It's good to keep busy. So busy in fact that look at the state of this blog. It's barely had anything happen to it in months. Shocking.

As of whenever my registration with 123-reg cancels, basilbaradaran.com will no longer send you to this site, but to my newly created basilbaradaran.net, which is essentially the same website, but it looks less terrible. It's been on my mind for ages now, to rebrand and change how everything looks. The blog design I don't think brings a lot of hope to potential clients, but a cleaner, easier-to-use site with simple navigation could do the trick. Chances are what you see when you click that link now will be somewhat different in the future. Probably be doing loads of tweaks until I give up and admit it was fine the first time around.

Eventually I'll remove the pages here, bit by bit, until it's just the original blog again. There is a blog on the new site, but I don't like the feel of it, so chances are every post will just be published on this site and the new one, until I can find a way to integrate the two (never. I'm really bad at web design).


Lately I've been animating again, and it's one of my toughest jobs in a while. The idea is simple, and to some extent the execution is too, but considering how little time I have to do all of this - weekends and whatever spare time I have that doesn't involve playing Arkham Knight - it's a tiny bit stressful. But here's the guy I'm animating juggling:

Totally worth it.

Remember this short story thing I wrote? No? Yeah, me neither. Well anyway I'm adapting that into a long, long story. A novel in fact. It was meant to be a script but then I figured it's easier to adapt a novel to screen than a film to book, well, not shitty books anyway. And to prove that this isn't a thing I'm starting only to ditch it, I'm around halfway through the first draft, with documents of plot details, character bios, timelines and a chapter-by-chapter breakdown.

PRO TIP: do a chapter by chapter breakdown for your whole story before you start. Without feeling trapped - you can change the plot as you move forward if you want - you will always have something to refer to on days when you're just not feeling the inspiration to write. I'd have given up on this thing months ago if I didn't have that.



It's almost Christmas, but I don't have anything Christmassy to show, like I do every year. So here's the e-card I made for a friend a couple of years back.


Merry Christmas, y'all

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           The scene lingers for a few moments on the quiet, darkened room of BASIL BARADARAN. The main source of light is a tall, precariously bent desk lamp, the sort that makes you think briefly of the Pixar logo. It emits a warm glow to the otherwise black room.

          Hunched over the desk, silhouetted against the orange glow in front of him, Basil sits at the desk. He thinks about what to write. He types a few words, considers them, and then deletes them. A minor stroke of inspiration hits, and his face lights up. Silently, he cracks his knuckles, hurriedly types several lines on his keyboard and, with the sort of grunt that is more associated with manual work and heavy lifting and most certainly not sitting idly at a computer and flailing your hands across a keyboard, leans back to appreciate the work he has just finished.

Here's another quick extract from my upcoming story, concerning a previously established character:

----

The setting sun bathed the entire city of Qang Chu in red, or rather, more red than it already was. The light hit the red flags hanging from the red temples, and the red market stalls with the small red lanterns. It was, it appeared, the colour of choice of the people of Qang Chu, or even the entire county of Chu.

   Which was why Po-Zhen was wearing green. Red was an imperial colour – you couldn’t forget that. If he had worn red, he would have been spotted immediately and taken to the prime minister and, with all probability, killed.

   No, no one actually wore red, not unless they worked for the royalty. If you wanted to blend in, you wore yellows, greens and blues. And blending in was exactly what Zhen wanted. It was bad enough that he didn’t particularly resemble anyone else in the country, but he tried his best with some makeshift makeup which would have made for great entertainment back home. He had changed his hair colour to black, after realizing he was the only with red hair in the country. That and it was probably illegal to have hair the imperial colour.

   He called himself Zhen as his full given name had meant Flame Beard, which probably wasn’t the right way to go if he wanted to avoid attention. Zhen by itself didn’t mean ‘flame’ and in fact could mean anything from ‘stone’ to ‘boysenberry’.

   A lot of words had more than one meaning here. That was something he had to learn quickly.

   He looked around the rapidly-emptying marketplace. The sun was quickly setting, and people weren’t too bothered about staying around market square at night where there was no light and nothing in particular to do.

   He ducked in a back alley which he found to contain old wooden boxes filled with old food scraps and animal remains, and stayed until the square was silent.

   It was almost completely night when everyone had left. There was a curfew on, soon, as well, he knew. Shouldn’t be too many guards around, he thought, but if they spot me they’ll drag me up, and they’ll figure out who I am and all this will have been for nothing.

   Great.

   He figured there would only be two hours before curfew hit, so he didn’t have long before guards would start strolling around. He could hide, and carry on when they weren’t there and might just have to.

   Trust me to find it in the middle of the most occupied area of the city, he thought. Well, at least it’s not in the palace. That would have been a laugh.

   “Time to get to work,” he said.

   First step, I need to get some measurements.

   He worked for a few hours, but gave up. In the darkness, it took much time and his eyes were starting to hurt. He had been up for way too long.

   He decided to quit and made his way back through the more derelict parts of town, occasionally ducking out of sight of guards which had begun to roam the streets. They always started in the poor parts of town. They liked to think that’s where all the trouble was. And for all he knew it probably was.

   He arrived back at the shed behind a run-down café he was letting from someone who in all likeliness didn’t even own the property. It was small – barely enough to fit a bed and a table and looked like it was going to fall over at the slightest breeze. It wasn’t much but it was home.

   Ack. No.

   He didn’t like thinking of it like that.

   It wasn’t home. It was a base of operations. He hated to admit it, but he probably didn’t have a home anymore. He didn’t like the thought of that at all, but for the moment that’s how it was. Maybe once everything was finished with he could settle down here.

   He needed sleep now. He had to be awake at the crack of dawn tomorrow, for Mr Pang, who didn’t know who he was or really cared for all it mattered. Mr Pang paid him money to deliver things, and Zhen did so.

   The research can wait, for the moment, he thought.

   He took off his clothes and put everything that was in the pockets on the table, which rocked on its bad leg.

   He lay down on the bed, which resembled a psychiatrist’s chair more than anything else, pulled the blanket over himself and fell asleep.

My list of things to do has been completed and I'm rather pleased with myslef. I can't remember the last time I have fully completed a to-do list without making stupid compromises. Fifteen things done in like 12 hours, which isn't bad considering I've spent seven of those hours playing Tekken or doodling. And now it's half twelve and I'm forcing myself to convince myself that it's late. I have a weird feeling that the rest of my life will comprise of me battling myself over what time is acceptable and what time is stupidly late. I've gotten to the point where 4AM isn't. That's not good.

Oh drat, I wanted to do some writing before I went to bed (shouldve put it in my to-do list). I might do Wanderer instead. That needs to be written, still. To be honest I have no idea where to take it now. I'm writing an issue to be released (or whatever) before my original first issue, but it's reached the point where I've got all these plot twists,  new characters and stories and shit in my head and it's hard to write anything without accidentally slipping anything in there and thus confusing the audience. Originally the Wanderer was going to have a big ol' coat and hat (he still does), but hid his face for the entirety of the first issue ... because apparently seeing his face would have been bad. Seeing I can't hide his face in this one, I'm scrapping the idea, wondering why it was even a good idea in the first place.

Or maybe I could type up my notes from classes this week. I have a visual culture and representation class which, basically, is looking at pictures and films and analysing the shit out of the pretty pictures, integrated project with the world's greatest film producer COLIN PONS (here's his IMDB...) who's given us a choice of three themes: Sheffield, Sheffield Hallam University, or the Showroom Cinema. For those of you who don't know, the Showroom is in Sheffield, just down from Sheffield Hallam. Gee, thanks again for your wonderful contribution to our education, Colin. How could we ever have passed the course without you (he's the guy I was talking about in this post here).

You just wonder if he was just sitting in his office, wondering what to pretend to teach us and then looked out the goddamn window. There's amoeba who could teach us better animation.

Then there's our claymation class which no one bar three others attended on Friday for unknown reasons, which was fine because it made everything easier considering the room is about the size of Colin Pons's imagination. (That's three square imaganiums, for those calculating imagination in metric)

Ho hum. I'm going to go find something to write about. Ciao world. I'll leave you with pretty pictures of WANDERER I drew some time back

...

A brand new year has begun. The first in a brand new decade of what was, not too long ago a new millennium (and needless to say, century). Everything's pretty new, and is the usual pathos in this, it represents brand new beginnings and hope and all that. But, of course, it doesn't. It's another day which will be followed by another day the day after it, until we reach the end of the year which is full of reminiscence and then the eventual new beginning.       Everything ends, and everything begins again, but only if you choose to see it. That's not to say that the end of the year isn't something worth celebrating. 

There's a lot of things I want to get right this year, which I didn't quite seem to get last year. I'm not going to write up any resolutions, mainly because I haven't thought of any. It's going to be the usual mix of things, though: get that Wanderer comic off the ground, finish writing things, write new things, draw more, and, hell, why not even start a film or an animated piece while I'm at it. 

Remember way back when in my eager stages of planning for bits of life that wouldn't happen for years and years and years? It's all still happening. Nothing's ended, nor begun. I'm still running around in circles trying to find decent plots for these three stories. If life in Sheffield proves to be as excellent as it's been lately, I'm pretty sure I can see a really good year ahead of me. 

I wonder if Fool Face Reilly got my New Year's text

I'm listening to my "sounds of 2009" playlist which I just created, which instead of being good music from 2009, it's music I listened to a shitload in 2009, which includes undoubtedly, the musical genius and lyrical mastery of Amanda Palmer and Dresden Dolls. Mr Children's Home album and their B-Sides compilation album have certainly awarded themselves a place in this (as well as all their other songs I have), as have AC Newman, Coeur de Pirate, and Regina Spektor.     It's a pretty good playlist.

I'm going to end this entry with this benediction from my author idol, Neil Gaiman, because everything I've tried to write has sounded really forced and unbelievably cheesy:

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art - write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. May your coming year be a wonderful thing in which you dream both dangerously and outrageously.

"I hope it'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and you will be liked and you will have people to love and to like in return. And most importantly, because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now - I hope that you will, when you need to be, be wise and that you will always be kind. And I hope that somewhere in the next year you surprise yourself."

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope it's a great one.

Today has been odd, for the sole reason that I actually began continuing writing things I started days, weeks and months ago. There's hope yet. I'm now sitting down - or rather, hunched over my desk with the happenstance of being rested on the seat - , cup of tea on the side, two monitors scarily close to my face and the Dresden Dolls playing Missed Me with Amanda Palmer attacking that piano like it had just raped her daughter (very odd. Just as I typed this Amanda just sang the words "it serves you right for kissing little girls"). The lighting is very limited. This desk lamp is facing the wall and is about 10 watts away from being as bright as a birthday candle. I should probably go to sleep, but that's no fun anyway. I don't dream interesting things. My last dream was I was set up on a blind date with Harley Quinn and forgot she hated parsley sauce ("Mr Joker never forgot I hated parsley sauce"). My dreams are shite. The bloke in a room on the opposite side of this courtyard doesn't like us in this flat, we've decided. Either that or he's shit scared of us, which wouldn't be a surprise. We've nicknamed him Richard, or Red Shirt (because he always wears a red tshirt, except for when he doesn't). We decided to do this very nice thing and post up a huge notice on our window that reads "What is your name?" which wouldn't be so bad if, when we looked outside, didn't look like some sort of obscure ransom note. By the time we got all the letters realigned, he was probably scared of us, which is understandable. He's caught us looking at him through the window, which probably doesn't help. That's not weird, right?

Welcome to my city. Population: somewhere around the better half of 500,000 I would think. I’m not really quite sure. Can’t keep tabs on everyone after all. It’s nice to see the streets so empty, especially with our city. Very peaceful, very quite. It’s a lovely city. No, really. You should see the view from my apartment; it’s facing the sea and everything. And climb to the top of Centre Tower – you’ll get to see the whole city from there. Absolutely gorgeous stuff. There’s Midpark too, but we don’t want to go there. Not at this time, anyway. A man got mugged and brutally stabbed last week whilst walking through it at night. Hmmm? Yeah, they caught the guy. Well, found him is probably a more appropriate word. He was found with a spit through him, half-charred over a large bonfire. It was absolutely ghastly but what can you do, huh? Caught the guy? Oh no, you fail to understand you see, it wasn’t a criminal who did that. See, a year ago we had a massive crime outbreak. It was awful. The police couldn’t do much and half the force was corrupt anyway and suddenly out of the blue sky comes our Hero, cape and all. He gets right down to business; he wants to make it clear he’s putting a stop to crime, so he goes all morose-irony on everyone. There was this hit and run on one of the corner stores a while back. Our Hero, he comes out of nowhere, like he always does and he fires at him, completely destroying the guy’s spine. The thief, he’s lying on the road completely paralyzed, almost dead but just hanging on. And our hero, he wants to hammer the point in – he’s only taken care of the “run” side, now he wants to do the “hit”. He breaks the guy’s arms in 4 different places. Then he walks away, never saying a word, and disappears. No one can find him; superheroes are good like that. His name? To be honest, no one’s quite sure what his name is. We call him the Watcher. He’s always around, always waiting, always watching. So a couple of months later and the streets are virtually void of any of the crime we had so much of not that long previous. It’s amazing of course, but without crime there’s nothing for our crimefighter to fight. So he starts finding whatever he can to put himself to use. A man was spitting on the sidewalk, this was a couple of weeks ago, then the Watcher comes out of nowhere and as fast as anything, slashed the poor man’s mouth Glasgow Grin-style. Watcher made him clear up all the blood and the spit. Don’t even ask me about the kids caught drinking… no. Awful. That’s why you don’t see so many people on these streets much. Leave? Not while the Watcher still watches. He’s our guardian. No one can find him, no one can stop him. Besides, I can’t leave- this is my city. Every city has its problems. We asked for a crime-free place and we got one. We have our masked vigilante. But the views here are great. And the Chinese food. Amazing. Wanna grab a bite? Yeah, come on. Watch out. Mind that blood there.

It's an extract from a children's (although I don't know about this part. The second half, with the Circus will fit more for children) story I'm trying to write right now. Not got a lot for it just yet, but I'm writing it on a "make it up as you go along and see how it all fits" kind of way. ---- It had an incredibly appropriate name. Gutter, the town was called - probably after the man who founded it, James Gutter, or maybe it was just named after the great big shithole it had become. It rained almost all the time in Gutter; if it wasn’t from the constantly-grey clouds that lingered above, then it would be the piss that people threw out the window. What did it mater who it landed on? In one of the many gutters of Gutter a rat swam in the mix of urine, spit, rainwater and last night’s bath. Sad to say that it wasn’t the worst thing that would be swimming down these streets. Its journey was stopped abruptly by the long sharp stick that had dug itself into the rat’s back. With one sad last squeak, the rat died. The owner of the long sharp stick, an old woman, almost bent double from old age, danced around happily and let stream from her mouth a quite extensive array of gibberish words. She took off the rag which she had been using as a shawl of some kind to reveal a small makeshift bag which had been slung around one shoulder. It stank of mud and faeces and some animal which she had forgotten to take out some weeks ago. Watching the shish-kebabed rat with wide, greedy eyes, she was about to put it into her bag when, out of nowhere a large hand pulled her back, and with a lot of force, slammed her into the wall of a nearby building. The huge man then picked up the rat-on-a-stick and smelled it with his hair logged nose. “Ooh! S’fresh!” he said. Ripping the rat off the stick and shoving it into the pocket of his tattered cloak, he ran the down the street.