October 26th: An Actual Tragedy

There comes a moment in every child's life when they surpass their parents knowledge in something, most commonly technology.

My mother types with two fingers. I type with ten.

Regardless, a great tragedy has struck on the back of an dark epiphany - my mother knows how to work blogspot better than I do.

How do I make the thing appear so people can follow? How do I see that without making everything hop to the left?

This is a tragedy more profound than anything found in Ancient Greece. The Pupil surpassed the Teacher only to become the Pupil again.

I don't think my pride will recover from this one, not after the merciless teasing I throw at her.

Well shit.

October 26th: In the beginning

The truth is: there is no such thing as truth. Our lives are subjective and facts are only facts depending on how, when and where you were born. Villains can be heroes; mighty victories, shameful defeats. Love can be love from one eye and cruel from another. Who you are now and who you have been define your 'truths'.

These are my truths.

They're a little strange, yes, fucked up, quite possibly, left of field, for sure. Can you really expect any more from someone who spends 90% of their time in a world they created with people only real to them? Of course not! I'm crazy, insane, certifiable even. Hell, I'm a fucking writer.

This blog has three (3) titles:
Hops, Scotch and Chocolate: How to Aggravate Friends and Alienate People: A Writers Fable.
I'll be the first to admit that it's, arguably, a little much, but if you can't have your way with the internet, what can you have your way with? Even with it's pretentious, grandiose pointlessness, these are truths - they're my truths. It's what I love, what I do and what I learn (respectively). This is me.

If you leave me today with nought but a thought let it be this one:

Writers are fucking nuts.

I mean seriously. We spend our day and nights murdering people, torturing them and taking away everything they love. And we get off on it. So if you know a writer, be warned, because writers are fucking nuts.

I have a theory about this, actually.

Any and all Creatives - writer, actor, artist, musician - hop between two worlds a million times a day. Sometimes they leap far enough and return to the real world, sometimes part stays behind; and sometimes, most of the time, they don't push off hard enough, they leap, they fly, the sink, they fall, deeper and deeper into the gap between their worlds. This is what makes them so fucking nuts. It's quite hard to climb out of the Mariana Trench once you've settled in.

My theory involves these two worlds and the gap between .

The Real World / Your World: rent, taxes, social lives.
Their World: characters, conflict and control.

Your World is full of dangerous, uncontrollable things. Your body can betray you, your lover, your friend. You can find yourself from hero to zero in a blink and visa versa. This is the world where everything comes to an end. In this uniquely definite realm people piss on each other, break thing and drive each other to hell and back. It's beautiful.

People do things they hate for people they love; they break mirrors to see the beauty it hides. People kill, laugh, hurt and survive. I don't think you can quite capture this, not in words or pictures. It's a feeling.

And yet you can see it, and you have to. One day this Real World of yours will disappear and take everything with it - it'll take them one day, them and Their World.

This is why we have Their World.

Some of us are born with a gift - they can see the beautiful things, the tragic. And they tell us about it, show it so the rest of us can see. They show us so we can know what we're missing  because our eyes are so glued to our reflections in our fractured mirrors.

I'm not one of these people. I'm a different kind. Where some see where magic is, others see where it could be. We cast aspersions on the chaos of the real world and escape to our own but these writers, artists, musicians and dreamers are really just fucking nuts.

I mean seriously:
Q: What colour is the sky?
A: It's fucking green. A dragon hatched from the roots of an old gum tree and farted the first mosquito. Now the sky is full of their tiny green bodies, biting, sucking, scratching.
Q: Mosquitoes aren't green.
A: They're fucking green.

Never trust an artist to do the expected. Because they won't - of course. They don't know how.

In Your World you just ate a giant burrito without dying, in Their World they just stopped a mass murderer from killing the last unicorn and taking over the planet.

Can you see? Do you understand? We're freaks, hypochondriacs, drama queens and divas. We're doctors, magicians and astronauts, politicians. We're tragic, but we're fun, broken, unexpected.
If you're unfortunate enough to love one of us then please, grab something sturdy, because we will drag you into the hole in which we live.

Because we're fucking crazy, and that is a truth

LBH.