"From the Highest Highs to the Lowest Lows..."

Saturday was a good time. Crazy, but good. Drew (snuff_daddy), Dave, Holly (chatoyn), and I all met up at Hang The DJ's and drank, and danced, and acted a fool. Many conversations were had, both meaningful, and whimsical. And much drinks. It was good fun.

I ended up stumbling home around 6:30 on Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Gave myself a couple of hours, woke up, got cleaned up some, and then made my groggy way up to Alex's place for a read through of the Short Script.

We have two really good actresses, another one to have read, a couple other folks to find, and an ongoing need to find location, location, location. Things are promising and Alex has set a timetable (Yay!) for filming to begin. We'll keep our fingers crosssed.

After the read through and some more conversing with Alex, I managed to find myself over at Jamie and Marc's (thrasymachos), where there was no game. Silly me. It's next week. But we ended up chatting a bunch, catching up a little, so it was all good.

Got home, attempted to watch El Mariachi, which I borrowed from Alex, but that was hit or miss. I was fading quickly. So it was more like watching the cliff notes of the movie. Blink. Blink. Nod. Nod.

Got my sorry ass up, walked around the house, and got on the computer, and attempted to write. Instantly I woke up. Woke up and went into a trance. TRANCE. Type, type, type, backspace barrage.

Next thing I knew it was 1:30 in the morning. And I still wanted to read. So I did. Until 2:30, because, when you're up, you're up. And sometimes, you must fight yourself for the right to be tired. Or awake. Or just there.

Sometimes there is no There, there.

Woke up this morning to a fuzzy mouth a weird jaw pain, and an itchy place somewhere in my sinuses. Rolled out of bed, and sprinted my way through the morning, jammed to work and began the long head bang against the wall. Funny enough, *that* didn't bug me too much.

But being tired did. Because when you're bored with work, and you're tired, and your mind is wandering, you *think*. Just sit and think. And this can be dangerous. The Fear creeps in. Not depression, just the paranoia. The Fear and Loathing.

Honestly, though. Not being unhappy (because, really, I'm still riding high off of knowing that the rest of the world is crazy and I'm sane), I'm just pooped. Run myself into the ground again. But watch me jump back. POP!

I just have to stop thinking so damn much. Just do. React. Do. Or do not.

I have no idea how much longer I can keep running like this before something breaks.

Naked Black Man Dancing to Sondheim and other brain dribbles...

See, I should be asleep. Instead, I am not. And I'm sitting here typing and reading, and not sleeping. Which you'd think would be easier to do, since, you know. Just a matter of logging out and going to bed.

But for some reason I'm still sitting here. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAA...

For no reason:

"Cerebus doesn't care. As long as it doesn't interfere with Cerebus' drinking."

Amen.

I think that I shall go strip to my nothings, jump in the shower and tapdance to Sunday in The Park With George. Because, the world needs images like that in its collective head.

I need four months. Just four months to call my own. Where I can just sit and read and write and do *whatever* to churn out all this stuff that's sitting in my head and at the edge of my fingertips, on the tip of my tongue. Find someone to act as patron and let me do it. Just let me do it. Because, if I had no insanity making of work (not just where I'm at now, but in general), I would not need to veg out for so long. And I wouldn't need to go out all the freaking time. I could just do...

You know, it's rather funny. I often think that while in New Haven I was well off for creativity. I had the wonderous whet stone of Michael living with me, *just* enough angst (though depending on when you talk to me, maybe too much) to give me creative fodder, and a work lifestyle that catered to folks who needed to get paid and have lots of free time on their hands to do...whatever...

...and I didn't get totally fragged up when I stayed up until 4am writing, or reading something.

Trying to read too many books at once means you finish none of them. Reading three filmaking technical doo dads; Memoirs of A Geisha; Cerebus: Church & State, vol 2.; For Whom The Bell Tolls; Hanging from the Torfutuna Tree; a ginormous stack of comics (backlogged); The Talisman (a re-read); and lots of my old crap. The result. I'm only a fourth through everything. Because I read between the hours of midnight and 3am. Dumb. Dumb. But that's when I do.

Brain turning off. Finally. Shower now, so that I shall oversleep from relaxation. Maybe I'll drum up enough chutzpah to just up and quit tomorrow. But probably not. I like the cash too much.

Curflootle flopple.