i have so much money.
well... not so much but more than ive ever had which isnt that much because ive never had any.
i want so many things but i cant buy them.
i still want to steal them for no money even though theres nothing other than them that i want
and i have money and if i spent it on these things that i want i would have them
and there arnt other things that i want more so why not spend all my money
and not have any money left but have the things i want...
????
its so hard to spend money.
i wish i had more money.
i wish i have all the money.
i wish when i tried on clothing i could just buy it if it looked good and wear it if i wanted to and give it away if i didnt want to wear it but just have more and more money so clothing would just flow through my life like... tissues... use once and use again only if... it was phenominal the last time... well... maybe not a tissue..
but i wish i could have everything i thought i needed even if i wasnt sure i really needed it.
and then i would have it and use it and not worry that maybe i would never use it...
i want a projector.
if i bought it i would have it and use it.
if i bought it and didnt use it i would worry that i had wasted my money and then i would return it.
if i had enormous amounts of incoming money i would just let the projector be used or unused.
i want an iphone.
i want a house.
i want to cut open the walls of my room and put shelves in the studs and have shelves and put lots of collections on the shelves.
i want to paint my dresser white.
i want to strip the paint on my iron bed.
i want to paint the floors white with deck paint.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
BUG
there
is
a
ant
in
my
bed
on my wall
near my head
near my pillow
hiding behind a paper that is tacked to my wall.
now its gone...
but forever in my memory
haunting my dreams
crawling across my toes
with its brothers.
is
a
ant
in
my
bed
on my wall
near my head
near my pillow
hiding behind a paper that is tacked to my wall.
now its gone...
but forever in my memory
haunting my dreams
crawling across my toes
with its brothers.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
All alone
Home alone and I get dressed eight times and then put on eye liner.
then i throw my clothes on the floor and eat pieces of cheese in the bath
and write strange things on wet paper using the bathtub edge as a desk.
The sound of running water drowns out "Paul Simon" who I turned up all the way and listened to while I destroyed an avocado
while trying to slice it and spread it onto toast.
I heated up some water and poured sugar into a tea cup and then poured the sugar back into its jar and ignored the hot water and drank a juice box instead.
then i throw my clothes on the floor and eat pieces of cheese in the bath
and write strange things on wet paper using the bathtub edge as a desk.
The sound of running water drowns out "Paul Simon" who I turned up all the way and listened to while I destroyed an avocado
while trying to slice it and spread it onto toast.
I heated up some water and poured sugar into a tea cup and then poured the sugar back into its jar and ignored the hot water and drank a juice box instead.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Boy
An eighteen year old who will very soon be one of The Shins, The Beatles, The New Pornographers, Passion Pit even... Animal Collective, Neutral Milk Hotel... the boy comes into poetry class late,
he avoids the teacher's eye as he slides into the desk/chair in the corner in the front near the door.
He holds a folded piece of printer paper and a hes wearing only a sweatshirt even though its raining outside
his shoulders are wet and his hair is wet.
He turns to stare intentently at the girl whos rhyming love poem was interrupted when the boy banged through the heavy door
and squeaked across the floor on his wet sneakers.
The girl looses her place, looks quickly at the teacher who nods calmly
looks quickly at the boy who stares...
she reads the rest of her poem.
the teacher tells her something about a poem being like a story board
'you should be able to draw an illustration in a box next to each line.'
Of course the teacher calls on the boy next, to put him on the spot, because he was late.
The boy unfolds his paper and reads out the lyrics of one of his songs, without a chorus, without repeats... it sounds just like a poem and none of us have ever heard it before.
The images are like fresh photographs taken with a camera youve never heard of that creates a kind of triangle shaped image youve never seen before... there is a new color in the spectrum.
'I jumped across three or four beds into your arms." says the boy "what a beautiful face i have found in this place that is circling all round the sun."
...what i mean is: i like to imagine them and how their minds match the minds of the boys at the community colleges who take 8am poetry classes and have lots to say
but arrive late.
he avoids the teacher's eye as he slides into the desk/chair in the corner in the front near the door.
He holds a folded piece of printer paper and a hes wearing only a sweatshirt even though its raining outside
his shoulders are wet and his hair is wet.
He turns to stare intentently at the girl whos rhyming love poem was interrupted when the boy banged through the heavy door
and squeaked across the floor on his wet sneakers.
The girl looses her place, looks quickly at the teacher who nods calmly
looks quickly at the boy who stares...
she reads the rest of her poem.
the teacher tells her something about a poem being like a story board
'you should be able to draw an illustration in a box next to each line.'
Of course the teacher calls on the boy next, to put him on the spot, because he was late.
The boy unfolds his paper and reads out the lyrics of one of his songs, without a chorus, without repeats... it sounds just like a poem and none of us have ever heard it before.
The images are like fresh photographs taken with a camera youve never heard of that creates a kind of triangle shaped image youve never seen before... there is a new color in the spectrum.
'I jumped across three or four beds into your arms." says the boy "what a beautiful face i have found in this place that is circling all round the sun."
...what i mean is: i like to imagine them and how their minds match the minds of the boys at the community colleges who take 8am poetry classes and have lots to say
but arrive late.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Katie Didn't
I was sitting on the steps, near the mailbox,
watching late night cars catch up
with thier headlights and then pass by
and i was wondering if i loved the moon
enough to walk a mile underneath it
and then swim underneath it
all alone.
while i wondered the moon rolled
slowly through the sky
out from behind a tree
and, after an hour, it had found a piece of open sky
and was staring right at me,
and while i waited for a sign
the invisible bugs predicted in the past tense,
a history that hadnt happened yet,
of 'katie did' 'katie didnt'
which wasnt helpful
so i didnt go.
watching late night cars catch up
with thier headlights and then pass by
and i was wondering if i loved the moon
enough to walk a mile underneath it
and then swim underneath it
all alone.
while i wondered the moon rolled
slowly through the sky
out from behind a tree
and, after an hour, it had found a piece of open sky
and was staring right at me,
and while i waited for a sign
the invisible bugs predicted in the past tense,
a history that hadnt happened yet,
of 'katie did' 'katie didnt'
which wasnt helpful
so i didnt go.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Dead Dream
I am pretending to be dead. I am lying on my back on the floor of a courtroom, my feet toward the judge who is looking down on me from his podium.
Someone, who is sort of my brother, is trying to prove to the judge that I was married before I died.
The brotherish person lifts my hand and shows the judge that I have rings on my finger. I know that the rings are fake and I am worried that the judge wont beleive that I am really married... (There are large pieces of plot missing from the dream, as though i began watching the movie halfway through: whether or not i am married, I dont remember.)
The judge inspects the rings on my hand and I'm not sure if I should make my hand tense or let it be limp. I don't know how dead hands are sposed to be and I am sure that the judge is going to notice that I'm not really dead; I also really want him to notice so that I can stop pretending. So I open my eyes... but no one notices.
The judge pronounces me married and dead and then they put me in a car where my Zaydie (my dad's dad) looks down on my face and says that he's sad that I am dead but in a 'everyone dies' kind of way.
Then my grandma (my mom's mom) is there and she sits with my 'body' and watches over me while we drive somewhere and I lie very still with my eyes closed. I somehow know what is happening as though I can see. The imagery of the dream is vague as though I am imagining it based on what I can hear.
Grandma talks to me, but sort of like praying, not directly to me, but to herself, talking about me... remembering me. And I wish she would stop because I assume that if she's talking to me then she is also looking at me and I am uncomfortable and I want to be able to move around.
I move. I want her to notice and then I will be able to get up!
But she must thnk that its normal for dead bodies to shift a little bit, because she doesnt say anything.
Next I am lying on a low rock wall near a field where the rest of my family is having a picnic. My grandma is still sitting near me and I am still moving.
...In my bed, in real life, as I near the end of the dream, I keep flipping around and moving my arms trying to get comfortable, and that is slipping through into the dream where I begin flipping and moving my arms on the wall beside my grandma who says, in this really bewildered, sad, mourning and not understanding way, "Katie, why do you keep moving?"
And then I wake up. I look at the clock, hoping that it is morning so I can get out of bed and not have to sleep anymore. It is exactly 3:00.
Looking at a clock exactly on the hour always makes me think of the scene where the clock tower chimes and someone looks up from something bad that they are doing and says to an empty room 'I'm afraid its the witching hour" and suddenly the room is full of ghosts and the tower continues to chime or the red digital numbers to blink and...
I can't go back to sleep for an hour.
Every time I start to drift back to sleep, I wake myself up, as the feeling that I'm not allowed to move creeps back over me. I have to keep telling myself 'you're not pretending to be dead anymore, because you never were dead, because that was all a dream" but my body feels heavy, as though my arms and legs will be stuck where i place them and my blankets are heavy and I'm too hot but the open ocean of black space outside the blanket is not safe.
And the feeling I am left with when I finally calm down is: "I really really don't want to be dead right now."
And it was all sort of inspired by this card, where dead people stand in their coffins and look up at the angel and wait eagerly for judgement... or maybe the dead people stand in their coffins and look up and eagerly judge the angel.
Someone, who is sort of my brother, is trying to prove to the judge that I was married before I died.
The brotherish person lifts my hand and shows the judge that I have rings on my finger. I know that the rings are fake and I am worried that the judge wont beleive that I am really married... (There are large pieces of plot missing from the dream, as though i began watching the movie halfway through: whether or not i am married, I dont remember.)
The judge inspects the rings on my hand and I'm not sure if I should make my hand tense or let it be limp. I don't know how dead hands are sposed to be and I am sure that the judge is going to notice that I'm not really dead; I also really want him to notice so that I can stop pretending. So I open my eyes... but no one notices.
The judge pronounces me married and dead and then they put me in a car where my Zaydie (my dad's dad) looks down on my face and says that he's sad that I am dead but in a 'everyone dies' kind of way.
Then my grandma (my mom's mom) is there and she sits with my 'body' and watches over me while we drive somewhere and I lie very still with my eyes closed. I somehow know what is happening as though I can see. The imagery of the dream is vague as though I am imagining it based on what I can hear.
Grandma talks to me, but sort of like praying, not directly to me, but to herself, talking about me... remembering me. And I wish she would stop because I assume that if she's talking to me then she is also looking at me and I am uncomfortable and I want to be able to move around.
I move. I want her to notice and then I will be able to get up!
But she must thnk that its normal for dead bodies to shift a little bit, because she doesnt say anything.
Next I am lying on a low rock wall near a field where the rest of my family is having a picnic. My grandma is still sitting near me and I am still moving.
...In my bed, in real life, as I near the end of the dream, I keep flipping around and moving my arms trying to get comfortable, and that is slipping through into the dream where I begin flipping and moving my arms on the wall beside my grandma who says, in this really bewildered, sad, mourning and not understanding way, "Katie, why do you keep moving?"
And then I wake up. I look at the clock, hoping that it is morning so I can get out of bed and not have to sleep anymore. It is exactly 3:00.
Looking at a clock exactly on the hour always makes me think of the scene where the clock tower chimes and someone looks up from something bad that they are doing and says to an empty room 'I'm afraid its the witching hour" and suddenly the room is full of ghosts and the tower continues to chime or the red digital numbers to blink and...
I can't go back to sleep for an hour.
Every time I start to drift back to sleep, I wake myself up, as the feeling that I'm not allowed to move creeps back over me. I have to keep telling myself 'you're not pretending to be dead anymore, because you never were dead, because that was all a dream" but my body feels heavy, as though my arms and legs will be stuck where i place them and my blankets are heavy and I'm too hot but the open ocean of black space outside the blanket is not safe.
And the feeling I am left with when I finally calm down is: "I really really don't want to be dead right now."
And it was all sort of inspired by this card, where dead people stand in their coffins and look up at the angel and wait eagerly for judgement... or maybe the dead people stand in their coffins and look up and eagerly judge the angel.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A Weekend in Parks with Molly(s)
At 9:40 I get on the train.
On the train I listen to my ipod and decide that if i ever make a movie about my life, Belle&Sebastian will have to score it.
When I arrive at GC, I stand under the ceiling and call Molly P.
'Hello.... did I wake you up?... sorry, go back to sleep.'
I call Molly M. She doesnt answer so i text her: Heading to Molly p's area in approx three mins. If you call me before that i might come to where u are. Hi!!!!"
I wait for three minutes and she doesn't call so I take the shuttle to the 1 and then wait for the 1, standing on the platform, in the wet air, avoiding the eye of the middle aged father wearing a cow boy hat. He is standing with his two fleshy children and his fleshy wife and he has a lion king flyer sticking out of his cow boy jeans. I can hear the accent in his expression.
A group of acapella singers come down into the station and sing to us. I dance, ever so slightly, stepping from foot to foot, trying not to smile as widely as I want to.
I take my hair down and put it up again. I bake in the wet heat.
I arrive at molly p's a half hour later. I look up in the direction of her window.
"hi. I'm here. are u still sleeping?'
She is so I say i'll walk around, maybe go to the diner and wait for her.
I walk. I dont go to diner. I get blisters on the bottoms of my feet. I get lots of odd looks, i assume, because of my dress- dark blue with pink and yellow and light blue galaxyish patturn... I end up near spring street.
Molly wakes up and says she'll meet me at a park. when i get there she i already there, standing in a fountain.
We go to mollys house. I trade my blister shoes for a pair of Molly's flip flops.
We go to the bank and both deposite our paychecks. My first paycheck ever. I dont know what I'm doing, i dont know where to sign or how to prove that i am me. but the teller cant tell.
We both get 100 dollars worth of our checks put in our accounts right away, that brings my balance to $110
We go to a bakery and share a tiny square cup of yellow lemon custard and an iced tea. Molly says that this bakery is the competition for the bakery where she works.
the boy who serves us the lemon custard says it was only his second day working. It's only molly's second week working at her bakery, she doesnt say anything to him about this cooincidence. I would have. because the boy is beautiful.
we go to a playground, sit underneath the jungle gym and eat the ice thats all thats left of the iced tea. we talk about being little and how when we were little if our parents wanted to buy us ice cream we got ice cream, and if they didnt want to we didnt get it... and how helpless being little is.
I walk molly to work. I buy a sandwhich from her bakery. She rings me up.
I get on the A C E (?) to union square to meet molly m.
I meet her in DSW, where i try to buy a pair of sneakers that will save my weekend- molly's flipflops are blistering between my toes.
Molly M suggests we go uptown to a real comfortable shoe store and buy me comfortable shoes. First we go to a starbucks where i stand online for the bathroom for ten minutes and talk with a beautiful black man about bathrooms and how if the starbuckses of NYC ever decide to put up those snide "restrooms for custumers only" signs, then the city will start to smell twice as bad.
what we meant is that starbucks is the only place left to pee.
Molly and i sit on a curb on the edge of union square and we eat ice and talk about loving ourselves.
We go uptown and buy me a pair of expenisve 'comfortable' shoes that, after two blocks, give me blisters on my heels and the bottom of my ankels.
so, back downtown, i buy a six dollar pair of shoes at goodwill so i can stop wearing the expenisve ones so that ill be able to return them. the goodwill shoes give me blisters too so we buy band aids.
we stop at molly's apt where i wash my feet in the bathtub. and bandage my heels, my arches and my toes.
Then out for indian food where we sit in a window and then take a lot of food to go because we always order more than we can eat.
We talked loudly about how 'if i like someone, the idea of them liking me back makes them unnatractive even if i really like them, i dont want to ever catch them flirting with me" and a man follows (i mean i think he follows) us for too many blocks, walking too close to us, listening to our angst.
Back at union square we sit on the fountain and listen to a boy with, what molly decided was 'an attractive back' playing his guitar, standing on the other side of the fountain, with his back to us.
A homeless man asks the boy 'what do you know how to play?"
And the boy answers "bob dylan, paul simon."
And i call out, from behind him, admitting to eavsdropping "paul simon! paul simon!"
and he turns around and sees me and sings "april come she will..." in his own altered rythym that lends itself nicely to the song.
and the homeless man sings "setpember I'll reeeemmmeeemmbberrr." because that seems to be the only part he knows.
And i take off my shoes and put my feet, bandaged in green and purple and blue band aids, on the fountain wall in front of me.
I sing along and drum on my legs.
Then the boy plays some other songs and the homeless man dances for two homeless women who molly decides are his two wives.
Then molly walks around the fountain and, dropping some change into the boy's guitar case, tells him 'we're gonna have to hear some more paul simon."
and the boy turns around and sings to us "...i dont know why i spend my time- writing songs i cant believe- in words that tear and strain to rhyme." and I almost cry because of the song, and the wind that blows strongly through my hair and the chattering voices of the homeless on the bench and the sound of cars passing and the faces that go by and the man who splashes his children's faces with water from the fountain- that's filthy- but in that moment was fit for a baptism.
And then molly P and Alice arrive a present us with out 12am tkts to 'Inception'
The boy is packing up his guitar when i walk, barefoot, around the fountain and tell him 'i just wanted to tell you, before you leave, that you made my night."
he is kneeling next to his guitar case, he looks up at me. "wow. thank you." he says
"paul simon is my favorite and that was my favorite paul simon song." i smile
"im chris" he shakes my hand
"katie."
"ill be back later, ive got to hang out till i make train fare."
I think about the three sacajawea coins that i gave him ten minutes ago.
"well we're gonna be around," i tell him, watching him buckle up his case. "we're waiting here until 12 when our movie is."
But we left, we went to wolfgang's and sat on his roof.
then went to the movie.
at three we were walking back to molly p's, where i was spending the night.
we passed a tall black woman, man,,, or woman...threatening a small white man.
'the streets seem scarier than usual" says molly.
in the morning we walk a million miles from molly's to st. marks where we eat brie melted over avacado on baguette and wolfgang tells me that 'cliche' is a french word. which i guess i knew. but. "i thought it was ours too."
he says cliche also means 'like, a picture" in french.
i pay for half a cab fare for molly p so she can stay an extra fifteen minutes at the cafe before going to work.
Molly M, wolfgang and i go to see "kisses' at the Angelika.
for a moment Wolfgang thinks he cannot afford to go. Then he finds forty dollars in a different pocket of his wallet.
"it was a tip." he says.
Wolfgang is a french tutor.
Molly and i accuse him of doing more than tutor french. We think that a forty dollar tip for a fifty dollar lesson is pretty impressive.
"I know. Right?" he says. "...and he always buys me brunch at expensive restaurants."
we see "Kisses."
In the bathroom i run into Nora Zehetner, the actress from "Brick".
She's wearing a bandana on her head and she looks up as she passes me on her way to the sink.
I grin at her but dont say anything.
...I dont get starstruck...
when I come out of the stall she is putting on lipstick standing at one sink, i go to the other sink and wash my hands, i cant bring myself to look at her without anything to say to her. and i dont have anything to say.
I hold the door for her as I leave the bathroom, she takes the door from me and I wonder if my wet hand left water on the door that she can feel.
Molly, wolfgang and I leave through the bottom exit and then I see Nora leave through the top exit. She walks down the steps and meets her friend, and I look at her friend because I am curious about an actress having a friend and the friend is an actress who i recognize but cant place. I watch them walk away. Noticing that they arent wearing anything particularly great... jean skirts and tank tops.
Five minutes a couple of blocks later I realize that the friend was Clémence Poésy who plays Fleaur Delacour in "Harry Potter" and the girl friend in "In Bruges."
Molly buys a soft serve chocolate and vanilla twist ice cream cone from a man with a thick accent who tells me that i have beautiful eyes... at least thats what we think he said. Wolfgang laughs at my vanity, at me because i assume that that was what the man said...
Wolfgang says that not being able to understand people with thick accents is one thing that makes him very uncomfortable.
Molly can't control the dripping ice cream in the ninety degree heat, so i take it from her and control it myself. Im licking it and returning it to a manageable state when Wolfgang says that that means I can give good head. It makes me uncomfortable to eat it after that so I give the cone back to molly and let it drip on her hand.
I get on the R and get off at times square and walk through the hot, wet-aired tunnel to port authority, feeling greatful, as i always do, for those signs that could lead you anywhere, but are always honest and always lead you where they say they will.
and I get on a bus and it takes me home through NJ and through, to my great confusion, the campus of 'rockland pyschiatric hospital" where there are at least twenty brick buildings overgrown with vines and with boarded up windows.
"cinematic heaven" my dad says when i tell him about it.
the new building, a tall ocher colored skyscraper, towers over the abandoned buildings.
there are crazy people seated in the bus stop, but none of them get on and no one got off.
Home.
On the train I listen to my ipod and decide that if i ever make a movie about my life, Belle&Sebastian will have to score it.
When I arrive at GC, I stand under the ceiling and call Molly P.
'Hello.... did I wake you up?... sorry, go back to sleep.'
I call Molly M. She doesnt answer so i text her: Heading to Molly p's area in approx three mins. If you call me before that i might come to where u are. Hi!!!!"
I wait for three minutes and she doesn't call so I take the shuttle to the 1 and then wait for the 1, standing on the platform, in the wet air, avoiding the eye of the middle aged father wearing a cow boy hat. He is standing with his two fleshy children and his fleshy wife and he has a lion king flyer sticking out of his cow boy jeans. I can hear the accent in his expression.
A group of acapella singers come down into the station and sing to us. I dance, ever so slightly, stepping from foot to foot, trying not to smile as widely as I want to.
I take my hair down and put it up again. I bake in the wet heat.
I arrive at molly p's a half hour later. I look up in the direction of her window.
"hi. I'm here. are u still sleeping?'
She is so I say i'll walk around, maybe go to the diner and wait for her.
I walk. I dont go to diner. I get blisters on the bottoms of my feet. I get lots of odd looks, i assume, because of my dress- dark blue with pink and yellow and light blue galaxyish patturn... I end up near spring street.
Molly wakes up and says she'll meet me at a park. when i get there she i already there, standing in a fountain.
We go to mollys house. I trade my blister shoes for a pair of Molly's flip flops.
We go to the bank and both deposite our paychecks. My first paycheck ever. I dont know what I'm doing, i dont know where to sign or how to prove that i am me. but the teller cant tell.
We both get 100 dollars worth of our checks put in our accounts right away, that brings my balance to $110
We go to a bakery and share a tiny square cup of yellow lemon custard and an iced tea. Molly says that this bakery is the competition for the bakery where she works.
the boy who serves us the lemon custard says it was only his second day working. It's only molly's second week working at her bakery, she doesnt say anything to him about this cooincidence. I would have. because the boy is beautiful.
we go to a playground, sit underneath the jungle gym and eat the ice thats all thats left of the iced tea. we talk about being little and how when we were little if our parents wanted to buy us ice cream we got ice cream, and if they didnt want to we didnt get it... and how helpless being little is.
I walk molly to work. I buy a sandwhich from her bakery. She rings me up.
I get on the A C E (?) to union square to meet molly m.
I meet her in DSW, where i try to buy a pair of sneakers that will save my weekend- molly's flipflops are blistering between my toes.
Molly M suggests we go uptown to a real comfortable shoe store and buy me comfortable shoes. First we go to a starbucks where i stand online for the bathroom for ten minutes and talk with a beautiful black man about bathrooms and how if the starbuckses of NYC ever decide to put up those snide "restrooms for custumers only" signs, then the city will start to smell twice as bad.
what we meant is that starbucks is the only place left to pee.
Molly and i sit on a curb on the edge of union square and we eat ice and talk about loving ourselves.
We go uptown and buy me a pair of expenisve 'comfortable' shoes that, after two blocks, give me blisters on my heels and the bottom of my ankels.
so, back downtown, i buy a six dollar pair of shoes at goodwill so i can stop wearing the expenisve ones so that ill be able to return them. the goodwill shoes give me blisters too so we buy band aids.
we stop at molly's apt where i wash my feet in the bathtub. and bandage my heels, my arches and my toes.
Then out for indian food where we sit in a window and then take a lot of food to go because we always order more than we can eat.
We talked loudly about how 'if i like someone, the idea of them liking me back makes them unnatractive even if i really like them, i dont want to ever catch them flirting with me" and a man follows (i mean i think he follows) us for too many blocks, walking too close to us, listening to our angst.
Back at union square we sit on the fountain and listen to a boy with, what molly decided was 'an attractive back' playing his guitar, standing on the other side of the fountain, with his back to us.
A homeless man asks the boy 'what do you know how to play?"
And the boy answers "bob dylan, paul simon."
And i call out, from behind him, admitting to eavsdropping "paul simon! paul simon!"
and he turns around and sees me and sings "april come she will..." in his own altered rythym that lends itself nicely to the song.
and the homeless man sings "setpember I'll reeeemmmeeemmbberrr." because that seems to be the only part he knows.
And i take off my shoes and put my feet, bandaged in green and purple and blue band aids, on the fountain wall in front of me.
I sing along and drum on my legs.
Then the boy plays some other songs and the homeless man dances for two homeless women who molly decides are his two wives.
Then molly walks around the fountain and, dropping some change into the boy's guitar case, tells him 'we're gonna have to hear some more paul simon."
and the boy turns around and sings to us "...i dont know why i spend my time- writing songs i cant believe- in words that tear and strain to rhyme." and I almost cry because of the song, and the wind that blows strongly through my hair and the chattering voices of the homeless on the bench and the sound of cars passing and the faces that go by and the man who splashes his children's faces with water from the fountain- that's filthy- but in that moment was fit for a baptism.
And then molly P and Alice arrive a present us with out 12am tkts to 'Inception'
The boy is packing up his guitar when i walk, barefoot, around the fountain and tell him 'i just wanted to tell you, before you leave, that you made my night."
he is kneeling next to his guitar case, he looks up at me. "wow. thank you." he says
"paul simon is my favorite and that was my favorite paul simon song." i smile
"im chris" he shakes my hand
"katie."
"ill be back later, ive got to hang out till i make train fare."
I think about the three sacajawea coins that i gave him ten minutes ago.
"well we're gonna be around," i tell him, watching him buckle up his case. "we're waiting here until 12 when our movie is."
But we left, we went to wolfgang's and sat on his roof.
then went to the movie.
at three we were walking back to molly p's, where i was spending the night.
we passed a tall black woman, man,,, or woman...threatening a small white man.
'the streets seem scarier than usual" says molly.
in the morning we walk a million miles from molly's to st. marks where we eat brie melted over avacado on baguette and wolfgang tells me that 'cliche' is a french word. which i guess i knew. but. "i thought it was ours too."
he says cliche also means 'like, a picture" in french.
i pay for half a cab fare for molly p so she can stay an extra fifteen minutes at the cafe before going to work.
Molly M, wolfgang and i go to see "kisses' at the Angelika.
for a moment Wolfgang thinks he cannot afford to go. Then he finds forty dollars in a different pocket of his wallet.
"it was a tip." he says.
Wolfgang is a french tutor.
Molly and i accuse him of doing more than tutor french. We think that a forty dollar tip for a fifty dollar lesson is pretty impressive.
"I know. Right?" he says. "...and he always buys me brunch at expensive restaurants."
we see "Kisses."
In the bathroom i run into Nora Zehetner, the actress from "Brick".
She's wearing a bandana on her head and she looks up as she passes me on her way to the sink.
I grin at her but dont say anything.
...I dont get starstruck...
when I come out of the stall she is putting on lipstick standing at one sink, i go to the other sink and wash my hands, i cant bring myself to look at her without anything to say to her. and i dont have anything to say.
I hold the door for her as I leave the bathroom, she takes the door from me and I wonder if my wet hand left water on the door that she can feel.
Molly, wolfgang and I leave through the bottom exit and then I see Nora leave through the top exit. She walks down the steps and meets her friend, and I look at her friend because I am curious about an actress having a friend and the friend is an actress who i recognize but cant place. I watch them walk away. Noticing that they arent wearing anything particularly great... jean skirts and tank tops.
Five minutes a couple of blocks later I realize that the friend was Clémence Poésy who plays Fleaur Delacour in "Harry Potter" and the girl friend in "In Bruges."
Molly buys a soft serve chocolate and vanilla twist ice cream cone from a man with a thick accent who tells me that i have beautiful eyes... at least thats what we think he said. Wolfgang laughs at my vanity, at me because i assume that that was what the man said...
Wolfgang says that not being able to understand people with thick accents is one thing that makes him very uncomfortable.
Molly can't control the dripping ice cream in the ninety degree heat, so i take it from her and control it myself. Im licking it and returning it to a manageable state when Wolfgang says that that means I can give good head. It makes me uncomfortable to eat it after that so I give the cone back to molly and let it drip on her hand.
I get on the R and get off at times square and walk through the hot, wet-aired tunnel to port authority, feeling greatful, as i always do, for those signs that could lead you anywhere, but are always honest and always lead you where they say they will.
and I get on a bus and it takes me home through NJ and through, to my great confusion, the campus of 'rockland pyschiatric hospital" where there are at least twenty brick buildings overgrown with vines and with boarded up windows.
"cinematic heaven" my dad says when i tell him about it.
the new building, a tall ocher colored skyscraper, towers over the abandoned buildings.
there are crazy people seated in the bus stop, but none of them get on and no one got off.
Home.
Entry From My Journal (written in early June)
"I'm trying to keep secrets" i think.
I'm trying to keep secrets, I think I'll tell someone.
"Don't tell anyone." I think.
Why not blog: "I'm trying to keep more secrets." that will be the title of the blog and the post will be empty.
Good idea!
But I'm not allowed.
The fact that I am now keeping secrets is the first secret. No one needs to know.
I am trying not to imagine you reading this.
While I write this I am imagining that you do not exist.
You do not exist, no one will ever read this.
I am unselfconsciously scrawling across the page, ignoring all images of you and how you feel while you read this page which is all about the fact that you will never read it.
...and yet here you are reading it.
I'm hopeless.
Hello.
I'm trying to keep secrets, I think I'll tell someone.
"Don't tell anyone." I think.
Why not blog: "I'm trying to keep more secrets." that will be the title of the blog and the post will be empty.
Good idea!
But I'm not allowed.
The fact that I am now keeping secrets is the first secret. No one needs to know.
I am trying not to imagine you reading this.
While I write this I am imagining that you do not exist.
You do not exist, no one will ever read this.
I am unselfconsciously scrawling across the page, ignoring all images of you and how you feel while you read this page which is all about the fact that you will never read it.
...and yet here you are reading it.
I'm hopeless.
Hello.
Monday, July 19, 2010
'Kisses'
most beautiful movie ive seen in a while...
beautiful as in cinematic. as in photographic. as in gorgeous and detailed and thoughtful and simple and crisp
and occasionally in black and white
and occasionally in color
and always in christmas
and mostly on wheely shoes.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Way She Moves
How many artists/ bands have written songs called 'Superman" ? ...a few.
and how many artists/ bands have written songs about 'the way she moves."
"something in the way she moves, or looks my way or calls my name." -James Taylor
"ba dadada daaa daaa something in the way she moves, attracts me like no other lover." -the Beatles
(sort of)"She's got a way about her. mmmm." -Billy Joel
"i like the way you move... badada" -outcast
James Taylor and The Beatles... those two are just so similar to me.
Not in story, but in the 'room' that they take place in in my mind...
When i visualize songs they are very rarely characters acting our the 'story' of the song. They're almost always presented as, sort of, sets that i wander around and look at while I'm inside the song.
once i had a dream that took place inside Eleanor Rigbey and when i woke up i knew immediately that that was where i had been.
'The Long and Winding Road' is on Fire Island, even though all the roads there are actually unusually straight.
"Country Road" by james taylor takes place somewhere near the Bear Mountain Bridge, so does "Carolina" even though both of those dont belong there, thats where i remember hearing them for the first time... in the car on our way to or from green meadow, in the car, tired, early in the morning or tired in the afternoon listening to "Hourglass" Mommy's favorite cassette.
'Something' by the beatles and 'something in the way she moves" by James Taylor take place in the same place.
but 'Something' takes place inside the house and "something in the way she moves" wanders around the yard a bit.
and how many artists/ bands have written songs about 'the way she moves."
"something in the way she moves, or looks my way or calls my name." -James Taylor
"ba dadada daaa daaa something in the way she moves, attracts me like no other lover." -the Beatles
(sort of)"She's got a way about her. mmmm." -Billy Joel
"i like the way you move... badada" -outcast
James Taylor and The Beatles... those two are just so similar to me.
Not in story, but in the 'room' that they take place in in my mind...
When i visualize songs they are very rarely characters acting our the 'story' of the song. They're almost always presented as, sort of, sets that i wander around and look at while I'm inside the song.
once i had a dream that took place inside Eleanor Rigbey and when i woke up i knew immediately that that was where i had been.
'The Long and Winding Road' is on Fire Island, even though all the roads there are actually unusually straight.
"Country Road" by james taylor takes place somewhere near the Bear Mountain Bridge, so does "Carolina" even though both of those dont belong there, thats where i remember hearing them for the first time... in the car on our way to or from green meadow, in the car, tired, early in the morning or tired in the afternoon listening to "Hourglass" Mommy's favorite cassette.
'Something' by the beatles and 'something in the way she moves" by James Taylor take place in the same place.
but 'Something' takes place inside the house and "something in the way she moves" wanders around the yard a bit.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Int. My Mind- Lately
I always stare at him and he's starting to notice.
Notice the staring, not the compliment behind it.
"I can't help it," I tell him, when he confronts me about it in my daydreams, "I have very little control over my eyes."
In my daydreams he asks "Why me?" because in the fantasy I am sort of a prize, and he doesn't think he deserves me.
Notice the staring, not the compliment behind it.
"I can't help it," I tell him, when he confronts me about it in my daydreams, "I have very little control over my eyes."
In my daydreams he asks "Why me?" because in the fantasy I am sort of a prize, and he doesn't think he deserves me.
Monday, July 5, 2010
the fourth of july
Three nineteen year old girls, wearing stars and stripes bikinis, sit in a fountain, in a tiny park in soho in 90 plus degree sunshine. A triangle of traffic surounds them.
Seated on the roof of their 'Quebequois' tour bus with it's icon of the goddess blowing wind out of her mouth, some canadian tourists crane their necks around and stare at the patriotism in the water.
A man with a pony tail, is minding his own buisness, reading a paperback book with his bicycle beside him in the grass, leaning his back against the fountain. He looks up and notices the girls who are balancing like balance beam walkers on the narrow wall of the fountain.
They walk up, up the steps that water tumbles down.
At the top of the fountain there is a curtain of water and the man with the pony tail suggests, quite platonically, that the girls take pictures of eachother through the curtain of water... which they do.
the photos, taken with a waterproof camera, warped by the wall of water, come out distorted, give the girls double smiles and double heads... wobbly outlines...
Later, a young man, walking through the park, past the fountain, carrying a floppy bag of potting soil, approaches one of the girls.
'are you allowed to be in there?" He asks her.
She's seated on the bottom of the fountain, up to her upper ribs in water, she shrugs.
"some cops walked by and they didnt make us leave." she tells him.
"thats because your three girls in bikinis. i cant imagine they'd let me stay if i went in there."
"maybe if you wore a bikini."
"maybe. are you from around here?"
"...around here..." she doesnt feel like admitting to suburbia... not at this exact moment.
"so should i go get my bathing suit?"
"only if you have a bikini."
"i have the bottom of a bikini..."
she thinks this has gone to far so she laughs and slides away, across the slimey bottom of the fountain, trailing her fingers over the surface of the water.
the young man and his friend walk away with their soil.
one girl makes white wing designs in sunscreen on the other girl's back.
later they collect all the pennies and arrange them by year on the fountain wall.
then they make new wishes, one decade at a time and toss the pennies back in.
a few of the pennies skip across the top of the water but only by accident, when they try to make the coins skip the coins just fall heavily to the bottom.
much later there are fire works.
Seated on the roof of their 'Quebequois' tour bus with it's icon of the goddess blowing wind out of her mouth, some canadian tourists crane their necks around and stare at the patriotism in the water.
A man with a pony tail, is minding his own buisness, reading a paperback book with his bicycle beside him in the grass, leaning his back against the fountain. He looks up and notices the girls who are balancing like balance beam walkers on the narrow wall of the fountain.
They walk up, up the steps that water tumbles down.
At the top of the fountain there is a curtain of water and the man with the pony tail suggests, quite platonically, that the girls take pictures of eachother through the curtain of water... which they do.
the photos, taken with a waterproof camera, warped by the wall of water, come out distorted, give the girls double smiles and double heads... wobbly outlines...
Later, a young man, walking through the park, past the fountain, carrying a floppy bag of potting soil, approaches one of the girls.
'are you allowed to be in there?" He asks her.
She's seated on the bottom of the fountain, up to her upper ribs in water, she shrugs.
"some cops walked by and they didnt make us leave." she tells him.
"thats because your three girls in bikinis. i cant imagine they'd let me stay if i went in there."
"maybe if you wore a bikini."
"maybe. are you from around here?"
"...around here..." she doesnt feel like admitting to suburbia... not at this exact moment.
"so should i go get my bathing suit?"
"only if you have a bikini."
"i have the bottom of a bikini..."
she thinks this has gone to far so she laughs and slides away, across the slimey bottom of the fountain, trailing her fingers over the surface of the water.
the young man and his friend walk away with their soil.
one girl makes white wing designs in sunscreen on the other girl's back.
later they collect all the pennies and arrange them by year on the fountain wall.
then they make new wishes, one decade at a time and toss the pennies back in.
a few of the pennies skip across the top of the water but only by accident, when they try to make the coins skip the coins just fall heavily to the bottom.
much later there are fire works.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Poetry Hobby
today at camp i ran the poetry hobby.
my group and i walked behind the other hobby groups who were on their way to see the chickens or walking in the stream, looking for bugs.
i told my group 'hide in the trees, eavesdrop and write down interesting things that people say."
here are some things i wrote... im not sure if theyre poems. maybe just thoughts pretending (by way of line breaks) to be poems.
Free Swim
Today while we were swimming,
I noticed the way the water moved around the children.
And the way it moved around me was different.
The water and the day adjusted their color and texture or temperature
as they moved between us they knew
how to be the children's present, and all at once,
my past.
We stood on the bridge and they walked below us, their crocks in the stream, looking at bugs, we leaned on the railings and listened to them
I hear a crinkling water bottle that someone is crushing in their hands
it matches exactly the sound of wet sticks breaking under thier feet.
"who are you?"
"we're poetry"
...walking in the stream like they are doing is called 'mucking'
"are you going to write about us?" he asks looking right at me, i smile.
They muck away, their voices and splashes fade.
The little girl wearing the yellow crocheed top
does not belong to the camp.
she's all alone
no one is ever alone here
we take a buddy and councilor to move an inch away from the group
The little girl is hanging from the higher railing and swinging her legs
back and forth, dangerously teetering on the edge of the bridge.
I see my fellow councilor swallow her warning, 'this girl does not belong to us.'
and then the little outsider darts away, following the call of a mother who i didnt hear and cannot see but who
im sure, is just out of site, at the top of the stairs on the bank... hiding up a tree...
overheard:
(i love taking things out of context)
"hey, over here. i have a perfect one for it."
"if you have a net please hand it off now to someone who does not have a net."
"i have a dead one and a live one eating a dead one!"
"look. i got bug bites. no. thats pen i drew on my bug bites."
"they look like nature people"
"fake plastic rubber bands"
"here come the chicken people"
my group and i walked behind the other hobby groups who were on their way to see the chickens or walking in the stream, looking for bugs.
i told my group 'hide in the trees, eavesdrop and write down interesting things that people say."
here are some things i wrote... im not sure if theyre poems. maybe just thoughts pretending (by way of line breaks) to be poems.
Free Swim
Today while we were swimming,
I noticed the way the water moved around the children.
And the way it moved around me was different.
The water and the day adjusted their color and texture or temperature
as they moved between us they knew
how to be the children's present, and all at once,
my past.
We stood on the bridge and they walked below us, their crocks in the stream, looking at bugs, we leaned on the railings and listened to them
I hear a crinkling water bottle that someone is crushing in their hands
it matches exactly the sound of wet sticks breaking under thier feet.
"who are you?"
"we're poetry"
...walking in the stream like they are doing is called 'mucking'
"are you going to write about us?" he asks looking right at me, i smile.
They muck away, their voices and splashes fade.
The little girl wearing the yellow crocheed top
does not belong to the camp.
she's all alone
no one is ever alone here
we take a buddy and councilor to move an inch away from the group
The little girl is hanging from the higher railing and swinging her legs
back and forth, dangerously teetering on the edge of the bridge.
I see my fellow councilor swallow her warning, 'this girl does not belong to us.'
and then the little outsider darts away, following the call of a mother who i didnt hear and cannot see but who
im sure, is just out of site, at the top of the stairs on the bank... hiding up a tree...
overheard:
(i love taking things out of context)
"hey, over here. i have a perfect one for it."
"if you have a net please hand it off now to someone who does not have a net."
"i have a dead one and a live one eating a dead one!"
"look. i got bug bites. no. thats pen i drew on my bug bites."
"they look like nature people"
"fake plastic rubber bands"
"here come the chicken people"
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Sneetches, by Dr. Seuss
Now, the Star-Bell Sneetches had bellies with stars.
The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars.
Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small.
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.
But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort
“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”
And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking,
They’d hike right on past them without even talking.
When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball,
Could a Plain Belly get in the game? Not at all.
You only could play if your bellies had stars
And the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars.
When the Star Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roasts
Or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,
They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches
They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches.
They kept them away. Never let them come near.
And that’s how they treated them year after year.
Then ONE day, it seems while the Plain-Belly Sneetches
Were moping and doping alone on the beaches,
Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars,
A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars!
“My friends”, he announced in a voice clear and keen,
“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.
And I’ve heard of Your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But I can fix that, I’m the Fix-It-Up Chappie.
I’ve come here to help you.
I have what you need.
And my prices are low. And I work with great speed.
And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!”
Then, quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean
Put together a very peculiar machine.
And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch?
My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!”
“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!”
So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roared.
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked.
And it bopped them about. But the thing really worked!
When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars!
They actually did. They had stars upon thars!
Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start,
"We're exactly like you! You cant tell us apart.
we're all just the same now you snooty old smarties!
and now we can come to your frankfurter parties."
"Good Greif!" groaned the ones who had stars at the first
“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst.
But now, how in the world will we know”, they all frowned,
“If which kind is what, or the other way round?”
Then up came McBean with a very sly wink.
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.
So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true.
But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do?
I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on the beaches.
And all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.”
“Belly stars are no longer in style”, said McBean.
“What you need is a trip through my Star-Off Machine.
This wondrous contraption will take OFF your stars
so you won’t look like Sneetches that have them on thars.”
And that handy machine
working very precisely
Removed all the stars from their tummies quite nicely.
Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about.
And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout,
“We know who is who! Now there Isn’t a doubt.
The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!”
Then, of course, those with stars got all frightfully mad.
To be wearing a star was frightfully bad.
Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBean
invited THEM into his Star-Off Machine.
Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess,
Things really got into a horrible mess.
All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches.
Off again! On again!
In again! Out again!
Through the machines they raced round and about again,
Changing their stars every minute or two. They kept paying money.
They kept running through until the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew
Whether this one was that one or that one was this one. Or which one
Was what one or what one was who.
Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went.
And he laughed as he drove In his car up the beach,
“They never will learn. No. You can’t Teach a Sneetch!”
But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to say.
That the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day.
The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches.
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches.
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether
They had one, or not, upon thars.
The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars.
Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small.
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.
But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort
“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”
And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking,
They’d hike right on past them without even talking.
When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball,
Could a Plain Belly get in the game? Not at all.
You only could play if your bellies had stars
And the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars.
When the Star Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roasts
Or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,
They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches
They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches.
They kept them away. Never let them come near.
And that’s how they treated them year after year.
Then ONE day, it seems while the Plain-Belly Sneetches
Were moping and doping alone on the beaches,
Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars,
A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars!
“My friends”, he announced in a voice clear and keen,
“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.
And I’ve heard of Your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.
But I can fix that, I’m the Fix-It-Up Chappie.
I’ve come here to help you.
I have what you need.
And my prices are low. And I work with great speed.
And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!”
Then, quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean
Put together a very peculiar machine.
And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch?
My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!”
“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!”
So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roared.
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked.
And it bopped them about. But the thing really worked!
When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars!
They actually did. They had stars upon thars!
Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start,
"We're exactly like you! You cant tell us apart.
we're all just the same now you snooty old smarties!
and now we can come to your frankfurter parties."
"Good Greif!" groaned the ones who had stars at the first
“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst.
But now, how in the world will we know”, they all frowned,
“If which kind is what, or the other way round?”
Then up came McBean with a very sly wink.
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.
So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true.
But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do?
I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on the beaches.
And all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.”
“Belly stars are no longer in style”, said McBean.
“What you need is a trip through my Star-Off Machine.
This wondrous contraption will take OFF your stars
so you won’t look like Sneetches that have them on thars.”
And that handy machine
working very precisely
Removed all the stars from their tummies quite nicely.
Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about.
And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout,
“We know who is who! Now there Isn’t a doubt.
The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!”
Then, of course, those with stars got all frightfully mad.
To be wearing a star was frightfully bad.
Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBean
invited THEM into his Star-Off Machine.
Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess,
Things really got into a horrible mess.
All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches.
Off again! On again!
In again! Out again!
Through the machines they raced round and about again,
Changing their stars every minute or two. They kept paying money.
They kept running through until the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew
Whether this one was that one or that one was this one. Or which one
Was what one or what one was who.
Then, when every last cent of their money was spent,
The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went.
And he laughed as he drove In his car up the beach,
“They never will learn. No. You can’t Teach a Sneetch!”
But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to say. That the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day.
The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches.
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches.
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether
They had one, or not, upon thars.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
God
My little universe of rainbow rocks,
that I collected all day
and arranged in a pleasing gradient,
washed away
with the tide.
And I felt like God
watching civilization dissolve.
but really-
Because it was sunny
and I was kind of light headed
and having trippy thoughts like:
'This is what God does,
watches and waits
for things to disappear;
but not in a bad way
because they came
from the ocean anyway..."
But there was garbage-
a balloon, cigarette butt,
bit of a bottle- in my rock collage
and I thought:
"I'm going to let this pollution go out to sea...
because I'm not allowed to interfere
with the integrity of my creation...
just because its being washed away
doesnt mean I have to dismantle it in any way..."
and that was God too.
And then I felt bad
because my philosophical meditation
probably killed a fish...
and that was God too...
(Photo of me: Molly Pelavin)
that I collected all day
and arranged in a pleasing gradient,
washed away
with the tide.
And I felt like God
watching civilization dissolve.
but really-
Because it was sunny
and I was kind of light headed
and having trippy thoughts like:
'This is what God does,
watches and waits
for things to disappear;
but not in a bad way
because they came
from the ocean anyway..."
But there was garbage-
a balloon, cigarette butt,
bit of a bottle- in my rock collage
and I thought:
"I'm going to let this pollution go out to sea...
because I'm not allowed to interfere
with the integrity of my creation...
just because its being washed away
doesnt mean I have to dismantle it in any way..."
and that was God too.
And then I felt bad because my philosophical meditation
probably killed a fish...
and that was God too...
(Photo of me: Molly Pelavin)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I just sit here and am sort of content. And I boil inside but I never boil over.
This is the opening monologue.
so the only way that it will matter that I wrote this is if I tell you my story so that this pointlessness will matter to you.
So that I will matter to you.
So the movie/play that follows will be all about me and then somehow the fact that that opening monologue is so ‘me like’ will become genius writing.
Who are you? Who, katie, who are you talking to????!!!!
If
A
Tree
Falls
In the woods
And no one is there to here it
Does
It
Make
a
sound???!!!!
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it and it hears a bird while its falling…. Does that bird make a sound?... that is the question.
I am the falling tree and I am about to hit the ground without making a sound…. Actually, in fact, I think that I don’t even have to fall, physics don’t have to apply to me now… im just, fallen. The next person who arrives and sees me will see a fallen tree not a standing one but I never fell. I just… what?.
Nothing.
The next person who sees me will name me ‘fallen’
And the last person who saw me had named me ‘standing’
No
No
That’s not it either….
I am not standing tree or fallen tree. I am not anything…
The passing person will see ‘standing’
The next passing person will see ‘fallen.’
I am not anything at all if I cannot hear myself and solipsize myself into existence by being the tree that heard the tree fall in the forest…
I am now listening to, and bringing into existence, the sound of the air conditioner. The sound of my keys typing. I love the sound of keys typing.
I also hate it. It reminds me of being ignored.
The sound of birds outside the window, the sound of… I pause to listen…. I hear the air conditioner and birds outside the window.
I’m editing the timing of your listening, your reading. Do you get it? I’m using ellipses. Don’t ignore them…
that’s right….
Pause… yes.
There, I mean they’re, important.
This should be a movie.
A movie? What is happening on the screen right now?
Is the screen just the shot of the text, curser ticking, letters appearing…
Is the image of me, my face, my eyes ticking over the words as they tick across the page?
Intercut between the two?
Or is the image just the curser ticking and the letters appearing and the main subject of the scene (besides the meaning that you are assigning to these symbols as you read, besides what you take from the text), the thing that you are watching, the character that is being developed in front of you is not me, not the me that is the one you are learning about through your careful interpreting of letters.
No
The subject of this scene is the letters W R I T E
Being backspaces sloppily and replaced with the letters R I G H T about a paragraph ago, where I wrote, what is happening on the screen write… w-r-i-t w- r- I w-r w r r-i r-i-g r-i-g-h r-i-g-h-t now.
Gosh that took me way to long to figure out how to format so that you would get it.
Because its not a movie.
I’ve already decided that this will be a blog.
I’ve already decided to leave my desk and go back to my bedroom, where my internet wire is, and hook myself up to internet and put this on my blog.
I guess I've figured out who ‘you’ are.
I guess you are some combination of Mollly, John and my mother… and hopefully the rest of you, who look like that shot I described earlier- eyes ticking across a screen interpreting symbols and gaining meaning… you look like little lights that tick on in the dark when I post this….
For some reason the way i imagine you is: sitting at desks in sunlight…
Ill just let you know that I've deleted the particularly narcissistic beginning of this so that none of you will know how ridiculous I feel. I’ve also deleted most of the curses… except the completely necessary ones…
Dear mommy,
I’m sorry I didn’t call you back this morning
I was busy watching ‘the pursuit of happyness’ because I got it from swaptree(great site. Get one!) but I have to send it back because I gave the book that I was supposed to swap it for to goodwill.
If I had a car I would go to goodwill and buy the book for three dollars and swap it because I really want to keep that movie now… because of the special features mostly… it was directed by an Italian man who Will Smith sought out and hired to direct the film because Will Smith saw some of this man’s movies and wanted the ‘emotional tone’ that this Italian director incorporated… and so Will hired him…
And I like that…
Dear john…
Ha! That’s the title of that chick flick movie that was out for like one second because no one went to see it… even though it had Amanda seyfried in it and she looks like a baby and I have this theory that we think people are beautiful the more childlike they look and she looks like a baby… like actually…
Anyway…
John, lets go to six flags… molly has to go before the weekend….
Dear mollly,
In our dorm room we will have starry ceilings and we will have all sorts of odd light fixtures that we will become pros at dismantling in time for each room inspection… and we will tell each other our dreams and we will have a toaster in the closet.
There’s a black plastic bag nodding its head in the air conditioner breeze… it looks like a duck, that’s why it has a head. the duck bag is sitting right next to…
Dear john
…the sword you gave me for my birthday…
this is a rock that i found on the beach in Peconic.
i think it looks like a bloody anatomical heart... as opposed to a valentine.
so the only way that it will matter that I wrote this is if I tell you my story so that this pointlessness will matter to you.
So that I will matter to you.
So the movie/play that follows will be all about me and then somehow the fact that that opening monologue is so ‘me like’ will become genius writing.
Who are you? Who, katie, who are you talking to????!!!!
If
A
Tree
Falls
In the woods
And no one is there to here it
Does
It
Make
a
sound???!!!!
If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it and it hears a bird while its falling…. Does that bird make a sound?... that is the question.
I am the falling tree and I am about to hit the ground without making a sound…. Actually, in fact, I think that I don’t even have to fall, physics don’t have to apply to me now… im just, fallen. The next person who arrives and sees me will see a fallen tree not a standing one but I never fell. I just… what?.
Nothing.
The next person who sees me will name me ‘fallen’
And the last person who saw me had named me ‘standing’
No
No
That’s not it either….
I am not standing tree or fallen tree. I am not anything…
The passing person will see ‘standing’
The next passing person will see ‘fallen.’
I am not anything at all if I cannot hear myself and solipsize myself into existence by being the tree that heard the tree fall in the forest…
I am now listening to, and bringing into existence, the sound of the air conditioner. The sound of my keys typing. I love the sound of keys typing.
I also hate it. It reminds me of being ignored.
The sound of birds outside the window, the sound of… I pause to listen…. I hear the air conditioner and birds outside the window.
I’m editing the timing of your listening, your reading. Do you get it? I’m using ellipses. Don’t ignore them…
that’s right….
Pause… yes.
There, I mean they’re, important.
This should be a movie.
A movie? What is happening on the screen right now?
Is the screen just the shot of the text, curser ticking, letters appearing…
Is the image of me, my face, my eyes ticking over the words as they tick across the page?
Intercut between the two?
Or is the image just the curser ticking and the letters appearing and the main subject of the scene (besides the meaning that you are assigning to these symbols as you read, besides what you take from the text), the thing that you are watching, the character that is being developed in front of you is not me, not the me that is the one you are learning about through your careful interpreting of letters.
No
The subject of this scene is the letters W R I T E
Being backspaces sloppily and replaced with the letters R I G H T about a paragraph ago, where I wrote, what is happening on the screen write… w-r-i-t w- r- I w-r w r r-i r-i-g r-i-g-h r-i-g-h-t now.
Gosh that took me way to long to figure out how to format so that you would get it.
Because its not a movie.
I’ve already decided that this will be a blog.
I’ve already decided to leave my desk and go back to my bedroom, where my internet wire is, and hook myself up to internet and put this on my blog.
I guess I've figured out who ‘you’ are.
I guess you are some combination of Mollly, John and my mother… and hopefully the rest of you, who look like that shot I described earlier- eyes ticking across a screen interpreting symbols and gaining meaning… you look like little lights that tick on in the dark when I post this….
For some reason the way i imagine you is: sitting at desks in sunlight…
Ill just let you know that I've deleted the particularly narcissistic beginning of this so that none of you will know how ridiculous I feel. I’ve also deleted most of the curses… except the completely necessary ones…
Dear mommy,
I’m sorry I didn’t call you back this morning
I was busy watching ‘the pursuit of happyness’ because I got it from swaptree(great site. Get one!) but I have to send it back because I gave the book that I was supposed to swap it for to goodwill.
If I had a car I would go to goodwill and buy the book for three dollars and swap it because I really want to keep that movie now… because of the special features mostly… it was directed by an Italian man who Will Smith sought out and hired to direct the film because Will Smith saw some of this man’s movies and wanted the ‘emotional tone’ that this Italian director incorporated… and so Will hired him…
And I like that…
Dear john…
Ha! That’s the title of that chick flick movie that was out for like one second because no one went to see it… even though it had Amanda seyfried in it and she looks like a baby and I have this theory that we think people are beautiful the more childlike they look and she looks like a baby… like actually…
Anyway…
John, lets go to six flags… molly has to go before the weekend….
Dear mollly,
In our dorm room we will have starry ceilings and we will have all sorts of odd light fixtures that we will become pros at dismantling in time for each room inspection… and we will tell each other our dreams and we will have a toaster in the closet.
There’s a black plastic bag nodding its head in the air conditioner breeze… it looks like a duck, that’s why it has a head. the duck bag is sitting right next to…
Dear john
…the sword you gave me for my birthday…
this is a rock that i found on the beach in Peconic.
i think it looks like a bloody anatomical heart... as opposed to a valentine.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Aimee Bender's short story 'Fugue"
I close Aimee's book with my finger inside it and put my chin on the top of the book and look over and ask
"Want to hear the best two sentences ever?" i sort of stutter it because halfway through i wonder if its actually two sentences and i realize that 'two sentences' doesnt sound like such a short thing. i want her to think its a short thing so shell let me tell it to her.
she looks up so i tell her.
"i think, maybe he hasn't even noticed that I'm gone. But I have."
(It is two sentences!)
She likes it. She smiles.
"She wrote a story called 'fugue'"
"bugs?"
"fugue." i think this is the best title ever... or most poignant one.
"okay," she says "go back in." she means 'into the book' she means 'stop making me pretend to be listening to you.'
this doesnt really bother me... i promise.
so i open my notebook and write this. and about ten minutes later, I'm now typing it up. Its been about thirteen minutes now in which i haven't had to talk...
its strange that june is the sixth month.
six months seems like a longer amount of time than i feel like I've spent in 2010.
dash- oh still flows out of my pen before i remember that its now dash- one- oh. In theory, it seems like six months should be long enough to cure me of that...
"Want to hear the best two sentences ever?" i sort of stutter it because halfway through i wonder if its actually two sentences and i realize that 'two sentences' doesnt sound like such a short thing. i want her to think its a short thing so shell let me tell it to her.
she looks up so i tell her.
"i think, maybe he hasn't even noticed that I'm gone. But I have."
(It is two sentences!)
She likes it. She smiles.
"She wrote a story called 'fugue'"
"bugs?"
"fugue." i think this is the best title ever... or most poignant one.
"okay," she says "go back in." she means 'into the book' she means 'stop making me pretend to be listening to you.'
this doesnt really bother me... i promise.
so i open my notebook and write this. and about ten minutes later, I'm now typing it up. Its been about thirteen minutes now in which i haven't had to talk...
its strange that june is the sixth month.
six months seems like a longer amount of time than i feel like I've spent in 2010.
dash- oh still flows out of my pen before i remember that its now dash- one- oh. In theory, it seems like six months should be long enough to cure me of that...
Monday, June 14, 2010
New Book
i discovered Aimee Bender this afternoon.
Hello. i said to Aimee.
Aimee, blue and papery and between two floppy covers, did not answer directly, instead she looked at me out of the corner of her yellow-font eye and confessed to having a boy named paul locked in her closet
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
quite well... crazy actually
Im sewing a Duvet cover. Ive spread the quilt-like patturn out on the floor.
its made of two sheets. one sheet is white and has some white embroidery and some white lace...
one sheet is white with small blue flowers... the sheet with blue flowers is flannel and old... so soft because its flannel and so soft because its old.
i cut them up, into squares and rectangles and stripes and arranged them like a queen size comforter sized collage on the floor.
and this will be the second day that im spending sitting in the collage with a seam of it turned backwards and upside down across my lap.
The needle that im sewing with is blackened on the tip; no doubt because my mom used it at one point to remove a splinter from my brothers or my finger...
At some point in my training as a human being i picked up the piece of subtlety that tells me that this should be symbolic... this blackened, sterilized, poisen, or pain removing tool
that im using now to build a blanket.
that im using now to build a thing.
to entertain myself
to put something into my days
to put a splinter back into my finger
because thats where the interest is...
Dont worry im not pricking my fingers with it on purpose...
im entertaining myself with the idea of fourteen year old brides to be, sewing wedding sheets and wedding shoes and wedding gifts, for their doweries, out of silk, for their husbands, for their children, for their beds.
the truth is that these thoughts float by me while i sew.
i see the thoughts, i put them in neat words, i think about maybe blogging about them
but as soon as i do
they become lies
isnt that odd.
maybe that will change one day.
but for now,
that fact that i think in words, and sometimes in diologue
that fact that i think in themes
and sometimes in rhyms
or rythym
or alliteration
...though never in spelling or punctuation
these facts make everything quite... well crazy actually.
who am i thinking for?
and thats why i sew.
and paint the walls.
painting the walls is the best...
i painted the walls while i waited to hear from purchase, to hear weather or not i had gottan in.
and when i got waitlisted i kept painting
and when i got accepted i stopped.
and the the kitchen was white.
and now people visit and say 'you know, your house feels like a beach house.'
and now theyll visit my bedroom and say 'i like your quilt.' and ill say 'thank you, i made it.' and they'll say 'no way!'
or maybe ill wait for them to sit on my bed.
theyll lie down and their toe or maybe a clip in their hair will get snagged on my loose stitching
and then theyll say "omgod did you make this?!" and ill smile with my lips together in that way that makes me feel like a little girl, and ill nod and get into the bed with them.
...and as long as we're being comoletely truthful, after that i will probably bring my laptop under the covers with us and read them this blog post... and depending on how truthful im feeling that day, i will either omit this last bit, or leave in it.
its made of two sheets. one sheet is white and has some white embroidery and some white lace...
one sheet is white with small blue flowers... the sheet with blue flowers is flannel and old... so soft because its flannel and so soft because its old.
i cut them up, into squares and rectangles and stripes and arranged them like a queen size comforter sized collage on the floor.
and this will be the second day that im spending sitting in the collage with a seam of it turned backwards and upside down across my lap.
The needle that im sewing with is blackened on the tip; no doubt because my mom used it at one point to remove a splinter from my brothers or my finger...
At some point in my training as a human being i picked up the piece of subtlety that tells me that this should be symbolic... this blackened, sterilized, poisen, or pain removing tool
that im using now to build a blanket.
that im using now to build a thing.
to entertain myself
to put something into my days
to put a splinter back into my finger
because thats where the interest is...
Dont worry im not pricking my fingers with it on purpose...
im entertaining myself with the idea of fourteen year old brides to be, sewing wedding sheets and wedding shoes and wedding gifts, for their doweries, out of silk, for their husbands, for their children, for their beds.
the truth is that these thoughts float by me while i sew.
i see the thoughts, i put them in neat words, i think about maybe blogging about them
but as soon as i do
they become lies
isnt that odd.
maybe that will change one day.
but for now,
that fact that i think in words, and sometimes in diologue
that fact that i think in themes
and sometimes in rhyms
or rythym
or alliteration
...though never in spelling or punctuation
these facts make everything quite... well crazy actually.
who am i thinking for?
and thats why i sew.
and paint the walls.
painting the walls is the best...
i painted the walls while i waited to hear from purchase, to hear weather or not i had gottan in.
and when i got waitlisted i kept painting
and when i got accepted i stopped.
and the the kitchen was white.
and now people visit and say 'you know, your house feels like a beach house.'
and now theyll visit my bedroom and say 'i like your quilt.' and ill say 'thank you, i made it.' and they'll say 'no way!'
or maybe ill wait for them to sit on my bed.
theyll lie down and their toe or maybe a clip in their hair will get snagged on my loose stitching
and then theyll say "omgod did you make this?!" and ill smile with my lips together in that way that makes me feel like a little girl, and ill nod and get into the bed with them.
...and as long as we're being comoletely truthful, after that i will probably bring my laptop under the covers with us and read them this blog post... and depending on how truthful im feeling that day, i will either omit this last bit, or leave in it.
Friday, June 4, 2010
At Gloaming
INT. CAR- 5:00.
KATRINA:we're going to have like one hour of lake.
KATIE: but we'll be there at sunset.
KATRINA:Gloaming
KATIE: magic hour. its the best time to film, there's skylight not sunlight... wait. is gloaming a real word?
KATRINA:yes.
KATIE: use it in a sentence.
KATRINA:...
KATIE: is it like 'at the gloaming?' or 'at the gloaming of the day?' or... like 'in the morning.' is it 'in the gloaming?'
KATRINA:..at gloaming.
KATIE: at the gloaming?
KATRINA: at gloaming.
(first of all... dont have characters named katrina and katie in the same screenplay.)
EXT. LAKE- AT GLOAMING
She floats on her back and looks at the sky. All she can see is sky.
(never say that in a screenplay... it doesnt mean anything... 'all she can see..' how do we know that thats all she can see? how are you going to show it in an image? All-she-can-see is not a thing... i suppose saying:
POINT OF VIEW SHOT: up at the sky, only the sky, nothing but sky... that might be acceptable.)
she has positioned herself directly in this spot, with much arm paddling and eye focusing (i suppose this could be narration...)
NARRATOR: she has positioned herself intentionally in this spot, in the center of this bit of lake, a good distance away from the shore, and a equal distance from the little rock island.
HIGH ANGLE- shes floating on her back, squinting at the pink and blue and white sky.
HER, V.O. Floating in a reflection of the sky is almost as good as floating in the sky. i like it when i think about water and realize that its strange. i like realizing that things are strange.
KATIE: put your face really close to the surface
they swam towards the shore,
KATIE:see how it looks?...
It looks like glass... but that’s not new.
It looks like hot moving liquid glass, but you know that... but think about it.
How completely impossible is water?
There's so much of it... and it moves and you can fall through it...
and then back on the shore, on the sheet, eating pasta with our fingers, quickly before the others get back from the tiny rock island. eating with our fingers
KATRINA: before civilization returns.
and we ate cheese and ginger snaps and someone defined the term: Metafiction
'...more than fiction. beyond fiction' she said
EXT. THE END OF A PIER- DAY
They sit as far forward on the edge of the platform as they dare.
they have not removed their shoes.
they rest thier shoes on the top of the water and let the water float the rubber souls , and their feet go up and down. the water feels like plastic, like a fabric parachute or a trampoline
and she imagines how much more room there would be in the world if we could walk on water.
KATRINA:we're going to have like one hour of lake.
KATIE: but we'll be there at sunset.
KATRINA:Gloaming
KATIE: magic hour. its the best time to film, there's skylight not sunlight... wait. is gloaming a real word?
KATRINA:yes.
KATIE: use it in a sentence.
KATRINA:...
KATIE: is it like 'at the gloaming?' or 'at the gloaming of the day?' or... like 'in the morning.' is it 'in the gloaming?'
KATRINA:..at gloaming.
KATIE: at the gloaming?
KATRINA: at gloaming.
(first of all... dont have characters named katrina and katie in the same screenplay.)
EXT. LAKE- AT GLOAMING
She floats on her back and looks at the sky. All she can see is sky.
(never say that in a screenplay... it doesnt mean anything... 'all she can see..' how do we know that thats all she can see? how are you going to show it in an image? All-she-can-see is not a thing... i suppose saying:
POINT OF VIEW SHOT: up at the sky, only the sky, nothing but sky... that might be acceptable.)
she has positioned herself directly in this spot, with much arm paddling and eye focusing (i suppose this could be narration...)
NARRATOR: she has positioned herself intentionally in this spot, in the center of this bit of lake, a good distance away from the shore, and a equal distance from the little rock island.
HIGH ANGLE- shes floating on her back, squinting at the pink and blue and white sky.
HER, V.O. Floating in a reflection of the sky is almost as good as floating in the sky. i like it when i think about water and realize that its strange. i like realizing that things are strange.
KATIE: put your face really close to the surface
they swam towards the shore,
KATIE:see how it looks?...
It looks like glass... but that’s not new.
It looks like hot moving liquid glass, but you know that... but think about it.
How completely impossible is water?
There's so much of it... and it moves and you can fall through it...
and then back on the shore, on the sheet, eating pasta with our fingers, quickly before the others get back from the tiny rock island. eating with our fingers
KATRINA: before civilization returns.
and we ate cheese and ginger snaps and someone defined the term: Metafiction
'...more than fiction. beyond fiction' she said
EXT. THE END OF A PIER- DAY
They sit as far forward on the edge of the platform as they dare.
they have not removed their shoes.
they rest thier shoes on the top of the water and let the water float the rubber souls , and their feet go up and down. the water feels like plastic, like a fabric parachute or a trampoline
and she imagines how much more room there would be in the world if we could walk on water.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Artificial Intelligence
She stands at the top of the hill. Below her there are bulldozers digging the foundation for a new holiday inn. The same lot used to house a roller rink; the kind of charming 90’s attraction that was a perfect place for birthday parties, where charming 90’s children wearing floral leggings with stretched out baggy knees, raced around in circles, staring at the flapping stretched out sleeves of the of the 90’s boys who always remained the same distance ahead.
There were girls who realized that they could turn around, catch their targets by skating in the opposite direction. Those girls were the first to be kissed... suddenly, like crashing, as the boys came around the turn.
They Circled around the skinny little girls with the muscular arms and legs, the ones who were flat chested even at fourteen. They wore tight clothes and were probably figure skaters, here to show off their spins and arabesques, protected from the others by orange traffic cones. They should have looked clumsy in their chunky roller blades but instead they looked balanced out, their strong arms matched their heavy feet.
There was a concession stand and a dark arcade. There were signs that recommended that you take off your skates before entering the arcade and if a staff member cought you skating on the rug you’d have to sit down where you were, take off your skates, and walk around in your white socks which glowed like your teeth in the black light.
She remembers how the wheels of her skates felt different against the bottoms of her feet when she skated on the carpet. Like walking on the grass feels different after jumping on a trampoline for hours.
She liked to imagine that the arcade had a wood floor and the rink had a rug, or, better yet: there should be many different rinks all with different textured floors. And the skaters would be blindfolded and have to guess what they were skating over.
She watches the construction and decides that she blames video games. Video games are why everyone stopped going to the roller rink, that’s why it was closed and abandoned.
There was a sign on the fence that marked it as a condemned building. There was a hole in the fence that was easy to climb through and a broken window leading into an office where the door was off its hinges and then you were inside. Inside a huge black space, empty except for the disconnected black wires poking out of the floor and walls where all the machines had been removed, and once you’d gone there were beer bottles, broken glass and graffiti.
The bulldozer down below pauses, mid way through lifting its loud of dusty dirt. The machines head, on its long jointed neck, looks up at the girl.
This is the moment, she realizes, when it has developed artificial intelligence. Inside its brain of pure logic and reason, it now knows that, for the safety of the planet, all humans must be eliminated.
The girl does not have time to escape. Behind the eyes of the dragon-like killing machine, a computer screen that sees everything in a scale of dark reds and light reds, zooms in, onto the image of the girl. Little numbers and arrows appear all around her, indicating her heart rate, temperature, eye movement, turning her to a diagram.
The girl begins to run. She’s not in very good shape and right away she knows she wont get far.
The machine untangles itself, calmly, all joints, all elbows and shoulders. It bounds forward towards the bottom of the hill, weaving between the piles of dirt that turned to hills when grass sprouted all over them, when construction was halted last summer.
The machine weaves or rolls around, towards the girl, up the hill. Machines never hurry. They calculate how fast they have to go to gain on you and they maintain that speed until they catch you.
And maybe this is the way its supposed to be, she thinks, as her sandels, not at all made for running, slap against the sidewalk and then slap against her heels, maybe we're supposed to be caught.
There were girls who realized that they could turn around, catch their targets by skating in the opposite direction. Those girls were the first to be kissed... suddenly, like crashing, as the boys came around the turn.
They Circled around the skinny little girls with the muscular arms and legs, the ones who were flat chested even at fourteen. They wore tight clothes and were probably figure skaters, here to show off their spins and arabesques, protected from the others by orange traffic cones. They should have looked clumsy in their chunky roller blades but instead they looked balanced out, their strong arms matched their heavy feet.
There was a concession stand and a dark arcade. There were signs that recommended that you take off your skates before entering the arcade and if a staff member cought you skating on the rug you’d have to sit down where you were, take off your skates, and walk around in your white socks which glowed like your teeth in the black light.
She remembers how the wheels of her skates felt different against the bottoms of her feet when she skated on the carpet. Like walking on the grass feels different after jumping on a trampoline for hours.
She liked to imagine that the arcade had a wood floor and the rink had a rug, or, better yet: there should be many different rinks all with different textured floors. And the skaters would be blindfolded and have to guess what they were skating over.
She watches the construction and decides that she blames video games. Video games are why everyone stopped going to the roller rink, that’s why it was closed and abandoned.
There was a sign on the fence that marked it as a condemned building. There was a hole in the fence that was easy to climb through and a broken window leading into an office where the door was off its hinges and then you were inside. Inside a huge black space, empty except for the disconnected black wires poking out of the floor and walls where all the machines had been removed, and once you’d gone there were beer bottles, broken glass and graffiti.
The bulldozer down below pauses, mid way through lifting its loud of dusty dirt. The machines head, on its long jointed neck, looks up at the girl.
This is the moment, she realizes, when it has developed artificial intelligence. Inside its brain of pure logic and reason, it now knows that, for the safety of the planet, all humans must be eliminated.
The girl does not have time to escape. Behind the eyes of the dragon-like killing machine, a computer screen that sees everything in a scale of dark reds and light reds, zooms in, onto the image of the girl. Little numbers and arrows appear all around her, indicating her heart rate, temperature, eye movement, turning her to a diagram.
The girl begins to run. She’s not in very good shape and right away she knows she wont get far.
The machine untangles itself, calmly, all joints, all elbows and shoulders. It bounds forward towards the bottom of the hill, weaving between the piles of dirt that turned to hills when grass sprouted all over them, when construction was halted last summer.
The machine weaves or rolls around, towards the girl, up the hill. Machines never hurry. They calculate how fast they have to go to gain on you and they maintain that speed until they catch you.
And maybe this is the way its supposed to be, she thinks, as her sandels, not at all made for running, slap against the sidewalk and then slap against her heels, maybe we're supposed to be caught.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Stop Motion For The Summer
int. Bedroom- night
A thin man lies on his back on the floor. the floor is sand. the man's whole body glows. He is looking at the ceiling where faces and hands protrude from the plaster like there are people trapped inside it. Wherever his eyes look there is a spotlight. When he blinks everything goes dark.
he sits up and looks at the wall and the light reveals a door. He stands and goes to the door, opens it and walks away into a void.
ext. void
He walks. his feet are in sand. a BLACK THING comes and walks beside him. It's eyes are shiny.
BLACK THING: excuse me.
the glowing man looks at him.
BLACK THING: sorry. but would you mind looking up?...
the glowing man looks up and sees stars.
BLACK THING: thank you.
the glowing man looks back at him.
BLACK THING: no no. please. just a few moments more.
the glowing man looks up again and the black thing turns to look up at the stars.
BLACK THING: I knew they were there. Will you look at them, for me, forever?
the glowing man looks back at the black thing, surprised and scared. he shakes his head. then he runs away. the black thing calls after him. and runs after him.
BLACK THING: no! stop!
the black thing grabs the glowing man around the neck and holds his face pointing his eyes up.
the glowing man breaks away and runs away. the black thing falls to his knees and cries as the light dissapears he dissapears.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man opens the door and runs in. closes the door behind him. and leans against it. he slides down to the ground and pulls his eyes shut with his hands.
ext. house
the house is glowing from the inside the light blinks. flickers.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man is digging into the sand. he digs a hole and goes into it. his light fades as he gets deeper and deeper.
EXT. HOUSE
the light fades.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
THe hole in the floor is glowing but the light is fading and then finally it is gone.
The trapped faces and bodies in the walls and ceiling stare, unseeing.
fin.
A thin man lies on his back on the floor. the floor is sand. the man's whole body glows. He is looking at the ceiling where faces and hands protrude from the plaster like there are people trapped inside it. Wherever his eyes look there is a spotlight. When he blinks everything goes dark.
he sits up and looks at the wall and the light reveals a door. He stands and goes to the door, opens it and walks away into a void.
ext. void
He walks. his feet are in sand. a BLACK THING comes and walks beside him. It's eyes are shiny.
BLACK THING: excuse me.
the glowing man looks at him.
BLACK THING: sorry. but would you mind looking up?...
the glowing man looks up and sees stars.
BLACK THING: thank you.
the glowing man looks back at him.
BLACK THING: no no. please. just a few moments more.
the glowing man looks up again and the black thing turns to look up at the stars.
BLACK THING: I knew they were there. Will you look at them, for me, forever?
the glowing man looks back at the black thing, surprised and scared. he shakes his head. then he runs away. the black thing calls after him. and runs after him.
BLACK THING: no! stop!
the black thing grabs the glowing man around the neck and holds his face pointing his eyes up.
the glowing man breaks away and runs away. the black thing falls to his knees and cries as the light dissapears he dissapears.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man opens the door and runs in. closes the door behind him. and leans against it. he slides down to the ground and pulls his eyes shut with his hands.
ext. house
the house is glowing from the inside the light blinks. flickers.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
the glowing man is digging into the sand. he digs a hole and goes into it. his light fades as he gets deeper and deeper.
EXT. HOUSE
the light fades.
INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT
THe hole in the floor is glowing but the light is fading and then finally it is gone.
The trapped faces and bodies in the walls and ceiling stare, unseeing.
fin.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Day After
Theyre all slumped in easy chairs or standing on the rediculously long line line, waiting for coffee, swaying from side to side, leaning their heads on their shoulders and rolling their red eyes at the panicking baristas.
Theyre blinking in the f22 sunlight, groaning and slowly remembering where each of their bruises came from.
So many of them were on drugs last night... I hear little pieces of their conversations- little tale-tale phrases.
"my first, first time? or my first time getting high?"
"I really like intellectual girls." says the smelly looking boy with the stained sweatshirt. He's slouched in his chair holding his coffee on his lap. "I like girls who control me... It must have been really obvious cuz I had a huge grin on my face, but I wish she didnt live in New Hampshire..."
The actress-girl sitting at the high table next to the toaster is wearing fake glasses... I think. I've never seen her wear glasses before.
A tall boy enters, makes his way over to the couple thats seated at the table behind me. I can't see his face as he begins to recount his last night's adventures. "...dropped my keys down the fucking elevator shaft. I didn't even know that that was possible."
"how do you spell pretentious?" Molly asks me across the table. I tell her that i don't know. just wing it.
"Boys, girls anything... he would hook up with anything!"
"He was so funny. We were on our way to ihop and he kept turning around and asking me 'how many kids do you want to have?'"
"Down the fucking elevator shaft!" "I've never heard of that..."
"he has to form a conversation, he can't just say something."
"i dont care anymore."
"honestly?"
"...its his swag! He just stands there and doesnt say anything!"
"last night was the first time i heard him say more than three things."
"I wasnt faking it. I just felt it."
Everytime two people enter, walking close together, I cant help but assume that they just woke up in the same bed.
They might not actually know each other. Maybe one just held the door for the other and then as they walked in they seemed to be arriving as a pair... I have no idea, but I imagine them lying on the same pillow ten minutes ago, an inch away from the other's face. Girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls... They all might have spent the night with the person walking beside them now.
"Right back there and make a right." A girl just got directions to the bathroom. Now I know she doesn't go to school here.
Theyre blinking in the f22 sunlight, groaning and slowly remembering where each of their bruises came from.
So many of them were on drugs last night... I hear little pieces of their conversations- little tale-tale phrases.
"my first, first time? or my first time getting high?"
"I really like intellectual girls." says the smelly looking boy with the stained sweatshirt. He's slouched in his chair holding his coffee on his lap. "I like girls who control me... It must have been really obvious cuz I had a huge grin on my face, but I wish she didnt live in New Hampshire..."
The actress-girl sitting at the high table next to the toaster is wearing fake glasses... I think. I've never seen her wear glasses before.
A tall boy enters, makes his way over to the couple thats seated at the table behind me. I can't see his face as he begins to recount his last night's adventures. "...dropped my keys down the fucking elevator shaft. I didn't even know that that was possible."
"how do you spell pretentious?" Molly asks me across the table. I tell her that i don't know. just wing it.
"Boys, girls anything... he would hook up with anything!"
"He was so funny. We were on our way to ihop and he kept turning around and asking me 'how many kids do you want to have?'"
"Down the fucking elevator shaft!" "I've never heard of that..."
"he has to form a conversation, he can't just say something."
"i dont care anymore."
"honestly?"
"...its his swag! He just stands there and doesnt say anything!"
"last night was the first time i heard him say more than three things."
"I wasnt faking it. I just felt it."
Everytime two people enter, walking close together, I cant help but assume that they just woke up in the same bed.
They might not actually know each other. Maybe one just held the door for the other and then as they walked in they seemed to be arriving as a pair... I have no idea, but I imagine them lying on the same pillow ten minutes ago, an inch away from the other's face. Girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls... They all might have spent the night with the person walking beside them now.
"Right back there and make a right." A girl just got directions to the bathroom. Now I know she doesn't go to school here.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Done
Im done and my room is almost empty.
my mom came yesterday and i sent three bins of clothes and suitcase of books home with her.
im moving out sunday and ill have a lot less stuff cuz one trip has been made already.
my closet is empty.
a lot of things that should be hanging in it are in drawers because i sent all my hangers home.
im done with all my work.
my one final is done. i analyzed Won Kar Wei (sp?)'s In The Mood For Love and said that the cigarette he was smoking was like the truth he was speaking and said that as the smoke blew from his lips and filled the air, the filmmaker focused on it and showed us shots of it because it was a metephore for 'the truth.' i wrote four and half pages in my blue book.
I forgot the title of Igmar Bergmen's 'Persona' i wrote "perception' oops.
im done.
i have to transfer my film to digital.
its strange that if i dont transfer it and i take it home on film it will be stuck there until next year.
i mean... its there but i dont have a projector at home so i have no way to let it out so it might as well not exist.
i have to transfer it.
'your class has cinematography down." said the sophmore after watching mine and molly's films.
thank you sophmore. i appreciate that.
'your film would be the best one in the class if you reedited it." said a different sophmore. she said shed help me.
"it doesnt make sense but i like the tone. i like it i just dont know what happened" said another upperclassmen.
i love that. i like that my work can stand on its own without even something as nessisary as sense... its still a thing.
"if that was a filmfestival you would win." Said my friend, not a film student but i appreciate it anyway... heh.
gah.
sophmore year... video...
video!!! im scared.
im asleep.
goodnite.
my mom came yesterday and i sent three bins of clothes and suitcase of books home with her.
im moving out sunday and ill have a lot less stuff cuz one trip has been made already.
my closet is empty.
a lot of things that should be hanging in it are in drawers because i sent all my hangers home.
im done with all my work.
my one final is done. i analyzed Won Kar Wei (sp?)'s In The Mood For Love and said that the cigarette he was smoking was like the truth he was speaking and said that as the smoke blew from his lips and filled the air, the filmmaker focused on it and showed us shots of it because it was a metephore for 'the truth.' i wrote four and half pages in my blue book.
I forgot the title of Igmar Bergmen's 'Persona' i wrote "perception' oops.
im done.
i have to transfer my film to digital.
its strange that if i dont transfer it and i take it home on film it will be stuck there until next year.
i mean... its there but i dont have a projector at home so i have no way to let it out so it might as well not exist.
i have to transfer it.
'your class has cinematography down." said the sophmore after watching mine and molly's films.
thank you sophmore. i appreciate that.
'your film would be the best one in the class if you reedited it." said a different sophmore. she said shed help me.
"it doesnt make sense but i like the tone. i like it i just dont know what happened" said another upperclassmen.
i love that. i like that my work can stand on its own without even something as nessisary as sense... its still a thing.
"if that was a filmfestival you would win." Said my friend, not a film student but i appreciate it anyway... heh.
gah.
sophmore year... video...
video!!! im scared.
im asleep.
goodnite.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
film scars
once upon a time
i did that thing that theyve been telling us from the very begining not to do
and i tried to stop the split reel with my hand and i sliced my finger in two places.
but i like it
cuz ill have a scar to show next years freshmen. "look," ill say "dont try to stop a rewind with your hand. youll loose a finger."
and i also like it cuz i get to wear a blue band aid on it.
but it hurt.
i did that thing that theyve been telling us from the very begining not to do
and i tried to stop the split reel with my hand and i sliced my finger in two places.
but i like it
cuz ill have a scar to show next years freshmen. "look," ill say "dont try to stop a rewind with your hand. youll loose a finger."
and i also like it cuz i get to wear a blue band aid on it.
but it hurt.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Not Editing
Behind a sign on the door that says "im editing in here. go away" i am actually not editing. i am sitting on the editing room floor, writing this poem.
Small Teeth
There's this place in a city somewhere
The part of the city where
The buildings are tight together
And the washing hangs on lines like street fair banners
From your window to my window on a pulley that if pulled the right way
Brings my clothes to me
And the wrong way sends my clothes to you.
It's spring in this part of the city and
Cherry trees that only wish they were cherry trees
They're not really
They're really just pink
which cherries aren't
The cherry trees drop petals but it's fine
They always have more... always.
And the the petals get everywhere
But mostly they gather
In piles in the corners
That the trash cans make with the walls.
After you buzz up and I buzz you inside.
I grin so widely that
I have to cover my mouth even though
There's no one to see
I'm afraid you'll notice how small my teeth are.
And the minute you open the door you can smell
The sweet and stale smell of emulsion on reversal film
Which i know I've told you before
Reminds me of 'The Day After'
Spent in a basement room, looking at the projection screen
Or at the back of the boy's head.
Wondering if he knew that that had been my first kiss
And wondering what I was supposed to do.
And you hand me my whites
Which had ended up through your window
"Thats really just my excuse
For coming to see you." you say
And I smile and show you all my small teeth
Small Teeth
There's this place in a city somewhere
The part of the city where
The buildings are tight together
And the washing hangs on lines like street fair banners
From your window to my window on a pulley that if pulled the right way
Brings my clothes to me
And the wrong way sends my clothes to you.
It's spring in this part of the city and
Cherry trees that only wish they were cherry trees
They're not really
They're really just pink
which cherries aren't
The cherry trees drop petals but it's fine
They always have more... always.
And the the petals get everywhere
But mostly they gather
In piles in the corners
That the trash cans make with the walls.
After you buzz up and I buzz you inside.
I grin so widely that
I have to cover my mouth even though
There's no one to see
I'm afraid you'll notice how small my teeth are.
And the minute you open the door you can smell
The sweet and stale smell of emulsion on reversal film
Which i know I've told you before
Reminds me of 'The Day After'
Spent in a basement room, looking at the projection screen
Or at the back of the boy's head.
Wondering if he knew that that had been my first kiss
And wondering what I was supposed to do.
And you hand me my whites
Which had ended up through your window
"Thats really just my excuse
For coming to see you." you say
And I smile and show you all my small teeth
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Jumpsuit
In this highly hypothetical situation a hypothetical person bought a blue and white striped romper/jumper/ one-piece piece of clothing at the salvation army.
she, the hypothetical person, is wearing it right now.
she likes it.
it looks like summer and a sailboat in the 50's.
when she sits down on the floor and leans over to type on her laptop which is also on the floor in front of her, the jumpsuit, being one piece, does not reveal any part of her but crack.
all in all is quite a wonderful article of clothing apart from the two tiny suspiciously brown stains on hem of the left leg.
but.
the reason i am telling her story, the hypothetical girl's story, is because she is afraid to wear the jumpsuit.
shes afraid of wearing a lot of things.
even things that look good.
its not that she is afraid of looking bad. its quite the opposite actually.
for some reason, that she has begun recently to blame on certain converstations and experiences with women in her childhood- this hypothetical girl is afraid of looking good.
isnt that odd?
i think so.
the sound of the thoughts that accompany this fear are mostly about people noticing that she is trying to look good.
or trying in any way to be anything really.
whats wrong with trying? i asked her quite recently and she said that she didnt think that there was anything wrong with trying. that in fact she loves people who try. it makes them seem alive when they try, try to look good, try to climb a mountain, try to dive off a high dive...
anything that they cannot do that they are trying to do is beautiful to the girl. but somehow in herself... even though shes gottan over most of the problems with looking like shes trying... for instance: she cannot climb a mountain but would not be embarressed for you to see her try to climb a mountain or paint with oil paint of load a bolex camera...
for some reason clothing is still hard...
but
just like 'fat ankels" being her least favorite thing about herself
she supposes that
being afraid to wear a jumpsuit is not the worst thing to be afraid of.
for instance... shed rather feel this fear than a fear of spiders..
or a fear of feet.
she knows people who are afraid of feet and she knows people who are afraid of spiders..
she wonders if effects thier sunny days just as overpoweringly as fear of trying to look good and actually... she doubts that it does.
she, the hypothetical person, is wearing it right now.
she likes it.
it looks like summer and a sailboat in the 50's.
when she sits down on the floor and leans over to type on her laptop which is also on the floor in front of her, the jumpsuit, being one piece, does not reveal any part of her but crack.
all in all is quite a wonderful article of clothing apart from the two tiny suspiciously brown stains on hem of the left leg.
but.
the reason i am telling her story, the hypothetical girl's story, is because she is afraid to wear the jumpsuit.
shes afraid of wearing a lot of things.
even things that look good.
its not that she is afraid of looking bad. its quite the opposite actually.
for some reason, that she has begun recently to blame on certain converstations and experiences with women in her childhood- this hypothetical girl is afraid of looking good.
isnt that odd?
i think so.
the sound of the thoughts that accompany this fear are mostly about people noticing that she is trying to look good.
or trying in any way to be anything really.
whats wrong with trying? i asked her quite recently and she said that she didnt think that there was anything wrong with trying. that in fact she loves people who try. it makes them seem alive when they try, try to look good, try to climb a mountain, try to dive off a high dive...
anything that they cannot do that they are trying to do is beautiful to the girl. but somehow in herself... even though shes gottan over most of the problems with looking like shes trying... for instance: she cannot climb a mountain but would not be embarressed for you to see her try to climb a mountain or paint with oil paint of load a bolex camera...
for some reason clothing is still hard...
but
just like 'fat ankels" being her least favorite thing about herself
she supposes that
being afraid to wear a jumpsuit is not the worst thing to be afraid of.
for instance... shed rather feel this fear than a fear of spiders..
or a fear of feet.
she knows people who are afraid of feet and she knows people who are afraid of spiders..
she wonders if effects thier sunny days just as overpoweringly as fear of trying to look good and actually... she doubts that it does.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Making the Monster
im typing on my white mac keys with black fingers... ive been making a monster.
a huge black monster with hands where its eyes should be.
and angel wings... white feathers hot glued to chicken wire attached on hinges to a harness that looks like a gun holster.
im making a movie...
the movie is about a play.
my main character is the costume designer/ creature designer for the play.
the character/ the filmmaker (heh me) makes these creatures and brings them to the theater and the actors try on their wings and devil horns and yeah....
i ran out of hot glue so i have to wait to get a ride to AC more the get more.
i really need to learn to drive.
i used to say i didnt need a license because i got along so well with my parents that i could always ride int eh car with them... that was a stupid thing to say.
because now im nineteen and i dont have a license and i need more hot glue.
"and i do believe its true that there are roads left in both of our shoes and if the silence takes you then i hope it takes me too."
im listening to last years playlists on my computer. because i havent been on this computer in like a year because ive had my lap top at school with me...
"i want to float higher above waves of electric wire and stare down onto the street. i see you drunk with cute glazed eyes. telling me about the girl i should meet someday."
Monday, March 22, 2010
fog
This morning i woke up and my window- which is bigger than the average dorm room window- because this room used to a be lounge- so the window is the whole wall- the window was all white.
Copmletely white with fog. i couldnt see the other square brick dorm across teh quad. i couldnt see anything but the branches of the tree that is right outside the glass.
and then i sat a up a little more and i could just barely make out the outline of the building across the quad and the tress across the quad and now i can look down and see the grass...
and i wish it were all white again.
i like being nowhere.
i wrote a story a million years ago (like three or four years ago) it was about a girl named Danya who lived in The Mist. The Mist seperated two halves of an island and the people on one half, the warm half, dont know that the people on the other half, the cold half, exist. and vice versa.
Danya is the only one who goes back and forth because she is the only one who knows that there is another side of the island and she is the only one who knows how to get through the mist. as far as the people are concerned the mist is one end of the world and the sea is the other half.
This is the story, or the introduction to the story. I never wrote more than an introduction. i didnt care what happened my worlds i just created them and set down the realities and characters and rules... Then lost interest.
I Wrote this when i was fifteen. i know that because the girl in the story is fifteen.... enjoy.
To the south the River Folk are stirring and stepping out onto the beach, the children are bathing in the warm ocean laughing and splashing each other in the pink rays of the sunrise.
To the north the people of ice and snow, the Grenyens, are reawakening the last nights fires and shivering in the never ending cold. The sun does not shine on them, it is hidden behind the grey clouds which promises more snow before the day is out.
A thin barrier of mist is all the separates the to different countries, the are in fact part of the same island that, if traversed in a very straight line, would take no more then three weeks to cross on foot. But the people know nothing of each other.
Within the mists there is nothing, nothing but swirling whiteness, and in the precise middle of the fog, a sleeping fifteen year old girl.
She is the only one, as far as she knows, to move between the countries. She sleeps on the ground with no shelter and no blanket but the mist, the ground feels like snow and water, and ice and sand, not warm or cold. She sleeps with her head on her arms and her legs curled close to her body.
Her hair is black and curling like that of the river folk, her hair is the only thing that seems solid about her.
Her skin is the bright white of the mist and like that of the Grenyens, and her shift is of the lightest white silk similar to those worm by the River folk but they wear their’s decorated and in the most beautiful colors.
There is no shift in light or any animal call to mark to coming of the morning, but Danya knows and she is awake.
She stands and looks around. Hanging around her neck is a tiny silver compass, though she never looses her bearings the compass is a nessasary precaution in a world where nothing looks the same from day to day.
Kneeling next to the spot where she was sleeping she places a hand on the ground and finds a thin rope of what looks like solid gass or liquid metal, she pulls it up and a trap door opens at her feet. She slips inside and closes the door quickly after her, so that the mist cannot fill the cave.
Inside hanging on the walls are clothes from every island she has visted. She steps out of the white shift and hangs it on an empty hook.
She stands naked before the many garments thinking which she should wear and where she should visit today.
She decides on the river folk and slips into their small shirt a flowing skirt of blue cotton. She also takes the furs of the north and places them in a bag for later.
She leaves the cave and secures the trap door. Standing upon it she checks the compass unnessasarily, out of habit, and sets off. She’ll spend the morning in the warm water under palm trees and the afternoon hunting in the snow.
Copmletely white with fog. i couldnt see the other square brick dorm across teh quad. i couldnt see anything but the branches of the tree that is right outside the glass.
and then i sat a up a little more and i could just barely make out the outline of the building across the quad and the tress across the quad and now i can look down and see the grass...
and i wish it were all white again.
i like being nowhere.
i wrote a story a million years ago (like three or four years ago) it was about a girl named Danya who lived in The Mist. The Mist seperated two halves of an island and the people on one half, the warm half, dont know that the people on the other half, the cold half, exist. and vice versa.
Danya is the only one who goes back and forth because she is the only one who knows that there is another side of the island and she is the only one who knows how to get through the mist. as far as the people are concerned the mist is one end of the world and the sea is the other half.
This is the story, or the introduction to the story. I never wrote more than an introduction. i didnt care what happened my worlds i just created them and set down the realities and characters and rules... Then lost interest.
I Wrote this when i was fifteen. i know that because the girl in the story is fifteen.... enjoy.
To the south the River Folk are stirring and stepping out onto the beach, the children are bathing in the warm ocean laughing and splashing each other in the pink rays of the sunrise.
To the north the people of ice and snow, the Grenyens, are reawakening the last nights fires and shivering in the never ending cold. The sun does not shine on them, it is hidden behind the grey clouds which promises more snow before the day is out.
A thin barrier of mist is all the separates the to different countries, the are in fact part of the same island that, if traversed in a very straight line, would take no more then three weeks to cross on foot. But the people know nothing of each other.
Within the mists there is nothing, nothing but swirling whiteness, and in the precise middle of the fog, a sleeping fifteen year old girl.
She is the only one, as far as she knows, to move between the countries. She sleeps on the ground with no shelter and no blanket but the mist, the ground feels like snow and water, and ice and sand, not warm or cold. She sleeps with her head on her arms and her legs curled close to her body.
Her hair is black and curling like that of the river folk, her hair is the only thing that seems solid about her.
Her skin is the bright white of the mist and like that of the Grenyens, and her shift is of the lightest white silk similar to those worm by the River folk but they wear their’s decorated and in the most beautiful colors.
There is no shift in light or any animal call to mark to coming of the morning, but Danya knows and she is awake.
She stands and looks around. Hanging around her neck is a tiny silver compass, though she never looses her bearings the compass is a nessasary precaution in a world where nothing looks the same from day to day.
Kneeling next to the spot where she was sleeping she places a hand on the ground and finds a thin rope of what looks like solid gass or liquid metal, she pulls it up and a trap door opens at her feet. She slips inside and closes the door quickly after her, so that the mist cannot fill the cave.
Inside hanging on the walls are clothes from every island she has visted. She steps out of the white shift and hangs it on an empty hook.
She stands naked before the many garments thinking which she should wear and where she should visit today.
She decides on the river folk and slips into their small shirt a flowing skirt of blue cotton. She also takes the furs of the north and places them in a bag for later.
She leaves the cave and secures the trap door. Standing upon it she checks the compass unnessasarily, out of habit, and sets off. She’ll spend the morning in the warm water under palm trees and the afternoon hunting in the snow.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Spring
One of the first times that i fell in love i was fifteen.
He was the keyboard player in the celtic canadian group that sang at the music festival at Green Meadow.
It rained on the festival that year and i was wearing a dark blue dress with a yellow and lighter blue patturn, a tight elastic threaded top and a ruffle around the skirt.
i wasnt wearing a bra, i remember that, because the tight elastic threaded top of the dress was tight and worked like a bra and i was dancing, barefoot in the muddy grass in the rain.
and the bands wernt playing because they were afraid of being electricuted because of the rain.
and the kid, the keyboard playing canadian danced in the mud with me.
at first he didnt want to. I said "dance with me!" and he said that he couldnt get wet because then when he went onstage it would look like he was sweating. And i laughed at that. He was standing under the tent, staying dry
and then
after a little while, of him watching me dance
he danced with me.
and held my hands and spun around.
i remember he was eighteen.
i remember i thought that was way to old to think anything about me, i felt so little.
i remember i thought that he liked me.
i remember when it dawned one me that eighteen year olds were allowed to like fifteen year olds and allowed to dance with them.
and i remember my legs were covered in mud.
and when he went onstage he did look like he was sweating and i felt bad.
and they played the song that i asked them to play. they had done it earlier and i really liked it and asked him if they would do it again. and they did.
and then he left, at the end of the day
and even though i was pretty sure that i would marry him
im not sure about that anymore.
i dont remember his name.
i spose i could google it.
the band is moderately legit now.
He was the keyboard player in the celtic canadian group that sang at the music festival at Green Meadow.
It rained on the festival that year and i was wearing a dark blue dress with a yellow and lighter blue patturn, a tight elastic threaded top and a ruffle around the skirt.
i wasnt wearing a bra, i remember that, because the tight elastic threaded top of the dress was tight and worked like a bra and i was dancing, barefoot in the muddy grass in the rain.
and the bands wernt playing because they were afraid of being electricuted because of the rain.
and the kid, the keyboard playing canadian danced in the mud with me.
at first he didnt want to. I said "dance with me!" and he said that he couldnt get wet because then when he went onstage it would look like he was sweating. And i laughed at that. He was standing under the tent, staying dry
and then
after a little while, of him watching me dance
he danced with me.
and held my hands and spun around.
i remember he was eighteen.
i remember i thought that was way to old to think anything about me, i felt so little.
i remember i thought that he liked me.
i remember when it dawned one me that eighteen year olds were allowed to like fifteen year olds and allowed to dance with them.
and i remember my legs were covered in mud.
and when he went onstage he did look like he was sweating and i felt bad.
and they played the song that i asked them to play. they had done it earlier and i really liked it and asked him if they would do it again. and they did.
and then he left, at the end of the day
and even though i was pretty sure that i would marry him
im not sure about that anymore.
i dont remember his name.
i spose i could google it.
the band is moderately legit now.
Sunny Day On The High Line
"look molly, its simba."
Kid: bla bla..something something.. reshoot... bla bla character.
me: are they talking about film?
john: yeah ive been listening to them for ten minutes
me: are they flim kids?
molly: yeah. NYU. i heard them say NYU
me: (sitting up and looking over) omgod! they all have filmmaker glasses. all of them. all the same glasses!
(they did. one girl and four boys, all the same rectangular thick framed glasses)
me:am i grinding your hip bones into the ground?
molly: i dont really know where my hip bones are right now.
...sunlight is blue.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Today its raining in a misty way and i have no classes and i have to write a screenplay and my garbage smells like rotten rice.
Yesterday Plum, the beta fish that molly bought for her film, died. We came into the soundstage and plum was swimming upside down and then plum stopped swimming and we were sure he was dead and then he started twitching his fins and then we flushed him town the toilet.
And i thought. We could have left Plum anywhere... in the water fountain, on the floor in the hallway...
i thought: fish can only be in water. and about how odd that is and about how id never want to touch a fish in the air but how its okay to carry one in a bowl and about how thin a bowl is and how if i was swimming i wouldnt mind touching a fish.
Tomorrow i will eat the second half of my avocado for breakfast.
Today i ate the first half and i ate pieces of rosemary bread.
Tonight i will have finished my screenplay and sent it to my class so they can read it.
Tonight i will wear pants to sleep so that I'm not cold again.
Last night i was cold.
The screenplay is about a boy who lives in a college town but doesnt go to college.
He's friends with a girl who goes to the college.
He's kind of in love with her but maybe not.
The asignment for the screenplay was "a flaw."
i think my character's flaw is that he doesnt know what he wants to do.
The second half of the asignment, which i am pretending to have forgottan about, is "the worst thing that could happen to a person with this flaw." so put a person into the worst case scenerio for someone who has the flaw that you've given your person...
Worst case scenerio...
actually, it might work.
if my guy's flaw is that he doesnt know what he wants than maybe the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he falls in love with someone who knows what she wants.
i mean, the bigger picuture is that its not the worst thing, that she will actually solve his flaw for him, maybe, help him want things...
but as far as he's converned, from the inside of his flaw, he's pretty content to be where he is and he doesnt want someone pointing out to him that he shouldnt want to be where he is.
Today i will waste 80 feet of 16mm because on saturday i shot only a tiny bit of a roll because im silly. and i have to give the camera back and so i obviously have to take my film out so i have to finish the roll.
im going to film the rain.
Yesterday Plum, the beta fish that molly bought for her film, died. We came into the soundstage and plum was swimming upside down and then plum stopped swimming and we were sure he was dead and then he started twitching his fins and then we flushed him town the toilet.
And i thought. We could have left Plum anywhere... in the water fountain, on the floor in the hallway...
i thought: fish can only be in water. and about how odd that is and about how id never want to touch a fish in the air but how its okay to carry one in a bowl and about how thin a bowl is and how if i was swimming i wouldnt mind touching a fish.
Tomorrow i will eat the second half of my avocado for breakfast.
Today i ate the first half and i ate pieces of rosemary bread.
Tonight i will have finished my screenplay and sent it to my class so they can read it.
Tonight i will wear pants to sleep so that I'm not cold again.
Last night i was cold.
The screenplay is about a boy who lives in a college town but doesnt go to college.
He's friends with a girl who goes to the college.
He's kind of in love with her but maybe not.
The asignment for the screenplay was "a flaw."
i think my character's flaw is that he doesnt know what he wants to do.
The second half of the asignment, which i am pretending to have forgottan about, is "the worst thing that could happen to a person with this flaw." so put a person into the worst case scenerio for someone who has the flaw that you've given your person...
Worst case scenerio...
actually, it might work.
if my guy's flaw is that he doesnt know what he wants than maybe the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he falls in love with someone who knows what she wants.
i mean, the bigger picuture is that its not the worst thing, that she will actually solve his flaw for him, maybe, help him want things...
but as far as he's converned, from the inside of his flaw, he's pretty content to be where he is and he doesnt want someone pointing out to him that he shouldnt want to be where he is.
Today i will waste 80 feet of 16mm because on saturday i shot only a tiny bit of a roll because im silly. and i have to give the camera back and so i obviously have to take my film out so i have to finish the roll.
im going to film the rain.
Monday, March 8, 2010
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