Thursday, December 29, 2011

Home Improvment

In a basement, in my hometown, at an improv sleepover. That's the sitch. This is an old drum, but I'm back and I'm beating it again. Because, well, I'm here. And this is the drum that I beat when I'm here.
It's like a favorite pair of shoes that are just too small. They didn't bust, and they're not even that smelly or dirty. By all means, a solid pair of shoes. It's just a bit painful to wear. The constriction of this once adored pair of shoes is cutting off my circulation. It's building up my blood pressure. I feel the pounding of my pulse in my head.
I can't complain, not right now. I've laughed a ton tonight. Yet I feel distressed. There's some element of this — I'd say I'm clinging to the past — that just doesn't feel cool. I can't say I'm having a bad time — I'm not. I just don't feel good about it, I've put in a lot of thought to this show. Too much thought for some measly alumni show (that's going to be great and I hope you go/went to it!) that's supposed to be mere fun and games. The angst makes me borderline nostalgic. Nevermind an 8-page college paper, are these skits funny? The critics in my head give me no discernible feedback, a bunch of jibberish.
Why they make that noise, I don't know. Maybe I'm hearing the pounding in my head. It hasn't snowed yet this December, maybe that explains this out-of-whack mood I'm in. There's no pattering of snow on the rooftops, but instead an occasional rain. But on a dry day, with it too cold to go outside, there is silence. Yet I hear it.
It sounds like something important but not able to be dealt with at this time. Like a wife nagging about a problem that I cannot fix. Or like a dog complaining that it can't drive. Or like a baby screaming at me that it wants to communicate with me but it can't because it's a baby. Or, it sounds like none of those things. It sounds like how it reads:
It's internal, it's a heartbeat, it's a cry for help, it's a pleasant rhythm, it's a reminder that I'm not alone, it's a reminder that no one's around. It tells me nothing, but it explains everything. It makes me feel crazy. It makes me feel human. It makes this noise, and that noise goes:
It doesn't rhyme with "bomb" or "mom" or "bum" or "mum," but somewhere between those sets of words, you find the sound I'm looking for. And if you keep thinking of "nom nom nom," you're doing it wrong. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. A moment passes, then I hear it again:
I would like to go swimming in a pool. To drown my ears in water, let it rush in and invade my head so that it can flush out the sound. Sound. Pound. The pounding of it, it lingers like a vile stench. No need to scribe it. You know where this leads.

How'm I doing? Oh, I'm fine. Just a tad stressed for no apparent reason. My dreams have been getting smaller. My drum has been beating louder, and it's not very soothing. In fact, nevermind this whole fucking piece. I've got work to do. 


But first. I mean, I guess I wasn't done. I just want to say that I've been searching for motivation. Not "to go on," nothing that serious. Just to do well. I don't mind sitting at home all day indulging in entertaining activities. There's something about winter that makes me not care at all whether I'm inside or out. As long as I'm somewhere, I'm happy there. Content, we'll say. I am content. 

This was garbage, but hey, so is this.


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