Observing the current scene.

There are three guitar cases stacked under my bed. They are all empty. The room has just been cleaned. Someone’s phone vibrates. I hear pants swishing in the hallway. I hear drawers closing and a can or a bottle falling on the floor. Roommate has her back turned. Her breathing is louder than usual. My annoyance threshold is lower than usual. Too many lights are on. She prefers it that way, therefore that’s what happens. My shoes match my dress. They’re both white and they both have holes.

Hazy Sunday… the uncertainty of reality…

Life is strange and confusing and absolutely wonderful. I can’t keep track of things. I feel unbalanced and scattered, but not in a bad way… in a very dreamy way. Almost like I’m floating. Through what? I’m not sure… but it’s beautiful and it’s serene. Reality is fluid, reality is nothing but a dream.

 

 

Maya Deren writes:

“If one assumes something is a symbol, one must be prepared to answer why the artist has substituted at all; why one should assume that every image is a mask for meaning . . . As, ‘bird in flight.’ Well, I mean bird in flight. ‘Oh, you mean that is not a symbol for something else?’ No, it is a bird in flight. ‘Oh, it’s just a bird in flight?’ It is all a bird in flight might mean.”[1]

 

 

There was this guy named Gesamt Kunstwerk.
One day he decided to perform a concert.
So he readied a band & developed a score,
Then arranged for dancers to prance on the floor.
And that wasn’t all: he painted a scene
Of prairies and mountains upon the back screen.
And as he was painting, he added a bird
(Just a small detail, nothing absurd).

Now, when the bird he had finished, there entered a man—
The lighting technician, with pliers in hand—
The lighting guy stopped, and looked at the screen
Then he asked Kunstwerk: “Uh, what does that bird mean?”
Kunstwerk said: “What? Oh, that’s just a bird
A small little detail to add to what’s heard.”

The lighting guy frowned, then he said “Why,
I think it could mean something, at least if you tried
To tie it somehow to the rest of your show.
Then, when people saw it—maybe, who knows—
They would get more out of your opera.”

Kunstwerk shook his head, and said: “Why would I bother
To make every detail mean something else?
If people want meaning, they can do that themselves.”

“All I am saying,” the electrician replied
“Is that there’s so much that a bird might imply:
Like a soul taking flight, or a dude getting high
Or a game changing play at the top of the ninth
Or that feeling you get, on a warm August night.”
Gesamt, the artist, vexatiously cried:
“A bird in the sky is just a bird in the sky!
It doesn’t mean X, and sure as heck don’t mean Y!
Art isn’t math, some symbolical system
It’s simply a thing that engages the senses.
It’s an aesthetic phenomenon, and really naught else—
Art has no purpose beyond its own self.”

“You sound sure about that.” “Oh, I most certainly am,”
Said Mr. Kunstwerk, pealing the paint from his hands.
“I’m here to make beauty, not some drab, stodgy statement.
Now don’t you have something to go fix in the basement?”

“The basement can wait,” the electrician spoke.
“Art for art’s sake makes all culture a joke.”

“Come on now, you’re being hyperbolistic.”

“I ain’t using no hype; I’m calling you solipsistic:
Nothing can mean itself, at least not in culture;
For all art is communication, whether music or sculpture,
Painting or flickers of light on a blanket—
Heck, even a lady, when she’s at her toilet
Fixes her hair not just to “look good”
But to present herself as someone to be understood
By someone else, as, say, smart, or friendly-seeming—
For in the public sphere nothing’s devoid of meaning.
And the moment someone looks at something you made
They will guess what it means, & judge it accordingly.”

“Well, here’s what I’m saying,” responded Gesamt Kunstwerk
“The making of meaning takes so much effort, 
And I’m concentrating not on the ideas I might make
But a short pleasant journey for the audience to take.”

“Alright, I guess that’s fine,” muttered the lighting technician
Who, truth be told, was vying for a position
As a professor of Semiotics: The Science of Signs.
And as he pocketed his pliers, he made a final reply:

“A bird in the sky is not a bird anymore
When it’s put on a wall and is set to a score;
As soon as you make a bird out of paint
You’ve made “a bird” into something it ain’t.
And then you’ve placed this “bird” into a system
Which includes some dancers and also musicians,
And light and sound and fancy shapes
Enclosed in time, embraced by space
And, should your score include some words
Then drama, too, will be observed.

“And over every one of them, 
Flies this bird—and what of him?
If a single something he don’t mean
His significance still is not nothing—
But meaning, itself, might be too flagrant—
Maybe what art makes is not just a statement
But instead a state—that’s what’s conveyed
By these polyphonic objects you’ve carefully arranged
Into an instance of “total art”—
And I’d like to think your bird too plays its part
In making your opera a grand expression
Of the best and worst in the lives of all men.”

“Well spoken,” said Gesamt, who, before he let the other go
Asked the unionized electrician if he’d like to revise his libretto.

_______

 

[1] Deren, Maya, and Bruce R. McPherson. Essential Deren: Collected Writings on Film. Kingston, NY: Documentext, 2005. Print.  (209-210).

INT. A BAR – EVENING

Thomas sits down in the only empty seat left in the bar. He turns to attract the bartender’s attention and realizes that Allie is sitting beside him. She’s sitting alone, reading an old paperback copy of Leonard Cohen’s “Beautiful Losers” and smoking a cigarette.

THOMAS

I know you.

Allie glances over at him. Shakes her head and reaches for her beer.

ALLIE

I think you must be mistaken.

She takes a generous swig, sets her glass down and returns her attention to her book, dismissing him.

BARTENDER

(to Thomas)

ID?

Thomas pulls out his wallet and hands over his ID. The bartender gives it a quick glance then hands it back.

BARTENDER

Whatcha havin’?

THOMAS

A whiskey for me and —

Thomas looks at the beer in Allie’s hand.

THOMAS (CONT’D)

And one more of whatever she’s having.

The bartender leaves only to return a moment later. He sets the drinks down.

BARTENDER

$10.00. You wanna start a tab?

Thomas looks at Allie and smiles.

THOMAS

Yeah, may as well.

Thomas passes over his credit card then turns toward Allie and raises his glass for a toast.

THOMAS

Cheers.

With a sigh, Allie sets her book down and turns to face him.

ALLIE

I don’t cheers with strangers.

THOMAS

You’re forgetting that I’m not a stranger. We know each other, you and I.

Thomas sets his drink down. Sighs dramatically.

THOMAS (CONT’D)

But you’re right. We haven’t met before. At least, not officially.

Allie frowns as she taps out her cigarette.

ALLIE

I’m sorry. Have you seen me somewhere before or something?

THOMAS

I’ve seen you several times now but simply saying, “I’ve seen you before” doesn’t exactly do our situation much justice, does it?

ALLIE

Our situation?

THOMAS

I know you! And you know me. No, don’t make that face. You do know me. We know each other. We see each other every Tuesday.

Allie downs the last of her first beer and reaches for the one Thomas bought her. CLOSE ON her fingers wrap around the cool glass. She raises a brow and glances at Thomas. He’s got a big grin on his face. Allie releases her hold on the glass and pulls out another cigarette.

THOMAS

Can I bum one of those?

ALLIE

No.

THOMAS

I just bought you a drink.

ALLIE

We’re in a bar, dumb ass. You can’t smoke in here.

She pulls a matchbook out of her jacket pocket, lights her cigarette, and points to a sign over her shoulder which reads: NO SMOKING.

ALLIE (CONT’D)

And I didn’t ask you to buy me that drink, so I don’t owe you anything. What do you mean, you see me every Tuesday?

THOMAS

I wasn’t trying to imply that I think you owe me anything. I was just hoping you’d be nice. And you’re smoking in here.

ALLIE

I’m special. And I’m not nice. Not to strangers, anyway. Which you still are. You say you see me every Tuesday?

THOMAS

Every Tuesday.

ALLIE

(skeptical)

Where do you think you see me every Tuesday, Thomas?

THOMAS

Ha!

Thomas slams his hand down on the counter and smiles.

THOMAS (CONT’D)

So you finally admit it. You know me.

ALLIE

I never said that.

THOMAS

And I never gave you my name.

Allie shrugs and takes a drag off her cigarette.

ALLIE

I guess the jig is up.

THOMAS

That was no jig. You were just being cheeky. Here.

Thomas slides Allie’s glass closer toward her, then raises his own.

THOMAS (CONT’D)

You don’t have to finish it but considering the fact that I bought you this beer I think the least you could do is cheers with me.

(beat)

Just one cheers. That’s it. One cheers and I’ll leave.

ALLIE

Do you even know my name?

THOMAS

No, but I don’t have some weird rule about cheering with strangers. That’s your deal.

Allie laughs under her breath and shakes her head. She looks at Thomas, as if seeing him clearly for the first time.

ALLIE

Allie. My name is Allie.

Thomas smiles back at her.

THOMAS

Well, Allie. Let’s cheers.

(beat)

To chance encounters prompted by tragic circumstance and our shared inability to make a marriage work.

ALLIE

You know most men typically just say cheers.

THOMAS

I’m not most men.

ALLIE

I’ll cheers to that.

THOMAS

I’ll take it.

They clink glasses and drink.

Note: This is my week 3 entry. I wrote it, but somehow neglected to post it.

My breath curls in front of me like a living thing, writhing in the biting air. It is cold but dry, my favorite kind of winter.

I am surrounded by strangers and happy to be so. When I’m not at one of my homes, I prefer to be unaccompanied. This particular street is bathed in the orange haze of nearby streetlamps, the rhythmic throbbing of bus engines creating a pleasant, exciting ambience. I love night and I love cities, so cities at night are heaven.

I feel like I grew up on this twelve-block stretch of 2^nd Avenue, downtown Seattle. I know every shop, every corner, every bus stop. I know ever cross-street, every bump in the road. I know the silly mnemonic device that lists the street names in order. I know the stupidly-designed monstrosity that is Terry Street and I know why it was designed that way. I know the bus drivers and they know me.

I call this “being anonymous.” It’s one of my favorite things to do when I have the chance to be in a city at night, alone.

The stoplights around me are rhythmic, changing politely in time for me to cross. The slipstream off a bus tugs at the edge of my scarf and I pull it tighter around my neck. I feel like a warrior, my black shoes clacking on the bricks, head up, strides long. I look like I have somewhere to be. I look like I might be important somewhere.

I fancy a cloak draped around my shoulders and trailing on the pavement. I fancy a sword at my side. I fancy rougher hands, broader shoulders, stronger arms, a flatter chest. Around my static running-man form I build an identity, a look, descriptive words dripping from the ends of my hair and the tips of my fingers.

Suddenly, I am different. The busy city becomes a dystopian ideal, my fellow pedestrians transform into guards or rebels or cowed civilians waiting for the nightmare to be over.

And as I duck into the transit tunnel beneath Benaroya Hall, I shed the last of my nonfiction history and give in to any one of hundreds of stories in my head waiting to be written.