REOL LIEF BY TEH DEEJUMS
"The only time I have ever felt satisfied in helping the world is the time I convinced a good friend that love is not real. Any other time I'm thanked valiantly for the kindness, and I do want to mention that I am sincere in my actions, but I just can't feel accomplished. I feel nothing for even the greatest contributions. Does that mean I'm selfless?"
"I think, perhaps, that you realize that happiness has no meaning. It's a sedated state in which nothing is gained, I mean ultimately, nothing is gained. It's just lapse of time with a smile. Some great mind, I dunno the fuck, said something along the lines of 'you only learn from tragedy' and 'comedy is birthed from tragedy so that one doesn't have to suffer the sting of harsh reality'. I think you're a goddamn pessimist if you ask me. Honestly.
Bernard sipped his coffee in contemplation. His thought became lost in another. He thought about how a lot of stories and film vignettes start with a conversation inside of a coffee shop. He wondered if the nature of film reflected moments of actual reality or if film was just an exaggerated, dramatic representation of reality in which the world models itself after. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Either way, Bernard lost interest in coffee talk by the numbers.
"Then what would compel me to act in such benevolence, with such effort...I dunno, man. This isn't going anywhere." Bernard placed his head on the table.
"Where do you want it to go?"
"I don't want anything."
"You're a fucking liar."
Outside and across the street, a young woman stepped aside from behind a film camera mounted on a tripod. She stared into the coffee shop, studying the patrons inside. Two men, a stocky man with a plaid lid and a lanky, quiet kid with his arms folded in reluctance; approached her.
"This is just perfect. We got it guys! What do you guys think?"
"You're an artist, Catherine. What can I say?" replied the stocky man, putting away the camera equipment. A few more compliments were shot over from the stockpile of equipment by the crew van. Catherine smiled smugly.
The lanky kid spoke up in a deep voice that didn't suit his frame. "Depends..."
"On what?" replied the female director, taking offense.
"Oh, nothing. It's good. Don't worry about it."
"No, really, do you not like it? I want you to be objective with me."
"...What's objective?" muttered the lanky kid under his breath.
"Charlie, can you be serious for a second."
"I think if I told you what I really think, it will have weight on our friendship. You're satisfied with it and that's what matters, ultimately."
"What matters is the truth."
"You don't really think that."
"Prove it then."
Charlie walked away towards the camera. "Do you consider yourself an artist?"
"Sure. I make films. I write my films. I've made quite a few."
"Do you really consider yourself an artist? A good one?"
"What's good is up to the public and the audience. An artist is one who creates. By definition, I am an artist. By opinion, people like my films."
"I think your films are shit."
The sound of clinking glasses and coffee shop chatter echoed into the evening sky. Everything else was silent for a moment.
"You're an asshole."
"No, I'm being truthful."
"Then why would you say that? I've put a lot of effort into this project. I've put a lot of effort in all of my films. You've been part of the creative effort since day one. If you don't like my films, then why do you work on them?"
"Because you're my friend, Cat and friends help each other. But your films are shit. They're petty stories that offer weak thematics and motifs derivative of the films and TV shows you've been programmed by. Real artists, great artists expose our sensibilities towards the truthful or natural. You do not. Nothing separates what you do from these Hollywood cash machines except that you have no money and your films make no money. All your films do is further lie about the world, just like theirs. No wonder we live in a manufactured world of conventionalism, formulas, and lies. All of us are progressing towards being easier to define. Everyone lies to you, even yourself. Do you really think this shot is good? What grounds do you think this shot is good? How does your crew know the shot is good? They haven't even looked into the fucking camera! Are you or your crew educated in art? Does your crew know any principles of art or art movements in history? Do you really understand the principles of the form and content of the things you capture in your camera? Do you really think these guys in the fucking coffee shop are having a profound conversation about life and philosophy, just like you see in the fucking movies?
"Anything is art, Charlie. It is up to the individual to judge the quality of things. If one person says it's shit. Fine. If one person says it's a work of art, that is valid as well. Everything is art and anything can stimulate the senses towards wisdom. You're pretentiousness is ugly, Charlie."
"I know. I'm really sorry Cat. As your friend, I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't want it to get to this. But now we know the truth of each other. It hurts a little, doesn't it? It's always a little disillusioning."
"Is it always?"
"I don't know, but people in this world don't like to admit they're wrong or are ignorant. Those who do, know thyself or um, they know themselves and their flaws and limitations. They know that most of the world sees trees and not the forest for them. It's a silly metaphor, but I want to make forests."
"HEY!"
Charlie and Cat both turn their heads toward the entrance of the coffee shop. The two patrons approach the crew, aggravated.
"You do not have our consent to film us. Please do not depict me in your final film, or there will be repercussions." exclaimed Bernard. "Have a nice evening, bitches."
Cat and Charlie watched the two men walk down the street hoopin' and a-hollerin' like a couple of lowlife ruffians.
"That's life", said Charlie to Cat.
"Charlie, please don't talk to me. Not tonight." replied Cat. She helped the stocky man with the plaid lid carry equipment back to the truck. Charlie couldn't help but notice the look of emptiness and revelation, of both turmoil and determination as she worked silently for the rest of the night.
THE END.
"I think, perhaps, that you realize that happiness has no meaning. It's a sedated state in which nothing is gained, I mean ultimately, nothing is gained. It's just lapse of time with a smile. Some great mind, I dunno the fuck, said something along the lines of 'you only learn from tragedy' and 'comedy is birthed from tragedy so that one doesn't have to suffer the sting of harsh reality'. I think you're a goddamn pessimist if you ask me. Honestly.
Bernard sipped his coffee in contemplation. His thought became lost in another. He thought about how a lot of stories and film vignettes start with a conversation inside of a coffee shop. He wondered if the nature of film reflected moments of actual reality or if film was just an exaggerated, dramatic representation of reality in which the world models itself after. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Either way, Bernard lost interest in coffee talk by the numbers.
"Then what would compel me to act in such benevolence, with such effort...I dunno, man. This isn't going anywhere." Bernard placed his head on the table.
"Where do you want it to go?"
"I don't want anything."
"You're a fucking liar."
Outside and across the street, a young woman stepped aside from behind a film camera mounted on a tripod. She stared into the coffee shop, studying the patrons inside. Two men, a stocky man with a plaid lid and a lanky, quiet kid with his arms folded in reluctance; approached her.
"This is just perfect. We got it guys! What do you guys think?"
"You're an artist, Catherine. What can I say?" replied the stocky man, putting away the camera equipment. A few more compliments were shot over from the stockpile of equipment by the crew van. Catherine smiled smugly.
The lanky kid spoke up in a deep voice that didn't suit his frame. "Depends..."
"On what?" replied the female director, taking offense.
"Oh, nothing. It's good. Don't worry about it."
"No, really, do you not like it? I want you to be objective with me."
"...What's objective?" muttered the lanky kid under his breath.
"Charlie, can you be serious for a second."
"I think if I told you what I really think, it will have weight on our friendship. You're satisfied with it and that's what matters, ultimately."
"What matters is the truth."
"You don't really think that."
"Prove it then."
Charlie walked away towards the camera. "Do you consider yourself an artist?"
"Sure. I make films. I write my films. I've made quite a few."
"Do you really consider yourself an artist? A good one?"
"What's good is up to the public and the audience. An artist is one who creates. By definition, I am an artist. By opinion, people like my films."
"I think your films are shit."
The sound of clinking glasses and coffee shop chatter echoed into the evening sky. Everything else was silent for a moment.
"You're an asshole."
"No, I'm being truthful."
"Then why would you say that? I've put a lot of effort into this project. I've put a lot of effort in all of my films. You've been part of the creative effort since day one. If you don't like my films, then why do you work on them?"
"Because you're my friend, Cat and friends help each other. But your films are shit. They're petty stories that offer weak thematics and motifs derivative of the films and TV shows you've been programmed by. Real artists, great artists expose our sensibilities towards the truthful or natural. You do not. Nothing separates what you do from these Hollywood cash machines except that you have no money and your films make no money. All your films do is further lie about the world, just like theirs. No wonder we live in a manufactured world of conventionalism, formulas, and lies. All of us are progressing towards being easier to define. Everyone lies to you, even yourself. Do you really think this shot is good? What grounds do you think this shot is good? How does your crew know the shot is good? They haven't even looked into the fucking camera! Are you or your crew educated in art? Does your crew know any principles of art or art movements in history? Do you really understand the principles of the form and content of the things you capture in your camera? Do you really think these guys in the fucking coffee shop are having a profound conversation about life and philosophy, just like you see in the fucking movies?
"Anything is art, Charlie. It is up to the individual to judge the quality of things. If one person says it's shit. Fine. If one person says it's a work of art, that is valid as well. Everything is art and anything can stimulate the senses towards wisdom. You're pretentiousness is ugly, Charlie."
"I know. I'm really sorry Cat. As your friend, I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't want it to get to this. But now we know the truth of each other. It hurts a little, doesn't it? It's always a little disillusioning."
"Is it always?"
"I don't know, but people in this world don't like to admit they're wrong or are ignorant. Those who do, know thyself or um, they know themselves and their flaws and limitations. They know that most of the world sees trees and not the forest for them. It's a silly metaphor, but I want to make forests."
"HEY!"
Charlie and Cat both turn their heads toward the entrance of the coffee shop. The two patrons approach the crew, aggravated.
"You do not have our consent to film us. Please do not depict me in your final film, or there will be repercussions." exclaimed Bernard. "Have a nice evening, bitches."
Cat and Charlie watched the two men walk down the street hoopin' and a-hollerin' like a couple of lowlife ruffians.
"That's life", said Charlie to Cat.
"Charlie, please don't talk to me. Not tonight." replied Cat. She helped the stocky man with the plaid lid carry equipment back to the truck. Charlie couldn't help but notice the look of emptiness and revelation, of both turmoil and determination as she worked silently for the rest of the night.
THE END.