Fiction and Movie Break

There are only a couple movies that I want to see right now. Smart People is one, and there is another, I forget the name of, but it's by the same director who did In the Mood For Love, which I adored. But since it seems like I have no time for movies -- sob! -- I will just sit here and try to remember to add them to my que, which is already full of John Houston and Tennessee Williams (sometimes at the same time, obviously!), and I am just so behind. I wish I could just take the summer off and watch movies. Since I'll only be taking one class for each of the brief sessions this summer I can get some good viewing in.

Okay, I know the title of this post suggested fiction, so here is a little something that I cooked up for a future novel I would like to write that uses as letter format. I really don't have any original ideas for fiction, but sometimes it's just there and you just have to do it.

The world turned to grey and black and our bodies became the only reminder of what light can do, or did. It's looming again, this threat of aloneness. Where will you be, and will you grieve, again? Is there someone else that has used her magic beans and sprouted new feelings in you; green reminders of emotions and painful thrusts of saplings that sway and flicker with promise?

I suppose I could be satisfied with a memory: it isn't enough. I find I don't want this brain this heart this blood. I don't want it. You have been the stronger man; you have been man enough. You have been smart and calculating and most important -- unfeeling. I don't have the tool, the stick of dynamite that would blow your stubborn stump from the earth of my soul. The roots are so tangled, so enmeshed with all else I claim to be me; so much that I purport to be my essense; it is not. When I am not even I it is because I purchase a voucher in the face of a whisper of the divine. I profess faith and hold ever more tightly to my bludgeoning weapon.

I took sides; I pointed fingers. I went my merry way; I took opportunities, but I forgot the heart -- the tissue -- the cells -- frantically reproducing and sustaining -- remembering for me, rocking away on a porch with knee-grazers gathered soaking up and in the tale, tale, tale of pride and disloyalty, of weakness and abandonment. It was a guilty machinery I allowed myself in place of awareness. Now I just have this dreaming, this beating that furthers the echoes of the past, propels them forward, oscilating in their intense flashback of feeling --

Your words: i love you...i know i say it too much...i'm sorry i can't help it... I know you had to let it go. I know. I forgive you entirely for everything. Even if you were at this moment cutting lines onto a jewel case I would forgive you as you break into a sea of copy-bliss of faux-rapture, and I would feel your skin, the cells that contain the pillars of dashes that make you the only one and I would press into the skull that contains the grey matter where maybe I truly exist, purely, for certainly, here, with me, in the pulsing and sparks, you dwell, untainted, innocent, joyful, hopefull, and free from decay.

Then perhaps it is better, with no deeds and no proof. We could grieve the old us and the current us and just fall into the ideas, to the synapses, to the pounding along with the heart that won't forget -- to just worship the idea of the you I hold out of space -- out of body --

Let me know what you think. (Too chaotic? To post-modern?)