Three is the loneliest number

Happy blogiversary to me.


All people know the same truth: our life consists of how we choose to distort it.

I've never been a big Woody Allen fan, though I admire him, if that makes any sense, and so when a colleague of mine in the Film & TV department at USJ, who lectures part time in screenwriting and also teaches seminars at Dreamworks, listened as I outlined the plot of my screenplay over beers at The Loft, and then recommended I watch Deconstructing Harry, I ordered it right away. The tagline of the movie is, "Harry Block wrote a bestseller about his best friends. Now, his best friends are about to become his worst enemies."

I'm watching it right now.

I like it, I like it. A character who's too neurotic to function in life, and can only function in art.

A year ago I reflected on the strangeness of living in California. I wasn't happy to be here, and God knows I wasn't excited — I was so sick of people asking me that, just before I left Canada.

So now you're blaming me, because you're too scared to be loved?

I wrote last year that I don't write when I'm happy, but that's not why I'm not writing very much here, anymore. I haven't changed; I still write when I'm unhappy, and I'm still unhappy (though putting on a good front) so I'm still writing, but what I'm working on now is a screenplay.

You love too easily, and you love too much, and you shouldn't fall in love with me, because I'm the boy in that story, and I can't love anyone; I don't know how to love.

He picked her up at the airport when she moved 3,000 miles to a foreign country, and helped her settle in. He wanted so much for Pinky to purr when he picked him up. He took her to a Labor Day party at his friends' home, and they called him afterwards and told him she was awesome and asked when they could see her again. They spent Thanksgiving together, and Christmas, and New Year's. He showed her his beautiful city by the Bay again and again and again. He took her to the theatre. She met his father. And when she cried for her Dean who died, he was there for her, and at the end of the day that's what you want, that's what really matters. It's maybe all that matters.

She loves you still, despite your obvious condescension for her life.

He was always there for her, right up until he wasn't anymore.

The man is incapable of an act of faith, and for that I pity him.

Faith isn't about believing in someone like God, whose existence you have no proof of. It's just the opposite, in fact. Faith is believing in someone despite one terrible thing they've done because you have years of proof.