I don't really like performing. I have to pipe up and quickly note that, while I unerstand what Buddah and MJ are saying (over on Meghan's blog,) generally for me the rush you get performing doesn't outweigh--in importance--the feeling of dread. (and yes, I'm too lazy to find the deep link...you may have to search through her archives if you're seeing this later than, say, next week.)

And then there is a second feeling of dread if I receive no feedback after the performance. With good feedback, I feel better--bad feedback, it's like a relief that at least I know I was right--I did suck! But no feedback, and I sit there the rest of the night, thinking... did I suck? Sometimes it's so bad I can't even think about the performers still up on stage. (we're talking open mics here... when I used to perform an actual act--yes, juggling--that was different, because I felt a sort of "Whew! Glad that's over!" after every show.)

I agree with the sentiment that the "true artist" is never satisfied with their work. And given the chance, a good poet would keep revising their work forever. (Lets not get into the beat movement, or my favorite poet, Frank O'Hara.) Point is, taking the stage to read something (or sing something) that you've written is like saying "this is done"--or at least done enough to perform. It's a bit like publishing something, I guess. Stage publishing.

When do you let go? when is something "done enough" to perform, or whatever... I don't know...

This isn't even making sense to me. I'm going to go play unicycle hockey now. Yes really, unicycle hockey.

Last night I went to see Alegría. I can't possibly express with words the beauty and magical nature of cirque shows, and this was no exception. I feel like reality is this dull grey blanket now.

Speaking of dull grey blankets, there is one in the sky outside my window, casting a heavy pal over the Rainbow foods parking lot. What a view.

ugh, today and yesterday have been extremely frustrating for me. I have a project due on wed that I have not been able to move on. I don't know why. It's not even a dificult project. I just don't want to do it for some reason. I find myself procrastinating on all kinds of fronts (reinstalling office for OSX, for instance, or reading FAR too long transcripts of conversations with the IRS on this site). Even worse, I'm suppose to have some poems printed up tonight for our chapbook meeting, and that's all I really want to do... work on poetry.

Here's one I found in my laptop last night:

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untitled -- 4.8.2

In a world full of Big Macs, and Big Macs with cheese,
I sometimes feel like a lowly cheeseburger,
shoved ungratefully into a happymeal.

And eventfully, the afternoon graduates into night,
throwing its hat into the air; and it plummets
over the edge of the earth.