September 27th. Thought the hots for you?

It's funny how one forgets.

Admittedly, it's been a few months—May, June, July, August, and most of September—since last time. I mean, shit. I realized this morning that I barely even remember what sex feels like (Ed.'s note: This is not strictly true.), so this should hardly come as a surprise. The child-like grabs, the hurrying for cover, the cursory glance. The reddening inflaming Lisa Robinson anger. The following minutes of self-doubt and all-consuming frustration. Blah blah blah.

And lest we forget, there were also the conversations in my head: "You see, there are three types of students, upon getting marks back. Type 1 sees his mark, understands that it corresponds to what he handed in, and why, and is satisfied. Type 2 sees her mark, becomes frustrated because she thinks she deserves better, and shoots over to the teacher to complain. Type 3, me, thinks he deserves better, but instead of complaining, says nothing and fumes about it for weeks on end."

Well, maybe not. I've got a packed schedule, anyway. Maybe Provigo will see fit to do both of us a favour and give me a happy medium of hours... because I certainly don't know how many I want/need. I guess one of the pros of being of two minds about something is that regardless of the outcome you have something (if you're an optimist) to be happy about.

(This is where you point out that I'm a pessimist, but nobody reads this, so I win the argument on the basis of democracy.)

Speaking of which... I hate patriotism with an idiotic fervour, but damn if I don't prefer living in Canada to living in the U.S. based solely on the way our federal electoral system works. My goodness.

Anyway. Apart from my constant workings on Windswept, and the ways I keep managing to increase the scope of it without increasing the target wordcount... all I have to worry about is keeping my daydreaming in check. Keep reminding myself that she's a bitch, and too old for me, and everything else ever goddamn. Ugh. I prefer writing about Windswept. It depresses me so much less. I have to stop getting myself into TV interviews for it, though. It's not not not not not healthy. And that was five nots for emphasis, not to make you figure out that a quintuple-negative evens out to a single one. Odds out to a single one. A bunch of words that sort of describe me. WHATEVER. More ugh. Here's a passage that I wrote recently that won't see the light of lj (at least, non-private lj) for a while. You can thank me later. *wistful sigh*

~~~~
Character breathed out. They were at a fast food joint somewhere. His mind was blurry. It was always hard to concentrate when he was feeling overfull. The summer was going strangely. The move was fractioning up his mind as much as it was his apartment. Perhaps they were mostly the same thing, anyway. Perhaps they always had been. Anna-Leigh was talking to him about Harry. He had been having difficulty, lately, making conversation. He wasn't sure whether or not she had noticed. He felt less and less interested in intellectualisms, arguments. Whatever. Something, somewhere, was going. He worried, running his fingers through his hair, feeling for the hole, hoping somehow frailly to plug it. His eyelids fluttered unconsciously.

"Yeah, he was telling me this... stuff... something about this short story he's working on. He said... he said it was going to be all in dialogue?" She made the sentence, awkwardly, into a question, as though asking him whether or not it made any sense at the same time as she was stating it. He frowned, puzzling.

"Isn't that just a play?"

"Well, yeah..." She hadn't considered this, but landed on her feet. "But, I mean, it's all in the intent, right? Plus," gaining confidence, "what you call it, how you frame it... influences how the audience reads it." She was throwing herself against his intellect. He smiled wearily at her and dipped his head to his straw, sipping, sucking, and nodded as he came back up for air.

"I guess."

He wondered where this was going. Was this the cliché, the dulling, that he knew about? Little pieces of him infinitesimally rubbing into the void, a rain of high-school dandruff slowly, over the months, taking effect? He took his fingers out of his greasy hair and pressed them against the dying, firm sadness of the table, looking for solidity. She was lost in thought. He studied the curves of her face, her beauty. She hadn't changed, nor had his reaction. It was still electric, there was still a spark, a shock. He was worried, though, whether this could keep meaning anything, could hold up and stock up and dam up meaning inside itself like a sponge, a bear-trap, for so long. And if it could, was it not, in some way, dangerous? Was she too much? He stopped and wondered. Well, was she?

And he looked at her, offhand. And she was. But he didn't say anything, not yet. If they had found a way to make cars run on water, a perpetual motion machine, would we know? Would they tell us? I've seen Primer. Do we end up keeping the big discoveries to ourselves?

He wondered.