Homophoning it in.

Feeling out of it today. Tired and vaguely nauseous. So tired and nauseous that I briefly tried spelling the word as “nautious” before realising the era of my weighs. What if I did that? The entire entry, intentionally opt four the wrong spelling? Would that make people flip their shit? Sounds like a worthy endeavour two me.

In any case, eye woke up tyred. The kind of fatigue wear all of your dreams are about trying to go to sleep. One of them eyed been out drinking and partying in town (back in Auckland). Eye knew eye was drunk, given the sloppy mess of a burrito that eye’d attempted too devour like a raccoon in the compost. Lying down on the concrete, eye lay my head back and tried to close my I’s. A police officer had other ideas, prodding me with his boot. Eye came home (two Toronto) and got into bed, butt I couldn’t stop tossing and turning, knowing that this restless sleep in my dream was disrupting my sleep in reel life. I’m strangely aware while unconscious, which doesn’t do my ability to stay unconscious many favours. My life is Inception, okay, butt without the snazzy Hans Zimmer score.

Eye was tempted too come home sic from work today, butt a teem member pipped me two the post. The teem was covering her work, sew heaping my lode on top felt like unnecessary ruffness. Being tired, unwell and busy meant today was won of those clusterfucks where things will only continue to go wrong. They did. Continual sais were all eye could muster as defence against the workplace’s continual excrement.

There was a dilemma of sorts that eye wasn’t sure how to handle. My manager asked fore our phone numbers in case of emergency circumstances. Won) I’m surprised she doesn’t have mine already. To) What constitutes an emergency? Is it if we’re late too work? That eye can understand. On the other hand, if it’s about work things after our’s, do eye really want two make myself available? Frankly, once I’ve left the office, eye put work out of my mind completely. Eye don’t think about it until I return the next morning. It’s not the kind of job where I’d expect to bee on call. There’s nothing I can do, four won, and secondly they don’t pay me enough to care. In the end I gave my number knowing full well that my phone is always on silent and that giving my number in know weigh means eye have too pick up.

Speaking of which, it’s time to get the fuck out of here. Piece out.

I guess that Point Break came after her breaking point.

It takes a long time to fly half way around the world. With four hours left of my third flight in a row, my bum can sure testify to that. My tailbone in particular is furious. Real “I am Jack’s raging tailbone” kind of stuff. My body has decided to cramp and groan all over, so sitting in my seat feels more like writhing in discomfort. I wonder if United wants to adopt that as their new slogan. I don’t know if the phrase “familiarity breeds contempt” was coined for insomnia purposes, but after upping the ante and taking two melatonin pills, I’ve had a hard time getting much more than 20 minutes sleep per hour. I did just have the inimitable pleasure of shitting through turbulence. No typo. I love turbulence. I have enough faith in statistics to assume we’re gonna be perfectly safe and on the odd chance that we’re not, I won’t have very long to worry about it. When you’re sitting on the bog, bouncing up and down while holding on to an assistance rail, it just seems more adventurous. I don’t want to say that the one downside to riding a horse is not being able to shit on the go (without being bucked off), but if you’d ever been craving that unique experience, shitting through turbulence must be pretty damn close.

It’s been a peculiar day, as surely only an entire day navigating through transit and transit hubs can be. I guess expecting too much out of airports would be… hubris? To be honest, they haven’t been that lousy. Overinflated prices for sure. I’m not even gonna think about how much that bento cost. Still, San Francisco was nice, with bouncy horizontal travellators and the always enticing opportunity to eat Boston style clam chowder from a bread bowl (your quality and mileage may vary). After grabbing Japanese for dinner, we quickly found some seats and discarded plastic champagne flutes to do our Toronto New Years countdown/kiss. We made our duty free stop all of ten minutes before our flight was due to board, but weren’t allowed to carry our duty free to the gate (where we were directly heading). Instead we had to go to the gate and wait for the DFS service staff to deliver our goods at said gate. It’s the first time my alcohol has ever had an entourage. OH YEEEAH!

To be honest, the flights themselves have been fine. No real issue with food, decent entertainment, friendly staff, they don’t charge for blankets (which may indicate how low the bar is set for air transit these days. Thanks WestJet). The first flight, after an unusual 40 minute taxi, was smooth and a mere hour long. I spent the entire time listening to an old Harmontown episode. There was a sublime moment with a mom and daughter, both with long blonde hair. Sitting across the aisle from one another, entirely unprompted, pulled out hair ties and pulled their flowing locks into buns. The elderly woman sitting across from us was the oldest woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Not necessarily in age, but in mannerisms. She started ripping articles from the in flight magazine to save from later. She then began writing short emails to friends and family with strange capitalisation. 20 minutes before the flight ended she stated using the in-flight entertainment app, spent 15 minutes deciding what to watch and, with five minutes remaining in transit, settled on the Point Break remake.

The second flight, five hours in duration, went by pretty quickly thanks to the aforementioned in-flight entertainment. I’d heard great things about Your Name, a 2016 anime. The movie was about a guy and gal who began randomly finding themselves in each other’s bodies as they awoke. It sounds a lot more gimmicky than the touching, compelling film it turned out to be. A couple of twists and turns accompanied by stunning visuals and an emotionally manipulative score meant I basically spent most of my flight alternating between laughing and sobbing inconsolably. Especially after the next film I watched, Captain Fantastic. A quirky but earnest film about a father being left to raise his (six or seven. I lost count) children alone in the bush after their mother passes away. The film is a hell of a lot more layered than that, but I’d hate to give too much away. Viggo (can’t spell his last name) is in the titular rule (I guess. Nobody explicitly calls him Captain Fantastic, but it’s sort of implied), with a tremendous cast of young talents. I once again cried many times, but an equal ratio of happy to sad cries. A truly wonderful film.

But then the sound jack on my 12.5 hour flight was fucked and I couldn’t really watch stuff. So here we are. Anyway, I need to go. I’ve got a well sized turd waiting in the wings. Fingers crossed for turbulence.

Getting unstuck in time around here.

It wouldn’t be an international trip if I could sleep the night before. Whether tradition, happenstance or annoying habit, my mind is always too wired for trifling rest. Every time, dating back to my USA trip at eight years of age. Why sleep when you could be endlessly processing? Imagining everything that could go wrong? The multitude of things you’ve forgotten? The things you ran out of time to do? Things, things. Always things. Only amplified by the weird mind state induced by taking melatonin and only getting five hours sleep. After waking at 4am, by 5am I cut my losses and figured I might as well be doing something. It’s getting plenty surreal around here. I’m not sure the cat hasn’t asked to be fed in human words.

If that wasn’t fun enough, we get to mess with time zones too. We’re out of Toronto, into Washington, out of Washington and into San Francisco, out of San Fran and into Auckland. San Fran sets us three hours back, which means my girlfriend and I get to celebrate our Toronto New Years midnight kiss an hour before our San Fran flight. Then another one two hours after. As if we needed excuses. As for killing time between all the stops, we have a ton of Game of Thrones to catch up on. We’ll take flight into 2017 on dark wings, with dark words. Somewhere along the line we cross over another few time zones and end up in GMT+13. God only knows where my addled, sleep deprived mind will be by then.

Mostly I’m wondering how much clamato juice I can cram into my baggage. It’s a commodity back home, where bloody Caesars are a family tradition (quick, somebody cue Topol again). If I still can’t manage to sleep on a 12.5 hour flight, I’m gonna need a strong one. We get in at 8.55am (on the 2nd of January), so there’s little choice but to hit the ground running. Either that or we spend the first few days shaking off jet lag.

I still haven’t worked out the kinks of daily entries in a different time zone. Seeing as we’re skipping the 1st of January altogether, will I need to do a double entry before reaching NZ? Or double up on the way back? What did I do on my way over here in the first place? Moreover, will travelling again give my entries a much needed booster shot? Things have gotten stale here recently and I want to try breathe more life into this project. Whatever hopes I had for it way back when, I didn’t intend for it to be the next evolution of Live Journal. I need something to change in order to reignite a spark long dormant. A change in surroundings, reuniting with familiar faces, experiencing the old with renewed perspective. Fingers crossed it works. Otherwise we’re looking down the barrel towards a long descent into describing my daily bowel movements.

And then I’m shit out of luck.

I didn’t intend to make little odes to alliteration, but sometimes the magic just happens.

With the cat’s repeated meowling at 4.45am, getting back to sleep was a no go. Naturally I harnessed the extra hours gifted to me that would usually be frittered away on such frivolous enterprises as “sleep” as anyone would. I watched John Wick. I haven’t watched an action movie for eons. I normally opt for dialogue driven faux intellectual character pieces because I think I’m better than the vast unwashed masses. Really though, I’ve seen enough extreme violence that it’s hard for it to excite me much any more. It’s not that real world violence doesn’t shock me, but fictitious fatalities feel so done. If I’m gonna watch something action oriented it needs to be either starkly gritty or comically aggressive. John Wick seemed like it’d have Punisher: War Zone level theatrics. Stylised violence so far beyond realism it was farcical. A body count stacked so high that human lives no longer had significance beyond their use in flowing choreography. Plus I have a noted love of siege related content, defensive or offensive. To that end, John Wick gave me exactly what I want. Is it what you want? Here’s a short synopsis:

After Russian mobsters kill his dog, ex-assassin John Wick gets back in the game to kill them all.

Spoilers: He does. So many. He shoots Theon Greyjoy, stabs some guy in the jaw, breaks another dude’s neck over a kitchen counter, hits a dude in a car then shoots him twice through the car roof. It’s dumb, but gloriously so. It’s stylistically shot (pun surprisingly not intended) and has a ludicrously fun internal logic that it adheres to. The scenes in the armistice hotel and bar (barmistice?) were a riot. A cadre of cool, collected, civil spies living it up in the lap of luxury. The central currency of coin, the duality of dialogue and significance of style were enticingly extravagant. Also his ex-dog was cute.

Being worlds away from the word “masterpiece”, it was nonetheless an enjoyably excessive romp into the world of assassinry (I want that so badly to be a real word). Would sleep have been more beneficial to my rapidly deteriorating mental state? Hell no. I can sleep when I’m dead, which I will be if John Wick comes for me. Or when I discover that the cat’s endless yowls are pre-empting her transformation into a flesh eating beast.

Where did “It’s 2016” go?

What? How? Fuck. Wait, WHAT? No. No. NO. Fuck. FUCK. Fuck.

I’ve got nothing.

I don’t know what happens now. It’s a bleak day here in London. The sky is black, the heavens have opened and I heard crows. Dark wings, dark words. I’m not convinced the earth isn’t crying right now. I haven’t really slept. I curled up on a small couch just before 4am, terrified that what seemed to be happening, was. I hoped that by going to sleep I’d wake up to find it had all gone away. Instead I tossed and turned as my mind did back flips. Imagining foreboding realities where a soulless demagogue rode a wave of hateful rhetoric, giving voice to the bigoted, oppressive, angry and violent undercurrent of a global superpower. I woke to find those nightmares made flesh. This is not the same world as it was when I closed my eyes. Existence has been compromised, Cronenberged. Nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die. Come watch TV.

We’re all complicit in some way. We laughed at his insane ramblings and disconnect. Mocked his inability to capably voice policy. We clicked, watched. We paid attention to an entitled misogynist megalomaniac who’s never been told “no” in his life. Whatever our intentions or views, we helped give him the spotlight and this platform elevated him. People who conflated notoriety and popularity with intelligence and ability saw him as someone worth listening to In this society where we’re judged by likes, retweets and impressions, how would they know any better? We made him and I am so sorry.

I’m so sorry for every non cis male who finally got the chance to put their support behind a female candidate. I’m sorry for every generation to follow who’ll think their dreams aren’t viable on the basis of their gender. I’m sorry for people of colour, LGBTQ+ folk and anyone else who faces discrimination or systematic oppression because of who they are. I’m sorry for anyone who’s afraid, angry or hurt right now. I’m sorry that you weren’t heard or that nobody listened. I’m sorry that apologising won’t change a fucking thing, otherwise I’d never stop.

What happened to hope? Progress does not mean going backwards.

Yes, Ampersandman…

I’m a vivid, sometimes lucid dreamer. I’m hesitant to throw the term “lucid” around, because it’s something that ebbs and flows. I’ve deliberately tried to lucid dream before and done so effectively. It was great. Immediately I started flying and teleporting around the world. I went to Glastonbury festival and watched a bunch of bands. I flew around the streets in my neighbourhood just to see what it felt like a few metres in the air and at high speed. Lucid dreaming was A+. It was also more effort than I wanted to keep up. Lucid dreaming meant applying a lot of attentive thought to the idea right before I fell asleep. Reminding myself to try and look at the written word in my dream. A page from a book, signs, a clock. Telling myself that if I looked closely, glanced away, then looked back to see different or scribbled text, that I was in a dream. I could then guide the dream from that point onward. The hardest part was knowing that I was in a dream and not waking myself up. Even in that subconscious state there was the faint physical sensation of sheets against my resting body. There was an active push to stay in that fantasy world that so often I would lose.

Even when I don’t lucid dream, I’m super fortunate to often be in a position of dominance. Either I’ll possess some kind of powers, or this faint understanding that there’s nothing I can’t accomplish, for some reason. I remember a recent dream where I had to pass a series of tasks in order to win a woman’s hand in marriage. One of the tasks, for instance, was to work a bent cast iron pot back into shape with my bare hands (that’s dream logic for you). I looked at it and thought this is impossible, but no sooner had I taken hold of the pot that I realised oh wait, this is malleable. Everything is. I can’t remember the rest of the tasks, but they were a breeze after that. I also remember her family being a bit creepy, strangely enough. Her brother looked like Stephen Baldwin.

I’ve had flying dreams on the regular since I was a kid. The first one I remember had me as this little kid, no older than 7 or so. I was at my best friend’s house in their pool area. I tried to leave through the gate, but there was no handle. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find a way out. I realised there was a way up and levitated above it. Since I was already airborne, I stayed there. Why not, right? I have Spider-Man dreams a lot. Well, perhaps three times a month. I’ll be going about whatever narrative the dream casts me down, then I’ll realise things would be easier if I just walked up that building. I’ll “thwip” out a web or two and start swinging away. I’ll be strong, agile, bouncing about. Upon waking there’s always a beat of dismay, before realising I’ve got it pretty good, so there’s no point complaining.

The weirdest part is that I don’t even like sleeping. I do it out of necessity, but it’s hard to shake the notion that if I’m dreaming I can’t actually be doing anything. Like Gustav Graves, I’d rather be super productive and rule the world (or at least catch up on all my TV shows). All this power at my disposal and I waste it frivolously. I guess not everyone’s bent on total domination.

At this stage Johnny Five is more alive than I am.

JFL42 day five. We’re at the half way of the festival and my mind has already forsaken sanity for the colourful allure of delirium. Sleep at this point feels like cheating and I’m nothing if not honest. I don’t know if I’m a high functioning destitute or if this is all a dream and I’m chained up in a subterranean lair somewhere freebasing ground ceiling plaster.

Anyway, last night was an excellent night of comedy.

6.45pm – Hasan Minhaj.

I didn’t know Hasan Minhaj all of three weeks ago. I heard him on You Made It Weird with Pete Holmes and followed my instincts. He sounded like a really onto it guy, compassionate, insightful and funny. A Daily Show correspondent with Indian heritage, the idea of hearing from a perspective so different to my own seemed enticing. Seeing his one man show, “Homecoming King” was an experience akin to last year’s one man show by Chris Gethard. I’m already a fan of the format, it mixes stand up and theatre and uses its prepared nature to achieve a balance of hilarity and heartfelt sincerity.

Hasan was outstanding. Something I really appreciated was his inclination towards bilingual punchlines. Every once in a while he’d deliver in Urdu (I think. I hope. I’m sorry if I’m ignorantly wrong on this), to gasps and laughs around the room, then once he’d repeat it in English the laughter would echo as the rest of the room got the joke. It never felt token or hacky, it didn’t interrupt the flow, it purely made sense within the scope of the show. Top marks. Let me be clear, he wasn’t funny because he was different, he was funny and he was different. A standing ovation has rarely been so easily deserved.

9pm – Sabrina Jalees.

Opening for Sabrina was Amanda Brooke Perrin, who delivered one of my top three Beethoven bits I’ve ever heard. She killed. Totally and utterly. I’ll add in “completely” for a secondary redundancy. She’s a local, so I’m gonna make a point of catching a full set when I can. Awesome, awesome job.

I saw Sabrina two years back and she was fucking great, so I knew I was in for a gut-buster. Once again, she delivered. A couple of old bits, but tons of new material. It took a little bit to find her footing, but once she did she was on a solid roll. In a moment that can’t be described as anything less than magical, she made a joke about a dude in the front row’s sperm spilling out “millions of little Michaels.”

“Michael is my name.” He replied.

“You’re fucking with me.” She said “I’m gonna need to see your licence.

Handing it over, Sabrina confirmed his full name and the room lost its shit. “You deserve some kind of prize” she stated. She started running around the stage, then sprinted off stage right and emerged with an unopened beer. It didn’t matter what she did from that point onward, she was a magician and we were under her spell.

11pm – Gary Gulman.

You know, I’d never seen Gulman before, but he’s always had an excellent reputation. A clean comic seemed like a welcome reprieve from performers trying to go for gross-out shit. A six foot six gentle giant, his deliver was slow, plodding and very, very clever. He’d start out with these simple premises, easy to latch onto. Then over the course of ten minutes he’d build and build till your mind had an internal conflict of how did he get here//how did I not expect this? From a darkly relatable bit on picking up ice cream from the store, to an amazing extended piece on the contraction of U.S. State initials to two letters, he destroyed the late night crowd without reaching for a single perverse joke. Masterful.

In Conversation with Dan Harmon tonight and I can hardly believe it. At this stage, I don’t know if snorting ceiling plaster is helping or not.