A Note from the Management

Soon, my life will be completely different. Like, tomorrow. I'm cutting the net, flying solo without a harness, and taking a chance to quit my job and focus on a few things like writing and photography for a bit. I guess I'm putting my money where my mouth is and living the unexpected life I try to urge others to do. I'll tell you about that down the road, but for now, I'm still internalizing.

It's a little daunting, though, but exhilerating. Today's my last day at my film industry job that's been like family for six years. Tomorrow, the net's gone. Whew. It's one thing to know what you need, it's another to actively take it. Oi, is it.

Now I can get back into the habit of writing every morning. I love morning writing. Coffee, night-thoughts, the world busying itself beyond my windows. The light. I love the morning light. My apartment faces east, so my apartment is buttered in light on the sunrise mornings. It's a lazy, casual world.

I've never written here about my home, but I imagine that among us sensualists in the world, there's more than a few who share my need for a cocoon. I bathe myself in the comforts of home and I just love my pad. It's best described as an eclectic professor meets hipster artist, I guess. Lots of rich colour, lots of bold accessories, walls and piles of books, but it all comes together for a casual pad that's great to lounge in (with requisite beanbag chair, in cow pattern). My upcoming days and weeks will be spent turning a nice home back into a great home after months of neglect. I just need a splash of paint in the hall, and this... I need to figure out what the hell to do in my bedroom / writing office, which has been "near completion" for a couple years running. But, ah-ha, I have a notion. Ka-ching.

But when I begin cleaning and painting, I'll tell you one thing, the topics on here are going to swing wildly in many directions, I bet. That's when I start sifting through all my piles of papers I try to ignore for six months at a time, and in those piles, scraps of papers with notes of mine about oddities of all kinds. Like this:

"32 cm cock casts shadow across the room. All you see is shadow. Long, rigid, erect-cock-type shadows. Condoms creep out of the storm drain. They whimper and snigger and giggle, bouncing happily, until some sort of Gremlin-esque scenario (the smell of natural cock?) turns them into Killer Condoms, and they roar and flash their teeth, gnashing angrily at the erect member!"

Which would be notes about either two things, one, a conservative think-tank plan to cut down on promiscuity, or, as the case happens to be, two, this horrible German shocker-thriller movie in the ilk of the Killer Tomatoes and the Killer Bees, rather originally called "The Killer Condom," which I bought six years ago for my buddy GayBoy. The slogan? "The rubber that rubs you out!" One night of drinking and debauchery and nothing to do but stargaze from his roof on an autumn night, we put the stupid disc in and watched it. I kept laughing so hard I'd occasionally spray beer. Oh, was it bad. (There's a segment where a drag queen, for instance, lipsyncs "Killing Me Softly" in a sexy fuck-me-now kind of way, except for the fact that it's the ugliest frickin' DQ ever, with the syncing being more than one second off-time with the the actual lyrics. Yo, can we get a dubber in the house! This movie's got worse sound-sync than the Asian martial arts movies of the 1970s, man.)

I took notes, thinking I'd write on it, and never, ever did. There's hundreds of these notes scattered about. All this effort to think about writing and yet these convenient notions abound.

Anyhow. Just an update on the ongoing chaos that has been my life. February has been as tumultuous as it gets. Tomorrow, it all slows down. I toldja last month, I gotta get slow -- fast. And now I am. I look forwards to the creativity it brings me, is what I'm saying. A fun ride, I should think. Come with.