Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The more intelligent you are the crappier a writer you will probably be.
The more practical as a business person, all the worse a writer.
Different synergies, the practical and the creative..
"Writers are dickheads," say my pal Joe the Morph, just out of prison. His choice of words.
I do feel, with this influenza, beer breakfasts and steady diet of boiled chicken, that I should put a condom over my head and just say, Goodbye Cruel World.
Then pull the loo chain.
It is with such mixed thoughts, that I now move towards this next ACT VII, Scene 2 of THE FIRE IN BRADFORD.
Interior scene of a bistro.
The professor is sitting in one of eight tables, calico checks of red and black, a little vase with a single flower on each table. There is no one else in the restaurant. He is thoughtfully sniffing the little red rose.
He cannot get his Celia, so like an adolescent, he has fallen in love with her.
There is an old country song on the radio.
Faded Love and Winter Roses.
Faded love and winter roses
Sprinkled with a lonely tear
Faded love and winter roses
Still recall each yester year.
Will we meet again tomorrow?
Where we parted yesterday?
Give me back those winter roses
And the love you took away.
MUSIC: TO FADE
A waitress is approaching the professor's table.
Waitress: Well. Your fourth beer, professor. What happened. Lose your job or something?
Professor: Something like that.
Waitress: What are you killing yourself at now?
Professor: Print graphics.
Waitress: Print graphics? My husband does that. Let me give you a cautionary note, professor. Stay small or you'll go crazy.
Professor: Stay small?
Waitress (chewing gum): Once you expand and expand again, your mind won't be able to handle it. You'll go crazy.
Professor: Tell me about it. They once promoted me to Dean of French at the college. I lasted a month.
Witress: That's what I mean, professor. Stay small or you'll go crazy.
THE WAITRESS TURNS TO LEAVE, CHEWING HER GUM.
THE PROFESSOR TURNS HIS FACE TO THE AUDIENCE.
I have to go out and meet her, ambush her. She and the Italian have moved to the West End, along St. Clair.
Oakwood. Damn violent neighbourhood. Living on Winona Avnue, those two now. That's where Paul Bernardo used to live.
And her boyfriend's name. William Bathgate Gambini.
How in hell does an Italian get a Bathgate for a middle name?
My Wynona Rider.
I would have to go to her. Ambush her, without Bathgate.
She is likely taking the streetcar to work now. She has to to go down Winona to get the streetrcar at St. Clair.
...All this planning, all this tracing, all this poring over the city directory, the checks with Motor Transit to get the latest residence, description of the BMW, how much Bathgate paid for it--$!7,OOO--it was second-hand, hey Italian yuppie, caught your there. And the licence to carry hazardous materials. Celia is hazardous material?
Ah, clever prof, clever detective. Such old-style GPS..
And what the hell are you going to do once you intersect Celia?
Last time around, she went into a Kung Fu mode and damn near broke your shoulder.
Who, what is Celia anyway?
THE PROFESSOR HAS ANOTHER SLUG OF HIS BEER.
HE AGAIN FACES THE AUDIENCE
She was at the centre median, waiting for her streetcar. She was carrying what appeared to be a big foolscap order sheet. Purse in left hand.
She saw me.
And she spun on her flat slipper and began running back. Back toward her apartment on Winona.
"Celia," I yelled as she passed me. "Celia, go on with your routine. I won't bother you. I just wanted to look at you again."
The scared here even the more.
She was pulling something out of her handbag. It looked like one of those Johnson and Johnson compressors, the kind you might use to bring out a vein for an injection,.
She was already wrapping or trying to wrap this black touniquet around her right arm; she had done something with the order sheet she wa crrying. She had been running away, but she turned to face me now, Celia sort of skating backwards. Facing me, appearing to be skating backwards in her slippered feet. She held up the black compression band and the order sheet like two talismans held by some Egyptian goddess, waving these articles at me, as if to
conjure me away.
She was saying something to me, mumbling something to me:
"Leave two. Leave the tennovas alone."
And she ran back towards 288 Winona.
And I was alone and confused again.
Zigging where I should have been zagging.
Getting no respect, like Rodney Dangerfield.
May as well be masturbating in my car.
Lilke Rodney Dangerfield.
........END ACT VII, SCENE 2