2AM Traffic

I'm back in Ottawa, though I haven't been back to the apartment yet. I dropped my stuff off at Andrea's and we went out to Gloucester to attempt to see The Dark Knight on IMAX. Despite getting there early the show was sold out and was actually selling out for TONIGHT. It's been a while since I've seen a movie garner such popularity. We grabbed tickets for the Thursday night show and went to see WALL-E instead, which I thought was fantastic and heartfelt and dazzling. I should watch more cartoons.

So. Ottawa. I want to keep the momentum going. A part of me is afraid it will dissipate. It will help, I think, to have a new place to myself. Not just a whole room, but two, three, four rooms. When I get bored of writing in one I can move to the other and worry only about the distractions I make for myself. I'm going to surround myself with things that will motivate me - pictures, words. People. I want to surround myself with people who will care about what I have to to say, care enough to want to help me make it better. I want to remember the three words that I heard repeated ad nauseum over the week at Humber: just do it. Write. Write the thing and fuck everything else. If I don't have output I don't have shit. I have to tap the well inside me and let it flow. I'll worry about containing it later. The other day I wrote a thousand words about a weird memory I have kicking around in my head. A flash of an image I saw on television when I was young. One thing led to another and to another and before I knew it I had words, glorious and awful and exciting and boring words, scattered on a page. I need more. I need to need more.

I need to create a schedule for myself that I can adhere to.

Wake up.
Shower.
One hour: write in journal.
Two hours: read.
Two hours: write.
Two hours: play music.
Live.
Sleep.

Something like that. Take seven hours out of each day to make and absorb art. Get things done. Then get them read.