Flipping the Bird

For the first time in my life today, I gave somebody the finger while driving.

I have never felt so bad about anything in my life.

As Jessie and I were leaving the pool, I saw a guy with a chair strapped to his back walking towards us with his two cute kids. I remember mentally noting how nice of a smile he had and how he looked like the perfect dad; he looked like the kind of dad I'd want to be. You know how you can just look at some people and part of you already knows them? Some sense that they will have a role to play in your life?

So we come to the intersection at Locante's, and to my left is a black Toyota pickup. We get to the intersection at relatively the same time, and since I had the shorter turn and was on the right, I made the turn before the truck did. I didn't think I was cutting them off, but they honked. For some reason, the honk really shook me, I stuck my left hand out the window and gave them the finger.

The truck didn't do anything else save follow me, and when we came to the next intersection, he pulled up beside us and called out to me. I rolled down the window.

It was the guy with the chair. He looked... hurt. Embarrassed. His voice was strangely innocent. Sympathetic. All he said was, "Hey man, don't give me the finger." The same tone of voice you'd use to
"You didn't need to honk," I said, defensive and prickly, my voice a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. "We got there at the same time."
"No we didn't," he said.
"You just scared me when you honked. You scared me."

And then he gave me this look that I can't describe, as though in that moment he could see me for the lower man that I am, and suddenly I realized that it was the father from the pool. His little children must've been sitting next to him, looking up at him, and he was teaching them how to be a real man. He must've recognized Jessie and I from the pool, too, because he said nothing further. The light changed, and he drove off.

After I dropped Jessie off, I drove around Mt. Lebanon for twenty minutes, frantically searching for his truck. I didn't find it.

I don't have it in me. I just... don't. Maybe someday I'll grow up to be like him.

In the World

In other news, I'm afraid to die.

So I'm contemplating this whole 'eating meat' thing. Not on some misguided quest to change the world, but just searching for the right thing to do. If you haven't yet, check out 'Meet Your Meat' (http://www.meetyourmeat.com). The treatment of animals at these 'animal factories' is just so ridiculously gratuitous and unnecessary that I think it's something we should stop.

Don't get me wrong: It's not that we're killing animals to eat them, it's how we're doing it that bothers me. There's no honor in it. That bothers me the most. Sure, animals aren't people, but they are conscious beings and deserve to die in a way that isn't brutal and prolonged. It's not just like, 'Hey Mr. Chicken, we're gonna cut off your head and eat you." It's, "Hey Mr. Chicken, first you're going to live in a cage that's so small you can't around your whole life, and then we're going to scald your feathers off while you're still conscious and put you through a machine that only sometimes cuts your whole head off..."

Anyways, I'm not exactly sure what to do at the moment. I like chicken and intend to keep on eating it. Same with beef, though I'll pass on the whole genetically modified cow-thing ('Oh no, none for me thanks' as Dave might put it). The question is, What should I do, and do I care enough to want to change it?

It's a weird time for me. On one hand, I feel the immortality of youth coursing through my body, and on the other, that all-too-annoying mortality thing on a rocking chair outside my window. Today I was wondering whether I'll ever really have the balls to face myself, or whether I'll spend the rest of my life in Housewares never getting the girl. I don't want to die without accomplishing something, but accomplishing means risking what I have. Namely: safety, security, breathing. I envy warriors. Their purpose is so clear. 'Martin' actually comes from the Latin word for 'warrior' (i.e. Mars, god of war), and there are times late at night, with a candle flickering atop an iron sconce, that I can almost taste a warrior's blood in my veins. I believe firmly that people become their names, and that words can shape a destiny.

I also believed until I was 20 years old that there were no cars in Canada, so take me as you will.

If anyone knows of any elementary teaching jobs in Pittsburgh, please let me know. I want to help Jessie get a job so she can be happy. For someone like her, to whom a sense of place and purpose is so important, this is an especially trying time. She can do it :) I believe in her.

New Homes

Well, I officially christened my apartment tonight the only way I know how: By puking in the bathroom. No, I wasn't sick, nor was I drunk. I.... well. Alright, fine, I took a shower, right? My first shower on my first night at my apartment. Well, as I was toweling off, I somehow managed to swallow one of those loose stringy ends that old towels get? Yeah, so I tried to scrape it out, but it wiggled down my throat, and my attempts to cough it up became vain attempts to keep it down, hence puking in the sink of my bathroom.

Oh yeah. We've exhanged bodily fluids. This is apartment is my bitch, baby.

It feels really weird to be here all alone, though. I feel like I'm in some kind of holding cell, waiting for the next big thing to happen to me. I need to put pictures up. It's a glorified hotel room until I put my pictures up. Dave helped me get my bed and computer moved in, and I have to say that helped a little, though for the first time in five years I'm sitting on the floor while typing. Very odd.

Got our butts kicked at dodgeball on Tuesday. I felt like everything I touched became a loss for the team, but Mat reminded me that the rest of us weren't having good games, either. Still, I want to be a help, you know? I had a good throw that took out this crazy good girl the other team had, and I had a number of nice dodges, but honestly I was more concerned about getting the ball to Mat and the other throwers. It's when I let them down that I was annoyed. We managed to drown our sorrows, though, and had a few drinks and a lot of laughs at a bar on Walnut St. after the game. Well, I sort of 'floated' my sorrows; Mat proceeded to drown his until they were twitching in a hilarious mess. I've never seen Mat tipsy before. Watching him try to walk was like watching one of those cute little aliens from 'Men in Black' trying to drive a yo-yo.

God I love dodgeball, though. My red 'Hit the Deck' shirt was one of the first things I washed when I got here. Can't wait until next week :)

Jessie invited me to come see 'Varekai' tonight with her family, and I was absolutely blown away by it. Oh. My. God. You would not BELIEVE what these people do. I seriously thought they were all going to die at one point. People were literally leaping 20 feet in the air and landing against a huge parachute. This one group just flipped each other around on their legs, and then caught them feet-to-feet. Other people soared 40 feet above the audience with 10-ft capes and huge yellow-feathered helmets. Absolutely ridiculous and unforgettable. Go. Now.
Totally worth the price of admission.

It was good to hang out with Jessie. I feel like so much has been changing in my life (I know, I know, I moved six minutes away) that I'm really looking forward to some time just with her so we can reconnect. I want to plan a trip, just us. I'll take her away, far away, and when we get there we'll dance.

Holocron on the Brain

It is 5:30 in the morning and I can't fucking sleep. I can't stop thinking about my movie. I've managed to ignore it for the past weeks because I talked myself into being busy with school and moving into the new apartment, but now that the semester is over HFTH is all I can think about. One of the surprising emotions is guilt; guilt for not working harder, for feeling so helpless in the face of such a huge project, for not knowing what to do next or where the people are going to come from. What the hell am I going to do for a living if I can't do this?

Anyways, I think I may have found a guy to score the movie, which would be an awesome card in the hand to play with any CG people who might be interested. I want to show them that we mean business. I want to show the world what I can do, goddammit. I don't want to die with my music still inside me...

The Middle of Things

Wow, I do not know what it is that compels me to stick my nose into other people's drama. It must be the 'save the world' gene that I inherited; when I see people I love in pain, I cannot help but want to become personally involved and fix the problem.

I used to pride myself on the number of people who confided in me, but more recently people have been more guarded with what they say to me. When someone says, "Don't tell anyone," I say nothing. Well, except to Jessie, but she doesn't count. Not that I can't keep a secret from her, but it's nice to bear the burden of the truth with someone else. I guess I've just come to realize that all these 'secrets' we're keeping from one another are only dangerous because we're trying to keep them secret...

Anyways, the whole motivation for this post is that I'm embroiled in the middle of some drama in my family, and both sides have been really hurt by the other. Stubborness is genetic, I guess. It amazes me how a conversation about nothing can blow up into a really damaging conversation about nothing. I used to laugh at the thought that Helen's face could launch a thousand ships, but this recent experience has me convinced me that Helen could have been a bucktoothed-wildebeast and those crazy Greeks/Trojans would still have fought to the death. I, for one, am a fan of people working through issues, however painful, because in the end you've fought for the genuine relationship.

Anyways, we had an awesome weekend in Baltimore at the premiere. WAY too much fun, and a good film to boot. Check out Spitzfire.com in a few days for the full run-down!

Also, I'd like to give a shout out to Jess, who is going on her first job interview tomorrow. Good luck, sweetie! You can do it :)

Tired

"If you really truly love something, you must be willing to let it go."

After a productive and enjoyable meeting with Mat last night at the Olive Garden, I came home and worked through the night finishing 'Avanon,' which I managed to salvage thanks to some last minute red ink from Mat. I really don't feel good about this second story. I need to go back and rethink why it fails to engage me as a reader as well as a writer. The first story, however, continues to garner praise from readers who get to the end of the story and declare, "How cool! More, damn you!"

An interesting side-effect of staying up all night is the ability one possesses late the next day in falling asleep at random times, i.e. the following:

A) Driving home from school and being unable to hold your eyes open in the Liberty Tubes, while still managing to find this funny even as it's happening.

B) Falling asleep within one minute of your girlfriend laying down on your bed and then apparently asking her how her "cartoon murder" was coming.

C) Falling asleep at your girlfriends house after watching her make cookies, only to later reveal in a stupor that yes, you actually had spent money on something that wasn't her and no, that didn't make you irresponsible, immature, not worthy of dating, etc...

I seriously do not remember being over at my girlfriend's after a certain point. A very odd feeling. I am really tired.

I think she's quite through with me, actually. I can never tell which part of our arguments are her and which part are me. One minute we are as happy as can be, lovingly disgusting everyone at the Giant Eagle with our affectionate kisses and playful glances, and all I want to do is hold her in my arms forever. The next moment, she's screaming at me, speeding off and hanging up on my phone calls over the goddamn $115 I spent a month ago on the 'Gala Party' at this weekend's premiere of SW: Revelations. Is she mad that she's not coming with us? She can't be, because I invited her ten times and was systematically refused on the nebulous grounds of 'feeling uncomfortable,' which is girl-speak for "I don't want to go but I want to make sure you feel bad for having a good time."

I don't know. Maybe she needs to go and find a married man, kill off his wife and children, and immediately she could have what she wants in life: stability, marriage, safety. I don't think any of those three words apply to my life right now, and I'm tired of feeling constantly inadequate when compared to her idealized life.

Decompressed

Wow, I feel weird. I've spent the whole day jittery and knocking things over. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I think if a car hit me right now I'd just laugh and keep on walking. Fast music sounds slow today.

Anyways, I had a good writer's meeting with Mat tonight. I really do enjoy our meetings, although they can be painful at points because my writing is sometimes really good sometimes really, really horrible. This is especially true in the early stages, because I have trouble conceptualizing a piece. You put a plot in front of me and some characters, and I can go to town, man. Tell me to describe a sunset, and I will have it back to you in five minutes. But if you expect me to make up my own plot, then you're in for a long trip. Jessie joked with me the other day, asking, "So when is Mat going to write your next story?" Even if I am feeling a small sense of disownership with these stories, it's my own fault. Mat isn't coming up to me and saying, "Hey, let me change that." I'm asking his help, and by God he knows what he's talking about. He once described me as a piece of well-oiled wood; I can't light myself on fire, but if you get a spark near me, I burst into flames.

I like the analogy, although someday I hope to own my own match.

Anyways, today was one of those days where everything I did was crap, so maybe it's a good thing I got an extension on my Wittgenstein paper. I feel like I'm wasting away in my own filth. I've got the rest of the night to finish rewriting 'Avanon' and revising 'Nione,' and then it's off to school for a full day of classes. It's going to be the best story I've ever written. No exceptions. The next few weeks will suck, but eh. Soon, I'll be in my new apartment. I think a change of scenery is just what the doctor ordered.

Blech. I feel dirty.

Close the book

Just watched the 4 AM coverage of the papal funeral, and found myself quite moved, both by John Paul's life (whether I agreed with him or not) and by the incredibly diverse people who were in attendance to see him cross into the next world. I was simply astounded at the amount of nationalities represented... the whole world had come together to celebrate the life of one man, and the whole thing reeked of an unfamiliar smell nowadays:

Sincerity.

My favorite moment was a small one. On top of the pope's simple wooden casket was a book of the gospels. It was an incredibly windy day in Rome, the winds sweeping over the people. The red robes of the cardinals billowed in the breeze, and the pages of the gospels were turning themselves on John Paul's casket, as though he were flipping through them from heaven. Then, suddenly, by no hand of man, the book blew itself shut, closing the book on his life.

A very windy day, indeed...

Battle of the Bilge

If you ever get the chance to see Tracy Morgan live, don't. Just.... don't. He wasn't funny on SNL, and he's especially unfunny live. It was the equivalent of watching someone take a crap for an hour and a half, only you were the toilet water and his words were the logs of shit falling on your head.

Very unfunny man.

That is, of course, unless you like jokes about sticking your penis in Terry Schiavo's feeding-tube incision, a joke he made on numerous occasions between masturbating the microphone on stage and pretending to walk through a labia.

Hopefully he goes away soon.

In other news, I filed my taxes! I owed money for the first time ever, but it wasn't nearly as much as I thought. I'm in the 10% bracket, and 10% of what I made last year would be an annoying bill to pay. I also completed my 'loan application interview' after the intransigent whores at Pitt took away my Pell grant. *shakes angry fist* It's alright, I don't mind taking on some debt. I like a sense of ownership, anyway. I have some copious amounts of homework to slog through before Tuesday, I'm trying to get up to Rochester for a piano lesson with Prof. Caramia, and the whole time I've been writing 'Avanon' in my head. I wish I could just write stories and make movies for the rest of my life. That'd be swell :)

Bacon?

I became a fantasy writer the day I had nothing left to write about my senior prom.

It is so difficult for me to write a story. I have to constantly remind myself that being a writer isn't about getting it right the first time, it's about getting it right eventually. Revision feels like cheating for some reason, like I should've been good enough to know the first time.

Yesterday was the first time in my life that I really felt like a writer. For the past three weeks I've been working on a story called 'The Clearing,' featuring a character I've been contemplating for awhile named 'Nione.' After working out the story with Mat (story-god that he is... him and that sexy muse), it took two all-night writing sessions to pound the bacon, so to speak, and get it written. Fast-forward to yesterday, sitting in class and frankly basking in positive comments from other students. I had affected these people, had transported them somewhere else for 15 pages and they actually enjoyed it! What a neat feeling... like giving a piano concert with lots of applause at the end. Very satisfying.

Now all I have to do is top that story with another that's even better, which is a paralyzing way of thinking and I should stop right now. To wit, I had an awesome writer's conference tonight with Mat and he worked his magic again, hammering out the next chapter in Nione's evolving story. Now all I have to do is piece it together, make it work, and bring it to life. Wish me luck.

Don't Drink the Water

I have to admit, I really like Dave Matthew's music. I've never bought one of his CDs, never copied one, never borrowed one, but every time I hear his music I admire the amount of emotion he manages to capture. It's like Seal and "Kissed by a Rose"; you'd never think to own the CD, but if you hear it come on the radio, it's impossible to change the station.

As those of you familiar with my sporadic blogging on LiveJournal know, I am terrible about blogging regularly. I think it stems from a deep desire not to over-analyze myself, an activity that I became immensely good at as an angsty teenager which led only deeper into an increasingly dim rabbit hole. I've found, however, that I've enjoyed reading the blogs of friends a lot. It's an interesting window into the cracks and crevices of them that I don't normally get to experience. I get to piece together bits of them that they scatter around the web, combine them with the scraps I pick up in their presence, and come away feeling like I know them better.

Taking a page from Mat's "A Breath of Fresh Fire" (http://www.matblog7.blogspot.com), I'm not going to allow comments on this blog. I found that on LiveJournal I was writing to an audience, was censoring myself with readers in mind and thereby totally taking the fun out of it. Blogging is an inherently exhibitionist activity and I shouldn't be denying people the right to read what I really think.

So the past three times I've IM'd a friend of mine, he's signed off immediately without responding. Now, I know he's busy, and I could understand if I IM'd him all the time and was annoying the hell out of him, but frankly there's no other way to take it: he's being a dick and I'm starting to take it personally. In a way I feel guilty about it, for no reason other than I feel like I'm doing well, following my dreams, making money making movies, and he's abandoned that part of himself in favor of being like his friends. So, instead of feeling humiliated again, I've blocked him from all my IM names, blocked his e-mail address from all my e-mail addresses, and made a concerted effort to think nasty thoughts about him for 10 minutes, after which I went downstairs, ate a granola bar, and poured myself a glass of Diet Coke. I may not seem like it, but I am not a very nice person when I feel threatened. In fact I'm downright hateful.

I had a friend in high school who said the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was a small thing, but it was the drop that brought the tub through the ceiling. I made sure everyone in the school knew that I wouldn't be talking to him ever again. I laughed when his prom date ran away crying at the misery of being seen with him, I laughed silently at all the things that were wrong with him, that would always be wrong with him. I had my mom take the prom pictures and make sure to leave him out of the frame, with only his black-suited arm clutched to a depressed girl in a sagging red dress to remember him by. That's the way it's stayed.

Now, granted I've softened a bit after five years, but for a long time I hated him, wished for bad things upon him, spread rumor and nastiness as much as possible whenever his name was mentioned. Now I find myself resigned about it, but at least I learned that if I get cut, I bleed a lecherous blood that is hot with corrosive power. I don't just forget you. I burn you out of me.

So, yeah. Wow, see? Told you so. Anyways, I find myself rather anxiously awaiting to hear from Kitty tomorrow. She's debuting the "Apprentice" parody we shot, and I'm jazzed to hear if it goes over well. I worked on it for more than 40 hours over the weekend, not stopping to sleep. I did a pretty good job, I think. I wish I had a better microphone (or at least one with a windscreen), but other than that the production quality was pretty good. I haven't been able to even look at the Avid icon on my desktop. Too much of a good thing, methinks. It's like my piano teacher, Tony Caramia, said to me once: "Even filet mignon gets old." Not that I am unwilling to test his hypothesis, by the way, if any of you like to make steak, but it has the dull ring of truth nonetheless.

Margaret's coming over today to edit 'Hunt for the Holocron' with me. I'm sort of excited to see her, actually. It's like looking forward to a doctor's visit; there are going to be come cold surprises and things poked in painful places, but you feel like you've been thoroughly reduced to yourself again afterwards. Someone's seen your naked butt (sometimes more than seen), and you lived to talk about it. Now, I've only actually ever slept on Margaret's butt once, but I think even she would admit that she likes hanging out with me on occasion. I don't take her shit, at least not very well, and she makes me eat mine. Hopefully we'll get a chance to talk about that screenplay we've been tossing back and forth. I admire her. She's one of the few film-people I know who actually makes it happen.

Speaking of admiring people, Jessie is almost done with her program! Well, still a month or two left, but finally there is some light at the end of this blasted tunnel. I got to spend a couple nights at her house last week while her parents were away and it was just so.... natural. As soon as we had our own space we just fell into one another and didn't need to come up for air (though apparently that feeling of connectedness does not apply when I am wide-awake at 3 AM and constantly waking her up :) In her words: "Oh my God, she can have you.") Haha. Aww, it's so cute, we're planning our summer trip for this year. We've found some all-inclusives in the Carribbean that look promising. Thank God for the work from Kitty, because otherwise I would be ditch-poor and begging for frigging tuppence.

Anyways, wow, I actually do feel better. I didn't even realize I needed cheering up. Sweet.

The Apprentice

So after a little over 7 months of LiveJournal and comparing my shitty-looking blog to Mat's shiny, fascinating one over here, I've decided to give Blogspot a try. More later, when my hand doesn't hurt so damn much..