Stay In Tonight

Greetings, old friend.

I haven't tended to you in some time. But I'm always scribbling something, somewhere, naturally. On free postcards in cafes, in university notebooks, on go-card receipts, in newspaper margins, my docket pad as I pretend to take customer's brunch orders...

I've been stereotypically writerly in other ways, too. I'm growing more hermitted -- the cold weather, the non-desire to find/make costumes for cat-themed parties, and early starts at work have made me reluctant to venture out after dark.

I have not been inspired as yet to start a work, or return to an existing script... But I do feel quite influenced by the habits and work ethics of friends. S who lives in S is writing a book (with good humour, and sharp analysis I dare say) about her relationships/dates/flirtations/bold and saucy encounters of her 20s. N who lives in M has written a comedy feature in like a month. A month! Deeply impressive.

I'm seeking more leisure, less pressure on my creativity. Easing into more relaxing, concentrated and pensive habits where genius undoubtedly will germinate. At the moment, I'm starved for food and company, nursing a head cold. It is somewhat horribly romantic, coughing and wheezing and painting from bed as I grow more and more socially isolated and confident in my dreams for an exclusive LOBSTER COUNTRY CLUB where crustacean-loving people can scurry laterally and slurp hallucinatory seawater to their hearts' content. Oh, the galas we will put on! The gowns, the diamond-encrusted shells! Sand in all the places you always wanted....

*****

I would also like to add that chats with Mother are very comforting and grounding. Other aspiring writers might want to consider talking to theirs or someone else's parent or buying a cheap grey wig and lipstick and doing the ol' Norman Bates. It's a frightfully wholesome good time.

Looking Out, and Up, Why Not?

It's nearly properly Winter now, yet I was thinking about swimming pools earlier this evening. There's nothing quite like being submerged and buoyant in chlorinated water. Now, I haven't experienced zero gravity but I do feel qualified to say that in comparison with a dip, it's a rotten loser of a time. Where are the foam noodles to awkwardly straddle? And scolding brick tiles to bake on after the so-called 'experience'? A backyard pool offers both of these devilry pastimes, in addition to the pleasurable sensation of being simultaneously refreshed and warmly encased by the element that brings life.

Then, for some bothersome reason, or begrudging obligation in an exotic explorer's game, you must get out of the pool and without the intention of swaddling yourself in a dry towel or jumping into a hot shower. Of course, the instant you leave the water, the North Wind rips through, chilling you to the bone marrow. It can be hard to tell when you're living it, but those seconds or minutes of blistering cold, shrinking bits, hardening nips, and Mother Goosebumps are actually worth it. Yes, indeedy - the moment you re-enter the water. Hohhhhhhhh. Blood rushes. Skin settles. Stomach inexplicably full of soup, a hearty one.

I have felt this kind of warmth, deprivation and sweet consolation/reward upon reacquainting myself with fictional television in the last few weeks. Nothing too special, really. Just some good old fashioned Waspy dishes: Blackadder; The Americans; It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. It's been a treat.

****

I took myself out to the movies tonight as well. As a great admirer of Steve Coogan, Rob Brydon and their collective works, I thought The Trip To Italy would be something of giddy reunion for the three of us. The movie provided many laughs, for sure. At the same time, I was distracted by the booming clarity of their voices and my own dreary inner monologue. Among the celebrity impersonations and charming banter, the grave, morally ambiguous and melancholic sides of the actors made for a richer, more layered experience than most comedy features of today seem to offer.

After watching a sufficient portion of the end credits, I wandered out to the lobby, still half-immersed in the movie and partly-preoccupied with the week ahead: "I wonder how long Steve had been considering moving closer to-- I should validate my parking". I approached a couple of employees hanging around the ticket counter. One took my parking ticket; the other casually observed me.

"The Fault With Our Stars?"
"What? No. God, no." I responded.
"Oh, you just look a little weepy."
"I saw The Trip To Italy. Pretty great, I just find watching middle-aged men too..."
"Depressing?"
"I was going to say relatable, but depressing is also apt."

****

Presently, I'm reading David Mitchell's memoir Back Story as well as traffic signs. I'm learning fascinating things.

Thought of a pretty big-budget sketch today also. The joke can still be done in an ordinary context, but wild effects and multiple locations and legions of extras would enhance it. Maybe I should crowdfund it - concealing the entire premise, punchline and subtext, and assuring audiences "it's simply hilar".

Exciting writing opportunity on the horizon. Vague details and comments to follow.

PhwoaahhHH! The Return to Blogging (older, wiser, less writer?)

Today I am writing a blog. PhwoahhHH?

It’s been 15 months since I started this secret blog (which as it turns out is not so secret, practically everyone I know stalkerishly reads it and makes subtle or outright reference to it, and yet without a hint of complement or revere for my brutally unabashed rambles and penchant for pointless parenthesised asides to display alliterative, figurative flourish and my strong command of wily-long sentences) and six months have passed since I started this sentence  my last entry.

A lot has happened in my life since September 2013.

I live more independently, but I am less happy.

I have been increasingly social, but I feel more isolated.

My working hours have nearly halved, and paradoxically, so have my writing hours.

I have met some terrifically kind and interesting people, yet I often pine for and lament lost friendships.

I am producing spontaneous sketches with friends, and there is no con to this. I am pitching jokes, supposing wildly, acting, directing, editing, calling for atmos, ordering wigs, practising old Parisian dance steps... I am learning a lot about collaboracy.

Among the anguish, doubt and depression I bat off daily, this regular sketching is a pick-me-up, an obligation, helpfully future-oriented.

Today I have an assignment due. So I went out for a walk. Who am I kidding? I went out for a run. It was an honest, guilt-free run – maybe linked to procrastination, but I just really felt like running. It’s been a while. Lately, when I walk or wajog (like jazzercise or yogalates, except unrecognised and uncool) I can’t help but dwell on my unhappily unpredictable situation. I concentrate too hard on the R&B beats to ‘lift’ me into the running mode and enter that blissfully blank state of mind of calm and writerly genius. I used to write my blog entries on walks/runs.

Today was a breakthrough. I wrote this blog – the line – in my head while enjoying involuntary leg leaps. I say “enjoy” when it’s not wholly sublime for unfit individuals such as myself. It’s only enjoyable when you hit the ‘sweet spot’ of ‘blankdom’, or in the post-exercise stage when those endorphins really, richly take a hold and spur you on to tackle that bitch of a day ahead. As I say, lately when I walk or wajog, it’s been a task, a checklist item for good health, positive self-image, fender-awayerer of melancholy. Unfortunately, my propensity to worry every minute of the day has seized the early hour of endorphin creation. I would come home, torso well-stretched, head pulsing with gangstah beats, and glimmer that inner joy I used to naturally wake up feeling.... and then cry. That’s just not how it’s supposed to go. Some days I cry on the walk. That’s really not right. Other days I crave sleep and do absolutely nothing between meetings / class / waitressing / obligatory social plans. I just worry.

Today is different. On my run, I started thinking about something I’m going to edit; something very appealing; a music video as such. It’s a sketch that was a lot of fun to film and that isn’t really like anything I’ve seen before. It was a fanciful idea that was funny to both me and my writing partner and it’s hard to pinpoint why exactly. Nonetheless, we got visionary about it. One thought led to another, and I started writing this blog.

I suppose I was turned off blogging it as I learned people I knew had chanced across it (as opposed to the legion of nerdy wannabe writers that would discover it in a decade’s time when I’m actually successful, which it was intended for; or solely for myself as a chronicle). I guess I became self-conscious and sheepish and feared censoring myself when I needed an outlet. Instead of blogging, I used words in conversation which is also good. But it meant I stopped the practise of writing, which is similarly the expressing of ideas and feelings, except it’s fundamentally more reflective; you see the words, you see connections, you rearrange, you get creative. That was switched off; needing oil (doubly metaphoric, yet unrelated – see what I mean?). The brilliant thing about journalling and chronicling my writings with a blog is that I’m less dependent on others. Coffees and sundry catch ups were always times to speak, to confess, to opine, to practise wit in another form, which was why I entertained one or two a day. I do want to go out less and even skip seeing certain individuals so regularly. Leaning on social occasions (which inherently involve other people), I leant less on writing (which can be done independently, and incredibly usefully for my profession).  Both time spent with others and time alone are important; I have considered becoming a total recluse in the hopes of gathering more physical, emotional and cognitive strength; but I understand that balance is the key to good health, and what kind of writer would I be if I completely severed human interaction and experiences from my life?

Routine. More fixed hours for study, work, play, and writing. More stable personal life, to be frank. I have been romantically interested in an absolute few, though peripherally distracted and entangled with some more, I realised that I need practice being normal and wholesome. A recent casual romance that was long-denially-fancied, unexpectedly started, then stopped, then start-stopped, stop-started, star-sto-start-start-stopped-started, has been a wee bit exhausting. Emotionally, that is (...why does my blog attract such gutterminds?). It’s doomed, we both know. But there has been just the right mix of signals to entertain it, lean on it (procrastinate), hope for it. At least, I have learned more about aloofness and things unspoken and assumed. Script note: no one knows can possibly, accurately guess what goes on inside your mind.

What goes on inside my mind?

The condensed version:

1.  Write and direct more sketches
2.  Develop this exciting web series
3. Get another part-time job
4. Get another writing/editing job
5. Be a more dependable friend
6. Be a more available daughter/sister
7. Hold artsy catch ups and introduce people to each other
8.  Quit Facebook (oh, I loathe “chatting” and “seen” messages, oh but the circulation and marketing of sketches!)
9. Save money, somehow
10. Get a Masters in Belgium
11. Pick up French
12.  Do fun runs
13.  Eat all the food groups
14. Buy more Vitamin B12
15. Broccoli
16. Quinoa
17. Dark chocolate
18. Toilet paper
19. Create more space. Get a desk. Stop living out of suitcases and canvas bags
20. Tax the rich

Assignmenting calls. Volunteering beckons. Waitressing shrieks.

See you next week!!!!!!!

(rhymology, nearly!)