///FIRST FEATURE 7.13.10

i found my way to the end of the script today. barely shy of 60 pages. even though i know this will dramatically expand on screen (judging from previous projects) i can't help but feel uneasy about this. why couldnt it be more like 70?

fucking numbers.

but i know that's going to change anyway.

i just needed to get from point A (that i love) to point B (that i now love)... everything in between is bound to breathe. i already know a couple spots i need to do more work.

one thing i am proud of... it seems like the main character has completely changed from the opening to the ending.

it's tough to try and look back at the whole thing as you work in increments, you can only see as far as a couple scenes back. you forget every other turn. other beats. all that stuff back over the horizon.

editing time. time for the REAL writing to begin.

free write viii

and///you are the knife, digging into me, you are the knife pulling into me, dragging me across the sky. and we cry together in the purpuling clouds, tears of diamond. diamond gold diamond blue tears, pooling in our hands and you offer me a drink, you pull it from behind, from the floor and you offer it to me with both hands, both cans cupped together and you tilt the trembling liquid toward me, and it spills off of your finger tips and washes over my chin, washes over my face. i am. you are. you are my communion. and when the skies have turned, when it all fades to black, where will your eyes go? where will they find us and our treasure troves? will there be maps? will there be winds at sea to blow them here or there, to or fro? wher, where where does the last breath of the sea run down the throat of nowhere? where will we find our cast and broken ship? which shore will we call our own? will these limbs be broken and dashed? where o where o where will it go. you are the knife. digging into me, carrying me across the skie. i am your kite tied with twine to my fingers, pulling you across the flats. but here but here but here i find the serpentines. but here, but here i find the roots, the trees growing through me. when i trip and fall and knock my head, all i see is red and the only stupid thing that spills from my sill mouth, is garbled and coded. it comes out in numbers. colored numbers and rays of digital mess. its a mess, a mess a mess all this blood an offal spilling from my side. but i dont believe it, i cant see it, so i find it with my fingers, i find the open knife. i find the open trap, i find you in my side, and i split us with my fingers and when i do, when i unopen us, when we unclose, there are notes that sound with soft distortion, a trembling ember of reverberations. moving hairs moving the tiny hairs on the small of your back, the tiny hairs, the tiny hairs. and i can feel the lashes like tiny british voices. i can feel them brush across me. but, but, but... it fades. it slips into clothes ive never seen before. memories, memories, memories fade, like fingers walking across a piano, drifting up or drifting down, either way, you get to a point where you can't reach and it simply runs out. the hall is empty. it only remembers the light. it only remembers the foot falls, the dancing toes, the sprawling nights. it only remembers the tide, it comes at night, but i never see it. you can see the timber, the sea wash up beyond any place it has business being. but where does this ramble? where do i go? i can pull the knife from my side, and it shatters like class, and falls in sparkles to my toes. i can collect it, i can collect it in my hands and cup it to my lips, i can take it in my mouth and i can swallow your blades, i can put us inside me, i can swallow all you give me, i can fill the sky, i can fill the sky with our diamonds. and i can fill my side with late summer grass and early autumn nests.

///FIRST FEATURE 7.11.10

i am going to write a play after this.

page after page after page with lines and lines and lines of action with no dialogue is... exhausting.

a play would be nice. crackling repartee. meandering profound soliloquies. ahhh.

i'm dreaming.

page 50.

should make it to 60 no problem... should. once i wake her back up, he should have someone to talk to... if she's in the talking mood.

free write vii

when i fall back, when i fall back completely overcome. overcome with still, with still mists. when i fall back and feel the full weight of unbroken thunderclouds, cool, ready, waiting... i feel them on my face and chest as i fall back. and on the ground, as the whisps shoot past my ear, tickle round my neck,,, my mouth, my mouth will slack, it will open, and it will glow, and it will beam as stars, giant stars, giant innumerable prominences reaching, reaching across space, across the lazy, languid, thin space between here, between there. and my mouth will open and things will pour from it and run down my cheeks, they will run up my face and pool in the deep of my closed eyes. it will be golden, it will be honey, it will be luminous. it will take it;s time, it wil make it as it moves. but, i,,, but i will wake and i will wipe this from my face, let it fall. i will wash it with my hands. can i open my eyes here? is it bright enough. will i find them blind, my eyes? find them blind like hands reaching for rays of sun. will i find somthing on the air, can i smell you only inches away? i have dreams. i have dreams and dreams and dreams. there are places i wander, and it alls, it call out, only in echo, only in quaking whispers. it doesnt take much to knock me from the rail. i was balancing, one foot in front of the other. but it comes like a gust. like a swift push and im falling from words. im falling from open eyes. and im falling to the ties. to the tines. that wrap them selves, the fingers tying knots in your hair. in your mane. and i will fan them out i will display them for a collection. i want this enough. i wonder if i can tell the truth, if it comes out as some other language, can i find the breath to move these lungs? i question, i question. i wish for this and that. i wish for your pain. i wish for your broken limbs. i wish for your sick and your death. so that i can come. i can come with holy palms, so that i can find the magic to heal you. to stitch you up and mend your bends. i wish for, i wish for. i wish for voices calling me. i wish for nightmares. i wish for overturned cars and poison meals. i wish for empty beds and long drinks. long drinks in the long still night of middle age. and i can be the condensation you wipe from your glass, the liquor you draw out with your finger. i can find my self running to your palm. meeting your breath as you clasp them (your fingers) in your mouth. i can be the ice, crumbling in your scotch. i can be the pulp in your gin. i can be the last sigh (the last gish) before you finally slink back, tumble back into waves of sleep. it takes us all under. and i find, more and more, that i run out of things to say. that i find myself turning circles. but i but i but i could be, i could be the pall, the shroud that covers you and keeps you. i could be the undone. i could be the tomb, and i could be the stars watching you turn to ash and calling you home to dance under the proscenium of dust and other unborn stars.

free write vi

i took a dream this afternoon/// when i was in that nap to escape the day/ i took a dream and you were five or six people. there before me. and i took you and your legs were splayed and we shared a pice of ripe melon. running in long drops, unrolling like smoke, like fog on a new wind, running like stumbling children down our arms and off of our elbows. you were five or six and i was one or none. and i took the time to search the sheets. to search your legs. there is no saving. there is no counting . when we whisper. when we hold congress. when we find this wooden floor/i find these dreams old and vaporous. it goes up in smoke. up in furls. up in curls. and lights. lights in the sky. lights in the trees. i lose my train of thought and it takes hands, it takes large hands, as big as they sky to hewn. to cleave the new earth. to dear a crescent. to find the nape in your field. there are dreams i can taste. and there are tastes i can dream but it all runs out like beads of water. it finds the cracks and drip, drops. plops. the sky has run indigo, and i find the evening breeze as i turn to find the east. i find the moon cresting, i find it. secong gues this and i know i need to open up. i need to forget this place. forget my face as these whiskers grow, as this beard finds its way around my face. i havent looked in the mirror in ages. i havent bothered to step through i havent bothered. i havent bothered. i stop. but why. where does this go. i cough and i feel the dust settle in my lungs. i feel it wheeze and i wonder, i wonder when i spend myself alone, where it runs. where you find yourself when your eyes are closed and sunken. wher i findmyslef when i drift off to sleep. where i find myself when i drift off from life. there are roads ive never run. there are tides that have never washed me. and there are hills. there are hills that have not called. i cant look up, i cant look up to see where this is going. too conscious. too conscious. too worried of the eyes that might see this, its neither here nor there but it fumbles and i tumble and i ramble i see the same images over and over and over. and i cant help but feel that im beeing pulled apart. pulled apart by feral dogs and wild things there are two ways to go, and five to follow. five or six, i cant remember, i can never remember any dream i can never remember touch. i can never remember the lungs that fill, the chest that rises and falls like the sea in my arms. i never told you and i lied when i said i could feel your heart. and i remember. i rembeber wondering what that meant. i wcouldnt dream of what that meant it just drips away. i held myself there before your open chest and i could feel nothing. my had was warm agains your cooling chest and it was there, i saw your eyes but it was too deep below. not meant for my fingers not meant for my pulse. some unknown rhythm to, some foreign language to my searching palm. i want to dream. i want to speak in tongues.

///FIRST FEATURE 7.5.10

45.

45 for now. i might dive back in. get him out the window.

this is definitely about a knife.

i find that i write shit unless i sit upright in my chair. i guess what's the point if even i don't care about what i'm doing?

i think i had a breakthru today... we'll see. i needed another location. it was feeling all too claustrophobic. holding one note from halfway thru until the end. i think i've added another layer. we'll see.

i still feel like i'm running thru, just laying down the spine. i'm not sure i care for the specifics of what i'm putting down. i know i can and will change it, i just hope it doesn't fuck my head in at the moment. gotta remind myself that ALL first drafts are shit. no matter what anyone says... it ALWAYS sucks on the first go. if someone says otherwise... they're hiding the first draft somewhere.

45. i feel like i should be at 50.

free write v

there is something about your milk. full of spring, pressed through freshly grown grass... reaching... reaching for the sun. amber in afternoons. peeling under our skin. creeping over our bones. but we tip the basin and it runs over us, arms outstretched,,, reaching for tall red balloons. and we laugh. and before too long the dandelions are blown for all the wishes we can muster, all the wishes in the universe. and the sky colors and murks, and sinks into itself and opens its stars. there are too many to count. too many to share. too many to divide into this and that. but i have come. i have walked thru your doors and i find myself uninvited. i find myself at the edge of beds, tying my laces. graces. ungrossed. there are. there are times to preen and there are times to flick this to that. but i am unhome. i am out. i am gone. like skin excising a foreign body. my thorn. my splinter. copy of copy of copy. coffee ground too fine and run too many times. i run over the pavement, over the free way. when the sky closes its eyes and you cant feel when you end and it begins. you are not here or there and i her it cry in other rooms. the floor murmurs and my toes are cold against the slats. we pause. i pause i take time, and it winds like a struck bow, arching out over strings it calls (and returns). it bends in swooning feedback and i find my home in the chest, in the bosom, between the breasts of stars. i hear an impossibly faint heartbeat. disturbing swirling cosmic gas.clouds of unborn stars wrapped around my interstellar ships. across time and space i creep. moving slower than the procession. and light bends round my face blinding me in streaming blindfolds and mouth agape. i am come. i am broken into infinence. too many pieces to collect and label. this one goes here, that one goes there. but from my rubble, from my unmade self, the bees, the furry bumble bees climb out from under. i am no pollen and i can only remember honey, i remember the spring milk and honey. but it takes too long and this is the only thing i can hear. the rhythm of your shovel taking limb from limb. the rhythm of your shovel, the spade crack crack cracking the ribs. plying a beating heart. with each mound that flicks over your shoulder, i exit in crimson ribbons, and if the trees take the time, if they take their time to knot their roots thru my threadbare sighs i will fill their boughs with trembling songs. i will hold the silver birds until their song, until their call shines, until it brings back lovers, until morning comes. until i can find my own words. i will i will i will, tip this i will top that, and when i put my arms underwater, and pull the lotus from its root, i will taste i will sup all the earth and her earthiness,i will climb into her arms as she sings her lullaby, and i will be her son.i will be her now.i will be her forever. and i will glow withnotes so green and golden.

///FIRST FEATURE 7.4.10

scuttle, muttle, ruttle.

if i push thru any more for the night, im sure to have to go back and right all the wrongs. undo the stitching and relay the foundation.

i went back to the beginning and inserted a knife. a good-luck charm.

lucky me... page 42.

if i go by my last page to minute ratio (5.5 pages to 11 minutes of screen time)... i only need 3 more pages. yeah... i got another 20-30 to go... at LEAST.

i hope i still like this when im done.

i just have to find the right music. i feel like i havent. and it's throwing everything off the rails.

42 pages in.

'night.