music plays into my ears from the small techno-contraption bouncing against my chest surrounded in lycra and sweat. . .the lyrics are distant, but the beat, I feel the beat driving me forward. . .my mind wanders on to all the things that were, that are, that could've been. . .but it doesn't linger. . .my mind prefers to pace along to the beat. . .and I am grateful
sweat drips and drops. . .sometimes I think it is raining. . .I look and reach out my had to see. . .but nothing. . .just gray skies with the beating sun behind it. . .he is pounding into my skin. My body pulsates, my head bumps. . .I convulse. . .my legs stagger, spots populate my pupil. . .a dry heave--didn't drink enough water. I stop. I breathe. My pulse slows, I pull myself forward. "That sun is relentless" I say out loud. . .not realizing my vocalization of the words until they startle a girl attached to a phone that is surely divulging the secrets of the universe--it must be by how she holds it and stares at it. I bow, a polite gesture that seems to be utilized more by foreigners than by locals. . .girl barely notices and seems to be slightly annoyed. I would be too, if some random white girl spat out inaudible English in heavy huffs.
I can't believe how much the heat still surprises me. . .
I wander on. . .
My mind drifting. . .again, no thought lingers too long. I appreciate that.
Then a strange thing happens. . .monologues begin to surface. First, Bunny. . .then the Librarian, then Rose, Mistress Quickly, Jean, and even Savage. . .the words come quickly and fluidly. I don't have to think. . .they are just there. . .they stumble across the lips and their emotions trickle through my veins. I wish I were in a quiet, private space, so I could release each character with the truth they deserve. . .
***Considering that last thought. . .I believe my three readers may find me a bit silly, or crazy. . .nothing new to me. . .but try this out. . .you know when you hear that song that stirs you so much you have to belt it. . .either in the shower, in your room, or--if you are a singer--on a stage. . .well, that's a monologue for an actor. A good monologue has the rhythm and the lyrics of a perfect song, and they leave their imprint on the actor. . .just like a song leaves its imprint on you. . .just like a line from a movie bounces around your head, until you find the perfect moment to say it. . .
Starred explanation aside. . .I awed myself. . .I don't remember things like that. . .I struggle for names, lyrics, and monologues on a regular basis. I don't know why or how these monologues surfaced word for word. . .perhaps it was the heat. . .perhaps the sweat oozing out of every single pore and dehydrated delirium caused them to unwittingly emerge . . .I don't know. . .but I was thankful. And when I got home. . .I took a shower and said them out loud--yep, I was monologuing in the shower. . .
and I fell in love with my craft all over again. . .
In other random news. . .
I listened to this podcast today--Stuff you should know--on Quantum Suicides. . .(I attribute this new podcast of joy to a lovely friend). . .and it explores the idea of how every choice we make basically creates another universe that plays out the choice we didn't make. The podcast explores many ideas, but this one really resonated. . .I find this idea interesting. . .because existentialism poses the idea that there are no wrong choices--there is only how we deal with those choices.
hmmmm. . .I wonder if we humans just create theories/philosophies to justify notions and actions that randomly float through us. . .but then again, there are no new ideas. . .tricky, tricky. . .
Out of my pondering mind and back to Korea. . .
A friend and I found ourselves swimming in a (rumored to be filthy) lake during a festival in Daegu this past weekend. We were fully clothed, fully intoxicated, and fully enjoying ourselves. . .and the Shisha bar has become a place of perfect joy. . .
Currently, I am pondering Goethe's idea that there is genius in boldness. . .and as the text of this piece delves fully into the sea of subtext. . .I shall depart. . .
But of course, my dear three readers, I leave you with a quote. . .
"What's the use in regrets? They're just things we haven't done yet. . .What are regrets? They're just lessons we haven't learned yet." --Sweetest Decline, Beth Orton.
