3/23/09
H,
There's a George Stanley quote I tacked to the front cover of a script (another screenplay guy in your life, I'm afraid) which is "You have confused the true and the real."
In the context of the script, this has more to do with the central character's conception of events versus any conceived reality. Since I am not writing an essay, this quote has no business being stuck to the front of a script, but I'm meeting a couple of actors tonight and it's stuck to the front as a noisemaker, if nothing else. We can talk about how one of the characters may not be real, and mull over the idea -- if that this means anything at all. Usually when I see quotes stuck to a script, there's a problem with the central idea of the script, and that is quite likely the case here. I like the quote and thought you might, too.
My penmanship, a good friend once told me, resembles the line on an EKG, so I am grateful to you that your penmanship comes from a civilized, productive source, as opposed to a patient hooked up to a machine recording vital signs.
A school friend of mine said once regarding ejaculation, "A load is a load. How you time it is your problem...." Somebody with "ample, eager seed" should be wary of making boasts.
Yes, I read your journal entry with eager eyes, the ample seed may have been planted already, yes, I have felt that frustration, but so much of our daily interaction with others seems "surface," and what you write of the interior is very much hard evidence of your creative talent.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Exchanges
3/13/09
Friday the 13th. Am I actually trying to write a journal entry, on paper, like an angsty teenager after about 12 years?
My spelling has considerably worsened since the 1990s. My penmanship betrays the notion that I am a civilized and productive human being.
In typical L.A. fashion, a guy is reading a script beside me.
Another guy left a candid voice mail last night, glorifying my sexual desirability and creating a happy trajectory with his ample and eager seed. He's in love with my now coined phrase, "weave the best verbal smut." He called me a mind fuck. He would like to fuck my hippocampus. My left and right lobe of my cerebral cortex. He means nothing to me, but I crave his desire like a life elixir to my ravenous, vampiric hunger. A vague liveliness. Perhaps the only way I can be desired.
I am tempted to show the screenwriter/editor(?) guy what I have just written.
Why am I always so heartbreakenly disappointed when strangers (men) fail to see my cowardly, but potent yearning to be touched? Moved? Fucked? Shattered? I want them to ravage and plunder me upon sight.
I wish I could read minds.
Fantasize about me, please.
Like I do you.
Friday the 13th. Am I actually trying to write a journal entry, on paper, like an angsty teenager after about 12 years?
My spelling has considerably worsened since the 1990s. My penmanship betrays the notion that I am a civilized and productive human being.
In typical L.A. fashion, a guy is reading a script beside me.
Another guy left a candid voice mail last night, glorifying my sexual desirability and creating a happy trajectory with his ample and eager seed. He's in love with my now coined phrase, "weave the best verbal smut." He called me a mind fuck. He would like to fuck my hippocampus. My left and right lobe of my cerebral cortex. He means nothing to me, but I crave his desire like a life elixir to my ravenous, vampiric hunger. A vague liveliness. Perhaps the only way I can be desired.
I am tempted to show the screenwriter/editor(?) guy what I have just written.
Why am I always so heartbreakenly disappointed when strangers (men) fail to see my cowardly, but potent yearning to be touched? Moved? Fucked? Shattered? I want them to ravage and plunder me upon sight.
I wish I could read minds.
Fantasize about me, please.
Like I do you.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)