| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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this is no different. i returned home from burning man last night, dreamy-eyed in possible more-making-out thoughts to learn from my house/teammate that (1)the washing machine doesn't spin, (2) the dishwasher spews every time it runs and (3) we might be flying to new york to perform on 53rd street for the letterman show. today i could hardly move after 10 hours of sleep, working on my resume while every cell of my brain screamed at me about the oddities of my life. i am a performer. pretty soon it may be impossible to seperate my everyday life from my dancing one. i already have to think about the impact of practices and performances on any job i apply for. any person i consider persuing a relationship with will most likely play second fiddle to a group of nearly 20 women. i love the choreography, pushing my body and allowing myself to act the glamourpuss on a semiregular basis. i hate waiting and knowing that while i wish for others to put the same commitment into it as i do forcing them into a label makes me potentially eliteist (something that's been taking up tons of brainspace for weeks). i worry about maintaining my health and supporting myself to participate in something that may likely never pay rent. i guess that's the thing, isn't it. every person has their own set of values and dilemmas. learning balance is a lifelong process with unique challenges every day. my head aches with the thought of it. will we cease to be a local oddity? will some of us have to turn semi-nomadic? maybe this is why touring groups often have sponsors and charge tons for their shows or squeeze 15 people into a van, putting everything they own in storage. what about: our use of other artists' music, which we don't always have permission to use? our commitment to alternative transportation? the amazing people we leave behind? |
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if you do get taped for letterman, you better remind us when it airs. that kicks ass. you go, mama! did you do sprockette's stuff in the desert? |
damn pezy, way to go. |
He'll probably just take a picture of your left forearm, or something, but what the hell? |
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there's been imaginings of new york hotel rooms full of sprockettes: one with sugar and nailpolish and jumping on the bed (our two designer girls et moi), another with cokenose and a third with normalcy. just imagine in a month or two at my new job (whatever that may be) saying, "oh, by the way, i need the week off in three weeks because i'm gonna be on letterman." get cock without letterman if i don't worry about specifics. it's the specifics that i want right now and am not sure i can get. good god. last night i took r to his first first thursday. stopped at couch to say hi and ended up talking to nine different people i knew but not my exboyfriend. he's too busy watching the west wing. r's cute. several inches taller than me, a photographer with a brain for facts. we first made out in an ice truck at burning man but back in portland it's not that easy. it's weird, having the attraction out in the open but not knowing what to do with it. letting him talk to fill the silence. i hope he doesn't think i'm a jerk but if he does i deserve it. |