Travel is very conducive to stream-of-consciousness mind-wandering, especially on the elevated trains through scenic Chicago, and I spend most of my commute staring out the window and giggling to myself about dumb shit from the night before, or scripting clever hypothetical conversations that will never actually take place. Given my current hormonal state, my transital stream-of-consciousness fantasies trickle immediately into the gutter of explicity, creating mental images that make my commute very squirmy, indeed. By the time I arrive at the office my hands are shaking, my feet are tingling, and I’m aimlessly writhing like some bimbo from a Warrant video.

One means of relief, come to find out, is intense manual labor. Last night I met some of my friends from my theatre company to repaint the stage floor for our next show.

You must understand, our theatre, located in a former armory now owned by the Chicago Parks District and used mostly for athletics, is not a “theatre,” as such. Our space on the second floor of the armory consists of a clump of separate rooms with jutting pipes, bumpy floors, irremovable grime, and mysterious fumes. It makes for a great performance space, but is almost always a complete bitch of a location for renovations and rehearsal.

The entire space has two windows, both of them located in the one room closest to the train tracks, neither of them with screens installed. Thus, there is almost no air-flow. We can go into the far room to pry open the lonely windows and stick our heads outside for some asbestos-free air, but we have to shut them when we leave the room because otherwise, the space will become even more infested with wandering birds and bugs than it already is.

That scant ventilation, compounded with the skankiness of the original air quality, leads to funky condensation and the cultivation of all sortsa spores. It gets hot and humid as hell. Whatever pipe isn’t leaking it’s own contents, is dripping with the collected moisture that has been piling on top of it. This substance is lovingly referred to as “Armory Juice.” During a rehearsal process in the armory, you’ll see dozens of buckets crop up around the space in effort to catch and contain the sludge. The buckets remain diligently in their places throughout rehearsals, only to be removed as discreetly as possible right before performances, and replaced immediately after.

Anyway. That said, what with the crappy air quality, constant cloud of mystery smog, heat, and non-existent ventilation, it’s not the ideal place for one to hole up with three of one's buddies and slather oil-based house paint on the floor. It takes all night. You sweat so bad you think your whole face is crying. The only thing that dries quickly in the armory is the pigeon shit. Seeing how there are no windows, the paint fumes can only escape into your facial orifices.

But, you know what? The rhythmic back-and-forth stroking is soothing, the whole process is rather exhausting, and you finish up feeling satisfied, if not a little sore and high.

Not surprisingly, it provides the super-libido with a bit of relief. Some women eat chocolate to stabilize; I opt for hard labor. It provides some respite.

Yeah, but then I went to sleep and dreamed that I was a leading competitor in some sort of Blowjob Olympics. My partner (whose face I don’t remember) and I were doing really well for quite a few heats, but then I think one of us fucked up a dismount and our scores went straight to hell. So we went to get waffles at the diner down the street from my house.

I am in a bad, bad way. I might cry.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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