Homage To Luis Bunuel

[poliphilo]

We have a DVD of Un Chien Andalou out on loan. Late last night I thought I'd watch one of the extras (so I can post the disc back today and feel that I've had my money's worth.) I expected a half hour tit-bit. Turns out it's a feature length biography of Bunuel. So there I am, way past midnight, wishing the great man would hurry up and die.

He was an endearing old cove. A bit of a domestic tyrant (one gathers) but his wife and sons  humoured  him and got on with their own lives behind his back.

When members of his family were late for dinner one evening (he was fanatical about time-keeping) he put the dish of paella on the living room floor and danced on it.

I woke up around four o'clock.  I remembered how Bunuel and Dali had experimented with automatic writing- and thought I'd give it a shot myself. I started stringing words together in my head without pause for thought- and soon went back to sleep.

So here's today's exercise. A slice of automatic writing (or typing.) Ready, steady, go.....

Automatic Script

And if the cat isn't ready for the dousing I propose to give it,  that's too bad, but it will happen anyway. Ho, ho, he said and looked up to the beacon on the hill. Flags were there. Flags of many nations- all fluttering and spluttering in the breeze. They will have trouble getting over the fence, he thought. And then she arrived, swaying and clicking her castanets. He was entranced. The air grew purple round them. Rain fell and the helmets of the conquistadors glittered in the wintry sun.

That'll do. Very Spanish.  Hmmm....

And Once More Because It's Fun

The trees cast long shadows over the deer park and the two sisters lay on the tartan rug and watched how the raindrops clung to the barbed wire fence. Nothing could be worse than this, said Eloise. And nothing could be finer, said Joan. A high cloud obscured the sun. The clowns came prancing by in procession. One of them clashed a huge pair of cymbals. And then came elephants. Tall white elepahants with Howdahs on their backs . And the sisters rolled out of the way to avoid being trampled.

Comments

[jackiejj.livejournal.com]

A delectable post--hard to know where to begin.

First, Bunuel dancing on the dish of paella! Which reminded me immediately of Rumpelstilstkin's tantrums in front of the princess.

Automatic writing: How did you do it? With a pen?

I particularly enjoyed the two sisters. Very Gorey-ish! A fine short story, very visual--the clown with cymbals, the elephants with Howdahs! And the glum Eloise...

Ho, ho, he said....

How funny! And no wonder he is a happy man: And then she arrived, swaying and clicking her castanets. He was entranced.

--Such surreal worlds! Please do some more!

I think I like the idea. I may try it myself.

[besideserato.livejournal.com]

OK, I want to try now, too!

It's tacky I know but it's cold and I wonder wether the weather will follow the same trajectory to the open mouth of the sea against the shivering flowers of the flame tree here on the porch, Mr. Zebra used to sit in his cage swingng swinging chirping and I would say, "well hello Mr. Zebra can I have your sweater 'cause it's cold cold cold?" and chirp chirp chirp in the wind until one day I came home and he was dead.

That's sad! I haven't thought about poor Mr. Zebra in a while.

[jackiejj.livejournal.com]

I finally got home and untense enough to start writing--here they are: I couldn't stop--out of control, Jackie

Automatic Writing, One, Two, Three, four--can't stop.

Lacex surgery: what the hell was lecex surgery? Even if it was free, Fred wasn't having any of it. Some Christmas present. His wife was just getting too silly in her old age. He wanted someone young. He saw a cat by a fire, a bathrobe, maroon, walnuts in a dish, a wife who wasn't a doctor. Some gift certificate. Did she want to remake him? Every birthday, every Easter, the same thing-a new offer for a new procedure at her facility. Now it was beginning to look serious. lacex: sounded perverted to Fred. He glared at her across the room. Why wasn't she young, a waitress?


--

salad days for sure they thought as their motorcar eased down the grassy meadow towards the sea how long would it be 1938 and they be young and in love? The green car, the blue blue water, the swan gliding by. Shall we swim? asked Betty; and Horace, always timid, shook his head and kept his hat on. Please? asked Betty? You go, said Horace, tired suddenly of her youthful perfection and the perfect day.

I will go then, said Betty sharply, and took her long figure out of the car, threw off her shoes, waded into the lake. Turned and stuck out her tongue. Horace slid his hat down over his eyes, relaxed into the seat, dozed.

Woke at dark. The moon hung above the glassy water.


--

I shall be here when I am old, she said not caring anymore, the white floors, the urine smell in the hallways, the weird ladies in wrappers with walkers saying whooo whooo or help help as she walked by to see Marge. Marge too young, her mouth drawn down, her life drawn down, asking at 39 whoo whoo when she sat beside her, just like the others in the dining hall.

I can walk right out this door, she thought, Marge wouldn't know or care. Only one month ago they had laughed at the silly clerk at McDonalds, threw out their french fries in an arc from the window, he probably spit in them because we laughed, then went shopping for Christmas presents, laughed all the way home, and here is Marge on her white bed her death bed? her mouth a sag, saying whooo whooo like all the rough ladies in the dining room. Oh god I would walk right out must we watch Days of Our Lives? Her roommate is a mess, those sticky children who visit her, watch their stupid tv, yell all the time. The floor is so damn white and the nurses so bored and pale.

I can walk right out this door, she thought, and she put her hand on Marge's little claw, felt a flutter under her fingers, Marge's life, pulsing. Days of Our Lives on the tv, go home, go home.

--

The umbrella man brought us two new ones this season, one striped red and green for Christmas and one with fir trees for mother who loves nature with all her sticky soul. We set them in the hallway under father's portrait, he frowned down at us, why do you spend all my money on frivolities now I'm gone? Because we can, Father, haha, said silly Mag, who always spoke to father in the hallway, a spiteful greeting each day. Tomorrow we will buy figurines, she told him and laughed.

--

Snow fell all night and we were so tired of it we wanted to hit each other with pillows, white pillows like the snow, until the casings would split open and shower feathers like flakes.

--

Winter inside I failed another exam. What now? Tell my mother, who spent a fortune? Tell her my roommate is nutso and hates me? All your little friends, bring them home for Thanksgiving--yeah, sure Mom, like you'd want to see Gary with his cheek pierced Hi, this is my boyfriend, Mommy!

[butterscotch711.livejournal.com]

I really liked your automatic writing, so after this post I tried it myself ... I found it really hard not to correct things I'd already typed, and also once I was a few lines in I'd always turn whatever I was writing about into an idea for a short story, and start developing ideas about narrative structure and stuff, and totally ruin the exercise. And of course I will never find time to write the stories...