(press play button above for my short film: parapraxis)
Try the Truth
We’ve all had contact with death, or with typewriter bullets resounding. We’ve seen zucchettos falling off heads—miters beatified without popes beneath them—and then sought the refuge of the FBI.
Once walking among the cedar groves in a thick opium haze emanating from the burning river—resolving within the deep shadows— the slightest movement. It was something in the gap between writing and painting. It was then I remembered I was in a film, and through a series of chance encounters, rolling mustard seeds between my forefinger and thumb.
“Let’s try the truth,” she said. The shadows cast by clouds raced by us.
I said, “we are here to go, so think about it.” I picked up a dead hare by the rear legs and offered it to her. “So what do you think about that?”
She rolled her sunglasses up on her head, keeping the hair off of her face. “I think you should reconsider what you consider to be an appropriate gift. The only riveting thing about you are the rivets in your underhanded glances.”
“I don’t see any point in your pointing out my deficiencies,” I said.
The sparrows twittered and flitted about the cedars. A lawn mower roared to life down the grove to our left. It caught her attention and she turned to face it. I swung the rabbit hard at her head and as she turned back to me I caught her solid on her nose.
She reeled back and fell slowly backward, time expanding and the sounds grinding to a halt.
“Fuck,” she eventually said. She looked forlorn, a sadness taking hold of her. From down on her muddy ass there, she said, “the only way I can imagine you happy is if you’re working and creating in the midst of the desert. Go fetch me my glasses, bitch.”
“If you call me bitch again,” I said, “I’m going to caulk your pie hole.”
“My pie hole,” she said, getting on to her knees. “Who talks like that? Pie hole?”
“I do, cuntzilla. Pink tart-a-go-go,” I said. I walked over to her sunglasses and stepped on them full force with the heel of my my hobnail boot. The glass shattered. I ground it into the muddy bank.
“Fucker! You fucker,” she said. “I’m going to make you listen to the entire Up With People discography when we get back home.”
She pulled a gun out of her purse, and tossed the purse aside and … (oh, you should’ve seen what I saw!)
“My god, you fool,” I said, troubled and hot under my wig. “I give up,” I said. I held my hands high. “You win. You’re the better woman.”
“I thought as much,” she said. She came toward me and held out her arms as if to embrace me. “Tell me you love me.”
“You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.”
— Paul Theroux