Writer's Block

I would have written this post 20 minutes ago, but I decided I needed ice cream, and had to go to the store. I wish I were kidding.  That's what the last month or so has been like.

My vacation is over.  The original plan for the vacation was to write.  This is not quite go as planned.  The setting was fine, the chairs were fine (see previous entry), the computer worked fine, but I just sat in front of it and stared.  The cursor on the blank page would wink at me, mock me until I would cave and watch just one more episode of Seinfeld.  This happened for days before I walked away, having decided that agonizing over it would just ruin my vacation and make me more miserable. 

I've been so out of practice with the act that I didn't know how to handle writer's block.  Quite frankly, I didn't even recognize it for what it was when it happened.  Writer's block was something that happened to other people, to real writers.  It didn't happen to a girl like me, someone who just taps out their thoughts and frustrations on the weekend.  It doesn't happen to me*.  If I had seen it for what it was, I could have googled and read a bunch of garbage other people had written about it.  I could easily have wasted an afternoon doing that.  It would have felt more productive than what I was doing.

It was a good vacation, not a great one.  The end of the vacation was marked by a remarkable first date. We met for drinks, followed by coffee and a stroll in the park.  The date lasted 5 hours, with promises to see each other again.  We had our fourth date last night, which included just sitting together and listening to Mike Oldfield. 

Our musical tastes overlap so much, it's frightening.  At one point, I thought he was pulling my leg when he told me Death Cab for Cutie** was one of his favourites.  There's still a lot of great stuff we can show each other, not just in music, but in general as well.  I could go on and on about him, but I've probably said too much.  He makes me smile.  We might go camping this weekend.  

Everything's been going well enough in my life that I almost feel I've had little to write about.  I have stepped back a little. There's a brilliant moment in the 1937 movie Lost Horizon, where Edward Everett Horton is trying to write, but the writing is awful, because he only has nice things to write about Shangri-La (for context: they've crash landed their plane in paradise).  It's a delicious problem to have, really.  

*mad libs moment: leading up to the asterisk in this paragraph, replace "writer's block" with your choice of STI.  For example: "I've been so out of practice with the act that I didn't know how to handle genital warts."

**Last week, Chris Walla announced he's leaving Death Cab.  I was gutted, honestly, but he's still young (they all are), and his best work may still be in front of him. It will be interesting to see how Death Cab's sound changes as well. Not only are they losing a great songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, but I'm not sure if he'll continue producing for them.

Vacation post 1

Well, I'm on my holidays now.  Those of you who know me, know that these days are much needed.  It's like there's a buildup of baloney in my system, and I need to spit it out.  That's not an "I dislike my job" comment, I think it comes from doing something a number of days in a  row.  In my case, since Christmas.

Last year, for my vacation, I booked two nights at a bed and breakfast to sit and write.  I booked in at lovely B&B.   Now, in order to properly sit and write, one must have the first to achieve the second.  For the life of me, I could not find a comfortable place to sit.  The room even boasted a desk and chair. and I thought I was set for the visit.  The chair left much to be desired.

The desk chair was hard, a molded piece of plastic attached to a wire frame.  That was all it was.  The construction was mostly this cold metal tubing, rounded and shiny.  The seat itself was a hard and not welcoming of my ample bottom.  The hardness of the seat was ridiculous, I can't imagine how someone with less padding on their posterior would feel about it. The "armrests" were more cold tubing.  I would not be surprised to find that this is the design Satan commissioned for Hitler's arrival in the spring of 1945.  Satan knew he wouldn't able to write another shitty book in that chair.  I certainly couldn't.

This year, my holidays coincide with my brother's, and I'm able to house-sit.  There is no shortage of chairs here, and I already know there are a number of cozy places to sit.

Hi-ho.

I'm stifling laughter...

This has me giggling and kind of in tears:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/A1SM813W6H36YA/ref=cm_cr_dp_pdp

It's an okay day...

I'm having an alright day.  Surprisingly, considering I dreamt a lot last night.  Each dream was a showcase of what my life would have been like had I married one of my exes.  So, there's that.

Differing Opinions

For those of you unfamiliar with me in my personal life, I have a strong sense of skepticism with regards to a number of things.  When I was in high school (grade 10 or 11, it was 1998), we were given an assignment to write in detail about three different science articles. My dad took me to Chapters (which was very new then), to grab a couple of magazines, and among them was a copy of the Skeptical Inquirer with Harry Houdini on the cover.  "A magician on the cover of a science magazine?" I thought.

I still have it.

I'd never really read anything like it before.  It's not in the shape it once was (for one, the article on Spontaneous Human Combustion has been torn out so I could hand it in with my paper*), but it's still really special to me.  Throughout the rest of high school, it was almost a religious fervor; Skepticism with a capital S.  That calmed down over time.  It introduced me to a way of thinking to which I keep returning, and recently my interest and convictions are quite strong**.

I told you that story, so I could tell you this one.

I'm experiencing a fair bit of cognitive dissonance lately.  Despite the above, I still hold out hope on one silly notion: the idea that there is one single person out there for me, and I just haven't met them yet.  As though I'm just sitting here, believing all the baloney I was ever fed about the "it'll happen when you least expect it," or "I know he's out there for you, and he's going to be awesome."  It can be comforting, but ya'll don't know that shit any more than I do.

As with any number of us, I turn into a moron when thinking about love.  This has probably done more damage on me than I'd like to admit.  In numerous instances, I'm sure I've not given someone a proper chance at dating me, and - on at least one occasion so far, I've given up on a relationship too soon. I'm constantly plagued with this: how can I know anything about my ideal partner, when I don't know what my life is supposed to look like?  The inverse could be true as well.  How do I build a life when I'm not sure what kind of a mess**** they're bringing to the table?

I know, in my brain of brains, that you don't need to believe in love as some magical woo-woo thing in order to experience it, I just don't think my heart of hearts knows it.  I had a fantastic conversation***** with a good friend the other day, and she told me (for the 5th or 6th time), that she didn't believe there was only one person for everyone.  She said this despite having a delightful husband, who is perfect for her.  I briefly wondered to myself (drunk, remember), if he would feel hurt to hear her say this, and then I remembered that he's as logical and no nonsense as she is.  A good match.

And those are two nice, warm people.  Imagine two calculating scientists together.  Is there an awkward moment during post-coital bliss, staring into each others eyes, holding each others faces, and they realize their souls have fully merged.  This, in spite of the fact they originally bonded over the dismissal of the idea of a soul, let alone one soul merging with another.

They're not allowed to be happy. Those bastards.

As mentioned, this way of thinking does me a disservice.  Being a veteran of the online dating world certainly doesn't help with the cynicism.  I've grown really tired of all forms of online dating, but I can't seem to give it up.  I go out and do activities, and all my friends are on the lookout for suitable gentlemen, but I'm just getting no bites that way. I'm still having conversations on the sites, but there majority of the messages are all "hi how r u" type things.  It's hard not to picture a guy loading the phrase "hi how r u" into a gatling gun and firing at everything on the site with a vagina, like resumes when you're looking for retail work.

"Um, hi...my dad said to drop off a resume here because I have poor taste?"

Hi-ho.





*the second article I'd written about was the rapidly declining numbers of the Orange Roughy, a deep sea fish that, since it's a deep sea fish, takes over 20 years reach sexual maturity.  The result of this is that a lot of them aren't having wee little roughians quickly enough to satiate the demand of human yuppies.  It's still pretty close to my heart.  I don't remember the third article.
**people responsible for this include, but are not limited to: Susan J. Blackmore, A.R. Wallace, Brian Cox, Neil Peart, Stephen Fry, Charlie Brooker, Penn & Teller, James Randi, Stephen Hawking (did you know he's friends with Jimmy Carr?), Ray Hyman...the list goes on.
***it's very comforting, but y'all don't know that shit.
****educated guess that he'll have some sort of neurotic tendencies.
*****I was so stinkin' drunk.

Neighbours

I've written about neighbours a few times here before.  There were the annoying neighbours, the overheard encounters with the two boys below me (now a boy and a girl, although I think just a girl for the summer), the two I got too close to, too fast (who have now moved, thank fuck), and the dog, Milhouse*, and his owners, who are a nice young couple.  I just realized I've mentioned the annoying ones twice.

On the first floor, there's a young lady in one unit and Alex in the other, a young fella who once helped push my car out of the snow.  I think he paints and collects Warhammer.  I had been worried about him the past little while, because his car doesn't seem to leave his spot much.  I've been there before.

The couple that moved have left one empty unit.  That makes up the building.  It's a nice building, everyone is polite.  In the morning, the girl below me doesn't get in the shower until she hears me get out.

If I look at the land surrounding our building, we've got four cars nicely lined along the back, and one that parks closer to the door.  Sometimes the grass gets a little long, but it's nothing that bothers me.

I told you that, so I could tell you this.  It's a small building, I have windows on both sides (makes for a nice cross breeze), which lets me see the building on either side of me, if I want.  On the south side, there's a nice building filled with young couples, and one old hippie** who rides his bike everywhere.

Then, there's the building to the north.

I wanted to take a picture of the yard, but I'm worried someone in the building would notice, and then beat the tar out of me or shoot me with a bb gun.  There's no joke here, this is a genuine concern.  Instead, I'll provide you with a small inventory of what I see through the weeds lining the fence, which are about waist-high:

• 3 electric scooters, which are constantly being worked on
• 1 jolly jumper
• 1 dollhouse
• 1 wheelbarrow, filled with running shoes and water
• 2 rusted out, retired barbecues
• somewhere between 5-8 bicycles, in pieces
• 5-8 lawnchairs, pulled in or out of the building as needed, but often left outside
• 4-5 large pieces of moulded plastic that were once items like kiddie pools or sandboxes
• 1 fire pit, which is the only item not surrounded by crap
• and other bullshit that congregates around classy people

When it comes to the building itself, most of the windows don't have screens on them, and those that do are busted up.  When the windows are open, the curtains are often spilling out and sticking to the bricks.  All air conditioners are tossed into the windows haphazardly.

Now, here's where I get uncomfortable.  All of this I'm writing here may sound like I'm making fun of people with less money than me.  The reality is, although it's very quiet out there right now, the number of domestic disputes and screaming I've overheard*** would almost be enough to want to move.  They also have this tendency to lean out the windows and yell conversations to people in the yard.  They've been loud enough to wake me from a dead sleep at 1 am. The cops visit there sometimes, but not often enough.

So, basically, I hate my neighbours, is the gist of this post.  Fuck them.




*Milhouse's actual name is Milo.  In the original post, I had changed his name to protect his identity.  I don't know why I felt the need to do that, he's a dog for chrissakes.  No offense to dogs.  Milo, if you're reading this, WHO'S A GOOD BOY?  WHO'S A GOOD BOY?
**The old hippie played Kraftwerk's Autobahn really loudly one afternoon, which made me disproportionately excited.
***Some of their greatest hits include "HOW COULD YOU? I FUCKING LOVED YOU!" in a shrill female voice, "YOU TELL HIM, IF HE COMES AROUND HERE AGAIN, I'LL KICK HIS FUCKING ASS!" and my personal favourite, "OF COURSE I'M GOING TO JAIL!!!!  YOU THINK I DON'T REALIZE I'M GOING TO FUCKING JAIL TOMORROW???" spoken by a gentleman we probably won't be seeing for 6 months, less a day.

On perfection.

My father helped install my air conditioner this year.  This meant that a 3 hour feat of setting the unit on the windowsill, throwing a piece of plywood to cover the hole above, and then stuffing any empty spaces with socks and towels became a 3 week venture of measurements, a planning and design phase, resentment from both parties, extreme politeness, and - finally - implementation.   What a good handful of people would probably refer to as "overkill."

My brother and I spoke about the difficulties of asking dad for a favour, and neither of us are all that keen on it.  It just took me much longer to realize than him.  My brother and I are adults now; when we ask dad for help with a number of things, we're simply asking for an additional pair of hands.  Dad, on the other hand, has this tendency to hear our requests in our teenage voices (long deceased, although their ghosts visit on some nights of heavy drinking and reminiscing), and pull the entire project on his own shoulders.  It's sweet (and mildly fascinating), but we're at the point where it often includes some complaining about the situation.

The air conditioner is in, and my father has built this nice little window box that fits snugly above.  I appreciate the effort my dad put in, but the amount of stress he experiences and drags me into is quite the price to pay.  The amount of planning in particular was far more than necessary.

Now, I've told you that story, so I could tell you this one.  The AC adventure of 2014 is a perfect example of Wallace over-analysis and perfectionism, often mislabeled "Wallace Genius."  A lot of my laziness is inspired by the frozen feeling that comes along with perfection.  In the case of myself, it translates roughly to:

• Why lose weight if I'm not going to have the perfect body?  You're just shining the silverware on the Titanic, chubby*.
• If I write a horror story, it should scare the shit out of Bloch/Benchley (Peter, not Robert)/LeFanu.
• If I write humour, it should cause fits of laughter in Wodehouse/Benchley (Robert, not Peter)/Sedaris (both Amy and David)**. 
• All satire should top Brooker/Swift/Bierce.
• All erotica should inspire mad wanking upon reading the first sentence.
• And other, somehow grosser, examples.

No wonder I get so little done.  Analysis-paralysis.

I watched The World's End tonight.  It was enjoyable, but something about it missed the mark for me. Prior to this, I might have said the Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg/Nick Frost combination was infallible.  I did laugh out loud at a few moments, so it's not a complete bust, not by a long shot.  Maybe I'm being a little harsh on a movie that I would have been really proud to be a part of.  At any rate, the knowledge that even Simon Pegg can slip up*** should be enough of a reason to keep trying.

Here's a clip from one of my favourite ventures of his, Big Train:

Kevin Eldon kills me in that clip, holding up the two pieces of paper stuck together.  That's just funny.  Stellar team, that cast.  Although the show does have some weak points, this clip is near to perfection.


*As an aside, this particular attitude has been left on the curb for the past couple of months, and I've lost 14 pounds.  It's slow moving, but I already feel better.
**I'll make the joke before you can: this blog is clearly the exception.
***I am full out ignoring the existence of "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People"