May 8th, 2005



Last evening at 6:00 I went to the Columbia Film Program's script night. It was held at a corporate auditorium for some entirely unclear reason, since Columbia has plenty of spaces appropriate for such an event, including classrooms that could hold more people, but it was a very nice auditorium nonetheless.

There were five scripts being read and the thing started late so, with awards given out at the end, it took the better part of 2 hours. During this time I don't think I changed my expression once. For one I was pretty jealous of the parties involved, since they were closer to the dream than I am, and for another there was only one thought circling through my head most of the evening.

Piece of cake. I can do that.

It's not that the scripts were bad, though they varied in quality, so much as they were not dazzling. I focused on imagining them in paper form rather than performed by live actors, as they were, and I was surprised. The actors were, for the most part, excellent, and I could see where people without directorial ambitions or imaginations have trouble reading a script and understanding how it relates to a movie, since they add so much. Nonetheless I kept seeing mistakes or problems as the readings went along, some minor some major, and thinking back to my own work and realizing that not only am I not alone in not getting things perfect the first time, but these people don't even have it right when they're submitting them as thesis work. I can do that.

After the readings I managed to talk to the head of the program for all of 2 minutes after stalking him for what felt like 45 hours (There was a party where everyone else knew each other and I got to stand around like a fat wallflower while he continually circled the room away from me and I avoided interrupting him.) That didn't matter much, but what I did get from the evening was confidence and even a touch of arrogance. So I'm going to hole myself up for the next month or so, work on losing a little more weight and hammer away at the keyboard to finish two feature scripts, then worry about where to go professionally from there. Hopefully I'll be able to finagle a step in the right direction through a couple promising leads but if not then fuck it, I'll worry about that when it comes.

I have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday. He's going to tell me I have to lose weight, but in a very gentle way. Then he's going to try to sell me fish oil. I'm just waiting for fumoffu to finish medical school so I can start getting my free weekly prostate exam.
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The Runner's Low

For those of you who don't get them, the so-called runner's high has a dirty little secret, a secret that I like to call "The Runner's Low."

See when you're on a runner's high you're fucking invincible. You're the king of the world and everyone else is just a puny little subject waiting to be crushed beneath your fleet feet. You can go forever and the only thing that could possibly stop you would be like an asteroid or a comet or a muppet or something. You're Hermes and Perseus rolled into one taught-bellied tight-wound package.

Sure there's pain and points where you're gasping and sweating and feel like you couldn't continue for three more minutes, let alone another hour, but you fight through those and the endorphins kick in and you're Zeus, God of Thunder once more. The lows are few and far between and you sail along sending down giant strokes of lightning, missives from god, to any who dare oppose you.

Eventually you do stop though, for whatever reason, and you get off the treadmill or the jogging path feeling breathing hard and feeling great. You walk a little so you don't cramp and you sit down wiping the sweat off your forehead and feeling a satisfaction comparable to that you'd feel if you nailed Catherine Zeta Jones and Lindsay Lohan within two hours of each other.

Then the hurt starts to set in. It creeps up slowly at first, maybe a twinge in your hamstring or a little tightness in your back. The high starts to drain away and your muscles start speaking up, the basic message being "We are NEVER doing that again, and to make sure we NEVER have to do that again we are going to tighten up like a born-again Christian's pussy on re-baptism day." If you're lucky you make it to a bed or chair before they all clamp down and leave you twitching like Daniel Day Lewis from My Left Foot.

And it's worse than a heroin let down, not because it's more painful but because at least with a heroin let-down you know how to fix it. More delicious heroin, a simple recipe for a happy life. With the runner's high the LAST thing you want to do is run again, ever. You feel pretty confident that if a bear was chasing you you'd amble away, maybe moving into a brisk trot if he was gaining but you would NOT FUCKING RUN. Let him eat you, seriously, it's not worth the pain. You try a sports drink and maybe like eighteen glasses of water (Immediately bumping your weight up to above where it was when you started) but nothing helps. Later on in the evening when you leave your house you're like a cripple, limping and swaying from side to side while your calf muscles scream bloody murder and demand you never move again.

You spend the night tossing and turning, still chaffing in your sweat-soaked clothes because taking them off would involve actually lifting your legs which you are NOT PREPARED TO DO. Not at all. And you swear to yourself that you will NEVER EXERCISE AGAIN no matter how fat or sluggish you get.

Of course in a few days, and with a billion tablets of ibuprofen, the pain goes away and you start feeling good. You look back at the treadmill or the jogging path and your eyebrows raise. Maybe just a little jog. A few steps one in front of another. It's HEALTHY goddammit. It's for your own good. Do you want to DIE YOUNG?

So you get on, start putting one foot in front of another, and ten minutes later it's I'M KING OF THE WORLD, MA. KING OF THE WORLD! You're Zeus, you're Hermes, you're motherfucking Prefontaine, quicksilver fast in the last lap of that ill-fated Olympic run except that they're not going to catch YOU, no they'll never catch you.

High cometh before the fall.

So those of you who don't get the high, feel lucky. Very very lucky. You can measure out the exercise according to logic and reason. You never want to test your limits, see what you can do. You never say "Hey, I could EASILY double that time, why don't I?" When you know you're recovering from a strained calf and that it's a GODDAMNED STUPID IDEA. Only there's no stupid ideas for Zeus, he's the king of gods. He's invincible.

Still, the running is good for me, right? I mean it takes pounds off and it helps the heart and...

Oh shit. Here I go again.
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    Blister in the Sun
Short hair suspicion

Again again

Went to the Columbia film festival last day of actual films.

Some of them were absolutely wow, though a few were kind of eh.

Dedication factor rising, I will make those fuckers know my name. I'm an unstoppable force and an immovable object. I will not allow myself to fail.

I have things to write.

You will all begin to understand that you had no idea what I could do, not even the faintest inkling. I don't know whether to pity or envy you. I really don't.
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