I like to think that I'm a better person than I am. But the internet makes it so very hard. I find myself looking at how people I used to know are doing on facebook. Do they have great jobs, get cast in shows, how good are their blogs, resumes, etc. It's so fucking easy. But really I should be focusing on myself, my work, my journey. It's so easy to focus on anything but yourself.

Today for example: I have a shit ton to do, namely revise my training deck for our newbie, write a rehearsal debrief for my theatre blog, exercise, get food from target, do the dishes, clean the kitchen floor, vacuum, etc. Instead, I'm stalking people on the internet and comparing myself to them.

Really I just need to get off my ass and do something and not sit around this apartment like I did for most of today and yesterday!

Late night

It's weird. I'm "babysitting" and just listening to my "belle and sebastian" pandora station. Up late chilling to music and I don't know... It's raining outside and it reminds me of sitting up late listening to music in FL, back when I was in high school. It would be mega late, and I'd be tired, but completely alert.

I don't really know what's going on with me this week, but I just feel awake in a way that I haven't in a really long time. Like a huge fog has lifted, and I'm standing on the edge of something completely new. I've been spending a lot of the last few months alone with myself. I haven't been writing, I haven't been working terribly hard, I haven't been doing much of anything. Just sitting, silently, waiting for things to sort themselves out.

And then something shifted. I started working out?! I started these bar method classes that I've been thinking about taking since january, and I just did it. And now I'm going 4-5 times a week. I was never this on top of this stuff even when I was in ROTC and I had peer pressure to force me to go.

But that's not the change it's just a symptom of something else. Maybe if I sit silently long enough I'll find out what's up.

This one breaks my heart

up into the silence the green
silence with a white earth in it

you will(kiss me)go

out into the morning the young
morning with a warm world in it

(kiss me)you will go

on into the sunlight the fine
sunlight with a firm day in it

you will go(kiss me

down into your memory and
a memory and memory

i)kiss me,(will go)

ee cummings

When I have struggled through three hundred years

When I have struggled through three hundred years
of Roman history, and hastened o'er
Some French play-(though I have my private fears
Of flunking sorely when I take the floor
In class),-when I have steeped my soul in gore
And Greek, and figured over half a ream
With Algebra, which I do (not) adore,
How shall I manage to compose a theme?

It's well enough to talk of poor and peers,
And munch the golden apples' shiny core,
And lay a lot of heroes on their biers;-
While the great Alec, knocking down a score,
Takes out his handkerchief, boohoo-ing, "More!"-
But harshly I awaken from my dream,
To find a new,-er,-privilege,-in store:
How shall I manage to compose a theme?

After I've swallowed prophecies of seers,
And trailed Aeneas from the Trojan shore,
Learned how Achilles, after many jeers,
On piggy Agamemnon got to sore,
And heard how Hercules, Esq., tore
Around, and swept and dusted with a stream,
There's one last duty,-let's not call it bore,-
How shall I manage to compose a theme?

Envoi

Of what avail is all my mighty lore?
I beat my breast, I tear my hair, I scream:
"Behold, I have a Herculean chore.
How shall I manage to compose a theme?"

ee cummings

all which isn't singing is mere talking

all which isn't singing is mere talking
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else

drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother's son-
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone

but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence

ee cummings