He makes, literally makes, with his hands. Creative genius and the gift of the gods, shaping air into dust and dust into everything--back again, too, if he wanted. We are talking serious Lathe of Heaven shit here, people, and I am not speaking for myself when I say this is a bad thing and that absolutely nothing good can come of this.
What was that?
No, not you. You in the back. What was that?
No.
No.
Okay, the Lathe of Heaven thing wasn't exactly an apt analogy, sure, and we don't know how he does it and I'm sorry. I just was searching for that generational touchstone to put everything we were afraid of in context. Won't happen again. I promise.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
We Also Advertise In The Back Of The Local Alternative Weekly But Are Not Exactly An Escort Service
Muse work is hard work, inspiration never came easy to anybody. But I was hard on cash, and the ad on Craigslist said 'No Experience Needed' so here I am in your apartment and you expecting a beautiful girl to help write your screenplay.
I should explain, it's a service I work for, we get a three by five card with an address written on it and we drive wherever and inspire people to greatness. Most of it's distasteful--anybody who needs to call a Muse that makes seven dollars and fifty-three cents an hour is obviously in a pretty bad way.
So you didn't get what you were expecting. Maybe you can work that in there, disappointment or something. Maybe go in sort of a sitcom-y direction, there's not a lot of good sitcoms on nowadays, right? That's a gap you could fill. You could write the next Friends or something. Shame how none of those people found good work after all that ended, but I guess it's like Star Trek or something where you play one role for a decade and everything gets unpleasant. You know, you could just put in a part ready made for like David Schwimmer or one of those guys, get a name people know but one you can get on the cheap. You could half sell a pilot on that, the way they do things down here and all.
That helps? Yeah? Feeling inspired?
Figured it would.
Listen, I better be going. You seem to be set, and I got a speechwriter to cajole, some rot about the war or something (politics nowadays) and you just know that's gonna be most of my day. You let me know how that screenplay works out, okay?
I should explain, it's a service I work for, we get a three by five card with an address written on it and we drive wherever and inspire people to greatness. Most of it's distasteful--anybody who needs to call a Muse that makes seven dollars and fifty-three cents an hour is obviously in a pretty bad way.
So you didn't get what you were expecting. Maybe you can work that in there, disappointment or something. Maybe go in sort of a sitcom-y direction, there's not a lot of good sitcoms on nowadays, right? That's a gap you could fill. You could write the next Friends or something. Shame how none of those people found good work after all that ended, but I guess it's like Star Trek or something where you play one role for a decade and everything gets unpleasant. You know, you could just put in a part ready made for like David Schwimmer or one of those guys, get a name people know but one you can get on the cheap. You could half sell a pilot on that, the way they do things down here and all.
That helps? Yeah? Feeling inspired?
Figured it would.
Listen, I better be going. You seem to be set, and I got a speechwriter to cajole, some rot about the war or something (politics nowadays) and you just know that's gonna be most of my day. You let me know how that screenplay works out, okay?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Life In These Confederate States
"You see, my dear, you shouldn't worry about changing history at all! What we did in the past already happened--they were writing that little gem into Twilight Zone episodes long before we realized it was true--it was supposed to happen and don't you forget it. Why, if the South ends up winning the Civil War, lucky for them they got the one time traveler who listens to Lynyrd Skynyrd!!"
I chuckle into her silence, the haughty laugh of a jaded jet-set time traveler.
"Excuse me, but Lynyrd who?"
I am awestruck. This is the worst date ever. I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.
There are four words written on my thigh in red scar tissue: DON'T MAKE SKYNYRD JOKES. It is a very embarrassing scar, I keep it under a bandage when I shower. They were written by my Second Grade teacher, when I was in Second Grade. I remember myself, a confused seven year old, as Mr. Smith traced on my skin with a soldering iron while all the other kids were at recess. What I remember most is how Mr. Smith spoke to me, how he reassured me in calm, even tones that everything was going to be alright. "This is all for the best, Jimmy." "I'm sorry Jimmy, but science has proven that the best time to give a child an embarrassing scar is when he is in the Second Grade, the skin is softer and the kids aren't as mean."
At the time, I didn't understand. The cops went to arrest him for child abuse, but he had vanished and was never found again. The state paid for some very good therapists and I had largely come to grips with what had happened to me until just this moment.
As my last chance at true love saunters out the door, I dig out a picture of Mr. Smith from my wallet. It's strange that he looks so much like me.
I chuckle into her silence, the haughty laugh of a jaded jet-set time traveler.
"Excuse me, but Lynyrd who?"
I am awestruck. This is the worst date ever. I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.
There are four words written on my thigh in red scar tissue: DON'T MAKE SKYNYRD JOKES. It is a very embarrassing scar, I keep it under a bandage when I shower. They were written by my Second Grade teacher, when I was in Second Grade. I remember myself, a confused seven year old, as Mr. Smith traced on my skin with a soldering iron while all the other kids were at recess. What I remember most is how Mr. Smith spoke to me, how he reassured me in calm, even tones that everything was going to be alright. "This is all for the best, Jimmy." "I'm sorry Jimmy, but science has proven that the best time to give a child an embarrassing scar is when he is in the Second Grade, the skin is softer and the kids aren't as mean."
At the time, I didn't understand. The cops went to arrest him for child abuse, but he had vanished and was never found again. The state paid for some very good therapists and I had largely come to grips with what had happened to me until just this moment.
As my last chance at true love saunters out the door, I dig out a picture of Mr. Smith from my wallet. It's strange that he looks so much like me.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Rapture
She was rock guitars and cynicism, Mormon too; that made it all the more interesting. You couldn't find that kind of thing anywhere else in Bicknell, and I doubted that I could find that kind of thing much anywhere else, even if I took the bus up to Salt Lake City and spent the weekend looking.
So I stayed, and stayed longer than I should have. I was there every day and most nights at her apartment, her and me and whatever idiot kid wanted a crack at her. They never lasted long, a trickle of guys who had made an effort to drive two hours to the nearest Hot Topic and buy whatever worthless trinkets they could afford. They were nothing but leather and metal (and cliche combinations of the two), tofted up to the nines without even realizing it; looking less and less like people and more and more like peacocks that Tim Burton had gotten a hold of.
We talked about things, her and I. We talked about books, important ones, and music and movies and all those things that people our age were supposed to talk about. The conversation invariably stalled. There was always that idiot kid, always sitting way too close to her on the sofa, always trying to interject and explain to us how much he liked Green Day or how deep and insightful he thought The Matrix was.
I'd smile, she'd smile, and she'd wink at me in this completely disarming way that made me twitch the first time I saw it.
Yeah, he's an idiot.
She didn't have to say it out loud, of course, and we'd joke about it after the kid had gone and we were drinking tea and the conversation had turned back to whatever we were talking about in the first place. I'd laugh, and she'd laugh, and I'd turn away for a moment and cry.
She was perfect, you know? She was...balanced, somehow. Like you could see her anywhere, equally at home in a mosh pit or in a pew. Every time I saw one of those gilded faux-punks slide up to her and try to put his arm around her, it killed me. Why couldn't I do the same thing? She liked me, you know. We knew each other in and out and up and down and a million other directions that would have to be invented just to explain how well we knew each other.
It wasn't like I was afraid of her. I don't think it was possible to be afraid of anything when I was around her. There was just something around her that kept me from telling her what we already knew. I think I loved her enough not to make her life that complicated.
Maybe that's what she wanted me to do the entire time, waiting for me to say something. I don't know. I keep thinking back, you know? I keep trying to get my hands on every little word we shared, sifting them like sand and hoping some shred of meaning falls out onto the floor.
What's the use? She left two months ago. She's in New York or somewhere like that now, far enough away that I won't ever see her again. I moved into her apartment, she didn't want the furniture to go to waste.
The place still smells like her, you know? Some nights I can't even move because of it.
So I stayed, and stayed longer than I should have. I was there every day and most nights at her apartment, her and me and whatever idiot kid wanted a crack at her. They never lasted long, a trickle of guys who had made an effort to drive two hours to the nearest Hot Topic and buy whatever worthless trinkets they could afford. They were nothing but leather and metal (and cliche combinations of the two), tofted up to the nines without even realizing it; looking less and less like people and more and more like peacocks that Tim Burton had gotten a hold of.
We talked about things, her and I. We talked about books, important ones, and music and movies and all those things that people our age were supposed to talk about. The conversation invariably stalled. There was always that idiot kid, always sitting way too close to her on the sofa, always trying to interject and explain to us how much he liked Green Day or how deep and insightful he thought The Matrix was.
I'd smile, she'd smile, and she'd wink at me in this completely disarming way that made me twitch the first time I saw it.
Yeah, he's an idiot.
She didn't have to say it out loud, of course, and we'd joke about it after the kid had gone and we were drinking tea and the conversation had turned back to whatever we were talking about in the first place. I'd laugh, and she'd laugh, and I'd turn away for a moment and cry.
She was perfect, you know? She was...balanced, somehow. Like you could see her anywhere, equally at home in a mosh pit or in a pew. Every time I saw one of those gilded faux-punks slide up to her and try to put his arm around her, it killed me. Why couldn't I do the same thing? She liked me, you know. We knew each other in and out and up and down and a million other directions that would have to be invented just to explain how well we knew each other.
It wasn't like I was afraid of her. I don't think it was possible to be afraid of anything when I was around her. There was just something around her that kept me from telling her what we already knew. I think I loved her enough not to make her life that complicated.
Maybe that's what she wanted me to do the entire time, waiting for me to say something. I don't know. I keep thinking back, you know? I keep trying to get my hands on every little word we shared, sifting them like sand and hoping some shred of meaning falls out onto the floor.
What's the use? She left two months ago. She's in New York or somewhere like that now, far enough away that I won't ever see her again. I moved into her apartment, she didn't want the furniture to go to waste.
The place still smells like her, you know? Some nights I can't even move because of it.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Teens In Love
He's doing better than I am, no doubt about it. He's got everything I wanted, everything. Looks, brains, everything. He's a fighter, he could take down every man jack of you and no mistake. So what if things are hard for him, we don't mind. It gets better, he loses love just so he can find it again a week later. That's called pathos, or at least that's what he'd like you to think is called pathos. But everybody has problems.
She's doing better than that other girl, all brash confidence and revealing nightwear. We don't like to talk about that kind of thing in public, it disturbs some people. She knows what has to happen, and she thinks she's going to do it. At least I think she thinks she's going to do it. Warm Wednesday nights give way to cold Thursday mornings, and nobody seems to notice the difference except her. She's beautiful, in a torn sort of way, like a dog-eared script to a play you've been rehearsing. Familiar like that, the lines of Thornton Wilder's Our Town on a high school stage every night until bedtime.
They found each other after three years of looking, and we were all happy for them. Gene Wilder came up and called us the dreamers of dreams. It was nothing new for us and him, but we thought he was dead so it surprised us.
But then again, it would have surprised us more if he really was dead.
She's doing better than that other girl, all brash confidence and revealing nightwear. We don't like to talk about that kind of thing in public, it disturbs some people. She knows what has to happen, and she thinks she's going to do it. At least I think she thinks she's going to do it. Warm Wednesday nights give way to cold Thursday mornings, and nobody seems to notice the difference except her. She's beautiful, in a torn sort of way, like a dog-eared script to a play you've been rehearsing. Familiar like that, the lines of Thornton Wilder's Our Town on a high school stage every night until bedtime.
They found each other after three years of looking, and we were all happy for them. Gene Wilder came up and called us the dreamers of dreams. It was nothing new for us and him, but we thought he was dead so it surprised us.
But then again, it would have surprised us more if he really was dead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)