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QUANTUM OF SOLO:   Leave a comment

quantumsolo

Tonight I have a date with James Bond.

I haven’t showered, my breath smells like Ginger cookies, and I’m sitting semi-excitedly at our meeting place. I’m in the absolute best seat in the house at the Regal Gallery theatre, in Chinatown. It is Thanksgiving Day, and so far, its been a very quiet affair.
I’ve gotten very good at tuning out holidays; seeing people smiling and laughing as they gather with family and friends, happily sharing anecdotes and saying “Wow, you’ve gotten taller!” This happens to me a lot with my family. I swear, if I had actually been getting taller over the years, I’d be Shaq size now.
I haven’t taken off my coat yet, because I’m allowing myself to warm up. I’m by no means cold, but I’m not warm either. The chill outside followed me like an annoying little boy, up two escalators, past the ticket guys, down two hall ways, up a few more flights of stairs, and then to my seat. I haven’t been to a movie in a while, and already I’m feeling the tingle in my stomach.
I love that movie theatre smell. Whatever it is they use to clean the theatre carpeting has become synonymous with the exciting introduction of new films, of booming noises from the speakers and me, sitting with bright eyes in the darkness. I don’t smell popcorn—yet, but it will come soon. Its ten minutes to movie time and there is no one in the room but me, and I wonder if anyone is going to come. I wonder what the odds are of me being the only person to sit and watch this new James Bond movie—Quantum of Solace—by myself, undisturbed in complete privacy? I secretly wish it happens. That way I can pretend I’m sitting in the back room of my mansion, as I wave to my manservant Manfred to turn the projector on. In three minutes, this fantasy disappears with the appearance of a young Asian couple. They are holding a humongous tub of popcorn, and the man (they are a straight couple) looks at me for a few seconds. I can see that he is silently cursing. Dammit! He beat me to the good seat his eyes say. I acknowledge this telepathic declaration of defeat with a wry smile. He takes the next best seats, the two drivers seats in the middle of the theater aisle.
According to the engineers(I presume), the two seats that are just below the railings should technically have the perfect alignment with the screen, but in my experience, the seats directly above them are always better, especially if the theater is small. More people stream in as time passes, and a few more give me that look of defeat. Dammit, I’ll have to watch Bond a few degrees out of alignment!
I still haven’t’ taken my coat off yet, and I’m sitting with a bemused expression on my face. I am completely calm, and I’m probably even smiling. In my ears, I’m listening to the voice of Deepak Chopra talk about the Seven spiritual laws of success, but his Indian lilt is being drowned out by the Regal Cinema’s “First Look” promotional videos. I decide to take the headphones off.
Now its feeling more like a movie theater. People are filling up all the seats, and the smell of popcorn is wafting through the air. Conversations float back and forth, but I don’t really hear any of them.
As a screenwriter, a few years ago I felt a unique excitement at the thought of eventually producing a movie and seeing it in a theater. Whenever I got to the movies, I get that feeling of fantasy, when I see my film appear in a trailer, with an A-list cast and a five star review of the script from Rolling Stone Magazine. When I’m in the theater, for two to four hours (depending on which movie I sneak into afterward) I can escape my thoughts, and disappear into a world of film.

For a thanksgiving day, it has been relatively unconventional. I spent the day meditating and listening to Japanese audios. I read a few pages of Atonement, and made some Soy meat for dinner. (You could call it soy stew). In the days leading up to thanksgiving, people kept asking me incredulously: “You aren’t doing anything for Thanksgiving!!!!?????” I laughed as they said this.
Some people simply say, “Oh, he’s a foreigner, he doesn’t get thanksgiving.” This isn’t true. I do get thanksgiving, and why it is so important. But I’m tired of subscribing to the notion of this aspect of Americana; the lonely guilt tossed on single people on massive public holidays. On a boring Monday I get no calls from people to see how I’m doing. On a random Thursday no one is going to text me to say, “I’m happy I know you and blah blah blah!” But when thanksgiving rolls around, suddenly people are concerned that you live alone and you have no pets. I find this awkward.
I remember roaming around feeling lonely a few years ago on a thanksgiving and ended up in a creepy looking Lodge somewhere in Ledroit park. I ate some questionable looking Turkey and cranberry dressing that looked like human blood. You can guess I’ve never done that again.
The streets were quiet today. There was virtually no traffic anywhere, and I took solace( solace! I said it) in that. For a day, the city felt more empty, a little lifeless and in a way, it felt like mine. Everyone I knew was far away, with their families, sitting in warm houses, drinking god knows what and catching up. I’m sure my family was doing the same thing, the people in New York and elsewhere.
At 9 A.M in the morning, I received a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. It was a text message that read:
Happy thanksgiving! I am thankful you are in my life! Eat some turkey and enjoy your day! :p
I texted the person back to tell them they probably sent the message to the wrong person by accident. The person responded.
Accident? No, this is your roommate Christine.
(I have no roommate named Christine).
Either way, this sort of thing happens all the time. I might have actually felt bad if my parents hadn’t called me shortly before the message came. Then I would bemoan the fact that the only person to send me a well wishing thanksgiving text on the day was a stranger who sent me a message accidentally! Then I would have probably wept openly, happy to be going to the movies later on to live vicariously through James Bond’s sexual exploits.

At this point I decide to take my coat off. (the previews are about to start and I’m the only guy fully dressed: coat scarf, the works). I run to the bathroom awkwardly ( my knee is acting up) and head back to the theater. The screen slims down to wide screen, the lights dim and the movie starts. For two hours, I disappear into a world of car chases, bright lights and supermodels.

I enjoy the movie, and I hobble out of the theatre, ready to leave. I accidentally follow an EXIT sign into another movie, and I realize I don’t want to watch that new Vampire flick, Twilight. I sneak into Four Christmases and enjoy myself thoroughly. It is the first romantic comedy i’ve watched in a while where I didn’t leave the theater saturated with memories of past relationships. I like the plot, and even though the theater was cold, being in the company of people laughing was good.

I headed outside, and caught the bus home. In my jacket, resting under my seat, is my phone, which is set to silent, and digitally contains the message I got earlier from Christine. I look at it for a second, and smile.

http://cruftcomic.blogspot.com
http://madsickcrazy.blogspot.com

Hello DC: Who’s tortured?   1 comment

I’m standing in a library, and for some reason, I felt like looking at some of my blog posts. 

I was speaking to a friend today at length, and he said something that I found interesting. “Marcus,” he said. “I read through some of your blogs one day, and something struck me. Your writing made you sound like one of those stereotypical tortured writers that have this pressing inner turmoil they can’t deal with.”

“Really?” I said. 

In some ways, like anyone else, I have been tortured, and in other ways I am completely fine, but I decided to investigate to see what he was talking about. 

I call my form of writing “stream of consciousness”, because most of the blogs I ever write, I write them once, and never read them again. I occasionally check my blog stats and see how many people are reading, but I never really go back and read my own writing. 

What I saw surprised me to no end. Some of this writing was so…. personal I wondered what I was thinking when I wrote it? I read through some of my blogs on running, my time in New York, and my most popular blog every about my “near death experience”. 

It was as if I was standing by a fence, watching myself typing these blogs up in different locales. I could see myself at 4 a.m in France, blogging about the Cannes Film Festival. I could see myself cold and trembling in an old apartment, blogging about wanting to change my life. I could see myself in New York, sitting in a suit of wet clothes and blogging after a particularly bad night in the Lower East Side. 

Even though these blogs are all about me, when I re-read these, I feel like a stranger reading another person’s blog. They are so descriptive, so direct, it seems as if whoever wrote this blog was writing for money, or something else. Sometimes I can’t even believe its me. 

I’ve felt this way when I’ve re-read some of my writing projects from the past. I find myself sitting for an hour or so, reading through old stories i’ve written, feeling as if they were written by someone else. Maybe I am a different person when I’m writing, maybe I tap into a profundity that I am afraid to show in person, and possibly this profundity (egad, I said “profundity” twice!) comes from the source within my mind that is unfiltered, unashamed and unafraid. 

It is interesting to have a powerful glimpse into specific moments of time, the memories and the motivations. A person might ask, “But you wrote this, can’t you remember how you were feeling when you wrote X blog, or Y blog?” To that I will say a firm “No.” 

In the last three years, I have written over a thousand pages of work, from novels to screen plays and blogs. My average blog runs 1200 words. So far I have 108 posts. That’s 129,600 words. My first novel, which ran 250 manuscript length pages, was around 130,000 words. 

The emotions that go into each book, script, or blog are unto themselves unique to that moment. I realize I may get an inspired feeling after seeing a person walk across the street in a certain way, I might be trying to describe a feeling that is sitting within me at that moment, or I just might be venting after a bad night. Either way, like most people, these memories fade within my mind as soon as I slip the ipod headphones on, start watching a movie, or focus on something else. Looking at these blogs is like looking at the glimpse of the past, at various versions of me in different times, in different clothes.

I like it. 

It gives me perspective on my thoughts and helps me refocus on whatever it is that i’m trying to do in the present. If I was depressed three months ago in New York for a night because some really hot girl flaked on me, am I still like that? I can gauge. If I have a blog that talks about me trying to escape a certain kind of feeling or situation, I can ask myself, “Have I escaped that situation? Have I dealt with it?” Sometimes being able to look into the past, allows us to look at the present with an amazing clarity.

I never started this blog to record tidbits of my life. I started it to keep writing in between the heft mental weight or working on novels. I started it after I read Stephen King’s On Writing and knew that to stop writing, was to create chaos in my mind. 

After almost two years of sincere blogging, I can say that it had been a good thing. Sometimes I laugh at the things i’ve written about, like angry blogs about a malfunctioning computer, or the hilarity of a night from my “Jesus Cock Block” blog, and others. Sometimes I forget that I am an individual that ends up in a lot of funny situations involving drugs, artists and millionaires. Reading through some of these reminds me of who I am, what I attract and what I do. 

I’m glad my friend mentioned the blog today, or I wouldn’t have been able to take a step back and look at myself. 

I have no internet at home, and I’m at the library and its cold outside. I think its time to mosey on home, hop into bed, and dream about dancing sugar plums and pieces of Jerk Chicken that sing falsetto with necklaces that read “Barack the Vote” hanging from the bones.

if I have that dream, I promise, I’ll blog about it.

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