in the bowl, I had no desire for it.
I took my food outside and reclined in the red hammock, and then I started to let thought flow freely.

I think it came out earlier, but I had restraints on what I was Suppose to feel.
In fact, I was so mechanical about it, I remember tailing a car at 85 mph,
subconsciously memorizing the glimmer-blue Honda Pilot's license plate (CA 8Y11077).
(I can't remember what model it is. That's secondary. The year of its make was 2009 though.)
Eventually, the driver angrily pulled over the next lane, but confused,
I slowed down to 70 until the car behind me gave up driving in my lane.
I think I sped up again. I got home in Los Gatos in 35 minutes.

I sat in the hammock, wanting to eat, but wanting neither my tofu or my cereal,
and decided that it was best to record what is coming up for me.
As painful as this may seem within the experience,
the meta approach is thoroughly enjoyable.
I write for an audience, and my audience is specific,
and it's best to introduce my audience members to each other:
Bryan (and hopefully Courtenay), meet the people who watch me all of the time,
(they are usually behind glass windows and they sometimes provoke what happens to me),
and meet Humanity of the Future, literary scavengers of the 22nd century who document works
from this blossoming Internet age, documenting these little blog entries that are defining
the Consciousness of this One Girl's Era (The Last Years on a Human-Sustaining Earth).

Last night I felt so much - at some points, I let them become me, and others, I hid.
There were a dozen times during the party when I wanted to get in my car and say,
I don't need this. I am fatigued and unhappy and this isn't MY kind of party.
But what was stronger, and a part of what kept me there, is knowing that regret will follow above action.
Also - what IS my kind of party? Do I party? Do I even enjoy anything?
With or without others - maybe ever? Am I capable of enjoying?
The rising fear of change into possible stagnancy sends my extremist feeler self into spastic alert.

All of those little life-questioning, self-identifying puzzles throw themselves in my way.
Excuse me! Pardon me! What do you think you're doing?
I'm doing what's best for me! For maybe... the first time in my life!
Quitting theatre?! And then what will you do? Who are you without theatre and busywork?
Well... er... that's something I'm just going to have to work out.
That's reassuring. Sounds like a first-rate plan.
It's not, but it doesn't help that you're here making me feel pretty damn insecure about it.
Frankly, who would you be without my Voice of Devastating Reality?
Free of fear!
Yes, and without that fear, you'd be open to -
More hurt. But I want to hurt. I rather be open to feeling Everything, including hurt, please just let me.
I challenge you to rid me.
You don't serve me. I am seeking happiness, and you are in my way.

I watched myself hide. I sought out attention, but when I received it, I refused it.
I was attracted to people who I could co-feel with, those who could relate to me.
Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to sit with you for so long, Bryan;
you don't relate with me, and you don't offer the expression for me to relate with you.
The kind that feels dark and lonely and passionate and deep.
I always get this feeling that I approach you because I need to be saved from something,
but that's heart-wrenching and disappointing. I just want us to feel together.
It's so clear to me now that I want to feel you so much closer.
I'm not trying as hard as I used to to shake that out of relationships.
Meisner has taught me that what I have is enough, and if that Enough
is growing deepening grooves for us to relate with and to Love by,
that is true and simple happiness that I never thought I had deserved.
Also, I've never met a man who I will allow to meet me dead center with relating.
I feel like I wouldn't be attracted to a man who would be able to.
The best co-feeling experience recently that I've had has been with Lucy,
and I know that 85% is because she is a woman and we feel as One.

TennWill on Theater Mania

Link Here.

Lately, July

There is an indescribable hurt that lives inside me.

I can try to give it awareness, I can feed it attention.
She still hurts, and this fear is so vivid, she wants me to hide.





I drive on this road. It's familiar. I enjoy its curves. I enjoy the speed it lends me, the speed I'm willing to push in the dark when there aren't anyone or thing awake to see me. I put my focus out to the distance. I pull it back to the 300 feet in front of my headlights. I put it back out. Suddenly, a figure in the next lane catches my eye. I swerve. Another is caught in my headlights and I swing. I see red eyes. Brown hair. Long legs. Antlers. Deer. They stand still on the highway, nonchalant, unaware that my speeding car can easily fling their sinewy brown bodies into oblivion, which in this case, is the reservoir nestled around the corner of 92 and 280. They surround me, but I cannot slow down, my car will not stop. Eventually, I'll hit one. I scream. As scared as I am, I cannot close my eyes, and I cannot stop my driving. I will kill someone, and the regret captivates me before the action that will cause it happens.





I feel it. These mornings I wake up anxious, my heart beating louder than the hummingbirds graciously visiting my dad's garden or the sunlight spilling at my feet. When the people I want to love in my Imagination love me back, and by God, I will do anything and Be anything in order for them to love me, I wake up and they return to not seeing me, not feeling me, not there. I usually crawl out of bed, my body sustaining these visions of hate and disgust for myself. I try to be practical, I try to reason, but as soon as I try, my stomach turns itself, and nausea keeps me flattened on the bed or floor. The terror rushes blood into my brain, so I sleep, and if I sleep, I have these bad dreams, and if I don't, the visions from those dreams will replay.

Even as I write this, I admit to appreciating my Depression. He said, "I appreciate all of it, even when I don't." I wondered if he saw my gurgling self-pity, even as I connected, and smiled, and Appreciated. But he didn't see me that night. He saw past me. I wanted to give my love. He didn't see me.

I think I see a change coming, and my mood compensated before I did. That change will slow my life-rate down, so instead of playing Hurricane Cindy at 150mph, I am seeking the summer wind when I can finally just feel and do what I want to do. Oh God, as I write this, my hands tremble. Before the hurricane ends - my show opens in a few days, I still have upcoming events - I tremble with this anxiety - anxiety over a stagnancy that I have always, always equated with not being proficient enough, too much processing, TOO MUCH INDULGENCE. That as soon as I get here, I will be in the darkness that scares me, TERRIFIES me! I soften my approach: I will still be creative and occupied. All the little projects that I have been wanting time for, all of my writing that needs attention, my photography, refining my craft, attention on the Technique, I fucking NEED my life to slow down in order to be BETTER. Joni reassures me, "I am on a lonely road and I am travelin', travelin', travelin'." Mmm.. I crave that romantic darkness. I miss traveling, moving, excited, - not this one place, this goddamn town and its water tower and its huffin' and puffin' occupants. But. BUT. I cannot carry on at this hurricane, fire-lane tumble. I am not taking care of myself, and my body reacts, she tells me that I've been sick for a very long time.

I must... Muss es sein. I want to slow down. I want to let people love me, and I want to learn this painful process of loving myself. I cannot love when there is fear.





I turn the corner. San Jose heat make the cars glimmer in the sun. I signal and make another turn. I feel like there has been a car that turns with me. I check my rear view. A burgundy Lincoln. That's rare. What is even rarer is that there are no occupants in this car. I cross the intersection and the Lincoln follows. I suck the air in my cheeks as it passes in shadow and sunlight. No hands hold its steering wheel, no face checks its mirrors. I am being followed by a car, just the car. I make a final turn onto a freeway entrance and rejoin a gaggle of traffic. I look back for the burgundy Lincoln. It disappeared, probably looking for its driver.

This happened in daylight. I drove to the city, sick to my stomach, and clenched to the seat. I don't need cars without eyes following me. I feel like a fool.

Desirable Streetcars

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

This heart is wrenched inside and out. Feeling every pulse, the joys and pains, and finding that all of it is alright.

You're strong for a reason, Miss DuBois.

Anton H.

"The road to success is not straight, there's a curve called failure
A loop called confusion, speed bumps called friends
And red light called enemies, caution signs called family
And flat tires called jacks, but if you have a spare called determination
And an engine called perserverance, with insurance called faith
...And the drive to make it, you'll reach a place called success"

the motorcycle short story inspired by Amjad

motorcycle types

men who don't ride often
men who affirm themselves with their bikes
men who are geeks about riding
men who are daredevils
men who are hobby riders
men who are solid people
men who are willing to learn
women who are hobby riders
women who are enthusiasts
women who are dykes
women who are willing to learn
women who are just good-natured and cool
men and women who shouldn't be riding --- for an obvious reason

guy who makes motorcycle culture his life encounters these types; doesn't quite get them, respects some, has disdain for others, meets a woman biker who shares with him her experience

Stars

The glass that glimmered on the roadsides became diamonds, and I flew by, affirmed by their ironic winking perspective on aesthetics.

Prtshd

"You're not black, but you are beautiful."