Till the light comes pouring through
'Cause when you feel like you're done
And the darkness has won
Babe, you're not lost
Take a gamble - roll the die, spit out the chip, and never look back.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Narrative to Script: Too Soon Till Eternity
Dramatis Personae
Mother Truitt - The oldest native-born resident of Holcomb, Kansas at the age of seventy-five, and the city’s trusty mail messenger, Mother Truitt is an endearing woman full of sympathy and love for others. She is often seen wearing babushka bandannas and cowboy boots—“the most comfortable things you can put on your feet!”—she often claims.
Myrtle Clare - Myrtle Clare is not just the resident Post Office worker—she is a cowboy-boot wearing former dance-hall hostess. The establishment she once owned attracted clientele from a hundred miles around, but had seen been shut down following the death of her husband. She was like her mother, Mother Truitt, but more hard and blunt about everything, roughened up from all the drunken, rowdy customers she’d had to deal with in her days.
Mabel Helm – She is the reliable town gossip—she would know if Tommy had been caught for sneaking into his house late at night and was forced to plough the fields till dusk, she would know if Annie and Bob had had a fight that almost-but-not-really turned into a brawl, and that they had to go to counselling. Mabel just knew.
Act I Scene I
Two ambulances screamed in unison across the railroad tracks on a lifeless Sunday morning in 1955. Mother Truitt was on her usual mail route that Sunday, when the flashing lights and whirring noises caught her attention.
Mother Truitt stops outside her next house, stunned into watching the two ambulances turn onto the Clutter property. She suddenly drops her mail bag haphazardly and races across to the Post Office where her daughter, Myrtle Clare worked.
The doors to the post office are two swinging shutters that send a gust of wind every time they open and shut. Inside the small building, there are two chairs and a long mahogany desk indicative for customers to approach. Myrtle Clare stands behind this desk, pouring a cup of coffee. The floors are covered in thick wooden, shabby planks, creaking along every edge and corner. A peeling coat of grey paint covers all four walls of the small Federal Building. Something seems slightly amiss -- the ceiling fan in the centre of the room rotates lazily above all, in semblance of a disco ball that might’ve once been its predecessor.
Mother Truitt rushes into the building, and immediately to Myrtle’s desk.
Mother Truitt: Myrt! (Pause to catch her breath) Myrt, there’s two ambulances gone to the Clutters’.
Myrtle (pouring herself a cup of freshly-brewed coffee): Where’s the ten-thirty-two train?
Mother Truitt (indignant, waving her arms): Myrt, you listenin’ to me? Ambulances. Gone to the Clutters’—
Low-angle camera shot closes up on Mother Truitt standing on one side of the desk, and Myrtle on the other.
Myrtle (exasperated): Well what about it? It’s only Bonnie. Having one o’ her goshdarned spells. Where’s the ten-thirty-two?
Mother Truitt stamps her foot down, and crosses her arms. The hollow sound of wood reverberates loudly.
Mother Truitt: But Myrt, if it’s only Bonnie, why would there be two ambulances?
Myrtle considers this, as she raises a veiny hand to her chin.
Myrtle: Mabel’ll know.
Myrtle (ringing up Mabel’s number): Hello, Mrs. Helm?
Mother Truitt (losing her patience, and furrowing her brows): Well, Myrt?
Myrtle raises a finger to her lips in a shh! gesture. She tightens her grip on the telephone receiver, using her free hand to shield the number pad, as if afraid it would slip from her hands.
Myrtle: Was just ‘bout to ask you about that. (Pause.) Didya hear, see anything?
Myrtle nods in acknowledgement, her face expression unchanged. The door in the Post Office clangs open, unnoticed by both women.
Myrtle: Uh-huh. (Pause.) No, why? (Pause.) Hmm. (Pause.) Really?
Mother Truitt (looking up in anticipation): Well, Myrt?
Myrtle: You wouldn’t say. Well, I ain’t surprised, I’ll say the least. (Pause.) Alright, take care Mrs. Helm. You haves yourself a nice day.
Myrtle hangs up the phone.
Mother Truitt (grabbing her shoulders): Myrt, for heaven’s sake! What did Mabel say?
Camera pans out, medium shot on Mother Truitt who is still standing by the desk. Myrtle has moved to stage left, over to a pile of letters by the desk.
Myrtle (quietly): I ain’t surprised. When you think how Herb Clutter spent his whole damned life in a hurry, rushin’ in here to get his mail with never a minute to say good-morning-and-thank-you-dog, rushin’ around like a chicken with its head off—joinin’ clubs, runnin’ everything, gettin’ jobs maybe them other people wanted. And now look—s’ all caught up with him. Well, he won’t be rushin’ no more.
Mother Truitt gapes at her daughter in awe.
Mother Truitt (pleadingly): Why, Myrt? Why won’t he?
Camera closes up on Myrtle, who is looking down at her desk with reserve.
Myrtle (shouting): BECAUSE HE’S DEAD! And Bonnie, too. And Nancy. And the boy. (Pause.) Somebody…shot ‘em.
Mother Truitt (eyes widening): Myrt—don’t say things like that. Who shot them?
Myrtle continues to postmark the letters in front of her, not looking at her mother.
Myrtle (quietly): Man in the airplane. The one Herb sued for crashin’ inta his fruit trees. If it wasn’t him, maybe it was you. Or somebody ‘cross the street. It’s the same whole world over. Y’know that.
Mother Truitt pushes her hands over her ears furiously, shaking her head.
Mother Truitt (sobbing): I don’t know any such thing. I’m scared, Myrt.
Camera pans out to full-body shots of Mother Truitt, who walks over to stage right, and sits down on a wooden chair by the reception. Myrtle is still face down, staring at the letters.
In the background, Michael Bublé’s song, “Lost” plays softly.
Myrtle: Of what? When your time comes, it comes. And them tears won’t be savin’ yous. When Homer died, I used up all the fear I had in me, and all the grief, too. If there’s somebody loose ‘round here that wants to slit my throat, I wish him all the bloody luck. What difference it make? It’s all the same in eternity. Just remember: if one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got ‘em all on the other side, that’d only be the beginning of eternity. So jus’ blow your nose.
Exeunt.
Mother Truitt - The oldest native-born resident of Holcomb, Kansas at the age of seventy-five, and the city’s trusty mail messenger, Mother Truitt is an endearing woman full of sympathy and love for others. She is often seen wearing babushka bandannas and cowboy boots—“the most comfortable things you can put on your feet!”—she often claims.
Myrtle Clare - Myrtle Clare is not just the resident Post Office worker—she is a cowboy-boot wearing former dance-hall hostess. The establishment she once owned attracted clientele from a hundred miles around, but had seen been shut down following the death of her husband. She was like her mother, Mother Truitt, but more hard and blunt about everything, roughened up from all the drunken, rowdy customers she’d had to deal with in her days.
Mabel Helm – She is the reliable town gossip—she would know if Tommy had been caught for sneaking into his house late at night and was forced to plough the fields till dusk, she would know if Annie and Bob had had a fight that almost-but-not-really turned into a brawl, and that they had to go to counselling. Mabel just knew.
Act I Scene I
Two ambulances screamed in unison across the railroad tracks on a lifeless Sunday morning in 1955. Mother Truitt was on her usual mail route that Sunday, when the flashing lights and whirring noises caught her attention.
Mother Truitt stops outside her next house, stunned into watching the two ambulances turn onto the Clutter property. She suddenly drops her mail bag haphazardly and races across to the Post Office where her daughter, Myrtle Clare worked.
The doors to the post office are two swinging shutters that send a gust of wind every time they open and shut. Inside the small building, there are two chairs and a long mahogany desk indicative for customers to approach. Myrtle Clare stands behind this desk, pouring a cup of coffee. The floors are covered in thick wooden, shabby planks, creaking along every edge and corner. A peeling coat of grey paint covers all four walls of the small Federal Building. Something seems slightly amiss -- the ceiling fan in the centre of the room rotates lazily above all, in semblance of a disco ball that might’ve once been its predecessor.
Mother Truitt rushes into the building, and immediately to Myrtle’s desk.
Mother Truitt: Myrt! (Pause to catch her breath) Myrt, there’s two ambulances gone to the Clutters’.
Myrtle (pouring herself a cup of freshly-brewed coffee): Where’s the ten-thirty-two train?
Mother Truitt (indignant, waving her arms): Myrt, you listenin’ to me? Ambulances. Gone to the Clutters’—
Low-angle camera shot closes up on Mother Truitt standing on one side of the desk, and Myrtle on the other.
Myrtle (exasperated): Well what about it? It’s only Bonnie. Having one o’ her goshdarned spells. Where’s the ten-thirty-two?
Mother Truitt stamps her foot down, and crosses her arms. The hollow sound of wood reverberates loudly.
Mother Truitt: But Myrt, if it’s only Bonnie, why would there be two ambulances?
Myrtle considers this, as she raises a veiny hand to her chin.
Myrtle: Mabel’ll know.
Myrtle (ringing up Mabel’s number): Hello, Mrs. Helm?
Mother Truitt (losing her patience, and furrowing her brows): Well, Myrt?
Myrtle raises a finger to her lips in a shh! gesture. She tightens her grip on the telephone receiver, using her free hand to shield the number pad, as if afraid it would slip from her hands.
Myrtle: Was just ‘bout to ask you about that. (Pause.) Didya hear, see anything?
Myrtle nods in acknowledgement, her face expression unchanged. The door in the Post Office clangs open, unnoticed by both women.
Myrtle: Uh-huh. (Pause.) No, why? (Pause.) Hmm. (Pause.) Really?
Mother Truitt (looking up in anticipation): Well, Myrt?
Myrtle: You wouldn’t say. Well, I ain’t surprised, I’ll say the least. (Pause.) Alright, take care Mrs. Helm. You haves yourself a nice day.
Myrtle hangs up the phone.
Mother Truitt (grabbing her shoulders): Myrt, for heaven’s sake! What did Mabel say?
Camera pans out, medium shot on Mother Truitt who is still standing by the desk. Myrtle has moved to stage left, over to a pile of letters by the desk.
Myrtle (quietly): I ain’t surprised. When you think how Herb Clutter spent his whole damned life in a hurry, rushin’ in here to get his mail with never a minute to say good-morning-and-thank-you-dog, rushin’ around like a chicken with its head off—joinin’ clubs, runnin’ everything, gettin’ jobs maybe them other people wanted. And now look—s’ all caught up with him. Well, he won’t be rushin’ no more.
Mother Truitt gapes at her daughter in awe.
Mother Truitt (pleadingly): Why, Myrt? Why won’t he?
Camera closes up on Myrtle, who is looking down at her desk with reserve.
Myrtle (shouting): BECAUSE HE’S DEAD! And Bonnie, too. And Nancy. And the boy. (Pause.) Somebody…shot ‘em.
Mother Truitt (eyes widening): Myrt—don’t say things like that. Who shot them?
Myrtle continues to postmark the letters in front of her, not looking at her mother.
Myrtle (quietly): Man in the airplane. The one Herb sued for crashin’ inta his fruit trees. If it wasn’t him, maybe it was you. Or somebody ‘cross the street. It’s the same whole world over. Y’know that.
Mother Truitt pushes her hands over her ears furiously, shaking her head.
Mother Truitt (sobbing): I don’t know any such thing. I’m scared, Myrt.
Camera pans out to full-body shots of Mother Truitt, who walks over to stage right, and sits down on a wooden chair by the reception. Myrtle is still face down, staring at the letters.
In the background, Michael Bublé’s song, “Lost” plays softly.
Myrtle: Of what? When your time comes, it comes. And them tears won’t be savin’ yous. When Homer died, I used up all the fear I had in me, and all the grief, too. If there’s somebody loose ‘round here that wants to slit my throat, I wish him all the bloody luck. What difference it make? It’s all the same in eternity. Just remember: if one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got ‘em all on the other side, that’d only be the beginning of eternity. So jus’ blow your nose.
Exeunt.
Monday, January 7, 2008
"The Constant Gardener" excerpt
"This is the Pharisaic life we lead -- a continent lies dying at our door, and here we stand or kneel drinking coffee off a silver tray while just down the road children starve, the sick die, and crooked politicians bankrupt the nation that was tricked into electing them."
- The Constant Gardener
I really, really, like, really enjoyed this passage.
It's so.. familiar.
It's so boldly and heartbreakingly true, and too many people have adopted this "Pharisaic" way of life that so blindly leads them.
How do we turn the other cheek, and act as if our homes are microcosms of the world? Because, if it's nice inside, then it must be nice outside, too? But if it isn't nice outside, what could we do anyway?
It's so much easier to play pretend, and lie to yourself instead of rising to the challenge and doing something.
It would be nice to have, more than once in a lifetime, somebody that breaks the mould and doesn't take the easy way out.
I have nothing to preach. I have no lecture within these lines, I have no solution either. I just wanted to bring it to attention. Sometimes that's the best we can do.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Everybody's changing, and I don't feel right .
I think Keane got it pretty damn well spot-on with that lyric.
When.. my sunglasses feel strange on my face, have they become stiff from the cold or has my face shape changed?
When.. the music blasting in my ears is never really loud enough, has the volume on my iPod been toggled or have my eardrums increased in endurance?
When.. I've acquired a new liking towards an old drink, have my tastebuds adapted or has the taste itself improved?
At which point can you tell whether you've changed or everything around you has changed?
I think Keane got it pretty damn well spot-on with that lyric.
When.. my sunglasses feel strange on my face, have they become stiff from the cold or has my face shape changed?
When.. the music blasting in my ears is never really loud enough, has the volume on my iPod been toggled or have my eardrums increased in endurance?
When.. I've acquired a new liking towards an old drink, have my tastebuds adapted or has the taste itself improved?
At which point can you tell whether you've changed or everything around you has changed?
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Journalling
Ohoh, and these are 3 books I recently bought, and am very excited in reading.
Anybody read any of those?
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Between the Wet Hay - Memories of Murder adaptation
The deep, musty smell of rotten leaves and caked soil pervaded his nostrils as Kwang-Ho stood crouching low to the ground, shuddering—the cold snaking through his shoddy clothing, and slithering along his thighs.
He snuck a glance up at the detective pacing the ground, and at once was rewarded with a smart thunk on the shoulder.
“Oww!” He exclaimed, shielding his eyes automatically, bracing himself for more.
The skinnier detective with the black eyes suddenly dropped down to his stature, a menacing physiognomy twisted with passionate hatred.
“Speak! Tell us!” He ordered, with a guttural drawl.
When Kwang-Ho didn’t immediately respond, he was prodded forwards with another hollow thump, this time against his head.
Sharp, piercing skewers grazed his mind, blurring his vision. Seemingly-random images drifted to the surface of his mind, then drowned beneath the depths just as quickly.
Wanting to say something to appease the detectives but struggling with coherence, Kwang-Ho settled his muddled mind on the image of his father—his big, brawny old man who always protected him against the world. His father, whose words rang with startling clarity. “Wipe your mind clean like a chalkboard before you speak, always listen, and let your thoughts voice themselves, not your mouth.”
And so again he launched himself backwards into that night, the horror swelling anew in his pounding consciousness.
His thoughts began to divide themselves up neatly in his head, as he recalled the drizzling wet, forlorn night that everything first occurred.
“Beside the railway…in that field…” Kwang-Ho began, eyes widening in excitement. The memory began to adjust itself with slow progression, as the hazy lens of a camera is tuned to sharpness. Each flashback then collapsed into place with surprising ease.
“Her neck…” he hissed. “Hyang-Suk’s neck…” A pause.
“He was strangling her…” he spit out, finally.
At this point in the memory, fuzziness replaced the vividness with which Kwang-Ho could remember. He tried desperately to embody himself as he was that night, sandwiched between the wet hay, but it was no use.
The air was full of the smell of wet asphalt; the rain screamed in ecstasy as it clapped against the broken rows of wheat. Tucked around Hyang-Suk’s neck was a cherry-red collar that stood out like a drop of bright blood amidst the black belly-folds of night.
Her eyes, fluttering haphazardly against the beating water, shrieked in despair. Moans, which rose up her throat, died halfway before reaching her lips. Oh, how pretty she looked, even when her hair was in clomps of dirt and her cheeks were brazen with bruises.
The man’s nimble fingers moved in succession, tying knot after knot—methodically weaving around Hyang-Suk’s legs, up her arms, and across her pretty visage. Kwang-Ho was surprised when it was all over in a matter of seconds, the girl motionless, still glowing with the aura of recent human life. Before long, the man was running off into the darkness, letting the thick fog swallow his fading figure into oblivion.
He snuck a glance up at the detective pacing the ground, and at once was rewarded with a smart thunk on the shoulder.
“Oww!” He exclaimed, shielding his eyes automatically, bracing himself for more.
The skinnier detective with the black eyes suddenly dropped down to his stature, a menacing physiognomy twisted with passionate hatred.
“Speak! Tell us!” He ordered, with a guttural drawl.
When Kwang-Ho didn’t immediately respond, he was prodded forwards with another hollow thump, this time against his head.
Sharp, piercing skewers grazed his mind, blurring his vision. Seemingly-random images drifted to the surface of his mind, then drowned beneath the depths just as quickly.
Wanting to say something to appease the detectives but struggling with coherence, Kwang-Ho settled his muddled mind on the image of his father—his big, brawny old man who always protected him against the world. His father, whose words rang with startling clarity. “Wipe your mind clean like a chalkboard before you speak, always listen, and let your thoughts voice themselves, not your mouth.”
And so again he launched himself backwards into that night, the horror swelling anew in his pounding consciousness.
His thoughts began to divide themselves up neatly in his head, as he recalled the drizzling wet, forlorn night that everything first occurred.
“Beside the railway…in that field…” Kwang-Ho began, eyes widening in excitement. The memory began to adjust itself with slow progression, as the hazy lens of a camera is tuned to sharpness. Each flashback then collapsed into place with surprising ease.
“Her neck…” he hissed. “Hyang-Suk’s neck…” A pause.
“He was strangling her…” he spit out, finally.
At this point in the memory, fuzziness replaced the vividness with which Kwang-Ho could remember. He tried desperately to embody himself as he was that night, sandwiched between the wet hay, but it was no use.
The air was full of the smell of wet asphalt; the rain screamed in ecstasy as it clapped against the broken rows of wheat. Tucked around Hyang-Suk’s neck was a cherry-red collar that stood out like a drop of bright blood amidst the black belly-folds of night.
Her eyes, fluttering haphazardly against the beating water, shrieked in despair. Moans, which rose up her throat, died halfway before reaching her lips. Oh, how pretty she looked, even when her hair was in clomps of dirt and her cheeks were brazen with bruises.
The man’s nimble fingers moved in succession, tying knot after knot—methodically weaving around Hyang-Suk’s legs, up her arms, and across her pretty visage. Kwang-Ho was surprised when it was all over in a matter of seconds, the girl motionless, still glowing with the aura of recent human life. Before long, the man was running off into the darkness, letting the thick fog swallow his fading figure into oblivion.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Joys of the Fairer Sex
Dramatis Personae
Mr. Tibs
Man (that sits next to Mr. Tibs)
Girl #1
Girl #2, a.k.a. Darlene
Girl #3
Girl #4
Announcer
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Mr. Tibs, a lonely, mild-mannered middle-aged man stuck in a dead-end office job, arrives at his local community centre for the monthly Speed Dating Challenge, eager for companionship and curious about the concept. He sits down at his first station number. A librarian-looking girl with owl glasses stares at him perplexedly.
Mr. Tibs: "Hi, I'm—"
Girl #1 (angrily): "Shhh! The bell hasn't rung yet."
Announcer: "Contestants, are you ready? On your marks, get set, go!"
Mr. Tibs: "Hello, they call me Mr. Tibs—”
Girl #1 (looking contemptuous): "When, I first saw you, I thought you were handsome. Then, of course, you spoke.”
Mr. Tibs (anger rising): "Well you bootless tardy-gaited strumpet, you aren't a looker yourself."
*DING!* The bell sounds for the contestants to move on.
Mr. Tibs pushes himself out of his seat gracefully and moves on to the next lady. She is bubbly, blonde, and wearing a low-cut v-neck sweater.
Girl #2 (talking speedily): “Like oh my god, my name is Darlene, who are you? I’ve never been to one of these things before, this is sooo exciting! I hope I meet Mr. Right, I’ve had so many Mr. Wrong’s, like oh my gosh, I swear my luck is so rotten. You look like a nice guy, are you a nice guy?”
Man next to Mr. Tibs (whispers): Crazy!
Mr. Tibs (leaning over): “Well, I’m sure she’s not that bad.”
Darlene (glaring at the man): “Hey! You yeasty reeling ripe hugger-mugger. You better not be talking about me!”
Mr. Tibs: “Darlene, don’t you think you should take it easier?”
Darlene: “Oh-ho-ho, no, fasten your seatbelts, ‘cause we’re in for a bumpy night!”
*DING!*
Mr. Tibs: “Lord help the infectious full-gorged haggard! The women here aren’t very friendly.”
Girl #3, a young timid-looking brunette with blue coveralls and khakis, spontaneously bursts into tears.
Mr. Tibs: “Oh, oh, no, don’t do that. I’m sorry. Those two other women were just awfully bad.”
Girl #3: “Well I’m not bad; I’m just drawn that way!”
Girl #3 runs out of the room sniffling and heaving sobs.
Man next to Mr. Tibs (whispers): “Crazy, all of them!”
Mr. Tibs sits at his table alone, awkwardly, waiting for the next bell to signify rotation. Two long minutes later, it comes.
Girl #4: “Hello, you.” She bats her eyelashes playfully.
Mr. Tibs (warily): “Hi, how are you?”
Girl #4: “Okay let’s just cut to the chase, here. You want sex?”
Mr. Tibs (uncomfortably): “Uh, well, not really—”
Girl #4: “What’s your name?”
Mr. Tibs: “Tibs. Greg Tibs. What about yours?”
Girl #4 (ignoring him): “Well, Greg. I hope you can handle me.”
Mr. Tibs (beginning to feel exhausted of options): “What do you mean by that?”
Girl #4: “I’m very fantastical. I have fantastical fantasies. I mean, I have nipples, Greg. Can you—would you—milk me?”
Mr. Tibs: “Oh, sweet Heavens! Woman, you are a churlish boil-brained boar-pig! You disgust me!”
Mr. Tibs storms out of the Speed Dating room, tired than before, and feeling more melancholic about his love life than ever.
Mr. Tibs (roaring with anger): “Oh dear God, you are a ruttish pottle-deep flap-dragon! You fool with me! Do I amuse you?! AM I BUT A PUPPET?”
As if in response, the rain suddenly begins to drizzle wetly, and thunder sounds overhead. Storm clouds have closed in, and the thumping of rain gutters is loud and hollow. Mr. Tibs—defeated, and head hanging low—begins the slow trek home.
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