quickley

My dredlocks are definately male. They really don't like being washed. They are dirty, dirty boys. Itchy ones too. Some things, like shaving... especially in the winter... are easy to cut out of one's grooming routine. Hair washing is 90% of the shower process though.

I, at this moment, am in posession of chocolate, which, for no good reason, I haven't been for a long time, and I am thrilled.

A good day was had today. Some wildly successful poetry recitation in voice class. (Oh, Alice Walker, you make me cry everytime) A good chat with my old friend Ravi (Why is it that I, total failure in my own relationships, apear to be the love child of freakin' Abigail Van Buren and Dan Savage when it comes to others?) Fantastic marinated mushrooms for dinner, and a cuppa jo with the lovely Miss Shazzy to top things off. And now, I've got chocolate. What more could a girl want.

Well... I know what.

The shop called and they want me tomorrow afternoon! Yipee! Get to play with wrenches, wear boots, chill with the techie types and get paid, ah, it's been a while. I made enough money with IATSE over the summer to afford my tools and boots, and have yet to get a chance to use them. Varoom. Focusing lights (my fav. techie task), incidentally, at the DB Clarke for Sam Sheppard's Motel Chronicles. You gotta see it. You best believe I'll post it when I know more.

I was thinking today, as some were reciting their poems in class... that I'd like to be somewhere touchy and conflicted for a bit, that isn't inside my own head/heart. It'd certainly be something to be in a place where gunshots in the streets aren't rare. It would be something to feel the energy of a place where people would kill and be killed for some (misguided or not) ideal. I've never had to fear for my life. What would it be like to be that kind of scared. It'd be a welcome change to have my heart beat at double time for reasons more widely consequential than my own heartache.

I cannot possibly scream loudly or long enough to convey what I feel somedays. I can't produce a sound to convey the magnitude of whatever the fuck this is. I can't communicate, and so, I can't feel relieved.

Bah. That came out of nowhere.