At this time last year I was preparing for a wild night on the town, while daring to leave a Crazy Christian Internet Girl in my apartment all alone. I went out with Mike and Kate and my awesome roommate Steve.
I started a new job working from home, which took me to Las Vegas.
I turned thirty. And survived. Bet you didn't have an opera singer sing you happy birthday. I broke my glasses and fell in love with eggrolls. All in the same blog entry.
I'll never tire of photographing the Flatiron Building. It's my second-favorite building in the city, with only the Chrysler Bldg falling to number one. However the Flatiron is definitely my favorite building to photograph.
I got my hour back that was stolen from me in the springtime. It was nice. And after the crazy week I’ve had it’s proven itself quite welcome. I feel like I’ve been on-the-go in one form or another for the last two weeks and the weekend’s reprieve was more than welcome.
It was a weekend kicking back and relaxing with my kitties and savoring my home. I cleaned, I cooked, I read, I drew. I drew! It was great.
…and I completed a care package for a special opera singing someone stuck in Florida for the next eight months. ;)
I feel recharged, ready and willing to go and I’m gonna need it. The upcoming weeks don’t seem any different. It’s good to be busy. It’s good to be making progress.
No one can make you feel inferior without your permission. — Eleanor Roosevelt
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Since before my thirtieth birthday, the road has been bumpy. Add on to that a very unsettled stomach and you have an unhappy Little Bill. But with some soul-searching, some serious self-examination, I've found that making changes in my life isn't that difficult.
A recent self-taught lesson is that nothing good comes from a grudge; and that a bruised ego is to be left to those less able to deal with how things are. So I've reconciled with some people in my past, found some closure with others, and this self-change is right on schedule.
I wrestled with writing about this for a while. I even posted — and subsequently deleted — a long-winded email about, to, and defending myself from someone incredibly special to me who seems to have written me off as a friend. I'd composed entire blog entries about poor-weather friends. Tirades and rants were discarded. Apologies and pleads deleted. I did my share of reaching out. No one reached back. And really, that's fine. It's now the way I'd have seen things go, but I try and live under the philosophy that one shouldn't worry about the things over which they have no control.
So I won't.
I'll miss some of the habits — such as reaching into my pocket to make a walk-from-home call — but that's okay. Life changes and we adapt. Self-worth is independent from our environments. We are in control of ourselves. Thunderclouds do not equal gloom.
So, I pick myself up and hold my own head high with dignity. I know myself; I know my own value. No one can take that from me. Not even the people I love. The judgments can come. I don't need someone to hold my hand to tell me that I'm okay. Because I know I am.
And it's that thought, two blocks from the subway, that came to my mind as I pocketed my phone. And suddenly, like before, the cadence in my footsteps matched the beat in my music.
"Anyone who hates money is either a hippie or a liar" — slackmistress
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I don't deal very well with people who react without trying to understand. Though, sometimes I don't think I deal very well with people. The friends I've got seem to think otherwise. But then again...
Recently this has taken form in the topic of Money. I have a friend who always flies off the cuff whenever the topic comes up. It's through this friend that I've noticed that I bring up money, the value of things, and whatnot more frequently than even I'd like to. It just comes out that way.
Let me explain.
I grew up poor. My mother cut my hair well into my teens. New sneakers or new clothes or whatever all the other little rich kids who went to school were always a dream to me. School clothes came from the Salvation Army. Hipsters might enjoy it now, but when you're an insecure little minority nerd-boy in the homogeneity that is an all Irish-Italian town, you'd rather fit in than stick out. Never mind that all I wanted were friends and instead had to run home from school to avoid being beaten up (or hanging back to help the teacher clean up because that's what I love to do.
Every car I've ever owned — with the exception of the one I earned with my own money — was a shitty, half-broken down hand-me-down.
When I was twenty, still living with my parents, I saved up for and bought my first guitar, a Martin guitar. Was it some cheap generic brand? No. It was a very nice, great sounding guitar. I came home and proudly showed my father what I'd earned. I'd earned it. I bought it so my brother, who was just beginning to get good at guitar, and I could play together.
Do you know what I heard instead of, "Great! Now you can play with your brother instead of taking turns with him?" My father scowled at me and said, "Well, if you can afford that, you can afford rent." and we got into such an argument that I nearly moved out.
My entire youth was like this. Not once was I able to have what I wanted, and instead I compromised with something else. Something different. Something not what I wanted.
Am I materialistic? Probably. I would surmise it might have actually made me materialistic. I always coveted and never got.
Well, finally in my life I'm an adult. I'm finally at a point in my adult life where my own income exceeds my needs. And this is with a New York City cost of living. I'm finally at a point where I can purchase a few personal luxuries (iPhone, Digital Camera, guitar, nice clothes, new glasses) and still put away money for the future. And give money to my financially struggling brother (not loan, but give.) And give an iPod to a friend in need.
See, that's the thing. As many things as I might buy for myself, I'm just as equally generous with my money. Ask anyone who knows me how often I'll pick up the tab for drinks or dinner. Ask them if I'll go out of my way to help a friend in need. Financially or otherwise.
Well, maybe you understand me a little better, even if you disagree. Why am I defending myself? And anyone who thinks I'm the type to brag apparently doesn't know me as well as they thought they had. But I guess because I'd hope someone would ask and try and understand rather than react. Oh well. My friends accept me for who I am, or they aren't my friends.
Here's an update on the creative block for those of you keeping score...
I'm up and writing again. Started a short film. About a third of the way through it. There's still much to write — except I'm not quite sure where the story's going to go. I broke every rule I know about writing (again.) I just sat down and let the words pour out of me. What I got was the beginnings of a story. I don't have a beginning and I certainly have no idea yet on how to conclude the story.
I should take a step back and develop the characters a bit more, and try and identify the conflict. Then from there maybe put together an outline — including what I've already written — and map out where I'm going. It'll probably prove to be more productive than lying in bed trying to daydream out the rest of the story before falling asleep.
I end up just sleeping.
I do have to admit, little bits do come together and baby steps of progress are being made... so there is some optimism. Those of you who would like to read what I've written so far and offer up some suggestions are more than welcome to email me privately (or comment here and I'll send you the script in PDF format) — but no requests without feedback and suggestions!
Mirrored from my blog, littlebill.net where you'll find more up-to-date musings from me.
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“Best way to avoid punch, no be there.” — Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid
I see a punch coming on.
I’ve lived in New York for over three years now and am finding myself falling into the same kind of creative rut that I’d encountered back in the hometown. Creative frustration. Each time I find a way to get out of it but mostly it was an escape, not a solution.
Perhaps you can see something I’m not and feel free to offer up a solution. I’d love that.
The problem is this: I work as a web designer. I derive much creative satisfaction from photography. But under all of that, I want to make films. I keep coming up with premises for films, but end up discarding most of them, or shelving them in the back of my brain. I do it mostly because I feel that I should hold myself up to some kind of standard, in terms of theme and plot. I could write a goofy comedy, or some love story, or something along those lines but they’re not the kind of films I’d like to make. Also, I don’t want to spend my time (and other people’s valuable time) making something no one will ever watch, that won’t be submitted to YouTube even, let alone any festivals.
“What kind of movies do you make?” I get that a lot. The answer is: NONE. But if I had to answer it’d be to make a movie that’s dark, fucked up, or twisted in some way. Think Palahniuk novels before he became so fucking formulaic (I loved Rant, though.) Think Warren Ellis comics. Think David Fincher movies. Think Hitchcock. Sardonic, quirky, witty.
My problem? My brain’s not churning out those ideas. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m not a writer. I have no problem admitting that, but I think I can write, it’s just that the ideas don’t pour out of me like some others I know.
Are there writing exercises I can do to get the creative juices flowing? Should I suck it up and start making ANY kind of film, so that when I’m ready with a good idea my filmmaking chops will be up to par and I won’t make something that sucks? I’m not ready to give up on this.
Lastly, I might bitch and moan about this and I might not be making films but I am a busy guy. But I won’t let my business be an excuse not to pursue this. That’s lame.
Do you remember the games you made up as a child? The kind that only made sense to you and your friends? I was reminded of one this weekend, while visiting my mother over Labor Day weekend.
I was walking down the street along the route from my grade school to my parents' home. As I was stepping along the sidewalk I found myself deliberately stepping around certain sidewalk squares with an imprint of the manufacturer upon them. It was then that I realized what I was doing:
I was playing a childhood game.
I laughed so hard when it came back to me. The rules are as follows: a sidewalk has so many sections on it. Each one is a square of concrete. Occasionally you'd come upon one with a circle imprint. If you weren't paying attention and stepped on one, you had to run and touch a tree before your friend tagged you. If you both step on it, the first one to the tree is in the clear. It was a simple game and there really isn't any point to it, except to make the walk to and from school interesting.
What I found amusing was that here I was, two decades later, habitually playing the game. It had become so ingrained into who I am that it was an unconscious effort. I couldn't help but walk around them. And I liked that I did.
energetic
uncomfortable
pensive