Summer and Fall

Firstly, let's try to ignore that this is my only post since the first of September. Like I say, I've been busy. In the past months I've written nine songs of lyrics, two sonnets, an essay, three short stories, a short play, two poems and art directed the titan layout and photographs as well as begun playing the guitar very intensely, none of this is suitable for the Body Without Organs.

However, in the next couple of weeks I'll post a new short story I've been working on specifically for this blog. It's my longest and most in-depth yet and I'm very excited about it and its subject matter. It will be titled "The Weeping Girl."

I've also recently finished a short story/article commissioned for my most esteemed friend Brooke Manning's upcoming zine, which will be featured alongside some pretty impressive talents.

For today I've decided to post photos I've taken since the summer. These are the first photographs I've ever taken with an analog camera, which was graciously lent to me by the lovely and talented Johanna Torell. These pictures take place in Toronto, Montreal, Prince Edward Island and New York City between July and November, 2009.

The familiar faces of Jesse, Marina and Erika also appear in these photos. Check out all the links in this post. Extremely worthwhile. I surround myself by a wonderful group of talented women. Click to enhance size.







dedicated: Per Kirkeby

Crickets

I no longer have the internet at home and so I don't know when I will be able to take the time to post in this blog.

I am very busy working on lyrics, essays, short stories and play excerpts for the Titan full length. It's a very ambitious project and hopefully I can post some piece of it here before I am dead.

What a Lady...

I've recently come into possession of a lot of free time. Hopefully I'll have some content to post.

I've been writing a lot, but it's all been lyrics and the absurd "liner notes" (essentially, a magazine) that will be accompanying the disc/lp. However, there's always a bit of biproduct coming from the process I go through in conceptualizing songs. So, I feel a 'new thing' coming..

I've also been listening to a lot of music.
Hounds of Love

Neo Modern Post Modern New Romanticism

Today I begged a man for food for the first time. I walked by the bakery as it closed hoping to rummage through their trash for some stale bread but instead a man left the building with two plastic bags with the whole days of worth of leftovers.

I watched him load the bags into the trunk of his minivan in envy. I saw him take a bun and bite into it.

Hungrier and hungrier, I found the courage to engage the stranger disappearing as he finished loading his car. I watched him chew at the white flesh of the roll. Finally, I approached him. I said "if you could spare one loaf of bread. I have no money to eat through the week." He stared at me in the eyes and only for the first moment showed some reservation. He made quick glances to each side of him and reached into the bag pulling out a small loaf. "Thank you" I said to him and he replied "thank god, for he provides it for us" so I said thank you to him again.



--------



I wrote the preceding vignette as a text message to myself after an event that soberingly inspired the story. This is my second about bread and its importance, especially to the underpriviledged. Bread is an ongoing source of inspiration to me and I feel it will be an important symbol for me for the rest of my life.

There is an old french adage, "C'est un long jour qu'un jour sans pain", or "'Tis a long day, a day without bread."
The french have an inspiring attitude on the subject. In the late eighteenth century, bread was the centre of politics for the country. Marie Antoinette, or Madame Déficit's advice of "Let them eat cake" was unsatisfactory to those people in her country waging the 'flour wars' and starting the 'bread riots' of the 1780's. In 1789, in an overthrow of corruption, and unpheaval of a whole kingdom (and the birth of punk rock), laws were enacted that gave great subsidies to bakers and kept bread prices low. In the echo of those times, in France today bread is plentiful, well-made and affordable ven to the poorest person by law. Laws put into place in the French Revolution hundreds of years ago. There's a reason ideas like this are both popular and successful. I think this is the single most important law in western history.
Still, there is a great gap between Those of Bread and Those of Cake in the twenty-first century, and Those of Cake truly do not understand what the world is like when even bread is out of reach.
If there's a day where I can feed myself comfortably, and I can help the world around me cope with itself, I'd like to make a contribution to this politcal world of leavened flour. I think bread should always be available to all people. I would like to make it so.
I want to open a "Bread Bank." A place where bread is made and every single person has the right to one loaf every day, for each day of the year. The bread would be of marginal quality, to keep down costs, but also to maintain a stable economy for artisan bakeries andthe importance of bread not only as necessity, but also as luxury. I have no ambitions to solve world hunger or stop poverty. I just have a personal fondness for and a bit of cultural and family history in bread. I see an imbalance of power, a group suffering and a personal desire to set a new standard in necessity for people in the city.
But it's just an idea now.

Some Advice

CHALLENGE:

I have an illustration project for everyone who wants it.
This blog, until now, has been "side projects." Little things I've been doing on the side of my bigger writing tasks. Over the past year, one of my big projects has been writing an eight issue comic series.
I've studied the language of comics/graphic novels/sequential art over the past few years very intensely. From reading the classics, How to Draw Comics the Marvel Way, Comics and Sequential Art and Understanding Comics, to my own notes in the thousands I've read in my life. There's a certain art to the compositon and communication in the writing of a comic book script. There are no guidelines to how this is done and so there are few indications of what's good and what's bad.
For example, looking at the paramount source of information regarding this medium online, the Comic Book Script Archive, there are so many differences in format, style, content and volume of information. Compare the pop style of a Yost/Kyle script to the maniacal perfection of an Alan Moore script. Or notice the intricacies and personality in a Gaiman script. There are no rules.

The great obstacles in writing a script are:
A) Does my story make for an interesting visual narrative?
2) Does my script, a textual narrative, translate correctly/communicate appropriately to the visual mind of my artist?
C) Does the final product make for smooth, readable visual sensory experience?

So, I'm asking for your help. I am challenging you to complete this thing that I've challenged myself with.
I've written a two page, dialogue-less story comic book story. It's simple, and lacks very much action (and in that sense it's even more difficult) but has a pretty intermediate level of instruction on my part. Not as bare as Yost, but not as obsessed as Moore. Not as rigid as some of the other pro scripts, either.
Become the artist. Take my script, and, if I've accomplished the smallest difficulty in my task (meaning: if you can understand it), flesh out the story in pictures.
This can be at any level. If you want to pencil it, ink it and scan it in for colour like a professional comic book studio, absolutely. Paint it in full colour on 18'x22' canvas? Just as good. Draw it in stick figures? Yes, absolutely. Any visual feedback I get from my script is of tremendous worth to me, no matter the skill level or time spent on it. Any capacity in which this challenge is taken is of great value.

I've left the stylistic traits pretty bare. I never mention our hero's race or the colours in the building. That's up to you, to make it your own.
Also, I've left a few key features in the storytelling up to interpretation by the artist. The tone of the whole story and its ambiguity is all up to you. Reading the script and reading the comic will provide a different story no matter what. This is an important element to comics (and the reason a movie like Watchmen should never be made.. but let's not get into that.)

I will post any submissions on my blog, if you want me to show them off.

Please reply here with any questions and thank you very much for your time in even reading the script. I will include a .doc file at the bottom of the blog for downloading/printing purposes.

If this is the first time you've ever even heard about comic books having 'intricacies' - don't laugh it off. For the fullest and fastest understanding of the medium, read the incredibly enoyable Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, mentioned above. It's an unbelievably intelligent book, a fun read and one of the best and most eye-opening books you will ever see. It opened my eyes to the world of comic books and I was already a diehard.

--------

“SOME ADVICE”
James McDonough
04/2009



SYNOPSIS:
A man (IAIN HAVELOCK) sits alone on a subway platform. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old note he had been keeping there, seemingly for a very long time. He reads it over, studying it as if for the last time. He finishes, stands up and walks up to the tracks. As the train approaches, he crumples the note in his hand and lets it fall towards the tracks. The train speeds by before the note can hit the ground, shooting it up into the air.
Two pages, colour or B+W.






PAGE ONE:
Seven panels. Page broken into four horizontal rows of equal height. Column length differs but both pages will both be a play on a traditonal 4x4 panel grid.

PANEL ONE:
This panel is a one column establishing shot, so it occupies the full row of this top quarter. It is a long shot “widescreen” view of a subway platform and of IAIN HAVELOCK, its lone occupant. We are seeing him from the view of the opposite platform, he's sitting on a bench, not in the middle of the bench but one or two steps from the edge of the seat. IAIN is a quiet person and sits with his hands unfolded in his lap, staring forward. Maybe rubbing his hands a bit. We view him head on, the wide view of the panel allowing us to see a great stretch of the long platform. The support beams in between the two platforms block our view from seeing the whole of it, these are two pairs of large I-beams sticking vertically from the ground. Normally advertisements are placed between these pairs of girders, but there are none in this station. The name of the station, written across the wall in SANS-SERIF, capital letters, is “GREENE” or “GREENE STATION.” The station is dirty and neglected.

The title of the story can be placed in the panel, either creatively, Will Eisner style (the words split up onto the negative space made by the girders, maybe?) or simply in the bottom, right corner of the frame in a courier-style typeface. OR, not at all.

CAPTION (optional): “SOME ADVICE”

PANELS 2/3:
These panels occupy row 2 and share the space equally. So, the same as panel 1 but split in half.

PANEL TWO:
A much closer view of IAIN. ¾ or 5/6 of his body is in frame. His feet should be out of the picture and there should be only a small amount of space above his head.
We see IAIN in better detail here. He is approximately 31 years old. A handsome face, clean shaven but this is the first time he's done so in days. He wears a worn black leather jacket over what would seem to be “work clothes.” Leather shoes (not in frame), neutral slacks and a white shirt done up three buttons from the collar under the jacket. His jacket is worn as if to mask the business attire but is not enough to conceal it. To IAIN, the poorly guarded secret is still kept better than an admitted one.
The action here is subtle: He is leaning over to his side slightly, maybe lifting up his bum a bit, digging into his jacket pocket. His fingers have just about touched what he's looking for.

PANEL THREE:
A side view IAIN, pointing towards the view of the empty train tunnel. He's freshly pulled out a bit of paper; a note. It's worn, has been in his pocket for a very, very long time. It's a narrow strip of notebook paper measuring about 5”x3”. He's not quite reading the slip yet, he's looking it up and down. He holds the paper by his thumbs against his index fingers and close to his knees.

PANELS 4,5
These two panels occupy row three. Panel 4 is much longer than 5, allowing for a wider shot. About ¾ of the row. Panel 5 should be square-ish, wheras 4 is a long rectagle.

PANEL FOUR:
This panel is probably best being an over-the-shoulder shot of IAIN. If you think that's corny, make up another view that shows the face of the note and how it sits in Ians hands.

This panel is one of the more important shots in the story. How it's told is entirely up to you as the visualist. Depending on your take of how this panel should be communicated, tells a different type of story. The note is addressed to Iain from “Victoria Chelsea”. Whether you reveal the entire contents of Lady Vicky's letter, partial contents (for example, just its addressee with the rest of the note blurred, or, if part of the note was obscured by Iain's body or some other object), or whether you show none of the letters contents is a decision made on YOUR artistic license. How this panel “reads” should determine how the rest of the story is told and whether the reader is in a position of full sympathy towards Iain and a full-er knowledge of his situation or a more ambiguous view towards him and his relationship with the note. Both stories satisfy me. How do you want to tell it?

The note is not fresh. IAIN has kept it in that jacket since the day he recieved it. The writing, if shown, is well-penned, but weakly.

NOTE:

DEAR IAIN HAVELOCK,
MY GRANDFATHER WOULD ALWAYS SAY THE STRANGEST LITTLE PHRASES. ONE THING ALWAYS STUCK WITH ME. I THINK I FINALLY UNDERSTAND IT:
“IF YOU HAVE TO KILL A SHEEP, THEN KILL IT.”
IT'S ADVICE WE BOTH NEED. I AM GOING TO MISS YOU.
LOVE,
VICTORIA CHELSEA


PANEL FIVE:
We cut to a small panel almost exactly opposite in view to panel 4, or more accurately, an extreme closeup from panel 1. It is a close up view of IAIN straight on, pulled right into the backside of the slip of paper in his hands. We see the note, his finger and his chest behind it. That's all.

PANELS 6/7:
These two panels, of Row 4, the final two of the page, are laid out in the exact opposite of Row 3. A square panel to begin and a long panel ending page one.

PANEL SIX:
This is the same view as panel 5, but a better view of IAIN. It's pulled back to his knees at the base of the frame and the head up to the base of his nose at the top. He's finished re-reading the note and he's loosed his grip on it. His mouth is expressionless, opened just a little bit.

PANEL SEVEN:
In this long shot we see IAIN start to rise from the bench. He's holding the note in only his right hand now, and is using that hand to push himself up off his knee. He has a very serious look on his face, as if he has a headache. One eyebrow is down slightly lower than the other.







PAGE TWO:
This page is the same, the modified 4x4 grid format, but with more liberties taken to it. Three rows, two panels on each row with the bottom two panels going longer vertically, occupying what would be two rows on the page previous, in two columns.

PANELS 1,2
These panels tell the same moment in time for two different moving objects, essentially, “characters” of the story. Panel two should be a bit wider as more action takes place in it.

PANEL ONE:
This is one half of a long shot of the platform, a full body, side view of IAIN, pointing towards the incoming train tunnel, so we can see inside. IAIN is up and walking towards the protective “yellow line” that all subways have bordering the train tracks. He is seen his finishing his step with his foremost toe edging up against the line.

PANEL TWO:
This is a continued view from Panel 1. They are the same shot, with panel one being IAIN's side of the platform, and Panel 2 being the tracks themselves, peeking into the tunnel. The border between frames is in place to show movement of time in the Row. We should be able to see right down the tunnel, the tracks in front of IAIN shooting all the way down to a faint light in the tube. This introduces our second “character”- the subway train. It should be far off, but its headlights begin to illuminate the dark hallway it travels through. It's very important that the platform floor and the dirty subway tracks are shown.

PANELS 3,4:
These panels repeat the layout of Pg 1 panels 4+5. A ¾ panel first followed by a square panel.

PANEL THREE:
We're lower than we've ever been before. A “worm's-eye”, looking up at IAIN, from the tracks. The dirty wall of the tracks that leads up to the tiled floor of the platform occupies the bottom quarter of the panel, essentially splitting it in half compositionally. We see IAIN with his right hand (holding the note) raised up to his mid body, elbow making a right-angle to the floor. His left hand is raised, almost touching the note but not quite. He is staring at it. He has the expression as if he has just made a decision and is determined to carry it through.

PANEL FOUR:
This is a close-up of IAIN'S right hand, the one holding the note. A different angle than Panel 3. He's flipped his palm towards the ground and is in the process of crumpling the note in his fingers. It's small enough to fit completely in his fist. Though this is the only frame we dedicate to this action, it is significant, and he would continue to crumple it over and over and finally clench it still for a few seconds. Here, we just need to see the notes destruction.

PANEL 5,6:
The angle is not dissimilar to that of Panel 1+2 of this page. A ¾ view of Iain so we see his side and get a clear view down the tunnel.

PANEL FIVE:
The frame is much tighter here, but the panel is also longer vertically, so we would get a tigher shot to IAIN and a longer look down the tunnel, as well as having IAIN visible, head-to-toe. The “vanishing point” here should be towards the top-right corner.

IAIN is standing with both toes just over the yellow strip. His right arm is still perpendicular to the floor and his palm faces downward. He's opened his fist and has let the note sail down towards the tracks. His face should look as if he has just blown out a breath. He stands with his back quite straight, no slouching.
Down the tunnel, the train is just entering the station, breaching the tunnel. Its lights shine less bright now that they are no longer in the darkness but they still have a glow that hits you right in the eye. It speeds very quickly toward IAIN.

PANEL SIX:
This is the exact same shot as Panel 5, one second later in time.
The train is now completely into the station and has just shot right past IAIN. Its headlights shine brightly into the readers eye and it rushes violentely towards us. Its wind blows dust around the platform, shoots about IAIN's hair and, most importantly, blasts the note in the foreground.

The note, crumpled and torn, never got to hit the tracks as IAIN may have intended, but its now been ruthlessly blasted into the air by an oncoming train, and so, into the obscurity among all of the other litter in the station. One day it will be picked up by a municipally paid worker and tossed into the trash like all the other station transfers, receipts and candy bar wrappers floating about the platform like urban tumbleweeds. The worst fate a note, a memory, can meet. Here, we witness the note in its final moment of glory, flying out of the frame at great speed in the last sight of its owner. It should take up a large part of the bottom left corner of the page and be twisted about and flying frantically.

IAIN is standing exactly as before. His back still straight, his arm and hand just as they were. His fingers having only dropped the note one second earlier. The only thing changed is the expression on his face. He is breathing in from this great gust of wind the train has brought into the station with itself. He is releived of his tiny, tattered note's great weight. He no longer has a headache.

CAPTION (optional): END


-------------

Here is the script in .doc format.

O' Silly Thing

In celebration of Saint Patrick's day, I wrote a limerick.

At nin'teen; she got her blessin'
a great war and a depression.
Can twenny, she claim
is just growin' pain:
the mid'east and the recession?

Just a silly thing, is all.

William Stendhal, or, "kiss kiss mélisse"

Finally have something for my poorly neglected blog.

I've been working very dilligently on lyrics and concepts for a full-length that I have to have completed by the summer. I'm reinventing my approach to lyric-writing now and it's become a complex, thorough process.

What I have here is a by-product of this, I think. A little more "pop" and "stream of conciousness" than what I usually write. I like it very much for that reason. A little less (but not devoid of) existential angst, and actually a little sex, drugs, violence. Hah. Not too much. Just enough so I can focus and put the real pain into my piano. Or something.

I wish blogger would give me an easier way to indent paragraphs.

-

William Stendhal, or, "kiss kiss mélisse"
by James McDonough
(also titled, "the blood of it all")

-


  William Stendhal woke up to his alarm with a cigarette in his mouth five minutes after nine Thursday morning. It was five minutes passed the beginning of his shift, but before he took the first breath of smoke he was out on the street. He arrived at the shop four minutes after that.
  The shops sign was still flipped to say "closed" but there was a commotion inside. He entered and walked right to the counter. His supervisor, Nicole McKenzie, was standing at the machine. There were tangles in her blonde hair up to the exposed brown roots at her scalp. She wore no makeup, no jewelery on her pale neck or chest and a loose brown dress with large straps at her shoulders and no sleeves. She looked at William.
  "We were broken into last night," she said. William could see that the till was empty. The store's merchandise was otherwise unvandalized. "The lights were turned off but the door was never locked last night. You were on the schedule to close yesterday, weren't you?" "That's right," William said "but I took off just before that. You know this. You were there." Why are you asking?"
  "The VP called. Head office. They want someone held responsible and since you were scheduled to close, it has to be you.""
  "I'm not sure of your reasoning, Nicole. I left early yesterday. You should have locked up."
  "But if I tell them that, I'll lose my job."
  "I am astonished by your response." William said blankly.
  "Can't you find a new job, or go on welfare, or something?" Nicole said, not looking at William. She was organizing the desk around her. She bent down.
  "I've been trying to get social aid for months, even with a job. They always deny me. I think they expect all young people to be delinquents, just shirking the responsibility of school for the time being. Or have denying themselves the backup plan of running back to their parents. Like, well, most of my coworkers here."
  Nicole stood back up. "Why can't you just do that, then?"
  William turned and left the shop at once. Once the door shut behind him he went to light another cigarette but realized the butt of his morning smoke was still between his fingers. He had been holding it the entire time and had only been awake for a few minutes. William discarded it on the street. It bounced along a sewer grate and fell inside. He took out another cigarette.


  William Stendhal was furious. He walked back to his apartment building and up the stairs to the third floor. Walking towards his washroom, he took off all of his clothes except his underpants while walking and when he reached the sink, turned on the faucet. He washed his face without soap keeping his eyes open the entire time. He combed his hair quickly, stepped out to his closet and put on a new outfit. Black leather shoes, black socks, black jeans, buttoned an ironed, soft grey shirt up to his neck and threw a darker blazer over top. William made tea, toast and left the apartment with two bites of it left in his hand. The tea stayed on the countertop. He enjoyed the smell of it but forgot to take a sip.
  Running back down the steps, William crossed the street to a restaurant adjacent his home. He greeted the bartender, whose appearance he had grown comfortable with over the time spent living and working so close. He shooked his hand and said "I would like to work here." "Do you have a C.V.?" The bartender asked, with a smile. "No," William said bluntly, "I'm interested in working very hard and learning very quickly." The bartender laughed. "Come tomorrow with a resumé and we can work something out. Maybe two nights a week. How does that sound?"


  William Stendhal turned out of the restaurant and stayed on the north side of the street. There was nothing unusual and a normal amount of traffic for that time of day. He stopped at the park. It was busy, full of people eating their lunch, or playing with their dogs. Or couples. The tennis courts were all full up with games being played. William remarked that he was glad people still spent their time this way.
  William sat down on the bench, placed his hands in his lap and pulled his chin right back, up to the sky. Just as his eyes were arched to meet the sun behind him, he closed them shut. He stayed this way for many minutes. A song played in his head once, twice, over and over. He thought about his morning. Someone sat down beside him. William broke his trance to peek at who it was.
  A woman, older than William. She was quite beautiful, if plain. She had her brown hair tied back and a large silk scarf bunched around her chest. She wore tight leather gloves. "It's a beautiful day", she remarked.
  "I'm not sure what you mean." It seemed strange to him that someone would want to start a conversation with him sitting like this, but William humoured her whim.
  "The sun is out, people are laughing and I'm sure you're the only person out here wearing a jacket. And I the only with a scarf."
  "I suppose you're right, then. If that's a nice day."
  "Yes," the woman pressed "Are you an unhappy person?"
  William straightened his back. He turned to look at her, squinted his eyes briefly, and relaxed his gaze. "Currently, not characteristically." He answered.
  "What, then, has turned your character so?"
  "I lost my job."
  Her eyebrows lifted. "Have you started looking for a new place to work?"
  "I already have one."
  "That's certainly more than most can afford." She opened her palm as she said this.
  "It doesn't matter. It won't be better. I was unsatisfied with the bottom-wrung positions I've been losing and abandoning these last few years, and I've found nothing better with new work. All I know now is that I can maintain my current level of poverty. Even if my highest level of ambition was just to make enough to see through the end of the day, there would still be times in which I'd disappoint myself. And I'd like to think my goals higher than that." William was not looking at the woman, but straight ahead and had slouched over again.
  "My my, my young man." She put her hands on her knees and looked straight at William. "How it is you speak. How old could you really be? You just need to find your place in the world."
  "That's just it!" William straightened up tightly and locked eyes with her. "I have found my place, after so many years- and it's in the depths of the hamper. The displaced, pissed poor."
  The woman broke her stare with him and smiled. She gave a quick laugh and put her hand on Williams knee gently. She looked back at him and smiled again. "Then do what I do." She said.
  "What's that?" William asked, and she got up quickly without a reply and walked off. She turned quickly out of the park and never looked back behind her. William smiled. For some reason, he admired her. He stayed sitting on the bench. One hour later, William would check his jacket's front pocket and find his wallet stolen.


  William Stendhal went to a nightclub that evening. He had previously acquainted with the security guard working outside and the girl attending the door. He kept his jacket on and entered the club without paying a fee.
  Quickly into the night, William's attention was captured. He spyed a young lady- his age, around. White shoes with no stalkings on her slender, pale legs. A short, sleeveless dress with a close, tight neck. It was in a mod style, its few layers of fabric stitched horizontally over each other, piling on top of itself and not revealing her figure. A gold watch on her wrist, gold earings dancing atop her neck and short, short blonde hair capping the display. She stood at the bar taking the sip of her drink slowly, playing about with her friends. When she laughed, it was subtle and her eyes lit with a hepburn glow. William would have his interest piqued indefinitely now.
  Noticing a couple leave the venue with the lady not having touched her drink, William finished it for her. Hoping this would be sufficient courage, he carried onto the dance floor and immediately into his pretty blonde distraction's sight.
  William moved quite close to her and as he did, her friends moved away as she remained. She turned right to him. "Can I buy you a drink?" She breached the conversation. "Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" He asked back, but she poked him in the shoulder. "No, I insist." They walked back to the bar.
  "What do you drink, bourbon?" She glanced at him. William smiled and did not argue her choice.
  The bartender served their drinks. "My name's Melissa." She gave out her hand as she sipped from her glass.
  "My name's Pierre." William lied.
  "I like that." Melissa smiled, only momentarily, and continued to drink.
  "I like your watch. I'm happy to see people still wear them these days."
  "Well, I don't know what you mean, but thank you." She touched her wrist and played with the gold fastener on her watch as she said so. William put her hand into his and inspected the timepiece closely. "Look, it's eleven fifty-nine. Almost midnight." He said, moving his eyes towards hers.
  "Then, do you want to be my new years kiss?" She smiled, and her hand gave a little shake.
  "But it's the summer, my dear."
  "I never had one this year, Pierre."
  William laughed. "Very well, I'm honoured." He said, his last words before she pulled him and they kissed at the bar. They left the club together shortly after and towards Melissa's house.
  They both smoked walking the busy downtown streets. They laughed at those stumbling out of the other bars, who had used less discretion than the two of them and were now showing the signs of it. As they left the more crowded areas, they were able to talk again.
  "It's not far." Melissa assured her Pierre.
  "That's fine." He smiled back.
Melissa turned in front of him and began walking backwards, saying, "You know, you were quite a charmer back there. I should be watching myself. You're trouble." She poked him in the shoulder playfully.
  "I don't know what I did, but maybe you're right." William scooped her arm into his and spun her gently so they began walking side by side again. "It did come from many years of work, I'll tell you. I think it's to make up for time lost as a child."
  "Oh, what could you mean?" Melissa giggled.
  "But true it is. You see, when I was a young man.."
  "When you were a young man?" Melissa interrupted.
  "Am I not allowed to reminisce?" William looked at her and cocked his head.
  "No, no, yes. It's just.." Melissa ducked her head and put her fingers to her mouth briefly. "It's just funny, the way you say some things."
  "Very well." William laughed. "May I continue?" Melissa nodded and looked forward, listening. "I certainly had no way to speak to the opposite sex when I was younder. In adolescence, when boys were off stealing their first kisses, I was too shy. I was not there at all. I was afraid. I had my own, little world, in my head, but no way to bridge it into the real one." William leaned his head in and looked at Melissa. "But I was in love, I was madly in love."
  "You were, were you?" Melissa interjected.
  "Yes, yes I was. I thought so. Karen Berger, she was called. And I loved her."
  "But she never knew." Melissa guessed.
  "But she would, Melissa, my Melisse, she would find out! I'd written a poem about it. To express it to her. It was quite the work. I can't remember a word of it now but I'm certain it would knock you flat standing right here on the present day if you heard it. I'm sure.
  "I wrote it to her, sealed it in an envelope and signed it anonymously. That's the kind of romance I would expect any girl worthy of my affections to be longing for. And here it all was, packaged up for her." William stopped speaking and carried on a few steps further in silence with Melissa. "When she found it in her desk drawer that afternoon, she was surrounded by her little friends. She opened it and they all read with her and do you know what they did? The laughed. They tore my little masterpiece to bits. My heart with it. From then on, I never left my little world. That's what I meant by 'lost time.' It's time stolen by Karen Berger and her flock of critics."
  "What a tragic little story, Pierre." Melissa squeezer her grip on his arm.
  "But it's how kids are, are they not? You can react to something like that truthfully, step into its beauty, or you can just make a laugh out of it with your girlfriends and toss it off. I'm sure you did many similar things in your adolescence."
  "I can't deny that," Melissa said softly. "If put in the situation, I probably would have turned against it, too." Melissa walked a few steps, then picked up her tone. "Well, Pierre, I'm glad you were able to get over it."
  "Actually, it was quite easy to get over," Melissa looked at William curiously. "because it never happened. I made it up."
  Melissa squeezed Williams arm sharply and let it go. "You little liar!" She spat out cheeckily.
  "Well, I did write Karen Berger a poem, but I never gave it to her. Now I know I should never write you one, either."
  "You bastard." Melissa laughed. William stopped her and kissed her again, in between the light of two streetlamps. She pulled away slowly. "Quiet now, don't wake the neighbours. This is where I live."
  William Stendhal walked through her flat. It was large and spacious and much out of his own price range. It was beautifully decorated, as if a professional had done it but with enough flaws and silly personal touches to show that it hadn't. The kitchen was spotless save an empty bottle of water knocked over and rolled onto the floor. He took off his jacket in her bedroom which was also large and well adorned. He sat on her large metal framed bed with ornate headboard and white duvet. She entered the doorway and put her purse to the floor. She walked to the mirror and took off her watch and then the rest of her clothes. She came to him and kissed him, pushing their bodies flat against the bed. They would continue so, breathing and screaming and then sleeping together wonderfully. They were not in love, never be in love but it made them both very happy to do this.


  William Stendhal woke the next morning in Melissa's bed alone. The sheets had been made up over top of him while he seemed to have slept peacefully through her exit.
  He sat up and welcomed the new day as rays of sunlight leaned through the window and onto his body. After returning from the toilet, he noticed on the nightstand a full glass of water and a note. He grabbed for the water, refreshed himself, but left the note. William dressed himself in his same clothes as the day before, not buttoning his shirt the whole way up and walked to the mirror to straighten his hair with his fingers. He put his jacket and shoes on, remembering the absence of his wallet. He walked back over to the nightstand and unfolded the small slip of stationery. It read:

Pierre-
And what a charming evening it was with you, but my classes called me early. I'd leave you my number but I would much prefer you just stop by for a visit. On monday evening, let's say? You know where I live. See you then,
  xxmelisse

  William folded the note addressed to Pierre. "kiss kiss mélisse." He whispered to himself and smiled. He put the note in his pocket and stood in the middle of her bedroom for a short time. He thought about how she had just left him, a stranger, there alone, and how trusting that was. On his way out he put a pair of her earrings into his pocket.


  William Stendhal began walking home. He had ended up quite far from his apartent. He found himself at the top of the market. It was not the beautiful, bustling markets that he had read about and expected to see in Europe. Here, they are greyer, colder, concrete, but it was busy. Always admiring the way things used to be, William was happy to see that people still made their livings this way. He was standing at the top of a complex system of organs, he was the blood. He stopped and watched it all for a time. The people walked past, some taking the time to look back at William but most did not. When he looked at himself in a place like this, William did not feel lonely. He did not feel lonely once in this day now put behind him.
  William Stendhal was hungry. He walked past a little bakery with sandwhiches displayed right out to the street. He took one and bit into it without paying. He walked from the shop beginning to feel satisfied. He did not get far before someone caught his jacket at the elbow. William turned and saw it was a young man, but older than than him, with bronze skin and short, curly dark hair wearing a stained white apron. The bakers assistant. William acted instinctively. As the bakers assistant asked sharply, "Are you planning on paying for that?" William jabbed at him with his free hand, pushing him in the shoulder and knocking him back a step. William Stendhal took off into a run and the bakers assistant did the same right after him.
  He kicked the ground right back behind himself with every step and caught it again as his next foot fell. His lungs quickly burned hot and short. William's sight was always ten bodies ahead of him as he twisted through the crowd. He snaked through the ever-coming stream of the market before him. Suddenly, he found himself right in the face of a pretty young girl with short brown hair. He halted with a shock, the girl almost made a scream. William jumped off the sidewalk to avoid her and ran even faster.
  At the corner, he grabbed onto a signpole to make a quick right turn and another right turn after that. He was now running back towards Melissa's street. He kept running. William decided he would need a cigarette. He fit the last of the sandwhich into his mouth, the cheese had fallen at some point in the chase, and reached into his jacket's inner pocket. Still sprinting, he fumbled with the cigarette case. He made sure not to keep his eyes off the street and people in front of him. He fit the cigarette into his mouth and just as it touched his wet lips, his elbow was once again yanked back. This time much harder and his knees gave out, knocking him to the floor.


  Standing over William Stendhal was the bakers assistant, and, he noticed behind him, they were not far from the back of the bakery. They had almost run in a complete circle. "Let's just wait here you little fuck." The bakers assistant declared, not looking at William but towards his shop. From it, came a much older man than either of the pair, with the same white apron and short curly hair as the assistant, but balding. It was the owner. He walked to William.
  "Where is it?" He said in a threatening, low tone.
  "I don't know what you mean."
  "What you stole."
  "I'm not sure what you're talking about. I ate it." William deadpan.
  "Look at you, a young man," the owner kneeled and touched William's face with his finger and thumb. He stood up again. "Why are you taking from my shop?"
  "I have no money." William looked away from the owners face. "I was hungry. I had to."
  "You should do some honest work."
  "This is work. It's part of it."
  The shop owner looked away and looked back. He scoffed. "You need to get a real hard day's in, then."
  William Stendhal looked the shop owner right in the face. "I've worked hard every day of my life. Every single day of these last years. Don't you fucking tell me."
  The owner shot back, "Where are you parents?"
  "They're dead." William Stendhal lied, but it was not a bold lie for him and he would be indifferent to it as truth. "Where are yours?"
  The owner did not expect William to ask questions. "What? They retired the bakery to me."
  "Of course." William smiled and stood up, dusting his legs off. The shop owner quickly noticed. "Where are you going?" He pointed at William and walked over to him.
  "Leave me alone." William said indignantly.
  The owner grabbed William by the shoulder. "Listen," he said "I'm not gonna charge you. I'm not gonna report you." The owner sunk his fist into William's gut fiercely and unexpectedly. William lurched over and felt a vein in his forehead bulge. He took an acute, cold breath but did not breathe it. Just swallowed the air. "But if you ever come by here again, I'm gonna make you remember what this feels like. And worse." The owner walked off. "Now get the fuck outta here."


  William Stendhal grabbed for his cigarettes from the sidewalk. The wind had been knocked out of him and he was still catching but he walked on. His head was now light and each step he thought he was floating. Sinking back to the pavement slowly. William felt his stomach and thought how surprised he was for the owner to have actually hit him. He was glad people still ran their businesses that way.
x

Inspiration/Justification

Posts have been too infrequent for my liking in this month of February. There's been a few factors.
The first, I've been completely out of money. I do 90% of my writing in 8-10 hour marathon nighttime sessions in restaurants that serve coffee and food as late as possible. This month, I've no money for a single cup of coffee. Hard economic times, you know. Luckily, the other 10% of my writing comes in kernels when I walk alone and, being too poor for to take the subway home from work- I've had a lot of long, cold walks with myself to think. So I haven't been completely unproductive.
The second, I just moved, and I can't scan pages from out of my notebook that I like to include with each piece I post on the blog.
The third, I've been very busy. For a while, some very big things with a script I've been working on for the better part of 2008, whose final contents must remain copyrighted (as they include previously existing characters). I'm making some surprising headway with it. And currently, some big things happening with my music, which I like to keep separate from the work I keep on the blog. Though there's some words related to each creative conduit that might show up in both places in the near future.

and Unfortunately I don't have much else to show now other than an apology to anyone who has been waiting for a bit more from this blog in this month.

Now, I have a couple of interesting things to show.

Here's something I've come across in research for everything I'm up to. You may find some themes in some upcoming work.



and here's an album I found very inspiring these past weeks:

Christian Death - Only Theatre of Pain (1982)
(for fans of Bauhaus, the Cure, 45 Grave, Swans)

A Modest Summary

I spent the past so many days in New York, appealing to some powers that be on advice for some of my writing. I didn't get the precise help I was looking for, but I recieved from very interesting insight and direction on selling a writing project I've spent the better part of the last year working on. I also found inspiration for some more short stories that will appear on this blog later.

I'm always most inspired when travelling.

Here is something I wrote at home, in Toronto. Part satire, part autobiography. I hope that all legal implications that this humourous article could be attached to will apply.

-



-

A SUMMARY OF REQUESTED ACTION TO BE TAKEN IN THE EVENT OF THE INCAPACITATION OR DEATH OF, MR JAMES MITCHELL MCDONOUGH

Conciousnessness, the human brain's interpretation of living, also known as the spirit, the thing in itself, the body without organs, etc, that which we percieve the world and judge our surroundings, the state in which a person spends most of, if not all of their time not spent sleeping. It, and all of its overarching and heirarchal functions, is something I am very fond of. My conciousness, the life inside of James McDonough, specifically, I am most fond of.
I have spent a very good amount of time this way, and I have grown very attached to life- I wish to continue it as long as I can. However, it has come to my attention that are forces and situations which can occlude my grip on it and so I feel it is necessary to make an official mandate or list of procedural instructions to be made should my life and concious succumb to whatever it is that is not life and conciousness.

In the event of mental incapacitation, whether the result of brain damage, stroke, poisoning, illness, physical injury, suffocation, malnutrition, emotional trauma, sensory overstimulation, pharmaceutical side effect or overdose, old-age, supernatural occurace or any other source of affliction rendering myself debilitated or comatose; I wish every possible effort to be made to first, remedy the situation or revive me, and failing to do that, sustain my life in any form that it may exist. Even beyond a medical experts judgement that my mind in inactive and any hope of resuscitation is futile, I wish that those in charge of my welfare insist that my basic functions continue.
It can be argued that this desire is selfish, that it burdens the wealth, emotions and time of those who care for me as well as causing me great expense to the constantly struggling medical facilities of the world. I have little argument against those claims. I can offer this: My conciousness-suspended self has little need for but the bare minimum of attention – I ask for no person to dote on me in some obligatory, sentimental or romantic style while I am out. I do not desire for my vegetated body to recieve any assistance that is not purely medical. There is the often told story/cliché of a person regaining their health, only to be traumatized by the change in their life scenario- family members deceased, a lover moved on to a new partner or family, their social circle nonexistant and familiar environment made unrecognizable. These traumas are things I indeed expect and anticipate and so I ask all those close to me to carry on in that way. Abandon me freely when you feel the time is right and my impotent mind will hold no qualms.
Weighing the pros and cons of this idea is of course quite an issue of its own, but the real heart of the matter, which I should hope overshadow the debate of morality, is- I am relying on my caretakers to fullfill my one last, dying wish – which is not to die at all. If this wish could be fulfilled, my expectations will be met.

Though I consider this wish to be a simple request, it has been made clear to me, by example, that life as an overall scheme does not agree to my terms and conditions and so there may come a day when I will fall in line with the pattern that seems to include all other humans. One day I will be dead. My views on death, and “where I go” after I die, offer me little optimism, and so I should really be quite accordingly apathetic towards anything that happens after my brain ceases functioning, but I think it is healthy to take an interest in the events which follow one's death and that which one's name is immediately attached post-humously.
I have told the Canadian government that they may take my organs from out of my body and use them in, what I can only take their word on, a charitable way. I stand by that decision. There are those who will have a greater use for them than my dead self. I also relish the idea that my liver can remain serving its function (or, “job”) of filtering the blood and and creation & organization of black stuff inside the body of another person and under the employ of another brain. My spiritual ideals prohibit me from the belief of spiritual possession or inhabitation, but by that virtue, the idea of physical possession or inhabitation is that much more meaningful. My imagination is quite tickled by it.
While I like this humanitarian affect that my dead body can achieve, I have no desire for it to be cut up or changed for any less practical functions. I want no coroner to drain my blood and fill me with formaldehyde or some other chemical- I find it very uncharming. So I do not wish to be cremated, either. I do not want to be burned up into bits and my useless ashes be futilely spread about some useless place. My body intact still has many functions it can perform even if the brain is dead and I would like it to contunue on to do them. I would like for my dead body to be buried somewhat shallowly. In the impossible event that the dead be reanimated, it would be nice to stand up again with some ease. If this is for some reason illegal in whatever country or district I am buried in, I do not insist upon it.
If peope feel the need to gather and celebrate my passing, I would like their desire to be fulfilled by the performance of a funeral. It is important that this social event not be a Christian one. Many years ago, beyond my control and better judgement- I was baptised as an Anglican. In my family's history that is a great many Christians, and likely a great many Christian funerals, but I am decidedly not a Christian and so I do not wish to be defaulted a funeral of that type. I also do not like to facilitate the gathering of Christians for the purpose of being Christian so I nip that right at the bud. This is not an anti-Christian, statement, however- I have no need to further alienate the living as a dead body. In fact, any spiritual beliefs held by those who wish to attend my funeral are encouraged to be expressed, as I'm sure they are quite sincere. That sincerity is likely a part of why I would have established a relationship with that person, spiritual or not, in the first place.
(A quick aside: should the assetts of myself at death or those making such arrangements for me afford it, I do fancy the idea of cryonics. If the proper resources can be collected, I would like to be frozen upon death, to be reanimated if at all possible in the distant future. A funeral could still be held, perhaps with a portrait of myself replacing the cadaver. I do not insist upon this either.)

That should be enough. The preceding text should merely be a guideline. I encourage my

caretakers, whether those in sickness or in death, to use their imaginations in arranging and executing each of these ideas. Use your best judgement, it will not be easy to disappoint me.

I apologize in advance for not being present to supervise.

D'Enoument

I've been busy with moving this past week, as well as working very intensely on some bigger writing-projects of mine... so I haven't had anything 'new' to show.. but I do have something more significant.

This is the first part of a story I wrote last year entitled "D'Enoument," a short story in five parts. It will be published in the first issue of a greatly promising magazine from Germany called Harvest Mag, where I'll be joined by a wonderful group of commissioned writers that I greatly admire, all musicians themselves. Most excited about: Chuck Ragan (Hot Water Music), Eugene Robinson (Oxbow), Wes Eisold (American Nightmare/Some Girls), Assay Angelo (LaQuiete) Chris Colohan (Cursed/Swarm/LFD) Partick from EndOfAYear (even though I'm pretty this guy thinks I'm a goof...), Ryan Patterson from Coliseum. Mostly people within punk/hardcore, but I really appreciate the idea of a punk zine turned literary magazine. Full list of contributors here.

It's been some time since I've looked at this. I treat my pieces in a strange way.. At first, I labour on them, night and day, for weeks. It takes priority over everything. My work, my social life.. if it's writing, it precedes music, if it's music, it precedes writing. But then, when it's done, and edit after edit has been made.. it's done. I put a flag on top of it and never make another edit again. After finishing this, a good friend of mine took a look at it and gave me some very good advice on some of its flaws, but I couldn't go back. It would probably make for a better story if it did. I suppose it's just stubbornness.

Anyways, I'm still quite proud of it and anticipate its publication greatly.


-



(how i now appreciate my moleskine...)

-

D'Enoument (excerpt)
by James McDonough

I

   He set out onto the street. It was His second day in the city. He had spent the last months travelling from place to place, but today He wanted to change that routine. He needed to spend this summer afternoon walking from one place and return right to it at the end of the day. He was far from home. Through His job there, whatever it was, He was able to scrape together the bits of money He needed to fulfill the urge young people have to travel.
   Of all the styles of poverty, 'young' is the best type, and always the most fashionable. Lacking the ownership of a single thing of value, and without responsibilities, dependents, children or the sight of a legacy, it's much easier to grip onto every penny and save it for the luxuries which the young admire. Such as jet fuel.
   The scraping of these pennies usually takes time, and so it's only in short periods that they are able to see a life of luxury. But it's in these periods that the young and poor teach the old and rich how to live that life.
   The old have so little imagination and so much time. They have nothing left to do but finish writing the books they began as young men, He would say, to himself so cleverly, as though He had an idea of what it was like to be old. He felt He knew. But He didn't.
   The heat from the sun reflected off the stone floor and brick-laden walls of the city's interior. The rolled sleeves of His tattered clothes did not expose enough skin to cool him down. Rolled up, they never warmed Him enough in the wintertime, either. I know I'm not provided with any escape, being out here. I won't even have the money to wash this shirt when I get home. The threats of daily life, the strained relationships, humiliating work, the bills and taxes- they circle my conscience like hawks with every dollar I spend. Why did I think my mind would find ease in a vacation? To vacate my city- just to go to another city, where all my problems, all those same hawks circle each person around me. I can see them, their black eyes making prey of each passerby on this street. It's no different. Everyone. Everyone in this place lives among those same threats. And still He walked on, hoping this form of travel will ease His worries.


   He made long stretches down narrow streets. The tall buildings draping each thin lane create a tunnel view of the thousands of pathways to take. The city is an enormous place, but one can only see so little of it at a time.
   His plan was to leave the constricted, ground-level view and go to the hill at M--------, to see the whole city, in one glance. This place was considered a 'sight to see' and so, especially on summer afternoons, there would be quite a crowd. His mood was so unpleasant, He had no desire to be around people.
   Those places of tourist spots are all such a bore. Even the people are so despicable and uninteresting. In my walk here through this wretched neighborhood, I've crossed dozens of beggars, who sit day and night with their palms cupped and eyes fixed upwards and glazed over, to whom I can offer nothing. I've lowered my head and quickened my pace past the poor young and old prositutes, dressed in the latest synthetic frabrics. Even these apartments, the mouseholes stacked upon mouseholes which harbour the poor and the lazy, which hide the criminals and the hermits, crowd the streets and suffocate any person who pays any mind to it . All of this should be a depressing mark of the times. I should, like the old politicians, scorn the hopeless depravity of 'our times'. But it isn't. And I won't.
   There is an all-different flock of which I can cast the deserved scorn- those of where I'm headed! The 'sight-seers'. The 'tourists'. Who get in the way. Who bumble about each city's hoop tricks and flashing lights. Who lead their fat children around to stare at tall mountains, old paintings and religious artifacts. Who fuel the sickest parts of economy with their disposable incomes. How do they afford it? It's each of them who put me in the very state I'm in now! When I return home, it's the creditors and the billers and the taxers who will greet me. When they return home, they will first be seen at my door to condemn me and to bill me and to tax me! And for some reason I've decided to go spend my afternoon with them at this city landmark. To be classified along with them as we pass through the 'visitors entrance'. Well, while I may have to abide by that title for that time, in my spirit, I'll be no part of it. Furthermore, should any of these enemies brush past any part of me, should I suffer any discomfort from their ignorance to courtesy, well, I'll cast them such a glance! It will unnerve and terrify any pedestrian who dare try to assimilate me into their shallow swallowing of city sights. He thought to himself. Obviously, he was a very tall and very serious person.
   At this moment, without rest, He took the final turn on the ground-level portion of His journey. In front of Him was a great hill that He would need to climb to reach His destination. The hill was, of course, modernized many years ago. The stone steps twisted along the grassy incline, within a long gate guarding the whole area and stood to assert itself as the border between the sinful urban world and the natural beauty of the enclosed mountain. At the peak stood a great old church. Making no pause in his step through the entrance, He crossed over to the other side. Joining a large group of ascenders and descenders, He began His climb up the Hill.

Blackout

One minute into our first song, power went out in half the city for as long as a whole day.

video by Daniel Godwin

My friend Elly has his own take on it.

Black Death

This is a fascinating book of illustrations I've discovered from a turn-of-the-century Norweigian artist by the name of Theodor Kittelsen. Known for artwork and stories surrounding nature and mythology (apparently quite famous for his drawings of Trolls and other woodland faeries), this book is entitled Svartedauen, or, Black Death.

Published in the year 1900, the text is all lost to me but the images translate very well. True to its title, the work is extremely dark and inspire a mess of emotions and, well, fear. From the main images, to the small ornamental illustrations bordering the story, it's a truly haunting piece. Only a few MB's and very much worth viewing. The book was quite inspirational to many scandinavian artists since its publication, including Burzum's great Filosofem and Hvis Lyset Tar Oss.



Theodor Kittelsen - Svartedauen (1900)

Knowing Emma

This was a piece I wrote as "practice" for a novel I plan on writing within the next two years. I'm letting a very premature cat out of the bag here, but I just wanted to start swimming the waters early, since the research I have planned for this book could last me years.

It's using a lot of tentative character names and events but does not touch on any of the really meat-y stuff I have planned. I figure it's okay to post something like this right now because the finished product will be very, very different.

This is the third real post on this blog and I'm sure by now you'll have guessed the major themes I like to tackle right now. I can't say I won't touch on this stuff again or soon, in fact, it's a great preoccupation of mine... but I figure, even if it's a 'phase', if I have something to say about these subjects now, and I have inspiration, I should use it while I have. There's always time to reevaluate.

-





-


Knowing Emma
by James McDonough
06/01/09

-

   I'm walking home from Emma's now, for the second time in the first week I've known her. I'll explain here who Emma is, and why I was at her house.

   In the days leading up to June 6th, I'd decided to use the internet less than I do, but I wasn't able to completely rid myself of it's presence. I still didn't have a job so I was selling off some of my stuff. I wasn't ridding myself of my wordly possessions like some people had suggested to me, but I can't say I wasn't influenced a little bit by that idea. I had a print of this painting. It's called “Saturn Devouring His Children.” by Francisco de Goya. It's the first and only painting I've ever purchased, but I never hung it up, so I listed it on an online classifieds. I recieved an email about it.


Subject: re: goya
hi. i saw your posting regarding the painting. i was wondering if you were able to deliver it. If not, i can schedule a pickup. -emma


Subject re: re: goya
Hi Emma,
Where do you live? Maybe we can work something out.
Thanks,
Errol


Subject: re: re: re: goya
i live in the southwest,near a.c. secondary. 1429 Oxford. i hope that makes a difference. -emma


Subject: re: re: re: re: goya
Hi Emma,
That's convenient. I live at 1394 Oxford. If you're home I can be over in five minutes. Less than five minutes.
Thanks, See you soon?
Errol


   I walked over to her place right away. Her house was much bigger than my parents apartment. It was a two story house with a front gate. Emma wasn't tall but she wasn't short. She had shoulder length brown hair with no curls but she may have straightened it. She had very wide eyes and when she opened the door I was glad to have met her. She started the small talk. “It's so crazy we could both live on the same street for so long without ever meeting each other,” she said. I told her I didn't think it was crazy but the odds were certainly very strange. She asked me how long I've lived at 1394 and I told her my whole life which wasn't exactly true but I didn't care to explain in full. She said she had lived at 1429 her whole life too, which may or may not have been true but I won't hold it against her if it isn't.
  After this our conversation regressed into even smaller talk as she asked me which highschool I attended and the people we knew at our schools. Then we caught on that both of us knew Ryan, who is somewhat unfortunately referred to as “Dead Ryan” to distinguish himself from any other Ryan active in our social circles. I always thought his surname would do but sometimes it gets the point across more effectively to those who didn't know him well enough to be informed of his family name.
   She offered we get together and talk more. “But not right now. I don't invite boys into my house on the first date.” So we arranged to have dinner and I consented to a second date after accidentally going on this first one.
   Finally, I handed her the painting and she handed me some money and I went home.


   We had dinner a few days later at a restaurant downtown that served large portions of cheap food at varying degrees of quality. The coffee there wasn't terrible and it's open late, which was good enough for us, we agreed. This night's social experiment, of “dating”, was strange for me- I'm not used to the protocol. I ordered her food for her, because it seemed mannerly to me, or so I'd heard, but I'm not sure if this kind of date really demanded those formalities.
   Emma took the initiative of continuing and expanding our small talk from the night before. The conversation made its way though lists of compatable tastes in media, to our personal histories. Small talk. Our food arrived and we ate while discussing our plans now that we've graduated from High School.
   Then Emma, with a conviction seeming entirely deliberate, grabbed the reigns of our conversation and steered it again towards Dead Ryan. I told her I never knew him very well but I thought it was terrible what had happened to him. In truth, I hadn't yet made my mind up about what happened to Ryan.
  “He went to A.C. with you, yeah? Did you have any classes with him?” she asked. I said yes. I told her I remember being in senior math class with Ryan but it didn't mean much. I wasn't very good at math and spent a lot of time struggling with the material. I didn't have time to socialize because our teacher was very strict, which I appreciated. I said if I had become friends with Ryan I probably would have been too distracted and might have flunked the class. I tried to laugh but stopped at a smile when I noticed her concern. Talking about Ryan made me uncomfortable so I tried to change the subject. I reminisced about the first time I saw Goya's painting, in art class. This distracted her enough but by this time we had finished our meal so we left the restaurant. I tipped as well as I could.


   We walked home from the restaurant. It was easy picking a route because we lived so close together and I walk home from that place all the time. Emma proposed we detour through White River Park. “It's so nice, to walk through the trees.” she said. I told her I agreed, when it's the summertime. We stopped at a bench alongside White River and sat down on it. It felt nice sitting beside her, closer together than at the dinner table. Instead of the dim lights of the restaurant, we were now lit by the setting sun and neither of us spoke for a few minutes. “We're so lucky to have a river running through our city.” Emma interrupted. I told her I didn't think luck had anything to do with it but I added that I was also enjoying sitting alongside the river with her. Emma laughed, the way I wanted her to at the restaurant. We sat in silence again and I think she moved closer to me but that may have been my imagination.
   Emma picked up a large, smooth stone that had been laying in front of us. She put her arm behind her head and lobbed the stone into the bubbling stream in front of us. The stone made a funny sound entering the river, and the surface of the water pushed down in itself like a smooth blanket and shot back up with a splash, spitting drops of water back into the air like a fountain. The stone, in all of this, made one clear arc. It went right throug the waters surface and straight onto the riverbed. I couldn't see the rock once it passed the river, the dramatic show of the water splashing masked it, but I know the rock dove through the river undistracted. When Emma tossed the stone she made a small grunt and I thought about how I liked her. Then we got up to go home.


   “Now I'm going to invite you in,” she said as we approached her front door, “but only because this is our second date.” I accepted her invitation but I don't think I said anything out loud. She led me up a smell set of steps and offered me a seat on one of the small couches in her living room. She used the words “sofa” and “den.” Emma sat down first and I sat down on the same couch but on the opposite side, further away from her than when we sat on the park bench. Emma asked me why I wasn't friends with Ryan. This was very sudden and I told her it was a very difficult question to answer. I wasn't friends with Ryan for the same reason I wasn't friends with anyone else in my senior math class, or history class. Or any class. I was never really in a position to bridge a friendship with him and I never specifically sought out the opportunity to become friends with Ryan. Dead Ryan. I had friends, sure, plenty of friends, but I was never friends with Ryan. Now I will never be friends with him. In another sudden moment, Emma became very serious and she stared at me very intensely. I felt that my opportunity to move closer to her on the couch was becoming distant. She told me she knew Ryan very well and I said that I had assumed so. She said that his death was a shock to her and she thinks about him very frequently and I told her that was okay.
   “I was Ryan's girlfriend for two years. We broke up when school started last year. I wasn't in love with him, but I felt like should have been. We were inseparable since we were kids. He lived across the street from here for twelve years.” I was surprised. She carried on, “You know, I don't agree with suicide. Or hurting yourself, or that kind of stuff. I mean, I was raised so I believe against it. I think it's stupid that there's songs about it or books that glorify it or whatever. But, I get so upset and sometimes I think I understand why people like it. I think about it. Well, nobody likes it, but, sometimes I get it. I get why somebody would want to do it, even though it's wrong. You know? Do you know what I mean?”
   She paused for a moment and then Emma began to cry. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I never cry.” I didn't believe her but I won't hold it against her. She moved closer to me on the couch and I put my arm around her and my hand in her hair. After a few minutes I spoke and tried to console her. I told her that I think she has the wrong idea about why suicide is a mistake. I said it's not selfish or hurtful to others, well, it is in some ways, but it's mostly neglectful to the whole universe, and cruel mostly to themselves. Emma looked towards me. I said that there are so many great things in the world and in the sky and people to meet. If you remove yourself from opportunities to experience those things, it's a discredit to the entire scope of existence. A persons problems just add to all of those things you can see and think and etc. (I used the words “et cetera”), and really, you as a person don't matter at all when compared to everything. Which is a good thing. It's humbling. So, show a little respect.
   Emma told me she didn't understand. She digressed and explained her thoughts from before. “Sometimes I just think about it because, if it was possible, I could see Ryan, or anyone that I miss, right now. And I could talk to them. But it would selfish, because it would be just to see him.”
  “Well, look at your example,” now I wanted to explain myself further, “it's very easy to have faith. There is so much that needs to be explained out there, and with God, there's always an answer right in front of you. What about all the things that just exist and all the amazing explanations and functions that they have that we can experience here, while we're alive? When you accept the easiest answer to the important questions in existence, you're discrediting all of its mysteries and how great they are. Right?” I said all of this to her but I wasn't sure if I was making it all up as I went along. It was making sense to me but I felt like my mind was hopping across stones in a river, running ahead of myself and I was about to trip. I don't think I know all of these things but I had an opportunity to think about them right then.
   Emma was looking at me strangely now and her head was no longer touching my shoulder. She had stopped crying and her tears had quickly dried but I think she was still upset. Maybe a different sort of upset.
   “You don't believe in the afterlife.?”
   “Well, no. I don't know. I don't know yet.”
   I'm not sure if Emma expected us to have a conversation like that or if she wanted to all along. I'm not able to make that assumption. I could tell she wasn't offended, Emma is smart and because she is smart I think she wanted to know more. She asked me a few more questions and her sinuses started to clear up. She asked me if I believed in God and and I said I don't think I believe in God but there might be a God. I told her that I think there probably isn't one. Then Emma asked me what the point was. She asked me, “Why is there something instead of nothing?” and I replied “Sometimes there is nothing.”


   Now I'm walking home from Emma's, which doesn't take long. I like Emma and I hope she calls me. I understand why she wouldn't want to, though. I think about kissing her and I want to see her again. I think she is going to call me.

x

On Top of Time

It's my intention that the posts in my blog be (bi-)cyclical in content. One week will be a substantial piece of current writing or in the archive of short stories and journal entries I keep, and the second week will be of less substance; a quote I found in my research or some non-sequitur.

I found something I wrote last week while suddenly inspired to write a funny little physics piece, I guess it could be called. It's an experiment in using words and pictures to illustrate a little physics concept I'm quite fond of.
It's appropriate I show you this today (and I'll be making it by just minutes) because today is of course, New Years Day. I didn't do much to celebrate and what this little group of drawing might show you is... there's really nothing to celebrate at all.
Of course, people can celebrate whatever they want, whenever they want. It's no less empty to have a party and enjoy time with your loved ones and new friends... but you know, time doesn't exist and the human minds conception of it is useless and has provided great unnecessary conflict for thousands of years.

-

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
-William Faulkner

-

"On Top of Time-
An Analysis of Time in Three Pictographs"


Click on the pictures for larger images. I apologize for the illegibility..










(dedicated to Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan)

The Fourth Gospel

A screenplay. I began it in early October, 2008. I finished it Christmas Eve of that (this) year.

I still need someone to translate the dialogue into the Russian language for the complete draft of this script. If you can help, please contact me.

-

-

The Fourth Gospel/Четвертого Евангелия
by James McDonough

EXT. A CITY. NIGHTTIME.

Cue music: Deep, trembling, textural noise, as the scene opens on a city. An implaceable location or time. A poor neighborhood – red bricked houses, crumbling at all sides, line the sweltering streets. The architecture evokes no specific metropolis but the surroundings emit the feeling of an impoverished burrough hidden in the anonymous depths of cityscapes. The intentional absence of details such as electric lights, cables and automobiles displaces any sort of era. Time and place are of no important to this city, or its people. They live their lives excluded from its effects. Here, tonight, no one is seen, but a city devoid of pedestrians is not without its own action. It is a sublte movement of distrust, blowing air and shifting shadows. The wind screams like exhaust. The streets themselves sweat in the summer heat. This is the city in the world that we now live.

Dialogue begins fading in, the voice of a girl. It is only barely audible at the end of her monologue.

SONYA
My father said; “Read to me, Sonya. I have a headache. Read to me... Here's a book.” He had some book, he always getting ahold of these strange books. I said, “It's time I was going.” I just didn't want to read. I stopped by mainly just to show Katerina some clothes; Lizaveta had found me some cheap textiles. And some cufflinks, brand new ones. Katerina liked them. She liked them very much. She put them on and looked at herself in the mirror, and she liked them so much. She said, “Sonya, please, give them to me.” She said please. She wanted them so badly. She had no dresses, no things. Nothing nice, for so many years. And never asks. Not from anyone. She's given away everything, everything she has- but this time she asked for something! But... I couldn't. I didn't want to give them to her. “Katerina,” I said, “what for?” I said that- “What for?” I shouldn't have said that.. She just looked at me. She took it so hard. It wasn't because of the clothes. It was that I refused it all to her. I could see that. I wish I could take it back, do it over again now. But, why am I ever talking about it? It's all the same to you...

Her voice becomes more upset as she speaks, shifting in volume and tempo, as if she is pacing back and forth. On screen are russian subtitles- the direct translation of the dialogue spoken for both SONYA and RASKOLNIKOV.

INT. SONYA'S FLAT.

A narrow, but long room. It is the only only room in this apartment. The floors are made of old, creaky wood and bend at each step. All of her few possessions; a bed, barely a cot, a small, poorly made closet, and a small hat rack sit on one end of the room, which SONYA is standing closest. She stands between her bed and a chair.

Across from the chair is the MALE, sitting in the chairs twin. Between them, but against the adjacent wall is a table.
On the table sits a crooked candle, which acts as the only lightsource in the room, and a worn, leatherbound book. On it reads “The Holy Bible King James Version Russian Translation.”
SONYA is tall and thin with an angular, irregular face and blue eyes. She is in her early to mid-twenties. Her hair is long and beautiful, but not well kept. She is a very pretty girl but looks harmed and so, reserved. Her clothes are simple and clean, but in no way new. A cheap dress – short sleeved and hemmed at the knees, made of natural fibres in plain colours. The clothes, like everything else, offer no indication of the era in which they were made.

SONYA is standing. She has just stopped her pacing and is staring directly at the MALE.

MALE
So you knew Lizaveta?

The MALE is twenty-three years old. Good looking, but not shaven and his hair is a mess. He does not looked well rested or particularily happy. He wears cheap, but tasteful, worn clothes in the same anonymous fashion as SONYA. Dark and natural colours.

At this dialogue, the first spoken in which a character is seen, subtitles follow each word. These are subtitles of the translated dialogue of this script into the Russian language. The text can be found in the Appendix to the script.

SONYA
Yes. Why? Did you?

(a beat)
SONYA walks closer to the MALE.

MALE
Your mother is sick. She is very sick. She will die soon.

SONYA
(repeating, softly but aggressively)
No! No no no!

SONYA grabs at the MALE

MALE(calmly throughout)
But it will be better if she dies.

SONYA
No, it won't be better! Not better at all!

MALE
And the children? Where will they go? Are you going to take them?

SONYA
I don't know!

MALE
Well, what if you get ill, now, while she's still alive.. and you're taken to the hospital. What will happen then?

SONYA
What are you saying?

MALE
(grinning)
What do you mean, “can't happen”? You don't have insurance, do you? What will happen to them?
(a beat)
They'll wind up in the street. She'll cough, and she'll beg, and she'll bang her head against the wall like she did today and the children will cry. Then she'll collapse. Then the police station. The hospital. She'll die. And the children-

SONYA
(interupting, clasping her hands)
No! It won't happen. God will not let it happen.

The MALE stands and begins pacing the room. He does this for a full sixty seconds. SONYA stands still, but inwardly reflects on these terrifying possibilities.

MALE
You can't save? Put something away for a rainy day?

SONYA
(whispers)
No.

MALE
Of course. Have you even tried?

SONYA
Yes, I have.

MALE
But nothing came from it. Of course. Why even ask...

The MALE begins pacing again. This lasts another sixty seconds.

MALE
You don't make money every day?

SONYA
(embarassed, quiet)
No.

MALE
It's going to be the same for your sister.

SONYA
(loudly, paintfully)
No! No! It can't! No! God... God will not allow it!

MALE
He allows it with others.

SONYA
No! God will protect her! God!

MALE
But, maybe there is no God.

Gloatingly, The MALE looks at her. He laughs.

SONYA stares at the MALE with agony. Spasms run over her face as she attempts to speak, but fails. She begins to cry.

MALE
You say your mother is losing her mind, but you're losing your mind yourself.

The MALE continues pacing, silently and without a glance towards SONYA. This last four minutes (300 seconds).
SONYA, shocked by his statement does not recoil. It sinks in slowly, as tears slowly come forth but she suppresses them. She sits on the bed, but raises herself after this process.The MALE walks back and forth, stopping momentarily, but never for very long.

The music continues through this, atonal and textual, swelling and reducing in volume and intensity.

Finally, the MALE approaches SONYA and grabs her by her shoulders, staring into her face.

With quick movements, he bends down to the floor and places his hands on the ground in front her feet. He then grabs at the hem of her skirt with his fists. After a pause, he lets go and motions his head towards her feet, as if to kiss them. SONYA is shocked, and recoils.

SONYA
What are you doing!?

MALE
(rising at once)
I am bowing to you.

SONYA
What-? I'm not sure what...

MALE
(interupts)
I was not just bowing to you but.. to all of humanty's suffering. Do you understand? Listen- I had a conversation with someone today, concerning you.. who he is is not important, and I told him so. I told him he was worthless in comparison to you. And I also told him I've even been honoured to have sat you down next to my family. Next to my sister.

SONYA
What did you do that for? Why? I'm... a dishonour... I'm a sinner. A great sinner.. How could you say that?

MALE
I said it, not for your dishonour, do you understand? And your sin, but for your suffering. You are a great sinner. That is true. But most of all, you are a sinner because you destroyed yourself. You betrayed yourself in vain. That is the horror of it all. You live in filth, which you hate so much. You live this way knowing that you're not helping anyone by it. Open your eyes. You are not saving anyone from anything. Tell me, how is it that this shame can live inside you, beside its opposite- those holy feelings you cling onto? It would really be just, a thousand times more rational to to take a head first jump into the water. End it all at once.

SONYA
(in a concerned tone, but not surprised at his suggestion)
And what will happen to them?

MALE stares at her, for a very long time. His eyes strike deeply into her, intensely in an attempt to cut straight through her. To dissect SONYA, piece by piece, with his stare. His pupils attack her, unflinching and magnetized but sometimes shaking, like the needle of a compass. They then move, darting back and forth, as if he were dreaming.

MALE
So you pray very much, Sonya? To God?

SONYA waits to answer.

SONYA
(whispering)
What would I be without God?

MALE
So what does God do for you in return?

SONYA
Don't ask me that. You don't deserve it!

MALE
(whispering, inaudbly, without focus)
That's it..

SONYA
(suddenly, whispering hotly)
He does everything

SONYA lowers her eyes.
The MALE makes a small pace around the room. SONYA remains still. He stops at the table and picks up the book laying upon it. He studies it for a moment.

MALE
where did this come from?

SONYA
Someone gave it to me.

MALE
Who gave it to you?

SONYA
Lizaveta. I asked her to.

This strikes him but he attempts to hide it. He walks with the book into the candle light and begins leafing through it as he speaks.

MALE
Where's the part about Lazarus?

SONYA continues looking down. She does not answer.

MALE
Where is the resurrection of Lazarus? Find it for me, Lizaveta.

SONYA now raises his eyes to him.

SONYA
You're looking in the wrong place. It's in the fourth gospel.

The MALE puts the book down.

MALE
Find it and read it to me.

The MALE sits down again. SONYA walks over to the table and picks up the book. Her actions she her mistrust of his intentions.

SONYA
Have you ever read it yourself?

MALE
A long time ago... it was in school. Please read it.

SONYA
You never read it in church?

MALE
I have never gone. Do you go often?

SONYA
(whispers)
No.

The MALE grins.

MALE
I see. So you won't go tomorrow, to your fathers funeral, then, either?

SONYA
Yes, I will. And I went last week. It was for a memorial service.

MALE
For whom?

SONYA
Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.

MALE
Were you friends with Lizaveta?

SONYA
Yes. She was a good woman. She used to come here, but not very often. She and I would read t ogether. And we would talk. She was a good woman. She will see God.

The MALE studies her for a moment. A sudden and irratable urge comes over him.

MALE
Read!

SONYA
(hesitates)
But why do you want me to? You don't believe in it, do you?

MALE
Read! I want you to. You read to Lizaveta!

SONYA opens the book and carefully finds her place. Her hands are trembling. She makes to attempts to begin but fails before uttering the first syllable. She is almost short of breath.

SONYA
Now a certain...
SONYA's voice cracks in an embarassing way. Her chest contracks and she struggles to compose herself. She did not expect to faulter this third time and in the seconds she takes to regain control of her reading, the MALE makes a visible mental note to himself.

SONYA
Now a certain main was sick, Lazarus of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. It was that Mary who anointed the Lord with fragrant oil and wiped his feet with her hair, whose brother Lazarus was sick. Therefore, the sisters sent to him, saying “Lord, behold, he whom you love is sick. When Jesus heard that, he said 'This sickness is not into death, but for the glory of God, that the son of God may be glorified through it.' Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that he was sick, he stayed two more days in the place where he was. Then after this he said to the disciples 'Let us go to Judea again.' The disciples said to him, 'Rabbi, lately the Jews sought to stone you, and you are going there again?' Jesus answered 'Are there not twelve hours in the day? If anyone walks in the day, he does not stumble, because he sees the light of this world. But if one walks in the night, he stumbles, because the light is not in him. These things he said, and after that he said to them 'Our friend Lazarus weeps, but I go that I may wake him up.' Then his disciples said, Lord, if he sleeps then he will get well.' However, Jesus spoke of his death, but they thought that he was speaking about taking rest in sleep. Then, Jesus said to them plainly, 'Lazarus is dead and I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, that you may believe, nevertheless. Let us go to him. Then Thomas, who is called the twin, said to his fellow disciples, 'Let us also go, that we may die with him.' So when Jesus came, her found that he had already been in the tomb four days. And many of the jews had joined the women around Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their brother. Now Martha, as soon as she found out that Jesus was coming, went and met him, but Mary was sitting in the house. Now Martha said to Jesus, 'Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.'

SONYA stops here for an extended time. She anticipates further shame she will experionce from the voice of hers, which has not strengthened. It is barely holding its strength and even growing more dry from the reading. She reads stiffly, and in fear of each word that comes next. The reading is tedious and thorough; the traits of a good orator, such as consistency in pace, rhythm, volume and enthusiasm are lacking entirely in her, but her dedication to the subject matter coupled by the fear and anxiety of the situation compel the reading. SONYA wishes to revere these words, but her timidness restricts her. She forces herself to continue.

SONYA
(hurriedly)
Jesus said unto her 'I am the resurrection and I am the life. He who believes in me, though he may die, he shall live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this? She said unto him...

SONYA catches her breath. Her brow furrows, winces, and her eyes squint as if in pain. An asthmatic sort of reaction to her situation. She finishes the verse quickly, in a stronger voice, more confident. Her stiff 'reading' voice is abandoned and she spits the next line at the MALE, her eyes lifted from the page. It as if she has memorized the quotation, perhaps for her own prayer.

SONYA
Yes, Lord. I believe that you are the christ, the son of God, who is to come into the world.

She stops again to stare nervously at him, anticipating his reaction. She catches herself, afraid to allow too much visible confidence.

The MALE is seen for the first time. He is sitting exactly as he was last. He continues to sit motionless, his eyes looking away.

SONYA
An when she said these things, she went her way and secretly called Mary her sister saying 'The teacher has come and is calling for you.' As soon as she heard that, she arose quickly and came to him. Now Jesus had not yet come into the town, but was in the place where Martha had met him. Then the Jews who were with her in the house, and comforting her, when they saw that Mary had rose up quickly and went out, followed her, saying 'She is going to the tomb to weep there.' Then, when Mary in here, Jesus was.
The MALE is now reading the actions of SONYA very intensely. SONYA's words are now disembodied as the MALE, inwardly, masks a great discovery he has made inside SONYA. He feels that he now knows her quite thoroughly. There is no pause in her speech here.

SONYA
...and saw him, she fell down, at his feet saying to him 'Lord if you had been here, my brother would not have died.' Therefore, why Jesus saw her weeping, and the jews who came with her weeping, he groaned in the spirit and was troubled and he said 'Where have you laid him?' They said to him 'Lord, come and see.' Jeses wept. Then the jews said 'See how he loved him!' And some of them said, 'Could not this man, who opened the eyes of the blind, also have kept this man from dying?'

Upon this verse, we see SONYA almost lose her spot on the page. Her weaked eyesight in the dark room does not aid this trouble she has found herself in. However, SONYA does not require any light, for she has it nearly memorized, anyway. This realization fills her with a positive energy as well as an optimism toward the 'blind' man to whom she is reading. This is evident in her speech, her eyes looking towards the page less so than before.

SONYA
(with special emphasis on the word 'four')
Then Jesus, again groaning in himself, came to the tomb. It was a cave and a stone lay against it. Jesus said, 'Take away the stone.' Martha, the sister of him who was already dead, said to him 'Lord, by this time there is a stench, for he has been dead four days. Jesus said unto her “Did I not say to you, that if you would believe, you would see the glory of God?' Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead man was lying and Jesus lifted up his eyes and said 'Father, I thank you that you have heard me. And I know that you always hear me, but because of the people are standing by, I said this, that they may believe that you sent me.' Now when he said these things, he cried with a loud voice, 'Lazarus, come forth!' And he that was dead came forth...
SONYA reads, becoming very excited. She behaves with the same excitement and terror that one would when witnessing the raising of a lost loved one.

SONYA
And who died came out bound in graveclothes, and his face was wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said, loose him, and let him go.' Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary, and had seen the things Jesus did, believed in him.

SONYA pauses, unable to read further. She closes the book and immediately stands upright.

SONYA
(whisper)
That's all about the raising of Lazarus.

SONYA stares at him, and after a long beat, turns away. The candle on the night table is nearly burned out. The MALE sits, staring at her. Sometimes his focus shifts, but he rarely fidgits in his uncomfortable chair. SONYA stands away from him. She sometimes fidgits or wipes her face, nose, but never looks toward the MALE. This sequence last another (strict) four minutes, or 300 seconds.
The music behaves organically, filling space but at a time even offering silence. It behaves strongly, but never violently.
Finally, the MALE takes a breath in announcement his next piece of dialogue, which would be “I came to talk about business.” but, this business is of no matter to this film and of no concern to the viewer. His voice is cut off at the exact moment he is to say it.

CUT TO BLACK

There is no music in the credits.

END.

-