Thursday, September 30, 2010

i'm sick. my body is achey and i have a weird sense of exhaustion. i had a sore throat earlier-- this concerns me, all are symptoms of mono. however, i do have a friend who recently suffered swollen lymph nodes plus all of the above and tested negatively for mono. however his illness plagued him for awhile, and i don't have awhile. i've mostly slept on and off for these two days.

what have i been doing when i have some clarity of mind? reading about Columbine shootings, something that happened during my lifetime, very memorably, but as with most events that have happened in my lifetime I only took in the information as it came, and never really looked at the whole story. today, i tried looking at the whole story, and i feel more than ever that at some point, much later in life, i should return to school and afterwards assume a position of some sort of criminal rehabilitation therapist. on the one hand, this stuff is horrifying, but on the other, especially in the journals of the depressive, Dylan, you can see plainly the pain that could have been confronted, that is relateable, treatable. More than that, there is a puzzle, to me, in these events. I don't think one person could have swooped in to prevent it all and save both of these troubled kids, but of course it could have been different. Why did it play out this way, exactly? And what about fate? The most intriguing bit of the entire story, to me, is this other kid that had had some falling-outs with the gunmen, but had started to be friends with them again towards the end. When he saw one of them (Dylan I think), the day of, he asked him why he had missed class. The gunman responded that the kid should get out, and leave school, "I like you now," he said. Without questioning, he kid left. I don't feel that this means the gunman was merciful, necessarily, I certainly don't think he was somehow convinced by his more "psycho" friend, Eric, to kill everyone- he was gleeful where his partner was stoic, he enjoyed the killing. But by chance, amidst all that, the vengeful, on-the-edge gunman decided he liked his old friend that day, and he warned him.

Now I'm reading about Virginia Tech. I'm sure this research is partially motivated by some sort of horrible taste for the morbid side of things, though I hope not. I think, generally, the inner interest is the puzzle-- right now, in every way, it seems as though nothing fits together. The tragedies are like that. You think, now that it's all happened, that all these people are dead and the killer has desposed of himself, maybe you have all of the pieces and you can fit them together so it can make sense. Then you can hold up the complete picture and see if it matches anything else, you can make sure it never happens again.

..But it does happen again. And apparently it just gets worse (13 < 32).

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

all dolled up in straps, where have you been?

All this evening I've been looking into the au-pair life and getting info together in order for me to pounce.
Hi Dublin, let's be friends.

I'm very tired of lazing around here, nothing is going to happen until I really make money. There is no way I could stay in LA even if I got a cool job, the cost of living is just too high for someone who not only has an empty savings account but owes everyone money (gaaaaah!), and one of the things I most want to do is travel. So. Even though the au pair jobs don't offer huge salaries, they DO put you in magical places. Handy. At the very least I can look into getting something for next summer. I'm caught between Ireland, Italy, and Germany (Germany has the best salary, but... I love Ireland, and they speak some form of English... plus, I've read all of their books and seen all of their movies thanks to LMU, haha). If I did that through next summer, I could check out the area while I was there, then trek around using "WOOF," a program that houses volunteers on farms in Europe, and then I could take up au pairing again some time in the fall in another country. Hmm. These are ideas. Maybe the summer is indeed a good goal- in the meantime I can work very hard at making what money I can, writing up a storm, losing weight, and maybe making a jaunt up to Washington or, dream of dreams, NY. OH NYC, I need to be with you someday, it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad.

a thing that occurred to my stupid brain lately in a stupid way:

1) I saw an Cormac McCarthy interview with Oprah today, and Oprah asked him if writing was his passion, mentioning that she always tells young people to do what they feel passionate about without thinking of the payment because engaging their passion IS their payment.
.... ?!
of course, i've always thought that you have to pursue your passion and hope for money to follow, but i had never thought of it THAT way. engaging your passion IS your payment. writing, even if no one gives a shit, IS your payment, because you love it. if you're an accountant who loves to write, then you account so you can make money so you can write on the weekends, but that's almost pointless if you think about it. why not just write? ha! i scoff at Oprah sometimes, but you gotta hand it to her. nice job, O.

onward, blazing pens!!

Monday, September 27, 2010

one of my most favorite quotes from a play.

Felix: I can't stand it, Oscar. I hate me, oh boy, do I hate me.

Oscar: You don't hate you, you love you! You think no one has problems like you.

Felix: Don't give me that analyst jazz. I happen to know I hate my guts.

Oscar: Come on, Felix. I've never SEEN someone so in love.

Felix: I thought you were my friend.

Oscar: That's why I can talk to you like this. Because I love you almost as much as YOU do...

Sunday, September 26, 2010

also, because i've been thinking about it for 3 days:

one of the top 50 things that makes me laugh is this part from Good Omens, a mostly amusing book with a few moments of pure brilliance, as here seen:

"He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did.
What he did was put the fear of God into them.
More precisely, the fear of Crowley.
In addition to which, every couple of month Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn't look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. 'Say goodbye to your friend,' he'd say to them. 'He just couldn't cut it ...'
Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.
The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified."

kill it! kill it! no- no, stomp it!!

Sleepy Hollow, like most of Tim Burton's movies, had so much wasted potential (the original story really is so great, and if Burton had just built from that it could have been really solid, but he just kind of took the concept and stretched over many hits and misses), still, I really like it anyway. The art is exquisite, and Johnny Depp miiiiight give my most favorite performance of his with his perfect interpretation of Ichabod. I also like the nice, stylized romance between Ichabod and Katrina.
Also, Johnny Depp says "Katrina" alot, which is reason enough to watch. Although I've gotten used to hearing my name in connection to sprawling destruction, there's no other Katrina heroine that I know of. I wonder what it's like sometimes for the girls with the far more popular names like Emily, Emma, Amanda, Rachel, and how often they encounter characters with matching names. It must be normal for them, but it's weirdly thrilling for me.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

I've been having a hard time organizing my creative ideas lately, but I try, as ever. I have all of my screenwriting ideas (all of the ones I could remember, anyway, including fragments) written down and filed in my former school binder. It has a postcard of Edward Gorey's "Donald Imagined Things" on the front and random clippings that i used to have on my desk bulletin board on the back-- an ophelia postcard i used to be obsessed with (which may or may not have triggered my Hamlet craze, I'm not sure) a Breaking Bad sticker I got with the purchase of Season 2, a postcard from Madrid, a picture of NYC that I've had for forever, and one of Robert Downey Jr.'s pictures from the Rolling Stone photoshoot (the first thing I bought at the LMU bookstore, as a matter of fact-- the Rolling Stone mag, not just Robert Downey's picture... haha).

Right now I'm bouncing between five projects, one being the third draft of my thesis (which I was starting to hate there for awhile but now I have a new direction so it feels at least a little bit fresh), a revised sort of autobiographical "indie" type dramedy, a revision of my first screenplay (a 1960's period piece which is now becoming WAY more high concept-- I'm very excited), a revision of a short film that I once wrote and really wanted to film once-upon-a-time (which I feel will be ready for just that once I complete it), and, finally, the last being my new favorite shiny idea, a steampunk [Victorian meets 1920-30's meets sci-fi] story about the concept of humanity, which is, I suppose, at the heart of every sci fi story. I originally had the creepy idea of a robot who eats a lost cowboy, sort of a steam-punk the old west sort of thing (only... not Wild Wild West, I hope), but it's evolved way beyond that. I can't really bring anything all that original to the sci-fi genre, unfortunately, I can only borrow from other established story types when it comes to the atmosphere and the "World," IE the national/political situation in the story, however I hope that the focus of the relationship in the script will be the stand-out part, and that all the filler (zeppelins. zeppelins. my true steampunk love--- WHY CAN'T MORE MOVIES HAVE ZEPPELINS AND TRAINS?! they're so awesome) will not seem like that much of a rip-off if it's painted as vague and only incidental. I don't want to tell an epic story but a small one (am I trying to talk myself out of it? not sure). Anyhoo, those are the main things I'm pinging back and forth. I still need to return to my Clara Bow script with oomph, and in times of distraction I'm all about outlining for a period piece comedy (flapper comedy!!) and trying to sort out the characters for what will be my epic Magnolia/Tenenbaums ensemble masterpiece, Pluto, about the repercussions of planet pluto's demotion to "dwarf." I also recently started re-reading the start of a novel I began last year and I think it's damn good. So perhaps I should work on that when I get bored of everything else. The important thing is to write.

Dear Zeppelins, why are you so cool and freaky looking? i love you.

Whhhhy are my ideas so brilliant? WHY can't I make my writing as brilliant as my visions?! damnation! damnation!

I have discovered, at the very least, that this blog is nice and serves as a sort of warm-up (at times procrastination-ary) tool, and it's nice to be able to sift through the archives from time to time, even though most of my postings seem to contain mainly whining and "blablabla the beatles blablabla jon hamm bla." Oh well. When I'm accomplished I'll appreciate that. And Jon Hamm will too. 'Cause we'll be married.

there's a girl in coffee bean wearing a pair of shorts that have "DOGS" printed on the butt. bad call, even if they ARE for some kind of sports team.

So I have alot of writing work that needs to be done, thus why I am in a coffee bean at the most uncomfortable table possible (there are more comfortable spots, but nowhere near an electrical outlet are they, and my computer lasts about 15 seconds on the battery, which at this point I only use as a precaution (aka my computer gets unplugged mid-masterpiece writing). My mother loaned me some money for gas, thank the LORD (I made it home from Camarillo on Friday on what was probably quite literally fumes and momentum, the arrow was BELOW Empty, and the last time that happened I ran out of gas on the frikkin' highway), which I promptly used to fill up the gas tank and get out of the house.

The people I live with, an older couple (though they don't seem that old to me... lively chickens, they are), are really incredible people, and they are so welcoming and generous and loving. I think, despite their occasional tendency to sing THE most annoying hymns at random (not that I'm hating on hymns, I actually really like them, but not THESE hymns) that they make an excellent model Christian couple-- they are not oppressive or judgmental. I really admire them, and I'm fairly certain I can never be like them. Anyway, they are ALWAYS helping people and letting people stay in their house (and, in the case of me, even though i pay them rent i also occasionally eat their food and use their Q-tips) and loaning money and doing everything they can (but they're not pushovers either-- I don't know how that works). They have this one weird old guy friend who is living off of disability and who, a few years ago, got an RV in order to make his life more affordable. He has a key to their house and they let him use their shower and their kitchen when he needs to. Recently, he fell from his RV ladder and broke his leg (which has been broken about 8 times, apparently) and now his RV is permanently in the VanderLinden driveway, and soon he will be taking up the guestroom until he heals up. There was no question about it, they all just knew that that was how it was going to happen. I love that. And also kind of hate it, because again, no way you would catch me doing that for a weird old guy (with no money). I also wouldn't be nice to me, either.

...That wasn't even my point. This week and weekend the Lindens have all of their daughters in the house-- the eldest, with her husband and her twin babies and her two incredibly stupid, uber-yappy dogs (ARGH ARGH KILL KILL), and the middle, my old weird room-mate from my apartment times (whom I understand a good deal better these days but still have nothing to say to), and the youngest, who flew in for the first time in a long time to say howdy-hey to the rents. It is a packed house, not to mention every night seems to bring company for dinners, Bible studies, and open-houses. Lots of baby stuff jam-packed everywhere, lots of dog-barking (Melinda and Kim have two- much better behaved- dogs, and the girls who rent the apartment in the back of the house have a dog as well.... it's times like this that make me realize having a cat would be a bad idea), lots of baby-crying, lots of people everywhere! I feel super awkward every time I come out of my cave-- I don't know why, I just never want to disturb anyone or make them think ill of my lack-of-money or my hermit ways. I don't know why it bothers me so much. I think I need my own apartment. I think that would be ideal living for me-- I could decorate it any way I wanted to and not have to worry about doing things at certain times because of others I happen to be living with (true, I used to think everyone wanted that sort of freedom, but it occurred to me recently that a good deal of people prefer to live with people---- who KNEW?! i get the significant other thing, true love and all that, but do you really want roomies for the rest of your life? really? i don't understand).

ANYWAY, all this musing is to say that I had to get out of there, and now here I am with a long road of writing ahead of me and a nice, sugary coffee drink (compliments of my mother... again) next to me.

Friday, September 24, 2010


what an awkward life i lead.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

but he leaves the next day...

This morning, for the first time in... a long time, I got up at 5AM after a good six-hour sleep. Incredible. And I got up even before my alarm. Quite stunning, quite stunning indeed.

I know I'll probably be dragging a bit today, despite the hot coffee that I am about to consume (out of my I Heart NY mug), but I seem to drag a bit every day anyway. Today I'm starting a very part-time position, aid (or shadow) for this kid named Lee at a private Christian school. It's in Camarillo, which is about a twenty minute drive from here, but it beats Santa Barbara, which is a 50 minute drive, usually. The drawback being that I have to get up much earlier than I've been used to as a deadbeat unemployed kid, and that there is some sort of dress code. I haven't been able to figure out what that code is, though, and thus I am trying to cover all of my bases this morning by wearing my one nice pair of slacks and an oversized yet stylish and sparkly black sweater thing with traces of a weird green scarf that I wear with everything, though it's not really a scarf... more like a limp, decorative scarf wanna-be, but it certainly makes everything I wear seem a tad bit artsy. Yes, I am a stylish, artsy creature!

Anyway, I only work until about 12, after which I think I'll come back home, make an egg sandwich, and get back to writing. I did a good deal of outlining on a new old story on Monday, but yesterday was an anxiety-ridden, sleepy day that concluded with me sneezing myself silly while watching all of the new shows on Fox (Glee, Raising Hope, Running Wilde), which were not that good.

Lately I've been waking up to Paul McCartney's "Another Day" from his Ram On album, which is one of the best albums ever put together, in my opinion, and ultimately tops all of the other ex-Beatles's post-Beatles careers (strange yes, I always preferred George overall, but this album is just so GOOD). Anyway, this song is so wonderful, and it makes me very happy to move along with the mundanity (is that a word?) of life while being satisfied by the validation of sadness.

So Sad, So Sad,
Sometimes She Feels So Sad.
Alone In Her Apartment She'd Dwell,
Till The Man Of Her Dreams Comes To Break The Spell.

Ah, Stay, Don't Stand Her Up
And He Comes And He Stays
But He Leaves The Next Day,
So Sad.

I think that's so good-- not that this woman is necessarily waiting around for a MAN to help her out of it, but just something, any kind of a change to get her away from this monotony, but "he comes, and he stays, but he leaves the next day." That line just kills me for some reason. Also:

As She Posts Another Letter To The Sound Of Five,
People Gather 'Round Her
And She Finds It Hard To Stay Alive

At the same time, he's singing about her in an upbeat sort of way, which I don't feel is supposed to be ironic at all. This is life, there IS something to getting up, slipping into stockings, stepping
into shoes. It's just another day, and there's nothing really wrong with that.


On that note, I have so much anxiety about accomplishing things these days. I really need to do something wonderful.

Preferrably before I turn 23, my god.

Monday, September 20, 2010

the vest is nice too.

Being very hormonal right now, all I can say is that if all men looked like that there would be no lesbians.

Jon Hamm transcends sexual preference, hahahaha.

....just kidding, of course. or maybe not. what? hot.

ps, that is the best vest in the world, i want it and i want more men to wear things like it.

Be Drunken

Be drunken
Always. That's the point.
Nothing else matters; If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weigh you down and crush you to the Earth,
Be drunken, continually.
Drunken with what?
With wine, with poetry, or with virtue as you please.
but Be drunken.
And if sometimes on the steps of a palace or on the green grass in a ditch or in the dreary solitude of your own room
You should awaken and find the drunkenness half or entirely gone
Ask of the wind ,of the wave, of the star of the bird, of the clock of all that flies, of all that sighs, of all that moves, of all that sings, of all that speaks, Ask what hour it is, and wind, wave, star, bird or clock will answer you,

"It is the hour to be drunken
Be drunken if you would not be the martyred slaves of Time.
Be drunken Continually, with wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please."


Sunday, September 19, 2010

get behind me, gaga.


For a solid week now I have had a tormenting "ear worm" in the form of not one but TWO lady gaga songs. Not only can I not stand gaga, but these two songs that I once thought had merit are now driving me to insanity, as if I'm being punished for enjoying them! BAD GAGA! BAD!

I mostly just like writing "gaga" and being taken seriously.

Anyway, this ear worm thing has become problematic, and I believe it's what drives people mad. For awhile, every time I was driving, vacuuming, cleaning, or walking the dog all I could hear in my head was RAH RAH AH-AH-AHA, ROMA, ROME-AH-AH-AH.... Bad Romance, incidentally, is a super creepy song and I'm not even sure what it MEANS.

Alejandro is much more tolerable, and the only Lady Gaga song that I actively like(d), so I tried to use it as a Bad Romance drowning device. No such luck. Now both songs plague me! And the only cure is to listen to them often, and sample as many covers as possible. It's involuntary music obsession is what it is, and I don't like it one bit. I CERTAINLY don't like waking up with "you know that i love you boy, hot like mexico rejoice" oozing out of my brain like so much goo.

at this point, i've got to choose, nothin' to lose-- don't call my name, don't call my name, gaga. seriously, please.

edit: actually, this is one cover i find acceptable:

Friday, September 17, 2010


okay, so ever since i started thinking about all of this wedding stuff i've been stuck on the idea of love and what it means and all of that garbage and it's driving me crazy in my effort to define it and what it means to me. i don't particularly want to explore that here in front of prying eyes, however i will say that i keep coming back to The Wonder Years. Yes. the best show ever televised, in my opinion, has long served to define... most coming of age things for me, and most real-life experiences bring me back to the olden days when i used to watch (reruns) of this show. the following clip is utterly defining, especially once you know how Winnie, the childhood best friend, and Kevin wind up.

They've known each other since they were teeny tiny, and when Winnie's big brother died serving in Vietnam Kevin kissed her. Then they were friends, etc etc, and then in this episode they started getting closer again, but Winnie starts attending another school and getting involved with questionable kids, wanting her distance from Kevin but also missing him. It becomes clear that she's doing this because she wants to forget her brother and everything involving that sad part of her life. She tells Kevin to leave her alone, but shortly thereafter she's involved in a car accident involving her new friends. Cue clip.

Years and years later, come the end of the show, they have been on and off seriously for a long time. The show finale, set during their college or late highschool years, is a series of bad things, resulting in them realizing that they love each other but should not be together. Kevin's voice-over narration then reveals how all of the characters end up, concluding with Winnie, who, five or so years later, returned from an extended stay in Paris. Kevin was there at the airport to meet her, with his wife and child. The above clip and the finale are the only times in the show that they say "i love you."


if you find all that unbelievably corny, i apologize. it has always seemed very honest to me.

overcast day today,

Days like today, fog-filled days, are thick and delicious. When you can see the air it's as though the atmosphere is tangible and edible and a reminder that we are all a part of something. We all live here and the mist is like some weird strand of yarn tied to all of our ankles. It's cozy, and I love it. However, there is that special something else about it and the darkness that it brings with it. It's mysterious. While it feels like an enclosure that we all belong within, it is also like a shield or a screen. I guess that's obvious. Anyway, the mystery that comes from that is both quietly thrilling and sad. On days like today when the evening starts to come on (early), a part of me feels butterflies from the inside. I don't know if that's because it takes me back somehow to matching the autumn weather with feeling that odd, jittery first love experience, or if it's just the promise of something exciting in general. Something great is going to happen, the possibilities are endless, we can go anywhere so long as we have a warm jacket, we can light candles, we can look darkness in the face and instead of feeling the laziness of a calm summer night we have the bristle of cold shocks of wind. It's more immediate, like that feeling when someone is going to KISS YOU RIGHT NOW. It's that Halloween-time feeling, without the horror part.

The other part of me feels that odd thrill and shrinks from it. It makes me feel anxiety, especially when I'm by myself. Right now I'm in a coffee shop that's a few hours from closing and my friend has left me. I feel oddly abandoned and, though I'm loving the cold I have this overriding, bizarre worry. I want someone who smells good to sit with me. I'm suddenly really afraid of the world-- not of anything specifically, not of being hurt, not of facing the cold, probably not of being alone, but just... afraid. I feel cut short, as if something deeply satisfying should be happening right now but it's not, and all of my fall-fog-jitters were for naught. I will go home, clean my room, and watch TV, meanwhile an epic, dark and haunting classical piece of music will play in my head. I wish I knew what it all meant.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

He's off the map. He's off the map!

today... i didn't get too much done. but it was a very hopeful day.

amazingly bizarre

I just jolted awake from a long, weird, detailed and strangely constructed celebrity-infested dream. I haven't had one of those in ages, and certainly not one that I remember like I do now.

First of all, at the beginning of the dream (which, true, I don't remember but I do remember:) I knew somehow how the most of it would play out, like I was setting up the story, and what I was about to make or watch was some sort of movie, and Michael Caine and Ellen Page were in it and it was going to be Chris Nolany (of course). And then, true to weird dream form, I was also AS Ellen Page and the character as the dream went on, all the while behaving like a real person (well as much as dreams let ya), making choices about what I was going to do or say BUT at the same time knowing I was telling a story. Also everytime I saw Michael Caine I always thought, aha, Michael Caine.

Anyway, so as early as I can remember the story starting, I (Ellen-- best part being I sounded like her) am at a really elegant, awesome looking train station waiting for my train home, but I'm really sad because I have just come from the doctor who has informed me that I have cancer. I call my family (who are actors and not my own family at all) to tell them while I'm waiting for my train. Apparently I have type A, 3 cancer which is the worst, and the most unusual (in my dream). Obviously I'm kinda sad (but not all that sad). Then things start to feel sinister. A weird homeless man overhears me and said he knew someone with that cancer once, and that "they" will come and get me. Well, I wait forever and ever for my train but it doesn't come because there's been some horrible train wreck, so I try calling my parents to arrange something, but I can't get ahold of them, and random things start telling me that "they" are going to come and fetch me. Spooky. The train station has hardly anyone left in it. I call someone else to ask them to get me, and tell them about the cancer, and all of a sudden I hear Michael Caine's voice over my phone saying he's going to come and get me and "Save me"-- I do not know Michael Caine. So I figure he's the "they." So after alot of spookiness he finally shows up and I sense him from far away and try to get away but he chases me. At one point I hid, then ducked into the women's bathroom. Another woman went in right after me, so MC couldn't follow. While I'm in there I find out that there's a janitor access door to the next-door men's bathroom, so I force the lock and wait for the woman to leave, turning off the lights. As soon as I hear the click of the door starting to open again, I go into the men's bathroom and out the door that way. I start running out of the train station but Michael Caine pops out (in dark trenchcoat, FYI) and chases me out to the parking lot (it looks like something like Chicago or something). I get away and climb onto a car. Here's where it does get a tad bit fuzzy-- I'm not sure if the car started to float or if I had secretly attached myself to a flying machine. I'm going to guess flying machine 'cause the dream was kind of futuristic and I didn't think it was weird that I was floating. I do remember the person IN the machine not knowing I was on their roof, and I enjoyed the floating around, except I didn't know the Chicago area I was in very well, so I didn't know where to get off, but the flying machine gracefully set down outside of this office place just as I was getting afraid that I couldn't hold on anymore. I promptly went into the building only to find out that it was some weird, new agey cancer support group/alternative treatment place. I was all discombobulated, and had this weird conversation with a cancer patient who said that their daughter had died of cancer and now they were stricken also. They asked me what I had, and true to form I couldn't remember very well. "Uhh... I don't really... I think it's type A section 3. I'm dying, basically." And the people looked at each other and almost started to cry, and I knew it was because they had the same kind that I did. And then there was an odd moment where we all looked at a group project-- a collage with flowers on it??-- but THEN it turned out the doctor running this experimental, communal place was none other thannnnnn MICHAEL CAINE. DUM DUM DUM

Now, back to my thoughts at the start of the dream-- I knew that the dream would go as follows: Ellen has a weird, nontreatable cancer that Ellen has just found out about while "in town." The train thing happens so she can't get back. Michael Caine is made aware of her weird cancer. He experiments on people with this type of cancer (At first for cures and treatment, but then he discovered that these experiments could turn lucrative and powerful (HOW i'm not sure-- if there were superpowers involved or whathaveyou I don't know, but it WAS dark and sinister), and he's always on the prowl for someone with just this type of cancer. Somehow, in their chase he implants the need for Ellen to seek out the treatment center. I knew that once she got there she would get some of the treatment, but eventually she would find out the whole conspiracy and kill evil Michael Caine.

wtf awesome and weird.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


"...I think I'm vain. I was born pretty but not beautiful, thank God. Beautiful people are excluded from being intelligent."- Shirley Maclaine

but that's alright because i love the way you lie

Sooooo my goal is to write a really solid romantic comedy one of these days. something simple but genuine and semi-realistic (not see-their-zits realistic, obviously, but not Leap Year/Ugly Truth/The Proposal chromey-silly stylish-- although truth be told I did kinda like The Proposal BUT anyway). I've been chewing on it for awhile and I guess I'll have to chew on it some more because I really don't know what I can say about relationships at present. Although I'm not a huge fan of 500 Days of Summer (aside from the PRECIOUSNESS that is Joseph-Gordon Levitt) I really liked one of the (indirect) points that the film seemed to be making about connectivity that I think is a real issue amongst certain people- IE hipsters and most people I know: it seems like my type of person, IE the type that is interested in something real rather than hookups and clubbin' and leading a pointless Britney Spears existence has begun to define themselves by the things they like. Because the "realistic" person (as i shall call them) seems to be drawn to a certain style of thing, that thing has begun to represent what is "real" and "genuine." This is an actual, strong trend that I feel began in the 90's (obviously you'll always feel more compatible with someone with similiar tastes, however it's become more than that). As Nick Hornby identified in High Fidelity-- "it's no longer what you're like, it's WHAT you like."

I am guilty of it, and I think most my ilk is as well. We are sort of obsessive and possessive about the types of things we like, and our connection to certain pieces of art becomes magnified in our desire to allow it to define us. We want to loan people books or films that we feel will help others to understand who we really are (i certainly do that with Salinger, Ghost World, Wes Anderson films, Aimee Mann whom I have long felt "sings my life"). Then of course when we find someone who is the same, who likes all of the same things and feels the same connection to our "stuff" we interpret that as a connection to us. It makes us feel identified, included and exclusive. Us special people GET IT, and that's why we love each other.

I think some of that is acceptable, to a certain extent, because we believe it so strongly that to a point it becomes true. However, our "likes" have become the "deep person's" way of connection now, when really that should only be a small part of it. Facebook and stuff like it only worsens the issue. I know when I find out that someone I find interesting is into something like "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" or Fritz Lang or old records or whathaveyou, I instantly think we have something because those things carry significance to me. I know on the rare occasions that I've been really interested in a guy I've told my friend that so-and-so said he liked such-and-such! ahh! squee. It's really kind of a problem that only assists in keeping us at arm's length. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm going to stop participating in such a mentality, however I'm definitely going to start trying to be more aware of it in myself and attempt to get to know the individual rather than merely their tastes in music and film. ANYWAY, all this is to say this is something that I feel 500 Days of Summer hints at from time to time. The character of Tom is a hipster, and bases alot of his attraction to Summer on taste and aesthetic and what she is supposed to be. When he's granted access to her apartment, he takes it all in as though all of her objects mean something, like her little paper crane tree is some insight into her soul, and when the relationship starts to go south he tries to reconnect using, of course, pop culture (as well as old traditions of theirs, now grown tiresome). [it's also funny that the nail in the relationship's coffin happens to be a film-- the ending of The Graduate makes Summer realize that she has to end it because they have no idea what they're doing or who they are]

Anyway, the movie is actually about true love, the belief in it and the relentless search for it, however I think the "stuff" theme is present and much more interesting. As well as alerting. At one point Tom says to his (annoying) sister something about how he and Summer talked about Bananafish for 2 hours! gee it's meant to be! and his sister rolls her eyes and replies that just because some chick likes the same weirdo crap that Tom does doesn't mean they are destined. That was a very humbling moment for me, as I realized that if anyone talked to ME for two hours about Bananafish (a Salinger story) that I'd probably be ready to marry 'em. Also, anytime that I've stoppped to think about what qualities a spouse of mine would have to have "love of George Harrison" usually comes first.

I think there's alot of falseness in 500 Days, it seems a little bit more about the shine than the substance and Summer is a character that we never quite crack. Oh, and the last two minutes are hideously miscalculated. BUT I admire it for its (possibly incidental) insight into this particular matter.

I'm presently trying to examine what insight I might possibly have to bring to the rom-com genre, but nothing is coming to mind.

PS, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is so doggone CUTE. I just have to say it.

i was afraid i'd eat your brains.

It has only just come to my attention that alot of people I know are married, getting married, or bloody well on their way to getting married. I think most people I know probably know the person they are due to marry. Hm. This is both very nice and very disconcerting, as I love weddings and happiness and knowing people are going to be together and taken care of, but I also worry about them and their decisions as well as feel the panic of that tick-ticking reminding me that there is no Jim Halpert waiting around to marry me- which, as I've said, I've never thought about or- god forbid- fantasized about-- but the comfort and security of that now seems very far away, and the realization of that makes me sad.

It makes sense that I'm alone/will be alone, at least for awhile, but I wonder often now if that's what I want. It certainly won't kill me not to be married because obviously I don't know what I'm missing and I've never felt destined for it. I never played "wedding" and if i did i was usually roped into playing the compliant husband ken doll because i could do the manly voice much better than my non-imaginative friends BUT ANYWAY. These are things to ponder. Apparently, I try not to, because I don't know how it makes me feel, exactly, but when I think about my friends getting married it makes me really happy and then terrified, usually for reasons that don't involve my own life at all, but still. tick tock, as the gay guy says in Pieces of April in the creepiest way possible.

Tonight I'm thinking about my friend Julia's wedding- she was married last February and is now living as a wife and mother and it freaks me the heck out. She's doing a good job but she's still very HERSELF, which is refreshing and alarming at the same time-- she cares for her family but she still has the habits and wants of the teenager that I think she'll always be. Then there's my friend Emily, who I'm fairly certain will be next, and who will probably certainly make me her maid of honor. I can't wait, I have so many plans. On the other hand, I worry about Emily, and as she is my dear friend, even though I love her boyfriend, I sometimes think she could do better. Her parents have also gone through alot of rough patches lately, and I see how that affects her sensitivity and her needs. She does need alot, and I when I see that need I fear for marriages. Her marriage will probably have to be constructed around her rather than the two of them. Not that I'm criticizing-- never, I love them together and I want them to be happy-- I just worry. I have another friend who's girlfriend is made for him, and seeing them together is the most shocking thing because even a stranger could pick them out of a crowd and say "they're going to get hitched." It's nauseating and pleasant at the same time. Yet another friend who I expected to see search for a long time until they managed to find someone suited to them has managed to maintain what appears to be a strong and weirdly loving relationship for sometime. Many of my very old friends from ancient times have been married off already. The idea! The idea of these people that I feel I know so well going off and building their own bonds-- they may as well be founding their own countries or planets. I don't understand it and yet I think it's fantastic. Such a whole new galaxy of sorts to experience-- or create, I suppose. So much uncertainty that I can't fathom it--- but I suppose they're together. That part must be nice, sink or swim.

Anyway. I don't know what I was trying to say there except I guess attempt an explaination for the weird, happy yet grave jitter I get when I think about it. But then I like to think about details. When it'll happen. If I'll be able to help. The champagne toasts. Being a member of the wedding party. Being able to hug someone so dear to me as they truly go off into uncharted territory-- that's happened already, with mixed results, but that doesn't stop me from smiling with giddiness at the idea. I'll admit-- one of the weird, tick things that I do is make up wedding toasts like they have in the movies. I have the rough drafts for many of them in my head. There are many ways you can go with a wedding toast-- talk about the one member of the couple that you know well and what a good person that member is, talk about that person in relation (and now completion-- YAWN) to their new spouse, talk about marriage or love in general... or read a poem or somesuch thing. Naturally, I have accumlated an array to choice from, according to who marries whom and what sort of wedding it will be.

Of course, all of these plans will be quite dashed if no one ever lets me make a toast. how sad i shall be. still, better to be dashed about a missed wedding toast than your own nonexistent wedding, eh?

incidentally, i have long related to Julia Roberts's character in that movie. if only my own hair were so fabulous.

the kids are in trouble

i tried to sleep for two hours, but insomnia is nipping at my heels. i'm going to give it another go, but before I try I had to comfort myself with waking dreams of New York.

i'm wondering if i should just start applying for jobs and internships there. i can't pay to get there, but if I hooked a solid job I could borrow money for the trip and then just stay in a hostel (or my car...) until I got paid. not that jobs are any easier to come by there. but i feel like maybe if i were there, even if i were floundering like i am here, maybe i would feel like i was making some kind of progress. ugh. it would be lonely, though.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

almost a decade ago.

Because I feel like I lived through enough of 9/11 (through my TV, like all of us) I never bothered to read up on it. Every time I do I get emotional- not because it's so sad, which it is, but because it is so unfathomable to me. I will never be able to wrap my mind around it-- maybe I'm getting closer, but I'm still so far removed and that hurts me. Anyway, I've read this and that over the past few years, and for some reason it surprised me that most people, out of all of the horrendous sights that day, cite "the falling man" as the most branded on their minds. Apparently it's become as if this image is our own strange memorial to all of those who died that day. Most of us, especially on the West Coast didn't know them, but their death stood for something that we still can't even wrap our minds around. I can't, anyway.

They released two graphic novels about 9/11 to raise money for related charities, and all of the big names in graphic novels contributed. I read both of them, but I would like to buy them one day. There's a comic in one of them, starkly drawn, about a typical average joe character who is discussing the event with his friends and how sad it is, and he's thinking to himself that he just doesn't feel it, he feels like because of the media that he's just too detached, he doesn't get why and he feels terrible. He gets in his car and he's driving home at night and "Let It Be" comes on the radio and he has to pull over because he starts weeping. He says something like, of course it would take something that's so a part of the media generation to help me understand the generation's greatest tragedy. And then the author put down a number of the song lyrics. Just thinking about that comic makes me tearful.

As many as 200 people jumped to their deaths that day. in AMERICA. that just doesn't happen. i still don't believe it.

Friday, September 10, 2010

this is what comes of.... well, whatever.

You know you're an old cat lady before your time when you spend much of your evening watching cute cat videos.

like that.

the other night i just sat in my room, feeling super crappy and alternated between crying and reading (i finished The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. which was wonderful but also... so depressing), and at one point i just thought, ah, all of this would be so much better if i had my cat with me. of course, she's dead, which still makes me really sad. i loved that cat so much, and she loved me. it's interesting how you can feel for animals sometimes more than people-- i think it's because pets are so basic, especially in their love, and humans are so complicated. we have generally complex feelings of love for human beings, which are sometimes hard to fathom, even in our own hearts, whereas with animals, like my little cat, we know we love them directly and sincerely and simply. thinking about her absence sometimes makes me feel sadder than what i feel when i think of true tragedies, or people who i know who have passed away. those are complicated, clouded feelings as compared to the sadness following my expectation i have some mornings to hear my cat's funny breathing, to observe her sniffing around me in hopes that i will get up. it would be nice to have her sit in my lap while i read to myself. i still sometimes find myself settling for sleep as i used to, my legs strictly on one side of the bed so she could curl up at the foot of it and sleep undisturbed by my twitching feet. i used to get such amusement out of just watching her pussy-foot around my messy room. in the really "dark months" when i was deeply depressed to the point of what i know feel was mental illness, i stayed in bed all day and Tiggy rarely left me alone. the really sad thing is that my old cat could never know what i did for her and how much i loved her.

oh well. i have reinvigorated my desire for a Scottish Fold kitty. Ever since I read The Cat Who Went To Paris books I've been obsessed with the idea of their intelligence. They're so weird-looking but also so dang CUTE. when i am able to get a pet, that is what i intend on. and goodness, the videos of the SF kittens nearly kill me with cuteness. schmack their furry little heads.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

am i one of the beautiful people, am i on your list?

when i'm impatient i like to look up pictures of classic hollywood couples that I love (Richard Burton/Liz Taylor, Bacall/Bogie, etc etc).

also, this is unrelated, but right now on television there's a special on Avatar (not a favorite). Is it just me or is the Sigourney Weaver avatar thingy just creepy looking? Beads and a belly-shirt, woman? Really?

Wednesday, September 8, 2010



all this stupid fucking summer i've been trying to get work, to just convince myself that it's worth it to keep trying. absolutely everything has fallen through. every day it seems like something falls through-- i don't know what days are better: the ones that drag on bleakly or the ones that clobber me with disapointment.

in the meantime i've been forcing myself to edit the hell out of this STUPID script that I wrote as my thesis. I MADE myself perfect it. all this time i've known the only hope this stuff has for getting off the ground is getting noticed in contests-- you can't really get representation as an unsolicited screenwriter anymore. most of the good ones were back in spring, but I found the American Zoetrope one, which was open until tonight. That was my goal, it was my hope of light at the end of this STUPID TUNNEL-- delusional, yeah, but it would have given something for me to hope for. So tonight I get set to submit it, and the site repeatedly tells me that the account number I'm using (my mother's debit card-- yeah, i'm fucking borrowing 50 dollars for this stupid thing) doesn't exist. I tried 5000 times, the very last of which had me staring bleakly at the computer clock in disbelief as the deadline passed before my eyes.

so it's just a contest, yeah, there are others (in the distant future). but DAMN IT i really just needed to know that this was out there, in someone's hands, that i had done something to get it out. i could have that to think about while i toil away at nothing. or starve. or live in my fucking car. i didn't even realize how important that was for me until i saw that stupid clock hit zero. it WAS important, and it got fucked up and i'm so upset I don't even know what to do with myself. now everything just appears in the cold, harsh tones of reality. i don't think i've ever felt more... pointless. what good is there in trying? I KNOW THERE'S GOOD IN TRYING, just not perhaps in reference to ME.

I'm not even sad, just FURIOUSLY POINTLESS. I AM A FURIOUSLY POINTLESS GIRL. GOD DAMN and THIS IS OUR LIVES! DUST STORMS THAT KILL BABIES and bring in poisonous spiders and make us EAT PICKLED TUMBLEWEEDS! and little farmers with their spectacles still stand in the wind and smile and say we'll shine through in the end. i wish i could be that. i have no idea what i'm doing here.

and i was in a really good mood today, too.

i'd apologize for the excessive cursing but i think it's earned.

Monday, September 6, 2010

dear mad men,

So, my loyalty is still with Breaking Bad, however Mad Men is just absolutely killing me (in a good way) this season which is already hands-down it's best. The slow-build and character development of the show has paid off big time (though never explosively, which no one really wants). AMC really is where it's all happening right now-- I'm already daydreaming about working there. Anyway, the episode aired this evening, called The Suitcase (I think) was one of the best episodes of any TV show, ever. It took place all over one evening and consisted of conversation, funny and tragic, between Don and Peggy, probably the most interesting characters of the show (aside from Joan. but Joan never really gets good episodes!). Nothing happened and yet everything happened. Towards the end Jon Hamm finally got a chance to dig into a really heavy, beautiful actor's moment (we all knew he could do it) that lasted for one single long take, and the whole thing was topped off by the two characters' acknowledgement of appreciation for oneanother. It was really fantastic, somewhat like Breaking Bad's loved/maligned episode from last season that took place in one paranoid afternoon between just Jesse and Walt (The Fly), which to me was phenomenal, but what. I think Mad Men's topped even that.

[I mean, I'm writing about it which either means I'm really bored (maybe) or it was THAT GOOD.]

I LOVE that. I LOVE witnessing the creation of REAL people-- characters and relationships that we can deeply invest in. That's what makes this type of production WORK and that's what we're seeing more of in television lately! I LIKE this trend. I wish it extended to mainstream film, which is on its downside right now. Maybe all the good characters migrated.

Incidentally, Jon Hamm. I love you.

Sunday, September 5, 2010


Today I got the hankerin' to read about Hello Kitty and how and when her reign began, and exactly how much she's worth (I don't know why, I've never been into HK). Fascinating stuff for such a simple little cartoon cat. However, I thought this tidbit was especially interesting:

A spokesperson for Sanrio says that Hello Kitty is not normally given a mouth because "without the mouth, it is easier for the person looking at Hello Kitty to project their feelings onto the character" and that "the person can be happy or sad together with Hello Kitty."

geniuses. these people are GENIUSES.

Saturday, September 4, 2010


is it just me, or is Joseph Gordon-Levitt, one of my favorite future husbands, super graceful in this scene?

were you a dancer, Joe? Were ya?


I finally saw Inception this week. Though it was not exactly what I had hoped it would be, it definitely left me in awe, especially in regards to Chris Nolan's mastery-- mainly in the construction of the story, regardless of the deft filmmaking. How did he manage to think up something like that, let alone present it in such a logical, easy-to-follow way (well, relatively easy to follow. i'm not sure I took in certain meanings and rules about the constructs of the dreams-- my ADD once again distracted me-- but I followed the plot, the levels of subconsciousness, very easily). I have further thoughts on the matter, long, rambly but organized thoughts, over at Cinephile.

i forget things. like labor day.

Labor day weekend has snuck up on me. Of course, it doesn't really mean anything to me except for the continuation of this perpetual summer of 2010. What a drag of a summer. I feel like I did so little.

Now now, Katrina, let's actually think of the nice things that happened. First of all, I graduated, and that is still the ultimate joy. Secondly, I have nearly finished my thesis which will be submitted to the Zoetrope contest soon (the Coppolas are my homeboys, obviously, so I expect great things from that). I've written a few short stories and submitted them for publication consideration (though of course I've been rejected from each publisher), I made two short films that I find somewhat satisfying to watch, and I had a job for a little while.

Oh, have I not mentioned what happened there? Well, it took me forever to go through the hiring process at the Santa Barbara job, and in the meantime I did some independent work for one of the clients, a woman with CP. A very infamously difficult woman, as it turns out. Anyway, once training was supposed to start I told the woman that I needed to complete training before we went any further (her parents were determined to get her going as early as possible, but without involvement from the organization that I was supposed to start working for we were floundering around without a game plan of any kind). TWO WEEKS LATER (yeah) I finally got into training and shadowing for another girl that I would be working with (whom I loved, I will miss her). But I was then told that the CP woman as well as the other girl were going to be on long vacations. Ok. I tried to hang in, though it got to the point that I had no money to even commute to SB to work. I was then notified that CP woman would be even longer than expected, and I was asked if I still wanted the job. I took it as a sign-- I did not want this job, I did not want this job from the start. I had had bad dreams about it, for heaven's sake, and I've been paranoid about how I would get out of it once I found a preferable job (these sorts of special needs people jobs of course want committment, which I couldn't give). Anyway, I was given the easy out and I took it.

Lately I've been interviewing for a very cool shop in downtown Ventura (5 minutes from where I live). It's a writing job, and it would consist of me writing newsletters, articles, salesletters, blurbs, and blogs. I really want this job, but it's taking a long time as well. I felt as though it was meant to be but now I've had enough time to start worrying about it.

In the meantime I've been trying to write, but of course sans structure I am not a dedicated little person. I've watched alot of TV lately, though I like to think it's good and inspiring television. I've become more of a TeVee-er than I ever have been, and I think it's because television has really gotten great lately. I would love to write for television, for something like Breaking Bad (of course) or Mad Men or Deadwood or even something like Criminal Minds (the only good cop show on these days). Or even the HBO stuff like The Big C or Weeds (which I haven't seen much of, but still) or United States of Tara. And How I Met Your Mother, which is a shining example of the sitcom's refusal to die! Oh yes happiness.

Anyway. Yes, okay, alot of TV recently. I really should probably dabble in the real world some more.

I'm in the midst of reading a number of books, as per my ADD usual (I actually wonder about my ADD qualities sometimes-- I don't want to read too much into it, but I certainly have concentration issues), two being East of Eden and The Heart is A Lonely Hunter. EoE hasn't grabbed me yet, though I always like Steinbeck's writing style. Lonely Hunter doesn't really flow like a story, just a set of characters getting older in a southern town. It's quite good thus far, and reminds me alot of To Kill A Mockingbird. Both books were written by southern women, which I find interesting. Anyway, the only thing I notice in Lonely Hunter that ticks me off is the dialect-- when certain books try to capture a certain way of speaking, be it deep southern or cockney, I tend to shut down or skim. Their Eyes Were Watching God is an example of this. Obviously, there has to be some way of expressing that manner of speech, but that's so difficult in print. All of the "black folks" in Lonely Hunter annoy the crap of out me and I have no patience for reading their dialogue. If they were characters in a film, I would probably feel differently, as I do like the feel of a southern accent and certain odd or backward phrases, like "over yonder" and "fixin' to" and "'first place..." Anyway, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I think writers need to be careful with dialect and their expression of "sound" as it can distract from what the words actually mean. Also, it is quite enough to notify the reader that the subject speaks with a twang rather than sounding out the sound of the twang in the subject's speech. I don't like it! I don't!

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

this makes me incredibly homicidal:

I realize that most of my posts lately have consisted of whining, however I really just had to share my sense of injustice after I read this on Wikipedia:

Meyer had never written even a short story before Twilight, and had considered going to law school because she felt she had no chance of becoming a writer; she later noted that the birth of her oldest son Gabe changed her mind, saying, "Once I had Gabe, I just wanted to be his mom."[14] Before becoming an author, Meyer's only professional work was as a receptionist in a property company.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! anger.

ps, this woman is a BAD WRITER.