Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted.


Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this shit. This is real. This has happened to all of us." I rewrote the scene tried to make it better. Less cliche. Less sentimentality. I don't know if its good. Not everything I write will be good. In fact, most of it might be bad, but then someone who reads my blog regularly asked me if it really happened. When I answered, "Yes" I saw the face of someone who might have been there, who related for that instant that they read my words, the flurry of emotion in brown eyes, and I felt like I did something, like I had done something right.


Most of the time when I write a scene in my head it is one where I, the character, etc, have been put into a situation of vulnerability. (We don't write the comedies of our lives for Christ's sake!) And hell, sarcasm comes out of me so easily I don't think I could write fast enough.  I think about the scenes where people are waiting for an answer, having conversation with subtext, the stuff that makes us squirm a little you know? Stuff that makes all of us squirm I suppose. "Will you give me a raise?" "Did I get in?" "What are your plans for the future?" "Where do you want this to go?" "Do you love me?" Sometimes these conversations are even with ourselves and that's what makes them harder at times. What do we say to ourselves when we ask, "Do I love him/her?", and the answer is not the one we wanted...


Perhaps, I should stick to what I know. Writing scenes for my characters....


Scene 1


"So where should I take her?" he asked phone held with his shoulder as he looked at the shirts he held in each hand.


"Um, I'm not sure where did you go last time? Dinner right? But, where?" The T.V. changed from channel to channel as she listened.


"That new little bistro place on Commerce. You know they did a spread in the paper about it. She dug it,
but thinkin' I should go a little more low key. You know?"


She nodded even though he couldn't see.


"Then do low key. But don't over think it 'cause then you'll go in a circle. I mean, dude, if she's going on with you again then she digs something about you. Not sure what, but you know roll with it."


"Dick."




Scene 2




The lines of her body completely relaxed as she was captivated with the painting before her. She was so enthralled she never noticed the people standing behind her, nor the man who came behind her and whispered in her ear.
“This was my favorite as well.”
Her back stiffened slightly, but her gaze did not leave the object that seemed to inspire a blossoming of passion.
“It’s beautiful,” quickly she licked her lips, “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve—well I’ve simply never.”
“Girl meets art,” he whispered. 




Scene 3
“Have you done the deed yet,?"


A stout keg of a man stared down at the pubescent kid in front of him, the five o’clock shadow a dark contrast to the smooth creamy skin of his fact.


Bruno shook his head and looked down, afraid it was the wrong answer.


“Well, you’ve met Rosie and her five friends?” the man looked at him the caterpillar brow above his eye raised. Bruno watched as his uncle wiggled his thick fingers.


“Y-yes,” he replied eyes cast down, dark lashes casting a shadow.


“You know how you feel when you’re about to cum? That’s how I feel when I fuck someone up.”


Scene 4
"Do you know what you want?" Her eyes downcast afraid to meet his gaze, but as he looked away it gave her the courage to hold her head up. Chin jutted out slightly. 


"What do you mean? What do I want? From what? From this?" He motioned his hand between the two of them. 


She looked down at her shoes. The couch. The dirty biege carpet. Anywhere but his face, to avoid the way he couldn't say us. 


"I don't know what you want me to say. I'm not sure where..." he trailed off, "I'm not sure where... Can't we just talk about this later. Right now it's just you and me, you know?"

Sunday, November 27, 2011

possibility

there is a possibility that i will avoid my work all day. 
        a possibility that i will avoid texts and phone calls today
a possibility that i won't be able to hold out and end up at dinner, or a movie, or .....
   there is a possibility that i have writers block and that's why i'm avoiding my work
 it's possible that i am stir crazy and i will be found under a pile of clean laundry
there is a possibility that a conversation will never take place even though the words are ready to spill 
      it's possible that after next week i will be able to breath easy
there is a possibility that my dreams have a meaning but i'm too dense to see it
  its a definite possibility that i'm avoiding things by writing this blog
a possibility that i don' know what tomorrow will bring
           there is a possibility that plans fall through
       possibilities that all possibilities will shift and evolve...  

Monday, November 21, 2011

10 Reminders

1. holidays will never cause me as much stress as they used too

2. pride sometimes gets in the way

3. i need to use december to write new material...well after a few days off

4. sometimes you realize too late that you're in over your head

5. the best conversations are the ones you have while the sun is breaking through a dark sky

6. its hard to find people that love you no matter what

7. if you think you have things figured out, you don't

8. controlling the uncontrollable is just a way to drive yourself crazy. repeat.

9. there something about the smell of rain it seems to wash away all of life's messiness

10. friends, dinner, drinks, conversation

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Rantings of Insecurity

   The security of a moment should always be appreciated simply because that security can be fleeting.

    Se-cu-rity is defined as:

Definition of SECURITY

1
: the quality or state of being secure: asa : freedom from danger : safetyb : freedom from fear or anxiety

I believe an amendment should be made to the definition and to highlight the fact that security is in fact fleeting. There is nothing in our lives that is completely secure and the constant shifting, evolving, eroding, ensures that. The idea that life had a level of stability is a veiled attempt to put people at ease. An ease that lulls them into a state of comfort then into a state of shock when changes occurs. They have existential crises and ponder if everything that they done up to now is truly what they wanted  or ponder if the road they already on is the road they want to remain on. The cliche fork in the road. Terms such as those themselves are made up to make change seem good, acceptable, a part of life, just like security. 

Friday, November 4, 2011

Portrait of an Artist

The paint was thick and still damp. I didn't need to touch it to know this. All over the concrete floor were splashes of paint and dirty white clothes where wet canvases leaned against the walls of the open space. In the corner sheets were rumpled in a bed he lay sleeping on, tangled. Dark hair rumpled against his pale face, arm thrown over his eyes in an attempt to block out the light. I walked back carefully not to make noise and lay down next to him, covering myself with the corner of the dark sheet he'd left available. 

I reached out to move the tousled hair from his face only to feel the the grip of his hand as he pulled me closer. I was somewhere in a moment as I felt long fingers and firm calloused hands against naked skin.To love an artist is to be in a constant state of unknowing. unbeing, but still somewhere. Hands held firm against you, even when they themselves, the fingers, the lines along the palm aren't sure why they're there. Even when skin tingles and the moment makes you want to succumb to the way hands grip, you wait, pause, and stop from falling over an edge because you've been there before.