And this is just the 50th letter I’ve written you, Stanley, from where I am. They condemn me to it, this bittersweet punishment of always speaking to someone just out of range. You will never get this letter, just as you will never receive the next 700 that I am to write, nor the ones after that or before this, but my mind will never stop aching for you to hear my story, all of my stories, the stories that I never told you. I’m sorry, Stanley, and the guilt will most likely consume me for the rest of my time on earth, until, finally, they take me as well. I hope, Stanley, that when they say eternal pain they don’t mean it, and that regret cannot outlast infinity.

leonard.

Leonard came home every day. He did not go out, he did not see friends, nor did he want to; they were all dead.

Ophelia

HAMLET
I think I created you.

OPHELIA (OS)
You did. I created you too. I breathed life into you. That's how love works.

i am bloody shakespeare (and he was bloody, that one...)

woe is the soul forsaken, for my words are immortal, and how they suffer.
-me, so far as i know.

i think that's pretty good.

This is something I am thinking about right now: Thursday night I went to a best-of-the-year honors thing for my school. It was on the 20th Century Fox backlot, which was a treat for me. Actually I can't convey to you the glee I felt as my trashy little geo waited in the ranks of cars to enter through the gates. Better still, the awards ceremony was buried deep within the nest, so I had to wander around the paths to find it. It was wonderful. Night yes, so not much filmmaking going on in front of the naked eye, but do you know that delightful feeling of anticipation that fall brings in, that taste of ambition beginning to dawn on the climate? Christmas is coming, Halloween is coming, soon we'll all have turkey, what will we do and how will we do it? That's kind of how it felt. I was by myself, also, and that always intensifies these moments. It makes me wonder if I should always be by myself so I can understand things better. Anyway, it was strangely wonderful. The ceremony was nice too, I got to see what goodies that the production kids have been doing all year and some famous people were there, too. The one that excited me was Brian Hegeland, the guy who wrote LA Confidential and Mystic River and, one of my favorite movies (don'tjudgeme), Knight's Tale. Anyway, he's apparently alumni, and it was very encouraging to see him. And frightening, too, I suppose.

Senioritis hasn't really hit me, nor do I really think it's going to. At least not as severely as some others. I feel as though I've already had my moments to panic, to worry, to try to make ends meet, that weighty decisions and the idea of being done with school is not frightening in the least. Yes, I like school, I like learning, I'll be sad to see mandatory scholasticism vanish from my day-to-day as well as the comforts that will run away with it, but perhaps it's because I've done this all backwards, because I have no particularly strong social attachment to my school of choice, because I already know what I love to do... who knows, my point is I do not feel the post-grad Dustin Hoffman experience. HOWEVER. I do feel the fear of not being able to be Brian Hegeland, or Clint Eastwood, or Sofia Coppola. I don't care if I have to work two or three jobs for the rest of my life or whathaveyou, but if I don't get to write, if I don't get to create on that level I think I will have a very difficult time surviving. I suppose I define success for myself as quality, and as I was watching one of those stupid montages for one of the editors that was also being honored on Thursday, my eyes started to well up and I thought, damn. I love good film, really good film. What if I fail at that? Oh no, oh no.

So that's what I've been thinking about. I can't seem to explain it to anyone, when I open my mouth all it sounds like is the senior blues or some riff on the American Dream, but I like to think it's different, and I want God to tip the roof off of the coffee shop that I'm sitting in right now and tell me exactly how many great works I will accomplish before I die, and how many people will be affected by them, and how I will know how appreciated I am before death. Only this will make me happy right now, and He knows it, what a tease.

Generally speaking, you know what bothers me about puritans? They entice you with promises of non-alcoholic glee, and then once you've joined their cult they tell you what you're going to do-- nothing fun, that's what. They make you go to your hovel and wear grey dresses. Especially if you're a little boy. Nothing says puritanical like little boys in grey dresses. That's what the Oft Quoted Puritan says, anyway.

ummm things i want to write.

Short Stories

-- 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.

Screenplays:

The Western Hamlet Masterpiece. Oh yes.

Ophelia

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.

so i wanna get your everything

Packing/resorting for the new year, getting kind of excited. Have finally reached a sort of revitalization, even though I'm kind of tired physically. Anyway, found my old 03-06 journal. Tinkerbell is on the cover, but the inside is fascinating. People are fascinating, myself included.

I just wish I could remember if I was earnest back then, or only kidding myself.

edit:

just compiled pretty much the only remaining writing from my rough time, found in another random notebook which I just trashed.. interesting to read it now, it just drips with disconnect and anguish and self-hatred and alienation. man.
-------

An airport is a surreal place to be when you don't even feel like living. (this was scribbled out but i could still read it)

You sit there with your alloted two pieces of carry-on luggage, plagued with the traditional reservations of an non-frequent flier- the chief being "what if I've made a mistake along the way?"-- checking inside your now overstuffed purse every two minutes to make sure your boarding pass and cellphone and ID are all in their proper and accessible place. You're traveling alone- first time, come to think of it, but you really don't think of it because its never been an issue. You're here at Gate 47 and it was all easier than you thought, to be honest, but you aren't thinking of that too much and you're certainly not honest.

What you are is hoping you'll stat thinking about flying alone, making mistakes, sitting next to an ill and or psychotic basket-case with no respect for personal space. Dying, crashing, you almost wish that terrified you.

It doesn't, actually. And you can't for the life of you be afraid because more than anything you're scared of your lack of foresight, lack of anything.

It's funny, you think, to be in a place like this, a palce where previously you'd just casually people-watch and wonder about their personal lives, who they love, who they're going to see, where they're from and if they'd had the same breakfast you had. Now you find yourself consumed with fear about their pasts. What horrible things have you done, mother of two? What was the worst thing you've ever done, and did anyone ever find out?

These people are me, these horrible people are all me and I belong with them at Gate 47. I hope the plane never boards, all we'll leave is each other. Eventually we'll murder one another for linty mentos found at the bottom of handbags and cracker crumbs and juice boxes-- a mere step before we turn to cannibalism and eventually do the world a service by wiping ourselves out.

I hate myself even more for wondering it. Child molester? He's probably the nicest person in the ever. He's probably an angel in disguise, or God, even, testing me. I wish God wouldn't est me, especially when I've already proven myself a failure in His imperfect world.

another day:

This is the point where someone is supposed to call but no one does.

One thing I wish you'd all have told me was I was making your life so miserable. I wish, I knew I had things that had to be dealt with but I didn't know that I was perceived as some kind of psychopath who must be tolerated.

And by the by, most of those times you thought I was trying to make anyone feel guilty, I wasn't.
I just didn't know what to say.

Another day:

Stories with no one to tell them to, the moon, the moon.

The lamp that reminds me of your earrings.... just a billion more to regret.

Another day:

Everyone's an opportunist. I see it in everyone and I hate it.

Punishing schedules and myriad affiliations provide ties that are all too illusory. People experience profound dissonance because they are in the company of others but NOT TRULY CONNECTED TO THEM.

but can you save me from the ranks of the freaks

i'm tired.

the restlessness is fading, though, and i know i have to stop looking for the Divine Push in regards to everyday living and know that i have to start seeking the Divine on His Private Line. i have to stop hoping for people to save me, to say the right thing or be the right comfort or know what it is that i need-- or can distract me enough to shield me from this feeling of lack and empty.

boys do not pay attention to me. they cannot save me.

men do not understand me. they cannot save me.

i will be taking care of my family soon enough. they cannot save me.

friends are to be loved, not wrung of all care. they cannot save me.

i, i who have more issues than readers digest, cannot save me.

one step at a time.

dead start to story.

He did not make use of the dead horse’s remains. He considered them useless, tainted by evil. A beautiful horse, like the other three, he himself had named it, Big Joe, after himself, a kinda joke, but it was dead now and that really didn’t matter. Dad Sir was no longer around to tell him not to waste resources, to tell him what was right, so Joseph vowed to move on instinct. From the moment he saw Dad Sir in a pile, fallen and broken and trampled, he knew things were going to be different. He did not cry, it was not something Dad Sir would have wanted, and Lord knows Ma was doing enough of that for the both of them- for anyone in the whole world.

After seeing after Dad Sir’s burial the only logical thing to do was kill Big Joe. Big, beautiful Joe—he knew what was coming to him. He took it like a condemned prisoner, like one of the men Joseph’d seen hung in town, when they used to live in town.

don't you think we oughta know by now

"the harder you work to attain something the more you change."

quoth me.

"Rebellion is modern heroism"

quoth my favorite teacher, Pendleton, on the topic of the Beat generation.

I love finding old paper scraps. :)

More:

I found somebody's cellphone in the parking lot the other day. Not thegym parking lot, because I never go to the gym. Which is probably why... nevermind. My mother has more muscle definition than I do, mostly from hefting my sister, a retard who can't really mobilize herself without some assistance (or wipe her own ass).

...The science building parking lot. I was only only in that parking lot because my history class is hled in the science building- though I am taking biology, thre. And failing. But that's mainly because I never go, which is why I was in the sicence parking lot after history class and not biology, which would make more sense bu I feel the need to set you straight, you see. It was blue (the cellphone) and one of those that feel like a brick and take up very nearly your whole hand.

between march 22nd and the 23rd something changed.

And then her heart exploded, and love went everywhere. It dripped from the ceiling, soaked into the floor, stained the curtains. it ran into the street, richocheted from the buildings, flooded the beaches, enveloped all of them in its permanence; love love love.

[there's an archway between wings of mckay, where the door is. it's about five paces or something. there's a daycare out towards the parking lot, and every other day the kids get taken out on a stroll on the campus. going by mckay is first, so the archway is very exciting. they think it's a tunnel and when they go under it they make as much noise as possible to hear the echo (though there's not really one). so around 10:30 many mornings one hears a group of little voices going "LALALALALA!" it was annoying as hell at first, but I look forward to it now.]

sheik of araby

All afternoon, I, with nothing pressing, felt the weight to write. It came on frantic, as it does sometimes. My brain crafts words in a way that seems circulatory, I desire to shield my eyes from looking at the world because all I want to do is describe everything in any given moment and look for the soul of it, no- it isn't even a want, it feels like a requirement. And then I think about what I want to say, not just on paper but with real words to people that matter, and that's staggering as well. There's so much I want people to know about me, I want to blurt my essence over them like so much vomit, but they would never understand, even if I found a way to do that, they would never understand that it was fair of me to vomit on them because I want the same from them. I want to take a pair of pliers to each of their hearts and crack them open and observe what's been collected inside.

All this to say, I feel like writing so badly sometimes, and it's wonderful but also seems like such a responsibility- to be correct. To have an understanding of what I want to spell out, and to know where I'm going, but that experience is so very rare. That's when I start to wonder, what am I doing? Should I not be writing with intent? Do I really plan on "just writing" like this, for the rest of my life? There's too much to say! But does anyone want to hear it? Does anyone need to? Is it really better to destroy than to create what is unessential?

Walking out of the cafeteria today, I stopped to reorganize my books and things at a nearby table. As soon as I put my bag on the stone, I spotted the word "pier" etched on it. It's strange how evocative any one random thing can be, like we all have well-worn tracks in our mind that words and smells are sent down even before we can properly identify what we are experiencing. "Pier" made me think of the only pier I know, the Ventura pier, at home. It's been rebuilt a number of times, as my uncle reminded me at the funeral. When he last saw it, on a visit to our family, he took great delight in a horn that was situated so that it made noise according to how the waves moved it. The horn is not there anymore. I should know. Now that pier seems to me such a stomping ground. Everytime I'm on it I want to sink my teeth into it and beg it somehow for a reassurance that I'll never lose anyone- which always leads me to the question, did you ever "have" them? This I brush aside, because nobody likes those questions. They don't really have an answer, just an optimistic or cynical response. I am good at giving both, depending on what I feel needs protecting. But anyway.

Once a friend of mine, whose baby fat has since evaporated, clambored out onto the jutting chin of the wooden construction, over the rails. He hung there for a moment, looking over the sides with nothing holding him back. He wasn't even at the end, he would not have been swept away. But in the dark there's no telling with the sea. I don't know what he was thinking about when he did that, exactly, but I'll admit it was somewhat surprising. Now that I look back his swaggering "What?" attitude after he climbed back to our side reminds me of a side of him I was to see often after that, a searching quality that was all too wise to the fact of being lost with good intentions. Nevertheless, we had a conversation a few days after the whole pier incident, speaking in our melodramatic tones that we had come to rely upon in those ridiculous times, and he mentioned to me that he just had a strange feeling as he was looking over the sea, unburdened by rails for once, that even with us watching (or maybe thanks in part to us watching) he felt a weird crazy sense of freedom and calm. Short-lived, of course, but memorable anyway. He began to wax poetic on the subject of the pier- and piers in general, and finally just anything that gives you that "feeling". We then supposed that everyone had a pier in their life, or that we were constantly looking for one- basically, just a place where you can step outside of yourself, watch the sun set, feel excited to live. For some people it's a waterfall in Yellowstone National Park, for others it's a bluff overlooking LA, the top of the Eifel Tower, a desolate parking lot with one streetlight.

Now that I look back on what I considered a sort of sacred conversation, I know that I was and now am inescapably aware of the youthful silliness that surrounded our discussion- we were conspiratal, self-aware, painfully dramatic and overwrought. Everything sucked, nobody understood, and we were going to gather our little troop and live lives so different from anyone else's that by the time we were 21 we wouldn't have to be on the search anymore. Obviously, things just simply are not that way... nevertheless, every time I see the word pier, especially as I did today, I'm reminded of what I think it means, and that I haven't really found mine yet.

One eye was made of a pinwheel. Not a spinning toy that protruded out from his face, of course, but rather a tiny spinning wheel inserted into the eye-shaped socket.