Innocence, in a sense, inner scents

There is a silence and stillness just now, the river sings through the open window, but its tune is not heard through ears. Yesterday I got swept away on the idea of going to Nepal. It seems like there is a group of kids there who have been rescued from Indian circuses, where they were forced to do circus tricks, and now they have formed their own contemporary circus troupe. They are apparently highly skilled. They are looking for trainers, I put a hand up for it a couple of days ago, but I haven't heard anything yet. Just imagine.

It seems like opportunities float through the air like motes of dust. Tonight we danced around in a little room, as part of a devising process for a show called impermanent rainbows. We danced and laughed and celebrated the tragedy of failed relationships, something that was close to the bone for most of us. It was difficult to improvise with theatre people. I kept thinking I wasn't free enough, that I couldn't use my voice, that I was being too safe, and then about halfway through I remembered how to stop caring, and gradually found that secret place. They say that the clown lives in that place, even though it's not always funny.

Today I life modeled. At a High School, for the first time. It was a bit unusual, being nude there in front of the kids. A bit strange. There was a bit of chortling and chuckling but not as much as I'd expected. When I returned to the change room to get my clothes back on, I noticed that my bottom was very spotty. It's not usually spotty, I thought, should I go back and tell them? No, I thought, no. No no.

Why was it so spotty though? Can anyone answer me this? Maybe because I've been sitting down a lot lately. I feel like I've been going on long drives, but I can't actually think of any long drives that I've actually done since Easter. That was two weeks ago. Aha! I have been watching a lot of DVDs. I finally saw Chinatown, classic detective movie with Jack Nicholson.

So I have an idea for a story at the moment, which I quite like. Maybe I should weave some more stories into it. When I was in High School, my friend told me "The trick to getting an 'A' for creative writing essays is to write a few different stories that all meet up somehow at the end". At the time I was affronted that he should be trying to cheat a good story, or come up with a formula, but he made a good point. It's a tried and true way to make a plot seem more complex, it is used in countless books and movies. And maybe it's not a formula, but a technique, since it requires a bit of finesse to really pull it off. Maybe in my story that I want to write, I should include the parallel story of the Nepalese circus troupe. Perhaps I should write Salman Rushdie into the story as a character, and imply that he is writing a story about it. Did you know that Salman Rushdie had to fight to keep his eyes open? They literally tried to close themselves up completely over time, and he had to have some kind of intense medical procedure to counter this self-enforced blindness. Interesting fellow, Salman.

And, do you know I was at a party in a small town called Braybrook, or Braidwood. it's near Canberra. Anyway, a psychic there told me that I was a writer. I had been talking to her about circus stuff, and she said
"But you're a writer."
"Yes I am," I replied.
"I know this, because I'm a psychic."
"Oh," I stated. I was playing it cool.
"And that's how you will make your mark on the world, through your writing. Have you ever thought about keeping a blog?"

It turns out she was a published writer, but I can never remember her name for long enough to find any of her writing. I find out her name sometimes, from my friend Jo, but before long it vanishes again. It made me think about what it means to make a mark on the world, and whether that was what I wanted, whether I could indeed be satisfied if I never did somehow? A voice in my head, that sounds suspiciously like my father's, expounds something about the biological imperative, and that it's just a by-product of wanting to continue your genes into future generations. Does that mean that when you have children, the urge to make the mark on the world lessens? Not necessarily, I suppose some people just keep popping out puppies, and from an evolutionary perspective it makes sense to want more and more little gene-replicators out there, just in case some of them get eaten.

Anyways, that's how I first got the idea of keeping a blog. But I didn't like the idea at first because I find it strange typing into a computer, as I'm so used to writing with a pen and paper. I'm so much faster on the computer. I always lament that with the pen I write so slowly that by the time I get to the end of a sentence my mind has already lost interest, has raced far ahead. With a computer, I can follow the train of thought much more easily, but feel like this only serves to drag on my thought process, make it less creative.

There is a book of short stories by Asimov called Azazel. It's the only Asimov book I've heard of that's not even remotely science fiction. It tells about Isaac Asimov's friend George. George has summoned a demon, and he uses said demon's powers to try and help out his friends, but it always goes awry. Great stuff. One of George's friends is a writer who laments that he can't get ahead in life because he's always late for everything. Because he always just misses the train, and can never get a taxi, etc. George's demon, Azazel, says "oh yes, it's quite a simple matter to rearrange the pattern of nature so that your friend is on time for things."
Well, it turns out that George's friend the writer is much worse off, because it is in his time waiting for trains that he comes up with all of his best ideas and best prose. Now that the taxis line up on the side of the street when he approaches, he can't write anymore.

I'm rambling now, good night

Love Ivan