Flowers You Don't Give Away

I felt like sketching again.

Play-Unrevised Draft

FADE IN:
INT. BUS SHELTER - DAY                                                              Annie, a woman in her early to mid twenties, sits quietly, her purse sitting beside her, her cellphone in hand. She anxiously checks the time every 30 seconds and cringes at time's steady indifference. Another woman in mid twenties, Martha, walks up to the bus shelter.                                                                                   MARTHA Annie?                                                              Annie tenses up, previously in a state of total introspection, in a world of her own. She freezes and realizes she doesn't know this woman's name.                                                                                   ANNIE       (nervously) Hey, uh… ha ha… Hey you.                                                                                   MARTHA       (knowingly) Martha.                                                              Martha has a particularly good memory for names and faces and the sort of ease and charm that allows her to approach most anyone. This creats an uneasy feeling in Annie, a sense that she had once known Martha quite intimately, that Martha knew Annie better than Annie knew herself.                                                              Martha edges her way to sit next to Annie, directing her to move her purse to her lap.                                                                                   MARTHA We never really met, but you were at Sam's art exhibit at the Jumping Bean Café. I remember you were with your boyfriend.       (Martha smiles        coyly at this,        which only makes        Annie even more        uncomfortable) It was a really tall man with glasses.                                                                                   ANNIE       (her eyes frozen        on Martha) Uh.                                                                                   MARTHA Anyway, Sam introduced us at one point. He said you were a writer.                                                              Annie sighs in relief, now finally recognizing Martha.                                                                                   ANNIE       (nodding) Yes, I remember you. I'm sorry.                                                              Martha laughs fully and melodically at Annie's embarrassment and Annie finally realizes just how charming she is.                                                                                   MARTHA       (flirtatiously) Was that man? Is he your boyfriend? I was just guessing.                                                                                   ANNIE       (cringing) He was, yeah. Um, not… well, we broke up.                                                              Annie thinks Martha might be embarrassed at this, but just the opposite, she seems to edge closer to Annie and with compassionate eyes asks…                                                                                   MARTHA Why?                                                              All of time, including Martha, her charm, her compassionate eyes and free spirit, everything is frozen around Annie. She steps outside the bus shelter and faces the audience.                                                                                   ANNIE Everyone always asks why. People like answers, reasons. I get that. What was missing? What went wrong? Well, do we really need a reason to act? Does something have to go horribly wrong? Why fucking not? That's what really did it for me.                                                              Annie walks into another point in time, into a memory. There is a bed and lying in it is a half naked man reading a book. She takes her top off and joins him under the covers. She continues staring at the audience.                                                                                   ANNIE I was lying in bed with him like this. It was a Sunday afternoon. We had spent all morning in bed, kissing, whispering, holding each other. I was thinking about how attached I was to him, how many nights we were spending together and suddenly I thought of breaking up with him. What would it feel like to break up with him? I thought this and I realized…. I wouldn't feel anything. I was like Martha, asking " Why? What was wrong with him?" And then I thought… Well, why not?                                                              Annie gets off the bed and puts her top back on. She walks away from the memory.                                                                                   ANNIE And when I asked myself, "why not?" There was no answer. Just a deep, empty silence.                                                              Annie looks over at Martha and smiles. She looks back at the audience.                                                                                   ANNIE She's charming… but she wouldn't get it. Because the moment I broke up with him, I realized how beautiful it all was. How fragile, how pointless, how human love could be. It reminds me of a boy in fourth grade who had a crush on me, Michael.                                                              Annie walks over to a black stand, blending in with the stage. On top of the stand there is a small glass vase.                                                                                   ANNIE For Valentine's Day, he gave me a tiny glass vase with dandelions, I was sure he had picked from the school lawn. Nobody liked Michael. He was obnoxious and had bad hygiene. I didn't like him either, but I kept the vase on my dresser.       (She picks up the        vase and observes        it momentarily) Years later, after Michael and his four younger brothers and sisters had long since moved to the suburbs, my cat jumped onto my dresser and kicked the vase to the floor.       (She drops the        vase; it shatters) I didn't see it happen, but I heard the crash from the living room. I ran to my room and my heart sank. The sunlight was hitting the glass shards just right; they were glowing like treasure. Intact, the vase was nothing special; the dandelions had long since been thrown away. It just accumulated dust over the years. It was so much more precious, broken.                                                              Annie walks over to the bus stop, picking up the purse she had left behind. She sits down and places it on her lap. Time resumes its steady course. There is Martha, again, vibrant, self-confident and leaning towards Annie in a way that only she can pull off.                                                                                   MARTHA Why?                                                                                   ANNIE       (tired and        frustrated) I...                                                              Annie laughs to stop herself from crying. At this, Martha is, for perhaps the first time in her life, uncomfortable. It will never be the right time and Annie will never find the right words to explain herself.                                                             

FADE OUT.

An Apology

This all started with a promise. That I would be there, consistently. I'm sorry to have been so fickle. It's a quality I'm not particularly proud of. But... just know... that I haven't given up on this.

I've been doing some performance art lately. Performances dealing with technology, social networks, loss and travel.

You can read about some of those here:

http://ur1luckysucker.blogspot.com/2012/02/suitcase.html

http://ur1luckysucker.blogspot.com/2012/02/error-loveexe-is-disabled.html

http://ur1luckysucker.blogspot.com/2012/01/living-sculpture-project-angelica.html

Mortality

A little less than a week ago, I thought I was going to die. I had been nauseous and with a migraine all day, and then, late at night, my left arm started going numb. I ended up spending all of Saturday night/Sunday morning at the ER. And I thought to myself, "This could be it. I didn't even see it coming".

I guess I've always assumed that I would be... older.. when truly confronted with my mortality. And it's not that I've never thought about my death; I might think about it more often than most people. I guess I've always imagined myself welcoming death, embracing it, even. But here I was, potentially about to die, and I realized, I wanted to live.

I didn't just want to live. I needed it. All of those big, philosophy 101, words that I loved to write or think about, I was living them, feeling them. Words like: self-actualization, purpose, destiny. I was talking to god, to existence, to some other, and emphatically saying, "I want to live; this isn't it for me".

To realize this, was a big deal for me. I haven't always wanted to live. 5 years ago, there was a time where I couldn't stop thinking about killing myself. As I waited on the subway platform, I would look down at the train tracks and think to myself, "What if I jump now?" I would tease myself, torture myself, thinking about my cowardice, my incompetence. I felt absolutely empty and detached from the world.

Things have changed. Maybe I'm an anti-Buddhist, but it seems to me I've spent the last few years truly forming and building attachments, rather than letting them go. Sometimes it's to my own detriment, as I greedily seek out attention, love and praise, when I don't necessarily need it. But, usually, it feels like living. Feeling loved and appreciated is fucking awesome. Loving and appreciating yourself? THE BEST. Because with this sense of competence, comes a sense of purpose. I am almost euphoric as I type this: I have a purpose. I want to advocate change, within me, around me. I want to be actively involved in this, whatever this is.

I used to think that death would come to me when I was ready. I realized this weekend that wasn't the case, necessarily. Death could come at any minute, and more likely than not, I won't be expecting it. As you read this, you might be thinking, "Yeah, that's what people say", or "Yeah, that's one of those truths that is said about life". But I want you to really feel it and live it. Mortality is not just some word you read about it. It's a fact. It's your fact. And it might be all you can hang on to.

Day 2: Favorite Animal

Day 1: Myself

- Shishigami.

sketchbook stuff

School has kept me from updating this thing, which is a shame because I'm also spending more time doing art-related things than anything else.

I'm supposed to fill up my sketchbook by the end of this semester, so I've been carrying it around with me everywhere. Here are some sketches. ( In reverse order of being drawn... )

(P. iNocchio)
(90 year old me pointing at an alien)

(sketch of drawing class self-portait with side-notes/doodle)
(J. Furn tree)