“I like to float in the water.” Michael was a long-lost friend, quiet; it was like he knew more about me that I ever would. “I just lie back and drift, you know, my nose just above the surface and look up through the water. It’s more like meditation, I guess.”
“But I can never hold it. I feel too vulnerable, like something will come up under me and bite me in half. I always freaking myself out like that.”
I had a scene with some real problems. The background information was heavily front-loaded, and it was repetitious and awkward and gangly and sputtering and bad.
And so I hacked it up, rendered it down, patched it to another equally sputtering bad thing, did some cauterizing and cutting again and thought I was on the way to something new.
But it had become a bald thing, nothing in it, the description and progression and dialogue trimmed to nothing, the conclusion non-existent. And so I started to write it all over again.
Gaslighting is a form of psychological abuse where someone is made to question their perception of reality. (The term is derived from the film Gaslight where the husband lowered the gaslight incrementally and told his wife the light had never been changed.)
Ghosting is a method of terminating a relationship by suddenly withdrawing from all communication without explanation.
Gaslight ghosting, also called Extreme Ghosting, means to make someone question their perception of reality by withdrawing all communication without explanation.
In other words, the practices that most employers inflict on their employees.
Years ago, I worked at a mini storage facility in Vancouver. The job was simple: collect monthly payments and help customers access their lockers.
A new employee, Alex, struggled with these basics, preferring to instead adjust his biking gloves all day. I explained to him what I thought of his work habits. David Smejkal, a co-worker with a sense of humor and artistic talent, gave me this depiction of the event.
It appears that I have always had a reputation for speaking my mind.
I recently had the great fortune of driving down the west coast, ten days in the open spaces, with the radio constantly tuned to The Grateful Dead channel on Sirius X. And as wonderful as that truly was, I couldn’t help but notice a programming fixation with all eras but one – 1982-86.
Dave Lemieux’s exclusion of this golden age of the music is well documented in his Dave’s Picks selections. I just had no idea that the influence extended over Sirius X programming. Which obviously leaves me aghast. When will The Grateful Powers That Be realize the error in their ways?
This era offers ultimate and spell-binding versions from the catalogue including the hell-bent insanity of Jack Straw (Seattle ’83), the ecstatic electricity of China Cat Sunflower/I Know You Rider (NYC ’82), the crackling magic chest of Bertha/Greatest Story Ever Told/West LA Fadeaway (Oklahoma City ‘85), the plaintive epiphanies of Cold Rain and Snow (Augusta ’84) and pure tribal energy of Help on the Way/Slipknot (Hampton ’83).
Are these the best versions? Ah, what do I know of best? But must they be listened to? The answer to that is a most emphatic yes.
I recently attended a conference in Kenyon College where one writing colleague, although young, was astounding in his engagement with the work.
“It’s…” Sean jabbed a finger out, pulled it back just as quick, snapping his fingers, once, twice, bowing his head, eyes closed. “I’m jiving with this. I totally am. I’m just riding this train until it gives out.” He paused, looking up. “Something is getting fucked, in a bad way.”
“That’s exactly it. Unless you disagree.” He bent forward with kindness, reaching for her understanding. “It’s up for debate. I can’t remember what I said a second ago. Oh, right, yes. City life. Absolutely fascinating. I know nothing about it. I think that’s really very awesome. It all feels so urgent. Ardent. Just caring about—just caring about that. It’s a very cool thought.”
Readers are troubled by Dee Sinclair because she acts like doesn’t care about others. If she doesn’t care about people, why should we care about her? That’s the thing.
She needs to be more raw, more awful and wrong, more revolting and lost. It’s about that, her disgustingness. We will care about her because we’re all disgusting.
I wrote the script Ferges in Newfoundland as in my third year of Film at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario.
Based on my hitchhiking trip shared in Young Chronicles VII – XX of this blog, it details experiences and conversations from the Newfoundland section of the trip. I have no idea why I called the main character Ferges, except that I wanted a name that was different.
The idea was to have Ferges act as a fly on the wall for different perspectives – RCMP officers, poachers, zealots, old-timers, single mothers, ragamuffins – so that the reader go a small picture of the people of the island.
But it doesn’t work, because Ferges is pretentious and the secondary characters serve only as explication.
Nobody does anything except Ferges, who hitchhikes across Newfoundland in one day so that he can take a boat to the French island of St. Pierre Miquelon. Why? None of it is explained.
Just a gentle reminder that the pandemic is still a thing, that we need to maintain social distancing, that vaccines are the next step, that another pandemic is coming, that black lives matter, that for society to work, we actually have to act responsibly, that it isn’t up to somebody else, but each one of us, that the rich are getting much richer and nothing is going to stop any of that, that leaving for another planet isn’t an answer but I wish it was.
I watched the ice rising up, like a submarine, baring its shiny hull, and then another crack and a fury, the iceberg disintegrating right in front of them, gone into snow and dust. It was shocking to see it there and then gone, a solid thing evaporated, the sky, crystal blue, where it had stood.
The remains spread out in the water, shards and chips, like oil, filling the bay, leaving two pieces bobbing, crashing into one another and then drifting amongst its refuse
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