The protagonist is the one from whose perspective we get the story.
Just came back from Maleficent. Eye candy and a layered retelling of Sleeping Beauty.
Someone I knew murdered his wife. He strangled her. It was one of those, “He seemed like such a nice guy” kind of stories. T said it takes a lot of anger to do that. I said, “He is terribly broken to have done something like that.”
This was no excuse; just an acknowledgement that one had to have been some other place and taken a variety of paths to end at this moment; this time; this place.
Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty” begins with Maleficent’s curse. “Maleficent” is about what brought her to that point, and fills what happens in the after. No easy love-at-first-sight; no kiss-from-a-stranger solves all.
There seems to be a trend of reimagining old stories and making them less tidy, more layered…more interesting. Perhaps, despite all the fantasy, more real.
Beatrice, a capuchin, says, “You are insignificant.”
Beatrice says, “No one cares about you.”
Beatrice says, “They expect nothing from you, why bother at all.”
Beatrice is pissing me off. Adder, the lemur, thinks this is just fine. She rejoices in rage. She whispers, “Anger is powerful. Fuck that simpering bitch. Stoke that fire. Let’s get it on.”
I’d rather that they both shut up and let me sleep instead of replaying the days’ minutiae from one point of view and the other in repeating loops of increasing exaggeration until I don’t even know what happened.
tick tick tick
If I go to sleep …n o w…I can still get five hours.
Struggling with the storyboard and the broad strokes of the piece I am working on. Got the ending (I think) and the introductory shot but am uncertain about what I want to say and how I want to make you feel.
I have no doubt of my ability to make pretty pictures, but there should be a there there. No hook as yet. No takeaway. Still cooking.
Manually transferring years of blog posts in an effort to find my monkeys.
I did write daily for four years starting June 03, 2003. Or was it 2004? The timestamp on the entries say one year and the comments say another. I am made aware that the writing is inconsistent. Some of the posts are just stupid. Some are surprisingly good. That’s the whole point of writing every day, isn’t it? By sheer volume, one is bound to make something that nails it.
It’s tempting not to post the subpar bits, but I’ll do it anyhoo. Gah, there’s been a lot of living in a dozen years: an ending of a marriage, a string of lovers, growing children, there was that stroke, there have been losses, and new loves.
I’m reading a story from a point further on. It’d be sweet to be able to tell one’s self that there will be something else beyond the tribulation of that moment. Or maybe it’s good to say hold onto that thing as long as you can.
Sorry I was a disappointment. I loved my dad, but I don’t think we were ever really at ease with one another. Maybe it was just me. I never got the feeling he really approved of where I lived or how things ended with me and Jim. I look at my own kids and it’s easier to be connected with one over another. We are still personalities after all, and some are easier than others. It’s not a matter of love.
Mortality knockin’ hard.
Words: reminiscent, centering, aching
Words: quiet, breathing, rising
Words: content, tired, okay
It was a good day. Peopled out by the end, but it was sunny and lovely…both the day and the people.
This would be the self I recognize – generally chill, imperturbable, at ease. Whew. I now understand temporary insanity and will try to be better at empathizing. In the meantime, happy to be. It means that this person is still there and she’ll be back.