"If You Measure My Wings..."
Though I am heavily doped up on prescription pain killers, I find myself boldly alert, eyes wide open in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and finally flicking on a lamp to devour Tony Kushner essays about socialism and sex.
Now down the ladder to the laptop. Awake. Dazzling.
After the Six Points meeting tonight, I took Gaby out for coffee, and we dissected my project budget. Gaby's advice kept getting better and better until I was riding a monster Organizational High. Everything seemed so eminently doable. Doability makes my brain flicker. I'm still seeing sparks. I feel like I've been drinking Sparks.
I might not be able to travel home for Passover. After neglecting my daily yoga routine for a few months, I seem to have strained a bunch of muscles in my neck. It's pretty intense. I shouldn't even be typing this. Passover is the only holiday I care about. I want to be with my family.
I also had to postpone Monday's Faggots practice for the thousandth time. Singing (loudly) and playing guitar simultaneously felt a little premature.
Hopefully I'll be guitarable by Thursday. Rapture Cafe, my favorite place to linger, is closing. When I moved to New York, I imagined I'd find places like Rapture everywhere. Radical queer coffeehouses with stages and bitchy baristas and difficult books and people who know yr name. Like Cheers, except everyone reads Judith Butler. But such a place didn't exist! The only gay coffeehouses were in the West Village, and they were all boring and creepy. When Rapture opened last year, I thought: FINALLY. And now it's done. I'm freaking bummed about it. Anyway, I'll be performing on this last night of Rapture. I'm performing at, as it were, The Rapture. Along with Glenn Marla, La John Joseph, Max Steele, and others whom I know less well, but whose talents I suspect will wow me. We all go on after Karen Finley. But, then again, don't we ALWAYS, IN A WAY, IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING, "GO ON AFTER KAREN FINLEY?"
I'm a little freaked out about these painkillers. They don't "kill" the pain, per se. They just make me FEEL DIFFERENTLY ABOUT the pain. I know the pain is happening. It just doesn't hurt. I imagine this is what it's like to be on anti-depressants. You can still acknowledge the sadness. It just doesn't hurt you somehow. It's like you're in a fishbowl, inside of a larger fishbowl. Theoretically, I'm just taking these pain-changers to make me feel better while my body naturally heals itself. ("Naturally," along with another drug which I understand to be steroidal.) I hope this works.
The pain itself, undrugged, worked as a sort of cast. It prevented me from moving. This, too, felt like a pretty good healing system. My body was telling me, "LIE STILL," and I'm sure, if I complied, it would heal up in time. I just don't want to comply. I don't wanna! For Further Reading, See: Arrogance, Imperialism, American National Character, Energy Policy, Global Warming, Ethanol.
I've been thinking a lot about different modes of performance. My most successful full-length performances have grown out of smaller bits that were originally intended for club/bar audiences. For drunk people. I'm thinking, more and more, that a piece is only worth performing if you can do it for people who are wasted, and still make them pay attention. I'm not necessarily obeying this rule with my current project, but I'm thinking about it a lot, and expecting it will inform my re-writes and production plans.
I had a nice conversation about my career the other day, with someone who I trust a great deal. He was talking about my current project, and basically said, fully aware of the silliness of his own suggestion: "Why can't this show be more like Please Let Me Love You?" The answer is, of course, "Because it's not." But I'm glad someone asked the question anyway. It's helpful to think about the way I used to do things, and how past methods can inform what I'm doing now. Thinking about:
Other things, in list form:
1. I'm fascinated by this article about China/Tibet. It suggests that the Free Tibet movement has only hurt the Tibetan people, and that the popular strategy of public protest/shaming is futile when directed at a totalitarian government. It is a logical argument, and pisses me off in its Probably Trueness.
2. Hebrew school friend Emily continues being publicly rad.
3. I've been listening to the music of soul sister Matt Katz, who's been making demos on the laptop I sold him. That man can do anything with a synthesizer. He's writing these epic, epic disco jams, the way Joni Mitchell would write disco jams. The production is so gay. The songwriting is so classic 70s. The voice is so R&B. None of this congeals in ways you'd expect. It's all a shock. There are too many contexts for this music to make any sense. It sort of just doesn't. It's exceptional. It's an exception. I once wrote that Matt is "the missing link between Tori Amos and Toni Braxton," and I stand by this claim. On top of it all, he's not just writing exposition - he's crafting these hilarious and heart-breaking short stories. His lyrics are so concise. I love this:
I'm starting to get that feeling you get in yr stomach when you're past Tired, and yr about to go Crazy.
Brain still on.
I'll try breathing slowly.
Or something.
I'd take a pill
but I already did.
Pills. Maybe I'll give birth to a pill.
Speaking of which (Those who share my taste in theater will notice the circularity of this entry.):
Love
Dan
Now down the ladder to the laptop. Awake. Dazzling.
After the Six Points meeting tonight, I took Gaby out for coffee, and we dissected my project budget. Gaby's advice kept getting better and better until I was riding a monster Organizational High. Everything seemed so eminently doable. Doability makes my brain flicker. I'm still seeing sparks. I feel like I've been drinking Sparks.
I might not be able to travel home for Passover. After neglecting my daily yoga routine for a few months, I seem to have strained a bunch of muscles in my neck. It's pretty intense. I shouldn't even be typing this. Passover is the only holiday I care about. I want to be with my family.
I also had to postpone Monday's Faggots practice for the thousandth time. Singing (loudly) and playing guitar simultaneously felt a little premature.
Hopefully I'll be guitarable by Thursday. Rapture Cafe, my favorite place to linger, is closing. When I moved to New York, I imagined I'd find places like Rapture everywhere. Radical queer coffeehouses with stages and bitchy baristas and difficult books and people who know yr name. Like Cheers, except everyone reads Judith Butler. But such a place didn't exist! The only gay coffeehouses were in the West Village, and they were all boring and creepy. When Rapture opened last year, I thought: FINALLY. And now it's done. I'm freaking bummed about it. Anyway, I'll be performing on this last night of Rapture. I'm performing at, as it were, The Rapture. Along with Glenn Marla, La John Joseph, Max Steele, and others whom I know less well, but whose talents I suspect will wow me. We all go on after Karen Finley. But, then again, don't we ALWAYS, IN A WAY, IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING, "GO ON AFTER KAREN FINLEY?"
I'm a little freaked out about these painkillers. They don't "kill" the pain, per se. They just make me FEEL DIFFERENTLY ABOUT the pain. I know the pain is happening. It just doesn't hurt. I imagine this is what it's like to be on anti-depressants. You can still acknowledge the sadness. It just doesn't hurt you somehow. It's like you're in a fishbowl, inside of a larger fishbowl. Theoretically, I'm just taking these pain-changers to make me feel better while my body naturally heals itself. ("Naturally," along with another drug which I understand to be steroidal.) I hope this works.
The pain itself, undrugged, worked as a sort of cast. It prevented me from moving. This, too, felt like a pretty good healing system. My body was telling me, "LIE STILL," and I'm sure, if I complied, it would heal up in time. I just don't want to comply. I don't wanna! For Further Reading, See: Arrogance, Imperialism, American National Character, Energy Policy, Global Warming, Ethanol.
I've been thinking a lot about different modes of performance. My most successful full-length performances have grown out of smaller bits that were originally intended for club/bar audiences. For drunk people. I'm thinking, more and more, that a piece is only worth performing if you can do it for people who are wasted, and still make them pay attention. I'm not necessarily obeying this rule with my current project, but I'm thinking about it a lot, and expecting it will inform my re-writes and production plans.
I had a nice conversation about my career the other day, with someone who I trust a great deal. He was talking about my current project, and basically said, fully aware of the silliness of his own suggestion: "Why can't this show be more like Please Let Me Love You?" The answer is, of course, "Because it's not." But I'm glad someone asked the question anyway. It's helpful to think about the way I used to do things, and how past methods can inform what I'm doing now. Thinking about:
Okay. I'm starting to get sleepier. I want to take a picture of a Thing that Lippe gave me. But I'm too tired to do that. That's a good sign. Maybe I'll fall asleep soon. I need wear myself out more. (Thinking about that sentence hurts my inside place.)
- music
- scaffolding
- hidden things
- things that appear out of nowhere
- a shadowy figure lurking in the background
- a bullseye
- acting
Other things, in list form:
1. I'm fascinated by this article about China/Tibet. It suggests that the Free Tibet movement has only hurt the Tibetan people, and that the popular strategy of public protest/shaming is futile when directed at a totalitarian government. It is a logical argument, and pisses me off in its Probably Trueness.
2. Hebrew school friend Emily continues being publicly rad.
3. I've been listening to the music of soul sister Matt Katz, who's been making demos on the laptop I sold him. That man can do anything with a synthesizer. He's writing these epic, epic disco jams, the way Joni Mitchell would write disco jams. The production is so gay. The songwriting is so classic 70s. The voice is so R&B. None of this congeals in ways you'd expect. It's all a shock. There are too many contexts for this music to make any sense. It sort of just doesn't. It's exceptional. It's an exception. I once wrote that Matt is "the missing link between Tori Amos and Toni Braxton," and I stand by this claim. On top of it all, he's not just writing exposition - he's crafting these hilarious and heart-breaking short stories. His lyrics are so concise. I love this:
Now we're both working men.It's like, "Oh, by the way." Zing. Matt's one of the only people I know who can incorporate commerce and Marxism into a love song without seeming preachy or even necessarily knowing that he's doing it. I love that the gay men in Matt's songs are WORKING. I love that they're salesmen. I love that they live in a world of transactions. I love that Matt knows what a transaction truly is. This is folk music, even.
And you can understand
How important honesty is
In this economy,
And you can give yourself to me.
I'm starting to get that feeling you get in yr stomach when you're past Tired, and yr about to go Crazy.
Brain still on.
I'll try breathing slowly.
Or something.
I'd take a pill
but I already did.
Pills. Maybe I'll give birth to a pill.
Speaking of which (Those who share my taste in theater will notice the circularity of this entry.):
Love
Dan
Would You Like To Shop?
The Search for Colonel Mustard
Maybe Maybe Maybe Baby
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Dan Fishback is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Dan Fishback may be made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.
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