Politics, Republicans, Wars, all of it be damned. Ultimately, when Return of the King exists, the rest of it is just distraction.

I will include no spoilers, here, so fear not. But I’m actually going to have to see it a few more times before I can answer the question: “What do you think about the movie?” It’s like trying to qualify the Beatles, or Monet, or a Mouton Rothschild cabernet. You can break it down, you can analyze, but the greatness is simply in the experience.

As much as I’ve been looking forward to this night, I’m also mourning that it is already over. What now do I have to look forward to? What the hell am I going to do next December? I have to be satisfied with Christmas!?!? Ah, me. I will have to resort to returning to my own inner fantasy life. Rich as it is, I could not have created Aragorn. Tonight, Jordana leaned over to me and said, “You know he’s like 45” to which I replied, with a sigh, “Perfect”. Viggo Mortensen, I understand that your former wife was Exene. I realize that I am no famous rock star, nor a known actor. But I have a lot to offer. We have much in common. I, too, like horses.

Mr. Peter Jackson, I appeal to you to follow through with your yearn to make “The Hobbit”. I know that there are no female hobbit heroes, but given some digital lengthening effects I could quite easily be an elf. I already have the hair.

Yours truly,

The future Mrs. Mortensen

I’m sprawled on the fold-out bed of Sean and Jordi’s apartment, the only one still up, the only light from my computer screen. I had a blessed, quiet, five-hour flight that ended with pancakes and eggs at a Queen’s diner. I’m thrilled to be back in my city, but I’m quietly underwhelmed at the hundreds of images of “Saddam” (apparently America is on an only first name basis with the infamous prisoner) plastered on every magazine and TV screen. I don’t feel any need to detail what has already been said- and I could never say it as eloquently as Ian or Bud- but what I do feel is the need to reinforce the battlements and prepare for what is to come. Bush thinks that the capture of Saddam is going to erase the unease that the undecideds had about this war. He thinks that his frat-boy, war-mongering bullyism is going to be overlooked because we have that pathetic old man in chains.

This means that we, the decideds, must be activists when it comes to this bullshit. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it has become that much harder to oust our very own tyrant, to enforce our own regime change.

But wait a minute. I don’t mean to be simplistic, but why does Bush get any credit whatsoever? He hasn’t lost enough credibility for not capturing “Osama”, so the points for nabbing Saddam seem rather out of proportion. I know as leader of this country he is the one who instigated these wars, the champion of bombing the brown guys, but I just can’t give him credit. I can only applaud the Americans over there, the ones dodging bullets and grenades and suicide bombings, and particularly the ones who were unable to dodge. I have great trouble with the concept of “proud to be an American”, but I do hope that the people involved with Saddam’s capture at least feel accomplished at doing what they set out to do. I’ve heard stories about our soldiers who are filled with doubt, but who are determined to get the job done. I hope this brings them one step closer to home. I also dearly, dearly hope that this capture can result in less civilian Iraqi deaths as well.

At work, and so unable to write as much as I’d like, or take the time I’d like, but I have to take my online opportunities when I can.

It’s hard to motivate oneself when there are so many darn parties to attend. It’s fun, though- I’m making up for all the invitations I’ve refused over the years. Tonight is the winery party. The bus picks us up at 4:30 and then we are off to San Francisco. I’m hoping it will be an uncomplicated good time. Tomorrow is Christmas with my Dad, Monday is the holiday dinner with the Estate House staff, and then Tuesday I fly to New York. My friend Hayley always says that the best possible situation is doing something you’ve been looking forward to, but in that same moment have yet another good event in the near future. I feel pretty lucky right now, as far as that goes. Every day in New York will be a day spent with super good people.

Every day ahead of me has something I want to do, people I want to see.

Last night was a party at the wine Co-op here in St. Helena, and everyone who stores wine there was invited. It was a huge warehouse, and everyone in the biz had to bring a bottle of wine. There were round tables dotted all over the floor covered in about a hundred different bottles. Every table had an opener attached, and we walked around and tried everything enticing. Which was many a bottle. I saw a bunch of people I’d seen at other events, danced a little bit, drank some terrific wine. Not a bad time. If only I had a digital camera, and a high-speed internet connection, I too could decorate my blog in Ianesque style.

I’m hoping for snow on Christmas, hoping everyone digs the stuff I got them. Hoping I can make some good New Year’s resolutions.

It has become increasingly clear to me, particularly tonight after watching Santa roll through New York City (in the movie “Elf”) that I need to get off my ass. And I don’t mean just *here*, I mean entirely. I’ve oft considered myself completely full of shit, and admitted to it publicly time and time again, but that’s just the first of many steps. I can sit around and think to myself, “Well, I may be full of shit, but at least I admit it” until cows fly but ultimately that is what saddens me about me.

I can’t begin to write about what I want to write about. What is clear to me is who I need near me. I need to be here, right now, and I need to do some of the things I should have been doing for years. But I need to create my environment. I guess, at 31, I’ve finally realized that it is not going to fall in my lap. I also know I can whittle away the hours through play and booze, and believe me, there is something to be said for that, but I’m not going to move any mountains by sitting on my ass and killing valuable brain cells (albeit on terrific Cabernet).

I wish, I dearly wish I didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. But it’s not the same feeling as I had in New York, dreading to go have my life and artistry sapped from my body as I skillfully served sullen solvent saps superlative slop. It’s that I just realized I’ve had almost two months here, in this land of opportunity. I’ve had a darn good time. It’s time to get cracking.

It pains me to not be in New York right now. I don’t know how many of my fair readers actually read my blog independently of my brother Ian’s, so I can assume that most of you read his latest post. It is so strange to me that I don’t know what he’s talking about- I don’t know who lied to him and Tessa about investing in the Pink House. I can only imagine what they are feeling these days. And I am no longer a ten-minute walk (albeit through snow and storm, at this point) from their apartment so I cannot cuddle up to the ever-present cheese board, watch some bad cable, and get to the heart of what has happened in my absence. I cannot wait to see my New York family. Ian, Tess, I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.

I went to a party last night and got home at 9 this morning. These are fun days. But when my friend Christopher asked me why I’m not writing as much as I wish I was, I listed a dozen excuses, all of them essentially lame. I don’t know why I’m not writing, other than not having a computer on which to write. This, too, I could somehow circumnavigate, if only I could a) read my own longhand writing or b) feel comfortable saving work on other people’s computers (which I just cannot do. I’ve never felt comfortable doing this).

I am vastly lucky, deeply grateful for my current living situation. It’s time to actually start doing something concrete for my artistic life.

I’m obviously coming a little late to the party, but I just watched “Proof of Life” for the first time. Not a great movie, but not a waste of a couple of hours, even though a) the fight between Meg Ryan and her husband made absolutely no sense and b) I never got any clear sense of Meg Ryan’s character, other than that she was conflicted and that she had the hots for Russell Crowe. Although, I mean, who wouldn’t, but the scene where they finally kiss (sorry if this spoils it for anyone) is the only true moment in the movie.

The most interesting choice in the movie is how they show the progression of the relationship. Naturally there are boring pans of one staring at the other, little eureka moments of lust, but at one point Russell puts down his beer and Meg picks it up to drink it. Then they call for the maid in the same way, at the same time. These little moments of familiarity, of shared life, are so much more true than one person staring at the other without the stared at saying, “What?” In real life, people do not stare longingly at one another. They steal glances, turn their heads when their beloved walks by in hopes of catching the scent of the intended person. If memory serves.

I was offered another position today, working in the wine room in a major store here in the valley. I need to sleep on it, but I do know that it is way too early to leave the job I’ve had for less than two months. It’s flattering, though- the offer came from my reputation alone. Although it might be, in many ways, a perfect job, it would most likely have a much deeper commitment level and at this point, I am truly only committed to getting out of my bed every morning and showing up wherever I’m supposed to be. It’s daunting in the same way that looking for a place to live, signing a year lease scares me. As I’ve been saying since before I moved here, I’m simply not able to commit past tomorrow. I just don’t know.

I had so much fun with my friend Jon this week, and one of the big fat losers from work who spurned my friendship is actually reaching out to me, talking, joking, still allergic to the idea of actually hanging out with me, but at least he’s being super nice when I do see him. These things are good. I’ve started my Christmas shopping, which so far is also good, but I’m terrified to take a peek at my bank account. My stupid cold still plagues me. The dog is barking at the lamp. That’s about how things go around here.

When all I did was write in my journal, I’d skip days and weeks if I was sad. It wasn’t a conscious choice, I don’t think, but I also hated putting my misery on paper. It seems to be the opposite on this blog. I’ve had a terrific couple of days and yet not fought the rain and dial-up to post. And now, at work, I have no time.

Why does the spell check on Blogger not recognize “blog”?

We have a Christmas tree in the lobby, and Aimee Mann is singing “A Christmas Song” on our satellite radio. It doesn’t yet feel like the Christmas season, though. Maybe because it is 60 degrees and rainy here.

I had a fun week with my new friend Jon, even through the haze of a rotten cold. My dad has been laid out from a flu and infection for over a week. We are a sorry pair.

Sigh. More on everything later.

Ohh, Chr-IST! it does seem as though I’m lost in California, trying to find myself, doesn’t it Greg? How utterly boring. But then, I suppose all of my loyal readers are used to this crud I write, right? I have no excuse. Blogs are nothing more than Polaroids, fragments of thoughts, sometimes planned hours in advance but always altered by the moment fingers strike keys. If I had my druthers I’d write every day, every hour, but I’m suffering through dial-up and a dead laptop battery. And a wee case of the blues.

There is so much to write, every given day, that I feel sometimes I might burst or throw up if I can’t get to a keyboard. I cannot help it that pen and paper fail me; no one can read my handwriting, least of all me. If I cannot find a way to do this I will go mad.

I was sick for three boring days but tonight I had fun with my new friend Jon. It was a terrific, long, funny night, almost eight hours of good stuff, but near the end we just listened to music. We drove to the top of my hill sat in the car and he played music important to him and I thought I truly might stop breathing. The music he played was so filled with love and loss and useless truths that I didn’t quite know what to do with my false, half-drunk self. I know nothing of love. Nothing but reminders of what it once was to me. Truly, other than family, love has exactly nothing to do with my life and while that might seem a tragic or pitiful thing, it’s not. Love is just not an option, not something I wake with every morning. In fact, it confuses me. And this music, this music that shook my chest, that challenged my cynicism, that, sadly, reminded me of thoughts past, pressed upon my wine-laden mind and threatened to crush, to press me, each song like another stone on Giles Gory’s plank. What to do with so much foreign information. There should be warning signs on CD’s, not for “adult themes” or “racist lyrics” or whatever nonsense currently reigns. It should read: “total bullshit” or “beware: truth”. Something that warns of what is really there.

All of my thoughts are the same. What the *ahem* am I doing. I know nothing of contentedness, I mostly only know the difference between miserable or no. I watched the hills rolling by tonight, almost black against black, and understood that I have to keep plugging along. I have to keep believing, have to put yet another stupid f-cking foot in front of another, like I’ve done for so many years, and keep hoping that it will eventually lead me SOMEWHERE. If I am lucky enough to live to be 90, then I’ve already lived over a third of my life. I don’t even know what to do with that information.

There are good, hopeful, happy moments as well, but I never seem to be near a computer when they happen. I feel as though I’m floating, and little more.

There are a thousand things here to be thankful for, and I know them. A stepmom lovingly heating me soup when I’m too sick to stand. A dad who will never allow me to go hungry or cold. But the absolute question is this: what can I do for myself here? Or anywhere? What exactly can I do?