In my email, I told them "It's not been said enough: writing is hard. You don't think so until you sit down in front of a blank page."
And here it is. Me in front of you.
When I portered around, fingering the soil on my balcony to see if it's moist, arranging items in the kitchen and in my study so there's some sense of orderliness, thoughts coursed through my head. Thoughts took a stroll, leisurely. Thoughts were sure when I'd sit down, they'd be placed gently on the pages.
But when I sit down in front of this blank page, the first thing I can start with is the fear of the blank page.
What do I want from today? The sense of responsibility made me want to finish the slides for the lecture tomorrow at Digital Narrative class first. Yet, I know if I land on it first, I will move forward to do its lesson plan for the afternoon, followed by a lesson plan for tomorrow's lab session with the other class. I shall not do that then (she writes, and switches to the other tabs and drags RMIT time blocks - the purple ones - on her Google calendar down to the afternoon of today).
Turin Horse and The River. Mirror and The River. Did Tarkovsky write a screenplay for The Mirror? I watched his other films, and I didn't enjoy them as much. Too passe for me and my contemporary psychological making.
The Turin Horse and The River. That will take two hours. Let's do Bela Tarr first. (she writes, then switches to another tab in which after some searching, lands on a page in which there's an article and a talk).
And just yesterday, she told herself: you spend more time consuming than creating. Adjust!
I should take notes of what M and I talk and do to each other every day. I think it makes for good scenes.
INT. EXT - PARKING LOT - DAY
C pulls M by the hand, legs bouncing, faking a hurry.
Come on, hurry. You're too old.
M lags behind, intentionally, his chunky stomach and thighs resisting like those of a bear (he quite often reminds her of Baloo in The Jungle Book).
When they turn at the corner, he pulls her back.
Oh, come here. I've remembered now what I came down here for. Come on!
He drags her to a trash bin in a corner.
At least, find the right bin. I'm recyclable, idiot.
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
(After the semi-finals of EuroCup, which England won).
M sprawls on the bed, still drunk. He pulls C into the bed.
Give me a cuddle.
But we just did.
No, I took. You didn't give. Now give me.
C climbs onto his thigh. She gives it a half-ass hug, then lets go.
Why don't you love me anymore? Remember when you still loved me and gave me cuddles?
Yeah, that was before the semi-final. Now all that's left is a stinky drunk M.
She lets go of him and heads for the bedroom door.
Now, sleep. You went to bed at eight. You'll get up at twelve.
M What? Why do I get to sleep only four hours? C
That's seven hours. Five plus seven is twelve.
You didn't say five. You said eight.
Did I? I said five.
You said eight. Remember when you could say numbers right?
Earlier in the night, when I went to the living room where he was watching his game, I also said: "you smell boozy." And he replied: "Do you know how you smell?". "What?" I expected sass. He bellowed: "You smell delicious. You look delicious. And you smell delicious."
What a stupid drunk darl.