Dragoncloud

Twisting inside. Trying to sit up tall and right, and that’s my first impression sorry I – okay, I was looking through Björk albums, as I tried to get the new one I’m listening to to play again.

Body feels creaky and twisted and emotion is being released, more crying, more and more crying every day. I think it makes sense. Columbia is hard right now. Lots of work, lots of stress, a Chekhov coming up which feels like it’s trembling on the edge of a knife, and I wonder for the billionth time why I want to direct.

I can’t stand when people ask me why I’m going to grad school. Who was the last one to do it? Rachel. And I can’t get so-and-so out of my head, who said she just couldn’t quite understand my whole plan.

NEITHER CAN I.

But I know I’m flirting more and more with the actual directing, money making world, and that seems as good a world to work in as any. Unless, of course, I’m wrong. And then there’s the actual craft of it you only learn by working it over and over and over and over and over…

Kind of like these journal entries.

I sit and wave and kind of flag and just sink into the couch. Do I want to be writing right now? Not particularly. Do I have less time this morning because an obligation I’m going to was moved up? Yes. And am I going to a four hour Ivo Van Hove dress rehearsal tonight? Yes I am. I’m going away. I’m spacing out, and going into memory, Rebecca’s dad at the dinner table asking me about one concrete thing I’ve learned at grad school.

Ah fuck it.

But I’m here. A little twisted.

Prince Jeremy got out of bed and padded to his window and he saw it out there: a cloud. It seemed to be in the shape of a dragon, with flashes of lightning for eyes and a long body that took up most of the Western sky. He heard thunder growl, and untied and shut his curtains and went back to bed.

He dreamed that night of terrible catastrophe, of a dragon reeking havoc on the castle and his little life, his mom and dad trapped in their bedroom, the castle’s royal advisor bursting into his room and leading him through a series of tunnels until they arrived at an underground lake where stars could be seen on the roof of the cavern and in the black waters below as if they were outside. The feeling of the lake was peaceful, and it was as if the dragon was forgotten, and his mom and dad trapped in their bedroom, and the great shivering crashes of the dragon’s wrath.

And then he woke up twisted in the sheets and covered in sweat.

Prince Jeremy disentangled himself, slid out of the bed, and went down for breakfast.

In the dining hall, his father was already sitting at the head of the long table. His mother was at the other end. Servants were passing to and fro, laying out a banquet of breakfast foods: eggs benedict, fried meats, steaming potatoes, and omelettes. A typical breakfast, slightly more lavish than the one they’d had yesterday.

“How did you sleep?” asked Prince Jeremy’s dad. Jeremy yawned.

“Not great,” he said. He ladeled his platter full of potatoes, and a servant proffered an omelette. He cut into it with the side of his fork, cheese and oil sliding across his plate.

“Why’s that?” asked the Queen, Jeremy’s mom.

“Bad dreams,” said Jeremy, and shrugged.

“It was a rough night,” said Jeremy’s father the King. “The thunder rocked the foundations of the castle. Down in town there was flooding!”

“I woke up in the night,” said Jeremy, stifling another yawn. “And there was a cloud outside. A cloud like a dragon.”

His parents exchanged glances. His father had a half smile.

“Are you thinking of those old legends, about the Dragoncloud? It’s foolish. Those are just tales, son. It’s probable you didn’t wake up at all.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy’s mother, but Jeremy thought she looked uncomfortable.

“Come,” said Jeremy’s father after a half hour of desultory eating and scattered conversation. “Will you hunt with me today, Jeremy? It’s so fresh and beautiful after the rain falls. I’ll have Willifred saddle up your horse.”

Jeremy made a thin smile and nodded. Truth was, he didn’t want to hunt that day. He preferred staying home anyway. Hunts were always tiring and strained, he felt such need to show his father he could learn, he could do it. He much preferred to stay home and help his mother with the sewing.

“I feel a little sick,” Jeremy said.

“That doesn’t matter. The fresh air will do you good.”

But on the hunting trip, Jeremy puked.

Why stop now? Why come back to writing? Because even that much endurance is tiring for me. I like writing a serialized story, I don’t mind adding that to my morning pages, just clearing my throat. Gotta say, Björk’s on a roll. Rebecca’s been texting me.

What is the nature of the Dragoncloud? And why does it matter? It’s like Ursula K. Leguin. It doesn’t need any more nature than it needs.

I’m tired of feeling twisted up. I’m tired of feeling pressed for time. Feeling, unpleasant, discomfort.

Still…

Listening to Björk this morning, sitting on this couch, wanting to do something big, win a prize. Show my won prize on Instagram, become a prize winning man. And get praise from all and sundry for my prize won.

And then they can bury me with that prize.

One of the hardest things about life for me right now is that it feels often unpleasant and confusing, and yet I’m afraid of wasting it. Ignoring good feelings, or not doing any work that fulfills, that satisfies…me.

You know me. The guy writing here. The one who wants to ride the Dragoncloud. Or at least see how Jeremy’s going to ride the dragon cloud. Because that he is, friends. That he is. I almost fall asleep while writing that.

Ok. That’s ok. I’m here. I’m here. I’m HERE.

I’m not asleep, or a concept, or someone else’s satisfaction. I AM HERE. And I want the time to tick over, I’m done.

Wassily Kandinsky – Walled City in Autumn Landscape – 1902

Accountant.

I feel liquid. Like I’m liquid, and the room is liquid, following my pleasure here, or displeasure; following

MY BLISS.

Even as I sat down I started thinking of an opening sentence. “Yesterday felt like a productive day with some weird feelings.” Well, it did. But I didn’t really want to start with that sentence. But there were indeed some weird feelings yesterday.

Merchant of Venice.

Those kinds of feelings? What are those kinds of feelings?

People in the dark.

Old loves.

Jealousy.

I saw Maritza yesterday. She came to meet at Miguel’s show at Lincoln Center which put me in a gushy mood. Miguel’s show was fabulous, complete fire, of course. Both the jealousy and the awe were present in me.

I stop with the sudden thought, who am I writing for? I wasn’t really writing for myself. It was like a report I was giving to my blog, dutifully submitting, to God, or to the Cat Lady author, or two my teachers at Columbia or something.

New Jersey warehouse.

Man in a courier bag making his way deeper into the subterranean tunnels – or further up the highrise ladder.

Man in a courier bag is me. The tunnels are my life. The city is New Jersey.

“The city is New Jersey, folks! We know what that’s like. We know, we know. New Jersey! Who hasn’t been – or at least heard of it? You live in New Jersey, folks! Best get used to it.”

A giant insect crawls towards the city. It is yellow with a segmented body, three round spheres, and green legs, and purple feelers, and I’m getting texts from “maybe: Nancy.” Well, Maybe Nancy: Merchant of Venice.

New Jersey. Merchant of Venice. The little Mermaid? Jealousy.

Narrative and mental cul-de-sacs. Simmering reluctance, like a cigarette smoking in an ash tray, as I sit here, a stranger to myself, a stranger to the people I meet. Including my lover, my cat, and Maritza.

An email advertisement comes in “PLAYS FOR HTE PLAGUE YEARS.”

Woh. Someone should spell check at the old Public Theater.

Daphni – Clavicle – 2022

The music’s got me feeling like I’m in Blade Runner.

“Tell me more about that, Sam.” Says the spider in a diaper in the corner. I need a therapy session; my mind is getting fuzzy.

No. I’m pissed. I’m writing for someone else. Making account of myself, giving some kind of excuse to God, but I don’t think I need to excuse myself at all, so NO. I don’t feel good writing that way. Why am I crying now or feeling like I’m going to cry? I read everything it’s like eating junk food and filet mignon, I’m confused like Epikhodov, and I’m making an account of myself – I’m defending myself.

Well. Fuck it I don’t need to do that. Thinking, unpleasant, anger.

That’s fine. I’m an angry guy on a couch writing who keeps feeling like he needs to make account of himself. Because my policeman (not that stupid Harry Styles bull-shittery) is pointing a gun at my gut and saying “Go on, talk.”

Alright, Sam Spade. Put the dick gun down.

I won’t make an account of myself. Merchant of Venice? Walk through the darkness, near the water, while the lights of New Jersey glow on the other side. Merchant of Venice? Walk through the darkness, near the water, while the lights of New Jersey glow on the other side.

Merchant

Of

Penis?

Well. That goes without, you know, saying.

He made an account of himself. He sealed it up in an envelope, he stuck it under his chair, and he walked out into the grey day to walk along the riverside.

Didn’t he have anything to do?

Yeah. Of course he did. But he left the things he had to do. He’d made an account of himself, you see?

Yeah.

He made an account and walked. He walked by the riverside, and across the bridge, and into New Jersey. Once he got to New Jersey the buildings were huge, huge, huge, standalone, not like in Manhattan, hundreds of workers per floor it seemed. Sleeping the sleep of those who would soon take the train to Manhattan to work. He walked through forests. He walked past embankments. He’d made an account of himself.

I see.

And he walked past embankments, I don’t think you’re really understanding me.

I don’t think you’re really understanding yourself.

…

I’m not.

Well, what is it you’re trying to say? What are you trying to say?

Grey. New Jersey. Merchant of Venice.

…sorry. What?

Whut.

Whut.

Whut.

Whut.

What!

WHAT?

What are you trying to say?

Look I made an account of myself, I left it right over there.

And how did you like writing it?

I didn’t. It made me feel like a loser. Like someone at the bottom of the proverbial, offensively referenced, totem pole.

Ah.

Well I guess we both feel that way. That’s okay.

We feel a certain way today, we’ll feel a certain way tomorrow. That’s okay. Right?

NEW JERSEY.

Merchant of Venice.

Totem Pole.

You dig?

That’s okay. We’ll feel a certain way tomorrow.

Hey you two keep it down in there!

Guy Billout – Shadows Bridge (?) – 2014 (?)

Sheesh!

Listening to …

Listening to listening to listening to aimlessly aimlessly again and again and again and again.

The big tower had little windows. Little windows all the way up from the second floor to the tippy top, which was somewhere just underneath the hovering clouds. Hovering? Spiraling. The sky always seems to spiral these days.

I’m listening to Tom Waits, Small Change.

Small Change pulls the collar closer around his neck, why? Because that’s what people do in a noir. I embrace my creative impulses. Life is ALWAYS going to be a struggle, that changes a model of existence I’ve held since I was a teeny, weeny little boy: that life was about making it! Getting there! Going clear! Getting through! Making the life! Making the love! Finding it! Grabbing it and holding on! Sinking your teeth into it! Making it baby the limelight the fucking red light limelight baby lie me down in Time’s Square right on the dirty ground because I fucking made it!!! I’m all over the marquee, I’m ready to die now, I made it baby I’m making it baby…

MADE IT!

Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhf.

Ehf.

That’s not it.

Was each window an office? Small Change wondered. Then he beat the street into the lobby.

The room was lifted, tucked, and paved in marble. There was a huge fountain. The building above them was set on four huge pinions at every corner of this lobby, and the way one got into its window-clad meat was to get into one of the great glass elevators.

To the front desk Small Change went.

“Extension or destination?” asked the woman behind the desk, who had curly, blue-rinsed hair, a pinched nose, and perfectly round saucer-plate glasses.

“Yeah hey toots yeah hey baby yeah hey foxy yeah hey tootsie roll name’s George Spanner.”

She held up a hand, until Small Change stopped talking, his words piling up against the back of his lips like a disaster on the 405.

Then, after a pause, “ Extension of destination,” she demanded.

Small Change grinned, and stuck his tongue through a gap between canine and molar. “You’re funny, toots, you’re a laugh riot, you’re a knee slapper, you’re a real rib stretcher, you’re a real…”

She punched him in the face.

Small Change bit his tongue between his top canine and lower, and his teeth clacked together. Ouch.

“The fuck?” he asked.

She was flushed and red, and her eyes were hooded. She looked like she had another in her, just as good.

“Extension or destination,” she said again, nostrils flaring and practically spurting out dragon steam.

“Extension 333,” he said. “Jeez, ya clocked me, ya glocked me, ya gave me a hard pat on the tush…”

She yanked a piece of paper out of her printer and slapped it down on the counter top, stamped it with a rubber stamp, and stuffed it into his hands.

“Now, git!” she said.

“Jeez,” said Small Change, not gitting, but far enough away to avoid further punches. “I oughta report you to your supervisor, squawk on ya, turn stoolpigeon.”

“I dare you,” she said, her mouth thin. She flipped her head to reference a man prowling behind the long row of desks, his muscles straining against his white shirt.

“Yikes. Looks like a gorilla in a man-suit,” said Small Change. Then he laughed. “What  wisecrack, what a jest, what a moment of levity, what a…”

She slammed something long and hard against the counter and it rang out through the entire lobby. He saw it was a long, metallic level, the heavy duty kind used in the big shops.

“Git, I said. Or I’ll call him. I will.” She seemed like she was wrestling with whether or not to say the next bit, and the next bit won. “We don’t want any hardboiled gumshoes in here, do you hear? We don’t want any g-men, any hardboiled eggs, any postmodern detectives, any hardboiled chaps of any kind, true crime investigators, political thriller heroes, or any of that sort of hard-nosed, dick-gummed, shoe daddies round here!”

“Well put,” said Small Change. He was grinning. “Why, may I ask?”

She tapped a sign on the partition. It read, No gumshoes. The purple prose is overloading our plumbing. Thank you! Violators will be shot.

Small Change leaned away. “Jeez.”

“Jeez is correct,” she said. She said the word like coh-rrrrect, with a rolled r. “You have your pass, you can go up to room 333, but CANNOT, under any circumstances, narrate your…misadventures in hardboiled terms.”

“Ah, jeez,” he said again.

She shrugged, and for the first time, smiled. “You gonna behave, little doggy?”

“I…suppose.” He leaned against the counter with both hands. She looked at said hands with distaste. “Listen, you don’t think you could let me off with…a little narration? I can’t go upstairs in an office building like this without it, it’s the way I am…”

Her eyes clouded and her brows folded together. “Get out of here,” she said in a hushed voice. “You can’t follow the rules, get out of her.”

“What’s your name…” He struggled valiantly against the next word, and lost. “…toots.”

“That’s IT!” she cried. She gave Small Change a solid whack against his left temple with the metal ruler. He grimaced, and as he fell to the floor, cried out…

“She clocked me! Broad’s got a claw on her like Ali, old toots gave me a wallop, man o man…” That’s as far as he got before rough, platter-sized hands lifted him up from the floor and he was rudely ejected out of the lobby and onto the street.

Now how was he supposed to file his taxes?

He stood up, looked left, looked right, looking for a liquor store. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked off, muttering, “Yeesh. What a fried egg of a morning. Yeesh, got a right claw on her like Ali. Gonna have to pocket the sauce, papa’s old time lobotomy medicine, good old Uncle Chino’s winerag, sheesh, sheesh, sheesh…”

And, speaking that way, hands in his pockets, he walked down the street.

And so do I.

So

Do

I!

I…

I…

Aye-aye cap’n.

Hoy Wei – Mountains in the Distance – 2022