Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Ok, I just really lost my temper against a mosquito I’d been trying to catch for like 15 minutes. Well, not catch, smash. I finally clapped it, it fell against my desk top, crippled, almost dead, and I bashed it with my fist again and again, building into a frenzy, cackling in rage, beads of sweat running down my forehead, an evil grin on my visage, a giant, eh, fuck it, it wasn’t that bad, but I was irritated, mildly yet a bit more than the lower levels of benign, er, more angry than when your toast gets burned, but not as angry as when you like spill your drink. About a 4.5 on the richter scale. Ok, enough.

So I wacked out 3 pages of the screenplay last night. These four people were standing in a room and one of them, the only woman, was explaining why this guy kills people, er, and like analyzing slit throats, and the one guy was all “harrumph” but not really, and this one cop was like being a smart ass but a caring one, but that’s like my red herring, the tough lovable grizzled veteran that bends the rules but you know has a heart of gold, is, in actuality, a plutonium laced robot from the planet nebutron. All of the above is true (as true as you can get in the framework of a fictional story made up by some bourbon laced diatribe weaver) except for one fractional section which shall remain nameless, at least by me.

But yeah, anyway, the stuff they were saying didn’t sound incredibly stupid, except for the parts where it was supposed to, which weren’t really any, but you know, just in case. And then the two cops decided they’d better go cruise the neighborhood and get on this shit, because you can’t have dead bodies springing up all over the place in low profile outskirts famousville.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Sometimes there’s nothing left to do but to do but to do, to stare down that keyboard & start banging on it. Clay did another 35 pushups, the last 3 especially burning as he put his nose down to touch the carpeting, sprang up and walked back over the humming glowing box that had taunted him continuously as he sipped single malt scotch and fiddled with a crossword puzzle by firelight. It was all very classy he supposed, from the outside, but from his perspective, the only one, or not, well, no, but yes, anyway, he knew it was all a hopeless sham, just an excuse, a charade, something to keep up a pretense just in case that person walked in the door and caught him procrastinating and not doing that which he knew needed to be done. “of course I’m not writing, I mean, look at this, the fire, the scotch, the dog looking at me needing a milkbone.” Yes, of course, this other person would agree, and you never mentioned the precious puzzle that you’re not even reading the clues for anymore, just filling in the blanks with words that seem to fit and don’t seem prefabricated.

The phone rang, and he knew it was a telemarketer, but he answered anyway, then rudely hung up upon verification of the worker’s identity. Only someone who was being paid to bother him would bother with him at that moment? Not necessarily true, but in that instant, obvious, but it meant nothing, as not much seemed to, no need to not try and find something out of it though, why not? Yes, why not indeed?