Emotastic

And yet not... because it's quasi-hopeful.

Ever find yourself swirling in a never-ending sea of thoughts and emotions, moving at such an intense speed that you can barely keep your head above the water long enough to take a breath before being shoved under again and held against your will? And every time you break free you lose another piece of your soul, which has been desperately clutching to reality, to the swells and crushing black oblivion? Yet you keep treading, keep fighting, even when you don’t understand why you’re fighting anymore -- because you know, somewhere inside you know, the day will come when the swells will break, the storm will cease, and you may once again see light on the horizon?

Yeah, it’s like that right now.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

Yesterday morning ushered in a new era in dream fascination for me. In the darkness of pre-dawn this morning, I awoke with fading visages of a certain actor-come-timelord from an earlier dream. As I clung to these pleasant thoughts, I rose up the ten inches I must strain to gauge illuminated digits on my clock. Realizing I still had over an hour until wakefulness became necessary, I settled back onto my pillow, facing the ‘no serious thoughts’ side of the bed* and drifted back into slumberland.
I dreamt of a rich court in high season, as an observer not a participant, though I felt that I myself was of noble descent. It was a bizarre Inception sort of moment, feeling like I watched a dream within my dream (when my dream itself felt like reality). The occurrences in this lush scene of aristocracy were of great import, emotion and measure, though I could not recall later the specifics.

The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons

I ‘awoke’ in this dream to an elaborate funeral procession, capped off by the reigning monarch’s son acting as pallbearer-of-sorts. After the seemingly traditional pyre on the beach, the son raced down the dunes to the water with a torch, heaving it into the water to the applause of the crowd.
My relationship to this young monarch was unclear in absolute specifics yet obvious in emotional attachment – from both sides. After the wake we retired into a library or drawing room or some such large, secluded, grand room like the royals have (or I dream they have). We conversed, I consoled, and he confronted me about his father’s past and life. Apparently in this dream his connection to his father, though his only son and heir, was distant to the point of never really knowing the man. Information had only been disclosed to me since his father’s death, which I had not passed on to the son as of yet, out of want to spare him greater stress during the time of mourning. Especially since the father was a decidedly ignoble ruler, and man. Rather than understand, or even respect, my position (and our relationship), the son went on a tear – a torrent of emotion.

The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them;

This is where the dream took on a decidedly Merlin-esque quality as it then became apparent that magic was a very real force in this realm. As the son’s emotions stormed, books came flying off shelves, papers flew about the room, furniture overturned, all with mere gestures from him. He then turned to me, eyes full of despair and pain – not even rage – as he uttered a spell. This spell somehow bound my lifeforce to his father’s spirit so the son could will the father into existence long enough to confront the man.

All earth was but one thought--and that was death

I shit you not readers, I felt this ‘spell’ as I have never felt any dream in my life. I half-woke to feeling as though my essence and half my internal organs were being ripped from my body. Within seconds I was awake, though barely conscious as the pain still reverberated through me. I was actually crying.
And yet… I felt tied to this dream. To the extent that I willed myself back to sleep to find some reconciliation to this physical and mental horror.

The father emerged, detailing his reprehensible exploits to the son and begging not only for forgiveness but for his son to remedy the mistakes made by his father’s rule. He then went on to chide his son for using the magic he did to conjure the father because of the damage it was wreaking on me. When the son finally turned to look at me again, his look immediately released the spell and he began to cry. Rushing to my side, he yelled for the court magician. Once arrived, the son continuously begged the magician to heal me, to save me. The magician explained that the spell used was too powerful to allow anything to heal me at the present. He then also chided the young ruler on the perils of using magic out of anger and pain and the damage it could cause. He warned that because of this damage not only might I never fully recover my former self, but I may never forgive him for exacting such pain on me – his best friend and his betrothed. The last bit that I recall as actual dream was the young man crying, apologizing in the most animated language for his betrayal and professing his true affection for me. The magician then sent him out of the room so I could be tended to, and at that point I was awake yet still continuing the story in my head.

I have never, ever experienced such a physical, visceral reaction to a dream... and damn was it terrifying and exhilarating. What can I say? I'm a dream masochist.



*Yes, recently I have needed to designate that when facing a certain direction while in bed, no serious life thoughts are allowed. This has become slightly successful and led to marginally better sleep patterns. Sometimes. Ish.

Culpability

March is over -- and this is my 100th post. WHEW!

Can’t say April is anything to sing about yet, what with the insanity of moving and taxes and all, but having the beast of burden that is March behind me (and the hell that is August well in front) lightens my spirits a bit.
I did not ‘win’ NaNoEdMo, however I hit just over the halfway mark and am damn proud of myself. It’s amazing what 25 hours of editing actually feels like. Feels like climbing a never-ending mountain of perils and doubts with your bare hands is what it feels like. Thus, even reaching the halfway plateau gives you a damn good view (so long as you don’t keep glancing upward at what’s still to come).
In related writing news, I attended another worthy ‘coaching’ session this past weekend which, even with the ‘AHHHHHHHHH!’ of moving hanging over me at the moment gave me another healthy dose of confidence, measurable goals, and a list of to-dos which seem pressingly daunting right now – kind of like the boxes piled up around me in my abode, looming over me as I continue to pack more of them. Yet the list also gives me items to be accountable for and goals to work toward that, while intimidating, never seem out of the realm of possibility (especially when talking with my excellent coach).
Though I’m hanging back on many of these tasks until after some of this moving insanity is wrapped, some of them even incorporate into moving which makes moving seem a little less like a futile exercise in attempting to grow up and carve out new sections in my life, and more like a way of expanding some of the things I love doing and creating a newer, better space in which to do them.

Happy Lightsaber Day!

In honor of the 40th birthday of one of my first, and deepest, celebrity crushes (and a man who would have made the original PFH list were he not already married when he became even semi-famous), I give you:

Forty Reasons I Love Ewan McGregor
(some of these are purely physical – like anyone would make my list of Potential Future Husbands without being delectably attractive)

40. Save a horse, ride a biker – a biker who traverses the globe with his best friend. Repeatedly.

39. He makes this beard actually work

38. Taking up the family business – though warned against it, followed after his uncle Dennis in taking up acting for his career

37. Familial Star Wars ties FTW – Wedge Antilles, meet Obi-Wan Kenobi… oh, wait…

36. His lightsaber – anyone who wields one of these bad boys earns extra points in Hotness (yes, even Christopher Lee)

35. That smile – GUH. *faints*

34. Cool former roomies – When I get access to a TARDIS, I’m totally going back to the days when Ewan, Jude Law and Jonny Lee Miller used to bang around together.

33. He’s crawled into and out of a toilet – now that’s flexibility…

32. His feet.

31. He’s not afraid to wear eyeliner – and looks damn good in it.

30. His adorably flawed southern accent in Big Fish.

29. Big Fish – possibly Burton’s best film, and one sans Johnny Depp, and who does it star…

28. Scottish, without the unintelligible brogue = hot

27. Looks great in a kilt = hotter

26. Honey and glitter and leather, oh my!

25. Has one of the most heartrending and exciting episodes of ER to his credit.

24. Those eyes…

23. Can be forgiven for The Island because (spoiler) there are scenes with two Ewans at once.

22. Has perfect pitch and ain’t afraid to break it out.

21. Devoted family man. Now that is hot.

20. When I get around to crafting the Gay Nudist Musical, he will be the first one I call.

19. Made time with Christian Bale and Jonathan Rhys Meyers… in the same movie.

18. Has played a gay/bi man so many times I lost count = secure in his sexuality AND non-judgmental about others’

17. Looks good even with a rattail.

16. Priest garb = forbidden hotness

15. He’s what makes Moulin Rouge believable, emotional, and painful. Without him it’s just a story about a singing slut who’s dying but will whore herself out one last time to save her theatre.

14. Did I mention the motorcycle?

13. Animated films: check. (Robots, Valiant, etc)

12. Tortured author: check. (James Joyce)

11. Rogue Austen Man: check (Emma)

10. Jedi: checkmate.

9. Stunning profile.

8. Protective of his family and insistent on his kids living outside the spotlight.

7. I love so much of his work (and him), I can usually forget I ever saw Eye of the Beholder. In the theatre.

6. Down With Love: innuendo can be just as hot as full-frontal.

5. His ‘lightsaber’ – you knew it was coming.

4. Humanitarian = hot

3. His laugh… especially his giggle.

2. Coolness under pressure – the man played guitar and sang surrounded by European maifa psychos with guns. That takes a healthy dose of…

1. Fearlessness. Whether it’s riding motorcycles around the world or baring all for the camera, the man knows his limits but is never afraid to test them.

Falling on Swords While Falling for Wizards

One of the ‘joys’ of moving is potentially losing one’s DVR forever and thus all the awesome hours of television contained within (though if DirecTV can mount a dish on the side of our complex, we probably won’t lose it… still, one can never be too careful when it comes to precious television – teacher, mother, secret lover). While packing this weekend I watched a slew of movies* along with a couple hours of mindless television and five episodes of Merlin.
Out of all this stimulation, I found myself surprised (though I shouldn’t be) that what affected and stuck with me most was Merlin, particularly one of the scenes toward the end of "The Changeling." Seeing Merlin finally starting to take the reigns as more than Arthur’s servant, beginning to become his adviser, really exposes some of the depth and complexity added to the series throughout season three. It only gets deeper from this episode forward, but even this singular moment in an otherwise ‘creature of the week silliness’ episode points toward better and more in-depth stories as the series continues to progress.
It’s also pretty damned adorable to hear Colin Morgan’s tone of voice shift when Merlin’s allowed to be adviserly.

From a personal standpoint, the destiny-laden, ceremonial sword stabbing doesn’t feel so far removed from situations I’ve experienced (and some I am currently experiencing), which makes the ancient ‘rules’ of chivalry, duty, and honor seem less removed from daily modern life than they typically feel. While we’re not all destined to rule kingdoms, or advise on how to do so, or charged with the protection of VIPs and/or entire nations, we all have aspects of our life for which we are (or feel) utterly culpable as individuals and sometimes it seems easier to throw ourselves on the ceremonial sword rather than face up to what we know is right, rather than give into something out of a sense of duty or tradition.

As a writer and English major I’ve often felt that one of the great benefits my degree has over my writing is that it taught me all the rules so I would know how and why I break them, when I do. Granted, I learned tons of nifty tidbits about life, society, history, industry, creativity, war, love, pain, beauty, theatre, poetry, music, politics and what makes the world worth living in for different folks at different points in our shared history. Still, much like Arthur following his instinct (and Merlin’s advice) to do what feels right and not just what is expected of him, I feel that with both writing and life we all need a reminder once in a while that traditions can and should be broken when there is reason compelling enough to alter them.


Love, in an unselfish and giving state, complicated as it can be, is a damn good reason to buck against tradition in favor of creating something better.


*Slew = Eight. Miranda, Pygmalion, Only Angels Have Wings, Alex Rider: Operation Stormbreaker, Bride & Prejudice, Pride & Prejudice, and Sneakers


Merlin: I've brought you your ceremonial sword.
Arthur: Is that for me to fall on?
Merlin: Hopefully not. What's wrong?
Arthur: You wouldn't understand, Merlin. You have no idea what it's like to have a destiny you can't escape.
Merlin: Destinies are troublesome things. You feel trapped. Like your whole life has been planned out for you and you've got no control over anything and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny has decided is really the best thing at all.
Arthur: How come you're so knowledgeable?
Merlin: I read a book.
Arthur: And what would this book tell you? Should I marry her?
Merlin: It's not really my place to say, sire.
Arthur: I'm asking you, it's your job to answer.
Merlin: If you really want to know what I think? I think you're mad. I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong because you may be destined to rule Camelot but you have a choice... as to how you do it.

Move all the things?

The week began with such possibilities in terms of creativity and life. While nothing has crashed or burned, spending most of the week awaiting a life-changing decision to be made sapped away almost all energy and creativity.
The hours spent editing felt fruitless as each hour that passed was an hour without a future. Then, after an epic adventure with corporate human resources, the word came; my roommate and I are officially approved to move to a new place. The stress which previously ate up all waking hours (and some sleeping ones) exploded into excitement over having secured a new residence. However, today that elation has once again slid back to Stressville and my ability to focus seems irreparably shot.
So here’s my query: When life keeps attacking you in various ways and attempting to quash your creativity – and when you have the bulk of your time eaten away by ‘necessary’ life activities like, oh say, moving – how to you maintain/regain a little time and energy to be creative?

For the record: I hate moving. I’m a homebody to the extreme and do not like having myself and all my possessions displaced. I love traveling, but I need a centralized base to return to every once in a while that I know and think of as ‘home.’ Having my living situation thrown into complete chaos and uncertainty for over a year has been one of the most mentally and emotionally taxing experiences thus far in my life. Despite all the insanity to come, I am extremely glad to have found a ‘new home.’

Writing Buddy

Different than a diving buddy (who stands by with oxygen) or a porn buddy (who pledges, in the even of your untimely death, to remove all the pornography in your place before your parents can find it), a writing buddy can be many things to a writer.
Sometimes I have used it as a term for a co-author when I don’t want to sound too prissy and formal about it. I’ve known others to use it as a code word for a glorified intellectual fuckbuddy (“This is Jason, my ‘writing buddy.’ We get together on Wednesday evenings and alternate weekends to discuss Pynchon and Hemingway, work on our novels, drink wine… and screw each other senseless.” You know, like you do… or other people do, at least…). Still others utilize it as a casual term for someone you see on occasion – a friend, colleague, or someone you met in a writing group – with whom you share a need to be culpable for your progress.
This last usage I find myself identifying with at the moment, and I have to say, the relationship is anything but casual. If not for an appointment with a writing buddy last night (who is also a friend/colleague/actress/theatre-maker/all-around amazing woman), my writer’s block may have gone on for weeks, perhaps even months (it has been known…). I won’t wax on about how devastating a continued block is, or what tactics I may have been forced to employ should the block have continued much longer (though some ill-advised adventures in debauchery were on the list), because my block might have broken on its own in a few days… though I doubt it.
What I do want to impart is that a ‘writing buddy’ who is there to be a fellow soldier in the war against writer’s block, even if it’s only to set a time and place to write your separate projects concurrently, is just as important as a diving or porn buddy. A good writing buddy stands by with the oxygen of support and understanding, and even a breath of conversation when you’re beating your head against the wall looking for the right words. Just by sitting near you and participating in the battle they clear out many of the distracting thoughts, fears, and hidden guilt hiding in the closets of your mind (or under your bed, or slipped in behind other thoughts you know no one else will ever explore, so it’s safe there…).
Praise in the form of blog lauding and internet hugs go out to my writing buddy*, the marvelous Nina.




*She even gets paid to write -- something I sorely miss, thus I am not only grateful for her, I'm jealous of her ;)

Sense & Sensuality

After having not really paid attention to it when it initially aired, I again caught the ‘recent’ mini-series of Sense & Sensibility on PBS.*
I admit to not giving it the attention it deserved before, mostly due to time constraints during my initial viewing. Also, much as I loved David Morrissey even then, this has never been my favorite Austen tale. However, I decided to give it a worthy go again and found I enjoyed it more -- not only more than I anticipated, but actually more than I wanted to, and for this I blame the excellent cast.
It still ranks as not my favorite work (Pride & Prejudice is the apex and I hold a soft spot for Mansfield Park), but I understand it better than I did previously in terms of how Jane uses her parlour drama skills to expose issues of the human heart in a manner I don’t think ever really comes across as well in some of her other works. Of course in this particular instance I attribute the BBC and its solid reputation in adaptation, along with a stellar cast, in breathing life into this story in a manner that makes it seem less Romantic than Ang Lee’s film.
Plus, any film that puts David Morrissey on a horse with beautiful riding clothes AND has him sword fighting pretty much makes my day.


*BTW, US Government, WTF is wrong with you? Cutting funding for education and the arts… because what we want is a society that can’t read or think for themselves and just listens to what the overlords in charge tell them to thi—oh, hey…

Moving Along

In a moment of personal sharing: moving blows.

Some people don’t mind aspects of it, but generally speaking, I loathe it. I come from Team Homebody and I don’t like changing teams. When I settle into a place, unless it becomes unbearable for some reason or I find something massively better, I don’t want to leave. However, sometimes we are not given a choice in the matter and we must vacate our homes (note the crazy third person speak emerging again – a sure sign of impending insanity). We currently sit in just this position and it crushes our mental, emotional, physical selves constantly. Thus, we are currently rendered incapable of maintaining states which usually come naturally to us: patience, understanding, sympathy, coherent thought and a mind that lives to write.
Of these, next to the writing, the one that I find most aggravating is a lack of patience. Every bit of other people’s minor issues right now make me want to go all Carole Kane in Scrooged on them and start wielding a toaster as a deadly weapon.
However, as we always must, we carry on – in the hope that soon the horrors of home abandonment will give way to the joys of a new life and some minor equilibrium will be restored to our person before, “Look, Frank, it’s a toaster!” becomes our feared catchphrase.

Detailed Minutiae

Query:
Do you count thirty minutes spent trying to find the answer to an historically relevant, yet minor, detail as editing time?

It came upon me quite unexpectedly. There I sat, casually marking up my manuscript with what has become the Demon Red Pen* with few cares beyond the composition in front of me. Then, at the beginning of my smutfest scene** I read a sentence I've read dozens of times. Yet for the first time, a little detail struck me as possibly historically inaccurate. It's a minor detail, but one that bothered me as I did not know the answer. A thorough scouring of the interwebs proved fruitless, and a query among my co-workers brought a 90% assurance to the correct answer. Yet that 10% nags at me. I have a message in to my historian father who, I am confident, will either know the answer definitively or be able to find it for me with ease.
Still, that one miniscule detail haunts me in some aspects more than the glaring plot gaps and awkward paragraphs scattered throughout the book. While I know editing to be full of these little gaffes, it amazes me how fixated I become on them when I find them and cannot proceed until I have the answer. I have found for myself a new personal 'tick' in my editing style which I previously ignored. We shall have to reconcile ourselves to these little errors when they arise, for if the internet and my merry band of pop culture and history fanatics are nowhere around when the next minute detail flaw arises, we may go mad from sheer want of a solution -- and start taking on bizarre attributes such as talking of ourselves in the third person.



*It's not a demon because it deletes unnecessary content or corrects grammar and spelling errors, it's a demon because it exposes flaws with no ideas on how to fix them. Fixing the flaws requires more writing, which delays the editing, even though they go together. It's damn aggravating.

** It's not really that smutty. It's risque to a point, but I am writing 'young adult' literature so I tried to stay a little vague... at least in book one. Book two, well... we'll get to that one later.