Today’s post is in three parts. Kind of like a pizza. A poorly cut pizza. More like a kit-kat. With a bit missing. Seriously what foods come in threes?
Read This Section To Help You Have Conversations With Strangers.
The sky looks like it’s going to deliver the meanest right hook. It’s the sort of punch that’s going to bust lips open and send teeth flying into the atmosphere. It’s a wind-up, widow-maker. A knock-out that you can see coming a mile away…and yet are totally unable to stop. It’s a hypnotists love-tap. It’s a kind of surprising too, you know considering everyone went early on the summer gear this year (shorts got a decent look in yesterday for the first time in several months) and yesterday held the promise of more delicious days to come.
But that was yesterday and this is Melbourne and now the sky is vengeful, drunk and has your address smeared up its rippling forearm. Walking today is not an uphill battle. It’s an effort from all angles. Wind assaults thin legs from all angles and with no mercy. If you jump at the right moment there is a very real possibility you will take flight and collide with a bus…which in turn will take flight and both you and the bus will find yourselves on the wrong side of the rainbow surrounded by ageing midgets who want to know what Ms. Garland’s up to these days.
And while that could be fun (you could have an adventure with a drunk, an asshole and a drag queen on your quest to get back home) it’s probably not a great idea. Especially if you’re not wearing the right shoes. This weather is pretty dramatic though. The door to the balcony (it’s a small rectangle of metal that you is really there to hold the air-con in place) is shaking so hard I am worried about being invaded by Hurricane People, but it does offer a rather nice parallel to my academic life. For you see this is just the weather prepping itself for a biblical smack-down on our asses, the storm is coming and you know it’s coming…but you just have to wait.
I’m currently experiencing an academic lull. After the frantic essay smashing of a few weeks ago, we are now at that lovely point in time where nothing is due and (the timetable Gods are smiling down on me) you have some free time. Of course you know that this is aforementioned calm. That very soon (Week 9 or 10) the wind is going to pick up, the clouds will gather and the lecturers will compile their notes and send an essay question in your general direction…there will be a moment of stillness…and then BOOM! You’ll die.
I’m foolishly trying to batten down the hatches and get some early groundwork started on my screenwriting assignment so that when the tide rises I will be at least half-prepared…
Which Brings Us A Nice Segue To Our Second Slice Of Poorly Cut Pizza (Still No Trios of Foods).
Today for my screenwriting class I had to go in for a one-on-one chat about my 30 minute screenplay draft (this screenplay is to be redrafted and submitted at the end of the semester as my major piece of assessment for the subject). It was pretty straightforward. I’ve been given points and tips for what I need to fix and adjust and I’ve been told to watch a film or two to help with getting the idea sorted (it’s about people doing weird shit with their supermarket purchases). That was all good. The part that wasn’t was a throw-away line at the tail end (tautology? We’ll get back to you) of the chat. Something about having a great journal because my session was first and I would have butt-loads of spare time. I laughed. Stammered. Fake laughed. Internally panicked. Journal…right.
Journals are the bane of my existence. Sounds weird coming from a guy with a blog, Facebook and Twitter account. Also considering all writers are told that journals are the BOMB and should be kept in order to hone skills and the like. But I stand by my claim. Journals irritate me because I find I’m not that articulate when I have to write my thoughts down in small cramped book…even worse when these scattershot thoughts have to be legible and understandable in order to be marked by my tutor. So journals and I are not the best of frienemies…in fakt we must be sat on separate tables at weddings and even then at least three feet apart.
Don’t get me wrong, I love notebooks and pens and scrawling my brain farts into being with said articles…but the idea of journal with intent…grumble mumble spit in a spittoon. So needless to say my regularly updated journal has two entries and thirteen pages stapled together with the words “NOT JOURNAL PART” etched across the first and thirteenth. It’s dire. Naturally the course of action would be to start putting things in said journal but that is obvious, easy and the best course of action. Naturally I’m going to end up doing nothing for ages, freak out a week out and write twelve weeks of entries in four days (or less). Should be fun.
The Third Macaroon… No? What About Scoops? Actually, That Works. Food of Three Discovered.
I can’t remember if I’ve ever posted about my obsessive nature before…which is weird because by default an obsessive nature would mean I would totally remember everything ever. Anyways. My obsessive nature is more in the form of my obsessions. They are cyclic and eclectic and involve me becoming totally enraptured with a particular thing or topic, hunting down all available information on said topic, slowly losing interest and tangentially finding a new topic. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I find myself returning quite quickly to original obsessions (Batman and Sherlock Holmes often find themselves sandwiched between other obsessions with extreme regularity) other times it may take a while (such as recently rediscovering my obsession with Attenborough and his works).
At the moment I kind of have this thing for cephalopods. And no not like that. Although there is video footage of that if you really want it. I am finding myself becoming enamoured by the humble cephalopod (squid and octopus mate) and it’s bizarreness. I can’t quite explain it and I don’t quite understand but there you go.
In fakt if I was being brutally honest my obsession lies more in the abstract idea of octopi and squids and krakens and cuttlefishes. The symbolism and depiction of said tentacled beasties. I find myself pausing each time I walk past a bottle-shop selling Kraken Black Spiced Rum to admire the decorative animal adorning the label. I am drawn to the sigil of the Greyjoys (Game of Thrones reference…if you don’t understand it…GTFO) and the looping whorls of Cthulhu inspired artwork. I’m probably going crazy and am definitely sounding a little sexual deviant-y. However this current obsession is also impacting my creative curve (I don’t what that is it just looks like a nice phrase).
My latest film idea follows the adventures of a young man who, after being expelled from school, is sent to live with his eccentric uncle. Said uncle is a cephalophile and is on the maddening quest to track down the mythical Kraken of legend. Hilarity and life-lessons on boats ensue. By next week when my obsession shifts to tortoises the film will be slightly different again.
Now I’m off to hunt kraken. Take care. Buy an umbrella.