Share your joints. Worry about yourself.

So this is a real entry finally. I've done a lot of "growing" these last few days. The title of this entry is a quote from someone I visit quite regularly that, when taken out of context, I think is a pretty good mantra to have. I have a bad habit of taking care of others before I take care of myself, ending in me usually getting ass raped by life in general, due to my lack of self-nurturing. I might not give a shit what people think most of the time, but I like making people happy. I can't handle when I'm the reason why anyone is feeling a bit sub-par.
Taking this into consideration, I have been working on my film and finally just realized why I was so lost with it.
I hate the love interest in my film, and I didn't know why she kept coming across as this person that was very easy to hate, even though, deep down, I knew she was worth loving.
That was until I realized that she is myself.
I can't pinpoint what is great about Abby because I don't even understand myself at all yet. I don't get what my appeal is. On paper, I'm just a world class fuck up that feels sorry for herself and worries about other people's problems so she doesn't have to deal with her own.
There's nothing to love there, but still, people (not many, mind you) manage to love me every single day, and not all of them are doing so just because they're required to due to my genetic pool.
I don't understand her because she's not a creation. And none of us understand ourselves.
I thought people who've read my script identified me with Abby because she's an artist, and it's easy to make the connection. Not once did I write a note of her character basing her on myself. I soon saw it come out naturally, and that's when I started hating her. I realize that I couldn't figure out her appeal because no one can really figure out their own appeal, even though we're all pretty structured to be able to find the positives in anyone else. Even though we choose to do the opposite often.
I'm rewriting the film more, and I will likely rewrite the shit out of it constantly from now until January. We'll see who Abby ends up being later. But until then, it would be nice to figure out what's so great about me, because right now this film sucks balls and even if it doesn't help the character writing process, it would certainly help my self esteem.

peace.
rae-alex smith.

Waiting for the 7.18

I haven't blogged in a while. Shit has been going down. Egos have been bruised, sessions have been jammed, screenplays have been written, hearts have been scratched and polished, and Lara moved in.
I'm going to get a break from Vancouver soon. That will be nice. Lara and I officially live in a hippie haven. When I get my charger back from home I'll take pictures of the place and post them. I bought a blanket from Salvation army for goddsake. I've painted a lot since, and wrote my treatment. Both my treatment and episode need way more work though. It'll happen soon.
Anyways, I don't really know what to write. But I wanted you to know I was still alive.

Amanda.

Province.

I just finished a painting.
It was awesome.. I haven't done that in forever.
I'm back in a good groove kids, sorry to disappoint.

Psychobabble.

I'm posting this entry to confess what goes through my mind sometimes. I realised today what really goes through my head when seeing strangers. I have a feeling all girls do this, but I could be wrong. On the way home today, I ended up following a girl for at least ten blocks. This is basically, as much as I can remember, what went through my head about after the second block.

"Nice shorts.
Actually, that whole outfit isn't bad.
I can't tell if she's actually cool or if she just dresses like it.
She probably paid like 40 bucks for those shorts. They're in a very le chateau-esque fabric.
She could have gotten them for like 7 bucks, 4 if she switches tags at value village, just a bit less shaply.
Oh, she's wearing leggings, not tights. She must not have been paying attention to comfort when she got dressed this morning.
If her leggings had feet, I could see this being a casual outfit and that she just naturally looks like that.
But she's not, and those heels point in the same direction. This must be a painfull walk. Maybe she just ran out of tights and was in a hurry this morning. I do that sometimes too.
Oh, she has an iPod. I wonder what's she listening to.
She's Asian, but that probably shouldn't matter. She could have good taste in music. Maybe it's like poppy mainstream indie. I could see her listening to Ok Go! right now.
Nah, I don't know. I don't see it. That purse is too plastic. Now I'm leaning more towards like The Pillows, or rap music.
Wait. Those are fake aligator heels? Gross. Blue toe nail polish. She looks in pain.
Yeah. She's probably listening to Coco Lee."

I totally feel like Elle from Legally Blonde after that. I am such a loser. I hope I'm not the only one who does this.

This Entry Will Bore You

So I got a short story back today, for some reason I am going to upload it here. It's like 2000 words, so trust me, I don't expect you to read it. Lara and I also randomly did a photo shoot. Some of the shots will be here. Uhg, okay, this story is super depressing. I apologize. Thoughts are cool maybe? Maybe not.

"Give me all your empties," he said with the stentch of bourbon on his breath. The boy's prematurly wrinkled eyes glared at the precious garbage bag tied to his waist."You can't be serious," he cried as the idea of losing weeks worth of scouring crossed his mind, "I need these bottles for food.""It's food or whiskey, boy."The boy stared longingly at the half-empty mickey in the man's rough, sunburnt hands."Isn't there anything else I can do?" he pleaded."Well, we could go behind the building, and you could earn your share."The boy looked at the bag. He hadn't eaten in two weeks and this was his chance, but he needed his water."Alright," he decided, and so the man and the boy disappeared behind Lucky's confectionary.
It had been 57 days since Carter Palmer lost his one room apartment. 74 since he lost his job as an under-the-table paid dishwasher. 4 years since he had his first taste of scotch.
He was only seventeen. He came from a seemingly decent family - successful father, loving mother and a nice little home on a quiet street in Salmon Arm. Too quiet. No one was around that day his father had the meltdown. No one to hear the screams; no one to hear the gunshot. No one to run to for safety. No one to consult when his father asked him to leave and never come back. No one. Carter has always had no one. Well, he had his mother once, but she was taken from him that day. As well as his childhood, his potential, and his willpower.
He hated that taste in his mouth. Two cigarettes if he swallowed. He figured if he was already doing it, he might as well get the enjoyment out of polluting his lungs along with his liver. It wasn't that bad, you get used to it after a while. He's not attracted to men, but all of this "sacrificing" started to make him worry that he was. He swung back the whiskey. He didn't care that the first three gulps didn't taste like anything but the washing away of semen. He didn't care about anything anymore, and that itself made him drink. Among other things.
He tried to keep his feet on the ground for a while. Ran away to the city at age twelve. Worked any jobs he could get his hands on, going by the name Sam. He met Leona his first week in the city. She let him sleep on her couch if he cleaned the apartment and gave her 200 bucks every month. He didn't really know much about her. All he knew was what she taught him."Scotch straight, on the rocks, but rye you could drink with coke if you made it a double. If you want to be a man, you have to drink like one," she would tell him, usually smoking a cigarette and watching her stories. She didn't get out much, just drank. He tried to take care of her for a while. She was the closest thing he had to a mother. Then he realised she was nothing like her. After a year of pretending the sweet smell of rum as she spoke smelled the same as his mother's perfume, he finally came to terms with the fact that he was never getting her back.
He tried to talk to Leona about it, but she never knew what to say. He spent night after night coming back to the apartment after finishing paper routes, tucking her in when he found her passed out in various nooks of the apartment. He made a ritual of whiping the drool that casually streamed down her neck before he went to sleep. After a while it just got too much. It just seemed so much easier to join in on the drinks. The taste of scotch gave him a sense of comfort, but now he'd take whatever he could get.
He stumbled slowly onto a concrete bench. He could usually get away with sleeping most places because he was still young. He looked much older, of course, but his eyes were never intimidating. No one usually bothered him because he kept to his own. He didn't feel comfortable talking to what he considered "normal people." He rarely begged for money until he felt it was completely necessary; he tried to work for it as much as he could. He knew the shops that would sometimes help him out. Sometimes he could run errands for certain "mom and pop" businesses and get five bucks out of it.He got a few hours sleep and woke up sometime around five. He never really knew what time it was. He could tell by the sun sometimes, but meth addicts didn't have watches. Those were his peers here. Drug addicts. He did various hard drugs a couple times the year before, but it simply wasn't anything he could get into because he never could afford it. Alcohol was his vice now, he accepted that. He didn't really have a plan for the day - just survive.
Carter stayed with Leona until a couple months ago. By that time he had already became as bad as her. He stopped cleaning the house, he even started watching soap opera's. He lost his job because he spent all day drinking, wallowing. Leona wasn't getting anything out it anymore, so she asked him to leave in spite one day after her boyfriend pushed her around a little too far the night before. That seems to be what Carter thought his one skill was: getting abandoned after domestic disputes. When people couldn't deal with their real problems, they convinced themselves that Carter was their problem. He didn't need to understand it, just accept it.
Acceptance. Is that the same as forgiveness? That was something that Carter didn't know. He has accepted his place in society now, but he didn't know if that meant he forgave his father for being the reason he ended up here. All he knew is, he had to figure that out soon. Three months ago, Carter was walking down the busy Vancouver streets when he saw him. He was working for a telephone company, and Carter had seen him through the window. He thought he was hillucinating at first, but he knew that deep down he could never forget that face. Day after day he walked by the phone dealership, watching his movements, evaluating his quirks. He knew it was in. After a couple weeks he got over his normal people fear and just got the courage to ask someone. He was surprised his father didn't change his name. He had no idea how he got away with what happened. Though he guessed it didn't matter.
Carter officially hit rock bottom when he saw his father. He was irresponsible before, but the flood of emotions in his head after he saw those eyes again really fucked him up. That's why he couldn't do his job anymore, and probably why Leona kicked him out. Even now, in Carter's head, his father was the only one responsible for his demise. That's why he was surprised that he even talked to him. He was just too curious. He wanted to see if his father was a terrible enough person to be okay now. No one in Carter's mind could be okay after doing something like that to the woman he claimed he loved.
When he approached him a week ago, when he caught him walking home from work, he didn't tell his father who he was. He tried to warm up to him with chit chat, walking with him to his apartment. For some reason, his father let him into his place. Maybe it was because he was lonely, or maybe it was because he simply just needed someone to share a drink with. Carter visited him every day after his shift for a week. It was Sunday, now, and he couldn't handle the pain of seeing himself in his father anymore. He couldn't live with himself knowing that him and his father had ended up desintigrating in the same direction. He knew he had to quit drinking now. Though he had to do something else first.
He bartered with a man outside a night club on Friday night who he heard had strychnine. He obviously didn't have any cash on him, so the conversation played out about the same as the one with the man with the mickey of whiskey. He kept the capsule on a chain that he wore on his neck. He couldn't risk losing this, it was his only hope to recover. His only hope to forget his past once and for all. His only hope to move on, get his head back on his shoulders. His only hope to stop drinking.
He approached the old, stone building. It was falling apart, the place reaked of every alcohol Carter could imagine drinking. He knocked loudly, knowing the man inside would likely be passed out on a Sunday morning. A stern, jaded face greeted him at the door. The man was his father, or what Carter liked to call his sperm doner. He actually seemed slightly pleased to see him.
"Sam. It's a Sunday morning. What do you think you're doing?" he seemed annoyed, but not too annoyed. Any other time he wouldn't have minded the visit, so being overly pissed off just seemed unreasonable."I was lucky enough to find a man who was willing to give me the rest of this," Carter pulled out what was left of the mickey, "I was hoping I could buy you a drink in appreciation of your hospitality this week.""Come in, come in," he said, easily swayed when the water came into the picture.
Carter knew for sure this was the path he wanted to take when on Thursday night, his father brought up his family like they meant something to him. They were both drunk enough that the man had no problem bringing up "the accident." He made up some lie about a car accident that took his wife and son away when he was just twelve. What sickened him more was the fact that he pretended to feel remorse."Here, allow me," Carter insisted as he walked in the kitchen, "Sit down, sit down. You've had a hard enough week."
The man was easily swayed to sit on the couch, excited to taste free whiskey. Whiskey always tastes better when it was free. Though it wasn't free to Carter. This particular whiskey was five years worth of struggle to Carter. He poured them both drinks, slipping the strychnine into his hosts.
"Here's to family, eh?" Carter declared as he handed the drink to the man who he felt he understood for the first time in seventeen years."I guess," he accepted. He wasn't going to argue an excuse to drink.Carter watched intently as within minutes after consumption, his father started foaming at the mouth. As he pleaded for a reason with his last gasping breath, Carter stared at him coldly. He was worried that once he did it, he would feel guilty. He wasn't worried about that anymore."Please, just give me a reason," the man screamed, coming to his knees on the hardwood floor."Why? You never gave us one?" Carter said in the coldest tone he never knew he was capable of making, "Pleased to meet you, my real name is Carter."He turned towards the doorway after he said the words. On his way out, he stared at a twenty-six of vodka sitting on the counter. He moved on. Like father, no longer like son.

Strawberry Suede

So I got Chava's cord! I plugged the camera in. A full picture of me in my costume is not available, so a head shot is all you get. God, this is ridiculous. Nobody cares about anything I'm writing about anymore. Anyways, I'm posting pictures on this entry.

I need sleep so bad. I should probably get it. I'll probably take a nap after this, I'm so exhausted. Anyways, funny. Umm... did you know that when I was a kid I had no accurate perception of time so my dad had to tell me time in "Power Rangers and Sesame Streets." "2 Sesame Streets and Power Ranger" would be 2 and a half hours. I am ridiculous. Also, we got an e-mail today about a weekend filmmaking competition needing scripts with very specific guidlines. What stood out to me was it was 5 speaking roles and the swearing should be pretty basic (a maximum of 4 fucks.) So me and 2 others started joking that it would be hilarious to write a film that the first four lines of dialogue are "Fuck," said by four different people, and those are their only lines. And the rest is just a monologue by the remaining character. Obviously I wouldn't write this film or use it, but I think it would be ridiculously hilarious.

I Decided To Live The Rest of My Life From A List Of Towns and Cities and Populations

Probably a bit over a week ago, Pitchfork introduced me to a lovely little ditty by Blue Roses called I Am Leaving. After the noticing the review refer to the song as an "I Will Survive for the Facebook generation," I have come to the conclusion that I am probably not the first to want to put this song in a movie. Immediately as I heard it, I thought about the perfect place for it in the movie I'm writing with the working title "Painting by Numbers." The best part is, is that I can say now that I'm finally actively writing this movie again, for I just sent in the outline for it to school. I'm about 95% sure that this will be the first film I will be writing for my feature, so I'm actually pretty stoked for once. Weird, right?
Well, a weight is lifted off my shoulder now that these outlines are done, so I'm going to do some productive things like, shower, clean, read the screenplay for "Double Indemnity," or perhaps even finally... get my eyebrows waxed!
Jesus, I remember the days when I was usually consistently groomed.
Peace, love, and War-ren beatty.