New this week, organized pics in my pic section, including a lot of goofy shit I did for Juliana one night. At some point I'll add more pics of my traveling Supergirl doll, which I have taken to many states and some little island called the United Kingdom.
For your continued amusement, here is the second to last part of my play, Searching For Julie Wisch. If you haven't read any of it, click back one entry and follow the simple links to the other parts.
THIRD INTERLUDE
Dark stage.
A spotlight drops on the Narrator. He sits, unmoved, from the previous scene. Samantha sits in shadow, silhouetted.
NARRATOR
Scent is one of our most prized senses, so I've heard. Scent, in fact, is said to be the number one sense for triggering memory, or so I've read... Jennifer Douglas had a scent I can't describe. Jen smelled like a scent that a thousand perfume makers have worked for a thousand years to perfect. A scent I couldnt re-create if I had a tiny vial of every smell ever extruded... all lined in a row... and a thousand years to mix them... one by one... and two by two. A Noahs ark of scent couldnt help me figure out why I got hard when I smelled Jen Douglas. I just did.
Julie returns as Samantha EXITS, angry.
NARRATOR
Every time I smelled Jen Douglas I was reminded why nature always wins over nurture. Jennifer Douglas couldnt string ten minutes of conversation together but I could call her at 2 AM and she would show up wearing nothing but the top half of flannel pajamas. And socks to keep her feet warm while she worked the clutch. Jen Douglas couldnt string five minutes of conversation together, but her mouth was warm and willing and her scent...
(pause)
Talking about scent doesnt really do it. No, its the quick whiff of your grandmothers hand lotion... the wood of your eighth grade class room... -- or Jen Douglas choppy hair and powdered skin.
The NARRATOR takes notice of Julie.
NARRATOR
I could tell you what Julie Wisch looked like. Julie had blond hair, hanging in big blue eyes... cheeks so v-shaped with smiles her face was like a cute little W. She was tiny... with tiny lean fingers and tiny little wrists and I would touch her.
(reaches out for her wrist)
I would touch Julies wrists with my five year old hands, unblemished from age... fingertips unmarked by the skin of another girl. I would touch Julies wrists, wrap pinky against thumb --
(demonstrates)
Touching the tips. Then ring finger, then middle. Then index. Counting up from six, in sign language, around her wrist. Listening to her tiny laugh... like a bird or... or a girl of five.
(moves away)
I never kissed Julie Wisch, but I would make an educated guess her lips had the tingle of Ivory soap and Crest toothpaste. I never tasted her kisses, but I could describe her laugh. Her touch. Even her face. But I could never... cant ever... describe what she smelled like. For that I am a slave to my eyes and mind.
(pause)
I could no more describe what Julie Wisch smelled like than I could describe the sound of Jen Douglas voice, because I remember neither.
(pause)
The difference is the sound of Jen Douglas voice doesnt show up in my dreams, daring me to speculate on its composition. The difference is if I worked a thousand years, I could mix the sound of Jen Douglas voice with a mortar and pestle, from tiny vials of sound, and half remembered late night phone conversations. From hot breath in my ear. But I still wouldnt be able to remember what Julie smelled like.
(pause)
I liked the Samanthas. The Jennifers. And the rest. Liked them a lot. They didnt do anything wrong. Its not their fault they aren't that little girl.
(pause)
Its mine.
JULIE EXITS.
END INTERLUDE
For your continued amusement, here is the second to last part of my play, Searching For Julie Wisch. If you haven't read any of it, click back one entry and follow the simple links to the other parts.
THIRD INTERLUDE
Dark stage.
A spotlight drops on the Narrator. He sits, unmoved, from the previous scene. Samantha sits in shadow, silhouetted.
NARRATOR
Scent is one of our most prized senses, so I've heard. Scent, in fact, is said to be the number one sense for triggering memory, or so I've read... Jennifer Douglas had a scent I can't describe. Jen smelled like a scent that a thousand perfume makers have worked for a thousand years to perfect. A scent I couldnt re-create if I had a tiny vial of every smell ever extruded... all lined in a row... and a thousand years to mix them... one by one... and two by two. A Noahs ark of scent couldnt help me figure out why I got hard when I smelled Jen Douglas. I just did.
Julie returns as Samantha EXITS, angry.
NARRATOR
Every time I smelled Jen Douglas I was reminded why nature always wins over nurture. Jennifer Douglas couldnt string ten minutes of conversation together but I could call her at 2 AM and she would show up wearing nothing but the top half of flannel pajamas. And socks to keep her feet warm while she worked the clutch. Jen Douglas couldnt string five minutes of conversation together, but her mouth was warm and willing and her scent...
(pause)
Talking about scent doesnt really do it. No, its the quick whiff of your grandmothers hand lotion... the wood of your eighth grade class room... -- or Jen Douglas choppy hair and powdered skin.
The NARRATOR takes notice of Julie.
NARRATOR
I could tell you what Julie Wisch looked like. Julie had blond hair, hanging in big blue eyes... cheeks so v-shaped with smiles her face was like a cute little W. She was tiny... with tiny lean fingers and tiny little wrists and I would touch her.
(reaches out for her wrist)
I would touch Julies wrists with my five year old hands, unblemished from age... fingertips unmarked by the skin of another girl. I would touch Julies wrists, wrap pinky against thumb --
(demonstrates)
Touching the tips. Then ring finger, then middle. Then index. Counting up from six, in sign language, around her wrist. Listening to her tiny laugh... like a bird or... or a girl of five.
(moves away)
I never kissed Julie Wisch, but I would make an educated guess her lips had the tingle of Ivory soap and Crest toothpaste. I never tasted her kisses, but I could describe her laugh. Her touch. Even her face. But I could never... cant ever... describe what she smelled like. For that I am a slave to my eyes and mind.
(pause)
I could no more describe what Julie Wisch smelled like than I could describe the sound of Jen Douglas voice, because I remember neither.
(pause)
The difference is the sound of Jen Douglas voice doesnt show up in my dreams, daring me to speculate on its composition. The difference is if I worked a thousand years, I could mix the sound of Jen Douglas voice with a mortar and pestle, from tiny vials of sound, and half remembered late night phone conversations. From hot breath in my ear. But I still wouldnt be able to remember what Julie smelled like.
(pause)
I liked the Samanthas. The Jennifers. And the rest. Liked them a lot. They didnt do anything wrong. Its not their fault they aren't that little girl.
(pause)
Its mine.
JULIE EXITS.
END INTERLUDE
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
Okay, enough about that. It's good to see you put more of the play up.... I'm really getting into it!
please hold *elevator music*