Sixfoot6.com - Putting Stuff Away.

Rannie has drawn 30 weblog types together this month for version 3 of his 300 Exposures Project. I'm the featured photographer for April 16th, even though I gave him my pictures a bit late. Check out the 10 images I submitted, taken at an anti-war march I attended with Catherine in downtown Los Angeles in mid-January. I ran 'em all through Photoshop: Film Grain filter, resize, saturation -50, auto-levels. Any comments or criticism?

I don't remember my dreams often enough. But late at night last week I was back in the large multi-purpose Cafegymtorium at my small private Cape Cod high school. I wasn't any younger. It was present-day, and it was early evening, the sun still showing outside; it slipped in through the room's windows, grated to be soccer-ball safe.

All sorts of people were in the room, dimly-lit as it was. I'm reminded of long Friday afternoons spent decorating for school dances, busy and hyperactive, as the room dimmed and evening rolled in. I'm not sure why so many people had gathered on the risers, but the whole occasion turned into a sort of impromptu reunion. I found myself on stage, with Virgil and Chrissy and others, entertaining the crowd with a poor reprise performance of my first high school play, a 15th century French farce called Pierre Pathelin. My sister appeared, too, to improvise parts in the place of absent actors. I remember laughing with the crowd as I fumbled my lines, and it felt good to be a part of that community again. (We lived cozy, safe, wheat-bread lives in that school, but the people made me happy.)

I managed to get my stage fix last fall, for the first time in seven years. And now every Sunday of my spring is spent laughing and watching and performing and critiquing within the comfort of our acting workshop group. This past Sunday I served cheese and crackers.

Sometimes, learning to act feels like a kind of painstaking personal analysis, a gradual hunt to figure out whether or not, deep inside, I'm really full of shit. No word yet, but I am accepting wagers.

Girl: Are you a policeman?

Josh, climbing off motorcycle: No.

Girl: So, what are you then?

Josh, wearing large shiny helmet, removing velcro riding gloves: Uh, I'm a regular person.

Is it getting late? Do I wake or sleep?

it's one of those nights when i remember that i'm still in love with the internet, all the people to meet, all the beauty, horror and absurdity to consume. love hides in the sad, warm little things you didn't expect.

the space between objects can be overwhelming sometimes. the physical, negative airspace between trees and cars, walls and the baubles on my desk. rooms are so large, their contents so sharp and distinct, edges that never, ever touch. if you look closely, you can climb in between every pencil, inside every mug, slide between a pile of mail and the pair of sunglasses on the counter.

carpets are so deep and wide and never-ending.

whenever i sit in a parked car with someone, and look over at them (as we talk or argue or laugh or make eyes) i simply can't believe how fucking far away they sit. two and a half feet, less than my long arm's reach, but if the space between small objects looks great the distance across words–between minds, faces and lips–can be unfathomable.

it used to bother me, more, that i am separate from other individuals. it turns out that love and frindship both needs space to reach across, even in the same room.

It's almost Easter-time, girl. Don't act like you don't know it. And you aint called, girl... in like four weeks. I was in the bathroom this morning, shaving my beautiful, chiseled face, thinking about different ways to gel my hair, praying to Jesus. How could you, girl?

I mean, what's the deal? You don't have to say what you did. I already know. I found out from Him. You gave me up for Lent, girl, and that aint cool. But now it's your turn to cry. You should have picked honesty... then you may not have blown it.

Now, I'm chillin' poolside, massaging my pecs, and what's that? A ring ring on my celly. "I really gave up chocolate for Lent," you lie. "I been busy. I miss you. Sucky sucky, wah wah wah." Now you tell me you need me when you call me on the phone? Girl, I found out from Him. You aint called me since Ash Wednesday, 'cuz you gave me up for Lent.

The damage is done, so I guess I'll be leaving. There's a whole line of ladies in this town waiting to get Pantsed, girl. I'll be hookin' it up by Good Friday. Oh and by the way - I've been doing your sister since Columbus Day. She's hot like you, but without the lisp. Don't it make you sad about it? Cry me a river, biatch.