Conversations In My Head.

a
INT. KITCHEN - AFTERNOON

Two sisters. Woman 1 (36) is fiddling with food for a family barbeque happening outside, the sounds of which come filtering in. Probably wearing 'slacks'. Woman 2 (27) is slouched on the counter.

                                   WOMAN 1
                           (chopping, slicing etc)
              ...you disconnect yourself too much. You don't try 
              to meet people, or make friends. You sever all of 
              your relationships. You don't try.

                                   WOMAN 2
                         (munching on a bowl of nuts)               
              Ah, what? I try! I just don't try if I don't see the 
              need to. If a person doesn't interest me, they don't 
              interest me. Why continue the charade?

                                   WOMAN 1
              Ha! Are you listening to yourself? When they don't
              interest you?

                                   WOMAN 2

              Yeah, when they don't interest me. Friends - people - 

              are supposed to interest you. Engage, challenge, make 

              you look at things in a different light... Or what's 

              the point right?

WOMAN 2 throws a nut into the air tries to catch it in her mouth. She fails.

                                   WOMAN 1
              Is that all people are there for, to entertain you?
              ... Pick that up.

                                    WOMAN 2
                (rolls eyes tiredly, languidly grabs the nut, 
                     surveys it, throws it in her mouth)
              Ah, what are you doing?

                               WOMAN 1 (CONT'D)
              To be your "entertainment"? To perform for you? But
              only when you want, of course, only when you want.

                                   WOMAN 2
              Um... What?

                               WOMAN 1 (CONT'D)
              Don't do that. You know what I mean. When you,  
              critical you, who we're all just waiting for a little 
              bit of recognition from - just a little, not much, 
              just a fu... nod in our direction - when you want 
              people to perform, we do it. And when they're, we're,
              good at it, you want us around. If not, then no.

                                   WOMAN 2
                             (almost sarcastic) 
              Gosh... Blowing it a bit out of proportion don't you 
              think?

                                   WOMAN 1
              Am I? Why does it feel like I've wanted to say this
              for months? You are unforgiving, Woman 2. Unforgiving.
              One, two slip-ups and that's it. You don't... hold 
              out, you don't try. 

                                   WOMAN 2
                  (a bit angry, struggling with her words) 
              Maybe... God, if you want to get into this... Maybe I 
              just don't want to settle, alright? Hey? Maybe it's 
              because... because I don't want to fake it! I don't 
              want to waste my time, to want to drill my head in 
              out of boredom just for... what? For 'comfort'? For 
              'contact'? For WHAT? I don't want... 

              I don't want to settle, alright? 

                                   WOMAN 1
              So are you saying that I settled for Mark?

                                   WOMAN 2
              No, fuck! I'm fucking not. Did I mention you...

Trails off as a boy (4) wanders into the kitchen, clutching at his pink-stained shirt.

                                   WOMAN 2
                              (gives him a nod) 
              Sup.

                                    BOY
              (stares at her with interest, while speaking)
              Mommy...

                                   WOMAN 1 
                (glaring at Woman 2, she picks the child up)
              What is it, sweet?

                                    BOY
                        (staring only at his shirt)
              I spilt...

                                   WOMAN 1 
                 (puts him down and takes off his shirt)
              That's okay, don't worry, just give me this...
              And go have a swim to get rid of the sticky. Ask 
              Daddy to help you if you want another shirt, ok?

                                    BOY
                                Okey-dokey...

The boy wanders aimlessly away, puffing and depuffing his cheeks, repeating 'okey-dokey' underneath his breath. His head narrowly grazes underneath an open cupboard door. He feels it, hovers there for a few seconds letting his arms rise by his sides. 'Okey-dokey' grows louder and louder and then drops, and he carries on.

                                   WOMAN 2
                       (watching the boy walk away)
               Does that kid have access to marijuana?

                                   WOMAN 1
                   (unimpressed, chopping vegetables)
               Don't...

                                   WOMAN 2
                                   (sighs)
               Look... If you're happy, you shouldn't be getting
               upset about this. If you haven't settled, Woman 1,
               then why do you care? Or more importantly, why
               can't you understand why I won't? ... If you have
               what you have always wanted, and if it's worth it, 
               if it's as good as it should be, Woman 1... 

               Maybe this conversation has more to do with you
               than it does me.

                                   WOMAN 1
               You're not as young as you think, Woman 2...

                                   WOMAN 2
               You're not as old!

                                   WOMAN 1
               Ah, always! You're always just deflecting, making
               sure the conversation doesn't land on you!

                                   WOMAN 2
               No, no I don't think so. I'm just looking at things
               a little bit more rationally than you.

                                   WOMAN 1
               Oh, of course, of course you are. More rationally,
               'better'. What makes your way right, hmm? What makes 
               you right?

                                   WOMAN 2
               God, I don't fucking care if it's right! ...

                                   WOMAN 1
                               (interjecting) 
               Stop swearing!

                               WOMAN 2 (CONT'D)
               Ah, I don't care if it's right! Or right in your
               eyes anyway! It makes sense to me, doesn't it? 
               I've thought it through! Rationally, logically, 
               emotionally, to me, it's right. Christ, if we're 
               not living to our own expectations and standards 
               in this world, whose are we fucking living for,  
               Woman 1? 

                                   WOMAN 1
                             (after a few seconds) 
               Your family's? Your friend's? The ones who love
               you? Who only want to see you happy. Sometimes - 
               not all the time for you of course, you couldn't 
               handle it - but sometimes, Woman 2, sometimes 
               you can live up to your loved one's expectations. 

               Everyone's always trying to make you happy Woman 
               2. Why can't you want the same for us?

A few seconds of silence.

                                   WOMAN 2
                           (avoiding eye contact) 
               Jesus. I do want the same for...

                                   WOMAN 1
                               (interjecting) 
               The potatoes are getting cold.

WOMAN 1 grabs a pan and walks out, leaving WOMAN 2 alone.

June.

-->

I look a bit vulnerable in the face.

I often wonder about the past, around the Age of Enlightenment. Or even before, the Renaissance, around the time of Leonardo da Vinci. I place myself in that past, as an ordinary wench or whatnot, a member of the dreadfully common 'public', and I wonder to myself if I would have been different. If I would have challenged... anything. If I would have transcended the garden variety thinking of the day and possibly could have stood in conversation with John Locke or Newton, inspiring liberty of thought and expression, and equality of gender, fighting the traditional "belief-based systems of thought". 

... I don't think I would have. I think I would have carried on carrying on; managed the family store, popped out kids, pushed back my greasy hair and read about it in the paper if I were fortunate enough to be literate. 

Will people in 400 hundred or so years look back at us and wonder the same thing? What are we not seeing?

Side Note: I believe Leonardo da Vinci was sent back in time, as an ordinary man, perhaps an engineer or scientist of sorts from his future present. How else could he have his fingers in pies that extend from anatomy to art to vision science to the invention or refinement of musical instruments, hydraulic pumps, clocks, reversible crank mechanisms, cranes, parachutes, finned mortar shells, machine guns, a helicopter, a steam cannon etc? He must have been trying to recreate what he had seen in the future, obviously being more versed in some subjects than others. And that's probably why some designs proved a success, whilst others fared less well. Although he was no more than an ordinary intellectual from the future, sent back in time he was GENIUS. ... I also think he would have been a huge, pretentious knob.

I've also been thinking of people that I like. How I would like them to be a part of everything, or how I would have liked them to be a part of everything. To take them back. 

Sometimes I fear when I show people things that I've bought (like a Hand. Bag.) and they nod and go, "That's very Amy," Amy is code for 'a bit shit'. 

"Culturally it's unacceptable, but it's theatrical dynamite."

There should be more rooftop things.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh red-rimmed month.

The Days of Everything After.

Memorable Weekend Quotes.

"My mom wasn't classy, fuck all of you!" - Justin

"Fuck you guys, I'm not unpleasant! 
 Fuck you guys, I'm in a good mood!" - Morne. I believed him.

If she had been given a choice before she was conceived, say to exist in chaos or
not to exist at all: Chaos, she would have said. She would have said, not without sadness of course, still: let me come. Let me watch as all things fall apart.

- Lydia Millet, Oh Pure and Radiant Heart

Suikerbosrand.

LUUUUUUDAAA.

You know what? I like Ludacris. I like his smooth skin and elongated face. I like his classics such as 'Everybody Drunk' and 'Sex Room'. I like his strong, sexy voice. I like the way he's papered his twitter page with huge photos of his face and a bottle of what I can only guess is liquor, in what I have to believe is some sort of promotional parody. I like that his real name is Christopher Brian Bridges. I like his encouraging tweets, such as:

"Don’t be afraid of the space between your dreams and reality. If you can dream it, you can make it so."

and

"A goal, a love and a dream give you total control over your body and your life."

but especially

"My Chef just made a macaroni & cheese baked beaned steak hot dog with barbecue sauce!!"

and not forgetting

"Wet Willies Miami Beach!!!!!!!!!"

I like how he called his one album 'Word of Mouf' and even more so how he called another 'Chicken-n-Beer'. I like how he's never acted in any movie that I could or would ever remember. I like how he's not Kanye West.

I like this album cover:

And I like this picture of him with an afro entitled 'Snacks and Shit'.

I EVEN LIKE THAT HE SANG WITH JUSTIN BIEBER.

But I especially like how much material I had for this blog post when I was just going to say, "You know what? I like Ludacris" and be done with it.

LUDACRIS FOR LIFE!

Stimming Was My Gateway Drug.

And now my ears are filled with this:

The View Has Changed.

I was searching for just audio but this imperfect recording will do just fine.

Memory #864

I was at an ambiguous teen age when I fell in deep infatuation with a boy who worked at Look and Listen.

His name..? I forget. If I ever knew. Infatuation has no need for silly pleasantries.
aIt was a Sunday afternoon when my best friend and I decided to hang out at Rosebank mall. No boys to meet, no movies to watch, no real money to spend... After dawdling indifferently in clothing shops, slouching on steps stuffing movie popcorn into our mouths and slurping on a skinny with wings cappucino freezo from Seattle Coffee Shop (I felt adult when I bought coffee there, adult and COOL) we were at a bit of a loss. The entire day seemed a bit of a failure. We were unstimulated, we were bored, we were teen-aged. The last option was to go to Look & Listen, the cd shop of the moment and... Well no, that was the whole plan. 
aAnyway, so we looked. And then we brought our cds up to the counter to listen. Now, please note that my music taste far surpassed my impressionable (definition POP: 'easily influenced because of a lack of critical ability') teenage ears. By this time I was already serenading myself with the likes of... the likes of... I don't know what I'm more worried about; that the only bands that come to mind are The Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys, or that I will actually remember what I was listening to at this stage and it will be even more embarrassing... Matchbox 20! That was one. And Our Lady Peace, another! Ah, the angst, the beauty, the shrill lead singer.
aYes. So I brought up an Our Lady Peace album to the counter, ready to subtly blow my nubile mind, when... Nice. Bloke. I thought. Doesn't matter what he looked like really, that wasn't the point. And I couldn't really describe him other than, really nice looking. He was just attractive. To me. And sort of un-South African, while being completely South African at the same time. He had a crudely fashioned white sticker stuck to the side of his face. "What's that?" "I'm Nelly!" (He was very, very white.)

I was instantly hooked. 

a"Oh, Our Lady Peace. Do you know that this one song is about the guitarist's father who got cancer blah blah blah..." (This fact was to be retold about 5 times in the upcoming week.) He liked my music. He had made me laugh 3.5 times in 2 minutes. And he had a sticker on his face clearly satirizing a hip-hop artist that I thought was a fool. I immediately began picturing us at the movies holding hands. (Naivete: check.) It only got better when I asked him for other music suggestions (I just may already have had all the albums I asked for) and we spoke about... Well, I can't do the conversation any justice due to my brittle memory. I just know that I laughed for about 15 straight minutes.

And then my Mom came to pick us up.

a

For that next week I was besotted. I convinced my brother to take me to Rosebank the next Sunday for a 'bonding session'. I dressed nice. I remember the little flutterings in my chest when I saw that he was working again. I feigned nonchalance. I watched him from a distance, his face fading in and out behind cd racks and cardboard cut-outs. Him. Him. Him. Just being every sort of person I could ever want. I brought up another cd to the counter, trembling with nerves and excitement and the all-too-real fear that he may look at me with no recognition. I could stand indifference, even dislike. But that he may look at me as if for the first time, with the blankness of no recollection... I couldn't handle it. But he saw me and smiled. And I smiled. And I talked. And he talked. And I laughed (oh how I laughed!). And I pictured us at an amusement park sharing an ice cream (I was an imaginative kid).

a

"I'm here with my brother. We do this all the time. Sort of a Sibling Sunday." Was what I was saying when my brother walked up to us with a smirk and dropped in, "Oh, so it's you who she's dragged me here to see." ... ... ... ...

This precise moment was when I decided not to ever let my brother in on secrets in the car ride over to anywhere.

a

After an evening (of Counting Crows and the like) that would have been satisfying only to my unseasoned mind, I bid adieu, flushed with love and filled with deranged fantasies of how this could only move forward.

a

I returned in two Sundays time (I think I was in a play or something), only to find his co-worker friend at the counter. (Side Bar: His friend, in his own right, was very cool, and probably, looking back, who I would be attracted to now.) Disappointedly placing my cd down on the counter, I asked where -blank- was. And with each word tearing my overblown infatuation into pieces he told me that he had quit and wasn't working there anymore. ... Deadening. Was how I would describe it. I damned bad timing and rued how yet another very possible prospect of love just... wasn't. I listened sadly to my shitty for as long as I thought I needed to, to get away with seeming as if that was what I was actually there to do, before I walked out, and out.

a

He stayed with me a couple of weeks. I kept hoping I would run into him on a roof at a house party in the middle of town or something, both escaping from the chaos of people, champagne in hand and hair whipping in the summer wind (romantic comedies fucked me up good, I get it). But I didn't. Obviously.

And so I forgot. As you do.

... A detail that I almost neglected to remember: When his friend told me he wasn't working there anymore he added, "He doesn't need the money anyway, he gets enough from his father." I remember furrowing my brow at this and not knowing how to respond. I didn't, and still don't, know if this friend was being uncomplimentary or jealous or simply honest. I blocked out this one sentence until about three minutes before I thought I was finished writing this. Maybe because I just didn't remember. Or maybe because I hated how it bent my perfectly formed image out of shape. I couldn't risk a chip in the already crumbling amphora of my infatuation. My like was fickle, my love even more so.

I'm afraid it still is.

Lost Memories.

 

 

 

 

I found this note in a little wire-bound yellow notepad last night. Even though it's obviously my handwriting I have no recollection of when I scribbled it; whether it was in the midst of sleep or not, whether I was referring to real or theoretical dreams, whether it was six or eighteen months ago. I like it though. I wonder what else I've forgotten.