Like the Lady With the Mystic Smile

PG= 100
Read part of Death and the King's Horseman to help the freshies get it.  Was somewhat upset that it took us half an hour to do shit and finally get to the grades, which means we didn't read through Crows Over Wheatfield.  But I was a good class person.  Did not enjoy period 8, though.  No me gusta.

Theatre Journal:
 RAAAAAGH.  Essays bug the shit out of me.  But that is not the point of journals, nominally.  DatKH.  Now that I know what is going on, I may be able to finish forging through act 1.  Part of the way through.  Must.  Not.  Lose.  Momentum. 

Dance Journal:
ALSO RAAAAAGH.  So apparently now I have to go on two intimately connected journeys in two different mediums.  Choreo was rough, confusing, and frustrating.  Trying to keep calm, remain true to the intention and the reality of my word.  Fucking isolation.  Why couldn't I have chosen one of the paintings that inspires me?  Naw.  That would be too simple and obvious.  I need to stop that.  Condemning the obvious.  It's never served me any good, and likely never will.  Honestly, forgot to work on my phrase this evening.  Here's to sleep cycles.

Gabe Journal:
 Spew time.  Gonna try to type faster than my filters.  Not actually achievable by mortal fingers, but I'll do my best.  College essay stuff.  I'm smarter than most people I've met, but when they're smarter, they're way smarter.  And I look like a dick.  Bacause I am a dick.  A really smart dick.  A lazy, smart dick.  I dunno.  I'm arrogant, that muchis clear, and has been made clear by 3 and some odd years of being reminded of it.  By everybody.  I'm arrogant.  I'm smart.  I'm....diverse?  Not really.  Well, sort of.  In some ways.  I feel like a good analogy would be an explosion, if I knew more chemistry.  All I know is that, for ignition to occur of a large cloud of gas, there has to be the right combination of the gas and air.  So, like, hydrogen.  If I and my experiences are hydrogen, and the world of the performing arts in which I wish to enter is the surrounding air, and my mental filters are the Hindenberg... Except that makes me sound like a menace to society.  I think it may be a good idea to avoid analogies to disasters.  Unless it's a Hindenburg of sunshine, rainbows, and crazy.  Which it could be.  So I'll stick with it for now.  The whole, "judging before you write" thing.  Judging before you create anything, really.  Had that same issue in dance today.  But I ranted a little bit about that already.  So I'm a Hundenburg of crazy, experimental art.  I love how the spelling of the blimp is changing as I go along.  I'm a ball of creative gas, angry, arrogant, brilliant, crazy gas.  My limited experience surrounds me in a rubber cocoon.  Or is it cloth?  I have no idea.  I'm floating around in my horizon of ignorance and inexperience, looking for the proper catalyst, the sharp, pointy something to burst my bubble, bring me down to Earth, and let loose all that lies within my gassy confines.  Shit.  11:58.  I need to go to bed right about now.