aedmark.com

A shot from the upcoming film I’m DPing for, “The Note.”

ROBERT
How is old Evelyn these days? How
are you two?

DANNY
We aren’t speaking again.

ROBERT
Again?

DANNY
Yea
(beat)
Nothing happened this time. She…
She just said she needed space,
more or less.

ROBERT
No court orders, then?

DANNY
Hah, no. I guess she’s got a pretty
serious boyfriend now.

ROBERT
I saw her with some guy a while
ago. Was that him?

DANNY
I guess so. He’s a comedian, I
think. That funny, nerdy type. The
type she would rather have had me
been, I’m assuming.

ROBERT
Hmm. Maybe he’s the one who wanted
you shoved aside then? I guess she
could go either way, really.

DANNY
I have a sneaking suspicion he had
some say. Because I thought we were
fine. I thought we had reached a
balance. I didn’t want to fuck her
anymore, and she seemed okay with
that.

ROBERT
Ah well… You’ll live.

DANNY
Yea. Yea. I know. But there’s a lot
invested in the both of us…
Sadly, the moment I stopped wanting
to be with her, she just wanted to
go her own way.
(beat)
There’s a part of me that hopes at
some point down the road we can be
as close as we were before… But
if we don’t, then… Well I guess
that’s how it goes sometimes.
Whatever. I guess we’re both
becoming happier people, from the
looks of it. And if that meant
taking me out of the picture then
thank fucking Christ.
(beat)
Do you believe in soul mates,
Robert?

ROBERT
Fuck if I know.

DANNY
Well I do. I really do. But not
that star-crossed lovers bullshit.
It’s just… Every soul in this
world is meant somehow to be
associated with another. And not
just one, either. Multiple. 2. 5.
10. 100. It doesn’t matter. But
there are pairings for all of us,
and it’s only a matter of time in
finding them.

ROBERT
Makes sense.

DANNY
You think so? I guess I always
thought Evelyn was one of those.
And I think most people often
confuse that link with romance. And
I think I went the wrong way with
this one. With Evelyn. Not that I
regret it, because I am where I am
now and I wouldn’t have it any
other way… But… But I feel like
there’s a piece of me that went
missing with her. And I’ll always
want it back. I gave it to her. It
was a gift. But all the same… I
miss it. I miss her. And as time
goes on, that want will subside…
But it’s not like I can just
forget. I can’t.

ROBERT
Hmm.

DANNY
I just hope she’s okay.

Self portrait I took while on a random road trip through illinois with the pops.

Poem I

Ahem. I’m going to take this time now to write you a poem.

In three parts:

Part One:

The dust settled in the old, wild west.
The Gunslinger knew that he had done his best.
The shots had been fired,
The wounds had been made,
So he rested his head
Under a tree
Under the shade.
He whistled a sweet song
Under the tree
Under the shade.

Part Two:

The old woman whispered under the veil of darkness,
“Hush, sweet child, the battle has been won.”
The Gunslinger lulled in his sleepy stupor,
And whispered in return,
“I know.”

Part Three:

The sun rose on the old, wild west.
The Gunslinger rose from his weary rest.
The townspeople, they watched as he rode.
They spoke to each other, in hushed whispers and tones,
“The Gunslinger, He puts on a great show.
He knows how to kick, and he knows how to blow.”
Kick…. Blow.
Kick… Blow.
Kick.. Blow.
Kick. Blow.
Kick Blow.

Poem II

There once was a man named Joe
He liked to eat yellow snow
Until one day
He ate some hay
And yelled out in bliss, “KICK BLOW!”

Poem III

This poem is titled, “You’re Awesome:”

Money you may not have.
Nor smarts
Or good looks.
But you’re special to me.
You’re special to me.

You’re awesome.
You’re great.
You’re the ace,
Shootin’ straight.

You’re Emilie,
Conqueror of worlds.
You leave nothing in your wake,
except love and joy and peace.

This poem doesn’t rhyme.
It has no rhythm.
I’m writing it because I’m bored.
And I know you like them.

So take this with a grain of salt.
I’m probably just drunk or high or really tired.
But it’s a poem, anyway.
It probably means something to someone.
I hope you enjoy it.
I hope you enjoy it.

…Kick Blow.

Have you ever found an old piece of clothing you haven’t worn in a while? Did you ever put it on? Did it have a certain scent to it? Not just any scent, though… It had to have smelled like something non-specific, nothing you could ever fully grasp… Just a scent. An aroma (or perhaps an odor) that took you someplace else, to another time. Like maybe the time you last wore that piece of clothing?

I’ve always found it fascinating how certain smells can instantly trigger memories of an entire span of my life; bits of nostalgia from points in my life I’m not even sure ever happened. Sometimes I’ll be outside and I’ll smell a kind of humid, perhaps even slightly putrid smell. Like fish. And then I go somewhere in my head that I’m so sure I’ve seen before, but I can’t grasp a single, solid memory to actually place me there. Or sometimes I’ll smell the air in fall and I get taken back to running around the neighborhood, in backyards and on the street, jumping head-first into piles of leaves and carving pumpkins and playing imaginary games of action hero

A certain memory is troubling me now… I put on an old sweater today. Last time I wore it was just after Christmas…

That’s all I really want to say about that.

(Written sometime in Fall of 2008)

“What do you think it’s like up in heaven, dad?”

“I imagine it’s pretty boring, kiddo.”

“What makes you say that?” Frankie looked up to me from his doodle pad. It had a little doddle of some clouds over an ant-hill.

“Oh, well, you know. A place like that, where all the good folks go and live in their perfect, white houses with streets of gold and lakes made of crystal waters… Don’t seem to me to be much of a place things are meant to happen in. Good people don’t fight ’bout nothin’. And what they go to fight for, anyway? They’re in heaven. What more could they want? I bet their roofs are made of glass, too.”

“You think so?” He flittered his pen across the pad without looking.

“Well Frankie, I’d say I know so but that wouldn’t make any difference to you, would it? Just what I think, is all. Ain’t nothin’ to be certain about with a thing like heaven, I suppose.”

We were in the car, driving somwhere I don’t quite recall driving to. Guess it’s no difference. I gripped the steering wheel, driving toward the sun. Frankie tore out the doodle from the pad and crumpled it up before tossing it behind him in the back seat. “Well hey there, son, what’s wrong? That was a pretty good doodle you had goin’ there.”

“Just a doodle, dad. ‘Sokay,” he put the pad away and propped his elbow up on the window to watch the rows of crops whiz by his eyes.

“You all right?”

“Yea, just thinkin’.”

“What you thinking about? Looks like you’re doin’ some mighty heavy thinkin’ for your age,” he was nine at the time.

“Nothing, I guess. Nothin’ worth talking about, anyway.”

I looked over to him to see if he was frowning. He wasn’t.

“You sure? You know I like talking with you, right?”

“Yea, I know. Just thinkin’, is all. I’m okay.”

I went back to watching the road.

Just thinkin’, is all.

(Written in January 2008)