I just bought Spalding Gray’s posthumously published journal entries over a span of about forty years. I barely started and what already strikes me is how, other than pioneering the bare it all life as art style in his monologues, he still was an artist who crafted his pieces and still kept some things hidden; maybe some of it was out of negative audience reaction or maybe there were some things that weren’t meant to be shared. I often tussle with that in sharing my own experiences; it’s often tempting, like some clods do on Twitter and Facebook, to express one’ feelings for another person through posts or tweets or some straight stage confessional; it’s horrifying actually how that happens. My rules if I can state something more poignantly and beautifully in writing and honors the other person, I do it. If it’s a beef I have and that person’s still in my life, best to have it out in person. I won’t even do emails. I don’t like emails for having a conversation or expressing any negative thoughts; arguments that weren’t meant to happen start that way. Wars begin that way. I fear one day the art of conversation will only be found in museum displays where you put on headphones and hear two wax figures you see before you have a conversation and actually emote and listen. I look forward to opening that museum.
And so with this new book comes my jaw which is so sore from grinding teeth in my sleep and now to some point when I’m I’m not certain anything other than gargling on a bag of marijuana, which I don’t smoke, would do the trick. My teeth hurt. my gums hurt and I don’t know what to do with tension even after running, meditating, visualization, etc. I think I’m about to give birth and so my jaw’s in labor.
I promised myself I wouldn’t snark on other people in my public writings but I just saw Rick Perry make a complete ass of himself on footage from Jon Stewart where he forgot what the third agency was he was going to shut down if President, even after people hollering from the audience and Ron Paul making suggestions. He plum forgot. I forget my keys, where my glasses are, how to play Chopin; I never ever forget which agencies I would shut down if I were elected President; and I do have a list that would get hosed down with the eyes of angry owl. These candidates all cell divided and genetically mutated from one creature that sits on a fake toilet somewhere in an lab in the Yukon thinking it’s constantly trying to poop and it can’t so it keeps scraping off chunks of cells that wind up running for President and filling our lives with utter bullshit for over a year and a half; All of these cats. I am registered no party; I can’t vote in primaries; on those days I sit in my apartment and make a fake ballot box and vote for fictional characters I believe would make good officials; Mr. Bentley from the Jeffersons for Secretary of the Treasury and etc. you know the obvious choices.
Jon Stewart had a good time as all his correspondents with this gimme from Rick Perry. Then right after that Adam Sandler was coming on promoting his new film Jack and Jill. Al Pacino is in it. Not Allan Pacina, the Al Pacino. I guess he’s planning on buying a space shuttle and needs a quick couple of million.
Sparkles is back; this is the name I gave the rat that lived and scratched and self bathed inside my wall and ceiling for months. After he left Son of Sparkles has returned to wreak vengeance. I don’t like killing any living creature. I know it’s the way of Earth for many species but I have trouble with it; that being said, after many nights of conversationally pleading through the wall to please vacate the area, I have to call an exterminator. I ask forgiveness from the vermin gods.
So I end with the joy and grind of putting on stage and in writing that which is truly true versus what is merely true. My jaw seems have a jump on the battle.