Things I Said Once

Gotcha

July 5th, 2010 at 6:48 am (Academics, Character Sketch, College Work, Draft, Fiction, Old, Poetry/Prose, Scene, Uncategorized, Unfinished)

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Not attached to a story or anything, just a bit of screwing around with dialogue.

- I am trying to open up.

- Gotcha

- Gotcha?

- Yup. Gotcha.

- Meaning?

- Meaning you’re trying to open up. What?

- Nothing.

- Right.

- I mean it.

- You don’t, not even a little bit.

- I mean… I am trying to be honest here.

- Ok

- Ok?

- Again?

- Right, fine. I am trying to be honest here, and you clearly do not care.

- I do not think that is clear at all.

- Gotcha?

- You keep coming back to that.

- Well, it’s what you said, isn’t it?

- I suppose.

- You sup…

- Stop it. If it’s what you heard, it’s what I said, chrissakes.

- Right.

- And…

- And what?

- You’re unbelievable. Honestly. This is a waste of time.

- Gotcha!

- Got what? What have you got, why does it matter, or can I leave?

- It means you don’t care! Gotcha. It means you don’t care, it means you’re not listening. Fucking ‘gotcha’ seriously?

- Any time you’re ready to start making sense…

- What an amazing sentiment. ‘Gotcha’. I’m glad I’m not alone recognizing the seriousness of this moment.

- A segue into passive aggression, neat.

- I’m fucking mad ok?

- Yes, you are, you have absolutely lost the plot.

- I’m mad because I’m doing this thing…

- You’re opening up.

- I’m doing this thing and you’re completely blasé. I’m trying to be honest and you cannot be bothered to pay attention.

- Because of ‘Gotcha’?

- Well it’s what you said, isn’t it?

- Yes, it is.

- And you don’t see why I’m angry?

- It is clear I’ve missed quite a bit of what’s going on.

- It’s a nonsense fucking statement. It’s a brush-off. I don’t’ know why I’m even bothering.

- Nor I.

- This isn’t funny!

- It is. Also a bit sad. My god, are you this worked up?

- Yes, I am. I want you to listen to me!

- I was listening, that’s what it means. That’s what I was saying.

- You said ‘Gotcha’.

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I am Tired

April 6th, 2009 at 9:28 pm (Poetry/Prose)

Lacking ambition,
I find no force,
No guide.
I am already tired.

This is common,
Fatigue.
Heavy legs, dragging feet,
Barely beyond the frame of my door.

I hope to be elevated.
Not to climb.
Never under my own power.
This is an important distinction,

An inconsistency of character,
A quirk.
My personality, perhaps.
Perhaps it will work itself out in time.

This will pass.
As with the good times.
One day, another,
Breath after breath.

Life after life,
One more will wax,
And wane.
Again, and again.

1 Comment

Action Movie (cont)

March 2nd, 2009 at 7:10 am (Fiction)

“That was great,” Diane jogged up to the pair, “tell me that shot as cool as it looked.”

“It was great,” Sol adjusted his collar, “mostly.”

“Mostly?” Buck’s statement hung, “whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s mostly?”

“Oh my God,” reading over Sol’s shoulder, Diane began to laugh wildly, “the helmet? You’re kidding?”

“What about the helmet?” Buck lunged for the report, “what does that thing say about the helmet?”

“Well,” Sol paused, unsure of how to respond, “It’s sort of attached to Steve.”

Another long pause.

“Permanently.”

“Hell no,” Buck smiled, “we can just cut the strap.”

“It sort of fused to his neck,” helpless, Sol began to smile, “it had something to do with the heat and the fabric of the buckle. We can’t really get it off without taking the head.”

Buck finally grasped the paper. He read it several times while the rest of the crew watched. They waited for him to speak. A few seconds, five minutes, time stretched as the fat man’s mind wandered. Lost somewhere, synapses fused like unstitched fabric to bare skin. Suddenly, the producer spoke.

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Action Movie (cont)

February 26th, 2009 at 7:04 am (Fiction)

“Do it. Oh god, just get it over with.” Buck’s mouth flapped once, again, and then closed for good.

Sol started moving, calling techs, issuing commands while Diane struggled to control her laughter. Within minutes they’d rolled the real bike to the end of the ramp and were ready to shoot. Buck needed to sit down, so Sol had one of the techs fetch his chair.

Hysterics now past, Diane ascended a scaffold at the back of one of the buildings. Once on the â€˜rooftop’ she shouted several lines into a positioned camera did one more take for good measure and descended. Safely out of the way, she shot thumbs up to Sol.

“Oh god,” Buck was muttering.

Sol nodded, turned and a hush descended. Two techs in the distance began a countdown, one holding a small radio detonator, the other fiddling with the bike’s ignition. Then they started.

The real bike was louder, it’s passenger a man in jeans and a well-worn leather jacket. His head was covered by a cherry helmet, his entire body hunched towards the handlebars. The route was the same, but this time there were explosions. Charge after charge went off, throwing fire and debris against the bike and its rider, bathing the lot in heat. On cue, buildings collapsed, extras ran screaming and Steve went airborne. The skin of the bike glowed, its tires trailed fire, it was magnificent. The entire scene took maybe 40 seconds.

The last fire died, and techs began to check in. First they confirmed the cameras had been rolling, then the sound. With each report Buck gained color. With each affirmative he grew in stature, regaining his previous enthusiasm. By the time Sol received his final sign-offs Buck was jumping from foot to foot.

“Fantastic, Sol,” beaming, he grasped the director, “a perfect damn action movie!”

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Action Movie (cont)

February 19th, 2009 at 7:17 am (Fiction)

“Please, can we not stay focused for 10 minutes?” Sol interjected, “they’re about to run the test scene.”

On cue, the Stunt Techs let the test bike loose. Engine screaming, the motorcycle shot along the concrete strip, a blur of steel and orange fabric, the test dummy clinging to its seat. For several yards it worked, and then there was a shudder. The dummy began to slide, first to the side, then backwards. Buck flinched, watching the formless head strike the rear tire then tumble sideways into the pavement. Its weight disrupted, the bike caromed off course and into a barrier. Two techs hurried to recover the now-shredded dummy.

“So you see,” the sounds of wreckage and Diane’s laughter forced Sol to speak loudly, “there’s a bit of a stability issue, and we are not going to have a great many chances to get this one right. Maybe there’s something else we could try.”

“Something else?” Buck rounded on his director, “I will tell you right now that there is nothing else we can try. This is an action movie, Steve is an action star. Have you seen Great Escape?”

“Yes, I have,” Sol said, “I just don’t see how it is relevant.”

“It’s relevant because it means we’re doing the scene,” Buck’s face began to flush, “it’s relevant because you can’t put Steve in a movie without throwing a bike over something. It’s relevant because if Steve doesn’t jump to the rescue, Diane and Hest don’t get to escape from anything. Christ, Sol, tell me you’ve got something that’s going to make this work.”

“We do,” Sol spoke over Diane’s snort, “Diane does, actually.”

“We rig the jacket and jeans.” Diane managed to keep herself from laughing, “Techs say that the heat of the pyro is going to melt off any Velcro or glue they can think of, and Sol here won’t let anybody use bolts or nails or whatever.”

“Because we’ve still got non-bike scenes left,” Sol added.

“So we got a hold of some chain,” Diane continued, “and it’ll run along both legs and through the arms. It’ll keep Steve set up on the bike.”

There was a pause as each regarded the figure in the distance. The level of attention suddenly made sense, and a close look revealed a length of chain running up one leg, along Steve’s side, up the arm, across Steve’s shoulders and down the other side.

“It’s not the most elegant solution,” Sol spoke softly waiting for Buck to respond, “but it should keep him on the bike.”

Another long pause, and then the expected.

“I’m not about to let you staple - ” Buck screamed.

“Think of it like a mesh.” Diane replied, “A sort of metal framework.”

“Whatever,” Buck was livid, “I’m not about to let you staple the talent to a motorcycle and have some yahoo shoot him through a gonzo fireworks display. How crazy do you think I am?

“Really?” Diane countered, “That’s the question you’re going to ask us?’

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Action Movie (cont)

February 9th, 2009 at 9:33 pm (Fiction)

Sol’s phone rang, and the director turned his back. Ongoing debate over the artistic integrity of Diane’s breasts afforded him enough privacy to issue a short series of commands. Satisfied, he closed the phone, returned it to his jacket and gestured sharply for quiet.

“Stunt techs,” he explained, mostly to Buck, “there’s something else we need to look into.”

Sol smiled thinly, turned and opened the door. Diane stepped through first and Buck, having survived the escape from his chair, followed her outside. Solomon then conducted the trio through the small studio’s lot, counting off faceless buildings until they reached their destination.

The yard was bare, totally grassless except for a well manicured patch towards the back. Quarter-scale buildings lined a faux-concrete strip and large sections were marked with red hazard tape. Several technicians hovered around a motorcycle, worrying over a hunched, leather-clad figure.

“Now we’re talking,” Buck’s palms left damp prints along the front of his polo, “are we doing the big scene today?”

“Wouldn’t that be a trip,” Diane kicked a bit of discarded plaster, “Sol here’s been trying to figure it out for two days.”

“What’s there to figure out Sol?” the fat man rounded on his employee pointing, “There’s the bike, there’s the set, I’m pretty sure those big red things are going to blow up. Hell, give me two minutes with a pair of scissors and we’ll have Diane in costume.”

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Action Movie (cont)

February 6th, 2009 at 6:59 am (Fiction)

“Lights? Right, Sol, don’t talk to me about lights.” Finished with his brief call, Buck’s attention returned to the director, “We need this shot. It frames the back 45. It’s the whole damn conflict. Intrigue, romance, torn between two lovers. Life and death. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

“I am familiar with the script. And I’m not saying -” there was a knock, prompting Sol to the door, “I’m not saying we cannot get this scene. I’m just trying to tell you that there are challenges.”

“Challenges?” Bottle Blonde #10 threw herself into the room, forcing Sol to avoid disaster with a quick leap to the left, “Hest is a damn stiff, Buck.”

Still dressed from the shoot, Diane was a vision in teal. Her dress found interesting curves, clinging uniquely to well-shaped calves and narrow hips. Nodding to Sol, she approached the desk, appraised its scattered pictures and exhaled. Despite the circus-quality cosmetics, her frustration was clear.

“It’s a dead scene.” Her voice flat, she flipped shots vainly looking for something adequate, “not to be a smartass, but if we could get him moving a little.”

“And how do you propose we get Charlie moving?” Buck wheezed, “It’s not exactly his strong suit these days.”

The trio began to bicker. Sol, for his part, focused on classic techniques. He wanted Hest austere, surrounded by pillows and assailed. He wanted Diane the femme fatale, approaching slowly. Diane, meanwhile, wanted to show her range. She suggested they drape her co-star against the bar, holding drinks and her heart in his smoldering gaze.

“Contacts, something,” she brushed past Sol’s challenges, “makeup can kind of scrunch things up a bit, make him look dapper.”

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Action Movie (cont)

February 4th, 2009 at 8:00 am (Fiction)

“Sol, what about the blue stuff?” Buck broke in, his tone demanding attention, “the morning’s a joke. Close ups, scenery. Tell me about the afternoon. Charlie and Diane were supposed to go this afternoon, right? We got something in the can on that, right?”

They did not, in fact, which had Sol on edge. An entire afternoon spent with both leads had produced exactly nothing. Powdered and dropped into a suit, Hest had been propped and pushed against half a dozen fixtures while Diane walked slow, predatory circles. She’d perched, slinked and crawled for 6 hours but had left Solomon with nothing even resembling an intimate encounter.

“I believe that we have already discussed this, two weeks ago.” Sol’s backpedaling set off another anatomical impossibility, “We spoke, and I informed you there would likely be some problems.”

“We did talk about it, Sol,” large as he was Buck didn’t bother to raise his voice, “and that talk ended with you telling me you could make it work. Is that now not the case?”

“No, well, no. I don’t think so at least.” Speaking mostly to himself, “maybe if we shift the lights.”

Sol began to pace. Oblivious, Buck pressed a key and barked into his phone. Shots of Hest littered the table, and the director took some time to look them over; Hest standing windblown next to a helicopter, or resting against an armored car. Sol paid particular attention to a handful of Hest impassive, imperious despite un-tucked bedding and a sea of dÃ©colletage.“prednisone stopped taking side effects” Cheap Viagra difference between lexapro and celexa
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Action Movie

February 1st, 2009 at 10:22 pm (Fiction)

“Solomon, good, right on time,” smiling broadly, Buck waved sausage-thick fingers as his director entered the small room, indicating the office’s only other chair, “tell me about Charlie, tell me about my beautiful day.”

He smiled cheese-yellow, an infections grin from behind a fold-up desk littered with calendar pages, high-gloss photographs and a battered telephone. A smaller man took quick steps across the office, his entire manner brisk.

“About that,” Sol spoke, “the day was something of a disappointment, Buck. I’d say we got maybe half of what we needed.”

Of the pair, Sol looked most familiar with soap. A third the man of his employer, the director slid quietly into his seat, produced a small notebook and began ticking off scenes. He spoke quickly, largely ignoring Buck’s chin-shaking tendency to curse. He clipped the morning into two and three word phrases; they’d filmed a sunrise, Steve lounging on this, that, Hest bent and staring powerfully into the lens and forty minutes of Diane’s panties. Just before lunch, an extra had caught fire.

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Each Cut is a Little Deeper

December 11th, 2008 at 9:32 pm (Fiction)

Each cut is a little deeper, Phillip. One by one, layer by layer. How’s that old joke go? The one about the onion? Can’t say I ever put much thought into axioms, never put much thought into anything, truth be told. Maybe that’s part of the problem, part of why we ended up the way we did. Another thought here and there might have changed everything, altered our entire perspective, man. There’s a lot to be said for how a guy learns to read the world around him, Phillip. It’s a stream, a river maybe - I heard that once - and it’s important to follow the currents. You know what that means, Phillip? It means a higher power, it means giving yourself up, drifting. You never were particularly good at giving up, Phillip, but I guess that’s why you wound up with a friend like me.

Read the rest of this entry »

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« Previous Entries

Things I Said Once

Gotcha

I am Tired

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie (cont)

Action Movie

Each Cut is a Little Deeper

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