… ahh, no, they don’t.
Boxwatch: The Return of Fox and Dana
By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17424488
The original run of The X-Files was not quite the appointment viewing that Law & Order was. When I did watch it, I thrilled to the case-of-the-week but quickly tired of the overall story arc — especially once I realised how that was progressed:
- a witness reluctantly testifies to Mulder with potentially earth-shattering information;
- Mulder leaps to the conclusion that this witness is The Key to the mystery or conspiracy he is trying to unravel;
- the witness disappears or dies;
- the witness’s uncorroborated testimony has a sliver of information that leads to another witness;
- repeat from 1. above.
The above recipe worked a treat for the show but my viewing began to slip as I tried with less and less success to block out the conspiracy blah-blah and enjoy the case-of-the-week. The last I saw of The X-Files was the feature film Fight the Future which was two hours of conspiracy gibberish, made slightly passable by the gravitas of Martin Landau and Armin Mueller-Stahl and feature-budget SFX.
So… Mulder and Scully are together again, and the truth is still out there. As an audience member, I’m like, Yeah, nah. As a writer, it’s disappointing to see it hasn’t refreshed its find-witness-leap-to-conclusion-lose-witness recipe — I mean, after nine goddamned seasons and two feature films, don’tchathink the heroes would’ve learned to protect their witnesses better by now? And, shockingly, it suffers from say-my-name-ism — following is an exchange verbatim:
EXT. PUBLIC MEETING PLACE -- DAY
FOX MULDER exits a car and joins DANA SCULLY on a busy city street. It’s been years since they last saw each other.
SCULLY
(off Mulder’s mode of transport)
Uber?
MULDER
I hitchhiked.
(off Scully)
Relax, Scully, I’m kidding.
SCULLY
I just worry about you, Mulder.
Really? Haven’t they been reading my blog?
500
That’s the number of posts I’ve written, including this one.
On the not-too-distant horizon is this website’s tenth anniversary.
Check out The Dog before this blog began:
— and now:
She can run five kilometres again, too, despite a not-quite-obit almost two years ago. We think this is due in large part to the The Puppy‘s arrival early last year, and the all-you-can-sniff opportunities the new property offers.
There’s hope for me yet.
2015 by Distance and Virtue
I’m nowhere near approaching the crossfitness heights of a certain Mr Tripuraneni but I’m doing okay, if I don’t mind saying so myself.
I logged a far-too-modest 45 weight-training sessions this year which is obviously less-than-once-a-week (and my belt notches certainly show this). I’m trying to console myself with the thought that it could have been worse (previous years have logged paltry single digits).
As for the running, thanks to a (personally) epic 12 kilometre run earlier today, I’ve managed to clock just over 300 kilometres in 2015, though this was only achieved on an average of one run per week.
I wouldn’t say 2015 has been busy; it’s been more… eventful. I turned a year older and my appetite — once a shameless point of pride — has shrunken to bird-like European dimensions. Maybe I’ve reached the point where my exercise goal of shooting for the moon and glorying in my pain tolerance should be moderated to shooting for the moon and being grateful I can still shoot for the moon.
2015 by 4K and 720p
Ay caramba, that was quick.
“Sicario poster” by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia.
Enjoyed immensely on the big screen:
- A Most Wanted Man
- Top Five
- Ant-Man
- Love is Strange
- Inside Out
- Amy
- Sicario
- Exit Through the Gift Shop
- Spotlight
- Steve Jobs
“Top Five poster” by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia.
Honourable mentions to John Carpenter‘s remake of The Thing which was enjoyed with a bunch of millenials who were genuinely freaked out by Rob Bottin‘s 1980s-era SFX, Cartel Land, The Guest, and Warrior which I finally watched after years of ravings by the inestimable Mr Fyers.
Devoured with great pleasure on the small screen:
- Justified S06
- Transparent S01
- The Americans S02
- Game of Thrones S05
- Mr Robot S01
- Nurse Jackie S07
- Catastrophe S01
- The Good Wife S06
- Arrow S02–03
- The Flash S01–02
“Catastrophe (2015 TV series) title” by Source (WP:NFCC#4). Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia.
Honourable mentions to the CW’s one-two combo of Arrow S03–04 and The Flash S01–02, the not particularly innovative crime-fixer show Ray Donovan S03 which is made compelling by Liev Schrieber, Eddie Marsan and Jon Voight, Humans S01, and The Walking Dead S06E01–06.
“MrRobot intertitle” by Source (WP:NFCC#4). Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia.
So much good television and so little time…
2015 by Dots per Inch
I actually read stuff this year — 91 titles as a matter of fact, seven of which I didn’t finish for various reasons. This compares very well with 2014’s measly 24 titles.
Highlights, in no particular order:
- Justified pilot script by Graham Yost;
- Transparent pilot script by Jill Soloway;
- Steve Jobs 19 March 2015 draft script by Aaron Sorkin;
- The Fade Out issues 1–12 by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips;
- Alex + Ada by Sarah Vaughan & Michael Luna;
- Lazarus issues 1–20 by Greg Rucka and Michael Lark;
- X-ed Out, The Hive, and Sugar Skull by Charles Burns;
- Down Under by Bill Bryson;
- Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout;
- No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy;
- Cop Killer by Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo.
Honourable mentions to The Ballad of Halo Jones by Moore and Ian Gibson, The Walking Dead issues 136–149 by Robert Kirkman, Charlie Adlard, Stefano Gaudiano, and Cliff Rathburn, and Ms Marvel issues 1–5 by Sana Amanat, G Willow Wilson, and Adrian Alphona.
I feel like I should read more text-only books but I suspect that’s my easily triggered inferiority complex.
Stalk and Leaf
I’m obsessed with Jerusalem cherry: I’m walking the dogs, I see it, I pull it; I’m dancing through the Orange Grove, inhaling its citrus fragrance when I see a certain leaf shape and I stop and pull it — you get the idea. And the thing is, there’s so much of it around that if there’s one, there’s usually his friends nearby (and those friends have their friends nearby, if you knowhumsayin).
So there’s the shape recognition thing going on (I can pick it out from a carpet of green — and I’m talking the non-fruiting plant), and there’s the method of pulling it out (grab it as low as possible to the ground for maximum effect). This weed is an hardy little bastard where if just the stalk is removed, the root will continue to grow.
I’ve come across pockets — goddamned handbags, more like it — where careful pulling on a tiny stalk and leaf reveals a substantial root.
Great characterisation does that, too: a mild-mannered wall-flower of a reporter is also a Son of Krypton with powers beyond imagining; a traumatised warrant officer returns to the planet she warned everyone about is also a natural leader, a resourceful fighter and mother; a taciturn consultant who joins a special task force steals the film right out from under the named lead… and so forth.
I’ve got a one-person theatre project where I’ve got all the first impressions down pat: funny, opinionated, long suffering, and compassionate. But I’m having some difficulty getting across the character’s history without turning the piece into a long recitation of who-done-wrong, how-I-got-here, and variations on My-Cat-Blackie.
I’ve got the stalk and the leaf to tempt the audience with. I just have to come up with the root.
Mammoth (and some housekeeping)
Housekeeping here.
First, my apologies for the cliffhangers — in case you were wondering:
- the buggered burner: Dave the Chimney Sweep rebuilt the burner and re-installed it a fortnight later. The time we were without heating was survived with little incident and few cross words, thanks to an oil column heater in the smallest room, and a steady supply of hot water bottles.
- the blown B1: this, too, needed a stint in a workshop, but The Boys from McQuinn’s were terribly helpful with a loan pump to keep the water flowing, and generous with their patience and knowledge (like I said, the people up this way are helpful and friendly).
- the correspondence of D F Mamea, Esquire, newly of Northland: those situation reports are of much interest to myself and The Goddess but I bet they are of little interest to you, Beloved Reader — you’re here because I’m (supposed to be) all about the scriptwriting, and the last few posts, as entertaining as they may be, haven’t really been about that; I thank you for your forbearance.
Having said all that about the relevance of our new digs to writing…
The previous inhabitants had let the property go to seed in various areas (q.v. burner and B1), the most visible sign being the establishment of Jerusalem cherry through The Wood and in the Green Zone. Although its green, orange and red fruit provide a splash of colour, its fruit is rather poisonous.
“Solanum pseudocapsicum04” by Paul venter – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons.
So, most days since we took possession of this land, I’ve been pulling that weed out by hand (Fortress Mamea is organic, thank you). It’s a simple enough job, mindless and repetitive (and immediately gratifying) but because a considerable part of the property is under this weed, it’s also an awfully immense task.
The only way to handle the size of the task at hand has been to a). prioritise the workload, and/or b). do it a bit at a time. Since the weed is fruiting right now, the priority is to pull out whatever’s fruiting because each of those fruit contain at least a dozen seeds, and any one plant can have as much several dozen fruit on them. Sometimes that gets boring — or overwhelming — so I stake out a little 5 by 5 metre area and pull out all of the Jerusalem cherry, and afterwards stand back and feel a little bit like General Sherman.
Which is a typically long-winded way of saying… I’ve started writing again.
The move to Northland, and the work required to tidy up the property and its surrounds for clear fields of fire, have consumed much more of my mind and energy than I expected. The blog posts — as you can tell — have been more about the new circumstances rather than trying to see the writing angle in things.
But I’ve started writing again. Which meant I had to dig out my notes and files to try and remember where I’m at with various projects. Some projects are so large and/or complex that I’ve had to prioritise my method of reacquaintanceship, or nibble at the edges to make sense of a small part of it. It feels a little overwhelming — a bit like a patient coming out of a coma and trying to come to terms with the time lost — but it’s manageable. I can prioritise. Or I can start small.
Just like with the damned Jerusalem cherry.
Mod Cons
Relocating Fortress Mamea to a rural location means a little bit of doing without. Cellphone reception is spotty — upon departing the property, cellphones tend to trill with backlogged txts and messages. Our nearest neighbour is over a hundred yards away (in Auckland, our neighbour’s garage was five yards away). And our water comes from… a water tank on the property.
Yep, when it comes to water, we’re off the grid. Rain water is collected and stored in a large concrete tank, with the idea of collecting it over a wet Northland winter, and stretching it out over the drier months. Long, hot showers are being enjoyed while it’s raining outside; come summer, navy showers will be de rigeur. Water closet discipline is observed as a matter of course.
Between the living quarters and the water tank is a pump that, y’know, gets water from the tank to the tap or shower head.
I don’t know if I’ve owned up to this before but The Goddess wears the pants in our relationship: She’s DIY, green-thumbed, and an all-round nurturer; for my part, I require supervision when using power tools, am the destroyer of all pre-approved greenery, and love to be nurtured. So when the property was acquired and its various rural peculiarities noted, one of my fears was having something essential and mechanical break down.
Something like the water pump, which stopped working on the first month anniversary of moving in.
THE GODDESS stands over the reticent B1 PUMP, a wrench in hand.
THE GODDESS
(re. pump)
... Oh dear.
Our WRITER, standing nearby, makes an involuntary noise, not unlike a whimper.
THE GODDESS (CONT’D)
Do you want to move back to Auckland?
WRITER
This is just a... first act obstacle in an Alistair Maclean book.
THE GODDESS
That’s my boy.
WRITER
Who you calling ‘boy’?
She smiles.
Whangarei
Would you believe that I’ve moved to a town that I first visited* only several months earlier? It feels like The Goddess‘ Five Year plan pulled a sack over my head and WHOA, here I am in Northland**.
It’s nice and green and open up here. The town city is small without being tiny or compact, it’s to be home to a Hundterwasser Museum, and the overall vibe is of 1970s New Zild — unhurried and she’ll-be-right.
It also seems to have a bit of a rep. I was puzzled and a little concerned by people’s reactions to the announcement of our northward move. “How safe is it?” asked a favoured relation, which I misunderstood to mean the health and safety hazards inherent in a rural property. “Better have eyes in the back of your head,” a colleague emailed, with a link to a recent sudden and violent death in the district. And then there was the Mamea family reaction:
WRITER
(into phone)
We’re moving to Whangarei, Mother.
WRITER’S MOTHER
(V.O.; filter)
To where?
WRITER
(into phone)
Whangarei.
WRITER’S MOTHER
(V.O.; filter)
... Whangarei is full of Maoris, son.
Beat.
WRITER
(into phone)
You do know that more than half of your grandchildren are part Maori?
WRITER’S MOTHER
(V.O.; filter)
Yes, and every day I forgive their parents.
I think we’re as safe here as we would be anywhere else in the world — safer, even, with our natural barriers. The natives are friendly — more than they’ve a right to be since we’re part of a wave of former Auckland residents increasing house and land prices — and there’s no sense of being judged on appearance.
I like how fellow road users use the two-second rule, obey the amber light, and merge like a zip. I like how, in shops and businesses, people are sincere with their howdedo’s, and they sound genuinely sorry for not stocking an item you’re after. I like how winter in Whangarei town looks like a rugged outdoor clothing convention, where mud-encrusted gumboots or jandals complete people’s ensembles.
There’s something about our new town that I can’t quite pin down. It’s friendly but not overbearingly so. It’s rural but not isolated. And there’s a shooting range five kilometres down the road (and ’round the corner, even!) from Fortress Mamea, a far, far cry from Auckland where the ‘local’ range was 50 kilometres away.
Why, yessir, I could get to like this place.
* Driving through en route to Cape Reinga or Kerikeri doesn’t count.
** Some dramatic licence there, obviously.