Saturday, April 18, 2009

Strung out on cheap (cheap?) drugs. A vision in a teacup I once saw....



Another Novocaine high.

What follows are some my rhumenations on Mexico and a part-act for media Writer Monique-- for maybe to entertain herself with till I get it together to produce something for her in her MIDDLE DITCH.


Ah, the nature of the beast.
Why do we writers absolutely burn outselves out, leaving ourselves vulnerable, psychologically unprepared, immune system down--to be absolutely bowled over in any crisis, domestic or work-related.

Thirty years ago, on a bright June day I had completed, in San Miguel Allende, a novel on which I produced 35 pages a day, proof copy. I was glad to place the THE END at the end.

I had been on a regimen of tequila, strong Nescafe, marathon sex to relax, and all kinds of Corona de Baril beer so I could sleep...There wasn't that much sleep, as I had run a cross a nymph at the Jardine, town square. "Are you a Wood Nymph," I asked, half jokingly. "No," she had said. "Just a nymph."

So here is a man going to hell fast, while producing 35 proof pages a day.

No sooner do I complete the book than I get a Dear John from somebody.

Wheeeeee. Whoooooosh. Nininaninaninoona!

"You are crazed," said my mistress.

"I am crazed," I agreed.

Run, don't run. Grab a plane, don't grab a plane. Kick ass. Don't kick ass. One million dollars at stake in bank account and property...And I had to go on this marathon writing thing, leaving myself as weak as light beer.
The wood nymps starts to pour the love on, trying to get me to relax, to pour out the madness, extend it, get me back to myself, whoever that was.

I can not paint, but I was surely Gaugin. Gaugin and his Wahines. Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll and 35 pages a day. Mexico on 35 pages a day.

Burnout

The god wants a price and old Scrooge was coming to collect.

I had given my life for art, whoever the f*ck Art was.

So here we are doing it again, creditors at the door, old partner still wanting to argue and we're trying for 35 pages a day.

It is at this point, probably that the landlord will come knocking, the collection agency guy with a lawyer, my anus will fall off and I'll be signing myself into the jigsaw puzzle assembly plant.

Magnificent obsession.

And leading to where?

Nought.

Nature of the beast.


Act II

Scene Three

INT. INSIDE CELIA'S MATRIMONIAL HOME, A NEAT WHITE EXURBAN COTTAGE IN BRADFORD, ONTARIO.


LIGHTS: UP

(MUSIC IN BG: "All My Love's in Vain", by the Rolling Stones. UP, then fade to bg.)


NARRATOR

Ah, she was on my frequency all right. On my frequency in spades. Or was it the Rolling Stones?


MUSIC: UP.

Well i followed her to the station
With a suitcase in her hand


NARRATOR

Ah, the Stones doing the Robert Johnson, that man who knew of the pathos of life, black but not always blue, a genius, and the Stones ripping him off. Ah, but there are times when Mick can write too. On my frequency, yes.
let's have some frequency modulation.

MUSIC IN BG: Segue to "You Can't Always Get What You Want', by the Rolling Stones. From guitar ride to:...

I saw her at th reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she was gonna make her connection
In her glass there was a footloose man



NARRATOR

Yes, somebody had made Celia into his novel. Somebody has made me into a novel. Brilliant bastard.
And was I to be the bleeding man at the bottom of Celia's glass?
Ah, that first night with Celia, Lief passed out in the next room...



LIGHTS: Up.

SCENE: The professor and Celia are still on the same living room set. They are dancing,somewhat intensely to
Robert Johnson's 'All My Love's in Vain', done by the Rolling Stones. They stop when the music stops, and return to the chesterfield.
She begins to unzip the professors fly.
The professor is beginning to wake up, wake up to this tender trap.

PROFESSOR
Hey. Hey. What goes on between you and Lief? What is your relationship anyway? You are a married woman after all.

Celia takes a sip of her white wine. She is beautiful. Nice, high forehead. Flesh-coloured lipstick. Blonde hair abob.

CELIA

Lief and I have an open marriage. He has male friends. He has female friends. I have female friends. I have male friends.

"You want another drink?"

PROFESSOR
"I think I'd better.


THERE IS A THUMPING UPSTAIRS THAT STARTLES BOTH THE PROFESSOR AND CELIA.
SOMEBODY ALMOST FALLS THROUGH A TRAP DOOR IN THE CEILING ABOVE. A NAKED ARM HOLDING A WEBCAM, QUICKLY RETRIEVED. BUT NOT BEFORE THE PROFESSOR SEES A DARK FLASH OF PUBIC HAIR ON A MAN IN THE BRIGHTER LIGHT OFFERED BY THE LIVING ROOM LAMPS.


PROFESSOR

What the hell?

CELIA
(touching the professor's shoulder):
Oh don't be startled, David. Lief is upstairs looking for that insurance policy. We are remortgaging the house. None of us have been able to find that old policy. I told him it was up there in the attic somewhere.

PROFESSOR
Three a.m. and looking for an insurance policy? And starkers? I thought Lief had passed out.

CELIA
(giggling). Tacky, isn't it? Leif and I will drive you home in the morning. You can stay the night.

PROFESSOR
Did I ever tell you I was in the army?
I would give my mitt-bag, my kit bag, even my shit-bag to tarry then nigh."

CELIA AND THE PROFESSOR TARRY THE NIGHT.

(...to be continued. But if the writer wakes up sober, probbably not...)

##

12 comments:

Charles Gramlich said...

I'm still boggled at 35 pages a day. I've never produced more than 10 a day in my best ever run.

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Charles,

It should never be tried. Especiall at 40. Thirty-five pages a day will net you a spell in the jigsaw puzzle assembly plant.

the walking man said...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZN92uSUgoVM&feature=related

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Is that like Roger Miller's

Dang me,
Dang me
They ought to take a rope and hang me?

...Flash player not working, but I got Dina Washington doing "Judge, judge, send me to the electic chair"...dark!

I'm more like singing, "Stereo? I never took no stereo..."

Donnetta Lee said...

Wow! 35 pages a day. Talk about wringing yourself out. Well, nature of the beast. D

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Donnetta,

Thanks.

I've heard it said to me, "You ain't no writer unless you had to be locked up."
I would, of course, not recommend this path to greatness.
And I ain't even great.

Take care.

Midnight said...

What if one locks up the liqour cabinet instead, say between 7-9am?

Or would writers use that opportunity to go out and buy more mix?

Cheers!

ivan@creativewriting.ca said...

Easier when in a relationship, where the woman would keep the key to the liquor cabinet.
Now, nobody's watchin' ya.

Midnight said...

Ivan, you mean 'live-in' or 'live-together' relationship, don't you?

Don't give them any crazy ideas.

And always have a crowbar hidden and ready.

Midnight said...

To be on the safe side, you may wish to delete our above comments, for the future benefit of mankind.

Midnight said...

Actually, several years ago, a girlfriend of mine used to reward me with a shot of whiskey for good behaviour (actually, for assembling Ikea furniture). I got a double-shot once, when I perfectly hung some heavy shelving on a wall, using only drywall screws and corresponding plugs (all in the middle of a silly lovers' quarrel - now THAT was grace under pressure). And I didn't even ask for it!

Naturally, I lapped it up.

Oh, I've been SO spoiled....
Can't go back to regular Chicks.

Midnight said...

Um, in case anyone misreads me, the crowbar is for the liquor cabinet, of course.

Gotta tread lightly, when in a friend's house.

Cheers!