Monday, February 25, 2008

The Puddle of Paul's Pathological Pickle

One of the many things I enjoy doing when I'm acting in a play or film, is to journal as that character, mess around with potential subtext and stir up the sub conscious to flesh out a personalized perspective on the given circumstances of the piece. Below are a week's worth of journal entries I wrote from the perspective of "Paul" while in rehearsals for the Daniel Mac Rae play, Division & Shame. In the play, Paul experiences the bitter end of a marriage.

Day 1-

This whiskey doesn't mix as well with the apple water as it used to.
The juices of the apple always calmed the fever and the tingle and made me glad to be.
But she burns whatever lovely goosebumps erupt, tall and solid, from the fever.
The apple has lost all meaning and I want to chuck against the wall and leave it.
The grotesque fruit lump will stay there to be seen.
Viewed. View it you horror face and see that I am capable of it.
The apple has vitamins that no longer work magic on me.
I can't digest it.
The acidity; how I never came to this realization before astounds me.
I was punch drunk but now I'm piss drunk.
Whiskey I keep on pouring into my belly.
I think I have an ulcer so bad that my lower back hurts.
I'm a bad bitch in the dog house. No it ain't right. I'll pretend Jane is soft and cuddly.
Let us hope in God's name I don't upchuck the little of the apple I consumed in the dolly's face. So I can duck at least one more fury session.
Gettin' hard, that's my one goal for now.
See you all tomorrow, if I can make it out of this freezer alive. Haw haw. A love. Fuck it.

- Paul

Day 2-

I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
She got me this sweater for Christmas two years ago.
It was never really something I'd ever pick out, but I was gleeful nonetheless upon receiving. Because I realized, I'm a family man. Getting a sweater as a gift was something pleasant, and it signified a bit of adulthood. A child on the way and realizing that its people, not the materials that bring out joy.
I can smell her perfume on my old sweater.
I am drunk with nostalgia, and throw on an old record of Elton John.
I can't stop thinking of the gorgeous times and it makes these cold times sting even more.
I'm tossing a lot of my energy into hating and too much loving churns up with it. So I can't commit to the hate, the love is too rancid to embrace.


Jane's drowning.

Jane has a place in my subconscious. She is my angel and my devil.

What are you telling me to do? Speak up.

Day 3-

GRACE: Where'd the fishy go? Is he hiding ? Where can he hide?

ME: There's no fish in there.

GRACE: What?

ME: Yeah. He died. Remember?

GRACE: You think it's no big deal and you don't have to tell your wife?

ME: I told you.

GRACE: No you didn't.

ME: Think back with that little brain of yours. I told you two days ago. I specifically told you.

GRACE: No you didn't. I would remember that.

ME: Forgive me, you must have been hopped up on Vicodin and how silly of me to expect you to be cognizant.

GRACE: What a terrible thing to say.

ME: Well, you automatically act as though I'm terrible. I'm just now acting the part you want me to play.

GRACE: Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up.

She knitted me into her life, into the warm fabric of her life. However, she made the awful choice to knit me using yarn. It's fucking unraveling.


Day 4-

Grace hasn't been home to cook for me. I know she's over at Tim's. Cooking him some potato salad, watered down and dosed with an overload of cayenne pepper. For dinner tonight I went to Pizza Hut express. I am shamelessly plugging their product. The great taste of a personal pan pizza, saturates my blood with a greasy narcotic like feeling. I am making an effort to not complain about Grace. When I am with friends I bite my tongue. I have the indigestion from this pepperoni pizza and may just throw up in the sink. If that's the case, I will leave it and see what she says.

I have this wallet photo of her. I drew a mustache on her face.

God I am like a 10 year old.

Dysfunctional ulcer load bearing quiver panic.

My power animal is a beaver. I work work work work on a tree. But this tree I have chosen has fallen on my face and crushed my teeth. What are the ramifications? I am unable to go to work on another tree.


Day 5-

A bundle of snot bubbles and pours slowly like a green syrup out the left tunnel of my nose.

Hallucinogenic cough syrup tripping spiral sleep patterns and baby sweat from my feet.

I wake up once in the middle of the night and feel the wet nose of my old family dog Alexander nudge my left hand. Alexander whimpers. I roll over and he licks up the sludge from my nose.

Miss me Alexander. I like that you'd miss me.


Day 6-

Our first Turkey Day together was a smash hit. We went to her brother Sam's Wisconsin cabin. It was cold but we burnt a lot of wood in the wood stove. It was just me/Grace, Sam/Jessie. Two couples. Burnt turkey but fuckin' juicy. Tasted like real cooking, like we really hunted and tossed it in a fire pit. It snowed. We drank lots of stout and wandered through woods. I made out with Grace in the snow, in the dark of a path on a wood's trail. I felt like a kid, running around and playing. She was snug in a hat and scarf and looked so innocent. A blank slate. I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman. The snow was thick and stuck.

Here's a life lesson: Snow melts.


Day 7-

Just staring at the empty television I just chuckled and wolfed down popcorn drenched in butter. My arteries danced and sang praises to the evolution of what is healthy. The absence of cold chains makes for a healthy water fall dynamic that doesn't stop and that is exactly what flowed forth from the television screen. A sprinkler of blood that trickled on my feet. No this wasn't a dark horror show, but warm and electrifying my feet into dance motion. This dream signifies the echo of heaven where my father plays and children blossom lightly, and the love of a woman is not an egg shell to be walked on and hurt by its fragility. We are not fragile in this land. We are an organic wink of liquid that has no purpose and doesn't push one. We rejoice in letting go and the soil fluffing creation of moments. I like this dream and will do whatever it takes to stop the waking slap of dawn.


1 comment:

jnkw said...

Jour six: très bien. La dernière innocence et la dernière timidité.