I think I am ready to re-volve this idea. In novel form though? Dunno. I have a hand-written copy I made in a leather case buried in my house's backpages somewhere, which I wrote in my 20's. My memories of it plume up only embarrassment; however, I don't actually remember any words, other than the title--plus the drawing I made. Bare light bulb.
Something makes me think this idea still resonates, though. The secret thing attracts me. The Percy Shelley Skylark, the unconsciousness/subconsciousness of true art. I'm wondering if I'm to a point in my life where I can go closer to this. Also, much of my most public writing in the last ten-fifteen years is more in play form--something to consider--do I think more in pictures than I used to? I think so. Too intellectual, I will bet, in my 20's--good reason to not even think about re-reading what I wrote then. Start totally over.
So. This time round, the closet itself has become quite vivid, whereas before, it may have just been a metaphor--znaiewb, froshy abstract. Now, it seems more like the setting. I'm imagining, blending. Scenes from Barton Fink. But ironically, not so claustrophobic. The tunnel in House of Leaves. The closet as a time machine--infinitely expansive--yet secret. I picture the walls becoming cirrus clouds, then the star-filled, black moon sky. A vicarious conduit --a touchstone to beings like myself rare and hard to find except through this impulse-driven, lucid fanaticism. Not confined by the boundaries of the-usual-thing. Dream landscapes bizarre and comforting. There is a cricket chirruping , hidden somewhere in the bowels of it.
****************************************************************************
Seg walks, oblivious to the cars whizzing by. The landscape is dry, barren, worthless. So s/he stares at the ground before his/her feet--if his/her eyes were a camera, s/he would see boots moving in a blur, in and out of frame--from the bottom of the screen. Their blackness appears in high contrast to the greyness of the asphalt, the cracks in the pavement, washes of sand and dirt, broken bits of sticks and leaves. The occasional bit of filth, weathered paper, broken shards of plastic. (Soundtrack: White Stripes' "Dead Leaves and.."
Something interesting may come along.
It will be metal.
Possibly Iridium.
*******This will be somewhere in the middle of this story about art. It's what I was expecting from Inland Empire and didn't get: The blurring of a real romance with an artistic one--where the artist feels so much for the art he creates that is spills over into a real relationship and creates "love". It's an interesting idea. David Lynch let his weird violent abstract tendencies get in the way of that, I think..so I never felt it go the way I was anticipating. So why not make it myself?? Hmm. can be in multiple arenas: painting, cinema, theater, music, acting...
Even more problematic is perhaps a love that is grown that neither party wants to exist....where did it come from? Why does it exist? Why does it keep increasing in intensity, and whose fault is it? How to keep control of it? Can it be controlled, and does it actually have a presence that comes from outside both parties? Complete decadence in every sense of the word... Shiva the destroyer? The Cosmic Dancer. A depth-charge of a love that makes all others seem bland and shallow. Scary.
But, how to portray that/\ ??
It cannot be easy. That David Lynch song on Inland Empire might partially have the answer--because it won't be portrayed so easily when the two are together--it will feel hotter when they are apart. How does the song go?
It's strange, so strange/
What Love does/
It's Strange/
What Love does/
When we're all alone/
What love does.
I think maybe the intensity comes out when the main characters are alone (and they are being forced to be alone, by the plot of the story--by time, family, place, culture, something--something totally unacceptable means they have to have a ----------------very--------------------------very-------------------inviolable place that is theirs. Ohh. This is beginning to be an interesting idea.
By alone, I don't mean alone together.
'Cos--I'm beginning to think, you can feel love, and not do a damned thing about it. Yet, it colors your every action.
Am watching a doc about David Lynch. In one scene there is a camcorder recording him, inside a car, headphones strapped around his neck.rather close up, in black and white, and, jokingly, he starts to do some camp dialogue, baring his teeth. What I notice is he doesn't have Hollywood teeth. He has a space between his middle, upper front teeth, maybe something like mine, but not so far apart, and two on each side complete the pattern, more or less. Maybe an 1/8 inch space between. But then further back they line up perfectly.
The bottom row, the four in the middle, are perfect,in closeness but not height, like little white toy soldiers of different height. But then there is a gap, on both sides. Then more weird spacing.
Makes me glad I don't have Hollywood teeth, and never had braces. I do wish I still had my original left-side front tooth, cos all the fake ones I've had never really match up right--my real teeth are rectangular, flat, and straight, not tapered and bowed. chiclet.
Like his hair.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This concerns my other movie script project-- on the LRC. Reminder to self--potential musical? Ala Moulin Rouge and its clever use of hip music... I feel rather far away from it at this moment, but it won't take much to bring it back. I really have stuff already written on this--just haven't touched it in awhile. Too many distractions, obligations, quid pro quo… maybe it's time to work on it again, because it is definitely more in my heart than other things.
Dec 27: Just had a family moment that needs to be fictionalized. A Christmas family gathering I missed….thankfully.
Interruption …Dating you is like dating a stair master…………. about whattsisname: Zuckerberg from The Social Network……..
So. My bipolar, OCD, Anorexic sister, who I am increasingly beginning to believe is actually perhaps the SANEST member of my family, calls me to tell me about the family Christmas I missed. AWWWWWWWW>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>……………..
First…I swear this is all what she told me.
Apparently,
1: A Snake got loose in my parents' attic.
2: Something got knocked over and made a noise: someone investigated.
3: My dad found my brother in law's forgotten skull; not his actual skull, but one he used for training years ago in dental school.
4: My brother in law committed suicide--maybe 20 years ago? by the classic carbon-monoxide in the garage method---the cleanest method. He left behind a substantial insurance policy for my sister and the aforementioned skull, which apparently and understandably, she didn't want in her house.
Has this reached Shakespearean proportions yet?
5: My sister remarried and has lived off the aforementioned ins. policy with her husband and 3 kids for many years. She and her husband have marginal occupations making jewelry and websites.
6: college costs and life is suddenly intruding on my sister's "bubbly" optimistic psyche… she's been in denial for years.
7: My bi-p, OCD, anorexic sister is married to a doctor. My mother is a neat-freak. Doesn't want a skull in the attic. My father has a foggy concept of other people's feelings or emotions.
8: All parties discuss, possibly minus my sister, who is the true owner of the skull. There is an agreement to transfer the location of the skull from the snake-infested attic to my doctor bro-in-law's office as a curiosity piece.
9: My father, the ultimate onanistic, emotionally retarded, nonsensitivist, decides it would be amusing to box up the skull, gift wrap it for Christmas, and present it at a family gathering.
10: In front of my once-widowed sister. Who freaks out. And wants the skull back. Fight ensues.
Please tell me, in this whole mess, who is the most mentally defective person in this mess. It's a great comic tragedy already fleshed out. Short story, a la Eudora Welty?
Jan 10: I'm in my ESOL I class, giving a vocal quiz, and consequently bored. So I decided to make poetry out of their vocab definitions: Each line represents a definition--words from Harry Potter's first book:
very small
magic spells
capable of breaking down
a hole made by piercing
made red small points on the skin that itch or hurt.
Very annoying and unpleasant. Hell-like.
A moving staircase on which people can go from one level to another,
An optical instrument designed to make distant objects appear nearer.
A deep narrow steep-sided valley.
Not light. An actor who plays villainous roles.
A device that you put money into when you park.
Paved with round smooth stones,
(They) put an end to the existence of something.
I only added one word (they), and some minimal punctuation.
Coming soon: short story about family Xmas. From my sister's POV, of course. Will take a bit of time.
Later: No. I am sick of this story and the mess it has created.
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