10-07-06 | 23:26
OK, so the evening was lovely, perfect really. Last week whilst dining at Cornelia Street Cafe PB and I noticed some public off-stage theater performance, intrigued I asked the actors about their work after they finished and found out that their show was but one piece to an entire performance put on by the Peculiar Works Project titled Off-Stage, West Village Fragments, kind of the 50th (or thereabouts) celebration of the birth of Off-Off-Broadway. A wonderful walking tour throughout the West Village of fragments of twenty or so plays throughout the fifties and sixties and interweaving the closing of the Living Theater and the arrest of Judith Malina (one of the Living Theater artistic directors. She was arrested because she and the other theater director - Julian Beck as well as the actors in the group were considered as subversive theater-makers and the building inspectors, fire marshals and IRS agents and police all went after them with a variety of trumped up charges), and the riot that ensued when the IRS raided one of the Living Theaters productions - titles The Brig. Most of the acts were very touching and even more so when you reflect that when they were originally written and acted they were the first of their kind. And for me, as a resident of the West Village, to know that so much of this movement and so much "revolution" occurred mere feet (the Cherry lane Theater to name one playhouse) from where I live now is very inspiring. - But I digress, I mentioned how perfect the evening was, and it was - after the plays we had dinner at A.O.C Bedford and then I got sad. I don't quite know why. Maybe because my cousin and I are still at odds and I thought our relationship was higher and stronger than petty fights, or maybe because I turn twenty-five in less than an month and I still have too much to even deal with before I start with that. Maybe because PB - sitting across from me at the restaurant this evening is not the perfect person in my mind, and I don't even know the perfect person, lord knows he isn't the B Boy I saw a week ago, he never was, I think it was the intensity of our relationship (and size of his you-know-what) that kept me wishing and dreaming. But in reality he is just as fucking retarded as the day we parted, so why bother. Am I searching for something that I am not even sure exists? Or is it just Autumn? I know how Autumn messes with me, gives me fleeting emotions, makes me want to be all domestic and cook and eat McIntosh apples whilst strolling down the street (one of my favorite things to do) So WHAT GIVES?
I don't know but I do know that while in the restaurant with PB this evening I wanted nothing more than to come home, get into my comfortable pajamas, eat a couple of cookies and watch Lifethyme. I'm glad I got this entry in, because every little bit helps me.
I recall when I first started this diary - almost five year ago! November eleventh was it? Now I'll look it up - one sec - ahh yes! Entry number one titled 'The First' (I've always been so imaginative) on November seventh two-thousand-and-one. So yes Autumn makes me wish to write and cook. Anyway, I the start of this diary was what I was dreaming about sitting at A.O.C. earlier. Walking home up from class up Cornelia Street and buying some olive oil and a round of sourdough bread from the fresh market, and going to my desk and eating too much bread and oil, and smoking too many cigarettes and writing about inane things: