Muscle Brain

i think i like writing sci-fi. i think i like it a lot. beth and i are just getting rolling on a screenplay for martin, and jesus it’s fun. no boundaries. and i LOVE working with her. it’s like boxing and synchronized swimming all at the same time. i don’t what the hell that even means, only that working on this project makes my brain tired and happy. i’ve been working on a lot of shit lately that makes my brain tired and happy.

eric reeeeeally wanted to see jackass 3, and he said it was because he thought it would be super funny, but i know that at least some of it was motivated deep down to make me STOP seeing  johnny knoxville as a dirty sex machine. see, i don’t like jackass. not interested in seeing  johnny knoxville or anybody else for that matter do that stupid shit. i remember when my love for him solidified – it as that damned poster.

black and white poster, shirtless, low-slung jeans, elvis glasses, and fucking taser cords attached to his chest. i didn’t care who he was, i just knew i wanted to be holding the gun… i stick to his movie appearances – that one with the Rock, and the spectacular John Waters’  ”A Dirty Shame.” oh, Ray-Ray.

i’m not saying i wouldn’t spend the morning after a Fun Night with mr. johnny knoxville in the shower with a scouring pad and a bottle of bleach while my sheets burned in a dumpster, i’m just also not saying i would turn that night down if the opportunity presented itself.

so, the recurring  johnny knoxville dreams are back. i just turned away from the gross stuff and focused on whether he looked better in black or red chucks during the other scenes.

my brain is tired. gonna watch the Fighter. 

spring in fragments

in the pines (where the sun sometimes shines)

Day 3

2nd shift is a bitch to get used to. harder than i thought. the mornings are great, but adam is adjusting to daylight savings time and resenting the hell out of me for being not-daddy at bedtime, so it’s rough. strange and rough. i don’t have any sort of pattern yet. it feels like saturday morning then eric LEAVES.

no writing to speak of, but that will come. i’m cooking two things – one is for heather and the other is a more appropriate continuation for chapter4, bridget’s backstory is falling around her in bits and pieces and snatches of overheard conversation – i’m nearing a split that is not going to be nearly as complicated as i was trying to make it. forget the fancy tricks, i’m just going to tell the story and move things around if i feel like it once it’s out.

kiddo is singing lady gaga to ponyo. it’s 10:30. gah.

i nap with him, i’m spoiled siesta-wise. 

i dreamed i had sex with justin timberlake and got pregnant, and all of this was happening in sort of a 50′s-era surf movie, and he was very “i want a baby, i’ve been ready” (who knew??) and i was standing on a beach in a pink two-piece and had a really fabulous ponytail. i was 3 equal parts divided: ”oh no! social mores, out of wedlock,  just one time and i’m pregnant, what a 50s PSA i am!”  and one third “i am fucked. is eric going to kill me, or is he going to be very joseph to my mary with this whole having justin timberlake’s baby thing?” and one third “what a bullseye. what a good-looking kid this will be. one night stand to lifetime of involvement, this won’t be bad.” i think i’m kind of a bad person in my dreams. anyway, i woke up during the sunset beach conversation feeling very weird about the whole thing as my 3 yr old was still asleep next to me…

the trees are budding, the birds are back, the grass is greening.

lonely.

love song for my (not that) faraway love:

midnight oh one

in the morning I shall wake with my husband still at my side. Tonight, for an hour, I lay on his sleeping form in the recliner like a backwards shadow (aura, highlight) reading. It fit. We shall retire at the same time, and wake together. Early afternoons are for the child. The evenings? Fuck em. I shall have him when he is fresh and laughing, before the day’s work. I appreciate tomorrow, the first day of second shift. My son will ask “is Daddy here?” when he opens his eyes, as usual, and eric will say “I am.”

The Ides of March: Thunderdome, Issue 2

http://thundadome.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=itemlist&layout=category&task=category&id=14&Itemid=70

on my back

hello mardi gras.  I greet you from my sick bed, repeatedly hitting myself in the face from dropping my phone, breathing like every sex machine in Deliverance, constantly questioning the noises out the window – is that a REAL Chainsaw, or is it like the ocean I hear, waves crashing just inside my head. That WHOOM WHOOM may have nothing to do with firewood at all.

Happy Birthday, Lou Reed