urine-fueled mayhem

I just finished my "Curb Your Enthusiasm" script — thirty-four pages of urine-fueled mayhem.   It is not perfect, but I am fairly happy with it.  Proud, moreso.

I am hallucinating, but after lying in bed for about fifteen minutes I determined that I’ll be better off without the three hours of sleep that I’d be getting right now.   It’s been a while since I stayed up all night, but I recall the world taking on a deliriously blurry quality after no sleep.  I can’t fucking wait!  And, shit… I’ve got three hours to eat breakfast and drink coffee and surf the Internet before I have to get ready for class.  Relaxing, and all that.

I’m listening to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack, which I can’t recommend enough.  Y’all prejudge it based on the lame title, but I am telling you — one of the best albums of the seventies.  Y’all think I am kidding?  I am not.  Only the original cast recording from 1970, though — the rest are crap, and the film they made was just downright unfortunate.  Not for everyone, this album, but nothing is for everyone.

I shot my final for my Intro to Film class over the weekend, and it was a learning experience.  Things learned:

  1. Do not try and make a film starring a woman who you may be trying to woo, as it will just add another layer of anxiety to the whole process.
  2. The film you see in your head and the film that you actually make will never be the same.
  3. Do not have sushi and tempura delivered to the shoot, as your actress (the one you may be trying to woo) will get food poisoning and pass out early as a result.
  4. Be more prepared.

…those are four things that I have now, I’ll surely have more once I get the film back from the lab on Thursday.

Very, very tired.  Screen blurry.  Head swivelly.  Perhaps a shower is in order.

TIME

Timehdr

"How To Like It"

These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let’s go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let’s tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let’s pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let’s dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn’t been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let’s go down to the diner and sniff
people’s legs. Let’s stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man’s mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let’s go to sleep. Let’s lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he’ll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he’ll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let’s just go back inside.
Let’s not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing? The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let’s go make a sandwich.
Let’s make the tallest sandwich anyone’s ever seen.
And that’s what they do and that’s where the man’s
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept—
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.

~Stephen Dobyns

"from the side at night with music playing"

      All These Vicious Dogs ~ Will Oldham

Fuckety fuck fuck.

2:11 AM, my computer clock reads. 

I just spoke to my sister from San Francisco, and as a result I am now listening to the new Gomez album — she’s going to see them play at the Fillmore in the near future, and I am jealous.  I saw Bob Dylan play here last Sunday, but it wasn’t so good, and there was a disproportionate amount of handicapped people in the audience. 

I am obviously procrastinating on this damn paper, although the last paragraph is in sight.

Apparently the Cleveland basketball team is going to be in the NBA finals — who knew?  Probably everyone from Cleveland but me, because I really don’t care about them sporting things so much.  I will predict that if a sporting team from Cleveland wins a championship, the town will erupt in chaos not seen since the Mongols stormed the Jin capital of Kai Feng in 1234.  I wasn’t there, but I hear-tell that some heavy shit went down. 

If I go to bed immediately, I’ll have less than six hours of sleep before I have to get up, so I should probably stop procrastinating. 

2:22 AM, my computer clock reads.

Fuckety fuck fuck.

"YOU ARE WHAT YOU HATE."

"Eighty percent of success is showing up."
~Woody Allen

I have a paper due tomorrow that I’ve barely started, along with a smorgasbord of other work that is due in the next two weeks, but I need to take a moment here…

There are two primary types of art school students — those who talk, and those who do.  For many years, I was one of those who did quite a bit of talking and relatively little doing, and while I’m not saying that I’m as hard a worker as I could be, I am doing much more than I ever have before, and am doing my best to stop talking.  I am still more critical than I have the right to be, but I justify this with the simple reality that criticism is a part of art school.

What I really want to say, while perhaps completely unrelated to the last paragraph, is this:  More than anything, I have done my best to be reliable and encouraging to the friends I have here, and it really gets to me when I don’t get the same in return.  In this often confusing mess of misguided egos, I don’t need people projecting their insecurities on me — I’ve got enough insecurities of my own to deal with. 

I saw a bumper sticker a week or so ago that read "YOU ARE WHAT YOU HATE."

I feel so funny, I feel so sad

      I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl ~ Nina Simone

"Wren"

I maybe shouldn’t be up so late, and I maybe shouldn’t post this photo, but I maybe will anyway…

Her

…tonight was one of those nights that you don’t realize how strangely surreal it was until you return back home, sit in front of your computer, and consider.  I acted, I saw an intoxicated guy fall off a barstool, I had a fascinating conversation about Savannah with a remarkably happily married couple at 3:30 am in Forsyth Park, I watched a guy squeeze his nipple while singing old B-52’s songs in front of Pinkie Masters, I heard an aircraft safety lecture from a plane on a tarmac in Chicago, I stayed up until four-thirty in the morning…

In short, I lived.

But, yeah — I gotta get some sleep.