Sunday, 28 September 2014

Oooh, if people only knew the yummines of the coffees I am making myself lately. Oh, yummy indeed. The Nescafe decaf as base, half a teaspoon of prime dry chocolate for the bit of a sour taste, other half of Irish Cream or Caramel roast for the kick… Half of boiling water, a quarter of milk, cold, no foam, and the rest water… It's like a mouthful of a kiss.
Writing, reading, making photos, watching Call the Midwife… I know I am behind on almost everything I do and I forgot an important meeting I was supposed to take.. The dog is on house arrest, because she’s in season and a downright slutty slut. We’re off to work at the farm in the afternoon… Lazy, lazy Sunday morning so far. I’ve given the General a foot massage and made him a ridiculously fattening breakfast, he’s snoring gently behind me and snarling when I fail to resist the temptation to grab him and kiss him.
Am reading the Fran Milčinski poetry, going from very upbeat to fuck-me?!-and-slap-me-twice depressing. Gives me the right set of thoughts to write the downer bits of Goose.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

A bitchy cold nude shoot with Kimi and Ema

Shot some kooky, "hot mess" nudes with two little darlings - first Kimi, going for the elegant, introspective form and Ema, going for the Victorian macabre.. Except for the part where it was stupid cold (and we were expecting rain, ultimately which we had to forge), it was actually very pleasant. We were at some friends' of Kimi's, meandering high up in the hills above Hrastnik, very neat, very remote piece of green Eden.


Wednesday, 24 September 2014

We were fooling around in the bathtub today, and I pretended to want to drown the General... That was pretty much like trying to drown an orange in a coffee mug. O.o

Then I had this year's last ice-coffee with bestie Tinka. I explained my problems, regarding the interviews, as I am facing them:

- I need a hardcore ambition to keep on a steady direction. So far the one ambition I had, I met within the first week. (Really need to aim higher. But where?)
- Do I lead or provoke people when they are being slightly dull or do I teach them a lesson when theirs will be mediocre stories? Or what?
- Do I try to force the pieces into a steady, familiar frame (10 questions + 1) or do I go with the flow, varying from Facebook correspondence type of debate to borderline exposé-s.
- How much do I pursue people I think will be cool for this project? Lure them, manipulate them, seduce them? This is like photographing a nude - the person's got to be into it, otherwise it comes out stuck.
And so on. The whole thing started a little bigger than I expected. I need to elevate my approach. Am just not sure in which sense.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

Did an interview with Jaka today, talking about bikers and diagnostics. Drej gave me a load of new furniture pieces, which we successfully transported from her place to mine, and so I re-arranged some of my workplace, in desperate need of new shelves. And by that I mean desperate. With a capital T.
She also gave me loads of shoes, cups, baggies and random stuff. It felt like inheriting a garage sale. Of course I was gonna keep it all for myself. :D

We had to skip the rehearsal last night, but Kristian and I talked about the scene in Goose, which takes place later after Morphei and Spotter hit it and Kay comes to find her. I'll post it, as I am fond of that scene. Kristian's interview was read by 120 people in 24 hours. For this town, that is trendy. Dad called to start the vine harvest talks. Of course he did. When they need something from me, they call. But I do miss him and would want, if not biography, to write a dialogue with him...

Been reading about how the WWII started, how the Poland was slowly and surely polluted with inevitability of terrible people coming at it like vultures on a carcass. It's a big book I'm in, with a million names and only two of those female. Am not sure what it say about a country that lost its independence three times. It sounds bad, but ... that also means it regained it at least as many, nay?

Anyhoos.... here's the scene from Goose, post festum :)

Not that I was nervous, but I was nervous. This whole ordeal rang wrong to me, even if I was the only one. Spotter was my responsibility. Obviously I couldn’t command her to sleep with or not to sleep with anybody, I could just go on and on about it. I waited five hours and could not wait any longer and headed to Cliffcave. It was going to be night there by then. Surely after five hours they would have gotten bored by it already?
                It was dark indeed. Cliffcave bay had its own duck and dawn pulse, just as it had its own tide system, but I have gotten used to it by now. It was a lovely, southern-wind blowing kind of a night on the shore and the ocean made soothing swooshy noises. At first I checked the house, climbing up the drive ramp. The old Red King’s car was sleeping, dull sheen of its glass and lacquer reflecting the stars, that beautiful Bentley Continental which took Morphei a while to restore from what was left of it from under Cole’s reign. I touched it along the face on my way to the front gate, which of course was non-existent. Cliffcave house had no doors or gates. Had a few stairs, though.  I walked up and down the place twice before satisfied they weren’t in it. Where were they?
                Of course Spotter wasn’t completely innocent in the manner of intimacy. She was groped plenty when she was still alive – heck, she was going to die being raped by her stupid brothers. As if that wasn’t troubling enough, she was rescued by us. Not the least perverted people in this profession. She has surely heard things, maybe even seen things and I know she was fond of the General, so surely she’s had an orgasm before. Just not with another person. She was my bed mate and even I never really touched her. Mayhap we kissed once or twice. I had a lot more sex with Radha, her predecessor, whom I never really actually technically had sex with.
                I walked down to the surf and heard singing. There is a lot of shore on the left of the Cliffcave bay, but on the right, there is just about half a mile of dark sand and then rocks give some shelter from the wind and can be a nice place for snuggling. That is where the singing was coming from.
Of the few certainties I prided myself in the night-time, one was that Morphei was neither an inept nor an inconsiderate lover. Also I knew he took time, so maybe five hours weren’t enough after all. When we got to it, he ‘wasted’ a good sweet hour on foreplay, during which time I got jaded and left. Well, obviously it’s not how it happened. We got distracted. Still, I could imagine him taking a long time to tune Spotter’s tense, confused body. She was probably very afraid. Horny as seventeen year old should be, but afraid. Perhaps an oral orgasm was enough, perhaps he gave her two. I imagined by the time she was no longer a virgin, she was addicted to the feel of a man’s body on top of her or underneath, like every single other person who’s ever had good sex becomes. And Morphei could change his shape, so even if he started politely measurable, he could work his tools to the maximum advantage. If I were a considerate person myself, I’d say she was a lucky lady. Good thing I was a territorial, inconsiderate bitch.
                Morphei was singing Nessun Dorma. If you are going to take the virginity of a very innocent young girl from 1308 AD Horehronie, standing naked in the starlight on wet black rocks while the ocean is licking your feet, singing Nessun Dorma is probably the way to do it. I saw him first, because he was silhouetted against the pale skyline, the god man that he was, with a voice no human tenor could ever truly master. A human tenor’s wet dream kind of a voice. He didn’t have to shout. I liked that. I am not fond of on stage shouting people making distressed gestures. Or didn’t want to understand the words, because they usually broke my heart. He was smiling. Flirting. The wind carried his longing, superlative melody towards us; he made it sound like he meant it. For this night, he was going to be the lover of Spotter’s life. Until she woke up. Then he was just going to be a good friend. I knew that feeling. In the wind, I almost felt jealous he never sang to me. Even if I didn’t really like people singing. Then again I saved his life, ungrateful bastard. He could at least have recited a haiku.
                Spotter lay in the sand, leaning on a rock, wrapped in a large shawl with her tiny white legs moving as she giggled, overwhelmed with emotion. She was drinking from a large glass of red wine and another was in the sand. Are people who are about five minutes pregnant supposed to be drinking vine? She smiled at me, moving her hair from the face, a moist, dirty mane of half dry locks and sand and sea weed. I sat down next to her and took a camera out of my bag to commemorate Murphy while he was still on the sarsen. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to interrupt the song. The nasty part of me wondered if he was going to be able to hit the complicated notes, but of course he would. It was a good song. Made me horny as hell. Would I dare propose a threesome?...
                No. I mean, I would. But I wasn’t going to. Spotter has already had the most bizarre night of her little life; second perhaps only to the time she met us. She’s done enough. After he was finished with the aria, Murphy jumped into the water, it was about knee high and walked up to us, kissing me and sitting next to her, pulling the shawl so that it covered both of them as they snuggled.
                “I have to shower,” giggled Spotter into his chest. “I have sand everywhere.”
                “We can swim if you like. I’ll make sure there are no monsters.”
                “I would love to, but not now. I’m too tired.”
                “Come,” he said, getting up and then picking up the girl, who hugged him, hid her face into his neck and slowly started falling asleep while he carried her. Only for a very small second he resembled the General, so I could tell she was thinking about my husband when a large man gentlemaned her. I walked beside them and watched the end of the shawl drag behind, over the old sandy footprints. He sank deep, carrying the weight of two and I sank less, because I never took off my flippies and I walked on the dense surf.
                Morphei moved his face from her hair, where he was kissing it, to ask quietly: “Did you come to check up on me?”
                “Mm. And to murder you if she wasn’t smiling when I found her.”
                “She can sleep here if she wants, you know. You both can.”
                “I know. I prefer if she did it in her room, though.”
                “I AM capable of restraining myself from humping little girls while they’re expecting completely innocent dreams in their innocent little beds. I’m not the beast you take me for.”
                I chuckled at him. “Jury’s still out on that one.”
                He looked down to check her face. “She’s out. She wanted to shower before going to bed.”
                “I’ll have her cot on the floor until she comes to. May I take the car? I feel like spending the night driving back.”

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Been a while, I know, I'm sorry. Been very productive. I promise. I loaded up the Marita Wrong commercial and the other day, I conducted three interviews which I am now transcripting and there’s another that I am halfway through doing so, a very adult one, and another I sent to a teen via FB and, well… there are many. I have a list of 31 by now. They are all awesome; they all feel like I am on the right track with my idea. The idea is to prove normal people are amazingly interesting if you let them talk about who they are as opposed to what they’ve done - when many feel they haven't done enough. These are so much fun in fact, I am well into a third of my next next book, before the first next is even finished. Meanwhile we are rehearsing the play, which is taking excellent shape and the transcript of THAT, of the experience and the text combined, will be the last chapter of Goose.
I saw a very sad movie, a movie about really nasty sense of hopelessness… I sometimes fail to notice that sort of life. I look at the vast plains of the American west and think – perfect. It didn’t occur to me many people lost their mind against it. Horrible, really. The movie’s called Homesman. Also, Lee Jones reminds me too much of my dad, whom I still miss cause we’re still not talking. And the General’s friend’s wife is having a heart condition, a nasty ticking bomb variety, which also freaks me out. Running out of time is starting to really bother me. I am SO CLOSE to doing something awesome with my life. Every time I brag to someone about sleeping only five hours a night lately, I pass out and sleep for ten.
In the next next book, the Dread, there are a lot of conversations between R and Kay about there being no good commands in war, because the only good command would simply end all war, the others are just keeping them egged on… And about how many people kay has saved – none – because none truly believe in deserving redemption after what they’ve done. I’ve gotten to the part where she is taking a journalism class and a professor, unbeknownst she is the editor, mentions her interview blog in class and she asks him out to conduct one with him. He begins to tutor her on the subject of her being unable to relate to normal people, simply because she feels too much like an alien, a tourist, and as if they are entertainment (this is something R tells her when she surfs a tank in one of the sieges of Tobruk – that she is taking interesting photos, but isn’t getting it as an event – mostly, because she is missing the dread of it.)

Thursday, 18 September 2014

Found myself a new Fourth estate spokesman :D

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

I notice, while reading ... stuff... and stuff (it was advised to me to tone down the opinion polls), that if you impose really strict rules on people, their bravery, determination and imagination will bloom. But if you five them absolute freedom, misery and frustration will drive them into soul decay. I'm thinking sexual revolution, women's rights and so on... When there was a strict rule only married men and women can hit it, you had such outstanding advocacy regarding privacy and the nature of copulation and so on... It was really quite admirable. Now, when you can pork a streetlamp for all anyone cares, everyone tries desperately to have sexual problems, left and right and center. And female rights - while women were oppressed and treated awfully, they fought like lionesses to stand up to men. Now half of them runs around whining about being single, or bored, having to be thin and having lame jobs... same as when they were forced into a marriage and had to stay at home. Exact same.

You are either a slave and you'll be a warrior poet, or you are a free man under six million pages of rules, and you'll be okay. But left to do exactly what you want, that's a recipe for a miserable existence.Which usually results in boiling bunnies or blowing up Wall Street towers.

Wednesdays and stuff

What does it say about my schedule, when I won't even have a chance to miss my husband today? (He's off to caretake his parents' farm while they take a much deserved vacation) Normally I'd just tag along and mock his cow-milking technique (with all your attention to nipples, this is one hack job you’re doing…) or take photos of the rooster, serenading the pigs…  which are waiting for him to fall in and eat him. But I am booked solid with things I do just for fun. I mean on a professional level, but fun nonetheless. This interviews project is on a roll. I have a list of 27 people I am slowly and carefully setting up the questions for, but still I get phone calls or messages in the manner of: Okay, fine. I have nothing to hide. I'll be in town in an hour… Like, who the ** are all these people?? :D
Guess my theory that normal folks really love to talk about themselves and are much more fun to listen to has been proved.