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Lack Of Updating
I seem to have moved over to a new blog of sorts. I don't know if updating here will continue often. Point your browsers to www.zombiebaby.com for fun and goodness.
Inkheart Review
Inkheart
by Cornelia Funke
Inkheart tells the story of a father and daughter on the run and protecting a book from an evil overlord of sorts. It turns out the father has the uncanny ability to bring what he reads to life, but at a price. The overlord wants this power to become even more powerful, and cull a few friends from the book the father originally read the overlord out from. Twists, turns, and betrayals await.
Inkheart makes itself interesting from the cover flap. Who wouldn't want to read a story about the characters of a book accidentally coming to life in the real world thanks to some unexplained magic? It harkens back to the feeling of childhood where you thought the world be so much better full of fairies and magicians and other mystical beasties. The Neverending Story was a perfect example of that childhood dream fulfilled. So with these thoughts in my head, I quickly grabbed a copy of Inkheart and started reading.
And after thirty pages, lost in my trunk for four months. What a dull book this started out to be. But, I recently pulled it out of the trunk purgatory and began again. Afterall, I hated the start of Harry Potter originally. I could care less about the real family. I want wizards and magic.
Over my vacation I finished Inkheart after much struggling. The book suffers most from what seems like 100 unnecessary pages. About 300 pages in, the story just floats there as you're retold over and over again why certain characters are acting the way they are. The ideas presented to the reader are never fully realized. There is no major payoff to the idea of books coming to life. Sure it happens, but it's all very minimal and easy to predict.
At about 300 pages in, however, you're also invested enough to finish reading the book. You only have 200 pages to go afterall. May as well get through it. Kids may find it a fun read, especially fans of the fantasy genre, but anyone basing their excitement after reading the book flap are going to be disappointed.
Insta-Snow Big Bag Science Toys Physical Science
Insta-Snow Big Bag Science Toys Physical Science
Returned To Sender
For the four of you that read this, I have indeed returned from San Diego. In a gargantuan feat for myself, I even journaled the entire thing in a handmade journal Amanda bought for me a birthday ago. It's my official travel journal. All wicker and brown. It just seemed like a journal that deserved to travel. And so it has.
Returning from California always has the same effect on me. Complete and utter depression. I love that state. And the more I return to it, the more I realize I'm meant to live the life of a sunny California guy. None of that LA stuff though. I don't need the smog.
I'm hoping to get the journal up in the next few days, adding thoughts on situations now that I'm back. It was mostly all bullet lists and random thoughts after the first day. Eight hours of walking tends to take it out of you.
But, and I want to talk about this now, as I noticed at the end of everyday, I WAS able to walk for 8 hours and not feel even remotely affected by my MS. I was tired, as everyone would be after wandering large cities for 8 hours, but I was TIRED. I was even able to fall asleep on either half of my Ambien dosage or none at all. People would have thought it was an all new Mike. And, it was. I was at peace for the first time in months. I was able to read books and feel alone.
And that's made me realize I need to make some changes as soon as possible. I'm looking into applying at some art schools in California. It's time. I hope I can pull it off. I'm going to miss my friends desperately if I go, but I think it may be the best thing for me.
And if not, I come back. My other option is moving down to Chicago and getting my Masters from Columbia. Quit my job. Sell my car. Just go be a part time working artist somewhere. It's a possibility.
Keeping Things Free
Evanston library won't ban kids' book:
"A children's book depicting a masked burglar pointing a gun at a woman will remain in Evanston Public Library despite complaints that the image is too violent for young readers.
'A good library collection should have something to offend everyone,' said Jan Bojda, head of children's services at the library. 'If they don't, they are not doing their job.'"
"Moore's 'Fahrenheit 9/11' has Hollywood buzzing"
Google News: "Moore's 'Fahrenheit 9/11' has Hollywood buzzing"
The Biggest Moment Of My Seconds
The Biggest Moment Of My Seconds.
A big concern for most artists on anti-depressants is that the cure for one problem may be the cause of another, namely the loss of that small bit of unknown where the art comes from, where our voice comes from. I haven't researched. I don't know if there is actual reason to fear this, or if it's more of an artistic urban legend, told by artists to scare their children into behaving. So, it goes without saying that when I first told it was time for Mike to be on Paxil, I was concerned and scared. The fear was twofold. I WAS scared I would lose my art once my brain became balanced. But, I was also concerned that my sex drive would disappear completely, not that I use it.
It was then I realized that my art has never come from my depression. My most popular stuff came before my problems and my void of life. Four years ago I was at my happiest, and I was most productive in my field. It was only after life started getting me down did my work slowly dwindle and fade and generally just go back to where I was borrowing it.
My words seem to be back though. My words are forming. Syllables are growing, and I feel that my thoughts seem to be more coherent and readable. Of course, now that I can do this again, I don't. I don't have time to write in journals as much as I like, even this journal suffers from the fact that I enjoy getting work done, and so my art suffers.
But I've begun to realize that I mistake exhaustion for depression now. I'm tired, so therefore I must be depressed. But it turns out, I'm just tired. Life has thrown a lot of shit at me, for lack of a better phrase, and I'm tired. More than I'd like. I have a hard time realizing that I'm not the person I was even three years ago. And that's part of growing up. I still have dreams and aspirations of fame and leisure, but I'm beginning to realize that those goals must be slowed down to make sure my health doesn't suffer.
It's something that I've been thinking about. I miss the old days, constantly having someone to see, and something to do. Friends abounded, and now they're farther away. I miss that part of my life. But they're still there. I may have more time to reflect, but just because I'm not filling that time with hanging out doesn't mean I'm less of a person. It's given me more time to become a better person.
A stronger person.
Straight Through To Morning
Here's one to keep you up wondering about things. I can't remember how it started, but this is what I remember of my incredibly fucked up dream. First, it was in the scary place between awake and asleep, so I felt I was awake and that makes it even worse for me.
Lionel Richie was killing midgets. That's the short form. All I remember is that a war broke out. I remember that it vaguely started out about a dream involving my complete inability to sleep without the use of pills. I decided to try sleeping in my garage to little effect, as out of nowhere a party started. But this party was also something that seemed like the beginning of a war, as we seemed to be fortifying the gates in my house and the house next store. Sure, it doesn't seem like a large amount of space, but in my dream, it was a vast island type affair.
Oh. It was also a singles meet. Don't ask me. During this time, I met someone and fell in love with her, while also discovering that someone who wrote a poem we loved, and incited us to action, had died. This was a kid. 10-year-old boy I think.
And that's when the war started. We all ended up dying trying to protect something, and as I was losing my grip on reality, they discovered we had set a trap for them in an apartment not too far away. They were convinced they were going to get something important to us. And then I apparently died.
The scene changed to the apartment. Lionel Richie and someone who may or may not have been Rose McGowan bust down the door, searching for something that wasn't there. Hiding under a table was a blonde midget/little person/what have you, who knew she was going to die, and had strapped the room full of dynamite, desperate to get rid of these two high-ranking officials from the opposing army. Before she could set off the bomb however, Rose McGowan was told over intercom it was a trap and to get out. She started yelling at Lionel Richie to get out of there, but he decided he wanted to get the person who was trying to kill him. Right as he discovered where this person was.....I woke up.
And people wonder why I need pills to keep me asleep.
One In Five
Neurologists seem to be the lottery card of the medical world. Only one in 5 seem to be worth anything. I've seen four neurologists in three years, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the newest one would completely disregard the information presented to me by the previous doctors.
I feel like warmed-over hell this morning. The weather is destroying my brain. And my MS is destroying my back.
I finished up Zombie Baby, the website, last night. I'm honestly very impressed with it. It represents a loosening up of my art.
Whaddya think? Comments always appreciated.
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