I am enjoying the opportunity to write a script for a short film. Thankfully I have a very understanding director; it’s been some weeks now and I have yet to break the ten page mark. It’s not a matter of motivation. It’s squeezing the usually voluminous nature of my prose into a tiny crude box. It’s a good experience! Or so I keep telling myself!
I heard a performance artist asked how best they would describe their work. I wonder if the questioner understood how frustrating that question is. Ask the musician to paint a picture explaining the principle points of the musical composition, why don’t you.
Yes, I know your friend from England. No I don’t watch the Olympics. No, I couldn’t care less about the monarchy. No I won’t speak English to your kids. Yes I find the current police-state to be deplorable. Wait, did you just ask me a decent question?
I fold swiftly inside myself when I’m swimming in a large body of water and can no longer feel the bottom, only the stars above me, and no discernible horizon to mark the difference between the lake and the sky. There isn’t much I can hide from myself at that point. Can’t wait till I get back out there.