The Delicate Balance of Terror 8

“Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. Now that he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.” George Orwell

-What are you protecting?

-I told you I ask the questions.

In a flash The Interviewer flickers in and out.

-What are you…my…what are We protecting?


The Director fades into the shadows… everything falls apart

He watches the crack grow longer and splitting across the fish tank. The eyes are still watching him, penetrating into his but he can’t see their mouths. He feels their eyes, more than ever he can see what they are as they spin in circles staring out blankly he sees their life, even if they can no longer feel it. As they raise their hands to the sky in some sort of worship he cannot recognize, a small amount of fear begins to overwhelm him. A hum he cannot understand exits their mouths in a droning, sleep inducing pace. Water begins shooting from the cracks in the fish tank as the humming grows louder. A hand passes by his eyes as he sees himself in an alleyway with rain pouring down his hat. Still the humming continues and the faces follow not far behind. The invisible hand behind him directs him forward as he turns back and sees a greenish fog ascending from the ground below the humming people. They cannot see it, but he notices the fear in their eyes. a whisper from somewhere-they cannot see it, but they’re told it is there. And the desert washes over him and the bleeding sun and he is reminded of something that is instantly forgotten. As he puts his hand on the pavement below his feet, the pulse is gone, but the green fog surrounds his hands. He tips his hat as the fear grows stronger in their focused eyes, and the humming grows louder and is near impossible to understand but it’s their beating hearts that he still can see, it is what he came for. He places his hand in front of his mouth, but it is no longer there. In a scream something releases from his eyes, he falls to his knees and raises his hands up as the rain pours down on his fog covered hands

-Cut! Cut!

The Detective sees her, the long blond hair, her dying eyes, the red lipstick spread across her mouth, the Hollywood sign burning to the ground, the children reaching, crying out to the Earth. Blankness, shadows walk through him, fade from this

-Remember why you’re here

The blood of the sun awakens him.

-I don’t

There is a drilling coming from behind me. They are coming for me now. They’ve taken enough pictures, distracted enough thoughts, my story is old and it needs to end. There are hands reaching for me, voices I’ve long forgotten calling out for me, the tears of my mother and my sister are washing down my face as they fall from above. I don’t want to leave, please don’t take me away from here. Hands are reaching through the cracks in the wall as I have nowhere to turn.

The old man holds his lamp up, shining down from the mountain. He has a song to sing but he can’t remember the words. He has a story to write but no longer has a pen. He has dreams to film but there is no camera. His painting, the Last painting is finished in a mural spread across his mind. He hears their cries of pain and despair emanating from his blood and it’s all he needs to know. As long as their story is untold, as long as their song remains unsung, he must continue telling it, even if it ends in a blaze of fire. He touches his beating heart and cries out a song that only he can hear. There is nothing untouched by it.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 7

“If liberty means anything at all. it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” George Orwell

I awaken to water dripping down my face as I’m reminded of the words that destroyed me. Instinctively I reach out for them, reach out for the ones above me still snapping the pictures, still writing my story, telling me who I am. In a flash of shadows my mother and my sister appear still holding my burning words, I touch my stomach and see their large empty eyes, chaining me to the idea of my own existence.

– Can you tell me what this word means to you? What does love mean to you?


I see The Movement slowly ascending the hill in the far distance as the man with the beard is furiously writing. The Movement is flickering in and out along with their candles, in and out of the shadows and fog becoming a slow flickering cloud moving along with the wind. I can no longer see them, but their presence does not disappear. The man with the beard appears to feel them, as in the middle of his furious pace, the words sing to his ears,

Now I understand what you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

They would not listen, they did not know how,

perhaps they’ll listen now*

In a slow fury the words he’s writing continue falling to the ground in a pile of ashes, flickering along with The Movement, entering the beat of his heart as he whispers, resist.

-Not sure the words exist anymore.

-Someone is taking the words? What does it mean to you?

-Your sentences are taking the words, telling me I’m crazy is taking the words, telling me who I am is taking the words. I am not you, will never be-

-What does love mean to you?

The Detective is in a large room, a Japanese restaurant where the tables are covered in white cloth, the entire back wall is a giant fish tank. There is a wind up lizard toy on the table shooting out sparks as it moves. A waiter stands in front of him, writing in his notepad even though The Detective isn’t saying a word. He places his hand over the candle in the middle of the table and glances around the room. There is not one person in the room whose eyes are not upon him. He watches a crack form running down the front of the fish tank as the lizard toy walks off the edge of the table. He clutches his stomach and closes his eyes.

-No separation…existing as one

*Don McLean

The Delicate Balance of Terror 6

“His mother’s memory tore at his heart because she had died loving him…Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, or deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.” George Orwell

My eyes adjust to the darkness as I touch for just a moment what I once was, the words melt in my hands into a pile of ash. Up on the hill, the man with the beard at his feet, continues writing. The flickering at the bottom of the hill below him, continues unbeknownst to him. The Movement enters the building, swept up in a wave they can no longer let go of. The building changes shape as they enter. Now there are windows and a light coming through as the man continues writing above, his words singing through the air although no one is listening. The Movement exits the building unsure where to go next as the shadows are once again floating overhead and are attaching to the planes along with the rainbows and the light exiting the buildings windows. The man continues writing faster and faster, but there is no catching up. His hand waves over a flickering candle and for the first time I can read his words, don’t forget, don’t ever forget…my mother, my sister, my eyes grow wide…”the mutability of the past” the pain, that’s why I’m here, the tweezers are in my hand…in a whisper you can take it away, you can remove the pain and I approach them as they hold my poem laughing as my heart is torn in two, laughing at the words that would define my life. The words that helped me to remember…how can we just sit by and watch, how can we sit back and watch people die, and buy things conceived with their invisible blood ossified into plastic? The words released themselves into the wind as I am carried along with it, a flash, hands reaching into my skull and I…

-What did you learn…when you filmed yourself?

-I was just doing your job for you.

-You almost never came back.

-Came back where?…

…as he looks out upon the wastes of the world, The Detective falls to his knees and scoops up water into his mouth. How could they have forgotten how to live here? There is an insecure unsafe feeling entering him. He remembers he does not know where here is. He calmly places his hand on the desert land as the pulse becomes him, and he tips his hat to the sun and continues on walking.

-I wanted to know what I was.

In the middle of the vast desert, he sees a dying dog howling up to the sun, He places his hand on her beating heart, instantly remembering why he’s here.

-And what are you?

There is a vast labyrinthine building in the distance, seemingly where the sun ends. The dog lets out another cry, and the yelping is roaring from The Detectives own mouth. And he hears the music in the background and he can see the flickering cutting through the darkness. The Detective once again places his hand upon the pulse of the Earth, as it pulses through his beating heart and the cries are no longer separate from his. The shadows float over his head, reaching down in an attempt to attach themselves. He looks up as the tears of the sun in pink orange droplets fall from his eyes…

-Love, just love man, your worst nightmare.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 5

“He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken.” George Orwell

The sky was dark, almost reddish orange and the sun looked like it was bleeding down the sky. In the melting sun as if painted across the sky were the words, ” We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.” And I no longer know if the tears I shed are from our dying world, or from my life that died so long ago. On my knees I reach up to the sky and my answer comes along with the jack boots pounding in succession, echoing across the Earth in every direction. I touch my stomach as I feel it again, I feel the pores of my skin breathe the dying air, the blood from the sun melts down into my eyes, the rattling and the tinkering and in a flash…I need help…the pounding gets closer and I see the torches and the judgmental eyes and that look, that cold, hard, empty look and they Know what I am but I don’t have a clue. They surround me and they are pointing at me as I touch my heart and remember. The crying grows louder because the box was broken and they can’t watch anything. The building no longer has shadows releasing from it and I know something is wrong and the screaming and the pounding enter my mind as the circle grows bigger around me and the tears from the sun now block my sight. I touch my stomach and close my eyes and there you are, still holding her hand as you let out a smile and the only sound I can hear is the wind and my beating heart.

-Why did you decide to make a movie about two children committing suicide?

-To protest the war, they committed suicide in protest of the Vietnam War.

-Yes but-

-They gave their lives to protest all that is wrong with our society and they were ignored, that’s why, to give them the voice they never had.

-But none of your movies before this-

-I know, American Mercenary didn’t start an antiwar movement(laughs)…I don’t know, something in the wind I got swept up with, no answer for you really

…and I fall into that glass house where they took me to see. And I saw the dead words, empty sentences of scenes I did not yet know how to express. The pain I felt from all across the universe, unable to let out a whimper and I knew then I failed them, but I would never give up. I promised that, and I promised patience, when her dark voice spoke to me through the night. I always knew I’d be here, seeing this, feeling this, expressing the blood falling from the sky and in the darkness way out by that dark impenetrable building I saw flickering light and I saw quiet, calm as the words overtook me as that building didn’t seem all that impenetrable anymore. In a chant heard around the universe I heard, “All we are saying, is give peace a chance.” And in a flash a movement was created, The Movement as equally as impenetrable as that building, because once we learn how to feel what peace feels like, there’s nothing that can tear us apart, besides our own minds.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 4

“The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in.” George Orwell

A light shines on my face as I close my eyes. -Why are you here?

-Where am I?

I’m tired, tired and trapped here, it feels like I’m trapped in a science fiction movie and I have to crawl myself out. But crawl into what? I always knew it would be like this, I was born for this, we all were. And we just need to stand up.

-The movie, we need to know why…

-Why, I’m The Director, that’s why…why…why…

“Because we see that people just won’t do and say what they feel and you can’t just tell someone to. It seems that people are only touched by death and maybe people will be touched enough to look into their lives and if just one person is touched enough to do something constructive and peaceful with their life then maybe our death was worth it. Why-because we love our fellow man enough to sacrifice our lives so that they will try to find the ecstasy in just being alive.” Love and peace, Craig Badiali

-That’s why.

The light again blinds my sight and I hear rumblings I cannot decipher them. Through my blindness I’m taken back to that house, all made of glass, even the pipes that carried my blood filled vomit to its destination. And the new eyes they placed upon my own, lenses that dissolved into me and I thought now maybe I could see everything. I walk through the restaurant, the entire back wall is a fish tank, walking through words I had written so long ago. It’s now all alive in front of me and I know what to do, because I’ve been here before.

-Why? Can you answer that for me? Why? And in a flash of darkness, The Interviewer disappears…

I fell here, weeping for all I remembered and reaching out for all I forgot, but in the blink of an eye, it all disappeared. An electric pulse overcomes me as I continue falling with no end in sight. There is a shadow hovering over me. Each time I look at it, it seems to grow bigger, following the movement of my eyes, I can’t look past it. It pulses out of my stomach, like a puff of black smoke, it becomes a veil I look through. Water drips down my forehead as I remember, I am trapped here, at the bottom of a well, and the whole world is watching from above.

Pounding of boots can be heard slowly approaching, I am not scared. My lips mumble words I can no longer understand, and my heart beats along to a song I can no longer hear. And they keep on assembling and they keep attaching them to the shadows over head and the cries grow louder…the only words I can understand, why…why my heart knew, it could see the chains breaking from our wrists and his hand, their eyes looking so deep into each other there was no separation and the wish, the love, the only thing they had to give to possibly change this, their hands tightened in each others grasp, and they instantly knew that living truth is the only thing that could stop the boots from approaching.

-Why? This is my redemption song…our redemption song and all we need to do is listen to the beat.