This class is like psychotherapy, man, seriously. I had originally started with the thought of the "end if this semester" thing from indacan, but it kind of spiralled into this whole thing about my future, so for what it's worth, this is what's going on in my head:
Too much. It’s all too much to consider, too big, to wide, too tall. Too unreal, too unfocused. Too much thinking outside the box, not enough time considering the box itself. Now I’m playing catch-up; not thinking about my work, about my dream, but a box. About structure. Any structure. A plan or an ideal, a goal for one year, five years, twenty years. A goal other than standing on a stage with a little gold man. A goal I could accomplish. That’s what I need.
I don’t want to sell books, movie tickets, fried fucking chicken from behind an apron and a silly hat, standing at a cash register my whole life. But I’ll be doing that in one year, five years, twenty years, if I don’t turn the ship around, or at least take a moment to look at the map, figure out the best course. Still dreaming about the stage, the gold man. Dreaming about sets and actors and props; interviews; arguments with billionaires about artistic integrity. Who am I kidding? Millions of people dream the same dreams, tens of thousands pursue that dream, and for mere dozens does it actually become real. And what of those left? Those left dreaming; those who pursue and fail? What of them, so much creative brilliance waiting tables, driving taxis. Will I be one of them? Waiting, waiting, pursuing, pursuing, but never going anywhere…Is that the Janek O’Toole story?
I could have been a lawyer. I could have been a journalist, or a psychologist. I could have been a chef. I could have done so many much more practical things, so many nice steady 9-2-5, know it’ll be there tomorrow jobs. If I’d kept in touch with the box. As it is, I’m living life without a box, hanging on strings of compliments, potential, changes here and there, slight tweaks to tighten it up, a lot of good ideas. It’s too late now; I can’t go back and start again for another 3 years. Could still become a chef, I suppose. If this doesn’t work out, could peel potatoes and chop onions for my daily bread. What a life.
“Follow your dreams” they said, “Do what you want to do” they said. Fuck that. Where’s that going to get me? 35 years old, waiting ‘til October and my Christmas Casuals job selling calendars. I was so happy to have parents who didn’t push me into medicine or law or something sensible. Now look at me. Friends in practices, fellowships, in other high-end organisations. And me in my stupid apron, organising shifts at a store no one buys from. Fuck. Disillusioning children, making them think they can’t accomplish anything isn’t abuse. Making them believe they can do anything is abuse. Figure out your kid’s potential and reming them ceaselessly where their fucking place is. No pie-in-the-sky ideas about your kid being special, unique, a precious snowflake unlike any other.
I’m like a snowflake, in a way. No direction, blown here and there by the winds, in a very gradual, but very real freefall. I’ll land on a street, in someone’s hair, on a roof, and melt. I’ll fade away and no one will be any the wiser. I am a snowflake, falling with every page of every script I ever wrote. Every bright idea that shimmers and glints in the sunlight, piling up, becoming an amorphous blotch, for someone to stamp on or shovel up, to be swept away to make room for sensible, downtrodden citizens.
Fuck. Where will I be in twenty years? High School Reunion, Trying to pass my job off as “purchasing and logistics technician”, drinking a little too much of the free wine, making a scene. Oh, all those sideways glances, all those covert whispers. “He was so together in school”, “He was really going to go places”, “Didn’t he win that award?”, “Some people just can’t get it together”, “What a shame” “What a pity” “What a waste”. There’s no denying it, I’ll go out with a bang.
45, still living with the parents, or parent, or alone. Living day-to-day off an inheritance or a pittance. People stopping by with some food, some words of sympathy, laugh about how funny I was when I was little, not talk about how ambitious I was when I was a teenager. Not talk about the slow descent into obscurity, even from my own friends and family. No longer lamenting how little they see me anymore, strangers with my blood.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wk. 12 - Mourning
The piece I wrote to IBM 1401 A User's Manual is actually the first to come from a proper creative spring. The story and characters involved are from a ascreenplay I'm presently developing. I won't say much about the story itself, burt you should be able to gleen something from the written piece:
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
An old man, sat upon a porch, an old and worn down dog at his feet, sleeping, baking in the sun. Small creaks and groans, from the body of the old man, the frame of the old house, both sitting in their place, staring at the same street for so long, waiting for something new to arrive, or something to return.
The children in the street make him think of her, as they always have. Except before. Before Ellie. The old man watches the girl chase her ball, her black skin becomes pale, her thick curls long brown locks, her blue t-shirt a white dress, covered with sunflowers. Ellie.
Eleven years past. Passed without a word, without a backwards glance. Full of sideways glances, covered mouths, hushed speech, while he kept living, with his dog. The dog he bought for her.
The parents moved away, to greener pastures, to new beginnings. He thinks about them bitterly. Hypocrites. Charlatans. Frauds, who would spend more time at each others necks or loins than care to watch their child play. Wherever they are now, they don’t miss her. They have their own new families, new children. But he only had her.
A dog barks in the distance, and the old collie rouses her head. But she looks a moment and rests it down again, too tired, too old to start a fight. The old man, too, now too old. Too old to protest his innocence, to fight accusing eyes, accusing fingers, covered mouths. Let them think what they want, what keeps them happy, what helps them live their lives. What can he do to change their minds?
The mother. She runs across the yard, grabs the child by the wrist and takes her inside, scolding her. As she holds the door open and the child slinks in, she turns her head. Stares at the old man. Turns her head away from him.
His cue to leave. Stand up, creaking, go inside, hold the door open for the dog to slink in before him. Watch some telly, take his mind off things. News, no faith for him; cartoons, the memory of her; soaps, no. Not today. He finds an old film, black and white, and settles into it. There’s comfort in black and white, rosy cheeks that shimmer like snow, lots of wide smiles, no terrible accusing eyes and covered mouths.
A love story. A girl and a boy, who would lasso the moon and pull it down. Who would give her the moon to see her smile. Well he would pull down the moon. And not even for a smile, not for a laugh, a frown, a tear. For a pensive stare, for a cold, admonishing pout, for something to know that she was there. He would lasso the moon for that.
A tear. A tear? No, but something warm, runs down his face, to his chest, his arm, his leg, to the floor. His right side stiff, then slack. Toast. Oh no.
He wakes up later, somewhere new, white, and clean. Not heaven, no. Not so clean. He can feel the IV in his arm, the breathing tube in his nose. He can hear the voices up and down the hall, clinical instructions and obedient orders. A rhythm of “yes doctor” and “right away doctor”. Wails and moans up and down the ward, the choral orchestra playing the background for the speaking parts.
As comfortable as possible. What does that even mean? They can make him as comfortable as possible. But they couldn’t let his dog in, to sleep at his feet, to even say goodbye. Taken in by one of his neighbours. She’d have a good home now, with children. She loved children.
She’d be his only visitor in his comfortable as possible room. His last comfortable as possible days would tick by with visits from nurses with pills, doctors with charts, orderlies with trays, nurses with pills.
One visitor. Just one, who made him as comfortable as possible. Who walked in wearing a dress of white and yellow, a sunflower in her hat. Who cried and laughed at once and who knew him as he knew her. Older now, a young lady. Beautiful.
She sits by his side, replaces a wayward hair, and rests her hand on his heart. After eleven years, back with him. He does not ask her, and she doesn’t want to tell him. She can’t tell anyone, not for a while. He tells her about her parents; she’ll go and see them tomorrow. About the dog; she’ll pick her up this evening.
A departing kiss on the forehead as she stands up to leave. She reaches into her purse, pulls out something clasped in her fist. With a chain. She slips it into his hand. Something round, flat, warm where her fingers were, cold where they were not. Heavy. Ticking.
A tear. A tear? Yes. Eleven years since he’s held his old watch. Eleven years since he’s seen his little Ellie. She tells him not to cry, but he does. So she does too. Crying and laughing at once.
Gone. Just like that. Like the weight of eleven years, of 70 years before that. Gone like she was so long ago, but departed with the promise of returning. And the old man shuts his eyes, makes himself as comfortable as possible. And says goodbye.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wk. 11 - Nerves
Statement on "nerves", written to Kraftwerk's "Computer Love"(? I can't recall)
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
Nervous? I’m not nervous, what makes you think I’mnervous imnotnervousimnotfreakedi’m perfectlyfine!
So I’m a little nervous. I don’t mind the crowd. Four people or four thousand people I don’t mind. And it’s not the idea. The idea is solid. I like the idea, and I put a lot of thought into it. The jokes? The jokes are awesome, my jokes are always awesome. No…what is it?
The microphone? Nope. I’ve been in front of microphones before, had to pitch to them before, not a big deal, really.
The dry mouth thing? When I have to get up and speak, even when I’m not nervous, my mouth goes all dry and I end up croaking words. But I’ve got my bottle of water here, so I shouldn’t have any problem with the dry mouth thing.
No, it’s something else. Something bigger. It’s reality. In first year, second year, in high school, I could talk about whatever the hell I wanted, totally hypothetical, not remotely related to reality. I could pitch this, or that or the other, no worries about it being realistic, as long as it was entertaining it was fine.
But now, I need budget layouts? I need possible producers? Oh my God, I need demographics and I need outlines and I need costs. Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my! Demographics and Outlines and Costs, oh my!
I’ve never actually pitched anything I thought would ever go anywhere. Even in debating, I never argued anything I believed in, I always played devil’s advocate. So now, I have to go and stand there with something I really want to happen. And I know it’s just a classroom, but it’s still a pitch. And it’s still my ambition, my idea, my writing under the microscope. It’s never been so much of “me” up there.
And, oh, I forgot the video! What if they don’t like the video. This video is my taste, it’s a clear outline of where I want both the show, and all its extra content, to go. If they all hate it, does that mean they hate my idea? Does that mean I’ll never be able to make it happen? I mean my God, I’m comparing my great vision to a show that only made it one and a half seasons before it was cancelled. Brought back, yes, in production now, but still…shitcanned to make way for some rich-teens-in-the-sun pop trash.
I hate that. I hate the thought of my great idea, my great vision, failing. I don’t want it to fail. I don’t mind failing, not in the least. I’ve failed before, it presentations and in essays, well actually no, never failed a presentation. But it’s not my presentation they could shoot down. It’s what’s in my head. What if they find a way to kill this great idea? Will they kill the others as well? Will all my creativity die, and leave me with a shift to studying accountancy and buying lots of beige shirts?
Eight years. I’ve wanted this for eight years. Nearly a decade, more than a third of my life I’ve wanted one thing and one thing only. I’ve torpedoed every other opportunity for a career, for a love life, for any kind of social life, to pursue this one. After so many bad ideas, after struggling through hack writing and turning to clichés, after finally escaping all the traps of the beginning writer, will my first quality idea get slammed? Has someone already done it? Are all my great innovations already out there on Dutch or Japanese or Slovak TV?
Maybe I’m just late to the party, a gate crasher already drunk and full of himself and getting to work on spiling everyone else’s fun. Is that who I am? It’s Caine’s 18th all over again. I’m about to puke on someone’s dress. Metaphorically speaking, of course, now. Caitlin never did forgive me. Now though, am I going to taint this great story? Turn a fun and thrilling tale into another mass-produced/mass-consumed piece of TV trash> another multimillion dollar white noise generator? No, I won’t, surely not.
I’m a smart guy. I have to say it, over and over. I do have good ideas. I’m not just useful for semiotics. God, I can’t just be good for semiotics. I HAVE to be creative. I mean, Hero & Zero was a hugely popular idea. But that was rip off of “The Tick”. The Tick was a hero, not a villain. The premise is the same, only the perspective is different. Isn’t new perspective a new story? You even looked at all “The Tick” history. It’s not, it’s my idea and it’s a good, new idea.
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