So, now I’m pissed off. Yesterday’s discussion of my problem with my fellow students was an intellectual note. Something that nagged at me, but that was all. Today it pisses me off. Lucky for me, I’m reading Roald Dahl. He specializes in long, insulting sentences. I’m ready to whip out something along the lines of: You’re a horrible, slimy, nasty, mean, and evil bitch of an witch – and I can do it in Dutch. Fair warning, Universe. If I am laughed at one more time, or dissed, or spoken over, they’re getting it. I’ll write it the fuck down and memorize it. I am not putting up with that shit any more. As for the break issue, I’ve determined I’m just bringing my reading with me from now on. Screw everyone.
My teachers have asked me not to swear in class, and I’ve obliged because I care about their opinion and respect them as people and as teachers. But I can still put people down – thank you, Dahl! You’ve drilled those words into my head with every book.
And if all else fails, I know two Dutch insults to sling at them. One: drop dead. Effective in any language. Two: tell them they’re cancer. That’s a strange one; a big Dutch insult is calling someone a disease. But, okay. I’ll go with it. You’re cancer.
I prefer the long winded, descriptive sentences of Dahl, tho. Use what I’ve learned.
*sigh* The hoover broke. Overheated and didn’t recover. The only thing I’m not unhappy over is the fact that it happened while my bro was using it. Thank the Goddess! I do not have to hear about what I should have done, or what I should have noticed, or anything negative. He did it. Not me. I grew up hearing I was a mechanical jinx, that I broke any machine I came within three feet of. It wasn’t true, of course, but it was repeated to me so much and so often I’ve developed a real complex about it. I was 32 and still hearing about a lawn mower I “broke” at the age of 4. So if the damned hoover had to break, I’m breathing a sigh of relief it didn’t do it while I was using it. My being a jinx is a family myth that’s hard to shake. Unfortunately, it happened at a time when I haven’t cleaned the house regularly, meaning we have dust bunnies in every room. My room, in particular, was on the list of ‘needing to get clean’. Now I have to wait ’til I don’t know when. ‘Til we can find a decent, inexpensive hoover, I guess.
Opened up and looked at the production notes. Did a fast spot check and, yes, I found pages moved. Shit. That means going thru it line by line, checking 13 pages of notes against the script. Not a fun job. Did manage to work on the dialogue I needed to pull apart; tabled it, diagrammed it, and ended up pulling out 50 cuts to record separately. May not use them all, but it’s a good place to start, I think.
Got out for a walk. Spring is here. It pussyfooted around, timidly playing with us for a month. Now it’s moved in and pregnant with summer. In one day, the trees went from that feathery bud stage to leaves out. I passed four freshly cut lawns. There was so much green smell in the air it was rushing up my nose and tickling my brain with an almost electric feel of excitement. Gods, bottle that! I’ll buy it. It was so warm even I didn’t need a jacket or hoodie. Just a t-shirt. In 48 hours, temps are forecast near 30C. Well, that was it, then. That’s too hot. My wrist already hurts from the temp increase. Time to shift to summer life: early wake ups from the sun and the noise, afternoons in the gym where there’s air conditioning, open windows rather than turned on radiators. Makes me glad I got outside for a walk when I could.
Tapping my feet a lot more. I try to stop, but then I get busy with something on my computer and the next thing I know I hear that tap-tappa-tap-tap rhythm that I do. Palms still sweating, tho not as bad. Sleep is something I do. Something I tell myself to do. It’s bed time; turn the light off. Or it’s light out; get up. How rested I feel has very little to do with anything. Food…desire comes and goes. I eat, twice a day minimum. And it’s not the food; it tastes good. My mouth waters. I just…I think I’m hungry, then I drink some water or something and I’m not, and I just go back to whatever I was doing for a few more hours until I start to feel cold. That’s when I know I need food: I’m cold. Not hungry. Cold.
I’ve got a plan. I just gotta stick to it. Get up, blog. An hour on Dutch. Eat. Go to the gym. Back home, work on the script. Dinner. A little game playing, then tv time. Read, sleep. It’s a solid plan, guaranteed to get me thru the work I need to get done. Honestly, though, I just want to sit here. Don’t know why. I’m tired of every damned computer game I’ve got. I don’t even pay attention to what’s on the tv half the time. But I keep finding myself doing it: droning out, playing solitaire of all things. Mindless. Repetitive. Nothing surprising, nothing challenging. A few strong story plots surfaced the other day while I was on my walk. One came complete with characters, plot line, and scenes played out in my head. Fairly obvious what my next play will be.
And I owe it to my fellow students. That nagging feeling, that anger…it’s turned into something. It’s given birth to a veiled woman. Mysterious. Intriguing. Heartbreakingly sad.
That’s the way to use it.