So when you blog, it's because you want to share something with the world, right? Whether the world gives a shit or not, you write it so it's out there and then post it on your chosen site. Well, part of my blogging is to help me work out shit in my head, and I just tried writing without posting and it didn't help. And I'm going to be a bitch by posting this with a password still not helping, I'm going to bed.
I know I've used that as a title before, but that was in the MySpace days so it doesn't count. Or maybe one day I'll actually transfer all of 'em to here and actually get rid of MySpace seeing as I haven't used it in over a year. The problem with that, though, is I'll probably realize as I'm doing it how depressingly repetitive I can be. But that's not what I'm here about right now. I'm sure at some point in the near future I'll be at home, have a few too many drinks, and start crying online about my 'sues and hangups and blah blah blah. But right now, I want to talk about being giddy with anticipation about diving in a few days, and I think the ability to be excited about something is funamental to being a human being. Now, what you get excited about is fundamental to being a well-adjusted human being.
When this posts, Adam and I are flying to Nassau, the Bahamas, to spend four days diving and switching off for a while. And I don't think I've been this excited about anything since my trip to Oz in November 2006. That's not to say I haven't been excited since then, just not to this level. Well, maybe the Germany trip in August 2007. But see, that's the thing I've noticed. There's something about travel that just gets me worked up more than anything else. I'm not one to get excited about movies coming out, or visits by celebrities, but travel really does it for me.
I don't even mind the airport or the plane part of travel, although the older I get the less patient I am with other people. I'm ready to go through the security checkpoint, why the bloody hell aren't you? Yes, you do have to take your shoes off, it's been like that for years. Oh, it beeped because of the change in your pocket? Well imagine that. 'Swhy I travel in flip flops and without a belt, it's just easier to deal with.
So yeah, I'm going to be in the Bahamas for the next couple of days. Probably no blogging, cos I'll be busy.
The internet is a blessing and a curse. And I just used it to either save my dive trip or completely fuck it up. Woke up yesterday with a toothache. Enough to go see my dentist. They got me in, took a look, told me I needed a root canal which is what I figured would happen- my teeth don't go bad by half, it's all or nothing with the bastards. When I told them I'm going on a dive trip in a few days they said they'd give me antibiotics and do it next week when I get back.
Fair enough, except that prescription drugs scare the crap out of me. Well, over the counters are pretty ominous to me too. They gave me a scrip for an antibiotic and a painkiller, got them filled out, and haven't opened the packet. Spent the night not sleeping, partly cos of the pain and partly cos of worrying about the trip.
So of course I went online. Found a great website that has a discussion forum about diving and medical issues, and on just about every post I could find about it they said get the root canal done asap, just make sure there's no airspace left. . .not sure how they go about doing that, but I'm going to find out today at 3pm. So either the internet just gave me good advice and there'll be no problems on my trip, or I'm going to get down to 50 feet and my tooth's going to explode, flying out of my skull and taking out a passing cod, which in its death throes will turn the water pink with blood, attracting every shark in the vicinity.
Okay, now I'm just being silly. You don't get cod in the Caribbean.
But the internet is both a blessing (because it allows so much access to so much information) and a curse (because it allows so much access to so much information). Usually I'm not one to be a hypochondriac, but I'm going on this dive trip instead of getting a therapist so I'm extra paranoid that something's going to stop me diving and then I'll have even more issues. If it all works out I promise to do my best to not be a smug git and go around boasting about it (although I do reserve the right to tell everyone about how awesome it is and encourage them to do trips of their own). If it doesn't work out, then it's probably you buggers who'll have to sit and listen to me complaining about it in the bar for about a year.
Went to a baby shower BBQ yesterday. It was actually really good to get out in a public park in Las Vegas and just chill with a group of friends, drinking wine and eating Russian pork kebabs. It was something you almost never do here cos it's either to bloody hot, windy, or crappy out, or you don't have access to Russian pork kebabs. Being there with a group of friends, half of whom have kids already, in anticipation of one of them having his first child, seems a little wierd when you're a single, 29 year old bloke. It almost felt like those of us without kids were saying goodbye to him, and those with sprogs are getting ready to welcome him into their fold. So much of interacting with other people is comparing yourself to them- not in a bad way, but trading stories and experiences, finding common ground, living though other peoples memories of an event with them- that at times like that it seems the world is divided up into two parts. There's the part that has kids, and the rest of us.
In about six weeks Adam's going to be able to talk to all the other parents about the birth of his kid, the experience of holding the little bugger for the first time, and all that other mushy stuff that comes along. The rest of us will be able to stand around listening, but not really understanding because we haven't been through it. I don't begrudge him any of this. In fact far from it, I think the world needs more smart people breeding. And I can understand the desie to have kids. . .sort of, in my own wierd fucked up way.
Disclaimer: Bear in mind I'm writing all this as someone who's never been married, or even close, and kids have basically never even been an option. I've had the dubious luxury of being selfish for far too long, and that's why seeing friends who have kids always brings up mixed emotions for me. I have no way of fathoming what it's like to see it begin to form in utero, to hold your own child in your arms, and see it grow from a ball of unpleasant sounds and smells into someone who can wipe their own arse. Do I want that? The jury's still out on that one. I'll go through phases where it seems like a great idea, and times when it's the worst idea in the world. Another one of me running around being all cynical and drunk with a mid-atlantic accent? Yeah, the world needs that.
Maybe that's what growing up is. It's not reaching a 'milestone birthday' like 16, 18, 21, 25, 30, 40, etc. It's not buying a house, or voting in your first election, or getting married. It's being ready to have kids, giving up the right to be selfish in the interest of someone else. And I do mean being ready to have kids, deciding that it's something both you and your partner want and will enter into completely. Knocking up some chick you met online doesn't count as being ready for kids. I'm definitely not ready for kids, but maybe I can see the possiblilty of being ready for the buggers one day.
Until then, I'm going to hold off growing up.
Ahh, retail therapy. It really does work wonders. Even more so when you can actually use whatever it is you buy. Most of the time I'll be out running errands and decide I need a nice wooden bowl carved out of a tree stump, or a hookah, or seasons 1 through 4 of Blackadder on DVD. But yesterday was retail therapy with a purpose. I had to be up at the crack of dawn (about 9am) for a Las Vegas community theatre get together, which was rough to say the least. But as I was up, and as the meeting was finished with time for me to go back home before headed to work, I stopped off in Office Depot and bought myself a white board.
'A white board?' I hear you say. 'Why yes,' I reply. 'A big fricking white board, 3'x4', and about an hour ago I hung it on my wall, removing the Pirelli calendar pictures I had up there- it's not porn, it's art cos it's black and white and pirelli and monica bellucci. The Nelson Mandela quote is still up there.
Now there's a big damn white board staring down at me. I've just written up the summary of me novel, and started keeping track of characters, their ages and other timelines within the story, and now I don't have to go back leafing through 23-odd pages of scribble to try and remember what Tomar's girlfriend is called, or who originally came from which country. Not that any of that is set in stone, and the chances are I'll decide I don't like he sound of some of the names and change them, but it's easier now to remember who I'm talking about. Or probably would be if I was actually writing instead of writing about writing. But that's today from 12-2. Now I've got a big bloody piece of motivation hung on me wall, and I'm not sure there are any excuses left for me to use. I may well have exhausted my near-endless supply of them.
Nah, I just think at this point it's easier to write than to keep excusing myself.
If I knew how to get this, I'd be done by now. It comes and goes, but there's almost no rhyme or reason behind it. I'd describe myself as generally motivated, with a side order of wherewithal, a dash of laziness, and a garnish made up of procrastination. And the problem is I'm the sort of bugger who always eats the garnish.
You should, you know. It's generally there for a reason. Parsley is used as a garnish because it helps to freshen breath, so chew it after the meal. But anyway, today I tried to set aside some time to write, and it didn't really work very well. I did no writing. I was online and I read several interesting articles, a couple of funny ones, took care of some Producer stuff for BNTA, and then the two hours were up and I had to head in to work. I accomplished a couple of things I had to get done, but why is it I keep putting off what I really want to be doing? And why is the internet so full of shinies that keep distracting me?
I'm thinking about maybe doing another Primm weekend. Or maybe not in Primm this time, but somewhere that isn't so devoid of distraction. That was the problem with Primm- I may have managed to churn out 18 pages, but do you have any idea how much time I spent playing with the stupid games on my iPhone, or looking out the window, or wondering around Willaims Sonoma (they had a sale on)? I think I'd do much better going all the way to the coast and trying it there. On the coast I'd be able to take a break from the writing, maybe go for a romantic walk along the beach as the sun goes down. . .it counts, I'd be walking with my most frequent lover. . .I could even do it on the beach!
I mean write. You people.
Anyway, the less there is to distract it seems the more able I am to distract myself with completely pointless stuff. Hell, I could be writing right now instead of trying to come up with more ways to joke about masturbation. Hey, get it? Come up with?
Sorry.
ANYWAY, the point is, as of now I'm really going to make a concerted effort to do everything I keep talking about, all the things I know I should do but keep putting off. I'm going to edit my short stories, maybe even excerpt them here if anyone's interested. I'm going to keep plugging away at this whole bloody novel thing. I'm not going to get sucked in to the cracked.com lists, or what other stupid thing Limbaugh said today. I've got a book called The Freelance Writer's Bible, and it's got some really helpful advice in it. I was reading it earlier, and it talks about setting aside time to write as one of the most important things you can do. And suddenly I was motivated. I actually put down the book and started writing, got a page knocked out in not much time at all. So thats going to be the new me. Promise. Watch this space, I'll let you know how it goes.
The week, I mean. At least my week. And I can't decide whether the sound of multiple sirens a couple of blocks away is a bad way to start it. . .I am awake an hour earlier than I had intended. Not that it's easy to anticipate something like waking up, but I know for a fact I don't get enough sleep so when I'm lying here in bed, looking at a clock that's an hour earlier than I was expecting to see it, it does kind of annoy. Well, considering I woke cos of the sound of sirens I guess I'm lucky that my arse isn't on fire, I'm not having a medical emergency, or the cops aren't carting me off to prison for some heinous crime like running naked through a fast food drive through and stealing a bunch of food (this actually happened. . .not to me, but it was on one of those odd news websites). I can lie here and put my thoughts in order for the week, think about what I'm going to accomplish, what I should accomplish but probably won't get to, and. . .remember all the things I was supposed to do this weekend and haven't done yet. Bugger. If you'll excuse me, I should go take care of some stuff.
I don't like to write about work. Or rather, I'd love to be able to write about work, because there's so much goes on that is definitely worthy of bloggage. But there's only so much you can talk about before you piss someone off and divulge too much, so I find it easier to just not bother.But this week has been special, and deserves a mention. It was pretty shitty. And when I say pretty, I mean very. First, in case you don't know, I run automation for the Cirque Du Soleil show LOVE. It's the Beatles one. Automation is basically all the moving parts of the theatre- stage lifts, flying lines, curtains, etc. We've got a hundred and twenty-something moving parts, and I get to play with them all. Well, without going into detail, I'll just say the automation department couldn't catch a break. We had a rough week. How rough? Almost rough enough for me to give up drinking. When it can make someone who doesn't drink think about taking it up, and someone who didn't make it home this morning from the bar before the sun came up think about stopping, it's been rough. Why would you automatically assume that I'm talking about me getting home from the bar at that time of day? I'm not, I'm talking about Matt, one of our sound guys. Okay, fine, I was drinking with him. But in my defense, it's solstice time so the days are at their longest right now. And if I get out of the bar at 5:15 in the morning, that's like you leaving it at 10:45pm. See? Not so bad from that perspective. Not as bad as this week's been. Well, the work week is over now, and I'm not yet giving up drinking. I'm headed to the bar right now. But it's weeks like this that all I want is the original crutch, the original coping mechanism. . . A hug from me Mum.
I'm not entirely sure why Primm exists. If you're coming from California and you can't wait until you get to Vegas to gamble, then you should probably have stayed at home. The outlet malls aren't offering any noticeable deals (but this is probably because Las Vegas has cut prices). The rooms are no better or worse than thousands across the country- they provide a bed to sleep in and somewhere to clean yourself up. But there is the Bonnie and Clyde car. The one they were in when they got shot. A lot. Course when I got back I had to read about it on Wikipedia. 130 Bullets. A hundred and thirty. That's quite a lot. As well as the car there's also the shirt that Clyde was wearing at the time, pretty torn up and tattered, but laundered thankfully.
Now I'm not going to go into whether they deserved it, or should have been handled differently, but for some reason I think part of the tragedy of their story is that their car now sits in on a casino floor, behind plexi panels, with a couple of mannequins dressed up as them and one of them holding a gun. People stop and take pictures. There's something just sad about that to me.
Some of the members of their gang said that a hail of gunfire was a better way to go for them than being caught. But now part of their legacy is a random stop along one of America's freeways, right up there with the giant ball of yarn in. . .well, wherever it is. Maybe that's why Primm is there?
Either way, if you're driving along the I-15 south of Vegas you can stop and take a look at it. Or not.
First, a public service announcement: Speeds of over 81 miles an hour in the state of Virginia are considered reckless driving and as such are subject to a mandatory court appearance, possible $2500 fine, and possible jail time. Don't worry, I found this out because I was going 80. But I drive more in Las Vegas than anywhere else, and it's pretty usual here to go 80 on the interstate and have the cops ignore you. Or pass you. Anyway. . .
I was in Virginia for my friend Rusty's wedding. I've known Rusty since some time towards the end of 2001, when we both worked for Norwegian Cruise Lines. As luck would have it we ended up roommates (something that can make or break a contract when you're working on a cruise ship). Oh, the stories we could tell. . .
So the last time I saw Rusty he came to visit me in Las Vegas for a few days more than four years ago. He was here thinking about maybe getting a job, but opted to go back out on ships which turned out to be the right choice as he then met Andreea. Couple of years later, and I get an invitation to go to their wedding in Virginia. Not really a place I would choose to go on vacation, but you do what you can for your friends, right? And as it turns out it was one of the best vacations I've had in a while. There was no stress, it was the first time I've felt able to switch off for probably two years now, and I got to catch up with some good friends and make some new ones.
The first were Shawn and Lori Farquhar. Shawn's a two-time world champion of magic and I worked with him on the same ship I met Rusty but on a different contract. He and his wife Lori are great people, and it was good to just catch up with them after three years. If there had been a better setting than the Waynesboro Waffle House at 3am we'd have been there, but living in Vegas you forget that the rest of the world tends to keep more normal hours.
The next day at a barbecue for the 'out-of-towners' coming to the wedding, I got to meet some of the people behind Rusty's stories, and reminisce about our days on ships. Over almost three years, I worked for two companies, on four different ships, and seven contracts. It was the best thing I could have done after University, and even though I'm happy I don't work on them any more, getting together with a group of ship people and going over the things we used to get up to, it does make you toy with the idea of going back. Because while the travel was great and the experiences were fantastic, what really made the job were the people. A couple of thousand people from around the world thrown together on a floating hotel, well, anything can happen. When you only have a few months and you know you'll be moving on and might never see people again you don't really waste time. You'll make friends that first night on board when you still don't know the way to your lifeboat but have memorized the location of the crew bar. And not the sort of friends you'll make on land, where it takes time to get to know them properly; you really don't hold back in what you'll tell people. It's a bit like living life condensed.
But this isn't about working on a ship, it's about seeing ship people on land. And there's just something about them that even on land you can tell. I met Brad, Jenn and Wendi in Virginia at the 'out-of-towners barbecue.' Never met or spoken to them before, but by the end of the weekend I had three good friends. I'll keep in touch with them, they'll look me up if they ever come down here and I'll do the same if I'm ever in Toronto. And I know you always say that about people you meet, but I've found it much more true of friends I have who worked on ships. I think that's what life is lacking in Vegas- everyone here seems to have an agenda and I find that hard to deal with sometimes. I don't have many secrets because if you ask me something the chances are I'll tell you, even though I met you ten minutes ago. I don't bullshit people because there's no time when you've got a month to hang out with them before they're sent to their next contract. I've built lifelong friendships in days with people on ships, when it's taken months or even years to end up with the same sort of bond in Vegas. Granted, Vegas isn't the best example of living in the real world, but I think life in general could do with a little less guardeness and a little more openness and trust.
I don't know what it is about working on a ship that can do this to a person. Maybe it's the amount of travelling you do as part of the job, the lack of time between contracts or on port days, or you're worried that if you blow them off they'll blackmail you with the story about New Year's Eve at the Captain's Dance, but either way I went to Virginia for a good friend, and came back with a couple more.
I think I've started what I hope to be my first novel. Or maybe my first published novel? We'll see, it's very early stages right now, but the more I talk about it the more likely I am to get my arse in gear and do it. It's coming from the idea of one of the shorts I did this past month, called the Past. It ended up being a different story than what I had started out to write, but I like where it ended up and think it'll definitely work as a couple of books, probably better than as a short. So there might not be any mor shorts for a while, I want to try and make decent headway on this project.
Oh, and there's all the BNTA stuff too. Looks like things are very promising for it, we're really getting the ball rolling right now. Busy busy busy, but then I don't think I'd have it any other way.
This doesn't mean that the other book, the one I've been talking about forever, isn't going to happen. It just needs much more research than this new one, so it's on the back burner for now. But it'll happen, I'll be pissed with myself if it doesn't happen.
If anyone would like to read the couple shorts I've got finished right now, let me know. I've got them all saved on Google Docs. . .couple are a bit depressing, couple aren't too bad, but I feel much better about the two sci-fi ones I just finished (one of which has the basis for the novel).
Well, back to writing. . .or back to writing rather than blogging cos obviously technically blogging is writing, so I can't go back to it if I'm alread doing it, so. . .never mind. You know what I mean
this week's a weird one, schedulastically speaking. Just worked a normal week, then Tuesday is my Saturday and Sunday all rolled into one. Wednesday thru Saturday we have shows, then Sunday is the party celebrating Cirque Du Soleil's 25th anniversary. We have Sunday thru Wendesday to recover, then back to normal. . .or as normal as it can be working 330p-1130p with Tuesday and Wednesday off. So today I think I'll probably do nothing. Reset. I feel like I haven't stopped moving since before going to Rusty's wedding. One day in which to do some laundry, clear the crap off my desk so I can connect to my hard drives again and maybe a bit of video editing for BNTA. Send a couple of emails, work on a flyer for the kids program Jo's putting togther. I guess so much for nothing. All of that is something, it just doesn't seem like it. Send emails? 'Tis but the work of a moment. Laundry? One just adds the ingredients to the machine then walks away.
Something I've been realizing recently is that doing the smallest thing still counts as something. If I do even half of those things, I'm closer. . .to what I'm not sure, but can't wait to find out. It's doing the myriad of small things I have to get done that gives me the time, the motivation, the balls to do other things. So today if I even get half the things done on the list above, I'll be happy. Worrying about the crap I didn't get done just pisses me off, cos I know I can't blame anyone else but me. And If I get enough done, then maybe I'll be able to really enjoy having four days off.
That's what I'm shooting for. Of course, I'll probably end up staying up too late tonight and not getting up early enough to do anything. Drinks for happy hour with Rusty and Andreea, then David Copperfield, then they want to drag me to a strip club. . .it would be rude not to go. So If I'm lucky I'll get one load of laundry done today, and maybe the desk cleared.
Probably not. But hey, it's still small things done that helps the big things.
Every summer some friends and I drive an hour outside of Vegas, rent boats, and go camping on the Colorado River. It's good to get away from the tourists, the lights and sounds and smells of the city. It's good to spend time with friends you feel comfortable with, in the middle of nowhere. We've been going out there for four years now, and somehow I've ended up as the one who puts the trips together. I call Willow Beach Marina, reserve the boats, let everyone know when they're booked for, sign the paperwork, and drive one of the boats. I love getting out there, leaving life behind for a while. . .and almost every trip I tell myself it's the last time I'm organizing one. We've had anywhere from 11 to 37 people go on the trips. We've wrecked propellers, beached a boat, and nearly drowned a dog. Making sure 'so and so' isn't on the same boat as 'that guy' because of something that went on in a bar between them two months ago gets tiring, especially if I'm one of them (and I have been, I'll admit it). So why do I keep planning these trips? We try to get to Willow Beach between 11am and noon on a Tuesday. It's just over an hour from Vegas, and most of us work until midnight, so that means getting up painfully early. Tents, sleeping bags, camp chairs, coolers, we probably take enough stuff to last us for a week out there, but roughing it is much better if you can do it in comfort. I fill out the paperwork, go through the check lists for the boats, then we all load up our gear and set out downstream. The first beer is cracked, sunscreen applied, cheers and cheerses, and for me a sigh of relief that we're out there again. Our first stop is almost always a cliff jump. About a mile down the river from the marina the boats pull to the Nevada side of the river, and those who are about to jump swim ashore. The rest of us sit below ready to pick them up, take pictures, and mock if anyone takes too long to jump. I did the jump once. Looking up at fifty feet is a lot easier than looking down at it. You have to take a bit of a run, launch yourself in the air, and anticipate hitting the cold river feet first. I was glad I did it, because there's something about launching yourself into space, unattached to anything for that short time, that is fantastically liberating. Having said that, I don't think I'll ever feel the need to do it again. Apart from the windmill impression I did on the way down, there's only so much liberation I can take. After the jumpers have been picked up, and any lost flipflops mourned and bruises admired, we'll head down the river either to stop and swim somewhere, or tie up in the middle and just float for a while. A couple of hours after leaving Willow Beach we'll get to one of a few campsites we've used in the past, and unload all our gear. We'll pitch out tents, stow our gear, some people go off for a hike while others go back out on the river in one or two of the boats, and we generally let the feeling of living in Vegas wash away.
It truly is stunning out there. The red, grey and yellow of the cliffs, rocks and boulders, the blue of the sky and the water, and the occasional vibrant splashes of green along the river bank are gorgeous. The river winds away from you and the sky stretches on forever, and it really makes you stop and think: 'What the hell did the first pioneers think when they got to this river? I can imagine a conversation that went sort of like this. . .
'At last, water! Thank God!'
'We're saved!'
'Uh, guys. . .'
'Who said this land was barren and inhospitable? We can make this place work!'
'Uh, guys. . .'
'What is it?'
'How are we going to get across?'
'Oh. Bugger.'
Okay, so that didn't happen because the river followed a different path before the Hoover Dam was built. But hiking through the desert out there you have to think about the courage, perseverance, and sheer bloody-mindedness that made us as a species feel the need to explore, to find out what lays over the next ridge, what we're going to see around the river bend. Scrambling over rocks, avoiding wizened cactii and keeping an eye out for snakes, it's not really something you should do alone, but it draws you on. One more ridge. I'll just see what's down this gulley. There's shade up there big enough for me to sit down in for ten minutes. And eventually the river is a small blue reflection of sky in the distance. It's peaceful, calming, and bloody hot. In the middle of nowhere, being alone with yourself and your thoughts, well if you can't work out who you are out there then you'll probably never know. And if the desert in daylight opens your mind, night time cuts the top off your head. The surrounding hills disappear, the river turns black, and the sky looks down at you with what seems like an infiinte number of tiny eyes. If the desert can draw me in, make me want to go further, see what comes next, then how do you think I feel about the stars? A billion stars with a billion stories, and I want to find out about all of them. I want to spend a million lifetimes seeing what's around the river bend on a galactic scale. Unfortunately I'm not going to live forever, and we don't have the technology to do what I want to do, so for now I'll continue to organize boat trips for myself and my friends as an excuse to get away from it all. I'll find time to get away from everyone for a little bit, to be alone with myself, the hot night air, and my billions of stars.
so like I talked about, I've been doing some writing during my blog hiatus. And the more I do it, the more I want to do it. I've finished two short stories (which brings my total up to 4 finished), there's four more I'm working on. . .although when I say working on that's not really true. There's one I'm working on, hoping to finish in the next few days, and three I started about nine months ago and haven't looked at in eight months. But I completely intend to finish all four of them in the mext month or two, so I can pay more attention to the two screenplays I'm attempting. And then there's the book. Always the book. It's such a great idea (not that I'm blowing my own horn or anything) that I'm not going to let it go, I just don't have the time to do the research I need for it to work well. But one day. . .
One of my favourite authors, Terry Pratchett, said 'Writing is the most fun you can have by yourself.' I understand what he means. The enjoyment I've found when I finally finish something is definitely worth the frustration that can come when you're trying to get thoughts out of your head and down on paper or screen. Writing is a bit like magic, in that you can appear to produce something out of thin air. And like magic, the trick is to get people to believe you. When you're writing, you get to play a god. You can conjure people, events, whole worlds out of nothing, you can arbitrarily build people and empires up and tear them down again to nothing.
So the more I write the more I want to write, hence starting a blog again. There are so many things I want to talk about, write about, that there isn't enough room in the stories I've been writing. I can't write a short story about space travel, and add a paragraph like 'incidentally, I can't believe that it took this long for Hal Turner to get arrested. . .' it just doesn't fit. So I'm not going to stick to one theme in this blog, because why limit myself? I've been writing historical fiction, science fiction, screenplays, stage plays, short stories and long, and all about different things. I don't want to become a John Grisham. So be ready for anything that's on my mind.
Oh, and I have a tendency to drunk-blog. It's a little safer than drunk texting. Sort of. Maybe not. Drunk texting is probably going to only go to one person, whereas drunk blogging can, in theory, go out to the whole world. Cos everyone really cares what everyone else has to say.
The last time I wrote a blog was June 28th over on MySpace. Not that I've stopped writing; I've actually been doing quite a bit of it. It just hasn't been public yet. In fact, here is my last post from MySpace. . .
I think this is the last one of these I'm going to write. I know, I've said that before, but I'm just not feeling it any more.
Not that I don't feel like writing. . .far from it. I'm just writing elsewhere right now. Couple of short stories, a short screenplay, and another one started that might even make it to feature length. . .we'll see. I feel happier with my writing than I have in a long time. You just don't get to read it for a while, and hopefully it won't have been as reliant on booze as this bloody thing has seemed to be at times.
I think part of it is that I'm afraid of hanging myself. The anger I feel at some of the things going on in my life, it's better that I don't talk about because it could cause problems if I went in to too much detail about them. It's easier to be yourself, be honest, when you don't talk (or write) to anyone.
Tomorrow, Saturday, is my thirteenth anniversary of moving to the US. Long fucking time, never thought I'd be over here this long. Well, I haven't been over here for the full time, but it's still at least twice a long as I thought I'd be here. And in Vegas now for 4 years. Have I learned from being here? Undoubtedly. Could I have learned those lessons anywhere else? Some of them, but not all. But the important ones we need to learn in life, I like to think you'll learn them whenever you are. You'll learn them in a different way, and you might take them differently cos you'll be a little bit of a different person.
Now I'm just waffling. Get out of the cave. Turn around and find out what's making the shadows. Or, to modernize the image, get out of the cave and stop listening to the echoes of what other people have shouted. Because that seems to be what most of the 'blogosphere' is made up of. People shouting their opinions as loudly and as often as they can, leaving comments about shitty top ten lists, or how you made a better video than the original and had to post it in response, or how dare they criticize your favourite film/song/food/religion/politician. I feel like it's reached the point where everyone's shouting so loudly to get their opinions heard, they can't listen to any others, and that's not really very healthy, is it? The inability to change an opinion, or even consider someone else as possibly having the potential to maybe not be completely wrong in some of what they've said, that's fascism by the brain, for the brain. It's terrorism in the skull, where you are your own freedom fighter, except you're fighting for your freedom from the human race. It's mental death. It's what will eventually kill us all, not global warming, or smoking.
Oops. Didn't see any of that coming. Well, peace out, bonne soire, bis spater, and I'll see you in the atmosphere.
So that's where I was about a year ago. Just so you know. More to follow on here, maybe a little less preachy, maybe a couple of excerpts from the other crap I've been writing. Prepublished preview, if you will.
Ahh, the desire to write. No. The need.So it's Valentine's day, 4:15am, and I'm single. And I'm pretty sure I'm okay with that, for a couple of reasons. First, I'm too bloody busy. Second, I'm too selfish. Third, I'm too insecure. Fourth, I'm too much for a lot of people to deal with. Fifth, I can drink a fifth in a sitting, and that's bad news. Sixth, I'm only just using how to use the word 'love.' Seventh, I think I snore. Eighth, I get angry too easily. Ninth, I'm my own worst enemy.
But there's something great about waking up next to someone. Someone who doesn't mind that you both have morning breath. Someone who doesn't mind that the sign of last night's passion are still on the sheets, or your skin, or on those special occasion on the kitchen counter, the bathroom wall, and at least one window. Someone who has realized that those little quirks that you have are kinda cute.
So tonight I went out with a couple of friends. One I may or may not have the express intent of getting naked. Wait, who am I bullshitting? One I would love to get naked, and do all those things I've been learning since I was eighteen. But why this girl? I'll admit that the only time I have one person in mind is when I'm actually with someone. When I'm not, I'm generally thinking of a few people.
I digress. What is it about someone that attracts you to them? That's what I'm trying to work out. In the detritus that is my past relationships, generally I've been able to salvage some sort of raft of friendship. Okay, shitty metaphor, I know. But I've been drinking.
So, most of the women in my past are still in my present. Not naked usually, but they're still there. So what is it that makes some people date, fuck, tease people that will still be around in their circle of friends next year? How is it that some relationships end up as platonic relationships, and some end up as not wanting to talk to the misunderstanding/cheating/lying/fucked up bitch/bastard?
I have absolutely no answer to that question, but I have a few observations. Look at me, all scientific and shit. But. Right now, I would say there's a couple of women I'm interested in. At least two of the aren't actually my type, but when has that stopped anyone? Why are we attracted to people that we know, really, aren't our type? When they're into going out, being social, knowing everyone, and you're not, why do you still try? When they like to hike, bike, camp, climb, and you're a huge fan of your Roman bathtub and all those indoor amenities, why do you still think about it?
Is it the opposites attract thing? I don't go for that, cos so far in my life there's always something that's been opposite between myself and my partner. And it's usually the dealbreaker, like I'm insecure and she's not, or I want to talk more often than she does. But at the same time, there's no way I could date someone too like myself. . .you know, charming, witty, thoughtful, considerate. . .um, full of shit?
Anyway, I'm babbling. That's the vodka talking. And the tequila. And the single malt. But tonight there were lots of things I wanted to write, but I'm ending up writing this. . .
To all the women in my past, present, and future, thank you. Not some pathetic, thank you for laying me, but a thank you for sharing a part of yourselves with me. Thank you for those 3am caresses that we're both too tired to keep going, but too fascinated by each other to stop. Thank you for the way you smell, you taste, for the way your soul responds to us. For all the women I should have loved, to the women I didn't know I loved, or wouldn't admit I loved until it was too late, and all those I couldn't, wouldn't let myself love even though I should have, here's to you. Enjoy this world, this life, because you've all been a part of both my life and my world, and it's all here for you, for the taking, so enjoy it because you've already made it worthwhile for me. And whether it's me doesn't matter, that's not what life is about, but I hope someone has made it worthwhile for for you.
This isn't the blog I was going to write, or probably should have written. The drafts for those are scattered between my laptop, a couple of computers at work, one thumb drive, and the digital graveyard. All those blogs I started but didn't finish, or saved because I meant to finish, and now never will because life got in the way. I'm happy. I have been for a couple of hours now, although for reasons I can't really explain. Went to the bar, had a few drinks, played some trivia, this has all happened before. But driving home after the bar, I decided that when I got home I was going to chill some Whiskey, and go for a walk. This I did. I got home, retrieved my backpack from the boot of my car, and went to the kitchen to chill some Whiskey. The single malt I had in mind was a 10-year-old Laiphroag, which was given to me for my birthday, and which I'd never had before but have decided it's one that I very much like. Decanted a tad into my flask, and went out the front door, which I seldom use because I come in through the garage most days.
I went for a walk because it was raining. Having lived in England, Louisiana, Oregon, Austria, Hawai'i, and the Caribbean, all those places have a fair amount of rain. Some are warm, some cold (guess which ones!?!), but I think all are refreshing to some extent or another. The rain in England is why it's green, and can support 55 million people living there. Louisiana, Hawai'i, and the Caribbean, the rain is warm and is much better than the humidity, because it's nice to be wet from something other than your sweat. Oregon is somewhere between the two; it can be warm, it can be cold, but it definitely rains there.
And now I live in Vegas. (Oh, by the way, I might go on for a while. I'm not busy, or in any hurry to go to bed, so I might sit here and type for a while. There, you've been warned.) Vegas is one of the last places I thought I would end up. And I shudder to use that phrase, cos I ain't dead yet so don't like to think of myself as having 'ended up here.' But I've been here for coming on to four years, and that's a long time for me to be anywhere. I'm a little antsy, to say the least. There are things I miss. I miss seeing those friends that at one point or another in my life I've taken for granted, and now they're not just a couple blocks away, ready to go out for drinks. I miss moving around, and having to see a new place and how I fit in to it. I miss being able to start fresh every few months, with at most four or five people who knew me before. I miss not having to drive home after going to the pub. This list could go on forever, but I'm going to grab another drink, back in a few. . .
So I poured myself another Whiskey, and I'm going to take the chance to correct my spelling from up above. I'm drinking Laphroaig. 10-year-old. Nectar. Anyway, where was I.
I miss the rain and the ocean. Vegas is the first place in my life that I don't get either on a regular basis. And when I do 'end up' somewhere, I'm going to need one or the other. I drink less water than anyone I know, I'm a prime candidate for dehydration, but I seem to have this need for water in my life. As long as I'm not drinking it or putting it in my Whiskey (I'm a one ice cube guy), I seem to love having water in my life. Walking in the rain tonight, deliberately neglecting to put on anything waterproof (including my shoes, as it turned out). I think the rain is one of the things I'm really going to miss when I die.
So let's make a list of things we're going to miss when we die. . .I'll go first (and these are in no particular order):
1. Rain on my face. in fact, rain in general whether it's on my face, a tent, windscreen, wherever. 2. My parents. Although I'll probably miss them before I die, cos I'm sure they've arranged things so that they won't have to be here after I'm gone. So my family as a whole, because I'll probably leave some of them behind, and I'm sorry for that, but hey, we had fun, right? 3. You guys. I'm going to be sorry that I won't be able to write anything that might make you smile, frown, or just bring a thought you might not have had were it not for reading some crap I'd written. And hey, we had fun, right? 4. The sound of the ocean. And the feel of the ocean. Whether it's fucking around in the surf, jumping in time with the waves and snotting out salt, being on a ship and feeling the whole thing move under you, or being a part of it, diving, there is something I find calming about the Ocean, even when it scares the shit out of me. 5. Sunrises and sunsets. 6. Dogs 7. I'm going to miss being able to close my eyes while listening to some pieces of music and just feel that things are better. And there's a couple on the album I'm listening to right now. 8. Alcohol. Be it Whiskey, Cider, Absinthe, Jager, Beer, or any of the others I have come to know and love in the past 17 years of imbibing. Mostly I'm going to miss the feeling that comes with having just enough but not quite too much. 9. Orgasms. Mine and other peoples. Mine, because at the end of the day it feels good to come. Other peoples, because if you're lucky enough to get to give someone else one, then you've delved that little bit deeper into their soul, you've both shared something of yourselves that you don't give out to everyone. And it feels good to come. 10. Smells. There are some fantastic smells in this world, from fresh-cut grass, to someone else's skin, to a wood fire, to a summer wood in the middle of the English countryside. 11. Tastes. See above. 12. Anger. Because it feels good to be angry. I'm going to miss being angry. Angry at nothing, at things that dont matter or mean anything, and anger at those world-changing issues that some people just don't seem to get. I know I shouldn't feel this way, but anger can feel good, and I'm going to miss the feeling that righteous anger can give. 13. I'm going to miss the feeling standing in the middle of a club, with a bit of a buzz, and just giving in to the music. To feel the music in every nerve, muscle, et cetera et cetera blah blah blah, insert body part here.
Thirteen seems like a good number to stop on. Promise there are more, but I'm not thinking of them right now. And after going back and looking at them to make sure I'm not repeating myself, I realized it might seem a bit morbid to list things I'm going to miss when I die. But the strange thing is, I'm not depressed or morbid when talking about things like this, I'm just matter of fact. I think that the short story I just wrote has something to do with it, cos it's sort of about death. Well, more about fear and selfishness, but death's a big part of those two things. But we've all got to go through with it, so why ignore it?
Well, I'm done with this for the night. But I'm not done writing for the night. Going to work on some other things I've been thinking about, might finish up in time for the sunrise; I just hope it's still raining, because two for one is always good.
The revolutions that change the world are the ones that happen inside of people's heads. I'm not sure if that is a quote, but it feels more true than ever right now. Peace out. And thanks for making it this far with me. . .
So it's easier to just babble in this little box than it is to put in the time and effort to do the real blog entry. But I'm working on that, gonna try and set it up so when I've got something to say I don't have to reupload the whole page. Had a bunch to say in the past few months, but I haven't wasted your time with putting it in here. . .I've just wasted the time of anyone I've had a drink with...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> Anyway. It's that time of year again. Apart from the going to get officially older in a little while, it's the whole single thing rearing its ugly head again. It's not that I don't want to be single: I do, I'm happy with it for the most part. It's that I'm in Albertson's last night shopping, and there's a Valentine's aisle full of red-and-pink-coloured tastelessness. I've got another friend who just got engaged- which reminds me, I should say hi and congrats. It's the endless internet ads telling me to log on and find my soulmate, my perfect match, my other half.
You know what? Fuck that. Why am I always made to feel guilty that I'm single? I've got a hell of a lot going for me, I'm going to do something with my life, so why am I made to feel like a failure because I haven't had a relationship in the past three and a half years? Why must I be defined by how long I've managed to get someone to put up with me on an intimate, physical level?
This sounds angry, but it's really not. It's frustration more than anything else. It's frustration that if I go and watch a movie by myself I get weird looks. It's frustration that any time I hang out with someone of the opposite sex, people start quizzing me about it, is it going anywhere, she's cute, who is she, are you going to ask her out? Sometimes it seems like the only place a single bloke my age is accepted is a strip club.
Besides, why does sex have to make a relationship successful? Why does relationship automatically seem to carry with it the implication that you're 'with' that person? Why does 'platonic' have to be added like some sort of disclaimer? I have some great relationships, some that are very important to me, and they're all friends. All of them. I include in these relationships people I've dated, people I've slept with but not dated, people I've never touched. They're all relationships, they're all important to me, but I'm buggered if I'm going to split them up into platonic, neo-platonic, un-platonic, quasi-pla-fucking-tonic. They're tonic. They're friendships. Even my relationship with my parents is a friendship. And that's the only relationship I guess you really don't have to disclaim as being platonic, cos I hope it's assumed.
So here's to all my relationships with all of you. I'm still not getting any of you anything for Valentine's Day.
I was waiting to get my hair cut today, and in a couple of chairs close to me sat an older woman and a child. When I sat down the woman was reading to the child, which is a completely commendable thing to do as far as I'm concerned. After a while, however, the girl lost interest in the story, paying more attention to the birthday cake that was being distributed to the stylists and patrons. Promised a bit when her grandmother was having her hair done, she settled back down, and wanted to play with her dolls.Now, when my sister was growing up, she had the mermaid Barbies, the one with the 'tail' that fit over the legs. The two this girl had were completely mermaid, no legs, just plastic tails. So the two of them are playing, and the grandma asks the name of one of the dolls. 'Mrs Shelly,' replies the girl. 'We should call her violet, because her hair is all purple, and violet.' 'No, it's Mrs. Shelly.' 'But Violet would be a much better name.' And more of the same. She also went on to completely try and tell the girl how to play with the dolls, paying no attention to what she was saying unless to correct her.
And this really depresses me. Let your grandkid call her doll what she wants. Let her use her imagination, let her think for herself, because pretty son she'll get older, and have to think how other people tell her to think for grades, friends, and so on. There's more than one teacher out there who wants you to think exactly the same way they do- if you think a book is crap, you can't say it because it's one of their favourites. The media wants you to think a specific way, the politicians, people knocking at your door, the list goes on.
consider myself very lucky that growing up, my parents never tried to curtail my creative impulses. Even when I went through a phase of drawing naked women at about 12 years old, I think they were glad I was drawing. We went to church on occasion, but I was never told 'you must think this.' To tell you the truth, I didn't even know that my Dad was Catholic until I started looking at a Catholic University. My Mum told me growing up that she believed when you die you just go to sleep, and if you're aware of anything it's like floating in a cool mist. But they never told me I had to think a certain way. So to hear today a grandmother telling her granddaughter what she should call her own fricking dolls, upsets me.
I have very little to do with kids. None of my local friends have them (or if they do, they're kept away from me). I'm not planning on having kids, although if it does happen I'm not adverse to the idea (yeah, I know, I've changed). Is this common in raising children nowadays? Suggesting everything for them, telling them what they should and shouldn't call their toys? Teaching them how to play? Because I think that's one of the most important things people lose as they grow up: the ability to have fun. I mean really. People say they play golf to have fun, or go out and meet people in the bar, but how many people do you know who play a sport and get pissed off because they fuck up a couple of shots and it ruins their whole day? Or have a shitty time in the bar cos they didn't pull? People need to learn how to have fun again before they try teaching kids how to do it, because I think it's one of the many things we should let kids teach us how to do. How to have fun, how to enjoy yourself with a simple empty cardboard box instead of all the shit that's inside it. Our lives are cardboard boxes we fill with crap to try and make ourselves happy/successful/admired. Shouldn't the box be enough?
And it's not like I don't have a shit-tonne to write about. It's just that everything I have to write about has kept me busy.
1 High School reunion. 2 weddings. 3 States. 4 Beer Mugs. 5 Countries. 6 Aeroplane Flights. And I don't know how many friends and relations I haven't seen in years. I can't count the beer, the wine, the scotch drunk, or the damned good food eaten. And I didn't even have to fudge any of those numbers!
Credit cards aren't for buying a round of drinks at a local bar, they're for buying a train ticket so I can repeat the trip from Munich to Salzburg for old times sake. And buying a round of drinks there.
It's hard to describe what it was like to go back to Salzburg. I only spent one night there, but it was something I've been wanting to do since I left in May of 1999. I spent a couple of days in Munich first, visiting my Godfather, and even the train station there brought back so many memories. But it wasn't home like Salzburg was, it was the main springboard into the rest of western Europe (and the city Jenny lived in). Munich was. . .familiar.
Salzburg was. . .comfortable. Like a favourite pair of jeans. They fit really well, been through a lot with you, and probably have one or two marks that you're not entirely sure where they came from. Both the weddings I went to were Salzburgers- one a roommate, and the other two next-door neighbours, so half the people at the weddings were from Sazburg too. And it was good to reminisce about the place right before and right after I went, with people who were there and went through the same things.
We're talking about organizing a trip back there in two years, for our 'ten-year-leaving' anniversary, and it's that sort of thing that makes working worthwhile. The anticipation of spending that money on good times in a good place with good people. I'd not been living by the 'you can always earn more money but you can't earn more time, so spend your money well and your time wisely' premise, but I'm back on it again, making my time count as much as possible when you play warcraft. So I'll be getting back into the writing.