-- San Francisco
-- Dentist "you're still numb"
There's a magazine next to me. I think Liv Tyler's on the cover. I make no move to pick her up, though; I never really liked Liv Tyler and I prefer to make no sudden movements lest I provoke Mr. Sugarsawra's stony looking receptionist. She has scary-looking fingers- good for filing, I presume, but probably not for holding babies or anything like that.
-- Fishing Village story.
The water seems to sympathize, its soft curves look inviting as they embrace and pass through the boat, every wave that follows seems to be perfectly in time as he hears it hit the side. He will always be a fisherman. The rhythm of the sea lulls him, assures him; he will never go home. His love is too big for harbor village. The waves crash in time with his thoughts, coming together and breaking apart, they seem to be saying the same thing, over and over as the boat is pulled deeper into the dark night.
I love you, I loved you.
-- Cancer kid/sister story. "She's real cute bald, too." "I'll bet... wtf?"
--Election Story, Voter Girl Virginity
The fall breeze was heavy with the weight of promises whispered on the winds, sent from the pulpits, called down on us from the giant televisions that seemed to be everywhere on campus. Everywhere seemed to be Election Land, but on campus it was positively inescapable. Even with the surprise of rain over Halloween weekend the posters remained, now with a sort of gritty character as their giant letters bled red white and blue and their faces sagged. Bulletins, wrapped in plastic and attached to sticks, were planted in the ground and in every dorm hallway hand written signs clung to the walls, urging all to the TV-clad study rooms to watch the action unfold. The staunch-looking, elderly conservative or the slick, refreshing democrat? Who would the nation choose to lead us now? We college kids had it figured out, for the most part.
-- The Night Granny Died and Our Friend Amanda Went to Prom
-- Dory's School
-- Funeral Home
The three of them sat there, each feeling as though they were sharing a surreal moment, one they would look back on from time to time like a memory one keeps in a shoebox- an object like a marble or a penny or an eraser shaped like a penguin. There was something so timely about their appearance, their togetherness, their almost perfectly symmetric alignment- two plus one people perfectly positioned on a bus stop. Justine didn’t want to look at either of her benching contemporaries, as a matter of fact- she wanted to believe that their expressions matched hers, that they were at that moment indeed the three wise monkeys; partaking in no evil.
She removed her glasses- just an inch from the nose, then raised her finger to give the left side a tap- but something changed her mind. Slowly, she removed her glasses entirely, dropped them into her purse, and gazed ahead as the three of them wondered in silence if their bus would ever come.
-- The town of Fopstein and Mr. Bailey
He had a dream. One of those odd dreams where you see yourself doing something, but you are also the one doing it? One of those ones. In it, he had created a person, a beautiful Tin Man with round rolly legs and square body- a Tin Man who could move and speak and answer questions.
I want to write a series of essays or stories about 20 of my favorite songs. Somewhat like Nick Hornby's Songbook, which I had forgotten the merits of until today. It will pretty much just be for my sake.
I need to find a good foundation for a novel.
The Western Hamlet Masterpiece. Oh yes.
How Wilson Lived
Clara Bow Biopic
Lengthened version of Jackson Hole script
Fixed version of Homeschooler Script
Screenwriting Class Sitcom/Community College
Ok, i feel better now.