Developing a few characters for stories. The short story class I’ve been going to is not very good. So I decided to write in a way that works for me. The story will emerge soon.
Man on the roof
I am the man on the roof. You saw me today. I was cleaning the shards from a previous construction. Glad it wrapped up. I painted the rooftop white. It looks much cleaner now. I walk around in this balmy air. Nothing is too cold. I’m thinking about grilling again. I crumpled some boxes because they were in the way. Also these boxes were the beer containers from a year ago.
Fourth cup of the day, the novelist
The toxic smell of coffee kicks in again. I hate it. I loved it two hours ago, but no longer. There is one point where your brain tells you, fuck this I’ve been lying. I think my brain just got really honest with me. My elbow is emitting a kind of pain from childhood. It is old, like a friend, with a friendship turned sour. Like that one day when she let go of my affectionate arm and said we were no longer friends. This is a pain with puzzlement and a toned-down bitterness. It is brief, sharp and directional.
The conscious actress
I am an actress in this show you might have heard of. I usually perform with a rotating cast. Sometimes I don’t know who I’ll be collaborating with until I meet them on stage. Well then, I think, just a test of improvisation. In the show there is a male who I love. Once I tasted chaos in his mouth. I was drunk, he was drunk. I hate to be slurring my words when I act. But it happened. So I said, okay, let’s just go with this. Chaos, not necessarily a bad thing. I was wrong. An actress must be able to feel, to empathize, but she also needs to hold her own place, know who she is when she is off stage. The duality of life seemed unfortunate when I was younger. But I got over it and started to enjoy every moment. An actress experiences the most intimate emotions of other human beings. So when his tongue touched mine I responded with equal force. Not passion. When I act I throw myself into the character. I am a container, shaping the words into a certain form, with gestures and movements and voice. When I am done I still feel the inertia of being that character - the words imprinted themselves onto my skin, however temporary they are.
Then, a piece of my own thought after reading Dear Architects, I am sick of your shit, a post forwarded to me by a friend who liked the way she vented. I knew it was funny but I was sad.
One spanish high official once said ‘Who build this ugly thing? The architects should be killed.’ She was commenting on a plaza that might appear a little modernist to an untrained eye. Of course that insulted many architects and the official ended up with a political apology that was more regretful than sincere. Now, I feel sorry. I feel sorry about what are perceived as phallic objects on the landscape. I don’t think there is any specific, evil or trite agenda behind them, but somehow those who are conditioned to think that is architecture are offended. I don’t know who is the victim and who is the perpetrator here. Money is driving development which unfortunately manifests itself in buildings and infrastructures. And those blind people fall for that, calling themselves architects.