Ben Paddon

Category: Personal life

  • Not Quite Life

    I stopped writing my slice-o’-life webcomic before my artist had even drawn the first strip because, frankly, I found the entire thing boring to write. I couldn’t engage with the characters I’d created, which is perhaps problematic because the central character is basically me. The premise was semi-autobiographical, dealing with a young man who gets out of a serious relationship and tries to reconnect with his former best friend, someone his ex had tried to push out of his life. That happened, and I wanted to tell that story.

    The problem is that I wanted to tell it three years ago. Now I feel like I’ve moved well beyond that point in my life, and revisiting it just to try and tell a not-quite-what-happened version of it for a webcomic doesn’t sit well, especially as I was trying to make it work in a gag-a-day format. So, no. Not interested. Pass.

    This presents an additional problem – I want to work on a gag-a-day comic again. Fried ended in 2006 when, after three years, I realized I was bored with it. Jump Leads exceeded Fried‘s lifespan at the start of this month, not just in duration but in quantity. Jump Leads remains fresh because by its nature it has to. We’re never in the same universe for more than a few months. It keeps things interesting.

    But in a weird sort-of way I want to do something a little more grounded, with characters I can drop into random scenarios and just have fun with. I think I’ve come up with a concept that is grounded enough to work as a gag-a-day, but quirky enough to keep me interested. And funnily enough, it’s based on a short film I wrote back in 2007.

    Last night, for the first time in three years, I sat down to sketch characters. I don’t know if I’ll be doing anything with those sketches – I’m no artist, by any stretch – but that’s also how Jump Leads started way back in 2006. I’d like to take that as a Good Sign.

  • Don’t get me a birthday card. Give the money to Child’s Play instead.

    That’s pretty much it. Rather than spend $3 or £2 on getting me a birthday card, why not donate that money to Child’s Play? They do an annual drive that starts around September, but they are always accepting donations. So send them a donation, and send me an email or a Facebook message instead.

  • On A Seven-Day Diary

    This is without a doubt my favourite poem of all time. It’s called “On A Seven-Day Diary” by Alan Dugan.

    Oh I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    and ate and talked and went to sleep.
    Then I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    from work and ate and slept.
    Then I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    and ate and watched a show and slept.
    Then I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    and ate steak and went to sleep.
    Then I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
    Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
    Love must be the reason for the week!
    We went shopping! I saw clouds!
    The children explained everything!
    I could talk about the main thing!
    What did I drink on Saturday night
    that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
    The last half wasn’t worth this “word.”
    Then I got up and went to work
    and worked and came back home
    from work and ate and went to sleep,
    refreshed but tired by the weekend.

    This poem epitomizes exactly the sort of life I have sought to avoid. The grind, the chore of merely existing as opposed to the joy of living. It’s one of the reasons I left the UK and came looking for something better in the United States.

    It’s also probably one of the reasons I’m presently unemployed. Bugger.

    As an aside, I wish I could write poetry like this. I which I could make words flow like liquid half as well as Dugan could.

  • I’ll Give You My Telescope, Anything, Please Glod Don’t Tell Anyone

    This blog entry runs the risk of becoming somewhat of a self-indulgent Pity Party, so you don’t have to read it. I feel I need to vent, and this blog is a convenient place to do so and so I shall put it to use. There’s every chance I’ll wake up in the morning, remember I’ve written this blog post, go…

    ARGH

    …and then delete it, or make it private. That said, it’s here while it’s here. So enjoy it, or whatever.

    Every now and then my brain gets caught in a logic loop. The problem goes something like this: I worry that there is something seriously wrong with me on a psychological level – some wonderful, terrible mental illness which accounts for my erratic behaviour, my emotional nature, my desire to be the central focus of attention, and all manner of other personality problems. I worry about this for a while, and then I decide I’m probably just being paranoid and I dismiss it. At that point I begin to worry: maybe my dismissing of the thought is preventing me from getting actual, proper help for what may well be a proper, actual condition. My usual response there is to dismiss that as me overthinking the matter and being overly paranoid. Then I worry that dismissing the notion is me denying a problem I have with paranoia coupled with the potential mental problem I might have, and I start to get anxious. Then I dismiss all of it as rubbish, and I wonder if maybe dismissing any of it was in fact the smart thing to do.

    Usually I can stop my thought process from wandering too far down this path and I can catch myself before I get too caught up in it and find myself sitting on the bed, staring out into nothing, terrified that whichever decision I make about this whole “my brain is broken” nonsense is the wrong one. Occasionally I don’t, and I wind up doing just that. Even when I’m able to break free of it and go about living my life as if I were a normal, sensible, contributing member of society (ha!) it still floats around the surface of my brain for a few days afterwards, and generally that can leave me feeling rather low.

    I had someone suggest to me a few years ago that I might be Bipolar. I’m fairly confident that I’m not. I’ve something of an interest in neurological disorders and I don’t personally believe I fit the description of a classic Bipolarity. That said, I’e always felt a kinship with Stephen Fry. If you don’t know who Fry is then that probably means you’re American, but to summarize he’s a writer, actor, playwright and poet. You’ve probably seen him in Bones as Dr. Gordon Wyatt M.D., or in Jeeves and Wooster as the titular butler. Possibly you remember him as the Qur’an-owning television chat show host from the 2006 movie adaptation of V for Vendetta.  I’ve just spent far too much time explaining who he is. Long story short, he is the gem of the British Isles, and a rarity; a glowing, charismatic, intelligent man who is at the same time accessible to and admired by the general public. He is an inspiration of mine and something of an idol. He is the man I hope to be when I reach my 50s.

    He’s also Bipolar, and in 2006 filmed the documentary “The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive” talking about his own experiences with Bipolarity and interviewing other Bipolar celebrity figures such as Carrie Fisher (oh, you know who she is) and Robbie Williams (the British musician, not the hairy comedian – you’re thinking of Robin Williams). I’ve watched this documentary a couple of times on YouTube and just tonight downloaded the whole thing to sit and watch on a proper television tomorrow.

    Every time I watch this documentary it shreds my insides. It leaves me devastated, frightened. It scares me, it makes me worry, and it usually leaves me stuck in that paranoia/anxiety feedback loop I mentioned earlier. In fact I haven’t watched it in well over a year and a half for that very reason. But spurred on by a recent… looping, I feel I have to watch it again. I don’t know why.

    I’d love to know exactly why my head is wired up the way it is. I’d love to know what makes me tick. I doubt I’m Bipolar – I know I’m not, in fact – but for some reason I feel that if I learn more about Bipolarity, if I can understand it better, then perhaps I can understand what’s wrong with me. I’m sure there’s a logical hole in there somewhere.

    Sometimes I am so scared of the way my brain functions. But, and I feel this is important, I do my best to ensure it doesn’t get in the way of experiencing new things and achieving my ambitions. It’s rare for me  to feel as weak and pathetic as I do tonight.

  • It Fills A Hole

    We’re all humans, right? I mean, unless an animal testing laboratory has been raided and dozens of cerebrally-enhanced genetic super-chimps have been freed from their cage, slipped out of the building masked by the confusion and tear-gas and then, having discussed amongst themselves what they should do with their new-found freedom, decided to hightail it to the nearest Internet Cafe and look up an obscure British writer’s blog, I think it’s a safe assumption to make.

    So with that in mind, I think it’s fairly safe to say that sometimes, when we are faced with feelings of emptiness and dissatisfaction with the current state of our lives (Why haven’t I got any regular income? Why won’t the BBC return my calls? Is The Beatles Rock Band really $250?!) we turn to unusual places to plug up the gaping hole that has pushed itself into our lives. Some people fill that hole with television, or sex, or by writing abusive emails to publishing companies. Others, such as myself, tend to fill that void with food.

    It’s a dangerous thing. I’ve spent much of the last few months couped up on my own in my house. Often I haven’t left my bedroom because I’ve been on my computer either writing, talking to friends, or playing Tales of Monkey Island. Occasionally I will leave my room, slouching and scratching my back like some sort of well-dressed caveman, and wander into the kitchen where I will, for no real reason whatsoever, get something to eat.

    There’s no need for this. I’m not hungry. I’m not even peckish. And yet I have lost count of the number of times where I have been sitting at my computer, blinked, and then found myself standing in the kitchen looking into the fridge. Occasionally I have gone one step further and found myself sitting at my computer desk with a tub of Pringles and a jar of dip, an occurance which fills me with dread because we never buy Pringles.

    Then there was a recent incident where I found myself eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon. Such antics are forgivable of a young boy who just likes chocolate, but I’m a 23 year-old man. I’m supposed to be a professional. So why the Hell am I shovelling chocolate and hazelnut spread out of the jar and directly into my mouth?

    It’s possible I am simply a Disgusting Human Being. Indeed, I don’t dismiss this option. There is at least one item in my DVD collection that would probably validate this theory (and, y’know, who amongst us hasn’t gone to Amazon UK and seen series one of Not Going Out for the limited-time-only price of £3 and subsequently purchased it in a moment of heady recklessness?).

    I used to go for a daily walk. I stopped doing that because It’s Fucking Hot, and I am tall and red-haired and British and therefore not built for the surface-of-the-sun levels of heat LA seems to endure for 347 days of the year.

    So my plan from tomorrow is this: Eat healthily. Yes, that’s ridiculous. Yes, my primary source of food for tomorrow will be a local AM-PM and the only food they serve there has been treated with more chemicals than a Marvel superhero. But dammit, I’m going to eat healthily or not at all. One way or another I’m going to get Results. I’m not huge, and I’d like to keep it that way.

    Meanwhile, I have to find something else to fill that hole with. What were the other things I mentioned earlier…?

  • Life is a Roller Coaster

    It’s difficult for me to express exactly what happened to me today in words.

    I went to Magic Mountain with some friends. This isn’t a particularly groundbreaking event in itself. It’s a theme park. That’s the sort of things friends do, is go to theme parks together. In particular we went to celebrate Ben Sweaney’s birthday. 27 years old. He drove down from Phoenix, AZ last night, crashed on my couch, and we drove to the park together this morning.

    One of the observations I’d made during the day was that while California does have some rather impressive mountains in it, there’s a lot of flat land – particularly around Magic Mountain. Having been to a theme park in England relatively recently, where the rollercoasters were surrounded by waterfalls and rockfaces and the like, riding the rollercoasters at Magic Mountain seemed a very different experience. Imagine a flat, desolate desert. Now imagine a rollercoaster in the middle of it.

    This didn’t really bother me much during the day – I overcaqme my fear of rollercoasters at this very park some ten years ago. But something very strange happened on the last ride we went on.

    In the ten years since I last went to the park, various new rides have popped up. Amongst them is Tatsu, a dragon-themed rollercoaster that, like Air at Alton Towers in England, rotates the seats 90 degrees before the ride begins, meaning that you face downwards as it takes off.

    Unlike some of the other roller coasters I went on that day, I jumped onto Tatsu with ease and excitement. I’ve done this before, I reasoned. This is a doddle. But as the ride began its ascent, my tune began to change.

    The thing about Magic Mountain is that it’s not just a fanciful name. Despite the vast amount of flat space surrounding the park, much of it is located at the foot of an actual mountain, meaning that some roller coasters begin at a high point and overlook large areas of the park. As we climbed up the ramp for that first drop, I became very aware of this fact.

    Fuck, I thought. This is pretty high.

    The ascent seemed to take forever, and we seemed to be moving further and further away from the ground. I started to seize up, my mind overrun with panic, fear, anxiety.

    What if the support on my seat breaks? I asked myself. What if I fall? Oh, fuck.

    The ascent began to slow, the angle of the cart began to level out. We were approaching that first big drop. Not wanting to close my eyes, I decided to fix my gaze at the shoes of the person in the seats in front of me.

    And then we dropped.

    The scenery, so much of it so very far away, whizzed below me as we rushed downwards. it whizzed around me as we looped, and flipped, and dived. It spun, and shook, and twisted, and wound, and after what felt like a millenia of my heart stopping, freezing, hoping that the ride would be over, I suddenly came over with a feeling of remarkably tranquility.

    If I fall, I will die, I thought. But if I’m going to die, I might as well enjoy the view.

    Suddenly my eyes wanted to be everywhere but locked on those shoes, and I looked. No, I didn’t just look. I’d looked while I was on other rides. On Tatsu, I saw. Mountains, trees, an artificial but otherwise impressive river. Nature. All of it below me. What a spectacle it was! What an incredible world we live in!

    Now, I know that experts design roller coasters, and more experts test them to death before they’ll even let people so much as look at the inside of the station. But if the worst should have happened, if the safety gear had failed and I’d fallen from my seat tonight, I would have been content knowing that this was the last thing I saw, that this was the last thing I felt. I mean, obviously the last thing I would have really felt would be the concrete as my body slammed full-force into the ground, but even still. Seeing what I saw, and feeling what I felt… I reckon I would’ve been content.

    All too soon the ride was over. I stepped onto the platform a little relieved but mostly disappointed – I wish I could have seen from the start. I wish I could have taken it all in. We should go on it again, my brain conspired, but it wasn’t to be – our group moved away from the ride, ultimately leaving the park entirely.

    It was a very bizarre feeling, and a strange way to experience it. I’m sure that there are people out there who would say it was God, but I don’t believe that. I believe it was something else. Something more. Something human.

    I’m broke, I’m unemployed, and I’m alone. But I’m alive, and I’m alive in this world of all palces. Of all the unlikely things to happen, this is me and this is where I am. Call me corny, call me soft-hearted, call me whatever you like, but I absolutely love this.

  • The Written Word, Written Down

    I don’t write about my personal life much anymore.

    I have an anonymous blog. It’s elsewhere on the Internet, far from any servers or accounts with my name or email address attached to it. But I haven’t posted there in some time. I keep getting the urge, but it feels so… weightless. So inconsequential. It’s the same reason I don’t buy books for the Amazon Kindle – I don’t feel like I really have anything. I like the way books feel in my hands, the way the paper feels as I turn from one page to the next.

    With that in mind, I’ve decided that as soon as I’m able to do so I shall be popping out and getting a nice leatherbound Journal in which to write things down. Something swanky, like my own Journal of Impossible Things. I like the idea of being able to pick up these weighty books at some point in my future and reading through my exploits. What did 23 year-old Ben do in his spare time? What did he really think about that girl he met on the set of “Greek” all those years ago? Where did he go to eat, besides Jack in the Box?

    It’s a romantic thought. It’s probably also very, very silly, especially when you consider that my handwriting is so absolutely terrible that there are chickens out there who get all offended and uppity whenever anyone compares it to their scratchings. But it’s something I want to do. Something I’ve wanted to do for a while now. Considering I’ve already scratched off two of my lifelong ambitions in the past month, I figure it doesn’t hurt to go for a third, relatively minor ambition.