December 27, 2005

Scripting

Want to sleep but can’t. Want to read, but words on the page are drowned out by words in my head. Put the book down to rest on my chest with the light still on, close my eyes for a second. For a minute, drift off, brain doing that fantasy dream thing. Relaxing into a subtle dream sleep wake and turn the light off, but the minute I curl up under the covers the movie in my brain, the kopf-kino starts to play. Images over and over again, words, a flow, a sensation, the smells of today. Even though it’s the last week of the year, the red orange yellow leaves clumped on the ground give off that fall smell and above them the smoky burning of wood, hearths of the countryside embedded in the city. Walking down Valencia, I’m bombarded with incense from the santoria shop, the cloak of coffee from the new cafe near 21st (in which there were 27 laptops and 56 people when we stopped in this Monday afternoon), that dog-food smell from the taco truck on Harrison (where I will never eat). I flow past with the pleasant sensation of chai/coffee/sangria/guinness/pu-erh/rose - my sustenance for the day. Not true. I lived on words today. These are the best days. Even when I don’t write, don’t produce for the page- when I spend a day in wordplay with another, swapping stories, positing theories, asking questions- these are the meals that feed me.

I am writing while you are talking. I’m working here, formulating, sketching, flexing. I listen, respond, laugh, interject… you are feeding me. As hungry as I am, I’m drafting, sketching, flowing across the page- the editing comes later.

Now needs no editor- because the now is perfect. It is the is. We improvise our way through each scene, delivering round observations and witty punch-lines with perfect timing, formulating a brilliant script which feeds a story, thrills, satisfies, reincorporates yet leaves our watchers with an agonizing cliff-hanger. They will be back next week for more.