August 2001
While Dan sat on the sofa behind me, examining my recently acquired digital video camera, I wondered whether or not I should start by showing him my test footage of Karen, or just toss “NymphMania Volume 8” into the DVD player.
“This thing is fucking sweet,” I heard Dan say.
Examining was, perhaps, a little on the light side to describe how he was looking at the camera. He had his face only a few inches away from it, examining every line, every curve, every bump, ever button, every slot, every port, every outlet, from corner to corner, top to bottom. I worried that, with his face that close, drops of saliva would start to dribble out from his mouth and damage the fragile electronics. The man was, most assuredly, drooling.
Dan worked at the electronics shop with me, and had been a photography buff for years. He’d actually won a bunch of awards for his photographs at local contests, fairs, and such, which maybe didn’t sound like a whole lot, but it still meant he was generating better photography than the average shmoe wielding a point-and-click Kodak Special.
I decided to skip the porn for a second, and explain the situation to Dan first.
“Okay,” I said, “here’s the deal. I’m trying to become a filmmaker.”
“Holy shit, does this thing support Timecode? Fucking-A!”
I don’t think he was listening. I snapped my fingers a few times, inches away from his face. “Hello. Earth to Dan.”
With some effort, he pulled himself away from the camera and looked up at me. “Yeah, what’s up.”
“Listen, Dan. I have a proposition for you.”
“Shoot.”
I started to pace back and forth in front of him while I talked. “I’m trying to become a filmmaker. I know, I know, it probably sounds like a crazy dream, and maybe it even is. But I think that if we can pull some talented people together – and God knows there’s enough talent around if you know where to look at it – we might just be able to make something. Make it cheap. And then turn around and sell it a whole lot of money.”
“Cool.” Dan didn’t care much for the big words.
“Now, I’ve got a bit of money from an investor. That’s how I paid for the camera, and for the tapes and what not. There’s still a bit of money to go around, for more equipment as we need it, and for catering and all that kind of bullshit. I can’t afford to pay any of the participants in this project very much at the moment…well, actually, I can’t afford to pay them anything at the moment, but if things go well, we could all be rolling in the cash in no time at all.”
“Excellent…”
“But I’ve got a problem. I took the camera out for a test spin last week, and shot a bunch of footage, but…well, it looks like crap, to be honest with you. I dumped it all on my computer, and tried to fuck around with it and make it prettier, but everything I did to it just made it worse. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise, because I’m not a photographer, I’ve never been a photographer. So, I think I need a photographer.”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s you, Dan.” Also, Dan wasn’t the sharpest tack in the drawer.
“Oh! What, me? Wait, start again.”
“Oh, God, listen. I’m trying to make movies, Dan. Films. Videos. To sell to people. They look like crap, so I need to get someone behind the camera who can make them look pretty. A cinematographer, or a director of photography, or whatever fucking title you like. You can call yourself the King of Digital Video for all I care, as long as you agree to run my camera for me.”
“You want me to shoot your films for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, sure, yeah. Why not. I haven’t really done anything on video before, it’s all just been still photography stuff, but I don’t think it’d be that much different. It’d be fun to play around with something new anyway.”
“Okay,” I said, turning around and popping the NymphMania DVD into the player. “I want you to take a look at this scene real quickly, just so you can see the sort of look I’m going for, and then I’ll show you what I shot, and you can maybe figure out what I was doing wrong, and how to avoid it.” I punched some buttons on the remote control and then hopped onto the sofa next to Dan just as the images on the television came to life, mid-blowjob.
“It’s not amazing photography by any stretch of the imagination,” I said, “but you can at least see that the colours are, you know, true to life. The reds look red, and the blues look blue, but when I was shooting, every looked really washed out. Like there was too much white in it or something.”
I noticed Dan shifting uncomfortably next to me. I looked over in his direction and caught a look of noticeable discomfort on his face.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked him.
“Um, listen man, no offense, but…this is kind of creeping me out.”
“What is?”
“This fucking video.”
“What? Why?”
“Look, I’m…you know, all secure in my sexuality and shit, but I’m not real open about it either. And this whole sitting around watching porn with a buddy, well…it’s fucking weird.” He suddenly looked over at me. “Oh fuck, you’re not coming on to me, are you?”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, and hit the power button on the remote control. The image blinked into blackness. “No, I’m not coming on to you.”
“Then what was up with that video?”
“Because,” I said, temporarily unable to conceive of how thick Dan could be sometimes, “those are the kinds of films I want to make. Adult films. Porno fucking films.”
The words settled in eventually. “Oh,” he finally said. “Oh!”
“You see?”
“Yeah. Okay, yeah, I get it now.”
“Okay, so can I turn the video back on now so you can compare the differences in colour and quality and all that shit?”
“Uh, actually I’d prefer if you didn’t. I’m still not big on sitting around watching porno films in, you know, a social setting.”
“Well, you better get used to it. You’re going to be pointing a camera at two people mashing their genitals together.”
We sat there in an awkward silence for a few minutes, neither us entirely sure what to say or what to do following the bizarre, surreal turn that any conversation about one’s desire to get into the porn industry inevitably takes. Finally, I said, “Do you want to just take the DVDs home and check them out there?”
“Yeah, that’d probably be best.”
I pushed myself off the sofa and pulled NymphMania from the DVD player, dropping it in its case, then picked up the DVD I had burned of my own test footage, and handed both discs over to Dan. “Call me tomorrow or the day after to let me know what you think.”
“Sure enough.”
“And I swear to God if these things are sticky when I get them back, you’re fucking fired.”
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
This is not a prologue (Part Two)
June 2001
She had long blonde hair and intense cheekbones. Her face was funny – sharp, in a way, like you might poke your eye out if you got too close to it. But still pretty in an odd way. And she had the most amazing knockers I’d ever seen.
Plus, she was the first one that hadn’t slapped me when I tried to tell that I was recruiting talent for pornographic films.
Instead, she had this quizzical look on her face. It was a look she gave to me, and then to my business card, and then back to me again, and then back to the business card, and on and on and on.
Her name was Karen, at least according to her nametag. It's 2:00 in the morning and I'm in the goddamn 7-Eleven because I was drunk and wanted a hot dog. I'm not sure exactly why I decided to toss out my, "Hey, do you want to be a porn star?" pitch to her, except that there was no one else around, she didn't look too dreadful under the harsh fluorescents, and because she had amazing knockers.
And, I guess, because I was drunk.
“Is this some kind of a pickup line?” she finally asked me. Her eyes were still on the business card. It read: MURPHY MIDNIGHT – DIRECTOR – ADULT FILMS.
It wasn’t my real name, obviously. It was, in fact, my porn star name – the name you get when you combine the name of your first pet with the name of the street you grew up on. The card, when you got right down to it, was a farce, but I’d approached it as seriously as possible, hitting up a friend in the printing industry to output them for me.
He’d looked at me just as strangely as the blonde-haired, intense-cheek-boned beauty was looking at me now.
“No,” I said, “it’s not just some kind of pickup line.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Because you’re kind of cute.”
“Um, thank you.”
“And if this was some kind of pickup line, you know, it might actually work for you, if you weren't quite so drunk.” She fondled the card gently, sliding it in my direction. “I mean, you’ve clearly put some effort into it.”
“I have,” I said, “but not because it’s a pickup line. Because I’m trying to put together some local, adult film talent.”
“You’re trying to make a porno film.”
“Well…yes. Pretty much.”
She met my eyes for just a second before looking down at the business card again. I wasn’t sure why she was obsessing about it, why it seemed like she couldn’t take her eyes of it. But right them, I didn’t care. I hadn’t scared her off, or inspired her to slap me or punch me in the stomach or dump her drink on my head, which pretty much encapsulated the extent of the responses I had received to my attempted proposals thus far.
“Futura,” she said, completely out of the blue.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s the typeface on your card. Futura.”
“Typeface?”
And then she laughed, a real laugh, and I jumped a little. There was something friendly in that laugh, something almost intimate, and I found it a little scary. I wasn’t sure what to say or do, because I wasn’t sure what she was talking about or laughing at. I was grateful when she continued the conversation all on her own.
“It’s the name of the font that the words on the business card are set in,” she said, sliding the card towards me. “Different fonts have different names. You know what a font is, don’t you?”
“Fuck, yeah, I know what a font is,” I said, looking down at the business card. I didn't have any idea which of the words on the card was in "Futura" and I didn't much care either..
“It’s a nice typeface,” she said smiling. “Futura. I took some design courses in university. I'm crazy about typefaces.”
She looked weirder than ever when she smiled. The skin around her cheekbones was stretched tight, like the bones underneath could just pop through the flesh at any moment. But her knockers were still incredible, and no one smiled much in porn films anyway.
“So,” I said, trying the steer the conversation away from whatever the fuck it was she was trying to talk about, “you haven't slapped me or dropped a drink on my head yet.”
“I'd have to go to the cooler and get a drink to dump one on your head. And then it'd just come out of my paycheque, so it's not really worth it, unless you really want me to?”
“No. I’d rather you didn’t. That’s how most of my interviews have gone so far, and I’m trying to stray away from that.”
“Maybe your interviews would go better if you didn’t approach lonely, vulnerable women and ask them to be in a porn film.”
She had a point. I conceded, internally, that it was something worth looking into in the future. But the future wasn’t now, and I still had this odd-but-strangely-enticing-and-attractive creature to deal with in the moment.
“Look,” I said, trying desperately to cut to the chase, “Maybe I should be sorry I brought it up, but it's brought up now, so I guess we'll just have to deal with it. Right now I just want to go and eat my hot dog, so let's just cut to the chase. Are you interested, or should I just leave before you do decide to dump a drink on my head, loss of income or not?”
She held my gaze for a terrifying length of time. After three or four minutes I desperately wanted to break our gaze, to stare at the magazine rack, or the selection of beef jerky, or the rows upon rows of cigarettes lined up behind her, or any-fucking-thing other than her stare which was trying its damndest to bore its way through my brain.
And then she broke it off for me and looked down at the business card again. “That’s your porn star name, isn’t it?”
“I’m looking to direct these films,” I said, “not star in them.”
“First pet. Street you grew up on. Right?”
I’m not sure what made me angrier – the fact that she saw through my terrible name, or the fact that I knew that if I didn’t answer her question she was going to just shrug her shoulders and our conversation would be over.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right.
She grabbed a pen from behind the counter and flipped my business card over, scrawling seven digits on the back. "I've got Thursday off," she said. "Call me. Buy me lunch or something. We can talk."
I'm not afraid to admit that I was so excited that I left my goddamn hot dog behind.
NOTE: This post has been midly edited, because details were missing, and parts of it just weren't sitting right with me. I think it's better now.
Holy Crap, it's Friday!
Well slap me with a pancake and call me Earl…
I just about forgot this week’s Random 10. I guess that shows you just how messed up a week I have. Or it illustrates how ultimately confused and out of synch with reality I am. One or the other.
Damn, and I was gonna write “This is Not a Prologue (Part Two)” tonight too. Oh well. I can get on that tomorrow.
Rules are the same as last week. Ten random songs, plus song #0 that is handpicked by me to start things off.
And that’s it for another week. Tune in tomorrow (hopefully) for “This Is Not a Prologue (Part Two)”…
I just about forgot this week’s Random 10. I guess that shows you just how messed up a week I have. Or it illustrates how ultimately confused and out of synch with reality I am. One or the other.
Damn, and I was gonna write “This is Not a Prologue (Part Two)” tonight too. Oh well. I can get on that tomorrow.
Rules are the same as last week. Ten random songs, plus song #0 that is handpicked by me to start things off.
- Harry Manx – The Great Unknown – Harry Manx is a BC bluesman I discovered when he played here in the ol’ WL a few years back. His gimmick (unfortunately, too many musical acts need a gimmick) is the inclusion of a fantastic Indian instrument in his repertoire of musical instruments. And yes, it gives him a fantastically unique sound, but even when he’s not strumming away on it, he can deliver the blues with the best of ‘em. Look him up some time. It’ll be worth it.
- Sheryl Crow – Maybe That’s Something – Gahd, I had to go to Amazon to look this song up, because my MP3 ID info is all messed up. Anyway, don’t much know this song, have even less to say about it. Er, Sheryl Crow rockz0rz. Mostly.
- Leonard Cohen – Our Lady of Shadows – And yet more musica obscura. I just download stuff from people I like, people I think I might like, people I think might be interesting, people I think will be bad, etc., and then never listen to it. This falls into the “downloaded from people I like” category, but I’ve still never heard it until now.
- Eagles – Victim of Love – This is off some kind of 1994 live bootleg thingy, I think. Another random download. Is that the theme this week? Time will tell. I know Don Henley gets a lot of flack from the cool folks, but I’m still a fan of his, and of the Eagles in general. If that makes me a loser, so be it. I was probably a loser before then anyway.
- Tori Amos – Bells for Her – Can’t go wrong with Tori. Gotta love someone who can peak like she did on her first album, and then continue on putting out interesting, challenging music that doesn’t completely alienate the listener.
- The Bangles – In Your Room – Yay for 80s chick bands! For technicalities sake, this is yet again a live version, from a late-90s or early-2000s reunion gig kind of thingy.
- Eagles – I Can’t Tell You Why – I’ve got 9,000 MP3s on my hard drive. Why do I so often get repeated bands during the Friday 10? This makes no sense to me…
- Level 42 – Fashion Fever – Er, hardly one of my favourites from them, but it’s on my hard drive because it’s on an album I’m mostly fond of, and as I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m an insane completist. Also, go crappy 80s music!
- Erasure – Stop! – Oh, more 80s tune-age. This time from the electronica side of things. Is it cheese? Yeah, pretty much. But a little cheese now and then is perfectly good. This, by the way, is some remixed version of the song. If anyone cares.
- Nine Inch Nails – Pinion – Short. Abrupt. Angry. To the point. The essence of NIN, distilled.
- Peter Gabriel – My Head Sounds Like That – Off his most recent album – Up – for whatever reason, I never really cared much for this song. Musically, it’s fine. Lyrically…it bugs me somehow. Oh well, I shouldn’t complain I guess, as bad Peter Gabriel is still better than most of the dreck available…
And that’s it for another week. Tune in tomorrow (hopefully) for “This Is Not a Prologue (Part Two)”…
Sunday, October 09, 2005
This is what boredom looks like.
Hm, the squishy version looks kind of dumb, now that I've uploaded it. Oh well, I'm also too lazy to fix it. Click on the image to see the less crappy, less squishy version...
Oh, and by the way, I've *always* wanted to make this movie...
This is not a prologue (Part One)
May 2001
“Pornography,” I said.
Jason looked at me funny, like he was waiting for a punchline or something. He clicked his fingernails against his drink – double rye and coke – while in the background someone was belting out an 80s power ballad on a karaoke machine.
Finally he spoke. “That’s it?” he asked me. “That’s your big get-rich-quick plan? Pornography?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t you think you’re missing something? Like, I don’t know…details, maybe?”
“Details, Schmetails. We can work that sort of stuff out later. For now, the only thing we need to worry about is this: Supply and demand.”
“Uh-huh.” It didn’t sound like I was doing much to convince him.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” I continued, “but there’s a massive – and I mean massive – demand for pornography.”
“Right. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s also a massive supply.”
I waved my hand at looked down at my own drink. The beer had gone warm and flat. I hadn’t really wanted it in the first place, this was just the only place that Jason would ever agree to meet. The fact that it was a karaoke bar was something I would never understand.
“Is that something else you’d file under ‘Details, Schmetails?’”
“As a matter of fact, it would.”
“You’re going to have to think about the details eventually, you know.”
“I know. But for now, one thing at a time. One step at a time. One day at a time. First step, money.”
“Well, at least it’s nice to see you’re thinking about one detail. Any ideas on where you’re going to get it from?”
“Investors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Uh-huh. Wait, what? What do you mean, that’s where I come in?”
“Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it? I mean, you handle people’s investment portfolios and whatnot. All you do is steer some of that investment my way, and then…” My voice trailed off when I realized that Jason was laughing at me. It wasn’t just a small chuckle either. This was a massive, shake your shoulders, roll your belly kind of laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry to say this, my friend, but right at the moment I can’t think of a single person who’d be interested in dumping their retirement money into an independently produced porno flick.”
“So don’t tell them that part.”
“Oh, sure, as if that wasn’t more than just a little bit illegal.”
“Oh, don’t be such a pussy. You don’t have to completely lie to them. It’s just…you know, a lie by omission. You don’t tell them it’s a porn film, you say that it’s an independent movie that someone local is trying to make, and sure it’s high risk, but it has a good chance at paying off, and blah blah blah.”
He shook his head. “Sorry man, it’s just not going to happen that way.”
“I don’t even need very much.”
“How much is not very much?”
I tugged the scrap of paper on which I’d worked out a very basic budget out of my pocket and unfolded it, setting on the table between the two of us. “The way I’m looking at it, we grab a basic, entry-level, digital video camera, and a shitload of videotapes. I can do the editing on my PC, and I’ve got a pirated copy of Adobe Premier already…”
“I thought all the pros used Final Cut Pro on the Macintosh.”
“Just shut up and listen. Okay, so we buy a camera, we buy a shitload of tapes, I’ve got the necessary editing equipment already. All we need then is talent, and I figure if we can track down a few hot and horny young things, flash the promise of stardom in front of them, and we can probably get them in front of the camera for a few bucks and sandwich halfway through the day.”
“And I’m sure you have a little black book that’s just full of the names and phone numbers of these hot and horny young things, don’t you?”
“Why are you always so negative?”
“So, had you given any thought to how you were going to track these women down? Just go up to them and say, ‘Hi, want to be a porn star?’”
“Well, I thought I might get a business card first.”
“Oh, I can only imagine how much that will improve your chances.” He shook his head and quickly finished his drink, then stared at me with a look I knew well – it was the look of him trying to dig under the surface of something.
“What’s this really about?” he asked. “Is this just some stupid way to score chicks’ phone numbers?”
“Jesus Christ, no.”
“This isn’t just some plan to try to get a few dozen women into the sack with you, so can check out their ‘abilities’?”
“No, it’s not.”
“So, really, what’s this about then?”
I thought about what I was going to say, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give Jason the real one or some half-assed sales pitch. I noticed that the voice coming over the karaoke speakers had changed, and a rap song was now playing underneath the sound of someone who was trying far too hard to be black.
“Jason,” I finally said, “I’m an assistant manager at a franchise electronics store. I’m 25 years old, and as far as my own corporate ladder goes, there aren’t too many steps left. It’s a little late in life for me to decide to become a doctor or a lawyer, and besides I hardly have the money for 12 years of schooling in either case. If I’m ever going to be successful, the sad truth is that I’m going to have to come up with some retarded idea that’s just crazy enough to work. I don’t know if this idea is it or not, but I know that at least it’s feasible. It’s something that I can do. There’s money to be made, a lot of it too, if you can just find the right product at the right time, and if you can manage to ride the wave of popularity and success in just the right way. And I think it’s worth a try.”
He kept his gaze locked on me, digging away at me, trying to see how much of what I had said was true. It drove me nuts, because Jason was always so fucking good at digging the truth out of people. I was just glad that I what I had told him had, in fact, been the truth.
And then he broke the gaze and looked down at the budget again, looking at the numbers, crunching them in his head. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” he said.
“I know,” I told him.
“I’ll tell you what. There’s still not a chance in hell that I’m going to embezzle even a dime from any of my clients in order to fund this lunatic production, but I’ve got a few grand tucked away that I’ve been waiting for the right time to drop into the right investment. My gut tells me that this investment isn’t it, but I’m willing to put my faith into you anyway.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But,” he continued, looking back up at me again, and this time there was a very different look in his eyes. “I want you to realize that I’m going to just toss you a few thousand dollars so you can piss it away on a project you have no intention of seeing through to the end. If you don’t go into this with every bit of passion and energy that you have, if you don’t work your ass to do everything that you can to ensure that this is a success, I’m going to expect you to return every fucking penny to me. Do you understand me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” he said, and slid my budget back towards me. “We’ll go shopping in the morning.”
“Congratulations,” I said, unable to suppress a smile. “You’re officially in the pornography business.”
“That’s detail number one taken care of. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Talent,” I said, as my eyes drifted towards an attractive blonde who was sitting with a cluster of her friends at a table ten feet away. I imagined myself asking her if she wanted to be a porn star. And I imagined her slapping me across the face, slamming her knee into my crotch, and storming out of the bar.
Something told me this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Good luck with that,” Jason said.
“Thanks for your support.”
“Pornography,” I said.
Jason looked at me funny, like he was waiting for a punchline or something. He clicked his fingernails against his drink – double rye and coke – while in the background someone was belting out an 80s power ballad on a karaoke machine.
Finally he spoke. “That’s it?” he asked me. “That’s your big get-rich-quick plan? Pornography?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t you think you’re missing something? Like, I don’t know…details, maybe?”
“Details, Schmetails. We can work that sort of stuff out later. For now, the only thing we need to worry about is this: Supply and demand.”
“Uh-huh.” It didn’t sound like I was doing much to convince him.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” I continued, “but there’s a massive – and I mean massive – demand for pornography.”
“Right. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s also a massive supply.”
I waved my hand at looked down at my own drink. The beer had gone warm and flat. I hadn’t really wanted it in the first place, this was just the only place that Jason would ever agree to meet. The fact that it was a karaoke bar was something I would never understand.
“Is that something else you’d file under ‘Details, Schmetails?’”
“As a matter of fact, it would.”
“You’re going to have to think about the details eventually, you know.”
“I know. But for now, one thing at a time. One step at a time. One day at a time. First step, money.”
“Well, at least it’s nice to see you’re thinking about one detail. Any ideas on where you’re going to get it from?”
“Investors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Uh-huh. Wait, what? What do you mean, that’s where I come in?”
“Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it? I mean, you handle people’s investment portfolios and whatnot. All you do is steer some of that investment my way, and then…” My voice trailed off when I realized that Jason was laughing at me. It wasn’t just a small chuckle either. This was a massive, shake your shoulders, roll your belly kind of laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry to say this, my friend, but right at the moment I can’t think of a single person who’d be interested in dumping their retirement money into an independently produced porno flick.”
“So don’t tell them that part.”
“Oh, sure, as if that wasn’t more than just a little bit illegal.”
“Oh, don’t be such a pussy. You don’t have to completely lie to them. It’s just…you know, a lie by omission. You don’t tell them it’s a porn film, you say that it’s an independent movie that someone local is trying to make, and sure it’s high risk, but it has a good chance at paying off, and blah blah blah.”
He shook his head. “Sorry man, it’s just not going to happen that way.”
“I don’t even need very much.”
“How much is not very much?”
I tugged the scrap of paper on which I’d worked out a very basic budget out of my pocket and unfolded it, setting on the table between the two of us. “The way I’m looking at it, we grab a basic, entry-level, digital video camera, and a shitload of videotapes. I can do the editing on my PC, and I’ve got a pirated copy of Adobe Premier already…”
“I thought all the pros used Final Cut Pro on the Macintosh.”
“Just shut up and listen. Okay, so we buy a camera, we buy a shitload of tapes, I’ve got the necessary editing equipment already. All we need then is talent, and I figure if we can track down a few hot and horny young things, flash the promise of stardom in front of them, and we can probably get them in front of the camera for a few bucks and sandwich halfway through the day.”
“And I’m sure you have a little black book that’s just full of the names and phone numbers of these hot and horny young things, don’t you?”
“Why are you always so negative?”
“So, had you given any thought to how you were going to track these women down? Just go up to them and say, ‘Hi, want to be a porn star?’”
“Well, I thought I might get a business card first.”
“Oh, I can only imagine how much that will improve your chances.” He shook his head and quickly finished his drink, then stared at me with a look I knew well – it was the look of him trying to dig under the surface of something.
“What’s this really about?” he asked. “Is this just some stupid way to score chicks’ phone numbers?”
“Jesus Christ, no.”
“This isn’t just some plan to try to get a few dozen women into the sack with you, so can check out their ‘abilities’?”
“No, it’s not.”
“So, really, what’s this about then?”
I thought about what I was going to say, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give Jason the real one or some half-assed sales pitch. I noticed that the voice coming over the karaoke speakers had changed, and a rap song was now playing underneath the sound of someone who was trying far too hard to be black.
“Jason,” I finally said, “I’m an assistant manager at a franchise electronics store. I’m 25 years old, and as far as my own corporate ladder goes, there aren’t too many steps left. It’s a little late in life for me to decide to become a doctor or a lawyer, and besides I hardly have the money for 12 years of schooling in either case. If I’m ever going to be successful, the sad truth is that I’m going to have to come up with some retarded idea that’s just crazy enough to work. I don’t know if this idea is it or not, but I know that at least it’s feasible. It’s something that I can do. There’s money to be made, a lot of it too, if you can just find the right product at the right time, and if you can manage to ride the wave of popularity and success in just the right way. And I think it’s worth a try.”
He kept his gaze locked on me, digging away at me, trying to see how much of what I had said was true. It drove me nuts, because Jason was always so fucking good at digging the truth out of people. I was just glad that I what I had told him had, in fact, been the truth.
And then he broke the gaze and looked down at the budget again, looking at the numbers, crunching them in his head. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” he said.
“I know,” I told him.
“I’ll tell you what. There’s still not a chance in hell that I’m going to embezzle even a dime from any of my clients in order to fund this lunatic production, but I’ve got a few grand tucked away that I’ve been waiting for the right time to drop into the right investment. My gut tells me that this investment isn’t it, but I’m willing to put my faith into you anyway.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“But,” he continued, looking back up at me again, and this time there was a very different look in his eyes. “I want you to realize that I’m going to just toss you a few thousand dollars so you can piss it away on a project you have no intention of seeing through to the end. If you don’t go into this with every bit of passion and energy that you have, if you don’t work your ass to do everything that you can to ensure that this is a success, I’m going to expect you to return every fucking penny to me. Do you understand me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” he said, and slid my budget back towards me. “We’ll go shopping in the morning.”
“Congratulations,” I said, unable to suppress a smile. “You’re officially in the pornography business.”
“That’s detail number one taken care of. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Talent,” I said, as my eyes drifted towards an attractive blonde who was sitting with a cluster of her friends at a table ten feet away. I imagined myself asking her if she wanted to be a porn star. And I imagined her slapping me across the face, slamming her knee into my crotch, and storming out of the bar.
Something told me this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Good luck with that,” Jason said.
“Thanks for your support.”
This is not a prologue.
So, I had an idea.
As I've said a few times, I'm really itching to get started on the Pornographer's Blues novel, but I dare not actually begin until November 1, because it's going to be my NaNoWriMo Novel for 2005. But the desire to dip my toes into the world, to start dabbling with, and defining, the characters who will populate the world, is getting to be nearly overwhelming.
And then, tonight, out of the blue, I was struck with an idea.
Why *not* start playing with them?
I mean, as long as I'm not writing anything from the novel, that should be fine, right? I mean, I could write a series of short stories, that involve the characters, and the locations, and the situations that lead up to the events of the novel. That would give me a chance to dabble in the world, to play around with the characters, to try on their motivations, to see what sort of folks they turn out to be like. And it doesn't do anything to damage my November 1 start of the novel itself.
"Brilliant!" I thought.
So, over the next few weeks, there maybe a handful of these short little vignettes appearing here. For those of you interested in my forray into NaNo for this year, this will be a bit of a preview for you. For those of you not interested, well, I hope you kind of enjoy them anyway.
The first one will be up tonight. Whenever I get around to finishing it.
As I've said a few times, I'm really itching to get started on the Pornographer's Blues novel, but I dare not actually begin until November 1, because it's going to be my NaNoWriMo Novel for 2005. But the desire to dip my toes into the world, to start dabbling with, and defining, the characters who will populate the world, is getting to be nearly overwhelming.
And then, tonight, out of the blue, I was struck with an idea.
Why *not* start playing with them?
I mean, as long as I'm not writing anything from the novel, that should be fine, right? I mean, I could write a series of short stories, that involve the characters, and the locations, and the situations that lead up to the events of the novel. That would give me a chance to dabble in the world, to play around with the characters, to try on their motivations, to see what sort of folks they turn out to be like. And it doesn't do anything to damage my November 1 start of the novel itself.
"Brilliant!" I thought.
So, over the next few weeks, there maybe a handful of these short little vignettes appearing here. For those of you interested in my forray into NaNo for this year, this will be a bit of a preview for you. For those of you not interested, well, I hope you kind of enjoy them anyway.
The first one will be up tonight. Whenever I get around to finishing it.
Friday, October 07, 2005
And in other news...
...does anyone know why my MS Word Blogger plug-in thingy seems to disappear from MS Word everytime I reboot my computer. It's annoying the sweet bloody bejeezus outta me.
Another 10* Songs o' Crap**
Yes, I’m going to do this ridiculous thing again. In spite of the fact that I’ve been blogging pretty regularly lately, and in spite of the fact that there’s terrible, terrible embarrassment waiting for me somewhere down this path, I’m going to do this again. What can I say, I’m a glutton for punishment.
However, I’m going to make a minor switch, and actually cover 11 songs, and I’ll tell you why (even though I’m quite certain none of you care).
The easiest way I have of loading up my entire MP3 playlist is to just double-click a song in my Winamp Media List. It loads that one song, plus every other song in the media list, and continues on its merry way.
So, song #0 is the song that I actually chose – it was not a random pick – to start this whole thing off.
Rules will remain the same in the weeks to come.
And that’s for this week. Two weeks, and nothing embarrassing to speak of. I’m the luckiest man in the world! Well, except maybe for whoever it is that’s currently sleeping with Nicole Kidman. He’s probably pretty lucky too.
Thank you! Good night!
*11 songs, actually, but I already explained that, and I won’t be explaining it again.
** This, and all future uses of the word “Crap” are used in honour of the coolest flash animated guy in a funny Mexican wrestling mask ever, STRONGBAD!
However, I’m going to make a minor switch, and actually cover 11 songs, and I’ll tell you why (even though I’m quite certain none of you care).
The easiest way I have of loading up my entire MP3 playlist is to just double-click a song in my Winamp Media List. It loads that one song, plus every other song in the media list, and continues on its merry way.
So, song #0 is the song that I actually chose – it was not a random pick – to start this whole thing off.
Rules will remain the same in the weeks to come.
- They Might Be Giants – Hopeless Bleak Despair – I’ve been in kind of a They Might Be Giants mode lately, and this is off one of their more recent albums that it took me forever to actually get around to listening to. Now that I have, this is one of my favourite songs, period. Near as I can tell, it’s a bit of a satirical poke at the angsty-whiner-type, and I swear it’s laugh-out-loud funny the first time you hear it.
- Howard Jones – No One Is to Blame – Some unashamed 80s tunage here. One of my favourites at the time, it manages to come across as not painfully dated. And thank Christ it’s not a “power ballad” – I never cared much for those. For specifics sake, this is the original version, and not the later version that included another staple of the 80s – Phil Collins – on the drums.
- Pink Floyd – A Pillow of Winds – A soft, pleasant piece – and something that sounds quite unlike their later work – from the album “Meddle”. This album is a favourite of mine for their 23-minute “Echoes” which took up Side B of the cassette, but I often forget how good the songs on the first half of the album are.
- Howard Jones – Is There A Difference – Wow, we’re already hitting the same album again. This song hasn’t held up quite so well over time, and comes across with a feel that belongs very solidly to the 80s. Which is fun, in a weird, painful, nostalgic way. Have I mentioned before that I’d love to direct a play set in the 80s? And not just set in the 80s, but very visibly set in the 80s, where I could drag out all sorts of crappy music and crappy fashions, etc. etc. It has occurred to me that “American Psycho” could, potentially, be adapted for theatre, but that’s based on the film, and not on having read the book, which I haven’t. Anyone have any idea of a theatrical version of the novel has already been attempted?
- Ani DiFranco – Untouchable Face – It was through the journals of Javina that I first stumbled upon the name Ani DiFranco. Bored one night, and with a copy of Kazaa installed on my machine, I decided to hunt down some material and find out who this singer was who I’d read so much about. I fell in love with her work immediately. A lot of her stuff is, clearly, written to speak to women, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a little something in it as well, even if I *am* a man.
- Grim Fandango – High Roller – And now some game music. This was one of the best games I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing, but sadly one that was missed by much of the gaming public. The music helped to set such a memorable atmosphere that, not long after completing the game, I set out to track down the official soundtrack by any means possible. I won’t share exactly what means were necessary, but suffice it say, the MP3s are happily stored on my hard drive.
- Kingston Trio – Where Have All The Flowers Gone – This is another bored Kazaa search, on a night when I tried to track down some tunes that I had listened to as a child thanks to my parents records. I could only remember a handful of Kingston Trio songs, and only dug out a half dozen or so that I remembered. I know this is a Dylon song, originally, but this is the version I’m more familiar with, however right or wrong that might be…
- Alexander Brandon – The Illuminati – From the Deus Ex soundtrack – and this week it’s from the *good* Deus Ex, the original. Nice use of some of the musical themes that recur throughout the game in this piece.
- Calas Went Away – Enigma – I went through kind of an Enigma phase not long after they (he?) released their first album. I think this is off the first album, but it’s brutally difficult to say for sure, as they do all kind of sound the same, unfortunately.
- Pink Floyd – Big Theme – This is, I think, off my massive, 18-CD ROIO “A Tree Full of Secrets” which is a fantastic collection of PF rarities. It’s also a lot to listen to, and I don’t actually think I’ve ever actually listened to all 18 CDs, because this song sounds completely unfamiliar to me, though it does seem like it might have come from either a late, post-Waters Floyd album, or a David Gilmour solo project. Oh, wait, some dialogue has come in near the end that seems to imply that this is from the ridiculous vanity “Gilmour and Mason Racing Project” that came out in the late 90s, I think. Bleargh. Thought it seemed like crappy, diluted Floyd.
- Pink Floyd – Apples and Oranges – And still *more* Floyd! I think is goes in the opposite direction, back to the earliest stuff, when Syd Barrett was still around. But I might be wrong about that. I’m pretty sure this is also from the Tree Full of Secrets collection.
And that’s for this week. Two weeks, and nothing embarrassing to speak of. I’m the luckiest man in the world! Well, except maybe for whoever it is that’s currently sleeping with Nicole Kidman. He’s probably pretty lucky too.
Thank you! Good night!
*11 songs, actually, but I already explained that, and I won’t be explaining it again.
** This, and all future uses of the word “Crap” are used in honour of the coolest flash animated guy in a funny Mexican wrestling mask ever, STRONGBAD!
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
More pornographers
A friend told me last night that I should ignore the National Novel Writing Month November 1st start date, and get started on The Small Town Pornographer's Blues novel straight away. His argument was that, because I was incredibly enthused about the novel now, and because I am rarely ever enthused about anything, I should strike while the iron is hot, as they say, instead of waiting until November 1, by which time my excitement may have worn off.
Which is kind of a good point. But I don't really have time for it right now. And if I got started on it now, I'd have to A) come up with another idea for NaNo, and B) put Pornographer's Blues on hold at the end of October, at least until December. Neither of those things I want to do, so it looks like I'll just have to cross my fingers and hope that I can remain excited and enthusiastic about the book right up until November.
I keep writing bits of it my head, though...the first few pages of the first chapter are going to be so polished by the time I actually sit down to write them...
Oh, one other tidbit about the novel -- I'm considering opening each chapter with a quote of some kind from a song. I've compiled a few, though I'm going to need a whole lot more to make it through the book (though, interesting enough, the idea has already started working inversely where, instead of stumbling upon a quote that's perfect for a planned chapter, a quote actually inspires a never before considered idea for a chapter). The actual chapter titles would then, also, be named from something pulled from the quote.
As an example, Chapter One is, at least for the moment, titled "Little Girls" and will be accompanied by this fine quote from the Oingo Boingo song of the same name:
Guesses on exactly what is going to transpire in Chapter One are welcome in the comments...
Which is kind of a good point. But I don't really have time for it right now. And if I got started on it now, I'd have to A) come up with another idea for NaNo, and B) put Pornographer's Blues on hold at the end of October, at least until December. Neither of those things I want to do, so it looks like I'll just have to cross my fingers and hope that I can remain excited and enthusiastic about the book right up until November.
I keep writing bits of it my head, though...the first few pages of the first chapter are going to be so polished by the time I actually sit down to write them...
Oh, one other tidbit about the novel -- I'm considering opening each chapter with a quote of some kind from a song. I've compiled a few, though I'm going to need a whole lot more to make it through the book (though, interesting enough, the idea has already started working inversely where, instead of stumbling upon a quote that's perfect for a planned chapter, a quote actually inspires a never before considered idea for a chapter). The actual chapter titles would then, also, be named from something pulled from the quote.
As an example, Chapter One is, at least for the moment, titled "Little Girls" and will be accompanied by this fine quote from the Oingo Boingo song of the same name:
I love little girls, they make me feel so good
I love little girls, they make me feel so bad
When they're around they make me feel like I'm the only guy in town
I love little girls, they make me feel so good.
— Oingo Boingo
Little Girls
Guesses on exactly what is going to transpire in Chapter One are welcome in the comments...
Obey the cheese!
Cheese must be obeyed at all times, or you may face the wraith of the cheese. One mustn’t face the wraith of the cheese. Cheese can be very wraith…ful.
Er, well, this is just a test of blog posting from MS Word, with photos. I’m perversely curious to see exactly how the blogging interface will deal with the images used in this document (if it will deal with them at all…
EDIT: Yeah, as suspected, the photos didn’t go. Oh well, I guess this MS Word Blogger interface can’t be perfect, can it?
Er, well, this is just a test of blog posting from MS Word, with photos. I’m perversely curious to see exactly how the blogging interface will deal with the images used in this document (if it will deal with them at all…
EDIT: Yeah, as suspected, the photos didn’t go. Oh well, I guess this MS Word Blogger interface can’t be perfect, can it?
The first of many...
So, I'm officially signed up for NaNoWriMo 2005 -- I got an email tonight announcing the reactivation of the site, and immediately logged in to reactivate my account.
Something tells me that this will be the first of *many* NaNo related blog posts to come over the course of October, through November, and likely into December.
The toughest thing, right now, is now starting the novel. Ideas are pinging and ponging through my head like crazy, and while I don't want to squash them, I also don't want to burn out my excitement for this book before I even start it.
Having said that, I offer a small teaser. As much as I'm not really supposed to start my NaNo novel until November first, I've spent so much time writing and rewriting the first chapter in my head, that, at this point, the first line of the novel is pretty much burned into my brain.
Here is is, folks.
"You didn't have to be an expert to know, immediately, that she had never had a cock in her mouth before."
Filthy? Sure. But c'mon, it's called "The Small Town Pornographer's Blues" for Christ's sake. And don't tell me that first line doesn't leave you wanting more. Because I know it does...
Something tells me that this will be the first of *many* NaNo related blog posts to come over the course of October, through November, and likely into December.
The toughest thing, right now, is now starting the novel. Ideas are pinging and ponging through my head like crazy, and while I don't want to squash them, I also don't want to burn out my excitement for this book before I even start it.
Having said that, I offer a small teaser. As much as I'm not really supposed to start my NaNo novel until November first, I've spent so much time writing and rewriting the first chapter in my head, that, at this point, the first line of the novel is pretty much burned into my brain.
Here is is, folks.
"You didn't have to be an expert to know, immediately, that she had never had a cock in her mouth before."
Filthy? Sure. But c'mon, it's called "The Small Town Pornographer's Blues" for Christ's sake. And don't tell me that first line doesn't leave you wanting more. Because I know it does...
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Okay, seriously, this has got to stop...
Discovered while bored and browsing Yahoo News' "Odd News" section...
No offense to those who have been sexually assaulted, and no offense to those who have been duped by doctors in the past, but if you're stupid enough to *believe* your physician when he tells you that the only way to cure your disease is to have sex with him, you should waive your right to ever be able to sue him -- or, I suppose, anyone else -- on the grounds that you are a moron.
Colour me cynical, but something tells me that when the doctor offered this prospective treatment (for which, I should add, he should be restricted from ever suing anyone on the grounds of being a complete moron) the first thing through the woman's mind wasn't, "Hm, well, that seems like a perfectly good idea," but rather, "Hm, well, if I tolerate this for a few minutes, I can probably sue his ass off."
Can we please stop looking for ways to make a quick buck by tying up our courts with retarded, frivolous lawsuits?
Please?
Can we at least impose some kind of an IQ test before allowing some to file a claim?
SEATTLE (Reuters) - An Oregon woman whose doctor convinced her that he could cure her lower back pain by having sex with her is suing him and his medical clinic for $4 million, according to legal documents obtained on Monday.
ADVERTISEMENT
The doctor, Randall Smith, who was 50 at the time, was stripped of his license and sent to jail for 60 days last year for charging the state's Oregon Health Plan $5,000 for his 45-minute "treatments" involving the woman.
"Dr. Smith's medical treatment included intercourse in which he told plaintiff was needed to help alleviate plaintiff's lower back and lower extremity pain," the former patient said in the lawsuit.
The lawsuit, which charges battery, negligence and intentional and negligent infliction of emotional distress, was filed on Friday in Multnomah County court.
"We never comment on lawsuits," said a spokesman for the Adventist Medical Group clinic in Gresham, Oregon where Smith worked. Smith could not be located for comment.
Though he pleaded guilty to submitting false health care claims, a felony, Smith maintained the sex with the 47-year-old woman was consensual.
No offense to those who have been sexually assaulted, and no offense to those who have been duped by doctors in the past, but if you're stupid enough to *believe* your physician when he tells you that the only way to cure your disease is to have sex with him, you should waive your right to ever be able to sue him -- or, I suppose, anyone else -- on the grounds that you are a moron.
Colour me cynical, but something tells me that when the doctor offered this prospective treatment (for which, I should add, he should be restricted from ever suing anyone on the grounds of being a complete moron) the first thing through the woman's mind wasn't, "Hm, well, that seems like a perfectly good idea," but rather, "Hm, well, if I tolerate this for a few minutes, I can probably sue his ass off."
Can we please stop looking for ways to make a quick buck by tying up our courts with retarded, frivolous lawsuits?
Please?
Can we at least impose some kind of an IQ test before allowing some to file a claim?
Saturday, October 01, 2005
On Comments...
Dear readers...
(and that includes those of you coming here looking for skanky sluts...)
Would you be so kind as to occasionally leave actual, legitimate comments? You know, the kind that don't involve trying to tell me how much money I can make by working from home while involved in some sort of terrible, awful scam.
Thank you,
Todd
(and that includes those of you coming here looking for skanky sluts...)
Would you be so kind as to occasionally leave actual, legitimate comments? You know, the kind that don't involve trying to tell me how much money I can make by working from home while involved in some sort of terrible, awful scam.
Thank you,
Todd
Friday, September 30, 2005
10 Crappy Songs
I’ll probably regret this, but I’ve stumbled across an interesting idea on another blog (Over at Slacktivist where I frequent for the biting criticism of the Left Behind series of novels) that I’m too bored not to try.
It’s called the Friday 10. Here’s how it works.
You load up your music library. You hit the random button. And then you post the first ten songs that appear.
I’ll probably regret this because I have a weird habit of downloading MP3 files, just to see what they’re like, ridiculous things, pop-culturey things, and then I never delete them. I’m currently sporting 9165 songs, and I’m sure that there’s a whole lot in there that are, not only not good, but probably embarrassing as well.
Though I suppose that’s why this exercise is interesting.
Without further ado, here are this week’s Friday 10 (which may also be the last week, if I completely forget about this notion by next week, which is pretty goddamn likely)…
And so that brings us to the end of this week’s Friday 10. Thankfully nothing overly embarrassing cropped up, which means I might actually try to do this next week. Not only that, it actually forced me to sit here and listen all the way through a bunch of songs, songs that are taking up space on my hard drive, that I normally would have just skipped through. Which is kind of cool. Because some of these songs are pretty good.
I suppose the point of this Friday 10 thing is also to illustrate the (potentially) diverse nature of the blogger’s music collection. I don’t have the foggiest idea how diverse this selection of music is, but that’s not up to me to decide, is it.
See you next Friday.
PS: This post was written in MS Word using Blogger’s spiffy plugin.
PPS: I’m trying editing the blog in MS Word, but I’m not sure if it’ll just post another entry. If it does, I’m deleting the old one.
PPPS: It actually updated the original blog post, instead of dumping a brand new one on the blog. OMFGWTFBBQ, I think I’m in love with blogging from MS Word…
It’s called the Friday 10. Here’s how it works.
You load up your music library. You hit the random button. And then you post the first ten songs that appear.
I’ll probably regret this because I have a weird habit of downloading MP3 files, just to see what they’re like, ridiculous things, pop-culturey things, and then I never delete them. I’m currently sporting 9165 songs, and I’m sure that there’s a whole lot in there that are, not only not good, but probably embarrassing as well.
Though I suppose that’s why this exercise is interesting.
Without further ado, here are this week’s Friday 10 (which may also be the last week, if I completely forget about this notion by next week, which is pretty goddamn likely)…
- The Beatles – I Want You (She’s So Heavy) – I don’t think I’ve ever heard this song before…see what relentless downloading can do?
- The Bangles – Manic Monday – Gotta love 80s chick bands. This actually a live version, from somewhere, after a post-new-millennium reunion of the band. The song is the best thing ever, but I have a major love for their version of “Hazy Shade of Winter” – I have a perverse fascination with cover songs…
- Antarctica (JC Denton’s Lair) – Deus Ex: Invisible War Official Soundtrack – I like game music, because it allows me to relive the experience of playing that game. Granted, the experience of playing Deus Ex: Invisible War is not something I really want to relive, but some of the music is not half bad (and, while on the topic, all of the music from the original game is fantastic) though this song is not among those…
- Tangerine Dream – All of a Dither – Someone I knew in high school originally got me interested in Tangerine Dream. This song doesn’t ring much of a bell to me, but some of their stuff can instantly transport me back to the late 80s with just a few notes.
- Radiohead – Creep (Acoustic Version) – Nothing much to say here, except that this song is brilliant, wonderful, fantastic, and ridiculously sad. Can’t go wrong with something like.
- Mike Oldfield – Runaway Son – I’m a massive fan of Oldfield’s work (and am incredibly enthused about the upcoming, new, two-disc album) but this song doesn’t do a damn thing for me. Why do I have it? Because it’s Mike Oldfield, and I’m one of those psychotic types who can’t sleep unless he has *everything* from certain artists, good or bad. Yeah, kill me now.
- Depeche Mode – My Secret Garden – Well, the theme of this week’s Friday 10 seems to be bands I enjoy playing songs I’m not even remotely familiar with. Depeche Mode’s stuff can drop me back into the late 80s and early 90s with just a few notes, when it’s the right song, but this isn’t the right song. I don’t know this song at all. It doesn’t seem to be a bad song, mind you, just, you know, unfamiliar.
- Tomoyasu Hotei and Ray Cooper – A Drug Score 3 – From the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Soundtrack – can’t go wrong with that. Dr. Thompson, you are still missed…
- Marilyn Manson – Rock Is – I think I’ve got this song from a soundtrack of some kind, but I can’t place what the soundtrack is at the moment. Nonetheless, it’s one of the few songs from Mr. (Ms.?) Manson that I enjoy. Wait, I’m thinking now that this might be from the Matrix Soundtrack. Is that possible? Whatever…no one cares…
- Eurythmics – Sex Crime (1984) – Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is from the mid-80s film version of George Orwell’s 1984, correct? I can’t remember. If it is, then I’m reminded of how much I’d love to see that film again…I haven’t seen it since, well, 1984, and that’s more than 20 years. And if this song isn’t from that film, then I’ve just made an internal, memory-based, non-sequitor. And I think that’s unhealthy.
And so that brings us to the end of this week’s Friday 10. Thankfully nothing overly embarrassing cropped up, which means I might actually try to do this next week. Not only that, it actually forced me to sit here and listen all the way through a bunch of songs, songs that are taking up space on my hard drive, that I normally would have just skipped through. Which is kind of cool. Because some of these songs are pretty good.
I suppose the point of this Friday 10 thing is also to illustrate the (potentially) diverse nature of the blogger’s music collection. I don’t have the foggiest idea how diverse this selection of music is, but that’s not up to me to decide, is it.
See you next Friday.
PS: This post was written in MS Word using Blogger’s spiffy plugin.
PPS: I’m trying editing the blog in MS Word, but I’m not sure if it’ll just post another entry. If it does, I’m deleting the old one.
PPPS: It actually updated the original blog post, instead of dumping a brand new one on the blog. OMFGWTFBBQ, I think I’m in love with blogging from MS Word…
And apparently...
...It works. Though I need to remember to leave a few extra graf breaks, to put some distance between the bottom of the entry and the silly "Sent via Blackberry" message...
Sent via BlackBerry on the Bell Mobility network
Test
Q. How can you tell I'm bored?
A. I'm farting around, trying to ge moblogging set up on my Blackberry.
Sent via BlackBerry on the Bell Mobility network
Fini (or In Case You Missed It)
In case you missed the reference in my last column (which appeared on the street today) it is, at long last, finished -- I finally got to type the words "The End" on the last page of the novel I started last November during national novel writing month.
I actually finished it last week. I'm not sure why I didn't make any mention of it here, after counting down the last few thousand words so religiously. I think, maybe, I found myself so relieved to finally be finished, to finally have a novel finished after so many attempts of starting and not quite getting through, that I just kind of purged all thought of it from my mind from the moment it was done. It took me three days to remember to send the last few pages to the friend that had been reading along, ever step of the way, since November, and usually I'd send him something as soon as it was complete.
In a way, I was dreading it being over as well. In the same way that, when reading a really, really good book you can find yourself dreading the end, because you'll have to close the book on the events and the characters and the people you've come to know and love over time, so it is when writing a book. I really grew to care about these characters, and even like most of them (some of them tried very hard to be unlikeable, but in the end, I think even they found a few shreds of decency). So walking away from them was hard.
Not that I won't be visiting them at some point in the future -- the book may be done, but it's a mess. It needs a rewrite *badly*. But I need to put it away for awhile. I need to let the characters and the ideas and the themes drift out of my head, so that when I go back to do the rewrite, I can approach it with a completely new set of eyes. So I can be a bit more objective, so I can more easily yank out the parts that don't work, and discover the things that really, really do.
Until then, I have a one act play called "Dinner and Drinks" in the works (three stories, about three different stages of relationships). I'm about halfway through one of the stories, and I'm already convinced that it would be almost impossible to put on the stage here in Williams Lake without offending more than half of the people who came to see it. Which, while not something I'm always against, isn't really the point of the story. Unfortunately, some of the subject matter in the play has proven difficult to talk about without being...well, vulgar.
Still, if all goes well, the play should be complete by the first of November, and the start of National Novel Writing Month, and my third crack at it. Two weeks ago I was terrified, because I realized that I'd been spending so much time finishing last year's novel that I didn't have any ideas for a new one. No old ideas rattling around in my head waiting to come out either.
A title came to me one night, while lying in bed, my brain refusing to drift off to sleep. Even though, at the time, there was no story attached to it, the title was too good not to use -- "The Smalltown Pornographer's Blues". I decided the next day that it would be a fun challenge to go into a book with nothing but the title, and just sort of let the story tell itself, however it saw fit. Within the next few days, I'd figured out the ending, as well as the first two chapters, so I'm pretty confident that this will actually be doable.
And even if it wasn't...well, the title would *still* be too good not to try.
I've avoided blogging the novels in the past, though I did stumble past a few people who were posting their entire book, as they wrote it, to their blog, and it struck me as interesting idea. I probably won't go quite that far (I'm a little nervous about copyright infringement, after getting burned a number of years back by a newspaper that shall remain nameless) but I might post occasional novel excerpts here, so if you're interested in the saga of my pornographer and his blues, you'd do best to visit periodically during the month of November.
In my last bit of writing news, I'm considering getting into small-town political discussions in my column by writing a review of campaign signage. I've seen two signs so far that have made me think of two things that are very different than what they intended, and I thought it could be a pretty funny approach.
Though I'll probably wait until a week or two before the election itself, just to make sure that everyone who's going to get a sign up *gets* their sign up. Though I have found a spot that seems to have a sign from just about every current candidate under the sun. I should finally figure out how my stupid digital camera works and snap some photos of it...
I actually finished it last week. I'm not sure why I didn't make any mention of it here, after counting down the last few thousand words so religiously. I think, maybe, I found myself so relieved to finally be finished, to finally have a novel finished after so many attempts of starting and not quite getting through, that I just kind of purged all thought of it from my mind from the moment it was done. It took me three days to remember to send the last few pages to the friend that had been reading along, ever step of the way, since November, and usually I'd send him something as soon as it was complete.
In a way, I was dreading it being over as well. In the same way that, when reading a really, really good book you can find yourself dreading the end, because you'll have to close the book on the events and the characters and the people you've come to know and love over time, so it is when writing a book. I really grew to care about these characters, and even like most of them (some of them tried very hard to be unlikeable, but in the end, I think even they found a few shreds of decency). So walking away from them was hard.
Not that I won't be visiting them at some point in the future -- the book may be done, but it's a mess. It needs a rewrite *badly*. But I need to put it away for awhile. I need to let the characters and the ideas and the themes drift out of my head, so that when I go back to do the rewrite, I can approach it with a completely new set of eyes. So I can be a bit more objective, so I can more easily yank out the parts that don't work, and discover the things that really, really do.
Until then, I have a one act play called "Dinner and Drinks" in the works (three stories, about three different stages of relationships). I'm about halfway through one of the stories, and I'm already convinced that it would be almost impossible to put on the stage here in Williams Lake without offending more than half of the people who came to see it. Which, while not something I'm always against, isn't really the point of the story. Unfortunately, some of the subject matter in the play has proven difficult to talk about without being...well, vulgar.
Still, if all goes well, the play should be complete by the first of November, and the start of National Novel Writing Month, and my third crack at it. Two weeks ago I was terrified, because I realized that I'd been spending so much time finishing last year's novel that I didn't have any ideas for a new one. No old ideas rattling around in my head waiting to come out either.
A title came to me one night, while lying in bed, my brain refusing to drift off to sleep. Even though, at the time, there was no story attached to it, the title was too good not to use -- "The Smalltown Pornographer's Blues". I decided the next day that it would be a fun challenge to go into a book with nothing but the title, and just sort of let the story tell itself, however it saw fit. Within the next few days, I'd figured out the ending, as well as the first two chapters, so I'm pretty confident that this will actually be doable.
And even if it wasn't...well, the title would *still* be too good not to try.
I've avoided blogging the novels in the past, though I did stumble past a few people who were posting their entire book, as they wrote it, to their blog, and it struck me as interesting idea. I probably won't go quite that far (I'm a little nervous about copyright infringement, after getting burned a number of years back by a newspaper that shall remain nameless) but I might post occasional novel excerpts here, so if you're interested in the saga of my pornographer and his blues, you'd do best to visit periodically during the month of November.
In my last bit of writing news, I'm considering getting into small-town political discussions in my column by writing a review of campaign signage. I've seen two signs so far that have made me think of two things that are very different than what they intended, and I thought it could be a pretty funny approach.
Though I'll probably wait until a week or two before the election itself, just to make sure that everyone who's going to get a sign up *gets* their sign up. Though I have found a spot that seems to have a sign from just about every current candidate under the sun. I should finally figure out how my stupid digital camera works and snap some photos of it...
I am...
You're Great Expectations!
by Charles Dickens
Coming from humble beginnings, you have become pretty stuck-up in your
later years. While hard work and dedication were the path you first walked on, a sudden
fork brought you glory and fortune. Unfortunately, you have changed even more than your
bottom line. You really should turn back to your old friends and at least respect your
old life. Look out for haughty hotties.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
And I've never even read the silly thing...
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Weird and wonderful
Every year, for the past few years, I've found myself thinking, "Oh my god, this is the weirdest year of my entire life!"
I kept waiting for those sorts of epiphanies to pass, thinking that I would eventually reach a year that actually wasn't terribly weird. And then other day something occurred to me.
It occurred to me that there was nothing weird about having the weirdest year of my life. Becuase that's what life was all about.
Every new experience leads us to a knew realization about something. And as much as I once thought that new experiences would eventually run out, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that, in fact, they won't. There are new things around every corner, waiting for us to discover them, waiting for us to rejoice in them. And in a way, every year will always be weirder than the last, simply because with each passing year we expect the next to make more sense based on the wisdom we've accumulated the previous year, and in each year before that.
But it never does. It never will.
And as I realized that, I realized also that I couldn't think of anything more wonderful. The notion of life always remaining fresh and new and interesting, instead of becoming sad and bleak and familiar, was one of the most refreshingly optimistic ideas I could concieve of.
At 32 years old, I still don't know what it's all about. I still don't know what tomorrow will bring, or next week, or next month, or, God help me, next year.
And I can't think of anything more wonderful than that.
I kept waiting for those sorts of epiphanies to pass, thinking that I would eventually reach a year that actually wasn't terribly weird. And then other day something occurred to me.
It occurred to me that there was nothing weird about having the weirdest year of my life. Becuase that's what life was all about.
Every new experience leads us to a knew realization about something. And as much as I once thought that new experiences would eventually run out, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that, in fact, they won't. There are new things around every corner, waiting for us to discover them, waiting for us to rejoice in them. And in a way, every year will always be weirder than the last, simply because with each passing year we expect the next to make more sense based on the wisdom we've accumulated the previous year, and in each year before that.
But it never does. It never will.
And as I realized that, I realized also that I couldn't think of anything more wonderful. The notion of life always remaining fresh and new and interesting, instead of becoming sad and bleak and familiar, was one of the most refreshingly optimistic ideas I could concieve of.
At 32 years old, I still don't know what it's all about. I still don't know what tomorrow will bring, or next week, or next month, or, God help me, next year.
And I can't think of anything more wonderful than that.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Novelizingismesque
The book is sitting at 90,000 words.
That's 5,000 tonight, plus 5,000 after my blog post of last night. 10,000 words in two days. I'm absolutely stunned at the amount of output I've had. But not entirely surprised, either. I think I suspected this would happen, once I got the ball rolling. So much of the story was there, and I was so goddamn close to the end, that once it started to roll, there'd be no stopping it.
One chapter and epilogue left, plus a little bit to do to the middle to get it done.
Final chapter is on the agenda for tomorrow or Monday. I don't know if I'll be able to get it done in a single sitting, like I've done for the last two chapters, but it will more than likely be another situation of starting and simply not being able to stop until it's done.
Still, I don't like making promises to myself. So we'll just see what happens.
90,000 words. Seems pretty likely at this point that it'll break the 100,000 word mark, and will probably even drift to 105,000 by the time I tack on the epilogue and fill out the middle.
105,000 words. Goddamn it's been a long time.
What a ride.
That's 5,000 tonight, plus 5,000 after my blog post of last night. 10,000 words in two days. I'm absolutely stunned at the amount of output I've had. But not entirely surprised, either. I think I suspected this would happen, once I got the ball rolling. So much of the story was there, and I was so goddamn close to the end, that once it started to roll, there'd be no stopping it.
One chapter and epilogue left, plus a little bit to do to the middle to get it done.
Final chapter is on the agenda for tomorrow or Monday. I don't know if I'll be able to get it done in a single sitting, like I've done for the last two chapters, but it will more than likely be another situation of starting and simply not being able to stop until it's done.
Still, I don't like making promises to myself. So we'll just see what happens.
90,000 words. Seems pretty likely at this point that it'll break the 100,000 word mark, and will probably even drift to 105,000 by the time I tack on the epilogue and fill out the middle.
105,000 words. Goddamn it's been a long time.
What a ride.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Novelizingism
In spite of the fact that I seem to be ending up with more and more in front of me, scheduling-wise, I've still been managing to pick away at the novel. Another two pages tonight, another two pages earlier in the week, another couple last weekend...etc...
Current word count sits at about 80,000 words, which means that since the NaNoWriMo cutoff in November I've dumped an additional 30,000 words into it.
By my estimation, there's somewhere between 15,000 and 20,000 still to go before I can type the words "The End".
If I pick at it a bit more regularly (as in 2-3 pages every day or two) I think I can be out of this draft within two or three weeks.
It's an idea I find unbelievably exciting. I've been chatting with a friend who's read this unfinished draft about the direction things are going, and in the course of the discussions, more and more ideas just kind of spill out. I sumbled onto the last two ideas I needed to know earlier in the week, which means every conceivable thread that that the novel has conjured will end up wrapped up -- and wrapped up neatly! -- by the time the book closes.
Those moments, the moments when everything just kind of clicks in your head and you can see how beautifully everything can tie up in the climax of the story, are some of the most beautiful moments I've ever experienced. And it's something that you can only experience when tackling something with the scope of a novel. You can get a smaller sense of it in a short story, or a novella, but in order to feel the real victory of tying up multiple plot threads, you need to have a story with a whole bunch of threads to begin with. Something with a bunch of meat on its bones.
It's been a long time since I had a project like that.
My previous kick at the NaNo can doesn't really count. In spite of the fact that I managed to get across the 50,000 word mark, I never did get around to finshing that one, and -- for moment -- don't think I ever will, because I *don't* know how to wrap up the plot threads in that one. I have some notions about things that have to happen in order to create a satisfying ending, but I don't have the foggiest idea how to get there.
I don't mind, though. Who can complain about a story that didn't pan out when they're working on one that is panning out, and panning out wonderful.
Oh joy, oh bliss.
Oh sweet, sweet euphoria.
Current word count sits at about 80,000 words, which means that since the NaNoWriMo cutoff in November I've dumped an additional 30,000 words into it.
By my estimation, there's somewhere between 15,000 and 20,000 still to go before I can type the words "The End".
If I pick at it a bit more regularly (as in 2-3 pages every day or two) I think I can be out of this draft within two or three weeks.
It's an idea I find unbelievably exciting. I've been chatting with a friend who's read this unfinished draft about the direction things are going, and in the course of the discussions, more and more ideas just kind of spill out. I sumbled onto the last two ideas I needed to know earlier in the week, which means every conceivable thread that that the novel has conjured will end up wrapped up -- and wrapped up neatly! -- by the time the book closes.
Those moments, the moments when everything just kind of clicks in your head and you can see how beautifully everything can tie up in the climax of the story, are some of the most beautiful moments I've ever experienced. And it's something that you can only experience when tackling something with the scope of a novel. You can get a smaller sense of it in a short story, or a novella, but in order to feel the real victory of tying up multiple plot threads, you need to have a story with a whole bunch of threads to begin with. Something with a bunch of meat on its bones.
It's been a long time since I had a project like that.
My previous kick at the NaNo can doesn't really count. In spite of the fact that I managed to get across the 50,000 word mark, I never did get around to finshing that one, and -- for moment -- don't think I ever will, because I *don't* know how to wrap up the plot threads in that one. I have some notions about things that have to happen in order to create a satisfying ending, but I don't have the foggiest idea how to get there.
I don't mind, though. Who can complain about a story that didn't pan out when they're working on one that is panning out, and panning out wonderful.
Oh joy, oh bliss.
Oh sweet, sweet euphoria.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Clarity
There seems, to me, to be a certain amount of clarity that comes from losing hope.
The thing about hope, at least for me, is that it forces a focus. It demands that you stare at it, that you never take your eyes off it, that wherever you are, whatever you're doing, that thing is always on your mind. Front, back, middle; conscious, unconscious, preconscious. It's always there, it's always with you, and it's always draining a certain amount of your energy, whether you're aware of it or not.
But when you lose hope, however dreadful a concept that might be, that all-encompassing kind if passion goes with it. And all of a sudden, you lose focus on this one little thing and you find that you can look at your life, your whole life, for the first time in maybe months, maybe years.
And in spite of the fact that a desperate and passionate hope in something wonderful is now gone and dead, there's still something wonderful to come out of the process. Because you are reintroduced to yourself, and to parts of yourself that you had forgotten about. Wonderful parts. Beautiful parts. Parts that are crying out for attention, and have been crying out for attention for months and maybe years, but you haven't heard them, because of your single-minded passion towards that one hope. Because, for that time, there was nothing else in your life.
And when that one thing is gone, and you have nothing else to hold you up, nothing else to inspire you to reach for the clouds, and the heavens, and the stars beyond, it is such a wonderful surprise to find that, upon falling back to the earth again, that there are arms waiting to catch you. Your own arms. Arms that hold you tightly because they know, better than anyone, just how you're feeling right then. You're trapped in an embrace that is softer and more comforting than anything you could imagine, because the embrace comes from you, from someone who knows exactly what you need, and is more than willing to give it.
And then you hear the voice, your own voice, whispering in your ear:
"We've missed you," the voice says.
"It's good to see you again."
The thing about hope, at least for me, is that it forces a focus. It demands that you stare at it, that you never take your eyes off it, that wherever you are, whatever you're doing, that thing is always on your mind. Front, back, middle; conscious, unconscious, preconscious. It's always there, it's always with you, and it's always draining a certain amount of your energy, whether you're aware of it or not.
But when you lose hope, however dreadful a concept that might be, that all-encompassing kind if passion goes with it. And all of a sudden, you lose focus on this one little thing and you find that you can look at your life, your whole life, for the first time in maybe months, maybe years.
And in spite of the fact that a desperate and passionate hope in something wonderful is now gone and dead, there's still something wonderful to come out of the process. Because you are reintroduced to yourself, and to parts of yourself that you had forgotten about. Wonderful parts. Beautiful parts. Parts that are crying out for attention, and have been crying out for attention for months and maybe years, but you haven't heard them, because of your single-minded passion towards that one hope. Because, for that time, there was nothing else in your life.
And when that one thing is gone, and you have nothing else to hold you up, nothing else to inspire you to reach for the clouds, and the heavens, and the stars beyond, it is such a wonderful surprise to find that, upon falling back to the earth again, that there are arms waiting to catch you. Your own arms. Arms that hold you tightly because they know, better than anyone, just how you're feeling right then. You're trapped in an embrace that is softer and more comforting than anything you could imagine, because the embrace comes from you, from someone who knows exactly what you need, and is more than willing to give it.
And then you hear the voice, your own voice, whispering in your ear:
"We've missed you," the voice says.
"It's good to see you again."
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
This is a test
This is a test.
Testing my bizarre new MS Word plug-in for Blogger. How weird and unnatural this seems, to be blogging from Word. Assuming it doesn’t turn out to messy and bizarre, I might actually get in the habit of doing it this way.
Testing my bizarre new MS Word plug-in for Blogger. How weird and unnatural this seems, to be blogging from Word. Assuming it doesn’t turn out to messy and bizarre, I might actually get in the habit of doing it this way.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Novelizing
I decided last week that, the correct way to prioritize my current projects (one play, one novel) was to focus, initially, on the play, because I knew that if I really worked at it, I could have the first draft done in one to two weeks. Then I could just set it aside for awhile to rest before editing, and turn my attention to the unfinished novel that I've been mucking with, off and on, since last November, when I started it during National Novel Writing Month. That, I figured, might take me as much as a month to finish the first draft of.
Seemed like the most logical way to go -- get the quick and easy one out of the way first, before turning my attention to the one that will likely take more time and energy out of me.
So why the heck am I working on the stupid novel today, instead of the play?
The answer, really, is simple. Because it was the novel that I was inspired to work on today. It was the words of the novel that were dancing just behind my forehead, waiting for the chance to be spilled out onto the page. And that's the only thing that matters when it comes to this kind of thing -- what is it that you're inspired to do? It doesn't matter what you *want* to do, or what you *think* you should do. It's where the inspiration lies.
This is why I should always have two different projects going at any one time, so I can always turn to the one that I'm inspired to work on when the other gets a little stagnant for a few days. Because if you've only got one, and it goes stagnant, you end up stuck with nothing to work on, and then it's hard to get working on *anything* again once the stagnation passes.
About 7 pages done today too. Decent output. I think I could even squeeze out another 3 or 4, and bring this current chapter to a close.
And all I can think is, "Nice."
"Nice..."
Seemed like the most logical way to go -- get the quick and easy one out of the way first, before turning my attention to the one that will likely take more time and energy out of me.
So why the heck am I working on the stupid novel today, instead of the play?
The answer, really, is simple. Because it was the novel that I was inspired to work on today. It was the words of the novel that were dancing just behind my forehead, waiting for the chance to be spilled out onto the page. And that's the only thing that matters when it comes to this kind of thing -- what is it that you're inspired to do? It doesn't matter what you *want* to do, or what you *think* you should do. It's where the inspiration lies.
This is why I should always have two different projects going at any one time, so I can always turn to the one that I'm inspired to work on when the other gets a little stagnant for a few days. Because if you've only got one, and it goes stagnant, you end up stuck with nothing to work on, and then it's hard to get working on *anything* again once the stagnation passes.
About 7 pages done today too. Decent output. I think I could even squeeze out another 3 or 4, and bring this current chapter to a close.
And all I can think is, "Nice."
"Nice..."
More stickage
Following up yesterday's massive Stick Figure Drama update, I've decided to upload the latest strip (completed less than 30 minutes ago), so it'll be appearing here even before it sees print in the newspaper.
It features the first part of what I'm sure will be an exciting showdown between two competing arch-villains.
Enjoy.
It features the first part of what I'm sure will be an exciting showdown between two competing arch-villains.
Enjoy.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
OMGWTFBBQ! Stickage to the extrmez0rz!!11!!
I made a massive stick figure drama update today, uploading episodes 46 through 65, bringing the links on the right-hand side as up to date as humanly possible as of this moment in time.
I've also split the stick figure drama links into "Season One" and "Season Two" as there is a fairly distinct split between them. Everything from Stick Figure Drama #31 through to the current issue (and beyond) is part of a single, ever evolving storyline. While everything that occurs before #31 is sort of the kind of mess that a cartoonist might create while trying to figure out exactly how to be a cartoonist, publishing those experimental abominations at the same time.
Stick Figure Drama fans, rejoice! And enjoy!
I've also split the stick figure drama links into "Season One" and "Season Two" as there is a fairly distinct split between them. Everything from Stick Figure Drama #31 through to the current issue (and beyond) is part of a single, ever evolving storyline. While everything that occurs before #31 is sort of the kind of mess that a cartoonist might create while trying to figure out exactly how to be a cartoonist, publishing those experimental abominations at the same time.
Stick Figure Drama fans, rejoice! And enjoy!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The persistence of loss.
My trip to Nanaimo in July placed me on a ferry for the first time in more years than I can remember, and placed me there just days after another ferry lost control and beached itself on a marina (or some such thing).
I took the book I had brought with me for the trip up to the top, outside deck, sat down, lit a cigarette, and started to read while I waited for the boat to depart.
When it did, I found myself unable to keep from thinking about the ferry that had gone out of control the few days prior. I also found myself thinking, with pretty much equal interest, about accidently driving into another ferry halfway through our journey, about our boat springing a leak and filling with water, and whether or not there would be anything good to eat at the cafeteria.
Barring the thoughts about food, I realized that one of the curses of adulthood is just how negative we become. I can recall riding the ferry dozens of times as a child, without a worry, without a care in the world. There was no chance that it would sink, no chance that it would cross the path of another boat, and certainly no chance that terrorists would come aboard and blow us all up. Because my parents were nearby, and nothing bad could ever happen to me.
Of course bad things happen to children all the time, and often those bad things happen *because* the parents are nearby, and not in spite of it. But kids don't know these things when they're kids. Thank god.
Years ago, in the middle of some ridiculous debate with my then-wife, she accused me of being naive. I agreed that I was and, in fact, was proud to be. I also hoped to be able to stay that way for as long as possible.
I'm far less naive now, which I think is unavoidable. I'm also a whole lot more bitter and a whole lot more jaded. Which is as disappointing as it is inevitable.
In spite of the comfort it gives (or maybe even because of the comfort it gives me) I feel a little bit more disappointed in myself, in the world around me, in life in general with each step I take towards a bleaker outlook on life. I know I'm not alone, because people keep telling me things like, "That's how the world works," and, "Get used to it, it doesn't get any better."
The reason for that disappointment is that I really and honestly believe that one of the greatest things we lose in our adulthood, thanks to the anger and disappointment we feel, is our ability to believe in things. In our ability to hope for something good. In our ability to close our eyes and feel, in our hearts, the possibility that we might somehow, some way have a happy ending.
We shroud ourselves in depression and disaffection, sometimes because it's what we've been taught how to do, sometimes because it's all we know how to do, sometimes because just so sick and fucking tired of being disappointed.
And I am. I am so sick and fucking tired of being disappointed. The problem is, it's also so fucking hard to have hope.
It's a bit like the story of the boy who cried wolf, but instead of crying wolf he tells you to cheer up, that your life is lovely, that your future holds wonderful things, and then he punches you in the face and runs away laughing.
After awhile you get tired of being punched in the face and just kick the kid in the stomach as soon as you see him.
One of the things that greatly appealed to me about the play I'm directing this season was the tone that it ended on. One of optimism. One of hope.
It's not an obvious, in your face, "they lived happily ever after" kind of ending. Instead, it's more of an allusion. An allusion that, somehow, things might be okay, if we just believe a little bit. In ourselves. In each other.
It's an idea that warms my heart just enough to remind me that there is still a little bit of hope tucked away inside this bitter and jaded shell, and that makes me kind of happy. It reminds me that there's still a little bit of my young naivety hanging on, and that means that it's not hopeless. That there is still a chance for me to believe again. In something, or someone, or just the idea that tomorrow might be better today.
That's something worth believing in, I think, if even only a little bit.
And something worth reminding people to believe in.
I took the book I had brought with me for the trip up to the top, outside deck, sat down, lit a cigarette, and started to read while I waited for the boat to depart.
When it did, I found myself unable to keep from thinking about the ferry that had gone out of control the few days prior. I also found myself thinking, with pretty much equal interest, about accidently driving into another ferry halfway through our journey, about our boat springing a leak and filling with water, and whether or not there would be anything good to eat at the cafeteria.
Barring the thoughts about food, I realized that one of the curses of adulthood is just how negative we become. I can recall riding the ferry dozens of times as a child, without a worry, without a care in the world. There was no chance that it would sink, no chance that it would cross the path of another boat, and certainly no chance that terrorists would come aboard and blow us all up. Because my parents were nearby, and nothing bad could ever happen to me.
Of course bad things happen to children all the time, and often those bad things happen *because* the parents are nearby, and not in spite of it. But kids don't know these things when they're kids. Thank god.
Years ago, in the middle of some ridiculous debate with my then-wife, she accused me of being naive. I agreed that I was and, in fact, was proud to be. I also hoped to be able to stay that way for as long as possible.
I'm far less naive now, which I think is unavoidable. I'm also a whole lot more bitter and a whole lot more jaded. Which is as disappointing as it is inevitable.
In spite of the comfort it gives (or maybe even because of the comfort it gives me) I feel a little bit more disappointed in myself, in the world around me, in life in general with each step I take towards a bleaker outlook on life. I know I'm not alone, because people keep telling me things like, "That's how the world works," and, "Get used to it, it doesn't get any better."
The reason for that disappointment is that I really and honestly believe that one of the greatest things we lose in our adulthood, thanks to the anger and disappointment we feel, is our ability to believe in things. In our ability to hope for something good. In our ability to close our eyes and feel, in our hearts, the possibility that we might somehow, some way have a happy ending.
We shroud ourselves in depression and disaffection, sometimes because it's what we've been taught how to do, sometimes because it's all we know how to do, sometimes because just so sick and fucking tired of being disappointed.
And I am. I am so sick and fucking tired of being disappointed. The problem is, it's also so fucking hard to have hope.
It's a bit like the story of the boy who cried wolf, but instead of crying wolf he tells you to cheer up, that your life is lovely, that your future holds wonderful things, and then he punches you in the face and runs away laughing.
After awhile you get tired of being punched in the face and just kick the kid in the stomach as soon as you see him.
One of the things that greatly appealed to me about the play I'm directing this season was the tone that it ended on. One of optimism. One of hope.
It's not an obvious, in your face, "they lived happily ever after" kind of ending. Instead, it's more of an allusion. An allusion that, somehow, things might be okay, if we just believe a little bit. In ourselves. In each other.
It's an idea that warms my heart just enough to remind me that there is still a little bit of hope tucked away inside this bitter and jaded shell, and that makes me kind of happy. It reminds me that there's still a little bit of my young naivety hanging on, and that means that it's not hopeless. That there is still a chance for me to believe again. In something, or someone, or just the idea that tomorrow might be better today.
That's something worth believing in, I think, if even only a little bit.
And something worth reminding people to believe in.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Tales of the potential kitty.
One of the coolest ideas I've stumbled upon in the last few years is the idea of Schrodinger's Cat.
Here's how Wikipedia explains it:
In a nutshell: Put a cat inside of a sealed box, that can not be tampered with from the outside. Inside the box with the cat is a device that, after one hour, has a 50/50 chance of killing the cat. After the hour is up, the cat is either alive or dead, but according to certain rules quantum physics, until the cat is actually observed in one state or the other, it is, in fact, in both states simultaneously.
Which I think we can all agree is kind of ridiculous.
The point of Schrodinger's cat was to criticize certain points of quantum mechanics. Certain points which are, I can assure you, quite over my head. But I think Schrodinger's Cat beautifully illustrates a part of day to day life as well.
Potentiality.
Every moment that is in front of you has potential. Until you seize the moment, make a choice, and take action, nothing is decided.
I can lay in bed for an hour wondering what to have for breakfast. And for that hour, every breakfast possibility is equally likely to come to reality. But the moment I grab the bowl and pour the cornflakes, the potentiality is gone and one particular course of action becomes fact, and then history.
Or, wait, here's a better analogy
It's like a game of russian roulette. One bullet in one chamber of a revolver. You spin the chamber, and put the gun to your head. In a sense, until you pull that trigger and find out for sure -- until you are actually able to observe the state of the chamber somehow -- it is simultaneously in both states at once. Kind of. In a sense.
Wait, forget that russian roulette thing. That's just gross.
But I think maybe you're getting the point by now anyway. So let's just drop the analogies.
As long as you're waiting to do something, as long as you're thinking about doing something, the potential exists for that thing to go in any of 1000 different directions. Once you do it, the potential is gone, and the cat is either alive or dead, no two ways about it.
That's the thing about life. Sometimes you make those choices, and everything just works out spectacularly, and you ask yourself how you could put that decision off for so goddamn long.
Other times, you wish you could have just held on to the potentiality, either because things didn't go the way you wanted, or were more complicated than you thought, or you just plain fucked up the choice somehow.
There's something sadly good about potentiality. There's something sadly good about just sitting within a situation where you have equal chances of success or failure.
Here's how Wikipedia explains it:
A cat is placed in a sealed box. Attached to the box is an apparatus containing a radioactive nucleus and a canister of poison gas. The experiment is set up so that there is a 50% chance of the nucleus decaying in one hour. If the nucleus decays, it will emit a particle that triggers the apparatus, which opens the canister and kills the cat. According to quantum mechanics, the unobserved nucleus is described as a superposition (mixture) of "decayed nucleus" and "undecayed nucleus". However, when the box is opened the experimenter sees only a "decayed nucleus/dead cat" or an "undecayed nucleus/living cat."
The question is: when does the system stop existing as a mixture of states and become one or the other? The purpose of the experiment is to illustrate that quantum mechanics is incomplete without some rules to describe when the wavefunction collapses and the cat becomes dead or remains alive instead of a mixture of both.
In a nutshell: Put a cat inside of a sealed box, that can not be tampered with from the outside. Inside the box with the cat is a device that, after one hour, has a 50/50 chance of killing the cat. After the hour is up, the cat is either alive or dead, but according to certain rules quantum physics, until the cat is actually observed in one state or the other, it is, in fact, in both states simultaneously.
Which I think we can all agree is kind of ridiculous.
The point of Schrodinger's cat was to criticize certain points of quantum mechanics. Certain points which are, I can assure you, quite over my head. But I think Schrodinger's Cat beautifully illustrates a part of day to day life as well.
Potentiality.
Every moment that is in front of you has potential. Until you seize the moment, make a choice, and take action, nothing is decided.
I can lay in bed for an hour wondering what to have for breakfast. And for that hour, every breakfast possibility is equally likely to come to reality. But the moment I grab the bowl and pour the cornflakes, the potentiality is gone and one particular course of action becomes fact, and then history.
Or, wait, here's a better analogy
It's like a game of russian roulette. One bullet in one chamber of a revolver. You spin the chamber, and put the gun to your head. In a sense, until you pull that trigger and find out for sure -- until you are actually able to observe the state of the chamber somehow -- it is simultaneously in both states at once. Kind of. In a sense.
Wait, forget that russian roulette thing. That's just gross.
But I think maybe you're getting the point by now anyway. So let's just drop the analogies.
As long as you're waiting to do something, as long as you're thinking about doing something, the potential exists for that thing to go in any of 1000 different directions. Once you do it, the potential is gone, and the cat is either alive or dead, no two ways about it.
That's the thing about life. Sometimes you make those choices, and everything just works out spectacularly, and you ask yourself how you could put that decision off for so goddamn long.
Other times, you wish you could have just held on to the potentiality, either because things didn't go the way you wanted, or were more complicated than you thought, or you just plain fucked up the choice somehow.
There's something sadly good about potentiality. There's something sadly good about just sitting within a situation where you have equal chances of success or failure.
Friday, August 26, 2005
I've long believed that publication, or exhibition, is a vital part of any creative process.
The creating itself occurs in a rather solitary place, and in rather a solitary piece of mind. But there is implied, I think, with any artistic endeavor, the hope that you might one day able to share it with others.
And I've often felt as if creating something with no intention of ever sharing it is a bit like masturbation. Sure, it's fun and all while it's happening, but when you get to the end of it, it's really kind of silly and pointless.
So what do you do when you start writing something that you know you could never publish, never exhibit, never share with the rest of the world. Because it's too close to you. Because it dips into biographical stuff that you can't deal with yourself, so you tuck it as far back in your mind and soul as is humanly possible. You can't share that kind of thing with people. They look at you funny afterwards.
But how can you *not* write it, when writing can be such a cathartic experience? Getting those things out in a private way, when it's just you and the page, allows you to deal with those things in a way, albeit a small one. But even small ways are better than no ways at all, and too often I feel like I have no way of dealing with the things that are bubbling and gurgling in my psyche.
The problem, I guess, stems from the rare possibility that this thing I write, which I could never show to another human being, might turn out to be really, really good.
What then?
Even if I was a perfect altruist, the knowledge that I had created something might shake people, or move them, or make them think about something or realize something, and that I was actively keep it away from them...that would be wrong. That would be perversely wrong.
Of course, I'm not a perfect altruist, so it would be my ego that got in the way. The ego that would want people to go, "Wow, he wrote that? That's fricking brilliant! Not only that, imagine the balls on him if he's got the nerve to actually publish / display that work! It's so intimate!"
I doubt I'll have to worry about it. Things that are this close to me rarely turn out that good. They are what they are, and that is a cathartic exercise, a way to vent my spleen onto the page and get rid of at least a few of the cancers that eat away at my soul.
And I've often felt as if creating something with no intention of ever sharing it is a bit like masturbation. Sure, it's fun and all while it's happening, but when you get to the end of it, it's really kind of silly and pointless.
So what do you do when you start writing something that you know you could never publish, never exhibit, never share with the rest of the world. Because it's too close to you. Because it dips into biographical stuff that you can't deal with yourself, so you tuck it as far back in your mind and soul as is humanly possible. You can't share that kind of thing with people. They look at you funny afterwards.
But how can you *not* write it, when writing can be such a cathartic experience? Getting those things out in a private way, when it's just you and the page, allows you to deal with those things in a way, albeit a small one. But even small ways are better than no ways at all, and too often I feel like I have no way of dealing with the things that are bubbling and gurgling in my psyche.
The problem, I guess, stems from the rare possibility that this thing I write, which I could never show to another human being, might turn out to be really, really good.
What then?
Even if I was a perfect altruist, the knowledge that I had created something might shake people, or move them, or make them think about something or realize something, and that I was actively keep it away from them...that would be wrong. That would be perversely wrong.
Of course, I'm not a perfect altruist, so it would be my ego that got in the way. The ego that would want people to go, "Wow, he wrote that? That's fricking brilliant! Not only that, imagine the balls on him if he's got the nerve to actually publish / display that work! It's so intimate!"
I doubt I'll have to worry about it. Things that are this close to me rarely turn out that good. They are what they are, and that is a cathartic exercise, a way to vent my spleen onto the page and get rid of at least a few of the cancers that eat away at my soul.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Resurrection
I opened up my still unfinished National Novel Writing month novel last week and actually wrote a few pages in it. And then I did the same thing tonight -- a few more pages of progress actually complete.
Those of you who know me know that this is almost unheard of. And those of you who don't know me, well, now you know that fact too.
It's not so much that I'm not a creative person. I think I'm a highly creative person. The problem is that I get far more excited about the "thinking about being creative" phase than the "actually sitting down and being creative" phase. By the time it comes to actually sitting down, I'm either distracted by liquor or video games. Or both, sometimes.
I know that creating a habit of sitting down and writing a little bit every day just involves, you know, doing it often enough to create a habit. But even knowing it has rarely ever allowed me to pull it off. I try for awhile, then something else gets in the way for a day or two, and then it's bloody hard to get back into it again, so I just let whatever project it was alone for a few months, before guilt finally brings me back.
I enjoy the creating when I create, but I still can't motivate myself to do it.
I'm waiting for an epiphany. A moment of sudden, shocking realization about my own mortality, and how fragile my own life is. With that realization, I think, should come the ability to do all the things I've always wanted to do. Create with complete abandon, knowing I need to get these ideas out now, before I die; quit smoking, because smoking isn't doing anything except shortening my life span; quit drinking so goddamn much, because what's the point of being alive if you're only ever going to see this wonderful, beautiful world through eyes clouded with liquor?
No epiphany as of yet. Clearly. Maybe there will never be one, and I'll simply continue down this path until the day I meet my end and go on to whatever strange and surreal things exist beyond this world.
But if that's the case, I fear that regardless of all the nice things that people might say at my funeral -- because you have no choice but to say nice things at funerals; it's some kind of bylaw -- what they'll all really be thinking is, "He had so much potential. He could have done so much.
"What a sad, sad disappointment his life turned out to be."
Those of you who know me know that this is almost unheard of. And those of you who don't know me, well, now you know that fact too.
It's not so much that I'm not a creative person. I think I'm a highly creative person. The problem is that I get far more excited about the "thinking about being creative" phase than the "actually sitting down and being creative" phase. By the time it comes to actually sitting down, I'm either distracted by liquor or video games. Or both, sometimes.
I know that creating a habit of sitting down and writing a little bit every day just involves, you know, doing it often enough to create a habit. But even knowing it has rarely ever allowed me to pull it off. I try for awhile, then something else gets in the way for a day or two, and then it's bloody hard to get back into it again, so I just let whatever project it was alone for a few months, before guilt finally brings me back.
I enjoy the creating when I create, but I still can't motivate myself to do it.
I'm waiting for an epiphany. A moment of sudden, shocking realization about my own mortality, and how fragile my own life is. With that realization, I think, should come the ability to do all the things I've always wanted to do. Create with complete abandon, knowing I need to get these ideas out now, before I die; quit smoking, because smoking isn't doing anything except shortening my life span; quit drinking so goddamn much, because what's the point of being alive if you're only ever going to see this wonderful, beautiful world through eyes clouded with liquor?
No epiphany as of yet. Clearly. Maybe there will never be one, and I'll simply continue down this path until the day I meet my end and go on to whatever strange and surreal things exist beyond this world.
But if that's the case, I fear that regardless of all the nice things that people might say at my funeral -- because you have no choice but to say nice things at funerals; it's some kind of bylaw -- what they'll all really be thinking is, "He had so much potential. He could have done so much.
"What a sad, sad disappointment his life turned out to be."
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Filler
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skankysluts.
In immediate retrospect, I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this...
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skankysluts.
In immediate retrospect, I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this...
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
"I love you," I said.
"I know," she replied. "I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. You tell me that every day. We have this same stupid conversation every day. And every day I say that I love you too."
"But then you say that it's 'only as a friend.'"
"Does that make my love any less valid?"
"No, I suppose not. But it does mean that we won't be having sex any time soon."
"Yes, it does."
"Oh, come on, who're you kidding? You want me."
"Me?"
"Desperately."
"I don't doubt that you think that."
"Oh, please..."
"Or that you think that I think that. Or whatever."
"It's true, you do."
"I don't," she said. "I really don't. I wish I did. If only to make you happier, if only to make your life a little bit better, I wish I did."
"You feel it."
"I don't."
"You should. I do."
"No you don't."
"I do."
"Not really."
"What do you mean?
"You're a guy. You...you want to fuck something, that's just what guys do. It's nothing to be ashamed of. But it's leading you astray. You're confused by our friendship, our closeness, that has nothing to do with sex."
"And fuck you too," I said.
"Pardon me?"
"Okay, so maybe you love me as a friend, fine, whatever. And maybe you don't want to have sex with me, fine, whatever. Those are your feelings, and they belong to you. But don't sit there and try to tell me what I feel. Don't tell me I'm confused. Don't tell me I'm misunderstanding our friendship just because I'm a guy who wants to fuck anything with a pulse. Don't diminish what I'm feeling just because you're uncomfortable with it."
"Wow..." she said.
"What?"
"Where'd that come from?"
"Frustration, I guess," I said. "Frustration at having this same conversation with you every day and not getting anywhere, getting the same goddamn answers from you every goddamn time."
"Fair enough," she said. "Do you think this conversation would go any differently if you actually talked to me instead of playing this scene out in your head?"
"If I thought it would, do you really think I'd still be sitting here alone, talking to myself?"
"No, I suppose not."
"But then you say that it's 'only as a friend.'"
"Does that make my love any less valid?"
"No, I suppose not. But it does mean that we won't be having sex any time soon."
"Yes, it does."
"Oh, come on, who're you kidding? You want me."
"Me?"
"Desperately."
"I don't doubt that you think that."
"Oh, please..."
"Or that you think that I think that. Or whatever."
"It's true, you do."
"I don't," she said. "I really don't. I wish I did. If only to make you happier, if only to make your life a little bit better, I wish I did."
"You feel it."
"I don't."
"You should. I do."
"No you don't."
"I do."
"Not really."
"What do you mean?
"You're a guy. You...you want to fuck something, that's just what guys do. It's nothing to be ashamed of. But it's leading you astray. You're confused by our friendship, our closeness, that has nothing to do with sex."
"And fuck you too," I said.
"Pardon me?"
"Okay, so maybe you love me as a friend, fine, whatever. And maybe you don't want to have sex with me, fine, whatever. Those are your feelings, and they belong to you. But don't sit there and try to tell me what I feel. Don't tell me I'm confused. Don't tell me I'm misunderstanding our friendship just because I'm a guy who wants to fuck anything with a pulse. Don't diminish what I'm feeling just because you're uncomfortable with it."
"Wow..." she said.
"What?"
"Where'd that come from?"
"Frustration, I guess," I said. "Frustration at having this same conversation with you every day and not getting anywhere, getting the same goddamn answers from you every goddamn time."
"Fair enough," she said. "Do you think this conversation would go any differently if you actually talked to me instead of playing this scene out in your head?"
"If I thought it would, do you really think I'd still be sitting here alone, talking to myself?"
"No, I suppose not."
Stop staring
I'm having a staring contest with this blog. I really, really want to win, but I'm no longer completely confident that I will.
When I decided a few weeks back that I was going to write more frequently, and write about anything -- fiction, short plays, stream of consciousness ramblings, whatever -- I thought this would be a good way to get a long stagnating blog on track, and also get me writing a bit more often. Neither seemed like bad things.
As is the case with most ideas, it went quite well for the first few days, and then kind of fell apart after about a week.
But the birthing process, even when it's only an idea you're birthing, is not necessarily an easy one. I haven't given up on this blog, and I haven't given up on the notion of writing something every day.
But I ran into a stumbling block.
I have an idea for a short play. I actually have an idea for 3 short plays that are all loosely tied together. The series would be called "Dinner and Drinks. At the moment, though, there's one I'm kind of burning to write. It doesn't have a title yet, because titles are usually the last things to come to me, but the first line of the play is, "Can I get you another drink?" and the last line is, "Why won't you treat me like the dirty slut I am!"
The thing is, I'm not quite there...not quite ready to write it. Which is annoying because I was intending it to be the next entry in this blog. Which is why the next entry has shown up until now.
So I guess I'm giving up the staring contest. I guess I'll back down and write something else instead of this short play. I'll let the blog win this round, because it doesn't matter who wins and who loses if the art suffers, right?
When I decided a few weeks back that I was going to write more frequently, and write about anything -- fiction, short plays, stream of consciousness ramblings, whatever -- I thought this would be a good way to get a long stagnating blog on track, and also get me writing a bit more often. Neither seemed like bad things.
As is the case with most ideas, it went quite well for the first few days, and then kind of fell apart after about a week.
But the birthing process, even when it's only an idea you're birthing, is not necessarily an easy one. I haven't given up on this blog, and I haven't given up on the notion of writing something every day.
But I ran into a stumbling block.
I have an idea for a short play. I actually have an idea for 3 short plays that are all loosely tied together. The series would be called "Dinner and Drinks. At the moment, though, there's one I'm kind of burning to write. It doesn't have a title yet, because titles are usually the last things to come to me, but the first line of the play is, "Can I get you another drink?" and the last line is, "Why won't you treat me like the dirty slut I am!"
The thing is, I'm not quite there...not quite ready to write it. Which is annoying because I was intending it to be the next entry in this blog. Which is why the next entry has shown up until now.
So I guess I'm giving up the staring contest. I guess I'll back down and write something else instead of this short play. I'll let the blog win this round, because it doesn't matter who wins and who loses if the art suffers, right?
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
"Sarah, I don't think we should see each other any more."
She jumped when I said that, like she didn't know I had just been standing there for 10 minutes trying to figure out exactly how to approach the issue. But I had, and she knew I had.It was going to be a difficult issue, one that I knew could break her heart, leave her scarred for life, if I didn't approach it just the right way. It had happened to me before with women. If you didn't know exactly how to break this sort of news to them, anything could happen.
"Oh, Dave," she said, looking up from the paperwork on her desk she'd pretended to occupy herself with. "I didn't see you there. How long have you been...uh...standing there?"
"I know it's hard for you to accept," I continued.
"What is. What did you say a minute ago? I didn't hear you."
"Don't make this any more difficult than it needs to be."
"Don't make what any more difficult?"
"I don't think we should see each other anymore."
And then it happened, like it always happened. A stunned silence. The truth, when finally dropped on her lap like a living, breathing bomb had knocked the speech right out of her. Left her dazed and confused and dumbfounded.
"Dave," she said, when she was finally able to compose herself, "we haven't been seeing each other."
"I know, and that's my fault. It's work partly, I suppose, I've been super busy lately with, you know, all my work stuff. But even when I do have time on my hands, I just don't think to pick up the phone. You're just not on my mind quite the way you used to be. Maybe we've just grown apart. I don't know how these things happen, or why..."
"No," she said, continuing her denials, "what I mean is that we're not actually seeing each other. We're not dating. I don't even particularly like you, to be honest."
"And I don't like myself very much right now either, Sarah. I know I'm being selfish. I know I'm looking out for me here, and not thinking about what you must be going through, but sometimes you have to live for yourself. Sometimes you have to do what's right for you and not for everyone else around you. And this is what I need to do. For me, Sarah. For me."
There was a crazed look in her eyes. It looked a bit like terror, and I'm sure she was only thinking of how bleak and grey the coming days and weeks would be, threatened by the thought of spending her evenings alone in her bed. But she didn't show it anywhere but in her eyes, I'll give her credit for that.
"Uh, okay Dave," she said in a voice that was rock steady, showing none of the turmoil of emotion that must be bubbling underneath it is. "If you...uh...think that's what's best. Then. Okay."
"I'm glad you understand," I said. I reached out to take her hand, but she pulled it quickly away. I suppose any contact at this point would be torture for her at this point, knowing it would be the last time we made contact. "I'd like it if we could still be friends."
"Yeah, I'm not sure that would work out."
"But we have so many memories of good times together. I'd hate for us to lose that."
"Well, maybe they're just better off left as memories."
"Do you want to come back to my place after work tonight? One more romp in the sack for old times sake?"
"Uh, no. How about, if I ever see you again I'm calling security. Deal?"
God, why did they always say things like that? It totally ruins the moment.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
"There plenty of loneliness in the world. I don't know why we have to seek it out and horde it up..."
On some level, nearly every piece of fiction I've ever written has been about love and / or loneliness.
This is not because I believe that all great works of fiction require a love story in them somewhere to appease a certain type of audience, or to help illustrate the protagonist's growth. It's because I believe that all great works of fiction are ultimately love stories.
I often feel that I have hundreds or thousands of tiny fragments of stories or ideas that are jumbled up in my head, waiting to gel into something greater or grander eventually. More often than not the little pieces never gel and instead fade away and are forgotten as days and months and years pass by. And it's a loss, because many of those fragments were pretty darn good on their own.
So I have begun making the effort to post a fragment of some kind on this blog each day. It's an excuse to write, which is good, and it's an excuse to get a fragment out of my head that very likely would have just vanished, and that's also good.
And because I believe that most stories are essentially love stories, you're going to see a lot of these fragments dealing the subject of love. Or loneliness. Because I'm pretty sure that the two things are wrapped together so tightly that you might never be able to tell one from the other.
In a sense, even this post is a fragment, as it gives me the chance to finally release an idea from my mind -- the notion that love and loneliness are tied together. It also gives me the opportunity to say that the reason I think all great stories are essentially love stories is because, deep down, I am a romantic at heart who likes to believe in happy endings.
It's just unfortunate that I am also a cynic who, while liking the idea of happy endings, doesn't think that they happen anywhere near often enough.
I'm not sure why it is that loneliness and loss and desperation seem to be in the cards for so many of us, whether that's simply a part of the human experience, or whether it's supposed to teach us some grand lesson about how the universe is cruel and we are all, ultimately, alone. I'm also not sure why I have learned to allow myself to feel content in this state of loneliness and loss and desperation I tend to find myself in, but it's here that I am the most comfortable, and here that I always seem to find myself returning to, even when alternative options present themselves.
It's a danger to become comfortable in anything, I suppose.
These pieces that will appear here in the days and weeks and, should I be so lucky, months to come are fictions. They will take on a variety of forms -- letters, stories, rants, monologues, short plays, anything that comes to mind really -- and will, for the most part, be about love and loneliness. And, like most good fictions, there will always be a hint of biographicaly fact in them.
The trick, for me, is not letting on to which is the truth, and which is the fiction.
This is not because I believe that all great works of fiction require a love story in them somewhere to appease a certain type of audience, or to help illustrate the protagonist's growth. It's because I believe that all great works of fiction are ultimately love stories.
I often feel that I have hundreds or thousands of tiny fragments of stories or ideas that are jumbled up in my head, waiting to gel into something greater or grander eventually. More often than not the little pieces never gel and instead fade away and are forgotten as days and months and years pass by. And it's a loss, because many of those fragments were pretty darn good on their own.
So I have begun making the effort to post a fragment of some kind on this blog each day. It's an excuse to write, which is good, and it's an excuse to get a fragment out of my head that very likely would have just vanished, and that's also good.
And because I believe that most stories are essentially love stories, you're going to see a lot of these fragments dealing the subject of love. Or loneliness. Because I'm pretty sure that the two things are wrapped together so tightly that you might never be able to tell one from the other.
In a sense, even this post is a fragment, as it gives me the chance to finally release an idea from my mind -- the notion that love and loneliness are tied together. It also gives me the opportunity to say that the reason I think all great stories are essentially love stories is because, deep down, I am a romantic at heart who likes to believe in happy endings.
It's just unfortunate that I am also a cynic who, while liking the idea of happy endings, doesn't think that they happen anywhere near often enough.
I'm not sure why it is that loneliness and loss and desperation seem to be in the cards for so many of us, whether that's simply a part of the human experience, or whether it's supposed to teach us some grand lesson about how the universe is cruel and we are all, ultimately, alone. I'm also not sure why I have learned to allow myself to feel content in this state of loneliness and loss and desperation I tend to find myself in, but it's here that I am the most comfortable, and here that I always seem to find myself returning to, even when alternative options present themselves.
It's a danger to become comfortable in anything, I suppose.
These pieces that will appear here in the days and weeks and, should I be so lucky, months to come are fictions. They will take on a variety of forms -- letters, stories, rants, monologues, short plays, anything that comes to mind really -- and will, for the most part, be about love and loneliness. And, like most good fictions, there will always be a hint of biographicaly fact in them.
The trick, for me, is not letting on to which is the truth, and which is the fiction.
Monday, June 20, 2005
You are cordially invited to dance through my dreams
Psychologists tell us that dreaming is an important part of the sleep process. That unless we receive the right amount of "rem" sleep, that we are tired and irritable and not at all at our bests the next day. And that in order to receive that correct amount of "rem" sleep we must dream each night. And not just once! Sometimes two, three, maybe even four times.
With all this dreaming going on, with all this access to fantasy, you'd think I'd be having the time of my life while visiting neverland, but no such luck. My dreams are clearly so ridiculously ordinary that I can't even be bothered to remember them when I wake up in the morning.
So I'm inviting you, oh dearest one, to come and visit me in my dreams.
We can do anything you like. I'm not fussy. We can take a walk on the beach at sunset, or have a picnic in a park, but because it's a dream we're not limited to those sorts of silly, ordinary, day-to-day activities. We could just as easily brunch with Jesus or Einstein, watch the sun rise from Mars, or go swimming in a lake of lager.
And if you'd prefer doing something on the naughty side...well, I might pretend to be shocked at first, but deep down, I will have always known that it's what you wanted, and I'll be open and receptive to anything you suggest, even if it involves leather and/or rubber. Particularly leather.
I know it's not quite as good as the real thing, but I'm willing to accept this second-best substitute and can only hope that you're willing to do the same. An RSVP is, of course, appreciated, but not necessary. Feel free to drop by dreams uninvited any time. I'm sure we can find ways to entertain ourselves.
With all this dreaming going on, with all this access to fantasy, you'd think I'd be having the time of my life while visiting neverland, but no such luck. My dreams are clearly so ridiculously ordinary that I can't even be bothered to remember them when I wake up in the morning.
So I'm inviting you, oh dearest one, to come and visit me in my dreams.
We can do anything you like. I'm not fussy. We can take a walk on the beach at sunset, or have a picnic in a park, but because it's a dream we're not limited to those sorts of silly, ordinary, day-to-day activities. We could just as easily brunch with Jesus or Einstein, watch the sun rise from Mars, or go swimming in a lake of lager.
And if you'd prefer doing something on the naughty side...well, I might pretend to be shocked at first, but deep down, I will have always known that it's what you wanted, and I'll be open and receptive to anything you suggest, even if it involves leather and/or rubber. Particularly leather.
I know it's not quite as good as the real thing, but I'm willing to accept this second-best substitute and can only hope that you're willing to do the same. An RSVP is, of course, appreciated, but not necessary. Feel free to drop by dreams uninvited any time. I'm sure we can find ways to entertain ourselves.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
It ain't love, but it ain't bad.
He sits on his porch and watches the sun set with a glass in his hand, and two bottles to his left. It isn't a rum and coke every night, but it's what was in the house tonight, and it's working its magic well enough on him.He watches the sun slither into the horizon every night, but not because he finds it a particularly attractive or inspirational sight. Only because it signals the end of yet another day.
If you asked him, he wouldn't tell you this. He's not even really aware of the fact anymore, he's felt this way for so long. And it isn't that his days are that awful -- he doesn't have the best job in the world, but he's content with it most days; he has his health; his parents are getting old but they're both still around, and they call him once a month to see how things are -- but only that they've been somehow sapped of meaning.
Not that he knows this either, really. They've been sapped of meaning for so long he can't remember what it was like before.
Sometimes the sunset is particularly spectacular, and he finds something inside of him stirring to life. Whether it's the part of him that, for just a few moments, remembers what it was like before everything turned grey, or the part of him that in the raging heart of the burning sky is inspired to make tomorrow a better day, makes little difference, because the feeling never lasts long. He pours himself another drink and the feeling drifts away, along with all the other feelings -- good and bad.
He's never thought that he might have a drinking problem, because he never really drinks a lot. He'll have a few glasses and watch the sun set, and once the sky is dark he'll leave the porch and watch television for an hour or two before bed. And yet, this ritual on the porch, those few drinks while the sun sets, is the most important part of his day.
Because it's the only thing he really has to hold on to. A ritual that, in its regularity, gives some sense of meaning to his life.
The liquor doesn't love him. It doesn't care if he lives or dies. It doesn't want to make him happy or hold his hand or kiss him on the forehead or take him to the most beautiful places in the world.
But it does help keep him warm. Which is a far cry better than everything else in his life.
Friday, June 17, 2005
"I should go," she said, looking at her watch.
Outside the sky was alight with an agry sunset. The clouds were on fire, bright vibrant, but only minutes from disappearing in the night sky."You won't," I said. "You're having too much fun."
"I have to work in the morning," she said, but the smile she hinted at told me that I was right.
"I do too."
"And you're not leaving?"
"I'm having too much fun," I said. "You're having too much fun. We're both having too much fun. We're having too much fun together. Why go someplace less fun to do something less fun?"
"I'm gonna regret it in the morning. So will you, I'm sure."
"I'm sure I will," I said, lifting my glass in a toast. "Regret when the time comes, but never before." I drank it quick -- a touch more than a mouthful -- and caught the waitress' eye. She smiled and nodded.
"Shouldn't we have learned our lesson by now? Why do we do this to ourselves? I'll be a mess tomorrow."
"And will it matter the next day that you were a mess the day before? Will it really make any difference three days, four days, a week later, if you're a little hung over tomorrow?"
"I'll be more than just a little hung over..."
"A month from now, will it matter if you're more than just a little hung over tomorrow? No. It won't. Whatever we do now, it doesn't really matter six hours from now. Sex hours from now will be six hours from now, and there will be dozens, hundreds of other things that will define that moment in time. It won't be this moment right here."
"So why bother with this if it's not going to matter six hours from now?"
"Because," I said, as the waitress set our drinks in front of us, "for right now, this is the most important thing in the world."
She takes her drink casually, without a thought. "That sounds awfully nice, but if you strip away all the pretty words all you're really saying is that you're here because you have nothing better to do."
"Why is that a bad thing? Shouldn't we always be doing the best thing that we could think of doing? Why should you feel lessened because I have nothing better to do, because spending time with you is the best thing I could possibly think of doing."
A hint of a smile showed again, but it only toyed at the corner of her lips. "Yes, you're right, that's nice. But how much of it is really that? And how much is it just not wanting to be alone?"
I thought about that. I wanted to tell her that it was all about who we spent time with, and not just spending time with whoever was handy. But I couldn't because I wasn't completely sure that was the truth.
"I don't mind being alone," I said. "Most times people are a hindrance. They're dumb and they're boring and they laugh at bad jokes, not because they're funny, but because they hear the sound of their laughter and are reminded that they're alive. Most times I'm better off without people. So most of the time I'm at home, in a house, with walls a and surfaces and structures, and there's no warmth, there's no blood surging through any of it. I can laugh at as many jokes as I want to, but not even the sound of my own laughter can really remind me that I'm alive. At times like that, it's not that I think I'd be better off dead. It's that I think it wouldn't make any difference if I was."
My words settled over the table, and we sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us nursing our drinks to give ourselves something to do in that midly awkward moment.
And then I said, "It's not so much that I mind being alone. It's just that I wish it wasn't so goddamn lonely."
"I'll drink to that," she said, and we did.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Dear Ms. Mother-of-the-woman-of-my-dreams
Good day, ma'am. You don't know me, but the reason that I am writing to you is that I am madly in love with your daughter and would like to ask for her hand in marriage.I know this might seem a little old fashioned, but I pride myself on being both a romantic and chivilrous gentleman, as comfortable with tradition as I am with the 21st century.
I also know that your daughter is, in fact, still married, which might make this request seem a little odd. But believe me when I tell you have given this an enormous amount of thought, and I have decided to ask for your daughter's other hand.
In many ways I feel that this approach, as untraditional as it might be, will suit me better. The traditional hand of marriage, defined as the hand adorned with the ring, is the left, and while I have no actual bias against lefties, I haven't always gotten along smashingly with them. Also, I myself am right-handed, and might find an easier time if I were to receive your daughter's right hand in marriage.
Not to say that I wouldn't love your daughter's left hand just as much if it were available to me! Please don't think that. I would love every part of your daughter equally, left hand or right; eye, ear or nose. Even that weird lumpy kind of thing that she has on the side of her neck. What is that, anyway? No, nevermind, this isn't the place to ask.
In closing, I want to assure you that I adore your daughter with all my heart, that she is, in fact, the woman of my dreams, and will love and cherish her until the day I die, should you find yourself willing to grant me the honour of her hand, either one, in marriage.
Regards,
He-who-adores-your-female-offspring.
PS: Should it turn out that neither hand is available, I'd be willing to negotiate the possibility of marrying one of her feet.
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