I'll be gone from Livejournal for a little while.
Actually, probably a lot longer.
There is a whole lot of real life stuff I'm having trouble handling.
This message is not because I think people care if I'm posting or not.
It's just to make it seem more final for me.
So my arm is all swollen.
Does anyone know if this is the usual reaction to tetnus and/or meningitis shots?
Ok. So, let me tell you all about my serious addiction.
It's more like a compulsion. An affliction. When I'm around them, or near them, brain activity either shuts down. Or jump starts. It feels like both.
I am addicted to purchasing classic horror movies.
It started out when I was about 15, maybe 16. On Halloween, Wal-Mart was selling old horror movies for a dollar each in cheap, plastic boxes like the ones AOL would send you, begging for you to use their free trial. The paper could have been printed out from someone's computer.
I bought a bunch. That was just the beginning.
Then, maybe a year or so ago, Suncoast was selling box sets of different genres, 10 movies for twelve dollars. Westerns, martial arts films, the Marx brothers comedies. My friend bought one completely devoted to Blaxploitation.
I bought horror classics. I watched them during hurricanes. House on Haunted Hill with Vincent Price kept stopping when the power flickered, and I nearly cried.
But today. Oh, today. Today was the best. Or, perhaps, the worst.
For twenty dollars, I just bought fifty horror classics.
There are some repeats, of course. It has things that I already own, like The Phantom of the Opera, The Invisible Ghost, The Last Man on Earth, Dementia 13. I now own three copies of Carnival of Souls. Three original Little Shop of Horrors.
But oh. This set. It has it all.
Metropolis. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. White Zombie. The Killer Shrews. The original, silent Nosferatu. Oh.
They are all in a little cardboard box. Each of the 12 dvds in nothing more than a paper casing. All gloriously sitting on my lap. All of them. Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi, John Barrymore, Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney Jr., Fay Wray, Tor Johnson.
Such squee. She knows no bounds.
I finally got a copy of the DVD from the NYC poetry trip last year.
I can't believe it's been a year.
I don't like to think about it.
It hurts to think of anything that good not being constant.
It wasn't even the poetry, per se. But New York.
But the poetry was always good.
Well, not always.
It's been so long since I've done anything. Since I've been thrust into theatre by accident.
It's not that much of a change.
I'm behind the scenes. Or reading someone else's words.
At least there is no soul-crushing fear in theatre. I enjoy it.
It's just weird to think that that stage in my life is basically over.
The club disintergrated. New York City is far, far away.
All I have is this dvd of me, rushing my words with a lisp I never noticed before. With the creepy guy who made it only highlighting my bit about porn, and nothing else.
All I have is this dvd of me, fucking up one part and stuttering over the next.
And the words, still floating around in my head. I think I'll know them until I die.
Last year was the year of poetry. This year is the year of drama.
The year before was the year of nothing and car accidents. The year before that was the year of friends I now hate and Wal-mart.
Like the photographer in this book I'm reading.
Just give me progress.
Give me patience.
Give me rhymed meter.
Give me a break.