The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

I’m shaking things up a bit with a week’s worth of stream of consciousness blog entries. And I invite you to comment in your own stream of consciousness style. It’s slightly risky I suppose, since it’s always nicer to present ourselves edited, packaged and photoshopped. But in the spirit of the acting workshop I just taught, where I invited the participants to be vulnerable, I present my somewhat dark un-edited mind:

Screw you, humanity sitting beside me, around me. Everyone peacefully, peace-ably drinking their espresso beverages. All of us so privileged. Who has the right to speak. Cautious optimism, you say? Pierre Trudeau denied entry? You don’t say? The delete button isn’t even an option. We go forward, forward, forward motion. She spills water all over the floor and walks away. Her blood water. What’s blood water? What isn’t blood water? Last night watching The Reader, imagining the horror of the camps. Horror is not an adequate word. Well, what word can we use? Don’t say anything. Just drink your espresso, please. Eat your muffin. Fill your belly. Stuff it full, so your head feels cloudy and you can’t think, contemplate, imagine even. Does a stuffed belly stifle imagination? Blah, blah, blah. No thinking. No judging. No turning back. Just forward, forward motion. Baby, my baby. My conflicted soul. Me or my baby. Both of us? Not possible. It’s one or the other. You are nothing. Shhhhhh, devil in my pants. Devil in my shirt. Devil behind me. Devil in front of me. God before me is better. The Irish proverb. My grandfather telling me to come sit beside him on the couch. But I feel impatient. Someone else is to my right. So fragile. So wounded. I present you a gift of thirty dollars. Oh, la, la, la, la. What does impervious mean, by the way? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. What do you know? And then what do you do? ‘Cause it doesn’t matter what you feel, it matters what you do.