2009

This picture is in tribute to the owl that lives in a tree off my new Topanga porch, to the childhood memory of a rare great snowy white owl I once saw flying over Wisconsin woods, and to all the ancient forms - Greek, Roman, Celtic, Hinduism and Native American traditions - that hold owls as representative of spirituality and insight. I will be wise and rise above and continue to soar.

the blood of a poet

A film is a petrified fountain of thought.

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.

Art is science made clear.

Tact is knowing how far to go too far.

Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death. --cocteau

topanga tales

*** UPDATE: I GOT THE PLACE! moving in for a month or two. ***

ah, life. a series of panic-stricken bumbles staccattoed by deep
breathing and occasional crescendos of conviction. at least that's what it feels like as i rampage from one impressively orchestrated distraction to another, accented by supporting choir, all in an attempt to keep the symphony's volume at thought-drowning level.

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this is a very fancy, alliteration-filled run-on sentence (my favorite bad habits in writing) way of saying i've been procrastinating and hearing the tsk-tsking buzz of silence beneath all the clamor anyway.

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i need to run away. i'm waiting to hear from a magical doppleganger i stumbled upon in topanga, as to whether or not she will sublet her hobbit-hole on a hill to me for 2 months for dirt cheap. i'll know on sunday, and if it works out, i expect to finish hipster by the beginning of february; just in time for the scheduled call with my agent that i have put off until then.

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this is the place. too good to be true. WISH ME LUCK!!!

from my book hipster

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There is a place where dry, golden wheat crackles under the afternoon sun, and the muted fragrance of death, natural and sweet, abounds. A place where autumn soil is dry and caked but when you dig into it, with fingertips stubby from use, you find moisture, still, beneath the surface. Dark, rich and full of life.
When Joleen sucks the air in through her nostrils, so deep that she finds the space beneath the smog, she can freeze-frame this place, and keep it as hers, in the depths of an inner garden, where no one, not even It, with Its fears and doubts and trepidation, can tread.
It is not made for man with his trodding desires, it is a place solely bred for life-giving oxygen, and that is what she finds, that is what sustains her next step forward, when she breathes deep, deep, deep, puncturing the seams of sodden grey and into clean, clear white.

somehow, this whiny little gem had snuck around dark corners of the book shelf until last night, when i finished it for the first time.

if i could write one book like this one - a gritty, sympathetic, unashamed meander into a troubled mind - i could hang up my red hunting hat.

i had a previous, flippant impression that holden caulfield was merely an unjustified chip on an innocent world's shoulder; maybe that was before i'd begun to discover the cracks in my own once-shinier veneer.

good job, j.d.

getting it together

it's time to start focusing again. i burned myself out writing the pilot for strays, and have been over-indulging in pseudo-unnecessary chilltime. also, trying to get in a creative mode usually takes me all weekend after working in a corporate atmosphere, and then right when i feel those stirrings again, i come in on monday morning and have to brainstorm on things like how to make convenience store ampm's brand image more 'fun and irreverent' which throws me off all over again. i'm starting to question if i have the discipline necessary. but since depression is a side effect of unproductivity in my chosen passion, i have no choice but to get it together. this weekend's trip to lake arrowhead is my planned catalyst.

spinning in all directions

good news! big gap between posts means I've been busy on actual work instead of ruminating on it.

-agent is calling me back again and likes the new bofc chapters. he's submitting to new editors.

-worked like, 14 14 hr. days on strays and hit the deadline for class. almost done with the pilot; will email them the rest.

-hipster continues to run thru my veins like bad blood. must bleed it out. soon. agent likes but warns, no one buys novels.

-short stories popping out at random intervals. they're so dark and pathetic that the strength and honesty just may shine thru and i think that's the lightest way to be.