I can make you believe in anything.
Ask me anything
May 7, 2012
May 6, 2012
May 5, 2012
Dust Bowl Intermission
The young man stands on the edge of his porch.
He looks over the dust bowl, and sighs. So much for Roosevalt’s promises. So much for Dad’s promises. A shotgun leans against his leg, bouncing a little with each breath. Dry soil dances under the dry sun.
Summer had begun, and the air was full of honey and vaporized motor oil. The young man drums his fingers against the worn, green railing. Time doesn’t pass so quick when you live in a snow-globe. He blinks last year’s crops out of his eyes. The only sounds are his breath, his drumming fingers, and that hollow echo that emptiness makes.
A car pulls into the drive. A beat-up, faded green pickup. Dad steps out. His boots kick up about a bucketful of dust. He pulls a barking mutt out from the passenger seat. Drumming. Breathing. Barking. Empty.
The young man lifts his fingers from the railing and slowly reaches down for the gun.
“There ain’t no heaven, and hell’s a dog fight.”
May 3, 2012
Pastor Sean Harris preaches to his congregation, “The second you see your son dropping that limp wrist, you walk over there and crack that wrist. Man up. Give him a good punch… and when your daughter starts acting too butch, you rein her in.” This is a man who claims to preach the word of God.
We all need to recognize that this exists, and there’s an audience of people cheering and giving it ample amens. There’s still work to be done.
(Source: thedailywhat)
May 2, 2012
Then It Was Now
Then it was 11 PM and I hadn’t read a word of my comm textbook nor written a word of my screenplay, and I was sitting in my bed considering the implacable facial expressions of ducks.
My shorts felt too tight and some complicated muscle over my left eye was twitching every few minutes. My mind was in Philadelphia, seeking desperately for solace within the blistering nothingness of “home”. My heart was torn between South America and Boston, summing up to pretty much nowhere, and trying to learn to be okay with that. My spirit was somewhere close by, but had been hanging out of reach for a little while now.
I wished my phone would ring with declarations from the Constitution State. I wished it would be September, or January for that matter. I longed for dead leaves or nasty, Philly snowbanks. Though golden afternoons and bugs splattered on half rolled-down car windows were hovering hazily on the horizon, I wanted to shut my eyes tight and rush through to someplace later.
Everything I wanted was left frozen back in the worst city in the world. Except, that’s just the problem. It wasn’t frozen. It was happening, far away and unattainable. And I was here, and it would never be mine.
And, as usual, I longed. Quietly, brutally, I longed.
Seriously though, ducks have this IDGAF expression on all the time. Like whatever, I’m a duck. Google Image it, I’m totally right.
May 1, 2012
Frenzy
God DAMN my back hurts. My J. Crew Oxford’s ripped in three places and my arms are covered in scabs. Archit and Lily are bleeding too. My breath comes in ragged spurts as I peek out from behind my cover.
Shit.
There’s a dude in a ski mask shoving some poor, Indian guy up against a parking garage wall. He connects with a sickening thud. I struggle to my feet. Ready to make a difference. To be brave. But when I round the corner and step into the light, I freeze. My voice catches in my throat and I watch, helpless, as the mugger raises his gun.
BANG.
And I’m on the ground. Hands over my ears. Panting. Gagging. A body rolls to the pavement, not too far away.
“CUT!”
This is gonna be a bitch to edit.
April 28, 2012
Metropolis
There’s a giant, technicolor statue of Superman guarding the Town Hall of Metropolis, IL. There are even signs leading up to it. They read “Giant Statue,” with a redundant arrow. It’s huge, and kitschy as all hell.
If I only I were there. Under a partly cloudy sky, among the patchy grass lawns and faded billboards. I had to look up how to spell Illinois for this post, but the results were inconclusive, so I just went with the state abbrev. iation.
I’d like to be in Metropolis. Maybe it’d help me regain whatever kind of faulty inspiration I once had when I started writing this train wreck of a screenplay about “the human side of superheroes”. Nice, Pat. My story has no giant, technicolor statues. Just overwritten scene descriptions and heavy-handed dialogue. And 90 pages of a really big, bold, dragged out “THEEEEE EEEEEEEEND.” Period.
I bet they don’t have any trouble finishing their screenplays in Metropolis. Living under the giant, monochromatic shadow of The Man of Steel, and all. You don’t need x-ray vision and tree trunk biceps to see that.
I just want control. Think this. Write that. Stop checking your phone. Turn it off. Turn it all off.
Spend your summer in Ecuador. In Paris. In Barcelona, and La Jolla, Chicago and Manhattan and Christ anywhere but your goddamn bed. Get a job doing something that matters, not folding oxfords and estimating wealthy, fat ladies’ pant sizes. Drive through endless orchards and marvel at the big, scary metal vampires that rape the earth for oil and one dollar bills. Grin at the panting sun and dig yourself a home in the sand. Forget that off-white-off-yellow three story Colonial with the Southern accents. Forget that big, sprawling castle in the middle of the angry city. Forget that little brick bomb shelter you’re learning to call home. Sweet, scary home.
Go to Ecuador. Go to Paris. Write a screenplay and fall in love. Do anything. Anything other than that which you’re doing right now. Lie in the shadow of The Man of Steel and swallow a shooter of kryptonite. Close your eyes. Forget.
April 24, 2012
"It’s your choice- what are you waiting for? Cause this is happening."
April 22, 2012
Anonymous asked: what happened to you
I decided to stop being so scared of everything. Any other questions?
April 14, 2012
The Rabbit Hole
I think little bits of my brain are beginning to collect in my ear canals and under my tongue. Imagine this: somebody drugs your tea, hits you over the back of the head with a shovel, and throws you, naked and headfirst, into a wind tunnel and the path of an oncoming bullet train. The train screams and you shut your eyes just as it slams into you and
Take that second, that single instant, and repeat it. Infinitely.
And the weirdest part of it is this: you love it. Ever since the looking glass got cloudy, you’ve been looking for something new. And one day, in the garden, your foot slipped a little on a bottomless pit and you shrugged and said fuck it and let gravity take you down down down.
And you’re still falling. And now your pupils are dilated and you’re dehydrated and you can’t stop moving and you suddenly don’t know if you really feel like yourself anymore.
But you’re not sure if you like it. So you keep falling, because if you’re not in control, then guilt and blame and misery don’t exist.
Who needs Wonderland?
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