carol's "other" screenplay

I think this has some potential.

watch words...they're everywhere

"Don't ever mention that you see me."

She said this as she leaned through the corvette passenger window.

"Drugs," i thought to myself. They terrorize your beauty and make you talk too loud.

It was warm and sunny so I had ventured out just a bit, hell, now that i reflect on it, I was running from my dream, again. In this dream I was with a recent past lover and things weren't working, before I knew it I was trying to climb a stone wall. I might have started flying. That part of my dream gets a little foggy.

I drove my wonderful one of a kind volvo (not really) out on the back roads today. I opened the sun roof and turned the music up, trying my best to shake the dream off, to lose it. But one part of my dream kept rising up through the sunshine. Me and this recent past lover are in a house and when i walk down the hallway things start to tremble. The door frames buckle, the ground moves like lava. I try to reach the last door, but deep inside i know better than to try and open it. There ain't nothing but some kind of bad behind that door. Where i once felt compelled to open that door in my dream, I realize i don't have it in me to turn the knob. I wake up.

I know, I know, i get what the dream means -it's over, he's not good for me, but that's not the thing right now, it was the impression it left on me, like opening a card that you can't read or hearing a woman say don't ever mention that you see me.

Needing something, bored, and running out of time I tried buying a lipstick. I tried on one called Heather Buff. The saleswoman approached me and asked, "looking for something natural?"

That left quite an impression.

Hi Carol

Hi Carol,
How are you? I watched Gangs of New York last night. It's good.

Tonight I am probably going over a friend's house for a movie. Gonna hang out.

Greg

full steam no sleep

barely any sleep last night. around two thirty I clobbered at the light switches, angry and frustrated. A wicked man showed up in my dream, trying to keep me down, locked up. I put off making my crafts because it was sunny outside, and boy did i pay for it. Procrastination is horrible. A wicked man in fact.

Keeping My Cool

Miles Davis kept his cool. He played at clubs that wouldn't even let him in through the front door, having to enter through the kitchen.

Today, I kept my damn cool. Thought of Miles a few times. My job today was boiling hot with controversy, drama, and cocked-eye looks, but I kept it on the mellow side of things instead of boppin' hard. Cooool.

A fellow teacher patted me on the back. Literally. It felt good, rewarding, and I felt all of the stress go away. That's what Miles would do with his band: walk up to them, place his hand on their shoulder, and would nod, soaking in the individual sound, charisma, and pain of his fellow artist. A pat of approval.

It feels good. Try it on someone. They will know you're listening. Like Miles.

Let's Talk About Drugs and Family Problems

About a week ago, that's exactly what I heard from one of my students. I gave them a break on that Friday, a break from reminding them of how important it will be for them to finish high school, a break from the merits of hard work, a break from me not giving them a break.

The eight young men sat in their chairs waiting for my reaction to the request, that we talk about drugs, gangs, and how fucked up their lives seem to be.

I write seem in the immediate sense. Seem to be. It can be fucked up, they've seen fucked up things, but the minute I say "No" to the request their lives will be fucked up because no one will care. It will be so.

All eyes were on me. Some had a look of "I know he won't"
Others were just waiting for me to say, "Yes"

I did not have to relent, I did not have to make a big decision: weighing the possibilities "if I do" versus "if I don't"

We had a great 60 minutes together. We listened to each others stories. Each of them, when I pass them in the corridors of campus, nod to me, look at me as if I'm there. A real person, like them.

Greg

too cozy to move

a long time ago I watched my older sister mop the floor. I stopped by her work because i had cried that morning about the man i loved leaving town on a bus. I had cried in the backyard, in the sunshine, in the cold. In a dimly lit aquatic center I listened to my sister talk about all the things she wanted and had to do, go on vacation, take her daughter to ballet class, find a better job, and make dinner. I sat in the dark watching her and a feeling overcame me, that everything was where it was supposed to be. Once a female clerk at JCPenney's, let's call her Vicky, she was so completely sincere and kind to me that while standing there in her presence, I became light headed and a calmness filled me. I didn't want to move; I just wanted to soak up this completely authentic exchange. I write tonight from the cozy lobby of the locally owned theatre that my friend J manages. There is a fireplace. There is classical music. And there is the feeling that I am exactly where I should be. 

When you get a haircut, the hairdresser will say to you, "put your head back."

You relax, you may even get a little sleepy as they massage your scalp.

I like that part.