Empty head

This is what I get for drinking wine with dinner. Sluggish the next day and unable to focus. All I can do is zone. And dither. And contemplate the nothing around me. And try not to fall asleep at work.

I'm still bouncing back and forth on what to tackle next -- dig into "A Place Of Safety" or finish the last book of "Bobby Carapisi"...which is already threatening to expand into a fourth book, albeit one I can deal with at a later date. It'd just be Allen's erotic writings as opposed to his discussion of his life and times leading up to his encounters with Eric and Bobby. I may still be a bit drained after "Desert Land" and my core is unwilling to let me shift focus, yet. I don't know. I just can't seem to do anything creative, at the moment. Not even a sketch or painting or anything. All I want to do is sleep. So I think I'll go to bed early and see what happens, tomorrow.

Till then, here's a picture of Mississauga, a suburb of Toronto's that has enough elegant condos to put the Wilshire Corridor to shame.

Taken from the CNTower, of course, which is now the third tallest structure in the world, after the Burj Khalifa (2700 feet!) and some TV tower in China.

(Mississagua is that line of buildings you can barely see in the upper center if you open the photo and expand it.)

Jaunting up to Toronto

Quick jaunt up for business and a short wander...

The CN Tower, of course, tallest structure in the world...unless that thing in Dubai is more than 1800 feet tall. Which was all well and good but what I really wanted to see was...

Toronto's City Hall. It's considered a landmark building in architectural history and I read a lot about it when I thought about being an architect (for about six months). It was just going up then. This one, I got smiley about.

So...today was spent doing zero writing but, instead, driving about in another country and trying non-stop to convince myself I'd really left the US. Everything is SO MUCH THE SAME, it's spooky. I could use US dollars (though I got change in Canadian); all the cars and roads were a HELL of a lot the same and they even have spaghetti-bowls of freeway interchanges that put LA to shame; they got high-rise condos all over the place that would not be out of place in Chicago or Seattle; and the food's the same (Wendy's, Burger King, MacDonald's, you name it).

I had dinner at Ruth's Chris on a friend. Filet mignon with a salad, whipped potatoes, a glass of Cabernet, a cup of hot tea and dessert...for about what it'd cost in LA. But it was damn good. I spent more for the same basic meal at McCormick & Schmit's (sp?) in Chicago ten...no, eleven years ago and it was hideously bad.

And I took pictures. I even went to the observation deck of the CN Tower and stepped onto the glass floor to look down 1100 feet and got seriously nervous...which was weird, because that thing was rock solid and people were scooting about on it and I knew it was all fine in my head...but not actually seeing anything holding me up brought out the visceral freak-out in me.
See?

I have a passport

I got it while I was in college and the last few years have carried it with me wherever I go, even just in the US. It's come in handy a few times, like when I needed a third form of ID to get a Texas driver's license and when I decided to pop over to Canada for the first time while in Detroit. I never thought I'd have to use it to prove my citizenship to another state, however, but word now is that Arizona will be stopping ANYONE and everyone it wants to just to check on their citizenship...because if they only do it to Latinos, they'll get sued for discrimination right and left.

I've driven through Arizona a number of times (on both the 10 and the 40) and there've been occasions where I've had to change planes in Phoenix (flying Southwest), and I've been told by a number of people I come across as more European in nature than American, so I can just see me being hauled off and interrogated unless I have that with me. It's the latest in police state behavior, and basically what was done to Jews in Germany, and the GOP is doing back flips to assure everyone they won't REALLY use it to hurt REAL Americans. But that's bullshit.

Latinos who were born and raised in the US have been deported to Mexico because they couldn't prove their citizenship, immediately. Hell, Cheech wrote a song about it called "Born in East LA" (or was it Chong? I never can remember which is which). It also happened not that long ago in California, where a young man was pulled into Immigration and, because he was mentally disabled and terrified, it was assumed he couldn't speak English, so away he was sent. It took his family weeks to find him and bring him back, and was a huge embarrassment to Immigration officials. Now? It'll be shrugged of with, "We's just followin' the law."

So if you're going to see the Grand Canyon, take your passport. If you don't have one, get one. You'll need it in Phoenix, Tuscon, Sedona, Flagstaff and any stretch of freeway you're heading down. Hell, soon you'll need it in all 50 states, if the GOP has its way.

Right now, I'm wishing I'd gone and started teaching English in Berlin. I thought about doing that when I visited friends over New Year's 2007/2008. But I wimped out and focused on working in film as a writer...and look at me now. Working in Buffalo.

Moral? If you think you want to do it, don't think it -- DO it. Nine times out of ten your initial instincts are the truest and best.

Arizona SB 1070 -- Sieg Heil!

It seems Texas and Arizona are on a race to the bottom of the pack when it comes to decency and respect for their citizens, and Arizona just got the lead by passing a law that codifies racial profiling of Latinos. Anyone who says it's anything else but that is flat out lying.

This bill doesn't target illegal Irish; they look like white folk. Same for illegal Canadians and Germans and Swedes and Russians. Illegal French and Italians can sort of look Latin, but most likely all them local redneck cops'll look for are the Indio-Mexicanos -- the ones who don't look Castilliano but have the Aztec or Inca features. You know, like 'Merican injuns do but with brown skin instead of red and with squattier noses (I did not come up with this description; a friend of mine's father once used it to rant against "beaners"). Of course, Arizona already does DWB so African-Americans will see no difference.

What this means is, now it doesn't matter if your family goes back ten generations -- and lest we forget, Arizona was part of Spain and Mexico for more than a hundred years prior to becoming a US Territory, so there are a lot of Latino families in that state that have been around longer than the white folk -- if you're Mexican-American and don't have a passport proving you're a United States citizen on you at all times, they can deport you. Period. Driver's license doesn't count. Green card MIGHT be okay, but I wouldn't bet on it.

And it was all done by the Republicans. And if you belong to the Republican Party, you are giving this type of fascistic garbage your tacit support.

Well...this is disgusting. Disgraceful. Despicable. And the disease is spreading through our nation, thanks to the GOP. If the Democratic Party doesn't do something about it and do it NOW (and fuck Obama's dithery little wish for consensus) then they also tacitly agree with this growing filth. After all, silence = consent.

(BTW -- you might notice the Arizona Legislature didn't target the people and companies who HIRE illegals; that might hit too many white folk who support the bill but still want their gardens cultivated and homes and offices cleaned for $5 an hour, no taxes paid.)

Done and gone

I finally made myself stop dithering with DL and printed it up and sent it off to see what happens. This magazine says they respond within 8 months...which is a damn long time to wait to see if I'm getting it published...but I don't makes the rules, I just gets 'em applied to me. And that's all the info anyone's gettin' on this...for now.

I got a new phone for just $30 and a 2 year extension on my contract...which I don't mind; Sprint's been as good as anything else. I also got a better deal on my plan for the same monthly payout. What's even better -- I'm now the proud owner of a chrome red beast that's lighter and smarter than the one it replaced.

Ah, technology.

Now off to veg.

Got the day off

So I'm going to finish with "Desert Land" and get a new phone since my phone's battery now keeps a charge for maybe 10 minutes (it's 3 whole years old) and even my backup battery is starting to act up...and then I'll contemplate my future.

As for my past, here's a photo of the reason I didn't go to Paris.

The green streaks above the volcano are the Northern Lights. I think the color comes from the film or type of processing they used on the photo, because even the snow has a hint of green to it. Besides, I've seen the Northern Lights -- when we lived in Grand Forks, North Dakota -- and my God, were they phenomenal. Whispering gauze curtains of a blue so pale it was almost white, swaying in a midnight sky of ten million diamonds. I watched them for an hour before they began to fade. I'd seen pictures of them, before, but the emotions you feel while witnessing something so elegant and gentle...I think that was the first time I really caught an idea of how insignificant human beings are, despite our arrogant insistence that we're the center of the universe.

It's a beautiful photo -- but I'm still pissed off at that fucking volcano.

Headed for Toronto...

For a Monday meeting to discuss the Toronto Book Fair in September. After that comes work on various other little deals and the website and I'm getting into things I've never done before. It's all a bit overwhelming but still fascinating, to an extent. Thing is, today I spent so much time researching a possible direction to go in search of new business, I'm brain dead. No thoughts to reveal or ideas to contemplate. Just brain death, thanks to a need to make a living since I ain't rich or doing what I want to do with my life. As jobs go, this one's good. But I have a feeling I'll have more and more days like this and wind up just writing on the weekends.

Sigh.

I saw this picture online a few months ago...don't remember where or what it's from (Colorado?) but it sort of suits me, right now.

Now I think I'll make some tea and let myself whine, internally, for a bit.

Just for the hell of it...

Here's the first section of "Desert Land", again. If you want to compare it to the first version I posted, that's on April 9th.

I hate El Paso the moment I see it. Bleak dusty haze filters hovels of clay and tile under early morning light. Mountains dance around each other like wary partners. Nothing but brown in shades barely varied. All framed by streaks of grime and shattered bugs on the windshield.

“There’s no green.” My first words after hours of silence.

Beside me, mother pops her gum. “Can’t do much about it.”

Shite, hits my brain but stops. She scratches her left wrist with her right fingernails, so I know better than to speak.

I’m behind the wheel. Mid-60’s Texas let me have a hardship license. Let me aim the old Dodge wagon down a highway half-constructed and travel all night to avoid daytime’s heat. Let me if an adult rides shotgun. Mother qualifies even though she cannot drive but only chew gum the whole way as my brother and sister sleep in the back, suitcases for pillows and as partitions.

Passing through the city gathers more dust from deep holes dug for the highway to come. Heat drowns the cool night. I can bake or roll down a window and cough. Warmth makes me weary so I choose the latter, but mother snaps, “I’ll get asthma,” and wields her inhaler as proof.

We stop at a light. I wait till her eyes grow sharp before I grip the window’s handle and an ancient woman in black sneaks a withered hand inside to touch my hair and whisper, “Ay, qué lindo, por dios,” before vanishing. I’m used to these attacks. Nana said “those people” think a redheaded child means good luck. We lived in San Antonio, then, and it happened every time I went downtown with her. I asked if that meant stepchildren, too. She laughed but did not answer, and I was moved to England a month later. She died soon after.

“That’s why you keep the windows up,” mother snaps then inhales her fake breath. My brother and sister wake to whimper, “I’m hungry,” and mother replies, “We’re almost home.”

Home? Here? Never. I grow so, so tired, but I drive on.

We locate the airbase despite her husband’s directions. I show a wary guard my driver’s permit and Dependent ID to prove I am who I am.

“Key-rice,” he says. “Tesas le’s babies dri’e cahs!” His accent reminds me of London. I almost weep.

He puts a sticker on the windshield and tells me to follow the road to a parallel street facing the runway.

We find the house. White stone blocks with black-trim-windows. Barely-green grass and trees desperately trying to take hold. A mirage of normal life. Other houses are its twin, each with a fenced backyard, each with a sad air cooler atop the nothing roof. Wide strips of space sit between them.

I park. The key mailed to us unlocks the front door. No one greets us. Her husband is on duty.

Mother sighs. More stone walls in white. Linoleum floors. Furniture shoved about and boxes everywhere. A small kitchen boasts a noisy refrigerator. A hallway leads to four bedrooms. Once officers’ quarters, now worn out and soon to be given away, so the Air Force can feel generous to non-com families.

I look in the first room on the right. Not big but my bed, dresser, desk and art table fit. How did he know this one’s mine? Because the bathroom’s across the hall? Or the windows face trashcans? Probably the latter. I look at the bed. I don’t need a sheet to sleep.

“We need milk!”

I go to the kitchen. Mother slams cupboards and sneers at the fridge. It holds bread, cheese and beer.

“Have you money?” I ask.

“When your father gets home.”

No, your HUSBAND. Unspoken, again. She slams more empty cabinets and scratches her wrist. I leave the house.

I remember passing a tiny base exchange on a corner of this fake oasis, available for snacks, beer and cigarettes. I walk past a half-dozen homes to hunt and gather since her husband didn’t. And to keep from falling asleep. My one true survival skill.

Milk, eggs, Frosted Flakes, jam and peanut butter take the last of my allowance, less a dime. I hope she pays me back.

By the door, I notice a magazine rack with “Hunter’s Digest”, “Popular Mechanics”, “Gold Key Comics” -- and a small physique photo pamphlet. I first saw one at a news kiosk in Piccadilly. I set down the bag, grab a comic book and use it to hide the pamphlet. Inside are strong, beautiful men. A tiny cloth covers their privates. My heart quickens but no one screams, “’Ere, shove orf, yer buggerin’ lit’le bast’d.” The clerk is busy so I slip the pamphlet in the bag and buy the comic with my last dime. Outside, I slide the pamphlet into the comic and put it in my back pocket. It’s my reward for safely bringing my family to this hideous place.

Letting go

Draft 10 of "Desert Land" is done and I felt comfortable enough with it to print out a nice clean copy for my file. I still print hard copies of everything, since I once lost 50 pages of writing, completely. Of course, I was on a PC then; now that I'm on a Mac, the only time I have problems is when Word decides to freak out and freeze on me; and I have that set up for auto-save so I don't lose too much.

I dunno what it is about word that keeps doing that -- not often but often enough to irritate. I never have that problem with Final Draft...and I could use that for narrative writing if I wanted. It has different limitations, however, that keep me away from it...though at the moment I can't remember what they are.

Anyway, I'll be done with DL tonight and ready to face POS, after this. Meaning I'm not sure about BC3. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going the right direction with that story. Allen was going to explain himself, but something about his ideas never has felt right and I think it's because he just wants to shock and not explain. He and I need to have a much more in depth conversation before I go forward with this; Eric's even a bit leery of him (Eric is the narrator pushing the story forward in "Bobby Carapisi 1&2"; Allen is accused of being in on the attacks on him and Bobby). My publisher won't be happy, but he's so backlogged right now, I doubt he'll make much of a fuss.

Man...I feel so cool -- talking about "my publisher."

Winding down...

Into a dead brain zone. I got one more polish of DL in me then I have to shut down for a while to let the batteries recharge. I think I'll veg, tonight, and watch "Seven Samurai" again. A brilliant movie, absolutely brilliant. It's a long movie -- nearly 3 hours -- but not one moment of it's boring to me.

However I seem to be in the minority opinion, there. I once watched it on TCM and Robert Osborne and Rose McGowan discussed it, afterwards, and went on and on about how it could have been cut by a third and lost nothing -- and I nearly put my Dr. Pepper through my TV. I lost all respect for Osborne after that; as for McGowan, I know she's an actress but I have zero interest in anything she'll ever do because she's obviously shallow in the most typical sense. Yes, the movie has moments of repose and contemplation, and it builds slowly, step by step to an absolutely breathtaking battle in a driving rainstorm, but to me every step was important in building the reality of Japanese life in feudal Japan and by taking its time and letting you become friends with the samurai and the people they're out to protect, it makes the victory and sense of loss at the end overwhelming. You don't get that from "Transformers" or "Armageddon" or any of the tripe popped out by Hollywood, lately. Hell, I even saw a movie that could have been really good nearly ruined by the feeling that pacing was more important than the people in the film (that and the villains were absolute idiots, but that was also dictated more by pacing; KISS bad guys to make the action come faster).

I once had an argument with a film professor over Jean Renoir's "La Grande Illusion." It's a 1936 film about POWs in WWI and has a beauty and humanity to it that is nearly impossible to find, these days. There were three main sections to the film -- the set-up and capture of the Frenchmen and their confinement, living in the prison camp and trying to find ways to escape, then two of the men escaping and finding refuge at a farm house before making it across the border to Switzerland. The professor insisted it would have still been a good movie without the last act set in the farmhouse (one of the French escapees falls in love with a German woman who's lost all the men in her life to the war). To me, that's what elevated the film to poetry (and I know what I said in my previous post, but this is the sort of beauty I actively love to find). I understood his point, but it was a minimalist's one -- "You said what you need to, now get on with it."

But sometimes meaning comes from the periphery of a story, the incidental moments that give it life and elegance. In today's world of "everything has to be connected absolutely" as regards storytelling -- meaning you can't have someone like to carve soap animals unless it winds up emphasizing some element of the character; shadings no longer allowed just for the sake of themselves -- it feels like we've lost the ability to tell simple stories about simple people. Stories like "400 Blows" -- about a boy whose parents neglect him as he slides into juvenile delinquency. Or "Wild Strawberries" -- about an irascible old man driving to accept an award and learning he's been a jerk most of his life. Or "Late Spring" -- about a man who wants his daughter to get married even though he knows if she does, he'll be left alone. Or "Dodsworth" -- about a man who gives up his life to make his wife happy only to learn she can never be satisfied. Or "Norman's Room" -- about a woman who's got cancer and has to convince her distant sister to take over the care of their ailing father and elderly aunt. Small gentle stories about normal everyday people.

And so...do I write things like that? Sometimes. I'd like to think "Bobby Carapisi" fits into that mold...and that "Place of Safety" will...and maybe "Desert Land" does. I wrote a novella titled "Perfection" (published in an anthology called "Boys Will Be Boys - 2") that has my usual erotic elements in it, but which focuses on a young art student finding not only his muse but his meaning in life, and I think that's in this realm. Same for "5 Dates," my last screenplay...where I sort of updated "Beauty and the Beast" into a high school in Ann Arbor, Michigan but kept it grounded in reality to where it works on a human level, too.

Oh, I dunno -- maybe I'm deluded. I just like to think I'm aiming for the same things I like in books and films and plays but in reality I'm just as caught up in the rules of the game. Guess I'll never know.