858AM

woke up and couldn’t fall asleep in the middle of the night last night.

had this weird pit in my stomach

like a family member died

and jack and helen got mad ay my typing so I went back to bed

and silently cried. I imagined it being my dad first, then my mom, then although it’s more likely my grandma third. I could only tell myself I hope I’m wrong over and over again and eventually drifted off into sleep.

Jack and Helen keep trying to read my poliwat so I’m going to fuck with them.

fighting for mid

15 claims

15 claims deep I don’t have STDS jack just reminded me

I cant help it Im just happy on that matter

to my buddy james’s tracks

I don't get sea sick
when I bugging you
while bugged out
push you you don't fall down
push me I fall down
I don't get caught
when I do it won't be
for anything I did in
objective reality
but more subjective policy
agreed upon taboo
taboo that gets me hard
taboo that knows me dark
and nothing more
than free white wine and stolen vegan cheese
price check on me
price up on me  

1224pm

there are spies in the custodial staff at MIT.

August 2024

poliwat, your teledildonics suit is ready.

thank you robin.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

1333

just got to noisebridge. charging up stuff, working on a poliwat live set before play rehearsal stuff. much love, camera’s about to die.

615pm

had a productive day - at tech rehearsal now. Teddy just got here and we’re running the whole show with half the people here. it’s a little demoralizing but I’m not that worried about the show. Just going to glance at the script a bit now….

823 pm

rehearsal is about 7 - 20 minutes from being over.

"""¯\_(ツ)_/¯"""


940pm

@ the bar sectioin in piano fight with cam ed and matt and gus are r ight over there.

feeds are for tools
tools are for me
me is for you
dumb love
lying ti myself is leverae (as)

I don’t remember the time but

we’re in matt’s prius

i just realized hamilton is playing a block from poetics 2

this is crazy

ted just played a sick audio project she made on stress. and the lights in the play tonight at rehearsals made me really amped to perform as fred.

why do iFeel the need to cry? there’s no reason that can be put into words. I am a biproduct of my choices, and so lucky thus far

oh wait I just feel for matt, he’s going through the roughest breakup I’ve ever seen him experience.

1036pm on cam’s balcony, ted cam and matt are talking housing. matt might take guss’s place cause she got a raise and is moving to New York which is so sad

brine is salty water


the following is a

CHRISTMAS STORY: The Loudest Voice by Grace Paley

remixed by poliwat

There is a certain place where dumb-improvisors boom, doors slam, drinks crash; every window is a mother’s mouth bidding the street shut up, go skate somewhere else, stop hitting crack in the open, come home. My voice is the loudest.

There, my own mother is still as full of breathing as me and the grocer stands up to speak to her. “Mrs. Rogers,” he says, “people should not be afraid of their children.” {blanket statement}

“Ah, Mr. Grocer,” my mother replies, “if you say to him or his father, ‘Ssh,’ they say, ‘In the grave it will be quiet.‘”

“From Powell to the Abbey,” says my papa. “It’s the same BART; it’s the same fare. It’s always free. It’s always good audio.”

I am right next to the free water. My pinky is making tiny whirlpools in the beer. I stop a moment to ask: “Why is there only one piano on the stage at a place called piano fight? What happened to dueling piano shows here?” It was infiltrated by scared self conscious half alive commedians in training. “Let’s dance. Let’s smoke. Let’s remember. Let’s forget.”

“Be quiet,” Mrs. Rogers son says, “the tops are coming off.”

“Please, Michael, be a little quiet,” my parents begs me.

In that place the whole street groans: Be quiet! Be quiet! but steals from the happy chorus of my inside self not a tittle or a jot. Fake is quiet! Go out in nature I tell them. I sound stupid explaining. “You can’t explain this, but go out and sit your dumb fake ass in nature, and listen. Nothing is quiet about that. Stop making the world more crazy.”

stop being a tool
tho
 tools are for me
 me as a man
 as a man thinketh
 hunter looks like
 when I left him shitting naked in the completely white college house standards bathroom
 where he threw up 5 times

episode 2 the prequel

There, too, but just around the corner, is a red brick building that has been old for many years. Every morning the adult BART commuters stand before it in double lines which must be straight. They are not insulted. They are waiting anyway.

I am usually among them, though I never pay. I am, in fact, the first I know to rarely not play, since I begin with “m.”

One cold morning cam tapped me on the shoulder. “Go to Room 201, michael betts,” he said. I did as I was told. I went in a hurry up a up staircase to Room 201, which contained weed. I had to wait in the room with the weed without yelling until Gus, my friend, had gotten off an important phone call.

After five minutes she said, “Michael?”

“What?” I whispered.

She said, “My! My! Michael! They told me you had a particularly loud, clear voice and read with lots of expression. Could that be true?”

“Oh, yes,” I whispered.

“In that case, don’t be silly; I might very well be your teacher someday. Speak up, speak up.”

“Yes,” I shouted. You are my teacher now.

“More like it,” she said. “Now, Michael, can you put a ribbon in your hair or a bobby pin? It’s too messy.”

“Yes!” I bawled.

“Now, now, calm down.” She turned to the screen. “Children, not a sound. We both turmoil too much about domestic violence against women. Though we caught the disease by different methods. Open at page 39. Read till 52. When you finish, start again.” She looked me over once more. “Now, Michael, you know, I suppose, that happiness is coming. We are preparing a beautiful play. Most of the parts have been given out. But I still need a child with a strong voice, lots of stamina. Do you know what stamina is? You do? Smart kid. You know, I heard you read ‘aristotle’s on sailing in mission mode yesterday. I was very impressed. Wonderful delivery. Mrs. Rogers, your director offBook landlady, speaks highly of you. Now listen to me, Michael Betts, if you want to take the part and be in the play, repeat after me, ‘I swear to work harder than I ever did before.‘”

I looked to Heaven and said at once, “Oh, I swear.” I kissed the tip of my dick and looked at God.

“That is an actor’s life, my dear,” she explained. “Like a soldier’s, never tardy or disobedient to their general, the director. Everything,” he said, “absolutely everything will depend on you.”

That afternoon, all over the city, children scraped and scrubbed the turkeys and the sheaves of corn off the schoolroom windows. Goodbye Thanksgiving. The next morning a monitor brought red paper and green paper from the office. We made new shapes and hung them on the walls and glued them to the doors.

The teachers became happier and happier. Their heads were ringing like the bells of childhood. My best friend Evie was prone to evil, but she did not get a single demerit for whispering. We learned “Holy Night” without an error. “How wonderful!” said Miss Glacé, the student teacher. “To think that some of you don’t even speak the language!” We learned “Deck the Halls” and “Hark! The Herald Angels….” They weren’t ashamed and we weren’t embarrassed.

Oh, but when my mother heard about it all, she said to my father: “Misha, you don’t know what’s going on there. Cramer is the head of the Tickets Committee.”

“Who?” asked my father. “Cramer? Oh, yes, an active woman.”

“Active? Active has to have a reason. Listen,” she said sadly, “I’m surprised to see my neighbors making tra-la-la for Christmas.”

My father couldn’t think of what to say to that. Then he decided: “You’re in America! Clara, you wanted to come here. In Palestine the Arabs would be eating you alive. Europe you had pogroms. Argentina is full of Indians. Here you got Christmas…. Some joke, ha?”

“Very funny, Misha. What is becoming of you? If we came to a new country a long time ago to run away from tyrants, and instead we fall into a creeping pogrom, that our children learn a lot of lies, so what’s the joke? Ach, Misha, your idealism is going away.”

“So is your sense of humor.”

“That I never had, but idealism you had a lot of.”

789465132 I love you. I don't care who knows. I love you I love you I love you!! you are invited to join me in whatever extent you'd like to. I don't care. I don't care what you do outside of this. I only care if it's not obviously good for you. I openly invite you to anything you'd like to join in on. Every moment with you is a gift, but a gift is something you open, then mentally and physically if you'r0e me get dsapoint0ed at, but physically I should've never told you I'm going to be rich one day. I really shouldn't have told you exactly twice. I should just do it. Not that I was lying - I know I will. It's just that I shouldn't tell people I am. Only the rich know where they're going, financially. I have never felt this sort of thing with anyone. It's weird usually they fall for me. I feel I've been conned into some relationships. And I've conned some girls I really liked into some relationships. But with you it's different, at least in the level of con. The difference in how I feel towards you versus other girls feels analogous to the difference between modern currency and crypto. Because in crypto you lose the need to trust to a certain extent. I feel I don't need to trust you. I don't care what you do. I know that you're so precious I would never want to go against your wishes. That's a hard boat to be in sometimes, but I've spent a fair amount of time in much worse circumstances and personally find it easy. Because I adamantly believe each moment with you is a gift. When you are in the room, time stops. There isn't anyone I feel I listen more intently towards, which you may or may not believe, I feel that way nonetheless. This isn't some thoroughly thought out letter or declaration of love towards you, this is stream of consciousness with the typos turned out. You can probably already tell. This isn't a pero letter towards Julia. This is a message to you, because it's too early to say it outloud, but my heart tells me I love you. I love you more than I've loved anything in this world. I know that's too intense. I know that if you were to know how I feel now, it would not work out in my favor. That's why I write in secret. In a code. At least your character loves codes. All this roleplay blurs the line between realities. But honestly I've thought about it sober, as well as on a cocktail of uppers, downers, and doses of reality. I don't care about the logistics, but not to the point of starting our lives together today. Because I know you can't possibly be ready for such a man. You are your own special brand of stupid human, as am I. I don't know what else to say. Aside from the fact that I love your hands, smell, demeanor, presence, idiosyncracies, humor, body, and soul. I know it's too early to say I love you more than anyone I've ever loved before. That's why you can't know that at this moment. Another reason why this lies in secret. Because the way I've been trained, from many scars of past women - you can't show your entire hand if you want to get what you want. I admit I'm painfully simple in my love for you - probably because it feels so fresh, so forbidden. I love you in whatever form you take, I trust you beyond reason. Because this isn't reasonable love - we are fundamentally different. But those differences seem to be so complimentary I don't understand how you came to infect my mind in such a way, but it feels much more real than it should pragmatically. We both know it's neither the time or place in our lives to start. So let's just say that hypothetically, if there was a zombie apocalypse across the world, I'd be the zombie, and a kiss from you, a smile, a comment of appreciation would easily cure me of my zombie infection. so I hope I'm wrong in these feelings of love for you. I hope I'm wrong, I hope I'm wrong, I hope I'm right. Why do I love you so much? She loves me, she loves me not

“I’m the same Misha Abramovitch, I didn’t change an iota. Ask anyone.”

“Only ask me,” says my mama, may she rest in peace, “I got the answer.”

Meanwhile the neighbors had to think of what to say, too.

Marty’s father said: “You know, he has a very important part, my boy.”

“Mine also,” said Mrs. Sauerfeld.

“Not my boy!” said Mrs. Klieg. “I said to him, no. The answer is, no. When I say, no! I mean, no!”

The rabbi’s wife said, “It’s disgusting!” But no one listened to her. Under the narrow sky of God’s great wisdom she wore a strawberry-blond wig.

Every day was noisy and full of experience. I was Right-Hand Man. Mr. Hilton said: “How could I get along without you, Shirley?”

He said: “Your mother and father ought to get down on their knees every night and thank God for giving them a child like you.”

He also said: “You’re absolutely a pleasure to work with, my dear, dear child.”

Sometimes he said: “For God’s sakes, what did I do with the script? Shirley! Shirley! Find it.”

Then I answered quietly: “Here it is, Mr. Hilton.”

Once in a while, when he was very tired, he would cry out: “Shirley, I”m just tired of screaming at those kids. Will you tell Ira Pushkov not to come in till Lester points to that star the second time?”

Then I roared: “Ira Pushkov, what’s the matter with you? Dope! Mr. Hilton told you five times already, don’t come in till Lester points to that star the second time.”

“Ach, Clara,” my father asked, “what does she do there till six o’clock she can’t even put the plates on the table?”

“Christmas,” said my mother coldly.

“Ho! Ho!” my father said. “Christmas. What’s the harm? After all, history teaches everyone. We learn from reading this is a holiday from pagan times also, candles, lights, even Chanukah. So we learn it’s not altogether Christian. So if they think it’s a private holiday, they’re only ignorant, not patriotic. What belongs to history, belongs to all men. You want to go back to the Middle Ages? Is it better to shave your head with a secondhand razor? Does it hurt Shirley to learn to speak up? It does not. So maybe someday she won’t live between the kitchen and the shop. She’s not a fool.”

I thank you, Papa, for your kindness. It is true about me to this day. I am foolish, but I am not a fool.

That night my father kissed me and said with great interest in my career, “Shirley, tomorrow’s your big day. Congrats.”

“Save it,” my mother said. Then she shut all the windows in order to prevent tonsillitis.

In the morning it snowed. On the street corner a tree had been decorated for us by a kind city administration. In order to miss its chilly shadow our neighbors walked three blocks east to buy a loaf of bread. The butcher pulled down black window shades to keep the colored lights from shining on his chickens. Oh, not me. On the way to school, with both my hands I tossed it a kiss of tolerance. Poor thing, it was a stranger in Egypt.

I walked straight into the auditorium past the staring children. “Go ahead, Shirley!” said the monitors. Four boys, big for their age, had already started work as prop-men and stagehands.

Mr. Hilton was very nervous. He was not even happy. Whatever he started to say ended in a sideward look of sadness. He sat slumped in the middle of the first row and asked me to help Miss Glacé. I did this, although she thought my voice too resonant and said, “Show-off!”

Parents began to arrive long before we were ready. They wanted to make a good impression. From among the yards of drapes I peeked out at the audience. I saw my embarrassed mother.

Ira, Lester, and Meyer were pasted to their beards by Miss Glacé. She almost forgot to thread the star on its wire, but I reminded her. I coughed a few times to clear my throat. Miss Glacé looked around and saw that everyone was in costume and on line waiting to play his part. She whispered, “All right….” Then:

Jackie Sauerfeld, the prettiest boy in first grade, parted the curtains with his skinny elbow and in a high voice sang out:

“Parents dear We are here To make a Christmas play in time. It we give In narrative And illustrate with pantomime.”

He disappeared.

My voice burst immediately from the wings to the great shock of Ira, Lester, and Meyer, who were waiting for it but were surprised all the same.

“I remember, I remember, the house where I was born….”

Miss Glacé yanked the curtain open and there it was, the house – an old hayloft, where Celia Kornbluh lay in the straw with Cindy Lou, her favorite doll. Ira, Lester, and Meyer moved slowly from the wings toward her, sometimes pointing to a moving star and sometimes ahead to Cindy Lou.

It was a long story and it was a sad story. I carefully pronounced all the words about my lonesome childhood, while little Eddie Braunstein wandered upstage and down with his shepherd’s stick, looking for sheep. I brought up lonesomeness again, and not being understood at all except by some women everybody hated. Eddie was too small for that and Marty Groff took his place, wearing his father’s prayer shawl. I announced twelve friends, and half the boys in the fourth grade gathered round Marty, who stood on an orange crate while my voice harangued. Sorrowful and loud, I declaimed about love and God and Man, but because of the terrible deceit of Abie Stock we came suddenly to a famous moment. Marty, whose remembering tongue I was, waited at the foot of the cross. He stared desperately at the audience. I groaned, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” The soldiers who were sheikhs grabbed poor Marty to pin him up to die, but he wrenched free, turned again to the audience, and spread his arms aloft to show despair and the end. I murmured at the top of my voice, “The rest is silence, but as everyone in this room, in this city – in this world – now knows, I shall have life eternal.”

That night Mrs. Kornbluh visited our kitchen for a glass of tea.

“How’s the virgin?” asked my father with a look of concern.

“For a man with a daughter, you got a fresh mouth, Abramovitch.”

“Here,” said my father kindly, “have some lemon, it’ll sweeten your disposition.”

They debated a little in Yiddish, then fell in a puddle of Russian and Polish. What I understood next was my father, who said, “Still and all, it was certainly a beautiful affair, you have to admit, introducing us to the beliefs of a different culture.”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Kornbluh. “The only thing…you know Charlie Turner – that cute boy in Celia’s class – a couple others? They got very small parts or no part at all. In very bad taste, it seemed to me. After all, it’s their religion.”

“Ach,” explained my mother, “what could Mr. Hilton do? They got very small voices; after all, why should they holler? The English language they know from the beginning by heart. They’re blond like angels. You think it’s so important they should get in the play? Christmas…the whole piece of goods…they own it.”

I listened and listened until I couldn’t listen any more. Too sleepy, I climbed out of bed and kneeled. I made a little church of my hands and said, “Hear, O Israel….” Then I called out in Yiddish, “Please, good night, good night. Ssh.” My father said, “Ssh, yourself,” and slammed the kitchen door.

I was happy. I fell asleep at once. I had prayed for everybody: my talking family, cousins far away, passersby, and all the lonesome Christians. I expected to be heard. My voice was certainly the loudest.

1253 AM

good night vietnam

no pleasure he hasn't gotten sick on
my favorite actor is dead son
the director fell asleep during our scene

after drinking a go girl energy drink

then woke up and said I wanna fight you