It Took . . .

. . . me nearly losing this job to appreciate the things I was able to accomplish here. Not in the office, but at this desk. It was during my first stint here, on a temporary assignment, that I typed out my first full-length screenplay. I think it was about bears VS. dragons or some shit like that. Either way, I lost the rights to it when I rolled boxcars in my standing dice game outside the White Hen. Nearly everything of worth that I've written was created here in the basement office located at Lower Level 30. It's an environment that's at once imprisoning (I've been working for five years in a windowless room with a band of fucktards who have taken over the ship)and inspiring. Writing provides that needed escape from these walls. Outside this place, that need doesn't exist. When I write at home, it feels forced. Like I'm writing for the sake of writing -making everything read back as fraudulent to me.

This summer I was asked to animate a music video for a band out of New Mexico. The work started out exciting, and it slowly started to lose steam. The hours didn't allow for me to do it here at the office and when I took it home, it died. The schedule has freed itself up here, and I'm hoping to resume production. But without this desk and the flat gray of the cube wall, I don't know how it'll get done.

And I looked looked back at this blog. To those days of wine and roses, where the posts were frequent and the comments stood ignored, outright. I forgot how much I enjoyed coming in each morning and, for lack of a better word, free-writing.

So Lower Level 30 is my Zelda, my Anais and my Sharona.

Never gonna stop. Give it up. Such a dirty mind.