Stuff and “Other Stuff”

I don't usually blog on a Saturday. It's an odd experience. I'm usually cripplingly tired when I write, so my entries tend to be a bit rambly and insane (I'm not sure if you've noticed).

But I've had a good 10 hours sleep, the sun is shining, and I'm feeling hinged, couth, intelligible, and other qualities I usually only recognise with the prefix: 'un-'.

I'm writing on Lucy's computer, which is on our living room table. It's a pleasant place to write. It makes me feel like an actual writer. Here's a quick survey of the things on the table:

A wine rack (never really used, as we don't drink much wine. It looks a bit like a Klingon Bat'leth)

A soft green bag that formerly contained a stuffed dinosaur called Aristophanes (who is currently living on my desk at work)

My laptop (which is closed, as the fan is broken and sounds like artillery)

A dirty coaster (which sounds like the name of a bad Western)

A big microphone and mixer that I use to produce propaganda

Various remote controls (including one for our robot butler Kyle)

An OED mouse mat

Two severed arms (oh wait, those are my arms)

A 1GB memory stick called 'Black Andy' (even though it's actually blue)

Lucy's computer, which is currently displaying a draft version of the thing you're reading
That's about it.

On a normal day, I'd think: "No, Paul. That's just a list of objects. It's of no interest to anyone. You can't write a blog entry that's just "things on a table". You're an idiot."

But today, with the sun shining, after a good night's sleep, I think: "This is acceptable content."

Yes, it is.

***

The new series of Flight of the Conchords has been really great. We just watched the episode directed by Michel Gondry. Here's a cool song, with an amazing looking video


***

I had a nightmare last night. Unfortunately, it didn't involve any hilarious quips this time. I dreamt that I accidentally shaved off my beard, just leaving me with a moustache. After I'd shaved that off, I saw that my beard had grown back.

Annoying.

At no point did I suspect it was a dream. Which was silly of me.

When I woke up, I realised that both my moustache and beard were still intact.

Unfortunately, someone had shaved a swearword in the back of my hair. Lucy wouldn't tell me which one it was, so I had to guess.

I got it on the third attempt.

It was: splange.

I've decided to keep it. It gives me some edge. I'm desperate for any edge I can muster, as I'm essentially a sphere.

***

The other good thing about writing at the weekend is I have an arsenal of old photos and documents that I can draw on for blog content. The trouble is, it's all on my broken laptop. So I'm trying to quickly siphon what I need onto Black Andy, and transfer it all to Lucy's ever-reliable computer.

But I can't do much without setting off the fan. If I take a wrong step, the whirring begins. It sounds like a helicopter full of banshees crashing into a blackboard. I feel like Indiana Jones. I have to do everything very gently. And hope I don't leave my hat in a USB port.

I have a folder helpfully labelled 'Other Stuff'. It's full of various miscellanea that anyone under the age of 25 would call "random!!". There's a couple of things of value, and a load of things of none.

(One particular document merits its own blog entry, which I'll try to do this weekend).

One of the most numerous type of documents in the folder is job application letters; 99% of which were unsuccessful. I'm really glad I haven't had to write one of those for a while.

I had a quick look through them to find some funny excerpts, but they were all spirit-crushingly dull. I was hoping I'd slipped in a humourous typo, or a use of the word 'splange', but I suppose I was too diligent in my proof-reading. What is common in these letters is the repeated lie of being 'excited' with the proposition of working there, or 'passionate' about sitting in an office all day. I hate lying, which is probably why I'll never get anywhere in the world.

Oh, and I'm also really, really lazy. (Or am I?)

There are odd documents in here, a few saved order numbers from long lost online purchases, several unconnected PDFs (a London Tube map, a call for papers for a Harry Potter conference, the schedule for a student radio station), my abandoned attempts to design a series of Top Trumps based on our university lecturers. There's the hugely detailed playlist for my short-lived radio show at the aforementioned station - filled to the brim with track times and band trivia.

Also in the folder are lots of stories, scripts, saved MSN conversations and other little nuggets. Most of them are unbearably earnest, and they're nearly all unfinished.

Here are a couple of unedited extracts. I say that, because I find some of them to be embarrassing. But then I find lots of these blog posts to be embarrassing too. These two were in the same document, but I'm not sure if they're supposed to be part of the same story. I'm not sure when it was written.

"I'm going to give you until the count of ten."
Forlorna Kilkane froze, and with a slight, powerful smile, turned her head forty-five degrees to face her father. He seemed perturbed by his own ultimatum, sweating slightly. He cleared his throat.
"1"
Forlorna opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself. I personally think she was so amused by her imminent quip that she thought she might burst out laughing, thus ruining the illusion of her calm, nonchalant aura. She titled her head this time. Perhaps ten or fifteen degrees. She scratched her right temple with her index finger, and then rubbed the nail with her thumb.
"2"

She opened her mouth again, pausing for a second, and then decided it was time to say:

"You're full of shit, dad."
It didn't quite have the impact she had hoped, but she was pleased to see her father's cheeks redden somewhat.
"I guess this is you being threatening, huh? I have to guess, you see, 'cause I've never seen it before."
"3"
"If you're trying to demonstrate some tiny bit of masculinity, I think that ship has sailed."
Forlorna turned her wrist a few degrees and looked at her watch. She remembered that she had forgotten to wind it that morning. She looked back at her father, as though worried he had noticed this faux pas. But, satisfied by his expression, her gaze flicked back to the watch, and then over to the frosted glass of the front door.
"4"
"I'm leaving now." She didn't move.
"5"


A magpie fluttered past the window and perched on a swaying, spindled branch of the cherry tree. Ben looked over at Alice to see if she had noticed. She hadn't, or else she would have been forced to dispel the bad luck by waving at the bird. This superstition had caused Alice to fail her driving test the previous summer. Her driving examiner had said that other drivers might have misconstrued the wave as a signal. Ben looked again at the magpie. It was cleaning its feathers and shifting its feet, its glossy sheen catching the sunlight; chalky black giving way to a rich, shimmering blue. Ben looked back at Alice. She was still reading her magazine. He wondered if he should tell her about the magpie. Instead, he waved under the table to the bird. It was best that way: the bad luck would be extinguished and Alice wouldn't have to know about it. He hadn't spoken to her since she'd got out of the shower, but he could see that she had been crying.

That's all there is. After reading Franny and Zooey, I'm hoping that if I provide short extracts, it will create the illusion that they're really profound, instead of just something I gave up writing because I got bored.

Man, I've just found a really weird script extract that I don't even remember writing. It's labelled 'Sphereless' (which was the same title as a feature film idea I came up with years ago as part of an evening class), but it's not the project I recognise. I think it must have been written when I was doing my MA. It obviously didn't have legs. (Sorry about the odd formatting - it didn't quite work)

FADE in:

EXT. THE WORLD – NIGHT

Rain falls in pellets over the city. On a sodden, filthy street, a man in three shabby coats staggers along carrying a plastic bag. A car drives past with the radio playing loudly.

The plastic bag splits open, and hundreds of drinking straws burst out on the pavement. The man is frozen by anger for a moment, and gives a primal scream to the night sky.

We follow his scream upwards, along the outside wall of a run-down block of flats. On our way up, we see inside a few of the windows of the building: a balding man watching TV in a vest; a man wallpapering in a tailored suit, and two women laughing over a bottle of wine.

We reach the top floor of the building, and can see HANK through the rain-splattered pane. We move closer.

INT. HANK'S PLACE – NIGHT

Hank is in his early forties, slight and scruffy. His moves are quick and sudden like a bird. He sits at his dining table, pouring over piles of unrolled papers: diagrams, blueprints, maps. In the corner of the room, a television is turned on and glares indistinctly.

hank

I hope you are, I hope you are…

Hank stands up suddenly and walks through a door at the side of the door. We hear water running.

hank (OS)

I'm going to check twice more. Make absolutely sure.

We hear the sound of a kettle starting to boil, and survey the room. The furniture is old and battered. There are books stacked everywhere, piled against walls and filling bookcases. A smeared white-board dominates the wall above a disused fireplace. As we get closer, we can see the images on the television screen. Two figures sit on a sofa in an ordinary-looking living room. There is no movement and no sound.

hank (OS)

I hope you are, I hope you are…

We head towards the television screen, closer and closer, into static.

INT. GUIZOT'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

The static clears and we find ourselves is a sunny, clear living room. Beams of light catch the dust in the air. The two figures are still sitting on the sofa. GUIZOT is on our left, MARCUS is on our right. Marcus suddenly slaps his forehead hard.

guizot

You didn't mean to do that so hard did you?

marcus

No

guizot

It hurt didn't it?

marcus

No.

It ends there.

Man, I've got problems.

The 'Other Stuff' folder is a mine. Not a goldmine, exactly. Maybe a tin mine.

Anyway, I could stay here typing all day, but I should probably... oh, I don't know... make some tea?

This has been a bit of a marathon. If it was dull, I apologise. Just pretend I'm a genius. Or that I've just assassinated a public figure.

The authorities find out my name, do some research, and read this blog.

And everything makes sense.