Note: This was written as a stream of consciousness over six-hours, and then another half-hour period last Saturday. No edits have been made, so please excuse any typos, incorrect grammar, or difficult phrasing. Line breaks come from anytime I got up from the chair I was writing in. As this is a very personal piece, I do not explain many references, if you would like any sort of footnote, please provide the line in question, and I will write an explanation. Additionally, I suggest to read this at a somewhat frantic pace, even missing occasional lines, as this was the pace it was written in. Cheers.
Terrible night’s sleep- left shoulder is very sore. In and out of sleep so many times, more than usual, even for me. Wonder what they got up to in Lithgow last night. Out of credit, can’t check e-mails, or can I? Chopin, am I listening to too much classical music these days? E-mail seemed to work, maybe my credit expires later today; I can check that e-mail I was sent at 2:something in the morning. Need to go to the toilet already. What’s the weather going to be today? Doesn’t really matter I suppose. The wording of the e-mail is rather generic, but I suppose with a website so large they can’t afford to send out personalised e-mails every time an employer has a question. I can never remember my passwords for these kinds of sites- they never let me use my go-to one for some reason. Retrieve forgotten password. Five minutes since I’ve woken up, am I really going to do this all day? Ah, my password was a slightly altered version of my second go-to one. My credit will likely expire while I’m halfway through accessing whatever question the recruiter has for me, and then I’ll be out of luck for the weekend. Nope, “max user connections” it says, everyone probably got the same e-mail. Same bloody e-mail? Same damn e-mail? Yep, some stupid generic question. No, I’ve never worked on a cruise ship before, nor do I have 4/5 star hotel experience. I don’t think I’ve ever even stayed at a 4/5 star hotel with the possible exception of the Fairmont in Chicago when I was younger. My details have been updated. It says I haven’t applied for any jobs- maybe they mean since being unceremoniously rejected for the initial two I applied for. Unceremoniously, I wasn’t even told I didn’t get the job by any means other than lack of communication. How many people have watched the 48HOURS short? 198 people, and only one comment. One bloody comment? One damn comment? Callback. How am I supposed to know if people liked the film if they don’t leave feedback? Still need to go to the toilet. 12 minutes. Maybe I should have put that I am an editor rather than barista, it’s kind of true, and I certainly wouldn’t take a barista job aboard a cruise ship, I’d throw myself overboard so close to land- no, so close after disembarking that no one would be concerned that I couldn’t swim back to shore.
Should have brought the notebook- technically I’ve failed the experiment (the webpage still hasn’t loaded) already- 17 minutes in. It was always an unrealistic goal. I’m losing the point- new thoughts before I can backtrack over the ones I missed while away from a keyboard or notepad. Should have brought the notepad, sounds like rain, but I often confuse the sound of wind for rain. Didn’t feel like the most healthy shit. Repeat thoughts so I don’t forget, so I can write them down. Repeat thoughts so I don’t forget, so I can write them down. I couldn’t bring a notepad with me to the toilet, I’m not one of those people. I’m finished too quickly (generally), it’s unhygienic, and who can’t go a few minutes without their smartphone anyway? A bit ironic that I spent a few hours researching buying a new smartphone last night. I don’t need it, no one needs one. I don’t have the money for it, but I’m not sure what that means. Webpage is still loading- credit probably expired. I do have enough money to pay for a smartphone- not the most current ones (I don’t want to name brands, even if I am the only one who reads this), but for good ones nonetheless. I don’t really understand why I should save my money anymore, which I think is a bad sign. Not being able to think of your future, and no will to put money away for it. I used to be able to save money so well, and now I couldn’t really care less. I thought I’d be asked a job specific question for the cruise ship and that I was close to a job there. $30,000 to spend a year on a boat, that’d be an easy way to force me to save. Even spending all my money on booze, it wouldn’t be more than a couple grand. I likely wouldn’t make many friends (a fact, not a plea), so not many big nights on the piss, plus if I’m an employee they would probably have restrictions about getting too drunk as it reflects bad on the company. I suppose the captain of the cruise liner that crashed in Italy was drunk, so was the captain of the Exxon Valdiz. Webpage still hasn’t loaded, disconnect, credit has definitely expired as far as I’m concerned. No issue about not being able to be contacted today anyway. I did want to go to that Zoe Keating show (her I’ll namedrop). That’d be a nightmare, trying to record every thought. The OJ isn’t awful, but certainly past it’s best before date. Saved two dollars though, and I’ll finish it off, can’t be more than half a litre left. I still do want something sweet though- a bit disgusting if I polish off a packet of wafers- two in about 12 hours it’d be. $.65. Bit of a bad discovery for me. That and dollar garlic bread. My dinner will cost me $1.65, but it’s a disgusting amount of sugar and fat in one meal, even for me. I wanted to eat healthier once back from Auckland. Wanted to start running again too. I wish cafes were open at night, I need the mornings to myself. Wake up, run, relax, write, relax, lunch, work. But I know that if I had to work in the afternoon, I’d probably just spend my day rueing that fact. Did I really write that I wished cafes were open at night? Fuck that. I wish I could be employed as a creative. I wish I could support myself as a creative through what I solely create. I wish I was prolific enough for that. I won’t even ask to be talented enough, because that doesn’t seem to be the main ingredient so much these days. I’ve had a novel idea that I truly believe in (a novel, novel idea- puns are the lowest form of wit? Oscar Wilde? No internet, can’t look it up). Rereading the last thought is cheating. New Rule. New Rule, so is going back to add a word/phrase/correction/subtraction. Add a subtraction? Fuck, broke the rule again. More OJ. Broken a thousand words in one and a half pages, 31 minutes in. I can’t keep that pace up- even if it seems slightly relaxed. Carpal tunnel you know. Ugh, what dreams did I have last night? I want to finish the maths on this thought. I was playing basketball I think. Fuck, 2000 words an hour let’s say. Up from 8:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m., 14 hours, 28.000 words. Less than a novel by far. About 56 pages though. That can’t be right. It’d be possibly the longest thing I’d ever written, and in one day. 2000 words a day, that’s the goal of most writers, isn’t it? Well, most of the realistic ones. I don’t see how someone could write more without losing quality. Quality dipping, that’s the better phrase. Is that a correct ending for a sentence though? Why is my period grammatically incorrect Microsoft Word? That’s right, it fucking isn’t, so lay off. I just grabbed for the chapstick without thinking about it, though I must have in some way. My lips felt chapped, is a feeling a thought? I suppose in some degree it is, as it has to be registered. My lips felt chapped, I keep the chapstick on the end table, so instinctively- not instinctively, knowlingly? Can’t think of the word, afraid to spend time looking it up and losing more thoughts. Thinking about thinking. Fridge is making noise. I’ve passed over a dozen half-formed thoughts in the past 15 seconds. Save work. Cancel, haven’t thought of a title yet. Too early to think of a title, but don’t want to risk somehow losing what may possibly be my most lengthy work, certainly my most fatuous. Craving sugar. How is it going so far? About as I expected, I suppose. Thoughts running together, darts of other intruding for a moment. No long strings of coherent thought though. I never supposed I’d be addressing big issues in this- kudos if anyone even reads this. Reminds me of a story my dad told me about a man he worked with whose job it was to write incredibly long and dull reports that he suspected no one read. In the middle of one of these reports, he put in a paragraph that said “If you read this, call ‘this’ number, and you’ll get $100 cash.” No one called. Just at the top of page three now, 40 minutes in; I’ll wait another few hours. I have the somewhat sad feeling that before this page is finished I’ll have eaten a full packet of vanilla wafers.
Thought about the beer I’m going to drink tonight and what I’ll write after a few of those. What will I write before those? I opened up the fridge and looked at the beer, forgetting momentarily that I was supposed to be getting wafers. I could drink the beer now I suppose, but then I’d want more. I’m not concerned about the time of day, only that then I’ll have an excuse to go get more. I don’t have any sort of moderation control. All or nothing. All or nothing. My therapist- back in NZ, made that notion clear to me, and it’s certainly true, and I can’t say I’m upset by it. Sometimes it causes a bit of embarrassment- like when I’m about to eat a whole packet of wafers (if I can pause from typing long enough), or when I got inanely- not insanely, but certainly incredibly drunk the other week. It was off spirits that time, so that’s partially to blame, I know I shouldn’t drink them, and for the most part don’t. But it takes my drinking them a few times in a week out of the year that makes me drink too much and remember to not drink them. It’s lucky that I’m a good drunk for the most part- certainly never violent, even if others don’t think so, but that’s them being fucktards- that’s a bit harsh. That’s them not knowing- even after four years of friendship, that I don’t have a violent bone in my body. To other people, that is. I still need to save this. It’s not a thought to scratch, I suppose it is instinctive, unlike reaching for the chapstick, unless that has become instinctive, which would be a bit sad. And amazing. To have advanced so much, to have taken something that was invented (before I was born I’m guessing), but didn’t use until I was probably 10 or 12 (when do you start using chaptstick), and certainly not using often until 14 or 15 (when did I start keeping it in my pocket- after Gideon turned me onto it, so probably high school), and now have it so ingrained that it may have well become instinct to reach for it at the slightest notion. Pavlov, what was the phrase for what he did? Conditioning. I’ve been conditioned. Does that count as a sort of instinct? OJ is finished, which means I’ll probably have to go to the toilet at some point soon. Still have some water, which will be drank shortly I’m sure. No moderation, if it’s there, I’ll drink it, if it’s not, I’m not bothered. For someone who drinks so much water you’d think I’d have better skin. I need to get laid. And there it is. Not in the mood to deal with that yet, (I need more chapstick), I feel okay about myself without having been able to successfully attract a sober woman in almost two years. That brings up the rejection talk from the other night. She never rejected me- she would have, probably. It’s a moot point because I realised that I didn’t actually like her, I was only trying to convince myself I did because she is the kind of woman I should like, and because I hate that I haven’t had so much as a decent crush on anyone in nearly two years. Can’t bring it up now though, I’ve talked to her too much and I’m not really interested in maintaining a relationship with her, especially since I’ll never see her again (a fact, not a plea). NZ was such a bust, with the exception of the film work. Reminds me of the Eddie Izzard doco I watched last night. I want to be a well-known writer, but I don’t want the celebrity that comes with it. I want to be interviewed, but not for anyone to read it. I want to do stand up, I think, but not professionally. Just in front of large audiences who don’t know who I am. That bit about opening the set in a foreign accent, that would only work if no one had ever seen me before, but that’s precisely when you’re least likely to get laughs. I’d need to work on my Scottish accent though, or whatever accent I would go with. Probably Scottish. A pause in typing while I itch my ear and rub my face with my hands (what else would I rub it with? A towel or something I suppose). What makes this endeavour difficult is that it’s so different to my usual style of writing. I want to think about the sentence and phrasing and placement of what words and where (poor grammar), to write and edit and rewrite in my head before committing to screen like I normally do, not this freestyle, diarrhoea writing style. I want to get up to wash my hands but I don’t want to get up because I’d have to remember whatever thoughts I have, and start a new paragraph. It will be interesting to see how long the longest paragraph of this piece is, and then try to work out how long it was that I was continuously sitting and writing. I need to get up.
The comedy of that last bit would have been better if I hadn’t written “I need to get up”, but for that to happen I would have had to not have thought it, and I’m not that good at thought control, yet. My face felt dirty because I haven’t washed it yet, and after putting my hands on my face they too felt greasy. Too many wafers. Still haven’t opened the new packet. One hour and two minutes in, including however long I was on the toilet earlier. 2500 words. All run ons and incomplete ideas and babbling and rambling and shit. Scratched myself and heard my boxers tear a bit, one of the two weak pairs I have left. This is torture, for whom I’m not sure. I think these thoughts that I know are pointless and have no value, and I try to ignore them, only to realise that I have to write them down. If I didn’t correct any spelling mistakes or changes of word choice (I’m allowed to make changes before the sentence is completed), this would be certifiably mad. Small gap between mad an genius I suppose, but which way can you make the jump, from genius to mad, or mad to genius? Genius to mad, I should think. I can’t scratch myself (in the manly connotation) without thinking about masturbation. I remember waking up earlier in the night with a half-erection (not sure of the technical name for that, a chubby?) and thinking how much I like having a penis. The feel of it between my legs. The feeling of it between someone else’s legs. Too many half-formed thoughts. It got caught in one of the tears in my boxers. There’s an escort service not far from where I live; I’m not sure if they have women and rooms there, or if it is more of just an office. I want to go up and find out, but would be too awkward, I don’t think they get many walk-in clients. I’m also slightly worried- not worried, slightly unsure of my resolve. I never thought I could pay for sex, but I think I may need to soon, because it’s been so long, that even on a date (or the few I’ve been on when in NZ) I get so flustered and lose all confidence, because if it were to go well enough to get physical, I would be so out of practise and excited that I would disappoint the girl so much. It seems almost prudent to buy some practise on a girl where there are no feelings involved, it’s only a business transaction. But I can’t do that, I understand that some women may prostitute because of the money, and have no sexual or family issues or hang-ups, but so many do. It’s not even that not being able to tell would be the problem, but that it is just a business deal would get to me. Every moan would be so fabricated (not that I don’t think they aren’t with women I’ve slept with emotionally), and I’d climax so quickly. Thankfully, if for no other reason. I don’t have the money for it (I imagine, because I honestly don’t know how much it would cost). I’d climax so quickly. That’s one of my worries. I wouldn’t get my money’s worth. You can take the boy out of the Jew. I wonder if it is a time based, or action based market. I suppose with a street prostitute you pay for the action, and once it’s over it’s over. But with an escort, I think it may be by the hour, so I suppose orgasming quickly could be a good thing, provided you recover enough. Four sessions of ten-minute sex in an hour, or one 40-minute session? With someone I care about, I’d probably take the latter, as it’s more manly, but if it’s my money on the table, I want the most bang for my buck, and orgasming is where it’s at. My old flatmate charged $500/hour for escorting, but she was semi-famous- in the porn star sense, so I suppose she could demand those sort of rates. Also, it being illegal in the US, I guess she had to charge a lot because if she were caught, she’d need the money for a lawyer. Sex for money in the privacy of your own home or hotel room is illegal, but sex for money in the privacy of your own home or hotel room with a camera recording, that’s a business. All this talk about sex and porn and I’ve got no internet connection to have a bit of a gander. I’ve got a few porn stars that are my favourites, but I think most people who watch porn are like that. It’s not intentional, but when searching, you come across a woman whom you find all sorts of gorgeous, and then if the link has her name in the title, you use that to search for more of her. It just makes sense. If I eat a dish at a restaurant I really like, I’m going to find out the name of the dish, or the name of the restaurant if someone else brought me there. It’s a good analogy, but I don’t eat out really, so it’s kind of lost on me, but you get the idea. Fingers are starting to fatigue a bit; 80 minutes in. I knew I wouldn’t be able to write non-stop all day, but it will be interesting to see how I take in other media while still writing down thoughts. I can’t read, because that provides too many thoughts that I’d have to put down the book every other line in order to write down a new thought. I can watch TV, which thankfully I’ve got Seinfeld episodes to watch, and I think I’ll be alright not thinking during those, because I’ll be too busy reciting the lines and enjoying the program. Making lunch and dinner though, that will be a small issue. I’m not going to shower today, that was always happening. I’m not leaving my room except to go to the toilet or make some food, so I don’t need to get dressed; if I’m not getting dressed, why would I shower? I do want to wash my face, but again am concerned of all the thoughts I’ll miss out on in the few minutes it takes for me to lather and rinse soap from my face. I forgot to push play on Chopin when coming back from the toilet. That’s very rare for me. Even rarer is that I’ve been writing for almost an hour in complete silence, and it only dawned on me now, when someone in another room started playing their music. I’m hoping that that’s a good sign of at least my being involved in what I’m doing. It certainly has no effect on the quality of content, but that’s not why I’m doing this. Overall fatigue is setting in, from the poor sleep I imagine; if I eat the wafers now, that’ll be a sugar rush. I can’t go back to sleep, again because of the thoughts I’ll miss out on, to say nothing of the fact that it is almost impossible for me to go back to sleep once having arisen. I just need to accept- resign myself to the fact that I’ve been hyping myself up to this task all week, and though it’s far from an exciting one, and one that is actually keeping me from being productive in the sense that I can’t do laundry, go to the library, buy phone credit, etc. I need to do it so when/if anyone asks about, I can say how it was- fun, boring, torturous, because I actually did. An old trick of mine, telling many people that I’d do something I wasn’t entirely sure that I would actually do, which forced me into doing it lest I be shamed into telling everyone who asked that I didn’t actually go through with whatever it was. It’s not that I particularly care about what people think of me, but that I don’t want to be a liar, or someone who doesn’t live up to their word. Am I really that different from other people? I know this is, eccentric. But is wanting to be a writer/creator weird? Is reading books like Divine Comedy and Metamorphoses weird? Maybe for people my age. But that’s what’s weird to me. People not reading at all, or reading drivel, how can you not read the classics that have been hailed for hundreds- if not thousands of years? This is why I’ll die alone (that’s a bit of a plea for attention). I feel like an anti-social being who needs social interaction. I need to discuss what I’m reading, but don’t want to meet people until I find a person whom shares the same interest. I suppose that’s what dating sites are about. Weeding out all the people you would meet but not be interested in (even platonically), and stream-lining you towards the ones you would like. Must like rock and classical music. Must like ancient and classic modern texts. Creative a plus, but preferably not in film or writing. Must not want to have kids- barren preferred. Cannot be pious in any creed. High libido necessary, and nothing short of a miraculous sense of humour- cannot be funnier than me. All looks, styles, and skin colours accepted, weight limits apply. Must not mind hirsute men- must know what hirsute means. Urge to go to the toilet again. Am I running out of thoughts? I tried something similar in that vain a few years ago- in Sydney as well, of walking around until I was out of thoughts and- most importantly, was too tired to think about sex. If memory serves I walked from one end of the city to the other, and then around the botanical gardens- hours of walking, but while my body fatigued, and my mind somewhat, I wasn’t tired enough to not think about sex. It’s been so long now I wonder why I liked it so much. Yes, it’s enjoyable, but so are a lot of things. I think I have given up on the idea of having sex again. I know that in reality, it’s almost a certainty that it will happen at some point, even if it is another few years down the line, but I’m not sure that I care. Nearly two years of what could arguably be called my prime have been spent solely in self-pleasure, and while somewhat disappointing, not at all something I haven’t acclimatised to. It also comes as a bit of- not a punishment, but with the territory of not having one-night stands anymore, and certainly that’s something I’m willing to accept. Of course, I’d be willing to bet the next person I sleep with will be the result of a drunken one-night stand, as I’ve no self-confidence for any extended period of time, especially when sober. Not a great truth, but a truth nonetheless. The vanilla wafers are finally open. Already I’m getting to the point where I want some sort of excuse to stop. I am hungry, but really I should be able to fight through that. Maybe I’ll watch some Seinfeld soon, in 17 minutes. That will have made what I’ve written a length of two hours, and somewhere between 4500 and probably 4700 words. I could weaken my resolve and set to do four blocks of two-hour stints, with breaks in-between so I could actually get a few things done while simultaneously resting my fingers, but I’m not sure I’ll do that. I’d only waste it on stupid things anyway, like researching for a phone I don’t need. I do want a new phone though, as much as it pains me to say it, I do like and desire material things. I’m trying to get off that fix, if for no other reason than in preparation for when I move to a remote island and won’t have to contend with not having credit for internet, but no internet whatsoever. I think a smartphone is practical for me though, which is the thought I have to have in order to justify spending a week’s salary on it. I don’t use the phone for a phone, I use it first and foremost as a music player, then for internet, then for miscellaneous, then as a phone. It’s true, my current one is usable, but on seemingly its last legs after a four or five year run. Planned obsolescence, I got pretty worked up about it yesterday, and I think somewhat frightened the fiancé of someone I work with, but how could you not get agitated at the thought of products being built to break? I understand that I get overexcited about many things- I was always told to calm down as a child, but I do like that about me. I like how impassioned I get when talking about music or books or learning or basically anything I’m interested in. I think more people should be like that. I think one of the girls I took out last year was like that, just not around me, which hurts slightly. I’m afraid I’m going to be in a long-term relationship with the next girl I partner with simply because it will be the easiest option. Obviously it depends on her as well, but seeing as I like older women, and single older women are generally looking for something serious, it’s not that inconceivable. Thinking about the exes I’ve got here in Sydney, haven’t run into any of them, and don’t think I will. Not even sure if any are still around- they probably are, and probably in the same places where they were when we split. Actually, I don’t think that’s true. I’m pretty sure one has been married for a few years, so she’s probably with a kid somewhere in a nice house with a well-to-do doctor husband. I’ve got to stop being interested in doctors if 50% of them marry within the profession. Or I’ve got to become a doctor. I’ve got no idea if I’d be a good doctor or not, I could see it going both ways. At the end of the day, even though I love the idea of helping people, my heart just wouldn’t be in it, which would show in my studies and eventually my work (assuming I passed into becoming a full-fledged doctor). Isn’t being an adult based largely on giving up what you want to do with your life and doing what you need to in order to survive and support a family? I don’t know if I’ll ever be an adult then. Possibly, if The Third Room gets picked up, but I don’t want to be a television writer, I don’t think. I certainly don’t want to do it long-term, having to deal with network restrictions and legal issues, let alone the stress of coming up with new ideas, writing said ideas into episodes, having them be entertaining enough, finding an audience, dealing with series renewal, dealing with series cancellation. I think the British comedies have it right with two or three or four series, then bugger off. Leave the people wanting more. Seinfeld, nine seasons, and went out number one. Five million an episode was on offer for him. You do have to be a writer and a performer to be that successful; I never considered the two to be so different and unrelated until that Eddie Izzard doco. I also didn’t much think of Jerry Seinfeld as a writer. He came up with the stand up bits, sure, but he’s only credited with writing a few episodes early on in the series, I believe. He would have been a story editor I’m sure, but he didn’t strike me as a writer. He didn’t strike me as an actor either, I’m not sure anyone really considers Seinfeld and actor, he’s a comedian. Ray Romano I guess is in the same category of a comedian rather than an actor, but he didn’t seem like a funny comedian to me. The comedian/actor dichotomy is something that to me is and isn’t blisteringly apparent. A performer is a performer is and isn’t true I suppose. I suppose I suppose I suppose.
Remember to hit play. This going to the toilet thing is proving difficult for this experiment. Getting up, afraid that I’m going to see someone in the hallway, leaving the door to my room open, repeating the thoughts I’ve got so I can write them down on the way, thus blocking any new thoughts from entering (have I already talked about this?). I also want to stop referencing what I’m doing- just over two hours in- almost exactly two hours since I went to the toilet last time. 5250+ words at nearly seven full pages. I don’t want to write down these thoughts, but I have to, every thought is valid, whether or not it is coherent, worthwhile, productive, or progressive. How can you improve your thoughts on a whole? There must be some work about that, possibly in the meditation book I’ve borrowed from the library (mustn’t say I’ve got), but doubtful. Everything is temporary (except death), so bad- no, I’m not sure there are such things as bad thoughts- thoughts about violent acts possibly, but unproductive thoughts don’t really matter I suppose as they will pass, same as all productive thoughts will pass as well. The hunger pangs are increasing; starting to think what I will do for lunch, though it’s still early enough for breakfast. Vegetarian (possibly vegan) chicken strips most likely. Never thought I liked fake meat until I had a good version of it, I suppose that’s always the way. That’s the way, Eddie. I am finally about to watch some Seinfeld and eat some wafers as a bit of a break, but that’s what I don’t like about doing it. I’m taking an unofficial break because I am hungry, and my fingertips are beginning to hurt from banging away incessantly for a pace and duration that they haven’t known in a long time, if ever. Almost 5500 words. I’ve loaded up two episodes, with the hopes of only watching one, but I don’t think that will be the case. I wonder if I should make the video full-screen, or keep the word document open so I can write as I need.
Who the fuck blasts slow country music? Who is it that sings Moon River? Andy Williams? Who listens to that music in general anyway? I wonder if I should start a noise war with the person above me. Dillinger Escape Plan for starters. Put the few songs of theirs I have on repeat, full volume, and go to work. From 6:30 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. nothing but unrelenting blinding mathcore of whatever genre they fit into. It is raining, albeit lightly. Makes me feel a bit better about staying couped up all day. Thanks Vodafone, for sending me a message saying that my credit is expiring today. I know. You’ll get your money, just relax. I’ve titled the piece, a pretentious, Greek inspired title that references a character that I only have a cursory knowledge of. I suppose that it was inevitable that I would use a Greek character seeing as this is nothing more than an uninspired attempt at a Ulysses cover. I never even finished that book, even though I liked it. Huh, Larry Charles became executive story editor of Seinfeld about halfway through the second season. Then he went on to direct Sascha Baron Cohen. At least he has Dilbert. It’s seeming that more and more thoughts aren’t fully manifested, when concerning physical actions at any rate. I’m about to commit some physical acts of my own, and knowing that I had an inkling to do so, check my window, saw that it was open, and closed it, without a fully formed thought entering my mind. It is still an unconvincing thought that everyone does what I’m about to do, with the possible exception of one girl I took out last year in NZ. I don’t think she would know what to do, let alone be able to cope with the climax. Quiet girls have the reputation for going mental in bed, but just as often their wet blankets, or whatever the phrase is, frigid, starfish, whathaveyou.
I thought I could somehow write during it, but that would be odd, slightly disturbing, and unhygienic. I thought about what I normally thought about, including a brief bit of shame at the end, thinking what I know to be incorrectly that no one else does it. I then quickly washed up and got back to writing. It dawns on me that I’ve taken two mini-breaks in quick succession, which means the precedent has been set, and that I’ve already started petering out, and that this exercise likely won’t like much longer. I knew someone whose goal was to write ten pages a day for a novel they were working on, I would be there in three hours if I hadn’t stopped, and that’s with writing the first thing that comes into my mind as soon as I’ve written down the last thing. It’s a bit difficult when I have multiple thoughts simultaneously, but a small problem to have. I write fiction at about an hour a page, so to do ten pages would mean my whole day, with little breaks. But it’s precisely the inability to do that that makes me question my abilities and dedication as a writer. I work in a more of a flash in the pan style, very hard for short bursts, and then once my concentration is less than absolute, I move onto something else. I need an arbitrary judge of my work, and based on that, could decide whether or not I should continue. Granted, my work is fairly novice, as I haven’t written much, and have had even less training and guidance. I’ve read a bit about story structure- though mostly in a sitcom setting, and I would suggest that I understand basics of characterisation and the like, but though I loathed the idea of studying creative writing, I now can see that I would benefit greatly from it. Of course, outside of not having the money nor desire to go back to university, if I did, it would be to do a degree that could get me residency in this country. Two years of creative writing could possibly lead to that, but at $17,000+ per year, I need a degree that would definitely get me what I want. The rain is coming harder now. Reminds me of Auckland in a joking way. It is a strange feeling having finally left there. I have often and vivid flashbacks of the streets and environment. I don’t miss it, but I miss the familiarity of it. Sydney has it of course, in spades, but in a different way. I was legal in NZ in a way I’m not here, and I had prospects that I forced upon myself in a way I can’t do here. I need a plane ticket fund ready at all times, not just for the ever increasingly likelihood of dejected going back Stateside, but to pop over to NZ as well, for a week at least, which also means funds for paying for that week abroad, as well as my flat in Sydney, and then even more for flying back from Melbourne to Sydney to evade any problems at customs. A cautionary measure not totally necessary, but a safety precaution best utilised rather than not. Melbourne seems to hold for me something that isn’t there, but could be. Possibility, I suppose it’s called. There’s Possibility everywhere, but only in a few places you might want it. Wanting it in too many places is the danger I face, and what keeps me in the lifestyle I lead, though in many ways loathe. A pause while I don’t have any thoughts, just staring at a watch box I’ve got on my writing table. Even when there are no thoughts, Nothingness is still an occupying force in your mind. Nothing is something, Seinfeld and Philosophy taught me that. I’ve no idea what happened to that book. A philosophy professor whom I lent it to thought he lost it- I was okay with that as I’d read the book a few times, and didn’t feel I would read it again, but he wanted to provide me with a new copy. I didn’t want him spending his money, but also realised that by not allowing him to remunerate me with a new copy of the book, he might feel some sort of indenture to me when it came to grading, or worse yet, he might have thought that it was my plan to guilt him into giving me a better grade. In the end it didn’t matter as he found my copy, and I earned a top mark in the course due to my own merits. My lips feel chapped and my face is still greasy. I’m behind the pace after three hours. That’s not entirely true, I’m actually above the current pace set at the beginning of this piece, but realised soon later that it was a bit unrealistic in terms of being a bit too low. I realise now that I had thought this, but don’t think I wrote it down, which renders what I’m doing quite incomplete. I am curious to know how many thoughts I’m actually writing down and how many I’m missing. Is mayn a word, because it’s not being underlined by Word. A check of my Apple Dictionary says that it is not. How many hours until I can go to bed? I don’t know if I’m asking that question because I’m tired, depressed, or because I want to secretly stop writing. I haven’t broken through yet, though I’m not sure what I’m expecting to break through, something along the lines of a runner’s high I imagine, but I also don’t think I’ll be able to achieve that not only on my first attempt, but in writing only for one day. Perhaps if I wrote through the night, deprived of sleep, that would aid (I forgot which aid to use) or facilitate what I’m after, but again, I don’t know exactly what I’m after, only that once it happens, I’m able to recognise it. For some words I use the British spelling and others the American. I’m adept now at adding ‘u’ to words, but still falter with using ‘s’ instead of ‘z’, though I do pronounce it ‘zed’ and ‘haitch’, sometimes slipping on ‘haitch’. I used the word zed when spelling out a password for a nurse at a free clinic in Venice, California a few years back. I was still freshly back from Sydney and she was British, so I used zed, then corrected myself to ‘zee’. I’ve heard unreliable accounts of people at STD clinics picking up nurses, but it certainly doesn’t seem plausible. I’m not implying that I tried to pick up the nurse, far from it, but I do remember seeing an attractive nurse in the halls as I was exiting. She wouldn’t have known exactly what I was there for, but trying to pick up a nurse in a free clinic would seem akin to hitting on a worker while picking up a social security check. It also reminds me of the time I was in an out-patient program, and every guy but myself had asked for the assistant counsellor’s number. I wanted to, but learned from other’s failures. I was able to reluctantly pull from her the street she lived on, but that was only because we grew up in the same town, and I knew people who lived on the same or adjacent street. If I remember correctly, she was a thin, pale, redhead, which interestingly for me has been the only body type I’ve dated multiples of. I think there is something sexy about almost every single woman, and I would never lose interest in a woman because of her height, hair, or skin tone (weight is a sticking point). It’s not that I find pale redheads particularly attractive, but something about them and me seem to click, or used to anyway. There was I suppose a brief spate of them between 16 and 18 for me (I was between those ages), and then one brief relationship five or six years ago, but I don’t believe any since. I thought I liked short women, but I’m not so sure if that’s true anymore, because short and skinny don’t mix terribly well I’ve found on at least one occasion. Seeing women as delicate can be an attractive feature, but they need to have a study skeleton, and short, skinny women don’t seem to have that in comparison to others. The rain is really coming down now. I’m glad I’m indoors, but part of me wants to walk about and get soaking wet. Once you’re wet, you’re wet, and if you embrace it, can be a nice feeling. Then add the sensation of coming in for a warm shower and fresh, dry clothes, and it’s a wonderful sequence. I don’t have worn out shoes that I don’t mind getting soaked anymore, I threw the last pair out before the move to Sydney, as they had well had their best days behind them. Now my formerly nice shoes have become my everyday shoes, which will ruin them all the quicker. I like shoes; I’m not so sure what it is exactly I like about them, and I’m quite in control about buying them, but I wouldn’t mind in the least if I were given free range in a shoe store. Again I pause. Is it because I have no thought again, or because I am only trying to have thoughts worth noting down? That’s not the point of this, because there is no real point. This is one day out of the thousands I’ve had, and I can spend it any way I wish. I don’t believe there is anything I could accomplish were I to give up this task that I couldn’t just as easily and competently enough do tomorrow. My fridge makes a fair amount of noise, and I wonder if that isn’t one of the reasons I wake up at night. I’ve heard stories of people’s own gas waking them up, and I do wonder if that happens to me, and how often. I don’t snore, and I don’t think I’m difficult to share a bed with, though I never get much sleep when someone else is in the bed with me; I’m too self-conscious about waking them up- I can’t even breathe normally. I think I am a loud breather, even when through my nose. I seem to perpetually have a stuffed or runny nose. It’s not that I’m sick, but my nasal passages just never seem to be fully clear. I’m reminded somehow of a girl I met while on holiday in Sydney from LA a few years back (try to keep up with the city changes). She must have had a cold, because I don’t think that I did. In fact, I’m certain she did, because we met at a pub, and when I suggested she shouldn’t drink, she had nothing to do with it. I’m absolutely the same. I think drinking can even help- though I don’t know how. I have a recollection of when I first moved to Israel that I had a bad outbreak of some skin rash I’ve had since childhood, though I didn’t bring any medication for it as it had been dormant for a long time. I was embarrassed by the rash, and wouldn’t go swimming or wear short sleeves (the rash was on my elbows). Then one night I went to the local pub and got absolutely smashed off of vodka (if I remember correctly). The next day, the rash on both elbows had completely cleared up. I wasn’t asked to go to the pool, as I had always said no previously, but ventured down and had a swim. I was hit in the head by some sort of ball thrown at me by a Swede who had timed when I would come up. I planned to serve my revenge cold, and while I did remember, opted not to, as likely he had forgotten, and didn’t seem to me that he would take it in such good humour. Thoughts of needing to go to the toilet again, possibly as a result from thinking about the swimming pool, but more likely from the sounds of the rain (which no longer sound like wind), or all the water I’ve drank. I wonder what is happening in Lithgow, everyone would be up- it may or may not be raining (as it is the world over), and a happy, domestic time would be being had by everyone. I am quite glad to be out of that circle, even if any animosity is one-sided. The straight and narrow path is not for me, clearly. Midway through our life’s journey I ventured from straight path into the dark wood of error. After double-checking, I missed the phrase by a bit, but the essence is there. I wish I could remember passages from books. Even now, having just referenced the book, I don’t think I could relay the words precisely. For most of my life, through all the bouts of self-doubt and self-flagellation, I always seemed to have an un-ebbing flow of confidence in my intelligence, but lately that has been faltering. I don’t think I am so smart anymore, certainly not as good at simple maths and vocabulary as I so adamantly thought. I can hardly remember the definitions of any words I don’t understand. My retention is pure rubbish. Too much booze? I do seem to blackout more often though, up from never until the age of 25. That said, it wasn’t uncommon that I wouldn’t remember something until my memory was jogged, and now that I drink by myself more often (something fairly good in my eyes, though I miss having a piano to accompany me) there is no one to remind me of one key element that unlocks the rest of the night. What happened when I deleted the texts and contact information of someone in Auckland I will never fully know. I could always ask them, as was the initial plan, but didn’t want to let on not only how intoxicated I was, but that something had affected me in such a way. Deleting texts is common for me- I do it always, otherwise I end up rereading the message to look for subtleties I may have missed, but deleting the contact information; I think I did it because I was sick of “torturing” myself over something whom I knew I didn’t have romantic feelings for, but was somehow convinced I did. Having thoughts that I knew empirically to be false is something that is becoming more common within me. Many things seem to be occurring within me as I age that are non-desirable qualities. This wouldn’t be so bad were some good to come into my aging life as well, and while some good has happened, it is certainly disproportionate to the negative. Would I pee in the sink? I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it isn’t in the realm of the impossible. With some jackass leaving the toilet door closed with the light on even though they have long since vacated, it seems commonly that someone is in the toilet for 20 or 30 minutes before I go investigating, busting at the seems to urinate or more.
I don’t know that I’ve looked at myself in the mirror today. I think I may well have when brushing my teeth or washing my hands, but I can’t be certain. A few months back, I mentioned to my then therapist that I hadn’t looked in a mirror for three days, not consciously doing so, just happenstance. She was unimpressed and didn’t seem to find anything unusual or telling in that statement, which I found odd. Not being vainglorious is one thing, but I had always assumed the vast majority of people gave themselves a quick once-over in a mirror before they went out anywhere (with the exception of nipping down to the shops for a bag of crisps or something). I don’t know that my not looking in a mirror for that long necessarily meant anything substantial, but I don’t think it was meaningless. I don’t care much for how I look, but I still want to be found attractive, though I don’t like it when people look at me, and like it even less when they try to take my picture (not because they find me attractive, just in general). I had thought that about one in seven women found me attractive, but now I think that number is lower (meaning one in ten or twenty) as I don’t think I’ve gotten better with age. My skin seems to hold damage longer, and when acne pops up as it still occasionally does (much to my embarrassment and dismay), not only does it stay longer than it used to, but it seems to always leave a mark (that could be because I try and pop them, a habit which I’ve never been able to resist and can’t understand how anyone can). Coming up on four hours total and nearly a thousand words ahead of the initial pace set. I think, I’m doing the maths again, and without looking back I think I had said 2,000 words an hour for 14 hours, meaning 28,000 words at 56 pages. I can see now that its about 750 words a page being that I’m not using formal punctuation or breaks in paragraphs. If I’ve got ten hours left, that’s 20,000 words to go, and now I see that I was correct, but in thinking back had mistaken I had said I would write 56,000 words, which would be a freakish thing to do in one day, no matter how rambling and incoherent the subjects are. I’m looking around the room, and seeing things that register within my brain, but don’t think about them. The book on Hysteria I have next to me, the ill eagle image on the wall. They are there, I understand they are there, but I move on. My empty water bottle is calling out to me, but I don’t want to fill it up because I don’t want to go to the toilet again. I’m willing to dehydrate myself so I don’t have to get up and stop writing. I am getting hungry though, the packet of wafers were tasty though not filling. It is an appropriate lunching hour. I hear the sounds of another resident above me, possibly the one person I’ve formally met here is the Andy Williams culprit. I don’t want to run into anyone in the kitchen, so I have to plan my lunch carefully- earlier in the week it was a disaster as about four people used the kitchen simultaneously. If I thought I would be staying in this hole longer than the required three months I would possibly by a hotplate and toaster oven so I could avoid the communal kitchen altogether, but I don’t think it’s quite worth it- though I do miss being able to cook pasta for $3 and have it last me two days. I do have garlic bread, I had forgotten about that. 12 pages of pure shit. I don’t even think I will reread this. The initial plan was to write for hours on end, then submit it to a public writing site; the plan then became to write for hours on end, wait a week or two, and create an edited and more coherent version, and then submit both to the website, marking each one respectively. I’ve got what would seem to be a small pimple on the back of my head, on my scalp. I’m not sure if you can get pimples there, and this one has been around for months if not years, so I don’t think it’s head acne- I just don’t know what else it could be. I could ask a few doctors were I back in NZ, on better terms with them, and didn’t feel slightly embarrassed. It dawns on me I could ring up to buy phone credit over the phone, thus giving me internet again, but I’m pretty sick of providing debit card details by typing them into the phone. I was so sick of pins and international dialing from the whoe VW debacle. Hopefully it will all be over when I’m 35, if I make it that far, and if I’m back in the States and living in a place where credit matters, of which none I hope are the case. I suppose I could accept living up to and past 35 were I to find a career in being creative, but it isn’t looking likely. No one gets a TV their first shot out of the gate. I’m way too inexperienced and don’t have the talent. I still don’t believe I’m funny in a written format. It’s not that other people have necessarily been telling me otherwise, because the ones that have are likely just being polite, but it’s always easier to believe the negative things. How much Chopin do I have? A little over three hours in total, and there’s a little less than an hour left. An hour of forgetting to have music on, and a half hour of Seinfeld and other videos leaves two and a half hours of Chopin; the timing works out. Save work. I am getting too hungry, once again I have to break to go do something, I won’t be bringing a notepad.
I always open the door of my room silently so I can hear if anyone is coming down the stairs or hallway. No new e-mails. The cruise ship site didn’t like my answers. I don’t know why but I’ve never liked brief encounters, strangers in hallways, parties, hallways at an office, those are the worse. I hated saying ‘hi’ to people five times a day just because I saw them in a hallway, the absolute worst was when you saw them thirty seconds earlier. Disaster. At the first post-production house I worked at, I was attracted to I think all but one of the older women who worked there, and a few of the younger ones. By older I mean mid-30s, I was 23 or 24 I think. It’s not that they- the older ones, were physically attractive, but that they were established adults, in the working world, working in film, confident (outwardly). Something about those intangible features made me want to have sex with them, even if I knew that naked they would not look very enticing. Of course, it could be that I was 24 and wanted to have sex with most women, I’m 27 and still feel the same. I’ve got vegan chicken strips from South Africa cooking in the oven, I’m excited about them because they are very tasty. I’m overcome with an urge to look at naked women. I need to fuck. Maybe I should call that escort place- I won’t, but I can have a think about it. Would I rather a new phone, or an hour of fucking what in theory could be the hottest girl I’d ever sleep with? I am curious to see what the escorts look like. Of course they always describe themselves (I’m guessing) as petite with big breasts, exotic look, but who knows? A man in my building seemingly swore at the rain as he was about to go outside- it’s only temporary. I don’t understand how an average looking woman could be an escort, or how- if they do, people could order an escort based on description alone. I’ve tried to date girls on the description that they tick all or most of the boxes of what I look for in a partner, only to not be romantically interested in them. I’ve repeated myself a few times on a few different matters, which makes me wonder about how I talk, because I know I do it often then. I don’t really listen to myself talk, as I’m not used to people paying attention. I don’t even know when they started to listen, about the time I was at Madison, but I don’t know. I also somehow became cockier, probably because I was getting laid at Madison, but that’s what college is for, and I would bet that I was at least one girl’s mistake. So close to 10,000 words. I think at Madison in a writing course I took, our final project had to be 10,000 words minimum. I had heard a story from a friend of mine at a different university saying something along those lines as it filled a writing requirement for the university, but I didn’t believe it then, though I did once I got the assignment. My food is ready, I hope no one is in the kitchen.
Nearly five hours total, with a one hour break, four writing hours, 10,000 words, 13 pages, nothing substantial. What am I doing with this? It would be one thing to record every event that happened in a day and write about it after, that could have some merit. It’s not necessarily what’s happening, but how it’s told; with thoughts from one man in a single room who hasn’t spoken and only just washed his face, what insight can you get? In theory, heaps, but not so much when every thought is being recorded. I am fast losing interest in this project, the fatigue that follows from having eaten a meal- especially one that was too much food, has taken hold of me and my eyes are drooping along with the rest of my body. The rain outside- though on pause, doesn’t help one to stay alert. If I go to sleep, the faster I can wake up and drink my beers, though they were only to serve in part as a reward and in part as a means to new thoughts. If I weren’t so full perhaps I could have started drinking them now, but it would surely quicken my drowsiness and cause me to have to go to the toilet more frequently, and that is not something I am particularly keen to do when my goal is to sit in a chair with a few disruptions as possible. I’m looking at the keyboard more often now to check the keys I am hitting to ensure I type the words correctly, surely a sign of tiredness. I’m having much trouble staying awake throughout an entire day. Yesterday- the second full day I’ve worked in awhile, and the longest workweek I’ve had in month is a day where I was awake from morning until night, but certainly had some tired moments, especially towards the end of the work day when customers were few and far between. I didn’t like that guy who came in at the end of the day and was chatting up the other worker. Talking about driving across Europe to get drunk and pick up women is not what I would call a great holiday. Maybe when I was younger, or maybe only for a few days, or maybe just not having the explicit goal of trying to screw random women. What’s the point? Everything is temporary, which could propel the idea of one-night stands, but who has the energy? Who has the determination to talk stupid club conversation and dancing to vapid club music in order to get something that won’t leave you satisfied, and with someone whom not only do you not know personally, nor know the history of, but someone you’ll probably just refer to derogatorily and then forget about. I used to think all sex was meaningless, though I’ve changed my mind on that. I understand that I’m coming across as a sort of miser- certainly bitter, and that’s a large reason I’m sure that I haven’t been and won’t be laid for many months, but oh well, fuck it. Do I care if I ever have sex again? Seeing as much as I’m talking about it, I must, but I’m really not so sure. Sex has supposed health benefits plus the assumed emotional health benefits of having a connection with someone, but I think I may want to be happy with being alone. I’m not yet, or not entirely at any rate, but I think I could be. It goes back to being an anti-social being who craves social connection. I want to sever that social connection willingly. To do so completely I think I may have to remove myself from society, which is an experiment I certainly want to try if and when I am once again forced out of Australia. Staring at the clock, staring at the word count, wondering when the music will change from Chopin to whatever comes next on the playlist, Chumbawumba possibly. Sleep makes its case for me again. Is this considered downtime? The point made to me by my ex a few months back that no one is creative every waking minute of every day is one I hadn’t thought of, because that’s not what you read or see in biographies and documentaries, but it has to be true. Balzac took days off from writing his 92 novels. But I feel that I take more time off than put effort into. It’s hard to juggle a working life with a creative life, but by no means impossible. I wish I had an easier project to be working on, or one that I could work at casually without feeling guilty about neglecting. The Third Room, I don’t know, it’s fun, and I’m happy with the last scene I wrote, but it does feel a bit like an obligation. I could only imagine what writing six of them by a deadline would feel like. But of course I wouldn’t be working another job, and would have all day to write. I need money. I think nothing short of $10,000 would be necessary to get me- no, that’s bullshit and stupid reasoning and worthless to think about. Any money would be helpful and appreciated. Any money you get for doing nothing is brilliant, and you have no right to complain. That’s why I need to save, because the $500 I may spend on a new phone is $500 I could put toward paying off the $4000 I owe my maker. Who cares if I buy a used phone? Stop thinking about desiring material things. You can’t even spend $30 credit a month, why do you need a fancy phone? In theory, I’ve got a little less than $2000 of the $4000 owed waiting in the US, and I just need to close that account. I need that $500 from NZ from taxes, even if it is only converted to $350 or somewhere thereabouts. It’s free money that only requires me to send out e-mails I’m too embarrassed to send out because communication has been severed. A few e-mails, a few hours sorting out the tax forms- though they are bloody complicated, and I should have a small influx of funds. When did I become so shit with money? Work work work, and I don’t do it. How can I be expected to be successful at the things I would like to be successful at if I don’t put in the work. 10,000 hours over ten years to be an expert, I’ll never do that. And I understand that I have been putting in the work- several shorts, the webseries, etc. but that’s not enough, I can do more, I can always do more. What would my life be like if I had stayed in LA? A stupid question to ask and an even worse question to devote time to thinking about. I’m not someone who lands and stays put, and I need to accept that more fully than I have been. I need to do more than accept it, I need to embrace it. Moving around constantly and living in dives, that will almost certainly be the one constant in my life. I won’t say working in hospitality, because that needs to end soon. I wish I could just fast forward 35 or 40 years and be the dishevelled, drunken old man at the pub that people laugh at. Not necessarily be laughed at, but certainly noted and mocked by younger adults. I’ll never be convinced I’m rid of bed bugs. That was a nightmare to which I’ll never fully wake up from. They feel like an STD, and I’m afraid that whomever tries to help me may get infected. If they made it to NZ, that place will never be rid of them until the building gets demolished, and even then, they’ll just move on. Incredible creatures, like Great White Sharks, so refined over the eons that they are as perfect a creature as can be for their purposes. I suppose the only thing cockroaches have on bedbugs is the fact that I’ve seen white adult cockroaches, and I think that mutation will survive. How much Chopin left? Ten minutes. Scarlatti next, or maybe Mendelssohn, Mendelssohn I think. I need to get some Handel, I just want to get that classical music question at trivia right. I don’t like that I’m being credited as a director- I’ve just skipped a few thoughts ahead that I didn’t write down, laziness. I don’t have what it takes to be a director, and I don’t like that I’m not getting credit as writer or editor, because I like both of those more than directing. Writer, editor, director. I think I’d like directing more if I had a budget and time to work with, but I don’t know how to go about getting either of those. I wonder if my showreel will have the slightest impact on getting me a job. It’s too amateur, but that’s how you need to start out. The problem is that caveats of the projects- the short time span, the tiny budget, they are nothing more than excuses as to why a film didn’t work as well as it should, but they are extremely valid in many cases. I’m skipping more thoughts. 11,500 words in a little under 15 pages in 5.25 hours. At what point can I quit and still have this be a success? Is it a page number, or a time limit? Is it anything less than full achievement of what I set out to do, because I don’t think I can maintain this for another eight and a half hours. If I get to halfway through, maybe that will work. Three p.m. a little more than an hour and a half away, and usually about the time I go back to sleep for an hour or two. I could possibly get up to 15,000 words by then, but it will take some work. Again I start to skip over thoughts, they are too boring I guess, or I am too tired. Will I ever feel rested again? Does it have to do with me not eating meat? I wonder if and when I’ll go back to a meat diet. I don’t miss it really, but it is easier in many ways. Does my partner have to be vegetarian? I already know the answer is ‘no’, but would I prefer it? I don’t think I care. I remember when an ex tried to eat one of my chicken nuggets. I was so surprised she would sacrifice her beliefs like that, even if it was just for one piece. My old flatmate in NZ, a vegetarian who ate meat fairly regularly, what a hypocrite. Skipping more thoughts that are little more than bitchy comments about her. I’m thinking of the two girls I worked with on Sundays at the fish shop in Auckland. They were both attractive, the little one especially. Not a great dress sense though from the few times I saw her in street clothes. And a smoker. I hated that the two hottest girls there smoked. Chumbawumba is playing. Part of me wants to let the song play out, but I just can’t do it. Back to thinking about beautiful women naked. It’s too early to have another go at myself, though I suppose that’s how a lot of people see weekends. One guy talking about using his flextime to take wank days, he probably was only half joking, the other half trying to sound impressive. I feel that there is a bow in the keyboard from typing, but that can’t be right. It is somewhat incredible that people can be happy with old technology. My laptop is how old, three years? Still in good shape, though not nearly as powerful as one I could buy with similar money today- though it couldn’t be Mac. If for nothing else, I do like Mac’s OS, but I understand pretty much everything else is the same in comparison to other laptops with the exception of price. I won’t be able to own nice things unless I settle down, but I don’t want to settle down, so can I ever own nice things? I’ll never own a fainting couch, or a day bed I think was the other name. I’ll never be able to design and/or build my own house if I don’t settle down, but I won’t have the money for that anyway. I’m not going to last until midway through the day. Maybe it’s the soft classical music. What will I do with the rest of the day, with what I’ve written? It’s back raining. If I weren’t so full I’d smoke some hookah maybe, though I’d have to worry about smoke detectors. Or, I could smoke it in the toilet like one person does with their cigarettes. Probably the same person who leaves the light on. I wonder if I could construct a vent that would allow me to blow smoke from my room straight to outside. I’d have to worry about the smoke alarm going off in my room from the heat of the coal, but maybe I could place a damp towel around it, though I don’t know how I’d affix it to the ceiling. Smoking hookah in my room would be a good relaxant though. Prices for tobacco is quite high though, $20 a packet that gets you three sessions. Not that bad I guess compared to $15 at a shop, but a bit tough when you’re the one footing the bill every time. They make it up to me in other ways, but it’d still be nice if they at least offered chip in or buy the tobacco. We had a good system in Madison, outside of the fact that everything was cheaper, but I’d supple the hookah and tobacco, and they’d supply the beer. Busch Light, but who cares when you’re young and used to drinking pisswater. I wonder if the smoke would get caught in the connecting tube from my room to outside, if it would just waft stagnantly, or if the wind from outside would blow it back into the room. Smoking in the park would be okay, but I’d be a little upset about setting a bad example for little kids, and the older weirdos who would approach us. Those guys down at Hamilton, get fucked. That guy in Taupo, from Taranaki, what a bogan. Is that elitist? I don’t think it is if I’m judging them based on their actions. Or possibly it is elitist, but in a somewhat justified sense. I’m not looking down on the guy because he’s from Taranaki, but because of what he said, though I’m sure has in some part to do with him being raised in Taranaki. Skipping thoughts. My left foot. I’m writing because I don’t know what else to do, I’m being incredibly unproductive in a productive manner. But again, is this really productive? Regardless, I have to go on for at least another 20-odd minutes because I need to end on a round number, and I missed the half-hour mark. I think I’ve put in a solid effort, especially in that I started almost immediately from when I work up. If I had woken up at 10:00, I still would have stopped writing at 10:00 p.m., and that was certainly a thought I had before going to sleep last night at 10:00 p.m. Seeing it now, writing until 10:00 p.m. tonight is a bit ridiculous because I’m usually asleep by then if not trying for sleep. But it’s the weekend and I assumed I’d be up until at least 11:00, though that seems like specious reasoning (if I’m using the word correctly). Granted, I woke up two hours later than I normally do, but that’s no guarantee I’ll go to sleep two hours later. The point was that at waking up and starting writing at 8:00, I’ve put in a solid effort, and if the goal was to write until 10:00 p.m., I did myself a disservice by waking up so early, though I can’t claim that I didn’t think that would happen. I thought my wrists were beginning to hurt, but I think it’s just from their position on the laptop, and not fatigue. There were footsteps to the toilet, which I’ve now heard flush- they shut the light off. The footsteps on the way in sounded feminine, though I couldn’t discern them on the trek back. They’re room is outside covering, and have to foot through the rain to get to the toilet and kitchen. I lived in a place like that, though there was a little overhang along the path. There were steps as well though, and no light for them. I liked that place, for the most part, memory certainly helps to blot out any bad bits. A decent little room, a carport that was turned into a courtyard- great for sitting and having some drinks. That was all in the summer though, not sure what it’d be like at this time of year. Grammar is temporary. Subject verb noun. Skipping thoughts of ways to fill in the blanks. Mad Libs, great fun, even if every blank was filled in with a dirty word. The urge to look at nude women has passed for awhile, but I thought of it again, so was it ever really gone? Every crumb or speck I see I fear is a bedbug. They are so hard to see, especially when not full adults. That spray seemed to have work, but I can’t be sure; how was there a living one on my bag that was sprayed? I wish I could know how many there were, how many there are, and the gender. How many times was I bit? I’m very lucky to not be allergic to the bites, but it makes it somewhat harder in knowing if they’re gone. I haven’t seen any signs- faeces or casings, but without being able to use bites as a barometer, it makes their presence that much more ambiguous. 12 minutes. Just over 13,000 words. Won’t get to 15,000, but that would be 3,000 words an hour, which was well above pace. 3,000 words an hour, that’s 500 words every ten minutes. One hundred words every two minutes, 50 words a minute. That is impressive- when being told what to type, I think I scored about 80 words per minute, possibly a bit less, but I think that right now I am creating what the average person types with material given to them. One more thing to be above average at that makes no difference in life whatsoever. Everything is temporary, and I’m good at something. Being positive, something new for me. I suppose it isn’t so much staying positive as it is avoiding negative, as how something can be flawless but not perfect. I do like in the Divine Comedy how Heaven- specifically god, can’t change, because it is perfect, and therefore any change would be a movement away from perfection. So many great points in those books, it would have been worth writing down lines. Of course, then I’d have a tome of lines from books, which wouldn’t be the worst thing, in fact, I could probably get them published, certainly similar things have been done. Not having my Happiness watch, I wonder if that does make a difference. Switching to the Fossil watch for the café in NZ, and then buying some crap Nixon one. Maybe if I kept the Happiness watch things would have been okay. Can’t remember when the change came about though. Am I really going to go to sleep in a few minutes? It certainly isn’t productive. I wouldn’t be surprised if I laid- I have no idea if it’s laid, lied, or lay, or something else; if I went to bed and couldn’t fall asleep. I have a small urge to go to the toilet, which I’ll have to sate if I wish to be able to go to sleep. How could Word not figure out that I meant toilet when I spelled it “otilet”? Certainly Word must have a brain to see if one letter transposed could make a new word. I suppose quickly that another option could have been “outlet”, but that’s two errors, though obviously Word doesn’t know how good a natural typist you are, and how many mistakes you make on a word. I never know if pains in my stomach mean I’m hungry or too full. The backs of my hands are really starting to fatigue, and I can feel the strain in the ligaments of my fingers as I type. Whether I want to now or not, I think stopping in two minutes is necessary lest I risk damage from RSI or CTS or whatever other acronyms may suffice. I think once I’m finished I’ll check the Internet again, because why not? I may or may not return to this, hopefully so, once I start drinking, though it may take one of the two longnecks to bring me back. I’ll probably only sleep for an hour, if that, and then who knows? Read? Probably.
Round two: Watching The Informant! There was a shot of a cityscape- I thought how incredible it looked (even though in terms of cityscapes it was actually quite dull), and then thought about how I want to kill myself. It was a fleeting moment- both thoughts were. A city is an incredible thing, and there is beauty in buildings, even stock standard ones. Suicidal thoughts stem in part for me from the sense of beauty, and then becomes twofold- I want to die because of something that is so beautiful, I can’t grasp it- I’ll have to mention Dante in Paradise in the Divine Comedy. The other reason being that I’ll never create something beautiful. The films I make contain no beauty, the films and stories I write are comedy, of which beauty is beyond difficult to attain in such a genre. I will say for myself that I believe I have touched beauty in music I’ve written, but fleetingly. Audiogasm was what I called them, though that was when –gasm wasn’t added to every such noun. The song I’m listening to contains moments of audiogasm. It was also one of the first songs I taught myself on piano- because I wanted to play it for a girl I thought I liked. I never got the chance and I realised I didn’t like the girl. Playing music for someone was once a tactic I used to woo them, but awhile back I realised that I was prostituting my music and if it can be so called, my talent. I played for my ex girlfriend when I was drunk, but I wish I hadn’t. In fact, I think the last few performances I’ve given in front of partners have been when I’ve been drunk, or drinking. I do love my drinking. I miss my guitar, or not the guitar itself, which is a bit surprising, but owning a guitar and being able to play it whenever I like. I was playing fairly rarely in terms of how much I used to play during my time in NZ, but I attribute that to being so involved in film work. I’m notorious to myself for not being able to be creative in more than one medium at a time. I think that I need to kill myself at the height of my popularity, because otherwise it will just go unnoticed, and that’s not what I want. It’s not that I want people to mourn me, but rather I want them to ask what happened to me rather than being told. After high school when I had a house to myself and was throwing parties a few times a week, a friend of a girl I had a crush on was over at my place, and I asked her to call the girl, she had died of cancer. I laughed because that’s my defense mechanism, but looking back in this context, it’s what I want. The fact is, I don’t get asked to parties, I don’t get asked anywhere. I try to wait to let my friends call or text to invite me somewhere, but all that happens is that I end up not talking to them for a few weeks because they won’t call me. Everyone I know has so much more going on for them than I do. That’s what my role is within the people I know- to make their lives look better by comparison. It’s a bit of a sad realisation, but it’s true. I’m the fuck up, the one that will never get anywhere. They say they don’t believe that, that they think I’ll be famous one day, but there’s no way they possibly believe that; I don’t believe that. If they do, I don’t know if they’re good friends or just incredibly stupid. I suppose I could ask, but I don’t think I’d get an honest answer, like were I to ask my dad if I were an accident. I can’t believe that girl’s mum told her she was, but it’s amazing. I don’t think it would change me one way or another, but I’d like to know. Possibly if I knew I were an accident I would have killed myself ten years ago, but who knows. Fuck, I’ve been suicide for ten years, or more than that even. Well, not necessarily suicidal, because I seem to disagree with that definition, but I’ve harboured strong thoughts of suicide for nearly 13 years now. Nearly half my life. That’s an accomplishment, unfortunately. I spoke a few words about an hour ago, a few words of a song, I wish I hadn’t. I want to forget what I sound like, to not communicate with anything for a week, that’s my first goal, then two weeks, then a month, then three months, then six, then a year, etc. I need to get to Fiji and just fuck off from existence for awhile. That’s what I need to be saving money for. $500 towards a phone (funny, it was $400 last night), $500 towards paying back my loan, or $500 towards Fiji and dying for just a few weeks. The problem is that I’d forget I don’t want to talk, and start singing or something. Maybe I could tape my mouth shut- I’d lose weight that way, in theory. Join an ashram- something to look into. Vesspana, I think it’s spelled. Strange how I thought it was so dumb a few years ago when I read that the singer of Weezer was doing it, but it may be what I need. Shut the fuck up for a few days or weeks, focus on thought- away from society, understand whatever it is I need to understand, and then stay or go, pending on what conclusions I came to. I could go to cricket while I’m there as well. I know you can do Vesspana in NSW, but I think I’d have to do it in India to get a more authentic experience. Did Liz ever go to India? Can’t remember anymore. She was Black Swan for Halloween I remember seeing. That was a bizarre friendship. If Jenny had stayed in LA, I wonder what would have happened. If we had gotten that coke I wonder what would have happened. We didn’t understand what boundaries were. Or, I understood them, but didn’t care. Skipping inappropriate thoughts. Wondering if I should just stop writing and get back to the film I’m watching. I want to, because it’s easier, but I can’t find a stopping point. I’m almost out of beer, which was always going to pose a problem. It’s not even 7:00 p.m. Will I go out to get more? No, but I’m going to sit around wishing I would. I wish I could drink myself to death, god knows I’ve tried to indirectly, but I can’t seem to do it. I’ve vomited bile I’ve been told, but I’m not sure what an authority they were, especially only hearing about it. Alcohol poisoning, I could live with dying about that. I do need to organise a will at some point, something to be signed by a JP I think. That’s a bit too morbid though, and I’ve got no money or possessions so what’s the point? I just need to write out all my online accounts and passwords, that’s how it’s done it. Write them out for the police to send to my maker, and have him deal with it, regardless of how draining it is. Living for someone else, I never thought I’d do that, promised myself I wouldn’t, and I’ve been doing it for 12 years. It was obvious in hindsight that I was always going to talk about this shit at night after a few beers. We’ll all float on. Everything is temporary.