Oct. 27, 2003 - 12:37 p.m.
“We make a crucial team for a dying world” – Thomas Dolby, somewhere in the 1980s
Dear Meghan:
I am saddened by the tale of Touch and Go Joe, not only because you were hurt in the process (which is horrible; it is truly ironic that most ‘life lessons’ of this sort don’t really inspire positive ramifications) but also because it reminds me of the unusual quality of our friendship. It is a severe source of irritation that I cannot be there for you as a friend should. The problem with spending nearly a year being senders or receivers of words on a screen is that we, as e-authors, we can only watch what happens to the other from a cool distance.
But if I were to be there as a friend should, I would lavish upon you none of the following: “tsk, men!”, “it will be alright”, “be glad you found out now”, “I never liked him/her anyway”, “well, live and learn”, “it could be worse”, or “thank god you’re not pregnant, huh”. I think, if I was a friend in three dimensions, I’d suggest a walk of epic proportions, tracing and retracing steps and not saying a word.
But soft, come and see what has happened to me (from a cool distance):
My bout with bronchitis continues, albeit in a very reduced manner. The episodes where I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that I cannot inhale at all seem to have died down. I’m pretty thankful for that, as you might imagine. Now there’s intermittent coughing spells that last 10-20 seconds and the occasional need to spit (it is nearly noon today and thus far I have logged 3 such spells). I’ve never been a big spitter, Meghan. Having two fairly large front teeth, it is almost impossible to achieve an impressive “ptooey.” Mine instead turn out more like “pt-fff” and spray like a bottle of Windex set on ‘mist.’
I also cannot whistle, unless I do it by inhaling. And I remain left-handed. I’m feeling very backwards these days!
On Sunday, I attempted to hide at a local coffee shop and write some material for the next Clowns production (bearing in mind that I am still unsure of the group’s future). Instead, I was front row to a local, student-driven poetry group which decided to meet at that time. I felt a great deal of empathy towards the leader of the group, who was an earnest semi-Goth grrrrl with a black Prince Valiant hairstyle, matching lipstick and thick-rimmed glasses (black of course). She was trying to lead her group, as I often do, and trying to be friends with everyone at the same time, as I often have done. Most of her sentences were betrayed by her own insecurity, and it was heartbreaking – and unsettling - to be witness to. Example: “Maybe we could meet every other week” was one thing she (may have) said. Try saying it out loud. On its own, it sounds fine, doesn’t it? Now, say it again, only slowing down a bit as you cross each word and raising the pitch of your voice as you go, until the sentence becomes a question. Most of the things she said possessed that particular timbre.
The poems were pretty bad as well. Overreliance on fluid, be it ocean waves, oil slicks or semen stains, does not good poetry make.
Saturday saw a recording session with the Clowns. There were four of us in attendance and we recorded a few scenes from our last show – but mainly we reverted to improvisations. Some turned out pretty funny, especially a piece that could be titled ‘The Ultimate Movie Trailer’, in which the four of us wrote down as many theatrical clichés we could think of and linked them all together. The final piece, which has one of us (Robert) on it as the announcer, is hard to describe, but it starts something like this: “When a small boy and a man go searching for the American Dream and something interferes with the woman they love, they learn the most important lesson of all and lead the charge not with their heads but with their hearts when there’s no way out and there’s nothing to lose…” etc. It goes on for a couple of minutes, and it’s incredibly funny.
On Friday night, I went to see a production entitled “Puppet Noir”, which has in it a fellow performer and Diaryland contributor, who I think I shall call Janis. Janis and some of her posse came to see the Clowns at Second City, so this was kind of a return gesture of kindness and interest. “Puppet Noir” is exactly that, by the way: a film noir style piece done with puppets (actually, there’s maybe four huge puppets and six real people that perform). Afterwards, I hung out with Janis and her group til the wee hours of the morning (usually, my modus operandi would be to just take off afterwards, but I am trying to regain my social skills). And it was spectacular on many levels. As I walked home, under a purple/red predawn sky, a light sprinkle of warm rain came down.
I am only grateful my walk home did not involve ocean waves, oil slicks or semen stains.
Zounds and forsooth,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
