Wut Dood I Dood?

I am not a normal chick, in a very uncool, unquirky and irritating way. I have these eccentricities that make no sense and I get that, and I try to think outside my own retardations, but it's really difficult sometime.

I was a drama queen for a long time, and it did a whole lot of damage to me in ways I won't go into. But I mention it because, now, it's made it so that I don't talk about my emotional stuff. With anyone. Ever. Unless it's going to affect people directly, I do not let anyone know when I'm having problems. I just can't. I feel ashamed and weird and it makes things worse rather than better.

And I don't want people to ask me about how I'm doing. I don't want anyone involved, and I just wanna hermit myself and deal with it on my own, and resurface when I can be vivacious and fit for general consumption again.

I know that's not the usual run of things for most folks. When they're struggling, they want support and help and, truthfully, that's the right way to feel. I know this because when someone I care for is having a rough go, I WANT to go help and support them. But then I get paralyzed, because what if they're like me and they wanna be left alone and I'm making things worse by asking what's up?

Kyle says the solution is just to say 'Yo, I'm here, lemme know if I can help', but I worry that's not enough. Like, what if they're waiting for someone to ask what's wrong, or to just go and start helping? What if just saying 'I'm here if you need me' makes me seem like I only cursorily care? What if that's not enough? Arrgh.

I don't wanna pry into people's business. I absolutely do not. Whatever they do, they do, it's cool. But I do want to help if I can help with stuff. Oi. I am weird. It sucks.

Old Bailey LJ Entry

9/2/2008

We went to Amscot to cash my check and they gave Bailey a couple mini Tootsie rolls. And as we were leaving, she found a dollar on the floor. We asked people there if it was theirs and it wasn't, so she kept it. And (the little BABY) later she put it in the Ronald McDonald House donation box of her own accord. 'Because it's not really mine but I want to do something with it', she says. My love. 

So, we go get the car's oil changed at Wal-Mart and it begins to storm torrents as we're in there. And we wander the toy aisle and hang out and the rain's just NOT letting up. So we go into the garage area and watch it pouring. "I hope there's a break," I tell her. "Bailey, tell it to stop raining." 

She thinks for a moment and the pulls out one of the Tootsie rolls and hoists it up on high in her pinched little fingers toward the storm clouds. I watch this as casually as I can for a moment before commenting. "Honey, are you trying to stop the rain with the power of your Tootise roll?" 

"Yep," she tells me. "Cause remember when I got this and then I found a dollar." 

Of course. Der, Mom. Sheesh. 

So we wait a little longer and it still doesn't let up. She she sighs, lowers her arm, unwraps the candy and pops it into her mouth. I eye her. 

"It failed me," she says, chewing a little more viciously than she needed to. 

She would make an AWEsome god.

Deth

Cerbic thrashing

Hi-hat strokes that, for all their posturing

Reduce to a guttural glaze.

Look, my bathing beauties -

We can peel this ten ways from Lars

And it's still not going to satisfy

So

As I type, the thundergood goes on in my head

In the simplest terms, ihateihateihate

Enough to levy it up into silliness

It's enough, enuff, to know that

tonight

I am most certainly superior

Despite the predilection for

Le frapper des têtes.

Eround

To love someone that is not good

Is folly, but we often would

Consign ourselves to bitter things

And take the bloodshed that he brings.

Because, of course as we both know

The play commands we suffer so,

Because we would not be content

To take an angel that was sent.

It foretells peace, and peace cannot

Create the passion that we’ve got.

And so, our ego and our id

Conspire to pry up the lid

And let loose folly in the form

Of bastard, bully, thug and worm.

And as he wounds us, we will sigh

And dream of ways that he can die

Quest Boogaloo

Quest Boogaloo

O, how do I make my baby believe

That there are such things as the dinosaurs

And the words all are fine once you write them in

And you’ve got to keep dancing for life to begin?

What do I say so my baby believes

That I just can’t exist ‘til his whimsy come back

And that love is an instinct, and reason is loose

And the magic is stored up all in my caboose?

What a drag, O my baby – we’re mired in real

And nothing’s the way that the other world was

I feel you’ve been poisoned with mortal and thought

When you fight alongside me I’ll pull the dream taut.

I think I’ve been wand’ring; I think I’ve been lost

And he’s got to come over to see what I sing

My baby needs ballast and blarney and bread

There’s sun past the demon that’s borrowed his head

I’ve got to do something; my baby’s all clogged

And how will I take him away to the isle

if the stones in his pocket won’t let the boy swim

And the shade in his soul makes my own soul go dim?

I can’t make him summer; he must make his own

Else where in his heart will I go to find light?

Where will he keep me if shadows are cold

And give me a place where I’ll never grow old?

I thought of the moment when he had to choose

And he took up the New and he banished the Old

And the fire was lit and I burned at the stake

And the choice wasn’t hard for his piety’s sake

I’ll never stop loving. I’ll never undo

all the knots that our fate tugged along through the years

But I fear for my baby and all he can sway

If his hate takes the witch and her magic away.

Conference

Pulled into conference with these

Poor, twill chairs, with these

Poor, thin hairs

I never thought He could even age.

Sat with my pad and my

Pencil at the ready, he was

Shaking and unsteady

He said he wished He had never been.

He said ‘My darling, miracles don’t exist.

‘We never alter what is happening mid-moment

‘There’s no point – if we want to change what is or isn’t

‘We just arrange it from the very start.’

So, we never know what He’s had His hand in.

My life is just things that never happened to begin with.

I’ve never protested, never

Balked at the reason

At the betraying treason

When it comes, I’ve been good as gold.

But I rather feel like the

Fellows need revealing

If it’s us that they’re stealing

Someone ought to let everyone know.

He said, ‘Go and tell her I never took the wheel

‘If divinity had issued that she be spared

‘There would’ve been no ice on the road to start

Why can’t people change for their own sake?’

I’ve got no answer, baby.

I’m Fate’s girl, not Yours.

Mouseketeer Stigmata

I believe in the Church of Disney.

I realized that nothing else really does it for me spiritually the way Disney does. And sure, you can spout off about corruption, but they're low on that totem pole compared to all the other major religions.

Going to the Parks gives me the same sense of fulfillment, peace and joy that other folks get from attending service. I can cheat at parking, but I never do so if I can afford to pay - that's my collection basket being passed around. I always throw a penny into the Cinderella Fountain, or any number of other spots - that's my lighting a candle. I have little rituals for all sorts of things there - my genuflection. And my praying the rosary is 'Por favor manténganse alejado de las puertas'. My 3 o'clock wine flight at France is my communion.

Ok, that might be a bit much, but you get the idea.

I proselytize like mad, probably as insufferably as any fundamentalist. I go there when I'm sad, when I'm afraid, when I need guidance. And, seriously, it's the only thing in my whole life that's WORKED. It's the only spiritual thing that's given me a return on my faith investment. And it was doing that before I even realized I was making a spiritual commitment.

I'm not talking about a higher power that you put your faith in, or a Creator, or divinity. Uncle Walt was mortal, and I do not ascribe his works to the formation of the Universe or the force which guides it. I mean a genuine, positive effect on my soul. It's constant, it's often given me more than I asked for, and it works.

People I admire greatly love Disney - Ray actually helped with Epcot. Gilliam praised the queues like I do. And, at its heart, it champions the values I consider most important - family, innovation, imagination, magic. It is, for me, a good place to be. It's a second home.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Calm Down, Calm Down

I don't know if it's my being old, or just ridiculously modest, or what. But the girls in my gaming group hang out a whole lot and, occasionally, I get invited to do so as well. And I've found myself not making a huge effort to accept, because they seem to talk a LOT about sex, and I just...don't really wanna talk about that shit 24/7 anymore.

They also, apparently, talk about the dudes in our gaming group and who they find attractive and who they would date. And...what? Almost all of them are married or in a serious relationship. It sorta baffles me and makes me uncomfortable. I genuinely like the guys in our troupe, but I do not think any of them are cute or hot, and I definitely do not want to date or sleep with any of them. They're just people.

So I know it'd be a killjoy for me to say 'Nah, sorry. I just think of your husbands/fiancees/boyfriends as human beings whose company I enjoy and nothing else'. I also know it sets me apart from them, and that's awkward for me. And even moreso, were I to say 'Hey - maybe you shouldn't be talking about how attractive or dateable someone's significant other is.' Am I just totally out of touch with the younger generation? Like, is it ultimate prudery just to want to just be people chilling with people? Do we really need to bring the lipstick lesbianism and the Who Would You Do? and all that nonsense into the mix?

I chalk it up to young folks being just super horny all the time. But it's putting a damper on doing social shit with them, for me.

Grubroyal

I step, ruined, into such a sunset.

The good red and orange smoke my tatters.

He has slapped the crown from my head. I was

A Queen Once.

My kingdom unsurpassed.

Now, when I walk

The most tender shoots of grass

Bend away from my white feet

In shame. In shame.

My glory uproots and flees

I sing alone without echo or reverberation.

In the dusk, I am unpainted

And no competition for the full-blessed sky

Look, how low I step.

The ramparts are slick with disappointment.

The courtiers have not even will to laugh

Behind my back, but merely

Tuck and shrink in pity.

My palms have been wrenched clean of gilding.

My crown has been slapped off my head.

I was

A Queen Once.

In this squawking night

I pass through fainter thunder.

My arms are lilies, and snap

Down to the tip-turned mountain.

What breath I had, I stole.

What breath I had, I stole.

Sheets of escaped tribute in my

Poor, flexing fingers.

Whitemoon grieving

Tears that spill from lips, not eyes.

My throat is no longer my masterpiece

But merely his handhold.

We enact the massacre

Of an entire history

But I am orphaned

Without sisters

Bled

Dust

Mercifully, I cannot get any whiter.

A gleaming casket

That will not gleam if

I am laid in it

The lime like my flesh

Subdued and holy

Breaking my body down

To match my spirit.

The Two Little Girls

"This is unfair. I'm dying. I don't need to be here," she said in weak, raspy protest.

The girl looked at her counterpart with luminous, blue eyes that almost competed with the eight in the other's head. "You are closer to me than you've ever been," Promise said. "'The good news of suffering is that it brings us to the end of ourselves - a purpose it has certainly served in my life. It brings us to the place of honesty, which is the place of desperation, which is the place of faith, which is the place of freedom.' Tchividjian."

Pelinora narrowed her eyes. "Don't quote at me. You don't even know what you're saying. You're a sieve that catches...oh, I don't even know what you catch. At any rate, go away. Let me die in peace."

"You'd not let yourself do that, were I here or no. The flutters of by-gones have gone by. I would know. I've been separated from my beloved, too."

"Then why are you here? You've been in absentia for years. What made you crawl out of your faded-lace grave?" Pel shuddered, moaned softly in pain. "This is wretched."

"You are me without the fever; now, I am you with the fever." Promise watched the Lost serenely.

"You're a doll," Pel bit

"So are you."

"Hardly. Hardly. Go away." Pel tried to stand, fell back down. Swallowed the dust in her throat.

"You are a doll. Only, you have a pull string and when someone tugs it, you spew know-it-all-isms. It's all right. I wish I could do so. My strings are around my wrists and throat and ankles. I don't spew. I jangle dance."

"This is madness." Pel closed her eyes. "And I haven't time for madness anymore."

"You exhumed me. I was at peace," Promise noted. "So here is my advice: promote yourself."

Pelinora shook her head weakly. "No. Never again."

"I didn't mean it that way. I meant - give yourself a higher position. With benefits."

"How?" Pel peeked at the Toreador.

"Go and play. Show Autumn you are its avatar."

Pelinora smiled, and Promise shivered.

The Monkey

Bailey and I were driving home from Disney yesterday and, as usual, she had the iPod and was selecting our playlist for the drive. Her song selections were amazing. I'm not sure where to start with all my thoughts for this. She played Paul Simon's 'The Obvious Child' and Harry Belafonte and the Muppet's 'Turn The World Around' to start. Even if you don't listen to them, read the lyrics.

What were you listening to at 16? I know I was listening to Tori and NIN mostly. The music I clung to was angry, bitter, anguished shit. Mostly angry. Music of rebellion and angst. You know - teenager music.

Bailey's music is, if not all happy, thoughtful and hopeful. I was amazed to realize as we drove - not a single song she loves is mean or tragic or angsty. She likes a few popular tripe songs (and recognizes them as such), but that's fine; I like that she's not totally alienated from her peer culture.

Her favorite song right now is Billy Joel's 'River of Dreams' . I think it really resonates with her. She sings along with it with such investment. It's not a happy song; it's a song about being lost. BUT, unlike songs about being lost that talk about how fucked up it is to be so, or how they'll never find they're way out of the mess they're in and are giving up, this song talks about being lost as a journey rather than a finality. It's actually a pretty spot-on song for adolescence.

I dunno where I'm going with this post. Maybe just to articulate how I love that the songs she connects the most to aren't angry or sad; they're wise and hopeful. That makes me happy.

Frou Frou Gamer Girl

Just read this article and found it spot-on. On another level, I think it's why I champion avant-garde games. I totally understand I am a pretentious piece of shit with my love of artsy fartsy games. I know it's pretty insufferable, and I do try to keep my blathering about it to a minimum. But the article resonates with me and links in with how I love experimental games.

I truly believe games can be art, just like films or music. I don't think many of them are, but they have the ability to cross over into that designation. I consider Tale of Tales to have made games that are art. There needs to be intention there - the devs need to consciously route their game toward art rather than simply entertainment. I'll also risk pissing off both the art community and the gaming community by suggesting that even some mainstream games like Spec Ops: The Line can at least dip a toe into the 'art' category.

I think that art, generally, needs to be an expression or reflection of the artist's mind or soul. Reading interviews with game developers, that criteria is sometimes very much met. And it's why I'll checkmark Spec Ops, but not BioShock. Both have 'deeper' messages and both take you on an emotional journey, but the former was a deliberate expression of the creator's beliefs, and the latter was just very cool storytelling. Not all of Tale of Tales' games send a message (The Path certainly does though), but all of them showcase the creator's self in some regard.

And so I get super excited when a game that revolves around sitting and waiting for your dinner date to arrive is released; not because I think it will be amazing, or fun, but because it's another attempt to make a game as a legitimate piece of art. The devs even suggest a specific wine to drink while you play the game. I love that. And I realize that makes me a sorta gamer beatnik and that's so obnoxious, but I can't help it.

Feeling Good

I was on jury selection for three bloody days, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I realized that my Google Drive app had stored all my Buzz posts, so I went back and re-read them.

Let me tell you something: I cannot even measure how much better LARP is out of the Cam and out of Therapy now that I'm doing Dreams.

I lost count of all the angry, frustrated, helpless posts I made. I cannot believe I stayed so long in groups that allowed bullies, assholes and creepsters to play, even after the vast majority of people continually complained about them. I posted, way back, something along the lines of 'Yes, I'd rather have a benevolent dictatorship than a terrible democracy'. At the time, I was referring to the fact that I'd prefer two of the Big Gamers, Jake and Lana, to have control of the Domain (because they made it awesome and worked their butts off) than to have 'plebians' control it en masse  and not do a lick of work and tie everything up in red tape. It now applies beautifully to Dreams.

The games now are wonderful. They're cooperative. They're fun. They're full of drama and/or wackiness, and people care about other folks' characters' stories. We had one dude who was continually PvPing for no reason whatsoever, constantly disrupting scenes, trying to steal all the plot for himself and creeping on the female players. We talked to him OOC. We offered to help him make a character that wouldn't always be an asshole. We asked all the players to air their grievances against him - right out in the open, on the SAME NIGHT it happened. We gave him several games to change. We did all of that, and when nothing changed, we told him this was not the right group for him and he left. It was such a reversal of everything I'd experienced, I nearly broke down into tears when I realized I never again would have to tolerate that sort of crap in a game I played in.

People in Dreams are honest about ST input, and often give very solid criticism, which our ST accepts and thanks them for. Our ST never puts his 'vision' of game before the PCs' stories. We all want the other characters to get Extra Special Cool Stuff, because we don't have to worry it'll be used to kill our PCs, and can actually help us, since we're all in it together. Not everyone is in love with everyone OOC, but we're all responsible players and can still get together and have a good game.

And it will stay this way, because I and the other staff/STs are committed to ensuring it does, and we have to power to back that commitment. The group is not for everyone. It's way low on mechanics, it often spits in the face of canon for the sake of story, and it has zero PvP. But for those people who want this kind of experience, we can guarantee giving it to them.

I've had this for iLARPs (man, did I have it - so good), but I was skeptical it could ever be achieved in a regular game. I am very happy my doubts weren't proved true.

I had some wonderful times in the Cam and Therapy; I really did. And without them, I'd never have the chops to run my own troupe, not in a million years. There were people in both that I thought ran/played in the games superbly. There were some incredibly good game nights. But there were also horrible moments, when there shouldn't have been. Not in a LARP group. It could have been all good and no bad - I know this now because I'm experiencing it.

And we're just getting started, so there's so much more to try.

Dreams, I ruv you.

Supper Club at 'Kesh

Tonight I had the amazing pleasure of dining at 'Kesh's new supper club event. It was unreal. I have not had a dining experience at that level, food-wise, since Victoria & Albert's and, unlike V&A's, it was comfortable, unpretentious and relaxed.

Bailey and I went, and we were greeted by the waitstaff with a glass of champagne (me) and a glass of sparkling cherry-cranberry (Bailey). The restaurant looked lovely, definitely a change from the usual casualness.

As we mingled with the other diners, nine of us total, we were served canapes. (You can click to enlarge any of the photos.)

Roast whole fig with Gorgonzola, candied bacon and dehydrated honey crumbles.

We also had a hand-made pork shumai which was killer, and prosciutto-wrapped chorizo with jalapeno. 

When we were seated, the waitstaff exchanged mine and Bailey's white napkins for black, as we were wearing black pants and this would ensure no white lint got on them (so classy). It was time for first course.

·         Chinese Red Rice Crusted Sea Scallop

·         Truffled edamame broth

This was paired with a white wine. The scallop was medium-rare and the garnish was organic Thai basil. Absolutely delicious. The broth was my favorite, though. The bit of red is a touch of chili. So good.

Second course:

·         Pan Grilled Farmers Cheese with Crispy Pork Belly

·         Baby greens salad with cured olive vinaigrette

Jerry said, "Believe it or not, this IS your salad course. There's some greens on the plate." The pork was fantastic. Our pairing for this course was a small glass of Indian coriander ale. I've never had beer like that before and, honestly, it was the first time I felt a true 'pairing' with the food and alcohol. Taking a sip of the ale after a bite of the port was transcendental. The coriander was perfect. 

Third course:

·         Fire & Ice 

·         Watermelon and Ahi tuna ice cubes, white Balsamic-jalapeno syrup

This was the fun course! The plate was set down in front of me and I could immediately hear something that sounded like sizzling, like water on a hot stone. See those little specks on the plate? Those are watermelon Pop Rocks. It made the whole dish come alive and really turned it into Fire & Ice. The tuna was ice-cold and fresh and delicious. 

Fourth course:

·         Moroccan Lollipop Lamb Chops

·         Inside-out couscous roll, spiced tomato chutney

You can't go wrong with lamb chops. These were done to perfection, medium-rare, and marinated in this unbelievable blend of Moroccan spices. The couscous' texture was spot on. Normally I hate the grittiness of couscous, but this was delicious. The chutney's sweetness actually went beautifully with the lamb. We had a nice red with this course.

Dessert:

·         Goat Cheese Fritters

·         Jicama-pear shot and raspberry coulis

This was...there are no words. Every single one of us let out a noise of utter ecstasy when we had the first bite, then cracked up at each other. Jerry told us that the word 'jicama' literally translated means 'vendor's choice'. The markets (souqs) in Morocco have spice vendors and you can ask them for their choice, and they'll put together a blend for you with anywhere from 20 to 30 different herbs and spices. The blend added to this pear shot had 22, I believe, and he got it on his last trip to Morocco. The fritters were like nothing I have ever eaten. The cheese was mild and not salty, almost like a thicker, chewier blintz. Holy mother. It was insane.

What a wonderful, wonderful night. I am absolutely going to the next one I can. Jerry is running them every other Saturday. If you are local, you MUST DO THIS. Book fast, word is already spreading and seats are limited.

I Will Never Be On Facebook

Skipping about from passiveaggressivenotes.com, I found a site called STFUParents, showcasing all the annoying shit parents foist on people via (I assume at least majorly) social media. There was an excerpt:

Over the years, and especially since Unbaby.me came along, more parents have tried to limit the number of pictures they post of their kids on Facebook. I’ve had friends post baby pictures with captions like “Last one!” or with disclaimers like “Warning: Huge family vacation album!” that sound almost apologetic.

This makes me sad. First, there's an actual website that replaces photos of your FB friends' babies with pictures of bacon. It has 107,000 likes on Facebook. Do you know why over a hundred-thousand folks support the idea of changing your family photos to pictures of bacon? Because your Facebook friends are not really friends of yours.

I hate Facebook for so many reasons, not the least of which is this nonsense. Why on Earth would you keep in contact with someone whose life you don't give a crap about, to the point where you'll willfully download an install a program to change the pictures they post into something you find more interesting (like bacon)? Why be 'friends' with someone whose child you don't want to look at? And why on Earth would you be on a social media site where you feel you have to apologize for posting pictures of the most important people in your existence, because you're aware some of your 'friends' are going to be bored/annoyed?

I can't do it. I can't pretend I care about someone's daily life when I don't, and I can't manage the audacity to believe anyone but my family and actual, daily-interactions friends care or want to hear about MY life. I have three friggin' people subscribed to this blog, and one of them I'm pretty sure did it accidentally. I don't want someone to replace a picture of Bailey with some bacon. I don't want to get into an argument about gay marriage with my sister's friend's boyfriend that I've never laid eyes on, or have some random ex find me.

On the downside is the fact that I am notoriously bad about 'staying in touch'. I think it's because I disagree with the notion that if you stop talking to someone every day, you must hate them. I've fallen out of touch with many, many people because of moves or schedules or they or I leaving the hobby/workplace where we got most of our interaction. I don't hate them; I'm just as fond of them as I ever was and it's a treat to see them or hear from them. I just don't get personally offended when they don't call or visit. I don't think it means they hate me, or they're not my friend. And I guess I always am a little baffled when they do get offended or upset when I don't keep in touch. I realize I'm in the minority on this, and it may screw me more than I know.

But, yeah. Babies into bacon. Fuck Facebook.

HC

My girl, you can not hope to marry
For the things that you want, you don't need
And the things you're afraid of aren't scary
And those those cuts on your skin, they don't bleed.

Wow.

I am just overwhelmed right now, and I want to hammer into 'net posterity my gratitude for this evening. So many wonderful people with so much astounding talent, and I hope to God tonight was adequate thanks for all they have done for N1Z. Film-making has been my greatest love since I was seven and earnestly telling my Dad he 'was gonna wanna tape THIS', and tonight, that little girl was legitimized as best I could manage.

Collaborative art is my favorite kind of art. Tonight was the most incredible celebration of it. I wish everyone who was invited, all the people who put their heart and souls into Lots Caste, could have managed to be there, because I wanted to show them how valuable and awesome I think they are. But we had a fabulous crowd, delicious food, and joy, joy, joy for the work we had made together.

Also, Gogas gave me a pink director's chair. WUT WUT!

4-Hour Chef, Part 1

Kyle and I are about the begin the 4-Hour Chef program. Dad got me the book, and although I pretty much wanna kick Tim Feriss in the teeth (rich, white, male, blonde, thin and good-looking - HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO BE A SUCCESS, TIM, WITH SO MANY CHIPS STACKED AGAINST YOU?!), I like the idea a whole lot. There has always been the idea that true food-lovers have to eat unhealthily. I think that's true to some degree. But I've never explored getting INTO healthy food. Cooking it, appreciating it, arranging it, just like it was a cultural/ethnic type of cooking in and of itself.

Kyle will be learning to cook. Seriously cook. And we'll both learn to not just prepare, but understand and appreciate the healthy meals we make.

I'll keep this updated as we progress. We start Monday. Bon appetit.

Janus

Something terrible has been happening in the past few weeks. The Barbadian woman has come back. And, for the first time, I don't have Cliff anymore to fend her off.

I have nothing to keep her at bay, and I don't really know what's going to happen.

'Time sliding irrevocably into the past.'

There are moments in these last days I can actually see the Dunraven house's interior in the mirrors of this one. It's insane. But it's interesting the juxtaposition of the two places, and how I can very firmly assert myself as the owner here; this is my house, and there is no space here over which I do not have some measure of influence. I am the mother, the adult. This is Gillywimpis, instead of a space in which I merely existed.

But there are instants where I can't determine which place I'm at. It passes almost immediately, but it's still jarring. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be recalling something significant, if it's a by-product of getting another year older, or if I'm just losing a little more of my mind.

Resist

I've had a few opportunities in my life to Go Somewhere With My Writing. Nothing Cinderellish, nothing huge but avenues that, were I to pursue down them with serious dedication, might've yielded some recognition, if not fame. Recently, someone offered to give me some advice and assistance should I choose to try it again, and I found myself extremely grateful, but balking hardcore. I always balk hardcore.

The more I experience of that particular end zone, and the more stories I hear, the less I want it. I do not belong there. I'm not saying I'm above it; actually, I'm very aware how inferior I am to that kind of social/career circle. I don't like the people; I don't like the atmosphere. I don't understand it. I was miserable sitting in uncomfortable VIP white couches on the rooftop of the Amway Center drinking awful Stella Artois delivered to me gratis by a bimbo in spandex, surrounded by 60-something men with ponytails and their golden-prune wives as they sent up greetings to Chucks-wearing hipster filmmakers with fake exuberance. I was miserable in that stupid saccharine writer's group hosted by Connie May Fowler where everyone was jerking each other off and waiting to talk rather than listening.

I'm not comparing my writing to Ray, but I feel like he was the same way as far as social preferences or whatnot. He didn't even have a driver's license. I can't imagine he enjoyed the nonsense. Maybe he did. But, either way, he was so involved with cinema and literature and was happy. How did he do it? How do I do it?

I want dear friends to come over and to read me their stories and read mine for pleasure, not so we can write back-cover quotes for one another. I want to make movies and have the same kind of feeling on the first morning of principal photography that I felt when I woke up at Gogas' to shoot 'The Boys'. I want peace in my life, and humility, and magic. I don't want to be famous because people will admire or love me. I want to be famous because that's all the more people I can invite to see and meet and experience all the things I create that make me happy and get me excited.

I'm not unique in this. I see movies and read things all the time created by people who are just so excited and honest about what they're doing. Watching Duncan Jones bouncing all around at BAFTA or BIFA, can't remember which, just through-the-roof with excitement and joy - I loved seeing that. I loved seeing a filmmaker who was just hyper about people seeing his movie. It made me feel better about being a total goober about my own creative efforts. That's where I wanna be. That's my ultimate goal. I would gladly trade every chance at walking a red carpet or wearing a Bob Mackie gown or being on Oprah just to never have to schmooze or network or spend an evening in a club with The Beautiful People, and still make movies. I'd trade every chance for book-signings and a Barnes & Noble display of my books for never having a splash page of some other author's obviously fluffed up tit-for-tat review of something I wrote.

And there's another constant problem: I don't want to submit something that's less than my best, but my best gouges out so much of me and it's so much who I am that part of me is very afraid to let anyone other than people I actually know read it. My book of sonnets is there on Blurb, but I know damn well no-one other than family or friends will buy it. I have recurring nightmares where I'm sitting in this green room for either a talk show or a weird PBS roundtable or Inside the Actors Studio or something - some occasion where I'll be asked about my writing in front of an audience or a broadcase - and I flip out. I'll dream I crawl under a table, or start lying about why I can't leave the green room, or I'll lucidly have a hurricane hit and take out the power or something. It's this awful paradox where I want people to read or watch what I create, but I don't want to discuss it, or there's certain aspects I wouldn't be able to discuss.

We're going to do commentary for 'The Boys'. I'm excited for it, but I know there will be things I won't talk about - motivations for writing each of the characters, what I went through while writing the script, etc. Because it'll come out so stupidly pretentious, blathering on about a short film no one's even seen and maybe six people care about. I dunno. I think I'm just not cut out for being a legitimate writer. I wouldn't care, except that I'd like to earn my living with it and make enough so Kyle and I could make decent films.