stalking:
the beat
bookslut blog
cashmilliondollars
dude. man. phat.
defamer
jane espenson
josh friedman
neil gaiman
tim goodman
molly ivins
listen, lady...
lj friends
mastodon city
pc petri dish
theo's gift
warm your thoughts
wil wheaton
xoverboard

doing:
SMRT-TV
los angeles
knitting
web design

writing:
bookslut
ostrich ink
HEARTtaker
screenplays

reading:
John Bowe (ed):
Gig: Americans Talk About Their Jobs
Gail Simone:
Birds of Prey
Sarah Vowell:
Take the Cannoli
Howard Zinn:
People's History of the U.S.

listening:
kcrw
woxy

watching:
The Daily Show
Prison Break
The Office (US)
Lost
Kitchen Confidential
Veronica Mars

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Saturday, May 25, 2002

So today I discovered that Anne Lamott and Douglas Coupland make for a potent, unsettling combination. Anne makes you want to write, but Doug can make you feel like the only things worth writing about are trapped inside your head, only findable if you hide away in a smelly tent in the Vancouver mountains.

I was stuck in my head, then, splayed out on my bed like a hit and run victim, unable to break the boring, repetitive cycle of thoughts - unable to be sure of what I was thinking. I therefore knew that I had to escape - I had to get out.

So I did.

Grabbed the messenger style bag Mom let me borrow ages ago, and the older-than-me manual camera that Mom let me borrow just recently, and went for a walk. Wandered around my neighborhood, taking pictures of people and places and things. I'm so much more comfortable on the other side of a camera, I've realized. And I miss filmmaking, a bit - I'm discovering all these crazy voyeuristic tendencies that are only satisfied by trapping life through a lens.

There are all these funky Spanish Art Deco buildings in my area - pretty as all hell. I kind of love them - their chaotic gardens of weeds and cactus and wildflowers, their tiled patios, their peeling, flaking fresco paint. I never bring along a CD player or walkman on these walks - I just listen to the music filtering out windows. I try and peek through windows. I spy.

I can't walk without a destination, though, and so I ended up on Melrose, in the comic book store. For some reason, I gravitated towards the indie comic section, and I read bits from The Waiting Place and Box Office Poison and some more obscure titles about people and their lives.

I seem to be more interested in the ordinary than the extraordinary, these days. I miss superheroes, but I was addicted to them for over a year - it makes sense that I'm a little burned out right now. I still love comics, though, as a storytelling medium. That's comforting, and I can't wait to have a job and be able to afford some of the new stuff that I'm eager to try. I might start reading Sandman again, too. I stopped last year, because they cost so much and I was only buying out of routine - but I feel like rediscovering them, rereading my way through the volumes I do have.

So I browsed the comics, but didn't buy anything - points for me! And then I wandered in and out of some other shops before going to the coffee shop I used to haunt during the semester, when the choices were writing in my apartment or writing elsewhere. Comfortable sofas, great coffee, and nice people behind the counter. Too bad it closes at 6 - I'd be tempted never to leave, otherwise.

Read some more of Bitch while I was there, jotted down the first two paragraphs of a potentially very bad short story. And then closing time lurked and I got cold, so I walked home. And here I am, writing about this very unextraordinary afternoon. But I'm still jazzed on caffeine and my fingers type so well when it's like this.

And while my own life bores me, I'm discovering how much I'm enjoying reading about other people. I've become a blog addict, enjoying the quiet moments of desperation and joy and, yes SEP, bitching that other people choose to share online. Because I'm savoring the ordinary, these days, as I slowly emerge from my own head. And I'm delighted to see what's outside.

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