March 21, 2008
March 19, 2008
There's obviously something wrong with him. He's taken off his shoes and one of his socks and actually... I think he's crying.
A smart man recently told me I can’t succeed without a broken heart. I laughed. People must think I’m so smug.
I don’t know if what I’ve experienced over the past couple weeks has been a dream -- these great and potential promises…or opportunities. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, across the room or on my balcony, stirred from conversation with a mysterious gentleman in a suit whose face I try to ignore. At some point in our conversation, I bump my head or shin and realize I should go back to bed, to try and fall asleep before I think too much about what has again transpired, with growing frequency…before I remember again, the emptiness I feel when I look into his voided eyes.
Los Angeles is screwed. Or it’s me. I need everything. I need so much, worry and hope I’ll never be fulfilled. I can’t wait. No calming talents remain. Today, I was at the gym from 630-8, again from 1230-145, and again from 5-8…consciously obsessive, for clearance. I was reaching for something, some sort of fix because I couldn’t work and didn’t want to fuck or think. In these situations, I know little else to do.
And there’s not enough money to leave again.
…
A broken heart. I started drinking yesterday at 11 after deeming it appropriate to induce feeling. I wanted to get 5 hours into my shift at work, doing rounds on tables, and come crashing down from the Guinness and Jameson and Baileys. I wanted to feel a brutal moment of life, to tempt the bottom to find me, to scream it away until my eyes would bleed, because…
So many things I can’t talk about here or anywhere. Just because.
Either way, it was coming. I’ve known for weeks now, coming off this high…of creation, of seeing and feeling and willing a scripted world that was mine but wasn’t…this world not capable of reciprocating the love I’ve given. Stories don’t matter at this point, just that they’re told and out. And this last one I told felt like love, clearing away all my lust and sadness and anger, like I was inducing an artificial peace in hopes it would correct me – like I was cheating – all along knowing I would be punished for it.
It feels like Sunday, dragging forever, but it’s Tuesday…or Wednesday. And I can’t tell myself everything will be better by Friday, or next Tuesday, or a month from now, or a year or ever. All I can see is a clock that reads 1:24 and it’s not moving. It may never again move. This is mine, bliss turned to shit and raging through my veins, poisoning me, my mind. I have to respect it.
…
Selectively, selectively falling in love with the places and things and people I can’t attain, to have this bastard thing nagging and pleading and scorching inside. What else have I ever known but broken…
I want to pull it out and eat it, show it off, spit it into every face I see.
There is no rescue.
March 04, 2008
Just now coming up for air...
I recently had one of those Hollywood encounters that people look back and speak of, somewhere from the top of the mountain, about bumping into and meeting someone with the clout and talent to lift them from where they once sat. I’ve had them in the past, but never like this. He said in as many words: write a script no one else has seen, make it your voice and nothing else, don’t sell out to the market and let me see it…but don’t dick around and do it fast – I’m staffing.
I had just finished a 125 page – 16 song musical that will somewhere, someday find an audience and was easing into the idea of starting something fresh when all this happened. In fact, I was just beginning the exact thing he was suggesting…a tale of two kids in love, their dreams of escape, robbery, bounty hunters, YouTube and the media circus, murder, sex, revenge and the Rolling Stones. At least that’s what I tell myself – that this was the exact thing he was suggesting.
But I wasn’t there yet, not even close to passing it off. It would take 2 brain-bleeding weeks to get there...and then even that would be a stretch. But since I’ve always had drive – I wasn’t worried about being good…and quick, very quick.
So that I may continue, please trust me when I say that this is big. Actually, now confronting all this, the thought of such a blunt and direct opportunity scares the shit out of me. Because at the end of the day, it means I have to face myself, cock out, ready to rock, on stage, full audience, under spotlight. For 2 weeks, I spent every minute of my life weaving stories and arcs, electrifying pages, dancing lines…all that shit.
Somewhere in the binge, she came out, and I understood, not for the first time, what it’s like to write with someone in mind, my damsel, my heroine, my Kimberly…
Alison Lohman. It was Matchstick Men that did it. I saw her on my pages, saying something like…if you harm him in any way, I will kill you and everyone in this place. And if he dies, from this moment until the day of my last breath, I’ll rain a hell on this corner of the world so vicious, Lucifer himself will plead me to stop.
And with that, things turned concrete. Every now and again, she would show up in my dreams, kiss my cheek something sweet and wake me under a spell of love. Yes, brilliant actresses woo me prudely while I sleep. I love it.
I finished the first pass and thought of puking, giddy, just to empty what remnants of residue I had left. After the fifth pass, my face was numb, like I’d been sucked beautifully dry. And with that, it was time.
…
On Sunday, I woke up before the sun to make a 6 in the AM train to Universal City. From there, at 8:15, I ran 26.2 miles through the streets of Los Angeles. When I finished (3:43), I sat in the middle of the street eating apples and bananas. Then, I took a nap in the street. Then, I was abruptly stirred by Paramedics who let me leave under my own accord after much convincing that I was just, “kickin’ it there and not actually dying.” Then, I took a couple trains back to my car and drove home, skin burnt red and nipples crazy-glued.
At 7, I met my encounter at the Chateau for dinner (the gentleman, not the girl in the picture). We talked about endeavors and what I could only sum up as the joy and pain of life. As I paid the valet, as we were leaving, I handed him a packet, home-made, containing my script, Kimberly and Valentine. Afterwards, I wandered about town, stopping for drinks here, there…I don’t always quite recall.
Eventually, I made it home, obviously, because I’m here now. Then I slept, nearly forever and dreamt of things good and futures bright…at least on this Sunday.
I had just finished a 125 page – 16 song musical that will somewhere, someday find an audience and was easing into the idea of starting something fresh when all this happened. In fact, I was just beginning the exact thing he was suggesting…a tale of two kids in love, their dreams of escape, robbery, bounty hunters, YouTube and the media circus, murder, sex, revenge and the Rolling Stones. At least that’s what I tell myself – that this was the exact thing he was suggesting.
But I wasn’t there yet, not even close to passing it off. It would take 2 brain-bleeding weeks to get there...and then even that would be a stretch. But since I’ve always had drive – I wasn’t worried about being good…and quick, very quick.
So that I may continue, please trust me when I say that this is big. Actually, now confronting all this, the thought of such a blunt and direct opportunity scares the shit out of me. Because at the end of the day, it means I have to face myself, cock out, ready to rock, on stage, full audience, under spotlight. For 2 weeks, I spent every minute of my life weaving stories and arcs, electrifying pages, dancing lines…all that shit.
Somewhere in the binge, she came out, and I understood, not for the first time, what it’s like to write with someone in mind, my damsel, my heroine, my Kimberly…
Alison Lohman. It was Matchstick Men that did it. I saw her on my pages, saying something like…if you harm him in any way, I will kill you and everyone in this place. And if he dies, from this moment until the day of my last breath, I’ll rain a hell on this corner of the world so vicious, Lucifer himself will plead me to stop.
And with that, things turned concrete. Every now and again, she would show up in my dreams, kiss my cheek something sweet and wake me under a spell of love. Yes, brilliant actresses woo me prudely while I sleep. I love it.
I finished the first pass and thought of puking, giddy, just to empty what remnants of residue I had left. After the fifth pass, my face was numb, like I’d been sucked beautifully dry. And with that, it was time.
…
On Sunday, I woke up before the sun to make a 6 in the AM train to Universal City. From there, at 8:15, I ran 26.2 miles through the streets of Los Angeles. When I finished (3:43), I sat in the middle of the street eating apples and bananas. Then, I took a nap in the street. Then, I was abruptly stirred by Paramedics who let me leave under my own accord after much convincing that I was just, “kickin’ it there and not actually dying.” Then, I took a couple trains back to my car and drove home, skin burnt red and nipples crazy-glued.
At 7, I met my encounter at the Chateau for dinner (the gentleman, not the girl in the picture). We talked about endeavors and what I could only sum up as the joy and pain of life. As I paid the valet, as we were leaving, I handed him a packet, home-made, containing my script, Kimberly and Valentine. Afterwards, I wandered about town, stopping for drinks here, there…I don’t always quite recall.
Eventually, I made it home, obviously, because I’m here now. Then I slept, nearly forever and dreamt of things good and futures bright…at least on this Sunday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
