Tuesday, May. 13, 2003
I've been looking around at new diaries lately, trying to find something else interesting enough to satisfy my short attention span. Most people don't have anything interesting to say about themselves which bugs the shit out of me because everyone is interesting. I just hate the type of diarists who blather on every day about nothing. They have time to jerk themselves off, but can't abstain long enough to think of something meaningful? Most people spend more time in front of the fucking mirror scrutinizing their wardrobe combinations than they do thinking about the space their souls occupy. All pitiful vanity, no self reflection. How does their outlook fit in with everything else around them? What sense do they make of their existence? How do they know whether their lives have any worth at all without the occasional(ly) honest examination?

But I can't see the trees for the forest. I just hate reading bad writing and I get all pissy when I do. And for all my neurotic obsession to describe exactly what I feel and why, when and how and what for and whatnot, I don't even remember what I do from day to day. Ask me. I can't remember what I did yesterday. Well...now that I think about it...

I've finally gotten around to making those timecode copies of the five interviews I shot for The Show months and months ago. What assness. Playground Films is holding a bennefit at the Hollywood this Thursday to raise money for their various ventures this summer. I was using this as a target date to finish cutting the fuckin' things but it just never worked out. Another documentary got in the way and then scheduling didn't work out and then...and then...and then...

And then my brother got married and by the end of last weekend I was sick and tired of people. Except Amy. But every other human being on the planet would just have to leave a fucking message.

I was able to rent a deck for six hours yesterday, long enough to get all the interviews copied onto VHS with running timecode. Why? Because it's a lot easier to transcribe the conversation word for word and edit the piece on paper before wasting precious time in the editing room trying to remember exactly where on the tape he said this or she said that. I suppose you could argue that I'm taking enough time to transcribe the interview. Yeah, I work at about a 3:1 ratio. That is, if the interview lasts for an hour, it'll take me three hours to get every word on paper. It's tedious, yes, but preserves a delicate sanity when it comes time to cut it together.

Jane called in the middle of all this and I finally had to tell her that I won't be flying out to Pittsburgh next month. Not that I expected her to throw a fit. Not exactly. I just feel like I've spread myself so thin that all I seem able to do lately is disappoint everyone with my short comings. I suppose that doesn't quite square up to reality. Maybe it's because I've so greatly disappointed myself that I assume everyone feels the same. I unexpectedly lost the temp job that was bringing in twelve an hour. Working for Ben covered for a while. But now I've got nothing, and with or without a free plane ticket, nothing is still nothing whether it's Portland or Pittsburgh or New York.

Honestly, I feel relieved about not going. I wasn't sure if running off to another city just because I could was the most responsible thing to be doing when I should be getting a job here. I didn't want to be making the same mistake I did in moving to Denver: interning for five months only to have missed the fall quarter of school for nothing. Maybe not for nothing; I learned running off on half-cocked adventures with no goal in sight isn't a wise move while I have so many loose ends to straighten out at home.

I was genuinely excited about finally being introduced to Jane's life in Pittsburgh, meeting her boyfriend, and forcing myself to learn a new city which didn't have guided tours waiting for me. I read an ad in Fangoria magazine for a low-budget horror studio set up on some acrage outside the city offering interships and filmmaking bootcamps for five grand. It's just not good timing right now. As important as it is to both of us for me to make a presence in Jane's life, I'm starting a life with Amy that needs nurturing lest it wither on the vine. Amy would tell me to do what ever I want to do, assuming I'm trading a getaway for time with her. She hates to impose, but the getaway will always be there. I hope.

By the time I got off the phone with Jane I had thirty minutes to pick up Amy at work and drop off the deck on time. It takes twenty minutes to get to The Station. And if that woman is ever on time, she will find a way to make herself late. It's not a big deal, it just baffles me. "I'll be waiting for you outside at 9:20," she said. I so wanted her to be there. She wasn't. And even though it was me who was late in finishing the copies and leaving the house, I threw a mild hissy fit sitting in the parking lot with the engine running. I thought about making a scene out of my self-riteous indignation and leaving her there to catch a bus. Fifteen minutes is long enough to wait for someone when I have an absolute deadline that I might miss. Caleb is a friend, but I have to respect that he's got a job to do. There's no way he could look the other way this time.

I sped across the street, disregarding the left-turn lane, to the grocery store to find a pay phone and tell Amy I was leaving. Just as I was walking through the "IN" door I caught sight of this beautiful, radient love of mine, gliding through the "OUT" door with long graceful strides. She was lost in thoughts wearing the most relaxed, peaceful smile, seemingly happy and content with the world. Have you ever watched your love when they didn't know you were there? I felt the tenseness in my expression melt off my face as I, unseen, watched her float by. Put it away, man. She loves you.

Amy fell asleep with her hand on my leg as I plowed 75 down the freeway. She stirred a little when we hit the offramp and told me she dreampt about me describing her eyes. "You said I have hazle on the outside that changes color and coconut on the inside." I had said something about her eyes the other day.

"Coconuts on the inside," I said, "or the color of coconuts?"

She stretched her long arms and yawned. "I don't know. You just said I have coconuts on the insides of my eyes."

"Is that a color?"

"I guess it could be...."

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