Saturday Morning

I have reported previously how much I enjoyed shooting the bull with Amy through the night. The reason I had the pleasure of Amy’s company on those late nights is that Cute Boy has a job; he has to get up at 5 am. Well, last night wasn’t a school night for him so Amy went straight there after work and I haven’t seen her since. She said something about Erica having a party.

Which left me in the dark and quiet of Amy’s place, her absence a presence. Amy has one of those large personalities, that fills the room and rivers out into the street through the doors and windows. Maybe that’s why only one of three windows on her car can be closed. (The fourth, if opened, would probably fall off.) Confining Amy in such a small place would be dangerous. I imagine there is some part of her soul, some force that comes from Earth itself, that has damaged the windows so that it might always be free.

I wondered why neither Amy nor Erica had invited me to the party. I’m not that surprised, really—if they thought of it at all they probably judged (rightly) that it wasn’t my kind of bash, but of course that doesn’t change the perceived slight of not being asked. Amy probably didn’t want any distractions from Cute Boy in any case. Chances are he’s as tired of hearing about me being in her house as I am of hearing what she plans to do to him when she gets the chance. Last night was her chance. I thought about that more than once.

One of the side effects of trying to be a writer is that when I’m in a funk I find myself nursing the feeling rather than trying to banish or forget it. It’s a strange sort of masochism to try to put the blues to work, like poking at an open sore to make it sting more.

I had decided to stay through the weekend to help Amy steam-clean her carpet and upholstery, but now I think those plans have been forgotten. Just as well; I’ve been invited to a barbecue later today and another one tomorrow, both at the houses of people I’ve met in bars. A farewell tour of sorts, with steak.

My melancholy has carried over to today, and the weather seems sympathetic. The marine layer has been much more persistent this morning, keeping the world slightly gray but the world keeps moving anyway. Sluka’s is fairly crowded, most people choosing to sit outside and probably appreciating the cooler morning air. Later the sun will be out and the beach will be crowded. Sluka himself is bustling around, putting up advertising for his latest venture as a flight instructor.

After the road trip novel sells a million and I follow it up with the blockbuster boat trip novel, I’ll have to go on a plane trip.

8 thoughts on “Saturday Morning

  1. The Melon Collies have got the blues. Strangely, feel a similar wave of meloncholieism. Had three weeks on a shoot about dinosaurs, a visit from a guy named King Nino (, a crazy singer songwriter from New Orleans (he introduced Marianna to ice, me to Kentucky Jack, and the local gay bar (there is a piano there, and it is better than the one at the pizza place, but not by much) to N’Orleans style piano), and then…normal days. I was really looking forward to having a normal day. That has now worn off. What I need to do is get things in gear for the script. Coming together, ideas flowing. There is money in them thar hills for NM scripts that can be shot for under 8 mil. Unfortunately, I’m living in a Pro-crasti Nation. At least god made the haiku. That’s my kind or writing! How do you turn that itchy sting into creative energy? If I could only get the speach program to work well engough…

  2. My challenge for you, mon frere, is to write a script that takes place in New Mexico, can be shot for less than 8 mil, and it written entirely in haiku.


    I want to see you

    But you know it cannot be

    Get back on your horse


    I will leave you now

    To find the heart of myst’ry

    The desert calls me

    You know, something like that, only not sucking.

  3. The feeling of the blues is apparently important. Once upon a time, some researchers did surveys to look for correlations between occupation and mental illness. They discovered that 95% of writers suffered either from depression or bipolar disorder (what used to be called manic-depression). And 100% of poets had one or the other.

    Of course, these surveys just showed correlation, not cause and effect. Does being depressed contribute to being a writer, or does trying to make a living writing lead to depression?

    I quit taking medications 13 years ago for several reasons — the side effects were debilitating, and the medical plan I had at the time made me pay the full amount upfront (about $200 for a month’s supply) and then reimbursed me 6 weeks later for either 80% (if the clerk processing the claim decided it was medical) or 50% (if the clerk decided it was mental).

    But the biggest reason I quit was that the drugs didn’t just prevent the lows; they prevented all feeling of any sort. While I was on the drugs, I wasn’t able to write anything, not even a simple essay.

    A couple of years later, the teacher who had provided me with the most inspiration and encouragement committed suicide.

  4. Not sure how the description and such would work.

    Night Exterior

    Motionless desert, highway

    no cars see the wreck

    Police van sideways,

    wheels still spinning in the air

    a sound from within

    Interior Van

    Three unconscious prisoners

    awake to freedom

    It’ll take some interesting pitching to get the money. If we could get some interested Japanese…

  5. Remember, selling copies of the script to collectors would be an additional revenue stream.

    Using haiku for the description would provide that extra subtle layer the DP and others could use to help set the tone.

    I don’t think my connections at Sony would be of any use whatsoever.

  6. Now playing in Albuquerque: The Stink of Flesh, an ultra-low-budget film shot in Albuquerque, as part of the local efforts to get the New Mexico film industry started. It’s got zombies, a Mad Max-type lead character, and a tagline that piques the interest: “How do you lead an Alternative Lifestyle … when everybody’s dead?”

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