Weekend blogging / My exciting life

I noticed somewhere (and maybe I've mentioned this before...?) that some of the "real" blogs I read (the ones with ads and comments and returning visitors; where the blogger has the ability to view the IP addresses of the readers... ah: now there's some technology I wish Google Analytics would pass on down) don't post on the weekends.

Now, that just seems silly to me. And maybe a little snobbish. But that could just be me being judgmental.

Anyway, here I am, on Sunday morning, blogging in my robe with my wet hair and a kitty on my lap. Pathetic and sad? Maybe. I prefer: inspired. Cozy, too.

Last night at City Garage, I ran a much tighter show than the night before, which figures, because the director's husband Charles wasn't there and there was no video equipment in sight. Ah, nerves. I still felt that same weird way I felt the night before but I'm just chalking that up to, I don't know, low blood sugar or something (before the show I made a stop at Famima!! and bought a diet Coke and a dark chocolate Snickers bar. Paul got half, as I haven't eaten a candy bar in months. He wasn't thrilled with the dark chocolate, but I liked it). Also at last night's show was a guy, Jed, who was in 2001's Gertrude Stein Project with me; I haven't gotten a chance to talk to him since then (and honestly, at that time, I was much more shy with the real actors at City Garage; I probably didn't speak much with him, ever). It was nice to talk to him now - he had good memories of that show, which was nice to hear. He works in the movies and stuff, which is pretty cool. Neat guy.

I carpooled last night with Bo and Martha and their friend, and was grateful to not have to drive. In fact, after we dropped off their friend (she lives in Lawndale, a city I didn't know even existed until they erected that enormous sign off the 405 freeway a few years ago), I curled up on the back seat and went to sleep. I did the same thing Friday night when Patrick was driving.

Afterwards I drove home alone, singing "The Motorcycle Song" to keep myself awake. Quite loud.

This morning on KPCC, I heard a story about a group of people who get together at a bar somewhere and read their teenage poetry and screenplays and stuff, and laugh about it. I wish I had some of the stupid things I'd written as a teen (or maybe I don't!). I was a weird kid, I guess. I wrote a lot of notes to my friends and the boys I had crushes on. Eric Taylor was one of the recipients of those notes; he has hopefully not saved any of them for posterity. I'm pretty sure I was never that important to him, but still, just in case: Eric, if you're reading this? I'm not ever gonna be famous. You can throw them away now!

Side note: my crush on him was heavy duty. It started when I was in the 7th grade, and he was in the 8th. He was a year older than me: tall, blond, blue eyes: gorgeous. And funny! We finally did actually get together once or twice, some years later, and for me it was like being with a movie star; I was (and am) so not cool. He picked me up on his motorcycle, and I was pretty much in heaven. We went out a few times, and then of course, he disappeared again on me, but at that point, that was fine.

I wasn't just writing love notes: I guess those notes (to my friends, to boys) were a lot like these blog entries. Not that interesting, dotted with semi-interesting things, once in awhile (I hope). I remember putting a lot of time and effort into some of them, drawing pictures, etc. My friend Damon got some of my early efforts at painting. I wasn't very good! I would write something, usually on tiny graph paper, in my tiny fake architectural writing, and then fill the rest of the sheet with wannabe psychedelic designs. I guess I suffered from the same low-grade ennui most teens suffer from... it was the age of The Cure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode: the world seemed dark and sad and scary a lot of the time. Missy and I wrote a lot of notes, too, and we were fond of certain curse words. I remember my mother found one that had the word "fuck" written in big 4" tall letters. You can imagine how thrilled she was to see that. On most of my notes, I would almost always quote The Cure ("wish I'd stayed asleep today...!") and draw a little clock showing the exact time, at that very moment. (I just did a little research, looking for an audio clip of that Cure song, "Close To Me," which is from their album The Head on the Door, and I had totally forgotten how wonderful they were. Man. The Cure were terrific.)

Anyway, a few weeks ago I know I promised to post a poem. I don't have the one I was working on (the world's worst poem!) yet; I guess I've kind of given up on that one. But in honor of the story I heard on NPR, I'm going to share with you a poem I wrote in the 12th grade, which was published in "Penstrokes," the literary magazine at my school.

Before you get all excited, I'm pretty sure everything that was submitted to Penstrokes was published (maybe Adam, who was involved in Penstrokes, can confirm this). I actually submitted more than one poem; this is the "good" one. "Good" being relative, of course.

Blue Line
By Irene Casarez

The sky looks painted on
Today, I walk in the wet grassy footprints
Of anybody who has had that thought before.
The sky looks like a boy
With his box of crayons
Drew a blue line
Straight across the top of his paper and
Labeled it.
The sky looks as hard as cement
Today, wherever I step I leave
Wet grassy footprints.

Now, just for comparison sake (and I know it's unfair to post someone elses poetry here; no names will be used! And no, I did not write these), here are the first lines of another poem that was published in Penstrokes that year:

"I want to die while you love me,
While yet you hold me fair..."

Oh, and here's another good one:

"I walk the shadows, scorn the light;
I sing the moon and dance the night..."

OK, one more:

"Love was here,
Now it's gone,
What am I to do,
Now that he's gone."

The rest of the stuff in Penstrokes was mostly stories about young men, by young men, developing into young men. Stories by young women, about young men, committing suicide while single tears stained their cheeks. Poems about unrequited love, poems about girls with bleached blond hair. Ah: I love it all, as bad as it is. Or maybe it's not bad: what the hell do I know?

Now I should start getting going... I have to take Patrick to the airport later. I haven't decided if I want to head out to Santa Monica early for the show, or come back home and chill. I'm not ready to start thinking about life Post-Rhinoceros. Tonight is the cast party, which should make up for the whole damn thing being over, but I hate to put so much importance on a party I'll probably have to leave early from (work tomorrow, and I just remembered I can't call in sick: timecards are due). Well, you never know.