and then...deadline

deadline, as opposed to living line, living lines named snakes is what I have to get to in a short bit of time. So short in fact I've barely any time to post this. 

I just wasted an hour finding a portrait of a woman of which my prof would approve, basically an enormous hi res portrait of a woman with virtually nothing in the background. I feel purposeless and stupid for bothering. 

An acquaintance recently tried to comfort me out of a panic attack by saying that nothing would change if I didn't meet my deadline, and that backfired. Nothing changes? Oh, great. 

My deadlines may be the only path away from schooling and males under 25. Anyway there's an agent interested in Cope Syndrome, which I think I am joyous about, technically, but sort of not, too. The only thing that matters is having The Great Work.

I mean I could quit and go after some boys now but that's too little butter over too much bread and I really want butter but I don't want to jeopardize my chances of getting a LOT of butter later on just so that I can have a little bit now. 

I'm typically a morning writer but wrote until 5 AM last night thank you McDonald's, you are so beautiful in principle, I live in a country where I can get a meal for a few dollars just about anywhere at any time. Graciousness. 

A thing for you? Alan's still a delight. We eat jam. He plays with drumkit in shed named shed. I spent forever looking for White Stripes merchandise but my goodness the amount of money! And shipping, don't you hate to pay shipping? Ten bucks for something that's taking four months to get here? I won't BE here. 

I think, I dunno. I don't know where I'll be this weekend, or a month from now. Commascommas. I'm writing a thing called Alan's Wake. nothing spoiled there, I promise. I start a new journal soon but I haven't any idea what to call it. 

It's taken me seven months to write project one and seven months for project two if I finish by tomorrow night, and I have to do projects 3, 4 and 5 in two months hahahahahahahahahaha

Why do we do this again? I love making stories. If you do what you love hard enough, it gets you out of the other ruts. Like school and other superfluous nonsense, I think. I value education far too much to do anything but what I love. 

IAMX today. In a hurry. Enjoy, and drink coffee. Love!

and then...candle

And I bought one. Smells like the sea, supposed. I got it at the bible shop. I got one of those, too. a basic one, like, I seek a basic bible. Because I'm a writer and the like. 

This post should be my first thing in the morning, I know, but running was my first thing, except that it wasn't this morning, because I was in mourning. 

What about? I refuse to remember. I have a deadline at midnight tonight that I can't make. But perhaps I can solve a continuity issue before then. It's a matter of making things convincing for my readers. I'd be done but backtrack,backtrack,backtrack. I don't think I could live without Alan's joy but his joy is kind of in the way. I have another screening tonight...I'm lonely as all hell. Haven't had a good conversation in weeks. I cracked yesterday and actually called a ton of people. Didn't end very well. I do not. belong. in college. 

People make their own tragedies. They really do. It's not a real thing, tragedy. People make up this idea tragedy as an excuse to avoid effort at happiness. So I refuse to say that I am living tragedy. Except that there is tragedy in my face, because it belongs to most of the people around me.

I have an issue more pressing: How to get from one point to the next. 

In film, a "summary relationship" occurs when time within the context of the story exceeds the actual screen time. Happens in montages, happens a lot actually, since films are usually a couple of hours. I need to do this in narrative, but I suck at it. Especially because I actually don't want the reader to know how much time is passing. They have to be just as shocked as pretty princely protag. 

I have to be at my screening in fifteen minutes. I need to learn the thing named script writing. Alan says make more posts later, techno-wise. Every seen a muse so sweet? This week he confused "lacquer" with "liqueur" in his speech. I'll make storybooks and movies. He'll make songs and pottery, he's thinking. Maybe I'll get married and build-a-home.  

and then...greenery

I watched too many movies yesterday. And I've got a viewing today for my film course. 

What I watched too late too early was the french film In Their Sleep which I hoped was a mother-son genius, but it turned out to be a psycho killer genius, here's comes a young man unloved. He kills people. Surprise! Oh, it's awful. Brilliant cinematography, though, what dying in the greenery. I'm trying, I swear! What the twist, young man unloved kills others, young woman unloved kills self, it's all a droning pain. 

So I started in on a fourth film, again about young men, just to distract myself, but who can sleep at two in the AM? Who hits boys with a car? Who hears aidez-moi while mumbling? It's what makes me feel burning, that help me while mumbling, and hey where did the arms go? I was feeling safe over here! fickle made beauty made flesh...

I miss him whose always presence :( long sleeves make it so...even on me. I pull sleeves to his knuckles and I've done so for years. I can't sleep in the meantime. It's the thing about that one subject, and dealing with, passion, our specific nuance, reference, pretend to be a vulnerable boy for bedrest. He resents the idea of resenting ideas of. 

We run in the mornings. Have I said that? What about Alan running circles around me? Friend of my heart. He picks wildflowers. I love my beta muse more than you love your boyfriend, oh tongue :P 

Running is still exhausting torture. It's only managed as montage, with music and the void, and the lips of the void and his cowlicked hair and me thinking, I'm running for you wherever you are. Running is great marketing. It's struggle made fresh, quite stylized--, and so, cathartic. 

I miss you, you love me? mi prami, mi prami