I actually did hit six weeks this time. Some inertia that I've expounded upon for months on end became overwhelming, and I let this thing go. I'm starting to wonder if I've completely lost my ability to trust. Suspicion consumes welcoming, and I push away people who care.

There are two people I miss more than anything in the world, and I haven't seen either of them in a ridiculously long time. I'm sure you both know who you are. One of you actively left, pressing your way through the door only to return hesitently months later, head still lofty and unreachable. There were breif words about a reconciliation, you said you missed me and then you disappeared again. Probably out of that same fear and vulnerable wary mistrust that plagues me right now.

Another...I drifted away from. Unintentional hermetical activities lead to a gradual distance, and I fucking hate it. I've been plagued by that hesitent shyness that so often consumes me, written countless e-mails only to backspace and delete them all, unsure where to begin. It's really fucking sad that I've become so lost in my head that I haven't spoken to my best friend in the entire world in weeks now.

I guess this was just my long, drawn-out way of saying: I miss you.

( Yeah, yeah... )

It's just a day. Just the observation of the passing sunlight and the way it manhandles the furniture through the window. I'm patient and I watch the glow fade away to something much brighter in the dead of night. Mark an X off on the floor and make it hum with elegance. Drown out the noise with perfect silver silence and a joke just to break the mood.

Do you remember the bodies of the whales beneath the ice? They danced the way you did. Slippery and soft, you couldn't catch them, could only see their shadows beneath the sheets of frozen lake. They always made me think of nights spent watching you at the piano. I'd see your muscles tense with each new note and wonder when it was that I'd look up to the moon and hear the strains of distant sirens calling you home. Calling me home. Calling us up and away from here. I wanted to take your hand and lead you into soft silhouettes of sun, moon, and stars. Wanted to leap blindly and feel your smouldering breath pushing me on. I can still shudder under your echo if the timing is just right. At sunset I feel you lust for the weeping darkness, I can remember the intensity of your skin. Do you remember the words we shared at dusk, we felt our light fade and our spirits entwine. I remember you said you felt the weight of a thousand thoughts inside my palms.

You listen out for me, lover. I'm coming. I've gained ground, I'll find you. I've found you inside me still and I can't let go. I won't let go, because you haven't loosened your grip yet. You're holding on still, every tear I shed is caught in the hollow of your collarbones and you keep it nestled there.

I still stand out at night, I still go to the mountains and howl for The Wolves. Can you hear me still? My voice cracks but the rawness of my love song is painful and clear. Maybe one day it will reach you and I'll hear an answering cry. My Delicious Wolf, you took my drumbeat heart with you when you left for the moon.

And, oh, how she laughed when she found she had you again in her sickly pale arms. Oh, Isadora. How could you take him from me? How could you extend those beautiful milkwhite limbs and envelop this swarthy feral creature? His teeth yearned for your flesh yet again, and deep within me I wanted him to forget you. Your flawless nature and pulsing skin. You'll fly with him wherever he goes, throw meat to him and his pack, draw down the moon so they no longer have to howl. I couldn't hold a candle to your love. Your glorious locks and nights spent making love to him by seaside scapes.

Oh, Isadora. I loved you once too, loved your ability to fly him past the clouds.

My wolf. I'll still howl, even if the sound grows steadily farther away, more choked with desperation. Just prick up your ears and Listen.

Yesterday was a very wonderful woman's birthday. Happy birthday, Miranda. I hope this year treats you well.

This year, the holidays will be spent with family. I have obligations to go see them, and for once, I really don't mind. It's never been that I dreaded seeing relatives for the holidays, it's that I hated the ordeal involved. The noise, the tyranny of finding some gift for everyone on my list, every member of my family that I had even heard of. My brothers will be flying in, we're staying with our mother. Henry will be back and forth between my family and Exene's, and I'm sure she and I will spend at least a few days with each other. I've always been so thankful that after the divorce, things didn't really go sour between us. It's one thing I never have to worry about, the nagging call from the ex-wife, the fighting and the bitter wish to rid ourselves of the other's presence save for instances where our child is involved. No, thankfully it's more along the lines of conversation a few times a week, meetings for coffee now and again. We stay involved with each other, just not the way we used to. We're still good friends, and thank fuck for that.

For so long I've vowed to take hold of life, grab it by the horns and turn it around in some direction I'd like to head. Instead, I wander aimlessly through routine and find some excuse to be a shut-in. To be lost in thought rather than action. Nostalgia colors everything now, there are people and places and times that I miss, that I can't quite place into this limbo I'm in. Something has to break my lack of concentration. I work here and there, I spend long hours in the studio painting and never really coming up with a cohesive theme long enough to be able to put together an exhibit. Every entry for months now has been some affirmation that I'll get back into the swing of things soon. What do I even mean by that? I feel stagnant and I can't value my time unless I'm creating something. Perhaps first I need to acknowledge the validity of inactivity before I try to move on to something more progressive. So, folks. I'll come back to the land of the living...when I do. Someday, I'll wake up with the drive to move forward. Maybe for now, I just need to assign meaning to time spent inside, staring out a window and running over an old scenario in my mind for the fourth time that day.

I go through one of these every few months. I hit that patch where I feel stagnant, there's this itch to leave wherever I currently am. Henry's noticed it more and more these days. He's very perceptive, and has made a remark along the lines of, "Dad, you need to get out more," several times. I'm thinking of taking him on a trip, going somewhere with him. It'd do us both good, he's been dying to get out of LA about as much as I have. He reminds me so much of myself sometimes, yet he's always far more accurate in his perceptions of the daily goings on in life. Some startlingly clear revelation will come out of his mouth before he leaves for school, something I chastise myself for not coming up with earlier. It's the most tired cliche in the world, but children really do teach you more than you teach them.

It's just one of those weeks. One of those moods I get into, nothing ever seems balanced. The earth looks off-kilter because I'm itching to get back out into it again. I've avoided work, I've avoided people. I wouldn't trade my time of reclusiveness for anything, it was vital that I had it. Now, though, my only thoughts are of packing up and leaving at the drop of a hat, getting out and seeing the world again. I go for walks each day, exploring neighborhoods I've merely passed by before. I know these places well enough to navigate through them, but I've never really stopped and looked around, familiarized myself with their subtleties. I need to leave. I need to shake things up. I need to get back to work. I need to pick up my life where I left it before.

Could this be the beginning of a new era? Probably not. I'm just going to be resuming things I thought I was done with months ago. Like living.

Finally got to see my favourite twins again, Tegan and Sara. Sara and I especially had some talking to do, we barely even bothered with pleasantries. It's been too long since I've seen either of them, and...well, let's just say things have changed. I loved seeing them, although I'm not sure they were entirely comfortable with the way I was. I try to move on, but every day is different. Each day reminds you of one more thing you thought you had forgotten or put behind you.

Call it a regression. Whatever the term, I still miss him like hell. Sara and I talked a lot about possession...what makes somebody not yours anymore? Is it when they finally leave, or is it when you finally are able to put the issue to rest? Are they really gone when they walk out the door, or is every misplaced keepsake just one physical tie they haven't yet cut?

Maybe they're only really gone when you let them go. When you can wake up in the morning and not have that hazy moment before you're fully lucid where you wonder why they're not lying next to you. Maybe they're only really gone when the realization that they're not coming back doesn't hit you like a ton of bricks every morning and colour the rest of your day.

A breif note: If you don't know it's election day by now, you are in need of some help. You must have been living in a cave on Mars with your eyes closed and your thumbs in your ears, humming loudly for the last ten thousand years. So for all of you NOT in caves on Mars, vote if you're eligible. I won't shove my politics down your throat, although we probably all know by now where I stand on the issues. I won't tell you who to vote for, just fucking vote already.

That's enough on that topic.

The other night was Halloween. Henry's decided he's a little too old to go the traditional route and mooch candy off of strangers, so he and his friends did what I did at his age. They dressed up in their most "badass" attire, headed out on foot, and probably egged some houses, maybe broke some things, perhaps used a little bit of spraypaint to voice their opinions in the most crude manner possible. It's tradition, this is what roving packs of teenaged boys do when they decide they're too old to take candy, and they want to give something back to the community they've been leeching sweets off of for years. It's the subtle signs of genuine altruism stirring beneath the surface. Kind of warms your heart in a terrifying way. I don't know what they did, I don't want to know what they did, all I know is he got home safe, was not driven home by the police, and as far as I know completed his escapades unharmed. I have made him swear not to tell me about anything horrible he did for at least one month. He has an evil glint in his eye when he opens his mouth and I remind him of this promise. In one month's time, I will be bracing myself for something that is probably fairly tame, but nonetheless causes a look of mischievous triumph to pass over his face when he recalls it.

I'm back in LA these days. I got tired of this city just before I left it, was unable to handle all the blatant consumerism, the name-dropping, but I've come back to it less jaded than I was before. I got hurt, badly. We all know that by now. But I've bounced back from profound heartache before, and each time I do go through a period of callous reclusive behavior...then I suddenly snap out of it and realize life is waiting for me on the other side of my door. It would be so easy to swear off happiness, to lock myself away forever and say, "This is the last time." But I can't do that. I have to shake the sleep out of my eyes, push away the doubt, and get on with my life. I never "get over" things, because that implies forgetting, cutting the strings. I take what I've had, be it love, or love lost, and I keep it with me. I grow, I evolve, but I never shut myself off to what I used to be.

I love Hawksley. I miss him like hell, and sometimes I feel like he's still here, or that I've frozen where I am and I'm just waiting until he comes back, even though the chances of that happening are slim to none. It didn't work out, but the love didn't die. I have to take that love I feel (still) for him and let it power me through this. It's hard, it's really fucking hard, but I have to keep searching for whatever it is out there I'm meant to find. I have to keep going, because if I let myself stagnate any longer, I'll have lost myself completely.

Date:	2004-10-20 21:39
Subject:	Yet again.
Security:	Public
Mood:	discontent

Happy Birthday to me. Thank you all who sent me birthday wishes, and thank you Hayden for the wonderful cookies. They were excellent. Sara called me today, and I had just then realized how long it had been since we had spoken, or seen each other for that matter. But it felt like no time had elapsed, like we were picking up exactly where we left off and it was only a matter of days...even though by this point, everything's changed, and the world should feel vastly different.

So. Forty Six. How do I feel? Lousy, but age has nothing to do with that. It was a good year, this past one, until very recently. Hopefully I can turn my life back around and make 46 livable. Although exactly how I propose to do that is beyond me.

I could start by getting out of the house and being social again, but I really doubt that's going to happen anytime soon. The last person I saw was Diane, and that was a while ago, plus we were under the influence of drugs and alcohol for the duration of her visit. I had missed her, it was good seeing her again and once I'm able to be seen again, I'd like to visit her again, but I don't know if I could inflict the kind of torture that seeing me now would be on anyone. I saw her back when everything was still numb and I was capable of being a decent human being. Right now, I don't know if anybody would be up to the perilous task of trying to be around me. I wouldn't recommend it. I'll return to the living when being in my presence wouldn't drive the average human being to homicide.

Date:	2004-09-28 14:29
Subject:	You wouldn't like me if you met me.
Security:	Public
Mood:	crushed
Music:	Tegan and Sara - You wouldn't like me

I can't say I really want to talk about what happened. He's gone now, and that's all I have to say about that. I can't even explain it right now, because that would entail actually thinking about it rather than blotting it out like I've been doing since he left. I've become an expert at not thinking about this whole thing.

So I've holed up in my room, locked myself away, and done everything to try to keep myself together. Drank. Slept all day. Stayed up all night fretting. Stared off blankly at the cieling. Painted a few canvases with deep colours, stabbing the paint on in careless daubs. Avoided calling anybody, or talking to anybody. I haven't been answering the phone. I just can't deal with real life right now. For a while, my life's going to consist of drinking, sleeping, and avoiding anything even remotely connected with reality. Well...there are probably a handful of people I'll let into this odd realm I've closed myself off to. Sometime.

The closest thing to dealing with it I've come is late at night. Lying in bed, I'll have a flash in my mind, "My god, it was over a year." We had gotten so comfortable, it seemed so right, and above all so strong.

But then, thinking about that for too long almost snaps me back into this dimesion. And I'm just not quite ready for that.

Date:	2004-09-16 14:39
Subject:	Sympathetic Cloistered Makeshift Ruins
Security:	Public
Mood:	anxious
Music:	The Beatles - She Said, She Said

It's almost eerie, how routine everything seems. Even the largest changes can't blast through this feeling of uneasy comfortable living. I don't feel unfulfilled, I feel as if everyone around me is. One can't help wonder about the options here. Stay cloistered, branch out, run, stay and fight. Everything sounds so similar when you spell it out. Even the rain seems bland now. Going over a speedbump at top speed no longer sends a rush of anxiety down my spine.

I don't know what I'm missing. I don't know what anyone else is, either. Calm before a storm? I doubt it. Calm before a surge of moderate activity, more like it. Is it this enhanced comfort making me feel nervous, or is it genuine anxiety?

Have I settled too far into a routine? Perhaps when I start work again, I'll have a new outlook. For now, though, I'm content to sit quietly and stare out of the window, searching for something to concentrate on.

( More OOC shit )

( OOC Stuff )

Date:	2004-08-23 23:46
Subject:	It's just a state of mind.
Security:	Public
Mood:	exanimate
Music:	The Beatles - Rain

I'm just not thinking lately. I've been completely absent, not really here, not even floating comfortably above and watching it all, as the old overplayed description of detachment goes. No, this is more like complete blankness, not feeling and not really knowing if I see or act or think. It's hard to explain, so I'll use basic terms to describe something really very abstract. Almost like taking a Bosch and re-shading the contours of the mystical horrors with bright crayons. Outlining the Garden of Earthly Delights by gripping the crayon firmly in your fist and bearing down.

I'm here. I'm not here. I think. My mind is blank. If I'm not here, where am I? Is my mind lost in some white noise, buried in a closet somewhere, trapped in my head but somehow mute, or is it here all along, completely normal, and I just can't seem to remember it?

Every morning I have the same routine. I wake up, get out of bed, and go to the kitchen to make coffee. I watch the morning sun creep up over the buildings outside. I see the light turn the kitchen floor orange.

I've added a new step to my routine. Now I shake my head brusquely after I've stared at my sink for ten minutes. When I come to, I can't remember what I was thinking, or even if I was thinking at all.

I'm fairly good at keeping an even exterior, making sure things are all on the same level, reactions dulled so that I can deal with them later. Not so much anymore, not when I'm too busy openly worrying to be concerned with my usual unphazed facade. This isn't intended to be a guilt post directed at the one I'm worrying about. This isn't a cry to force him to straighten up and stop making me worry. This is just a way to express my concern and make him feel loved, even if that's not really what he wants right now.

Stephen, you're my best friend, and I hate to see you like this. We've been through a lot, you and I, and no matter what you say, you can't wear out my patience. I know this isn't what you want to hear, some touchy-feely bullshit is just going to make you feel worse, and oddly enough I do understand the need to distract yourself, push it away. Do whatever you need to do, just know I'm standing right behind you ready to listen if you need me, to catch you if you fall so to speak. Scream at me, cry on my shoulder, I don't care. You do whatever you need to do, and I will support you in it.

Yes, I'm extremely worried right now, and I wish there were something I could do, like wave my hand and make it all go away. But don't worry about anybody but yourself. You may feel guilty about being "selfish" but don't. This isn't about me, this isn't about anybody but you. I'm waiting with baited breath to step in and help you if you need me. Take care of yourself.

Date:	2004-07-20 13:35
Subject:	Caring for an Old Friend
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	John Lennon - India (demo)

Stephen arrived here in Toronto a few nights ago, and I was only too glad to help him out through all of this. It's a rough time for him, but I think being here with me and Hawksley for at least a little while has helped a bit. He's smiling more than when he arrived, and he and I have gotten to engage in a bit of that nonsensical conversation while staring at the wall and occasionally erupting into laughter that we are so famous for. This time, Hawksley's been sitting right next to me, keeping up the pace and joining in with his own quips. It's been so nice having the two of them finally meet, although they've both remarked that they feel as if they knew each other already. It's a nice thing to hear, and I'm really hoping that we can schedule more time like this soon under less pressing circumstances.

Filming for Alatriste begins in January. Filming for A History of Violence is still being negotiated. I try to stay out of most negotiations, I don't count off the days until we begin production or give the film my full attention until I'm actually working on the set. Most films that I've done, I was asked if I wanted to play the part, I said yes, and showed up when I need to. Other actors I know say they try to stay current in the production process, but I see no point in it. I have better things to think about. Maybe not better, or more important by a long shot, but the little stream of thoughts running through my mind is far more interesting to me than the negotiations made by my producers.

This is completely off what little semblance of a topic I was on, but I've found myself missing one thing about the American South. I spent some time in Georgia once, and the thing I remember the most vividly, the one thing that lit up my entire day, was reading the obituaries. I am absolutely sure Diane knows what I'm talking about, because she spends a lot of time in Georgia.

Almost every single one of them has a poem, most of them nostalgic, badly written, using some reference to a family pastime or an oft-heard phrase of the deceased, sometimes taking up entire lines, such as a mystefying phrase in the middle of some other topic. "Mama was real nice. 'Y'ALL GET IN OFF THE DAMN PORCH.' She loved Jesus." Sometimes it sounds as if an embittered old Southern woman was speaking aloud while her young, silent child took dictation. Random phrases are spewed violently at the remaining children who are roughousing, and the small quiet one takes them all down dutifully. If not that scenario, then obviously Mama was a real nice woman who often shrieked, "Y'ALL GET IN OFF THE DAMN PORCH."

These poems are remarkably fucked up. They are almost always ended by a reference to Jesus or God's love, after an affection reference to some nickname such as "Meemaw".

I really hate to laugh at an entire area and condemn a population to ridicule, but...this is truly fine entertainment, here. Of course, I feel as if I should have more of an air of respect for the dead, and I do feel sorry for the people experiencing the loss, but my philosophy is that if you can't have a sense of humour about things that are genuinely funny (and some that aren't) then life really is a waste of time. So instead of bowing my head in silence, when and if I ever get to read a Southern newspaper again, I will continue my old schedule. That schedule consists of:

Reading the poem to myself twice.
Laughing to myself.
Calling in whoever else is in the house to come and listen to my rendition of it with special intonations and a fake accent.
Laughing for the rest of my life everytime I recall a line.

"Granny was a fine woman who baked pies and was loved by Jesus."

Of all the things to define someone's personality...man. I really need to get more of these newspapers.

Date:	2004-07-16 21:58
Subject:	Life
Security:	Public
Mood:	annoyed

I've done a lot of apologizing lately. Over what, you might ask? Not updating, not calling, not writing. In some cases it was more nervousness about contacting the other person that drove me to drift away from them. But in most cases it was simply the fact that I am enjoying things the way they are. I wake up in the morning, make my coffee and wait for the other two occupants of my household to wake up, make breakfast for the three of us, enjoy good conversation. I read the newspaper, spend time with my loved ones. I go to work in my studio, I make deals on the phone about my upcoming movie. I travel when I have to, I try not to neglect any one group, but it happens, and it's not the end of the world. Yes, I've lost touch with friends, but either we'll see each other again when I feel like rearranging my schedule to see them, or we just won't. That's what happens in life.

Life. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. I have a life these days. It may be simple at the moment, but I'm rather enjoying myself. I would apologize for having a life beyond my computer screen and therefore not devoting ninety percent of my thoughts to my journal, but I don't find it necessary because I'm not sorry. Expect another post when I feel like writing.

There was something exhilarating in getting up at dawn, grabbing our things, and leaving with no tedios preparation time. We just got up...and left. Of course we're back now, or I wouldn't be wasting my time writing in my journal. Our little road trip reminds me of a beat poem I once read.
"Hey man, we gotta go."
"Where we goin', man?"
"I don't know, but we just gotta go."
When I was younger I used to laugh at the poem's simplicity, the use of the word "man", but now I recognize in it a basic need that is inside all of us. Sometimes everybody needs to just get up and leave, to know that the world doesn't end outside your door, to know that the chains tying you to your home and to your established routine are all in your head.

I know. I'm overanalyzing what really was simply a fun road trip Hawksley and I took. But if you think too hard about anything, it can take on cosmic proportions. I tend to do this a lot, instilling meaning in even the most mundane, but honestly, most of the time I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd much rather live my life feeling that every factor had great significance than dismissing everything and finding wonder in nothing. Wouldn't everybody like to think that life has meaning? Wouldn't everybody like everything to strike them as beautiful?

We packed up and were on the highway before the sun came up, our coffee resting in between the front seats. At first we were quiet, slowly waking up in silence, but by the time the sun had hit the sky and had begun to move past the early stages of morning we reached a level of volume previously unmatched by our homebound selves. Getting out did us a world of good, even if laughing and yelling so hard has made my throat a little sore. We made up stories about every pedestrian we passed, about every old woman running the counter at every beat up gas station and corner store. We made sure to stop often, wanting to soak up everything we could. This wasn't a usual trip where the destination was important. This was about seeing everything we possibly could.

So, to put this down in a less verbose fashion: Hawksley and I went on a road trip with no destination in mind. It was fun. How are you?

Date:	2004-06-25 06:41
Subject:	Excuse me for the Incoherence, I'm tired.
Security:	Public
Mood:	drained

Just a warning, none of this will make sense to anyone but me.

****

It feels like my veins are gone, skin left to be translucent in their absence. It's not quite dead flesh, but it's definitely dulled, thick lumps of not-quite pulsing skin and muscle hiding weak bones. It's all in my mind, but that's how it's come to feel after days of insomnia and restlessness. I keep picturing stained glass, wondering if you can hear it being made in that time just before you fully understand it. Candles do nothing, flames are too round to make an impact. Do they shatter, tongues of flame? I'd like to see them burst and fall with an audible crash. Maybe then I'd rub the sleep out of my eyes and cackle harshly at the shadows running along the tops of the leaves outside my window. Not trees, just leaves, I'm convinced the two are unrelated now. Maybe we all secretly wish we could sail off into the carpet retail stores, create anarchy in hotel rooms, jump off buildings and bounce back to the top. Every word I say is on a tape loop. Spiced rum is so fucking self-absorbed and narcissistic. I wish I could literally make a mountain out of a molehill. Sometimes I just wish I could stand on top of a shimmering morning, drink in clouds and scream until my lungs sparkled with something besides the normal humdrum satellite. How exactly can one pant their way out of a paper bag? I'd like to find out someday, but I'll continue observing gutter vegetation until my eyes corrode with misused thought.

Click. Click. Boom.

Things are so beautiful right now, I can't help but get sentimental. Hawksley is sleeping next to me, and I'm typing quietly on the laptop, wanting to preserve the memory with the written word, hoping that reading over this later will help me to recall the curls of his short, somewhat matted hair, the flickering of his eyelids. Henry is asleep in his room, I just went and checked on him. He looks like his mother when he sleeps, I always thought so. Same softened expression, dreamy look visible even through closed lids.

Sometimes, when I'm tired and not entirely lucid, I get emotional, you'll have to excuse me.

Still, even with this contentment, I am a bit restless. Despite my reservations, I really do want to start this film. If for no other reason, than to kill this horrible anticipation. I'm excited, I'm worried. I'm waiting too long. The house is too quiet. It's beautiful but I need to be shaken up, have something happen to get my mind out of this rut. I should be so happy right now. I've said myself how beautiful things are...but I feel like I'm stagnating, not having anything to do with myself these days. I'll always be the father to Henry, the lover to Hawksley...but I can I also be the Self? The painter, the actor, the writer. I just need to expand a little, to get out of the house and embark on something new. I won't neglect my life here, I'll simply add to it, break out and bring in a new element, a new project.

So until I begin Alatriste, what new project am I going to embark upon? I've fallen back into being hyper-alert, even through my constant, almost crippling insomnia and subsequent fatigue. I noticed the gaits of people walking outside my window today, took special care to speculate on the nature of their thoughts as they moved one foot in front of the other.

See the girl in the miniskirt, hurriedly mincing in her high-heeled boots? She's artfully tossing her bleached blonde, layered hair, hoping that the flash of movement will act as a flag in front of a bull. Such a subtle matador, she deftly gyrates before a testosterone-laden population, retaining an outer air of innocence, revealing inner perversions when properly provoked. She has a boyfriend in her apartment. He likes her because she's supple and willing, she likes him because he doesn't push her around. She's beginning to think she wants more, but she's not so sure she deserves it.

Yes, I know. I'm starting filming in January, but I already am having those pre-film jitters, wanting to simultaneously prepare for filming, get in the right frame of mind (but not necessarily in character), and also soak in all the laziness I possibly can. As a result, my sleep schedule is not quite backwards. I stay up all night, drinking tea and reading, then sleep until the mid afternoon, where I stumble around and attempt to remedy the situation with more cursed caffeine. I've attempted to stay up two nights in a row and then sleep at a decent hour, but all that does is make me sleep twice as much, and then I'm back where I started, waking at 2 pm, going to bed at 5 am. It'll straighten itself out, but it's putting an awful strain on the other residents of my household. My son is politely ignoring it. Of course, I'm mimicking his current sleep habits, but he happens to be a teenaged boy, and is better equipped to handle it. Hawksley taunts me jovially whenever the opportunity arises, and has tried to wake me up a few minutes earlier every day...but to no avail. Nothing's working. It will eventually, but at the moment life is extraordinarily difficult. It's funny how having an altered sleeping pattern can change one's entire mood so drastically.

I miss being a sentient human being. I miss getting up and having a day planned out. I miss spending time with Hawksley and Henry. I miss Stephen extraordinarily and I wonder how he's doing. I miss having the whole day to spend with people I love, rather than being virtually alone in a dark house, watching the circles under my eyes grow.

I just managed to force out an entire entry about my sleeping pattern. Could I be any more boring?

My extended vacation from doing anything productive is about to come to an end. I've liked my time at home, lounging around, ruminating for too long on anything and everything. But it's soon to be over, and I'm glad of that. Being stagnant for too long has made me antsy, and all the much-needed relaxation in the world can't make up for that nagging feeling that you're not being productive.

Filming for Alatriste starts in January. My first thought when being offered the film was, "Whoa. Spain." and I was instantly excited. Then I began reviewing my history, reading up on the man himself, on what I was going to be doing once I got over there. Let's just say I'm looking forward to doing this movie more and more each day. I get to work with Gael, which will certainly be exciting. I'm impressed by all of his work that I've seen so far, and it'll certainly be an honour to work with him.

When I told Hawksley what was going on, he laughed for about twenty minutes because, "a big white guy from Denmark" is going to play a Spanish Captain. We both laughed for a while until we proved ourselves stupider than we thought, because we remembered that Spaniards in the 16th Century looked more or less white. The nobles usually had red hair, etc. Oh, well. Can't win 'em all. I really wanted to be the big white guy from Denmark who looked grossly out of place. Ah, I guess it's time to pursue other dreams....such as finding something new to read.

Going back and adding this at the very beginning of my post, because it's of more importance: I want to wish a very Happy Birthday to John Rhys-Davies. You've been a really great friend to me over these past few years, here's to you, man.


It's been one year already. This won't be a long post where I thank every single one of you that I still interact with, posting private jokes in all caps and declaring my everlasting love and support. I'd just like to ruminate for a moment. I'll get this out of the way today, and collectively thank you all for being such wonderful people. There. Now. In my next update, I won't write something so canned-sounding. But thank you, nonetheless, it's genuine, even if it doesn't sound original. Maybe too much emphasis is placed on sounding original, to the extent that we often discard the point.