Scrapped.

Aug. 3rd, 2006 11:35 am
icebluenothing: (Default)
My poor dead truck is finally gone.

It had been sitting in my parking space at my condo since it died, over a year ago. I tried researching how to donate a vehicle to charity, but it all seemed terribly complicated -- I'm deeply phobic about incorrectly filed paperwork, and the one place I found that said they took care of all the paperwork never called me back.

I was going to drive the truck down to Olympia to give it to my sister, hoping that I could avoid having to go in reverse at any point the whole way down, but it turns out that if you let a truck just sit there for a year, it won't start the next time you try to use it. Who knew?

The management of my condo had been gently asking me all this time when I was going to get rid of it, and when I was going to stop parking my car in visitor spaces. Not too long after I failed to get the truck moving again, they finally put a note on my car saying they'd tow it if I parked it in a visitor space again. Fair enough, I figured.

In the end, I went to Pull-A-Part, a wrecking yard in Lynnwood, and found out they would indeed tow it away for free and take it off my hands for spare parts if I signed the title over to them. I wouldn't even need to be there for them to pick it up. So that's what I did, and one night I came home and it was just gone.

-----

Why a whole year?

Part of it's just the inertia and procrastination that plagues so many parts of my life. But it was also just frankly hard to do.

My dad told me, after he bought me the truck, not to fall in love with it. He told me too late. It was my first car, something that brought me my first real taste of freedom and independence and responsibility. I didn't get rid of it for so long because I didn't really want to.

. . . . Why is it so hard for me to let go of things when it's so easy for me to let go of people?
icebluenothing: (Default)
I keep forgetting to post a link to this -- !

The other day, I was down at my mom's house, doing a little work on my TARDIS prop, and on my TARDIS console prop. Here's a photoset of them.

Basically, I updated the signage on the TARDIS to match the prop as seen in the 2005 series. Also, I finally added a Time Rotor to the console (that's the tall, clear cylinder in the center). I'm very excited about that. The main body of the console I built with my dad when I was thirteen, fourteen years old -- sometime around then. Finally putting something I'm happy with in the center of it was kind of like putting the last spike in the Transcontinental Railroad. It was a neat moment of collaboration between past and future.

My mom's reaction was, "It's too bad your dad can't see this." On consideration, she added, "Or maybe he can."

---

For those of you who have wondered, yes, I am still going to make the film, even though he's not still here to see it. It'll be a tribute, at this point.

(I'll admit, I stopped being in a big hurry to get it done when my dad told me several months ago that he was having a lot of trouble following television shows and movies. It really, really would have sucked if I'd finished it in time for him to see it, and then he wasn't able to enjoy it.)
icebluenothing: (Default)
As many of you know, I've been wanting for years -- decades, really -- to make a Doctor Who fan film. The first Doctor Who I ever saw was a fan production, actually, and watching it gave me the bug.

I've accumulated costumes and props, built large set pieces, including a full-size TARDIS and TARDIS console. But due to never finishing a script I was happy with, and general procrastination, I've never done it.

My dad helped me with the set pieces, and he's given me lots of other encouragement for the project over the years, and, well, I'd like him to be able to see it. That means if I want to do it, the time is now.

I've finished a script I like. I've lined up [livejournal.com profile] windbourne, [livejournal.com profile] retcon, and [livejournal.com profile] endorphan to be in it. [livejournal.com profile] capnexposition will be bringing a near-professional quality video camera to the production.

I have more parts I need to cast -- I'll be posting a casting call here in a day or so -- and there are some locations I need to find, as well. I'll need help.

*deep breath* Let's do this.
icebluenothing: (Default)
"I wanted to breathe smoke.

Birds and deer are a silly luxury, and all the fish should be floating.

I wanted to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now.

This is my world, my world, and those ancient people are dead."


I have here, next to these keys, the silver cigarette case my father gave me, some months or years ago. It's really very pretty. An odd size, by my modern standards; I've never found cigarettes that will fit it. It has a map embossed on it of the British Isles, where he and my mother met during The War, where his lifeline and hers had crossed and merged, half a world away.

My father had given it to me a little apologetically -- he thought I might like to have it simply because it was his, even though, as he said, I wouldn't have a use for it. I lied and agreed that I wouldn't. I wouldn't want him to know I smoke myself, on occasion. He wouldn't approve.

It's foolish of me, I know it is. I do it in moderation. Once a month, if that. It makes me a rarity in a world where everyone around me smokes constantly or not at all, as if the world were divided into alcoholics or teetotalers.

It was something I tried for the first time when I was -- eighteen? Nineteen? On the theory that I would try it once, wouldn't like it (no one does their first time, right?), and would never be curious again. Practice differed from theory. I didn't mind it at all. Years later, when the Goth scene led me to clove cigarettes, I found I liked them quite a bit.

I still have nightmare-like images burned into my head -- my Uncle Jack, my mother's brother, in his cancer bed in the hospital, not long before he died. Arms and legs like sticks, like a starving man, his torso bloated like a corpse pulled from the river. By all rights, I should never have started.

My father quit smoking. Before I was even born, if I recall correctly. He was in the hospital himself for some weeks -- I forget what for, but I think he may even have been in an oxygen tent for a while. At any rate, he hadn't been allowed to smoke, of course. When he was released from the hospital, he started to light up a cigarette, and then thought -- "What the hell am I doing?" He was past the cravings, past the need he'd built up. He was just giving into habit, and decided that was stupid -- here was his chance to quit, so he took it. That was decades ago, and he never started again. A very sensible thing to do.

We do sensible things, most of us. We try to eat right, get some exercise, get the right kind of sleep, do what our doctors tell us. Whistling in the dark, thinking the whole time that maybe, just this once, death won't come for us.

My father is a sensible man, and lung cancer came for him all the same.

The night he dies, I'm almost certainly going to be drinking. I'm going to have enough drinks to numb everything out to soft white noise. Enough drinks, and, almost certainly, some cigarettes.
icebluenothing: (Default)
The doctors say he has three to six months to live. They could do a biopsy, put him in chemo -- but they expect that would only gain him an extra month at most. So he's decided not to do it.

My father.

May. 20th, 2005 02:59 pm
icebluenothing: (Default)
My father has cancer. Lungs and liver. The doctors don't know how long he has, but it doesn't look good.

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