friday flashing lights music red velvet wallpaper and red carpet and comfy red armchairs and talking and talking and Clayton. moments. moments of wondering moments of ‘was that?’ ‘did he..?’ and moments of ‘yea….’.
saturday waiting and then filming and running and crash tackle and roll and kiss and “do it again, you went out of shot in the roll” over and over and over again. back home learn the lines and sit here move in a bit run through it shoot different angle different angle different angle. relax. costume change. bathroom putting on make up for scene 5 and Clayton comes in. we don’t know what it is, but it is, and neither of us ‘can’ work out what it is just yet, but that’s ok, we’ll run with it until we find out what it is and if it is what we want then that’s cool you know but if its not, then that’s ok too. then the IMA re-opening and free beer and Paul finding his way through a different world watching faces facades and ‘so who do you know here’ and i rattle off the list inconspicuously pointing out people and just this once actually saying what i think of them content and confident that i know that Paul would never tell any of them what i said ’cause he has no intention of talking to them at all, much less any intention to fuck up my life.
sunday trashy and tired and not wanting to be ‘here’ but knowing it has to be done. bedroom improvisation of breaking up and turning psychotic and realizing that her reaction is completely opposite to my own natural reaction to such a situation but having to find a catalyst to induce anger and then turn that back towards myself. casual conversation, “i don’t want to be with you any more”, “why what have i done?” “i don’t even want to explain it”. and as he gets up to walk away, i get up, grab a bottle, smash it on the edge of the bedside table “well what do you want?” and turn the bottle towards myself, he grabs my arm, hit the bottle from my hand, “this is exactly why.” and lets go. i turn, jump on the bed, try to climb out the window, he grabs me by the hips, hauls me back inside, throws me on the bed and pins me down, trying to stop me from hurting myself any more, and i struggle, trying to get free “just let me go, let me go.. let me go…” and cut, and do it again, different angle different angle different angle different angle.
relax. plan to start filming again at 6pm. Paul goes to lie down on the couch and can’t stop coughing. an hour later i’m so worried about him that we take him down to the hospital. asthma attack and a throat infection, an infection that i probably have as well. 3 hours later, bring Paul home, all so exhausted that we can barely move. count the bruises (5) and broken glass scratches (10) and that’s just me.
re-schedule the last three scenes for (whenever) Paul feels better. hopefully thursday.
sleep. sort of sleep. the kind of sleep that doesn’t let you feel rested. monday and back to the stage show. unsuccessful attempt to look like i want to be there. lots of moments of telling people about the weekend and mock-bitching with Paul and ending up at Ann’s place for a few drinks and scripting discussions and d at the last moment brings back a moment i thought was dealt with, left for dead, never to be recovered, but he did it in such a way that i could really only laugh internally thinking “jeez….” while trying to look serious and saying “yea, sure.. if that’s what you want.”
and home. and tired, with tea and chocolate and about to go to bed to see if i can get some real sleep.