"You know, you should not say how you feel. You should write a scene in which the viewers see how you feel. That's just much more impactful, no?" She was picking up some cash from the ATM and giving a friend some cell-phoned advice at the same time. Or should I have not said that? Okay, once again. "You know, you should not say how you feel. You should write a scene in which the viewers see how you feel. That's just much more impactful, no?" The inside of the well lit ATM area of the bank felt like a perfect backdrop for a dialogue about the dialogue of dialogue. Better. ... My most beautiful reoccurring dream is of scents and warmth and sounds and other indescribable sensations all between the layers of what could maybe be very soft asphalt. Thin, warm, dark grey sheets, maybe under water? A school of fish intrigued and yet not fooled by a worm simulator on a hook. The ocean hits the shore with ever new waves in ever varying colors. Giant jellyfish. Many. With the eyes closed, Paris appears to be incredibly close. One can enter the Louvre through a tiny side entrance not commonly known to the masses of international tourists winding their way towards the security check of the Nam Jun Paik 666 glas panel pyramide. Is this fact true at all? Could one reenact the excitement of Victoria and Albert meeting the eyes for the first time? Maybe both should be visited. I hear there is a subway between one and the other. Wanna go? ... My grandmother did not use bricks to get her job. She used weights. The heaviest ones available in the house. I remember her telling me the story long before her faced collapsed to that soft and sweet something she was even when the water finally reached her lungs. She had told me of weights. I had somehow turned them into bricks. Bricks would not have worked. Bricks would have been too light. I am not even sure if I ever told the story here. My grandmother having to work because of her children and her freshly crippled husband. She was so underweight that she would not have been permitted to work in the foundry... the examining physicist had a somewhat twisted way of creating his truth. He would not just write a false number in his registration sheet as that would have been illegal. He would make my grandmother try to weigh herself in her clothes, then even her heaviest coat. When even this did not work, he suggested my grandmother eat more... her not having anything to eat really (and this being the reason why she had to go get a job in the foundry) she soon returned to the same doctor, about 20 pounds heavier... steel weight gained in pockets. It was the weight of metal she brought with her that would make it legal for her to lift heavy metal. It was difficult for me to understand how my grandmother could have ever been underweight and definitely undernourished. When I met her, falling out of the haze of being an infant, the underweight her existed only on tiny crumbling photographs... I loved her so much. I would compare her walk to that of a duck. My first attempts at compliments were obviously very crude. My grandmother would ask me very strange questions about my parents' relationship. Her interrogations were an interesting peephole into the future of relationships in general. ... I will now close my eyes and find myself near the ocean, between layers of anthracite asphalt, near a school of fish, in a most beautiful spot. And I will be perfectly fine. I hope... Have not slept much in the last few days. The thoughts in my head are slowly turning nonverbal. I look at things, but I do not see them. I listen to sounds and words, but I don't hear them. Things are falling appart... Books are turning into pages filled with sentences made of words containing letter after letter after letter after letter. Shapes which need to be deciphered, glued together, connected, and then... no... something major needs to happen here soon. It is not that I do not see the forrest because I am looking at trees. It is that I do not seem to regain the ability to even see trees, because I am trying to see through bark... Certain things will probably take a bit of time. I hope to be able to find some help in an early monday morning conversation with myself. I crave to spend the evenings on a sofa, overlooking a corner filled with fresh air. And all the colors of the known emotional universe. ... "You know, you should not say how you feel. You should write a scene in which the viewers see how you feel. That's just much more impactful, no?" I think I have been trying to do that quite openly for many, many years now. "You know, you should not say how you feel. You should just get the f*ck out the the business of writing plays altogether. You have not the slightest clue what you are doing, my friend. Get out of it, as long as you still can. This might very well be your last chance. Get the f*ck out." yeah. that's better.



Good work.

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This page contains a single entry by Witold published on October 24, 2004 5:04 AM.

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