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 :)