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[10 Oct 2006|12:13am] |
Tonight was alright, I suppose. I caught a train oddly on time for once and was early for class. We ran through some bits about different forms of narrative and were set some homework for this week; to produce a piece about an incident described by two different forms.
After the break, we were to read out our work from last week. Once again, mine sounded positively mawkish and laboured compared to the work of others. I scampered off, even bugging out on a trip to the pub because I was a little ashamed. Ah well. I'll be writing something different this time, using my humour. I have a burgeoning idea about a man being stalked by next door's dog, either that or the two differing viewpoints on an encounter in a nightclub. At least I have an idea this time.
But I won't start on that till tomorrow, i'm too tired.
I waited nearly an hour at the station. I hope the people I said I was going to the pub to don't get annoyed about it. I'm sure they just went anyway. I like pubs. I'll tell them that next week, and i'll go, if I don't go mad in my head again. I've been too insular recently. Why do I think so much about old things and retreat? I don't know..I should be defiant..not hark back. I'm doing so well..
And yet, I beat myself up and weaken too often.
Right, so the idea I had is this. Number one is..a man who is perpetually afraid of a dog..he is so terrified of it he has nightmares, and even seeks mental help. The therapist is the other voice.
I have visions of the dog staring at him through his letterbox. That's all..good start.
The other is a leering, prapismic beered up letch, in a club, thinking he's all over this girl, and getting somewhere. Like young lads do..well in there..he thinks he's the most suave thing that was ever shat out of a bloke machine..and he tells this in his unswerving dialogue of masculine confidence...
The girl is the other voice...talking perhaps to a friend about this pissed up, stinking mong she met who could barely stand..his dirty disgusting mandibles trying to paw her into submission. For fuck's sake, give me your ideas on which is a better idea. Go on, otherwise i'll just go all instinctive on my own ass, and that's possibly good, perhaps not.
I reached the Bell finally at ten thirty. Dan was about, I drank good with the Dan. Mike asked me to wear my Murphy's hat. It's a hat given in a promotion by the stout makers that he passed onto me. It's a black witches hat with two bats on it. I wore it and took pictures:
I also showed the assembled some poetry. They liked it very much. I even got some publishing ideas.
So, a good and bad evening.
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[10 Oct 2006|12:43am] |
( Read more... )
And that's it for now. Join me tomorrow when i'll be nailing a fin to my tits and screaming into a shell.
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[10 Oct 2006|06:17pm] |
I'm still fucking devoid of ideas how to start my work for this week. So I haven't done it, i've been playing old Amiga games, like Alien Breed: Tower Assault. If I had to do a course about the Amiga i'd be quite good at it.
Quite good.
I fail ever more to find words to describe how awful work is at the moment. Still no extractor fan. The kitchen is stuffy, close and horrifically stifled. Two more days of this, at least.
I want to be a star, so I can drive a brand new car and get the hell out of here. While i'm not, i'm going to have to grind down and put up with it.
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[10 Oct 2006|06:31pm] |
Whenever I go to a nightclub, I can be assured of seeing several things. Firstly, huge tall bald men that scare me and whom I avoid. Secondly, I see twenty something lad-spawn trying to force their dirty little insect mandibles up the nearest vagina.
Now i'm sorry to be crude, but I fulfill that criteria well and so will stick rigidly to that. Actually, I don't apologise, it's the bloody paradox of my writing, see? Beuaty and ugliness all mashed up together like a wind tunnel full of flowers and vomit.
To form some kind of ident for this story we need to get two narrators. One is the male, the one who thinks he's it, in there, "Wiv sum fit bird", who thinks his cock is bigger than it is and his personality is bigger than Christ.
And the girl is slightly underwhelmed, she sees it differently. Thus forms the two narrators in our piece. I just don't know how to write the fucking thing.
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[10 Oct 2006|09:34pm] |
Here is that hat, and a whole lot of directionless babbling.
That's your lot for this evening. Tomorrow i'll be thinking about the film "Solar", where the kids roll down a hill in tyres
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[10 Oct 2006|11:54pm] |
Somebody I knew once wrote a beautiful post about whether they said the right thing.
She'd written it after a night when someone had pulled her aside and talked to her, after an event..and had searched for her counsel about something..she told him what she thought and then went driving..
And she stopped on an interstate..talked to the heavens..to god..about whether she'd got it right, said the right thing..done the right thing..when it was apparent she just did what she could, and it was enough, to listen to answer and to be honest.
Certain things prevent me from saying more, but I remember it implicitly because it's something that always affected me. A certain bullish male facet of me prevents me from making further reference, but it inspired me to do the same..for my friends, to say what I thought, to try and be a good listener. I had and have no god to ask if i'd done the right thing..if i'd done more good than bad..but my god is the stars..it's everywhere..it's non-specific, but it's palpable..and it makes me feel okay for just trying.
Tonight was a case of this. I'd been talking to a friend..he's having trouble, it's a confusing time for him..a crossroads, a real difficult thing to talk about..but I sat and I listened, and I used my experience (However limited) to try and help.
But did I do and say the right thing? Was me being a friend enough? Were my little pieces of advice good or bad? I don't know.
But that post reminded me of one thing. To just be there...
Goodnight.
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