oh hey, december.

what's up, another month gone by without writing?

regardless, i have a little piece of writing that's just been sitting on my folder at work. i figured it should be posted somewhere, if not ever read by anyone but myself.

it was the beginning of what was going to be a character study project about my favorite characters on my favorite television shows. i picked one phrase "they'd have nothing to say to one another, anyway" and swore to incorporate it into every little short i wrote, sort of to tie them all together. in the end, i only got one done, and that was for Heroes, for a character study of Sylar:

---



Gabriel Gray was a serious boy, quiet and reserved. He’d often fall to the wayside, book in hand while others pushed each other around on the playground, hoping to fade away into the background. Memories of his face pushed into the dirt and horrible nicknames often drowned any good dreams, and his eyes often fought to close, even in the darkest of night.

A grown-up Gabriel Gray was not much more than that; he had the same haircut, same serious eyes, same penchant and devotion to his mother. His brain trained itself to tick like a clock; he found a simple sort of solace in the quiet of his shop. He hid behind glasses and layers of sweaters and the sounds of ticking clocks.

Sylar was sarcastic and an outspoken sort of pensive. He had a smart mouth and a sharp tongue and he reached out and caught everything he ever wanted. He walked like he was the world, not reaching to be a part of it, and he was everything he could ever dream.

And yet, he still wanted more.

Sometimes he stood in front of a mirror and stared at his reflection – at the sharp planes of his face, of the stubble he let grow free and the length of his hair and wondered how he and Gabriel Gray, in truth, were the same person. It wasn’t an often thought, because it was one that made him seethe, but it was truth. Sometimes he just needed the reminder so he knew he couldn’t go back, not ever.

This day, under the darkening sky, he wiped a smudge of blood from his lips in disgust. The body under his feet was quickly cooling in the autumn air, and he was bitter, if not outright annoyed, about how much of a fight this one had put up. The blood, it was his own with splatters of the man at his feet, and it was sticky under his boots.

This day, as he peered down at the body, he imagined it was Gabriel Gray lying in his own blood in a dark alley, all alone except the murderer who’d decimated his already meaningless life. He imagined it was Gabriel Gray he was leaving behind, Gabriel’s blood sticky on his chin.

The next time he’d look into the mirror, he wouldn’t see the trace of the little boy, no, man – he once was. Instead, he’d just see Sylar, powerful and conniving. He should feel sad, he knows, giving up the person he once was – the person who made him who he is – but he doesn’t.

It’s because he knows that if he’d ever met Gabriel Gray now, on the street, they’d have nothing to say to one another, anyway.
---

it hurts to breathe sometimes.

there's a lot of stuff to be done. a lot of anxiety to get over. a lot of life to live.

i want to change a lot. so much that in the end i don't want to recognize myself, not really, in the end. i don't want to forget who i was, just want to grow and be better.

a better writer, a better person, a harder worker, less negative and more positive.

i'm 23 now and hardly know who i am. i feel sick sometimes wondering what it all means.

i can taste the change and have grand daydreams of making something of myself.

i can't settle any longer.

november 1st marks the first day of the change. as i watch my best friends tie their lives together much more neatly than i am, i've tried not to cry.

i don't want to be unhappy anymore. i don't want to be inspired by an actor/tv show/movie and think 'i will never be a part of that' anymore.

this time next year i will have dressed up for halloween instead of wishing i was more daring and thinking "next year".

this time next year i won't feel bad about myself as much.

this time next year i will be somewhere else, instead of wishing i was somewhere else.

i will, within that year, meet people i want to instead of being afraid to.

i will stop daydreaming of a life i don't have and start living it.

small steps, and there's a long road of frustration ahead.

i hope i stick to my guns.

So it's been a month. Sounds like me.

One of the women I work with at Q Marketing decided to just not come in anymore after this weekend. She's just not coming back to work. At all. It's so strange/weird/rude to do such a thing but she seemed like she sort of had her head on her shoulders so I wonder, truly, what that means about this place. She made it seem that they're on the rocks financially and from what I overheard by being nosey that said financial issues is part of the reason why she's not coming back.

Um. It gives me a bad feeling, truthfully.

Remember:

Don't give up.

Miley cyrus' new song, "Party in the USA" might be the best song of my summer. Not the most inspiring, for sure, but the most fun. It's incredible. It's on repeat...and I can't wait to listen to it in my car with my windows rolled down on a sunny end-of-summer day.

I had a sort of anxiety attack last night; I was at Natalie's and just couldn't handle it anymore. I left at 11PM and caught a train at nearly 1. I was drunk and dramatic, not the best equation for a safe trip home. I called my sister in hopes she'd pick me up at the train station but she wouldn't, so I had to take a cab home. In the end, it was more proof that I need to get the fuck out of here. I wouldn't certainly be happy if she had called me drunk at 11:30PM to pick HER up at the train station, but I would've done it, because she's my sister. 

She was "too tired" to drive fifteen minutes and come get me. Too tired after her 10 day vacation to the Caribbean. Oh, gee. 

I can't wait to leave. I can't wait to leave. I can't wait to leave. I keep telling myself it's so soon. So soon.

Meanwhile I'm thinking of ideas for the topic Lauren has given me for "Five Minutes". It's certainly heavy, and difficult and I have a few ideas already. I'm going to have to talk to you, Lauren (why pretend you're not reading this) and shoot you some things I'm thinking about in regards to where I have to stop so I don't start flirting on the edge of going past what I'm supposed to do in this first part. Also, sorry this doesn't make sense. It hopefully will when I talk to you.

We'll see!

Anyway, just for my entertainment: 

A nightmare reeks of blood and running without a destination at times. These nightmares have been reoccurring for me lately, often I dream of dripping blood down my fingertips or running for my life in a hallway that has no sanctuary. I'm not quite sure if this is a result of some sort of sick symbolism on how I view my life or that I have perhaps been watching too much vampire television, but it happens, nearly daily.

It's a nightmare that's vivid and flows continuously from one trap to the next, but I am rarely afraid; just aware of my life as it's happening around me. Sometimes I realize it's perhaps the most content I've ever felt in my life, sometimes I feel disturbed by how I don't flinch when I can turn my head and see my blood (life-flow) dripping down fingertips onto cold concrete. I can smell the air around me; it's damp and dirty and often smells like death (I think) and I feel okay, okay, okay, even as someone in a horrifying mask wielding a knife with a jagged edge charges towards me.

If I were going to paint a picture of these nightmares they'd be in black and white with a lot of red marker; but solemn in their nature not because of the awareness of death and destruction but because of the acceptance of it. 

In other news, the longest thing I've written lately is a RPS fan fic; and it's my most inspired piece in a long while. While I love Hollis Irving and his fedoras I have yet to settle and be in love with him like I have been with the characters of Zach Quinto and Chris Pine I have invented in my head (much like we all do with celebrities we admire - we always want them to be one way, and they're always not, right?). Hollis Irving, I know, has a voice somewhere in my head. I just need to channel his voice the right way and disregard the things that are less important.

My channels are spread thin in the anticipation of collaboration:

Five Minutes: If I put the effort I am anticipating I will into this project hopefully it will inject and project me further than I ever have been as a writer. I am honored, truly, to be included in a project with some of the most incredible writers/directors/artists I've ever met. Here's to that.

Hollis Irving: As mentioned before; besides Five Minutes is in the horizon but Hollis Irving and his wonky best friend Rowan are up there too. With Kara's help we plan on making them coming to life in another way; through drawings. The first chapter, as per my own deadline, will be done this weekend.

I am also beginning the very long process of figuring out how I'm going to make it to LA by next summer; I have begun a dialogue with someone I just stumbled on on the internet about her career as a casting assistant in LA with ABC; I really need guidance even if it is by a stranger and she's already given me a good amount of advice. I also plan on speaking to JD Zeik and pooling resources by reaching out to the couple of people I met at Purchase from LA who might have advice or ideas. I plan on going out there in the spring to get a feel, too, and perhaps convince Kim to make the trip (both to get a feel and permanently) with me. 

Then it'll take just the financial funds and emotional leap to go across the country by myself.

Nicki, the other day, at work, made a joking comment about how I have been sucked into retail (at Nine West), "Haha, you say you'll get out now, but just you see - you'll wake up one day and it'll be ten years..."

I can't let that happen to me. Please don't let that happen to me.

The Life and Times of Hollis Irving. (tentative title)

This is the beginning of something - something I'm not too sure of but am sincerely interested in. The first bit needs to be lengthened and changed, but it's the direction I want to head in (with everyone's opinions of Hollis). We'll see. 

-----

Hollis Irving, he’s an explorer of the oldest sort, the kind that’s rare these days.

…and a lot of people have opinions of him.

There’s Rowan Miller, Hollis’ baby-faced, frazzled best friend, for one. Often, of Hollis Irving, he’ll say:

“What a fraud,” With a sloppy hand pushing through his messy chestnut hair, “But one of the most brilliant sort.”

Then there’s Mylan Irving, Hollis’ much older half-brother who’s lost his soul on in stocks and bonds.

“Head in the clouds,” He insists often, a cluck of his tongue, “Too old for this poppycock.”

-----------

These days, Hollis Irving is mostly found in his workshop somewhere in a city that’s sort of like New York but isn’t, not in this world. He’s got his head buried in a book and glasses perched over caramel eyes, making him seem owlish and forever curious.

Rowan, this day, slams into the workshop, messenger bag stuffed to the brim with papers and stomping his scuffed shoes as loudly as he can. Rowan is as loud as an elephant marching through a library, but it doesn’t faze Hollis, not in the slightest. In fact, Hollis is still folded over a book, which is spread out over a giant map of a country that’s much like the United States, but may not be, not in this world.

“I’ve found it,” He says, dropping his books and bags and overcoat onto the other end of the map. From the mess he procures two tablets of paper, bound by the kind of ribbon you curl on presents. One falls apart upon it’s descent to the table’s surface, and only when page 143 of this tablet flutters into Hollis’ line of sight does he look up.

“This is page 143 of the missing Chambers manuscript,” Hollis says, smoothing the edges of the yellowed paper out. When its’ corner refuses to lay flat he uses the bind of his own book to smoosh it down.

“Yes, yes,” Rowan says, and begins the not-so-careful process of collecting the mess.

“Rowan Miller, this manuscript has been missing for approximately sixty four point two years. It’s a legend.” He’s pushed his large glasses to rest on the top of his carefully slicked back raven hair, taking another page of the work to his nose to sniff it powerfully.

It smells like damp earth and cigar smoke.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rowan grins wolfishly, for the first time in a long time. He’s set the papers back in some semblance of order, but it’s not neat enough to erase the frown turning the corners of Hollis’ lips down.

He focuses on the paper, instead, and again sniffs it. This time, it has the heady scent of wood embedded somewhere in it’s folds.

“Where?” He asks, sliding the un-damaged manuscript from under a pile of hodge-podge. Tilting his head down, his glasses slide back down over his eyes and he pushes the manuscript, still bound, close, and then even closer, to his face. 

“In a cedar box buried two-point-three miles away from the vineyard, under an old half-cocked revolver stuffed with pigeon pellets.”

Hollis’ eyes are wide and curious behind his large-framed glasses, but his tilted eyebrow expresses the sarcasm these misconvey.

“Symbolism?”

“Perhaps,” Rowan huffs, licking a thumb to sort through the pages in his hands, “But of what sort?”

Hollis watches as Rowan takes a seat on the stool beside him and uses a free arm to shove everything over to accommodate the task at hand. In dismay, Hollis watches as his yard stick and set of matte and metallic colored pencils get dislocated in the process, hitting the floor with a ceremonious crash. He leans back to watch as they scatter helplessly across the floor, rolling under drafting tables and bookcases to sit among the dust bunnies and mice droppings. Rowan doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

/end for now.