?? ....... ??????

An actual blog post, I'm so sick of these blogs, these stupid things, all of these reviews and everything. people talking like they know things. Well, here we go.

"Derek is not his name" is going in a different direction, and I'm not going to pretend like people care but I just figured I'd write something and this would motivate me to move forward. I have the last chapter written, and I have some others written too. But what I want to do is rewrite the first section, just edit it a little bit, keep it raw, then post a chapter at a time. I don't expect this to be published, ever, I don't know how good at is and I'm sure I'll look at it in a year (or maybe even when I'm rewriting them) and be in shame. I'm not a writer, and I don't like when people call me a writer.

Film always comes first, and nowadays, so does my happiness. I thought the whole story was an interesting concept and I was really affected by the whole thing, so I wrote. And then other things happened in my life, kioerfk, it59, and it worked in the writing too, so I wrote that. But it's all so defeating, I grew sick of things, and here I am with the last chapter, on paper, not typed up yet. It's going to be weird getting back into things, it won't be fake because I'll have to dive back into that mindset. Right now, Derek is gone and that's fine. I think we grow up and we realize that we need to stop being selfish. The whole story, the whole time, it was all really fucking selfish, undeniably selfish, and why should someone that doesn't want to be friends with me (or anyone, for that matter) be forced to? It was all funny, the search for Derek, planning a trip to go find him, but it's not like something happened and where did he go, he removed himself for a purpose, and I can spend my whole life wondering why, and through this writing I didn't learn why, but I learned to just shut the fuck up. I have plenty of people here that I want to be with and they want to be with me, and there it is, it's like when someone gives us a compliment and it means nothing but if someone insults us it goes the whole way. Oh, out of commission for two days. Well, forget that. It's all a joke.

So the whole thing will go on until it is done and I willput it upfor free and clean upthesite and make it look kinda nice, and I will still be practicing my Thomas Bernhard for section two, so we can all look forward to that, well, some of us, I suppose.

I'm also going to change all the names in the rewrites, take out some of thesillier stuff, some of it, some of it needs to stay raw. But yeah, sorry Katy, you'll probably be Amanda or Jill or something.

shrug. well wellwellscooters vacation fall who wants to go on a trip?

Dr. Noonan

The woman opened the door and my grandfather guided me in. The doctor would be in in a minute, she says, but I knew this would take long. It took up time that could've been well spent working on other things, beating a video game for the sixth time, but at least I didn't have school. There was a long table with white paper covering most of it. This is where I sat, and there was another seat for my grandpa.

After a long period of silence due to our vast age difference, actually he might've told me "and you better - something and something", the doctor came in, this Dr. Noonan was old and bald and apparently friends with my grandfather. As they caught up, I wondered how many other people my grandpa knew, and if I would know this many people when I was older. I wondered if we ever interacted with people he didn't know. Things would be much quicker if the world (town) was filled with strangers, or even acquaintances.

I looked around the room because I had to, I don't remember what they were talking about - I was in for a check up, and I had just started a habit, a strange habit of clearing my throat a lot. I can't remember how new it was, only because it seemed to have always been there. Did I really never do this before whenever it was? Dr. Noonan checked me out and said I was a healthy, and that clearing my throat was probably due to stress, to which my grandpa asked me what I was stressed about. I shrugged and said school, but I didn't really know what else to say other than that. I pressed the paper cover and bent it in different spots, I searched for the clean smooth spots and bent them.

The conversation was already over and a new one had started. Is it better to be in the waiting room, at the kids table that doesn't fit ANYONE, playing with that toy that's not a toy? The thing has a wooden base and a bunch of different colored wires, with one shape per wire and they went back and forth. It's not a fun thing, and it makes the entire trip much sadder, because it's dark in there too, and when my grandma coughs - she always does two rounds, first round cough coughcoughcough cough... coughacoughacough cough.... a woman with a baby, eating out of a microwave popcorn bg looked at her concerned - even though it was another check up for me, and that's what she did all of the time, and don't stare at my grandma.

Dr. Noonan's story seemed entirely pointless, he told my grandpa about a mean doctor, he had a patient and he took her hand and asked if it hurt, she said no, then he pressed harder and asked Does this hurt?! There was also a detail of a paperclip that he always wore, the mean doctor, and in between these different vignettes, the paper clip was somewhere different on his white coat.

His stories never added up to anything.

I could never tell if my grandpa was too nice to say we had to go, or if it the diagnosis never properly finalized - there was no concluding sentence, it was something small and then we veered off subject, which ended up in me veering off, so I never knew if he actually verbally finished with me or not. Chances are, I'd still be clearing my throat after this visit, and probably for a very long time. But would I ever know how consistent it was, or is, do I do it a lot or is it so common that I do it and don't know it or do I really not do it all the time and only when I'm stressed?

My dog was in the kitchen, he had fungus on his nose and it must've hurt because he didn't want me picking at it. It needed to come off though. It was golden brown and bumpy, and from far away you really couldn't see it. The night before I had pretended to be stuck to the refrigerator, my arms locked into the door handles, just to see if he would do anything. I yelled help a few times and he started barking, then I released myself and hugged him. He must've felt like he helped me, there's no way that he knows I tricked him.

We finished up at the office and the ride home was fine, there was one embarrassing ride home when my grandpa and I got burger king and took it to a park to eat, and it was really hot on my lap, and I told him They don't make them like they used to. And he said Nope. 

It's all finally over.

So if I found all of this, and it wasn't about Derek and it was about me, I'd be very uncomfortable. Right. But this is a character. It's not me. It's mostly me, sometimes not mostly... I don't walk down the street thinking Derek. I'm not always ailed by his disappearance and in bleak confusion over my role in it. Does bleak work? It will, for now.

I only think of him when I write. (That's not completely true - Ed.) I only write when I feel compelled to. I can't imagine ever reading this outloud, memoir, whatever it was just became diary bull shit. Me me me, derek derek derek in lower case for some reason. If I stop writing, well, obviously it'd be in my best interest to stop. I'm worried about legal action or someone (okay Derek it's you) taking this terribly personally in a negative way. One thing's for sure, we will never be friends again. Maybe if I didn't do this, I'd find him in 20 years and we'd be okay. Maybe not, of course, but we'd have that possibility. That's all we have is that slight possiblity. That's all we got going. This is all embarrassing me.

?

Walking walking walking to the/away from

The characters are real, or they become real, and:

Now I'm scared that this will all blow up in my face. It's harassment, isn't it? Why can't I just let it go? It's terrible. I'm screwing everything up with all of this. What garbage. This is the most permanent thing I've ever felt. My grandmother passed away. I can never see her or talk to her again. That's selfish. She can finally rest and not have to struggle to breathe or deal with anything else that ailed her. Fuck me, her death had nothing to do with me. Why did she have to go, this and that, but she did. And she's not in pain anymore. It has nothing to do with me and If I think it does, I'm a terrible person. She's at rest, I love her.

So by that... so by that. Is derek dead? Don't know. But I can't see him or talk to him again, his choice. I want to. Is that selfish in the same way? Yes. But clearly that is selfish of him too. However, it is also, in the same way, he owes me nothing. He doesn't have to do anything to me or with me. And here I am.

I compared my grandma's death to Derek's disappearance from my life. I've done it before but now this is the first time it's in writing. It used to say "Hey, pathetic." right there but I erased it out. I don't really need to mention the fact that it is pathetic, nor do I need to creuctt the amount.

He can't do it.

It might have been too much for Derek to be the person everyone smiles at and depends on for a laugh. I tried many times to be that person and I've either failed, put in very little and extremely lazy effort, or completely lost interest in making people that didn't even care about me laugh. I can understand that it might have been overwhelming. Long Island is also a miserable place; much of the school year took place in Winter. There were dark days, well, grey days (or gray) and they had no interest in helping you through your mood. Take some it took it all to get through those fucking Winters. No one knew how to dress any warmer, and I remember the days I spent looking terrible in a button down, sweater, goodie, and jacket... and then seeing someone walking around with an "I don't give a shit" look with an open jacket, short sleeve polo, and smoking a cigarette. I shivered the entire way to class. I slipped on the ice that the school refused to clean up, and as I fell and stood up (making both look as ridiculous as possible, mind you. I f people want to watch, they deserve a show I think) I wondered why they didn't get rid of the fucking ice. Too easy.

So how would Derek trip, or how did Derek feel about Winter? I could guess, but I don't really know. Now that you mention it (I mentioned it, well, mention makes it insignificant and its not, at least I am still trying to prove to myself that it isn't insignificant) Where to... go back, so Derek snowboarded and lived in Vermont. So maybe he was okay with it. But maybe he wasn't. You know, oh okay hold on. I didn't really know him that well. Maybe better than most, but did I, I don't know. I don't think so. I'm fairly private, but it's only because I think people don't care. If they want to know, they ask. When people ask why I live with my grandparents, it's uncomfortable because it seems weird. It's not, but the situation is one that people don't know how to react to. Which is fine. But aside from being very out-of-the-ordinary (maybe I'm normal, let's not start saying that I'm self-stamping myself, if I am or amn't it is neither a good or bad thing). I had a regular childhood. The worst part is that I don't know who my Dad is, the worst part about that is that I think my Mom slept around in high school, the kicking part of that is that I might never know who he is because she doesn't, and what's worse with or in that is that I want to know and to beat everything, I only want to know because I feel that at this point in my life after not caring for so long, I feel like I should.

Speaking of self, dot dot dot dot, because that's what I'm doing, we can I can go on about how this is supposed to be about Derek. But I don't know anything about him, Maybe that's why it's no big deal to him. Big deal. So I end up writing about myself, my experiences with him turn into my similar experiences, etc. How about stopping? Who wants to write about how they're doing it all wrong, then read it over? Well, there you go.

I invented a frisbee game. One team versus one team. I was 11 or 12. My cousin Matthew was on the opposing side. Team A got the frisbee and threw it to B, back + forth, whoever did not catch it, Iwhatever team threw it got a point. And we all took turns throwing. Matt was terrible and we laughed at hi, he couldn't throw well. He got upset and said something like "Try this one!" and was absolutely serious when he said it. He jerked the frisbee, well he jerked his entire arm around in every direction (one of us counted, I later proposed we study the move to see if it at all would prove useful in other recreational/professional activities/battles) and threw it, it landed directly on the ground and rolled towards us. From whatever show he saw that in (he was 8 or 9), where the underdog does this strange maybe not strange but does something and wins. The reality was actually the show with someone about to do something serious, then it blows up in his face and we get the punchline.

This isn't writing. I toyed with the idea of doing an open mic, only because I just went to one, but what is this? Self-satisfying, self-gratifying, there's modesty and insecurity, but do I really feel that way? How do you know? It's garbage. What will I do with this?

I don't know Derek, he doesn't know me. He has no problem forgetting me and everything we had as friends. I can't , and there's no answer why. I'm not discovering anything, it's all just terribly warm, isn't it? Isn't it warm there, old friend? Did you just think or me, or was it someone else, like Ryan? DO YOU KNOW THAT I'M THE ONLY ONE THAT CALLS YOU DEREK, IN FACT, IS THIS FOR YOU, DEREK? AS I WRITE ABOUT MYSELF and fall into your stories, lightly, maybe it's really for you. And I get scared, I get nervous because everything you've done and said enforces this thought - the existence of this writing, it goes on and on, it will bother you. You will hate it. And I write this, knowingly. Would you take action? Legally take action? I wouldn't put it past you, or blame you. Know this, though - I just want to be friends again. And I really try not to make this creepy, but the mind is creepy. I guess. I don't know, that's awful. That's not writing. But don't take any of this as a threat, I'm so scared that this will be taken the wrong way, my hands are not the hands of old Chapter 27. 

I was too nervous to make that phone call, but I will soon, I think.

Help is on the way

Junior year, we had a brilliant class. Our professor told us to come up with one scene that would be one shot. This was probably the best directing practice I've ever had, and, of course, the class was a one-time-only deal because people complained to the department head. It's a shame, I should tell her that it was a good class.

So I think about this class, then Derek's idea, which he didn't do. I'm pretty sure that he pitched his idea for the American Soldier Suicide Bombers, but that was rejected. I'm thinking of his other idea.

It had something to do with a man hitting on a woman... and then there were gunshots. The woman then reveals that she is a man, and an undercover doctor of some sort. It sounds silly but that's only because I can't remember the exact details. She tries to help the hurt man, and that's about where it ends, with the man bleeding on the sidewalk, the man doctor still looking like a woman but has already revealed himself, and the man who was hitting on the doctor trying to help in anyway possible.

These things, such as his script ideas, other things too, it all didn't seem like anything to me at the time, they didn't represent anything bigger or really affect me until now. Sure, if you boil things down, if you make them vague enough, you can fit any situation. 

See: Nostradamus & 9/11.

It's not perfect, and nothing really fits that well, but if I sit down with it for a long time, it just might. I spoke to Ryan last night for a long time, and we were just honest with each other about a lot of things, which is good, and we spoke about this and what we're trying to do. He was worried about writing, not this but something else, as he didn't want to get sued or anything. I encouraged him to do it, who cares, whatever happens happens, and then I said that he shouldn't be nervous about that person but this person is the one he should be nervous about.

With a smile he mentioned that every time we spoke about Derek, weird/mysterious/scary music should play. That amused me, but I couldn't help but shake a little bit, and then spit out "Something's going to happen."

What did that mean? Something's going to happen? I said it four times, I think, and I meant it. He'd find this, and something would happen. He'd catch wind of the script, when we did that, and something would happen. He'd see the movie, he'd hear of it's completion, and something would happen. And from the tone of my voice as it came out, it wasn't going to be good.

We wouldn't die, but would it go legal? It could. I wouldn't put it passed him, and I also wouldn't blame him. 

Ryan also mentioned that we think about it so much, but he probably doesn't think about us at all. I never really thought about that, and now that I am thinking about it, it makes me seem much more creepy and it makes me wonder if I should just get over it or not, stop exploring my feelings and memories because nothing will come of it.

That's something that should be taken into account. What will come of it? You write something personal... I always felt that if you were to do a film (or it could be any art), you should present a question... an argument... some sort of idea, a statement, something. If it's personal, that's great too, and if the story's good and it engages the audience, that's Great Three. But what could this be? It can't be an effort to "get him back"... like, it can't be this that will make him realize that we were good friends and nothing major happened to really justify him cutting ties with us. I haven't made him seem like a great guy or a terrible guy, just a human being, and if I was trying to praise him so he could see that I did care about him, I failed. I think, I think you can see that I care. That's obvious. But this, in no way imaginable, will get him to start talking to me again.

It's not to understand why it happened in the first place. I don't think. It's getting a bit more clear, but it wasn't really foggy to begin with. I'm realizing things I might have done, and remembering things he had done, and its very obvious why things never got resolved. As things become more and more clear, it helps me less and less. So how much I harass someone, directly or indirectly, before... well, before what? Before they tell me to stop? If he messaged me, or called me, something, and told me to stop, what the hell would that prove? What am I trying to do here? Memory after memory, after this after that, what is it?

Derek worked at some garbage place in Vermont. Ryan found his phone number, he was listed on it's website. We don't know if he's there or not (how could we) and I dared Ryan to call him. He said he would, and he didn't. Then I said I would.

Next week, I'm going to call him.

No no.

Visited school the other day and saw a lot of old friends. Graduating wasn't that big of a deal. It was a great thing to accomplish, and it made my Mother and grandparents very proud. And I'm glad. Loans attacked me months later, but it was fine, paying loans, that is, it's what people do. And I still visited school as I still had a lot of good friends that had a year left. But now it's May, and now this is it. Everyone's going, and what's the chance that I will end up on that campus again any time soon? Visit a professor or two, but those that I would visit I'm close enough to go out somewhere with anyway. See somewhere else. Why would I go there anymore? It's over, there's nothing left there for me anymore. It's gonna be pretty empty soon. I don't need it.

Use and throw away, there you go. Let's go!

As I was at the film festival, one of my professors sat behind me. I hadn't seen him at any festivals prior to this one, and he left before my film "Behavior" was shown. This festival was a good experience because I was practicing not walking out of the room while my film is being shown. And it worked, but I was interested in what the professor thought of it, just because I admire him. And so on and so on, yes. I'm proud of my film, it's not perfect, surely, I failed in some areas, but I absolutely learned from it, and if anyone actually likes it - I can never tell no matter how many times they come up to me - I'll be very happy and excited. The aforementioned professor, a few sentences back, he stayed for the first half of the festival. During the drag of the longer shorts, I began to think of previous festivals. The unfortunate immature laughing that we all partake in, that I'm absolutely a victim and perpetrator of, and I thought of what was shown. I thought of the professor and thought of the time that Derek showed his film to him.

I stayed later after class and watched it with Derek, the professor, nameless number head student who I never saw again. The film was a one take long shot, with American soldiers strapping bombs to their chest, thus resorting to a battle tactic that general Americans despise, look down on, and can't understand. It was smart, it had something to say, and it was handled very inoffensively. Appropriately. The student very pointlessly pointed out that, during the dolly shot, you can see the camera. During the film, of course. Rude, sir, you are rude. Cross the line. The professor liked it in the end. But, in the end, it did not show at the festival. I never received a copy of it, and I have high doubts that it ended up in the mailbox of any festival. I had worked on that, and it was a good time, and I was hoping there were many more to come. But there weren't. There were supposed to be, there's always supposed to be.

Ryan and I worked on a film we called "Mural". People laughed at it during our school's festival. So I heard, and it hurt, but that's okay. It wasn't ready at all. The script, I mean, why were we writing about what we were writing about? I think we had an interesting question to raise, but... it needed work. The execution wasn't there. It was about a house cleaner taking pictures of the home's young daughter's underwear and such, then getting caught by the father. Everything in the draft was intentional, like the non-ending and the slow pace and the still shot of the underwear, but it didn't seem to work. Needed more work, that's right. You live, you learn. I'm glad we did it. Derek was supposed to shoot it. A week or two before the shoot, he started to disappear. We couldn't find him. Ryan no longer lived with him, Ryan was an RA. As we hustled the script, we sent him a few drafts and wanted to meet with him and show him movies like The Son so he could get a good idea of what he wanted. Then, Derek's roommate told Ryan that he went to Florida. We figured he'd be back before the shoot, we figured, he knew the date of the shoot. He reserved the equipment! He's into it, he wouldn't ditch us.

Paragraph break for effect, he did. I called him a few times to see if he would make it, to see if I could get an explanation of some sort, an apology of some sort, and neither were given to me. That's fine. Ryan saw him and Derek apologized, but never explained. Did we need one? 

Well, I think now I want one. For everything, probably, but I also don't want one. Because if someone apologizes to you, if someone really means it, they don't need to explain what happened, because it's none of your business. That's right, correct? Isn't it none of your business.

So I think about the blur of the weeks after "Mural". Ryan edits. Derek in and out of class. Texts to Derek saying that I would forget everything, texts to Derek calling him out for things being unresolved... biting stuff. Nice stuff. None of it worked, and if I stood my ground and stuck with one way or the other, it wouldn't have worked either. I saw him in class and I didn't know whether to be okay with him or not. It felt weird. I wanted to be okay. This is the way to do it. Forget what happened and just act regular. But there's a point where something happens, anything happens, and it's not the same. And one person will try to act okay, and they'll still feel it but they're acting, and the other person wants to do the same thing and will even make that decision before they enter the door but it just doesn't work like that. It's hard for me. I am a coward.

I couldn't do it. I walked around the building I worked in with my friend Tim. I explained everything to him, and Derek walked out of the building. We said hello to each other. It was weird. Tim saw first hand what was frustrating me so much, how I just wanted everything to be okay, even if I wasn't making the proper effort. One of us was always giving when the other wasn't ready. And I suppose that the game just got tiresome.

My own graduation consisted of hanging out with Tom and Kyle, both with the program since the start, but I had never really spoken much with them. We had worked together in the last few months, and I really became good friends with them. The 3 hour commencement passed nicely with my new friends, and it felt good, and it also felt terrible because I was now friends with people that it would be much harder to see. Then, I see Ryan with Nick. And apparently, they're okay and walking and sitting together. It's okay. He smiles and gives me five or something like it, and it was great! We're all happy. We had a bad few weeks, hey man I had a bad few weeks and I don't want to talk about it but we did it and we're off and out.

Commencement was 3 hours of award giving and speeches and we're all tired. Then at noon we head to our respective tents and shake the hands of our department. We get a fake diploma, a picture, then peace. Derek was with Ryan as we walked out of the building in a line into the huge white tent. We passed by family, I saw my Mom and Maxine, and I spoke to them briefly as they took my picture. My Mom was really proud, I think. I'm too shy to make my family watch any of my movies, but I get upset when they don't ask about them or what I am doing.

Derek's family and girlfriend were there. Ryan saw them. They sat down and as I joked around with Kyle and Tom, I yelled stuff across the tent to other people. Just having fun. Some to Ryan and Derek, but not too much. I couldn't see them but they could hear me yelling and I'm sure they laughed. So I didn't talk to them across the room, but they heard me.

During this 3 hour commencement, Derek leaves. He gets up and walks away. He says something to Ryan before he leaves, something Ryan can't remember. Something so ordinary that he can't remember, something so unnecessary that Ryan didn't really hear but he nodded anyway. Ryan took his tone and understood that he would be back.

Derek never came back. Derek was from Vermont. His girlfriend was from Florida. His girlfriend had flown out for graduation, his parents had probably picked her up and drove to Long Island. 8 hours in a car? How long in a plane? It's quite a bit. It is terribly, terribly strange for this journey to take place, both ways, so closely to one another. Walking, absurd for the students but important to the parents. I don't want to judge but I am trying to understand. Why would they leave? It occurs to me that maybe he didn't say he'd be right back, maybe he said something else and watched the rest of the commencement with his family. But why? As we walked over to the smaller Visual Arts tent, he never showed. He never received his fake diploma or his picture. All we have is the cliche and overdone memory of an empty chair next to Ryan, it screams at us and fucking bleeds and we can't even think about it because it's become overdone and meaningless. It is absolutely meaningless that Ryan had to sit next to an empty chair during a 3 hour self-satisfying $10,000 event that only parents cared about before they actually realized what they were watching. It is not important to anyone that I sat there, able to see the back of Ryan's head and not realize that Derek was no longer there, and how it was the last time I was ever going to see him, and that never I now that time keeps going and it's been so long since then and I can't help but think of all these different things and I write to try and figure out htings that might not need to be figured out at all, and my grandpa says to just be done with it and nobody else even understands that I had a friend that we had a friend and he is just where is he is he in Vermont is he in Flrodai what did we do t ohim and that graduation, what ever he did say to me because, I can't remember that either. I can't remember what he said to me just lke Ryan couldn't either (is that what it is? My grandma died the night I watched Pygmalion. I didn't talk to her that day. Did I?) Is he here is he there? Is he dead is it worse that he's probably not dead that he's out there but I still can't talk to him?

Was I really, really that close with him?

Does it matter if I was or wasn't? Does it mean anything.

I sit at the festival and I want to ask one professor if he showed up that one day. I sit at the festival and think about the time we watched his film in the classroom with the other professor I mentioned. I want to ask him if he's heard from Derek at all. Yeah, I'd use his real name. I didn't ask, I'll probably end up doing it in an e-mail. I think I don't really want to know if they saw him or not. What would it even matter? Confirm his existence? Is that what I need? Perfect things to end on.

1. What do I need

2. Does it mean anything

3. Is it important that right now he is getting what he wants

4. He is getting what he doesn't want, isn't he

5. It's all such a mess.