swinging legs.

jenny's hands are getting sweaty on the monkey bars. she's feels as if she's about to slip. 

the metal is growing hot against her hand and her skin is becoming tough against her knuckles. 

he's pulling on her legs and she's desperately trying to kick him away without hitting him in the face. 

but she does. and he lets go. 

her muscles are forming fine lines on her upper arm. it's funny because she always told her friends that she wasn't very strong. 

there's a feeling festering in her arms, within her knuckles, and going down her back.
it's not pain. but it's tiring. 

someone places their hands below her feet and she can release.

and even though she doesn't let go. the festering feeling does. 

and she cries.

to the disgusting people that think killing equals power.

i know people who have said they can't imagine what kind of power they would feel to take a human life. 

i'm not talking your soldiers fighting for a cause, or your victims in their self defense. 

i'm talking normal every day people killing other normal everyday people.

and all i can think is how insecure and worthless that person must feel to want to "get power" that way.

now tell me. do you get off on that?

while james price is talking.

i get the urge to write down something that pops into my head. james is telling a story as usual and he's making me feel something. then my hand starts to move and i gotta get this down before he calls on me to do the exercise...

"ever since i started acting. I've become a terrible liar in real life. I don't wear a mask anymore. On purpose. I don't want to hide my true feelings. That's not fair to myself ( i crossed that out and wrote....) you, myself or the audience. I may say, "yeah that's fine." but if you really watch me, you'll see something different. the truth. people aren't used to seeing truth. they rather hear it. I want you to listen. look at me. feel. feel deeper than yesterday. feel what i feel...what i'm telling you with my body." 

james was in a play, Fool For Love. I went to see it and the main actors were not connected to each other at all. Sure, there was yelling and over the top body movement. But I didn't feel anything. Not like what I felt watching "City Of God" the other day in Bob's class. 

Then James came on the stage in between the two leads and he started defending himself only to come to a terrible realization. And there was yelling and he meant it. and I felt something. I didn't think or imagine this time though. It was weird. I just started feeling. really hard. I was so aware of the fact that my tears were welling up and I had some new sort of sensation within my body that it scared me. when i got scared, i think i accidently stopped myself. i had no idea where any of it came from. it was insane. 

thats how i know james was good. i felt something. 

a note from the playwright.

so i just got over the flu. even though it's still there.

reasons to be pretty closed on sunday. luckily. i got to see it before then. 

"If I could be anything but a writer -- and I can't, I've tried -- I would be a braver person. One who doesn't give two shits about what other people say or think or feel; I don't think that would make me callous or uncaring or stuck up (to utilize a wonderfully high-schoolish phrase). I think it would simply make me hold my head up a little higher, look people in the eye for a bit longer, make my smile a little broader (and any picture of me will attest that smiling is not my strong suit). I hope this play makes a case for being yourself and standing up for what you believe in. For being brave. For making choices that are hard and adult and not easy. For going out and being a part of the world instead of a mere observer. I've written about a lot of men who are really little boys at heart, but Greg, the protagonist in this play, just might be one of the few adults I've ever tackled. The play talks a bit about our country's (an, by extension, the world's) obsession with physical beauty, but it's really the first coming -of-age story I've written. A boy grows up and becomes a man. I suppose every writer has one of those stories to tell, and this one is mine. It also concerns a very blue-collar side of the work population, like the friends and family I grew up with. I know what a dead-end job is like. I know exactly what it's like to be eating your lunch at 3:00am and feeling like life as you know it is now officially over. I have a profound respect for work and workers and communities that live from paycheck to paycheck. The worst day I've had writing is better than the best day I ever had working in a factory, and the people who do it, year after year, because that's life, and food and rent and child support must be paid, have all my respect. Writing is easy. Life is hard. It's more than hard-it's a bitch (as many bumper sticks are happy to point out for us). I suppose that's why I like the person who spends more time working than on Facebook, the person who gets out there and lives his life rather than blogging about it or staring in the mirror wondering about anything so damn inconsequential as looks or hair or yesterday. The future is now. It's time to grow up and be strong."

- From the preface to Reasons To Be Pretty by Neil LaBute. 

i wanted to see reasons because the advertisement was in all lower case letters. 

the final scene when greg breaks down. i lost it. listening to him cry so hard, affecting his breathing. i swear i can feel his heart breaking. and hers too. 

and i get it. i get what's going on. so does she. but he does it anyway because he knows he can't give her anything, not like this guy can. and i don't want him to tell her the truth, i want him to keep saying the lies out loud because all his actions are telling the truth. he loves her. he loves her so damn much. 

and as i have tears streaming down my eyes, this lady in the audience coughs really funny. then i don't know what emotion to feel. so i'm laughing and my make up is running. i feel so pretty when im crying. especially when it's just pretend. 

my face...

there's 92 on facebook. feel free to check those out.

here are some winners...maybe?

Taylor Hooper Photography equals AWESOME!

mr. shaw

That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out loud; and the world overhears them. But it's horribly lonely not to hear someone else talk sometimes.

intoxicated scribbles.

im that star in the background with that twinkle in her eye. Filling you with hope from the moonlight in the sky & if you dare to love me maybe i'll make you feel the same. Feeling my happiness followed by the pain. The deadly existence of a horizon asking for no sun. Not a single spotlight on me. feeling on your tongue. don't worry with the troubles because she ain't the one. just a mirage in the sparkle of your eye joking with your image of perfection. 

3:09am 

you give for i.

you give for i.
and i receive 
revealing without 
a single breath
the last beat of 
a broken song. 

too humble to let go
too bubbled to fly beyond 
the final drop of lightening 
in your eye. 

pretty feathers fall from tree tops
and ever flowing diamonds
line the sky with 
purple hues. 

forgetting ever feeling 

that bucket with no ending

overflowing with the knowing

of our impending death

while im still dying to keep trying

but the heavy lock is weighing down

the last beat of my broken heart

you give for i
& i stop to cry
to read the simple statement
delicately implied
and now fine am i. 

character analysis

Everything's "perfect" but nothing works in a perfect world. Well, it does but only like it's supposed to. 

That's boring, that's
habit.
Nothing is born out of habit 
until
something breaks it.

Until a change occurs.

everyone who strives for "perfect" is content & dies
because they have nothing more to live for.

but those who live for something more.
are the ones who make a difference 
without even meaning to.
(which means the most of all)
not meaning too.
because the result is 
organic,
self-less (to a degree)
and unplanned. 

Art doesn't develop from plan. That's called lack of imagination.

Art is born in the pulse, travels to the heart & released through the body after being filtered of (too much) thought. 

Organized thought anyway.

Machines don't have a pulse,
Machines don't have a heart.
& their "body" cannot feel
pleasure or pain.
They are completely unaware
of the beauty & despair
that surrounds them.

All they are. are plans.
Organized. Yielded.
They do the same thing. Everyday.
& then they have their check up
every 6 months. Maybe an upgrade?
But what's an upgrade from that kind of life?
or lack there of. 

Perfect is empty. Nothing. Dark. Lonely. 
kept in alphabectical order in boxes covering genius splatters of paint. 
I want nothing to do with perfect.
I've turned the boxes on their sides, 
shredded into confetti & 
spread it across the sky 
in hopes
that someone catches enough pieces 
to put together
a fraction of 
my dreams.

i have real actor friends who go on real actor auditions.

i'm gonna be like them.

when i get real headshots on MONDAY! WOOO.