Booze Clues and Ballet

Booze Clues
I'm working on a new short called Booze Clues.   Here's a small sample of it transcribed into a narrative.

It's Sunday morning, Anthony wakes up on a couch half his size and a head throbbing something awful.  First thoughts are a series of questions: what time is it, where am I and what happened last night.  It's time to play a game of booze clues.  First clue, the phone.  Now, where the hell is the phone?  Back pocket, no.  Front pocket, no.  Anthony scans the room, only to be paralyzed by the shock that he's lost his vision, and then moments later realizes his glasses are not on.  Finding them stuck to the side of his hip, he rescans the room.  Nope, no phone in sight.  Sitting up, he realizes the vacuum-like presence of the couch. Tearing it part, removing one overstuffed cushion after the next, the black hole nature of the couch starts to reveal all the poor saps it's consumed over the years.  Toys, monopoly money, real money, lots of hair, and yes, his phone.  Now he's got the evidence for the next set of questions: who did he call and what kind of crazy shit did he text.  Jane, Judy, Rosie, yep,  he had a typical liquored up, horndog agenda.  Wait, those are all characters off the The Jetsons, maybe he had two agendas.  Regretting a lot of stuff, he decides it's time to get up and find out where the fuck he is.  Clue two, the house.


Ballet
Everybody has got something that just works for them.  For me, it's ballet. I love ballet.  It opens up new doors and speaks directly to me.  It defines love, and it's the closest thing to perfection I've ever known. Ballet is a language that transcends the delinquency of reality by creating an isolated alternative between the dancer and its viewer.  For the dancer, each move, from grand-plie' to demi-pointe, visualize brush strokes of color on a canvas of sound.  And for each viewer, a different image is painted.  That's the beauty of it all.  There is no wrong; there is no right.  There is just the truth that unfolds for each individual.  As one act takes place on stage, another takes place in the mind.  Every detail, from cosmetics to choreography, intermingle with thoughts already present and adapts accordingly to each of their needs.  Each step, each note, mold into answers to solve riddles once neglected.  It's magically wonderful.

Here's one of my favorites, a scene from The Red Shoes.  It's a performance of the play The Red Shoes, which is an adaptation of a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen.

And here's the opening scene of Pina Bausch take on Stravinky's Rite of Spring.

Writing and Sanity

Writing
I'm definitely better on paper than I am in person. With a pen and some paper, ideas are easily transcribed into flowing text.  The intangible becomes tangible, with abstract thoughts becoming clear, detailed paragraphs with a punch.  It amazes me, how I can write something with power and emotion, but when telling somebody similar thoughts, my mouth becomes an idiot box oozing out nothing but gobbledygook.  I bet Bill Cosby is an excellent writer.  Maybe it's the benefit of time.  Time to think, time to explore new words.  Maybe it's the time given to reflect on the first thought, which for me, usually makes absolutely no sense.  I enjoy writing a lot, and I've been spending more time translating my bad ideas into words. It's not only fun, and sometimes very amusing, but also extremely cathartic.  It's nice to just vomit out my thoughts rather then let them manifest into some crazy Japanese creature, like Godzilla or even worse, Mechagodzilla.  Some wild beast that is continually biting at my heels and haunting me with sequel after sequel.   It's like stepping on an ant before your Dad accidentally makes you and your friends tiny with a shrink ray.  You know what I mean.  It feels good.

Sanity
The real difference between a sane and insane person is the insane person shows it.  In truth, we're off our fucking rockers. Instead of focusing on what's on hand, the present, our mind distractedly take us back to the past or unreliably predicts the future.  Bored and in search of a challenge, our minds ignore the controllable and explore the deceptive nature of our shadows. Reminiscing on old conversations, a habit that won't die young, by replaying and rehashing actions taken and words spoken at different times to different people.  Like re-questioning oneself open-ended riddles where the answer doesn't matter.  Time after time, we ignore the ability to forget, rather than remember.  We need to let time be time and allow it take part in resolving issues past due, and what it doesn't heal, we need to grow up and be a fucking adult.


One of my new favorites