change of address

ok
i now have a new special blog site, set up by my brother
it's basically the same as this one, except with a cooler html
http://stevenpillemer.com

Like, totally no way.

Okay, so like, Je-sus. London on Saturday.

Prologue

A novel will frequently begin with a prologue. The prologue establishes something that becomes an integral part of the novel as it weaves onwards from it's first chapter. In the Da Vanci code, it's when the weird old secret service grandad of the French Translator chick gets whacked. It sets something up, for the reader, that reveals certain information to him that is beyond the grasp of the main protagonist.

I am currently in the opening chapter of the next phase of my life. Unbeknownst to me the prologue is occuring elsewhere in the world and I am blithely unaware of it. Some situation, some person, some reality is occuring somewhere that I am about to inadvertantly step into. I, the protagonist of my life, have no clue as to what this shall be.

You the reader do not either, because in the novel of a life the only objective viewer are aliens or God or Big Brother depending on what set of conspiracies you choose to believe to explain the unexplainable nature of the universe. Perhaps it is a book unread. Certainly Dawkins would say it is so.

Chapter one progresses with tying up the odd ends of my life, leaving Cape Town, packing boxes, not really saying goodbye to everyone I should have said goodbye to and receiving slightly petulant e-mails, smses and face-book messages to vaugely inquire into the rude nature of my behaviour.

In Chapter One the status quo of the protangonist gets set up as well as what he expects. Or she. In this case he.

London. What do I expect?

Mm.

Those tube station signs.

That's about it. The rest is a mystery.

Ooh, and British accents.

Competitive vibes

Ergh. My brother convinced me to add my blog to Amatomu which is like a blog ranking rating system, and now I feel obliged to write more on it, because I'm competitive. Not in like a sports kind of way though. I don't like to run fast, or shoot well, or y'know, hit things.

Except walls, but only when I'm feeling really frustrated.

Or want to have some cool knuckle bruises to impress chicks with.

See, now I'm just showing off.

Women, man... my new show did it's first preview last night and opens on Friday. The preview went well, people laughed, even at the bit where someone threatens to cut out someone else's tongue. I always get worried when using excessive violence as a source of comedy, but hey, they say the essence of comedy is someone else's misery, and people laughed it up.

And then at the end, in one of the sad monologues, this group of girls sitting around a table all started crying. It was awesome.

I like to make girls cry.

Now I'm just showing off again.

Stupid competitive blogging vibe, it makes me act out.

I don't recommend this

My car is totally decrepit. A sad sorry car with dents and scratches and mischievous breaks. I never treated it with the love it should have been given, and now it's coming back to me as a form of karmic punishment. By that I mean my bad energy towards my car has turned getting rid of the crap heap into a totally soul-draining mission. No one wants to buy it. Not the VW people. Not the dodgy second hand car dealers in Woodstock. No one. People snigger when I show it to them, and reply: "Wow, you weren't kidding when you said it was a bit of a fixer-upper."

I read a funny quote on the internet last night. It says: "Good judgement comes from bad experiences which come from bad judgement." The great learning curve of life. Stupid thing that it is.

Also I wouldn't recommend trying to stage a play over the exact same time you're trying to tie up all the loose ends of your life as you depart from the city you live. What a mission.

Although London soon. Scary. Exciting. Wee.

Back on the wagon

Ah, blogging, a past time that passes time. Throwing words into the web and letting them get stuck there for all eternity. Giving the voiceless a voice and the faceless a face. Except for the voiceless and faceless people that can't afford the internet. Money, money, money.

Tonight I play poker. A R50 buy in. Perhaps I can earn enough money to get me drunk this weekend.

For my angry fan base

So it's been a long time since I last posted a blog.

My backpack was lost and then found by the aiport a few days later.

I was in airports for over 26 hours and every flight I was on was delayed.

I'm now back in Cape Town and it's stupid hot.

There's a line from a poet called Rumi which reads: "In the Winter we want Summer, but then it comes and we don't like it."

I should be working on the script that Terri and I have done that is going to be staged in Durban, but it's hard to concentrate when you're blinded by the sweat dripping from your brow.

I went to work in Gardens Centre at a coffee shop on the script earlier today, because it's air conditioned there and then I left the Centre and proceeded to sweat on everything.

I went to my friend Rob who has a pool to try and work there, because we have a new maid (and Jonx and Tracy forced me to fire the old one, even though they hired her, so I had to be the evil one, those bastards) and I didn't want to be in her way while she worked.

I ended up spending about 2 hours in Rob's pool and doing very little productive work, and met a nice girl called Candice who was doing the same thing. She was a model, but had a very fat tummy. I didn't realise that was allowed.

Studying law through Unisa semi-sucks. A few of the books are interesting, but some of them are very not interesting, and failure would be too embarrassing, especially because my ex-girlfriend has just started doing law at UCT, and so I have to get better marks then her, otherwise she'll be able to gloat, and I want the gloating points. Man, but I actually have to be in charge of myself and not have some lecturer teaching me.

I still don't know what I'm doing with my life and where I'm going to live this year, but I've given myself until the 15th of Februrary to make a decision, which means I'll probably have made it around the 25th Februrary. At the moment I'm tending towards London, just because I keep on hearing about how if you can make your own work and it's reviewed well... well then things can be different. Also a friend of mine described the London Art Scene versus the South African Art Scene as thus. In London you're considered an Artist, in South Africa you're considered a Drama Student (even if you haven't been one for 20 years.) It's just a totally different attitude to the Arts.

I might go to JHB though. I don't know yet. Maybe the Sitcom will still happen. (Ha, ha, ha.)

I think instead of doing any work I'll go to the beach and take a law book with me. That way I'll have a big book to hold over my face so as to not get sunburnt. Perhaps I'll even open it.