| 1 3 th . z o d i a c _____ vrs 1//more than just a game |
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| Film |
[February 10th] |
08. Film
El has once again become my fairy prince, my undersea king, my buoy, my liferaft, the reason my heart beats, my stomach churns, my tongue ties, my feet stumble. Close enough to him I can see the shadows hollowing out the curvature of his bone structure, the imperfect surface area of skin. Small white perfect teeth. I wonder how it would feel like to touch it (his skin, I mean; not his teeth). Close enough to see his eyes, brown like muddied riverbanks, light refracted off the surface and looking like tiny white lilies just bursting to bloom through the color.
I look him over as he is precariously sits on the edge of the desk, the proximity of our bodies frightening and fascinating me. It amazes me how different he looks -- and how little it matters. I almost gasp. I pray that my eyeliner is okay. He smiles and I am blinded by a film in my eyes that is brought on by severe dillusions of me ending up with him.
You are tired, baby, I want to say, open up my arms and have all five feet, one inch of me crushed, holding up this caramel-skinned, almond-eyed, (at least) five foot nine god of a man to my chest. Would his hands feel like branding irons on my back -- would I feel their power through the back of my Fall Out Boy shirt? Come sleep, I'd say, kneeling and stroking his head. Kiss the bruise-shadows beneath his eyes and his nose with the perfect bridge and the carved planes of his cheekbones and those lips that are warm and inviting and saying to me, you should give me a copy of your script so I can give you suggestions. I haven't had much experience with film acting but I'll try to help.
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| 07. Obsession: The Screenplay |
[November 18th] |
07. Obsession: The Screenplay
El, ask me if I regret, and I will tell you about yourself and the very essences of my soul. I will tell you of my darkly-lit room, running the razor across my left wrist and I will tell you about the nights where I am kneeling before the porcelain bowl of the toliet like it is god and my dinner is swimming happily in the water below me and my nose is stuffed and my eyes are full of tears. That's what regret is for me. The gnawing emptiness of my stomach and the stinging clarity on the inside of my arms.
Ext. The hallway outside of the theater in Maples Collegiate, where CIS is sitting against the wall with her head bowed against EL's glory coming towards her, heading for the gym.
El: Cis, you're the only one here today.
Cis: I'm never here. I'm always here.
El: Maybe I should stop this class if no one shows up on Thursdays. I'm impressed with you, though.
Cis: I'll come to you through any storm. So you must reward me.
El: Okay. [He smiles.] How?
Cis: Ask me what I regret.
El: Okay, Cis. What do you regret?
Cut to the empty school gymnasium, above on the balcony/mezz where the bleachers are, where Cis wants to be a high school student picking at the peeling letters of her school's logo on her sweatshirt while below on the court, El would be her age and play basketball like a god.
Cis: I regret you. I regret ever taking drama and I regret the day Mrs K told us your name. I regret seeing your face and I regret memorizing it in my sleep, consumed consumated avaricous hateful contempt. I regret hearing your voice, learning the chords and tones of each word. I regret wanting always to hear you speak, wanting always for you to be near me and I regret falling for you and coming to class today and seeing that golden ring on your finger and pretending that it means nothing to me -- no, pretending that I didn't even notice. Did I notice? Did you notice me noticing? I regret having to feel pain and I regret having to go through the motions of being alive and complete when I'm not because you're not here with me.
El looks down at the offending item -- a non descript golden ring that makes the rest of his perfect long fingers seem obscenely naked.
El: It could be something else, you know. Maybe it doesn't mean what you think it means. You wear a ring around your same finger. You twist it when you're nervous, when I'm around. You never take it off even to wash your hands.
Cis: Only to show everyone that I'm devoted to you. (Even though you don't know that.)
El: Then maybe I'm devoted to you.
Cis: I don't know that for sure. I don't even know that, at all. This is me not able to think logically because the logical thing would be to ask -- but I don't think I could stand the answer.
El: True.
Cis twists the blue ring again. Clockwise, then counter-clockwise.
Cis: Tell me you love me, then.
El: I can't. I'm not even really here. This is you, imagining me.
Cis: So if I'm imagining you, then why can't I imagine you making love to me or touching me or telling me that you love me?
El: Because even you -- especially you -- cannot imagine that.
Cis: What does that mean, El?
El: You can't imagine something you don't believe in.
Cis: ... true.
Soft, sad music begins to fill the gym. Cis is no longer in her body but looking down at the two figures on the floor, concentrating to watery Chinese music and doing graceful stances -- ward off left, play the guitar, brush-knee posture, wave hands like cloud. The camera slowly pulls out, past the ghost of Cis sadly watching in the mezz, her blonde-orange-pink-blue-black hair in her eyes.
Fade to black.
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| 06. Day One |
[November 9th] |
06. Day One
They say that in the first two minutes of meeting someone new, you will learn everything you need to know about that person -- more than you could ever know in the next two years. Twenty years. Two hundred years.
What can you learn from quick, measured glances, and the solitary figure that is El standing silently, frighteningly calm, behind your drama teacher? Nothing, you think. You looked at him and he looked at you and then you both looked away, and at the time there was nothing between you but air and shadow and the time it would have taken for you to cross the room had you gotten up to touch his hand.
x
If you had been born knowing that you would love him one day, then that strange morning would have had so much more meaning. What is life without meaning? Art without soul, cake without sugar, an ocean without fish. It would be you, without eyes, unable to look at the luminous phosphorescence that is him, marbling your shady vision with dark beauty; glittering eerie swirls of undiscovered colors in your head and brewing love and terror in your heart. El, who is a mesmeric shimmer, a gentle radiance (with the worst fashion sense), perfectly conspicuous, reducing you to nothing but a small sad dumb fish, caught in the soulless current of life -- technologically advancing, spiritually declining; the reversed evolution of meaning.
His presence makes the oceans inside you surge violently in your chest. So much that you cut yourself hoping it will quell the ache and bring you some peace. So much that you starve yourself because he is all you need now -- out of which seahorses and starfish and sea dragons and anemones and stargazers are swimming, and like him, bring dazzling light into your dreary winter days.
x
They say that in the first two mintues of meeting someone new, you will learn everything you need to know about that person --
Yet when you first saw him there were no oceans. No fish. No light. What was there before the black hole of longing? Just emptiness? It was a place that was far off and away, that everyone knows is not here or now or us. Cliches are what cause trouble, unreliable faery tales with dead ends and no princes or towers or happy endings. Just looped infinitely around and around in a chain of unending cliches.
They are wrong, like we, at one point, are all wrong.
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| 05. faery tales |
[November 6th] |
05. faery tales
You are on a white horse and clad in densely embroidered silk, shirt for a prince, blue and contrasting the warm browness of your skin. How many times I have seen you and wanted you in blue. Too many.
In this fantasy you are a prince, my knight, with hands like a lover's and a warrior's, with no need for a sword. You have hands like a fighter's. You are perfect because you are someone I can imagine slitting my throat one moment, then nursing me like a baby lamb the next. I want you to touch me like our skin is making love and I want you to touch me like you are about to kill me. I want to hear your voice -- your voice that smolders darkly in your chest before coming out -- calling my name while I lay in my stone, my flower-strewn bed.
I wear a gown of white lace, yards and yards. I have glass slippers. I have a crown of thorns. My bones are as brittle as a bird's, and I am lighter than a feather. My body is made of light and I am as delicate as a glass of water with more scars than I can count making intricate designs on my arms.
I am buried in eternal sleep, to be awakened with soul exchange, or mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. For a hundred years I have called out your name in my sleep. For a hundred years I have prayed for you.
On the night when the queen in the tower above will drink my blood to kill me and renew her, you are lost in her forest and are being drawn to my dank crypt by the faeries whispering my name. Without hesitation you will ride forward until you see the tower made of black stones and the coffin carved with the skeletons of angels. The lid that night shall be open for the first time in a century and I will be waiting for you then, and although you look up and see that the queen is very beautiful -- glitter-frosted tulle-haired black and white and mesmerizing like the most deadly dream, the most sensual nightmare -- and she is enchanting in her white light singing your name, you hear my prayers echoing softer and louder in the night, echoing to the moon and back. In reverie you will jump off the saddle and be by my side without any doubt that she has no power over you.
You will look at me and know that I have been the love you had been searching for your whole life. You will take my hand.
When I was three I fell in love with Peter Pan, forever young and beautiful. You will make me dream of that same kind of everlasting beauty with a finger on my face; I will feel like I can fly when I feel your eyes on me. I slowly begin to stir, breaking the first few bonds of the enchantment.
I see your eyes. Erotic, narcotic. You see my eyes moving beneath the lids like I am having a dream.
I think, if you wake me then it will be all I need. We will live in the Hollywood hills, in an enchanted glass castle or a gingerbread house and grow flowers as tall as you, with trees sprouting from our floors and growing out through the ceiling. We'll make love and it will be like dropping acid and seeing full purple waves washing over our bodies, peeling back like the petal of some cosmic breed of flower. We'll touch for hours and I'll feel full of cocaine, with blots of white light running through me and your magic will make me feel like I am sizzling with beauty.
But it is your kiss that I dream of. Opium-like, hallucinogenic, visions of dripping blue poppy fields and spun-sugar clouds.
You lean down and touch my lips and I am awake and alive and all I can say as the full moon rises is "my prince, my prince."
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| 04. revelations |
[October 20th] |
04. revelations
You saw me.
I feel as if, for the first time,
you saw me
instead of just looking at me.
Yesterday I heard you raise your voice
for the first time.
Sparks of electricity,
bitter like fear
but shivery and exciting,
running up and down my spine.
Heat rising, making me shameless.
I thought, if I could see that side of you,
and if you could learn to see me,
then you'll be mine
and it will consume us both.
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| 03. The Letter Concerning You, Me, and Mona Lisa |
[October 19th] |
03. The Letter Concerning You (El), Me (Cis), and Mona Lisa
Dear El,
I tried to draw you once. Not that you knew, of course, because I don't tell you anything although I desperately want to tell you everything. When I drew you I used thick charcoal lines for your forehead and your eyebrows because in my observations I have noticed that your eyes are sunken and beautiful, dark and long-lashed, too long for a boy's (or man's), and for them I used a medium pencil.
But then I came to your mouth and I didn't know what to do. I was disturbed by this fact. A mouth I so often gazed at wondering how it would feel pressed against my flesh, the bow lips and placid smile. The straight white teeth and the blessed tongue that have yet to utter the words I long to hear. It was like your mouth was always moving, completely still but still too fast for me to get the chance to completely immortalize on paper forever.
Later on I read something about the Mona Lisa (studying for my trip to Europe in March); about how da Vinci, the genius, developed a technique he applied to the painting. Sfumato. Where lines are soft and blurred and made to look ever-changing. She could be saying my name. (Cis.) She could be saying your name. (El.) She could be giving insincere blow jobs and eating foie gras and fillet mignon and sipping champage drinks for breakfast in hotel rooms with rock stars and kissing boys as beautiful as girls and still. She could have been saying nothing.
The point is that, that night, I threw out my portrait of you.
Unknowingly yours,
Cis
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| 02. These Words |
[October 18th] |
02. These Words
These are truths, damned never to be spoken.
Old curses on a new tongue.
No words permitted, so the pen will speak --
fantasies --
where I have poured a little bit of me into you
as you have poured a little bit into me
and we will fall,
ravenous,
upon each other,
gloriously naked and in love.
And if you touched my mouth you would
feel all of these words that I want,
but can't,
say to you.
So I can't have you near me
for fear of you reading my thoughts
and looking upon me
in disgust.
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| 01. relent/persist |
[October 16th] |
01. relent/persist
Sick: You make me feel sick. Your eyes see right through me, my outer layer, like when you look at me and they squint because you're giving me one of your enchanting intoxicating radiant glowing phosphorescent smiles. I am inebriated from the sight of your teeth. I feel like you can see inside me are inside me eating my red blood cells wrapping your lips over the apex of my heart and I can feel your hands on my skin and bones -- scapula like underdeveloped wings -- and blood, of course; tiny crimson corpuscles bouncing off each other like a miniture game of bumper cars and suddenly I'm blinded from the pain of it all. My arteries are strings. I am your marionette.
Imperfect: Wearing blue again today. Your arms are skinny as sticks. I can see the outline of your form, imprinted and imperfect, against the azure fabric of your shirt. Your nose has a funny shape. You don't make a sound when you walk and I am always surprised around corners, nearly bumping into you and I feel like I could fly in those instances before the brief apology and the immediate separation of two bodies. Your voice is deep and maybe too quiet and I've never ever heard you shout I can hardly hear you when you speak and I want you to speak I want to feel your voice resonating in the hollows of my body. My junkie-thin soundless muted obsession.
Dangerous: You are armed with knowledge beyond my comprehension, ten years' worth before I was born and I feel cheated that I was not born sooner. Your smile disarms me and I am frozen like a deer in headlights when you turn towards me. Your eyes -- sunken treasure chests black rocks in deep water, your hair dark seaweed, seeing ressurected Spanish galleons and faraway islands and orient silk that makes me think of your skin. I can't see what goes on in your brain when I look into your eyes so skin on skin when you touch my wrist I do not know and I have no hope of knowing if you want to kill me or kiss me. I would let you do both anyway.
Perfection. Is everything and everywhere you are not, cannot be. We have machines now to fashion perfection, from the first hair down to the last chromosome. But I want something else.
I want...
I need something imperfect and crazy and dangerous. I want your flaws to burn my flesh with the harsh marks of ownership. I want your sins to wash over me like a burning flood and I will swim in the ocean of your treasure tears.
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