Just A Glimpse

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2ReFd_RlSU

Above is a link to a short film that Nathan Ashlock and I put together about witches, coffee, and love letters. Justine feels phony and didactic. She is currently finishing a manuscript for her masters degree and does not find soppy sentimentality for a good companion in her intellectual journey. Hannah, her friend who has taken her out for coffee, just wants for Justine to unwind from all the pressures she has with her family and work. Hannah invites Justine to a seance, where she becomes ever further tangled in the ropes of a mysterious cult. France, the witch leader of this eclectic assortment of people goes into a trance and unleashes a demon onto Justine out of unknown, but clearly pernicious (lol) motives.



"Just A Glimpse"




Scene 1 (PROLOGUE) NIGHTTIME, 10-15 seconds

We hear a scratching noise in quick strokes. Close up CAMERA on a wooden desk in a dense darkness, except for a lamp's light. We see a woman's hands writing the opening of a letter with crisp determination, her handwriting deliberate and gorgeous. The sound of boots on a wooden floor are heard approaching. A thicker and hairier hand snatches the letter out from under the woman's hands as a dark figure walks into the shadows. The man's face is shown looking at the letter and then back at the women. The man walks away from the woman at the desk, who is left to herself and buries her face into the palms of her hands.The light goes out.



TITLE sequence in pink cursive




Scene 2 (CAFE) MIDDAY 20-30 seconds

Title and credits remain. We see a cafe table with its place setting slowly illuminated in the frame. One plate has a napkin tossed on top and next to it silver wear out on the surface. The spoon, fork, and knife are in a half-hazard pile. On the other side of the plate there is a cup of coffee that has been drunk out of by a mystery person. Across from the undone setting there is another plate with its silver wear still wrapped up in its napkin, intact, and another full cup of coffee. There is typical background cafe clamor off camera. Miles Davis' track Bitches Brew plays from the beginning of the track. More distinctly, there is a dialogue going on during this shot at the table surface:

Hannah: Well, I think its brewed here like it's done in cafes in Jakarta.

Justine: Like, Indonesia?

H: Like, yeah, it's what I've heard. Iunno. My mom has acid reflux and so I have her on the whole cold-drip thing now, but, um...

J: I wish I had the time to become more of a coffee connoisseur.

H: You can start here. It's just fabulous, here. The espresso has that foamy light-brown top.

J: So you know it's the real thing, then.

H: Exactly.

The new shot is over the table facing toward a girl with long brown hair falling down over her right shoulder. She is seated across from another girl (whose hands, but not face is visible in this shot) and her body language, while eloquent, does sag toward the table. There is silence in the middle of the clamor.




Scene 3 (DIM BEDROOM) LATE EVENING, 45 seconds at most

Justine is prepping in front of a mirror in her bedroom. The lighting is ambient. She flips her hair over her shoulders a couple times while mystified by her reflection. She is almost drunk in her perception. She is wearing a black dress with pearls loosely hung around her neck. The phone on her night stand rings, but she chooses to let the call go to her mailbox. The camera follows her reaction (or lack of one) to the voicemail as Justine continues in her routine.

Caleb (On the recorder): Heya, Justine. Missed you at service today. I, uh, know that you're going through a pretty rough time. …And it sucks. I think you should come hang out with us sometime this week? Or it can be just us two, if that's more comfortable for you. Haha. Well, I just wanted to let you know that you have a friend in me. (Caleb becomes more radiant) And listen, I don't know how you feel about this sort of thing at this point, but, um… God's really got your back.  The scriptures tell us that these sort of events are often God just wanting us to cry out to him, ya know. Haha, like a reminder that he's here for us. What else is there to turn to? We've got to model ourselves after someone, you know? God has amazing things in store for you. I can see it. He's really going to take this and turn all this mess upside down…(sincerely) I hope this helps. Please see me this week.




Scene 4 (CUT BACK TO CAFE) MIDDAY, 30-90 seconds

J: I'm worried about my mom (eyes averting those of her friend, she strokes the rim of her coffee cup)

H: How's she doing with the divorce and everything?

J: I just don't know. At first she just beat herself to death over the…spiritual ramifications. She would call me to talk about how we can't ever fully comprehend the will of God--that we're in this eternal struggle where we must always try and never quite get there (using more hand motion, but still keeping her eyes drawn to objects on the table, rather than on H). But now--

H: Geez. You've told her you're let go of all that stuff though, right?

J: Oh, I don't want to further weight down her life right now. My mom is, um, counting on me to help her through this and I think any talk of my lack of a concrete, moral paradigm would...

H: Would what (probing)?

J: It'd totally kill her (now her eyes meet H's. She drums the table with her fingers).

H: Right right. That sucks.

J: I know, but, God, I feel so pathetic right now, too, though. Like, I'm supposed to be polishing off a manuscript right now and all of a sudden, I feel like so tangled--I just--I can't. I've lost framework. I feel phony or didactic. At least…I don't even feel tangled; no that's so cliche. I feel nothing. Yes, nothing.

The camera goes back to Hannah, who does't say anything, Justine pauses a bit, as if needing some answer from Hannah and then begins speaking.

J: I haven't heard from my mom in awhile. I'm worried about her. The last time I saw her, she was completely catotonic. I mean it was like she was a completely different person. She's locked herself in her house for the past week, not returning my calls, or my letters. I just--

H: Tell you what. I think it'd be really good for you to just unwind this evening (smiling and sinking back into her chair, very comfortable with herself).

J: How (lazily)?

H: My friend's hosting this gathering tonight. There's going to be drinks. (laughing) We can smoke a bit.

J: Ahhh (acknowledging unenthusiastically)

H: There's going to be a seance (more seductively).

There is a long pause while the camera remains focused on H from J's shoulder and then the camera is now positioned close to J's profile.

J: (intrigued) What?

H: Well, you know. It's pretty harmless. Not sure who's really expecting anything real to happen.

J: A seance? I don't know, Hannah.

H: Come off it. It'll be a fun evening. There's gonna be cute guys. You know it take your mind of things.

Hannah raises her coffee to her lips, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. Justin shuffles in her seat.

H: Thought you didn't really believe in that stuff… I'm only looking out for you, Justine.

Justine looks to her coffee cup. The cafe clamor cuts out.

H: Drink your coffee.




Scene 5 (BOOKCASE) NIGHTTIME, 10-15 seconds

Justine walks over to a bookcase and examines the titles of the books.  Faust is one of the titles. Two others are the Thelma books, Equinox, and Necronomicon. Justine reaches her hand up to the spines of a few books at eye level.


Scene 6 (OUTSIDE OF CAFE) EARLY AFTERNOON, 20-30 seconds

An urban street close to where the two girls were just seen dining. H is no longer with J, who is walking down a sidewalk. There are leaves across the cement. The mood is more contemplative and less intellectually bright. Shadows of trees are casts against pale building sides. The angles within the frame point downward towards the bottom right corner. There is a carcass of an indistinguishable animal, reduced to a pulp, that is being ravaged through by two dogs. A man, drunk and murmuring impersonally is taking long crooked strides from an alley toward the street and as he emerges he is heard singing roughly:

Drunken Man: Satan, Satan, Satan, it's all going to the dogs. The devil wanna dance with me. The devil wanna dance with you, doggy doggy. Arrrhooooo!!!

J stops, baffled and looks toward the direction of the drunken man. The violence of everything is not only off-putting, but jarring. Growls of dogs intensifies. The scene cuts with loud barking.



Scene 7 HOUSE GATHERING NIGHTTIME, 30-50 seconds

The man from the prologue, opening the door: Ahh, Hannah, you made it! And peace upon you!

H: Of course (shrugging it off, playing cool). You, too, man!

Man: And who's this (pointing to J beside H)?

H: This is my friend, Justine. I told her she'd have a great time and then she wanted to come. That cool?

Man: Yeah, absolutely. Welcome, welcome.

J: Thanks (awkwardly, but calmly, tagging behind H)

The Wiccan man (whom neither or Justine recognize from the prologue, as neither were present) pulls Justine into a welcoming, but awkward and unnecessary hug. Upon release she turns to Hannah and they kiss on the cheek. We follow the two women behind the man into a foyer with a heavy, but luxurious atmosphere. A few brief snippets of unimportant conversation is shown through different shots to extract the mood. Suddenly another Wiccan, a woman, is in Justine's face with a ridiculously jolly smile.

Woman: This is your first time here! Now, it's okay to be nervous. I haven't been here so long myself.

Justine: You live here?

Woman: (laughing) Sometimes.

Justin: To be frank, I don't really have an idea of what to expect. How'd you get started with all of…this (motioning to the room's dimensions)?

Woman: I'm not the first one of this kind in my family. In fact, we have successfully traced back my lineage to sixteenth century in England.

Photo: A black and white sketch of a woman dressed outside of a dark, Gothic building. We stay for one or two seconds.

Woman: But you know. She was found guilty and they burned her. Animals




Scene 8 (HOUSE INTERIORS), 5-7 seconds

Interiors of the house. There is jazz music playing and there is mingling with nice drinks. It is a casual cocktail party of twelve eclectic and well dressed people. Hannah trails off with what we presume to be another one of her friends, while Laurel is transfixed on the characters and objects in the room. The conversation is improvised. We gets glimpses of the host, Frances, from the back of her. The Wiccan man is seen speaking with her. In this same shot we see Justine walking in the background to the bookcase. The camera comes closer to this shot, in the direction of the man looking at Frances' face.

F: The letter?

The man smiles in affirmation, but is silent. France's face is still not in view.




Scene 9 (PENTAGRAM SHOT), 2-5 seconds

Pentagram is being drawn into sight in a dark room that we recognize from the prologue. There are small candles lit around the space where chalk is scrapping against the floor. There is a larger candle lit above the top of the space with the same letter beside it in the light.




Scene 10 (ASIDE AT PARTY), 45-50 seconds

The host, Frances, a woman ten years older than Justine, comes and touches her shoulder. Justine sharply moves to see who's touching her and does not recognize the person addressing her. The host has a calming, but domineering personality. The host observes another woman's interaction with a man as they are seated in the corner of the parlor. The other woman is running her fingers over tarot cards as the entranced young man across from her looks down upon her spidery movements.

The host, Frances: Interested in anything you see?

J: I'm sorry. It was just a quick glimpse.

F: Oh, there is nothing to apologize for. I can sense that you have a special drive in you. You want to learn. You want to see things situated in their own reality and then to see…beyond.

J: I--I think so, yes. I'm not sure if there is anything beyond our individual and social perceptions.

F: (smiling) Don't be afraid. We all want the same things here. That's how we have all been brought together. Although, while think we want to see everything, sometimes just a quick glimpse is potent enough. Some images--some understandings are too much for one person.

J: What sort of images are--

F: We don't get to choose what's revealed to us on our own terms.

J: (nodding her head begrudgingly) Yes, that's true.

F: May the sisters grant you the courage.

J: (cooly, but friendly) Am I going to need it?

F: There is nothing to be afraid of when you are here with us. We're your friends here. I sense that great things are in store for you. There is a power in you that stirs me. Let me be your eyes tonight and you will be able to glimpse further that you ever though capable.




Scene 11 (CUT BACK TO PENTAGRAM SHOT), 2-5 seconds

The last line of the pentagram is drawn by a hooded figure. One to five seconds.





Scene 12 (Seance in the dining room), 2-3 minutes

The camera is suspended in one shot, one take of a table from the side, about 10 feet away. Members of the coven and also other party guests make their way around the table. One woman lights candles on the table A man to the side slowly dims the overhead lighting from the chandelier. Eventually, the host takes her seat. There is a pendant in the middle of the table next to a collection of candles, in addition to an overturned glass. Everyone directs their attention to Frances and becomes silent.

F: Peace onto you all, brothers and sisters. Some of you know that for some time now I have been attempting to make contact with a particular spirit. This nameless beast has made his voice known to me throughout these days and wishes to further express itself. We are very pleased to have Justine here tonight. I sense this spirit's desire more heavily tonight and I believe it has much to do with our guest. Justine, we are most grateful to have you here in our circle.

Justine is speechless. The others observe her reaction, but are otherwise motionless. Justine nods to Frances and Frances closes her eyes to begin searching for this dark entity. One by one those around the table grad hands and then each grasp of hands is placed on the table, forming a link to the host.

F: Spirit, can you hear us? Are you aware of our presence? Are you willing to make some sign of yourself known to us? Spirit, give us some sign. (to her audience) Let us here combine our energy from our living presence.

Slowly, the others reach out in front of them to the overturned glass. It becomes more and more readable on Justine's face just how intriguing the whole performance is to her. Hannah has a new stillness in her body and remains incredibly focused. Frances begins coaxing the spirit further.

F: Spirit, can you hear us? Spirit, give us some sign. Give us a sign of your presence, spirit. Welcome spirit, come down among us. No one here wishes you harm, but to be vessels, pure in intention.

This scene is an endurance of patience and belief. The cup moves slowly toward Justine. It is ambiguous on whether or not it moves because of nervous motion from one of the other guests, or if it is an act from the spirit itself. A few characters are caught off guard. One gasps. Frances droops a bit, as if moving in and out of a partial trance.

F: (turning a piercing gaze to Justin): He wishes for everyone to leave. Except for Justine. Justine, you must stay here. The spirit requests that everyone else leaves.

Confused, the others at the table leave and only Frances and Justine remain in the room. Both still have their hand over the bottom of the overturned glass.

F: That's better. Spirit, you are welcome here. Please, move the glass to my right if you wish to respond with "yes" and move the glass to my left if you wish to respond with "no" to Justine's questions.

Justine quickly looks away from the table at Frances, unsure of herself. Frances notices this and nods in her direction to give her support.

J: Are you grounded here with us, or are you just visiting?

F: Start more simply than that, dear.

J: Have--have we met before?

The camera turns to the glass and the frame slowly fades into black




Scene 13 (OUTSIDE OF JUSTINE'S HOUSE NEAR MAILBOX), 10-15 seconds

Justine begins walking up her driveway, but notices a letter in the mailbox, which is left open. Confused, she takes the letter out and instantly notices the purposeful handwriting we saw in the prologue. She lifts her hand to her mouth and attempts recomposing herself.




Scene 14 (Back to the dining room where the seance was held) RIGHT AFTER THE SEANCE, 20 seconds

The dining room is filling up again. Frances swishes her hands through the air to clear the smoke that came from blowing out the candles on the table. Conversation begins to pick up.

F: Lydia, come bring some burning sage. We need to cleanse the room.

J: (picking herself together and walking to Frances) Nothing happened.

F: That is yet to be seen.

J: How do you mean? Didn't--I thought you said goodbye.

F: We will see.

J: I haven't seen anything.

F: Why, it was just a glimpse, dear. What were you expecting?




Scene 15 (BEDROOM), 15 seconds

Justine climbs into bed and kisses the letter in her hand. The camera is facing her in her bed and she turns off the bedside lamp. The room is dark except for the light that comes through her window blinds against the wall above her bed.



Scene 16 (PENTAGRAM), 2-5 seconds

The hooded figure, bent down before the pentagram blows out the bigger candle placed on the floor above the markings.




Scene 17 (BEDROOM), 30 seconds-1 minute

There is no score in this scene. Startled by something that we are not aware of, Justine turns the light back on. She places the letter on the night stand as we were organic growling noises with percussion. She turns the light off again. We were a bump and then a crash of the lamp against the wall. There is heavy breathing and a scream begins in the middle of large growling and wet, crunching noises. Justine screams and this sound carries over to the next image.




Scene 18 (EPILOGUE), 20 seconds

Miles Davis starts again. In a post-death scene in the same bedroom, we see Justine getting ready in front of the mirror in a red dress. The room is in blue hues. Justine primps and touches her hair, as if preparing for another post-death step. Credits begin.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Post 11: Broussard Arrives

Laurent (a couple of minutes later):
--Wanna get high before she arrives?
Charlotte the reclining actress expands, opening her arms, which had been folded softly against her warm chest, up slowly, as if trying to hug the enormous irritable fog of Brother. Her palms, facing Laurent, empty and addressed to the impossible subject. Brother anticipates a solid "no."
Charlotte:
--Yes!
Martha comes out onto the patio with her tray. Ring the bells for Brother and Sister, for there are more drinks. Tanqueray and tonics pour les enfants. Laurent smiles at the maid and thanks her without having to change his focus, which is drawn at Charlotte. Charlotte bites her nails. There is an immense unknowing.
Laurent:
--Relax.

Martha opens the Yardley doors to Broussard. The Yardley doors are opened to Broussard by Martha, who, despite her small influence and modest sensitivities as a maid, wishes the best for Charlotte this day. Martha steps aside, pressing her body flush against the obviously expensive, but instantly forgettable floral tapestry perpendicular to the heavy French doors. Earlier, Charlotte instructed Martha to bring Broussard out onto the patio for the meeting, because of its idyllic view, so Martha is obliging and leads the esteemed director through the washed out, beige interiors directly toward the back. Charlotte sits outside, slightly buzzed, hoping for an immediate rapport, but, more importantly for her, a brief stage to prove her ferocity and capability. Laurent sits on the edge of his pool with his legs in the water, pretending not to be involved. Broussard walks, looking around the walls of the house curiously, formulating infantile clues as to the actress she has yet to meet.
Charlotte stands up upon the moment Broussard steps foot out onto the cement. Her face stretches quickly into a smile and her hand, just as quickly out toward her potential employer. Martha cannot help but wish everything well for Charlotte. Everyone smiles, Laurent, from the poolside up at the women. His laughter comes from an image of Catherine Broussard whipping out a megaphone concealed behind her back and shouting out orders prematurely. I'm taking over! He imagines Martha coming back out with a tray of concealer, rouge, and cloths, air brushing his sister's face, securing a small microphone, and, finally, giving Charlotte an unprecedented slap on the face. Good luck, Charlotte!  Charlotte is stunned, looking around for her cue.
The introduction, however, works instantly in the favor of Sister. All the more reason for beaucoup des smiles. Brother takes his legs out and stands up in preparation for leaving the two women to themselves. He walks for the liquor cabinet inside, but he is stopped by a courteous Broussard:
--And this is your brother, Laurent?

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 10: Slapstick and Circles

But what about Martha? Yes, Martha, briskly shuffling through the rooms of the Yardley grounds, taking care not to bump out of her assigned place (which is the corner) into the spotlight. Her time is paid for, but still given up to the people whose name is on the check. If Martha does not have the luxury of looking to the future, then her time is now. Now, the time is occupied by the Yardleys; Brother and Sister are in the now and they get all the action. This pushes Martha back to the past, but the past is the past and it lies in the ground, the eyes of its body, black sockets, and its interiors made the land of maggots and termites and dust. Where to go from now? No now means no time for Martha.
Unless we ask Laurent or Charlotte to hold their breaths out in the yard or, when they drift off in their booze-snooze, let them rest undisturbed. We can alot some space and time for the one whose time is documented on paper and receipt. Martha is given a gray hammock in the parlor, swaying a bit above the muck the ones in charge have left for picking up. Prop the flatulent lady up against a pillow or two in her nest and give her a stage prop to occupy her white, spatulate hands. A fashion magazine for her to fan a breeze against her rosy face. She gages the face of time and wonders if she might be able to go into one of the guest rooms, where she might be able to catch a soap opera on the air. Something she doesn't need a spatula for--it is practically fed to her through the larger than life television fuzz and buzz. A doctor to lay out a methodical diagnosis onto his patient's bed or an estranged grandson returning to his grandmother, who will not nag anymore, she promises. She is just beside herself with joy at the sight of her beautiful, wildly talented grandson, remorseful for his crimes (and it is most certainly a crime to forget your grandmother), a prodigal--no, a prodigy of a--boy! Yardleys are her children now. They have been prancing around her feet for several years.
As a lower character, would it not be funny to see her in a slapstick routine? A velvet ghost of the house pushes from underneath into her backside, towards the left, abruptly turning the hammock sideways until she topples out onto the tile floor. Weeeeeeeeeee!!! She has hit the ground elbow and hip first. Ouch! What is this?! Shakes her head, sucks in pockets of air that the Yardley siblings cannot get to if they tried at this point from outside. Martha rubs her elbow with the palm of the unscathed hand. Always, she has to take care of the Yardleys, she does not have the energy now to take care of herself. Can't I just BE for one goddamn second?! I promise that I don't need much--I hardly need anything! During her tumble the clasp of her necklace became stuck in the twisted ropes of the house and the thin gold chain detached itself, now hanging over a knot, a knot she feels in her back, with both strand ends dropping over the sides. Martha proceeds to reach for the necklace, hardly a statement piece, but something of great personal value, passed down from Mother. Marked as the twinkling evidence of her topple, it hangs glimmeringly between the lighting of mahogany urn lamps through hand sewn silk shades.
Unbounded Laughter sounds off from outside. Naturally, it is easy for Martha to think at first the bursts of delight in the distance are had at her expense. Martha forgets her entanglement is off the main set, making it nearly impossible for her to be a point of any relevance for the Yardleys. So, let them laugh. Taking the necklace in her hand, she is even able to laugh at herself breathily. She turns her hand, palm towards her face, and examines the gold chain and traces the bright metal with the fingers from her other hand. Martha communicates through the image back to Mother. Slim sliver of property, soft material, only a thin view to the past, but under the lamplight, it glistens nonetheless. Mother, forgive my carelessness. I must do better a better job of hanging on to you. Although she is tuned in to how silly the gesture might look from afar, she kisses the necklace before clasping the chain back together. Hang on tightly, Martha.

From the interior of the house, Charlotte is seen walking about with her hands slowly twisting in the air, laughing, in a warm panache, diving in and resurfacing these imaginary waves of music, tugged into the shore by agitated, tentacular impulses. Catherine Broussard will arrive today, so there are a few loose ends to Charlotte at the moment. Steps out of the glass doors onto the patio, the babble becomes familiar:
--You know, I think it's really important to know what motivates us, right?
Laurent:
--Does an actress need to know what motivates her?
--Laurent!
--Well, you see, she's always dispensable and it's not because she doesn't know--
--Oh, do not tell me that Brigitte Bardot was dispensable last night--
--Yes, she's a bombshell
Charlotte (her head nodding, smug):
--You see? You're wrong.
--I admit an actress can lift a film from a clumsily written script, if she brings enough to the part and draws from more dimensions.
--My words fall on silent ears--I mean deaf ears!…Whatever, it's a circle.
Laurent (walking into a defensive circle):
--Then she might bring too much into the screen, when the film's a sinking ship anyway, and then she only looks desperate.
--That's what--man! It's all a fucking circle that never ends!
--An actress needs to be able to submit to manipulation.
--She needs charisma! Don't undermine charisma!
--Shelly Duvall obviously didn't know what motivated her. Altman and Kubrick just pointed the frame to something almost "downsy," unknowing of itself, but yielding and so it worked toward an ultimate intension of dream and despondency.
--Bitch, I am not Shelly.
--Never said--
--Take it back. Martha! (shouting belligerently after a twirl towards the backdoors)
--What do you want?
--I want another drink. Christ almighty, won't somebody help me!?!
--Well, make it two. You're incorrigible.
--You're ignorant!
Laurent, ponderously--not torturous, but definitely with a twisted hand crunching in on Charlotte:
--I've changed my mind. One must know what the motivation is--even an actress must. Otherwise, the same choices will keep on being made and, without a shred of any clue, they will be made almost always, somehow, inadvertently against the artist.
--Oh, Laurent, darling, do you see me as an artist?
--No, I see you as an actress.
--(beaming, dancing on her toes) Oh, Laurent. You're the same as me, you know?
--I know.
--You see?!?
--(still walking his own circle next to Sister's twirl) Yes and especially right choices, but don't get so self-aware that you start criticizing your own performances.
--Right.
--That's just bad form, you see.
--Well, I'll never read the reviews.
--That is such an actress sort of response. Broussard is going to love you.
For the first time in this scene, Charlotte takes a seat. What if we come to know what motivates and carries us through to an end, but find it perhaps hideous? Oh, God, circles.

a chair, part 2

I get the best view from the back of the room, with everyone faced forward to the doors away from me. Do not turn around or to your side in the chair, unless it is your knees and thighs I will get to see as you prop your legs upon the adjacent, empty desk chair, the angle of your knees forcing a pull of your jeans down, exposing the larger muscles of your body. Don't turn around, because it is your neck that is the ice to my ache. The way the hair, curled and wispy, dark blonde, at the base of your neck does not fit into the bun you make halfway through shift or that you bring with you from home, that is what I want in front of me. Even better, when it is all let down. You do not have a clue as to how many colors you have running through your hair--all of the browns, golds, and even reds, or how we ache back here, longing to be that chair as your dark blue, sweat-stained, leg prop.

a chair

nothing is as sad and erotic as an empty chair in the parlor. mean, plush, and empty.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 9: Who has the laughing hand?

Objects are more successfully grasped at than are people; people always seem to manage to slip away. Brother considers the infinite spaces. He tries to see far beyond the horizon, beyond the sharp bits of glass wall that all mirror his gray projection. What will finally conquer him is the composite picture into which these jagged cuts will assemble. Then he will feel monstrous. Not that he has not done his own time in thinking himself to be a monster. Sister, in a way the direct product of Mother, hanging on by a mutual limb of self-loathing and self-adoration, has already become accustomed to feeling quite monstrous at times. It is early evening. We are back to the house, where the Yardley siblings are in their yard, again. A sunset swirled with unspoiled hollandaise sauce and egg yolk, dwindling before the twinkling eye.
Charlotte:
--I feel supremely disillusioned.
Laurent:
--You what?
--Here, right here, my character is feeling very disenchanted with everything onto which she had latched herself, before her emigration from Greece. Then, in the penultimate scene, she does get everything she had dreamed of having in her travels, but it is unbearable to her. I think that sort of irony fuels her feebleness and her own sense of martyrdom when submitting herself to the rape. Well, I suppose you cannot volunteer to be raped...It's sacrificial.
Laurent:
--If I ever become theistic again, it will be because of irony--not that my turning myself back into God would be ironic, but that my understanding of my own bigger ironies and those pertaining to others and of those that overlap myself and others would cause me to affirm a God of some kind.
Maybe God is the reason things do not happen the way the Yardley siblings expect! If they were more supreme, it seems they could bend their reality more to their liking if they tried hard enough. There is money, though, and it keeps flowing across the Atlantic and into their pockets. Plus, the two are performers. So, reality is bending all the time and given new structures as seen fit. Laurent lights another cigarette as Sister listens intently. How quick the two are able to switch from enemies of the midday to Brother and Sister again, obsessed with themselves and with the other!
Laurent:
--Until then, all of irony will be read as absurdity.
Charlotte:
--I've actually thought the same thing several times and have decided that kind of ontological introspection is an ultimately ironic and despairing thing. Absurd? Not quite. That axe never quite drops--the sound of one hand laughing.
Laurent nods his head:
--So is absurdity more brutal?
--I'm not sure. But I think…I think that absurdity sounds like something that can be ignored, dismissed, written off. Something to wink back at from a chair, while keeping with the daily flow and routine. I don't know the true heart of the word, but I do think it's pretty brutal. Do you agree?
--I think so, yes.
Laurent:
--You've given this script a lot of thought. How did the phone call go? You did call, right?
Charlotte:
--In my experience, well, the director has said very little. Communication was in some accord through the medium of casting agents and through the writer. She always seemed to be very brooding, not gloomy, but very introverted. You can imagine how stressed I was as I picked up the phone to dial her number. Surprisingly, she spoke so much she made my head spin. Her mouth was motorized by machine and it was wired to a postmodern, neurotic mind that was short circuited by its own mania and self-consciousness. I believe she's very excited for the project.
Laurent smiles, realizing he forgets how fully-realized his sister can be in her analyses. That is the thing, though, we are much better are analyzing others than we are ourselves. It is not only Charlotte's needle of social awareness, but her eloquence that captivates Laurent. Sister should try to write, just like Laurent, except that this would further stifle Brother's voice. Poetry has been his territory, after all, and he needs territory.
Charlotte:
--She wants to come by tomorrow to chat and get to know me.
--Catherine Broussard coming to our house. Man, oh, man.
--You'll have to be on your best behavior.
--Meaning?
--Don't bore her.
--I'll just act naturally.
--No, don't do that.
--I'll just act very enthused for your upcoming work. I'll also say things, such as "any character who really, righteously embraces her martyrdom is so erotic to me."
Sister dips her head down and purses her lips:
--That sort of remark won't get us anywhere.
As if Laurent and Charlotte want to go anywhere. No, they are much more comfortable here in their little palace. This is not to say that neither of them are driven by want. Boy, do they want! What they both want is to end a scene with the laughing hand.

Untitled Project on Sibling Actors, Part 8: Poached eggs, You belong to me!

Laurent zips up his trousers after the last drops of urine are shaken out onto nature and faces the patio where Charlotte has called out to him:
--Is brunch ready?
--Yes, come on inside.
As Laurent is walking across the lawn back to the tea table where he left his writing, Charlotte continues:
--You know who just called?
--Would it be that director?
--(A light scoff) No, I'm to call him, remember? And I will, later.
--Then who?
--Charles.
--Our brother?
--Oui, notre frère.
Laurent and Charlotte pause for a bit. Charles, student of business at Yale University who has remained in America, occupied with his studies and internship all this time, has called. Laurent has the suspicion that Mother and Father are behind this phone call and that they mean for him to go back, but at the moment Laurent has no intention of putting an end to his vacation. Charlotte stands there with her hands on her hips, almost gloating over Laurent's silence. Laurent would like to tell Charlotte how this in unfair to him. That he is being singled out and that it is not as if Charlotte is being so productive herself here at their idealistic retreat. Charlotte would only retort that she has work practically begging for her to pick it up, learn it, memorize it, and transform it into an expansive and rewarding product and that she is not wasting herself away like someone she knows.
Laurent:
--What did he say?
--Well, it's all very unprecedented, but I believe he is coming here.
--To stay?
Charlotte:
--Come inside. Brunch is served.

********************
At the kitchen table, Sister sighs and tosses out leisurely into the midday air in her usual, privileged laugh:
  --Well, as you know, all we ever do is plan total social destruction on these…unsuspecting targets.
  Everything's part of a script. Charlotte speaks while cutting into her poached egg with a new, cold, and calculative manner of a mathematician bent towards the solution of a problem that has eaten an entire month out of her life. Really, she has only had the script in her arms for a couple days.
While it is certainly no longer "morning" morning, the time of day is still closer to the moment of waking from the unconscious, the greatest source of inspiration. Brother and Sister hope that their oeuvre is long sustained after their departure from the stage and that their musical chord is not immediately flattened down by the next generation. What will happen, they both wonder, now? Another party member to contribute to their masterpiece.
Brother and Sister like to perform for each other. They like to wear different personas as they satisfy their ever-changing temperaments. Brother takes to a bowler hat and gives it character. Sister will take the bowler hat and wear it herself. Once one of them finds a role that resonates with a particular mood, the scene is bound almost seamlessly. Here moods are changing rapidly, so it is not very often that a mood, singular and binding of a scene, is carried throughout a whole act, never mind an entire play.
Sometimes they act out against each other and their great acts come splattering down from the swimming pool balcony down to the mosaic below. Sister might throw the bowler hat back at brother's face to hasten the action. Retaliation builds when its execution is passed from one performer to the next. There is only so much stage space and the two of them carry such large egos. The flashes of light from the sky are played--shot down and meant to be seen. They share virtually everything, as if they are connected at their hips from the same, precious cradle of life, their minds erupting upwards into overlapping networks of neuronal processing and transmission, stars that they pretend to spell out above them theatrical frescos of fortune and pain. Both throw the organic outlines of their lives up to the fates. This accounts for the occasional autonomy, which, when it happens, is a marvelous spectacle.
Luckily, the two here at brunch are not joined at the heart, because, as it is, they will too often enchant themselves into believing that it is people onto which they pour their love, when it is, in fact, inanimate objects, heirlooms, trinkets picked up from foreign streets, gifts that have been passed to them from old acquaintances that receive all their affection. Brother and Sister might lend themselves to others, but both fully appreciate the sentiment of giving yourself to yourself. At the heart, the siblings would be all the more reckless. No, they are not joined at the heart. Soon, it will be Brother and Sister and Brother all under the same roof again. Just like old times. Maybe now the audience will get some real heart to heart.
Laurent:
--So Charles is coming next week.
Charlotte pinches off a piece of her baguette and uses it to wipe up the hollandaise sauce and running yolk on her plate. In the kitchen, Martha tells the cook that he has done well and that he can take his leave. Martha comes back out to the breakfast table with more coffee for Charlotte and Laurent. Charlotte grabs a remote off of the kitchen table and points it in the direction of the stereo. She presses a couple of buttons and Jo Stafford starts playing. You belong to me.
Charlotte:
--As I told you. I think it's a fantastic idea.
--You know he's going to give me shit.
Charlotte swallows her mouthful quickly:
--You deliberately think in ways that are self-defeating!
--Oh, please.
--You do, yes you do. He wants a vacation and it's his place here, as well as ours. Honestly, I think he really needs this. His girlfriend dumped him a few weeks ago and he's been real mopey.
Laurent shakes his head after taking a sip of coffee. Brother is finding it hard to act. There is an actress right here, again, again and always. So, making a firm stance is difficult. All of his hesitation is pinching him in the cheek, like sisterly Sister. It will all come back to pinch him again, if he is not careful. Brother takes a few steps elsewhere:
--I want to watch a movie tonight.
Sister bobs in her seat:
--Of course! What sort were you thinking? Been a week since I've been in our theater room.
--Any movie, really. I have--I haven't really given it much thought.
--Some idea, Laurent.
--(through a little chuckle) Yeah, I know. That's me, though, my ideas--
--(with a pat on his hand) I'm only kidding! Let's watch Body Heat. No? Let's watch Vivre Sa Vie. That one neither of us have seen and, so, neither you nor I will be explaining away things that speak for themselves or that you or I would rather discover on our own.
--That sounds good. I actually have not seen a French New Wave film in a hot minute.
--Holy shit, I love her eyes. Anna Karina's eyes. They're just so big and playful and sad...
--I've only seen her in Une Femme est une Femme.
--That is a good film, Laurent. She's so precious in that one. You know what you need? Some Anna Karina to help you get out of this funk. Come on.
Laurent, who cannot help taking a few steps back:
--I just don't want him parading all of his accomplishments in front of us to make us feel trite. Oh, come on, it's likely he will.
--Can't you just be happy for him? It's going to be fun. We should throw a party. No one is going to make anyone feel trite.
--Well, of course we'll throw a party. Does Mom and Dad know?
--We'll have several parties. Who cares if Mom and Dad know anything? I tell you, I'm pretty excited. It's been so long since we've all sat down and really enjoyed ourselves. We can all get high and drunk together.
Laurent cuts into his meal and rethinks his initial response to the news:
--I suppose you're right about-
--Of course I'm right.
--Okay. You're right.
Jo Stafford: Fly the ocean in a silver plane. See the jungle when it's wet with rain. Just remember 'till you're home again: you belong to me.
Charlotte, while taking out a cigarette, lighting its end and placing it in her mouth:
--You're still writing, right? Tell him about your stories, unless you've completely neglected them. Don't you also have a novel you're working on? That's something! It takes time to write and you need time and space to create. Charles can appreciate that you are being creative; our brother has his own literary endeavors, although on the reading end and not the writing.
Laurent breathes in and out heavily while he scratches the scruff on his jaw, which attracts Charlotte's attention:
--(while rubbing Brother's lower cheek) You should shave. You always look your best clean-shaven.
--(swatting away Sister's hand) Right.
--It's true. You do, L.
--That, again?
Sister smiles down at Brother with an antiseptic sweetness:
--How are your eggs? You haven't finished them yet.
--They're fine, but I'm not really hungry anymore.
Charlotte exhales the smoke from her lungs and then puts her cigarette out in Laurent's remains of his poached egg, twisting the cigarette butt back and forth as it punctures through the white and yellow material, its ash mixing with the golden pool of hollandaise sauce and yolk, shamelessly poisoning the flavor and warping the texture.
Laurent:
--That's revolting!
--(chuckling) You were done with it anyway. Look, it had already turned cold.
--I'm going back outside.
Charlotte:
--You put up with so much, L!
--(his voice, exasperated) An egg is a pure thing. Golden, nourishing, and filling, it has the potential to become a new, whole and living organism. This is tasteless--really nasty. It's not natural.
--It didn't suspect to be infiltrated by burnt tobacco! It's not so nasty. Besides, I do not think that this egg was to become anything, except poached and devoured, or not devoured and just left, picked at, like it is there on your plate. This was not a crime against nature. You could say snatching this egg from the mother hen was a crime against nature. I say this is a work of art! Martha, bring my camera from my room, so that I can take a snapshot of the midday that I ruined for Laurent. Laurent, oh, I'm so sorry, don't leave! This was tasteless.
Laurent spits out in mock gratitude:
--Thank you very much.
Laurent scoots his chair back and exits outside as Charlotte slumps in her chair, opening her arms out wide to start singing along with the Jo Stafford track: But just remember, darling, 'till you're home again: you belong to me!