“Very, Very Temporary”

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Got a new notebook.

Look… see… feel the inspiration. I’m writing up class notes and other varying thoughts and callbacks from my improv-student life.

I’ll be on stage for the first time this weekend. Not telling what stage, what time or with what group because I want exactly NO ONE from outside my classes to see me. I’ll start pimping out performances once I can get past the “I’M GOING TO BREAK IMPROV!” thoughts out of my head and one show under my belt. Everything from nothing, right?
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Wrestling

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Friday night was the annual Ladies of the Austin Improv Collective Slumber Party. Even though I knew only a handful of those attending, I was prepared to dive right into an extended clothes swap, confessional booth, game night and epic, epic truth circle (that lasted 5+ hours) with around twenty amazing, talented and hilarious women. Also there was alcohol. A lot of it. And arm wrestling.

[album=2011-austin-improv-collective-slumber-party]

P.S. — This next gen gallery is for the birds. Sorry for the annoying and unconsistently sized slideshow.

I learned my stripper name is Metal Mouth and my ultimate improv troupe name is Uterus Happy Hour. Is your reaction, “Uhh…?” Good! You get it! U.H.H.!

I didn’t sleep but an hour in the wee morning, sat outside for a quiet moment to enjoy some cold kung pao chicken (buying it hot, sticking it in the fridge — best morning-after idea ever) and accidentally locked myself out of the back of the house. Trying to finagle my way around the house and back in through the front door in my pajamas, and then locating all of my belongings (I packed like I always do, in absolute excess) and trying to sneak out without waking the house was a challenge.

That was actually much easier though, than leaving the house and driving home with the creeping horror of “OMG I TOTALLY OVERSHARED.” hanging over my head.

Circle of Truth! Truth Circle!

Oh, Mouth. *shakes head*

Watermelons and ArtGum Erasers

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I realized my latent superpower of making things weird isn’t quite so latent. I still charge forward blindly without cause for alarm, don’t move fast enough to get the right words from my brain to my mouth before I release a torrent of words from my gut that make the room go still and I’m back to the place where I accidentally (35-years-old and I still have to retype accidentally every single time so that it doesn’t show up as “accidently.”) pick a fruit before it’s ripe or deflate a story idea before I write it down.

Because I haven’t had access to my essential self in awhile, I forgot that my essential self has the patience of a newborn and am clearly still hooked on the high of immediacy. Show me NOW. Do it NOW. Let’s go NOW. I want everything NOW.

Which is weird that I’m even thinking things are weird, because they’re not weird. I’m just so fucking awkward sometimes. Unless they are weird and I just don’t realize how weird, weird is. I need to remember that my normal is not your normal, and not your normal, and not your normal, either. And I need to remember not to close off my open valve, especially before I see what comes out of it, because that’s going against everything that means anything to me.

Jump. Then justify.
Jump. Then justify.
Jump. Then justify.

Just try not to burn out the fight before the glory.

“An Epistolary Tryst”

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I’m going to lead with saying I’m on day three of a headache and two off nights at improv class. My last Hideout elective class was Monday and I just couldn’t get it together. Timing, relationship, game, characters — it felt terrible. Last night at Coldtowne we met our new teacher (ladies and gentlemen, we have an official instructor) and class (for me, anyway) didn’t seem to take off. I don’t know if this is because we only have three people in class, or because of all the reasons I gave for Monday night’s Hideout class, but still — no good.

I’m not going to blame the headaches. The subsequent large doses of Vicodin and knock-out-a-bull potent ibuprofen that I had to keep swallowing to feel stable enough to participate? I’m not going to not blame that either.

Essentially, I’m responsible for the consequences of my actions, regardless of the control I felt I had over them.

Whoa. I just explained in a missive I just sent that I was going to keep this construct top of mind to see if I could find everyday occurrences in my life to tie this awareness to and I JUST did.

Mind. Blown.

A friend of mine sent me a Facebook message saying she woke up worried about me because of a dream she had the night before. I knew her very well a million years ago in junior high and high school (more so the former) and it was really very unsettling to spend the whole day wondering what shift in the cosmics tapped her shoulder in dreamland. Whatever it was, it was a strong enough push to make her reach out.

Waiting for signs always freaks me out because I look at everything as a possible portend and walk around touching life with kid gloves. No good.

You know what is good? All the other things in life that are making my lights on the inside shine a little brighter.

“Starts like fascination…

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… ends up like a trance.”

I really, really should back off the Costello binge. Clearly.

*

I spent Memorial Day in a three-day intensive improv workshop at The Hideout with a kick-ass group of mostly strangers learning more about how to unlearn, and working with narrative improv structure.

Was it exhausting — both mentally and physically? Yes. By Tuesday I had very little left to give, but since I had my regular (though, still snafued) Coldtowne class and the Improv Collective mixer that night, I gave it anyway.

Was it BRILLIANT? Yes. Yes times fifty million. I’m still trying to process all the notes and direction. And because I have the mental retention of a gnat, I keep going back to the notes to remind myself of all the things I need to remember (and need to remember to forget).

I’ve spent this week trying to re-up my energy levels (failing miserably at it, mind you) and spending more cash in co-pays than I’d like. I’m going to have more, much more I hope, to scribble about next week, as I’ve got a list to check off and getting more ink in my vodka is damn near at the top.

Brave New Me

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I’ve spent a lot of time in headphones lately. There’s nothing like a sound chamber to tune out the every day and heighten … every thing else, really.

I know I posted this practically everywhere already, but right now it’s my favorite piece of transient art.

Someone tagged it on the back stairwell at work. I stumbled across it on accident (I use this spot to get some warmth outside when it’s too cold indoors) and have been sitting vigil with it daily. I don’t often get all !!!!! about scrawled tags on the side of buildings, but this one is hitting a chord with me.

Trip Juice. It’s a thing now.

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Man, when I leave this blog for too long after a trip I lose all the trip juice and don’t post all the awesomeness that occurred on said trip.

I need to rectify that.

I was in New Orleans for Jazz Fest. I ate a Cochon de Lait po-boy every day, I walked to the fairgrounds and back (something new, and those seven miles made me feel better about all the po-boys), reunited for a “Hello!” with Wild Bill from HOB days, got to spend some quality time with my sister and Daniel (we have to vacation to actually see each other) and had a couple of pretty stellar meals (including one at Bacchanal). All in all, awesome. And long overdue.

Dave Rodrigue took this.

And then I sleeplessly came back at a ridiculous time in the morning (for a 6:15 a.m. flight that was really 6:55 a.m., oops) and went to work and then improv class at the Hideout. (I signed up for a four-week elective class.)

Which … is different. Very different from Coldtowne. I can see where people from their respective schools of training have their loyalties. Coldtowne is definitely New Orleans. Hideout is definitely Austin. There are wonderful, amazing things about them both, but much like vampires, I prefer mine from the bayou.

Did I mention my improv teacher from my last session (Level Two) was in an essential elective class that I attended over the last couple of weeks? It was really incredible to play scenes with him and see how he interacts on stage in that medium, as opposed off-stage coaching and seeing him perform with his troupes. All of which he excels at. I’m also fairly certain a teacher hasn’t had this kind of creative influence on me since Steve Wilson back at Texas State. Teacher crush? Totally.*

Tuesday starts Level Three. Almost half-way there. I miss playing with my classmates from last class session and I’m curious to see who’s going to come back. They say attrition is normal and you whittle down players as you move from Level One through Level Six. I really, really want Harvey Wallbanger (our future troupe name) to stick together, but that’s the Army-brat “Don’t leave!” in me talking silly.

I have STACKS of magazines piling up unread. Ingredients for baking about to go off if they’re not baked soon. So much laundry to do. (Laundry, laundry every day.) One social media plan to expand upon for work and one for freelance. Thank-you notes to send. Treme, Game of Thrones and The Office to catch up on the DVR. And research to research and writing to write for an essay I’ve got banging around in my brain. About my brain. Imagine that.

* I’m married, not dead. Jeez.

DAZED AND OBTUSED

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So yeah. I totally should have realized today was going to be brought to me by the letters W-T-F when the lotion bottle I picked up after my shower this morning FLEW out of my hand and across the bathroom.

I left my phone at home. I left my sunglasses at home. I left the check I needed to deposit at home. I was running late to my dentist appointment (my teeth. my teeth. have I talked enough about my teeth?). There was wake-you-up pain at my dentist appointment. WAKE-YOU-UP pain.

On the way back to the office I saw that the road was clear to turn so I turned. From standstill to turning left on Lamar. Completely oblivious to the red light telling me NOT TO GO and the cop in the next lane. THAT JUST HAPPENED.

I contemplated the “run home quickly for the shit you forgot” strategy and then decided against it because I didn’t want to be late.

FOR THE MONDAY MORNING MEETING.

(It’s Thursday.)

*head/desk*

I really, really should go back to bed immediately.

I’ve got lyrics where the words go.

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I haven’t been sleeping well. I need to get out of my head and back to my regular-scheduled programming.

I want to talk about Arcade Fire tomorrow night and Jazz Fest in New Orleans in four days and the ways I’m trying to twist my brain around thoughts of content and strategy and other particularly interesting endeavors like making with the funny and little calculators that say when to go and when to stay really, really still.

But instead, I ramble and hem and haw. I’m scattered. Disconnected just a notch to the left of where I should be. My brain is misfiring and I’m forgetting things and dropping things. My words aren’t working. If my words don’t work, neither do I.