the end of shot clocks

8/6/2019 The End of Shot Clocks

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woman who wears such agony that it pains to imagine not

only the infrequency with which she must smile, but the

bare fact that this very same face could possibly smile.

and had smiled many times. perhaps under these very same

conditions, the same squalor that on this occasion leads to

her despair.

There are people in freshly cleaned aprons, aboard white

button down shirts/green polos and black pants, handing out

flyer-coupons in complete earnestness outside restaurants.

Neither self-loathing nor ignorant, they simply work and do

their best because they must.

The boy does not stare straight-ahead. He does glance at

people, taking them in with almost a fine tooth mental

comb, but there is no facial acknowledgment of this process(aside from the slightly above-average length with which he

maintains his gaze) and especially no indication of his

opinion on the changing subjects.

The boy stays on the same street, walking. Everyone from

the once mass, diverges at different points, slowly

dissipating in correspondence with the exit of what was a

popular, commercial downtown area. The boy is stoic. There

is nothing particularly distinguishable from his face,

except the complete and utter lack of expression. The boy

is distinctly neither sad, nor bored; both are commonassociations with an interpreted blank look.

The boys path becomes a path running through a small park

almost-alcove. This alcove is a part of a larger park

containing running paths, other benches, trees, and the

occasional piece of city-friendly wildlife, e.g. squirrel

or a bird. On the bench most directly adjacent to his path,

at the relative beginning to this paths entry into park

territory, there is a girl sitting, reading and smoking a

cigarette.

The girl is reading The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de

Beauvoir. She has a red pen in her hair. She does not move

her head, or even appear to be moving her eyes, though we

are not close enough to know for certain. The girl does not

look up or appear to notice as the boy approaches.


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The boys eyes go to her cigarette as he advances, then

horizontally to the other hand holding the book: feels

externally on his shorts skin for his pockets contents.

The boy finds no cigarettes, looks back to the girl (book,

face, cigarette). The boy breaks her plane slightly and

pulls back as if on a fishing rod's hook. Sheepishly, he

looks back, and pulls out his headphones (the music stops).

CAMERA: back, fifteen feet up, from the rear of girl's

seat, back and to the left.

BOY

Hey . . . Can I bum one of those?

The girl doesn't respond right away. She does not look upuntil a moment after he finishes.

GIRL

Hello.

(pausing, demonstrating the options in each

hand)

A book or a cigarette?

BOY(laughing)

A cigarette.

The girl hands the boy a cigarette. He lingers post-

lighting, smiles, and looks at her. She is looking at him

looking at her. He looks down and away, then tears himself

back to her.

BOYHi.

GIRL

(wearing the slight amusement of an 1/8"

grin)

Hi.


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BOY

H-

Camera: FRONT, ZOOM on the girls FACE

GIRL

(incredulous)

Ok. I think we've covered greetings

already. Is that all you've got? Are

you just going to stand there and say

'Hi' to me?

BOYWell. No. Hopefully not. I just can't

decide what I want to say next.

GIRL

Oh.

BOY

(with the bodily movement of someone

imaginarily kicking imaginary dirt)Yeah.

GIRL

What's the first thing that came to

mind?

BOY

(laughing on the order of a single

heh). . . Yeah, right? . . . To be honest,

(looks her over, pauses)

I don't know . . . "

It is unclear whether the boy truly doesnt know or if he

is simply uncomfortable to share.


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GIRL

You just say 'Hi' and begin speaking

without having any idea where youre

headed.

Weird.

BOY

Yes, I had no idea where I was going,

(laughing)

and, yes, I think its weird too.

GIRL

Why do you think it's weird?

BOY

Because this happens all the time.

GIRL

Well . . . if it happens all the time,

then why is it weird??

BOY

This is the best it's ever gone.

GIRL

Oh.

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)


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(silence)

BOY

(taking a deep breath like a diver taking a

deep breath before going under.)

It was the sound of your voice.

The follow-through on the exhalation is as if he needed the

extra wind from the large inhale to propel himself to

finish the sentence.

The girl is neither embarrassed nor comfortable, or

uncomfortable; she looks at the boy. He is looking out

somewhere slightly to the left of the girl, as if in awaiting room. Together, the boy and girl possess two

evaluative but stoic expressions. Then, the moment the girl

finds the boys eyes, she laughs like a child at play.

GIRL

(furrowing her brow in bemused amusement)

What was?

BOYThe first thing that came to my mind

. . .

The girl gives the boy a quizzical look.

BOY

I don't mean a singing voice or

something.

(laughing)I haven't heard you singing in the

shower . . .

GIRL

(smiling)

I hope not.


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BOY

(half-laughing with the kernel of real

confidence, takes the final drag off his

cigarette, stamps it out, and exhales)

Yeah, that'd be a bad way to start off

a conversation: "Hey, you didn't know

me prior to 60 seconds ago, but I heard

you singing in the shower and you have

a really gorgeous soprano."

The boy laughs, sporting a 1/5'' smile. The girl smiles,

more regarding the boy than the "joke."

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

The girl puts the book in her bag and stands up. The boyremains seated. He is uncertain if the conversation is

over. The girl pulls out her pack of cigarettes and offers

the boy another cigarette. The boy accepts. She lights both

cigarettes and begins walking. The boy hastens at first

then walks beside her. The hesitation wears a sort of

fatigue like an old man resurrecting enthusiasm to run

after his grandson.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL

I've always been uncomfortable with

this infatuation with a woman's


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physical beauty. It's such an empty

compliment really. What part did I play

in my looks? Very little . . . I can

maintain . . . I can style, put on

makeup, wear fashionable, flattering

clothes, but how much do my . . .

customizations . . . really matter?

Were glorified janitors, in all

honesty. No artist: more like a

restorer. At best. And the real object

of the compliment is something I had

nothing to do with! I'm just dabbling

on nature's canvas! It's pure

luck . . .

(takes a large cigarette drag with the

collection of thoughts and the regathering

of an enthusiasm that sputtered out from

post-conclusion stress disorder)They might as well say just that(!)

"What luck you had to stumble upon some

facial symmetry, a nice skin tone and

hair color . . . and a lack of

disfigurement (?!):

(robotically)

This set of features pleases me."

I'd appreciate that a lot more than a

standard

(drawled)

"You sure are beautiful, missy." Or atthe very least show me some creativity

if you're gonna focus on something that

isnt really the result of me. I mean, a

good metaphor or four would be just

fine. But, "ya know, you're beautiful"

is just . . . sad. I don't want it. So,

I guess what im saying . . . is . . .

thanks. Thank you for not being trite.

You, and your voice compliment . . .

This has an almost soliloquial feel. Tho, the girl

acknowledges the boy's presence intermittently, she mainly

looks Around, not directly at him. The boy is rapt. His

eyes smiling the smile his mouth and brow cannot yet form.

The girl chuckles, almost to herself. She looks down, then


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immediately looks at the boy abruptly with almost

uncomfortable concentration for a few second, then back out

Into The Distance.

BOY

(sincerely, he's profoundly affected)

You're welcome.

The boy looks at the girl, taking her profile in, trying to

locate her keyhole, attempting to discern the slope of her

greatest synaptic ridges, the peak and trough of her axons,

through the dense thicket of dendrites.

The girl maintains her look out Into The Distance, not the

boy. The boys expression is matter of fact, not withoutemotion, but not exuberant either: as though realizing

something which is known to be new but feels so familiar

and right that it is perceived as anything but new. The boy

maintains his look outward, completely at ease with no

desire to sneak glimpses commissioned by his long-term

memory, no fear of never seeing the girl again. The boy is

able to see her only how and what she is this instant.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL

(looking the boy square in the eyes)

I haven't been that honest with anyone,

given from my core being since . . . I

can remember, since I knew I had a core

being. Since I knew I could choose.

(silence)

GIRL

And to a stranger." That's a weird

thing to know. Now that I have accepted


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it . . .

(no longer looking at him, looking out at

water, deep exhale)

But I guess I've always known it.

BOY

Acceptance is good.

GIRL

It is.

There is silence as the boy looks at the girl looking at

the boy.

The girl is unexpectedly, volcanically, drunk with passion.

GIRL

People . . . they don't want it though.

And it's just so much easier to give

them what they want rather than what

you think they need. Even if it is the

acknowledged, Right Thing. Even if it

is the best thing for you . . . Why is

Easy so dynastic?"

BOY

I'm not exactly sure either, but you're

right. I know that much.

GIRL

(grinning)

Well, thats good.

BOY

(smiling)

It's probably as simple as it sounds.

"easy" is so pervasive . . . exactly

because of itself - it's the simplest,

least contingency-ridden option.


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Occams Razor. You know Occam?

GIRL

(faux solemnity)

I do.

BOY

Oh, and its warm and fuzzy and snuggles

close with you at night. Whispers in

your ear that its the right choice

while its jerking you off . . .

The boy looks mildly apologetic for going blue.

GIRL

(laughing causing the Boy to experience a

Kevin Arnold Facial Shift)

So, who are you, Mysterious Cigarette

Bummer? You don't seem to be a full-on

cynical misanthrope yet, are ya? What

drags you out from underneath the

covers?"

The girl recognizes an other who has given as fervently,with as much passion, even if it is in the complete

opposite fashion, and against the current, thus,

unsuccessfully.

BOY

(laughter, the sort following someone

bringing up a hotly debated internal

philosophical queasiness)

Well . . .

(looks to the sky, looks around, looks toher, obviously thinking, over a period of

maybe 5 secondsspeaking with a tad bit of

sheepishness)

This.


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GIRL

This?

BOY

Yes . . . this. Or . . . the

possibility of this . . . Talking with

earnest girls who . . . don't hide who

they are and . . . aren't afraid. of

me, themselves . . . fate, chance

. . .

The girl demurs, blushes. She looks to the ground and

raises her eyes to his eyes, which have not left her. She

is uncertain and a heretofore barely seen version of the

girl enters: she is sad and frightfully unsure, like AnnieClark at 3:38 of this video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=1vxQs84FMWQ). The whole thing is needed for context, but

the look on her face as her eyes lower, break away from the

shield, the absolute stare, and embraces the uncertainty of

her suffering, of her fundamental unalterable position.

BOY

But that goes for men too, minus the

romantic connotations. Earnestness,

sincerity . . . autonomy(righting himself, at least in his own mind;

tho it remains definitely up for debate

whether or not either one is Off the Rail)

. . . sounds like some 'sweet guy

line', but it's also the truth

("open" eyes/ raised brows)

. . . so it's got that . . .

The boy attempts a bit of facial persuasion with an eye,

brow, lip-involved appeal of concurrence, as in: "Touche??Eh? Eh? Eh? The girl gives ambiguous scepticism. The boy

continues since he does not know if it was facetious or

genuine.

BOY

But really, what motivates me, what


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keeps me out of the . . . dark recesses

of depression and a life of solitude in

the thick labyrinthine forest, is

learning and loving . . . for the sake

of themselves but not for sheer . . .

accumulation of knowledge or massive

adulation . . . or . . . as a means of

anything else but it is my - and our -

human essence to be conscious, reflect,

reason, and love! To become, to become,

and to become some more . . . leaving

impossibly private heavens behind!

(beat)

(CAMERA: ZOOM on BOY, from the shoulders

up..BLAZING SUN in background, partially

obscured by his passionately vibrating head,

while also maintaing its naturally blinding

qualities). . . to feel happiness and

suffering . . . laugh at our folly or

wit . . . living every instant

with as much fervor as the last, living

for the sake of the best possible

world, of the best possible me . . .

and everyone else I know . . . and

interacting with friends and really

anyone who cares about these things.

(beat)

This is my iron lung, my respirator forthe day-to-day disappointments that

must be endured . . . and rationalized

. . .

The boy's enthusiasm undulates much like a plot diagram

with crescendo at the climax, but sputtering into the

ending with resolution absent. All that remains are pieces

of what seemed like knowledge, that now are no longer

intelligible and do not have a trusted place in reality.

The boy feels resentment and disgust outlined in despair.

The sun is beating down on the boy and girl prominently.

CAMERA: from the rear, relative to the boy and girl; the

sun is the background to their foreground.


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(silence)

(silence)

BOY

ErmHow bout you? What's your food?

GIRL

(looking at him, but breaking

intermittently)

. . . Not nearly as clear as yours. I

guess some days Im not even sure what

it is Im eating.(no longer looking at him)

But it keeps me alive . . .

(with an almost scientifically sterile tone,

she stares out into the sea)

I have been passive to the difference

between myself and the world around me.

The world has given to me. I haven't

given to the world. Except in

passivity, except with my acquiescence.

(beat)

I have accepted the limitations of thetime. My Historical Particulars . . .

havent expected much from anyone.

Isn't it torturous expecting people to

be like you? I don't know how you do

it . . . I mean, I gave up almost

immediately . . . but I usually like to

call it adaptation.

BOY

(laughing)Well . . . thats the difficult

question, isnt it? To adapt or remain

steadfast? Should the behavior and

beliefs of others affect our conception

of our core self, what we value?


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(silence)

BOY

(laughing)

I dont know of course . . . but it's

easier to live with myself if I just go

out into the world, with my pieces for

a different puzzle, and be the best

person I can be, try to put together

the puzzle I'm in. Not want to be in.

Being conscientious, and courageous in

my convictions. Compassionate.

Reasonable. Loving passionately but not

indiscriminately. Youre right,(no longer looking at her)

disappointment will surely come . . .

and it has.

(oscillating emotions and looks back at her)

But let it be some other ingredient of

the equation. Not me. I'm putting forth

the effort . . .

(silence)

BOY

So, I guess I dont care if other

people are like me; I just ignore it.

As much as possible.

(silence)

There is a quickly emerging wide grin on the girlface; if the rate of acceleration with which her

mouth moved from neutral to smile were to be

graphed it would be an incredibly steep,

ascending, exponential curve.


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GIRL

So, ignorance is bliss, wrapped up in

an argyle sweater??

BOY

(big laugh but not long - not cracking up, a

slight scoff)

Not at all. That would require bliss!

There is perpetual disappointment in

this stance. Warring standards with no

bridge . . . I didn't mean to imply I

was motivated by pleasure. It's an

ethical issue and my standard views

pleasure maintenance as . . . well

. . . a disgusting waste of my

freedom . . . if pleasure was the endtowards which I acted in most

situations . . .

(a sort of mutter)

but I do believe in willed ignorance

. . . and sensual pleasure . . . to

some degree . . .

The girl is watching the boy with a determination more than

a focus. The boy is somewhat unnerved, not by the release

of some big secret or bottled up thought, but from herquestion's power, his convoluted answer, and from the sheer

power of her gaze: it startles and confounds. The girl's

face is conflicting and complicated. It wears an

evaluating, bemused amusement; as if: "Ok. Sweet sensitive,

neurotic routine but:

GIRL

I see. I see . . . So, how does all

this relate to my beautiful voice? Is

it a soaring violin accompanying thefinal step onto Everest's peak or a

. . . gentle harp, comforting as a

slight breeze on a muggy summer night???

BOY

(laughing)


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Damn it, I committed! I left the

matzoball dangling. Is there no return

from here?

(exaggerated look to the heavens)

Can't I just leave the pinata hanging

with all the kids revved up expecti-"

GIRL

(impatiently, clears throat)

Nope. You can't. Stop with the verbal

rain delay already!

BOY

-Candy..Wow.

(narrating)

Shes on to me so soon, he thought

with an inaudible chuckle.

GIRL

(laughing)

Others are more than willing to let you

ramble?

BOY

(nodding vigorously)

Yep. Usually. That whole "give emenough rope to hang himself', I suppose

. . .

GIRL

(assessing him)

Yeah, I can really see that being

continuously entertaining.

(beat)

Ok. So, my voice: beautiful . . . could

start wars. . .

BOY

Hey! I never promised warfare . . .

I clearly remember that!


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GIRL

Ok. Well, I suppose I can concede the bloodshed.

It's not a deal-breaker.

(sizing the boy up)

I guess I can take the subjective

musings of what seems to be a fairly

sensible dude.

BOY

Why, thank you, my dear!

(silence)

(silence)

BOY

Ooooh . . . too soon? Too soon with the

generic-yet-affectionate name

substitution? I've long suspected that

to be some sort of fatal flaw . . .

(put on anchorman, Stone Phillips gravitas)

"He was too familiar, too soon."

The boy and the girl laugh.

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)

(silence)


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BOY

"Its a huge gust of warm wind in the

Arctic. A beautifully realigning slap

in the face. It's the sound that

satisfies an unspoken, intangible . . .

inchoate desire I've felt for the

better part of a decade . . . or more

. . . mischievous. Curious. Refreshing.

That shining spine Jeff Tweedy sang

about . . . 'No automaton present here,

General. House is clear.'

(a kind of half salute)

(silence)

The girl begins to to speak, then attempts to clear herthroat: she is bone dry. The girl passionately grabs the

boys head with her right hand and kisses him as if the

force herein would deter even Custer at Big Horn.

GIRL

(eyes darting, making her way from sea to

sky to him to ground to him)

Yeah . . .

(clears throat, mumbles unintelligibly)

. . . I was really parched . . . andthere was no water handy . . . the

saliva in your mouth seemed the most

appropriate place to quench my thirst."

The mood is mildly awkward since, of course, the boy and

girl have just met. Intense connection or not, time still

must have its way. The girl is wearing a 1/2" grin. The

boy, purely metaphorically, has appeared to have pissed

himself, as well as reached nirvana, or its base, truly

been eye-to-eye for the first time with everything heimaginatively theorized must/should be true which is very,

very different than actually knowing through experience.

GIRL

(laughing in an attempt to make light of

something that is anything but light)


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That was literally my thought process

there . . .

BOY

(giving the international signal for "don't

shoot")

Oh . . . you'll find no judgment here

. . .

The boy and the girl laugh.

(silence)

(silence)

GIRL

(still visibly, physically stunned)

So all that in the first 30 seconds you

knew me?!?!

BOY

Well, no, most were from difficult to

distinguish language/voice reads lateron, but . . . two were there at that

point: the autonomy, the strength of

character . . . and the knowledge . . .

that your voice was so . . . in tune

. . . with a set of internal,

intangible standards I have felt and

battled for years . . . and just

recently been able to articulate and

understand on even the most fundamental

level.

GIRL

How can this exist, this capacity, this

power to judge and accurately feel my

truth through my voice?

Or anything so ethereal?


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Its pretty much superhero empathy!

BOY

(medium-sized self-deprecating belly laugh)

I don't claim that answer. I don't claim many

answers. My only claims are rational argument,

theory, synthesized with a spattering of feeling

and experience. I believe they call it The Gut.

GIRL

(laughing)

Well, what's your theory then?

BOYMy theory on this feeling borne of my

incredible dearth of experience?

GIRL

Yeah. Give it to me. Why such faith??

BOY

(chuckling)

Language and reason have tremendous

power in identifying truth . . . butthere are areas outside their

jurisdiction requiring resolution from

a sister court . . . in the forum of

Emotion and Intuition where language,

reason, science are unable to discern

reality with any kind of the accuracy

they achieve within their natural

homes. It's like . . . instead of being

run through just the reason filter or

just the emotion filter . . . the

thought runs through some hybridfilter, encompassing all thought."

GIRL

So, its not an abandonment of reason;

its just good ole highly calibrated and

refined intuition, the product of a


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fully assimilated "I?" But what is so

special to you about the voice? What

separates it from . . .

(silence)

BOY

Voices are like eyes . . . and hands

. . . they are windows, extensions of

the words we utter and the actions we

take . . .

they compose the skeleton of the themes

and motivations that lie beneath and

extend through our actions like

vertebrae. However much words or action

may serve as a curtain . . .the sun, or darkness, from an eye, a

hand, or . . . a voice . . . shines

through . . . and is clearly evident to

the person willingly to look . . .

Truth-in-Action, in Words, Logic, or in

subconscious physical mannerisms?? I'll

take the truth from my voice read

. . . here today, up against Einstein's

relativity, Ghandi's hunger, Godel's

Incompleteness Theorem, Hendrix's Red

House: none is more real than theothers.

GIRL

I'd say you're putting quite a bit more

pure faith into that conclusion than

all of them . . .

BOY

(laughing)Yeah . . . maybe. This is a form of

faith. Acknowledged. I'm not afraid to

say it. But what doesn't require some

extension of hope, some constructed

sun. Even science is built on a

foundation of faith, and mine isn't

completely unregulated, tyrannical


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dogmatic faith. It comes from a purer

place, much more empirical and

reflectiveopen to change . . . I

assure you.

The girl and boy exchange a look acknowledging the boys

mini cop out. The boy moves on, heart ahead of his feet.

BOY

. . . and it's faith in you. And people

like you. That I'm not alone, we're not

alone, and maybe the future isn't

partly cloudy with a strong chance of

thunderstorms and golf ball hail. That

maybe our conversation here today isn't

a dream, an aberration, a sick reminderof squandered possibilities.

EXT PIER - CONTINUOUS

CAMERA: a slow pan back amid silence, circling, ZOOMED in

on: the nearby tide coming in, somewhat violently against

apparently the same pier the boy and girl were at but much

further down. It fills the screen: the variable wave

crashing its will into the fixed and determined pier. Thewaves are crashing furiously from the middle of the sea

into the side of the pier. The pier appears to extend miles

out and is remote.

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

(black)

Blackness to the boys eyes and eyes alone. CAMERA, ZOOM on

his mouth where a grin resides. Panning out, the boy's headswivels, looks around in the darkness. His face twists in

anguish, fury, and bitter disappointment. The conversation

is a dream, the boy's dream, a dream in framework he has

dreamed far, far too many nights. In the darkness he

stumbles, furthering his misery (kind of a play on

Radiohead's 'There There': in pitch dark/ I go walking

through your landscape/broken branches trip me as I speed);


24/24

he cries out while continuing his path to the bathroom as

he falls into his computer, exposing a computer screen with

iTunes open. The artist: The Beatles; the song: Happiness

is a Warm Gun; it is on repeat. (In a perfect world this

would be playing as the boy woke up, starting just around

the title refrain) The boy is huddled above the toilet

bowl. The boy is vomiting, sweating profusely, and

spitting. He drools a long continuous globule of 1/3

saliva, 1/3 bile, and 1/3 food chunks. The boy attempts to

compose himself, gets up, and looks in the mirror. He

hovers, shaking above the sink.

BOY

(exasperated exhale, mutters, looking eye to

eye, seeing his pale-faced, sweaty-haired,

blood-eyed, tear-stained reflection)

Pfftsh:(spitting a loogie into the sink)

The good dream is the real nightmare.

(black)

"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together;

sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately

without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real

straight talk about souls, for life is holy and everymoment is precious." - Jack Kerouac

the end of shot clocks

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