I have to get ready for rehearsal. I booked space once a week to just get in a room and play around. Run monologues. Speak out loud. Think about a show. And of course continue rinsing away the past decade which ruined me, totally, completely, and now I’m almost 40, and age that would have disecouraged these men from even getting involved. THANKS.
But the Knight Rider theme is with me now — putting on my sunglasses — thinking about my undercover investigation into the sex scandal I was just in. It’s going really well, my EPIC long-form, I’m connecting to the editors psychically, as the guru taught me I could do, I’m placing them, psychically, in the story, downloading the INFORMATION I need to interest them. Picturing them in chairs at the BH tennis club, chillin, telling me to keep on the game, the tennis match. It’s cool. Other parts, not so cool, but no worries, not the time to EDIT, stop doing that.
I have to make fun, I really do, of the past decade. My ten year old face in sunglasses, in the Cutlass Supreme, the camera hugging the nose of the Cutlass. We’re headed to the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, where I’m going to STUDY the sex scandal I was in as a child, for the sake of children. I’m going to bring down Dr. J, my mother.
But now I gotta get into a rehearsal room for a couple of hours, jump around, I’m feeling lethargic, particularly around this activity, because I’m negotiating with self, as the field of bullshit I had to go through to get here, France aside, in just coming from a story that attracted attention, but ended up making my life more complicated, so I arrived on the other side of hell, that I went through also thanks to the GURU, thanks, having wished I directed my experiences into a profession that would have avoided the personal bullshit — meaning, not write about it, but here I am…
I’m just continuing to figure out what I’d like to do, in a bit of a tight spot, because I wasn’t thinking TRAJECTORY at all as a writer—where do you want to end up? No one asked. I couldn’t believe these people, I mean, I don’t know why I listened to them, so now, I look across the jobs out there, and I’m not — well positioned, right now. I haven’t even written, in some senses, a real feature, which doesn’t neccesarily mean I can’t sell a pitch, but that way isn’t the most intuitive to me, so I’m still trying to figure that out, as I don’t have a PASSION or BEAT. It’s not to say I can’t sell something, and I hope I do soon, but at least, I think I would like to go into film and tv in some capacity, so I’m directing my arrow to EPIC.
That makes sense. And hopefully, by the time I’m done, I’ll have a solid idea as to how I want to structure the book, and I can move on… I don’t know what to do yet, if I should pitch this as a series, a couple chapters, or what, but I’ll continue to figure that out. In any case, the end is pretty clear to me, it’s the lambada, the living room dance floor, I guess the players, the tennis players, as if I could love, as it was a love song, that’s what scored these years — hit Celine, The Power of Love, the most SERIOUS, and it was. A comittment. Deuce picking up the neon ball with his shoe and racket. Where the game and the bodies and the play at hand all exist at the same level of intensity, like you could drop the music, hit the aerial shot, and consider the boxes, the structure of it, the beast in it, the order, civlization. Man. And that way, she’s like this fertility goddess, a celebrator of sex, or love love love, and was it inappropriate? yes, no, where to go? When you’re in this house for these reasons…they were Jewish, too, or we celebrated sorrows in the next room, true tragedies. Supernatural — close calls, passover. One house, held everything, and sex became PG, for real, this Jews — these miraculous children — latin also, it was… a miracle. So, what do you do with the totality, that’s where I end, because there really wasn’t an end, just an amazement, that this is what happens in the world, that the unbelievable can happen to you. Right now, that’s where I’m at.
It’s a spiritual story, sure, where these tennis players are captured in snapshots of levitation, bended knee, and estactic reaches of the chest, it was spiritual, for sure, what we do, can do, what we care about, what we don’t. So, again, I FEEL good about what’s happening, you see, it’s just, that FEELING way of moving through life to me, personally, ultimately leads to unsatisfaction in the moment. What I’d like to feel is satisfied, it worked, but being in some video game version of life, I must say, it caused me distress. I chose to remain neutral about it, as a child, it’s just that didn’t work out that well, or I didn’t get the support I needed to NOT attach to this story, it’s NOT something that makes your INTERESTING, it’s NOT the thing to put on your college essay, type deal, if you catch my drift, because I always came from “a story.” How you get sort of caught up… and that just, in the USA, even, just got strangely complicated where I met power players who liked “to help…” but I didn’t NEED help. If I needed PROFESSIONAL HELP, if that’s what YOU thought, WHY? First of all. WHY? WHY are you so FOCUSED on ME? With teeth. I had a hard time getting into arguments with people, because my relationship to my father was horrific, terrible, so I didn’t want to FIGHT. So WHY? Get ready. I am actually ferocious. I will return the ball back. And yes, it might hurt. I got hurt enough.
I can walk out, tell you to fuck off, I’m in a better place with rage, turning it up for demonstration. These men, I’m telling you… they had some nerve, you know? Just chill, they projected all over me upon sight. Jesus Christ. Anyway, gotta go, will be late for rehearsal.