In an attempt to touch base with something familiar and mentally regroup, I took the day off from work and made the two hour trip to Hometown.
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."
mc
31 October 2006
26 October 2006
24 October 2006
disappear
Saturday night was bad. I should get help. Just give up. Admit myself to that palace of white walls and locked doors. Eat medications supplied by "qualified professionals." Talk about my feelings.
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."
Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.
The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.
Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.
I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.
mc
11 October 2006
...
Whenever I see the Verne Troyer GEICO Auto Insurance advertisement, I feel really sad.
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?
Ugh.
mc
01 October 2006
relevant
"You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."
-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"
A very apropos lyric for this dark night...
mc
23 September 2006
blood, birds and glaciers
Lawns are emitting the fragrance of chemical flowers. The firehouses are empty, dark. And I'm stranded on a sidewalk in the dead part of town, Futility's ghost swirling in my head like smoke from her cigarette.
And I tasted her faded lips.
And I thrashed inside her wilted figure.
I look skyward. Huge birds blanketed in black are soaring, wingtips slicing, painting invisible arcs. Their silence is grace. Their grace, ineffable.
A fire flickers in my chest.
And I remember Futility...
She was sleeping as rain rattled off rooftops and cascaded into gurgling gutters. Puddles coalesced on muddy lawns, flooding and silencing that chemical scent.
I closed the window, lit a cigarette and stared at her body. I felt like a painter, an artist studying the female figure, attempting to digest an unmanageable microcosm of perfection, incalculable beauty. The human mind cannot grasp the concept of perfection -- but her body offered a glimpse into that staggering abyss. I felt impotent. Out of place. Like a bloodstain on the immaculate linen of a queen. ("And queens do not bleed.")
And then, words fell. Softly.
"We are giant glaciers of ice. Shifting. Moving. Slowly. Our coordinates will change. Eyes will traverse strange landscapes. Our flesh will taste foreign climates. And we will befriend invisible lovers and lick their salted wounds behind locked doors in midnight rooms. We will attach just to peel off, away. Every experience will mold, shape and sculpt a body, a memory, something to live inside us. But when our pupils dilate and fade for the final time, what will be the sum of these experiences, these memories, these bodies? Who will read our epilogues after we exit? And who will stand in the shadows of our intangible sculptures and offer validation?"
Her name was Futility.
I left her side, walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Cats and dogs continued to fall, a punishing rain. It was the kind of rain that forces lovers and strays to scamper and take refuge.
Through the rain and across the soggy landscape I could see a cemetery. The graveyard was like a quilt stitched into the hillside. Hidden in the threads were bodies buried in boxes, forgotten secrets.
And I wanted to hear them.
I put on the shirt she had crawled on and stained with her sweet scent, climbed into pants of dirty denim, strapped on my boots and walked outside, into the thick of it.
I was soaked in seconds but remained undeterred. The tombstones and mausoleums beckoned like a dying chapel, a lighthouse.
And I was a captain lost at sea.
The pelting rain was telling me to abandon ship ("There is nothing here"), turn around and return to sheets warm with Futility, but I stayed the course. This was a pilgrimage I had to make. I wanted to know the secrets -- the code of the dead.
Lightning flashed like dying filaments.
Thunder cracked like broken bibles.
And it was then that I realized the dead know nothing.
The dead.
The unborn.
They all occupy that great invisible void: the collapsed cosmos of nothingness. Inconceivable and unjustifiable, like Futility's flushed flesh.
And it was then that I realized there is no heaven, white and glowing. There is no perdition, fiery and furious. No towering god. No devastating devil.
Only this moment.
A flinching eye.
A beating heart.
A drop of rain.
A kiss like the Fourth of July.
I jumped ship and ran through the flooded streets.
And it was then that I realized Futility was my chapel. My lighthouse. My Jesus. My secret. My moment.
I was dripping like a dead sailor as I ripped through the door. A staggering silence greeted me. That detestable stillness of an empty room. Her scent lingered but Futility was gone.
I peeled off my saturated clothes, threw them away. I was naked. Stripped of the moment. My scars glistened in the dim glow of candlelight. Hot wax. Clammy flesh. Contrast. Unity.
I fell to my knees, crawled into bed and pressed the pillow to my face. Her scent slithered into my nostrils and filled my head with lamentations.
"Oh, Futility, where have you gone? You've left me dripping, shaking, alone with a heart full of dirty blood."
A flash of lightning penetrated my closed eyelids.
And I waited for the sky to explode.
I opened my eyes, looked skyward, and on the ceiling, written in the ink of a ghost, were the words:
Appreciate the knowledge of the unknown and embrace the weight of the invisible; for life is a fleeting kiss from the unborn, the futile.
Stranded on this sidewalk, I'm trying to shake her memory loose, trying to exorcise her tepid ghost. I'm trying to pretend that nothing happened. I'm telling myself Futility didn't exist.
But she did.
And she does.
She's a caged bird trapped inside my cold chest, pecking away and making a bloody mess. The doctors tell me it's heartburn, acid reflux, something. I don't listen to them because I know better. It's Futility, eating me from the inside out.
"And I won't deny you, baby."
The black birds of grace have disappeared and the sky is a gray canvas, blossoms of clouds are pluming.
I can hear thunder rolling over a distant prairie.
It smells like rain.
mc
And I tasted her faded lips.
And I thrashed inside her wilted figure.
I look skyward. Huge birds blanketed in black are soaring, wingtips slicing, painting invisible arcs. Their silence is grace. Their grace, ineffable.
A fire flickers in my chest.
And I remember Futility...
She was sleeping as rain rattled off rooftops and cascaded into gurgling gutters. Puddles coalesced on muddy lawns, flooding and silencing that chemical scent.
I closed the window, lit a cigarette and stared at her body. I felt like a painter, an artist studying the female figure, attempting to digest an unmanageable microcosm of perfection, incalculable beauty. The human mind cannot grasp the concept of perfection -- but her body offered a glimpse into that staggering abyss. I felt impotent. Out of place. Like a bloodstain on the immaculate linen of a queen. ("And queens do not bleed.")
And then, words fell. Softly.
"We are giant glaciers of ice. Shifting. Moving. Slowly. Our coordinates will change. Eyes will traverse strange landscapes. Our flesh will taste foreign climates. And we will befriend invisible lovers and lick their salted wounds behind locked doors in midnight rooms. We will attach just to peel off, away. Every experience will mold, shape and sculpt a body, a memory, something to live inside us. But when our pupils dilate and fade for the final time, what will be the sum of these experiences, these memories, these bodies? Who will read our epilogues after we exit? And who will stand in the shadows of our intangible sculptures and offer validation?"
Her name was Futility.
I left her side, walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Cats and dogs continued to fall, a punishing rain. It was the kind of rain that forces lovers and strays to scamper and take refuge.
Through the rain and across the soggy landscape I could see a cemetery. The graveyard was like a quilt stitched into the hillside. Hidden in the threads were bodies buried in boxes, forgotten secrets.
And I wanted to hear them.
I put on the shirt she had crawled on and stained with her sweet scent, climbed into pants of dirty denim, strapped on my boots and walked outside, into the thick of it.
I was soaked in seconds but remained undeterred. The tombstones and mausoleums beckoned like a dying chapel, a lighthouse.
And I was a captain lost at sea.
The pelting rain was telling me to abandon ship ("There is nothing here"), turn around and return to sheets warm with Futility, but I stayed the course. This was a pilgrimage I had to make. I wanted to know the secrets -- the code of the dead.
Lightning flashed like dying filaments.
Thunder cracked like broken bibles.
And it was then that I realized the dead know nothing.
The dead.
The unborn.
They all occupy that great invisible void: the collapsed cosmos of nothingness. Inconceivable and unjustifiable, like Futility's flushed flesh.
And it was then that I realized there is no heaven, white and glowing. There is no perdition, fiery and furious. No towering god. No devastating devil.
Only this moment.
A flinching eye.
A beating heart.
A drop of rain.
A kiss like the Fourth of July.
I jumped ship and ran through the flooded streets.
And it was then that I realized Futility was my chapel. My lighthouse. My Jesus. My secret. My moment.
I was dripping like a dead sailor as I ripped through the door. A staggering silence greeted me. That detestable stillness of an empty room. Her scent lingered but Futility was gone.
I peeled off my saturated clothes, threw them away. I was naked. Stripped of the moment. My scars glistened in the dim glow of candlelight. Hot wax. Clammy flesh. Contrast. Unity.
I fell to my knees, crawled into bed and pressed the pillow to my face. Her scent slithered into my nostrils and filled my head with lamentations.
"Oh, Futility, where have you gone? You've left me dripping, shaking, alone with a heart full of dirty blood."
A flash of lightning penetrated my closed eyelids.
And I waited for the sky to explode.
I opened my eyes, looked skyward, and on the ceiling, written in the ink of a ghost, were the words:
Appreciate the knowledge of the unknown and embrace the weight of the invisible; for life is a fleeting kiss from the unborn, the futile.
Stranded on this sidewalk, I'm trying to shake her memory loose, trying to exorcise her tepid ghost. I'm trying to pretend that nothing happened. I'm telling myself Futility didn't exist.
But she did.
And she does.
She's a caged bird trapped inside my cold chest, pecking away and making a bloody mess. The doctors tell me it's heartburn, acid reflux, something. I don't listen to them because I know better. It's Futility, eating me from the inside out.
"And I won't deny you, baby."
The black birds of grace have disappeared and the sky is a gray canvas, blossoms of clouds are pluming.
I can hear thunder rolling over a distant prairie.
It smells like rain.
mc
19 September 2006
flash
My friendships and relationships have been like a kaleidoscope: brilliant colors glimmer and shine briefly, only to turn, shift and transform into something unrecognizable, foreign, fading to nothing. And a memory is formed. The faces, unforgettable. Always. "I won't forget you."
She's gone now. Her absence only confirms my fear of trusting another soul. I cut myself open and exposed all those secret places that I hide from everyone else. I sliced open old scars, let them bleed into her; I revealed fresh insecurities, she was assurance.
And now she's gone.
No one will ever know the amount of strength I expend attempting to establish something, anything with a new face. I thought I had established something meaningful with her. A foundation, a floor, a bridge, something steady and durable, something to silence the fear, the doubt, the insecurities, the static -- a remedy.
I shared with her the most intimate of secrets, ghosts that had never been exposed, ghosts that now haunt me more than ever because they've been leaked into her heart, a sacred vessel I thought to be secure. Safe. And trustworthy.
And now she is gone.
And now there's this disconnection.
And now those secrets, those ghosts have become unmanageable particles, dust catching rays of distant light, floating through my fingers and out of reach, swimming in her heart. Those untamed secrets -- pieces of me -- drift, unprotected.
I feel exposed. Ashamed. Foolish. Naked. Exploited. Alone. I feel like the unsuspecting talk show ghost who has been bombarded with an embarrassing monster from the past. I feel like an obscene caricature, a forgettable punchline from a bar room joke because I was naive enough to suspend my fears and trust her.
She was a strange juror and I was at her mercy.
The jewels of dependability, assurance, love, trust, safety, reciprocation and peace glimmered in her beautiful eyes (the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen), crumbling my defenses and numbing my instincts. My heart now bares the scars of retribution.
Alone tonight, my mind flickers with the fleeting memory of a glimpse, a taste of what I longed for. And now she's gone. A memory. A postcard. "Wish you were here." I was, but for a flash.
"I won't forget you."
mc
She's gone now. Her absence only confirms my fear of trusting another soul. I cut myself open and exposed all those secret places that I hide from everyone else. I sliced open old scars, let them bleed into her; I revealed fresh insecurities, she was assurance.
And now she's gone.
No one will ever know the amount of strength I expend attempting to establish something, anything with a new face. I thought I had established something meaningful with her. A foundation, a floor, a bridge, something steady and durable, something to silence the fear, the doubt, the insecurities, the static -- a remedy.
I shared with her the most intimate of secrets, ghosts that had never been exposed, ghosts that now haunt me more than ever because they've been leaked into her heart, a sacred vessel I thought to be secure. Safe. And trustworthy.
And now she is gone.
And now there's this disconnection.
And now those secrets, those ghosts have become unmanageable particles, dust catching rays of distant light, floating through my fingers and out of reach, swimming in her heart. Those untamed secrets -- pieces of me -- drift, unprotected.
I feel exposed. Ashamed. Foolish. Naked. Exploited. Alone. I feel like the unsuspecting talk show ghost who has been bombarded with an embarrassing monster from the past. I feel like an obscene caricature, a forgettable punchline from a bar room joke because I was naive enough to suspend my fears and trust her.
She was a strange juror and I was at her mercy.
The jewels of dependability, assurance, love, trust, safety, reciprocation and peace glimmered in her beautiful eyes (the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen), crumbling my defenses and numbing my instincts. My heart now bares the scars of retribution.
Alone tonight, my mind flickers with the fleeting memory of a glimpse, a taste of what I longed for. And now she's gone. A memory. A postcard. "Wish you were here." I was, but for a flash.
"I won't forget you."
mc
06 September 2006
passing
As I drove home earlier today, I saw a gopher, twisting on the roadway.
It was confused.
It was contorting.
Writhing.
Its eyes moved in slow motion, unable to calculate the End.
It was dying.
Slowly.
Once I recognized the situation, I looked away and hoped its end would come soon. I hoped for a giant steel belt wrapped in black to come tearing down the road and crush the suffering. But a prayer for death is a plea fraught with complications. How does one weigh suffering and life with salvation and death? Who wants to wear the executioner's mask when his or her heart bleeds with sympathy and compassion?
Thirty minutes later Sister calls with tears in her tone.
What's going on? Is everything okay? How is the pregnancy proceeding?
She tells me the baby boy is doing fine, his kicking and wrestling a constant reminder, and he's due in mid-November.
But this phone call isn't about a baby, a beginning or a new life.
This call is about an ending, and her tears are for Family Dog.
After seventeen years, Family Dog's life is quickly fading and Sister is faced with that brutal prayer: a prayer for death. The Angels of Anesthesia are calling and Sister, naturally, is hesitant to heed their song.
Family Dog was the staple that bound Sister and I through our parents' divorce, and when everything was falling apart, that little Pekingese was there to lick our wounded hearts.
And this is very difficult to write about...
It's hard to express how the confluence of recent events has affected me emotionally... My creative spark remains broken, silent... My mental stability: a volatile signal of depression, self-doubt, fear and hopelessness, with intermittent flashes of joy, love and passion... It feels like everyone is an antenna, receiving some kind of secret broadcast -- a transmission I'm unable to catch -- and I'm rendered lost and lonely, left with frequent moments of "unreality"... And the last pure and untainted symbol from my crippled childhood will soon be gone.
What happened? How did things get like this? And why is Family Dog's imminent death just another tragic poetic stanza?
mc
It was confused.
It was contorting.
Writhing.
Its eyes moved in slow motion, unable to calculate the End.
It was dying.
Slowly.
Once I recognized the situation, I looked away and hoped its end would come soon. I hoped for a giant steel belt wrapped in black to come tearing down the road and crush the suffering. But a prayer for death is a plea fraught with complications. How does one weigh suffering and life with salvation and death? Who wants to wear the executioner's mask when his or her heart bleeds with sympathy and compassion?
Thirty minutes later Sister calls with tears in her tone.
What's going on? Is everything okay? How is the pregnancy proceeding?
She tells me the baby boy is doing fine, his kicking and wrestling a constant reminder, and he's due in mid-November.
But this phone call isn't about a baby, a beginning or a new life.
This call is about an ending, and her tears are for Family Dog.
After seventeen years, Family Dog's life is quickly fading and Sister is faced with that brutal prayer: a prayer for death. The Angels of Anesthesia are calling and Sister, naturally, is hesitant to heed their song.
Family Dog was the staple that bound Sister and I through our parents' divorce, and when everything was falling apart, that little Pekingese was there to lick our wounded hearts.
And this is very difficult to write about...
It's hard to express how the confluence of recent events has affected me emotionally... My creative spark remains broken, silent... My mental stability: a volatile signal of depression, self-doubt, fear and hopelessness, with intermittent flashes of joy, love and passion... It feels like everyone is an antenna, receiving some kind of secret broadcast -- a transmission I'm unable to catch -- and I'm rendered lost and lonely, left with frequent moments of "unreality"... And the last pure and untainted symbol from my crippled childhood will soon be gone.
What happened? How did things get like this? And why is Family Dog's imminent death just another tragic poetic stanza?
mc
23 August 2006
a question
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
Fuck.
I don't know what has happened, D.
This is the sound of temperature dropping.
This is the sound of something freezing.
Locking.
A cessation of movement.
Of creativity.
And quite frankly, I'm scared.
The ghosts of self-loathing have returned and to avoid them, I've resigned myself to petty distractions.
An overdose of television.
Endless hours surfing the world wide web of shit.
And sometimes I'll go to my room, crawl into bed, cover myself with blankets, and wish for...
I spent nearly three weeks freewriting: seated at my typewriter I was a vessel, typing anything and everything that came to mind regarding my screenplay. Bits and pieces. Slices of monologue. Dialogue. Visions. Actions. Developments. Choices. Scenes and sequences.
Then, satisfied with the background info, I decided to begin working on the actual screenplay.
FADE IN:
The sound of a ringing alarm clock.
INT. DOE'S BEDROOM - AFTERNOON
We see a figure in bed, covered with blankets from head to toe...
I typed two pages and the following day, well, everything fell apart.
My previous post reflected a terrifying moment of dispossession. It was as if I had evacuated my body and slipped inside the flesh of someone else. Bad thoughts were abound. Thoughts of escape. Retreat. Self-annihilation. Bad thoughts.
And as I type this, I'm attempting to collect the pieces. My creative process is a visual one and at this moment, I'm blind. However, I feel something shifting, albeit slowly, but a transformation is occurring inside. I can feel it. I'm regaining something.
I appreciate your concern, D. I really do. When I have one of those "moments," I'm the loneliest man in the world. I feel like a mannequin in a department store at closing time. The fluorescence dies, one department at a time, and there's this feeling of a "closing in."
A foreboding collapse.
And it's terrifying.
And trapped in those moments, I'm helpless.
I'm a plastic mannequin.
Frozen.
Trapped.
But I can feel a shifting. Inside.
I'm regaining something.
I can feel it.
mc
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
How is the screenplay going?
Fuck.
I don't know what has happened, D.
This is the sound of temperature dropping.
This is the sound of something freezing.
Locking.
A cessation of movement.
Of creativity.
And quite frankly, I'm scared.
The ghosts of self-loathing have returned and to avoid them, I've resigned myself to petty distractions.
An overdose of television.
Endless hours surfing the world wide web of shit.
And sometimes I'll go to my room, crawl into bed, cover myself with blankets, and wish for...
I spent nearly three weeks freewriting: seated at my typewriter I was a vessel, typing anything and everything that came to mind regarding my screenplay. Bits and pieces. Slices of monologue. Dialogue. Visions. Actions. Developments. Choices. Scenes and sequences.
Then, satisfied with the background info, I decided to begin working on the actual screenplay.
FADE IN:
The sound of a ringing alarm clock.
INT. DOE'S BEDROOM - AFTERNOON
We see a figure in bed, covered with blankets from head to toe...
I typed two pages and the following day, well, everything fell apart.
My previous post reflected a terrifying moment of dispossession. It was as if I had evacuated my body and slipped inside the flesh of someone else. Bad thoughts were abound. Thoughts of escape. Retreat. Self-annihilation. Bad thoughts.
And as I type this, I'm attempting to collect the pieces. My creative process is a visual one and at this moment, I'm blind. However, I feel something shifting, albeit slowly, but a transformation is occurring inside. I can feel it. I'm regaining something.
I appreciate your concern, D. I really do. When I have one of those "moments," I'm the loneliest man in the world. I feel like a mannequin in a department store at closing time. The fluorescence dies, one department at a time, and there's this feeling of a "closing in."
A foreboding collapse.
And it's terrifying.
And trapped in those moments, I'm helpless.
I'm a plastic mannequin.
Frozen.
Trapped.
But I can feel a shifting. Inside.
I'm regaining something.
I can feel it.
mc
21 August 2006
another apology
The weight of all my errors is crushing me -- and I'm sorry.
Why would anyone wish to contaminate themselves with my glaring imperfections, deformities and distortions?
Looking for the RESET switch. The POWER button. The DELETE key. The beginning.
I wish I knew what happened. And how. And why.
I'm trapped and the only way to escape this is to bleed out. Fast. Purge. Drain. Something.
I want everyone to disappear, yet I need you all.
But cliches are often ignored.
Why would anyone wish to contaminate themselves with my glaring imperfections, deformities and distortions?
Looking for the RESET switch. The POWER button. The DELETE key. The beginning.
I wish I knew what happened. And how. And why.
I'm trapped and the only way to escape this is to bleed out. Fast. Purge. Drain. Something.
I want everyone to disappear, yet I need you all.
But cliches are often ignored.
18 August 2006
eerie
The following story was posted at 1:15 pm EDT August 17, 2006 on WSBTV.com. (Direct link)DENVER -- Psychic Dorothy Allison believed she knew what JonBenet's killer looked like and provided a sketch to the Ramsey family, based on her visions.
The Ramsey family Web site published the sketch, asking the public, "Have you seen this man? This man may have been in the Boulder area in December 1996."
The sketch was also given to Boulder police, who continued to insist that nobody outside the family was likely involved in the crime.
A comparison of the sketch side-by-side with that of a picture of suspect John Karr appears to show remarkable resemblance.
Allison originally came up with the sketch during a 1998 appearance on the nationally syndicated Leeza Gibbons Show. Allison died a year later.
The Ramsey family Web site at www.ramseyfamily.com was used to publish press releases as well as ads and flyers the Ramseys sent out in search for their daughter's killer in the spring and fall of 1997. One of the flyers contained the sketch given by Allison. The Ramsey family let the domain name of the Web site expire in 2004.
Four years before JonBenet's death, Allison assisted El Paso County investigators in the investigation of the slaying of Heather Dawn Church.
''In 30 years, I've never had accurate information from a psychic,'' a veteran law enforcement officer told The Denver Post in 1995. ''But the information by Dorothy Allison was right on the money.''
Robert Browne was later arrested and convicted in the killing of Church. Last month he admitted killing as many as 49 people across the United States.
In another strange twist in the Ramsey case, the man who originally arrested Brown in the Church slaying joined the investigation team looking into the slaying of JonBenet. He said he always believed an intruder was responsible for the crime.
09 August 2006
acoustic clock
See Mr Thom Yorke perform a live acoustic version of "The Clock" H E R E From this page you can also search "Yorke" and discover a live performance of "Cymbal Rush" (with Johnny Greenwood) as well as several web exclusive interviews with Thom.
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delectable duo
Ahhhh yes...There's something about Mogwai and Darren Aronofsky (writer/director of Pi and Requiem for a Dream) joining forces that sends a chill up my spine. Mogwai, playing music scored by Clint Mansell (Aronofsky's constant soundtrack composer), will be featured in Aro's upcoming film The Fountain. This film looks be the mainstream breakthrough that puts Aronofsky over the top and into the upper echelon of filmmakers. A definite "must see."
Go HERE to view the trailer
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Go HERE to view the trailer
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08 August 2006
03 August 2006
epic
Go HERE and check out Muse's latest video, "Knights of Cydonia." The song is smokin' and the video is 1/3 Eastwood's For a Few Dollars More, 1/3 Wu-Tang and 1/3 Star Wars -- seriously. Check it out.
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