Two confessions

This person said, do you know how sometimes you're on your laptop and you get on Facebook when your bored and avoiding doing something? One time I was bored so I got on Facebook, then I was bored on Facebook, so I tried to get on Facebook while I was already on.

And I said, sometimes I feel so weird that I don't even feel like shopping.

MRS. GRANNY:

You can call me Mrs. Granny.

JANELLE:

Mrs..... Granny?

MRS. GRANNY:

Good Girl!

Shall I tell you something Henrietta?

JANELLE:

My name is Janelle.

MRS. GRANNY:

That man down the street? Kevin Marshal? You know him?

JANELLE:

Mr. Marshal.

MRS. GRANNY:

We used to be lovers.

JANELLE:

I should go on home.

MRS. GRANNY:

Alright deary.

Two days later.

JANELLE:

Mrs. Granny?

MRS. GRANNY:

What is it Henreitta?

JANELLE:

I'm back, and I brought some fig newtons.

MRS. GRANNY:

Oh, whats that? I can't see you in the light so good.

OFFICER 1:

Mrs. Granny, this is the NOPD.

MRS. GRANNY:

Henreitta?

OFFICER 1:

(to Janelle)

Get back girl. You did a good job. Now run along.

JANELLE:

Sorry Mrs. Granny!

OFFICER 1:

Mrs. Granny we want you to come with us now.

MRS. GRANNY:

Why would I do that. Oh no.... no. Stupid kids.

OFFICER 2:

Will you eat this?

MRS. GRANNY:

I dont want your food.

OFFICER 2:

You don't have to be afraid, ma'am.

MRS. GRANNY:

I'm not scared of nobody, no way.

OFFICER 1:

We need to excavate her.

MRS. GRANNY:

Exca-who? I know about ex's! And x-rays, and exoskeletons, and exits-- and no-o-o thanks! I'll stay right here.

OFFICER 2:

You're getting your drawers soiled.

MRS. GRANNY:

Get back! You're vulgar.

OFFICER 1:

Ma'am, we're trying to help. What do you eat?

MRS. GRANNY:

Beetles.

OFFICER 2:

Where do you sleep?

MRS. GRANNY:

Under that car.

OFFICER 1:

Have you been taking drugs?

MRS. GRANNY:

Stop putting words in my mouth.

Get going. Don't need no one. Nobody. No way, no how. I know how social security works!

TRESemme.

Laying on my couch, reading Augusto Boal's Theatre of the Oppressed, I considered, after not doing so for a long time, Aristotle's Poetics, and the pity and fear that a spectator may feel for the tragic hero, and what corrospondents of such that I may locate in my own life and what I may expel in catharsis that is according to Boal who says that according to Aristotle is anti-political, or a rather threat to the political equilibrium, then my roommate came home. And seeing the can of hairspray I had on the coffee table, she asked me if I had been huffing. No, I answered, I have not been huffing the hairspray.

If you give up trying to talk to people, do all things you do not know how to say or do not try to say, go away? Or do they become burried under an avalanche inside you? If a person is burried in an avalanche, they should make a little burrow, a space to breathe. But even then, that cant last forever. If, at the bottom of your avalanche, you think something is protected there, you may check to see that it has been gone for a long time. And the the little alcove space is empty.

While I am on the subject of snow, I would like to add that if I could, I'd take the white print-out of my play script and ball it up into a lumpy snowball, and lob that snowball across a feild and watch it slump into a pile of mush. Someone younger than me may then collect that snowball and turn it into snow punch. The sort to which, in a crystal bowl, one adds cream.

Dear Autumn,

Driving over the mountain from Asheville, I saw yellow leaves... but then again what did I really see? A leaking ceiling. A droop-horse turned on her back, legs folded like a rabbit. I didn't see her long before a green sheet replaced her flee-bitten coat. Dear Autumn, dear colder still, dear dead pony. I tried to write a play once. The joints didnt even fold nicely, but squeaked like a metal gate. Some horse stalls are lined with shredded paper. Dear one long month, dear November, dear second fiddle to December. Dear colic, dear infirm, dear feeble, dear deaf, dear fate. I tried to tell my mother, about the mare and the play. I don't know what she heard, but she stood and sighed: lemme get your winter pansies.

Is there something there?

In metaphysics class while discussing Anscolmbe's argument for the existence of God, a young woman challenged the premise that the best things are better if they exist in reality rather than just in the mind. A man then asked her if she would rather be an idea or be real. The woman didn't know what to say to the question besides the fact that she would rather exist outside of an idea. But many nights later, she thought of the better reply: would he, the man, rather her exist in his mind than in reality? For it seems that many men would rather women exist in their minds than in reality. And many women would rather men exist in their minds than in reality. And many people say that people exist in minds and in reality. But I'm not sure if thats necessarily true.

Meta-Power Thoughts at SSREC Conference.

Ok, do you get more power from being unified with yourself? Or is power like atoms, where fission creates a burst of energy (like lightning from a stone or heat in a reactor)? And, to extend the nuclear metaphor, perhaps self-division ultimately has toxic consequences. In social movements, groups want to be harmonious, otherwise risk dispersion. But its the fissures, the dissent, that brings about change/action/newness/rebirth in the first place. Am I conflating power and energy? Should I not?