Monday, January 6, 2014

Scrap paper

Go animate or play dough.

Dolls or cars, tell the story.

A love story that seems ill fated and it ends up that everyone, is forced to course correct. They ought to end up happily with the wrong person. And it seems to foreshadow a pairing time and time again and the audience expects that a certain two will end up together because they seem like they cannot. And they don't (like Matthew and Mary in Downton Abbey). Eventually, we learn...

Somehow work in a situation where it seems,like the heroine is a fool because she is oblivious to the fact that the miracles are actually being performed by a hero who secretly is in love with her, sometimes. But, actually, he is just the wizard behind the curtain who's strings are being pulled by the same unknown utility that she believes is responsible for things in the first place. It is the same idea as the way lucifer is hoping to deceive Eve. And thinks that he won, when all along it was intended. Or the abrigement of the plates that Martin Harris lost. People try to frustrate and it has all been accounted for so although as far as can be comprehended by the thwarted, they have succeeded in winning a war when it was only a battle.

But, away from the bigger thematic ideas, the plot still requires  much work, which will turn out best if left to stew in my brain for a long time, sorta like a slow cooker. As each sub plot presents itself, I will jot it down until I can work them all into one over arching plot and call it a novel, uh, maybe a serial novel, like all of the episodic scripts and soap operas I wrote in high school and college.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Waiting

I sit in the closed room in the middle of spring but do not feel shut out because the painted murals inspire that same otherwise dormant emotion when a brick crashes through the stained glass that gilded my prison with it's verigated, now shattered glass, I see a heap of sparkle that was a bird in flight, no longer able to imagine the world as it might be reality floods my senses shouting "mourn not, for this bird never flew, never knew of the bright sun or rain."
But, I will not forgive the hand that tossed the brick as I weep over hope now lost. Sunshine breaks through the now broken art revealing a world of science and swirling gases it is called the sun a voice informs me as I wonder at what is, not sure how this all effects me. And who is the father? for all things beget and all must have somehow been conceived. No. Sun, not son, and no one quite knows how it came to be.  And the only pushy force now is my own curiosity. Trying to make it's way to my lips to ask...