My Itch

The days have been hot. Unbearable. The sun beating down, cooking me inside out.

Nonetheless, I made it a point to leave my house, however high the heat was said to crank. I've been putting it off for too long: Writing.

My brain has been in turmoil over this. I felt like this massive fraud, to myself and to others when people would ask what I do.

side note: It's f**king crazy how much gull, or perhaps lack of etiquette, some people have when they first meet you. The conversation can turn down a road where you suddenly wish to jump off this fast moving train that's about to crash.

I've often been asked, "So, what do you do?" which is cool, normal. "I write, scripts mainly," I reply, cause it's true. It's what I do. "Wow, that's so cool. Like for movies?" they perk up. "Yeah." I nod, trying to keep it short, cause sometimes after this it can get weird, like Entertainment Tonight weird. I write cause I love to write, not to meet Tom Cruise. "So, that brings you money?" they prod on. "Well, not yet, but I hope to make a living from it some day. I'm trying to get better with each script." I answer, knowing where this dull stroll is going. "But how do you make a living? How much do you make? Where do you live?" they keep poking me with the ugly stick, cause yeah, we've just met, like a minute ago, let me also share with you the first time a boy broke my heart and the first time I got my period. "I work on sets, when opportunities comes up, work part-time here and there," I answer thinly, cause you've totally turned me off as a human being. "And you can survive on that?" they continue.

Like I've mentioned before. Passion sucks. Having a passion for something, something that's close to your heart is the most full-filling yet gut-wrenching thing ever!

But back to being in turmoil-

It's been a while since I sat my ass down and wrote something. My mind has been clogged, fuzzy as f**k. I couldn't snap out of it. I thought I was done in, that my love for story and writing would never return. I was lost in f**king Wanderland, wandering like a ghost, grasping nothing, cause everything would slip past my fingers, like water.

Knock on wood, I think things are changing. Finally! The tide I knew well, once before, is starting to crawl back to shore. My brain is thawed, my fingers agile, my ears seduced by the clacking sound of the keyboard, my Starbucks card on constant reload.

Side note: Even after five cups of coffee, when my head hits the pillow, I'm out.

I'm adapting a script from a novel I wrote years ago hoping one day it would be adapted into a script. I had some interest from agents in NY, but I was too yellow, too young, the time wasn't right, I wasn't hungry enough, who knows? I'm hoping the re-structure finds it news legs.

But I shouldn't say more. I feel like I've said too much. I don't want to spoil it.

Pimp that Bitch

At first it's a pleasing sight. I can understand the allure.

Supple, clean, flawless skin. Doe eyes hinting a longing pause. Eyes that seem to be looking right into you. Eyes that know your every thought, understand your deepest desire. Eyes that easily keep you company when the day falls into a lull and silence surrounds.

You've seen her many times. Perhaps not walking through your neighbourhood, but more likely across the screen. Across the page. Across your bedroom wall, it's most likely been there since you were a wee lad. An often milestone step from when a boy ambles and then begins to strut, walking down the same path as the many men before them. It's okay. It's normal. 

And as the gaze drops, following the soft line of her leg, the nape of her neck and her touchable, damp skin. The breath grows short. Cause she's not only half-naked, she also sometimes wet, as if she escaped from a sudden storm. She's smiling, laughing even, and very agreeable. And she wants to give you what you've been waiting for...

And it's one Big Fat Lie.

It makes me think, "Why?"  Why is this still going on and acceptable? Why are these women falling down to such pressures? Why the need to bare so much?

I get that celebrities need publicity. That actors like Kunis, Jolie, Alba and a slew of others need to promote a film, but if the merit of acting is on the line when such films are released to the public for entertainment as well as criticism, then why the need to sell it with SEX? Why the lingerie, satin sheets and bedroom eyes?

And why don't their more hung peers join in the skinsation? Why isn't Clooney, Gosling, Cooper and others parading in next to nothing, rolled up in satin sheets, laced in speedos, and oiled like a Sunday salad.

That's what irks me.   

If the boys were just as unclad as the girls, I would have nothing to say. If the boys gave multiple wanton gazes, I'd laugh and flip the page to the next nearly naked hunk and read about what childhood memory they're most fond of.

I just wish the manner in which women are portrayed isn't one where it feels like there is a Master and there is a Slave. This point mostly refers to the Blurred Lines video. Or any music visual where the men are properly clothed and the woman is in her bra and underwear.

Why have we become so comfortable with this image? What message are we truly feeding ourselves?

In Time

It happens. Everyday. Sometimes the exchange is so free and easy we don't realize what's going on. We're just living in the moment.

I consider myself to be good in a room. Never shying away, pressed against the wall, bleeding into the paper. But in some rooms, the air isn't as clean - the scent of yesterday hangs, diving into the nose and ears of many.

side note: Paranoia can be a mood killer.

I don't mind the grill so much. It's not a bad thing, not always...but if we just met, like literally 10 seconds ago - literally, a non-stop round of questions is aching. Especially when I'm tired, parched and irritated by the sound of my own voice.

Less talking, more breathing. Breathing good.

another side note: Never tell me you like Asian girls and then give me the silent nod. Yuck.

And as hours pass, smoke wafts into the room, a bird perches on the wire. The throttle of its voice tremors memories of my youth. It chirps, singing a tune. I listen, waiting for the Cardinal to drop its mask. Could it be a devious Bluejay, chirping away...

Too many Bluejays come my way.

last side note: I can be such a b*tch. I have to pinch myself whenever she creeps in. Ouch!

Tomorrow I'll be driving passed endless fields of green. The sharp blue sky and warm sun will make me wish the day could last forever. I've seen the scenery many times before, but it always feels like the first time again and again.

I love a long car ride. New people. New spots. New whatever. 

Earlier today, mid cat-nap, I had a split-second vision of summer - this summer. Actually, it was a melding of the summer to come and a summer long past. The summer of 92...or was it 91?

Well, it was the first year Lollapalooza came to Toronto. The 90s in rare and perfect form: ravers, rockers, hippies, mods, potheads and your average Joe, fused together, melting beneath the sun. It was awesome.

Hopefully this summer will mirror the feeling I had for a split second.   

Dare to dream on a cat-nap.

An Unknown Guest/s

For the past week I've been taking a class. The subject wasn't what I thought it would be, though I didn't consider too much the layout of the course. I've read a few books on the matter, watched many documentaries and battled a few wars myself. It's a subject many find challenging to grasp.

I shared my experience with a few brothers and sisters, and as per usual got the common reaction, which was them fleeing away, as if to escape dangerous ground. Like I said, people haven't had much experience in this particular war. Perhaps also, I came off a tad strong, which is very possible. Cause when it comes this, I can be...eager to share. Next time I'll edit and dial it down to 2. Live and learn.

But people do run.

It's difficult, cause so few know what to do when in a particular situation. I have no one to speak with when it comes to this...many are afraid of the battle. I don't think I would choose this battle if I had a choice.

So...Can many inhabit one?  That was something that was asked to consider. It's possible. I can see where it can slip through the cracks, to enter and lay claim. The room got so silent when this was purposed. I can't imagine what people were thinking...

It has many entry points. It claimed 1/3rd of the stars. It prowls, seeking a room.

But what I also saw and heard was love. The love that so few have in warring within the battle. That costs aren't counted, but truth and love prevail. Truth and Love always prevail, in everything. That a clean heart counts, and reading the word correctly is heavy artillery in the fight.

That knowledge is key.  

Lately...

How does it happen, and at what precise moment do you fall...out of love.
Is it like falling asleep?

You lay in bed, close your eyes, pick at a few wandering thoughts then...
You're out.

Can you catch the exact moment you drift off? Not sure you can. Believe me, I've tried.

Is it Love or is it Lust...that's another one.

Someone once said that Lust is the equivalent of Hate. Hate because, in a moment of lust, the only need you want to satisfy is your own. While when in Love, you think of yourself last.

Makes sense.

I've been making some serious-crazy decisions as of late. The path is beginning to fork. The shelf re-organized. Since early this year my attention has been taken elsewhere. Into a world that few would choose to travel - it's much too dark for many to handle. So why am I headed there?

It's in my nature to help people. My first instinct is to Protect, it's always been that way. But this particular path...I need to go back to school for. Flit the summer away, then hit the books in the Fall. I hope to hunt those that prey on the weak. To look into the eyes of those that walk without a conscience. I'll need a lot of covering. To those that understand what kind of covering I'm speaking of - you know what to do.

But I won't and will never give up the page. The story. The dialogue. Passion lives there.

Lately, more and more I'm hearing people speak of Friendship. True friendship. How that as we age, the numbers sadly dwindle. Is that true? When you have nothing to offer that's bright and shiny, when all you have is what's in your heart, is it enough? My friend D is contemplating such things. Her birthday just passed. Time to re stock. I've known her forever. D has a good heart.

I'm a part of this group. We read scripts and collectively speak of them. I think we all like one another, we're accepting of differences, tolerant of pride, and laugh a heck of a lot. We scream a lot too. I bang the table if I especially like a script we've read. Django was brilliant.  

I'm still waiting for the unicorn. Setting myself up for the impossible. Such fantasies don't exist. Do they...? One afternoon I was having cheesecake with my friend C. We shared how difficult it is to meet men in Toronto. That men in other parts of the world tend to have a larger set of low-hangers when it comes to approaching women. Perhaps men in Toronto just can't speak. That must be it. C is very tall and pretty.

I hope the week ends well. No, not well. Fantastic.

Dear She

She wondered if she was dreaming again. Like the bad nightmare she had many times before. She could feel it coming back to finish off what it started.

side note:  Have you ever had a horrible dream? One so frightening, that when you woke up you were drenched in thin layer of sweat. And even though you're awake, aware of the reality around you, you could still feel the veil of darkness all around you?  

Even though the faces in the dream have changed, the year is no longer 2007 but 2013, the nightmare clings to her like a wandering soul in search of a lonely host. Its hold was even felt in 2009 and 2012. It doesn't know how to let go.  

It finds her in valleys where lonely souls roam, souls who are famished for comfort, food and love. She does all she can to thwart their tangled arms that keep taking her good dreams away.

She knows she cannot give what these wandering souls yearn for, though she understands their needs. And every night She fights again, swearing she'll never allow the nightmare to take over. She continues to fight with all she has - to keep such visions at bay. She hopes a peaceful nights sleep will soon come to stay.

But every morning she awakes to the same empty feeling.

Some days while basking in the daylight, a time when most dreamers are awake, She looks within herself and wonders if she is to blame. Perhaps she is the dreaded author to such  visions...

Now the question remains...why?

Why, dear She, do you allow them to play? In your heart and in your mind, I see you're beginning to fray - your grace is too abundant. Don't let them take all of you away.

http://youtu.be/kbOHumzGEP4

Un-Pretty

I recently watched the Runaways (2nd time), a film about the girl rock band from the 70s called The Runaways.

Side note: Dakota Fanning was amazing in this film. So out of her comfort zone.

Near the end of the film you see Joan Jett, played by Kristen Stewart, strumming, trying to hash out lyrics. She's in a dirty room, on a dirty mattress, dishevelled, worn out and struggling to make the lyrics flow. Make it work.

The scene solidified how awful it can be...the grim process of creating something from nothing. Creating a finished product whether it be a song, a dance, a novel, a script...etc.

It's brutal. Torture. Messy.

You doubt, everyday. But what's the alternative? Settling for a 9-5 job that'll rot your insides, where the banter in the lunchroom is enough to make you want to cut off your own ears? To engage and swap insincere smiles, and happen to catch the latest gossip between the washroom stalls and it's about you?

Then there's that dream - that damn dream you can't let go of, cause if you do, every good and precious thing within you will die. Where after some time you'll conform and become one of them. Them that gossip, tearing through Us Weekly/InStyle/The Newspaper, tearing at anything that is positive or hopeful, cause deep down inside they're terribly unsatisfied, pissed to high-hell that they let go of their dream.

I've been around bitter people. It ain't pretty.

I think the most awful feeling is to know you could do something about it, but you don't. You talk yourself out of your dreams.

Yeah, the road sucks crap, totally. It's covered in broken glass, goopy sludge where for days you feel stuck, as stabby fingers tell you to grow up, all the while a raging storm  hovers above, hellbent in not shedding a glimmer of light. You're broke, alone, and sometimes just plain bored with yourself. Nothing feels like it's moving.

But what's the alternative...

Dancers sweat, bleeding on the dance floor. Just steps away from failure or that big break. Actors, man, actors are a special case. Trapped in the mirror, trying to look and sound the part, hoping the next audition will get them closer to paying their rent and not resort to living in their car (Matthew Perry lived in his car). And then there are writers - yep, the saddest of the lot. It's all in your head, stuck, and it has to come out. Come out making sense. You're always alone, watching life pass you by from within your jail cell (Starbucks), observing the other writers typing away - writers who are probably more successful than you. The blank page, ice cold, looks up, begging you to drop a word, cause you haven't written a thing a for 20 mins.

Or you're at home, not having changed your pyjamas for days, and with that washed your coffee cup. You numbly watch TV, cause at least there's some action going on there, unlike your computer screen. White as snow.

So where's the light at the end of Un-Pretty... ?

Who can say? Not everyone makes it out. Most surrender, becoming a part of the "normal" working world. But a small handful do make it. They're the ones we all know and hear about. They make it look easy, but I betcha it was a damn hard road, continues to be.

Me. I can't accept the alternative just yet.

Wait...I hear someone calling....

Int. Starbucks - Day

It's crazy packed with people. Not a chair in sight, except for a seat next to a group of loud, annoying teenage girls. Damn! Their coffee cups look full.

BARRISTA
What would you like today....Oh, right. Tall Blond, 3 pump white mocha, right?

ME
Yeah, thanks, so cool that you remember.

BARRISTA
Well, you're in here all the time, writing something.

ME
I know, it's sad, isn't it?

Permanent Record

Somewhere, somehow, and sometimes in the strangest places, everything we say, think or speak is jotted down. Whether in the safe house of our mind, in the hands of a loved one, or God's listening ear - You've been recorded.

The satisfaction of sharing your life with world is everywhere, being fed to us by the truckloads in commercials, movies and social networking websites. Even amongst close friends via smart phones or the old fashion game of Broken Telephone, words and images travel within seconds.

Just hit send.

I was speaking to a friend recently of how I missed the rotary phone. She laughed. I shared that through the agony of dialling someones' number, which at times felt like a century, it also gave you a chance to decide whether to go through with it. Unlike now where we just stroke a key - Done.

Actually, it's too easy. So easy in fact that few can handle the warped speed in which it flies. Some of us are sadly, too slow and dim, too excited to see what's about to happen. That such an impulse could later follow you like a menacing shadow for the rest of your life. You see, there are some things we do in life that will never be erased. There are some things that can never be explained away.

You've been recorded. Permanently.

In recent months there's been a disturbing amount of teen suicides. Girls who could see no hand of rescue from their plight, no way out from the quicksand that was trying to snuff them out. The love of family and friends wasn't enough to keep them afloat, because no matter how much love they received, something so precious within them died.

Dignity.

I couldn't imagine the amount of sorrow those girls went through. Their most vulnerable moments, being abused and laughed at, treated like a useless rag, then tossed, and on top of that used as a vehicle for others to parade as a joke or a badge of virility.

There is no joke. Men don't rape. Monsters do.

The carnality of a moment could make someone blind. I almost feel sorry for what those under age perpetrators will go through all their life. Stamped with a permanent record. Every job they apply for, every potential mate they come to marry, even behind the bars of a prison and later within their own heart - they and the world will know of their actions.

Maybe we have media to blame. Or should we blame the parents...NO. Let's blame culture. I don't care who is to blame - I think a re-education is in order. A re-education in morality and ethics. Of humanity and the God given knowledge that you can't have everything you want, in every given moment, no matter how carnal the desire may be.

Whether rape, murder or slander - it's permanent. And most perpetrators commit all three. 

A Lustful Eye

From the whom, through the birth canal, yanked into a room with razor sharp lights that sting and pierce the eyes, we're born.

And in the loving arms of a loved one, nestled close to warm flesh, the constant thump of a heartbeat bringing comfort, slowly, after a few waking blinks, the fuzzy picture before us becomes more clear.

Colours burst, sounds line up with images, and shapes begin to take on texture and temperature. It's crazy how the brain makes everything fit, like an endless puzzle, and the download never ends.

And as most of us are plopped in front of the mad box, flicking through images, ingesting what life should be, our tiny brains begin to sum up the reality of what is. But in this age the Mad Box is not alone...it has a friend. A more private friend.

Even as little as 10 years ago our eyes have seen less, our memories less rotted. At first it was a matter of convenience, where information could travel in seconds. Anyone could partake in the exchange. Not everyone was a part of this world, unlike now, where it's challenging to escape.

With the cyber world at our fingertips, most everything is a mere click away. It's easy to get lost, to wander and explore. I'm not against exploration, education and communication, not at all. But some interests can unearth a more perverse hunger: The interest in skin.

Before cyber porn became accessible to the masses, it was considered a dirty little secret. A lurid place disguised from public view, despite the life-size XXX signs that shielded the world from such adult behaviour. Innocence still had a fighting chance.

Unlike now. When typing in the word "boob" will lead you down the lusty trail to a world where flesh is for sale. Willing or not, someone's making money.

Few want to call it what it is: the seed to an illness. And slowly, where at first you just want to take a peek, it can easily become something more. That's the hook. Candy Man comes, offering up sweet treats, indulging your senses with a deformed idea of sex.

But it's pleasure!?! No one's getting hurt? It's not bad. Right...?

For some it is just a simple pleasure, I guess? Maybe there is no shame in watching it. So then why not discuss it openly, in public, say... at Timmy's 5th Birthday Party, your parents wedding anniversary, a baptism, or freely in the lunchroom at work where your Supervisor hangs out...

It's not just sex. Not that at all. Somewhere in the mix of all the naked images, the gasps, the moans and slapping skin - someone, whether they know it or not, is being victimized. In front of the camera or watching it in the privacy of a bedroom (phone) someone is paying the price.

It makes sickos get sicker, and the healthy run the risk of becoming ill. And it all begins with a titillating peek. Whether a stash of filthy mags hidden in the closet, which I must say, when spoken about with utmost honesty between men and women I know, when they happened to come across it at a tender age - it took away their innocence too soon. 

And it's not like yesterday. Porn shops hardly exist today. It's all online. And with such variety out there, the corruption is endless.

I'm not saying that porn watchers are corrupt, but it does corrupt a perception of reality. It isn't real. It's only there to pleasure the senses. But some watchers take it a step further.   

As a woman I fear for my safety, now more than ever. Never used to be that way. My friends share the same fear. We also notice a change in many men. It's slight, but it's there: The objectification.

If porn nurtures a fantasy, in time, a watcher may wish to take it a step further. And pending their degree of self confidence... that's where the trail of innocent victims pile up. Young, frail, or just going about your business - it happens. We hear about it on the news everyday: a sexual assault on a female.

But no one seems to be getting to the root of the issue.

Even Ted Bundy, the famed serial killer of the 70s confessed that despite his upbringing which was in a loving home, his interest in porn, that later turned to a deviant lust, is what corrupted him. It all started with an innocent peek. 

So, when little Ted was growing up, a time when pornography was a serious no-no. You couldn't get your hands on it without being seen as a pervert. Unlike now... just a mouse click away. No one has to know.

Victims breeding more victims.

...I don't know what else to write, because I don't know how it will end. I don't see an end. Perversion is lucrative.

Most lawmakers are men. Perhaps if we hear of how many men are being raped everyday, at the same rate as women...it would just make more victims.

Perversion is lucrative. 

Watch Me Baby!

It's a game. A race to deliver to the finish.

Victims? Oh, yeah. There are victims.

Butchers? Yup, definitely not for the squeamish.

With body parts scattered along the way. Rape kits covered in dust.

The NYPD, SVU, FBI and Ryan Hardy are on it.

But how many more?

How many more women have to lay victim for the cutting room floor? 

It's getting old. Read old.

I feel sorry for the girls waiting by the phone, hoping with fingers crossed to be Dead Girl #5, Rape Victim 1 or Whore in Red Dress at the end of the day.

Must violence breed entertainment?

I used to enjoy shows like Criminal Minds, but then it got bad a few seasons back, and now it's just too violent. The Following seemed okay, but again, too violent. Just violence.

Perhaps entertainment is just catching up with this world and its fall in humanity. Where people just kill one another for sport, for fun, in a spark of anger. Where the thought or belief in a just God doesn't enter the mind once.

Or perhaps the vice that many share, the need for constant stimuli should aid in helping shift the violent glare with shows that dare to show (I'll say it) love and care for humanity, minus the brutal slaying. Unless it's Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) kicking some Edward Cullen ass - I want something different.

How about The Love Boat. Fantasy Island. The Cosby Show. Night Court. Life Goes On.

I don't know...?

And it's not just violence. It's the over-sexualizing of women and men, teenagers and kids.

Do we need a re-education in humanity, innocence and civility? Cause it's just getting so bad out there.

I grew up in the 80s & 90s where TV shows weren't only about sex and slaying. There were options. You had Family Ties or Miami Vice.

Now there are none. What's going to happen to the innocent eyes of today when they grow up tomorrow?

They've never been given an option.