...My Maroon Futon. NY, NY.

The rain is slapping patches on the window. It all brings me back.

To water colors. Grade school. Afternoons where my hands ran slipshod across paper, rampant and stupid and somehow, impossibly, uncaring whether they reach something great or just make a mess.

Somewhere in life we start cleaning up after ourselves.

There comes a time when it's not alright anymore to just see where the road takes us... too many dead ends or something, right? I miss the days when we walked the halls, our muddied, paint dripping hands against our slowly dirtying clothes, nonplussed by the whole affair. Or maybe enjoying it... small validation of existence that they are... our little stains.

What happens to these marks along the way? Detergent. Brooms and mops and vacuums... we live in a society that grows out of its roots, or rather is pulled, weed-like, from the fertile earth of adolescence... into the world of expectations. The world of consequences and no more second chances.

I can see it now, the two of us standing next to the lake... the rain is just beginning... the mosquitoes fleeing the scene, making room for the lightning to come... we look at each other and without words have the conversation we'd had all week... about Summers and worlds apart and consequences and the sweetness of subtle mistakes... about nothing really but in the moonlight it seems like everything just then.

I see myself running through the rain... down Lexington in the midst of a brutally sudden downpour. The sky, shades of violet and peach, with a sliver of green... the drops, wet gobs... tiny bursts with each impact. Several times I look behind me to see if a stranger has cared to follow my momentary footprints in the water, but they fall flat and rejoin the pool before others can enjoy their sanctuary. Warm though, the mid-September rain.

I hear the crack of thunder and I can almost feel the power go out of the house... like one big whip extinguishing the light from a candle. It shakes the place... the walls shudder at the tremendous force of it all and the stillness that follows rings like a church bell in my chest. We begin to think of things to do... my mind always devising adventures... maybe there's a body to be found somewhere in some quarry! Perhaps a book that's been left unread all these years will finally get its due. Or maybe, and this is the most likely of all scenarios, I'll see how long the electric devices in the house can operate on batteries... and then reach for my guitar.

This nearly April rain has the kiss of spring in her heart. She is that flicker warm, like the first moments of a bonfire or the sunrise. She promises that soon the rest will follow. Soon there will be grass, and trees filled with new life, parents chasing children into the cavernous depths of our most sublime Central Park. She says, in a voice that is a whisper in my ear during a rousing chorus of applause, that after the rain, the world is always a little more alive. And everything is new again.

That's all for now.

...My Own Bed, Midday. NY, NY

The wax trails between my brain and my body are reconvening. They are forming new paths to new places and unstitching old habits. Slowly. I lay in bed and watch the midday sun play royally across the hazy, cloud swept afternoon sky this Saturday after a morning of readying my book for auditions tomorrow. Back to the old grindstone. I explained to Kat that my love for auditioning is almost matched by my loathing for thinking about auditioning. Like working out. I hate thinking about exercising... the thought of waking up early mornings, going to the gym... but actually exercising is really quite enjoyable.

I hope I can make some plans for tonight. Kat is having a girls' night and I haven't been able to reach any friends to make arrangements. If you're a friend... call, won't you? Be a pal. Anyway... I'm off to continue my work, just checking in.

That's all for now.

...My Own (well, my side of the) Bed, NY, NY.

Ah... joyous night!

Back in my lovely city at last! It has been far too long.

I forgot how much I love the shade of red paint on my bedroom ceiling... it's amazing what we lose in such a short time. I forgot the funny wonderful stale warm smell of this place when you walk through the door, and how clean it is when I'm not around for a while (Kat is to blame for the tidiness). It's good to be home.

Let's backtrack to the exciting story of leaving Wauconda, though... for those of you following along.

By about Noon central time, Vicki, in a feat of superhuman resiliency on her part (if she had anywhere near the severity of symptoms as I myself had just a day before) was ready to leave the house and head out with us towards New York. During the drive, I read my book for a little while (a delightful novel called "How to Buy A Love of Reading" by Tanya Egan Gibson... give it a read!) and then ventured into a favorite pastime called "Sleeping in a Crowded Van" which mainly consists of crunching yourself into an inhuman, beyond yoga even position where your only hope is that your uncomfortable parts fall asleep or at least numb quickly so as to allow a measure of comfort in sleep.

After a couple hours of napping, and a stop at a rest-stop/eatery-palooza that was more overpriced than most New York establishments (a Whopper for 5 bucks? bitch please), I decided to watch a couple movies I had packed with me for the three weeks away but had yet to view. I started with the Robert DeNiro movie, Everybody's Fine. The movie was really quite endearing, but after an hour and a couple minutes, the disc started skipping uncontrollably, so I had to stop. Sad day. I decided I would finish it when I get home. Um... which is now. So... it'll be done soon enough I suppose. Anyway, the part I saw was really quite satisfying... to a person who is satisfied by morose characters.

After that, I watched It's Complicated. I liked it a lot. Alec Baldwin delivers a great performance, as does Meryl Streep (which practically goes without saying at this point in her career--I'm pretty sure her bowel movements get nominated for something or other). Steve Martin was good, if a slight bit underused for how the film had been promoted. I thought it was going to be this big conflict between the boyfriend and the ex-husband, when it's really more of a conflict between two ex-lovers with the boyfriend thrown in last minute to offer Streep's character a chance for some kind of external redemption. Fine enough, works for me. Of course, John Krasinski is great in this too. Oh you didn't know he was in it? Yeah. He is. And he's outstanding. I don't even care that most of his characters are the same... he as an individual is outrageously likable and dammit I'll buy it every time.

Anyway, the movie had me laughing and then I realized that I was feeling good. Not just better, but good. My body was producing endorphins again! It was like an immense sugar rush that lasted for hours, but without the awkward jitters or the crash... just natural high. Good stuff.

Anyway, soon after this, we were approaching the 7 hour mark on our journey and Kris tells us we have to exit the highway and find a hotel. Why, you ask? Because she is Nauseous! The nefarious virus strikes AGAAAAIN!

So, we begrudgingly check in to this Econo Lodge in Youngstown, OH for the night and make camp there. Mike and I left to get food and we got some pretty decent Chinese food in town (IMPORTANT DETAIL!!!) and brought it back to the motel to eat and then go to sleep. I ate the large Wonton Soup (which was really good) and a little bit of my Chow Mein and then I went to bed an hour or so later.)

I woke up feeling like a dumpster filled with vomit and tears... and my head felt like there was another head inside it trying to tunnel its way out to see the new world. Neither of these were appreciated, obviously, as I had hoped the euphoric feeling of the night before was a sign of my return to good health and the banishment of this horrible disease from my system.

We got in the car and headed out on the road dreadfully early. Well, 8 a.m. But... yeah, dreadfully early. Vicki graciously took first shift at driving, because of my aforementioned state of being, and I just went to sleep in the back. Some four hours later (hoping that if I didn't move, people would just keep driving until we made it to New York) I was nudged to take the wheel. Dammit. So, I got out of the car, took a few steps and my stomach felt okay... but... woah... my head felt a hot air balloon fastened to my neck by a rickety tin hinge. I wasn't going to say I couldn't drive... it was time to, as the side of the truck from Texas sitting beside us read, "Cowboy Up". So, I went inside to find the appropriate medicinal relief for this ailment. Finally Kris found something in her purse that was supposed to help whatever it was that was affecting me. So, I popped the pills and headed out on the road.

The first hour or so of driving was kind of terrifying... for me. Everyone else was conked out asleep. I was driving around eighty miles an hour in this damn van and my head was about as foggy as a worn out magic eight ball so I had to work to keep the car in between the lines. So that was fun. And potentially life threatening. After an hour or so, though, the fog lifted and my head cleared. I felt pretty much the way I felt the night before, energetic, even slightly euphoric. About half an hour outside of the city though... another emergency stop was requested...!

Now, for those of you playing at home... which castmember has yet to lose their lunch?

If you guessed Mike... you were right! However, technically didn't lose his lunch... it was... you guessed it, the Chinese Dinner from last night! (told that was important) That's right folks, in an epic display of both manliness and awfulness, I pulled over on the side of the highway and Mike let forth a geyser of disgusting proportions. It was pretty epic. Afterward, he got back in the van with the nonchalance of someone who'd just peed in an alley, seemingly back in good spirits, and we returned to the road and to New York without further impediment.

I spent the afternoon getting into my New York spring time groove. I got home and showered, oh so necessary, and headed down to West 72nd street to be among the people. I hit up Urban Outfitters for an essential pair of welcome to Spring sunglasses... they're awesome... just wait and see... and a further essential pair of frankfurters from the Gray's Papaya across the street. I sat on the benches and relished (no pun intended) the gaze of the handsome gay guys checking me out (why does this always happen? I mean not that I want women checking me out all the time... I'm in a relationship... hello? but, just, you know... it'd be nice... every once in a while. I'd be such a hot gay, it's crazy. or maybe my appeal is my straightness... hmmm... any gays reading this... please explain?) Anyway, I met up with Kat up by our apartment after we realized that we had just ridden the same train uptown for the past 20 minutes (a common New York occurrence for you outsiders) and had the perfunctory Armistice Day kiss in Times Square moment, except instead of a sailor and a nurse it was us and instead of Times Square, it was 162nd and Amsterdam, but other than that... the same. Well, I could go on with what happened after that, but I'll just let your minds wander...

I suppose that's all for now.

...a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL

It is 11:52 a.m.

At 9:00 a.m. myself and my castmates were supposed to have left Wauconda for New York City (stopping for the night in State College, PA).

Needless to say, this is not the blog posting I had planned for today.

A bit of background:

I spent the good part of the past week coughing up everything coughable, having succumbed to some respiratory illness. Vicky, my fellow cast member, somewhat sick for most of the tour, also seemed to be suffering from the same symptoms. We spent two days in a Madison hotel room being ill and nothing more.

After Madison, we made our way North to Rhinelander, WI. I noticed something was off when we stopped for lunch and the garlic bread tasted funny. Either I was turning into a vampire, or something else was affecting my nerves and my system. The next 12 or so hours were spent vomiting in a hotel room toilet... good times, beyond compare. Assuming this was food poisoning, as I had experienced in the past, I took solace in knowing it would be over by the next day.

Which it was. To a point. I felt awful in the morning. Without energy, my body not absorbing any nutrients over the past day, I had to begin the difficult process of slowly refueling. We performed two shows that day. I felt like I was watching the whole thing on Closed Circuit Television, like I was sitting in the audience or something... my limbs were moving, sound was issuing from my mouth, but I didn't feel like I was controlling much of any of it. From Rhinelander, we piled into the van and traveled south, to rest for the night in Wauconda, IL (at my Dad's house) before continuing on to Pennsylvania and then back, finally, to New York City.

Which brings us here.

In the night, it seems, Vicki's system began acting precisely as mine had just days before, which goes to the point that what I had suffered was not food poisoning but something far more insidious. Now we sit and wait for some sort of sign that we can get on the road... which isn't looking too damn likely at the moment.

I miss home. An inordinate amount. I want to be in my bed, with my love, and not, comfortable as it is, in a Guest Room in Wauconda, IL. I've been away from New York City about as long as I'm comfortable for the moment and away from my girlfriend longer than I comfortable with.

In other words... we need to get the hell out of dodge and we need to do it now.

That's all for now.

...a Carpeted Hallway in a Madison

The Best Western is a comfortable enough place to be ill. Soft sheets, cable television (no Comedy Central somehow...) and free breakfast (not that I woke up anywhere near early enough to partake). I spent most of the day in bed avoiding the daylight behind the curtains. The room stayed in twilight till about 2 in the afternoon when I finally left for a bit of air and a bite to eat.

I walked to the Panera to get a salad for lunch. For some reason, I donned a Scottish accent when the lady asked me what I wanted. It's my way of not dealing with people when I'm not in the mood. I pretend I have a much better goal in life at the moment, an import Scottish goal that I will be dealing with just as soon as I pick up my salad and leave this place. I don't obviously, so when I leave I walk along the road for 25 minutes aimlessly.

This floor is a dreadful deep green with a pattern of dirty red and yellow flowers streaking down the hallway. I wonder who chooses these patterns? It makes me think of Casinos--how they purposefully design the places, the lighting, the music, whatever, just to put people in a gambling state of mind. What then is this dreary pattern meant to pull me towards? Suicide? I guess not... it's really just peculiar enough to notice but not special enough to remember. It's background... or I suppose... just ground.

Hotels are fascinating places. No matter what, they have this fantastical element to them. To some, they are an escape, to others, a chore, and yet there are still others who come to work at hotels everyday.

I wonder what it's like to be one of the million hotel staff that work every day in this country. I suppose I could imagine working at the front desk. It's not dissimilar to my work at the restaurant... greeting people, dealing with their arrival, their needs. Fine. I could perhaps see myself as a busboy. But only for the stories... I imagine that busboys have the advantage of really seeing the hidden world of these places... they know the regulars, they know who takes towels, who doesn't tip... busboys learn how to size up other people fairly readily. Then, of course, we have the housekeepers. This is a job beyond my own imagination. I can't believe anybody would choose to do such a job. I understand the propensity towards keeping your area clean, I live with Kat Barnes... this goes without saying, but I don't understand how you could make a living cleaning up other peoples messes for a living. Part of the joy of living is making messes, and it makes cleaning a little less strenuous... knowing that at least it was fun at the time, it was worth the repair. I understand that people need to scratch out a living, and there are far worse ways to earn a living... I would just never choose to be a housekeeper.

I've made a small mountain out of balled up tissues on my nightstand... Mt.Killamanslowly. It hurts less to cough tonight than it did this morning, but i don't see much hope for improvement very soon.

Side note, I've figured out the source material for my upcoming project which is exciting. I'll slowly be telling the relevant parties, but I won't be going public with it until the project is in some sort of viable stage. This is both for reasons of keeping it secure, also avoiding any potential legal issues before securing the rights, and also to ensure the creative integrity of the process. Sorry guys, but you'll just have to find out with everyone else. If you're involved in the project, though, you'll be informed when we meet.

That's all for now.

...a Third Story Window in Madison

Red lights hang like low-flying stars tonight.

In the distance, radio towers send out tendrils of music, voices calling out in the darkness towards the cars rolling along the expressway towards their myriad destinations. The home depot sits steady and glowing orange across the way.

The cold air travels through the cotton of my socks, to the tips of my toes, through my nerves, synapses sending shivers to my chest. My shaking is a wrestling match between this disease and my white blood cell battalions. Obviously I'm rooting for my immune system... supplying it with endless vitamins and rest (at least a days worth in a hotel if one can call that rest).

The song playing in my headphones is Sarah by Ray Lamontagne. It makes me think of the many Sarahs that have crossed my path. On average, Sarah (or Sara as she'll sometimes spell it) is a pretty normal girl if you don't get to know her, but there's always a hidden force. There's some indie retro gloss under that plain pretty packaging. Sara(h) has always had friends, never had too much trouble fitting in, or at least not by the time we meet. By then, she's found her place in the world. More often than not, she's Jewish. For Ray Lamontagne, Sarah draws up memories of childhood. Running around reckless in the grain... wild childish abandon... in me, she draws up memories of the conservative Sarah of Hebrew School, the cute, wild cheerleader Sara of AP Junior English and the indie rocker Sara from Elementary School all the way to Senior Year Creative Writing with Jim Barnabee. Sarahs can stick to your brain sometimes, without your choosing. And sometimes you don't even know they're there... like a burr that catches you when you're not looking. Hello Sarahs. Wherever you are.

Sufjan Stevens is singing now. About my home state of Illinois no less. I suppose when you set a simple thing to music, it because much more magical. Its why I choose to look at the world through my ears before anything else... my ears can be better diggers than my other senses, clawing their way through the distractions to the truth of the matter. So long as I don't keep playing my music this loudly, I suppose.

No seeing stars here, I'm afraid. Not the real stars anyway. I can see the big dipper and some of Orion... there's Sirius hanging in the sky, these are just the greatest hits. I'm much more a fan of those places of pure black when the stars almost light the way... so remarkably stark against the deep dark sky and the ground under foot that they seem to etch trails through the grass... those are stars.

I wonder, if one day we'll use satellites to simulate starlight. Once we've artificially lit the whole world and night is simply the flip of a switch, will we hang the stars ourselves? Will we redraw the constellations to tell a new story? Will my horoscope no longer matter? So many questions...

That's all for now.

...the Same Too Small Twin Bed

Illness is like stillness. I can't stand it. Ironically one induces the other. I mention it because I feel the grip of la grippe closing in on me... some devilish mix of what feels like Mono with a side of ass kick to the face. Being sick doesn't hit me well. I guess nobody goes gracefully into the arms of a disease, but it's just difficult for me because it always affects what I need most... my voice and my energy. I suppose however, this is just karmic retribution for their overuse all the healthy days of my life, so I can't say it isn't without its merits. Just timing-wise it sort of blows with a capital LOWS.

Chicago presented herself in all her frail bitter wonder today, as we managed to escape suburbia for the afternoon and jet on up to the city for a deep dish lunch and a mid-day stroll. I didn't trust the flashing bank signs that displayed the temperature as 52 degrees. Possibly because it felt much colder, but also maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had yet to adjust the clock to the new correct time.

Ellen and I met in the evening for a meal... well, she ate and I had a cookie and chocolate milk because I was more than full from the deep dish. We talked about the state of the inner city school she was working in... and her struggles with the various men coming in and out of her life. Ellen doesn't realize it, but if she were a writer, her memoir would be a great read. She has a great way of telling a story about anything and making it seem like something out of a novel.

On the train back I kept falling asleep between stations and death cab for cutie songs, not knowing the route exactly, one ear was always waiting for the announcement of my stop. Two giant fat girls were making fun of themselves in the nearby seats and they were glad I chuckled when I overheard them discussing their fear of disembarking from the train, having to jump onto the platform and quite possibly falling face first on the pavement. I don't mind big fat people who don't mind being big and fat. It's kind of refreshing in a strange way. Like handicapped people who don't live their lives as a constant reminder to everyone that they're handicapped.

I miss Kat. I can tell she misses me more than she wants to say. I think we level each other out when we're around one another. Things never get too stressful or harsh. It's like I'm the saucer to her teacup. She knows that she can always spill over onto me and it'll cool things off right away. I love her. My lovely teacup. And to me... she's like the green thumb to my bonsai tree. She takes my complex miniature chaos and keeps it from overwhelming the bounds of grounded, potted life. Thanks baby, for your zen. And for watering me daily.

That's all for now.