Wherever She May Go

I’m completely absorbed in this site:

The GhostWatcher

The stories, listed under “writer” topic, are fascinating. There are also some pretty wicked altered images.

A full report to follow…

Until then – read this link to scare yourself… It’s For Serious.

The Future is Listening

I was sucked into a cheesey sci-fi flick last night. It was called Frequency. As a result, I’ve been considering what I could tell myself, myself of five years ago, what I could warn, were I able to communicate through my cell phone, or maybe my livejournal…

You know, something like, “Don’t take Flight 567 to LA,” or “Buy Stock in Prince,” or “Don’t Eat the Striped Cheese.” But, honestly, I can’t think of much… only, I could keep it simple and just transmit, “Nah, She Won’t Love You Neither.” That’d basically cover it.

Hell. Maybe I’ll write it now, and send it – to the future!

Nah, She Won’t Love you Neither.

Trying to Count

Blame Barb. Somehow, she made this feel necessary.

Apparently, amongst the choices, which did not include Istari, I am:

Numenorean

Do you want to do this? Click here.

New Jersey Night

I went to Staples, sulked, and spent over $200.00. I now have a 19″ monitor.

I must be compensating for something.

Now, here comes that unique, earthly loneliness, the one that stumbles into Jersey at one in the morning. I think it’s the bastard what made Bruce Springsteen so full of blood and fire and hope and self-loathing.

Yet, knowing that it hangs here like smog over LA, somehow I always end up, here, late at night, alone, watching a movie – that makes me feel unloved. I’m like the guy in the horror movie that suggests splitting up. I’m the girl who takes her shirt off, because, hey, I’m all by myself, what could the danger be?

So, once again, I watched another cry-for-myself movie. You know, old standards like The Matrix or First Contact. Except, shit, the embarrassing truth is, it was Love Actually, and shouldn’t have been effective – but was. And shouldn’t have been watched – but was. The title – isn’t that a dead give away? Laura Linny, topless – isn’t that enough to break any heart?

This is becoming a sensitive subject, no?

Here’s the thing. I don’t know who to fantasize about. I should do a google search. I don’t know who to pine for. I need to meet new people. I simply can’t muster another lie gold-enough to con myself back into any of my present options. They’re in bed with lovers, or gay, or, frequently, they’re both.

I can’t think of anybody. And, man, I hate that.

I’m familiar, and, yes, quite friendly, with Failure and Loss and Rejection. The old gang doesn’t frighten me. I invite them in with gushing honesty. They never fail to bring a gift for my birthday.

But without a goal, I can’t recognize myself. How do I know I’m alive, if I’m not activily fucking up on things that matter? In order to fail, one must have a goal. And when the topic is love, I can’t think of a goal to dream on.

So, I come to Jersey to rest my worries and lighten my spirits. What does that say, pray tell? It says, pop another tear jerker in the DVD player. I elect Contact, or failing that, there’s always Panic Room.

Evil, Magic, Satan Dogs from Heaven

Yesterday was not fun. Today was.

After cleaning my house in frenzied anticipation of spending my evening curled before my laptop, finally working on A Darkling Plane, avoiding my webpage obligations, I discovered the laptop covered in cola. One little dog, name of Bacon, had gotten himself up onto the coffee table, and overturned a cup of coke.

Now the laptop was dead.

I spent the remainder of the evening both fuming and waiting on hold with customer support. I accomplished nothing, particularly relief of stress.

So, I’m pissed at Bacon all night.

This morning, I woke up at around 9am, which is bizarre. I took Bacon outside, and it was the most beautiful day of the year, which was bizarre. He mopes, behaves, and does his business right away, which is bizarre.

When we get back from the walk, and I go into the kitchen to make some coffee. He slinks into the corner of the couch and lays down.

Five minutes later, I come back out into the living room, and he’s up on the coffee-table again – and he’s licking the laptop! I push him away. But, just out of curiousity, I open the laptop – and it’s ON. And now, it works.

So, I was able to write all day today, on my steam-cleaned carpets, curled up on the floor. I made solid progress, two egg-salad sandwiches, and a bowl of beefaroni. I walked Bacon three times in beautiful weather, downloaded my first song from iTunes (Come Dancing, by the Kinks), and packaged up Blaring Static for Mr. Producer in California.

In short: Yesterday was not fun. Today was.

Twenty Feet Less Dead (1)

Besides arriving half-an-hour late for work, entirely due to hiding beneath the covers for an extra half-an-hour this morning, little has of note has happened today.

However, I used the lull in irritations to work through a pretty extensive revision of my short screenplay, Twenty Feet Less Dead.

I feel unusually positive about the characters — and unusually lost at resolving the story. The premise and plot that motivated the creation of the characters is entirely useless to them now that they’re speaking on their own.

Once again, I’ve sent it out in search of responses. This weekend I will be putting together another screenplay packet to Fed-ex to a producer in Los Angeles. I will be trying to build some momentum on A Darkling Plain, and tinkering with Misplaced Planet’s website.

Monday, with my cast, I will be viewing another draft of the short-film I directed and wrote, Anniversary Dinner.

End of an Era. A *subtle* era.

When I began this job, a Quiznos Sub opened on 34th street. I was amongst the first customers, and got a little “Frequent Customer” stamp-card. Ten purchases of $5.00 or more, and I would earn a $5.00 discount.

Now, many months later, ten Q’s stamped, and the card twice chewed (by dog), I have handed over my card, and received my discount. I had a Misquite BBQ Chicken with Bacon on a Flat Bread Pita, with Salt-n-Vinegar chips and a large coke.

My constant companion is gone. There is no new card to replace it. I feel a little choked up about it. My little, solitary source of pride has been traded for a measly five dollars.

I have a dream that someday, instead of my coupons, I’ll have someone to talk to, have a real conversation with, a personal one, as often as three times a week. When I am recklessly optimistic, I imagine this person being in person.

Until that time, I shall have to find myself an emotional discount card substitute.

Walking Wounded

The train was filled with little children — two classes I beleive, all of them eleven or twelve years old. One girl was repeatedly asked by her teacher to take various seats as they became vacant. The peculiar girl would obediently sit, then jump up, and refuse to sit there again – because the seat was “hot.” Either she was referring to the residual heat left by the former occupant’s butt, or she coo-coo.

In the station, an old man looked like Grampa from The Muensters. He played on a keyboard, played a song like a Merry-Go-Round.

In front of him, dozens of little toys – clowns, cowboys, robots, cars – danced and danced under battery power.

Beside the toys, a round-bellied, round-faced Arab man, with a tiny mustache, danced as well. He held one hand open on his round belly, and the other hand above his head. He moved only his feet. He wore a beige, too-tight shirt, with a big horizontal stripe, clearly from the early 70s.

They had my donut. And work blows. But text messaging my sister and mother has given the morning at least a single smile. When all else fails, make fun of your mother.

Madness Breeds Hairloss

It was a god-rotten day at work, and the week promises more. As I wrote in my imagined resignation letter, “they continue to pile on new work, but fail to pile on new pay.”

I escaped early and blew money on things I didn’t need, including a pack of cigarettes. For these splurges, I go to Staples.

Once home, I took up the dog-clippers, and cut off most of my hair. I’m not sure what I think of the results, but the cutting was therapeutic.

I now have a subtle understanding of women and random hair-dying. My appearance alteration hasn’t changed the world, or even me – but it has certainly made a monument to my frustration. And since I’m largely lacking people to witness my explosions, a monument to my explosion is appreciated. Even if most won’t understand its significance.

Since then, I’ve chatted on the phone with Sodini and Boyle. The latter provided much needed feedback on the short screenplay I’m tickering with. I think now that I have a road map to improvement – one that will shorten, not lengthen, the trip.

So! I’m off to bed – not so much to sleep, as to nap – hoping some of the calls I’ve tossed out there will be returned. Tomorrow, I mail Blaring Static to the producer who requested it, and Ladies and Gentlemen to the Cynosure Screenwriting Awards.

The “Brisk” Stress

The whole sleepy subway trip in, I composed my resignation letter.

I work on the tenth story of a 14-story building, on 32nd street, Manhattan. The Empire State Building throws its shadow across us.

Today, the fire alarm lights (but does not ring) every five minutes. It goes off four times, flashing a bright, diode strobe, like quick, tiny bursts of lightning — FRINK! FRINK! FRINK! FRINK! — like a minuscule camera were taking my picture.

I wonder how hard it is to convincingly fake an epileptic seizure. And if I could do it, would they let me go home, or just prop me up in the shredder closet, biting my wallet?

There it goes again… I don’t think the building is burning down. But I’m not sure.

Could be terrorists.

My fortune cookie reads, “How can you have a beautiful ending without making beautiful mistakes?” But it can’t read anything else.

I couldn’t open the clear-plastic wrapper on a box of “Tension Tamer” tea. I got very frustrated and attacted it with my teeth. I gave up and went with Lipton. Perhaps the caffeine will settle my headache, if not my nerves.