I had two hits on my blog today. That’s a record that perhaps stems from two and a half year’s worth of membership at Word Press and four poorly constructed assertions around my own passive boredom. I now have eleven hits and subtly refresh every four minutes to see if this figure can rise further. I’m not a writer, in case you didn’t already know or realize as you scrolled slowly down the page. I studied at university, some bachelor of arts that doesn’t get you a job and certainly doesn’t mean your clever, or smart, or whatever. At university I’d write essays, unremarkable essays with poorly constructed arguments yet despite this they were easy to read. I think that’s what probably saved me although I hedge that you can randomly jumble five thousand words about Media Distortion for a Bachelor’s degree these days.
Anyway back to this blog, so it’s Tuesday and after sitting around the lounge for thirty five minutes I decide to smoke a joint. I don’t know whether the smoke relaxes me or makes me paranoid but I think it’s a combination of both in a circular pattern. When I inhale it tastes like good weed, silky smoke that swirls cautiously downwards past my lips and down towards my lungs. Four seconds is the length of time you need to keep it in your lungs, any less and your not maximizing the hit, any more and your developing lung cancer. For the first five minutes I lie on the leather couch and I stare at the film posters that adorn my lounge walls. Outside up the valley, dusty sunlight filters through the branches of trees like a snake. The sun has vanished for the evening but blue skies, spread with golden trails of cloud will continue this fusion for the next hour to come. I stare to the city outside and I ponder what to do now. The house is empty and my lounge usually littered with ashtrays and rubbish is oddly unsoiled for this part of the week. There must be a reason, something behind this.
11.38PM – I love this time of night, I can hear the rain outside, a constant stream of chaos falling to the ground. Cars drive past, all I see are the lights and the menacing sound of tires sliding along the silky wet ashphalt. I think about the people in these cars, where are they driving, where is their life taking them? I wonder if they are like me, it forces me to ponder identity. Within this world of individuals we are all connected through channels created by individuals, whether it be the CEO of the financial services company you work for or the manager of the shop you work in, changing fifty eight tires every day, the smell of worn synthetic rubber drifting through the doorway as you hang up your overalls each night. Perhaps you know me, perhaps your connected by the duty manager of that bar you always go to. The one with the stools that you drunkenly slide from every Saturday night, internally cursive yet vocally redundant because you don’t care, the bars cool right.
Three more cars pass by, silent ghosts in the dark of the night. I think about Amanda, she broke up with her boyfriend today. She texts me and tells me about it and I remember how once I loved her. Well at least I think I did, maybe my emotions were distorted by the countless hours of labor that would lead me to walk home in the misty rain every Sunday morning. People weren’t awake at that hour, only me and a few scattered joggers who trundle by, shamelessly flaunting the fact that they’re too embarassed to exercise at an hour when people might actually see them. Apart from me that is, I would always see them. Amanda asks me the questions she should probably be asking herself, I cannot tell her that because I feel it’s innappropriate in her current emotional state. It’s been four years since I’ve actually seen Amanda, facebook updates and emails sent with a frequency of enlarging disparity don’t count up, I wonder if she’s still the same. She was the one who inspired me to write my script, ninety pages off A4 writing refill, faint blue horizontal lines layered with the fading ink from an overtired dot matrix printer. I kept the printer because I thought creatively it was romantic.
My own warped sense of romance carried me as I spent months writing. Late nights through to the morning fuelled by coffee, marijuana and Marlboro Reds, skipping 9AM university lectures and irrelevant tutorials so I could pass my way through creative exhaustion until I was stripped bare to nothing. That was my end game, to strip away each and every layer of my own personality until I found the layer that was who I was. That was the layer I presented to Amanda, subtly in the form of a packaged PDF copy of the script sent to her email address. I’ve since had better considerations in my theorising about scriptwriting, I attempted to write Amanda the greatest love story I could possibly imagine, a film that was narcotically indulgent and submerged within it’s own composition. I wonder as I stare out the window at the fading lights on the hill opposite me whether I astounded her or disapointed her, I imagine the latter and my own gaze drops slightly as I remember this.
I don’t know what I’d consider myself. I don’t know whether I could classify myself as some form of Romeo or some sad and lonely twenty seven year old that found a keyboard and a broadband internet connection. Maybe this consideration is a little too harsh on myself but it’s time for some sort of soulful examination. That’s what I say at least, secretly I know that any conclusion(s) may be too forcefully constructed to be true or false. If you’ve lost me there for a bit, it’s understanding. These you may have ascertained are the ramblings of a guy that for some reason finds staring out the window of his apartment, a cigarette in one hand a glass of red the other more romantic than a dinner at some Italian restaurant where by 10PM you’ve spent more money than what you earned in the two days prior. There we go again, for someone who is so poor at budgeting I must subconciously think of money a lot. Maybe this disdainful opinion on what constitutes a true emotional connection between two people of opposite gender is why I find myself sitting here, ten minutes after I began writing this period, talking about why I’m writing this alone.