no shit, sherlock

Cancer (June 22 — July 22)

Life has become a cornucopia of complications. Agendas are skilfully[sic] disguised. Double entendres are rife. But Mars will provide you with the power to cut through these convoluted proceedings. Only respond to the overt and the obvious.

snot funny

My allergies are killing me. I'm dead tired and I have 2 scripts to write tonight. Po'me.

I had a slice of ham, a slice of cheese and a chocolate-coated digestive cookie for dinner.

I am remiss with my friends. Will they still need me, will they still feed me, when I'm 34?

I wish I could breathe through my nose. If this comes naturally to you - never take it for granted.

Onwards and...onwards.

baggage

I went away for the weekend. I ate like royalty. I went to the museum. I bought fantastic frasier pine room spray (I want to be doused in it and lit afire when I die). I had a lovely time. I took the 7 pm ferry back to Vancouver.

2 hours later... an hour online...and I feel anxious and unhappy. Perhaps the world wide web is too informative.

overheard by someone, somewhere

Girl #1: So did you guys fuck all night?
Girl #2: Yeah, till I had to stop to smoke a cigarette because I needed to throw up...I felt so fat just laying there while he rabbit-humped me.

--The Met

overheardinnewyork.com

well...

Things are going well. Things are going my way. Maybe it's because I've said it outloud...if you believe in jinxes... but i'm a winter and I'm blue.

or maybe I ate too much pizza for dinner.

trust no one.

Since we've no place to go...

Some leaves hang late, some fall before the first frost
--so goes the tale of winter branches and old bones.

Pretty.

My brother sent me this text message:

"Yeah well it was -28 this morning and plus 8 the other day and this weekend coming up. Nice weather."

So, it's cold in Saskatchewan. Poor brother of mine. Mind you, I do miss the snow. I even miss the way it feels when your thighs freeze in your jeans and your eyelashes get sealed shut with ice. I think a prairie pilgrimage may be in order.

Johnny Tootall

Hey, Johnny Tootall just won the award for best film at San Francisco's American Indian Film Festival. Why am I telling you this? Well, because I know the producer and it's nice to have winners in your friend circle. And, let's face it - Adam Beach is kind of hot, although I prefer Nathaniel Arcand. Say no more, say no more.

Vanity press

I am thinking that I will make this here blog into a small book-type thing. A friend of mine recently showed me the book she had bound for her mother. It was impressive. This way, when I die, I can leave everyone I know a hardcopy of several years worth of me! It's the gift that keeps on giving and giving. Ooh, and how much fun to plan the book jacket photo and bio!!! You wouldn't believe how entertained these thoughts have kept me all day.

I figure that it is pretty likely that one of the books will get left on public transit, or better yet, in a bar and then a super famous editor will find it and buy me a pair of satin gloves and ask me for dinner and buy me an Armani dress...

Okay, so that end part is the plot to Shopgirl. After paying to see Capote, I snuck in to Shopgirl for an ill-begotten double feature. Sure, the movie had a few problems, but I found it so emotionally satisfying that I could easily forgive the sketchy bits - even Jason Shwartzman's surprising unlikeablity. It was dreadfully romantic and sad. In fact, this movie wounded me just a bit. It upset me for a whole night. And in my world that's a fair amount of time. Capote was a wonderful film as well - probably better than Shopgirl, I bet. But I don't really feel like talking about it right now. Not due to anything with the film, I'm just bored of writing about movies for the time being. That said, you really should go see it. Good storytelling and fantastic wardrobe.

So, yeah. Maybe I will try to make a blog book. Methinks some creative grant propsal may be necessary.

I shall always be a flower girl to Professor Higgins

"But don't worry... by tomorrow or the day after, I'll be bristling with indignation over something or other."

- Slushpile, November 11th, 2005

You know what's great about self-fulfilling prophecies? Fuck all.

I actually had an okay weekend until Saturday night when I put my back out. I decided to lift a massive, 7 foot long, kagillion pound mirror by myself. I wanted to attach it to my chest of drawers and I did at least accomplish that. I now have an unimaginable expanse of mirror that cruelly reflects my every move. It's right in front of my bed, so it should be sexy. But in reality, me crawling out of bed with a blown out lower back isn't as hot as it sounds. Mind you, the smudged mascara and t-shirt-tucked-into-underwear look I was sporting this morning certainly caught my eye. Only because I wasn't smart enough to avert my gaze first.

I've been gobbling Robaxacets all day. My back isn't impressed - these soft drugs are barely making a dent. This sucks for a myriad of reasons - one of them being that I wanted to check out "The Shout Out Louds" tonight at Richards on Richards. And now I can't. And that's not fair because I never go anywhere. I never want to go anywhere and as soon as I decide to venture out, you see what happens.

I wish I had stuck with yoga. I wish I hadn't lifted that mirror. I wish I had harder drugs. And while we're throwing wishes out there...I wish I were super hard-bodied and rich.

That is all.

Not today...

Well, I can't very well complain about my perceived hardships on Remembrance Day, now can I? So, I won't. Besides, things are looking up. My wee scripts were approved, I'm learning how to use scriptwriting software and apparently someone, somewhere in the plant is drafting up a contract for me to sign - word has it, I'll be employed until March 31st. Not too shabby. So, there - no complaints today. But don't worry... by tomorrow or the day after, I'll be bristling with indignation over something or other.

I should get up and go to the Remembrance Day services. I am ashamed of myself because the pouring rain is deterring me. I will try to get it together in time to make the parade.

Oh, and one more thing. Last night, on the radio, I heard a "reporter" (News 1130 - so reporter is a stretch) refer to today as "Poppy Day". Like Turkey Day or something. Disgraceful.

No cord nor cable can draw so forcibly...

I...have...cable...television. I am very happy. Actually, truth be told, I've done quite well without it for the past couple of months. But, let me tell you, when the cable fellow turned the power on and Oprah's well made-up face appeared... a delicious warmth spread through me. A sensation akin to swallowing hard liquor, only without the initial bite. And then I had to rush off to work. Leaving Oprah and my warm living room for the freezing cold and rainy walk to the CBC seemed fantastically cruel. Oh well, at least I've something to look forward to. It's Ancient History Tuesday on the Discovery Channel! I hope they haven't gone and changed the line-ups.

Work is exciting and terrifying. I completed six scripts last week and now I wait for feedback from the way-higher-ups. There could be a few re-writes or the consensus may be burn it all and start again. You never know. I still don't know if I have a job past the end of this week. Verrry richard scary.

If I don't have a job then I can't pay Mr. Shaw Cable and then I will have to go back to the dark ages of reading books and conversing with others. Please feel free to organize a telethon on my behalf. I need dough.

Breathless

Besides the fact that I can't hardly breathe none and my skirt feels too tight because apparently a diet of Halloween candy and steroids will do that to a girl and I still don't know if I have a job and I had to borrow $600 from my parents to pay my rent... things are great!

I am using some pretty nifty flatscreen monitors at work - 2 of 'em, dontcha no. Sadly, it does not make script-writing much easier. Actually, I made some headway last night. Well, I got started and that is huge. I feel like maybe it's lacking a little personality - but if I write in my own voice, who in the hell is going to watch that? So much to learn.

Thank you Doppelganger for talking me down off the ledge. Society has you to blame for my longevity. You should also know I still abuse commas - placing them willy-nilly. Using them for pauses, to signal inhalations and wherever I think they may pretty up a sentence. I can't stop. I can't try to stop. I am unemployable.

If You've Nothing Nice to Say...

What can I say? Things are fucked. Apparently my victory dance was a bit premature and God is having some fun torturing me for my insolence. I have no job security. In fact, in all likelihood I will be out of work in a couple of weeks. This is not cool. I won't bother laying out the reasons why. It's obvious. I keep telling myself it will alllll work out, but I'm an admitted liar. So who can you believe?

I am eating and sleeping poorly. I am very stressed out about the work that I do have to do. Script writing is scary when you don't know what you're doing. I've only written one television script ever and that was nearly a year ago. I have 6 scripts to write and getting started is killing me. In fact, I wouldn't be writing here if things were going well with the tv writing. I can't seem to escape "check it out" or "tune in". It's nauseating. Perhaps I should try to find something else to do for a living. Suggestions are welcome.

Halloween has passed. I went as a baby boomer. It was a group costume and I think we were rather spectacular. I found a to-the-floor black smock dress - very flowy and shapeless - that I paired up with socks and multi-coloured Birkenstocks. I whited out sections of my hair and put on an arty pair of eyeglasses. I topped the whole ensemble off with a charmingly homespun shawl. Isn't that fun? I was going for the 50-something English professor look. You know, a film festival-goer. A patron of the arts. A wacky, wealthy smock-wearing intellectual. The rest of group's party wear included a Guatemalan jumper with an African print, pleated denim dress pants, a Vancouver Film Festival t-shirt under a Native print vest, a dreamcatcher sweatshirt and even more socks and sandals. And let's not forget desperate male pony-tails and fun straw hats! We were hideous... and invisible. People didn't look twice at us. No one could tell we were in costume. We went to a super trendy place for dinner and loudly peppered our conversation with "wouldn't fondue be fun?" and "this menu is too trendy to read!" and "reefer", "nukes" and "right on!". It was a hoot. I don't feel like I'm doing the costumes justice. Just trust me - it was a clever costume.

I had lunch with a friend. He is doing quite well. Making a real living out of being a writer. Of course, he's had to turn to the USA to make this happen. Typical. But I'm happy for him and he does inspire me. Now if only I were to write something...

It's near the end of the day and I've made little progress. Perhaps things will be better tomorrow. I'm worried, let me tells you. It appears that threat of homelessness and abject poverty make it hard to write creatively. Who knew?