Writing.

Everyone says that when you are writing, there's nothing so daunting as a blank screen. I don't agree. A blank screen is full of potential and promise. It's when I'm into a project that writing becomes daunting. All of a sudden I have characters who are waiting to find out what they're going to do next. I've got worlds to finish crafting, and similes and metaphors to pull out of my arse.

And I get to a certain point, and I start to worry about what I'm writing. Is it any good? Am I going to be able to convince anyone to read it? Or is it some unremembered story I once read, that I've become convinced is my own idea? You always hear that there's no such thing as originality any more. Every story's already been told, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

I haven't written much this year. I'm not sure why. But about two months ago I was in something of a funk, and decided to make a concerted effort to write. A month later, I started. I set myself goals, but because of the nature of life, I don't like to say I'll write five hundred words a day. Life gets in the way of that, and writing doesn't work like that for me. I have to do it when it lets me. I'll go month to month, setting a goal in the hopes that not too many things will distract me.

I'm not a fan of February. It gives me fewer days to reach my goals.

Anyway, I've been writing this month. Not as much as I'd like, but there's still time. Book II isn't going to go anywhere. I started another screenplay. I started and finished a short yesterday afternoon before work. Maybe as the year progresses, I'll get more and more down on paper/on the screen/in the hard drive/whatever I should call it these days. It's the pattern I seem to follow right now; bugger all until June, and then thousands on thousands of words, some of them usable, until the end of the year.

I got a tonne to get done before December, then.

Satisfaction

Sitting in my boat, listening to the rain come down, with the lights I rewired working and the holes I patched not leaking. One of the sails is my pillow. Outside, I know the world is continuing. People are living and dying, eating, sleeping, shagging. Acts of evil and acts of kindness are being committed. And I lie here, not off round the world yet as I intend, but that's okay, because there's time.

And when I decide to make a move, leave my boat behind and head back to my car and the drive home and civilization, it'll be closer. Not here, but closer.

Until then I'm content to lie here, the sail under my head, and listen to the world happening around me. Just so you know.

The Past

Is a foreign country that you can go back and visit, but you wouldn't want to live there again. Or maybe you would. Some people loved High School. Some people would do anything to live in the dorms again. But some people hated the food, got the shits from the local water, and don't even want to look at the pictures.

Spent the weekend at my ten-year University Reunion. And I'm not sure in which of the above categories I fall. Do I think about it? Yeah. Do I want to go back to it? Well, there's a couple things I would have done differently, but not really. It was part of how I got to where I am, and for that I'm eternally grateful. But I'm also grateful for not having to work full time AND go to class full time. I'm glad I don't have to share a bathroom, or worry about intervisitation and sneaking out of girls rooms after a certain hour. I'm grateful that I can now live on something other than Tuna Helper and ramen. Although I still have a weakness for ramen.

Going to a Reunion is a bit like taking drugs. You probably shouldn't do it, but your friends convince you it's a good idea. It gives you a bit of a buzz, fucks with your head, and you're affected differently than you thought you would, but it's not necessarily a bad trip. And it's a little bit addicting-- you kinda want to do it all again, once you recover. Recovery range being anywhere from a year to the hardcore user addicts, and ten years for the more recreational user.

I don't think I'll be back for another reunion for ten years. There was something strange seeing how young the most recent grads look, and how old some of the other classes look. It made me very aware of my oft-forgotten youth, and my own mortality at the same time. I've got some grey hair, but it's not receding. I've put on weight, but I can still see my own dick. I've gotten more responsible, but I can still choose to do stupid things.

At the same time, it's not just about the reunion. I caught up with almost as many friends from High School as I did with College friends. I'm a hundred percent unbiased in my catching up with whomever over lunch/dinner/drinks/hike up a mountain, as long as I have time. Whichever region of the foreign-country past you're from, let's catch up. Reunions are a good excuse, but honestly, do we need an excuse?

Last Time

My cousin, Gareth, is getting married sometime next year. He lives in Melbourne, Australia, and assuming I'm invited to the wedding I'm really looking forward to going over there again. I spent three weeks there five years ago, catching up with old friends, making new ones, and getting chased down a Queensland beach by a cassowary. My parents are looking forward to it too, and it seems the older I get the more often I see my parents away from their or my house. Germany four years ago, Lorna's wedding three years ago, England earlier this year. And Australia next year?

I digress. Unusual for me, I know, but that's not what I was getting at. The point is, when my folks go over there they're planning on visiting New Zealand as well. That's somewhere I've always wanted to go, but right now with the short sale etc., I can't really afford to go over to Oz, let alone take the time for NZ as well. So it means at some point in the future, I'll possibly fly across the Pacific on my third trip. That's a lot of miles.

If and when I make that third trip (the one next year being my second), I won't be meeting up with my parents. They've already said that the reason they're doing the two places is because they won't be making the trip again. And that's depressing. I don't think of either of them as old, but obviously they're starting to become aware of their own mortality. Dad's got six years until he's the same age that his father died, so that's probably in the back of his mind when he acknowledges this will be his last trip to Australia and New Zealand.

But at what age do people generally start thinking about 'this is my last time doing...'? Not that any of us can plan how much longer we've got to live-- some people die tragically young, and some people die tragically old, and people pop it everywhere in between-- but is it something that happens once you reach a certain age? I'll admit, it's in the back of my mind sometimes. Travelling around Europe and on cruise ships, I met a lot of people from a lot of different places. And while I try to keep in touch through Facebook and email, it's probable that I'll never actually see some of them again. Our lives will get in the way, take us down different paths, and one day it'll be too late for a final catch-up.

I hate thinking about this shit at 31. I do my damnedest to not think about it, so as far as I'm concerned I've got several more trips to Australia in me, and several more Oktoberfests, and more than one shark dive, and at least a happy hour with you guys. But eventually I, we'll, all run out of time, so here's to the last time of everything, whenever and however it happens. Fucking enjoy it, okay?

Spring Cleaning

Is May too late to do a little spring cleaning? I just deleted the nine drafts that have been languishing in the shadowy, not-really-real world that is online. The seconds and minutes I spent on them, the thoughts and care and soul I put into them, is all gone. But was I ever going to finish and publish them? No, so they're gone.

I've been going through that quite a bit recently. I finally got my mediation notice through for my house, so moving out at some point in the near future is all of a sudden real, and I've got too much crap to take to a one-bedroom apartment. Sure, I could get a bigger place, but I don't really need it. I'm not married, don't have any pets, and want to discourage anyone who visits from actually staying with me. So at some point I'm downsizing, and not everything can go with me, so it needs to go. Too many clothes, books, kitchen stuff- although I'm not getting rid of the kitchen stuff until I absolutely have to. Paperwork in my office is being shredded, CD's are being ripped to my hard drive and gotten rid of.

Even things that take up no space. The aforementioned draft blogs. Email. But email's an ongoing problem, and the root of that problem is I need to stop subscribing to things, or signing petitions complaining about campaign financing and fox hunting. I want to still do these things, but every time there's a cause you believe in, you end up on another couple of email lists and begged time and again to put your name out there, help out etc. I'd do it more if I didn't have to give out my email address every time.

Physically, getting rid of my appendix last month was a good move. Didn't need the bloody thing, so out it went.

And then, to get absolutely metaphysical on you, getting rid of the baggage in my head. Sorry, I know it's been a while since my last blog, and to just dump that on you all of a sudden is a little bastardish, but that's proof there's things in my head I could do with losing.

So please sit back during this period of adjustment. My office will be slightly messier than usual (two tornadoes on a scale of messiness, where one tornado is my natural level of messy). I may not have full use of my bed every night, as things are removed from the closet and contemplated. My head might be doing some internal filing and take slightly longer for a snarky comment. And Itunes is going to be horrible to find anything for a while.

Don't worry, I'll soon not be back to my old self. Not that you'll probably be able to tell.

A Plan.

I have a new plan to get myself out of debt. It's a great plan. It's a plan that's being tried by the country right now, and with so many important people in public positions trying it, who am I to try any less. First, I'm going to stop paying for my electricity. Summer's coming, and being in Vegas with the a/c running all the time, I'm just not going to be able to afford it if I want to get out of debt. Maybe I'll stop running the a/c a little, but then the candles on the mantelpiece will start melting, and the puppy probably won't like it. I won't sleep well, because trying to sleep in a hundred and ten degrees (about forty three celsius) just doesn't work. If I'm rationing the a/c, I should probably ration other appliances that use electricity, like the fridge and freezer. Eating and drinking food out of the defrosted appliances might make me sick, but at least then if I have to stay overnight in hospital I'll be able to get a decent night's sleep, as there will be air conditioning.

If I'm getting sick from food that's gone off, I definitely shouldn't waste my time cooking it, so that'll save on the gas bill too.

Driving. Driving to work takes a lot of gas, but you know what I've noticed? If I get stopped by fewer traffic lights, I don't have to accelerate as often, and that's what burns most of the gas. So I'm going to ignore traffic signals, which should enable me to stretch a tank of gas for at least another half a week.

I do feel the need, however, to buy a home security system. Sure, I have locks, the same way my neighbours do, and walls, but I think an infra-red intruder alert system, with sensors on all the doors and windows, is very necessary. Maybe some razor wire for the eaves, spikes hidden in the bushes. But that's the only thing worth spending money on.

And this is the piece de resistance. This is what will enable my plan to work.

I'm going to ask for a pay cut.

That's right. My theory is (closely modeled on what's going on with the US right now) if I have less income, then I'm able to get out of financial problems sooner. Apparently the way to get rid of debt is to being less money in. That's why tax cuts were extended, right? If you can't leave within your means, then you should, I'm learning from the government, have less means.

Correct me if I'm wrong here. . .

Insecurities

They pop up at the most unexpected times, don't they? But then, if it happened at any other time, we'd be better able to deal with them. On Monday, I signed paperwork that takes me out of the world of hourly employee, and firmly into the world of salaried, lower-level management. It's a place that is both strange and comfortable to find myself. Comfortable, because I've been doing the job off and on for a year now, what with the bloke who had the position before being out for surgery, and then family emergencies. Strange, because I've always had something of an anti-authoritarian streak.

That last part isn't entirely true. I haven't always had it. I used to be a right little kiss-arse, but I got to about the age of thirteen, and decided I didn't like being like that. I wouldn't say I changed overnight, but I definitely started pushing boundaries with everyone except my parents. I'd already pushed those boundaries starting around four.

'Come on Richard, you should read this book.' 'Not gonna.'

'Richard, it's been two months since your last haircut. Don't you want to have it nice and short for the summer?' 'No.'

'Richard, you're here to play golf, not help those damned bugs hatch.' 'Don't like golf. They need my help.'

'Richard, you don't want to always do theatre, do you?' 'Yes.'

And so on. The ironic thing is, I now read avidly and intend to be a published author one day, I'm getting my head shaved on Saturday (but it's for a good cause), and the idea of golf appeals to me (as long as I can drink a six pack whilst playing). The theatre thing is the one bit I stuck by, and apparently that's working out too with this promotion.

But I'm not supposed to be talking about my rebellious streak. That's a story for another, possibly drunken, blog. I'm talking about the insecurities I felt today on my first 'proper' day on the job. See, while I was covering for Tenn, it was easy. I could always blame it on the other guy, or use the excuse that I'm just filling in. There was a safety net of sorts. Now, I have to make the call, and at present there's no one else running the department. Ten guys, eight of whom are older than me, all expecting me to make the right call, and make sure things get done, and that's a little intimidating. I'm having to make calls now that, two weeks ago, wouldn't have fazed me. Should I have done it that way? Did I say the right thing to that person? Could I have done that differently? I can't back out of it now, I can't give back the mantle to someone else, cos with a blasé 'Eh, fuck it, why not?' I signed that piece of paper and became what I've always mocked and pushed back against. . .management. So while it's comfortable, I'm still going to spend the next couple of months secretly doubting the decisions I make, being all insecure while putting on a brave face and acting confident.

Don't tell the guys that gave me the job.

Hair...not the short story

I'm proud of my hair. I'm 31, and have a full head of the stuff. There may be a couple grey strands here or there, but who's looking? Me, actually, every week or so. They first appeared. . .at an earlier date, but once thirty hit I felt I could admit to them. And now thirty-one is here, well, fair enough, I have some grey hairs. At least I have hair, unlike some of my contemporaries. My hairline hasn't changed in about six years, so I'm pretty sure it's staying where it is. My father and grandfather both have a full head of hair, so I'm good.

My one concern is when I shave it all off in March, it'll come back greyer. I'm not ready to look distinguished. Give me another couple of years before that, please?

Oh yeah, I'm shaving my head in March. Been talking about it for a while now, and it's for a good cause. It's to raise money for the St. Baldricks foundation, which raises money to fund cancer research, specifically to help kids. The last couple of years I've been to the event, in McMullans pub,but this year I'm taking the plunge, joining the Cirque Du SoBald team, and shaving it off. Never had a completely shaved head before. Dad used to make us get buzz cuts when we were younger, but right now my ears have disappeared under the three musketeers look I've got going right now.

Anyway. Shaving head. What is it with this year, me being all impulsive and taking the plunge over and over? Well, whatever, at least this one's for a good cause. Here's the link to my page, click on it and donate money to help kids with cancer!

http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/participantid/421456

The End

You know what the end of civilization is going to be? It won't be nuclear war. It's not going to be the rapture or the events according to the book of Revelations. Mayan's 2012 predictions? Large Hadron Collider? Nope. None of the above.

It's going to be spam. Not the processed and packaged meat product that's become a staple in the diet of many Pacific Island Nations, that's had songs (well, one song) sung about it.

I mean the unsolicited mail, email, blog postings, thread comments, anything that clutters up and gets in the way. Eventually, it's going to grow and grow and grow, taking up too much space, to much bandwidth, too much of our natural resources, to the extent that everything will end.

Your email inbox will end up being nothing more than promises of financial reward and larger, better erections. You'll miss real emails from friends, co-workers, that actually matter. Bandwidth will be too busy pleading for your assistance for wealthy but beleaguered Nigerian Princes, that even Larry Flynt will ask the government for help-- and when the porn industry begs help from the Government, you know things are bad. You'll miss a work call that got changed and sent via email, so you'll lose your job.

But why will you lose your job? Surely they could have rung you, let you know that work was changed? Well, unfortunately spam began showing up on cell phones around 2009, to the extent that you stopped answering calls from numbers that were unavailable, or you didn't recognize. What should be a useful little device to keep you in touch with aforementioned friends and co-workers became nothing more than a useful little device for playing Bejewelled and Angry Birds on. When work tries to call you, because it comes from a larger corporation, the number that comes up doesn't show as your boss' number, so you don't answer it.

They can't even mail you, what with all the sale offers and coupon offers that come through the mailbox every day. While those things are keeping the post office in operation, what's the point when they're only keeping the post office in operation to send more of the things you don't read or want?

Eventually, it's going to get critical. Bloggers won't be able to blog any more because blogging is pretty narcissistic. And it's pretty hard to be narcissistic when you have to wade through hundreds of spam comments, again promising money and. . .other stuff. People will stop posting on YouTube because the spam, crappy comments will take up too much space on their servers. Facebook will crash, what with farmville and spartacus and pirate games clogging the service. Once Facebook's gone, we won't have any way of communicating, and the end will rapidly approach.

It might be another ten years off, or it might be six months from now, but spam will be the end of us all.

Mostly, I'd just like people to stop calling me with an 'unavailable' number popping up. And it would be nice if the spam blog comments would go, too.

Preparation

I've been doing this all wrong. I keep thinking about the things I'm doing, and how they're a means to an end, a path to take to go where I want to go, but that's not the case. I used to know that, but somewhere along the way I forgot.

Working on ships, it used to piss me off no end when people sad 'what happens on ships stays on ships,' and claim that it wasn't real life out there. I always refused to take that point of view, because if you're spending nine bloody months out there, that's a good chunk of life that I'm not ready to write off. Admittedly, a lot of the shit you can get up to seems surreal, like you're living someone else's life. You can cram a lot of experiences into a short time on a ship, and looking back it sometimes doesn't seem real, but you can't qualify a part of life as not real. I used to know that.

Well, I'm getting back onto that train of thought. The past couple of years, I've been talking about becoming a writer. I've talked about leaving Las Vegas. I've talked about living on a sailboat. I've talked about travelling more. And the whole time, it's as though I've been waiting for something. I've been preparing for when I'm a writer. I've been getting ready for when I live on a sailboat. And I need to stop doing that.

I'll leave Vegas one day. I'll do all the things I talk about, because, hell, I'll never live it down if I don't. I expect each and every one of you to give me a full serving of shit if I fall short in anything I intend to do. But I've been bumming around thinking that what I'm doing right now is preparation, and doesn't really count. I got a cheap sailboat, not because I like the boat, but because I'm getting ready, learning all I can, for the day I can finally move aboard a bigger one, and cast off. I'm preparing for the future by doing this now. But when you keep doing that, you forget that now is part of your life too. None of us get enough time to live, and if you spend too much time looking ahead, you miss chunks. So the boat, the writing and editing I'm doing that is preparing me to be an author, sure, it's all preparation. But I'm enjoying it. I'm already doing things that a lot of people never do. And while I'm doing them with the express intention of moving on to bigger and better things, I'm going to try not to lose sight of the fact that I'm a third of the way through the final edit of my first novel, which already makes me a writer. I'm spending weekends out at the marina, working on the 23' Ranger sailboat that's mine, which already makes me a sailor. The preparation for what I want to become, what I want to do, has already got me there. And I almost didn't notice.

Impulsive.

I make some decisions easily. Some I find impossible. If we're talking about which restaurant to eat at, or which movie I want to see on Netflix tonight, you may as well settle down and raise a family in the time it's going to take me to choose. But if it's something big, something that requires a lot of thought, planning, and has potentially life-changing decisions, then I'll give you an answer in about five minutes flat.

Remember back in the summer when I started talking about new life plans? The plans involve living on a sailboat and literally travelling where the wind takes me, casting off and saying goodbye to the world of daily commutes, HOA payments, and all those things we're supposed to do. The means to do this would be my writing, as I'd be able to do that anywhere and I fully intend to make a living doing it. Well, I've already taken a few steps to that end; I've written a shit-tonne, and not just since I came up with this particular plan. Book two is 80% done, book one is being edited as soon as I'm done with this entry, and I'm still chipping away at those bloody screenplays.

Now, I've taken another step. It's the first step in the second part of the plan. I bought a 23' Ranger sailboat on Wednesday. It's docked out at Lake Mead, so I've got about two years of sailing before there's no water left (who builds a city in the desert? I mean honestly?). She needs a little work, but it's work that I need to learn to do on a boat for when I eventually sell all my furniture and move aboard. . .that won't be this one, she's a little too small. But for the next year or so, I'll be learning by doing. The more I write, the more I enjoy reading what I've written; hopefully, the more I sail, the less likely I am to sink. . .

NOT resosoddinglutions

New Year's Resolutions are bullshit. They really are. If you want to make a change in yourself, why do you have to wait for a specific date or time? I've been working for years, with a small amount of success, to become less hypocritical, and I'm nearly there.

Having said that, here's my list of things I want to do/change, at some time in the near future. It just so happens that it's right around New Year's, but that's not my fault.

1. No more smoking. I've never been a habitual smoker, but I'm done even having the occasional cigarette when I'm drinking in a bar. 2. Number 1. Doesn't apply to hookah. 3. Count to fifteen before I say anything. Counting to ten just doesn't give me long enough. 4. Be quieter about my opinions when talking to people. Only an hour ago I went off on someone who wants to buy a gun for home protection. Must. Not. Call. People. Stupid. 5. Blog more regularly. Which will hopefully help with Number 4., because if I'm getting it out here, then I don't feel the need to say it to someone's face. 6. Write more generally. Last year was pretty productive, but having slacked the last six weeks of the year, there's a little bit of guilt there. 7. Drink less. 8. Swim more. 9. Hang my laundry up straight away. 10. Stop telling the puppy I'm going to make him into gloves one of these days. 11. Be nicer to the people I already like (I stole this one, but see it as something I can actually accomplish). 12. Sail. 13. Swear less in speech and writing. Already buggered that one up tho, haven't I. . .

There it is. My list of (These aren't fucking resolutions, thereby enabling me to stick by me other non-resolution to be less of a hypocrite) things to accomplish. See if I manage any of them in the next three weeks.

Why three weeks? Because while I may not feel the need to attempt self-betterment on a time scale, try telling that to my soon-to-be 31 year-old body. . .

remiss in my duties

It's been almost a month since I posted anything here. And I feel a bit guilty about that. So much has gone on since the last time I posted, there's something in me that is kicking my own arse for not keeping people informed in what's going on in my life. Which is all too egotistical for my liking, because it makes me sound way too much like a bunch of studies that have been done recently about how egotistical people are these days.

Here's a quick run-down.

Did a film shoot at work that involved my being mildly less-than-complimentary to James Cameron. Yeah, that James Cameron. Lost motivation to write. Drank a shit-tonne. Bought a lovesac. Started dating someone. Went into default. Decided not to go for a job in Los Angeles. Picked out the boat I want to live on. Started playing world of warcraft again. Got to 85. Took a screenwriting seminar. Tour of warner bros. studios. Made pasties. Made pasties twice, actually. Acquired and decorated a christmas tree.

So there you go. I'll be back soon.

Here's a promise. I'll post a short story christmas day, because it's been too long and I need validation.

And maybe you might enjoy the story too. Payment for my slacking. . .

Pressing on

I finished the first draft of my first novel almost a year ago. The day before Christmas, to be exact. It wasn't perfect, and due to the nature of the subject, there were things I already knew I had to change-- either the chronology of events, or a little bit of research into the science behind what I was describing. I messed around with it in January and February, and in April I emailed to to someone who had offered to edit it, give me feedback, suggestions, anything that would make it a better novel. She said she'd get it back to me asap, probably a month, no more than two. I received an email from her a couple of days ago.

Criticism is never easy to take. There's a sinking feeling, when you find that all that hard work isn't enough. You beat yourself up, wondering why her opinion is so different to the people who have read it out of an interest in what you're doing-- friends and family who may have a biased opinion because, after all, it's you who's writing it-- and you think that maybe it's the impartiality they bring to it that unmasks your words for what they really are. I was a little angry when I got her email, because as I read on I found out she hadn't even read past the fourth chapter. Seven months to not even get past the fourth chapter? Is it really that bad? Tell me that, at least, tell me that after the second time you 'couldn't get past the fourth chapter.' Then I can go back, rework it, make the changes to the first chapter that you say it needs.

Or not, as the case may be. I don't want to write some cookie-cutter novel, with the plot generic, the characters typical, where you know exactly how they're going to react in every situation. I don't want you to have an instant, immediate relationship with them. That's not what happens in the real world. Relationships develop, they aren't usually thrust on you.

Maybe this is me just being unable to take criticism. Or maybe this is me remembering a lesson I thought I'd already learnt. My senior year of College, I designed a set for Lysistrata, the classical Greek comedy by Aristophanes. The show was very surreal, and I used Dali and Henry Moore as influences for most of the set. At the beginning of the play, the director wanted Lysistrata seated, surrounded with four ages of womanhood, while scenes of war were projected onto a screen. Our theatre didn't have a projection screen, so instead I painted the head from Dali's Sleep, 20' by 10', to be projected onto. When we had a bloke come in and give notes on the show, he mentioned that he loved the Dali and the Moore references in the set, but he didn't understand what the big head at the beginning had been. It was then that I realized that people will always have gaps in their knowledge, and won't always necessarily want to admit to them. If he didn't get that reference, at 20' by 10', then had he actually got the rest of them?

I'm trying to remember that again. While there are books that should have you totally interested by the end of the first page, I'd argue that very few of what are considered vital parts of English literary canon do that. Nothing by Jane Austen does that for me (full disclosure: I don't like Jane Austen. Not my type of book, although I've read a few for classes.) Neither did Lord of the Rings, books I loved. So maybe this is just me being unable to take criticism, or maybe it's me realizing another important lesson. Just because someone has edited books that have been published, it doesn't mean that their email will have perfect grammar. Just because someone offers something, you shouldn't take them up on it, especially if they don't generally read the genre you're writing in. That's what I want to take from this. I'm going to press on regardless, write the book I want to write, and not let one instance make me rip it up.

The manuscript's too thick for me to do that.

Timing

I've been spending the last twelve days convincing myself that it's not my fault, it's just bad timing. Again. And once I almost had myself convinced of that, I thought more about it. Maybe it's not bad timing. Maybe it's good timing. Maybe it's pushing me in the direction I need to go, which is away, outta here, once more unto the beach, dear friends. There was a shitty movie made about my life a couple years back. I say shitty, but in the interests of full disclosure I never saw it, because I don't like Dane Cook. Good Luck Chuck, the story of a guy who could shag you, and the next guy you met would be your true love. Except I don't even need to shag 'em, all it takes is a kiss. I'm on seven now.

But this year, with it's terrible timing, has led me to a decision. I'm going to apply for the Los Angeles Show, an as-yet unnamed production that I'm not sure how much I can talk about, what with Cirque's penchant for secrecy and spectacle. The jobs aren't posted yet, nothing's set, but even the decision to apply makes me feel better. I'm going to see about getting out of Vegas, changing my pace and my surroundings. And if it doesn't happen? Well, then it's not the right time.

Is there such a thing as bad timing? You get stuck at a red light, the first car stopped, and that's bad timing. But then in front of you a car hits a patch of oil, swerves out of control, and runs into four other cars, five if you'd have made the light. Your son chooses to slam the car door, but your hand is still in it. Crappy timing, unless you have some sort of disease that is slowly rotting your bones in that hand, and you wouldn't have found out if it weren't for the little bugger (true story, that actually happened to a friend of mine, I forget what the medical problem was tho).

So timing's what you make of it. I'm writing about timing for my hundredth post. Good timing? And while the. . .coincidence? of my timing with these seven women seems pretty shitty from my end, and has caused me more than a bit of self-doubt over the years (I mean, at what point is it you, and not just chance?) I'm working on not letting it get to me. I'm telling myself that rather than running away from this last incident, I'm letting it guide me, propel me towards something new. It's reminding me that Vegas really isn't the sort of city I would choose to live in.

And not to belabour the point, but speaking of timing, some of what I'm writing here will work for my book. One of my characters, Brokes, has to make a decision, and I haven't been sure of how to go about it, and now I think I know.

There are so many things that do work out, which is pretty fucking incredible when you think about it. If the universe has been around for billions of years. . . hell, if you believe in Genesis timing, and think the world's only been around for six thousand or so years, it's pretty incredible anything happens at the right time. I think of an instant as the time it takes to go from now to then. Say a millisecond. There's three point six million of those in an hour. And there's been more than fifty-two and a half million hours if you believe in Genesis. Whatever you believe, that's a metric shit-tonne of instants, so why is anyone surprised when things don't work out? Nothing should ever happen right if you look at the odds. And when you bring space into it too, and the chance of being in the right time and place, I'm surprised we even bother.

But there have been those times. Things do work out. Events conspire, bring two people together for a moment. Even if all that's left is the memory of lips brushing together and a lingering tobacco taste, things worked out, and now things are working out still, convincing me to get off my arse and get out, get better, get on with it.

I'm getting on. I'll get book one back in the next couple of weeks, and then I'll get online and start submitting. The timing's right.

Debates.

Ah, politics. I haven't written about it for quote a while. But this is probably a good week for it, what with some of the things going on in the news, and things going on in my life. Political things, because I'm not ready to write about the other bollocks yet. First, the debate between Sharron Angle and Harry Reid a couple nights ago. Now, I've never pretended to be impartial. I'm not. I think Sharron Angle would be as big a mistake as Sarah Palin. Having said that, the debate was boring. Both of them trotted out the same points I've heard before. I read an article claiming that their debate could decide the election here in Nevada cos its so close. I walked away thinking that nothing was decided. She dodged questions, made the same false claims she's already made in attack ads. But I heard from people I work with that she destroyed him. she had him like a rabbit in headlights. He was flustered and unable to answer. She answered all the questions well. She was a freight train.

I think we must have been watching different debates, cos that wasn't what I saw. And when I said I thought that he have the better answers, it's because I'm biased. well, yes, I am biased. But if I had my way, I'd be able to vote for a real progressive, instead of someone who has done too much to appease an obstructionist minority in the past couple years. Politics should have some element of bipartisanship, but not when you bend over backwards to work with someone, and they continue to trip you. Anyway.

The point is, I can admit that I'm biased. But when I call out someone else, someone who is of a, shall we say, Libertarian streak, and say that they have some sort of bias, they look at me like I just called them a rapist or something. People don't seem to understand that objectivity in politics has become almost as rare as honesty these days. And if I call someone out for bias, then I'm just being a liberal elitist, whereas they're being an objective observer if they do the same to me.

My boss doesn't do this. He has a hell of a time, because most of us that work under him are liberal leaning, pro-Democrat, and he's much more conservative. We give him grief about it all the time, ask him if he wants to go to see Harry Reid give a speech, or if he watched the Daily Show last night, and so on. He takes it all with a grumble. But after the Angle/Reid debate, he actually had the same conclusions that I did. He didn't see it as anyone beating the other person, and he thought they were both rehashing old points. His ability to see the same debate as I did, rather than the debate he wanted based on his political leanings, gives me hope that maybe the divide in this country can be overcome. Hope, but I'm not holding my breath.

The other fun bit of politics was that I got to see Bill Clinton speak last week. If you get a chance, go see him talk. I'd have rather it not been a rally for Reid, because I'd have like to hear him give a real speech rather than something directed at a bunch of hardcore Democrats, but he's a great speaker. That's how politicians should be able to present themselves and their ideas. Whether you like the guy or not, go see him speak. And if you don't like him, why not? Cos he got head? Why do you give a shit. It's got nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the fact you don't like his policies. Attack someone for their policies, debate them based on their policies, and here's a novel idea. . .talk about their actual policies, rather than some made up crap that when you're given a chance to prove your attack in a debate, you can actually prove instead of commenting that you'd love to have the chance to prove it, and then completely failing to do so. Yes, that was a jab at Sharron Angle.

Well, that's politics for now. I'll probably be back to the woe is me bollocks next blog, because October's been a very strange month. I'll be glad to move on from it, to tell the truth. But that's for another time.

The Beach

The past couple of days I spent time on Catalina Island, and in Laguna Beach. Went out there with a friend from work to do some SCUBA diving, and generally relax. Our third dive was on Thursday, and afterwards we sat on the beach in Laguna and waited while our dive master went back in to find one of his integrated weights that had slipped out during the dive. It gave me enough time to get sunburned, and do a little bit of thinking.

The last time I did a similar trip was five years ago. I'd been in Vegas just over a year, and a friend of mine from ships came down for the diving and relaxing. We had a bit of a history. I'd met her on ships, and at the time she wasn't interested because my contract would be up soon. But I left the ship, and we kept in touch by letter (she was on the cruise line's private island, sans internet or phone). We found out we actually did like each other. Quite a bit.

We visited each other a few times, and the relationship she hadn't allowed to happen while we were living and working in the same place did happen, after a fashion, when time and distance allowed. The last time was in California, diving and relaxing in Catalina and Laguna. I drove out with her after work, slept in the car, caught the first ferry and dove all day, then went back to the mainland. Crashed with a friend of hers, then spent the next day wandering around Laguna, doing coupley things. I bought a couple of shirts that she said looked hot on me. I still have them, although time won't allow me to wear one of them any more. I keep it in the hopes that one day someone else will say it looks hot on me. I'm not holding my breath. . .except for when I put that shirt on.

My mind wasn't in the right place at the time. I couldn't give her what she needed or wanted, and I didn't know what I wanted. But a lot has changed in the past five years, both with me and with her. I wouldn't say I exactly know what I want, but I do know what I'm open for now. Back then I'd just bought a condo, and had a five year plan. Now I'm beginning short sale procedures, and I have a different five year plan. Back then she came down to see if things might work between us. Now, she just gave birth to her second child. I actually went to her wedding, and have a terrible feeling that I didn't send her the disc of photos I took.

I posted a few pictures on the social networking site that I will not name, for fear that their privacy policy changes again and any mention of them entitles them to take ownership of any content on said page. But I posted a picture of Avalon Harbour, and she commented on it. So Jealous. I don't take this to mean that she would trade places with me, or she's unhappy in her life-- far from it, she's got two great kids and a bloke who looks after her well. But if she's jealous of my being in Catalina, am I jealous of her having a happy family life?

Juries still out on that one. Had things happened differently, would we have the happy family life and have been in Catalina together this past week? That sort of question's just not worth asking, again cos of crazy. I've lived countless lifetimes in my mind, some with her, some with others I've loved, and some with people I barely know. I've been single for six years, and in that time I've been married a thousand times, had hundreds of children, and been mourned by all those wives and family members. Scary, huh?

But I've been thinking that maybe it's the imagination I'm relying on to help me have a career as an author that's screwing me up in my personal life. If I'm living all those lifetimes in my mind, creating possible and potential scenarios, and thinking too much about what to say or do instead of just letting things happen, I'm stopping myself from actually living. One life lived is better than thousands imagined. So from now on I'm going to stop. The lives I imagine won't be for myself, they'll be for my characters. I won't think about the woulda shoulda couldas. I'll focus on what's going to happen next, and I won't be scared by it any more.

Mappage.

Today, I bought my first Nautical Chart. Actually, I bought it a couple of days ago online, but it arrived today. It's of the Oregon Coast, from Yaquina (oh, those crazy Oregon names) Head to Columbia River. The measurements are in fathoms, degrees, minutes and seconds, and if I hadn't run out of pins I'd have put it up on my bedroom wall tonight.

It's much more fun to look at the chart than read the news online. More bullshit from politicians. The Republicans want to cut the deficit and taxes. The Democrats want to cut taxes for some, but don't want to vote on it because they're already winning. Christine O'Donnell wants people to stop masturbating (from now on, if I say I'm going home to disappoint O'Donnell, you know what I'm saying. Yeah you do.) Don't Ask Don't tell isn't being repealed. Lindsay Lohan's in jail. Blockbuster filed for chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. Whereas when I look at the chart, with its underwater pipelines marked, and low tide levels shown, and names of places I know almost scribbled on as an afterthought (after all, they're on land, and who cares about the land?), I can forget about most of the crap that's being dealt to us by the people we elected, and the people we pay to report on the people we elected.

I've been having a really productive month so far. I talked about motivation last post, and again it's pretty much all I want to talk about now. Yes, I'm quite political, and I talk about it, but I'm just not all that fond of writing about it at the moment. I want to write Book II in the trilogy, and find out how Brokes and the rest of them are going to get to where I'm sending them. I want to write the screenplay for Taras, and find out if Jake and Brett are going to be friends at the end of everything I'm putting them through. I've got ideas for short stories, and different genres to dabble in. I don't want to write about the Democrats inability to organize their party, and I don't want to write about the Republicans ability to organize their party around no platform. It just pisses me off, and there's enough going on to piss me off without putting that into my writing as well. Will I write about politics again? Probably, it's too fascinatingly frustrating for me to stay away from, but for now I need to work on things for myself. Gods know that the bloody politicians aren't working on things for me.

So if all the crap is getting you down, do what I've done. Find something you like. Focus on that, instead of the ratings battles, or the career politicians. Keep a picture of it on your desktop, or bedroom wall, or office cubicle partition. I've got my boat, and now I've got a nautical map to imagine plotting a course across.

Just got to learn to read the bloody thing properly. And plot a course. . .

Motivation Pt. III

This month has been productive for me so far. I finished building a set, opened the show, grilled for twenty people, started re-doing my 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle, ran a console twice, and have written almost thirteen thousand words, spread out over three projects. Four, if you include blogging as a project. There's something else, but that's private. And the best thing is, the month's not even half-way. I'm looking at my original goal of twenty thousand words for the month, and thinking I should shoot for thirty thousand. I mean, why not? Why stop when it seems to be coming right now, the characters are just setting themselves up for the situations and conversations they've been having?

I'm not going to knock it. I'm not going to stop and ask why I've all of a sudden got this burst of motivation, because as soon as you wonder if the motivation is going to stick around, it buggers off.

This blog entry is more a reminder to people to not stop. You can take a break, pause by all means, but don't do what I've been doing for years. Don't make any excuses, cos they're all bullshit. You know it, too. There's a quote from Nelson Mandela that I have up on my bedroom wall, and while I make no pretenses that my goals are as noble or lofty as his, it can speak to everyone:

"I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made missteps along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can rest only for a moment, for with freedom comes responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not yet done."

While my use of the quote is pretty selfish, and I see freedom as freedom for myself than a whole country, it's good to remember that we're all headed somewhere. Maybe Vegas is just a place I've stopped for a while, to catch my breath and enjoy the view, but it sure as hell isn't the place I'm headed to. There's no freedom here for someone like me. And right now the view is my motivation. Looking back, seeing where I've been and how far I've travelled, and looking forward, seeing what's in store, is the best muse a person could ask for. Because you're all there, and I can see the whole world from up here.

Performing

The wonders of technology. I'm sitting outside, watching a tech/dress rehearsal of BNTA's production of 'The Foreigner,' by Larry Shue. On my laptop, using my phone to connect to the internet. There are burros braying in the background, and jackrabbits nibbling the grass behind me. The stars are slowly appearing above us, although with the laptop screen and lights on stage they aren't as visible as they would be. My bottle of Tempranillo is empty. There's a few more things to do to the set, but that's for tomorrow before our dress and invited audience final oh shit panic and scramble rehearsal.

They'll get done, they always do.

It amazes me how things somehow come together. Even after eighteen years of theatre, somehow it always ends up with an audience. My problem is, once the audience is involved, I lose interest. The fun part is over. And by fun, I mean stressful, frantic, frustrating, and tiring. But once the build up is over, I'm done. I don't know what to do with myself. There's something depressing about a theatre full of audience, because it's noisy, there's a tangible sense of expectation in the air, and inevitably some bugger isn't going to be happy. But we put on shows specifically to have an audience. There's no point in putting on a show if you're not planning on having an audience. They pay the bills.

Cos of all that, there's a quote from Shakespeare that's quite troubling to me. 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.'

That's all well and good, unless your point of view is like me. There's no point in playing parts if you don't give a toss about the audience. But I feel like that's what I spend half my time doing just that. Right now I'm playing the part of pseudo-bohemian, off the wall and off the cuff, artistically and morally and sexually and financially challenged artist. I'm working on being a writer. I drink too much, but then I make sure everyone knows I drink too much, because that's what authors do. I don't get enough sleep because. . .fuck, I don't know, but then I make sure everyone knows about it.

Maybe the Shakespeare quote does actually work for me. Although I work in theatre, maybe the only audience I really care about is the world, the ones out there that didn't pay for tickets. I don't give a shit that they're forced to watch the show, or whether they enjoy it or not, but maybe I should think about enjoying the performance more.

It's a bigger high than performing ever was. And my co-stars are fascinating.