WHEN I WAS YOUNG
BEHIND THE SCREENS
Words by Regi Swift
Words by Clint Little
Pete Winter incarnate stands before me; a skeleton of syringes, mixing up with Bundaberg rum I see his body fail. A friend I haven’t seen nor thought about in years. But as this curly haired man stands before me; my youth flashes before my eyes. I see the old shed littered with goon bags. The old cemetery across the road; the dead still plague my dreams. As I fade in and out of the conversation my heart is struck with uncontrollable fear. What happened to my old friends I sit and wonder? Pete sits at soiled tables mixing his ice with sludge from broken taps. The gear really got him; stuck in his veins and ate his body away. Walking like a skeleton he asks for change “spare some change for an old junky,’ he would plead. Twenty three years old and teeth fall from his smile. He had a smile that could brighten the darkest nights now, sickly rotten and festering from ice. Who would have thought that I would be the one left? The darkest the meanest; I was just running. Ryan stills plucks lonely guitar strings, piss flows through his broken mind. His kids sit and stare at broken T.V.’s. A washed up musician trying to live the dream, he stood no chance raised in a broken home. He walks forward from broken relationship to decaying beds. He always loved his women. They always threw panties on stage and legs in the air, he died of the clap last week; I never did get to hug him again. David was the kindest man I met when I was younger. He laid in the bath red filled the room. A razor clasped tight in his hands; his brother screaming black silence as he hugged him. The bath was filling his veins were bleeding. The stitches stuck out like maggots in his skin. His twenty first would never be the same. The red and blue lights flashed sirens screamed parents scurried as the breath fell from his lungs. As the thick ooze poured from his arms so did his parents hearts from their eyes. Never have I seen such pain. John a rebellious skater punk we first met in 02 as I tattooed his arm. He had the world at his feet, a sponsorship followed his desires. He walked down the main street jovial and happy; inside he hid. He held his pain and never spoke. The softest touch, the kindest words he only ever built people up. As he dangled in his cupboard, electrical cable choking the life from his chest I could see the pain in his hands. Mother screaming friends crying; still his body dangled to and fro. Shit and piss fell down his legs onto a crinkled piece of paper. “Mom I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to end this way. I just couldn’t take it. As she walked away my soul fell from my heart, my eyes bled of goodbyes. This is the end and I’m sorry for all I’ve left.” I sit here and look back. The times we shared I’ll never forget; but I can’t forgive myself as I watch them fade away. Why am I so fruitful? Why did I make it out? I would give it all up for just one more day, one more day with any of them. Danny had it played out for him; his dad was a mad man. He sped down the hill throwing the car into a roll, over and over the car crumpled like aluminium foil. In the back was a shovel and some lime; beer cans littered the floor. Jimmy covered in red sat there wishing he could die. Danny would never be the same. In the bush rested an innocent body. Her head bashed in her brains oozing from ear and eye. Her life cut short by a jaded lover. Jimmy topped himself whilst inside; Danny died a little more every day. Booze flooded his mind and smoke filled his lungs. He lashed out at everyone; anger saw him locked up and the key thrown away. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Diary Of A Student Filmmaker
typing can be surprisingly aerobically effective when performed with sufficient gusto. So keeping a stack of delivery menus on hand is the best strategy. Eliminating the need for kitchen down time means more productivity at the keys. Karl Marx would be so proud.
From conception to birth: The journey of a screenplay. First comes the conception; an often random and unexpected moment of inspiration that catches you completely off guard but leaves just as quickly as it came. You may have felt incredibly inspired and connected for a few minutes there, but inspiration is fleeting and fickle, it chooses to land on a whim and departs on the next breeze. But the seed of an idea has been planted.
Lifestyle changes must also be considered. You can’t be flitting off on a moment’s notice to the pub or the shops when you’re busy gestating what could be the next Citizen Kane, at least this is what you’ll need to tell yourself when you decline yet another social opportunity to spend a Saturday night pecking away at your laptop, eating re-heated Phad Thai and running your Oscar acceptance speech through your mind.
After the initial cherry popping is when the real work begins. First you have to start planning a whole new wardrobe. Much like pregnancy, serious writing requires very specific tailoring. Comfort is king and as much as it pains me to say it the key words here are baggy, stretchy and practical. You wouldn’t think that expectant mothers and self absorbed screenwriters have much in common, but the link is the level of self focus it requires to produce an optimum result. In other words you’ll become so self involved during the development of your child that others will eventually shun you, leaving you with a lot of time to yourself, so why not be comfy?
Mood swings should be expected. The vicissitudes of the writing process can be hell on your biorhythms and each caffeine fuelled all nighter will take its grumpy toll on those unfortunate enough to cross your path. Sleep deprivation can have the same effect upon the brain as indulging in excessive quantities of drugs and alcohol, without any of the preceding fun. It is cheaper though. After pouring your heart and soul into a script and watching the remnants of your personal life crumble around you it comes time for your bouncing baby to be presented to a director for their consideration. To be told at that point that it’s a good first draft and maybe a few changes could be made is like an obstetrician shoving it back in and telling you that it will be cooked in another nine months.
Next comes dietary considerations. Just as a mummy to be is loathe to drag her ever expanding posterior off the couch to waddle to the fridge to snack for two, a determined writer should never leave the keyboard for the kitchen lest the muse abandon them in the time it takes to make a toasted sandwich. The scribe must remember that they are also eating for two, their body and their words, because
So you go home, put on a fresh pot of coffee, order in some greasy Chinese food and start typing.
Krause Komics
A warm day in august a car sat on the tracks. The train sped forward unaware of the car placed so dreadfully. Noah sat there he never thought his dad would try and do him in. A terrible smash twisted metal filled the panorama. Car and train contorted together. Two sat in a car one would be taken away in a bag; the other would leave his mind in that pile of broken and perverted steel. As he walked out of hospital; a severe limp slowed him down. He didn’t speak for weeks just sat there bong bubbling away. When he first ushered words from his lips he sobbed “where’s me dad?” he had no memory of the horrendous fate his father had come to. It’s for you all I try. I left you all in broken worlds; and for this I’m sorry. I walked away turned my back; maybe if I stayed things would be better, maybe not. As fate is laid before we walk this unknown road. Every step another step closer; Sylvia Plath - we all die. Please note names have been changed.
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