Thinner

Quite some time ago, I posted up a link to the fantastic, not to mention hilarious, Indian version of Michael Jackson's Thriller. I found this on Youtube: Lenny Henry doing a rambunctious parody Thinner. I reccommend you have a peek. You'll love it.

Blake.

Rar-Boo, and Why Romance Died With the 1800s

The Rar-Boo is because I am feeling better. Throat still niggly (not sore, but ticklyfied...) but otherwise I feel very good.

Also, I purchased Alan Moore's From Hell, which is rather large, and I am enjoying it immensly so far. I have not written anything in the last few days, other than a vague outline of what ought go into each chapter, and I honestly came short of what I wanted. To actually make the thing work, there needs to be twelve chapters, and I honestly don't have material for more than about 8, which means that I need to consider the development more. I have various drafts and what-not of chapter one, yet to be collated together, and I am happy with it, although as I say, there needs to be more...

Now, the From Hell purchase leads me to my second point - the death of Romance. It's odd that when characters from classic 1800s tales (Sherlock Holmes, and prompting this note, Abberline at the beginning of From Hell) move into the 1900s, their romance and intrigue is largely lost. Which is kinda strange, and has led me to ponder the reasons for this. I have come up with a few, although I will research this more thoroughly:

1) At the end of the 1800s (although it had been growing for some time) scientific and medical pursuits became the preoccupation of the gentry, and the more classical "Renaissance Gentleman" began to die down in an age of reason (although it could well be argued that this occurred during the Victorian era). Romance lost.

2) Fashion declined from awesome to meh. Romance lost.

3) To our modern minds, the 1800s, especially the latter half, was a time of vaguely mystical science, and supernatural occurrences - for example, Jack the Ripper and Springheel Jack - two of the interesting characters who sparked urban myth and legend and still haunt today. The point is this - we know enough about the 1800s (mainly 1800s London) through popular fiction and osmosis to romanticise it in our minds, to fill in the gaps with imagination, steampunk inventions and arcane magic. Which is what we as humans do. Incidentally, that is why Dan Brown's trash "Tha Da Vinci Code" was so remarkably popular (the man couldn't write, but he could spin a tale) - he essentially worked on myths and legends that most people knew little bits about, and validated them with a whole load of fiction, cleverly spun to give an amazing sense of verisimilitude - a world in which these things not only could happen, but would happen.
Once we plummeted into the 1900s, we lost that. Maybe not at the time, but for a new millenium audience, the romance is gone. We know what has happened, its in Modern History. Maybe that is the brilliance of the 1800s as the time of Romance - it is the transition point, the liminal space we moved through on the way to 'enlightenment' and scientific knowledge. And in a liminal space, anything is possible. Romance lost.

Have a great week. Blake.

PS - Stand by for the no-doubt glowing review of From Hell, as well as the inevitable comparison to the Jonny-Depp-Ian-Holm film of the same name, which was supposedly "based" on the graphic novel (from what I've read so far, it falls short. Unusually short. Like the chick on Big Brother... apparently there is a little person on there. Not a midget, but a person who was hit with a raygun and shrunk. Seriously. Australian Big Brother 2008. Mhmm. My little brother - an avid fan of the show which I myself refuse to watch - informs me that she broke her leg. I didn't giggle when I heard. Honest).

Feeling Better, and Hamlet

I am feeling a lot better this morning, which is good, as I have to work later on today, and because I have uni tomorrow. I think it was all the tea I drank in the last few days. Hurrah for tea!

Incidentally, I also just found a leaflet on my desk that I had forgotten about, advertising Bell Shakespeare's production of Hamlet, which is one of my favourite Shakespeares. I'm booking tickets...! Woot!

Feeling Sick, No Voice, and A Lot of Tea

I'm still feeling crap, and the really busy day at work didn't help much (what a shock). My throat isn't sore, but it feels restricted, and I am speaking with a singular croak. I have to work tomorrow, and am not really impressed about it.

I am currently having my fifth cup of tea for the evening. I go totally off coffee when I am crook. Makes my head go all fuzzy. Caffeine and Panadol don't work for me.

I should be writing, but I don't have the energy or concentration at the moment, so I am on msn and blogging. Wasting time.

Oh, and I have assignments due in a couple of weeks. Big ones. That I really should begin, but can't be arsed.

Have a nice week. Blake.

Cleaning my Keyboard, Losing my Voice, and Busy Days at Work

I have just finished cleaning all the grime and assorted fluff from between the keys on my keyboard. With a needle. It worked really well, and now it is really clean.

I am also losing my voice for the first time ever, which will come as a shock to anyone who knows how often and loudly I use it.

Also, tomorrow is Mother's Day, and this is our busiest day of the year at work. We have 200 people coming in for breakfast (yay for them) and I am crook and don't really wanna make that many coffee's. Damn my double degree that keeps me at uni instead of in a better job. One with weekends!

The Final Mannequin Post, and Karmic Arseholery

Well. Two things, beginning with the second:

2. Karma bit me on the arse. After my post this morning about how good everything was, stuff was bound to go pear-shaped. Work was crap, and I feel like I've had a bumming from a rhino with rabies.

1. Here is the finished Mannequin Monologue (finished in that all I am doing is done, the person I did it for has to do stage directions, I've only added a couple).

Mannequin Monologue

Blake Jolly, 2008 (c).

Are they gone? [Looking around quickly, afraid of being discovered]

I should probably introduce myself. My name is Emma. I don't have a last name, although I would like a foreign, romantic one if I did. Maybe something French like 'de Villespin' or Martinerre'. See, I have no last name, because I am a mannequin. We are not given the dignity of full names, hell, some of us they don't bother naming at all.

The funny thing about mannequins is that most people don't realise posing in shop windows is just a job. Something we were made for, sure, and something we're good at, but we have other interests and passions too, which we explore after hours. The trick is staying put while people are watching, then giving them the slip and being back before morning opening. I met this guy once, who modelled for the Trent Nathan suits, who was really into death metal, had this mad wig he used to mosh in and all. Mine passion is writing.

Each night, when the lights dim, and everyone has gone away, I take out my notebook and pen (which I 'liberated' from the stationery cupboard in the office) from their hiding place, and I sit down, staring hard at the paper, as if by my will alone words will appear and spring into life. I think about what I see over the course of a day – it is a voyeuristic picture of people who walked in front of me assuming I'm not watching. People do the most curious things when they think no-one is looking. I wait patiently for the words to come.

I began to take an interest in writing after I picked up a book, left behind by a rushed customer, that was all about the craft of writing. Intrigued, I picked it up and my curiosity was piqued. I had to give it a try. The main thrust of the book was that we all have something to say, a story to tell, or advice to inspire with, and that all we have to do is work out what we have to say, then say it.

Now I'm not going to claim that “we are people too" or anything stupid like that, but we sure have something to offer. After all, there are few people that put the effort into watching the ebb and flow of humanity like we do. Watching for hours on end, I often wish that I had the luxury of doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. But unfortunately, this is my lot in life and I'm going to make the most of it. And maybe I'll even leave a little something behind.

That is, of course, why I write. Or want to. Or try to. It's an odd process, see. Some authors claim that the words just appear to them and they type it out, or scribble in longhand, or whatever. Others say they imagine them. Still more claim that you type and type and eventually something good comes out and you work with that. Maybe the Muse strikes differently, somehow, for those who are made of plastic. For those like me. Or more precisely, maybe it doesn't strike at all.

Its been a few weeks now, sitting there at night. Waiting. After a few evenings of total unproductivity, I spent some time looking through news articles, or my previous scribbles, looking for something worth relating to the paper. But I had nothing to comment on - the news was pretty empty for the most part, and my memories of the people I see feel faint, as if they are being played on a fuzzy TV at the end of a hallway – distant and unemotive.

I've learned that writing is a fluid thing, and you have to adapt. For me, there are times when I look back and think "Oh, God, what is this garbage I've written, and how did I ever think it was any good?" Then there are times when you can look back and go "Wow, that's pretty swish."

But knowing that its fluid, knowing that some of the things I've scribbled in the past are OK, does not really help me now. I need something new, and fresh. And that is precisely where I come unstuck. When wanting to leave something behind, something tangible, life changing in the way that great books can be, it's hard to know where to start. I have so much experience with the world that no-one sees. I wish that I could open peoples' eyes to show them what we mannequins see every day - people in pain, hurting, wishing that they could be like us, and yet wanting all that their existence has to offer as well. We have learned to be content with our lot - we can strive to change and make things better, but we were made for a purpose, and the fulfilment of that is our greatest task. Chasing a higher calling is something that you can take for granted. Not us, for us, it is a battle the whole way.

A couple of weeks back, I began speaking with an older mannequin. She told me her story over a few drinks one night. On the verge of retirement, she is bitter, hates people for what they have done to her. "Years", she said, voice cracked with the whiskey she drank straight "For bloody years I have stood there and watched the bastards go by, wasting their lives wishing for something good to come out of it. They look at us, and they want our perfection, our proportions or ageless faces. People have everything we want, and they throw it away. If we could have their time, their lives, it would be different. The changes that come with age, the etching of our experiences on our faces, we would celebrate it, rejoice in it, but they stand oblivious, hating the decay of time. The world is a place of irony, my dear. And that is, without a doubt, the greatest truth of all."

She continued on with her tale of wanting to be a professional writer. She had written some amazing things, and no-one had cared. She had shown an agent once, who took her work and sold it to a down-on-her-luck author for a lot of money. Unfortunately, that's the way things go. But it makes me realise that I want to do this even more. I want to do it for her, and for me, and all my kind, and if nothing else, to show that it can be done, that we can leave something of value behind when we are through with this life, just the same as you can.

So this is why I find myself here, at this point, feeling frustrated. I want to explore the ways of expression, the techniques and crafts of language. I want to show everyone that literature is transcendent - it goes over and above everything else. I want to show that it is higher, and truer than all else, that it can change you and shape you, that it is capable of uplifting you or breaking your heart.

I have a story to tell, and I will tell it. I may take years before I get to the point of knowing what it is. Until then though, I will keep writing, anything, scribbling, making the most of the time I have. I once heard someone say “we're here for a good time, not a long time”, and he was right – making the most of things is all I can do, and maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to see my dreams realised some day.... [pauses attentively, listening]... someone's coming! [quickly resumes mannequin pose].

*I edited this due to spacing issues.* *Twice.* *Aargh!*

When things just Work

You know those magical weeks when things just seem to work exactly as they should? I've had one of those weeks (and I hope in saying this that I do not curse the remainder of the week). It has been rather marvellous. A few of the wonderful things that have made this week fabulous:

Reason 1. I saw Neil Gaiman in Sydney, and got 2 things signed - my hardcover copy of Stardust (the illustrated one) in which he drew a picture of the moon, and M is for Magic in which he wrote "B is for Blake". So I was chuffed. Here are some photos:





Reason 2: I've been writing various things for ages now, with a feeling like they all linked together, but not being entirely sure how. Yesterday, while sitting at a cafe at uni, it all came to me, how the whole lot is wonderfully twisted and intertwined. Really well.

Reason 3: I can't recall if I already mentioned the fact that I finished the final edit of the Mannequin Monologue, and I think that it is head and shoulders in front of the previous version.

Reason 4: While I haven't posted up the Seven Deadly Sins things, it is because my friend Bec is doing a read-through and a "fix-this-Blake". Coming soon.

Have a tops weekend. Blake.

Sydney, Handbags and Golfclubs, and Meeting Neil Gaiman

I have just arrived home from Sydney, where I spent a very busy day or so shopping, flying about on buses, and meeting Neil Gaiman.

When I first arrived in Sydney, I went to King's Comics and purchased a lovely harcover edition of Stardust. When I had that in my hot little hand, I then hopped over to Elixir in Strand Arcade to have some lunch (I go there every time I am in Sydney) and then caught a bus to my friend Dave's house. While I was on the bus, I noticed, with no small amount of intruige, that there was a gentleman of African-America origin carrying a pink Gucchi handbag, with two golf clubs in it. Yes. No word of a lie. Crazy, hey?

Anyway, in the evening I went into the Galleries Victoria and heard Neil Gaiman do a reading and I got some stuff signed. He was a very nice gentleman, and it was a pleasure to 'meet' him face to face. I now have a signed copy of Stardust and M is for Magic.

So there you have it. One excited (and also poor, as of now) Blake.

WATCHMEN Film

If you head over to the website for the film WATCHMEN, based on Alan Moore's brilliant graphic novel of the same name, you can see some of the characters in full costume. I must say, I am really looking fowards to it now. Really nice job from what I can see.

Official Watchmen Movie Site

I have a headache

I have a headache. And I am tired. I have been writing. Thanks to my gorgeous friend Bec, who is magical, god (sometimes), and my newfound Muse, I have more or less finished the Gluttony poem, which is infinitely better for her input.

I am tired. And I have a headache.

I am going to bed instead of writing anymore.

PS - writing a story atm about a dude who goes insane. It's coming along nicely, thank-you. I have written the beginning, and the end, so I merely need to fill in the blanks.

Have a great weekend. Blake.