November already? Really? What the fuck has happened to time, in general? I get the whole as time goes by it goes quicker thing. It sucks, but I get it. But since the Lockdown, it's totally gone bananas. Like we are all Bill Pilgrim from Slaughterhouse Five, unhinged from time and bouncing back and forth, in and out of reality, places, situations, and even dimensions. Which November is this? Am I laying in my tiny studio in NYC in 1990, dreaming of my future, or have I lost it and am sitting in some home for people who have lost it, stuck in a memory? Am I five? Thirty? Sixteen? Fifty-five? Did I have too much candy last night and this is just that crash after sugar, delayed for some reason? Was it a mistake to fall asleep while watching Frankenstein?
And when I say Frankenstein, I mean the classic one. The one we all think of, or should think of, when the movie version is mentioned. It's so good and weird and campy at points and full of a style of acting I do not care for, but Karloff. Holy shit. And the lighting and sets. That first scene at the graveyard, so creepy. It always freaked me out when I was younger. Something about the titled gravestones in the background, the stoic mourners at the funeral, the statue of death, also tilted, and the gravedigger who treats putting a human body in the earth like a job to be done, nothing more or less. And then Doctor Frankenstein and his pal Fritz peek out from behind a tomb, clearly the villains. That scene puzzled and intrigued me every time I'd watch the flick, which was at least once a year.
Also watched Psycho yet again last night. I think the shower scene is amazing, but what is to me really frightening is the sequence after, when Norman Bates cleans up the mess. It's both hilarious and horrific and fascinating. He finds the body, and reacts as if he truly thinks his mother has just killed someone. Then he gets himself together, runs to the office. If this was the first time watching, you'd think he was running to the phone to call the police, or maybe keep running past the office to the house to confront his mother about what she just did. But no, he runs in to the office, and then runs back out, holding a mop, and it is clear what he is going to do. No dialogue. Just action, image, and terror. It shows us how it wasn't just an act of madness in the moment, a crime of insane passion. This is a person who can and does on some level understand what has happened and what he has to do to keep himself safe.
Truly frightening.
So now, November and I have some writing to do. Got a few good bites after Austin, and need to clean up script and get it out. I've given myself two week, told the biters I'd have it by Thanksgiving, to give myself a little bonus time should I need it. Nothing like having a deadline to get your ass in gear. Or onto the seat, to put it in writer's terms. Butts in chairs. That's the thing we have to keep as our goal. The rest is just leaning in, crossing over to whatever world we have created, and then playing God. Really sort of crazy, saying that I play God. But I sort of do. I determine people's fates, personalities, journeys. Then, when i feel like my creation is good, I rest and hand over the reigns to others, who are... other Gods? Celestial judges? Not sure, but certainly part of the process.
Okay. Must rise from the dead, clean up the bodies, and create, or to be more accurate, recreate, another world.
Here's a song. It's a live, early version of Steve Miller's Fly Like an Eagle, and it's sweet.
No comments:
Post a Comment