Despite steady work over the last however many weeks I feel like I’ve got another three or four worth to fit into this last one. Have to put finishing touches on the story then go over the whole thing, sand down the roughest edges so I have something to turn in that is even remotely read-able. Excited to have something to take with me post graduation, but, Christ, it’s gonna need a lot of work. Guess that’s what I get for rebooting my whole project in Week 6. Whatever. Glad I made the switch (ultimately…) but… Christ. My body mind heart hands legs typing fingers brain etc all hurt. I’m ready for week ten. Hell, I’m ready for Friday. For better or worse I can put the pen down; close the laptop lid; hit the off button. I can lay in bed without the thick, fuzzy onesie of tension and anxiety that has been like a second skin the past, I don’t know, week? Two weeks? Whole quarter? What a fucking mistake saying I was going to write a novel. I am not shits-out-words guy. I can’t fake 20,000. I’ll be lucky to break ten. But living in the shadow of that self-made expectation has been exhausting and totally un-conducive to actually writing. It hinders all my creativity. How many times can I type a sentence, delete a sentence, type a sentence, delete a sentence before I just fucking leave it and accept that I’m WRITING A FIRST DRAFT. Praying to the writing gods tonight this next week and it’s impending “deadline” cranks the juices just enough to finish strong. Close viewing, project, self eval, last journals. Phew. If you’re up there (or down or over or…) and are listening, writing Gods, I could use your strength.

I noticed this quarter that there’s something odd about the way that, in our society, we treat age. It started when somebody found out that I’m nineteen. He was surprised, and when I asked him how old he thought I was, he said probably around twenty-one or twenty-two. I instantly felt flattered, in the same way that I’ve felt throughout my teen years whenever somebody told me that I looked older than I was.

And then I started wondering: why is it a compliment to be told that you look older than you actually are when you’re young? And at what age does it become a compliment to be told that you look younger than your age? With celebrities who are in their forties and older, it seems like the biggest compliments they can get from the media is that they don’t look their age, as if it’s a bad thing. Is there ever a time when people want to be told that they look as old as they actually are?

I’d like to explore these questions further at some point, because I feel like age, and our preoccupation with it, and about how we look in relation to our age, is something that we talk about a lot, but I don’t really know how or when it started, or why.

On the road home there stood an establishment not much more than two shacks flanking a parking lot and a palm tree. The only seating were outdoor plastic benches or curbs and there was a tall sign with a donkey on it that stood high overhead. The frequency one ate at El Burrito Jr., LBJ’s for short, was one consideration for being a local, loc (pronounced loke) for short, of the South Bay. And at almost any time of day or night you could find friends or the friends some of your friends knew who were older and given to questionable standards of rank and worth. Friday afternoons were a habit at this hub. The Special C was two bean and cheese burritos and a drink for $5. It was also the name of an established punk band from the area. Though the menu was large with all the standard variations on standard Mexican dishes, the Special C was the only thing without question to order because their lard was darn tasty and its economy unbeatable. A side of guacamole might make an appearance if one was willing to splurge or, like my friends and I had, had a rotation for whose turn it was to buy the community guac for the group. Five friends meant five Special Cs for a total of ten burritos which was received almost instantly. LBJ’s was well aware of this order’s popularity and in the peak of the day would have a temple ten wide, four high of tinfoil wrapped burritos kept modestly under the prep counter just behind the register.

LBJ’s tip jar was a small wooden box with the word “TIPS” crudely inked on the side. The same workers were there every day and knew people’s faces and we knew when there was new staff, rare as it was. One time Dillon was caught stealing from the tip jar. That day Dillon proclaimed that there was nothing holy and there was no respect, no honorable exchange, just me and mine and those trapped in the shack. He was caught by the man behind him in line who then forced him to empty the remainder of his wallet into the box for initial reparations. His mom found out later.

The older ones who kept to the shadows as much as they did to the sunlight were closer to the workers behind the counter. They must have understood or cared some bit that helped make eating at this place as significant as it was. It was rumored that a deposit and leap of $20 in the box, by one’s own volition that is, would have you walking away with a Special C free of charge not just that once and not time and again but time to time because if that risk was taken and the offering was accepted, it was understood one would enter a place that those behind you in the same line could not find.

Free Write 2:

A boy of unknown origin appears in Spongeland, a wasteland of washed out tones of grey. His name is unknown but sometimes people call him Socio. Socio stands alone in Spongeland looking at the surrounding nothingness before falling backwards onto the ground and closing his eyes. Before long, Socio is disturbed by somebody poking his leg. Socio opens his eyes and sees three people standing over him,(The Girl from Before, The Boy from Before and the Other Girl from Before). The perceived leader of the group of three, The Girl from Before, holds her hand out to him and he takes it. As Socio is lifted up to his feet he realizes that this band of three is much larger than he thought. It is actually a group of 12. Socio is introduced to some other members of the group before they continue journeying through the wasteland, now with Socio as an inducted member.

As Socio travels with the group he learns various things and hears several tales about their destination from his group of three and a couple other followers. Everything is supposed to be different at their destination, and assumed to be a better place, a good place. The girl that helped him up tells Socio of a place far better than he has ever seen, a place where they don’t have to keep walking anymore.

The group stops walking at night, as it is not a part of protocol to journey in the dark (even though light barely changes the dark damp nature of Spongeland). As Socio drifts off to sleep he sees something waving to him on a hill in the distance. Socio looks around to see if anybody else has noticed this figure but everybody seems to be asleep. Socio decides to follow the figure in the distance. After a long walk in which Socio reaches the shores of Spongeland he discovers another group, these ones are camped out and are few in number. Socio learns that they do not wander the wasteland like the group that he is a part of. They say that it was easy to tell that Socio was not a part of the group and that they knew he didn’t really want to be there. Socio is not sure of this but does not know how to respond and does not wish to offend them. The group tells Socio that Spongeland is exactly as it seems and that he knows exactly what that means. Socio doesn’t think that he does. The group then tells Socio that he needs to get back to his group before dawn if wishes to travel further into Spongeland. He asks if he can stay and the group says that when he is ready to stay with them they will know and come visit again. Socio returns to his group.

Socio pretends to wake up with the rest of the group (the group sleeps in a rectangular military line formation for safety) and greets the new day with his friends as they continue their journey towards The Good Place. As Socio travels further with the group a serious discussion breaks out between the group leaders that Socio can not fully hear but ends with him being sent away with several other members of the group to try and get to a high point where they can see The Good Place. When Socio and his group return to camp there are several people missing, including The Girl from Before. Socio is distraught about this and once night falls again he waits for the wanderer of the other group to appear. They do not appear.

Socio wakes up and continues on his journey with the group that now consists of 8 people (2 more where gone when he awoke). Socio asks a group member what happened and is told that Spongeland is a dangerous place and that many of the group have been lost to other creatures and tricksters that inhabit the wasteland. Socio wonders if the group he met is what these people are referring to. The group begins to feel very off and Socio lashes out at them once he thinks that they’ve passed a landmark that they’d passed before. Nobody else thinks that they’ve passed it before and the leader of the group tells Socio to trust in the leadership of the group. Socio goes to bed.

Socio wakes up later that night and sees the wanderer from the other group waiting for him and standing next to the wanderer is The Girl from Before. Socio quickly gets to his feet but as he turns to leave is caught by the leader who asks him, “Do you really think that now is the best time for you to go?” in a condescending tone. Socio looks at him but does not respond. The rest of the group is awake. Socio spits at the ground and walks towards The Wanderer and The Girl from Before.

The Wanderer and The Girl from Before take Socio to the Beach side camp where he is greeted with open arms. Socio feels good about things. Socio decides that he chose the right path. Later that night the leader of the beach camp and The Girl from Before wake him up and bring him to an oasis that is sacred to the beach dwellers. Upon entering the oasis the leader of the beach camp disappears and can be seen watching them from a distance. The Girl from Before is grabbed by a woman hiding in the trees. The woman looks familiar in a way. The woman tells Socio that nothing is constant and then slits The Girl from Before’s throat. Socio runs away. Socio runs for a long time. Socio does not stop.

Socio runs into his original group. There are only 4 of them now. They seem worn down but say that they are close to the good place and will take Socio with them if he wants. Socio joins the group again and travels to the good place.
They make it to a camp that is said to be the good place. The four other people pretend that they love it but they all know that it’s no better then their own camp. New people who live at the good place greet them and show them around, eventually assigning them to different jobs for the “town”. Socio becomes numb and goes along with things. The leader of his original group becomes one of the leaders of the good place and when another member of the original group is publicly executed for unexplained crimes. The Leader tells Socio that he did something very bad and that he had to be dealt with.

That night Socio sees The Wanderer again and begins tp walk towards the hill that The Wanderer is standing on. He is stopped yet again by The Leader who says again, “Do you really think now is the right time to leave?”. Socio runs towards the horizon. Away from The Good Place and The Wanderer too. As he runs further away he passes through the Good Place again and passes The Wanderer, each time they are closer to him, watching with more intensity.

Socio falls to the ground and closes his eyes. He is disturbed by someone poking his leg. The Girl from Before is on the ground next to him, this time with a scar over her neck. She smiles and looks up at the sky. Socio looks to the right and sees his other friends from the original group next to him. Socio looks up to the sky with them. Socio begins to get disoriented. He loses his sight and when he regains it he is alone on the shore of the beach. Socio stands up and looks around. Socio begins to walk down the beach.

Free Write:

Int. Halloween party – night

Gibson stands in the corner of the living room at Asha’s house next to a fruit punch bowl. The room is filled with twenty or so high school juniors and seniors, an awkward sophomore here and there.

Gibson looks around the room at the various group socializing.

She takes a sip of his drink, just punch in a red solo cup, unlike the vodka-punch mixture that is so common amongst her peers.

A boy, Trevor, taps Gibson on the shoulder and starts talking to him.

As they talk Gibson looks away and when he looks back her mouth is covered in blood and an arrow is sticking out of her shoulder.

Gibson feels sick at the sight of Trevor “dying” and heads for the bathroom.

Int. bathroom – CONTINUOUS

Gibson enters the bathroom and turns around quickly to close and lock the door. Gibson sighs in relief and closes her eyes. She hears a rustling sounds and opens her eyes.

Gibson notices that she’s standing in front of a couple of teens who are half naked, entwined in eachother’s arms, obviously drunk, and staring at her.

Gibson unlocks the door, opens it and leaves but not before glancing back at the couple and seeing them and the bathroom covered in blood.

Int. Hallway – continuous

Gibson walks out into the hallway, sweating and anxious looking. She rushes past a couple talking and leaning against the living room entrance and accidently knocks a partygoers drink over which spills onto her shirt, appearing to be blood of some sort. Gibson walks faster and begin to run and exits the house.

Ext. backyard – MOMENTS LATER

As Gibson enters the backyard she notices that her shirt is not covered in blood but in vodka/punch. To Gibson, the backyard is even more crowded and suffocating than the living room of Asha’s house.

Gibson turns back to the house but the sliding doors leading inside are covered in blood, with the blood slowly seeping onto the pavement beyond the door.

Gibson covers her face and enters the house in a rush.

Int. kitchen – CONTINUOUS

Gibson rushes through the kitchen, towards a flight of stairs near the hallway. All around Gibson there are half alive partygoers covered in blood talking to eachother and to him.

Ext. Rooftop – MOMENTS LATER

Gibson pushes through a door leading to the rooftop of Asha’s house. Everything stops. The world is quiet and she can breathe again.

Gibson lays down on the roof and stares up at the sky. She falls asleep.

Ext. Rooftop – morning

Gibson wakes up to Asha standing over her with a cup of coffee. Asha offers a hand to Gibson and helps her up. They enter the house.

Int. kitchen – MOMENTS LATER

Asha sits Gibson down next to Davey, another party goer who spent the night, and offers her a bowl of cereal which she begins to eat.

Asha sits down next to Gibson and asks her about the party.

As Asha is talking Gibson looks down at her bowl of cereal to find that the cereal has turned into a bowl of intestines. Gibson begins to look sick and spits out some of her cereal, which also looks like chewed up intestines.

Davey asks if she’s alright

Asha dismisses this for Davey having a hangover but suggests that Davey gives her a ride to school.

Five Dolla Holla, All ages between 3-5 Rave!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Little vandals the all of them. Wearing over sized nightshirts from dad, gifts from japan, with anime characters bigger than they little brothers and sisters striking poses in front and back,  sleeves to their wrists and tails way past their knees. Barefoot or sporting gellies, the some got on LA gears and crazy cartoon wristwatches. One kids got on an apron saying “Wu Tang is for the children!” in bright white ODB font. Binkies galore! Glow in the dark face paint: A chameleon, a ninja turtle, oh my god! a skeleton, a stormtrooper and many rhinestoned fairy looking little tricksters. Some kids got pig tails, somes heads infested by tornadoes, or just covered with a carved out gourd.

Jessica, ravename: Jellypop, her hands gyrate invisible butterflies forth to frolic in the laser beams shot from the ceiling. She blows kisses and neighs her neck like a giddy baby horse. Jellypop is popping off, her cares straight gelatinous.

Billy, ravename: BopBopRandelpheeny. has his hands pressed together over his hand in the shape of a of spaceships nose. He’s pumping his calves and shhkvshsvssshshshing his mouth. The up and down chug of his body and the spittle flying out his face signal liftoff. Kid screams and lets loose across the room like a missed-the-gnot balloon.

Wendy, ravename: WaWa. Fuck bones, this girl must be 100% water. Liquid dancing like a motherfucker clutching clear sacs, tiny punctures spewing crystal snakes of wonder. WaWa the boneless, embraces the aesthetic of the zooted goose neck.

Sammy, ravename: ShashaShodid. Kids been house dancing since he was 1.3, in months that a little over 15 practically 16. Kid lifts his long-tee to reveal neon green sweatpants under the spell of the heel toe and the hingeless knee. This kid is king-shit. Look at him spin and flip that burgerking crown.

TwoBabiesContinued………………………………….

a windy transcription 

um
we lived on a big hill. most of the city was at sea level, built over marshlands that connected to the bay. but to the east there was this big wall of hills that seemed to come out of nowhere, it was flat and then it was hills. we lived up there, there was nothing up there, no there there. we drove down the hills every day. my ears started to feel funny. a pressure behind them, always. to relieve it i would open my mouth and push my jaw forward a tiny bit. that momentarily unplugged them but they sealed up again right after. so i was always doing this tiny tick, unhinging my jaw to pop my ears, my mom said why do you keep doing that, you look like a fish. i think we were at the petstore in china town, lucky goldfish, when she asked me but i could just have stitched those two things together. i never complained much about it. i think it started when i was 11 or 12. i remember the topic came up amongst the girls i ate lunch with. one was eating a bagel and complained about her jaw clicking and i thought oh that happens to me too. i remember asking my parents about it, my dad said his did sometimes. those are my first memories of it. not physical memories, i remember knowing my jaw clicked. and one day when i was 16 it just started feeling very different. like i couldnt open my mouth all the way unless i shifted my jaw to right and then the left and then down. as the months passed i had to get increasingly more elaborate with my jaw opening maneuver. ontop of the left right wiggle i also had to jut it forward, unhinge it all the way. like the motion i did to pop my ears but now tied to more.it was scary. it felt like my jaw was being pulled to the right. started only sleeping on my left side, hoping that gravity would pull it back down. i didn’t tell anybody i was having problems. my friend had a jaw surgery for her underbite the previous summer. the kind where they entirely break your jaw just to set it back half an inch and then you had your mouth wired shut for 7 weeks and just layed in bed and drank milkshakes and craved meat. i was convinced that if i told anyone about my jaw i would have to get that surgery, and that if i had my jaw sealed for 7 weeks the whelp who i thought i couldnt live without who was kind of my boyfriend but wouldnt admit it would break up with me. so i didn’t tell anybody for two years. it got so much worse.

As my project is coming to an end, I am having a lot of realizations about the filmmaking process. The biggest thing that strikes me is how important each small step is towards improving the overall quality of the film. Something may only take a few seconds (like setting the white balance), however it can have a dramatic effect on how the entire project turns out. A lot of these smaller steps are similar to those that a stills photographer must take, however there are far more steps in creating a film then there are in creating a still photograph. The is a complex contraption and each part must work. I also learned how important the practical side of filmmaking is. Films are extraordinarily practical things. There are a lot of logistical problems to face, as well as story problems (and some problems that belong to both categories!). The two biggest flaws I see in my film are it’s obvious—and fatal—story and continuity problems. There are scenes in my film where my hair suddenly grows and shortens with the flash of a frame on the screen. This film was a good learning experience, but it’s definitely not something I really want to show to that many people. On my next film I will spend much more time in pre production, and keep a book filled with continuity information.

                Hello there, Mr. Skipping-His-Journal-Writing-Duties-For-A-Week! Heard some music playing from the roof of the science building, so decided not to walk circles around it for an hour after lunch as I tend to do, so decided to walk around the longhouse instead. More foot-traffic but nicer, nature-filled environs, too. Should maybe walk around there instead, since walking with nature is Evergreen-y and good for me and stuff. Though really, after moving to Olympia, I haven’t been going on my nature walks as I did every evening back in Coupeville. Need to get my fresh air somehow. Maybe that’s part of why I lost a lot of that motivation I had going to school up there. I had a clearer goal when going there, too; “Get good grades and credits to transfer to a four-year institution.” Well I’m here.

                Now what?

Daisy Blake lives in Garland, Texas and realizes that what she does for beauty pageants could be seen as excessive. For the moment, Daisy is seven months pregnant, but as she drives to the Beautiful Youth Clinic, that’s all about to change. It’s three weeks before the pageant, so she has just enough time to get everything ready.

“Oh dear lord no, this isn’t abortion. How could you even say that to me? Abortion is a crime against god. What I’m doing is ensuring my darling Miranda doesn’t start to die. You’re at your most beautiful when you’re young. You start to die as soon as you’re born, I’m just making sure Miranda doesn’t have to go through that. That’s what Beautiful Youth specializes in.” We follow Daisy through the doors, the walls are lined with  shelves of ornate glass jars filled with glittery formaldehyde. “I can’t decide which Beauty Vase to get, though. My husband says I can get anything under $2,000 and I do want one with an emerald encrusted base.” She pauses in front of one with such a base and clear glass flowers along the top. “Emeralds are Miranda’s birthstone.”

Daisy goes up to the front desk and grabs a pink clipboard with the forms on it. It’s three pages in it’s entirety. She sits down on one of the waiting room chairs and fills out the forms in silence, a blank, almost irritated expression on her face. She finished and regained her cheery expression. Walking back up to reception, Daisy tells us that it’s really only precautionary and they don’t actually read anything on the sheet she had to fill out. “Mary-Ann [a friend and fellow competitor] said that they just threw her forms onto a pile and then let her go on back to the beautician.” And sure enough, as soon as Daisy sat back down they had called her name and she was standing again.

A tall balding man in a pink lab coat leads Daisy through a heavy wooden door. The other side is clinical and white, but with vases on tables every couple feet. The door slams in front of us. A sign with large type hangs on it, “NO OBSERVERS.” We wait.