Manhattan Murder Mystery or King Lear, that is the question.

Oh shite, ze water is boiled. I shall now have me tea for me ailing bod.

As Oliver would say, be back soon.

So this is a cool thing. Apparently the Actors Anonymous Theater Company chose one of my plays for their one-act play fesitival in May.

The play is called "Untitled," and of course is drenched in allegory and symbolism. I'm sort of surprised they chose that one, but hey, whatever works.

So I guess this begs the question, in art, are you an artist if you show your work, or rather, do you need to show your work to be an artist? I'd consider myself a playwright, but until I get one produced, I find it difficult to say that.

Well maybe it's a case of whether or not you're a successful artist and or playwright. BUt then what is successful?

Ah fuck it.

I'll give y'all details when I know them, but you should check it out.

OKay, This is akin to an epiphany. Who knew about the flash chat shite on this thing? And I have a microphone! Life just became so much easier, thank you Paul.

It does keep on booting me off, so who knows, but ey, regardless. Laters sir, and thanks again.

I'm going to wake up my dog who is having terrible dreams right now. Hopefully it is of disgusting little dogs rather than thought of killing me.

I mean what the fuck.

So I have all this shit to do and I have to go and pass out again. I'd feel better if I really passed out, but no. Damnit.

It's just that I'm legitimately tired, and that's just god awful. Sure, I'm up now, but I feel like passing out again. I won't be on the ball which again, fuck me.

What's one day right. Bastard. I'm just aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

um.

I'm going to sleep. Before I break my computer.

Damnit.

It's true. We're talking inches here. It's a long story but basically a long steel rod came whipping at my neck. If it would have hit my skull, I might be dead now.

Why am I okay with the fact that it didn't hit my skull? I mean, some people would completely look at their lives differently.

Me?

I just knew it wouldn't have hit my skull for some reason. I really just know that.

Very strange but it all makes so much sense sometimes.

I was about two drinks away from absurdity when I decided to leave the bar. Walking home, I pass by two sketchy characters that I know I’ve seen before but cannot place their faces. I’m walking at a pace twice their speed and only look back to see who they really are. When I recognize them, I keep pace and head for home to take a leak.
    “Nothing is left up to fate,” says the smaller one to the other. “Everything happens for a reason.”
    My pace slows to a walk for once and I try to overhear more. I can’t. I am already out of range. I look and see that my apartment is five houses away. I have to take a leak. But it’s garbage day tomorrow so before I relieve myself I must relieve the loaded can. As I push the can towards the street, the characters walk by again, still talking about nothing they’ll ever figure out.
    Should I.
    I should.
    “It doesn’t make sense,” I say to the smaller of the two. “You cannot have things happen for a reason with no fate. It doesn’t work like that.”
    “Excuse me?” says the shorter of the two.
    “I over heard you, but you’re wrong,” I say.
    “No, no, no.” And to his friend he says, “See this is what I’m talking about.” He then looks at me. “You misunderstood. Everything happens for a reason. Let’s say for example,” and he holds out his right hand like a gun, and points it at me and pokes it into my chest. “I was to shoot you in the heart.” There’s a brief silence and I feel each breath of mine leave my body.
“BLAM!” he shouts. “Okay?”
    “Okay,” I say. Barely.
    “And you fall on the ground dead,” and he takes his hand away.
    “Okay,” I say.
    “Well see . . . there’s a reason you’re on the ground.”
    “Well sure,” I say. “In the Newtonian sense of the word sure, cause and effect, sure.”
    “You’re on the ground,” he says. “Dead. Because of me. I did that to you.”
    “But no, I mean yes, okay,” I say.
    His friend looks at me with glasses on his face, an eight day old beard, and clothes that clearly belonged to someone else at one point, and asks, “It’s hard to understand isn’t it?”
    “No,” I say. “No it’s not hard to understand. See the thing is that you can’t say that things happen for a reason without fate. If there is no fate, things don’t happen for a reason. If there is no reason for things well then, there would be nothing but absurdity.”
    “We only have absurdity.”
    “YES. We do,” I say. “Or it could be that we simply do not know our own fate.”
    “No,” he says. “You just don’t know yours.”

Death can wait, I have bigger issues right now.

OKAY! So I have a job opportunity for anyone who's interested.

I am looking for someone to help me out. I am writing a book entitled DROWNING HERMEY, based upon my time as a toy designer at Fisher-Price. What I am looking for specifically, is someone or a couple of people, who are somewhat well-read, or at least enjoy reading, who'd like to read (so far) about 15 short chapters and let me know what you think. To be honest, I'll take anyone's thoughts, although I am really looking for the female viewpoint (to let me know if it's one of those "guys" books like a Fight Club) because as of now, I only have guys reading it. This is not to say that I wouldn't mind another guy checking this out. I just need feedback.

The story is about Tom Banaulski - a toy designer who hates his job so much that he has picked a fight with absurdity. It's not merely a will he quit, or not scenario, but rather, can he find some justification in his existance.

That sounds heady, but it's funny, being about toy designers and all.

Anyway, the pay, um, yeah, we can figure something out. Coffee, food, a few bucks perhaps (being an aspiring writer is not profitable). But basically, you'll be able to have your hand in a book that will most likely be published, hopefully, okay well I'm banking on it.

SO if any one is interested, there's not much to read and it's a good story from what I've been told, let me know via email or on estrip.

I thank you.

So I just watched bjork's Dancer in the Dark. Being a huge fan of musicals simply because as she says in the movie, "Nothing dreadful ever happens in a musical," I loved the music, the shots, the choreography. But the story. Talk about a lesson in empathy . . . I felt sick at the end and then remembered to breath. That's a great thing.

Then it got me thinking about death again and the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

So now, as I once again walk on the railroad tracks that separate an absurd existence from a life worth living, high above the valley below, whilst others frolic in the stream and don't bother to look up, I have to keep my balance. This is why I had practiced so much when I was a kid on the Moodna Viaduct back home. I now realize this.

That's better. He's a lot cuter than I am (referencing previous userpic)

I have to say, it's good to hear from y'all in these wee hours.

the morning will come either way, so might as well . . .

But as Dylan says, do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light. It works literally too.

night all.

Okay, so I've been wondering. I'm up every night until about, well late or early depending on the glass half full/ half empty perspective. It seems the best time for me to get something accomplished. And maybe there's a bent appeal of typing away, on the verge of discovering something great whilst the world sleeps.

But I suppose my question is, of the (e:peeps) out there, does anyone else find the night a comforting time to stay awake and do what you want to do? Is anyone awake because they want to prolong the coming of the morning, and another day disappearing? Now that I think about it, maybe that's it. Sure it's great to work at night, the sullenness is truly beautiful (although I could stand to live in an apartment 18 or so stories up looking over the skyline of Manhattan, but one has to make due), and yet maybe it's just me trying desperately to use time to its fullest. Maybe I'm attempting to disparage the hold time has. Hmm.

Anyone else know where I'm coming from, or should I just go to bed.

Oh crap, deadlines. Deadlines keep me up too.