(opinion) / 2017

Opinion, Ramble, Writing in Progress

Ongoing 2017.

A collection of notes I’ve tapped into my phone.

I make no apologies for my own potential for stupidity.

shoe

  • CONCEPT: Technology that utilises all blue tooth signals from a phone without disparate, individual apps. Remove all peripheral stages by transitioning phone into seamless universal remote/eventual minimisation of all technology into ‘invisibility’.
  • BEAT: Taking a much-needed dump in an automated/timed public bathroom. A pre-recorded voice warning you, ‘you have one minute’ – but bodily-function is defying pre-ordained time. Like, desperately pulling on toilet paper to a countdown.
  • EXCERPT: ‘No better way of mobilising support, of drumming up political business, than by stoking popular indignation’. Richard King, On Offence.
  • RANDOM: Verbal ‘uplift’ is not a revolution.
  • CONCEPT: Audience can see the Monster encroaching on the Victim at all times while the Victim remains oblivious.
  • THEMES: Heartbreak and sadness.
  • IDEA: ‘Ideal Reviews’. Always gives glowing, Panglossian reviews regardless of quality.
  • RANDOM: Politicians aren’t serving the country, they are exploiting rules to serve self-interest. Is it a misnomer to say ‘parasitic symbiosis’?
  • EXCERPT: ‘Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved.’ Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning.
  • RANDOM: Power corrupts not because you have it, but because you want it.
  • RANDOM: Maybe we are aliens. The seed of ‘intelligence’ planted within primordial man, growing like an infant spider, destined to consume its Mother. In this way, we are meant to consume and destroy in the pursuit of the greater complexity of thought – like a bird escaping an egg, we break through space and fling ourselves into a new world.
  • RANDOM: Waiting amongst a crowd of people at escalators. What chumps we are. Cramming together so we can pay to go to work and be unhappy.
  • CONCEPT: Buff white Jesus mowing down priests with akimbo uzis.
  • WORD: Formicophilia – the fetish of feeling insects in your orifices.
  • RANDOM: Desperately seeking something to yearn for.
  • RANDOM: Synesthesia is the data from the sensory regions of the brain bleeding into one another. Some people see colours in letters. Or taste in sounds.
  • RANDOM: Schizophrenia is the crossing of unconscious and conscious reality. It’s like the absurdity of dreams being taken as fact by the awake brain.
  • RANDOM: We dehumanise other groups of people inherently. Our Medial Prefrontal Cortex can consciously untether associations to groups and individuals. To be homeless is not to be a person, so we feel less moral pain not helping them.
  • IDEA: Three retro space men wake up on a red planet and pursue each other. One is red, one is blue and one is yellow. Wordlessly they pursue one another – each trying to kill the others on a hazardous planet. All three are androids, tether psychically to humans on a satellite.
  • RANDOM: True choice is born from dilemma.
  • RAMBLE: People smoke because they need to relax. Because it’s unspoken but true, just living is the most stressful thing we all do. You don’t exist with billions of cells working in perfect synchronisation without a little resentment. At our core, we just want to rest sometimes. To stop. Not to die per se, but just to find a calm. The eye of the cyclone of existence. So, smoking has the two-pronged attack. On one hand, it’s a short break from it all. Supported by sociability of the like-minded and a mental reliance on chemical release. The other is that we know that smoking will kill us. We will die with or without it. People smoke. They relax. They live. They die.
  • RANDOM: We measure our lives by annual salary.
  • IDEA: Football-esque game where there are twelve footballs and 12 players against 12 defensive players. With four minutes on each side, the teams have to brainstorm a strategy and from their side, get as many balls over the opposition’s line.
  • RANDOM: Sometimes, lying in bed with her, I felt lonelier than if I wasn’t. She was a MacGuffin that took a long time to attain, but once attained, came at a steep existential price. That’s what she was in the end. Not a plot point but a coda.
  • DREAM: At a Spanish University to get a second degree, me and Ted Danson are sent to a sexual education seminar because I had blue dye on my toes. I was the only person who grabbed an orange seat.
  • IDEA: Zombie apocalypse. Decides to join the winning team and pretend to be a zombie. Somehow, becomes the lone survivor.
  • RANDOM: The birthplace of coffee was Ethiopia. Cultivation spread across the Red Sea to Yemen. Then somehow to Turkey, then Italy via trade deals, then France.
  • RANDOM: Indoctrinated from birth to compete and compare. Limited to our sphere of consciousness it is hard to remove yourself from competition. To stop and think without worry as you watch everybody else head in one direction. Because to stop is to fail. That’s dropping out.
  • RANDOM: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is a parable of the populist campaign to free silver in 1900 America. The witches are the East and West banks. The scarecrow represents dumb, in debt farmers. The cowardly lion the politicians who didn’t intervene out of fear. And the tin man was the industrial proletariat who didn’t have the heart to act in solidarity with the working classes.
  • RANDOM: ‘By gifts one makes slaves and by whips one makes dogs’
  • Melbourne at first was enormous and lonely and claustrophobic all at once.
  • RAMBLE: Because even though it’s perfectly normal, to the extent that it is a biological imperative – I hate using restrooms because of audible gaseous expulsions from strangers. The peculiar squeal of sphincters, the sweaty red-faced grunts and the splash of waste colliding with the water.
  • RANDOM: The kind of laughter, that while earnest, could be misconstrued as audible sobbing.
  • DREAM: Lumberjacks living on-site are chopping down a huge forest called Dearwood. Ignoring warnings by sage-like hippies, the forest possesses deer who are warped into horrific, anthropomorphic abominations, who start killing the lumberjacks. Had a Predator feel.
  • RANDOM: Offering individuals the opportunity for heroic engagements with fate by gambling. Fulfilling the existential need for ‘action’ or consequential activity in an increasingly bureaucratic society, deprived of the opportunity to express character in public settings of risk.
  • IDEA: Horror movie about an actresses big break, masterminded by a stalker who has accumulated all of her audition tapes from the beginning of her career. For an extra spice of creepy, she started as a child actor.
  • RANDOM: If we can determine apex predators in animal species taxonomy, who is to say that there isn’t a species higher than us, of greater intelligence, that feeds upon us (the unexplained philosophy of death) or even just tolerates us, as we do mites.

 

(w.i.p) the face

Writing, Writing in Progress

yurp

 



Fade In.

Everything in the following seems somehow incomplete*. As though deliberately staged. Artificial. An oddly lit kitchen with bare walls. One light beaming down from the center of the room. Like watching an infomercial if the entire thing was filmed in your kitchen.

Cut to:

Canted and fixed one shot of BEN. 25 years old.

Lean with mild stubble. Wiry but puffy.

The look of somebody that used to exercise but traded the sweat in for alcohol and weed.

He sits top lit against the kitchen counter with three other people.

One of whom is his brother MIKE, 29. Broader with a paunched stomach, bespectacled and a receding brown hairline.

The other two are indistinguishable. Black, lively silhouettes. They seem organic to the scenario. As such, their anonymity is not out of place.

Everybody is drinking. Mike electro-garbles** the punchline to a joke. The room erupts into levity.

Ben seems bored. He confirms this by pulling out a phone.

Cut to text:

“There are one hundred missed calls.”

Cut to:

Ben is the only person in the kitchen. He does not notice this newfound solitude. The light is now illuminating the cupboard. Licking his lips, he wanders over and pulls it open.

The whole thing is stacked with Oreos. Stacked so tightly in fact that Ben struggles to withdraw a single blue box. Agitated he pinches the end of the bottom right corner. It takes a few tugs, but he pries it free. There is no gravity, so the boxes above just hover.

Again, Ben is unaware.

Cut to:

The staircase is in the middle of blank space. Ben is already halfway up. It’s as though he is moving faster than the environment. The stairs themselves, sort of, procedurally generate ahead of his ascent.

His room visually appears at the top as he climbs.

A box atop stairs in a giant, black nothing.

Cut to:

Ben’s face is illuminated by the phone screen as he enters the bedroom. There isn’t much going on in here. Bare, white walls. One poster, though its ‘image’ is a blurry mess. An unmade bed sits against a window with drawn curtains. 

IT is standing there, waiting.

The bed and phone suddenly disappear as The Face in the window notices him.

All white. Hollow socket eyes. Smooth, expressionless features. It’s mouth, drooping and weird, turns into an abominable and much-too-wide smile. Pushing its black, phantom body against the glass it points, laughing horrifically.

The window begins violently shuddering.

The Face is trying to get in.

SFX: The laughter is muffled by the glass.

Ben sprints over and desperately attempts to keep the opening sealed. He is struggling to hold the convulsing window shut and the glass is cracking as this deformed, laughing demon so close to his face howls with malevolent joy.

Something gives and the glass explodes over Ben.

SFX: The sound of laughter drowns out all else.

As he falls back, two long and wraith-like arms seize Ben by the neck. The Face’s jaw extends, howling with glee, somehow rapidly expanding in size. Drenched in sweat Ben futilely cowers from The Face, as it begins dragging him through a storm of wind and into it’s huge elongated mout-