A Tired Young Man and a Writing Sample
Editing and re-working my book. I wasted a bunch of time saying "the story is done" without actually making absolutely sure it was. There are a few bits here where I need to tidy up and make things connect better. He is the chunk I was working on last. It's not the most exciting part but it introduces a favorite character of mine:
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In group I learned intimate and terrible things about complete strangers. I was told things in minutes that would have taken a decade of loyal friendship otherwise. That shouldn’t suggest that I was friends with these people. There was no kinship or camaraderie and I often found myself disliking them all intensely. As far as I was concerned, the only thing I shared with any of them was that room that looked like a kitchen but, apparently, was not. I still can’t get over that because it even smelled like food, usually microwave hotdogs. Several of the building’s employees swore to me that the room was not used for any food preparation or consumption and one even admitted to the smell but claimed it must have had something to do with the building’s ventilation.
I hated that room. Every second that I spent incorporated some schmuck droning on about all of the horrible things that they had done and how badly it made them feel while I couldn’t stop thinking about frankfurters, how they were made and what that made me feel. The only person I could even tolerate was this short-stack of a man, named Arnold. He was pudgy and short and completely physically uninteresting, but not necessarily homely. In fact, he really wasn’t enough of anything to validate much of a description. He just sort of blended in with everything and you forgot he was there until he said something. When he spoke, he said exactly what was on his mind and without filters too. This is why I liked Arnold and that is how we became friends.
Once during group, a bank manager named Jonathan wept as he admitted to having received sexual gratification by watching his teenage daughter use the bathroom when Arnold’s squeaky voice butted in with, “Jesus, it smells like hotdogs in here.”
“Arnold, please wait your turn.” Dr. Menne suggested.
“Sorry, but does anyone else notice that?”
I had, for the previous three days, been incapable of noticing anything but the smell and was relieved that I was not the only one. I began to laugh because the odor had become a prevailing enough factor to derail the entire group session. The current speaker was outraged and we all went home early that day. I decided to speak to Arnold that night. My opening line was, “It really does smell like hotdogs, doesn’t it?”
It was enough to get Arnold begin a dialogue and, over the course of the next two groups, we spoke for roughly thirty to forty minutes after the chairs had been taken out of the circle formation. I found out that he was thirty-three and had a son that he didn’t see very much. He was currently out of work, but he lived comfortably on unemployment and owned a small house in a less than desirable part of town. He loved old electronics and had a serious drinking problem which was exacerbated by the substantial amount of free time he now had. Our third conversation was held in this dive near the airport that Arnold claimed to have frequented.
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Thought of the moment? I am tired of being done with things, I want to start something or improve something.
Matt Ferrett and I have put the initial work down for the publication... er, independant comic/zine thing. I think it could be really good but I do not want to lose focus on film. I am drying to finish shooting my short but I'm not going to be able to hold onto this equipment forever. I have already had it longer than I was supposed to. I need to get off my ass and force everyone else to get off theirs. I don't like seeing the things I want getting further from my fingertips and that has happened a few times in the last few days. I, and everyone else, needs to stand up and make what they want happen rather than complain about things being complicated or difficult. The the bottom line is, no matter what the excuse, you still aren't getting what you want and neither am I.
*comics not mine. Check out: toothpastefordinner.com
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In group I learned intimate and terrible things about complete strangers. I was told things in minutes that would have taken a decade of loyal friendship otherwise. That shouldn’t suggest that I was friends with these people. There was no kinship or camaraderie and I often found myself disliking them all intensely. As far as I was concerned, the only thing I shared with any of them was that room that looked like a kitchen but, apparently, was not. I still can’t get over that because it even smelled like food, usually microwave hotdogs. Several of the building’s employees swore to me that the room was not used for any food preparation or consumption and one even admitted to the smell but claimed it must have had something to do with the building’s ventilation.
I hated that room. Every second that I spent incorporated some schmuck droning on about all of the horrible things that they had done and how badly it made them feel while I couldn’t stop thinking about frankfurters, how they were made and what that made me feel. The only person I could even tolerate was this short-stack of a man, named Arnold. He was pudgy and short and completely physically uninteresting, but not necessarily homely. In fact, he really wasn’t enough of anything to validate much of a description. He just sort of blended in with everything and you forgot he was there until he said something. When he spoke, he said exactly what was on his mind and without filters too. This is why I liked Arnold and that is how we became friends.
Once during group, a bank manager named Jonathan wept as he admitted to having received sexual gratification by watching his teenage daughter use the bathroom when Arnold’s squeaky voice butted in with, “Jesus, it smells like hotdogs in here.”
“Arnold, please wait your turn.” Dr. Menne suggested.
“Sorry, but does anyone else notice that?”
I had, for the previous three days, been incapable of noticing anything but the smell and was relieved that I was not the only one. I began to laugh because the odor had become a prevailing enough factor to derail the entire group session. The current speaker was outraged and we all went home early that day. I decided to speak to Arnold that night. My opening line was, “It really does smell like hotdogs, doesn’t it?”
It was enough to get Arnold begin a dialogue and, over the course of the next two groups, we spoke for roughly thirty to forty minutes after the chairs had been taken out of the circle formation. I found out that he was thirty-three and had a son that he didn’t see very much. He was currently out of work, but he lived comfortably on unemployment and owned a small house in a less than desirable part of town. He loved old electronics and had a serious drinking problem which was exacerbated by the substantial amount of free time he now had. Our third conversation was held in this dive near the airport that Arnold claimed to have frequented.
_________________________________________________
Thought of the moment? I am tired of being done with things, I want to start something or improve something.
Matt Ferrett and I have put the initial work down for the publication... er, independant comic/zine thing. I think it could be really good but I do not want to lose focus on film. I am drying to finish shooting my short but I'm not going to be able to hold onto this equipment forever. I have already had it longer than I was supposed to. I need to get off my ass and force everyone else to get off theirs. I don't like seeing the things I want getting further from my fingertips and that has happened a few times in the last few days. I, and everyone else, needs to stand up and make what they want happen rather than complain about things being complicated or difficult. The the bottom line is, no matter what the excuse, you still aren't getting what you want and neither am I.
*comics not mine. Check out: toothpastefordinner.com