La Havre

Well, I just consulted with my physician friend who has helped me keep my facts straight for my other books. He basically told me the premise for the story I had in mind was impossible, so I need to find a way to play with fiction and reality a bit more to make it happen. That’s fine. Research and finding ways to make it all come together are the way to get the characters nice and round. Like them round.

Perhaps I can structure the whole thing with the skeleton of a french movie. I really like how they are done. I saw La Harve the other night and haven’t been able to get over how it was filmed. Each frame so perfect and each piece of dialogue moved with the settings. There was a sense that nothing was real and everything was real at the same time.

I emailed the director to tell him – his name is Aki Kaurismäki – I told him that watching his movie made me love films again, and he even wrote me back. Well, it was his assistant or someone – but they wrote me and said that they forwarded my email to him to let him know what I said, which made me happy. It’s nice to be happy at things like that. Perhaps somehow that could be in the story – another person answering my calls out the universe for help with this thing, whatever it turns out to be.

So far, I’ve been contacted by my grandfather (in spirit form), the man who was selling his book, the book itself – which arrived the other days and contains very bizar photo of medical examinations and experiments. That was odd, but I was ready for it. At least the book was in English.

Now I have reached out an been contacted by the assistant of the director of the movie that I was moved by. Maybe it’s coming together in another form. The structure of French Cinema – that seems fun to look at. I have always how they made their films – how they weren’t afraid to hold on a shot at the end for that extra second even if drew out the scene – and how they were not afraid to do a quick cut to go on to the next. It’s like how Milan Kundera writes his books – tender when it’s need and out the door when it’s needed as well.

It’s cold now – the radiators are off and the sounds of cars are sporadic at best on the street below. Brooklyn is quiet at 12:20 A.M. on a Friday night or Saturday morning, however you choose to look at the world. It’s cold at my back but the warmth of the blankets below suggest there are other options. French movies – Perhaps they just saw too much in their lifetimes happen on their own soil – they found beauty in the flickers.

Talking about the people of course – not the ones who sit inside of those buildings and exist because of flags. It happens most times like this when trying to get the next book done. I have around 100 typewritten pages from a typewriter that I will probably not use and another 100 on this machine that will serve as notes. I might finally be able to get down something decent, thought my trusted doctor friend blew a hole in my initial idea, but I will go at it from another angle.

One of my readers contacted me and told me a story of her father and closely it had matched some of my ramblings here about the back story of the women who’s father was a furniture maker. It’s interesting because the story that she told me I actually had written down over the summer – that happens for the most part with me – I start writing and it comes true in some odd form. Always in some odd form.

So that’s what I am working with these days and now these nights in this eternal search for a decent fish that I might land.


..What if life was like a French movie, complete with all the sounds that came from the speakers that were not attached to the screen. That’s the kind of thing I was thinking when I walked down Fulton street last night. It was hot – middle of the summer Brooklyn hot when you moved slow and had to spray a decent amount of OFF on you to keep the Misquotes from choosing you. They showed movies on the wall of the outdoor cuban cafe that was across the street from Greenlight Bookstore, where I always enjoy just looking at the covers of books through glass. Something magnificent about that I belief. They were playing La Havre, which I’d seen before but never outside and never so big. The colors were like a Norman Rockwell painting that had come to life and lived a little bit in bad neighborhoods to get some grit. Everyone acted perfectly in the film on the wall – and all of the tragedy was delivered straight up without sentimentality was served straight no chaser.

If life was like a french movie, I would have gotten a call by now. Someone with a lead on some business would have come and got me, but it wasn’t like that in the summer, and certainly not in this climate. I needed a client and bad or I’d have to go back to waiting tables or teaching English or some other gig that paid the rent but left me tired buy unable to sleep at night. I looked out at the carriage house across the street and, if life had been a French Movie, maybe I would have seen something that I shouldn’t have seen and gotten swept up in an adventure or romance or something like that. As it was, there was only the flicker from the TV.

An odd, empty tour bus rolled by, limping like a spotlight from a lighthouse that no longer had ships to guide. Those are usually not out at night but run like clockwork during the day, especially these days in Brooklyn. The secret is out. If it were a French movie, a spirt would try and contact me around this time and let me in on some secret or start guiding me towards something  – perhaps the spirit wouldn’t be in a human form or a ghost form, but only in a thought.

Maybe there is something there. We’ll see.


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