MALAISE.

It was only a matter of time before this was the title of one of my posts. For the past three days, I was sick with a deadly lung pox that’s severity actually convinced me to go to the hospital, as has been suggested many-a-time by my Japanese co-workers. Being bedridden for three days really rubbed it in my face that without teaching, I’ve got nothing to fill my hours but consumption of nostalgia or internet garbage or whatever else. Always consumption, though, never production. Colin creates all the time. He creates songs about cookies he just ate, and all the foreigners love them because they know exactly what kind of cookies he’s singing about. Identification. Fondness. Nostalgia. And so forth. He writes those songs because he has to, but with me and writing, we have a much more complicated relationship. Actually, we’re not really on speaking terms at the moment. But with a little time, things might heal themselves.

Sidenote: Right now, I’m at the office, and the place is filled with kids diligently washing the windows. Saori’s helping, too. Everybody’s washing the windows but me. It’s unlike me not to offer to help. But I’m not helping, because I don’t feel like exerting myself while I’m still recovering. I’m also bitter. I just realized that I’ve cleaned the office nearly every single day since January, and I teach ONE class a week here. That’s right, ONE. That essentially makes me a maid, cleaning up the messes of other teachers and their students.

Anyway, back to Colin and his song about cookies. Colin performed in a crowded bar, and for his forty-five minute set, he got to be loved by a whole room of people. I always wanted to be in a band, but it turns out the euphonium isn’t such a rockin’ instrument. My personal views toward art are more conducive to performance. I want everyone looking at me, I want them to respond as I perform, I want them to appreciate it and tell me so because I’m ever so self-conscious about my art. Look at me, no, don’t look at me. I’m hideous. But really, love me.

I used to be into theatre. I felt completely at ease on stage, being someone else, playing, so to speak, but I was always hoping that the audience would not just see the character but the process behind it, which was me, and be able to appreciate it. I quit theatre by the time I was in college because Grace saved me the pain by going through the Macalester Theatre Department herself. I realized recently that one of my life goals, to be in a Greek chorus, will probably never be accomplished. I’ve missed any Greek chorus chances I might have had. But I guess the fact that I wanted to be anonymous behind a mask with a large group of people saying the same lines as me shows that my ideas on performance aren’t entirely egocentric.

I’ve often wished that I could write poetry. Poetry can be performed, can be shared with others in an open forum, and everybody claps or snaps or whatever people do nowadays, and breathe their snide comments quietly to their friends. But if it were me reading, I wouldn’t want to read it unless everyone would love it. I would hope they love it. But I can’t write poetry. At least pithy, clever prose would be sufficient for performance, but I don’t do that either. I’ve got nothing but awkward, unwieldy prose, all somewhere between too long and seventy pages. What I’m getting at is that this stupid little blog is the closest thing I have to art as performance. I’m sharing it with you, my community, in hopes that you’ll approve and respond. But no one ever responds. Do you want to know how I know people have read my posts? Within the next day or two, several of my friends will follow suit and update their own blogs. I’m shouting into a black hole now, listening to my own egocentric echoes. I know I'm not interesting, I know I don't write what others want from me, but I have to know, can anybody hear me?