Indie

"Not as easy as it used to be."

-- Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

--

According to "South Park," Spielberg and Lucas raped Indie. I certainly think they battered him around a bit, but despite aliens and the infamous refrigerator stunt, I enjoyed it. Glad I only paid three bucks to see it, though.

--

I think I might be too impatient for Netflix. My queue is longer than time, and I almost mean that literally. I get my movies from the library.

--

Went to Indiana today, to a small dinkydoo village southwest of Cinci, southeast of Indianapolis. I drove. There was a moment on highway 50, heading east, when we cranked around a bend and the van was on an overpass, and we were entering Kentucky and the sun was behind us and the shadow we cast was so far away and dark on the brown grass, and at seventy-five miles per hour, I felt like the king of the country. It felt like flying, but it was only shadows.

I have to wear a condom on my mic-pack now. Yes, I have a condom on my package. I sweat so much I killed my last one. (Shoulda used protection...) And the little yellow strap and pouch smells like something funky did something funky in there, and the Velcro is so worn that I have to tie the bastard around my waist. It's like a penis gord, but more flappy. There is a red belt chafed into my skin.

--

It sounds like rain outside, but it's just the leaves clapping softly against each other. A bird tweets from a branch. The sun is at just the right angle that it bounces off the center window of the circular nook of the beige house next door, making bright this dark side of the house. Through the leaves. Turning green to gold, like Sir Gawain's nemesis.

I'm looking for Chicago theatre jobs, readying resumes and downloading apps. Requests for letters of rec soon. Very soon. I feel behind the curve already, looking ahead to the summer. I need to be able to live once I get there, to make a living. But the poor run the theatres, it seems, or at least get conscripted to work there, which is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so. My desktop fills with possibilities, and somewhere in the gigantic list is a place that is full of money and not of people. That's my egg carton niche, and I must find it. A grand chase, the toil of the independent, a declaration of dependence and fervor. Overlooking these sheets and envelopes are books lying horizontal, their titles all aligned, the spines asking to be cracked, creased, the words inside screaming silently for attention. Soon, friends.

A child outside on the street calls, "Move! Move!" He waves at his friend, and runs away, laughing.

Soon.