...where the fuuuk are you?

This week is crammed: lots of dinners, catching up with friends, some light baking, lots of sleep, and just being still. Silent and Still. Even if it's on the bus from point A to B to C. A delicious mind freeze from the daily funk.

But more importantly...this journey, this life, this one life, this breath I'm taking as I write, thinking of what brilliance I should slap on the page can feel damn singular when you have standards and are not willing to settle.

I'm not perfect, far from it. But I'm trying, everyday, to let go of crap, learn from mistakes, forgive, look above and not to my circumstances, and laugh whenever possible. Laughing helps a lot. Laughing kills pain. Luckily I laugh easy.

I'm just getting tired from the wrong kind of traffic.

When a boy/man starts to like you, whereas from before you were just "friends" on some kind of level, the air around them becomes hazy and still. They suddenly lose the ability to speak. It's sweet. I'm flattered.

I just want to feel butterflies. That awesome, hyper-excited nausea, where every word you speak comes out all wrong, and you spend most of the night re-thinking, re-speaking everything you said, instead of sleeping. Yeah. I wanna feel that. These people also tend to make you laugh the most.

No woman haters. No bed jumpers. No babies. No angry men who need to control, cause they don't love themselves, yet. And take a breath, cause I don't care how much you know about this and that. Enough with that.

Can't it just be like before. When people met organically. When men were cool enough to approach you like a man. Call you like a man. No texting. No games. Just honest, consistent, chivalry.


...I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

28 Days Later

In bed most of the day. Visited an extremely awful walk-in clinic and was improperly diagnosed. She said I didn't have a cold. I feel like I've been run over by a mack truck, and my waste basket is brimming with soiled tissues from blowing my nose.

...perhaps I'm not sick. She could be right. My body might just be settling down from a stretch of physical work I'm not used to.

I mostly write. More visual brain power, less muscle power. Well, not enough muscle to move set walls with ease. Thankfully, there were enough boy muscles on set for that.

Having just finished a feature film where my bit was dressing the set and occasionally helping with props, who could foresee the bodily downgrade coming my way. I kinda knew what would be asked for (having never done it before). I had to learn fast. There was a short of bodies at times, sometimes too many. I was given permission some days to leave early, which was awesome. Cause when your commute home is almost 2hrs, the last thing you wanna do is stay when wrap 2:30am.

I wasn't paid a penny. I even paid for my own transit to get to locations, but this experience, though killing me softly at times, was worth every second. Knowledge is priceless. And knowing if I want to earnestly get into SetDress/Props, crossing it off or keeping it on the list is worth a measly 28 days out of my life. In turn, I worked with an awesome crew. My Art Department crew especially. Such sweet people.

Being a Set Dresser, perhaps for this film in particular, made it tuff to get to know people in other departments. You're eyes are always on the monitor, if you can find a space between dozens of other onlookers, and nearly always on the set, where the dressing must remain still, unmoved, untouched, seamless - it isn't easy. There's always something that isn't placed perfectly, but hopefully the camera isn't roving just there.

Right now, as I feel the Advil wearing off and the discomfort in my right chest coming forward...

side note: I had a surgical procedure yesterday. Hurt like a mother-f**ker. It may have hurt even more; I have a high threshold for pain. 

I wonder about the months ahead. Some people on my team said they would hire me (with pay) for upcoming work. So awesomely cool, and the bonus...I genuinely like these people. But, to note, I will never fetch you coffee again! Just sayin'.

I don't know what lies in the Spring. What doors will open in-between. If I get a car, cause having a car is a definite bonus in film, cause some locations are in a nose-hole, in a city where women travelling alone is damn shitty, the decision may come easier. Only time will tell.
 
Right now I need to fully recover. Get back to 89-100%. Write, cause I've been seriously stuck in rut for too long. I know what I want to write, so clearly, but the page is empty. Not completely stark, but more stark than I'm used to.

side note: Sometimes I think I'm too nice. I take a lot of crap cause I totally understand that "choose your battles wisely" thing. And I'd rather keep the peace than be a bitch.

Nice isn't weakness. Nice sometimes means, "I'll let you get away with it, cause you're human, just like me. Cause some days I'm anything but nice."

One Life

Yeah, just one. I believe you get one chance in this life.

This makes it tuff. On so many levels tuff. I'm already kinda selfish in some way. No kids, no one to consider when making life-changing decisions. Just me. Me and God.

Sometimes God makes it more tuff. It's hard to be killer selfish when God whispers in your ear, "Are you sure about that?"

He knows me. Knows that I have this painstaking heart for people, humanity, justice and to be that voice for the unthinkable. There are certain unthinkable crimes in this world that crush my heart. Crimes most people don't think to exist.

Is the road starting to fork? Maybe. The first steps into 2014 will reveal this.

I can choose to stay in this world, the "film" world (Production). Climb, tirelessly, from job to job. Raking hours away, pushing aside my unsettled heart that knows it needs more. That my thirst will never be fully quenched here. I'm losing peace. Inner peace. Soul peace.

I'll still write. Just no sets.

It's not about fun anymore.

Shit.

I'm still waiting for a Civilian position to open with the Toronto Police Service, feels like it's taking forever, been waiting since the summer. My heart is for people, community safety. This is what I hope to do: Take classes at the Toronto Police College, work my way into Missing Persons...Research, who knows? Leave the door open to whatever.

There's this one area of interest I have. I've told a few friends about it. They ask, "Aren't you afraid to get into something like that? Sounds scary"

I'm rarely afraid of evil people. I only fear what evil people continue to get away with.

So... More reading to do in the New Year. Yeah, I think that's what I'll do. It feels right. Lots of research. Maybe a conference.

The bread and butter may be small, to start, but I have to stay true to what feels right.

See what I mean...ONE LIFE.

Not Human

I'm set dressing, handling some props, and with each day learning more and more what I can take, and what I cannot.

side note: I don't feel human when I'm not writing.

I think some people are wondering my age...kinda funny. Happens all the time. Most of time they're off the mark by 10 years, which explains so much. But I drop a few hints, a few years this or that happened. Eyebrows arch, another number hits the brain. I remain silent.

Funny.

But this set dressing/props thing. I have to see it through till the end. My mind isn't made up about how I feel, which is more telling than anything else. I know I need consistency, I know that much. And this world is far from consistent.

Day 7

Lots of legs and hands on set, scattered order, sometimes disorder. Words fly, communication failure in moments, tension builds, a light breaks, missed lines, clean up carnage, knee caps bloody. The set is Hot. "Don't just stand there" "Quiet on set!"

Day 7 Over

I have more to go. Met some wonderful people, amazing people. Some not so amazing. Such is life. Meh.

side note: Boys definitely live in an alternate universe. A Man Channel few women are tuned into to. When you catch a clear reception, you have to lean back, wondering if you heard correctly ...seriously, did I just hear that?

In the days after more will be clear. I'll have a pocket of time to write. Nestle in Starbucks, live the dream. Cast biting words aside. Have drinks with friends, maybe ice cream with new friends, and be human once again.

Bloody Knuckles

Freak, frack, give me a fucking break, are you serious, shut up, get me the hell outta here, never wanna see your ugly mug again!

That's the pain of trying over and over again. The internal dialogue while sipping tea. Thoughts no one knows you're speaking, cause on the outside civility is name of the game and most acceptable. We all know this.

When you're keeping it real, or trying to at least, the line of civility gets smudged away from the constant drag of your knees crawling, begging to find salvation.

Is the pain worth it?

I'm still trying to sort that answer out. Trying while maintaining a sliver of dignity and pride. Staying true feels damn lonely. Only a few accept when you're being truly authentic. The ugly authentic. The kind that only close friends know exist, while the rest of the world thinks you've lost all your marbles, ignorant or killer selfish.

24/7 Decency is a handsome mask. It's okay to be ugly - sometimes.

And for the longest while, months upon months stitched together, all I could feel was ugly. I tried, and succeeded most days to keep it civil, sane and true. But within the darkest of spaces, where the civil world dissolves like rice paper, within fragments lasting within seconds - ugly thoughts compounded.

Doors slammed, roads shook, reality choked, as I deliberately erased faces from eternal memory. All for survival. I was on the edge, parched from thirst, the beating of acid rain hitting my brain. The clouds clinging, merciless - I was fighting several wars at once: Body, Soul and Mind.

I belong here. No there. Maybe nowhere. This constant state of wander butchering every fruitful idea and morsel of creativity I thought I had. It was slipping, all of it, between my fingers.

And just as the last rumble brought me to my knees, where falling down and never getting up felt right, a hand reached down, a soft voice called, and a gentle breeze comforted my cheek.

side note: a few days ago I dreamed I was making my bed. The image was so clear, I knew it was significant.

Maybe...  

Arrrrg. Walk the Plank!

I've been on this road. A road that feels long, agonizing, lonely as hell, and aching to my utter being.

It's difficult to complain about shit when the world is in chaos. I feel like a selfish little twit whenever my lips want to drool words of regret or loss. "Buck up" I say to myself. The rocky road will only make you stronger for what lies ahead.

Yeah, I say this to myself. A self-pep while in utter despair, giving compassion onto this still beating heart.

My writing is going well. I still have that, and I keep it close to me, relishing every word that drops on the page. If that ever fails, I fear I'll be surrounded by fire-bombs and endless hail storms fierce enough to destroy mountains and cities, cause in that moment I will realize the world is coming to an end.

Ka-Bang!

Stop. Rewind. I'm not there. Never will be.

I went on a job interview. I thought it had promise. I was kind of excited. But there was one major Red Flag waving as I walked to where I would be meeting this prospective someone. I tried to ignore the doubt that was chewing at the sane part of my brain.

The vocational drought has been tough - cracks literally forming over cracks. Thus, I marched on.

The meeting is set at Starbucks. Cool, it's my second home, I'd feel right at home, surrounded by familiar companions. I was early, on purpose, trying to get some pages in before the Director would arrive. Yeah, I said, Director. He's the writer and director, which can sometimes be a double-edge sword, but I didn't want to finalize any thoughts before sharing a few words with the guy.

He came in. I called him to my table, which was perfect cause the place was crammed. We shook hands, he stepped away to get a drink.

He didn't offer me a drink. A small red-flag. It's tiny, but it spoke volumes. This is just the start to a string of not cool.

He sat down, nervous. Too nervous. I'm relatively calm, all the time. 

After giving him a brief overview of my work experience, I started to ask him about the film, which he had trouble answering. Simple questions, nothing complicated.  

He took out a piece of paper and drew what he wanted, which could mean A) he's a genius, only able to communicate through symbols and shapes or B) he didn't know what to call anything... He didn't even know what position he was truly hiring for. He could hardy articulate what he truly wanted.

Okay. I can, if need be, fill in the gaps. I knew what he was looking for even if he couldn't explain it. I've worked on sets. I get it.

The more I shared. The more aggravated he got. I'm just simply wanting to understand what he wants, which is essential, not to mention basic communication.

It was awkward.

I asked him why he didn't want to read resumes. He had never asked for one, said he didn't want to see them, stating he rather the person had a passion for film and that skills was not a requirement. Yeah, that was the RED FLAG, I spoke of before. But I didn't want to judge, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

side note: See, I love film. I love the set. I love the collaboration and all hands that are involved. Whether working the craft table, cameras, copying scripts, doing wardrobe, securing locations, whatever the role, I'm thankful for everyone on set. It's a privilege to be on set.

What I didn't like most about this meeting was something the Director said. He said he wanted someone passionate about film, which is great.

*PASSION is the key ingredient to turning out anything successful.

That wasn't the bad part.

This is the bad part. He said, "It's not my money, I don't care if it's shit. This will open so many doors for me. It shouldn't be sooo serious, I just want to have fun.

Excuse me, what did you just say...?

That upset me. Insulted me.

Yeah, film is fun, it is. But almost everything needs structure to survive, especially a film set. It can't be a "let's see where this day takes us..." attitude. When there is no structure on a set, that's when the fun actually stops, cause it turns into chaos real fast.
 
Also, that bit about not caring if it's shit, it's not his money? 

For someone who wants to hire with people with passion, his passion is all but an illusion. Like, c'mon! All those hours, money and time, never to be brought back for every person committed to the film - that's a fucking awful attitude.

He didn't hire me, which is just as well. I'm a communicator. I like structure on ships, ships like a film set. It's essential as the sea we're sailing on. And I have to respect the Captain.

I hope for that Captain's sake, his crew doesn't jump ship.

We're Lucky

It's been long since I've last written.

I wish something ultra-wicked-cool would've happened since then. Something I can shout from the rooftops about. Lead a parade with. Scream to the heavens with thanks.

It's been nothing but writing. Trapped in another world, guided by thoughts, images and emotions that have nothing to do with me personally, but a story my tiny brain churned word by word.

These days much of me is detached from reality. I think it's a normal trait for a writer, or a psycho, whichever sells it better. The not willing to face parts of my life, much of it feeling fragmented, yet to be harvested. I'll pick up those pieces in time.

And though my life feels directionless, there's also this assurance within me that all will make sense in time. A stack and re-stack of goals and passion.

Jenga!

I bet that sounds like your life too.

Update further:

I was recently in New York. My first time. On stand-by, my Coach seat got upgraded to Executive. The empty seat next to me felt like I was swimming in a love seat, minus the love. The hot hand towels were a nice change, the view always a thrill. My friends were several seats behind, their voice and laughter loud enough for my ears to pick up. Headset on I relished the world below, again, awed by God's artistic thumbprint.

1 hour later and self-discovery begins in a city that can easily make one feel small. Drowned in a sea of endless faces, vile scents, and conjoined buildings, I walked the streets, trying to make sense of basic direction. I was continually halting my mind from trying to add and subtract streets - they're almost all numbers within numbers. 

Less calculating, more picture taking.

Bryant Park on a Monday night was the place I'll remember most. Even though walking through it, my eyes were humbled to see the sight of hundreds of people gathered, cozied on iron chairs, their half-eaten food left on the table or still in their hand. Whether couples, singles or groups of friends and strangers, my heart melted for a moment. So thankful for the sight of it and for everyone. We're so lucky, I don't know if we realize how lucky we are.

Off on another continent war ravages the soil and soul of so many. Blood is normal to see stained on the ground. Hate is easily related to. Kids are orphaned. Parents lose children. Hate keeps devouring this endless cycle.

Then there's this fragment of time and space: Bryant Park on Monday Movie Night. Woody Woodpecker starts the show, his intro laughter reminding everyone moments of their childhood - the heart smiles wide. I think E.T. was playing that night. I love E.T. 

I'll be there for the next show, next time I'm In NYC.

I guess there is something to scream to heavens for.

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.