I dream "The Rusty Bucket" and it's such a great name I look it up (dream google) to see if anyone else is using it. I find pages of notebook paper with a davinci-esque sketch in brown ink of a rusty bucket and my name, very small, and there is Brett Palm's name, too, the ideal boy of my childhood, who was often beside me, thanks to alphabetical order. The rusty latch of my childhood diary, the rusty bucket lowered into the dream well, tingly taste of cold metal, brick-orange flakes, and rippling reflection in black water... so this is where they keep the poetry.
Is it mean to my 14 year old self to read out of her diary to strangers, who will laugh?
I just know that when I did this before, to a small bunch at The Whistle Stop in South Park, that it was very satisfying, especially when I read, "why am I talking to a book like it was a person? oh well, it's almost like talking to someone." Then to look up to a room full of real people, smiling and listening.
I asked Susan if anyone has shame attacks after they perform and she said no, they're euphoric.
I looked up The Rusty Bucket (in waking google) and it turns out it's a real place, where you can get a deep-fried pickle. Wait, am I still dreaming?
ReplyDeleteI wish I could make your show. Why not a career in show business? You have only up to go. Hardscrabble
ReplyDeleteThanks for the encouragement Pops. Depends how steep the grade. I was thinking more like going into schools to inspire kids to keep diaries so that they too could be mortified in 20, 30, 40 etc. years.
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