MOTION

PICTURE
SCRIPTS
2005-2015
ALMA LOOP
He looked up and saw that when one step is taken, another
step calls him back. He looked down, in his hands, a notebook
made from torn paper bound by rubber bands. He looked
near to him, let thin fingers turn the pages as he paces. He
saw veins and skin holding a man as he traces one line with
his feet. He believed a sweater and a jacket were wrapped
around his head. Let the sun warm the rest. A single step
gives way to a flurry of steps. The sidewalk opens to his flight.
He is brought before the light pole. It is there he begins to
read.
The family in 11 was on edge: the youngest brother was in trouble,
owing 653 dollars for the hole in his arm that would not close. That
was after the family paid the 1500 for everything else. At the office,
Mrs. Gandelao took what was left and still yelled. When the day came
to move, the biggest sister said to take what did not fit in the boxes and
throw it behind the Chevron. A work crew from the city came weeks
later to find chrome handled workout equipment pieces, toothpaste-
purple pants, wire hangers clinging to the branches, just to the left a
brown slip-on shoe with no other shoe, below that, paper that once held
sandwiches, paper that once held cookies, below that, paper sheets with
numbers marked "Good Job" in red, farther up above in the grass, two
more brown shoes with black rubber peeling from both heels, beside one,
a small bear holding a candy heart alongside a ribbon with a beautiful
face.
Up from the river he came, dripping. Left behind was the dank coolness of the resting place,
packed with those still sleeping, high above him rose the heat of a highway laying still and open
under the morning summer sun. But there was a hill ahead that had to be climbed. Steep, steeper
than remembered from the night before, when Jim had shown him the remnants of a twisting path
down to the water's edge. With a pu!ng of the cheeks, he placed a foot forward. Every step took
him one or three inches higher. With each step his face grew tighter. The way was harsh, his
footing unsure, as clods of earth broke open beneath his feet, sending him to this side and then
to the other, almost bringing him flat down, making him fear of sliding all the way back to the
others. Brambles clutched at the skin of his ankles, branches dried by the winds into witch's nails
slit his bare belly as he pushed his way up, higher, once slipping down to bury his face in the
earth, then slowly picking up his body and standing straight, using one stretched hand to steady
his balance while the other hand clutched a fat wet ball made of shirts and a blue windbreaker.

An hour later, with his clothes hung carefully over the metal crossing barrier, he felt his face for
scratches, stretched his legs the way he was taught as a youngster and with both palms smoothed
his whiskers around the top of his mouth.
Yesterday, a man and a woman and three kids between the ages of 6
months and six were sitting next to me at the outdoor seating area
near to where I work. I was on my third 15 minute break, smoking
and stretching out the soreness in my arms while rubbing my hands.
The man was closest to me, his back almost up against mine, the
woman the farthest at the far end of the round orange table with the
three kids wrapped around between them. I am sure the man spoke
in a soft voice, almost a whisper, much as a man would who knew he
wanted something, but could not come out and say it. I am sure that
the woman was drinking from a big mug and spoke in a voice like a
flute. Her voice was cool and high just as a flute. Nothing happened
for a few minutes and I had to get back.
One fine day in May, a man said to a man he
believed he barely knew -

"I am in need of gold."

and this man thought hard before replying -

"Please, have all of mine."

 Mrs. Smith picked up her two shopping
bags from out of the cart, the one pushed
two blocks from the supermarket parking
lot. She let the man on the phone go first
before boarding the bus.

Mrs. Johnson picked up her bag from o!

the floor of the bus. She made an exit out
the back door and placed her bag into the
empty shopping cart before pushing it
down the street.
The life of ours is so unstable that we flit through it
Like rootless seaweeds drifting to and fro on every tide.
Who can indeed safely trust his heart to things so frail?
It was, therefore, not without cause, nor without reason,
That I took leave of my parents, swinging my belled cane,
And marched away from my city, waving my hands to my kin.
Since then, I have kept beside me a gown full of patches
And a bowl that has sustained my flesh for many a spring.
By what seems to me but a chance, I have found rest here,
And live in a grassy house, dreaming of final fulfillment.
In you, I have found a congenial spirit, so tied in love,
That we do not know which of us is the host or the guest.
At this promontory, the wind blows high amid lofty pines,
And frost lies cold on the last few chrysanthemum blooms.
You and I join hands together, our thoughts above the clouds,
Quite oblivious of what we are,standing on a wild shore.
Evergreens and a lone birch tree were talking about the
busy woman. From all appearances she was building a
home beneath the branches of the evergreens. The
birch tree asked what they thought of this, and the
evergreens said it was fine, this happened all the time.
Using a blue tarp and stones for spikes, the woman
made a home in no time. It was peaked in the center.
This was sure to let the rain run down, thought the
birch. The evergreens swayed, releasing needles. These
needles came down like a silvery mist on top of the
woman's head. She pulled a handful out of her hair and
held them up to her nose. The scent was powerful,
reminding the woman of a clean kitchen in Salinas.
While waiting for the late bus, Gail sat the children down on the slab near the
flower beds, out of the sun. When five minutes were gone for good, the
mother began to look around her. Gail saw her three children touching the
white roses scattered throughout the planters. Her eldest, John, poked a fat
finger into the rose next to him and counted the petals he could see, "One,
three, five, ten, and ten more" he said. The one child closest to him was the
youngest, Susan, who put her face so close to her rose that her nose nearly
went all the way into the bloom and she counted out loud, "Two, then four,
and a four, and then seven, and thirteen." All the while the middle child with
brown eyes was watching and once the others finished, she looked to the
rose curled tight in her hand. The white was thin paper, she thought, burnt
brown around the edges by someone not the sun.
This was a story told to me by someone I used to know - There was a young man
from around here who one morning awoke with a slight pain in his heart. He got
up, dressed quickly, and after brushing his teeth, stood silently in the hallway of
his house. An idea came to him, and this idea was enormous, bigger than
anything he had known up until that time, and this idea, if put into immediate
practice, might be the very thing to take the slight pain away. He donned his
father's giant satin jacket and went outside. In the center of the front lawn he
found a perfect spot. On that spot he stood with both feet planted carefully on
the ground. The young man took a deep breath and with a lithesome effort of
hands and arms, began to carve the space in front of his small body with
extravagant gestures. Fingers twirled, elbows unfurled. Palms pushed aside the
stubborn air, as spinning wrists rearranged the morning light. Over and over and
over, the young man scratched away time with wild movements of his upper
body. But nothing happened. Try as he might, he could not bring back the
happiness of yesterday. But the gods, basking that morning in the attention of
elderly believers down the street, saw the young man, and understanding his
plight, granted him one more day of what he felt the day before.
Yellow is hard to see as anything but white when walking in the dark. And the two
or three unbroken streetlights were casting a further pale piss color to where he
wanted to go. It all was making him dumb with annoyance, practically made him
sputter, because he could not ever think straight when his mind was caught by
the claptrap thrown at it by one of his family and here he was, out searching at
almost midnight for the house his uncle called him from, the color of which,
Jason had been told, was yellow as egg yoke. Shadows crept up over him as he
walked alongside the tall fence running the length of the end of the block. Ahead
lay a lone patch of lamplight that might afford a better look for the house color
he was needing, and as he walked he heard a breeze break through the tops of
the Plane trees, while a television gurgled from within a green glowing rambler. All
else was quiet on the street. No cars, no people. Jason let his thoughts wander
from retrieving his uncle to tomorrows school day, and as the shadows pressed
against his body, he let his eyes rest on the nothing waiting for him on the other
side of the intersection, beneath the sign asking for your time. Someone yelled.
Later, a man waiting for a friend was the first to find him.
Round about three, and a half-hour after Lance took over the
back counter, the one where most of the customers gathered
away from the boiling afternoon heat, Kyle stood before his
supervisor. He was asked by the supervisor what he did in his last
job whenever someone was discovered stealing. Kyle looked to
Lance with a sidelong glance and let his eyes rest heavily on the
man in the crisp white shirt before saying in a low voice, "I
reported whatever I felt was not right to the shift-manager." Upon
hearing these words, the supervisor looked away from Kyle to a
confident, helpful and energetic Lance.

A wave of joy swept through Kyle's body, he could feel a glow

cascading down from his forehead. He had done it, achieved the
impossible, almost without thinking!
 A delightful child asked -

"Who owns that building?"

The mother said -

"Which one?"

Pointing, the child said -

"That one; next to the orange one."

With a smile the Mother replied -

"I do not know."

Never in her days had Dorothy heard anything like this - Sammi
was unloading what she had been carrying up from the basement,
and when she put all the clothes and hangers down on the front
lawn, she let out a sigh. The weather was warm, it surprised her, as
she had been reveling in the coolness of her room, had brought
the coolness up here, clinging to her. It felt strange letting that
delicious cold be eaten by the sun. And it was more than strange,
Sammi would say difficult, being out with the others of the house,
standing and waiting all hot for any people to come here was not
what she had planned, but instead was forced to do by the high
demand of the yard sale. All that called to her was to stay alone
back there where it was cool. This was wrong hanging everything
on the fence, silly putting the green shirt in front of the blue. She
knew her old shirts and jackets would never sell. She knew that
deep down and the others knew it too.
A short stretch of the mall looked always darker than the rest and this is where
the two friends worked. Long after the last customer left, but before the
cleaning crew came in, Sandra held the back door open for Maggie so that she
might gather the garbage bags up off the floor and carry them outside all in one
go. It was taking Maggie longer than usual this night, thought Sandra. With a
bright cast to her eye, Sandra said -

"C'mon SlowPoke!"

and Maggie's face flushed red through her black hair hanging down. Sandra
saw this and her eyes dulled for the rest of the night. Feeling the chill air
rushing past her ankles gave Sandra an excuse to close the door halfway and
take a step back in, closer to the heat of the broilers. Maggie stood straight
with both hands full and said to Sandra in a clear voice -

"I am not getting tired anymore."

There once was a man as big as an elephant. He was waiting
for the light to change, standing in the heat of a summer day.
Holding his hand was a woman no bigger than a snail. She
wore a tiny black dress and her hair was half-blonde, half-
brunette. Our big man looked down on the small woman.
Her tiny black dress sparkled in the bright light of noon. At
first the sparkle was taken by the big man as a serious
problem with his eyes. But he soon realized that her black
dress was made of a special shiny material, so shiny that the
sun in the sky was multiplied a thousand times across her
body. For a moment, giant fingers caressed the constellations
and comets swirling amid a trembling night. The light
switched from red to green and they were off.
From the middle of the back lot came the voice of a child, rising into
the sky, rubbing up against the light of the morning sun, making more
heat pour down upon his face. Instead of seeking cool shade, he
decided to do nothing. He did this to make her see how seriously he
took what she was saying. And she did see. With renewed strength,
she stepped closer to him and declared every goal; how they changed,
and how they will change with him or without him. Suddenly another
child's voice, higher than the first, entered into his thoughts. It came
from somewhere near to where he had parked his car. He frowned to
himself, then smiled at her. And she finished speaking. He replied that
he understood where she was going, thanking her in the same breath
for taking the time to meet with him. Since the heat had grown thicker
over his face, he took hold of his sleeve, and while wiping his brow,
cocked one ear to hear an even higher voice, this time from behind his
wife's head, a voice that called endlessly for its mother.
My uncle went out and got a shirt. He went to that store
over there. He walked right in and went to the rear of the
store where they keep the men's clothing and picked out a
blue shirt, then went to the front and bought it. He said he
didn't need anything else. Once outside, he opened up his
bag to show my aunt the new shirt and found it was not
blue, but black. This made him frustrated, so he went back
through the entrance doors, into the store, and once inside
the light of the store made the shirt blue. My uncle was
amazed. He went back out the exit door and sure enough,
under the sun, it turned black. Back he went, through the
entrance doors and there his shirt turned blue. Back again,
out the exit doors, to find the blue had again turned to
black. Round and round he went, in and out of the doors,
watching the colors change in his hands, until Tom from
Loss Prevention reached out and held him.
They called her ---------.
I met a woman who said she held her hands together while waiting for the door to open to let him
in. There was not more that she could do, but hold her hands in a calm way, closed. If there were
any other way, she would have chosen it. But being there for him and waiting was the only way.
This was what he would want, to be surprised by, so she believed, her being there, for she said she
always knew quicker and better than him. He would walk in and see her straight away. She said
she could tell that when his eyes left her body, her hands held close would be the next to be seen.
Her face was never first, always her every other part. When he saw her face it was always long
after. She said to me that this time he would see more besides what he always saw first before.
She would pull him in. He would not know where to see on her, but she would show to him with
what only her hands could show. Not her body, no other part of her would do, not this time, she
will show how he would be wrong about that. And he could start now to see; the calm fingers
holding one another, entwined and expectant, poised in memory of what he knew she could
someday say would be what would hold him. His eyes would see her here in that way, then and
without warning, and she would be redeemed by the reckless thought he put into his desire
before desire itself would someday come.
The air was colder than when they first woke up. Both
shivered. Nancy held the hand of Nora and Nora held the
dog named Snowdrop tight. With backpacks full, the two
stepped one foot in front of the other for twenty whole
blocks without a single stop. Then the two came to King
and the light was against them. Nancy pounded the button
for the crosswalk light to change. The dog's face looked up
at the sound. Tock-tock-tock-tock-tock beat the fist. Tock-
tock-tock-tock-tock was all that anyone could hear. Tock-
tock-tock-tock-tock until the cars slowed down to a halt,
leaving the way clear for the mother and daughter to march
from here all the way to where Jesse would meet them with
the truck.
All three cousins sat on the basement sofa brought up to rest on the front porch
the night before. Slivers of moonbeams crisscrossed their slightly similar faces,
while two moths swirled in the half-light above their cigarettes. It was getting
late. Everyone else had gone home. Much as he would have liked to have seen the
outcome of what Dale had said, so softly, so incessantly, all evening to Tom, Steve
knew he had to leave this minute. His head hurt. For over five hours, he had sat
at the edge of the sofa, watching as Dale's mind worked on Tom's heart. It was
difficult for this eldest cousin to witness the younger boys embroiled in such
turmoil. The throbbing waves of Dale's voice had produced, as always on every
Saturday night, a thick fog of awful memories, making Tom's eyes glow a hideous
stale green and making Steve's head grow fat with pointless regrets. As Steve said
to himself upon rising - Now is when I have to forget. Dale thought while leaning
forward - Maybe another time and they can see. And Tom recalled quietly as he
leaned back - Many families told me there is only endless love all around. Then
Steve daydreamed - Maybe tomorrow. And soon after Dale mused - I could have
said it better. While at the same time, Tom reminded himself - Not long ago, I
would have said less than I did tonight. I would have said, "Yes" more. And then
later, once back home, I would have lain awake all night, staring up at the ceiling.
Move your eyes. Do it
again. Do it again. Do it
again. Do it again. Do it
again. Do it again. Wait.
Wait. Wait. Do it again.
Wait. Do it again. Do it
again. Do it again. Do it
again. Do it again. Do it
again. Do it again. Do it
again. Wait. Do it again.
Wait. Do it again. Wait.
Shadows, only a few hours old, rich in infinite blacks and deeply
purpled, clung close among the bushes and the birch stumps ringing
the causeway entrance, and it was into these shadows that Sandra, the
one who would want to be never seen by anyone anymore, stepped.
Her family was coming home down the road from dinner; her mother
and father and one sister younger than Sandra and one brother just a
bit older; all had been walking, doing nothing but talking quietly about
tomorrow. Then she had left. Greeting her with shifting drifts of
oblivion, many almost a mile in length, the shadows received the girl
warmly. Brother Jim yelled, demanding to have the young girl say what
had happened to her and Sandra's body felt the cuts of his voice
against her last visible spot - the nape of the neck.
Joe was a good enough name, but he still didn''t like it. It reminded him of the guy that was
killed in a movie and he thought it was wrong to be calling himself after someone who was evil
and then died. He wanted Sam: it was easy to say and it sounded close to the name he was
born with. His wife, now Susan, disliked the idea of their two names starting with "S". She saw
the name Joe in a magazine, christened her husband one dark morning and smiled sweetly
when he balked at the change. Susan loved the name Joe, thought it strong, very sexy and she
could see Joe walking around looking more like Joe; his features were relaxed, more supple
than before. She could feel her own face changing as well; Susan's mouth grew large and her
lips opened wide. She was convinced Susan had grown taller. Then one day, as her husband
was fixing a whining rotor on the mixer, he stopped his work, gave her the look she knew well
and said that Joe was no good, he wanted only Sam. His wife, suddenly no longer Susan,
looked down at the raisins in her hand and said quietly that she would start to look for another
name, perhaps something that began with the letter "I".
As is well known to all, riding the bus often means standing on the bus,
especially at the busy times of the afternoon. Many people are finding
their way to work, or finding a way to someone else, or going out
shopping for what a family member might need back home, and so each
bus fills until there is no longer a place to sit for the long journey across
town, you must stand all the way and hold on. A young woman named
Dana, coming back from class, found herself always on one of these
stuffed buses. She was crushed by the shifting crowd, and the swaying
mass sucked the air out of her lungs. Dana was very unhappy. The only
thing that got her through the ordeal was a memory, one she called
upon each day, though always with a moment's hesitation, for the
emotions it brought forth were difficult for her young heart to bear. She
saw images of a public humiliation, a rushing mother, and two hands
gently holding her face. The bus and the others would disappear.
Reggie straightened and looked down at the bed he had made with all the
things he had found. The base of the bed was made of wood pieces he had
pulled from the dumpster outside of the loading dock. He had arranged them
into a form fitting box, complete with cross beams made of a thinner and
lighter wood. On top of this base, he had laid a section of drywall that was
discovered in a back hallway of the building. This was all strong enough to
support his body. A hope crossed his heart for a moment, when he was
putting down his hammer and looking for the sleeping bag and pillow, that
this bed might perhaps be strong enough for two. If everyone in the building
went home early as planned, he might be able to invite a friend to come in and
share in what he had made.
Small green specks wrapped around
his head. This was as pleasurable to
him at this moment as it had been
earlier that morning. He moved his
head to the left without knowing why.
Then, upon seeing the tail of the worm,
he knew why.
When walking, a thin sliver of grey sky begins sticking in the corner of your eye. A
damp scent, oblivious to you, thick and stupid, pushes out from beneath the brambles.
Passing one house, there is a window that is blank. Two houses now, another blank
window with a ribbon hanging down. Third house comes with the burning peppermint
reek of cleanser. There, a woman of forty makes a bed in the garage, lays a pillow against
the bare wall, folds a blanket next to an engine. Then along comes a barren lot and lying
somewhere in the grass is a muffled voice, sounding first as a man, later as a woman.
Here is the end of the block. Fat gusts come down from the grey sky. More and more
gusts come down from the grey sky.
 MOTION
PICTURE
SCRIPTS
2005-2015
ALMA LOOP