TBT #64: Burn Out

As I gear up once again for National Novel Writing Month I find myself facing a tidal wave of ideas. I am just being attacked again and again by random bits of inspiration that buzz and spin and spiral around my head like cartoon birds. Then there are the bigger ideas — the more fleshed out ideas — and they are like woodland creatures, running about on the ground, taking nibbles at my ankles, making disgustingly cute noises. And then there are some wild and crazy ideas that are like, say, giant birds. Like eagles and hawks! And they are circling around me and sometimes swooping down and trying to pick me up with their talons and feed me to their young. And also let’s say there are ducks which are my stupid ideas. Because ducks, really, are stupid. Ducks are stupid! And I mean that in the most literal sense because I love ducks. I just think they are all unintelligent. Quack Quack Quack and all.

And then there are one or two awesome ideas that are, like, say DINOSAURS. And elephants! And a rhino.

And, sure, go ahead and claim that dinosaurs and elephants and ducks do not live in the same climate or time period. To do so would be to only underline your ignorance for brilliant metaphors. You see, this wonderful woodland setting I have created for you exists to show you just how many ideas I have kicking around my head. I have a lot of them! But the problem is that most of them are bugs and woodland creatures and ducks, only good for brief consideration before being discarded. As such, I need to kick them out of the forest! So that I can focus on the dinosaurs and the elephants and the rhino, whose name is Simon, and thus become a multimedia sensation on the same level as Prince or David Lee Roth.

So that is what I’ll do. While my contemporary and fellow national-novel-writer Pearle is “burning in” with a bunch of stories about me and how great I am, I’m going to do the opposite and burn out by throwing out a bunch of stupid ideas and letting them die. In other words, I am going to set the woodland creatures — and also the ducks and the bugs — free.

It’s the Best Thing for October 26, 2005.

A scenario based on One Line of Dialogue

by Matt Elliott

She’s letting her tears fall onto the page, smearing the long loops of her l’s written in dark blue ink. She thought it would come easier, but she’s only got one page. She sighs and sobs and looks around the dark apartment. She sits by the window; the city lights are just bright enough to let her see what she’s writing.

“6″ she writes, in an exaggerated stroke, taking up three full lines on the paper.

He’ll be back any minute, she thinks, glancing towards the door. And she can’t decide whether she’s happy or sad about that fact. Another tear hits the page and the bottom part of the 6 drifts downward. She holds her head in her hands and tries to remember something good. Something good about him.

But then there’s the sound of a key in the lock and the door’s opening and there he is. His hair’s matted to his forehead and his eyes are red and he doesn’t say anything as their eyes meet. Stop crying, she thinks. You can’t cry. Think about what he did. Think about what he did and be angry. No more crying.

“What are you writing?” he asks, breaking the silence.

She looks away from him and rubs her eyes, and then looks back. “I’m making a list,” she explains. “I’m making a list of everything I like about you. Everything that should make me want to be with you.”

“Oh.” He mouths the word without saying it.

“I have five,” she continues, looking at her paper, the ink nearly illegible. “I’ve been working for so long. Since you left. And I have five things.”

His face falls and he’s looking at the ground. She keeps her eyes on him, on his ragged brown coat that doesn’t fit right over his shoulders, on his scruffy facial hair that never grows on that spot on his chin, right below his mouth, on that hole in his pants that’s tripled in size since she met him all those months ago.

“Can I hear the third one?” he asks, still looking at the floor.

“Why the third one?” she asks, startled by his question.

He looks at her and despite everything about him — the bags under his eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way he looks so broken — she still loses herself in his gaze.

“The first two are probably too obvious,” he explains, speaking flatly, “and the last two you’re probably just reaching. They’re probably not sincere.”

They can see each other so well in the city lights.

“So the third one is truth. It’s the only one that matters,” he concludes, flipping the light switch near the door.

Something About Turtles

By Matt Elliott

I am a turtle, yes, but I can be so much more! Yes I am little and green and I don’t say much, and when I get scared I put my head and my feet and my tails into my shell, but there’s more to me than just that. I sit here in my little tank beside a big coin bank that is made to look like a robot and a stick of deodorant and all anyone ever talks to me about are those things that make me a turtle. I get it, you know, the shell is neat. It’s my home and I carry it with me everywhere. And people like to talk about it because it’s easy and immediately identifiable and kind of pretty and shiny. But I also have thoughts and interests and feelings! I have goals and inspirational thoughts and things to share with the world.

You gave me a name I hate and forgot to feed me for a whole weekend. The water turned murky and brown and I couldn’t see the robot or the deodorant and, you know, as much as I was scared of dying that weekend, it was also the defining moment of my life. Because things changed.

But you came back and gave me food and changed my water. And you and that girl with the short hair and the giant boobs played with me and talked about how if I flipped over on my back — onto my shell — I’d die. All I’d be able to do is withdraw into my shell and wait for death. And you both sort of laughed and talked about how sad that was — the life of a turtle.

But fuck you, man. Yeah, I’m a turtle but I’m also just like you. You just wait. One day you’ll get stuck in your home, unable to move. And you’ll die too.

Bears

A Short Play by Matt Elliott with a little help from his friends

[Int. Professor's Office. A middle-aged man grades papers quietly.]

[A knock at the door.]

Professor: Come in!

[A student enters.]

Prof.: Ah, student. You’re just in time! How is your thesis proposal going?

Student: I have something great for you, professor. This is… — this is great. This will knock your socks off. Clean off.

Prof.: (Scribbling some final remarks on a paper) Excellent, excellent. I am glad to hear that. (Looking up) So what do you have for me?

Stud.: I have one word for you, and one word alone. So I’m just going to say this outright, and you give yourself a minute to think about it, okay? This is big. This is huge. What I have for you today is…. “Bears”.

(beat)

Prof.: That — (interrupted)

Stud.: Shh, shh. Give it a second. Let that sink in. I’ll say it again: “Bears.”

Prof.: I’m not sure I — (interrupted, again)

Stud.: It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I understand. It’s just so…. “Bears”. You know.

(long pause)

Stud.: I’ve prepared this proposal for you. And here’s what I’m going to do — I’m just going to leave this with you. You look it over. (He hands the professor a folder) Take your time. Digest it. Really let it sink in. Maybe call your wife and discuss it. And I’ll come back in an hour or so and we can discuss the finer details.

(The professor looks through the folder)

Stud.: Okay?

Prof.: This — this is just pictures.

Stud.: Yes.

Prof. Pictures of bears.

Stud.: (excited) Yes!

Prof.: These are cut out of magazines. (looking up) And this one is a drawing.

Stud.: (proudly) My friend did that one.

Prof.: It’s a bear with a banjo.

Stud.: Yes it is.

(long pause)

Stud.: He is the conclusion.

(exeunt)

More Advice Column Stuff

By Matt Elliott

Dear Abby,

I was doing one of those magazine quizzes today and they had this one question that was like “What do you find most attractive about the opposite sex?” and it hits me that, shit, I have no god damn idea. I mean, the choices were all like A) Looks B) Personality C) Money or whatever and, yeah, it’s probably mostly geared towards women because this was in Marie Claire but none of those even come close to applying to me. And I’m not saying I’m gay or asexual because the god’s honest truth about me is that I love fucking. I’ve had lots of girls! Lots of girlfriends, too. So that’s not the problem. The problem is that what I really, truly, openly find most attractive about the opposite sex is simply this: I find it attractive when someone finds ME attractive. I get off on people wanting me, needing me, even falling in love with me.

I don’t know about you, Abby, but I find it hard to feel alive these days. I don’t know what it is with the world and my generation. Maybe it was the videogames or the RAP music or the internet porn at 12-years-old but I hardly ever feel alive. I mostly just feel… numb.

The last time I felt alive I was at this pub on the corner. Real quiet pub. I like it sometimes because I can just sort of hang out and drink a beer and read the paper without hearing some girl singing about her humps. But anyway, I’m there and they got this juke box that nobody hardly ever uses. And I had just recently decided that I loved Fleetwood Mac. And more than that, I decided that it was OKAY to love Fleetwood Mac. I had always liked them but never admitted it because I thought it was embarrassing. And I know, that’s ridiculous, but it’s not the point of the letter and I’ve come to terms with that so please save the advice. So I go over to the juke and they’ve got “Go Your Own Way” on the list of songs there — on the front. So I’ve got a quarter in my pocket and it’s like a match made in heaven as I start listening and relaxing and drinking my beer. I even start bopping up in down, you know, in time with the beat. Because it’s such a great song.

But then these three guys come up to me and they’re real jerk-looking guys. I could tell they were jerks before they got near me and started talking. And they were all “This is OUR juke box. No one else is allowed to touch it.” And I don’t have any patience for that sort of thing so I’m all “I don’t see YOUR name on it.” But the guys aren’t even listening. The one guy — the lead guy — gestures to one of his friends and he goes to change the song and I am not having that because it’s not even at the solo yet.

So the guy is reaching with his left hand and I grab his wrist to stop him. And before I know it he’s taking a swing at me with his right. I block that too and punch him square in the nose. He reels back but doesn’t fall so I sent him crashing into the wall with a wicked side kick. The other two guys jump at me at the same time, so I quickly duck and they collide in mid air. The first guy is back on his feet and charges at me but I hip toss him square onto the pool table, sinking all the balls as I do so! “Rack em!” I say, full of pride, as I notice the lead guy has gotten up and he’s brandishing a knife. I quickly hit him with a back roundhouse kick, knocking the knife out of his hand. “I’m a cut above!” I yell, as he stands there in shock. I take a running stride, leap into the air, and hit him with a jumping kick.

All the guys are down and the chorus is blaring on the juke box and I have to tell you, Abby, I felt like a million bucks.

But, still, you know, that’s the only time I ever really felt alive. Nothing is working with women. Is it possible that I just haven’t met the right woman yet?

Thanks Abby,
Confused And Numb in Toronto

Library Complaint

By Matt Elliott

I can’t find love.

Reply: Pending

And all the woodland creatures are free,
Matt