The impression's been made, even from at this distance. She's beautiful. Already, with eyes closed, the tone and accent of her voice match with the impression. Even from at this distance.
A sleeveless cowl-necked top exposes shoulders slouched just a little, sadness revealed on the horizon of her torso. Sun-embraced skin glistens as a foreign easterly attempts to reassure her with cooled ocean air and a whisper of encouragement. She does not look in his direction, instead shifting away. He enjoys the brief image of windswept strands of brunette semaphore.
Loneliness has settled within her, but the desire to be held did not relent, escaping from her imagination in the form of surreptitious tears. Salt-water slides below sunglassed eyes, emphasizing the lines of a turned neck screaming to be tasted. She continues to avoid him, instead gazing to the ground beneath her own feet. An upturn in the wind creates a silhouette of winged coiffure.
Fears of rejection nearly overwhelm her, threatening to dim such a luminescent smile. The sea breeze pauses and wings gently fold into a cleft so lasciviously captivating, sensation reminding that the world is a wonder to behold with head held high. She makes eye contact, but for an instant, and sees the desire in a stranger's eyes. Her own hand caresses her breast, sweeping her hair behind her, a moment reminiscent of angel bearing tressed halo.
In spite of the agony her in visage, the anguish in her heart, there is a part of her always smiling. As smooth and reflective as the beauty who wears it. She knows she's beautiful. And the confidence affords her the grace to walk on by.
Décolletage...
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label women. Show all posts
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Image
"Have you seen what she looks like?"
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A-M-L-C-S
Strange... as I talked to a friend the other day, the subject of women came up. I guess that part's not strange, since I talk about women often, but this particular conversation went specifically to women whom I've been "enamored" with. Now, as a blatant hopeless romantic and serial-luster who "falls in love" at least once per day, even I figured this number to be relatively high. Much to my surprise, though, it's not (please do not interpret anything you read here as boasting or bragging that I'm some sort of "ladies man," for I am anything but).
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Lollies, Stupid
*Not sure why I did it, but a random thought popped into my head and I wound up writing a semi-continuation of a friend's piece, "24 Hours in a Tin Can." It's not directly-related narratively, but it's certainly thematically so. Basically, I used her piece as a prompt, and here's what happened...
"You quit smoking, eh?" It's an accusation as much as it a question, and she wants to be totally clear about it. Her mother smokes and she'll be damned if there are two smokers staying in the same house.
"Yeah, a while back." He understands. He almost explains to her that even when he did smoke, he never smoked in the house, but he doesn't. His reluctant chauffeur is gorgeous and is sublimely aware of his interest in her, and he doesn't want to risk turning her off by telling too many fish stories too early.
"And how's that going?" There's a sarcastic twinkle in her eye, but she feels confident he won't notice it behind her oversized sunglasses.
But he does. He just doesn't take the bait. "Pretty good. Tobacco-free for four months. Nicotine-free for two." He reflects for a moment how little fashion varies from place to place these days. Probably the Internet's fault. His father would've blamed it on Hollywood, but since such placement of blame is passé - combined with the fact that he actually works in Hollywood - he ignores the mental voice of a scolding parent.
"Good," she says, rather bluntly. "The house already stinks." She sees him smirk out of the corner of her eye. It's a disarming smirk - he is much cuter in person - and she allows herself to let loose a small bit of friendly humor. "My nostrils probably have cancer by now."
There's a quick laugh and she turns to check out his smile - his teeth, actually - but he's looking out his window. In reality, he's looking at her. Her reflection just strong enough to see clearly. She's beautiful and it's near impossible to take his eyes off of her.
She doesn't drive much and he can tell. He rarely gets car sick, but he can feel the onset of motion sickness creeping its way up through his abdomen. It's probably no accident that the only three drivers to ever get him car sick were all women - his sister, his ex-fiancée, and one of his best friends from college. Why should this ride be any different? Of course, he's never had butterflies in his stomach flapping as violently as they were now. Put a man purportedly unafraid of anything into a car with a beautiful woman and he's suddenly omniphobic.
He clears his throat and shifts forward. "Is there like a candy store or something on the way?" His ears don't need popping, but it's all he can think of.
"A what?" She knows what he means, but she loves fucking with Americans. Who doesn't?
"Candy store?"
"We call them lollies here, stupid." It is as endearing as an insult could possibly be. "Are you car sick?"
Beautiful... and observant. He'll wax poetic about that later, hopefully after managing not to throw up. Too many hours in a plane followed by stop and go traffic, he does not recommend.
She pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running.
"What's up?" he asks. Although he's been avoiding aviator breathing techniques as he didn't want to look "uncool," he's wisely reconsidering his priorities.
She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, laughing and sympathetic eyes peering past his. "Lollies?" She nods to the shop behind him.
He opens the door without looking and steps out. Gathering himself and trying to save some face, he leans back into the window. "You want anything?"
"Yeah. Don't spew in my fucking car."
He smirks again, hiding a wink in his sardonic smile. Candy, indeed. He can't wait to taste this one.
"You quit smoking, eh?" It's an accusation as much as it a question, and she wants to be totally clear about it. Her mother smokes and she'll be damned if there are two smokers staying in the same house.
"Yeah, a while back." He understands. He almost explains to her that even when he did smoke, he never smoked in the house, but he doesn't. His reluctant chauffeur is gorgeous and is sublimely aware of his interest in her, and he doesn't want to risk turning her off by telling too many fish stories too early.
"And how's that going?" There's a sarcastic twinkle in her eye, but she feels confident he won't notice it behind her oversized sunglasses.
But he does. He just doesn't take the bait. "Pretty good. Tobacco-free for four months. Nicotine-free for two." He reflects for a moment how little fashion varies from place to place these days. Probably the Internet's fault. His father would've blamed it on Hollywood, but since such placement of blame is passé - combined with the fact that he actually works in Hollywood - he ignores the mental voice of a scolding parent.
"Good," she says, rather bluntly. "The house already stinks." She sees him smirk out of the corner of her eye. It's a disarming smirk - he is much cuter in person - and she allows herself to let loose a small bit of friendly humor. "My nostrils probably have cancer by now."
There's a quick laugh and she turns to check out his smile - his teeth, actually - but he's looking out his window. In reality, he's looking at her. Her reflection just strong enough to see clearly. She's beautiful and it's near impossible to take his eyes off of her.
She doesn't drive much and he can tell. He rarely gets car sick, but he can feel the onset of motion sickness creeping its way up through his abdomen. It's probably no accident that the only three drivers to ever get him car sick were all women - his sister, his ex-fiancée, and one of his best friends from college. Why should this ride be any different? Of course, he's never had butterflies in his stomach flapping as violently as they were now. Put a man purportedly unafraid of anything into a car with a beautiful woman and he's suddenly omniphobic.
He clears his throat and shifts forward. "Is there like a candy store or something on the way?" His ears don't need popping, but it's all he can think of.
"A what?" She knows what he means, but she loves fucking with Americans. Who doesn't?
"Candy store?"
"We call them lollies here, stupid." It is as endearing as an insult could possibly be. "Are you car sick?"
Beautiful... and observant. He'll wax poetic about that later, hopefully after managing not to throw up. Too many hours in a plane followed by stop and go traffic, he does not recommend.
She pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running.
"What's up?" he asks. Although he's been avoiding aviator breathing techniques as he didn't want to look "uncool," he's wisely reconsidering his priorities.
She slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, laughing and sympathetic eyes peering past his. "Lollies?" She nods to the shop behind him.
He opens the door without looking and steps out. Gathering himself and trying to save some face, he leans back into the window. "You want anything?"
"Yeah. Don't spew in my fucking car."
He smirks again, hiding a wink in his sardonic smile. Candy, indeed. He can't wait to taste this one.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Snowbird
Feathers of ice
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see
Though you've not told me
I'm certain your wings are bare
under the blanket of white
and your body will not be there
come Spring
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see
Though you've not told me
I'm certain your wings are bare
under the blanket of white
and your body will not be there
come Spring
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Help Wanted
It's the start of FY 2010 for much of the corporate world. In honor of that, I've decided to post some job listings for those of you out of work. Merely trying to help.
Position: Cleaning Lady
Description: My house is kinda messy and I'm moving out on the 30th of this month. So come clean it. Previous experience isn't necessary... just show up looking gorgeous. Hiring will be done based upon how you look in a sweaty maid's outfit.
Compensation: Free shower after you're done mopping my floors.
Position: Lawnmower
Description: It's been raining a lot here, and the grass grows remarkably fast as a result. Since I'm a lazy bastard, I don't want to do it myself. You can use my lawnmower. Hiring will be done based upon how you look in Daisy Dukes, since I will no doubt be watching from the living room window.
Compensation: The hose will be connected to the spigot, so you can stay hydrated.
Position: Masseuse
Description: Massage my scalp, my back, and everywhere else. Also, "draw" on my back, kiss my back, and find the sensitive spot just above the right side of my pelvis. Hiring will be done based upon how soft your hands and lips are.
Compensation: The air conditioner will be on to keep the house from getting too humid, and I'll let you watch whatever you want on TV.
Position: Chauffeur
Description: Drive me around. Stunt, combat, and race driving experience preferred, but not required. Knowledge of standard transmissions is a must, unless you're superbly gorgeous... then we can negotiate.
Compensation: If you can convince me, I'll teach you how to parallel park. If you already know how, consider yourself pre-compensated.
Position: Bather
Description: Get me wet, lather me up, and rinse me off.
Compensation: Getting me wet, lathering me up, and rinsing me off.
Position: To-Sleep-Singer
Description: Sing me to sleep. I like lullabies. And Dido... but don't tell anyone that.
Compensation: You can crash in the bed.
The above listed positions will remain open until filled. We are not an equal opportunity employer.
Position: Cleaning Lady
Description: My house is kinda messy and I'm moving out on the 30th of this month. So come clean it. Previous experience isn't necessary... just show up looking gorgeous. Hiring will be done based upon how you look in a sweaty maid's outfit.
Compensation: Free shower after you're done mopping my floors.
Position: Lawnmower
Description: It's been raining a lot here, and the grass grows remarkably fast as a result. Since I'm a lazy bastard, I don't want to do it myself. You can use my lawnmower. Hiring will be done based upon how you look in Daisy Dukes, since I will no doubt be watching from the living room window.
Compensation: The hose will be connected to the spigot, so you can stay hydrated.
Position: Masseuse
Description: Massage my scalp, my back, and everywhere else. Also, "draw" on my back, kiss my back, and find the sensitive spot just above the right side of my pelvis. Hiring will be done based upon how soft your hands and lips are.
Compensation: The air conditioner will be on to keep the house from getting too humid, and I'll let you watch whatever you want on TV.
Position: Chauffeur
Description: Drive me around. Stunt, combat, and race driving experience preferred, but not required. Knowledge of standard transmissions is a must, unless you're superbly gorgeous... then we can negotiate.
Compensation: If you can convince me, I'll teach you how to parallel park. If you already know how, consider yourself pre-compensated.
Position: Bather
Description: Get me wet, lather me up, and rinse me off.
Compensation: Getting me wet, lathering me up, and rinsing me off.
Position: To-Sleep-Singer
Description: Sing me to sleep. I like lullabies. And Dido... but don't tell anyone that.
Compensation: You can crash in the bed.
The above listed positions will remain open until filled. We are not an equal opportunity employer.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Questions & Ridiculous Answers
Holy cow. I haven't written anything here in over a month, and I hadn't even noticed.
Anyway, for those of you who care, April was rather... er... interesting, and I'm sure I'll write about it sometime in the near future.
In the meantime, I recently started a sort of irreverent Q&A column over at a website I peruse often, and I figured to bridge the gap between my MySpace visits, I'd post one of the more popular ones here. In fact, if any of you feel game, just send me a question and label it "Q&A."
For your (hopeful) enjoyment:
Question: "I have heard that men are from Mars and women from Venus. Is there any truth to that?"
Answer: "There is truth in everything. Even the Chicago Sun-Times. I recall reading Roger Ebert's review of Mission to Mars in that particular newspaper. Wasn't that a horrible movie? That one, and Red Planet, killed my love for martian movies. And there weren't even any aliens in either of them. Well, okay, there were, but space spiders and holograms don't count in my book. Lots of things don't count in my book, actually, like "Venus" being slang for female genitalia. I think that's bullshit a bit, because Mars isn't slang for a penis. If this were a fair world we lived in, Mars should definitely mean penis. Or, at least, Venus shouldn't mean vagina. Elaborating a bit, Venus is poisonously toxic, temperately hot, dense and full of hot air, prone to eruption, and otherwise inhospitable. And so is the planet."
Anyway, for those of you who care, April was rather... er... interesting, and I'm sure I'll write about it sometime in the near future.
In the meantime, I recently started a sort of irreverent Q&A column over at a website I peruse often, and I figured to bridge the gap between my MySpace visits, I'd post one of the more popular ones here. In fact, if any of you feel game, just send me a question and label it "Q&A."
For your (hopeful) enjoyment:
Question: "I have heard that men are from Mars and women from Venus. Is there any truth to that?"
Answer: "There is truth in everything. Even the Chicago Sun-Times. I recall reading Roger Ebert's review of Mission to Mars in that particular newspaper. Wasn't that a horrible movie? That one, and Red Planet, killed my love for martian movies. And there weren't even any aliens in either of them. Well, okay, there were, but space spiders and holograms don't count in my book. Lots of things don't count in my book, actually, like "Venus" being slang for female genitalia. I think that's bullshit a bit, because Mars isn't slang for a penis. If this were a fair world we lived in, Mars should definitely mean penis. Or, at least, Venus shouldn't mean vagina. Elaborating a bit, Venus is poisonously toxic, temperately hot, dense and full of hot air, prone to eruption, and otherwise inhospitable. And so is the planet."
Friday, October 3, 2008
What She's Got; What She Hasn't
I don't usually get involved in the extracurricular affairs of my girlfriend, but I am now. One of my girlfriend's friends decided to get into a spat with my lovely companion, and had the absolute gall to ask my girlfriend "What do you got?" as if this other girl was some sort of superior life form.
Well, let's just work our way through this, shall we? What does she got? Here's what:
1) A masters degree. No, two of them. And a bachelors degree. Oh, and an associates degree.
2) Job offers at two of the premiere Hollywood agencies. Because her education and work experience was attractive to high-level managers.
3) A car she paid for with her own money.
4) An earned-income approaching six figures.
5) Real tits.
6) The pride associated with never having given a blowjob for cheap drugs.
So, let's turn the tables. What does the other girl got?
1) High school diploma.
2) Job offers at, er... wait, no, she doesn't work.
3) A car her husband bought her.
4) An income her husband earns.
5) Distractingly bad over-sized fake tits. But at least she doesn't have to worry about drowning. So I guess artificial buoyancy is a plus.
6) The pride associated with never having given a... oh, wait... no, she doesn't.
And that just about sums it up.
Have a nice day.
Well, let's just work our way through this, shall we? What does she got? Here's what:
1) A masters degree. No, two of them. And a bachelors degree. Oh, and an associates degree.
2) Job offers at two of the premiere Hollywood agencies. Because her education and work experience was attractive to high-level managers.
3) A car she paid for with her own money.
4) An earned-income approaching six figures.
5) Real tits.
6) The pride associated with never having given a blowjob for cheap drugs.
So, let's turn the tables. What does the other girl got?
1) High school diploma.
2) Job offers at, er... wait, no, she doesn't work.
3) A car her husband bought her.
4) An income her husband earns.
5) Distractingly bad over-sized fake tits. But at least she doesn't have to worry about drowning. So I guess artificial buoyancy is a plus.
6) The pride associated with never having given a... oh, wait... no, she doesn't.
And that just about sums it up.
Have a nice day.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Tomorrow, Something New
And like that, it's over. The year, for me, can officially start. In about 24 hours, I'm going to purposefully miss a flight to North Carolina, which is going to suck, but I need the time to regroup anyway. I'm a little pissed that my dumb ass paid for a non-refundable ticket, but whatever... won't be the first time I've thrown away money; certainly won't be the last.
I can now attack this year with reckless abandon, armed with my imagination and a wilting determination that just needs a little rain and shine to once again follow the sun. Strange how a simple change of date on a calendar can instantly brighten an outlook, isn't it? Then again, I've seen smaller things change lives. Wings out, winds blowing, let's jump.
These last few days have been rather full of turbulence, I must say. I think some of those semi-truck hints I mentioned earlier finally managed to crack my skull with their radiators. Realization is, undoubtedly, better late than never. To walk through life with even a hint of being blind is not exactly a preferred course of action. I have to admit, one of those hints broke my heart very dearly, but I have a year to conquer, and little time to bleed.
My Favorite Enemy
Such as I'm called. It's a long story, and a few of you know it already. The people who don't, well, we'll need to get really drunk before that cat comes out of the bag. Still, it's an apt title. Someone not too long ago told me that I'm good at meeting people. Another said that even the people who hate me, like me. Yet another told me to go fuck myself, but that's a different story.
The point? Well, I think I'm my own favorite enemy. The only thing holding me back, really, is me. That statement can probably be attributed to most of us, but for me, it's definitely true. Yes, I took some hits from others, but nothing I can't overcome and shove back in their faces. And I will... and then I'll tell them to go fuck themselves. With a smile, of course, and I'll probably buy them dinner. No sense in being rude to one's enemies, right?
Shine, Angel
I promised not to get all sappy this year, and I won't, but this deserves to be mentioned before I go all crazy on the world. Not postal, just crazy.
I have a muse, and she's a powerful muse. In fact, I can honestly say that on December 12th of last year, while sitting alone on a freezing hill, I fell in love with her. Of course, like all tortured writers, artists, musicians, what have you, my muse is so far out of my reach, only an Apocalypse can increase my chances with her. There's a theory that we do this on purpose, but I'm not sure I buy that. Art, by its very nature, is a standard set so high, that I think we look for the highest point in everything, and take a shot. Sure, we almost always fall short, but falling just short of the best is still usually pretty fucking good, wouldn't you say? Then again, in this case, falling short means coming away with nothing. But I digress...
Anyway, she's happy enough without me, and probably better off for it, but I'll always be around to make her smile if she needs, or wants. That's a promise. Shine, Angel.
Tomorrow, Something New
I don't know exactly what I'm going to be doing tomorrow, but I do know that I've prepped a new script to write. I know that I'm going to feed my dogs, my cats, and myself. I know that I'm probably going to have a runny nose, cough a few times, sleep too much, and use the bathroom at least three times. Most likely I'll take a shower and brush my teeth. But it's a new day, and something new is bound to happen. I mean, something that's never happened to me before happened to me yesterday. It was disgusting, but I still reveled in the fact that it was a brand new experience. And I'm sure, tomorrow brings something new. If it doesn't, I'll just commit a crime I haven't committed before.
That was a joke.
This isn't, however... Tomorrow, something new.
I can now attack this year with reckless abandon, armed with my imagination and a wilting determination that just needs a little rain and shine to once again follow the sun. Strange how a simple change of date on a calendar can instantly brighten an outlook, isn't it? Then again, I've seen smaller things change lives. Wings out, winds blowing, let's jump.
These last few days have been rather full of turbulence, I must say. I think some of those semi-truck hints I mentioned earlier finally managed to crack my skull with their radiators. Realization is, undoubtedly, better late than never. To walk through life with even a hint of being blind is not exactly a preferred course of action. I have to admit, one of those hints broke my heart very dearly, but I have a year to conquer, and little time to bleed.
My Favorite Enemy
Such as I'm called. It's a long story, and a few of you know it already. The people who don't, well, we'll need to get really drunk before that cat comes out of the bag. Still, it's an apt title. Someone not too long ago told me that I'm good at meeting people. Another said that even the people who hate me, like me. Yet another told me to go fuck myself, but that's a different story.
The point? Well, I think I'm my own favorite enemy. The only thing holding me back, really, is me. That statement can probably be attributed to most of us, but for me, it's definitely true. Yes, I took some hits from others, but nothing I can't overcome and shove back in their faces. And I will... and then I'll tell them to go fuck themselves. With a smile, of course, and I'll probably buy them dinner. No sense in being rude to one's enemies, right?
Shine, Angel
I promised not to get all sappy this year, and I won't, but this deserves to be mentioned before I go all crazy on the world. Not postal, just crazy.
I have a muse, and she's a powerful muse. In fact, I can honestly say that on December 12th of last year, while sitting alone on a freezing hill, I fell in love with her. Of course, like all tortured writers, artists, musicians, what have you, my muse is so far out of my reach, only an Apocalypse can increase my chances with her. There's a theory that we do this on purpose, but I'm not sure I buy that. Art, by its very nature, is a standard set so high, that I think we look for the highest point in everything, and take a shot. Sure, we almost always fall short, but falling just short of the best is still usually pretty fucking good, wouldn't you say? Then again, in this case, falling short means coming away with nothing. But I digress...
Anyway, she's happy enough without me, and probably better off for it, but I'll always be around to make her smile if she needs, or wants. That's a promise. Shine, Angel.
Tomorrow, Something New
I don't know exactly what I'm going to be doing tomorrow, but I do know that I've prepped a new script to write. I know that I'm going to feed my dogs, my cats, and myself. I know that I'm probably going to have a runny nose, cough a few times, sleep too much, and use the bathroom at least three times. Most likely I'll take a shower and brush my teeth. But it's a new day, and something new is bound to happen. I mean, something that's never happened to me before happened to me yesterday. It was disgusting, but I still reveled in the fact that it was a brand new experience. And I'm sure, tomorrow brings something new. If it doesn't, I'll just commit a crime I haven't committed before.
That was a joke.
This isn't, however... Tomorrow, something new.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Don't Look Back in Anger
I'm kicking a dead horse here, but 2006 was a very difficult year for me. The most difficult, actually. Dreams turned into nightmares, plans fell apart, and life became almost completely reactive. It seemed like every path I tried to take on my own wound up blocked, and the ones that weren't led nowhere.
2006's bane, as my friend likes to say, was for me something as simple as misplaced trust. I'm a very loyal person, and I expect the same kind of loyalty from the people I consider my friends. Unfortunately for me, the one person I placed a great deal of trust in this year decided to, quite completely, screw me. Long story short, I had paid this person's bills for the two years she attended graduate school. I'm talking rent, utilities, phone, cable, internet, and even her dog's and cat's vet bills. All in all, it wound up almost $9500. Attach the interest and the late fees she promised to reimburse, she was looking at $14000. Anyway, the plan was to move to Los Angeles, where I had helped her land a rather lucrative job at CAA (Creative Artists Agency, the most powerful agency in Hollywood). There, we would work steadily, with her taking the reigns on the bills until we were square as far as the money was concerned. Of course, and I should've known this years ago, she had other ideas and, in a manner that would make Steve Miller proud, took the money and ran.
Okay, fine. I'm pissed. I started a little revenge plan. I almost went through with it, too. But, I had begun talking to someone who, in that cliché way, made me want to be a better person. Seriously. I'm not making this up. I wouldn't make something up that makes me look like a hopeless sap. I, for better or worse, wanted no new skeletons in the closet to hide from this person. Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find a better place to play. And that I did. A wonderful place to play.
So, it's October, and things are looking up. I'm burying hatchets, rebuilding bridges, working my way out of this mess that is, ultimately, my own fault. Nobody told me to trust this girl... in fact, many people told me not to. But I did anyway. So, chalk one up to Jeff's lack of objectivity. But, things are looking up. Until I ran into another, for lack of better term, traitor.
Another long story short, my privacy was invaded in that worst of ways. Like, George Bush granting the NSA carte blanche bad. I confronted the invader, and was basically told to leave. That was fine, I could handle that. I walked away, repeatedly. For some odd reason, this jerk kept coming, and it culminated in a fight. Those of you who know, know that I am fairly well trained in combat, and the fight was hardly fair. I never threw a punch or a kick, but injured my opponent and won in the matter of seconds. And then I was arrested. I used the last of my money I still had from getting screwed the first time to bail myself out of jail (which was a rather long process... to get to that money was an adventure in itself).
Revenge here wasn't really an option. I won't say why, but rest assured that as soon as I can get out this hole that I'm stuck in, I won't be coming back for a very, very long time. Of course, this situation is also, ultimately, my own fault. My anger in the matter is as much aimed at myself as it is the opposing party. You said that you've never been, but all the things that you've seen, they slowly fade away.
Now it's December, and I'm finally getting over it. Not on my own, no, I'm far too weak for that, but the help I'm getting is astounding in its effectiveness. And it's help from someone who doesn't know she's giving it.
Last night, December 26th, I tried to get to bed early to get back to a work-oriented sleep schedule. It wasn't happening. Thoughts of getting even were once again running rampant in my mind. As I lie there, I just kept getting more angry. And then, like it always does, a random image of a smile penetrated my anger. I woke up, listened to some music that reminded me of that smile, wrote a song lyric, and went back to sleep. Calmly, I might add.
I'm trying to put 2006 behind me, literally and figuratively. I can't do it on my own, I lost that ability sometime while I was in the Army. Anger was too effective at keeping me alive and ahead of the game in the military, and I can't forget that. But I can see that smile, saying to me to not look back in anger, to look forward with that sense of optimism that I had at the end of 2005, when 2006 was looking like it would unfold as the best of year of my life. Don't look back in anger, I heard you say.
And I won't. Well, I'll try not to. It's a good philosophy. Don't look back in anger.
At least not today.
2006's bane, as my friend likes to say, was for me something as simple as misplaced trust. I'm a very loyal person, and I expect the same kind of loyalty from the people I consider my friends. Unfortunately for me, the one person I placed a great deal of trust in this year decided to, quite completely, screw me. Long story short, I had paid this person's bills for the two years she attended graduate school. I'm talking rent, utilities, phone, cable, internet, and even her dog's and cat's vet bills. All in all, it wound up almost $9500. Attach the interest and the late fees she promised to reimburse, she was looking at $14000. Anyway, the plan was to move to Los Angeles, where I had helped her land a rather lucrative job at CAA (Creative Artists Agency, the most powerful agency in Hollywood). There, we would work steadily, with her taking the reigns on the bills until we were square as far as the money was concerned. Of course, and I should've known this years ago, she had other ideas and, in a manner that would make Steve Miller proud, took the money and ran.
Okay, fine. I'm pissed. I started a little revenge plan. I almost went through with it, too. But, I had begun talking to someone who, in that cliché way, made me want to be a better person. Seriously. I'm not making this up. I wouldn't make something up that makes me look like a hopeless sap. I, for better or worse, wanted no new skeletons in the closet to hide from this person. Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find a better place to play. And that I did. A wonderful place to play.
So, it's October, and things are looking up. I'm burying hatchets, rebuilding bridges, working my way out of this mess that is, ultimately, my own fault. Nobody told me to trust this girl... in fact, many people told me not to. But I did anyway. So, chalk one up to Jeff's lack of objectivity. But, things are looking up. Until I ran into another, for lack of better term, traitor.
Another long story short, my privacy was invaded in that worst of ways. Like, George Bush granting the NSA carte blanche bad. I confronted the invader, and was basically told to leave. That was fine, I could handle that. I walked away, repeatedly. For some odd reason, this jerk kept coming, and it culminated in a fight. Those of you who know, know that I am fairly well trained in combat, and the fight was hardly fair. I never threw a punch or a kick, but injured my opponent and won in the matter of seconds. And then I was arrested. I used the last of my money I still had from getting screwed the first time to bail myself out of jail (which was a rather long process... to get to that money was an adventure in itself).
Revenge here wasn't really an option. I won't say why, but rest assured that as soon as I can get out this hole that I'm stuck in, I won't be coming back for a very, very long time. Of course, this situation is also, ultimately, my own fault. My anger in the matter is as much aimed at myself as it is the opposing party. You said that you've never been, but all the things that you've seen, they slowly fade away.
Now it's December, and I'm finally getting over it. Not on my own, no, I'm far too weak for that, but the help I'm getting is astounding in its effectiveness. And it's help from someone who doesn't know she's giving it.
Last night, December 26th, I tried to get to bed early to get back to a work-oriented sleep schedule. It wasn't happening. Thoughts of getting even were once again running rampant in my mind. As I lie there, I just kept getting more angry. And then, like it always does, a random image of a smile penetrated my anger. I woke up, listened to some music that reminded me of that smile, wrote a song lyric, and went back to sleep. Calmly, I might add.
I'm trying to put 2006 behind me, literally and figuratively. I can't do it on my own, I lost that ability sometime while I was in the Army. Anger was too effective at keeping me alive and ahead of the game in the military, and I can't forget that. But I can see that smile, saying to me to not look back in anger, to look forward with that sense of optimism that I had at the end of 2005, when 2006 was looking like it would unfold as the best of year of my life. Don't look back in anger, I heard you say.
And I won't. Well, I'll try not to. It's a good philosophy. Don't look back in anger.
At least not today.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Poetry
This blog does not contain a poem, so get that out of your head. It does, however, pertain to that old cliche that "life is poetry." Yes, life is poetry, and all lives are poems. To take it further, as the film Dead Man tried to convey, even death is poetry.
Life is full of the highest highs, the lowest lows. Basically, unless you're Pablo Neruda, poems are the roller coasters we think we ride in life (Neruda had a gift for what life really is, so don't take that comment the wrong way). Mountains are made from molehills, fish become twice as big, and those damn "ones" always get away. Recite a funny story at work and we become Mother Goose. Put our lives on paper and we're an Epic along the lines of Milton.
As this year comes to a close, it's clear to me that no year of my life has been closer to a poem than 2006 has. More than that, this year has become a movie script (quite literally), complete with plot points, pinches, and a climax. Poetry in image, so to speak.
It began with the fruition of a plan nine years in the making. A career on the horizon, a journey to the other side of America, a world revolving into fingertips. That planned stalled, mainly due to the attempt to make another person more comfortable. A diversion to a home never called home, and a forgotten life that should not have been remembered. That "another person" decided to ultimately fuck me, and left me in a great deal of debt. I was effectively further from my goal than I had ever been before. A dream shattered, with a grasp on life that began to slip. So, I went out, joined the "real" workforce, and started getting back on my feet. I even got some film work along the way. Things were looking up, then another person decided to fuck me based on a disagreement of principles. Principles that, I assure you, exist nowhere else in the world (for the record, I'm still reeling from that one... the result is pending).
And yet, despite all of that, the end of 2006 is looking quite good. It's fitting in a way, poetic, that the worst year of my life is turning out to be the year that could have the brightest ending. Nothing's in stone, of course, poetry never is, but she's playing a larger role in my life right now than I could have ever dreamed. Work is steady, paying well, and I can almost count the days until debt becomes an afterthought. And my writing? Well, I'm writing... that's all I can say, and that's something. But she's in my life, helping to guide it, helping to inspire it... helping me write my own poetry.
I won't say why (yet), but December 12th, 2006, will probably go down in my history as the best day of my life. Poetic, isn't it? The best day of my life occuring in the worst year of it?
And with a screaming heart, a spirit rebuilds on a foundation of softly spoken words in December.
Sappy, aren't I?
Life is full of the highest highs, the lowest lows. Basically, unless you're Pablo Neruda, poems are the roller coasters we think we ride in life (Neruda had a gift for what life really is, so don't take that comment the wrong way). Mountains are made from molehills, fish become twice as big, and those damn "ones" always get away. Recite a funny story at work and we become Mother Goose. Put our lives on paper and we're an Epic along the lines of Milton.
As this year comes to a close, it's clear to me that no year of my life has been closer to a poem than 2006 has. More than that, this year has become a movie script (quite literally), complete with plot points, pinches, and a climax. Poetry in image, so to speak.
It began with the fruition of a plan nine years in the making. A career on the horizon, a journey to the other side of America, a world revolving into fingertips. That planned stalled, mainly due to the attempt to make another person more comfortable. A diversion to a home never called home, and a forgotten life that should not have been remembered. That "another person" decided to ultimately fuck me, and left me in a great deal of debt. I was effectively further from my goal than I had ever been before. A dream shattered, with a grasp on life that began to slip. So, I went out, joined the "real" workforce, and started getting back on my feet. I even got some film work along the way. Things were looking up, then another person decided to fuck me based on a disagreement of principles. Principles that, I assure you, exist nowhere else in the world (for the record, I'm still reeling from that one... the result is pending).
And yet, despite all of that, the end of 2006 is looking quite good. It's fitting in a way, poetic, that the worst year of my life is turning out to be the year that could have the brightest ending. Nothing's in stone, of course, poetry never is, but she's playing a larger role in my life right now than I could have ever dreamed. Work is steady, paying well, and I can almost count the days until debt becomes an afterthought. And my writing? Well, I'm writing... that's all I can say, and that's something. But she's in my life, helping to guide it, helping to inspire it... helping me write my own poetry.
I won't say why (yet), but December 12th, 2006, will probably go down in my history as the best day of my life. Poetic, isn't it? The best day of my life occuring in the worst year of it?
And with a screaming heart, a spirit rebuilds on a foundation of softly spoken words in December.
Sappy, aren't I?
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
One
It's a very important number, one. Never mind the fact that all other numbers are multiples of it, one, itself, is a very important number. The most important number, in fact.
One day can ruin your life. One day can save it. When you're born, despite the fact that you (hopefully) are born to two parents, you are a single entity, alone in the world. Just you. Can you remember your parents the day you were born? Of course not. That's because the first few days, months, maybe years of your life, it was just you. One person. Maybe that's why we don't remember that part of our existence... it's not because we can't, it's because we don't want to. It was just you, one, after all.
One event changes your life. Perhaps it was a move, a career shift, some other choice of some kind. That one event leads to another single event, maybe it's compounded by another single event. But we're all living in a series of things happening once.
This year is a great example of this phenomenon of "one" in my life. One person almost destroyed me with one action. Later, another single person made things much worse for me... again, with one action. And the chain of one labored on. Life, this year, seemed destined for nowhere.
But, your one life tends to be a little, I don't know, funny. As quickly as one thing can make things worse, one thing can make things better.
In my case, that one thing happened about 2800 miles away. One event. An event not even remotely related to my situation. But it happened, and it opened the door to one chance.
Eventually, that one chance turned into one e-mail. From there, to use an old cliche, one thing led to another. One poem. One song. One phone call. And, as quickly as the year turned sour, it turned into something to smile about.
One person. One woman. And one day... well, you know.
One day can ruin your life. One day can save it. When you're born, despite the fact that you (hopefully) are born to two parents, you are a single entity, alone in the world. Just you. Can you remember your parents the day you were born? Of course not. That's because the first few days, months, maybe years of your life, it was just you. One person. Maybe that's why we don't remember that part of our existence... it's not because we can't, it's because we don't want to. It was just you, one, after all.
One event changes your life. Perhaps it was a move, a career shift, some other choice of some kind. That one event leads to another single event, maybe it's compounded by another single event. But we're all living in a series of things happening once.
This year is a great example of this phenomenon of "one" in my life. One person almost destroyed me with one action. Later, another single person made things much worse for me... again, with one action. And the chain of one labored on. Life, this year, seemed destined for nowhere.
But, your one life tends to be a little, I don't know, funny. As quickly as one thing can make things worse, one thing can make things better.
In my case, that one thing happened about 2800 miles away. One event. An event not even remotely related to my situation. But it happened, and it opened the door to one chance.
Eventually, that one chance turned into one e-mail. From there, to use an old cliche, one thing led to another. One poem. One song. One phone call. And, as quickly as the year turned sour, it turned into something to smile about.
One person. One woman. And one day... well, you know.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Lying Awake in the Dark
You're there, less than an hour before your alarm goes off, lying awake in the dark. Your mind is calm and your body is well-rested, but still you're far too hesitant to climb out of bed. After all, it's warm under the blankets, you're comfortable, and the world seems like it's going to wait for you for another hour, anyway. Why ruin the solace?
Maybe your blinds or curtains are just a little open and you can see night slowly turning into day. Maybe all you can see is the passing by of the occasional early riser trying to get a jump on the work day. Or maybe the window's frosted over, or you don't care to look outside. Here, now, in your little corner of the room, everything is all right. And all you're doing is lying awake in the dark.
You look at your clock, or your cell phone. Time seems like it's standing still. Acts like it, too. You could swear that it's been 15 minutes since the last time you checked the time, but it's barely been four. You don't mind, though. Your thoughts are racing; life is somehow understandable as you stare at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the distance you can hear your dogs stirring. They're getting ready to greet you when you bring them breakfast. Or maybe you don't have dogs, don't even like dogs, but can hear your neighbor's. Everything is routine, everything runs like clockwork, everything is safe.
Then it hits you. You're in bed... alone. Sure, life is fine, the night is calm, the morning light even better. But she's not there.
You wonder what she's doing. She's in a different time zone, three hours ahead, so maybe she's met someone and is starting the next chapter of her life... without you. So you glance at your phone again, only this time you don't care how many minutes you have left until the alarm goes off. This time you're wondering whether or not you should call. Wondering whether or not she even wants to hear from you.
Or maybe she's simply on vacation, and you're missing her warm body beside you. Then again, maybe you've never had her warm body, and you're lost in a daydream wondering what it would be like. Would it be like a movie? The two of you made love until the sunset, then you woke early to watch her sleep while the blue light from the night sky reflected from her body.
Perhaps she is there, and as you stare at the ceiling, you take cadence to her soft breathing. Maybe you move her hair from her still closed eyes, watch her forehead wrinkle because of a bad dream she's having. Maybe catch a smile.
A quick panic as you realize you haven't checked the time in a while. The beautiful night is almost gone. You're still dreaming, but you're not.
And, as always, life's little quiet moment passes you by just before the electronic beeping of an imported device tells you that it's time to start your day. And, as always, you wish you could continue to lie awake in the dark... your thoughts alone, one way or the other, with her...
Tomorrow, I think I'll call. And maybe, just maybe... the next time she lies awake in the dark, her thoughts will be alone, one way or the other, with me.
Maybe your blinds or curtains are just a little open and you can see night slowly turning into day. Maybe all you can see is the passing by of the occasional early riser trying to get a jump on the work day. Or maybe the window's frosted over, or you don't care to look outside. Here, now, in your little corner of the room, everything is all right. And all you're doing is lying awake in the dark.
You look at your clock, or your cell phone. Time seems like it's standing still. Acts like it, too. You could swear that it's been 15 minutes since the last time you checked the time, but it's barely been four. You don't mind, though. Your thoughts are racing; life is somehow understandable as you stare at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the distance you can hear your dogs stirring. They're getting ready to greet you when you bring them breakfast. Or maybe you don't have dogs, don't even like dogs, but can hear your neighbor's. Everything is routine, everything runs like clockwork, everything is safe.
Then it hits you. You're in bed... alone. Sure, life is fine, the night is calm, the morning light even better. But she's not there.
You wonder what she's doing. She's in a different time zone, three hours ahead, so maybe she's met someone and is starting the next chapter of her life... without you. So you glance at your phone again, only this time you don't care how many minutes you have left until the alarm goes off. This time you're wondering whether or not you should call. Wondering whether or not she even wants to hear from you.
Or maybe she's simply on vacation, and you're missing her warm body beside you. Then again, maybe you've never had her warm body, and you're lost in a daydream wondering what it would be like. Would it be like a movie? The two of you made love until the sunset, then you woke early to watch her sleep while the blue light from the night sky reflected from her body.
Perhaps she is there, and as you stare at the ceiling, you take cadence to her soft breathing. Maybe you move her hair from her still closed eyes, watch her forehead wrinkle because of a bad dream she's having. Maybe catch a smile.
A quick panic as you realize you haven't checked the time in a while. The beautiful night is almost gone. You're still dreaming, but you're not.
And, as always, life's little quiet moment passes you by just before the electronic beeping of an imported device tells you that it's time to start your day. And, as always, you wish you could continue to lie awake in the dark... your thoughts alone, one way or the other, with her...
Tomorrow, I think I'll call. And maybe, just maybe... the next time she lies awake in the dark, her thoughts will be alone, one way or the other, with me.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Portrait of a Muse
I'm hoping that some of you have noticed that the quality of my writing has improved a bit recently, with the probable exception of yesterday's blog (which was written under the influence). My long-time blog readers will remember that lull in my writing in which I couldn't get into a "writer's mood." Well, I must say that my writer's mood is back, and, so far, better than it has ever been before.
I have written a few poems as of late, two of which are easily in the top five of the best poems I've ever created. In addition, I knocked out a song lyric for a friend's sort-of birthday present, and it wasn't bad (in my humble opinion). I'm also in the middle of writing the best lyric that's EVER come out of my mind. That may sound arrogant, but it's undeniably true.
Screenplays are also once again pouring from my fingertips, and I'm ten pages away from finishing one and about 15 pages into another. They aren't perfect scripts, but they're both good... Again, that sounds arrogant, but trust me... they're both good.
To sum it up: I'm writing, the writing is good, and life is good. And it's all due to my muse. She's a wonderful muse, almost solely responsible for the script that I had finished last year (Theorem), and absolutely solely responsible for the music I've been playing and writing. Like I said, she's wonderful.
What makes her so? Well, what usually makes a muse wonderful? Right out of the gate, she's beautiful. Sure, she claims she's "just a Carolina girl," but she's also the most attractive Carolina girl I've seen in the 10 years I lived in North Carolina. Beautiful, gorgeous, and sexy are words that fail to do her enough justice. She's hot, and that's even too weak a word for what she really is.
She's also intimidatingly smart. She has to be, for she's going into a medically-related field, and is likely going to have a doctorate before I can even finagle a master's degree. World concepts come easy to her, as do many of life's frustrating concepts... and she's wise beyond her years. You can see that in her eyes... and hear it in her voice. A voice so calm, so soothing, one could sleep through a battle were she whispering to you.
And she's sweet... very sweet. I won't elaborate here, because I don't want to accelerate my heart rate before I go to sleep, but she's sweet... very sweet... or did I say that already?
A brief description of this muse... brunette, about 5'3" tall, just turned 21, powerful and very stimulating legs, and skin as perfect as a Clairol advertisement. The very thought of her smiling makes me smile... and the very thought of her upset pisses me off...
She's my muse, and she deserves to be as inspired as much as she inspires me.
Intimidating... Inspiring... The Portrait of a Muse.
I have written a few poems as of late, two of which are easily in the top five of the best poems I've ever created. In addition, I knocked out a song lyric for a friend's sort-of birthday present, and it wasn't bad (in my humble opinion). I'm also in the middle of writing the best lyric that's EVER come out of my mind. That may sound arrogant, but it's undeniably true.
Screenplays are also once again pouring from my fingertips, and I'm ten pages away from finishing one and about 15 pages into another. They aren't perfect scripts, but they're both good... Again, that sounds arrogant, but trust me... they're both good.
To sum it up: I'm writing, the writing is good, and life is good. And it's all due to my muse. She's a wonderful muse, almost solely responsible for the script that I had finished last year (Theorem), and absolutely solely responsible for the music I've been playing and writing. Like I said, she's wonderful.
What makes her so? Well, what usually makes a muse wonderful? Right out of the gate, she's beautiful. Sure, she claims she's "just a Carolina girl," but she's also the most attractive Carolina girl I've seen in the 10 years I lived in North Carolina. Beautiful, gorgeous, and sexy are words that fail to do her enough justice. She's hot, and that's even too weak a word for what she really is.
She's also intimidatingly smart. She has to be, for she's going into a medically-related field, and is likely going to have a doctorate before I can even finagle a master's degree. World concepts come easy to her, as do many of life's frustrating concepts... and she's wise beyond her years. You can see that in her eyes... and hear it in her voice. A voice so calm, so soothing, one could sleep through a battle were she whispering to you.
And she's sweet... very sweet. I won't elaborate here, because I don't want to accelerate my heart rate before I go to sleep, but she's sweet... very sweet... or did I say that already?
A brief description of this muse... brunette, about 5'3" tall, just turned 21, powerful and very stimulating legs, and skin as perfect as a Clairol advertisement. The very thought of her smiling makes me smile... and the very thought of her upset pisses me off...
She's my muse, and she deserves to be as inspired as much as she inspires me.
Intimidating... Inspiring... The Portrait of a Muse.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Carolina or California: A Crossroads
What a strange place to be in right now. Of course, the preceding sentence probably makes no sense to you, since you probably don't know what strange place I'm referring to.
Well, let me break down "life according to Jeff" for you. There are two things that, to me, equal a successful life. Two main things, anyway. Of course there are thousands upon thousands of individual things, moments, thoughts, events, conflicts, etc., that make up the entirety of a successful life. But for the purposes of now, let's just break it down to two. Now, I don't want to sound like some silly astrologer, but the two things I'm referring to are 1) career, and 2) love. Or, somewhat less aesthetically pleasant: money and sex.
But let's stick with career and love, as I'm feeling sentimental today.
First of all, however, let me fill you in on a bit of history here. I spent my formative years in Southern California, which explains my love for all things San Diego (Chargers spanked the 49ers today, by the way) and my attraction to Los Angeles. I spent the last 10 years of my life in North Carolina (minus one year in Korea, but whatever), where I attended three different colleges on my way to three degrees. In between California and Carolina was Nevada, which is, not entirely without irony, where I am at this very moment.
Now that you're even more confused, let me tie all this shit in: life is career and love, which are somewhat frighteningly represented at this crossroads in my life by California (career) and Carolina (love). Even more frightening is that neither is a sure bet... in fact, both are long-shots at best; blatant impossibilities at worst.
In California lies Hollywood, the ultimate goal of my career aspirations since at least 1997. That's right, nine years of my life have been dedicated to preparing for Hollywood. I want to write movies. I want to make movies. Where else do you really do that than in Los Angeles?
In Carolina lies, well, a nameless beauty that I can't help but be infatuated with. And believe me, I've been trying incessantly to get her out of my head... to no avail. I want this girl. Not in a "stalker-obsessive" way, mind you (I swear), but I want this girl. More than anything. Repeat that: more than anything.
So, here I am at a crossroads. In California lies my nine-year objective, my working future, my career of choice. In Carolina lies my, for lack of better non-poetic term, my heart.
Either way is a complete risk. Neither way guarantees anything. In fact, both ways probably guarantee that the path that I don't pick will no longer even be an option in the rest of my life. I can usually find a middle-ground when it comes to life-altering crap like this... but not this time. This time, I don't have a clue. My mind tells me California. That other organ tells me to pull a Good Will Hunting and "go see about a girl."
I guess the choice is going to be made for me in one way or another in the near future... but until that happens... what a completely nerve-racking way to live a life.
Any suggestions?
Well, let me break down "life according to Jeff" for you. There are two things that, to me, equal a successful life. Two main things, anyway. Of course there are thousands upon thousands of individual things, moments, thoughts, events, conflicts, etc., that make up the entirety of a successful life. But for the purposes of now, let's just break it down to two. Now, I don't want to sound like some silly astrologer, but the two things I'm referring to are 1) career, and 2) love. Or, somewhat less aesthetically pleasant: money and sex.
But let's stick with career and love, as I'm feeling sentimental today.
First of all, however, let me fill you in on a bit of history here. I spent my formative years in Southern California, which explains my love for all things San Diego (Chargers spanked the 49ers today, by the way) and my attraction to Los Angeles. I spent the last 10 years of my life in North Carolina (minus one year in Korea, but whatever), where I attended three different colleges on my way to three degrees. In between California and Carolina was Nevada, which is, not entirely without irony, where I am at this very moment.
Now that you're even more confused, let me tie all this shit in: life is career and love, which are somewhat frighteningly represented at this crossroads in my life by California (career) and Carolina (love). Even more frightening is that neither is a sure bet... in fact, both are long-shots at best; blatant impossibilities at worst.
In California lies Hollywood, the ultimate goal of my career aspirations since at least 1997. That's right, nine years of my life have been dedicated to preparing for Hollywood. I want to write movies. I want to make movies. Where else do you really do that than in Los Angeles?
In Carolina lies, well, a nameless beauty that I can't help but be infatuated with. And believe me, I've been trying incessantly to get her out of my head... to no avail. I want this girl. Not in a "stalker-obsessive" way, mind you (I swear), but I want this girl. More than anything. Repeat that: more than anything.
So, here I am at a crossroads. In California lies my nine-year objective, my working future, my career of choice. In Carolina lies my, for lack of better non-poetic term, my heart.
Either way is a complete risk. Neither way guarantees anything. In fact, both ways probably guarantee that the path that I don't pick will no longer even be an option in the rest of my life. I can usually find a middle-ground when it comes to life-altering crap like this... but not this time. This time, I don't have a clue. My mind tells me California. That other organ tells me to pull a Good Will Hunting and "go see about a girl."
I guess the choice is going to be made for me in one way or another in the near future... but until that happens... what a completely nerve-racking way to live a life.
Any suggestions?
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Where Everything Is
At the end of August I posted a blog entitled "Where Am I Going?" In that blog, I described a conflict in my life that was slowly coming to a head. At the time of its writing, that conflict was everything in my life. Literally everything. The obstacle to my success, the reason for my failure, the unexpected detour away from happiness... all that philosophical crap. Physically, it was the reason for my financial mess. Add all that together... let's just say that I was a tad bit angry.
But... some positives came out of it, as well. And everything, while still not where I want it to be, is finally falling together again... finally rebuilding my path that I've seemed destined to follow since, well, forever. That, in and of itself, is enough for me to smile about. But there's more.
I'm writing again. Those of you who read this crappy blog at least semi-regularly know that I've had a hard time (if not impossible time) trying to write... not just these blogs, but stories, ideas, even poetry and music. All of that is back, or at least coming back. I'm currently working on the best set of lyrics I've ever put to paper... now I just need a song to go with it. My piano is back out of its box... placed there in the first place thanks to a forced depression and an uncharacteristic desire to destroy all that was musical in my life. Script treatments are starting to flow again. I finally have a strong enough inspiration to write again.
I am, despite having been a paratrooper for almost seven years, in the best shape of my life. I've recently lost 30 pounds... my endurance and strength have increased (a little, anyway), and I'm even working on my flexibility. To be honest, my new-found exercise discipline stemmed from moving to SoCal, was reinforced by realizing that I was fat in Wilmington (thanks, Kim... those pictures scarred me for life), and emphasized by the strange fact that exercising until I hurt actually calms me down. Just for some perspective, I've been doing yoga, too, and I find that straight-up exercise keeps me much, much calmer. So much for meditation...
I even finally starting working again. Now, this wouldn't have been an issue had a certain someone not stolen so much money from me, but I've come to realize that keeping busy feels good somehow. Sure, I'm not in the film industry at the moment, and I'm not making as much money as I used to, but the very act of doing something semi-productive keeps my mind off of more serious things.
Why the sudden jump in spirits? Well... like I said before... I have an inspiration. Actually, I have a few inspirations. The most important inspiration I have is, suprisingly (but shouldn't be), me. Ever since I left home after high school, I've been in direct control of my life and nearly everything that happens to it. Me. Reacting, acting, and otherwise contributing to what I want to do and where I want to be. Earlier this year, I lost that control... quite completely, in fact. Not only did I lose that control, I lost the desire to regain it... and that, people, is not a good thing for anybody. But now, that control is returning. Slowly, but surely... and I'm finally in the position again to return it to myself.
So, yeah, I'm the most important inspiration I have. I don't think many people can actually claim that, but right now, I feel that I can. That being said, I needed a catalyst to get to where I'm at... I needed a catalyst to point out how beautiful everything really is. She has a name, this catalyst... she's beautiful, intelligent, sweet, and altogether wonderful. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend, but she's serving her purpose for me regardless. In the Army, everyone has something they fight for, no matter how subtle... and even though I met her after I left the military, she's what I fought for... and what I now fight for again.
There are more inspirations, but the last one I'm going to mention here are those friends of mine who provided me with the necessary means to sustain myself when I was down. I won't name names, but they know who they are... the two friends who took turns paying my bills for me... the friend who refinanced my high-interest credit cards... the friend who, at no cost to me, gathered the information I needed to pursue legal action against the person that almost destroyed me... the friends who put up with my self-deprecating crap until I, myself, got sick of it... and the friend, my catalyst, who clearly wants to tell me to go away, but won't because she knows I was in a depressed state and is too kind and loving a person to do something like that anyway.
These inspirations, these friends, are everything that I have (along with my pets, of course). Not only that, these inspirations, these friends, are everything that I need... and everything that I really want. All else is icing on the cake of my new life. These inspirations, these friends, are in my head and in my heart.
And that, people, is where everything is.
Sincerely and lovingly,
Jeff
But... some positives came out of it, as well. And everything, while still not where I want it to be, is finally falling together again... finally rebuilding my path that I've seemed destined to follow since, well, forever. That, in and of itself, is enough for me to smile about. But there's more.
I'm writing again. Those of you who read this crappy blog at least semi-regularly know that I've had a hard time (if not impossible time) trying to write... not just these blogs, but stories, ideas, even poetry and music. All of that is back, or at least coming back. I'm currently working on the best set of lyrics I've ever put to paper... now I just need a song to go with it. My piano is back out of its box... placed there in the first place thanks to a forced depression and an uncharacteristic desire to destroy all that was musical in my life. Script treatments are starting to flow again. I finally have a strong enough inspiration to write again.
I am, despite having been a paratrooper for almost seven years, in the best shape of my life. I've recently lost 30 pounds... my endurance and strength have increased (a little, anyway), and I'm even working on my flexibility. To be honest, my new-found exercise discipline stemmed from moving to SoCal, was reinforced by realizing that I was fat in Wilmington (thanks, Kim... those pictures scarred me for life), and emphasized by the strange fact that exercising until I hurt actually calms me down. Just for some perspective, I've been doing yoga, too, and I find that straight-up exercise keeps me much, much calmer. So much for meditation...
I even finally starting working again. Now, this wouldn't have been an issue had a certain someone not stolen so much money from me, but I've come to realize that keeping busy feels good somehow. Sure, I'm not in the film industry at the moment, and I'm not making as much money as I used to, but the very act of doing something semi-productive keeps my mind off of more serious things.
Why the sudden jump in spirits? Well... like I said before... I have an inspiration. Actually, I have a few inspirations. The most important inspiration I have is, suprisingly (but shouldn't be), me. Ever since I left home after high school, I've been in direct control of my life and nearly everything that happens to it. Me. Reacting, acting, and otherwise contributing to what I want to do and where I want to be. Earlier this year, I lost that control... quite completely, in fact. Not only did I lose that control, I lost the desire to regain it... and that, people, is not a good thing for anybody. But now, that control is returning. Slowly, but surely... and I'm finally in the position again to return it to myself.
So, yeah, I'm the most important inspiration I have. I don't think many people can actually claim that, but right now, I feel that I can. That being said, I needed a catalyst to get to where I'm at... I needed a catalyst to point out how beautiful everything really is. She has a name, this catalyst... she's beautiful, intelligent, sweet, and altogether wonderful. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend, but she's serving her purpose for me regardless. In the Army, everyone has something they fight for, no matter how subtle... and even though I met her after I left the military, she's what I fought for... and what I now fight for again.
There are more inspirations, but the last one I'm going to mention here are those friends of mine who provided me with the necessary means to sustain myself when I was down. I won't name names, but they know who they are... the two friends who took turns paying my bills for me... the friend who refinanced my high-interest credit cards... the friend who, at no cost to me, gathered the information I needed to pursue legal action against the person that almost destroyed me... the friends who put up with my self-deprecating crap until I, myself, got sick of it... and the friend, my catalyst, who clearly wants to tell me to go away, but won't because she knows I was in a depressed state and is too kind and loving a person to do something like that anyway.
These inspirations, these friends, are everything that I have (along with my pets, of course). Not only that, these inspirations, these friends, are everything that I need... and everything that I really want. All else is icing on the cake of my new life. These inspirations, these friends, are in my head and in my heart.
And that, people, is where everything is.
Sincerely and lovingly,
Jeff
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Nothing But Pointless Musings
Voicemail menus are slow and complicated on purpose, so phone companies can squeeze every possible extra second out of your phone plan.
Bono and U2 definitely outshined Billie Joe and Green Day on Monday Night Football, despite what all those emo/screamo/wannabe-punk kids will tell you. But it was still cool to see them on stage together.
Why does Hollywood remake good movies? Shouldn't they remake the bad ones?
That brunette I'm hard-up for officially hates me. If anyone wants to ask a lonely, pathetic, self-righteous blogger out on a date, message me for my phone number. (seriously)
The San Diego Padres are now two games ahead of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Kick ass.
I'm almost in agreement with Bob Dylan: modern music tends to suck. I don't really think it's the talent... it's more to do with all the emo/screamo/wannabe-punk bands that are full of "musicians" who can't read music.
MySpace is taking over the world. There's apparently a MySpace television show now. That's ridiculously frightening.
High school kids with MySpace quotes like "live every day like its your last" really annoy me. As do people with quotes from Will Farrell movies... especially Anchorman. People, you are not kind of a big deal. In fact, you're all idiots.
Anybody who feels like going to Croatia for a couple of weeks during summer of 2007, let me know. I'm planning a trip and, unlike many of my recent plans, I'd like to see this one NOT fall through.
American Dad is better than The Family Guy.
Goodyear blimps flying over domed stadiums during football games seems kind of pointless to me.
Soldiers should never feel guilty for being alive when someone they know is killed, but we do anyway.
If the world went through a Sudoku craze instead of a Karaoke craze, the world would be less annoying. Damn the Japanese. Damn them.
I wish I could cook. I wish I could dance. So much so, I will one day attend culinary school and enroll at a dance studio. Really.
Mitch Hedberg was right... life would be easier if we all just had one long curvy tooth.
My nephew won't date a cheerleader because he thinks they're "peppy" all of the time. Personally, I think my nephew is gay, but oh, well.
I read about two crimes this past week that officially make me sorry to be a human being. I won't go into detail here, but one involved a pregnant woman, her three kids, and a babysitter, and the other involved a man getting angry at his wife and daughter while driving.
Writing would be easier for me if I were better at it.
So would brain surgery.
I'm really pissed that not one person that counted answered the questions from my last blog.
Calgon, take me away. If you know what that means, you are officially too old.
This was very pointless... and not very musing.
Bono and U2 definitely outshined Billie Joe and Green Day on Monday Night Football, despite what all those emo/screamo/wannabe-punk kids will tell you. But it was still cool to see them on stage together.
Why does Hollywood remake good movies? Shouldn't they remake the bad ones?
That brunette I'm hard-up for officially hates me. If anyone wants to ask a lonely, pathetic, self-righteous blogger out on a date, message me for my phone number. (seriously)
The San Diego Padres are now two games ahead of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Kick ass.
I'm almost in agreement with Bob Dylan: modern music tends to suck. I don't really think it's the talent... it's more to do with all the emo/screamo/wannabe-punk bands that are full of "musicians" who can't read music.
MySpace is taking over the world. There's apparently a MySpace television show now. That's ridiculously frightening.
High school kids with MySpace quotes like "live every day like its your last" really annoy me. As do people with quotes from Will Farrell movies... especially Anchorman. People, you are not kind of a big deal. In fact, you're all idiots.
Anybody who feels like going to Croatia for a couple of weeks during summer of 2007, let me know. I'm planning a trip and, unlike many of my recent plans, I'd like to see this one NOT fall through.
American Dad is better than The Family Guy.
Goodyear blimps flying over domed stadiums during football games seems kind of pointless to me.
Soldiers should never feel guilty for being alive when someone they know is killed, but we do anyway.
If the world went through a Sudoku craze instead of a Karaoke craze, the world would be less annoying. Damn the Japanese. Damn them.
I wish I could cook. I wish I could dance. So much so, I will one day attend culinary school and enroll at a dance studio. Really.
Mitch Hedberg was right... life would be easier if we all just had one long curvy tooth.
My nephew won't date a cheerleader because he thinks they're "peppy" all of the time. Personally, I think my nephew is gay, but oh, well.
I read about two crimes this past week that officially make me sorry to be a human being. I won't go into detail here, but one involved a pregnant woman, her three kids, and a babysitter, and the other involved a man getting angry at his wife and daughter while driving.
Writing would be easier for me if I were better at it.
So would brain surgery.
I'm really pissed that not one person that counted answered the questions from my last blog.
Calgon, take me away. If you know what that means, you are officially too old.
This was very pointless... and not very musing.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
It Only Gets Worse
Ugh.
What a word to start a blog with, eh? Ugh? Well, it's quite fitting, I assure you.
Remember that muse-brunette I've been hinting at recently? Yeah, well, I think she's utterly terrified of me now. It's a long story, but the moral of it is guys, don't try to hit on anyone when you're in a rut. Seriously, no matter how good you think your set-up is, if you're depressed, beaten, down, or otherwise not your typical upbeat self, keep yourself to yourself. Really. It'll save much heartache.
The sad part is that I'd be laughing all-Hell uncontrollably if this wasn't me I'm talking about. Honestly and objectively, I'm probably the funniest person in the world to watch as of late. I can't do anything right. I've even broken the pinky toe on my left foot... twice. And you wonder why I don't dance.
And I still can't write. Maybe things would be a bit better if I could knock out something worthwhile, but it seems that all I'm capable of are these stupid, boring, "oh-no-not-again" woe-is-me blog entries. And who the fuck wants to read those?
Certainly no gorgeous brunettes I know, that's for sure.
What a word to start a blog with, eh? Ugh? Well, it's quite fitting, I assure you.
Remember that muse-brunette I've been hinting at recently? Yeah, well, I think she's utterly terrified of me now. It's a long story, but the moral of it is guys, don't try to hit on anyone when you're in a rut. Seriously, no matter how good you think your set-up is, if you're depressed, beaten, down, or otherwise not your typical upbeat self, keep yourself to yourself. Really. It'll save much heartache.
The sad part is that I'd be laughing all-Hell uncontrollably if this wasn't me I'm talking about. Honestly and objectively, I'm probably the funniest person in the world to watch as of late. I can't do anything right. I've even broken the pinky toe on my left foot... twice. And you wonder why I don't dance.
And I still can't write. Maybe things would be a bit better if I could knock out something worthwhile, but it seems that all I'm capable of are these stupid, boring, "oh-no-not-again" woe-is-me blog entries. And who the fuck wants to read those?
Certainly no gorgeous brunettes I know, that's for sure.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Four Things That Could Cheer Me Up
Life, I must say, is a bit of a wreck for me at the moment. Now, it's certainly not as bad nor as confusing as life is for many people that I know, but... it's still a damn wreck.
You see, I was supposed to finally and permanently move to Los Angeles this upcoming week. Unfortunately, thanks to a fucked up and vindictive maneuver on a certain someone that used to be important to me (I must stress used to be), Los Angeles is no longer anywhere in the near future for me... at least as far as I'm able to manipulate. I had a nice career waiting... family and other nepotistic hookups with people quite capable of giving me fairly lucrative work (at least as far as a work resume goes)... an "in" at Creative Artists Agency, the very place I'm trying to get an agent at... and long-lost and new-found friends laboring and networking in all of the places that I needed to labor and network in. Even better, a friend of mine was working on contacting the actors Sunny Mabry and Ethan Embry in order for me to convince them to star in a different friend's directorial debut, which would've resulted in me getting put into a nice little position with which to start my Hollywood career.
But, thanks to that person who is no longer important to me... all of that has fallen apart. NINE years of being patient, learning my trade, and saving money... down the shit-tube... all because I trusted the wrong person.
Needless to say, I'm in the process of salvaging what can be salvaged and rebuilding what needs rebuilt. Unfortunately, it's going to take a few miracles and a year or two to get me back on track... and by then I'll be 30. Over-the-hill and futile, as they say, in Hollywood. But, fuck it. I'm going to give it a whirl anyway.
Anyway, on to the point. Since some of my closest friends read this, I'm going to list, as the title so eloquently points out, four things that could cheer me up. So, if any of you reading this are in any type of position to help with any of these four things, please do so.
1. A certain so-and-so getting run over by a car and bleeding slowly to death for all the world to see. Okay, maybe not... but I'd still like to see life fall apart for this certain so-and-so. Yeah, yeah, that's not very nice, not very Christian, not very "Buddha," but hey... I'm pissed off and will probably remain so for all eternity.
2. Getting my $14,000 back. The $14,000 that my ex-girlfriend so kindly forced from my possession. She once swore that she'd pay me back no matter what... whether we were together or not... whether we were friends or not. Apparently swears mean nothing to her. Well, how's this for reciprocation? "Hey, babe. I swear I love you."
3. Somehow moving to the Los Angeles area. Seriously, people... nobody knows ANYBODY that wants to move to Los Angeles? Most of you are trying to be filmmakers... what the fuck is wrong with you? I need two roommates for a decent pad in Burbank or North Hollywood. I have three dogs and three cats who are never around. Come on... this should be a no-brainer. Then again... anyone who'd stick around Wilmington hoping that the industry picks up again probably isn't capable of a no-brainer. Um... just kidding... really.
4. Receiving a phone call from an enigmatic brunette in North Carolina. A gorgeous, intelligent, joyous person who can only be described as a living muse. This may sound sappy or even contradictory, depending on what you know, but I would like to hear from her again.
And there you have it... my cry for help.
It sucks being pathetic.
You see, I was supposed to finally and permanently move to Los Angeles this upcoming week. Unfortunately, thanks to a fucked up and vindictive maneuver on a certain someone that used to be important to me (I must stress used to be), Los Angeles is no longer anywhere in the near future for me... at least as far as I'm able to manipulate. I had a nice career waiting... family and other nepotistic hookups with people quite capable of giving me fairly lucrative work (at least as far as a work resume goes)... an "in" at Creative Artists Agency, the very place I'm trying to get an agent at... and long-lost and new-found friends laboring and networking in all of the places that I needed to labor and network in. Even better, a friend of mine was working on contacting the actors Sunny Mabry and Ethan Embry in order for me to convince them to star in a different friend's directorial debut, which would've resulted in me getting put into a nice little position with which to start my Hollywood career.
But, thanks to that person who is no longer important to me... all of that has fallen apart. NINE years of being patient, learning my trade, and saving money... down the shit-tube... all because I trusted the wrong person.
Needless to say, I'm in the process of salvaging what can be salvaged and rebuilding what needs rebuilt. Unfortunately, it's going to take a few miracles and a year or two to get me back on track... and by then I'll be 30. Over-the-hill and futile, as they say, in Hollywood. But, fuck it. I'm going to give it a whirl anyway.
Anyway, on to the point. Since some of my closest friends read this, I'm going to list, as the title so eloquently points out, four things that could cheer me up. So, if any of you reading this are in any type of position to help with any of these four things, please do so.
1. A certain so-and-so getting run over by a car and bleeding slowly to death for all the world to see. Okay, maybe not... but I'd still like to see life fall apart for this certain so-and-so. Yeah, yeah, that's not very nice, not very Christian, not very "Buddha," but hey... I'm pissed off and will probably remain so for all eternity.
2. Getting my $14,000 back. The $14,000 that my ex-girlfriend so kindly forced from my possession. She once swore that she'd pay me back no matter what... whether we were together or not... whether we were friends or not. Apparently swears mean nothing to her. Well, how's this for reciprocation? "Hey, babe. I swear I love you."
3. Somehow moving to the Los Angeles area. Seriously, people... nobody knows ANYBODY that wants to move to Los Angeles? Most of you are trying to be filmmakers... what the fuck is wrong with you? I need two roommates for a decent pad in Burbank or North Hollywood. I have three dogs and three cats who are never around. Come on... this should be a no-brainer. Then again... anyone who'd stick around Wilmington hoping that the industry picks up again probably isn't capable of a no-brainer. Um... just kidding... really.
4. Receiving a phone call from an enigmatic brunette in North Carolina. A gorgeous, intelligent, joyous person who can only be described as a living muse. This may sound sappy or even contradictory, depending on what you know, but I would like to hear from her again.
And there you have it... my cry for help.
It sucks being pathetic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
