peterjackson: (Pensive)
[Takes place after Dave wakes up from this dream.]

(and NO it's not NC17. *shudders at the very thought*)

Pete's nice relaxing day is ruined. Let's all blame Dave. )
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
Pete was flopped on the living room couch, his nose stuck in an extremely large cookbook. It was also an extremely old cookbook, a treasure found on an afternoon's exploration of The Helvetica Bookshop.

He was, of course, browsing the soup recipes. The book was old enough that it called for large kettles and open fires. He knew of course he could use the kitchen stove, but something appealed to him about creating his next soup the old fashioned way. Well, as much as one could in a suburban backyard.

He didn't have a fire pit, but he did have a barbeque. Damn, he was out of briquettes, actually had been for years, that barbeque hadn't been used since… well, forever. Pete set the book down and started to hunt for his car keys, then stopped. And smiled. Broadly.

Pioneers wouldn't have used store bought briquettes. They would have gathered wood from their land to build a fire. Pete looked at the living room floor. There were a good half dozen pencils in sight. He gathered them up. He headed for the office, grabbed an empty wastebasket and started loading it up with every number two pencil he could find.

At some point, the soup became secondary to the kindling, and Pete roamed the entire house, searching every corner of every room, crawling into closets and cupboards, extracting worn nubs and fresh unsharpened yellow pencils from all over. The wastebasket was full. He grabbed another and kept hunting.

When the house was completely cleaned of all pencils, Pete hauled the two wastebaskets out to the back patio and heaped the barbeque with a good-sized pile and lit it. Okay, the smell of pencils burning isn't as nice as some good cedar chips, but to him, there was something infinitely more satisfying in this particular blaze. He set a pot of broth on the rack over the pencils to simmer, and returned to the kitchen to chop vegetables. I think I'll call this Freedom Soup. Take away his damned pencils and he can't write. I can just keep my mind focused on the soup. Have to focus on the soup. Soup heals. Soup soothes people. Soup is unassuming. What you see is what you get, there's no deep meaning to soup. I'm still creating, I'm still the writer, but I'm the writer of soup. What goes in the pot is what I choose to put there, and what comes out is my own creation, just as much as any movie ever was.

He carried a bowl of finely chopped vegetables out into the yard, and proceeded to make a very large pot of soup. The smell of the pencils was strong. The burning yellow paint, the rubbery erasers and the lead centers made an acrid smoke that burned his eyes, but he smiled as he stirred the pot. When the flames died down, he added more pencils, until there were none left. Not one pencil remained anywhere on Pete's property.

The soup tasted terrible. He ate three bowls full, and enjoyed every drop.
peterjackson: (Pensive)
Fran knows better. Cheesy of her to do that, really. Giving me an eight pound box of chocolates shaped like the biggest, most obnoxious heart ever. Really awful. What am I, a blushing sophmore girl with her first boyfriend? Should I have giggled and tittered and hidden my face when she whipped that monstrosity out of the car boot?

Thank god I'd had the foresight to have a good bottle of champagne and a dozen long stemmed roses arranged on the coffee table. Or I would be SUCH a dead man.

As it is though, it was a good evening. Details will NOT be forthcoming but let's just say I think Dave and Craig's reputation got a run for it's money tonight. Rowr. Peej, you squat furry hunka hunka burning love, you.

Hope everyone else had a great Valentine's Day, too. Wow. Guess I CAN eat a lotta dark chokkies in one sitting. That's it for me, time for lights out and a cuddle.

*Pete sets the chocolates on a nightstand and hits a switch, the room goes dark, and all goes quiet*
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
So, I tried to talk to Hugo last week, and other than helping his cat get even fatter, I have a feeling my visit was a complete and total disaster.

Saw Lawrence arriving at Hugo's just as I was leaving, poor guy. I've got no clue how their visit went, hopefully better than mine. I should call Lawrence and see how he's doing, actually. Yeah, think I will. Eh, hell with that, the way this crowd plays phone tag, I'll be an old man before I actually connect with him.

(*bangs on Lawrence's door* Anyone home?)
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
So, I tried to talk to Hugo last week, and other than helping his cat get even fatter, I have a feeling my visit was a complete and total disaster.

Saw Lawrence arriving at Hugo's just as I was leaving, poor guy. I've got no clue how their visit went, hopefully better than mine. I should call Lawrence and see how he's doing, actually. Yeah, think I will. Eh, hell with that, the way this crowd plays phone tag, I'll be an old man before I actually connect with him.

*bangs on Lawrence's door* Anyone home?
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
Can't spend my birthday sitting at home letting Tolkien re-write scripts AGAIN, so it's off to the Warg Fox and Firkin for me!

I think I look suitably charming enough to get all the birthday drinks I wish. Yep, indeed. Even combed my hair. Okay, I lied, but I did polish my glasses.

I'll just be sitting here, smiling at whoever walks through the door. I'm sure this t-shirt that says "It's My Birthday Buy Me A Drink" will be fairly unobtrusive, too.

OOC: Free for all! Anyone can dive in. Sarah, here's a chance for your to get chattering, if you are around today!
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
[Oh, that's just LOVELY. Wargs. Thanks a lot.]

So, why is it I don't have some whacked-out shift willing to help me with this Kong re-write? Never a bloody bodysnatcher around when you really NEED one. I need a break. Some ice water, bit of a bite to eat. *trudges off to the kitchen, glances out the window at the back yard*

Okay. That I didn't need to see.

*dials up my next door neighbor*

Hey, George. Yeah, me. So, you still have that shotgun, right? No, I don't want to go hunting. I just want to play Director while YOU go hunting. What? No, not this early in the day, just ice water, I swear.

So, George. Do me a favor and look out your window, at my back yard. *pauses* Yeah, I know you see it. Standing in the geraniums. Now, what I'd like you to do is to just crack your window open quietly, and take your best shot at it. Make it dead. I'll wait.

*a loud shot is heard, followed by another. And another. And one more for good measure*

That's done the trick, George. Thanks. No. You can't have it. It's a prop, George, a bloody animatronic robotic dog thing. It's for a movie, but I wanted to see if it drops realistically. *listens, rubs forehead, nods* Yeah, I know that's not my job, but I love the scary shit, and when I tell WETA I want to dabble, they let me dabble, dammit. Last time I checked, I was the boss.

*walks across kitchen, phone propped on one shoulder, grabbing a can of soup to heat up*

Yeah, George, it's a pain living next door to an eccentric. *laughs* But I don't complain much, do I? Bite me too, George. And thanks for the test drive on the prop. See ya.

*hangs up*

Fuckin hell. I am NOT cleaning that up. Who to call, who to call.

*dials Viggo's number*
peterjackson: (Thumbs Up)
Pete: *Sitting in my office, frowning at the faded lettering on the leather binding, wondering if that's detracted from the value of the book.* I'm still not sure why I paid $140 for this thing, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Hmm. Maybe Hugo would know if it's a keeper, for all I know he might want the thing. Dave's mentioned that the guys' practially turning his house into a library. Okay, he's my way home anway, so I'll swoop by. *20 minutes later, pulls up in Hugo's driveway, toots the horn once quickly and bounds up to the door, knocking sharply*

Holy crap, he know what kind of mess you got going here? )
peterjackson: (Tolkien Shift)
[continued from here]

The words on the page begin to flicker and grow blurry. Pete felt dizzy and a little tired. He looked about for a place to sit down. A small bench was pushed against the end of the bookshelf, so he shoved aside a stack of periodicals perched on it, then sat down heavily. A few minutes here should do the trick, he thought, he just needed to catch his breath. As he sat quietly, a dark shape formed just over the pages of the open book he still held in his hands. A web spun down from the ceiling delivering a small spider which landed lightly on the pages. In spite of being a full-grown man, Pete actually squeaked, dropped the book, and watched as the spider skittered away, unharmed.

"In the language of dreams, spiders are considered a symbol of creativity. They can also represent an entanglement, a situation where one feels trapped or overly clung to. Perhaps your life is more complicated than you think."

Seated precisely in the exact same place Pete had been sitting seconds before, a gray-haired old man blinked to clear his vision, slowly looking up and down the aisles in an attempt to get his bearings. Where was he? And who was talking to him? He stood and walked towards the voice which seemed to be coming from a small alcove in the back of the shop. And indeed it was. Seated at a table in a deep niche were four elderly gentlemen. Two sipped coffee from thick porcelain cups, one smoked a pipe, and the fourth one smiled directly at him, cupping a spider gently in an open palm.

"Ah, your escort, he has done well, but it’s time for him to run along." The spider was lowered to the floor, and immediately took off for parts unknown. "There. He won’t be back today, so you can stop looking so edgy."

"My name’s Alfred. My esteemed colleagues here are Joe, Franklin and Eugene." The three men nodded in his direction. Franklin pushed an empty chair away from the table, puffed twice on his pipe, and pointed at the vacancy. "Have a seat, join us. What’s your name?"

"John. John Tolkien." He cautiously took the offered seat, and pulled himself up to the table, resting his elbows on the wood surface. "Is this Oxford? I don’t recall being in this building before."

The four men chuckled and shook their heads. Joe finished his last sip of coffee before speaking. "Nope. You’re in Wellington, more’s the pity. You’ve stumbled into a bastion of sanity unknown to the rest of the town, except for those few that are invited to find us. Welcome to the Last Refuge Society."

To Be Continued…
peterjackson: (Into It)
[Continued from here.]

The shop was dark. This isn't to say there were no lights, as there were quite a few. But the deep toned wood paneling, massive bookshelves, and large cherry wood desk that served as the sales counter all conspired together to tame the modest wattage emanating from various green shaded banker’s lamps scattered about, as well as that issuing from the chandelier fashioned from antlers that hung from the tin-plated ceiling.

Pete paused at the threshold to allow his eyes to adjust. An old man shuffled out from between two bookshelves, nodded at him, then dropped into the chair behind the desk with a heavy oomph sound. He proceeded to closely examine several large dusty volumes, his potential customer apparently forgotten already. Pete shrugged and began nosing about the stacks of books heaped on a large table. As he casually flipped through a leather-bound book titled "Jude The Obscure" he was surprised to see that it was a signed first edition dated 1896. He was even more surprised to see the paper bookmark slipped between pages 94 and 95, which informed him in carefully scripted ink that the price of the book was $22,500. He placed it gently back where he found it, nestled on top of a stack of bent comic books marked 10 cents each. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the order of things here. Perhaps the shelves are better organized, he mused, and slowly made his way towards them, stepping over piles of manuscripts heaped on the floor, around bins of dog-eared and yellowed cheap romance novels (a sign begged him to buy them, ten for a nickel) and maneuvered his way around a statue placed at the end of one bookshelf. He poked at it to confirm that it was indeed made of… cement? Not bad work considering the medium, and a striking likeness of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at that.

Once past Sir Doyle, Pete breathed a sigh of relief. It was much more organized here in the deep rows of bookshelves, and he found himself browsing happily for quite some time. Something nagged at his brain though, and when he finally stopped to focus on what it might be, he realized it was the low murmur of voices deeper back in the shop.

Just how far back did this shop go, anyway? He'd already traveled well into its depths but still couldn’t see the back wall. No hurry though - he held a fascinating copy of "A Journey through England and Scotland to the Hebrides in 1784" and he just couldn't put it down quite yet. He stood in the middle of the aisle, held raptly in place by the book, and as the moments passed the oddest thing began to happen…

To Be Continued…
peterjackson: (Default)
The Helvetica bookshop was unheard of by 99% of all Wellingtonians. Which is odd, since it was terribly old when Wellington was still new, a fact that might seem to be a contradiction, but then many things about the shop were contrary, as we will soon learn.

Take its entrance, for example. If you can find it, that is. The door is slimmer than most and oddly enough rests directly between two other fairly garish doors. It's old, made of plain wood in a simple design. A casual glance would give one the impression that it was merely the woodwork separating the other two doors from each other. The small handle was plainly carved wood, and not noticeable unless you actually looked upon it as a door and glanced to where a doorknob would normally reside. Few bothered to take this line of reasoning to the extent of actually making this visual connection and entering the shop. Those who did tended to be quiet, reclusive types, shying away from the larger book stores with their well lit carpeted expanses and tables heaped with bestsellers.

Pete wasn't looking for the door, oddly enough. He was actually looking for the door just to the left of it which led into a slightly trendy clothing shoppe. Now this might seem like alien territory for Pete, but in truth it was one of the few places in town where he could find polo shirts that actually fit him. This one particular day his hand reached for the shiny brass doorknob, but to his surprise ended up gripping the small wooden one instead. He stared at his arm and wondered when it had developed a mind of its own. Even as he pondered this his wrist was pushing the door inward, and his feet, which previous to this day had always obeyed the commands of his brain, also seemed to have their own thoughts on the matter and he was surprised to find himself briskly stepping inside. The door snapped smartly shut behind him.

To Be Continued...
peterjackson: (Tolkien Shift)
Today is J.R.R. Tolkien's eleventy first birthday. Now, if that isn't the most profoundly appropriate birthday ever, I dare you to top it.

I've heard that fans around the world will be raising a toast to me, er, him, at 9:00 pm, whatever time zone they are in. Sounds like a toast-wave rolling around the globe, and I am very amused by the concept.

In trying to give England it's own bit of folklore, Tolkien accomplished so much more. There's no way we could have forseen the impact his tales would have on us all. And now, with the movies in circulation, an entire new generation is discovering the wonders of middle earth. Last week I snuck into a matinee, wanted to see the general audience reactions. And couldn't help smiling as we waited for the show to start. Kids were explaining the storyline to their parents, and admonishing them for not having read the books! Warms my heart, yes it does. To know my books are still being read, and enjoyed.

But elves at Helm's Deep, I just... *shakes head*. I think I need a drink.

But it's my birthday today, my eleventy first. So that drink is fully warranted! Please join me in that toast tonight. I'll be toasting all of you right back, dear readers.
peterjackson: (Thumbs Up)
Pete shoves the front door open with his foot, and enters carrying a large cardboard tray packed with steaming takeout cups

Okay, rally round, troops. I've got black, light, sugared, decaf, lattes, cappuchinos, espressos, mochas and hot tea. And I believe Mir has earned the right to first choice.

And I swear I smell frittatas, did a miracle happen? Did the unholy trio actually manage to produce food? squints and stares into the dining room... There's stuff on the table in there. Damn. Thought I'd have to eat the houseplants soon.
peterjackson: (Default)
Parker forwarded me an email from Liv this morning. Looks like Little Miss Tyler will be spending her Christmas in Wellington. Can't say I blame her, I've been in the City in winter. Forget all those romantic notions about Rockefeller Center in the snow, and ice skating and glittery lights. It's a just a big smokescreen to hide the fact that the East Coast of America is a miserable place half the year. I'll have to get her an email back and let her know I'm planning to take her to dinner one evening so we can catch up.

Hmmm, Craig, Dave, Karl and Liv... all in town for the holidays. Hope Wellington can handle this onslaught! Wonder if anyone else might show up? *fears*
peterjackson: (Thumbs Up)
They say I should stop staying up so late. Am I troubled much? Not really. After all, they say I am a wizard in disguise...or is that hobbit?

Going to do that surprise visit tomorrow I think, drop in on the boys when they least suspect it. I HAVE warned them, but it's their own fault. Can't for the life of me see why David would want to stay on this rock of an island, he always seemed like such a nice decent bloke.

*rummages around*

Ahah! Thought I'd bring one of these things with me, a sort of 'gift' you might say, for those two. I figure I don't have to get two of them, if David's living with Craig now. Cheaper to do that, good idea I say. I mean, to live with him instead of renting his own apartment. Those two seemed pretty close as well, last time I saw them together, so it must be working out all right.

Anyway! Admire the shiny!


All right. Off to bed now.
peterjackson: (Hobbity)
People always joke about me being a hobbit...what, you didn't know that? I'll let you in on a secret...I really am a hobbit.

No, not really. But I had a dream last night that I was Tolkien, that count? Strange thing that, I was in the middle of the Pellenor battle and I was just walking through with all the blokes screaming and snarling and fighting all around me. The usual gore and blood and swords smashing into each other...then it went Zebrowski Brothers on me and I stopped, shook my head and just...changed the banners that several carried.

Oh. And there was a mountain nearby that I moved over to the right about ten miles.

I think these movies are really getting to me. Maybe those boys had something in what they've been talking think it's more plausible that we're all going just a little loony - just yesterday I saw a bit of edited film and just -knew- that that wasn't how it was supposed to look. Too late to reshoot, but still what's with that?

Time to drop by I'd say. I don't think I'll call in advance, surprising them will be fun.
peterjackson: (Hobbity)
If one of these two doesn't stop acting like a sook and invite me over soon, I'm just going to show up one night and perform a doorbell test till they let me in.

I've been thinking about some of the things Dave told me on the phone the other night, and it's just not like him to act so wacked for no good reason, he's always been the stable sort. I was pretty flip with him then, but maybe too much so. He hasn't called back since. If he does want to talk, I'll try to listen more and joke less the next time.

In the meantime, maybe I'll try giving Ian a call and see if he's heard from either of them, too. We should compare notes, I think.
peterjackson: (Default)
Note to those on Pete's friends list: If you do not wish to follow his journal as he joins with this new community, please remove him from your friends list. Otherwise, enjoy the mayhem.

Dave Wenham called me today out of the blue. Said he was doing fine, still staying in New Zealand (and here I'd thought all those out of town loonies had packed it in and gone home now, we sure don't need them for the LOTR project at this point). We chatted a while, caught up on things, but then he started telling me about a trip he took with Craig Parker , camping at Ayer's Rock in Australia. I had no idea those two were into recreational drugs. Has to be that, cause stuff like he was yammering on about just does NOT happen. He swore up and down it was the truth, then he went off on parallel universes, shifts, walk ins, alternate realities, and a lot of other things I couldn't follow. He got pretty frustrated when I told him he wasn't making any sense, said he was hoping I might understand, but frankly, I didn't. I got him talking about other things, which was good, I hope.

Those two worry me. I mentioned I might stop by at some point, and Dave sounded a little nervous about that. Maybe I can get them to crawl out of that house and meet me downtown for coffee soon.
peterjackson: (Default)
Short story - new mun. Fresh start. PJ will be involved in a specific community that is just starting up.

I did remove the MPB community from this journal when I first took over. I just double checked to make sure, since I questioned that after a couple of comments were made earlier this evening. Again I apologize for any ruffled feathers caused by a mun who isn't aware of PJ's former interactions. I honestly was just having fun with folk that replied to my journal entry, pure and simple. No animosity intended.

If you could take a moment to remove PJ off of your friends list, unless you are sincerely interested in following him as he goes elsewhere, that would help - I really don't have any desire to clutter your friends page with posts that might make no sense to you or not interest you.

Thanks, and peace.
peterjackson: (Default)
The other day I was thinking about something I said back before we started filming the Lord Of The Rings trilogy...

"But I want it to feel real. I don't want it to feel like an artificial studio movie environment. The ideal scenario is you get a sense we've gone to Middle Earth, the castles are all still there, and we've done this by taking our camera crew and extras and filming it in the real places Tolkien wrote about."

Now that it's over, I feel like I have gone to Middle Earth, no doubt in my mind. And it felt as if Tolkien was right there next to me every step of the way, watching it all unfold.

Very, very, odd. But a good kind of odd. And thank you. I'm done, for the moment.

This journal entry marks a change of sorts for my journal. Entries previous to this one will have a distinctly different tone... we all go through changes in our lives, correct? And so it goes.
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