Forgetting the Breath

I was waiting for the taqueria down the street from my house to make my nachos con carne (they're really effing good, man), letting the late afternoon sun squint my eyes, when it suddenly hit me, my writing solution:

Breath. Tension. I always, always forget. It can be manufactured, a way to get to the emotion, the dynamic of a monologue.

I figured out how to make that monologue come alive. I am making it come to me, instead of placing undue amounts of pressure on me to hit the right moment and make it work.

Breath is so integral, you know? Not just the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide, but that tug, that very real connection between gut and lips, word and meaning. It's in every Shakespearian 'O,' it's in the Tourettic half-thoughts of David Mamet.

I kept telling my friend Karen that 'something was missing,' something wasn't making this thing work, and she said something about 'action,' and I thought to myself, 'I know, but what?' and I think if I can make a quick trip for a prop or two, I can work on it tonight, time it out, see if the exhalation of fear and dread in the piece will ring more sharply now.

(no subject)

3: grey hair
3: glitter
2: old words not in use anymore
2: buying a bed
2: elaine horseman
1: 3 cylinder car
1: cartoon musical notes
1: teenager apathy
1: tightly laced
1: tubes birthday
1: cedar closet drug
1: refrigerator broken
1: tina in red dress last night
1: music bit torrents
1: renaissance cleavage
1: kink in neck
1: picture of oprah and stedman
1: hopleaf bar
1: women pee in car
1: woman putting air in their car tires