An Armor of Hugs and a Sword of Magic Faery Wings

It’s wonderful to see how short the journey is from despair to hope. It can happen in a touch, in a word, in a glance. It’s almost enough to make one forget how quickly the return trip could be made.

Today I got to work late. Alli got a flat tire last week, and her car was in the shop today. She borrowed my car in the morning, to run a few errands, and then intended to take me to work. Of course, somewhere in Century City or Studio City or some other Well Outta Walking Range City — she locked her keys in the car. I couldn’t come and pick her up, because, after all, it was my car. Jared drove out to pick me up, and so, my work day was cut an hour short. Too much time when I look at my bank account, but too little time when I evaluate my mood just prior to that 7:00 PM whistle time.

There are new floors at work. They’re black tile and already scuffed. It all smells of adhesive and melted plastic. It’s hideous and cold.

And today was cold and damp — which was a pleasant change of pace. I got to wear my winter coat, which I haven’t done in two years, not since I was in Las Vegas, hanging Christmas decorations. It felt nice to wear layers. I like that feeling. Like an armor of hugs. Which, I think, would ALSO be a good name for my Memoirs.

Sort of like the note I saw scribbled on my coworker’s pad today… “The boy who pooped rainbows.”

I’m looking forward to painting a few walls in my apartment, for The Small Talker. I’m hoping that Barb will help me do so. And Alli’s birthday is Thursday. I’m hoping her gift arrives in time; otherwise, I will have to postpone her birthday until Friday.

Autobiographical

Should I ever write them, my memoirs will be called “Don’t Step in the Dog Doo.”

With Your Bugle and Your Drum

Drastic reinvention is not necessary. That’s throwing the baby out with the bath water, tearing down a house because the paint is faded, trashing a car because the windshield’s smeared. My problem isn’t that there’s something wrong with my life. It’s quite the opposite. I like my life, I like myself, and so, I’m ready for more. I’m ready to launch. Bring on the next phase. Open the doors and let the bull fight.

I’ve come thousands of miles, have had more jobs in the last five years than most of my father’s generation had through their entire lives, I’ve lived more places than my parents have lived, combined, and I dated more women in NYC than I knew throughout highschool and college. I’m a poor kid from a small town and I’m doing just fine in Los Angeles, even better than I did in Manhattan. Fuck yeah. That’s a big deal.

I am, for the first time, confident that I can handle whatever life throws me.

So, I’m not going anywhere. This is where I want to be, this is where I’m going to stay, until I’m rich enough to figure out another dream. I can learn street-names, I can find favorite places, I can buy furniture — it won’t be a waste. I know who I am, I have my friends. I’m ready to get a good car. I’m ready to get my career going, ready to spend my days doing something I care about. I’m ready for more.

I’ve put down the roots, I’m not about to tear them up.

The problem is, I’ve plateaued in two places. Love and career. I’m hit by a double whammy. I know exactly what I want to do for a living, what I want to care about, what I want to do with my time: I know it in my bones. But getting there is a waiting game. It requires SOMEONE ELSE to take a chance on me. And so, all I can do is keep on pulling the lever, trying different ways, until I win. Somedays, like yesterday, it will seem hopeless, seem buisness-like and lonesome… but that’s why everyone can’t play til they win. The winner is the one who stands up one more time than the rest.

And that’s not waiting for someone to save me. That’s waiting for someone to be won over.

Then, add to that, just the same — my love life. I want someone to care about. I want a framed picture on my desk at work, like other desks around me. For two years, I’ve given up looking for someone, but in the last few months, I’ve started scratching at the binds, seeing through the blinders. There are empty places, no longer filled by the fight to find a home, or myself, or a job, or friends. A natural feeling, a healthy feeling. The feeling — that I want someone to share my time with. But for me to have someone in my life, it requires SOMEONE ELSE to take a chance on me.

That’s not waiting for someone to save me. That’s waiting for someone to be won over.

In both cases, once someone cracks open the door, the race is on, the fire is lit. It’s time to earn it, to prove it, to make it work. To go whole hog. I’ve been crouched at the starting line for a long time, and I’m ready to sprint. I want to run. I’m ready for the big challenges. I’m ready for the danger. Fire the fucking gun! Someone! Let’s go! The rollercoaster’s been clicking up the incline forever.

Let’s roll!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again — it’s like trying to jump off the planet. All it takes is a lot of persistance — and a little miracle. In my career, in my art, in my love-life.

Until then, the only way to embrace the day, I suppose, is to NOT GIVE IN. To not invent problems to fill the holes, but instead, to keep the holes open, ready to accept the good things I’m waiting for. Another day that I’ve not given up, not invented a disaster to distract myself, is another day embraced.

Another day that I kept jumping.

Addictive Thinking

I have an addiction to thinking about people. Beautiful and bizarre, fascinating and unusual women — they’re particularly good subjects. It’s no surprise. I am heterosexual and male.

I once wrote about a dream I had. In the dream, there was an Orwellian “Empire” that hunted people by collecting details, collecting secrets, about them. If the Empire collected enough personal information about an individual, they could eliminate that person. Mothers bundled up their children and sent them out into the world, warning them to keep their secrets, warning them to keep their silence, because “agents of the Empire are everywhere.”

At the time I wrote it, I thought the dream was about how we’d closed ourselves off to one another, how, for fear of giving others a weapon to use against us, we’d constructed walls against affection, how tactics and weaponry became necessary, simply to break through the defenses of others.

But recently, I increasingly see myself as the Empire, hungrily uncovering details about people — first, to feed the hunger of my addictive curiosity — but increasingly, in some hope of exploding their walls, of being close to someone again. I terribly miss having someone close. Someone whose thoughts, now and then, eagerly pieces together the puzzle of me. I don’t want to hide emotion and affection anymore. I want someone googling me.

And yet, as I type this, I am horrified that expressing it, those who hear it will only build stronger walls against me. No one wants more danger in their lives. Affection, closeness, and openness are danger, and no one wants that.

Meanwhile, my mind should be on The Small Talker. The movie is spiraling toward real. The storyboards are tip-toeing along, trying to catch up with the ideas I’ve already fully formed. The graphics and logos are being developed. The casting and the primary rehearsals are pretty much done. Locations need to be locked. Costumes need to be bought. Props need to be constructed.

But this week, perhaps only because everyone is away on Thanksgiving vacations, it feels like a rather lonesome pursuit. A business-like pursuit, chugging along automatically, without passion or hope for miracles. So, here I am, smoking too many cigarettes, drinking a few fingers of alcohol every night before bed, waisting away hours watching downloaded episodes of Battlestar Galactica, listening to NPR, reading books I’ve read before… and hoping for the big, cosmic change to light a fire under my ass.

Life is such a waiting game. Seizing the day seems impossible alone.

I have an addiction to thinking about people. Beautiful and bizarre, fascinating and unusual women — they’re particularly good subjects. It’s no surprise. I am heterosexual and male.

I once wrote about a dream I had. In the dream, there was an Orwellian “Empire” that hunted people by collecting details, collecting secrets, about them. If the Empire collected enough personal information about an individual, they could eliminate that person. Mothers bundled up their children and sent them out into the world, warning them to keep their secrets, warning them to keep their silence, because “agents of the Empire are everywhere.”

At the time I wrote it, I thought the dream was about how we’d closed ourselves off to one another, how, for fear of giving others a weapon to use against us, we’d constructed walls against affection, how tactics and weaponry became necessary, simply to break through the defenses of others.

But recently, I increasingly see myself as the Empire, hungrily uncovering details about people — first, to feed the hunger of my addictive curiosity — but increasingly, in some hope of exploding their walls, of being close to someone again. I terribly miss having someone close. Someone whose thoughts, now and then, eagerly pieces together the puzzle of me. I don’t want to hide emotion and affection anymore. I want someone googling me.

And yet, as I type this, I am horrified that expressing it, those who hear it will only build stronger walls against me. No one wants more danger in their lives. Affection, closeness, and openness are danger, and no one wants that.

Meanwhile, my mind should be on The Small Talker. The movie is spiraling toward real. The storyboards are tip-toeing along, trying to catch up with the ideas I’ve already fully formed. The graphics and logos are being developed. The casting and the primary rehearsals are pretty much done. Locations need to be locked. Costumes need to be bought. Props need to be constructed.

But this week, perhaps only because everyone is away on Thanksgiving vacations, it feels like a rather lonesome pursuit. A business-like pursuit, chugging along automatically, without passion or hope for miracles. So, here I am, smoking too many cigarettes, drinking a few fingers of alcohol every night before bed, waisting away hours watching downloaded episodes of Battlestar Galactica, listening to NPR, reading books I’ve read before… and hoping for the big, cosmic change to light a fire under my ass.

Life is such a waiting game. Seizing the day seems impossible alone.

Ways to Trouble Oneself

I find myself often wishing that people around me would get out of their own way, take down the defenses and allow themselves to be happy. And today I wonder where I’m standing in my own way. What defense, what fear, must I drop, to make the things I desire materialize. I need a psychiatrist to point it out, because there’s no one left to see except me.

I’m thinking of you/
And think you’re/
Not thinking of me/

Consession Speech

Thank you all for your support, your votes, and your continuing efforts to drum up votes and support for Misplaced Planet’s little $300.00, New Jersey movie, Signal Decay, recently up for consideration on the Sci-Fi Channel / Sundance Channel Exposure Competition, missioned with discovering new filmmaking talent.


Unfortunately, despite all your gracious help, we did NOT move forward to the next round. Instead, the prize went to another film. The winning nominee was produced in 2001, by an undiscovered professional television director, and prominently features a well-established entertainment personality, absolutely unknown for his starring rolls in small, unnoticed series like M*A*S*H,as well as The Dead Zone, which aired on an unrelated, fly-by-night network called The Sci-Fi Channel.

The judges of this competition should be very proud of their selection of nominees. One must admire their strict adherence to the noble goal of seeking out new talent. We can only hope that the Grammy Music Award judges will achieve a similar clarity of purpose, and will award The Best New Artist Award to either Buddy Holly or Chuck Barry.

I must say, it is comforting to know that one of the votes made against us was likely from Alan Alda.
We were beaten by the best.

On a happier note, I am very proud to announce that I have won the Misplaced Planet Sulking Award by spending my lunch hour (or so) in a sports bar, drinking several beers and not eating. Without the support of my friends, my family, my coworkers, and particularly, my waitress, I could not have earned this glorious afternoon of despondent sleepiness, throbbing headaches, blurred vision, and slurred speech. It should also be noted that Barb Beaser was awarded the second-place Silver Sulking Award for having boldly swallowed a lithium battery.

Now, having put this debacle behind us, it’s time to SELL SOME DVDS, GET SOME DONATIONS, and make ourselves a movie called The Small Talker, so that someday soon, we’ll be as unknown and undiscovered as this round’s winners!

Thank you again! And I mean it!

DON’T FORGET!

My little movie Signal Decay is amongst this week’s finalists at the SciFi / Sundance Channel Exposure Competition, and YOUR VOTE decides if we move on!

You can vote once on Sci-Fi, and EVERY DAY on Sundance.

Please, check it out, vote for Signal Decay if you like Signal Decay the best, and also, tell every human you know to do the same. Family, co-workers, delivery people, numbers randomly selected from a phone book.

This is a chance to make a big difference for me and my friends, and it doesn’t cost a penny.

I’ll only be bugging you until FRIDAY NIGHT, when it will be TOO LATE.

Go here and vote for SIGNAL DECAY!

http://www.scifi.com/exposure
http://www.sundancechannel.com/exposure

Better Than Having a Sex!

Here’s another vote you should be getting on top of this election day — if you vote for our movie in the Sundance Channel / Sci-Fi Channel Exposure Contest, you will go to Heaven when you die. Promise. And while you’re alive — it’s better than having a sex. Which I very much enjoying having. (I have male.)

Go here and vote for Signal Decay. It’s a big deal!

http://www.scifi.com/exposure

And go here EVERDAY and vote for Signal Decay:

http://www.sundancechannel.com/exposure

THIS WILL ALL END ON FRIDAY!! PLEASE VOTE!! IT COULD MEAN A LOT FOR OUR FUTURE AS HUMAN BEINGS!!

Also:

Repost this message! Send it to friends and family! If you do, you will be kissed by the object you desire the most at some point in the future. If you do not, your favorite television show will go off the air (eventually). And then you’ll be SKINNED ALIVE AND HUNG IN A CLOSET BY A MAN WITH A HOOK.

Love,

Wilder, Shaun, Benni, Alli, Stirling, Karl, Gabe, Amy, and all of Misplaced Planet from now until forever.