Been a While

The last time I wrote a blog was June 28th over on MySpace. Not that I've stopped writing; I've actually been doing quite a bit of it. It just hasn't been public yet. In fact, here is my last post from MySpace. . .  

Last time

I think this is the last one of these I'm going to write. I know, I've said that before, but I'm just not feeling it any more.

Not that I don't feel like writing. . .far from it. I'm just writing elsewhere right now. Couple of short stories, a short screenplay, and another one started that might even make it to feature length. . .we'll see. I feel happier with my writing than I have in a long time. You just don't get to read it for a while, and hopefully it won't have been as reliant on booze as this bloody thing has seemed to be at times.

I think part of it is that I'm afraid of hanging myself. The anger I feel at some of the things going on in my life, it's better that I don't talk about because it could cause problems if I went in to too much detail about them. It's easier to be yourself, be honest, when you don't talk (or write) to anyone.

Tomorrow, Saturday, is my thirteenth anniversary of moving to the US. Long fucking time, never thought I'd be over here this long. Well, I haven't been over here for the full time, but it's still at least twice a long as I thought I'd be here. And in Vegas now for 4 years. Have I learned from being here? Undoubtedly. Could I have learned those lessons anywhere else? Some of them, but not all. But the important ones we need to learn in life, I like to think you'll learn them whenever you are. You'll learn them in a different way, and you might take them differently cos you'll be a little bit of a different person.

Now I'm just waffling. Get out of the cave. Turn around and find out what's making the shadows. Or, to modernize the image, get out of the cave and stop listening to the echoes of what other people have shouted. Because that seems to be what most of the 'blogosphere' is made up of. People shouting their opinions as loudly and as often as they can, leaving comments about shitty top ten lists, or how you made a better video than the original and had to post it in response, or how dare they criticize your favourite film/song/food/religion/politician. I feel like it's reached the point where everyone's shouting so loudly to get their opinions heard, they can't listen to any others, and that's not really very healthy, is it? The inability to change an opinion, or even consider someone else as possibly having the potential to maybe not be completely wrong in some of what they've said, that's fascism by the brain, for the brain. It's terrorism in the skull, where you are your own freedom fighter, except you're fighting for your freedom from the human race. It's mental death. It's what will eventually kill us all, not global warming, or smoking.

Oops. Didn't see any of that coming. Well, peace out, bonne soire, bis spater, and I'll see you in the atmosphere.

So that's where I was about a year ago. Just so you know. More to follow on here, maybe a little less preachy, maybe a couple of excerpts from the other crap I've been writing. Prepublished preview, if you will.

mushy feelings and shite. . .

Ahh, the desire to write. No. The need.So it's Valentine's day, 4:15am, and I'm single. And I'm pretty sure I'm okay with that, for a couple of reasons. First, I'm too bloody busy. Second, I'm too selfish. Third, I'm too insecure. Fourth, I'm too much for a lot of people to deal with. Fifth, I can drink a fifth in a sitting, and that's bad news. Sixth, I'm only just using how to use the word 'love.' Seventh, I think I snore. Eighth, I get angry too easily. Ninth, I'm my own worst enemy.

But there's something great about waking up next to someone. Someone who doesn't mind that you both have morning breath. Someone who doesn't mind that the sign of last night's passion are still on the sheets, or your skin, or on those special occasion on the kitchen counter, the bathroom wall, and at least one window. Someone who has realized that those little quirks that you have are kinda cute.

So tonight I went out with a couple of friends. One I may or may not have the express intent of getting naked. Wait, who am I bullshitting? One I would love to get naked, and do all those things I've been learning since I was eighteen. But why this girl? I'll admit that the only time I have one person in mind is when I'm actually with someone. When I'm not, I'm generally thinking of a few people.

I digress. What is it about someone that attracts you to them? That's what I'm trying to work out. In the detritus that is my past relationships, generally I've been able to salvage some sort of raft of friendship. Okay, shitty metaphor, I know. But I've been drinking.

So, most of the women in my past are still in my present. Not naked usually, but they're still there. So what is it that makes some people date, fuck, tease people that will still be around in their circle of friends next year? How is it that some relationships end up as platonic relationships, and some end up as not wanting to talk to the misunderstanding/cheating/lying/fucked up bitch/bastard?

I have absolutely no answer to that question, but I have a few observations. Look at me, all scientific and shit. But. Right now, I would say there's a couple of women I'm interested in. At least two of the aren't actually my type, but when has that stopped anyone? Why are we attracted to people that we know, really, aren't our type? When they're into going out, being social, knowing everyone, and you're not, why do you still try? When they like to hike, bike, camp, climb, and you're a huge fan of your Roman bathtub and all those indoor amenities, why do you still think about it?

Is it the opposites attract thing? I don't go for that, cos so far in my life there's always something that's been opposite between myself and my partner. And it's usually the dealbreaker, like I'm insecure and she's not, or I want to talk more often than she does. But at the same time, there's no way I could date someone too like myself. . .you know, charming, witty, thoughtful, considerate. . .um, full of shit?

Anyway, I'm babbling. That's the vodka talking. And the tequila. And the single malt. But tonight there were lots of things I wanted to write, but I'm ending up writing this. . .

To all the women in my past, present, and future, thank you. Not some pathetic, thank you for laying me, but a thank you for sharing a part of yourselves with me. Thank you for those 3am caresses that we're both too tired to keep going, but too fascinated by each other to stop. Thank you for the way you smell, you taste, for the way your soul responds to us. For all the women I should have loved, to the women I didn't know I loved, or wouldn't admit I loved until it was too late, and all those I couldn't, wouldn't let myself love even though I should have, here's to you. Enjoy this world, this life, because you've all been a part of both my life and my world, and it's all here for you, for the taking, so enjoy it because you've already made it worthwhile for me. And whether it's me doesn't matter, that's not what life is about, but I hope someone has made it worthwhile for for you.

Strange mood

This isn't the blog I was going to write, or probably should have written. The drafts for those are scattered between my laptop, a couple of computers at work, one thumb drive, and the digital graveyard. All those blogs I started but didn't finish, or saved because I meant to finish, and now never will because life got in the way. I'm happy. I have been for a couple of hours now, although for reasons I can't really explain. Went to the bar, had a few drinks, played some trivia, this has all happened before. But driving home after the bar, I decided that when I got home I was going to chill some Whiskey, and go for a walk. This I did. I got home, retrieved my backpack from the boot of my car, and went to the kitchen to chill some Whiskey. The single malt I had in mind was a 10-year-old Laiphroag, which was given to me for my birthday, and which I'd never had before but have decided it's one that I very much like. Decanted a tad into my flask, and went out the front door, which I seldom use because I come in through the garage most days.

I went for a walk because it was raining. Having lived in England, Louisiana, Oregon, Austria, Hawai'i, and the Caribbean, all those places have a fair amount of rain. Some are warm, some cold (guess which ones!?!), but I think all are refreshing to some extent or another. The rain in England is why it's green, and can support 55 million people living there. Louisiana, Hawai'i, and the Caribbean, the rain is warm and is much better than the humidity, because it's nice to be wet from something other than your sweat. Oregon is somewhere between the two; it can be warm, it can be cold, but it definitely rains there.

And now I live in Vegas. (Oh, by the way, I might go on for a while. I'm not busy, or in any hurry to go to bed, so I might sit here and type for a while. There, you've been warned.) Vegas is one of the last places I thought I would end up. And I shudder to use that phrase, cos I ain't dead yet so don't like to think of myself as having 'ended up here.' But I've been here for coming on to four years, and that's a long time for me to be anywhere. I'm a little antsy, to say the least. There are things I miss. I miss seeing those friends that at one point or another in my life I've taken for granted, and now they're not just a couple blocks away, ready to go out for drinks. I miss moving around, and having to see a new place and how I fit in to it. I miss being able to start fresh every few months, with at most four or five people who knew me before. I miss not having to drive home after going to the pub. This list could go on forever, but I'm going to grab another drink, back in a few. . .

So I poured myself another Whiskey, and I'm going to take the chance to correct my spelling from up above. I'm drinking Laphroaig. 10-year-old. Nectar. Anyway, where was I.

I miss the rain and the ocean. Vegas is the first place in my life that I don't get either on a regular basis. And when I do 'end up' somewhere, I'm going to need one or the other. I drink less water than anyone I know, I'm a prime candidate for dehydration, but I seem to have this need for water in my life. As long as I'm not drinking it or putting it in my Whiskey (I'm a one ice cube guy), I seem to love having water in my life. Walking in the rain tonight, deliberately neglecting to put on anything waterproof (including my shoes, as it turned out). I think the rain is one of the things I'm really going to miss when I die.

So let's make a list of things we're going to miss when we die. . .I'll go first (and these are in no particular order):

1. Rain on my face. in fact, rain in general whether it's on my face, a tent, windscreen, wherever. 2. My parents. Although I'll probably miss them before I die, cos I'm sure they've arranged things so that they won't have to be here after I'm gone. So my family as a whole, because I'll probably leave some of them behind, and I'm sorry for that, but hey, we had fun, right? 3. You guys. I'm going to be sorry that I won't be able to write anything that might make you smile, frown, or just bring a thought you might not have had were it not for reading some crap I'd written. And hey, we had fun, right? 4. The sound of the ocean. And the feel of the ocean. Whether it's fucking around in the surf, jumping in time with the waves and snotting out salt, being on a ship and feeling the whole thing move under you, or being a part of it, diving, there is something I find calming about the Ocean, even when it scares the shit out of me. 5. Sunrises and sunsets. 6. Dogs 7. I'm going to miss being able to close my eyes while listening to some pieces of music and just feel that things are better. And there's a couple on the album I'm listening to right now. 8. Alcohol. Be it Whiskey, Cider, Absinthe, Jager, Beer, or any of the others I have come to know and love in the past 17 years of imbibing. Mostly I'm going to miss the feeling that comes with having just enough but not quite too much. 9. Orgasms. Mine and other peoples. Mine, because at the end of the day it feels good to come. Other peoples, because if you're lucky enough to get to give someone else one, then you've delved that little bit deeper into their soul, you've both shared something of yourselves that you don't give out to everyone. And it feels good to come. 10. Smells. There are some fantastic smells in this world, from fresh-cut grass, to someone else's skin, to a wood fire, to a summer wood in the middle of the English countryside. 11. Tastes. See above. 12. Anger. Because it feels good to be angry. I'm going to miss being angry. Angry at nothing, at things that dont matter or mean anything, and anger at those world-changing issues that some people just don't seem to get. I know I shouldn't feel this way, but anger can feel good, and I'm going to miss the feeling that righteous anger can give. 13. I'm going to miss the feeling standing in the middle of a club, with a bit of a buzz, and just giving in to the music. To feel the music in every nerve, muscle, et cetera et cetera blah blah blah, insert body part here.

Thirteen seems like a good number to stop on. Promise there are more, but I'm not thinking of them right now. And after going back and looking at them to make sure I'm not repeating myself, I realized it might seem a bit morbid to list things I'm going to miss when I die. But the strange thing is, I'm not depressed or morbid when talking about things like this, I'm just matter of fact. I think that the short story I just wrote has something to do with it, cos it's sort of about death. Well, more about fear and selfishness, but death's a big part of those two things. But we've all got to go through with it, so why ignore it?

Well, I'm done with this for the night. But I'm not done writing for the night. Going to work on some other things I've been thinking about, might finish up in time for the sunrise; I just hope it's still raining, because two for one is always good.

The revolutions that change the world are the ones that happen inside of people's heads. I'm not sure if that is a quote, but it feels more true than ever right now. Peace out. And thanks for making it this far with me. . .

Gin and. . .

So it's easier to just babble in this little box than it is to put in the time and effort to do the real blog entry. But I'm working on that, gonna try and set it up so when I've got something to say I don't have to reupload the whole page. Had a bunch to say in the past few months, but I haven't wasted your time with putting it in here. . .I've just wasted the time of anyone I've had a drink with...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> Anyway. It's that time of year again. Apart from the going to get officially older in a little while, it's the whole single thing rearing its ugly head again. It's not that I don't want to be single: I do, I'm happy with it for the most part. It's that I'm in Albertson's last night shopping, and there's a Valentine's aisle full of red-and-pink-coloured tastelessness. I've got another friend who just got engaged- which reminds me, I should say hi and congrats. It's the endless internet ads telling me to log on and find my soulmate, my perfect match, my other half.

You know what? Fuck that. Why am I always made to feel guilty that I'm single? I've got a hell of a lot going for me, I'm going to do something with my life, so why am I made to feel like a failure because I haven't had a relationship in the past three and a half years? Why must I be defined by how long I've managed to get someone to put up with me on an intimate, physical level?

This sounds angry, but it's really not. It's frustration more than anything else. It's frustration that if I go and watch a movie by myself I get weird looks. It's frustration that any time I hang out with someone of the opposite sex, people start quizzing me about it, is it going anywhere, she's cute, who is she, are you going to ask her out? Sometimes it seems like the only place a single bloke my age is accepted is a strip club.

Besides, why does sex have to make a relationship successful? Why does relationship automatically seem to carry with it the implication that you're 'with' that person? Why does 'platonic' have to be added like some sort of disclaimer? I have some great relationships, some that are very important to me, and they're all friends. All of them. I include in these relationships people I've dated, people I've slept with but not dated, people I've never touched. They're all relationships, they're all important to me, but I'm buggered if I'm going to split them up into platonic, neo-platonic, un-platonic, quasi-pla-fucking-tonic. They're tonic. They're friendships. Even my relationship with my parents is a friendship. And that's the only relationship I guess you really don't have to disclaim as being platonic, cos I hope it's assumed.

So here's to all my relationships with all of you. I'm still not getting any of you anything for Valentine's Day.

I bought a food dehydrator today.

I was waiting to get my hair cut today, and in a couple of chairs close to me sat an older woman and a child. When I sat down the woman was reading to the child, which is a completely commendable thing to do as far as I'm concerned. After a while, however, the girl lost interest in the story, paying more attention to the birthday cake that was being distributed to the stylists and patrons. Promised a bit when her grandmother was having her hair done, she settled back down, and wanted to play with her dolls.Now, when my sister was growing up, she had the mermaid Barbies, the one with the 'tail' that fit over the legs. The two this girl had were completely mermaid, no legs, just plastic tails. So the two of them are playing, and the grandma asks the name of one of the dolls. 'Mrs Shelly,' replies the girl. 'We should call her violet, because her hair is all purple, and violet.' 'No, it's Mrs. Shelly.' 'But Violet would be a much better name.' And more of the same. She also went on to completely try and tell the girl how to play with the dolls, paying no attention to what she was saying unless to correct her.

And this really depresses me. Let your grandkid call her doll what she wants. Let her use her imagination, let her think for herself, because pretty son she'll get older, and have to think how other people tell her to think for grades, friends, and so on. There's more than one teacher out there who wants you to think exactly the same way they do- if you think a book is crap, you can't say it because it's one of their favourites. The media wants you to think a specific way, the politicians, people knocking at your door, the list goes on.

consider myself very lucky that growing up, my parents never tried to curtail my creative impulses. Even when I went through a phase of drawing naked women at about 12 years old, I think they were glad I was drawing. We went to church on occasion, but I was never told 'you must think this.' To tell you the truth, I didn't even know that my Dad was Catholic until I started looking at a Catholic University. My Mum told me growing up that she believed when you die you just go to sleep, and if you're aware of anything it's like floating in a cool mist. But they never told me I had to think a certain way. So to hear today a grandmother telling her granddaughter what she should call her own fricking dolls, upsets me.

I have very little to do with kids. None of my local friends have them (or if they do, they're kept away from me). I'm not planning on having kids, although if it does happen I'm not adverse to the idea (yeah, I know, I've changed). Is this common in raising children nowadays? Suggesting everything for them, telling them what they should and shouldn't call their toys? Teaching them how to play? Because I think that's one of the most important things people lose as they grow up: the ability to have fun. I mean really. People say they play golf to have fun, or go out and meet people in the bar, but how many people do you know who play a sport and get pissed off because they fuck up a couple of shots and it ruins their whole day? Or have a shitty time in the bar cos they didn't pull? People need to learn how to have fun again before they try teaching kids how to do it, because I think it's one of the many things we should let kids teach us how to do. How to have fun, how to enjoy yourself with a simple empty cardboard box instead of all the shit that's inside it. Our lives are cardboard boxes we fill with crap to try and make ourselves happy/successful/admired. Shouldn't the box be enough?

been a while. . .

It's been a little while since I wrote. Actually, that's not true. I've written a couple of times, but never got around to typing it up or posting. And the longer it goes, the harder it is to get back into something.

And it's not like I don't have a shit-tonne to write about. It's just that everything I have to write about has kept me busy.

1 High School reunion. 2 weddings. 3 States. 4 Beer Mugs. 5 Countries. 6 Aeroplane Flights. And I don't know how many friends and relations I haven't seen in years. I can't count the beer, the wine, the scotch drunk, or the damned good food eaten. And I didn't even have to fudge any of those numbers!

Credit cards aren't for buying a round of drinks at a local bar, they're for buying a train ticket so I can repeat the trip from Munich to Salzburg for old times sake. And buying a round of drinks there.

It's hard to describe what it was like to go back to Salzburg. I only spent one night there, but it was something I've been wanting to do since I left in May of 1999. I spent a couple of days in Munich first, visiting my Godfather, and even the train station there brought back so many memories. But it wasn't home like Salzburg was, it was the main springboard into the rest of western Europe (and the city Jenny lived in). Munich was. . .familiar.

Salzburg was. . .comfortable. Like a favourite pair of jeans. They fit really well, been through a lot with you, and probably have one or two marks that you're not entirely sure where they came from. Both the weddings I went to were Salzburgers- one a roommate, and the other two next-door neighbours, so half the people at the weddings were from Sazburg too. And it was good to reminisce about the place right before and right after I went, with people who were there and went through the same things.

We're talking about organizing a trip back there in two years, for our 'ten-year-leaving' anniversary, and it's that sort of thing that makes working worthwhile. The anticipation of spending that money on good times in a good place with good people. I'd not been living by the 'you can always earn more money but you can't earn more time, so spend your money well and your time wisely' premise, but I'm back on it again, making my time count as much as possible when you play warcraft. So I'll be getting back into the writing.

on the road again. . .

So Iäm sitting in an internet cafe in Munich right now. There´s a tonne for me to write, and all Iäm going to say is BLOODY GERMAN KEYBOARDS!

I guess it´s really been that long that I´d forgotten all the differences. The @ is below the q on the same button, apparently the alt gr button works that. the z is where the y should be. The ä is where the ´ should be. I mean, really, what is ä anyway_ sorry, I meant ?

Other than that, it´s great to be back. Iäve missed it more thanI realiyed until I got off the plane, grabbed a train and headed to Munich. I wrote something while I was on the train, but it´s on my laptop so you´ll have to get it later. Oh, and the trains are all wireless hotspots, as long as you subscribe to t-mobile. The trains! You know how good that would have been 9 years ago when we were living here? Actually, not that good, we were poor college kids and couldn´t afford nice things like laptops, or hotel roooms often.

Iäm heading to Salzburg tomorrow, just for the night, just to see how much it´s changed and how much it´s the same. Maybe head to the Augustiner for a beer. Little Käsekraner vendor on the corner we used to stagger up to on our way home from the pub. Mmmm, sausage and beer.

And I still love European women. I think they´re a lot less aware of themselves sometimes than American women can be.

So as it stands right now, I´´m still 90% sure I´ll be back to the US.

must...stop...writing...drunk and on the beach

It's half an hour earlier, and twenty four hours later. It's a music night, but only in one ear- the other still being seduced by the endless murmur of the ocean.I walked down the beach further tonight. Past the pier. I'm sitting on a ledge about 8 feet off the sand, about two and a half feet wide, out of a building that is flat to the water. It reminds me a bit of a house in Cornwall. Or a building with houses, flats, in it. The place in Cornwall is thinner and taller, and instead of the sand, it rises out of the rock. The windows are as thin. There is no ledge in Cornwall.

But the sea, there as here, comes all the way in. During a storm, high winds, I bet they are both fantastic. I can close my eyes and see it perfectly- as perfectly as anyone can see the past. No matter what anyone says, hindsight is not 20/20. Like the entry I worte more than a year ago, back in March or April of last year ( do you people really still read this bollocks?). You can never know the outcome of an action until you do it. If I'd have taken a different turn, instead of tagging the back of a brand new Lexus, I could have gone under a truck and laminated my face to the asphalt.

I stopped acting when I was 18. Except for an acting competition I was asked to partner with someone for (which we didn't win but then she went on to win the following year with a different partner!) and an acting class I had to take to graduate (and for which I got to kiss an attractive female classmate- I think the acting coach knew I needed a script and blocking. . .), I haven't performed for anyone in almost ten years. I wonder what would have happened had I kept doing it. Would I be rich and famous by now? Or working in a horrible little restaurant somewhere, waiting on the people getting the parts I should have. Big house or homeless? Maybe I'd have gotten laid a lot more than I have. Maybe I'd have discovered the medical benefits of heroin- permanent weight problem solution.

I'll never know.

And that's okay. It has to be okay, or I should close this book, cap my pen, pause my iPod, and wade out into the beckoning waves, swim until I have no choices left to make. I'm not going to do that. As much as choices can be painful to make, I choose to keep on making them. For everyone who has been a choice, affected by them, helped with them, forced me to make them. I'll never know what could have been, but I know what is. On the beach at night, you'll find yourself, which is the hardest thing to find. Drugs, God, happiness, true love, it all comes second place to finding yourself. If you don't find that, why look for anything else? And don't use them as a substitute for yourself.

como estas beaches?

It's two in the morning, and I'm listening to the Pacific Ocean in front of me, and sprinklers in the park behind me. Sitting on lifeguard stand 31. Written by the light of stale yellow street lamps. Street lamps? They shine on the beach.Between two worlds is a special place. During the day it's taken over by people searching for that perfect Hollywood bronze. By people looking to escape the everyday grind. By people who have been taught that beaches are important. And they are, but not in the way we use them. Between is always special. It's where the magic in life is. As a child, the beach is fantastic. Six years old, standing up to something as strong as the ocean, taking the beatings that the incessant waves throw at you, or running and beating them- is that where my childhood sense of invincibility and immortality came from? When I walked out here I was listening to music. But it's been three years since I've ben to the ocean at night, and I'd forgotten you don't need music.

Between technician and performer. Between happiness and despair. Between choices that I have to make with my life. For my life. That sense of youthful invincibility is gone. I've learned that I can fail- I have failed. But in a strange way, after a lot of the shit that's gone on in my mind over the past few years, I feel that I have recaptured my immortality. I'm not going to live forever in the sense that people have been trying to do since they realized the would die. I mean I will forever be in that space between the past and the future.

It's now 2:30am, and I've spent the past several minutes not writing. Eyes misting. Eyes closed. Enjoyiong the moment, and comforted that although this special moment between the past and the future is gone in an instant, there will be an infinite number more. I cannot lament for what is gone, because it leads to what will be. And the Ocean, like the past, will always be there with its promises, it's rhythms, it's whispering if we would only listen to what it has to say.

soon. . .

August and September are shaping up to be a busy time. I've got my Dad's birthday, which just so happens to coincide with a beer festival in Vorstetten, the German village he lived in when he first moved to Germany. We've been talking about celebrating his birthday there, because it's his 60th, and it's been so long since most of us were over there that it's about time to go back. I was going to be over there for as long as possible, around the 16th August until the 3rd of September. Then I found out tht my High School reunion is going to happen the 17th-19th August. Already got the time off, so just for a laugh I decided I'm going to go to that. Don't exactly keep in touch with anyone from my year, but why the hell not? Now, my friend Clinton is getting married that Saturday. So I'll get to Eugene late Thursday, do whatever's going on for the reunion on Friday, head up north for Clint's nuptials, maybe back down for Sunday reunion shite, and then fly out of Portland to Frankfurt that Monday.

Here's the dilemma. I'm going to take some time while I'm over in Europe to do something for myself. I'm also going to try and get up to Salisbury, see the family. My Dad's birthday is the 26th August, a Sunday and I think the last day of the beer festival. Do I go up home beforehand, for two days, and then go somewhere else for a couple days after the birthday, getting back to Frankfurt on the 31st to fly back on the 1st, or do it the other way around? And where should I go? I love Prague, Salzburg, Florence, but I have friends in Romania or Ireland I haven't seen in years. Either way, back to Portland on the 1st September, more friends getting married on the 2nd, then back to Vegas for my third wedding in as many weeks.

I'm looking forward to it. I'm so lethargic about everything right now, that it'll be good to speed up. For a few weeks, at least, my glacier life will thaw a bit, move more like the Colorado river. Or like the glaciers are starting to cos of global warming. What happens when they're gone? How will we be able to explain an image like 'glacier speed?' It moves kinda big, white and frigid just doesn't sound so poetic. . .

the muse to end all muses

Today, on my way home from the pub, I decided it was a good idea to stop by wal-mart to buy some adhesive-backed felt to finish off my didgeridoo wall-mount. And I met Noel. He stopped me because of my T-shirt, the Ziggy Marley one I got from the concert last summer, and we talked a bit about reggae, and then the islands. From there the conversation went to working on cruise ships, living in Boise, Idaho, Hawaiians, Celine Dion, and twenty minutes later he was telling me we should hang out sometime. I did my usual backing down, 'I don't go out because I'm over Vegas' bullshit, and failed to let a potential friendship germinate.

I did this when I first moved to Vegas. Had to go to get a new Social Security Card to get the job at NYNY. In the office, it was much like a DMV in that there were unhappy people behind the counters serving unhappy people in front of the counters. The number before me was called, and I watched this blind guy get up and have issues trying to find the window. He didn't make it in time, they called my number, so I went up to him and helped him to the window. Almost got skipped over myself. So as I'm leaving, I see him finding his way to the bus stop, and I offer him a ride. He accepts because it'll take me 20 minutes to drive him, the bus'll be a couple of hours. So we chat, and it was one of the first times I've really appreciated how much it must suck to be blind. He was so into my car, which I had just got at the time, listening to the engine, and it occurred to me that no matter how much le loved cars, he would never get to drive one. I think if it's a choice between losing my sight and my hearing, just kill me now, I don't want to go without either. But when I dropped him off, he talked about getting together for drinks at some point, and I was evasive again. Never heard from him again.

So the Wal-mart incident made me think about the blind bloke thing. And it made me think that I've been going about my life the wrong way for the past six months or so, ever since I decided I need to move on from my job. Technically, my career. Because that what I have, and it sucks that I want to leave it. As average as I've always tried to be, I've come too far too young to be happy in what I'm doing, and as anyone who'll lend me an ear know, I want to write a series of books. My trouble is finding motivation. I keep trying to find things to blame, and the most recent excuse is that I need a muse.

And, quite frankly, that's bullshit. There are so many muses in the world that they're just crying out to be used. My senses should be my muse. I still have them and they bring me joy every day. Or my parents. They called me last night, celebrating their 31st wedding anniversary in a restaurant in an Oregon Vineyard that they had to themselves. Their commitment to each other and the family they've somehow managed to raise across a couple of continents, religions, and learning difficulties, should be motivation enough for me to make something of myself.

Instead, I think about making my emotions my muse. Or emotion, because it seems I feel anger more than anything else. But it's not true, I just realized that all the others blend in together, and anger is the only one that differentiates. If I take that anger and use it as fuel as energy to write, to act, to focus, is that a bad thing? Every positive thing leads to happiness with the world as a whole, and every negative thing seems to lead to anger. Stupid people, frustration, criticism, lying, they all lead to anger, so if I use it doesn't it make something good?

I don't know. Whether yea or nay, I couldn't have typed all this shite tonight were it not for the anger that's there, the anger at mistrusted people and falsehoods, anger at the acceptance that other people have with the status quo, and the title of this rant. The muse to end all muses. A glass of Scotch. Tonight's special: A ten-year-old Islay Single Malt, Small Batch Origine out of cask 3, one of 600 bottles.

Maybe I am an alcoholic despite all my protestations to the contrary. If I need a glass of Scotch to write, to loosen up enough to say what I want to, then what am I but dependent? Just poured my second glass, and now I'm going to stare at a paragraph that begs to be added to until I fall asleep.?

Nearly Done

Did my first EMT third ride tuesday night/wednesday morning. First time I've ever really been in an ambulance, and I was in that baby for twelve hours. It's not as exciting as it seems on TV. Which is fine, I don't feel the need to see any sort of heavy trauma. But it's actually quite sad. There was a guy who was so drunk he had fallen down on the strip. Another one claimed his hernia had burst. One was having chest pains. There was a bloke who had been in a car accident earlier in the day, spun out, and now couldn't get out of his chair. Breaking a window to get into your apartment leaves quite a lot of blood. And the last one of the night was an old guy with a swollen nut.

The drunk guy and the hernia guy both freely admitted they were alcoholics, and couldn't hold their bladders (which we got to experience first hand). The guy with chest pains was a. . .large. . .gentleman who had been through this before, so wasn't surprised when they couldn't find a vein to get an IV going. The window-breaker? He was just drunk and it seemed like a good idea to him to break a window to get in, leaving a couple of lacerations down his arm. The swollen nut guy had waited a couple of days before calling the ambulance, and then called at 5am. Mostly because he wanted to go to the same hospital his wife had been in for a week.

No (real) trauma. No holding C-spine, or compressions, or BVM. Couple of blood pressures, couple of nasal cannulas, and that was it. Couple games of wiffle-ball.

I'm definitely not going into it full-time. Those guys aren't paid enough to deal with that much bullshit- but isn't that what everyone thinks about their lot? I don't think I'm paid enough to deal with people's little ego-trips, their passive-aggressive, sunshine-up-the-arse-blowing crap at work, and I'm paid more than guys who are qualified to try and save your life. They have more shit to deal with, cos at least at work I don't have to worry about people pissing themselves. No need for diapers at work, but couple of pacifiers wouldn't go amiss.

Did you know in England, pacifiers are called dummys?

I want kids!

Not for any proper reason. Not because I'm so in love with someone that I want to share myself with them and embark on one of the most incredible journeys you can go on in your lifetime. Not because I want to pass on my genetic and financial legacy. Not because I want to make sure that the name Perkin (with no bloody s!) continues. I want to be able to say I told you so. I want to say and do all those things my parents have said and done to me through the years that I have fought against, pretended not to hear, or 'forgotten,' just to have them bite me in the arse.

Yesterday I was cleaning the house. When I do clean, I clean pretty well. I scrub the coffee stains from the ceramic sink and tiles. I scrub the spots out of the carpet. I even move the furniture around, vacuum under it, then move it back. Anyway, having housemates when the house is my own really makes you remember all the things your mother told you growing up. I understand her frustration now at our inability to put dirty plates and bowls into the dishwasher. Putting the bread back in the breadbin. Turning off the sandwich maker once you're done with it.

So for Mum and Dad, for all that crap I put you through growing up, I'm sorry, I get it now.

It was bad enough when I realized I was turning into my father, without turning into my mother as well. But she is a lot nicer than me, so it could be good for me. . .

Procrastination

This time I'm honestly going to try and stop procrastinating. Putting off things that I have the time to do, or could make just a little bit more effort and get done.I drove to LA on Tuesday to see Billy Connolly's stand-up show. I was going to write about that, and I'll mention it briefly here because it was a good time. My face hurt by the end of the show from laughing too much, and my first time to Hollywood, although grey and damp, was good. But because I didn't write about it when it happened, I have to write about something else instead. A friend of mine died earlier today (thursday). He wasn't a close friend, but he was a fantastic bloke, the sort of guy who would do just about anything for just about anyone. I knew him through work, and while we only saw each other a few times on social occasions, one of those was when he had a bunch of us over to his place for Thanksgiving. He would organise people to get together just because it was about time, Things would come up, so I'd tell myself I'll do it next week. I went to see Billy Connolly in LA on Tuesday, so instead of going to see Michael on Wednesday, I stayed in bed most of the day because driving there and back was pretty tiring. So I told myself I'd go on Saturday, because my EMT class is at the hospital for a practical that day. He won't be there on Saturday. When my parents left England, I stayed behind for a year to finish school. I'd also go, every fortnight, to play chess with an elderly swiss gentleman called Mr Krapft. My mother used to see him, have him over for cards, go to his place. I'd go over to his place and make pound cakes (that were somehow the best cakes ever. In theory every pound cake should taste the same, cos the ingredients don't change. But his were the best). One week, I didn't go- I forget the reason, I think I may have gone in to work on the set for the panto I was doing at the time- but the following week, when I went in, it was to be told that he had died the night before. So maybe I'm writing this to assuage a bit of the guilt I feel, not once but twice, for not making the effort to see someone who matters to me. Maybe I'm lucky because when my grandparents died I was too young to be really affected by it. Maybe I'm unlucky because I'm twenty-seven, and this is the first time that someone has died whom I would see most days, who was a friend rather than a relation I would see every could of months or years. Whether lucky or unlucky, I remeber being beaten at chess by an old man with glasses so thick they would have withstood a nuclear explosion, and wondering how he managed it every time. I remember the impression Michael would do of Siegfred when he told Siegfred and Roy he was leaving the show to work on Zumanity 'You vould leefe us?'. I remember everyone who has shared a part of their life with me, and I thank them.

The Joy of Weekends

I have rediscovered the joy of weekends. Rediscovered? Come to think of it, I don't remember when I last knew the joy of weekends. It was probably back in England, when I'd use my weekends to go Orienteering, camping, or help build and paint the sets for the Hospital panto that put me on the path which led me to here. After that, after moving to the States, weekends were taken up with jobs- washing dishes, making pizza, bussing tables. This kept on into University, working full time to pay for beer and rent. Then ships, where you don't get a weekend for months at a time, then have a whole month to do just about anything (without the cash to do it). I have to say that until recently I was a big fan of the whole month off at a time. I still think it's great, because it gives you enough time to go somewhere properly- two weeks in England, a week in Seattle, several skiing trips- but after having weekends missing for so long in my life I've just realised how great they are. They're not quite long enough for you to do everything you need to do, so you look forward to the next one. This builds a cycle of antici. . . .pation that, for me at least, actually helps me enjoy the week in between a bit more. It's wierd, I don't understand it, but each day is better because it's getting me closer to the next weekend, when I know I'm going to be pleasantly disappointed in not finishing everything I wanted to do, and this gives me something to look forward to for next weekend. I think right now my weekends are booked through until September or October. There's a dive in there somewhere at Catalina, and another boat trip on the Colorado. Movies with friends, drunken bowling, all you can eat sushi, and maybe putting brush to canvas again. Photos to be taken, words to be written, and that special part of the day when you've just woken up, don't have to start moving just yet, and you can lie in bed and just feel your soul fill your entire body, luxuriate in the feeling of being alive. Oh, so the reason I've discovered the joy of weekends is because of renting a boat with a couple of friends from work for the day and sailing up the Colorado River just south of the Hoover Dam. Just relaxing, sipping a beer (yes, I do know how to sip beer!), and enjoying the motion of the water under my feet again. And rescuing a lost Jetski that had floated away from a group upstream. Those things are bloody impossible to stand on when you're knackered from swimming against the current for five minutes. Anyway. rent a boat this weekend. Get out on the water, and take time out from life to actually be alive.

dreams

Last night, I had a dream that I remembered upon waking. This doesn't happen all that often, but it was the nature of it that made me want to write about it here. It was a nightmare. But not like the ones you'd have when young. The ones where you're being chased my someone or something, or you're lost and can't find your way home, and so on.

I'd been sentenced to death. It happened by default- I was involved in something, I'm not sure what, that led me to get sentenced. I wasn't even on trial, or in jail, it was just a judgement that was passed on a group, and it ended up on me too. Really don't know much about the details, cos it was a dream and I only remember some. It was the feeling of helplessness to do anything about the situation that stuck with me when I woke up. The feeling of injustice (cos of course I didn't deserve it. . .), and not knowing how to get out of the situation.

I never had the dream about falling. I don't think it ever worried me. But I had dreams about being pursued by all manner of baddies. After seeing the Tutenkhamen exhibit when I was younger, my 'favourite' nightmare was that I was being chased. . .not by the embalmed corpse, but by the men who had died in mysterious circumstances that some attributed to the curse of the Pharoahs (incidentally, did you know there was a mummified priestess from the time of Tut on the Titanic?). Visiting Wooky Hole in Somerset, England, we were told the legend of the Wooky Hole Witch, so for a while she tried to catch me.

When I was younger, I never got caught.

Now, my dreams have changed. It's not about the fantastical any more. My dreams are much more based in reality, and more and more often they seem to be about one of my biggest fears. . .inevitability. The inability to escape what might come after me. It makes me want to remember more of my dreams, see what's going on in my head- not cos I enjoy the masochism of it, but to see what else I'm worried about that I'm refusing to admit to. Or is this what happens when you get old? The everyday worries take the place of childhood fears. The tax man is the egyptologist, the prosecutor is the witch. And cos I'm getting older, I'm not as fit as I used to be, I can't run away.

Slobodan Milosovic

When I spent a year living in Austria, I made the most of it and travelled as much as possible. Heading back from Istanbul where I'd spent New Years Eve with my girlfriend, Jenny, my route cut straight through Bulgaria, Serbia and Croatia. I sent here back to Munich by plane because I didn't want her to travel through an area that was still somewhat unsafe (what audacity made me think I should go it alone?), and took the train, travelling as I had for most of the winter break; sleeping on the train, spending the day in a different city, sleeping on a different train, different city, and so on. To me, Belgrade at that time was just a stop on the train. I couldn't even get a visitor's visa for the country. To get a visa, I had to have a hotel booking, and as my hotel rooms were various train compartments, barely reclinable seats, and in one instance under a bench in a train station, getting a hotel room was a bit beyond my budget. The transit visa I had to get still has pride of place in my passport, but it meant I was only allowed to spend hours in Belgrade waiting for my next train. I spent those hours wandering about, going nowhere in particular, just taking the place in. There's a lot to be said about going somewhere and just looking at things, and I don't mean the museums and famous landmarks- I mean just getting a feel for the place, watching the people walk down the street and live their lives. I walked down several random streets, took one or two photos, got back on the train, and carried on to my next stop (which happened to be under the bench in a train station, I think it was Graz). This was January 1999. In March of that year, NATO bombed it in protest of what was going on in Kosovo. They bombed transport and utilities (and the Chinese Embassy) in an effort to end the war. I remember the atmosphere of the place- it was an overcast, cold day. It didn't rain, but it threatened to long after I was on my way. There seemed to be a sullen resentment about the place- not at anything I could discern, but there nonetheless. I took a photo of myself leaning against a lamppost, just a random spot I stopped at, that happened to be a street with several embassies and consulates down it- I remember all the flags, just not which ones. I took a photo of the train station. Wonder if they were hit in the bombings. . . But when I heard about Milosovic's death and his arrival back home to Belgrade, I could picture it. I could see the place, painted grey in the rain, again with a sullen resentment hanging over it. Resentment against the fallen dictator who led thousands to their deaths in a megalomaniacal attempt to build himself a larger, stronger nation. Resentment against the world and the forces that brought a once-porweful man and the saviour of their dreams to such a sad end. Because whether he was evil or miscast, dying alone in a foreign prison cell and arriving back home in a casket in the rain for a funeral your wife can't attend because of arrest warrants for her issued by the country you tried to build is a pitiful end.

the world doesn't revolve around me

And let me tell you, I was shocked. Growing up, I always had the feeling that when I couldn't see someone, they just 'paused,' until they came back into my life. I was young, but it just seemed to make sense. That sort of thing does, when you're nineteen. Okay, so I was about seven. But moving around, leaving Salisbury and moving to the States, time becomes more noticeable. All of a sudden, someone you grew up with is starting to shave, or they get married and have kids and seem older. So I gradually became used to the idea that everyone else on the planet isn't just put here for my own amusement or 'character building.' They were people in their own right, with their own lives and interests and feelings. But the world was still basically my playpark. It was all for me. And I was quite happy living in that happy little place until today, when it finally became apparent the world does not revolve around me. Today it rained. Which is rare enough for Las Vegas. But what woke me up to reality was that I hadn't washed my car yesterday and it still rained. I think this must be the first time that has ever happened to me. I'd been meaning to wash it Saturday, but with one thing and another didn't get around to it. If I'd have washed it, then I'd still be safe in my cozy little world. On a lighter note, found out BT is coming to Vegas this month. And I'm bloody well going to see the show if I die from exhaustion afterwards. Working 70 a week, I can squeeze in a great show. Especially as I don't really remember much of the show in Denver, but that's a story for last September.

Narcissistic Voyeurism

Cos that's basically what MySpace seems to be about. In fact, that's what most of society seems to be headed towards nowadays. Talking with a good friend of mine who I'm trying to get into the whole MySpace thing, I had to stop and decide why I wanted him to join. And part of it is that it's handy for keeping in touch with people, and even finding people you'd lost contact with and never really meant to. But part of it is that there are three types of people online. Voyeurs, Narcissists, and those of use who are whores for both.

For instace, I write this blog. Sometimes it's meaningful, sometimes not, but why do I write it? Well, partly it helps me get back into writing as I think I've mentioned before. Partly it gets shit off my mind that's been bugging me, like Pat Robertson. And partly it's cos I like to think that what I have to say is important enough that other people might take time out of their lives and read what I've written. And if you think abuot it, this is taking narcissism a hell of a lot further than he ever did. He was so self-absorbed that he only ever inflicted it on himself and evenetually turned to stone (if I remember my Salvador Dali paintings). Whereas here I am, having the gall to write what I want to write about, and putting it somewhere that anyone in the world can read. If that isn't self-absorbtion then I don't know what is.

And then the voyeurism. We all do it. If we didn't then reality shows would never have survived. We all like to know who's doing what, where, for how long, and for how much. And this translates in MySpace to seeing who is friends with whom, and who has more friends, and who loves us enough to read our blogs or messages. When was the last time someone logged on, and when was the last time someone posted a comment. And I'm as big a MySpace whore as anyone else out there. I'm definitely a voyeur. . .maybe I'm watching you right now. . .

to do before I die. . .

You ever get to the point in your life where your priorities shift a bit, and what was important isn't such a big deal? What do you do the third or fourth time that happens to you? Cos I think that's my count now. Is it that I, as a person, have changed so much, or do most people's priorities change this much? Today, I'd like to talk about friends. But I'm not going to, because it's a sensitive subject right now. Instead, I'm going to come up with some meaningless drivel to put down here to amuse whomever may read this thing. I don't even know if anyone is reading this, but it does me good to write, maybe it'll help me get back into writing like I once was. Although can you ever really be into something you do when you're six years old, because that's how old I was the last time I felt able to write. It was a fantastic book, nearly 10 pages long. Of course, the whole premise was completely stolen- I was six years old, no one has their own ideas when they're six. It was a take off of 'The Witches' by Roald Dahl, the story where the boy gets turned into a mouse. For some reason the idea fascinated me, and I wrote my own first-person story based on that happening. I remember going back to visit a couple of years later and seeing a copy of it still in my classroom (it was Mrs. Roseman's class at Harnham Infant School, one of those depressingly common 'mobile classrooms' that were supposed to be temporary but are still there when your own kids go to school there).

And looking back at that, I realize that half my life seems to have been spent trying to escape from who I am. That's how I got into theatre, the idea of becoming someone else as soon as I got on that stage was incredibly appealling, even at 11. That's why I wrote the story, 'The Great Mouse Adventure' I think it was called. And that's why I developed an interest in film, to be able to create alternate worlds or lives to escape into. That's why I read so much and can lose myself in a book, and that's why I want to write again, to be able to project myself into the character, and in turn live vicariously through them.

But thinking about it, I suppose I've spent the rest of my life being myself, just as hard as I can, every day. I don't need to live vicariously through anyone. When I've travelled, it's always been me in those places. When I've said something stupid, put my foot in my mouth, that's just part of me. When I've wanted to do something, I've done my best to do it, and have done pretty well of it so far. People talk about the list of things they want to do before they die, and I realized I've actually done a lot of them. That's what I mean when I say I've been myself as hard as I can. And it doesn't mean I'll be ready to die when I finish my list of things. It just means I've got to keep adding to the list. It also makes me wonder what I can accompish if I really set my mind to it, because of aforementioned almost completed list. Maybe if I sincerely add things to it, then I'll get them done. So, additions to my 'to do before I die' list:

Write a Novel. One that makes people think.

Write a Memoir. Hey, I think I've had a pretty unique life. It may not all be serious drama, but there's some good stuff in here.

Go to Africa, and more than just making it to Morocco. Sure, it's Africa, but I want to make it further south. I want to get woken up in the middle of the night by a Lion. . .and not being eaten by one. For that matter, go to Australia, and not settle for just having seen South America and Asia, but actually set foot there.

Finish learning to spin records.

Watch the Aurora Borealis.

Hang glide.

Wow. That got a bit more introspective than I'd intended. It's more like meaningful drivel I suppose.