peterjackson: (Skinny)
Pete took one last look through a living room window, and sighed. Still no sign of Viggo or Orlando. Maybe they'd had a flat on the way over... no, they'd think to call. Pete tried not to worry about what might be delaying them, and wandered back to the theatre.

He was just in time to hear Karl arguing with Dave. "Oh, this is going to be a stellar war council", Pete muttered. Then he raised his voice loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"Right, then! We're here to try to find a way to murder a wraith. Would the lot of you please settle out? I can't believe you're fighting already! Now then! Who wants to go first? Who's got a notion of something that might help the situation?"
peterjackson: (Not Too Shabby)
It had been a while since Pete had promised Dave he'd gather in the Rings folk and bring them up to speed on Jed's situation. It was one of the darkest developments they'd had to face since the bowl had first been brought to Wellington, four years past. A lifetime ago.

He'd made excuses, tried to convince himself that somehow Jed's shift could be controlled, that they had the upper hand. It was just another round of what Pete had been telling himself all along - this shifting was a temporary phenomenon.

But rather than fading away, things were getting worse and worse. And to complicate matters, there were innocents in their midst - friends and family that were completely oblivious to what was going on right here in Wellington. People like Alryssa.

That was it, then. It was time everyone got themselves in the same place at the same time. It was time to really, really talk about what in hell could be done about this.

Pete made a lot of phone calls, saying whatever was needed to do to get that 'yeah, I'll be there' out of everyone. He coaxed. He threatened. He pleaded and there's a possibility he threw down an insult or two. It didn't matter. Whatever it took to round everyone up.

The last call made, Pete shuffled into the kitchen to get a pot of soup simmering. The theatre was stocked with beers and food... but a pot of soup couldn't hurt, could it? Pete shook his head, stirred the pot, and waited for the others to start knocking on his door.
peterjackson: (Mischevious)
Ah, Sunday morning. Pete had developed a tentative fondness for actually relaxing, at least for the early hours of that day of the week. He’d discovered the joys of three cups of coffee savored over the Sunday paper, while still wrapped in a bathrobe. Ryssa had been subtly teaching Pete the art of relaxing and take a break from working now and then. As Pete fetched his Sunday paper from the lawn, the last thing he expected to see was Dave pulling into his drive.

“Dave? Dave Wooham? Whurhem? Gee, it’s been so long between visits, I can’t quite remember your name.” Pete dropped the sarcasm and rolled into a beleagured-momma voice, “You never call, you never write, I make a nice soup and you’re late for dinner…”

Dave looked sheepish. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry about that, Pete – here you are, right in town and I barely ever talk to you. I can’t remember the last time I called ---“

“Oh, I can. A couple of years ago. When Hugo went missing. You showed up babbling incoherent crypticness till I nearly called the authorities.” Pete sighed and headed for the door, waving a hand back over his shoulder for Dave to follow him in.

Two cups of coffee were poured. As Pete handed one over to Dave, he gave him a pointed look. “I trust you’re making more sense these days, and delivering happier news to your neglected friends?”

Dave sipped his coffee, a miserable expression on his face. “Um.” Where to start? Oh, hell, just start with it all. “We have a ring wraith shift in Wellie, he’s really dangerous and it’s Jed’s shift but Galadriel helped us figure out that a good strong cup of athelas herb tea keeps the bugger subdued for a while. You work a lot with Jed so you need to know so you can take precautions and keep lots of tea brewed and make sure you keep him under sharp watch.” Dave sucked in a deep breath since he hadn’t bothered to pause during that entire confession.

“Well. Bugger. It’s nice to know there’s certain things in life I can count on. Sunday morning comics, and Dave ranting like a lunatic.” Pete’s tone wasn’t matching his words, though, his voice had taken on a bit of tremble. He’d been worried about Jed for months now. He remembered how cold Jed always seemed to be, and the special padded clothing he’d had made so the guy could keep working. But now that he thought about it, Jed hadn’t bitched about the cold in recent days.

“Tea? Really, Dave, you’re serious there? Tea?” He shook his head, remembering how many cups of coffee he’d poured down his friend trying to help him shake the chills.

“Yeah, tea, mate. Special tea. We’re growing athelas over here these days, and it’s doing the trick. But I’m worried about how long that’ll hold up. What if Jed develops a reaction to so much athelas in his system, or the wraith builds up an immunity… I just don’t know where it’s all going. I think we should all be aware of his, well, delicate condition. Could you get the word around? You’ve got better industry ties than all of us, I’ve lost track of Hugo, Orli, Viggo, Marton, Mir… and then there’s all those extras and stunties, that worked on the project, too. Hundreds of them were involved in Rings. It’s got to be you looking out for everyone, mate!”

It was going to be a while before Pete could face another Sunday morning without cringing. "Right, right." Pete rubbed the bridge of his nose, nodding miserably. "Guess I'll be making some calls, then."
peterjackson: (Default)
It's late at night when I find myself waking up in my office in the Weta building. I push up out of my chair, and with just one step I feel that sickeningly familiar crunch of pencil under my foot. Damn it. He's never popped out here, not in this building. I'm bothered and pissed off for a couple of reasons. I remember Viggo's abrupt departure, and yeah, I'm still biting back the urge to phone him up and get the last word in. Well, I would if I could think of a decent last word, anyway. And now I'm concerned about the Professor taking up his scribbling here. It's bad enough he's taken over my home office, but at least that's at home. Here? Anyone could have popped in the door at any time, I don't make a big show out of setting appointments or knocking. I'm going to have to have a casual talk with the receptionist and try to find out if he held court with anyone.

On location, or a set - that's where the arguments with the actors happen. My home office is where the Professor lets his obsessions out. But here. This is Weta. This is the playground. You know that cliche about going to your Happy Place when you're upset? This is my Happy Place.

Screw em. Screw Viggo and the damn horse Aragorn rode in on. Screw the Professor and his hidden agendas. I'm going to my Happy Place.

I plop back down in my chair and deliberately bring up a memory, a good one, from last year. I can't help grinning as I recall a friend of mine and a wonderfully silly day spent at Weta.

(The reader must now imagine those wiggly-lined fade-out effects that accompany a flashback sequence)

The Day The Geeks Took Over Weta )
peterjackson: (Skinny)
Without a doubt, this was the most idiotic venture Pete had ever taken on, and that was saying a lot. He'd stuck his own assets on the line to make offbeat, disgusting movies that showed no promise of payback at the box office, he'd declined offers from Hollywood in order to stick close to his beloved New Zealand, he'd waved a hand at hair salons with a 'no thanks, just browsing'.

But this new venture. How the hell did he ever think this arrangement would be a success? For the first time in years, Pete doubted his own abilities, especially in the face of this most formidable partnership.

But, it was too late. He'd made arrangements. He'd given his word. He had no choice but to make good on it, in spite of the herd (do they come in herds? What's the right word? Pete considered this, at a loss), anyway, the herd of butterflies that had invaded his stomach.

It was showtime. No backing out now. )
peterjackson: (Purple Shirt Thumbs Up)
The sleekly modern front lobby of the Weta Workshop was brightly lit by sunlight streaming through plentiful windows. It was just a tad *too* bright and cheerful, Pete had thought as he trod in that morning.

But, well, it was Christmas after all. After raiding Weta's back rooms for various bits and scraps, Pete had returned to lend his own brand of whimsey to the three large models that were on permanent display in the lobby.

The life-size statue of Lurtz now looked almost handsome in his red cap and silver leggings made from wrapped garland, and of course the mistletoe pinned to the ceiling above him would no doubt improve his love life. The white handprint across his face was now dotted with sparkles, bringing a glow to his handsome features. He carried a sack of what people could only hope were presents. Not that anyone was brave enough to look.

King Kong sported a cane, and one leg was wrapped in bandages. A jaunty English cap was perched on his head, and the scrawled sign propped at his feet proclaimed, "God Bless Us, Every One! - Love to all, Tiny Kong."

Gollum had fared the worst of the lot. A set of antlers had been strapped to his head with duct tape, and a red glowing ball was attached to his nose. Pete was happily singing a chorus of 'Gollum, the red nosed reindeer' when the battered copy of the Daily Dirt lying on the lobby table on top of the usual fanzine caught his eye.

Lord of the Rings co-stars Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortensen were spotted cozying it up in Niagara Falls, Canada, in a hush-hush "honeymoon," sources say.

Pete read the rest of the article, then quietly stuffed the paper in the garbage recepticle behind the reception desk, before heading back to his office to pen a card to mail to the newlyweds.

Congratulations, Viggo and Orlando! Call me when you're back in town and we'll celebrate. Enjoy marital bliss while you can, because as a wise philosopher once said, 'Being married is like being in the bathtub. After a while, it's not so hot.' - Pete
peterjackson: (Purple Shirt Thumbs Up)
So, I've got this little journal I sometimes scribble in. Just random thoughts, funny things that occur to me, and when I'm feeling clever... bad poetry. A few days back, I wrote this little ditty down and stuffed the journal back on the shelf. Didn't think much more about it.

Roses are red
Orcs are not blue
Rosie is sweet
And Sam likes her stew.

And thus it begins... )
peterjackson: (Tolkien shift)
John Ronald Ruel Tolkien sat at his writing desk at his home in Bournemouth, penning a letter to his son Christopher. He was in an odd mood for reasons he could not explain to his family. Something in his life was different; it was a change he struggled to identify. He did not know if it had all been the product of a fever-dream, or if what he recalled really had happened. Oddly enough, he first felt this change on Candlemas Day. The weather had been cloudy, rainy and quite stormy, a fact that should have cheered the Professor, as by tradition, this would predict that the worst of winter was now over. Had it been a lovely day, tradition would dictate a long stretch of winter left to come. He recalled feeling chilled to the bone all through the Candlemas holiday. As he slipped into sleep that night, he called to mind his frequent dreams of New Zealand, smiling as he noted that it would be much warmer there tonight. Perhaps a midnight walk through Wellington. A time again to run fingers over the bright paint of the automobiles of that future day, to gaze at frocks and suits in shop’s windows, to kneel down long enough to stare at the headlines on newspapers locked in metal racks. Tolkien recalled a bit of a letter he’d written six years previous upon the occasion of his friend C.S. Lewis’ death. It was planned years before, when we decided to divide: he was to do space-travel and I time-travel. My book was never finished, but some of it (the Númenórean-Atlantis theme) got into my trilogy eventually.

Had Tolkien known what his own future would bring, he might have felt differently about his desire to write of time travel. He did not know then how easy it could be to step from 1969 into 2005. It was a secret he held quite close to his vest, even shielding his travels around Wellington as much as possible from his host in that future, Mr. Jackson. But, Candlemas Day seems to have predicted the end of winter, as well as the end of these jaunts. All things must end, in their time. He didn’t know what had caused these flights of fantasy and dreams, if that is what they were, and knew even less of what might have brought them to a halt. Perhaps it was indeed simply a side effect of being ill. Now that he had returned to health, that ability to travel in this fantastic way was gone. It must have been simply a symptom of his sickness. He sighed and finished off his letter, not fully satisfied by it, but unable to find the impetus to start it over again.

My dearest Chris. )
peterjackson: (Saaaaaay)
Worst. February. Ever.

The Hutt Valley's managed to suck in enough of this smog layer that we can't film outside. My New York set? Looks like a foggy London night, even at high noon. I should be filming Jack The Ripper, not King Kong. We've all gone indoors, taking care of the shots we can handle from inside closed, filtered-air buildings, trying to shoot around the bad weather. But we're going to have to get back outdoors soon or this movie's never going to be finished, and it's not like my City can be packed up and moved out of town.

Believe me, I checked. Would take four months to disassemble enough to move the sets, another three to set them back up again. Assuming I found a location big enough and available. Nah, No smog lasts seven months, so it's a moot point. I've gotta go with the hand we've been dealt.

For the time being, I'm just stuck. Maybe I should try shooting some Ripper footage, maybe produce a short, offbeat film to help offset the cost of all these delays. Know a few friends in town that might just be into that, now that I think of it. Course, it would be the asthmatic version, since my actors would no doubt be wheezing out their lines.

Goddamnit it!!! I'm just trying to make a living here!!

Fine, then. Day's wrapped, we got twelve solid scenes done. Not enough, but it's better than nothing. I need a beer worse than I need my next breath, which no doubt is going to smell like arse around here.

I'm going over some notes I've scribbled out today, trying to make the thousand adjustments the weather's forcing on us when my cell goes off. "Yeah, oh hey, Alex. Visitor? Christ, we're wrapping for now and I just want to get out of here. Hmm? John Noble? Okay, let him in, that one's a welcome exception. Tell anyone else that comes by we're a closed set today, willya? Good man."

Having a rough day, I see. )
peterjackson: (Default)
I flip through the stacks of dog-eared scripts, but every penciled scribble is one I’ve already seen.

I poke the trash can with my foot, but nothing clatters in it. There’s crumpled up papers, sure, but I put them there. That familiar sound of pencil nubs rattling around the metal bottom of the can though. I don't hear it.

Hell, I don’t mind.

Or do I?

Maybe I’m too conditioned by decades of horror flicks. That mid-point in the plot, where everything’s calmed out, the heroine is relaxed and grinning cause the boyfriend planted an axe in her stalker’s head. She lets down her guard and wanders happily through the house, turns her back on the doorway and is cheerfully killed by He Who Didn’t Die You Bint Cause They Never Die That Easily.

I nudge the trash can again, almost hoping for that wood-on-metal rattle. There’s been no Tolkie-droppings for almost a week now, but I’m not letting down my guard. And I’m sure not going to turn my theoretical back to the doorway.

I am gonna set out a pristine, unmarked copy of the Return Of The King screenplay, though. With a big happy pencil holder perched right on top. Filled with freshly sharpened Dixon Ticonderoga #2 yellows.

Bait? You betcha. Am I nervous? More than ever.
peterjackson: (Saaaaaay)
Christmas break's over, and we're all back in 1933 New York this week, knee deep in the depression. We've needed a lot of extras for scenes, cause New York city was as crowded then as it is now. We've got over a hundred extras just to drive cars through the streets! It's a confusing tangle of cast, crew, extras, caterers... you name it, we've stuffed it into this city we've built. Quite amusing to see Hutt Valley turned into the Big Apple. Naomi's finally given me the perfect expression to get across to the audience that Ann Darrow's desperate for a job, and I think there was a collective groan as I grinned and yelled "cut! And that's lunch!" It was only 14 takes! I'm really pleased we got it so quickly.

I'm finding my way to the nearest canteen for some juice and whatever doesn't smell too bad, when my pace is matched by one of the car-driving extras. Haven't seen this one before, but he's got on the requisite oversized fedora that the camera likes better, it's got a wider brim than the ones the pedestrian extras wear. I nod in his direction, squinting in the sunlight, mentally lost in trying to decide on two ways to go with the scenes we're hitting after lunch. And that's when he starts chattering.

"Amazing stuff this morning! So, what's easier, herding orcs or conducting traffic jams?"

"They're both fun, I guess orcs are less cooperative, though."

"So, is Naomi easier to work with than Viggo?"

"Er, every actor's different, can't compare 'em. She's great." What, this guy want to be my new best friend now?

"Speaking of Viggo, you seen him since he got jailed?"

The hell?

"Probably the stress of having his love affair brought out in public, you think? I mean, you think that's why he hit the drugs? That's gotta hurt, man. Bet you wouldn't have hired him if you knew he was gay and an addict, now would ya?"

I duck away from him, seeing two of my security guards not far off, and shove through the crowd to grab one by the arm. "Over there. Gray shirt, fedora. Not an actor, a fucking reporter. Get him the hell out of here."

The guards waste no time, rushing the man before he can bolt. As they haul him off, he twists his head around to give me a triumphant grin. Asshole.

I've lost my appetite. I wander past the canteen wagon, and lose myself in the back alleys of New York.
peterjackson: (Purple Shirt Thumbs Up)
Pete: I am beyond jazzed. I didn't expect to see him till next week, but James just paid a surprise visit and he had my ancient Bolex 16mm camera with him. It's been cleaned up, buffed up, and I swear it looks better than the day I bought it back in 1982. The thing was pretty well used even then. I'm a sentimental idiot, but I can afford to be. James is a local teenager who's already got a reputation for restorations, and once he's done with school, I'm hoping I can find him a place working at Wingnuts.

My office is so stuffed there's no clear place to set it down, so I tell James to go set it on the film shelves in the viewing room. I settle up with what I owe and remind him I've got some more work for him if he wants it on his next school break. After he leaves, I wander back into the viewing room, and play with my old camera, remembering filming The Valley, and I flop in one of my oversized movie chairs and let decades-old memories play across my brain. Sometimes a wallow's a really fun thing to indulge in. I get up and poke at the film shelves aimlessly, picking up various old tapes and reels and even a few of those crappy oversized plastic-cased laser disks that didn't quite catch on a few decades ago. I turn a copy of Bad Taste around in my hands, and wish I had some company for a screening.

And then I remember the kid I met at the Halloween party. Bernie's boy. Yeah! Why not? Could be a kick. Bernie gave me his number that night, and yep, it's here on speed dial. I flop back in one of the overstuffed chairs, and balance a betamax copy of Escape from New York on my head as I ring him up.

Just tell me to bugger off if you like, I'm used to it! )

I resolve:

Dec. 22nd, 2004 08:13 am
peterjackson: (Default)
My New Year's Resolution: Become a sex symbol.

Hey, I hang around them all day long, and you know? It wears on a guy. You think I don't know how close I came to actually becoming a hobbit WITHOUT the benefit of shifting? Time's come for changes, lots of them.

The glasses? Gone. Who knew there were these little things called 'contacts'? They're great! Although, I do find myself trying to polish my eyeballs with a handkerchief now and then, but I'm sure that phase will pass.

As for the hair. It's more under control. Not completely, but I would appreciate still being recognized by my friends. So, stage one is complete, with some raggedy forehead-danglers so I can still be myself.

The clothes. Enough already with the worn out, stretched out, burned out polo shirts and the ever-present shorts. Anyone who craves a look at my knees can buy me a beer and beg for a while, cause those overexposed Jackson joints are going undercover! And I thought I might explore these newfangled concepts of 'color' and 'harmony' and 'patterns' and 'fit to size' and see what happens.

Finally. The old bod. Hobbits might be cute and fun, but the elves get all the action, at least if you believe the fangirls. Svelte is where it's at. Okay, it's not where I'm at yet, but I'm getting there!

Is 2005 ready for a new me? I guess we'll find out.
peterjackson: (Default)
I still remember the Christmas I turned eight. I mean, damn, how could I forget the year I got my first 8mm camera? I loved that camera! Made crappy little films on it and actually managed to sell a few to the local paper - that let me upgrade to a 16mm, and it's been all down uphill from there.

Yeah, Christmas, some fine fine memories there. I mean, sure, overall, I LOVE Halloween the best. It's dark and creepy and ripe with chocolate bars and it's my birthday, damn it, but.... well, what the hey, Halloween's come and gone and it's time for a properly festive Jackson Christmas. Will stick to the classic theme of red and green, I'm sure inmate #544674, aka Martha Stewart would be right proud of the boy here for that. Going to run a small movie marathon of my own and take myself from sunset Chrismas eve right up to sunrise Christmas day. Red's easy to find. Lots of my favorite movies tend to run blood-red, including my own, thank you very much. Green's a slightly harder theme, but I'm going with the basics. Soylent Green, The Green Slime, and The Monster From Green Hell.

I hit the post office last week with a huge stack of envelopes. And I have to say, I'm feeling pretty damn smug about getting one out to pretty much everyone I know, and a few people I only sort of know. I know Wellington's a big town, but you grow up in a place, ply your craft there, live and work and breathe and play there, and you just know everyone, even if they don't know you know em, you know what I mean?

Whatever. I know what I mean. So, two kinds of envelopes went in the post last week. Those friends that don't bat an eye when the bills show up in the mail, or better yet, those gits that never SEE a bill cause their personal secretary takes care of all those pesky details for them... those friends? They got the envelopes with another envelope inside. They just need to take a minute to stuff a check (or have their humourless personal assistant stuff it) inside and drop it back in the mail, and either the Embassy Theatre or the local homeless shelter gets a boost. Merry Christmas all around.

The rest of my list? Those more 'normal' (so to speak) folks? They got another envelope. Those each have two gift certificates to Hede Cafe and Bar, home of the best damned miso soup in the city. Cause it's Christmas, and everyone should be filled with cheer, joy, happiness and good soup.

Actually, there were three kinds of envelopes, and that sort of bothers me. When I picked up the stack, it seemed twice as big as it had the night before, but I didn't really stop to think on it. I was in a hurry, so I just grabbed them and ran and mailed them. As the last few slid through the bulk slot at the post office, I noticed the handwriting on them wasn't mine. I tried to grab them back, and almost got one but it slipped and whoosh, all got mailed. I think the geezer slipped a few holiday greetings of his own in. Who the hell does he know in town? Or in this century, even?
peterjackson: (Default)
Tis the season for stuffed mailboxes, tra la la la la, la la, oh damn, my Visa bill. Okay, expected that charge, that one too... yeah, and that... $452 to Airplane Avenue, about right for a month... and der heck? Parchments and Pens Fine Writing Emporium? Never heard of them. Waiiiiiiit. Sounds like a place some old codger might find appealing. Some tricky old codger who's discovered the joys of plastic credit. Guess that was bound to happen one of these days.

Parchment and Pens. He's a pencil guy, what's the deal here? I haven't seen anything new from him lying about lately. In fact, now that I think about it, nothings been ruffled in the den for a month now. No pencil stubs in the garbage can, no doctoring on old scripts, no... nothing!

It's like they say in the movies. It's quiet... too quiet. He's up to something, I know it. And he doesn't want me to know it so that means I really wanna find out what's up. Okay, let's see. If I was an old coot trying to hide something from a brilliant, dashing guy like myself, where would I put it?

Nothing behind the books on the shelves. Hmm. Nothing under the couch cushions except old cheetos. Nothing in the credenza. Where's the last place he'd expect me to look?

Oh, sometimes I'm so brilliant I scare myself. I haven't looked in the bottom desk drawer in a year.

Once upon a time, there was a nut. His small nuttish life began in earnest the day he fell from the oak tree, and was carried away by a squirrel. He watched the blue sky disappear as he was stuffed into a hole in the front yard of a cosy little yellow house, and did not see it again until the spring, when he emerged in triumph from the dark, and stretched two small leaves out to gather the warmth of the sun.

Days and nights came and went, and the nut who was no longer a nut became a tree. A small tree, mind you, as these things take time and patience, but a tree nonetheless. But this year, this winter, in particular this month of December, the small oak tree had reached a height that allowed him to see something he had never seen before. He could peer into the living room window of the cosy little yellow house.

And a tree of just about his height peered right back at him from behind the glass. The little oak tree gasped.

Oh, come on, ya old bastard! Don't stop there!
peterjackson: (Thumbs Up)
Pete: I've got my list of names drawn up. Have to say, it did feel nice to set pencil to legal pad, I've spent too much time on a keyboard. I can see how the old coot might enjoy wrapping his fingers around a pencil so much.

Next to my legal pad covered with the names of my friends and associates, I've got a clipping from the newspaper article, just in case I need a memory jog on times and details. The Fox & Firkin Pub (362 Dunleavy Avenue) is hosting a Halloween Charity Party on Saturday, October 30th. The party is a fundraiser for the refurbishment of Wellington's Embassy Theatre, a cause supported by several patrons of the pub including Peter Jackson, Academy Award winning director. The event begins at 8:00 pm and features prizes for the best costumes and other door prizes. Please contact Chris Miller at the Fox & Firkin for more details.

Might as well start with the easy marks )
peterjackson: (Default)
Hugo: Early afternoon finds me pacing my living room, startling Imladris repeatedly from her sun-drenched nap until she leaves me for the study. I'm feeling a bit trapped in this place, a little stir-crazy. I've called my kids, balanced my checkbook, cleaned the kitchen, showered and wanked, called the grocery store to have a few things delivered tomorrow, and now I'm as spinning as ever within my own thoughts. That won't do so I snag my keys from the shallow plate near the door and drive, not knowing exactly where I'm going. It takes only two trips around Wellie to realise this is not helping so I check my location and note I'm not far from someone I haven't seen in quite a while. I pull into the drive and hope to find him at home, for all I know he's off doing something ... director-y.

Pete: I'm flopped back, dozing and daydreaming on the couch, a tomato-pasta-basil-cheese Frankenstein of a soup left simmering on the stove. I really should have had an Igor around for creating that one, it's untouched by any conventional recipe yet written. Hmm, should have written it down, oh well, it's to be enjoyed once, and then you move on to the next meal.

So, what's on your mind today besides the lazy breezes unencumbered by the hindrance of a hairline? )
peterjackson: (Outside pointing)
Pete: The day's a good crisp one, no wind, perfect to head for the park with one of my toys. I've brought out my British S.E.5 a World War I bi-plane I haven't flown for quite a while.

I get my equipment all set up, and fiddle with the controls longer than I need to. It's just relaxing and fun to play with this stuff. And, I'm putting off that moment of takeoff, I know. I just like the anticipation of it.

Finally, I fire the plane up, glad no one's close by because I think I heard myself actually giggle. It's been a while since I used this set of controls, and the takeoff is wobbly. Next one will be better. Finally, she's airborne, and I get comfortable, crosslegged on top of a picnic table, watching her fly in graceful arcs. She's a beauty, one of my first models, and I've missed watching her soar.

Learning to fly. )


Jul. 2nd, 2004 11:09 am
peterjackson: (Pensive)
...feels like I'm pulling myself up out of a swamp, everything's dark and heavy and my thoughts feel sticky. It takes me a while to get my eyes open, and the first thing I see is nothing. Nothing at all. Something's over my head, I can breathe but not easily, it's cloth of some sort, feels like a jacket maybe, but I can't reach up to push it away cause my hands are stuck behind my back. I wiggle my arms, but I can't pull my wrists apart. I think they're tied. It's probably a good thing I'm sitting down because I feel dizzy. Something hurts, I think it's my head, I try to focus on where the throbbing is coming from. Yep, back of my head hurts like a bitch. I wish I could breathe better, that might help, maybe remember why I'm here, where ever here is?

Wait a minute. I smell bubble gum. That sickly sweet pink bubble gum that drives me crazy when people chew it incessantly, and pop it, mouths gaping open like fish, breaking my concentration, fuck, I hate the vile stuff. But I've got a huge boxful of it. Promotional shit, a joke sent to me by Melissa Booth when I got a little too pompous one day about keeping the integrity of the films and not selling out to every bubble gum company in existence. She knows I hate this crap. She also knows her business, and that Topps promotion went over really well, and so of course she had a victory boxful sent to me. I stuffed it in the hall closet hell, over a year ago? And it still reeks that sickly sweet smell. Of which I've currently got a snootful.

So, I'm in my hall closet, and I can't move or see. And my head's throbbing. I'm starting to remember bits and pieces, maybe it's the smell of the gum reviving me. It was a perfectly normal day, had a breakfast meeting to go over some project finances, drove cross town afterwards to pick up a vintage airplane model I'd been eyeing and finally made some space for, got back home, the wing went flying across the hardwood floor, why did the wing do that, it's supposed to be attached to the plane, but the plane, the propellor snapped off when he smacked it from my hand, who did that? I try to stretch my leg out, bloody hell, legs are strapped together too. What if no one finds me? I'm left to die of gum fumes, alone in my own house? Great end for the famous Peter Jackson, this is going to look great in the tabloids. It hurts to think, but I'm getting a face in mind now - Lawrence? Why the hell would Lawrence do that? Something's hard and clenched in my fist, I can sort of roll it about in my hand, and it feels like a bit of wood, smooth, curved wood, nicely shaped, it's soothing and I run my thumb over it.

I'm thinking more clearly now, and I can hear stuff outside the closet door. Voices, muffled, furniture shoving about, what the fuck's going on in my house? I squirm about trying to free my hands, but I just make the knots tighter. Exasperated, I slump sideways, resting the side of my head on the closet wall. It doesn't hurt as much if I don't struggle, and the wall's cool on my head, just going to rest here a minute or too, it's easier this way...
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