Good Morning Everyone!
Coming to you live coast to coast L.A. to Chicago, western male. I’m a writer, you monsters! I create! I create for a living! I’m a creator! I am a creator! But here’s the catch…I’m not a writer. Nor am I a creator. To you, I am a stream of words, a faceless moniker mixed with color juxtapose others that share the same and similar traits. I am a ghost that appears to have something to say. I am a figment of my imagination, as I have no clue where your imaginations will take me. I am the line that is between black and white and grey. And for that, I am not a creator…I am an entertainer: a clown without the makeup; a musician without an instrument; a movie star without the stardom; a dream nil remembered. So where does that leave me? Alone on a beach with a box and no clue. Alone on a Moped riding with you.
Between white and black, night and day
Black night seemed like the only way…
So I danced
Music late, nothing great
No way 2 differentiate
I took a chance
Gregory looks just like a ghost
And then a beautiful girl the most
Wets her lips 2 say
“We could live 4 a little while
If U could just learn 2 smile
U and I could fly away, fly away.”
Hello, I am Barton Fink and I write for the pictures…I write pictures for and about the common man. Movies should be about the average Joe…people like you…the working stiffs. The problem with writing about the common folk is that the common folk are all too common. We experience common, daily, why do we want to see what we do commonly, constantly? Because we all have stories to tell. We all have something to say.
We are all Charlie Meadows in some regard. (Some of us more than others…hopefully not). We are the big, burly next-door neighbor who seems innocent and buddy-buddy enough on one side but is a head-shooting-off, body-mutilating killer on the second side. (Did he kill Barton’s family?)
Perhaps we are Jack Lipnick: the energetic, egotistical, two-faced movie producer. We are the person when we take an interest in something, that something engulfs our minds, as we inundate it with praise. (Fired in one scene and standing in the back-ground in the next.) But our praise only lasts so long. But because we are interested, we owe that something for ever…it’s on contract.
No…We are all W.P. Mayhew: a writer reminiscent of the golden era of production-a time where we wrote our owe novella; a time where liquor was not lingering on our breath. We all want our honey.
Rather, we are Audrey Taylor: Mayhew’s secretary-the voice behind the writer…the words behind the page…the woman found dead after helping a friend. (That was a lot of blood!)
We are Barton Fink. We move to Los Angeles where the only three people we know are a writer (who has lost his touch), his secretary (who is found dead) and our neighbor (a mass-murderer). We complained about each of them throughout our time. But they sure did provide a grand story. And as that story ended, with halls engulfed in flame, a box in one arm, a script (though our greatest work, it was rejected wholeheartedly) in the other, and we make our way to the beach, where we sit alone as a woman asks, “what’s in the box?”
Anna Stesia come 2 me
Talk 2 me, ravish me
Liberate my mind
Tell me what U think of me
Praise me, craze me
Out this space and time
Let’s pretend that I had the ability to take you away from reality: to bring you to your own world where you can see things as you want to and do as you like without ill effects on those around you. Would you like to go there? (You can trust me, I’m a friend.) (Sure, you are) A friend in need is a friend indeed…Even if you do not know the person that is helping you. We are Amѐlie…a lonely child, growing without the loving hug from a father, suffered the passing of a mother, but had the sense to move out when grown. And on a whim, we have decided to help people if our first attempt of help succeeds.
Would you return a small tin box to its own if you found it in a crevasse of your bathroom? Would you say something to the person whom you returned the box to? Would you bring light into a blind man’s eyes by showing him the view? Would you secretly write love letters under the guise of a dead husband to your landlady? Would you send tapes of random snippets of life to your reclusive neighbor you has bones as brittle as crystal?
Perhaps you would break into the apartment of the store-clerk who works the market with his son…a son berated habitually? Not only break in, but move this there, replace one thing for another, add salt to a fine wine, destroy any form of routine in a form of retaliation? Maybe you would prefer to play match-maker with the tobacconist and a café regular? Or maybe you would like to convince your father to travel by stealing his garden gnome, giving it to your stewardess friend so that she can take pictures of the gnome standing near famous landmarks across the globe?
In the end, maybe you would like to play a game of cat and mouse with a person (who works at a porn shop and theme park) that you are fond of, trying to return a photo album? Eventually, you fall in love with this person and win their hearts. Ah yes…this is you.
Anna Stesia come 2 me
Talk 2 me, ravish me
Liberate my mind
Maybe, maybe, maybe I could learn 2 love
If I was just closer 2 somethin’
Closer 2 your higher self
I don’t know
Closer 2 heaven closer 2 God
Save me Jesus, I’ve been a fool
How could I forget that U are the rule
U are my God, I am Your child
From now on, 4 U I shall be wild
I shall be quick I shall be strong
I’ll tell Your story, no matter how long
That would do it for now. Until next time! Keep watching!