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Published: November 16th 2010
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Today is Sunday. The sun was in the sky and the air was as clean and crisp as it can be in a cityscape. Somewhere I could hear the echoes of running feet pounding the pavement, even as I lay in my bed. The morning light crept in and welcomed me to the waking world. I had a dream, and it felt strong in my blood, nameless, it's form dissolving before my mind had a chance to grab it and weave it into words. I got out of bed. Mike was in the bathroom making noises. I made a pact, between myself and myself that today would be different. My first commitment was to refrain from any kind of obsessive computer use. The first thing I did on this new day, then, was open the computer and check my email. You can't win them all. But that led me to Pandora where I listened to a vital station called Rainy Day Pasta. It brought me a King's of Leon song called "The Face". The guitar licks, they licked me up and down the spine. They lit my circumscribed soul afire and sent it flickering beyond the contours of my fleshy frame.
I liked the song. Got on the floor and did yoga. Closed my eyes in some of the poses and felt something strong and confident in the darkness. Can't name it, nor do I wish to.
(So suspicious am I of my mind's many activities.)
(Okay, big deal, so I'm suspicious of myself. I'm not worried about it. We probably all are. Anyway back to my Sunday...)
Mike returned from doing rounds at the hospital. He brought me an everything bagel. I thanked him (but it was a bit over salty). He taught me to make good, real coffee. He'll be going to Africa to volunteer soon for two weeks and I'll need to know how to take care of myself.
I tried on a moustache. Really. I did. I tried on a fake moustache. It's part of a character I have to make for this burlesque show I'll be in. I held a toy gun and fired it at the computer screen. See photo.
The blue sky outside beckoned me. I jumped on my bike and rode. I was headed to a theater event, the company named YoungBlood. I rode across 13th street, dodging
Canada Geese
Apparently, these are the culprits of the airplane crash into the Hudson last year... cars and bikes and biped humans, and cruised up the West Side, along the Hudson River. As I rode, I unbuttoned the layers of my shirts as my body heat rose. I arrived early so I found a field. There was a gaggle of geese there, eating the grass and leaving nuggets of poop all over the ground. I brushed some of the poop out of the way with my shoe. It was dry and brittle and broke up into dust. "It's only ammonia" I said to myself, exercising the knowledge I'd gained in my former school battles. I sat and communed with the geese. The geese made me very present. I watched their muscles move, their heads sway and dip. I saw the minute glimmer of some kind of knowing in their eyes. I was mesmerized by their goosiness.
In this state of mind I went to the theater. It was a series of five shorts, featuring kids, the one-act plays written by adult playwrights with teenagers in mind. It was extraordinary to watch the difference between the adult actors and the kids. The trained adults were clearer in diction, clearer in intention. But the kids were more real. And watching that realness, held up in the structure of a written piece, supported by adults who have a command of their craft: this was special and enlightening. It was truly a showcase of and for the kids. And that was indeed the intention of the event. So wow. And boom.
The show ended. I checked my phone. A text floated there, a digital code in a gray mercurial soup. My pal and colleage Golan had finagled a free room at Ripley Grier and wanted to know if I wanted to work. Something in me said "nah" and then something else in me said "Yeah!" Since the "Yeah!" had an exclamation point, it prevailed. I jumped on the bike and rode down 9th avenue to the studio. We started playing and working before speaking. We entered that zone of free play, you know, the one that heals. The one you get when you are alone and singing in the shower. The one you get when you interact with a lively puppy. The one you get when the voices in your mind are temporarily silenced and you play play play with your heart full of whatever it happens to be full of, even if it is empty. Words just don't. And won't. And shan't. Words are just sounds, anyway.
Then, back to the bike, I screamed down 7th avenue all the way to 12th street and then blazed my way across to the East Side, popped up avenue A, garaged my bicycle and leapt into my chair, wonked on the computer and gave myself another sweet listen of that King's of Leon song.
Then, because I've been wanting to, because I've been needing to, out came the blog!
Thanks for reading about my Sun day.
DREW
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Courtney
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Drew Man, Beautiful.