Did i mention that I hate it and that my Maestro is off my bus for making me do it? not really. He is actually a patient Angel. But sight reading is to playing the guitar as walking by the angry dog is to getting to the doughnut shop. It makes me feel stupid, incompetent and incapable. And i really don't need any extra help feeling those three things.
Not to mention the first song I opened the book to was in 3/2 time. I been reading music since I was 6 years old, nobody ever asked me to play nothing in 3/2 time!!! My metronome just doesn't do that fraction. And hey, isn't there a moratorium on having to do fractions? Like people over 35 just don't have'ta do 'em anymore? If not there bloody well should be.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
What happened to the pickles at book club
Lesson learned. When Book Club turns into Wine Club mid-week, Thursday turns into an achievable goals day.
Pretty sure I’m not going to be able to put together cogent thoughts here today people. It is it is lunch hour and I should be writing script but after staring at the blinking cursor and feeling the eyelids droop I figured I’d switch to blogging as it can still be considered writing practice but if the story ends up being about cheese no-one really minds. Mind you an episode where my human/alien hybrid discovers the joy of cheese could be a lot of fun. Okay I will pop open my episodes list and make a note, hold on a sec.
Right, where was I – ah yes cheese. We had cheese at book club which was quite well received by all assembled. Perhaps the selection was too fine and that is why the wine went down a little more easily than usual. Or maybe it is my own personal decadent influence, as the peeps rarely indulge like that at book club. They often don’t even at wine club. Could be the influence of the purple velvet couch. Hmmm. It is a couch pretty damn high on the decadence scale.
Sure nice to have a place where your friends feel like hanging out though I must say. The concrete walls turned out to be important as it happened. Hey and our newest member celebrated her first anniversary with the E-litteratti and earned her blog nickname – Alien PM. I could explain, but frankly I’m too tired for one, and I’m not sure I exactly remember for two.
Several funny moments – first and foremost Po announcing that she liked the book we were ranting about (a previous disaster – current book is excellent) And hey, why is it that books we really like get 20 minutes of nodding agreement, and books we are split on keep on coming back to haunt and irritate and inspire Duder to fabulous fresh new rants. She is really the only person who’s rants are truly art since even if it is a topic on which you’ve heard numerous previous rants from her, she always comes up with a fresh new rant twist.
But back to Po announcing that she liked the accursed book but of course probably because she is the only member of the group who isn’t a writer. Which was super material for much mirth since Po was the only one in the room who is actually a PUBLISHED AUTHOR http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/35/search?sc=Paola+Opal&sf=Author
That is comedy folks. Powering thru the highlights were curing Squish’s plantar faceitis, Alien PM’s quite helpful advice on coping with annoying in-laws, Duder’s adventure in real-estate and watching the Fry/Laurie YouTube sketch “Your name, sir.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNoS2BU6bbQ
Though I am never doing a vegetable plate again (seriously need a nap, just had to spell-check “vegetable”) Alien PM ate 3 pieces of broccoli and one cherry tomato and now I have enough vegetables to make stir fry for 12 vegans. Must go back to the day job but will finish with the fate of the pickles.
First no one ate any, second when I went to put them away I spilled all the cold pickle juice over my bare feet so had to wash my feet before bed. Didn’t do a good job though, my right pinkie toe is sticking to my shoe. Hey Alien PM, maybe a cure for someone’s foot odor issue?
Pretty sure I’m not going to be able to put together cogent thoughts here today people. It is it is lunch hour and I should be writing script but after staring at the blinking cursor and feeling the eyelids droop I figured I’d switch to blogging as it can still be considered writing practice but if the story ends up being about cheese no-one really minds. Mind you an episode where my human/alien hybrid discovers the joy of cheese could be a lot of fun. Okay I will pop open my episodes list and make a note, hold on a sec.
Right, where was I – ah yes cheese. We had cheese at book club which was quite well received by all assembled. Perhaps the selection was too fine and that is why the wine went down a little more easily than usual. Or maybe it is my own personal decadent influence, as the peeps rarely indulge like that at book club. They often don’t even at wine club. Could be the influence of the purple velvet couch. Hmmm. It is a couch pretty damn high on the decadence scale.
Sure nice to have a place where your friends feel like hanging out though I must say. The concrete walls turned out to be important as it happened. Hey and our newest member celebrated her first anniversary with the E-litteratti and earned her blog nickname – Alien PM. I could explain, but frankly I’m too tired for one, and I’m not sure I exactly remember for two.
Several funny moments – first and foremost Po announcing that she liked the book we were ranting about (a previous disaster – current book is excellent) And hey, why is it that books we really like get 20 minutes of nodding agreement, and books we are split on keep on coming back to haunt and irritate and inspire Duder to fabulous fresh new rants. She is really the only person who’s rants are truly art since even if it is a topic on which you’ve heard numerous previous rants from her, she always comes up with a fresh new rant twist.
But back to Po announcing that she liked the accursed book but of course probably because she is the only member of the group who isn’t a writer. Which was super material for much mirth since Po was the only one in the room who is actually a PUBLISHED AUTHOR http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/35/search?sc=Paola+Opal&sf=Author
That is comedy folks. Powering thru the highlights were curing Squish’s plantar faceitis, Alien PM’s quite helpful advice on coping with annoying in-laws, Duder’s adventure in real-estate and watching the Fry/Laurie YouTube sketch “Your name, sir.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNoS2BU6bbQ
Though I am never doing a vegetable plate again (seriously need a nap, just had to spell-check “vegetable”) Alien PM ate 3 pieces of broccoli and one cherry tomato and now I have enough vegetables to make stir fry for 12 vegans. Must go back to the day job but will finish with the fate of the pickles.
First no one ate any, second when I went to put them away I spilled all the cold pickle juice over my bare feet so had to wash my feet before bed. Didn’t do a good job though, my right pinkie toe is sticking to my shoe. Hey Alien PM, maybe a cure for someone’s foot odor issue?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Are you kidding me?
So what is the deal with new guitar strings. Do they seriously have to be tuned halfway thru a song? Are you kidding me? I put them on when? I’ve re-tuned how many times?
And what is with my incredibly well developed avoidance of success thing. Though I can report 9 pages on the Rain Girls pilot and 7 pages on episode 6.
How long did it take to write 10 thank you cards and send 7 follow up emails for PitchMarket 2010? Two Weeks? Are you kidding me?
By the way, anyone looking for a new technology – I have successfully bonded sockeye salmon skin to metal and absolutely no clue how to separate them. I seem to have created an entirely new substance. Perhaps useful for shoring up wormholes.
Wondering if I can get away with Glade plug-ins and blindfolds for book club on Wednesday.
And I’m cranky because now they’ve been on Oprah and everyone is a Canadian Tenor’s fan what do they need me for?
OOOOhhhh. Where’d that little toad come from? Though they did make nice comments about fans flying from afar and bringing treats. I guess that’s me, as long as I send chocolate and don’t show up on anyone’s doorstep I’m going to say that makes me a good fan not a stalker fan. The CTs incandescent success is a good thing, right? To do with them making the world happy. Which I want for them and they want for them. Hah! I have fan jealously. That is just silly. So.
Okay, moving on to the next pothole of the day. Now the reminder to breathe. I did get the acknowledgement that though the three videos I prepared fell short of everyone’s expectations, my hard work and effort was noted. Thanks. At least no-one complained about the font.
Are you kidding me? Last night as I was approaching the realization that there was nothing on TV that I was remotely interested in watching, I caught myself wishing I could catch that next episode of that series about the drug-addicted, wheelchair-bound sorceress. You’ve seen the promo’s surely of “Shadows Gather” with the next episode being after a long dark night of the soul the hot Cop shows up to make her and her almost-but-not-quite-jail-bait-live-in-boy-toy French toast for breakfast. Then the flash of realization that it's not a TV series Carolynne – it is the next chapter of your novel that you haven’t quite written yet. Really? Seriously? I actually had a moment of pining for the next chapter of one of MY stories. Good sign. It’s a good sign, right?
Thinking of the Shy One and our conversation about never feeling good enough. Never being able to receive love or praise or affection of any kind because you have this deep rooted feeling that if someone actually likes you it is because they are mistaken about who you really are and misguided about the quality of what you do. At some point they will come to their senses and walk away.
I was well and truly shocked when the Cossack admitted not having read my scripts yet. I actually looked and him and thought, “Then what are you sitting here for?” Yes. The concept that an attractive successful smart man just liked me for my company and not what I could do for them was kind of cataclysmic. And sad. And maybe misguided. Perhaps he is only interested in whether or not I can advance his career. But I hope it is only because I make him laugh. That’s what I hope.
And what is with my incredibly well developed avoidance of success thing. Though I can report 9 pages on the Rain Girls pilot and 7 pages on episode 6.
How long did it take to write 10 thank you cards and send 7 follow up emails for PitchMarket 2010? Two Weeks? Are you kidding me?
By the way, anyone looking for a new technology – I have successfully bonded sockeye salmon skin to metal and absolutely no clue how to separate them. I seem to have created an entirely new substance. Perhaps useful for shoring up wormholes.
Wondering if I can get away with Glade plug-ins and blindfolds for book club on Wednesday.
And I’m cranky because now they’ve been on Oprah and everyone is a Canadian Tenor’s fan what do they need me for?
OOOOhhhh. Where’d that little toad come from? Though they did make nice comments about fans flying from afar and bringing treats. I guess that’s me, as long as I send chocolate and don’t show up on anyone’s doorstep I’m going to say that makes me a good fan not a stalker fan. The CTs incandescent success is a good thing, right? To do with them making the world happy. Which I want for them and they want for them. Hah! I have fan jealously. That is just silly. So.
Okay, moving on to the next pothole of the day. Now the reminder to breathe. I did get the acknowledgement that though the three videos I prepared fell short of everyone’s expectations, my hard work and effort was noted. Thanks. At least no-one complained about the font.
Are you kidding me? Last night as I was approaching the realization that there was nothing on TV that I was remotely interested in watching, I caught myself wishing I could catch that next episode of that series about the drug-addicted, wheelchair-bound sorceress. You’ve seen the promo’s surely of “Shadows Gather” with the next episode being after a long dark night of the soul the hot Cop shows up to make her and her almost-but-not-quite-jail-bait-live-in-boy-toy French toast for breakfast. Then the flash of realization that it's not a TV series Carolynne – it is the next chapter of your novel that you haven’t quite written yet. Really? Seriously? I actually had a moment of pining for the next chapter of one of MY stories. Good sign. It’s a good sign, right?
Thinking of the Shy One and our conversation about never feeling good enough. Never being able to receive love or praise or affection of any kind because you have this deep rooted feeling that if someone actually likes you it is because they are mistaken about who you really are and misguided about the quality of what you do. At some point they will come to their senses and walk away.
I was well and truly shocked when the Cossack admitted not having read my scripts yet. I actually looked and him and thought, “Then what are you sitting here for?” Yes. The concept that an attractive successful smart man just liked me for my company and not what I could do for them was kind of cataclysmic. And sad. And maybe misguided. Perhaps he is only interested in whether or not I can advance his career. But I hope it is only because I make him laugh. That’s what I hope.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Sometimes you just want cake.
I’m thinking about scars tonight. Childhood scars, last week’s scars, other people’s scars.
When I was little. Maybe six, no must have been at least seven? I was playing on the front lawn of our house in Richmond so I was certainly no more than eight. It was a long summer twilight and I could hear the sprinklers click and swish in the neighbour’s yards. I’d been helping Dad cut the grass, but he’d gone inside and I was alone, sitting cross-legged on the lawn. The damp new-mown grass tickling my legs where my shorts left off. As the blue deepened above I switched from using the edge clippers for their intended purpose to lifting them high and stabbing them deep into the earth. A powerful feeling reaching as high as I could, my hands not really big enough to master the smooth turned wood of the handles and then stabbing them deep into the turf. Such a satisfying feeling that shudder through the handles and the tremulous moment of resistance before the fibrous roots agree to surrender to the sharp heavy blades. The blades require a real effort to extract and so I do. And do again. Noticing that the mosquitoes are rising and a chill falling – I really should get inside. But once more with the blades, I’m grooving on my dominance of the blade and the earth and a rare moment alone too probably, before someone wonders where I am, what I’m doing.
Arms raised high. Blades glinting high thick and sharp and Whooom! I stab downward, through my right calf. What have I done? Shock I suppose is what happened next. Clippers withdrawn and flung aside. I was to be chastised for that in a couple of days for leaving them out to rust. The river of blood started down my leg and all I could think was I was going to be in such trouble for getting blood on my sock. I ran to the basement door. Far from the closest, but I all could think was to get to the bathroom and stop the blood from getting everywhere or I’d really catch hell. How I managed to stop the bleeding and bandage it myself I still have no idea. I must have been a half hour in the downstairs bath with the first aid kit and my blood-stained sock soaking in the sink. Mom always said cold water was the thing for blood stains. I remembered. Given the size of the scar I must have managed to get a good three inches of blade in the leg. I certainly should have had stitches, and such luck that the wound didn’t infect so by the time the Saturday night bath rolled around a band-aid and a one inch scab, albeit a heavy one didn’t even raise a parental eyebrow.
It seems that life this last 10 days has been such a bittersweet brew. All the salty and slick and crunchy and tough bits blended together like a really bad tasting smoothie that is good for you. But sometimes you just want cake. A small piece will do, really. But cake nonetheless.
When I was little. Maybe six, no must have been at least seven? I was playing on the front lawn of our house in Richmond so I was certainly no more than eight. It was a long summer twilight and I could hear the sprinklers click and swish in the neighbour’s yards. I’d been helping Dad cut the grass, but he’d gone inside and I was alone, sitting cross-legged on the lawn. The damp new-mown grass tickling my legs where my shorts left off. As the blue deepened above I switched from using the edge clippers for their intended purpose to lifting them high and stabbing them deep into the earth. A powerful feeling reaching as high as I could, my hands not really big enough to master the smooth turned wood of the handles and then stabbing them deep into the turf. Such a satisfying feeling that shudder through the handles and the tremulous moment of resistance before the fibrous roots agree to surrender to the sharp heavy blades. The blades require a real effort to extract and so I do. And do again. Noticing that the mosquitoes are rising and a chill falling – I really should get inside. But once more with the blades, I’m grooving on my dominance of the blade and the earth and a rare moment alone too probably, before someone wonders where I am, what I’m doing.
Arms raised high. Blades glinting high thick and sharp and Whooom! I stab downward, through my right calf. What have I done? Shock I suppose is what happened next. Clippers withdrawn and flung aside. I was to be chastised for that in a couple of days for leaving them out to rust. The river of blood started down my leg and all I could think was I was going to be in such trouble for getting blood on my sock. I ran to the basement door. Far from the closest, but I all could think was to get to the bathroom and stop the blood from getting everywhere or I’d really catch hell. How I managed to stop the bleeding and bandage it myself I still have no idea. I must have been a half hour in the downstairs bath with the first aid kit and my blood-stained sock soaking in the sink. Mom always said cold water was the thing for blood stains. I remembered. Given the size of the scar I must have managed to get a good three inches of blade in the leg. I certainly should have had stitches, and such luck that the wound didn’t infect so by the time the Saturday night bath rolled around a band-aid and a one inch scab, albeit a heavy one didn’t even raise a parental eyebrow.
It seems that life this last 10 days has been such a bittersweet brew. All the salty and slick and crunchy and tough bits blended together like a really bad tasting smoothie that is good for you. But sometimes you just want cake. A small piece will do, really. But cake nonetheless.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Lucky, Lucky, Lucky Girl
Thing is about not “winning” the pitch competition is that it gave me this fantastic opportunity to feel the love of the people all around me friends and strangers too. Seriously, what do I need with a bunch of free software I already own and free books I already own and passes to film festivals I’m already going to, not to mention bragging rights which all in all may be 20K in prizes but isn’t a patch on the billion dollars of love and friendship and hope and faith I received from you all.
There is a lesson too in that Smart Pig, who did win (sorry doll, just trying out a new nickname for you! It might not stick) HATES pitching with the fury of a thousand suns, while I, who actually kinda enjoy it, didn’t even place. That is something to think over for sure.
Apologies I am still so tired that the words keep slipping thru my fingers, and an amazing dinner and glass of cabernet –god do they make good wine in this state – has caused the powerful made-of-woven-titanium-and-magic-fairy-dust word net that I usually am able to cast forth to be made instead with some used dental floss and tangled computer cords. See, I just had to sound out the word com-pu-ter in order to type it.
Just can’t go to bed though with out sending out big teary inappropriately crushing hugs to all of you who seem to have tapped into an endless spring of being kind and passionately supportive of me and my dreams. I hope that when they come true that you can all share the joy with me as powerfully as you’ve shared the challenges.
Smart Pig compares us writers to flying fish. Fish who somehow think they should be birds, but at some point after soaring thru the air too long, we must dive again, alone into the deep cold hidden deeps and be what we are and do what we do, until the next fit of “I can be a bird!” hits us and we leap forth to join you all in the skies for a bit. It is a fun time though, isn’t it? We are all wet and salty and sparkle like jewels in the sun, and we sing to you for a little while before the light and the attention and the demands and the heat all become too too, too much and we must fall again, fold our wings and immerse ourselves in the cool deep wet dark to mend.
Special hearts to Delicous, Pixie and the Empress for their endless toil to make the event such a success for so many. And to all the kind strangers who overcame their writerly reserve to introduce themselves and tell me how wonderfully they thought I did and how amazing my story is. And the Welsh Maid showing up to plunk 35$ down just to watch the back of my head for 20 minutes, that is love. Most of all to the Producer who survived a late night champagne drunken butt-dialed cell phone call, not to mention his unflagging use of the word “brilliant” with connection to myself. As for the Princess and the Cossack? I truly think they were more disappointed for me than I was for myself. So I ordered a bottle of champagne. It seemed to cheer them up a bit. I certainly felt the bubbles were called for because it was a day and a night when, from near and far I felt truly, deeply and incandescently loved and valued. It was a great day.
There is a lesson too in that Smart Pig, who did win (sorry doll, just trying out a new nickname for you! It might not stick) HATES pitching with the fury of a thousand suns, while I, who actually kinda enjoy it, didn’t even place. That is something to think over for sure.
Apologies I am still so tired that the words keep slipping thru my fingers, and an amazing dinner and glass of cabernet –god do they make good wine in this state – has caused the powerful made-of-woven-titanium-and-magic-fairy-dust word net that I usually am able to cast forth to be made instead with some used dental floss and tangled computer cords. See, I just had to sound out the word com-pu-ter in order to type it.
Just can’t go to bed though with out sending out big teary inappropriately crushing hugs to all of you who seem to have tapped into an endless spring of being kind and passionately supportive of me and my dreams. I hope that when they come true that you can all share the joy with me as powerfully as you’ve shared the challenges.
Smart Pig compares us writers to flying fish. Fish who somehow think they should be birds, but at some point after soaring thru the air too long, we must dive again, alone into the deep cold hidden deeps and be what we are and do what we do, until the next fit of “I can be a bird!” hits us and we leap forth to join you all in the skies for a bit. It is a fun time though, isn’t it? We are all wet and salty and sparkle like jewels in the sun, and we sing to you for a little while before the light and the attention and the demands and the heat all become too too, too much and we must fall again, fold our wings and immerse ourselves in the cool deep wet dark to mend.
Special hearts to Delicous, Pixie and the Empress for their endless toil to make the event such a success for so many. And to all the kind strangers who overcame their writerly reserve to introduce themselves and tell me how wonderfully they thought I did and how amazing my story is. And the Welsh Maid showing up to plunk 35$ down just to watch the back of my head for 20 minutes, that is love. Most of all to the Producer who survived a late night champagne drunken butt-dialed cell phone call, not to mention his unflagging use of the word “brilliant” with connection to myself. As for the Princess and the Cossack? I truly think they were more disappointed for me than I was for myself. So I ordered a bottle of champagne. It seemed to cheer them up a bit. I certainly felt the bubbles were called for because it was a day and a night when, from near and far I felt truly, deeply and incandescently loved and valued. It was a great day.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
Okay. Got a place to stay in LA. Leaned the erstwhile mentor is logging 15 hour days and won't be in LA when I am.
PitchMarket Forum today totally worthwhile. Learned new things and got to catch up with some of my writer peeps. Continually astonishing to me how great it is not to be the writer in the lonely garrett all the time, and how talking with them inspires me to put butt in chair and write!
Loving you and leaving you now. Was good and went to gym and lite on food and booze tonight. Have a Huge pitching day tomorrow!
Such a groovy life! Such a lucky girl!
PitchMarket Forum today totally worthwhile. Learned new things and got to catch up with some of my writer peeps. Continually astonishing to me how great it is not to be the writer in the lonely garrett all the time, and how talking with them inspires me to put butt in chair and write!
Loving you and leaving you now. Was good and went to gym and lite on food and booze tonight. Have a Huge pitching day tomorrow!
Such a groovy life! Such a lucky girl!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Oh, boy.
Really must blog. Must blog now. Trouble is I actually have too much to say. In that I am keeping a close eye on the clock and approaching bedtime. Big weekend. PitchMarket Forum all day tomorrow so must get up early and workout first before I go. Hah! Hands up everyone who thinks that is actually going to happen. But hey, I realize as I type this that the reason I have announced to the world and committed it to pixels is because now I have to be accountable. Pretty much one of the only benefits of a guilt ridden Catholic upbringing. If I say I'm going to do something, my magnificent mother lode of pride laced guilt comes thru.
This, by the way is a rare blog for me. Typed directly into the blog window instead of being crafted in word, saved to the hard drive and proofed. Come to think of it, it feels kinda dangerous, like going commando. Who really knows what might happen?
So tomorrow at PitchMarket 2010 Vancouver is all about the workshops and panels, though I do get to see the Cossack and hey any day that I get to receive a kiss and a hug from a Ten is a good, good day. I'm not actually sure what I'm more excited about - the learning stuff about the biz of writing or getting to flirt my face off with the Cossack. Mind you I'll have to meet his 23 year old lingerie model girlfriend on Sunday in all likelyhood, but hey, the way my love life is going these days a smile and a hug from a hot guy is like getting to third base.
Oh, third base ... Baseball season! It suddenly seems to be upon me which bodes well for the guitar practice. Hmmm, for the writing. Yah. Actually me participating in life instead of watching it does bode well for the writing.
Finally found my Rain Girls one sheets after ripping the apartment to even greater shreds to find them. You know its bad when you order pizza for dinner because instead of cooking you need to spend the time running the dishwasher. Speaking of which, I'm gonna sign off now and do another load.
Weirdest thing about this past year for me, as a writer, most surprising anyway, is how important the people that I've met have become to me. A whole panoply of smart, lovely new friends. Super strange for someone who wasn't looking for them and frankly didn't think she needed them. Hey nobody really needs more than Book Club, and a couple work pals, do they? Apparently so. I am as excited about seeing friends this weekend as about the "career" opportunities. And you know what? Career, shcmear - stories are life, my life. Ain't I lucky?
So that is me, going commando. How'd I do?
This, by the way is a rare blog for me. Typed directly into the blog window instead of being crafted in word, saved to the hard drive and proofed. Come to think of it, it feels kinda dangerous, like going commando. Who really knows what might happen?
So tomorrow at PitchMarket 2010 Vancouver is all about the workshops and panels, though I do get to see the Cossack and hey any day that I get to receive a kiss and a hug from a Ten is a good, good day. I'm not actually sure what I'm more excited about - the learning stuff about the biz of writing or getting to flirt my face off with the Cossack. Mind you I'll have to meet his 23 year old lingerie model girlfriend on Sunday in all likelyhood, but hey, the way my love life is going these days a smile and a hug from a hot guy is like getting to third base.
Oh, third base ... Baseball season! It suddenly seems to be upon me which bodes well for the guitar practice. Hmmm, for the writing. Yah. Actually me participating in life instead of watching it does bode well for the writing.
Finally found my Rain Girls one sheets after ripping the apartment to even greater shreds to find them. You know its bad when you order pizza for dinner because instead of cooking you need to spend the time running the dishwasher. Speaking of which, I'm gonna sign off now and do another load.
Weirdest thing about this past year for me, as a writer, most surprising anyway, is how important the people that I've met have become to me. A whole panoply of smart, lovely new friends. Super strange for someone who wasn't looking for them and frankly didn't think she needed them. Hey nobody really needs more than Book Club, and a couple work pals, do they? Apparently so. I am as excited about seeing friends this weekend as about the "career" opportunities. And you know what? Career, shcmear - stories are life, my life. Ain't I lucky?
So that is me, going commando. How'd I do?
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