JMarshallFOX

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 16: Before Dreams

2015-10-02T19:15:00.001-07:00

Two months ago, both she and Laurent ate an ounce of psilocybin mushrooms, because a friend of Sister’s happened to acquire a hefty enough amount to distribute to persons of interest. Sister presented the shrooms in a Chinese take-out box to the cook whose instinct was to then sauté them in a butter sauce to go with the aged steaks for later that evening. Sister stopped the cook from ruining the psychedelic compounds by suggesting, instead, that she shave the mushrooms on top of a lighter snack, like toasted baguettes with bruschetta, or avocado halves filled with some feta, mint, and peas, but nothing too heavy. Unless the cook didn’t mind making a fondue for the siblings? Melted cheese would cover the foul bitterness well. The cook was confused as to why Charlotte and Laurent would want so much of the mushrooms shaved on any dish. They did not produce a pleasant aroma and their look suggested that they would spoil any food, but the cook nodded and insisted that she’d take care of it—“not to worry.” No steak that night. Brother and Sister sat for the first forty minutes after ingestion hugging their stomachs. Every now and then Laurent would curl on the floor and rock back and forth, grinning, trying to mask the discomfort. Sister took long breaths and kept saying aloud, “just got to pace ourselves,” to reassure both of them during the anxious climb up to their trip. “Don’t throw up, whatever you do, Laurent. Keep it in as best you can.” Then, both of them to one another throughout the next thirty minutes, “I think I feel it. Yeah, I definitely feel it.”

It was four hours into this trip that Charlotte had a psychotic episode prompting extreme, crippling anxiety. Trying to conceal the escalating panic, Charlotte left her brother who was in thrall to a display of colorful lights on his laptop’s screen in the living room, as gracefully as possible into her own room. Believing she was finally out of reach from his ears, she then quickly closed the door and sunk to the ground. The feeling was foreign to her, even with her having had previous trips with shrooms and acid. She knew that she needed to conduct breathing exercises, but she only knew what she did from film, such as taking in a big breath and holding it in before letting it out in a steady, sustained exhalation through her lips and then repeating this act enough times until she could feel the ground and take some comfort in being bound to and present in the room. This would work for a few minutes, but then the ground would start swirling in various viscous patterns. Her vision would keep turning up to a particular corner where the walls and and ceiling met, tuning in to its heavy music, its volume controlled by a remote device she could not grasp with her sweaty hands. Strands of hair stuck to the back of her dry mouth and each time she spat out what she felt, the ground would cough, outline her body and during these fits the clamor from the corner which held her eyes locked would synchronize its beats into loud percussive shocks. It was during this tumultuous scene that she became convinced that she had to be the worst person in the world—that she should call her parents to confess her crimes and failures as a human being and that they should immediately have her committed, either to prison or a hospital. It didn’t matter which. Would they have believe her? Could they apprehend the meaning of all of this? Of course moments would break this episode when she would remember that (most) all of this was induced by the shrooms and was not, indeed, factual.

Luckily Laurent finally stepped in to see what was happening. Charlotte looked up and him, grinned wryly and grunted out, “I’m sorry, I really needed this. I’m just not feeling well is all.” Laurent walked up slowly with a smile that he thought would be most soothing, the type of smile that is both soft and sad. Sister was pissed at herself, because this was not how she reacted to all of the past times she shroomed.

Laurent attempted cheerfulness, “You’re missing all the fun out here!” Charlotte still didn’t want to let on how utterly miserable and hopeless she had been feeling, so she just responded that she had been a little overwhelmed. Brother told her about how entertaining it was just now, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror while flicking the light switch off and on. “It was so wild. Your face looks crazy when you do it. You wanna try?” Sister said perhaps in a little bit—that she was still catching her breath, but that she was doing fine and there was no need to worry, then “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Brother did not understand why she was apologizing. She was apologizing for her own life, for what she was and could not be. Laurent decided to leave her alone for a few minutes and she eventually coaxed herself out of the nasty trapping to join Brother in the bathroom.

“Look, Charlotte.” Brother demonstrated to her what he had meant earlier in her bedroom. “Look at your face.” The way the highlights and shadows shifted with each switch was strange and bewitching. At times her face lost dimension and was only a flat series of alien features, beautiful, disorderly, and then oafish with the way her body’s silhouette slowly caught up to its maker under the light. She looked at Brother’s face in the mirror and observed the same effect, but he seemed more pleasantly amused. Hours later Charlotte couldn’t help wondering still if she was a total disappointment to everyone in her life. Perhaps she really was hideous, after all. The next day things connected organically, yet also nonsensically. She was alright, but to where had the terror dissipated? Her heart had been swollen and now everything was resolved, but how? There was a new determination that she would make something of herself. I’m going to be a successful person. No, I am successful. The glowing aftermath and, as she had put it herself, the “cosmic awareness” was real and it was kind. The cliche manifested; the next day after the trip was the remedy she needed. In no time at all Charlotte was back in love with herself, with Laurent, who had not stopped loving himself the night before. “I feel very zen,” she said to Laurent. Brother nodded to her and affirmed this new emotional swing, “Exactly, everything just makes sense now. Everything is so beautiful and grand.” Charlotte sighed deeply, “I kept apologizing to you, last night.” Brother said yes and that he couldn’t figure out why she was so sorry.

Charlotte couldn’t articulate the reason, either, but apparently she had labored through her anxiety attack under the belief that she was spilling out all of her darkest secrets to her brother, everything terrible that even he had not known about her. When Charlotte admitted she was operating under this gut-wrenching feeling of having been exposed, of being shamed, he replied that she had barely said a word once she left to her room to find relief. Sister couldn’t believe it. She had to have spilled out everything, whatever that meant. Brother, again, said no. Charlotte seemed to lighten up a bit, “I thought you knew I was the worst person ever, that I was really evil.” Laurent laughed and taunted her playfully, “well, aren’t you?”

2015-09-05T20:13:00.002-07:00

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 15: After Dreams

IDYLLS OF THE IDLE

Laurent is not able to use writing as a sole means for escape. The process can be mean and is always confrontational. It's often awkward and the long stretches of silence that block his creative flow can burden him. Following a scent, he attempts breast stroke underwater from one source to another. Mushy particles from a phantom carcass are carried down to the sedimentary bed. During his later morning writing exercise, Laurent still has a headache from conjuring gods in his sleep, now diminished. A man strikes a chord from the hollow in his head.

In order to make the transition into morning softer, he takes the purple glass smoking pipe from the nightstand to scavenge any remaining weed in the bowl, or at least enough clumps of newer, moist resin. The tar-like substance requires longer exposure to the flame and a harder intake, but Laurent enjoys the slow sizzle. Luckily, the bowl is only half scorched and so he scrapes off the top burnt layer and begins working on the rest of the green bud. In the past he’s had successful writing sessions after smoking a little weed. There is a threshold of incapacity all too easily passed if he carelessly puff puffs away without allowing enough time between the inhalations for him to adjust into each new increment of euphoria and heightened sensibility. Too many levels up and Laurent will lose track of his original intention, resorting to searching through social media, arts and entertainment articles, or amateur pornography videos. The writing would not get done. At the most he would be able to pound away a half-hazard paragraph, proving later to be a laughable effort as he edits. Laurent limits himself to taking seven hits off the pipe and then brings his fingers to his lap top’s keyboard.

Charlotte puffs at one half of a joint that she saved from the previous night. Ever since the news came about her brother Charles’ upcoming visit, Sister has spent more time thinking about her siblings and her parents back abroad. She is baffled by how deliberately uncouth Charles and how socially stunted her sister Chloe are, lamenting the second’s regressive development because she always thought her young sister to be so pretty. Both of her younger twin siblings are as attractive as she or Laurent and looks do a great deal of help. Chloe is distinguished to Charlotte from the rest of them with her delicate but arresting presence that might evoke Edith Scob’s masked angel in captivity from the film, Eyes Without a Face. Underneath her poise, however, Chloe’s neuroticism more and more gives her away. Charles, well, he’s self-assured and charismatic enough to make it through.Yikes, but why is she so weird? How can they just step back and let her fall apart like that—without stepping in? In this thought Charlotte forgets that while growing up, Mother and Father were always very involved with how all of their children formulated and nurtured their personalities. The siblings’ eccentricities are more likely related to an overstepping onto the dark matter of their organic outlines—not from Mr. and Mrs. Yardley keeping any distance from all the adolescent development. Well, Mom and Dad sure do know how to put on the pressure. I’ll give her that, the poor girl. They need to give her a fucking break and let her come visit.

Sister reflects upon her mother and the ideas she worked into her maternal script. She wonders about Chloe, who very well may be the way she is due to how her parents eventually came to perceive the first two of their children as off-track sqaunderers, stalling out in errant and rebellious lifestyles. Or do Mr. And Mrs. Yardley deflect that sober acknowledgement with some sort of defense mechanism, ruling out that theory? Regardless, Charlotte must admit to herself how she enjoys this perception. It places her (and Laurent) into a dark, but interesting light. As if Chloe is not extravagant in her own way. She is freakishly irregular. Again Charlotte contrasts her younger sister with Charles. Is Charles really the most successful Yardley child? No, no, no. That’s got to be complete bullshit. I’m an actress who’s found work.

2015-09-05T20:12:00.001-07:00

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 14:

AUDIENCE AND STAGE AT WAR

At this time many in the audience may want a break. This deep into the words and some buttocks are beginning to numb from the weight of bone and upper organs. The shading of these organic outlines is no flighty business; direction takes time. Instances of eventfulness depend on a meeting of time and one chosen from out of many places. There has been essentially one setting and perhaps fifteen places, so it falls back on the eternal stream of time. Yardleys have all the time in the world, so we will have to cap them off at some point. Take the fabric cutting shears and cut the cord between family and its power source. Sever the feed before it all turns mushy.

Numb flesh burns, but if we give them a fifteen-minute break between each part to the play, then we’ll never finish. Yes, unfortunately the first part goes directly into the second, with only a brief black curtaining for cushioning the head and rebuilding stamina. Believe us when we say that we want nothing more than to keep your favor. Numb flesh gives way to fire.

********************

WOMEN ON FIRE

Sophia scratches the side of her knee under the thick hem of her dress. Perspiration comes and goes and the armpits of her attire have become slightly damp. Little wet creases have formed all alongside her fabric where it has been pressed into the red velvet of her seat throughout the first act. The man next to her is bursting out of his tightly drawn in suit. His fat bulges out of the arms of the wool jacket and brush forcefully against her skin. She can feel the expansion and decompression of his lungs ripple in energy throughout the rest of his body. Earlier there were moments when she thought she might make more of an effort to synchronize her breathing with his, so that there wouldn't be any awkward counter rhythms. It hasn't been as unbearable for her as times where she is lying in bed with a man who refuses to meet her pace of breathing and instead respirates on the downbeats of her own phrasing, but the unevenness of this small physical interplay is apparent to her enough at times to detract from the action on stage.

She wishes she could have had a seat secured for her up with her friends, Christopher and Julien, in their box secluded on the third tier, with more space for her emotional response to the performances to occupy leisurely, but those seating arrangements were finalized ages ago. I can't wait to get the fuck out of here. There is a damp air about the row from the crowd and Sophia is finding it harder and harder to resist taking a stroll out of the theater into foyer for a breather and refill of bubbly. Sophia twitches slightly and this movement is registered by the man next to her who brings his arm closer in to his body. Jesus, do you mind? For the most part strangers do not enjoy being trespassed upon and he can appreciate that boundary once it is reinforced. The man is cultured and the actively cultured members of society are generally apt in the art of feeling and permitting personal space. He watches Laurent up on stage bring tea out to Charlotte, who, unlike Sophia next to him, has become quite comfortable in her seating arrangement next to the director, Broussard. Suddenly remembering the knot in his neck, he manipulates the muscles to crack his joints and ligaments and Sophia responds by exhaling a quick stream of air through her nostrils to communicate a growing lack of impatience.

2015-09-05T20:10:00.001-07:00

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 13: Afternoon Wine with the Director: Part 2

UPDATES AND PROBLEMS

Broussard redirects her probe:

—What I do ask of my crew is for their trust. I believe the final product comes out bolder and truer when I have that. It's not the mechanics I want as much as the essence. I'm always looking for an essence. When I think I've found the right person, I give them my trust. I only expect that, in return, they do the same for me.

Sister knows she must comply:

—I understand perfectly. I'm ready to be molded or…pushed. With the script I realize I’ll have to suspend hesitancies and jump—just jump right into it all. And that's all there is to it.

Three glasses are brought to their holders' lips. Brother smothers a piece of baguette with the pate. Brother amuses himself with the thought of smudging Sister's forehead with the fatty concoction. How far can Sister be pushed? Brother offers the platter of foie gras to Broussard, who is obliging and humored after finishing her cigarette. His counterpart refuses the same offer and resents the crunching noises following from his mouth.

Broussard:

—You've come to realize this, I'm sure, as you've grown more accustomed to France, but we come from backgrounds of intense discipline. I'd say it's an obsession, how we regulate ourselves. We measure out exactly our personal interactions on parchment, just so, and seal them off with polite kisses. Many who visit interpret our culture as one mediating through deliberate coldness, but I say we interact in a way that is très simple et claire. (She speak more slowly) This is not my approach in film. I do not want to pull the ceiling down over my team to where it just barely misses the hair on their heads, or to mold my leads down to models I've already pre-conceived. I can work with a tight aesthetic and let it drape around the work naturally. I think it's nice to breathe.

Laurent:

You're going to have a rough time reigning in this one, though.

Broussard raises her eyebrows briefly to Laurent, like a quick spasm from a muscle unknowingly tensed, and stoops closer toward Charlotte:

What motivates you as an actress?

Charlotte, making sure not to look at Laurent, puts out her cigarette:

—Does an actress need to know what motivates her?

Brother tsk tsks to himself. Throughout the meeting he had been waiting for Charlotte to repeat some of the half-heartedly felt witticisms and broad aesthetic statements on acting he fed her before the guest of paramount influence and opportunity arrived. Sister buckles silently in her seat and clears her throat. Broussard lets out a quick exhalation of short breath.

Charlotte continues:

—I'm joking of course.

Broussard:

—I'm not one of those directors that think her actors and actresses to be dispensable. I am searching for an essence and a source of constant freshness.

Charlotte:

—Absolutely. I'm…not entirely sure (she laughs). When I think about it, I realize I've always been acting. Laurent and I have always acted. Isn't it fantastic to be able to take what is common and spin it upwards through an inspired lens, up to the ceiling of a performance hall (she wipes the sweat off of her forehead with her backhand, as if rubbing away the smear of pate with which Laurent fantasized her)? I like to make things grand even in their mundanity. It's like writing, I suppose (she turns to Laurent). We owe ourselves to some…reality, but we also leave gaps, or, they're already there for us to fill up. What am I saying?

Laurent, who knows Charlotte has reluctantly turned to him for assistance:

—We owe ourselves to ourselves. Well, we owe ourselves to the art and to the daily toil.

Charlotte brightens and hastens:

—It's everything to me. I believe pretense heightens the raw materials from our lives and reveals to us subtle interactions of these sources in ways that we don't always immediately recognize. At the same time I also thoroughly enjoy a performance that does not lean back on the artifice, but makes a window of itself to what is common in an uncanny, even troubling way…(she laughs) perhaps an intensely boring way. Like I said, I promise we really are quite boring here.

There she goes again claiming to be boring and insisting upon herself being reduced to the level of "common." Sister repeatedly refers to the setting of the Yardley house as boring—as a dull pulse that consumes time, and it does. All the time in the world is not enough for the Yardley siblings to consume, as well, to pick up dust from the angles of their playhouse (wait, that is Martha's job) and sweep in here and there and to order more gin and tonics and to lounge on the backstage. There is something rather lush about the known security of wealth, isn't there? No kidding. More sips of wine are taken, including a larger gulp from Laurent. Laurent and Charlotte adore the sluggish sun cloud that seeps into the house each morning after their nightly toking sessions. Boring is sexy. Performative boredom is riveting. A this time, Laurent performs boredom while trailing backwards to ground where the remains of the dragonfly have been eaten away to mere bits of wing, glass from a precious lamp shade that have lost their original sharp ability of light refraction. Laurent reanimates what has been struck down and scorned:

Long-winded and not prone to compartmentalize each gleam of the twisting joyride, the dragonfly, the drunk, demands they change their tone—to shape up or be snatched up. Shift and bend out of shape, bottom layer to this lawn forest of the molted outer substance. The dragonfly is drunk in the air with wet mandible emerald nape, to feed in-between emotional planes—never on, but inside. Tyrant of the lawn sky, he is compelled. He chews out a mean battle drum, waits for the hover to emerge from of them all below. Below, they scatter, step, prick at, are cautious, but regard the brilliant current. Do they decide, then, that some sky is worth a severed head?

His perception follows the heat of the ground to the clouds and imagines a giant dragonfly homing in above its destination at the Yardley house. He sits and feels his sternum rattle from the underlining base-like woof of the beast's weighty humming, magnified and made into a grinding plague. The predatory sky makes him nauseous. Lower in the gastrointestinal track he feels the base of the song attack, loosening silted bowels. There is no time to recuperate from the last pound of the bass before the next blare. Heavy heaving drone. He imagines another man, older and even more confounded, outside of himself, choking on the thick air, each particle buzzing and pushing inward into the trenches of sound, snaking inward. Crunching over, as if to cough wildly into his fist, the old man shakes and the framework of his upper body responds to the heavy bass of the dragonfly. The bones acquire a hard plasticity that is difficult to make work with his lungs. His clenching ribs clunk against the softer tissue and are pushed back further than is natural with the driving beat of the music. Green armor plates drown out the sky as the dragonfly nears.

For a couple minutes Brother drops out of color. Next to him the two women continue their conversation. After a dazed look elsewhere into the sky above the backstage, Charlotte lets her head fall back gracefully, like a drifting leaf meeting the water of the swimming pool. She lights another cigarette. Charlotte then drifts further down this smooth imaginary garland toward Laurent, who has been in a whole other "elsewhere" of his own. Gently, she rubs his right shoulder with her hand, coaxing him to attentiveness, and then looks back to Broussard, keeping all of her body still in its new marking, except for her neck which twists back to the director. Charlotte takes a drag of the next cigarette, hand positioned over Laurent and eyes locked on Broussard, as she speaks:

—For instance…

As if pre-rehearsed a countless number of times earlier in the day Charlotte exhales the smoke through her lips into Laurent's mouth, who slowly sucks in the smoke while closing his eyes. While tilting his head backyard, Laurent then blows the smoke out and upward through his nostrils. Broussard keeps her neck craned to get a good full picture, smiling with her mouth slightly open. The two of them before her have carefully monitored their presentation; only, both have taken different (not opposite) approaches. Why the sudden generosity? In the end this is not entirely collaboration for the siblings, at least not a conscious one. Practice in their theater leads to moments of autonomy, but, while these ornamentations of performance lend themselves to an overall musical reception, intended or not, grasped or not by the performers, they are not everything for either Yardley. Quickly, the moment is dismissed by Laurent, pretender guardian of the below, of everything Charlotte overlooks, and he excuses himself from the table to leave the director and Sister to their business.

Charlotte, determined not to be the mere second to last feature following the performative coalescence, says to Laurent:

—Bring me a cup of tea? Mint tea, if you would.

Laurent nods while walking back inside, his eyes look to the space preceding his footsteps as he comes to the exit of the scene and enters the house. The audience takes delight in the performances. Some believe these scenes become comedy because the leads act so deliciously and so drunk that the motions become uncomfortable. They are both deeply silly, for stepping outside of nature, and evil. We ask the guests to revel with the actors in how exquisitely ridiculous the tropes used can be after being groped by hundreds of hands preceding before them, both nuanced and inept. Revel in how the hands tonight tap into really carnal, base things. The idle moments of the Yardleys access the most base, manipulative shit in a gleeful, giddy, and nonchalant way. Charlotte believes that her demeanor is rebellious.

The director asks Charlotte if she considers herself provocative. Charlotte responds with a shrug that pretends to accept the label as neither here nor there for her. There follows a few clicks of her tongue and she wets her lips gingerly, before going into a brief portrait of the temperamental girl she was years ago. Her beaming face shakes as if she were actually unsure of the answer, or at least unsure of its contribution to her daily spectacle, while managing not to commit to any of the insights that come out of her mouth. She finally responds that she sees no point in blurring any lines that didn't exist to begin with in her life. Does she make herself clear?

Broussard:

—First, let me first say that I only want to go forward if I have your complete trust. I think that trust is everything for a role such as this. I’d like to think that I can trust you as well—not to back out once we reach a certain point.

Charlotte intently nods, pressing the director to elaborate:

—I agree, of course.

Broussard:

—How do you feel about onscreen nudity?

Charlotte:

—I don’t really have any hesitations. I know your work and don’t feel there’s any need for either of us to be embarrassed.

Broussard:

—Excellent. So, you know there is going to be nudity in the film. Please also know that I’m promising now that I’ll never breach our trust and or force you to perform anything that you might find compromising. You know, I didn’t say it before, but I had a hunch about you. I want you on this project and knew you’d be able to deliver. What do you say now? Are you ready to go forward with me?

Charlotte:

—I sure am. (Then, cupping her breasts with her hands) So are they.

Clear off the stage, keep the backdrop, heads up! Marks in five minutes. The pretenses air out and drift back through the side doors. With them walks their adoptive owners, everything, back into the dressing rooms. In the wings of the stage the actors take deep breaths so that the upcoming events, strategically blocked by the cast and crew earlier, can take flight. No, this is the end of flight. Too much time spent in the air can make one dizzy, so we will have to pull everything back—back to tracing the scent upstream. Bring us the cutting shears. New platforms, NOW!!!

infinity and bitches' brew

2015-09-05T19:51:00.003-07:00

She pulls an ice cube out of her iced coffee and flicks her fingers.

It's funny to me just how wrong some people get their lives.

Yeah, but if it's their own...

She wipes her hands on the side of her shirt, where the excess fat hangs with the infinity sign tattoo above her waistline.

Ownership is cool and all, but honestly I'm a little tired of people thinking they can snag some validation simply by owning their shitty choices and behavior.

I get what you mean, I think. Yeah, like some jackass who's rude but can get away with it by explaining that he's just being honest.

She looks up to meet her eyes briefly and then brings her gaze back down to her coffee. It's tiring for her to keep going on like this with her friend, but she'll manage.

What ever happened to regret? Why the trend saying everything happens for a reason or why the yolo?

Haha, but we're so fucking young still, though.

I feel old enough already.

You're crazy. Regret's a waste. Just channel your energy into finding balance with all of the choices and your efforts into new directions.

Oh my God, whatever.

She takes a sip of her drink and wonders why she told the barista whole milk would be fine. It makes her sick.

Natalie, don't you think that you should call Brad and invite him to the party?

Fuck that. No. He needs to think about his choice--really do some reflecting, you know?

Talk it all out with him.

I'm so sick of it. I wonder how I keep going at all. I mean like I know my problems and can recognize how I've hurt his sister's feelings or whatever, but come on! She's pregnant again and had an abortion last year. At least I know that--wait, holy shit. Haha, here I go being a total fucking shitty person. Charlie, I totally have regrets.

She looks back down to the buoyant buoyant ice cubes at the top of her beverage. There's a fly stuck on top of one of the cubes. It makes her sick.

I'm so sick of this, Charlie. Let's get out of here.

There's no buzz at all to the insect stuck to its watery grave.

This shit is ruined, Charlie. Let's leave.

You're right, Natalie. Forget Brad tonight, then.

Infinity, Charlie. It's not an excuse to take shit and spew shit. I'm just trying to project positivity, you know?

I totally feel that.

Definitive List of Classical Works DRAFT

2015-08-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

This will be an ongoing list. Feel free to suggest entries.

ARIA/ART SONG/DUET/TRIO
"Ebben! Ne Andro Lontana," Catalini's La Wally
"Gaultier Malde" Verdi's Rigoletto
"Lascia ch'io Pianga," Handel's
"Mon Coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," Saint-Saens's Samson and Delilah
"Monsieur Le Brigadier?" (Act 1) and "Oui, Je Reste!...Je Dis Que Rien..." (Act 3)..., Bizet's Carmen
"O Mio Babbino Caro," Puccini's Gianni Schicchi
"Soave il vento" (trio), Mozart's Così Fan tutte
"To This We've Come," Menotti's The Consul
"Una Furtiva Lagrima," Donizetti's L'elisir D'amore

OPERATIC ENSEMBLE (BOTH VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL)
Finale to Act 2, Bizet's Carmen
Finale to Act 3, Massenet's Cendrillon
Vorspiel/Prelude, Wagner's Tristan and Isolde

CHORAL (SMALL ENSEMBLE AND MASSES)
Funeral for Queen Mary, Purcell
Mass in C Minor, Mozart
Mass No 2 in G Major, Schubert
"Gloria for the Masque of Angels," Argento
Stabat Mater for Soprano and Alto, by Pergolesi
Requiem K 626, Mozart
Slava V Vishnich Bogu from All-Night Vigil, Rachmaninov

SYMPHONIC (Whole/BOTH VOCAL AND INSTRUMENTAL)
Chichester Psalms, Bernstein
Symphony of Psalms, Stravinsky

INSTRUMENTAL (Movements/SMALL AND LARGE ENSEMBLE)
7th Symphony, 2nd Movement (Allegretto), Beethoven
Adagio for Strings (from 2nd Movement of String Quartet), Op 11., Barber
"Atmospheres," Ligeti
Brandenburg Concertos, Bach
Cocerto for Flute and Harp K 299, Mozart
"The Holy Virgin of Frydek," Janacek
"Ich Ruf Zu Dir, Herr Jesu Christ," Bach
"The Moldau," Smetana
Pas de Deux from The Nutcracker, Tchaikovsky
Piano Concerto in D Minor, K 466, Mozart
Piano Trio in E Flat, Op 100, Schubert
Prelude in G Minor Op 23 #5, Rachmaninov
Sarabande, orchestrated or on harpsichord, Handel
Serenade for Winds; K 361; 3rd movement, Mozart
"Siciliano," Bach
Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, Franck
"The Swan" from Carinal of the Animals, Saint-Saens
Swan Lake Finale, Tchaikovsky
Siegfried and Odette Pas de Deux in Act 2 from Swan Lake, Tchaikovsky
Waltz of the Flowers from The Nutcracker, Tchaikovsky
Waltz No 2 Jazz Suite, Shostakovich
"Winter" from The Four Seasons, Vivaldi

Muddle, Part Two

2014-04-22T13:49:00.001-07:00

He was a dragon after the singeing of his own hair and skin. The charred village back to carbon from smokey diamond. Under the flames they felt a slow rain, rich with disintegrated flesh. Closer to a grey snow, rich and putrid. The dragon snapped at space made emptier without oxygen. He would smile through all the smoke at an aging outline of a friend, pricking his flushed ears at dry echoes of approbation. All the ruin for love, for nods, for clasp of sharp stern claws. Chasing his scales he had flung through the billowing veil at the other, he could not halt the fiery dance. If there were another village, it followed the first, and another and a friendship, not scorched, but welded.

The dragon spit a wide stream from his belly onto the other beast, who was not a dragon but breathed air and brightened up in his own peculiar way, distinguished by aplomb, rather than magnitude of pillage. Strange flames flickered in four eyes, surveying the ash and bone. The flames had waited out the night. Two beasts, not content to moderation. One prone to all the demolition. The other, the charting of his friend's percussion. Their bodies could not be broken that night. Lumps of coal in their mouths sweetened each hour. Villages gone to make way for savage communion.

The other presented two mirrors for his friend. He suggested they mock performance art and attempt transcendence, starting with they know and love best: their own flesh. Both flicked cigarettes over the glass and cozied up to their reflections. They angled the two flush mirrors first at 120 degrees, delighting in the multiplying of themselves, over and over as the angle was drawn back and forth. Enflamed and body engorged, the two bodies lowered and rubbed against the image.

The Dragon kissed his own reflection:
--You know I bring chaos. You ask for chaos.

He taunted the admonishing approach of the morning, defying a frayed social contract. After more cigarettes and riches taken for granted, the Dragon smashed a mirror over his leg. Drugged, the dragon cut into his leg, foretasting the spoils of unconfined consumption. A claw swiped over his blood and transported the boiling wine to his own mouth. Blood dropped onto the mirrors on the ground the other had unearthed from the rubble of a house. Nothing was spared, but, again, the bodies of the two beasts could not be broken.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 13: Afternoon Wine with the Director: Part 2

2014-04-08T11:32:00.001-07:00

Broussard redirects her probe:

--What I do ask of my crew is for their trust. I believe the final product comes out bolder and truer when I have that. It's not the mechanics I want as much as the essence. I'm always looking for an essence. When I think I've found the right person, I give them my trust. I only expect that, in return, they do the same for me.

Sister knows she must comply:

--I understand perfectly. I'm ready to be molded or…pushed. With the script I realize II'll have to suspend hesitancies and jump--just jump right into it all. And that's all there is to it.

Brother smothers a piece of baguette with the pate. Brother amuses himself with the thought of smudging Sister's forehead with the fatty concoction. How far can Sister be pushed? Brother offers the platter of foie gras to Broussard, who is obliging and humored after finishing her cigarette. His counterpart refuses the same offer and resents the crunching noises following from his mouth.

Broussard:

--You've come to realize this, I'm sure, as you've grown more accustomed to France, but we come from backgrounds of intense discipline. I'd say it's an obsession, how we regulate ourselves. We measure out exactly our personal interactions on parchment, just so, and seal them off with polite kisses. Many who visit interpret our culture as one mediating through deliberate coldness, but I say we interact in a way that is tres simple et claire. (She speak more slowly) This is not my approach in film. I do not want to pull the ceiling down over my team to where it just barely misses the hair on their heads, or to mold my leads down to models I've already pre-conceived. I can work with a tight aesthetic and let it drape around the work naturally. I think it's nice to breathe.

Laurent:

You're going to have a rough time reigning in this one, though.

Broussard raises her eyebrows briefly to Laurent, like a quick spasm from a muscle unknowingly tensed, and stoops closer toward Charlotte:

--What motivates you as an actress?

Charlotte, making sure not to look at Laurent, puts out her cigarette:

--Does an actress need to know what motivates her?

Charlotte continues:

--I'm joking of course.

Broussard:

--I'm not one of those directors that thinks her actors and actresses to be dispensable. I am searching for an essence and a source of constant freshness.

Charlotte:

--Absolutely. I'm…not entirely sure (she laughs). When I think about it, I realize I've always been acting. Laurent and I have always acted. Isn't it fantastic to be able to take what is common and spin it upwards through an inspired lens, up to the ceiling of a performance hall (she wipes the sweat off of her forehead with her backhand, as if rubbing away the smear of pate with which Laurent fantasized her)? I like to make things grand even in their mundanity. It's like writing, I suppose (she turns to Laurent). We owe ourselves to some…reality, but we also leave gaps, or, they're already there for us to fill up. What am I saying?

Laurent, who knows Charlotte has reluctantly turned to him for assistance:

--We owe ourselves to ourselves. Well, we owe ourselves to the art and to the daily toil.

Charlotte brightens and hastens:

--It's everything to me. I believe pretense heightens the raw materials from our lives and reveals to us subtle interactions of these sources in ways that we don't always immediately recognize. At the same time I also thoroughly enjoy a performance that does not lean back on the artifice, but makes a window of itself to what is common in an uncanny, even troubling way…(she laughs) perhaps an intensely boring way. Like I said, I promise we really are quite boring here.

There she goes again claiming to be boring and insisting herself reduced to the level of "common." Sister repeatedly refers to the setting of the Yardley house as boring--as a dull pulse that consumes time, and it does. All the time in the world is not enough for the Yardley siblings to consume, as well, to pick up dust from the angles of their playhouse (wait, that is Martha's job) and sweep in here and there and to order more gin and tonics and to lounge on the backstage. There is something rather lush about the known security of wealth, isn't there? No kidding. Laurent and Charlotte adore the sluggish sun cloud that seeps into the house each morning after their nightly toking sessions. Boring is sexy. Performative boredom is riveting. A this time, Laurent performs boredom while trailing backwards to ground where the remains of the dragonfly have been eaten away to mere bits of wing, glass from a precious lamp shade that have lost their original sharp ability of light refraction. Laurent reanimates what has been struck down and scorned:

Long-winded and not prone to compartmentalize each gleam of the twisting joyride, the dragonfly, the drunk, demands they change their tone--to shape up or be snatched up. Shift and bend out of shape, bottom layer to this lawn forrest of the molted outer substance. The dragonfly is drunk in the air with wet mandible emerald nape, to feed in between emotional planes--never on, but inside. Tyrant of the lawn sky, he is compelled. He chews out a mean battle drum, waits for the hover to emerge from of them all below. Below, they scatter, step, prick at, are cautious, but regard the brilliant current. Do they decide, then, that some sky is worth a severed head?

His perception follows the heat of the ground to the clouds and imagines a giant dragonfly homing in above its destination at the Yardley house. He sits and feels his sternum rattle from the underlining woof of the beast's weighty humming, magnified and made into a grinding plague. The predatory sky makes him nauseous. Lower in the gastrointestinal track he feels the base of the song attack, loosening silted bowels. There is no time to recuperate from the last pound of the bass before the next blare. Heavy heaving drone. He imagines another man, older and even more confounded, outside of himself, choking on the thick air, each particle buzzing and pushing inward into the trenches of sound, snaking inward. Crunching over, as if to cough wildly into his fist, the old man shakes and the framework of his upper body responds to the heavy bass of the dragonfly. The bones acquire a hard plasticity that is difficult to make work with his lungs. His clenching ribs clunk against the softer tissue and are pushed back further than is natural with the driving beat of the music. Green armor plates drown out the sky as the dragonfly nears.

--For instance…

As if pre-rehearsed a countless number of times earlier in the day Charlotte exhales the smoke through her lips into Laurent's mouth, who slowly sucks in the smoke while closing his eyes. While tilting his head backyard, Laurent then blows the smoke out and upward through his nostrils. The two of them have carefully monitored their presentation, only, both have taken different (not opposite) approaches. In the end this is not entirely a collaboration for the siblings, at least not a conscious one. Practice in their theater leads to moments of autonomy, but, while these ornamentations of performance lend themselves to an overall musical reception, intended or not, grasped or not by the performers, they are not everything for either Yardley. Quickly, the moment is dismissed by Laurent, pretender guardian of the below, of everything Charlotte overlooks, and he excuses himself from the table to leave the director and Sister to their business.

Charlotte, determined not to be the mere second to last feature following the performative coalescence, says to Laurent:

--Could you bring me a cup of tea? Mint tea, if you would.

lessons in show-off despair

2014-03-31T12:43:00.000-07:00

man don't put a woman out there on the marking
or pretend it's piping hot broth from your ladle/
have her suffer from your own envy
man don't blow on her until she's cold
or let her take on the heat from plot and trial/
have her dance solo and burn
don't hide behind the other don't shift the weight
don't slosh the soup
don't steal the soul don't art it up
don't make your own marking and let her fall
in your stead.

strikes a chord

2014-03-31T12:24:00.002-07:00

A man strikes a chord in the hollow of my wake
which softens my face and relaxes my bowels.
It hurts from being too pleasant, the depth and the tunnel,
but the ache.
I hope stays--
I hope carves--
rings into the dusk.
Love must be a swing of hammer to the foundation.

drunk/stalking the grass, the dragonfly

2014-03-28T14:50:00.004-07:00

long-winded and not prone to compartmentalize each gleam
of the twisting joyride the dragonfly/drunk demands
they change their tone--to shape up or be snatched up.
shift and bend out of shape bottom layer to this lawn forrest
of the molted outer substance the dragonfly is drunk in the air
with wet mandible emerald nape--to feed in between planes
never on inside tyrant of the sky is compelled/chews
out a mean battle drum waits for the hover of them all
below they scatter step/prick at/are cautious
but regard the brilliant current do they decide
some sky is worth a severed head.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 12: Afternoon Wine with the Director: Part 1

2014-03-26T12:26:00.001-07:00

We see this transformation within couples who have lived together for many years. One begins to take on the characteristics of the other and vise versa. Physically, even, two people will begin to absorb the harshness and delicacies from their counterparts. Charlotte and Laurent are not biological twins, yet with one actor's utterance, there follows feeble resistance, but mostly careful mimicry from a tiresome, biological impulse for learning and adopting behavior. The many complexities of, not only carrying, but displaying various emotions constitute the underlining groundwork for an art that Brother and Sister are becoming all too good at. As has been known ever since Sophocles, the human heart is not immutable. Certain theatrics may be overplayed or too easily expected in each scene, but that is why Brother and Sister learned early on the importance of mercuriality. Regard the calculated unpredictability.
Brother reenters the backstage with a bottle of wine in one hand and a platter decorated with an assortment of foie gras--a typical pate, a mouse version, and one that has been bruleed. There is also a warm baguette wedged in-between his chest and his forearm. Sister pats the table lightly indicating where Brother can rest the tray. Broussard crosses her table side hand over to touch Brother and express her thanks with a doting smile. Now, there needs to be glassware, as well. Where are the glasses? Sister loves to fix her fingers around a steam of a wine glass and gently roll the structure over the prints on her thumb, index, and pointer finger. She requests two glasses to be brought to the table, to focus the angle of her body and to give pulse to the afternoon leisure. If Brother likes, he can bring another for his own pleasure. Again, Brother temporarily leaves the backstage and the riverbank of star gazing and wishing. Willful currents travel from the spring and deposit glittering artifacts. Sister's efforts raise a bed out of the older sediments and trap the polished ornaments. Sister snakes through her own rhythm, hoping for Broussard to cast out her lure.
Broussard:
--This would be your first time to work on a film project, am I correct?
Charlotte:
--You are. I've only recently become familiar with the stage. Actually, the work referred to you has been my first formal kind. The role was in a way written for me by a dear friend of the family, Peter Sonnek. He put alot of faith in me, but, looking back I do think I would have perfumed better after more training. I have virtually no other professional experience
--You know, though, what I found so exhilarating was this unprecedented confidence you brought into the role. They way your lover struck you down and you shook with disgust, telling him he was "so brave," or was it "so strong?"
--I told him, "what a real man, you are, Paul."
--That was it. I thought it shattering how disdainfully you looked at him while keeping total composure.
--Thank you very much. I'm glad to have made an impression.
--I believe you must please everyone with whom you leave an impression.
Charlotte raises both hands in the air in ridiculous anti-modesty:
--I always aim to please.
--Well, Mr. Sonneck certainly knew what he was doing. You're a natural.
--Thank you. You're too kind.
Broussard takes out a cigarette, pauses to look for a sign of passage from her host, and then lights up. Sister follows suit after relaxing out of relief. Brother arrives back on que with the glasses for the table. Sister motions to a chair closer to the pool for Laurent to grab and bring back to the setting and then takes the bottle to pour a glass for the director, who finds her lure drenched in Sister's rich cordiality and luster.
Laurent the amused duck peddles the water lightly, apart from the stronger flow in the stream. He is content to have another drink in his hands and even more so to assume his presence close at hand to the preoccupied actress. Broussard catches a glint from the young man and goes back to figuring him into the picture. Laurent takes a sip from his drink. The director asks him if he is proud of Sister. She asks him if he was able to see any of the pre-performance makings of the work as a whole. Brothers remarks that he lives with the makings of the work as a whole. Boy, is Sister a work. Sister comes in to say what a great sport Brother has been over the past couple of years. Brother comes back to say living with an actress comes with the perks of making acquaintances with the best sort of company that line of work attracts. Broussard is flattered.

Just A Glimpse

2014-03-26T12:25:00.003-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2ReFd_RlSU

Above is a link to a short film that Nathan Ashlock and I put together about witches, coffee, and love letters. Justine feels phony and didactic. She is currently finishing a manuscript for her masters degree and does not find soppy sentimentality for a good companion in her intellectual journey. Hannah, her friend who has taken her out for coffee, just wants for Justine to unwind from all the pressures she has with her family and work. Hannah invites Justine to a seance, where she becomes ever further tangled in the ropes of a mysterious cult. France, the witch leader of this eclectic assortment of people goes into a trance and unleashes a demon onto Justine out of unknown, but clearly pernicious (lol) motives.

"Just A Glimpse"

Scene 1 (PROLOGUE) NIGHTTIME, 10-15 seconds

We hear a scratching noise in quick strokes. Close up CAMERA on a wooden desk in a dense darkness, except for a lamp's light. We see a woman's hands writing the opening of a letter with crisp determination, her handwriting deliberate and gorgeous. The sound of boots on a wooden floor are heard approaching. A thicker and hairier hand snatches the letter out from under the woman's hands as a dark figure walks into the shadows. The man's face is shown looking at the letter and then back at the women. The man walks away from the woman at the desk, who is left to herself and buries her face into the palms of her hands.The light goes out.

TITLE sequence in pink cursive

Scene 2 (CAFE) MIDDAY 20-30 seconds

Title and credits remain. We see a cafe table with its place setting slowly illuminated in the frame. One plate has a napkin tossed on top and next to it silver wear out on the surface. The spoon, fork, and knife are in a half-hazard pile. On the other side of the plate there is a cup of coffee that has been drunk out of by a mystery person. Across from the undone setting there is another plate with its silver wear still wrapped up in its napkin, intact, and another full cup of coffee. There is typical background cafe clamor off camera. Miles Davis' track Bitches Brew plays from the beginning of the track. More distinctly, there is a dialogue going on during this shot at the table surface:

Hannah: Well, I think its brewed here like it's done in cafes in Jakarta.

Justine: Like, Indonesia?

H: Like, yeah, it's what I've heard. Iunno. My mom has acid reflux and so I have her on the whole cold-drip thing now, but, um...

J: I wish I had the time to become more of a coffee connoisseur.

H: You can start here. It's just fabulous, here. The espresso has that foamy light-brown top.

J: So you know it's the real thing, then.

H: Exactly.

The new shot is over the table facing toward a girl with long brown hair falling down over her right shoulder. She is seated across from another girl (whose hands, but not face is visible in this shot) and her body language, while eloquent, does sag toward the table. There is silence in the middle of the clamor.

Scene 3 (DIM BEDROOM) LATE EVENING, 45 seconds at most

Justine is prepping in front of a mirror in her bedroom. The lighting is ambient. She flips her hair over her shoulders a couple times while mystified by her reflection. She is almost drunk in her perception. She is wearing a black dress with pearls loosely hung around her neck. The phone on her night stand rings, but she chooses to let the call go to her mailbox. The camera follows her reaction (or lack of one) to the voicemail as Justine continues in her routine.

Caleb (On the recorder): Heya, Justine. Missed you at service today. I, uh, know that you're going through a pretty rough time. …And it sucks. I think you should come hang out with us sometime this week? Or it can be just us two, if that's more comfortable for you. Haha. Well, I just wanted to let you know that you have a friend in me. (Caleb becomes more radiant) And listen, I don't know how you feel about this sort of thing at this point, but, um… God's really got your back. The scriptures tell us that these sort of events are often God just wanting us to cry out to him, ya know. Haha, like a reminder that he's here for us. What else is there to turn to? We've got to model ourselves after someone, you know? God has amazing things in store for you. I can see it. He's really going to take this and turn all this mess upside down…(sincerely) I hope this helps. Please see me this week.

Scene 4 (CUT BACK TO CAFE) MIDDAY, 30-90 seconds

J: I'm worried about my mom (eyes averting those of her friend, she strokes the rim of her coffee cup)

H: How's she doing with the divorce and everything?

J: I just don't know. At first she just beat herself to death over the…spiritual ramifications. She would call me to talk about how we can't ever fully comprehend the will of God--that we're in this eternal struggle where we must always try and never quite get there (using more hand motion, but still keeping her eyes drawn to objects on the table, rather than on H). But now--

H: Geez. You've told her you're let go of all that stuff though, right?

J: Oh, I don't want to further weight down her life right now. My mom is, um, counting on me to help her through this and I think any talk of my lack of a concrete, moral paradigm would...

H: Would what (probing)?

J: It'd totally kill her (now her eyes meet H's. She drums the table with her fingers).

H: Right right. That sucks.

J: I know, but, God, I feel so pathetic right now, too, though. Like, I'm supposed to be polishing off a manuscript right now and all of a sudden, I feel like so tangled--I just--I can't. I've lost framework. I feel phony or didactic. At least…I don't even feel tangled; no that's so cliche. I feel nothing. Yes, nothing.

The camera goes back to Hannah, who does't say anything, Justine pauses a bit, as if needing some answer from Hannah and then begins speaking.

J: I haven't heard from my mom in awhile. I'm worried about her. The last time I saw her, she was completely catotonic. I mean it was like she was a completely different person. She's locked herself in her house for the past week, not returning my calls, or my letters. I just--

H: Tell you what. I think it'd be really good for you to just unwind this evening (smiling and sinking back into her chair, very comfortable with herself).

J: How (lazily)?

H: My friend's hosting this gathering tonight. There's going to be drinks. (laughing) We can smoke a bit.

J: Ahhh (acknowledging unenthusiastically)

H: There's going to be a seance (more seductively).

There is a long pause while the camera remains focused on H from J's shoulder and then the camera is now positioned close to J's profile.

J: (intrigued) What?

H: Well, you know. It's pretty harmless. Not sure who's really expecting anything real to happen.

J: A seance? I don't know, Hannah.

H: Come off it. It'll be a fun evening. There's gonna be cute guys. You know it take your mind of things.

Hannah raises her coffee to her lips, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. Justin shuffles in her seat.

H: Thought you didn't really believe in that stuff… I'm only looking out for you, Justine.

Justine looks to her coffee cup. The cafe clamor cuts out.

H: Drink your coffee.

Scene 5 (BOOKCASE) NIGHTTIME, 10-15 seconds

Justine walks over to a bookcase and examines the titles of the books. Faust is one of the titles. Two others are the Thelma books, Equinox, and Necronomicon. Justine reaches her hand up to the spines of a few books at eye level.

Scene 6 (OUTSIDE OF CAFE) EARLY AFTERNOON, 20-30 seconds

An urban street close to where the two girls were just seen dining. H is no longer with J, who is walking down a sidewalk. There are leaves across the cement. The mood is more contemplative and less intellectually bright. Shadows of trees are casts against pale building sides. The angles within the frame point downward towards the bottom right corner. There is a carcass of an indistinguishable animal, reduced to a pulp, that is being ravaged through by two dogs. A man, drunk and murmuring impersonally is taking long crooked strides from an alley toward the street and as he emerges he is heard singing roughly:

Drunken Man: Satan, Satan, Satan, it's all going to the dogs. The devil wanna dance with me. The devil wanna dance with you, doggy doggy. Arrrhooooo!!!

J stops, baffled and looks toward the direction of the drunken man. The violence of everything is not only off-putting, but jarring. Growls of dogs intensifies. The scene cuts with loud barking.

Scene 7 HOUSE GATHERING NIGHTTIME, 30-50 seconds

The man from the prologue, opening the door: Ahh, Hannah, you made it! And peace upon you!

H: Of course (shrugging it off, playing cool). You, too, man!

Man: And who's this (pointing to J beside H)?

H: This is my friend, Justine. I told her she'd have a great time and then she wanted to come. That cool?

Man: Yeah, absolutely. Welcome, welcome.

J: Thanks (awkwardly, but calmly, tagging behind H)

The Wiccan man (whom neither or Justine recognize from the prologue, as neither were present) pulls Justine into a welcoming, but awkward and unnecessary hug. Upon release she turns to Hannah and they kiss on the cheek. We follow the two women behind the man into a foyer with a heavy, but luxurious atmosphere. A few brief snippets of unimportant conversation is shown through different shots to extract the mood. Suddenly another Wiccan, a woman, is in Justine's face with a ridiculously jolly smile.

Woman: This is your first time here! Now, it's okay to be nervous. I haven't been here so long myself.

Justine: You live here?

Woman: (laughing) Sometimes.

Justin: To be frank, I don't really have an idea of what to expect. How'd you get started with all of…this (motioning to the room's dimensions)?

Woman: I'm not the first one of this kind in my family. In fact, we have successfully traced back my lineage to sixteenth century in England.

Photo: A black and white sketch of a woman dressed outside of a dark, Gothic building. We stay for one or two seconds.

Woman: But you know. She was found guilty and they burned her. Animals

Scene 8 (HOUSE INTERIORS), 5-7 seconds

Interiors of the house. There is jazz music playing and there is mingling with nice drinks. It is a casual cocktail party of twelve eclectic and well dressed people. Hannah trails off with what we presume to be another one of her friends, while Laurel is transfixed on the characters and objects in the room. The conversation is improvised. We gets glimpses of the host, Frances, from the back of her. The Wiccan man is seen speaking with her. In this same shot we see Justine walking in the background to the bookcase. The camera comes closer to this shot, in the direction of the man looking at Frances' face.

F: The letter?

The man smiles in affirmation, but is silent. France's face is still not in view.

Scene 9 (PENTAGRAM SHOT), 2-5 seconds

Pentagram is being drawn into sight in a dark room that we recognize from the prologue. There are small candles lit around the space where chalk is scrapping against the floor. There is a larger candle lit above the top of the space with the same letter beside it in the light.

Scene 10 (ASIDE AT PARTY), 45-50 seconds

The host, Frances, a woman ten years older than Justine, comes and touches her shoulder. Justine sharply moves to see who's touching her and does not recognize the person addressing her. The host has a calming, but domineering personality. The host observes another woman's interaction with a man as they are seated in the corner of the parlor. The other woman is running her fingers over tarot cards as the entranced young man across from her looks down upon her spidery movements.

The host, Frances: Interested in anything you see?

J: I'm sorry. It was just a quick glimpse.

F: Oh, there is nothing to apologize for. I can sense that you have a special drive in you. You want to learn. You want to see things situated in their own reality and then to see…beyond.

J: I--I think so, yes. I'm not sure if there is anything beyond our individual and social perceptions.

F: (smiling) Don't be afraid. We all want the same things here. That's how we have all been brought together. Although, while think we want to see everything, sometimes just a quick glimpse is potent enough. Some images--some understandings are too much for one person.

J: What sort of images are--

F: We don't get to choose what's revealed to us on our own terms.

J: (nodding her head begrudgingly) Yes, that's true.

F: May the sisters grant you the courage.

J: (cooly, but friendly) Am I going to need it?

F: There is nothing to be afraid of when you are here with us. We're your friends here. I sense that great things are in store for you. There is a power in you that stirs me. Let me be your eyes tonight and you will be able to glimpse further that you ever though capable.

Scene 11 (CUT BACK TO PENTAGRAM SHOT), 2-5 seconds

The last line of the pentagram is drawn by a hooded figure. One to five seconds.

Scene 12 (Seance in the dining room), 2-3 minutes

The camera is suspended in one shot, one take of a table from the side, about 10 feet away. Members of the coven and also other party guests make their way around the table. One woman lights candles on the table A man to the side slowly dims the overhead lighting from the chandelier. Eventually, the host takes her seat. There is a pendant in the middle of the table next to a collection of candles, in addition to an overturned glass. Everyone directs their attention to Frances and becomes silent.

F: Peace onto you all, brothers and sisters. Some of you know that for some time now I have been attempting to make contact with a particular spirit. This nameless beast has made his voice known to me throughout these days and wishes to further express itself. We are very pleased to have Justine here tonight. I sense this spirit's desire more heavily tonight and I believe it has much to do with our guest. Justine, we are most grateful to have you here in our circle.

Justine is speechless. The others observe her reaction, but are otherwise motionless. Justine nods to Frances and Frances closes her eyes to begin searching for this dark entity. One by one those around the table grad hands and then each grasp of hands is placed on the table, forming a link to the host.

F: Spirit, can you hear us? Are you aware of our presence? Are you willing to make some sign of yourself known to us? Spirit, give us some sign. (to her audience) Let us here combine our energy from our living presence.

Slowly, the others reach out in front of them to the overturned glass. It becomes more and more readable on Justine's face just how intriguing the whole performance is to her. Hannah has a new stillness in her body and remains incredibly focused. Frances begins coaxing the spirit further.

F: Spirit, can you hear us? Spirit, give us some sign. Give us a sign of your presence, spirit. Welcome spirit, come down among us. No one here wishes you harm, but to be vessels, pure in intention.

This scene is an endurance of patience and belief. The cup moves slowly toward Justine. It is ambiguous on whether or not it moves because of nervous motion from one of the other guests, or if it is an act from the spirit itself. A few characters are caught off guard. One gasps. Frances droops a bit, as if moving in and out of a partial trance.

F: (turning a piercing gaze to Justin): He wishes for everyone to leave. Except for Justine. Justine, you must stay here. The spirit requests that everyone else leaves.

Confused, the others at the table leave and only Frances and Justine remain in the room. Both still have their hand over the bottom of the overturned glass.

F: That's better. Spirit, you are welcome here. Please, move the glass to my right if you wish to respond with "yes" and move the glass to my left if you wish to respond with "no" to Justine's questions.

Justine quickly looks away from the table at Frances, unsure of herself. Frances notices this and nods in her direction to give her support.

J: Are you grounded here with us, or are you just visiting?

F: Start more simply than that, dear.

J: Have--have we met before?

The camera turns to the glass and the frame slowly fades into black

Scene 13 (OUTSIDE OF JUSTINE'S HOUSE NEAR MAILBOX), 10-15 seconds

Justine begins walking up her driveway, but notices a letter in the mailbox, which is left open. Confused, she takes the letter out and instantly notices the purposeful handwriting we saw in the prologue. She lifts her hand to her mouth and attempts recomposing herself.

Scene 14 (Back to the dining room where the seance was held) RIGHT AFTER THE SEANCE, 20 seconds

The dining room is filling up again. Frances swishes her hands through the air to clear the smoke that came from blowing out the candles on the table. Conversation begins to pick up.

F: Lydia, come bring some burning sage. We need to cleanse the room.

J: (picking herself together and walking to Frances) Nothing happened.

F: That is yet to be seen.

J: How do you mean? Didn't--I thought you said goodbye.

F: We will see.

J: I haven't seen anything.

F: Why, it was just a glimpse, dear. What were you expecting?

Scene 15 (BEDROOM), 15 seconds

Justine climbs into bed and kisses the letter in her hand. The camera is facing her in her bed and she turns off the bedside lamp. The room is dark except for the light that comes through her window blinds against the wall above her bed.

Scene 16 (PENTAGRAM), 2-5 seconds

The hooded figure, bent down before the pentagram blows out the bigger candle placed on the floor above the markings.

Scene 17 (BEDROOM), 30 seconds-1 minute

There is no score in this scene. Startled by something that we are not aware of, Justine turns the light back on. She places the letter on the night stand as we were organic growling noises with percussion. She turns the light off again. We were a bump and then a crash of the lamp against the wall. There is heavy breathing and a scream begins in the middle of large growling and wet, crunching noises. Justine screams and this sound carries over to the next image.

Scene 18 (EPILOGUE), 20 seconds

Miles Davis starts again. In a post-death scene in the same bedroom, we see Justine getting ready in front of the mirror in a red dress. The room is in blue hues. Justine primps and touches her hair, as if preparing for another post-death step. Credits begin.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 11: Broussard Arrives

2013-10-08T22:07:00.001-07:00

Laurent (a couple of minutes later):
--Wanna get high before she arrives?
Charlotte the reclining actress expands, opening her arms, which had been folded softly against her warm chest, up slowly, as if trying to hug the enormous irritable fog of Brother. Her palms, facing Laurent, empty and addressed to the impossible subject. Brother anticipates a solid "no."
Charlotte:
--Yes!
Martha comes out onto the patio with her tray. Ring the bells for Brother and Sister, for there are more drinks. Tanqueray and tonics pour les enfants. Laurent smiles at the maid and thanks her without having to change his focus, which is drawn at Charlotte. Charlotte bites her nails. There is an immense unknowing.
Laurent:
--Relax.

Martha opens the Yardley doors to Broussard. The Yardley doors are opened to Broussard by Martha, who, despite her small influence and modest sensitivities as a maid, wishes the best for Charlotte this day. Martha steps aside, pressing her body flush against the obviously expensive, but instantly forgettable floral tapestry perpendicular to the heavy French doors. Earlier, Charlotte instructed Martha to bring Broussard out onto the patio for the meeting, because of its idyllic view, so Martha is obliging and leads the esteemed director through the washed out, beige interiors directly toward the back. Charlotte sits outside, slightly buzzed, hoping for an immediate rapport, but, more importantly for her, a brief stage to prove her ferocity and capability. Laurent sits on the edge of his pool with his legs in the water, pretending not to be involved. Broussard walks, looking around the walls of the house curiously, formulating infantile clues as to the actress she has yet to meet.
Charlotte stands up upon the moment Broussard steps foot out onto the cement. Her face stretches quickly into a smile and her hand, just as quickly out toward her potential employer. Martha cannot help but wish everything well for Charlotte. Everyone smiles, Laurent, from the poolside up at the women. His laughter comes from an image of Catherine Broussard whipping out a megaphone concealed behind her back and shouting out orders prematurely. I'm taking over! He imagines Martha coming back out with a tray of concealer, rouge, and cloths, air brushing his sister's face, securing a small microphone, and, finally, giving Charlotte an unprecedented slap on the face. Good luck, Charlotte! Charlotte is stunned, looking around for her cue.
The introduction, however, works instantly in the favor of Sister. All the more reason for beaucoup des smiles. Brother takes his legs out and stands up in preparation for leaving the two women to themselves. He walks for the liquor cabinet inside, but he is stopped by a courteous Broussard:
--And this is your brother, Laurent?

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 10: Slapstick and Circles

2013-08-10T19:10:00.002-07:00

But what about Martha? Yes, Martha, briskly shuffling through the rooms of the Yardley grounds, taking care not to bump out of her assigned place (which is the corner) into the spotlight. Her time is paid for, but still given up to the people whose name is on the check. If Martha does not have the luxury of looking to the future, then her time is now. Now, the time is occupied by the Yardleys; Brother and Sister are in the now and they get all the action. This pushes Martha back to the past, but the past is the past and it lies in the ground, the eyes of its body, black sockets, and its interiors made the land of maggots and termites and dust. Where to go from now? No now means no time for Martha.
Unless we ask Laurent or Charlotte to hold their breaths out in the yard or, when they drift off in their booze-snooze, let them rest undisturbed. We can alot some space and time for the one whose time is documented on paper and receipt. Martha is given a gray hammock in the parlor, swaying a bit above the muck the ones in charge have left for picking up. Prop the flatulent lady up against a pillow or two in her nest and give her a stage prop to occupy her white, spatulate hands. A fashion magazine for her to fan a breeze against her rosy face. She gages the face of time and wonders if she might be able to go into one of the guest rooms, where she might be able to catch a soap opera on the air. Something she doesn't need a spatula for--it is practically fed to her through the larger than life television fuzz and buzz. A doctor to lay out a methodical diagnosis onto his patient's bed or an estranged grandson returning to his grandmother, who will not nag anymore, she promises. She is just beside herself with joy at the sight of her beautiful, wildly talented grandson, remorseful for his crimes (and it is most certainly a crime to forget your grandmother), a prodigal--no, a prodigy of a--boy! Yardleys are her children now. They have been prancing around her feet for several years.
As a lower character, would it not be funny to see her in a slapstick routine? A velvet ghost of the house pushes from underneath into her backside, towards the left, abruptly turning the hammock sideways until she topples out onto the tile floor. Weeeeeeeeeee!!! She has hit the ground elbow and hip first. Ouch! What is this?! Shakes her head, sucks in pockets of air that the Yardley siblings cannot get to if they tried at this point from outside. Martha rubs her elbow with the palm of the unscathed hand. Always, she has to take care of the Yardleys, she does not have the energy now to take care of herself. Can't I just BE for one goddamn second?! I promise that I don't need much--I hardly need anything! During her tumble the clasp of her necklace became stuck in the twisted ropes of the house and the thin gold chain detached itself, now hanging over a knot, a knot she feels in her back, with both strand ends dropping over the sides. Martha proceeds to reach for the necklace, hardly a statement piece, but something of great personal value, passed down from Mother. Marked as the twinkling evidence of her topple, it hangs glimmeringly between the lighting of mahogany urn lamps through hand sewn silk shades.
Unbounded Laughter sounds off from outside. Naturally, it is easy for Martha to think at first the bursts of delight in the distance are had at her expense. Martha forgets her entanglement is off the main set, making it nearly impossible for her to be a point of any relevance for the Yardleys. So, let them laugh. Taking the necklace in her hand, she is even able to laugh at herself breathily. She turns her hand, palm towards her face, and examines the gold chain and traces the bright metal with the fingers from her other hand. Martha communicates through the image back to Mother. Slim sliver of property, soft material, only a thin view to the past, but under the lamplight, it glistens nonetheless. Mother, forgive my carelessness. I must do better a better job of hanging on to you. Although she is tuned in to how silly the gesture might look from afar, she kisses the necklace before clasping the chain back together. Hang on tightly, Martha.

From the interior of the house, Charlotte is seen walking about with her hands slowly twisting in the air, laughing, in a warm panache, diving in and resurfacing these imaginary waves of music, tugged into the shore by agitated, tentacular impulses. Catherine Broussard will arrive today, so there are a few loose ends to Charlotte at the moment. Steps out of the glass doors onto the patio, the babble becomes familiar:
--You know, I think it's really important to know what motivates us, right?
Laurent:
--Does an actress need to know what motivates her?
--Laurent!
--Well, you see, she's always dispensable and it's not because she doesn't know--
--Oh, do not tell me that Brigitte Bardot was dispensable last night--
--Yes, she's a bombshell
Charlotte (her head nodding, smug):
--You see? You're wrong.
--I admit an actress can lift a film from a clumsily written script, if she brings enough to the part and draws from more dimensions.
--My words fall on silent ears--I mean deaf ears!…Whatever, it's a circle.
Laurent (walking into a defensive circle):
--Then she might bring too much into the screen, when the film's a sinking ship anyway, and then she only looks desperate.
--That's what--man! It's all a fucking circle that never ends!
--An actress needs to be able to submit to manipulation.
--She needs charisma! Don't undermine charisma!
--Shelly Duvall obviously didn't know what motivated her. Altman and Kubrick just pointed the frame to something almost "downsy," unknowing of itself, but yielding and so it worked toward an ultimate intension of dream and despondency.
--Bitch, I am not Shelly.
--Never said--
--Take it back. Martha! (shouting belligerently after a twirl towards the backdoors)
--What do you want?
--I want another drink. Christ almighty, won't somebody help me!?!
--Well, make it two. You're incorrigible.
--You're ignorant!
Laurent, ponderously--not torturous, but definitely with a twisted hand crunching in on Charlotte:
--I've changed my mind. One must know what the motivation is--even an actress must. Otherwise, the same choices will keep on being made and, without a shred of any clue, they will be made almost always, somehow, inadvertently against the artist.
--Oh, Laurent, darling, do you see me as an artist?
--No, I see you as an actress.
--(beaming, dancing on her toes) Oh, Laurent. You're the same as me, you know?
--I know.
--You see?!?
--(still walking his own circle next to Sister's twirl) Yes and especially right choices, but don't get so self-aware that you start criticizing your own performances.
--Right.
--That's just bad form, you see.
--Well, I'll never read the reviews.
--That is such an actress sort of response. Broussard is going to love you.
For the first time in this scene, Charlotte takes a seat. What if we come to know what motivates and carries us through to an end, but find it perhaps hideous? Oh, God, circles.

a chair, part 2

2013-04-16T12:30:00.005-07:00

I get the best view from the back of the room, with everyone faced forward to the doors away from me. Do not turn around or to your side in the chair, unless it is your knees and thighs I will get to see as you prop your legs upon the adjacent, empty desk chair, the angle of your knees forcing a pull of your jeans down, exposing the larger muscles of your body. Don't turn around, because it is your neck that is the ice to my ache. The way the hair, curled and wispy, dark blonde, at the base of your neck does not fit into the bun you make halfway through shift or that you bring with you from home, that is what I want in front of me. Even better, when it is all let down. You do not have a clue as to how many colors you have running through your hair--all of the browns, golds, and even reds, or how we ache back here, longing to be that chair as your dark blue, sweat-stained, leg prop.

a chair

2013-03-17T18:28:00.000-07:00

nothing is as sad and erotic as an empty chair in the parlor. mean, plush, and empty.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 9: Who has the laughing hand?

2013-03-15T20:00:00.002-07:00

Objects are more successfully grasped at than are people; people always seem to manage to slip away. Brother considers the infinite spaces. He tries to see far beyond the horizon, beyond the sharp bits of glass wall that all mirror his gray projection. What will finally conquer him is the composite picture into which these jagged cuts will assemble. Then he will feel monstrous. Not that he has not done his own time in thinking himself to be a monster. Sister, in a way the direct product of Mother, hanging on by a mutual limb of self-loathing and self-adoration, has already become accustomed to feeling quite monstrous at times. It is early evening. We are back to the house, where the Yardley siblings are in their yard, again. A sunset swirled with unspoiled hollandaise sauce and egg yolk, dwindling before the twinkling eye.
Charlotte:
--I feel supremely disillusioned.
Laurent:
--You what?
--Here, right here, my character is feeling very disenchanted with everything onto which she had latched herself, before her emigration from Greece. Then, in the penultimate scene, she does get everything she had dreamed of having in her travels, but it is unbearable to her. I think that sort of irony fuels her feebleness and her own sense of martyrdom when submitting herself to the rape. Well, I suppose you cannot volunteer to be raped...It's sacrificial.
Laurent:
--If I ever become theistic again, it will be because of irony--not that my turning myself back into God would be ironic, but that my understanding of my own bigger ironies and those pertaining to others and of those that overlap myself and others would cause me to affirm a God of some kind.
Maybe God is the reason things do not happen the way the Yardley siblings expect! If they were more supreme, it seems they could bend their reality more to their liking if they tried hard enough. There is money, though, and it keeps flowing across the Atlantic and into their pockets. Plus, the two are performers. So, reality is bending all the time and given new structures as seen fit. Laurent lights another cigarette as Sister listens intently. How quick the two are able to switch from enemies of the midday to Brother and Sister again, obsessed with themselves and with the other!
Laurent:
--Until then, all of irony will be read as absurdity.
Charlotte:
--I've actually thought the same thing several times and have decided that kind of ontological introspection is an ultimately ironic and despairing thing. Absurd? Not quite. That axe never quite drops--the sound of one hand laughing.
Laurent nods his head:
--So is absurdity more brutal?
--I'm not sure. But I think…I think that absurdity sounds like something that can be ignored, dismissed, written off. Something to wink back at from a chair, while keeping with the daily flow and routine. I don't know the true heart of the word, but I do think it's pretty brutal. Do you agree?
--I think so, yes.
Laurent:
--You've given this script a lot of thought. How did the phone call go? You did call, right?
Charlotte:
--In my experience, well, the director has said very little. Communication was in some accord through the medium of casting agents and through the writer. She always seemed to be very brooding, not gloomy, but very introverted. You can imagine how stressed I was as I picked up the phone to dial her number. Surprisingly, she spoke so much she made my head spin. Her mouth was motorized by machine and it was wired to a postmodern, neurotic mind that was short circuited by its own mania and self-consciousness. I believe she's very excited for the project.
Laurent smiles, realizing he forgets how fully-realized his sister can be in her analyses. That is the thing, though, we are much better are analyzing others than we are ourselves. It is not only Charlotte's needle of social awareness, but her eloquence that captivates Laurent. Sister should try to write, just like Laurent, except that this would further stifle Brother's voice. Poetry has been his territory, after all, and he needs territory.
Charlotte:
--She wants to come by tomorrow to chat and get to know me.
--Catherine Broussard coming to our house. Man, oh, man.
--You'll have to be on your best behavior.
--Meaning?
--Don't bore her.
--I'll just act naturally.
--No, don't do that.
--I'll just act very enthused for your upcoming work. I'll also say things, such as "any character who really, righteously embraces her martyrdom is so erotic to me."
Sister dips her head down and purses her lips:
--That sort of remark won't get us anywhere.
As if Laurent and Charlotte want to go anywhere. No, they are much more comfortable here in their little palace. This is not to say that neither of them are driven by want. Boy, do they want! What they both want is to end a scene with the laughing hand.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 8: Poached eggs, You belong to me!

2013-03-13T10:42:00.003-07:00

Laurent zips up his trousers after the last drops of urine are shaken out onto nature and faces the patio where Charlotte has called out to him:
--Is brunch ready?
--Yes, come on inside.
As Laurent is walking across the lawn back to the tea table where he left his writing, Charlotte continues:
--You know who just called?
--Would it be that director?
--(A light scoff) No, I'm to call him, remember? And I will, later.
--Then who?
--Charles.
--Our brother?
--Oui, notre frère.
Laurent and Charlotte pause for a bit. Charles, student of business at Yale University who has remained in America, occupied with his studies and internship all this time, has called. Laurent has the suspicion that Mother and Father are behind this phone call and that they mean for him to go back, but at the moment Laurent has no intention of putting an end to his vacation. Charlotte stands there with her hands on her hips, almost gloating over Laurent's silence. Laurent would like to tell Charlotte how this in unfair to him. That he is being singled out and that it is not as if Charlotte is being so productive herself here at their idealistic retreat. Charlotte would only retort that she has work practically begging for her to pick it up, learn it, memorize it, and transform it into an expansive and rewarding product and that she is not wasting herself away like someone she knows.
Laurent:
--What did he say?
--Well, it's all very unprecedented, but I believe he is coming here.
--To stay?
Charlotte:
--Come inside. Brunch is served.

********************
At the kitchen table, Sister sighs and tosses out leisurely into the midday air in her usual, privileged laugh:
--Well, as you know, all we ever do is plan total social destruction on these…unsuspecting targets.
Everything's part of a script. Charlotte speaks while cutting into her poached egg with a new, cold, and calculative manner of a mathematician bent towards the solution of a problem that has eaten an entire month out of her life. Really, she has only had the script in her arms for a couple days.
While it is certainly no longer "morning" morning, the time of day is still closer to the moment of waking from the unconscious, the greatest source of inspiration. Brother and Sister hope that their oeuvre is long sustained after their departure from the stage and that their musical chord is not immediately flattened down by the next generation. What will happen, they both wonder, now? Another party member to contribute to their masterpiece.
Brother and Sister like to perform for each other. They like to wear different personas as they satisfy their ever-changing temperaments. Brother takes to a bowler hat and gives it character. Sister will take the bowler hat and wear it herself. Once one of them finds a role that resonates with a particular mood, the scene is bound almost seamlessly. Here moods are changing rapidly, so it is not very often that a mood, singular and binding of a scene, is carried throughout a whole act, never mind an entire play.
Sometimes they act out against each other and their great acts come splattering down from the swimming pool balcony down to the mosaic below. Sister might throw the bowler hat back at brother's face to hasten the action. Retaliation builds when its execution is passed from one performer to the next. There is only so much stage space and the two of them carry such large egos. The flashes of light from the sky are played--shot down and meant to be seen. They share virtually everything, as if they are connected at their hips from the same, precious cradle of life, their minds erupting upwards into overlapping networks of neuronal processing and transmission, stars that they pretend to spell out above them theatrical frescos of fortune and pain. Both throw the organic outlines of their lives up to the fates. This accounts for the occasional autonomy, which, when it happens, is a marvelous spectacle.
Luckily, the two here at brunch are not joined at the heart, because, as it is, they will too often enchant themselves into believing that it is people onto which they pour their love, when it is, in fact, inanimate objects, heirlooms, trinkets picked up from foreign streets, gifts that have been passed to them from old acquaintances that receive all their affection. Brother and Sister might lend themselves to others, but both fully appreciate the sentiment of giving yourself to yourself. At the heart, the siblings would be all the more reckless. No, they are not joined at the heart. Soon, it will be Brother and Sister and Brother all under the same roof again. Just like old times. Maybe now the audience will get some real heart to heart.
Laurent:
--So Charles is coming next week.
Charlotte pinches off a piece of her baguette and uses it to wipe up the hollandaise sauce and running yolk on her plate. In the kitchen, Martha tells the cook that he has done well and that he can take his leave. Martha comes back out to the breakfast table with more coffee for Charlotte and Laurent. Charlotte grabs a remote off of the kitchen table and points it in the direction of the stereo. She presses a couple of buttons and Jo Stafford starts playing. You belong to me.
Charlotte:
--As I told you. I think it's a fantastic idea.
--You know he's going to give me shit.
Charlotte swallows her mouthful quickly:
--You deliberately think in ways that are self-defeating!
--Oh, please.
--You do, yes you do. He wants a vacation and it's his place here, as well as ours. Honestly, I think he really needs this. His girlfriend dumped him a few weeks ago and he's been real mopey.
Laurent shakes his head after taking a sip of coffee. Brother is finding it hard to act. There is an actress right here, again, again and always. So, making a firm stance is difficult. All of his hesitation is pinching him in the cheek, like sisterly Sister. It will all come back to pinch him again, if he is not careful. Brother takes a few steps elsewhere:
--I want to watch a movie tonight.
Sister bobs in her seat:
--Of course! What sort were you thinking? Been a week since I've been in our theater room.
--Any movie, really. I have--I haven't really given it much thought.
--Some idea, Laurent.
--(through a little chuckle) Yeah, I know. That's me, though, my ideas--
--(with a pat on his hand) I'm only kidding! Let's watch Body Heat. No? Let's watch Vivre Sa Vie. That one neither of us have seen and, so, neither you nor I will be explaining away things that speak for themselves or that you or I would rather discover on our own.
--That sounds good. I actually have not seen a French New Wave film in a hot minute.
--Holy shit, I love her eyes. Anna Karina's eyes. They're just so big and playful and sad...
--I've only seen her in Une Femme est une Femme.
--That is a good film, Laurent. She's so precious in that one. You know what you need? Some Anna Karina to help you get out of this funk. Come on.
Laurent, who cannot help taking a few steps back:
--I just don't want him parading all of his accomplishments in front of us to make us feel trite. Oh, come on, it's likely he will.
--Can't you just be happy for him? It's going to be fun. We should throw a party. No one is going to make anyone feel trite.
--Well, of course we'll throw a party. Does Mom and Dad know?
--We'll have several parties. Who cares if Mom and Dad know anything? I tell you, I'm pretty excited. It's been so long since we've all sat down and really enjoyed ourselves. We can all get high and drunk together.
Laurent cuts into his meal and rethinks his initial response to the news:
--I suppose you're right about-
--Of course I'm right.
--Okay. You're right.
Jo Stafford: Fly the ocean in a silver plane. See the jungle when it's wet with rain. Just remember 'till you're home again: you belong to me.
Charlotte, while taking out a cigarette, lighting its end and placing it in her mouth:
--You're still writing, right? Tell him about your stories, unless you've completely neglected them. Don't you also have a novel you're working on? That's something! It takes time to write and you need time and space to create. Charles can appreciate that you are being creative; our brother has his own literary endeavors, although on the reading end and not the writing.
Laurent breathes in and out heavily while he scratches the scruff on his jaw, which attracts Charlotte's attention:
--(while rubbing Brother's lower cheek) You should shave. You always look your best clean-shaven.
--(swatting away Sister's hand) Right.
--It's true. You do, L.
--That, again?
Sister smiles down at Brother with an antiseptic sweetness:
--How are your eggs? You haven't finished them yet.
--They're fine, but I'm not really hungry anymore.
Charlotte exhales the smoke from her lungs and then puts her cigarette out in Laurent's remains of his poached egg, twisting the cigarette butt back and forth as it punctures through the white and yellow material, its ash mixing with the golden pool of hollandaise sauce and yolk, shamelessly poisoning the flavor and warping the texture.
Laurent:
--That's revolting!
--(chuckling) You were done with it anyway. Look, it had already turned cold.
--I'm going back outside.
Charlotte:
--You put up with so much, L!
--(his voice, exasperated) An egg is a pure thing. Golden, nourishing, and filling, it has the potential to become a new, whole and living organism. This is tasteless--really nasty. It's not natural.
--It didn't suspect to be infiltrated by burnt tobacco! It's not so nasty. Besides, I do not think that this egg was to become anything, except poached and devoured, or not devoured and just left, picked at, like it is there on your plate. This was not a crime against nature. You could say snatching this egg from the mother hen was a crime against nature. I say this is a work of art! Martha, bring my camera from my room, so that I can take a snapshot of the midday that I ruined for Laurent. Laurent, oh, I'm so sorry, don't leave! This was tasteless.
Laurent spits out in mock gratitude:
--Thank you very much.
Laurent scoots his chair back and exits outside as Charlotte slumps in her chair, opening her arms out wide to start singing along with the Jo Stafford track: But just remember, darling, 'till you're home again: you belong to me!

Love Poem for the Pessimistic Pornographers

2013-02-28T18:34:00.002-08:00

back dimples were once precious indentations guarding
the base of his spine--of her spine,
moving up and down
with their partnering buttocks for each step of the strut.
now, accompanied by stretch marks and cellulite,
i think little physical defects are sexy, don't you?
they lose their original effect,
soon gone for good.

for example,
take his chipped tooth, her chicken pox scar,
or the hairy mole on his upper bicep.

the guitarist strums his guitar for the strumpet.
years are bearable for both
when they are able to strip bare the body.
the metallic triangular cover of her G-string
is slowly pulled down by the thumbs and reveals another
triangular cover, bushy, of the wet groin,
some like the pull of hair by teeth, grazing the field.
differing textures appease the wet appetite.
unless the audience is rather drawn to smooth loins.
like those of five year olds. that can be remedied
with the ole Venus razor.
no shame there.

history tries to erect myth, set it in stone
--to enforce a nature behind the moving picture
of the woman taking the pound, pound
screaming oh, yeah and loving the crowd.
i like the crowd, it makes me feel alive.
--as if power could be bestowed
from spectators to spectacle.

history belongs to the phallus,
making it a hard force to swallow whole.
this is real interaction between artist and audience;
audience entering and coming
into/inbetween/fullforced
onto canvas.
its milk has long turned sour,
but with a jeering crowd:
"chug! chug!"
the doing it becomes more than doable.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 7: Coffee, Actressing, and that Dragonfly

2013-02-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

Now we go into Sister's playroom. Photographs are scattered across the desks against the walls. On one desk, a pair of sharp, fabric cutting shears rests next to a green Tiffany table lamp. Sister turns the lamp on. Pendant emerald dragonflies with bright orange eyes are spliced with black, smoldered copper that bolsters the glass pieces of the lamp's cone. Under the light of the dragonflies, the cutting shears blush green, glistening at the inner edges. There is a brown paper binder on the floor next to the desk. Sister grabs a couple tasseled throw pillows from the couch and tosses them onto the floor near the binder and then sits down on the floor. She opens the binder and reviews pictures she has collected over the past few months that have been cut out of magazines, art books, and illustrated biographies on actors and artists that are dear to her. She takes a few seconds with each picture. Marlene Dietrich in a white, two-pieced suit, leaning backwards against a stair railing in the street. Catherine Deneuve in a golden seventies' spread for Chanel No. 5. Tilda Swinton, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis.

Sister holds the last two photographs in her hands. "My Mother told me never to speak badly of the dead. She's dead…Good!" Her toes wriggle in her loafers. Davis' alleged icy epitaph, which she so kindly uttered for the late Crawford, sealed the famous actress rivalry in a state of titanic mythology. Two goddesses, one with melodramatically-thick eyebrows and eyes wide on the offense, the other with drunken cheeks, sagging and contemptuous. Their lips! Crawford was said to have had a nervous breakdown from the pressure her costar, Davis, hammered down on her head off-set. Finally, Davis sent Crawford off the stage, her insides writhing while her face worked as hard as it could to conceal the stench of artistic jealousy. No one could ever accuse the stars of being undedicated.

Sister places her hands on the carpet and pushes her body off the floor. In front of the couch there is a coffee table with a small crystal bowl filled with toffee and classic Hollywood Chewing Gum. Sister knows the importance of being good to herself with the occasional unprecedented gift. Leaving her folio open on the floor, she walks to the coffee table and grabs a handful of wrapped toffee bits as she plunges down onto the sofa. Martha walks into the room with Sister's coffee:

--There you are. And voilà! Here is your coffee. The milk is already poured in, as you like it. (Looking back at the open brown envelope on the floor) Oh, I see you have your collection of actresses out on display.

Sister:

--I'm working. I need inspiration.

--So, you will call the director soon?

--(Sister accepts the coffee mug in both hands, as she draws out her response lengthily) I will soon.

Sister wanted a specific way to deliver that line to Martha. Martha gently places her hands on her hips and looks around the room. Sister places the coffee mug on the table. Head tilted back onto the back of the couch, Sister keeps her eyes fixed on the toffee bits in her hands that she drops delicately, one every thirty seconds or so into her mouth.

Martha:

--Where is Laurent?

--Well, I'm not sure. It looks like he went out.

--He went out?

--Outside, Martha. He just went outside, I'm sure of it.

--I'll go make sure.

Sister waits for the maid to leave the room. She then sits up momentarily before leaning into the palms of her hands that are supported by her elbows she has digging into her lower thighs. She lets out a sigh and reaches for the mug to take a sip of coffee.

Outside of the house, Laurent walks around the pool and stretches his arms. He will hold his left arm straight against his chest, pointing to his right for a few seconds, and then he will let that arm drop and do the same with the other arm. The morning miserable, coping with his morning body aches. He reflects on the Cornish’s from last night, who will surely report back to Mother and Father about how wonderful he and Sister are and what excellent, mature hosts they make. It was not quite an invasion, but it was unwanted from his part. Laurent's chest is congested, his breaths, deep and raspy. How much did we smoke last night? Martha comes outside and sets a coffee mug on the olive-green tea table where Laurent's parchment paper and pen lie in waiting. Careful now. To his relief, Martha does not spill the coffee, as far as he can see.

Laurent shouts from the other side of the pool:

--Thank you, Martha!

Martha smiles and walks back inside. Laurent continues his stroll around the patio. Crumbles of speckled gray cement pervade the patio that separates the grass from the pool. They stick to the bottom of his feet and eventually rub off from the friction between skin and ground. At the base of a clay flowerpot several ants operate, disorderly and drunk, off the trail, poking here or there, seeking sugar underneath the sun. In the outskirts of this busy insect gathering, the trail emerges. There is the scent. Mildly intrigued, Laurent follows the insects, keeping a step's distance away from the line.

The ants accumulate at the patio mosaic. Laurent realizes he had been searching with the ants for the dragonfly corpse he left on the ground yesterday after his swim. Edges are now tattered a bit. The ants partake in the sap of the insect. They crawl all over its body, which has been displaced from its original position. Fire underneath everything, partially hidden by the itchy ant carpet, swarming and fuming. Laurent is bothered because he would have liked to hold the insect himself. Maybe take it back over to the tea table for a while. At this point it is better to leave it be and go on.

Laurent ends his stroll back at a lounging chair next to the tea table. He takes two long sips of his coffee and whiskey and then takes the paper to place in his lap. The pen is uncapped and ready, now if only language will just come to him and help him to find a voice. Although the time is perfect for writing, Brother forgets that there is nothing convenient about writing, not that he knows very much about the art. Not that he feels he knows very much about the art. Brother writes the word, "afterwards," at the top of the paper. After words, then what? Spaces:

"In physics, so much is defined by what is lacking, or what might have been there one second but now has moved on in its course." Well, that's true, isn't it? The universe is terribly busy. "The brick wall behind my back is none of the following: a summer breeze, a thick and fuzzy quilt, a point of reference to plot on a Poincare map." In fact, it's wicker and not brick. Why am I defining something by everything it is not? Seems unfair. "A brick wall is defined by time and space, that's why, and as much as I love Dalí, this brick wall is quite rigid. It will never slump forward as I do now with my coffee and whiskey. Only memory slumps forward"

He looks up at the sky and scratches his hair. He needs a cigarette, but they are inside and he is approaching an artistic mania. There is no time for interruptions. He stares back down at the parchment paper and reads everything written down thus far. He waits and moves his jaw muscles, cracks his neck and then relaxes:

"Do you like the color of this stationary? Personally, I'd rather it be more minty."

Absolute fodder. How did this become a letter? I'm not writing to anyone. A few olive leaves rustle against the cement near the pool water. Laurent taps both of his brown oxford shoes against the ground, agitated, because he cannot decide whether it is that language is so expansive and that he is just ignorant or if it is that language is clumsy and unavailing. No, of course we need words to help communicate our ideas. There are loads of things we wouldn't know about without our words. We'd all be complete idiots without language. Laurent, the idiot…"What is it with this obsession with being untouched, unstained? There is a constant fear of alien invasion. How do humans feel about symbiosis, really? Why go on perpetuating these pretended brick walls? Is it really that a clean room makes for a clean mind?"

We've got to mend that crack. Laurent realizes he has been holding off the release of his urine for some time now. He sets down the papers and walks off into the lawn to the side fence behind the cypress trees. In a ritualistic exercise that he himself seldom finds bizarre, Laurent urinates on the grass. Of all the times that Laurent has been outside with the bodily urge of urination in the backyard, they have mostly ended with him relieving himself outside. He thinks to himself how surely this is natural. The product of nature, broken down and filtered and then excreted back into nature. What is not so natural--and even Laurent can admit this to himself--is his tendency to relieve himself in his bathroom sink, rather than walk the extra five or so feet to the toilet. Sister would find this appalling, but who is she to argue with the prick of Laurent?

--Laurent, really? There are ten restrooms inside. You can pick any one of them, but the outdoors suits you better?

Laurent zips up his trousers after the last drops of urine are shook out and faces the patio where Sister has called out to him:

--Is brunch ready?

--Yes, come on inside.

As Laurent is walking across the lawn back to the tea table where he left his writing, Sister continues:

--You know who just called?

--Would it be that director?

--(A light scoff) No, I'm to call him, remember? And I will, later.

--Then who?

--Charles.

--Our brother?

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 6: Theater and Hypnosis

2013-02-27T16:00:00.001-08:00

To the young couple hiding away in a bathroom stall of the lady's room in the foyer--the poor damsel being screwed from behind over the toilet, her hair being tightly pulled by her unyielding, sworn protector: cover your tits, Madame, and zip up those trousers, Monsieur. Is your hair frazzled? Well quick, straighten things out--there are mirrors, you know, mirrors in the lady's room. Perform an inspection to determine if you're suitable to walk back out into the foyer. Did you forget your program? Well, there are loads more with the attendees, standing at the doors to the theater. Mr. Stiffnecked-Hadfield, if you would, your doting wife is waiting patiently in her seat for your return from your last-minute cigarette break. Oh, your friends from England are acting tonight in our show? We were not aware of the association. It is a marvelous thing to be friends with an actor! Be nice to Mrs. Hadfield when you come back, for she loves you very much and has fulfilled her martial duties today beautifully, would you not agree? She worships the ground upon which you stand erected and drenched in your own vanity. Speaking of being drenched, does anyone need to urinate? Quite an inconvenience, the burning pervasiveness of bodily functions. You should go relieve yourselves now. If you miss anything at the beginning, your partners are there for you on your return to answer all your questions. But quickly, now. Say hello to the frazzled sex couple coming out of the lady's room! No! You have taken the wrong row, Dubois clan, and now another party has been wrongfully displaced. Each row has a letter clearly marked on the outside of its aisle-seats. How could you be so off? Oh, well here they come. They will show you their tickets and explain that you are all sitting in the wrong row.

Okay, people are returning. The leading oboist, the concertmaster, is sitting at attention to the maestro in the pit. Do not worry; this is not musical theater. There will be no outbursts of song that drag on forever in-between the drama. We will be using the philharmonic as a backdrop, primarily. Be honest. You love the cacophony of the tuning session for its excitement and promise. Here comes the note. The rest of the wind band eventually joins in the musical nonsense.

It is good to see that practically all are here in their seats for the opening of the curtain. The characters on the stage are from another place, so there is no need to worry about any seeming resemblance. You are not obliged to love the characters, just as you are not obliged to love everyone of this world with whom you encounter. We hear that writers should love their own characters--that this affection allows for the story's characters to be fully realized and developed. But you are not all writers, so leave the loving for the creator of the script. Oh, I see that a few of you are. We certainly would not want to be accused of treating any of the characters unfairly. Well then, love away and love them all. Everyone, the ritualistic warming up and tuning of the orchestra is coming to its close. The prelude will come next. Come children, let us open the box and take out the puppets, for our play is about to begin. I will count to ten and the theater will be transported through time and space, across fields with cypress tress and olive tress under a gentle sun to a mansion inhabited by two siblings. Action and atmosphere are both more vibrant and real in a mansion, which does not make its inhabitants any more glib than necessary this evening.

One: You have all been merry making in the lobby and that is a good thing. Our foyer bars are staffed excellently and we hope, consequentially, you are softly buzzed. Although you have left your champagne flutes outside, the music of their social clambering is carried into the theater and it rings in your ears, its fizz slowly dissipating on the outsides of your mouths, tickling you pink. When an actor stands in a spotlight, he or she becomes drunk off of the craft and this helps to carry a scene through to its end and, ultimately, to your applause, which gets the acting crew hammered by the end of the play. Stage and audience become buzzed together and that is lovely. That is real interaction there, between artist and patron-socialite.

Two: You are all falling leaves that ride on invisible air currents, zig-zagging to and fro and occasionally flipping over yourselves. Until you touch the bottom of your descent. Wet with summer pool water. Float here, now.

Three: A man and woman are lounging outside of the pool in wicker chaise lounge chairs. Both are drinking cocktails and carrying on idiosyncratically. Coughing out their private jokes at each other. You are still gliding on the surface of water, pale in size. The chatter of the two is lost on you. It gurgles in your ears. Above where they lounge, another, more squab woman is resting against the balcony railing, smoking the last black drabs of her cigarette. Her attire is quite plain. Uniform like. You understand now that she is subservient to the two sitting below. She attempts to make this time to herself above on the balcony her own time; however, it cannot be her own time if it is being paid for by another. Now, where you float, what looks like a ship is heading en route towards your coordinates. Bells are ringing to let you know the ship is approaching its destination. You all are no longer leaves, but back to your normal selves, only much smaller. You wait, each one of you standing on your own leaf upon the water surface, for the ship to drop anchor. The ship is not a menacing one. Strings of lights, tiny bulbs in blue, gold, green, and red, line its external anatomy. A party ship where there are more bars with bartenders awaiting your next order. What will it be? We hope you do not find the conditions on the ship to be too congested. Climb aboard! Wave goodbye to the poolside strangers.

Four: Further into your voyage, you come near the coastline of a land covered in a thick forest. From the heart of the Black Forest a woman with obsidian black hair walks under the moonlight. She keeps close to a river of gold that is slowly poured from the heavens, holding out her right hand with unsettling majesty. The tree limbs part away from her foot tracks that glow as little pools of fluorescent elixir feeding into the earth. You are bewitched by it all.

Five: You have all been invited to participate in a gangbang. There are two women, two of the same woman, in the center of the room holding each other in their arms, caressing the back of the other and resting their chins upon the other's shoulder. The adagio movement, where the performers are able to collect themselves before the pounding begins again. Men are lined up against all of the walls, beating themselves off, grunting, cheering and jeering for the act. Lines form again from the outskirts to the center of the room. Time is up for you, time for your pounding! A mirror is attached to the ceiling of the meeting place. Both of her, reflected into water snakes. She likes the way her body acts in a mirror; she moves for herself and not for the others. Look, men, at how beautiful woman is when she is stripped! Look at how perfect and docile nature is unsheathed. Both of her are able to stare into each other's eyes. Against the walls, the community of men cannot look each other in the eye. Maybe, they can look each other in the groin. Oh, he is hoping they would have been masked, but that exotic element is already gone. Still, it is good to see woman in her natural state. And you thought woman's special connection to nature was mere mythology. Oh, look: a dragonfly has found its way from nature into the room. It hovers in a corner, watching with its multi-faceted eyes. So much gang and bang! You see the green hills and hear the soft birds of woman. The woman are dying, they love it! Is it not lovely that she is so well tuned into nature? Who would have thought! Time to excrete your bodily fluids onto her, take a piss in her bush during your pit stop on this tour. This is all so natural! You hear that it is good for the soil, good for the ground. It is good to partake in nature. Naturally.

Six: A game of Russian roulette. You see her. She throws her hands at the winding locomotive, circling hap--red--black. Will you take your coffin tomorrow morning black or with cream? How many refills will you have? It is comforting to know you hold a biological clock in your hands, one that you can use to insulate your flesh with steam. The smell of earth rises in outbursts. You cannot pretend that mound of dirt to your right is not from your own shoveling hands. Its base is a cold foundation. The sprinkles on top are light and warm.

Seven: Muses, he groans, then the clay molder morphs the brim of his vase with spit while wheeling the base around. The slightest pressure his finger applies against the body brings vulgar alterations he then fingers with finesse. Love is a crude mold, lubricated and made from the most base of things.

Eight: On the floor of a dimly lit playroom, the woman has returned and is holding a dead Orange-spotted Emerald dragonfly in her hands. She gradually lifts the insect into the moonlight that pierces through the room's curtain-drawn windows. With her left hand she takes a pair of fabric cutting shears and cuts off the wings that glisten like the surface of bubbles drawn out under an ocean of stars. This is the end of flight.

Nine: Out of the playroom you are walking, walking through the hallways of an enormous house you recognize, although you are not sure how. You do not believe you have been here before. The art deco tiling, black and white, is cold. A slow pat-pat is crescendoing towards you all. Down the stairs in front of you a decapitated head is rolling down, wet and smacking each step. A tangle of rubbery purple and blood. You see her above with her hands thrown out in front of her, the room a circling hap. You are transfixed.

Ten: You see a man. He steps foot out onto the ice and slips. The head, so full of romantic ideals and vision, tilts back so the ground can breathe once again. As socio-economical exchange becomes congested, old business and institutions are leveled down to the ground to create new spaces for new ideas and new, younger leaders with bigger and brighter heads for their inherited craft. It is good to keep things fresh and alive! From his spill onto the pavement, from his blood, you will receive the elixir to sustain your life. Come drink (there is enough for everyone) and hear the rumble of the timpani as the stage lights up for your own viewing this spectacular evening.

and you were and you were there

2013-02-08T17:52:00.000-08:00

and you were there and you were there and you were there and you were there and he was there and I was there and I was holding his clothes in my hands and you said to drop them and I did but it would have been easier with a cigarette. I never get to smoke a cigarette in my dreams. I dropped his clothes as you said but I picked them right back again.

Super Bowl 2013

2013-02-03T19:01:00.000-08:00

I cannot believe
how, wow, twelve billion dollars(?)
was spent on this shit.

Uproarious Green

2013-02-02T18:58:00.001-08:00

Uproarious green spreading over stones; the Landowner's wife demands his attention. He mutters back dry pork chops and returns to his work, eating back at the fields, she, crumbling another sunflower in her hands.