A day largely of uselessness. Did nothing. Haven't checked the email in a few days. Screened the first two seasons of the Australian supernatural thriller Glitch on the Netflix. It was okay. Fair. Borrows heavily from The Returned, Carnival of Souls, "Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to you My Lad," Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Stranger Things, which already borrowed from a bunch of things (or maybe it was the other way around; but this show and that first season of Stranger Things have a lot in common). Okay idea, ran out of shape for it, if you know what I mean. Early portion did suggest the ultimate threesome. Wait. My bad. That's wrong. Also borrows from "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." I have had an idea for a show in my head for a while. I have screened so many of these series, most of which are ineffectual and which shoot their qualitative load in the first episode or, at best, the first season. There is a reason why I watch these shows. To learn the mistakes being made. I have always thought cinematically. Always thought in terms of how what I wrote could fit to screens of various sizes, always read scripts and studied how they were put together, broken down every device, all the forms of blocking, shots, editing techniques. Gave the weekly interview on Downtown, talking about my last two Beatles pieces, and larger Beatles ideas. Portions of what I said were like live airshot versions of the book I am doing, Same Band You've Never Known: An Alternative Musical History of the Beatles. Also began readying my mind to formally compose what could be the next short story, "Floor It A.C." I've have about ten short stories in my head, and I've been working on them in various ways. "Funny Lines TK" resided in my head for two and a half years; "Nacho Cheese" was there a couple weeks. This one goes back maybe six months. I don't know. But like I said, I did little today. This story will be strong. Have to keep going, have to keep fighting against the harbor blockade. There is a way to open water, and it is open water that will make the change of all. Then we will really begin. With the body of work in place, the development having ramped up exponentially in terms of range, ease of creation, rapidity of creation, strength, ability to lead, courage, radio and public speaking chops, on account of the years of unique duress, pain, pressure, stacked decks. These shows are all so derivative of each other. That, more than anything, is what marks what you will see on Netflix. The End of the Fucking World was easily the best show I've seen on there in the last year. Not close. Also, not derivative. The arc works completely (having said that, that's part of the "problem"--if it is even a problem--with that show: there is nowhere left to go; the first season is the show), the ending works completely, the humor, the (not forced) edge, the progression of the characters, and one thing people never get is that you can go very, very, very fucking dark when the human emotion and heart is real, and you will not burden and beat down your audience. What then tends to happen is the work registers as real, rather than dark. Too many filmmakers and show runners now get bogged down in nihilism, because they don't know how to tap into human realness. They deal in the attitudinal, rather than the actual. Because they are at a loss, and they try to hide this with a series of poses. Critics are used to the poses, and venerate certain forms above others, losing the ability to see anymore what are poses. The lap at the balls of whatever show is going to be the darling for the moment, and absolutely irrelevant and forgotten ever after. The wellspring of the actual (which does not mean literal; it's there in "The Metamorphosis," for instance) perpetually eludes these shows. It's not just talent. It's the talent of wisdom, then rendering that visceral, engaging. But once you pierce that hole in that particular cask, you can do anything you want, if you do it well, and the audience will flow downstream with you. Listening to Biber's Mystery Sonatas now. The "Floor It" in the title of the story stems from a child's misspelling of the word "floret." A.C. is for Athletic Club. These florits belong to sunflowers. Haven't shaved in a week and a half. Look like a ponce. Drank a lot of leftover Starbucks Christmas coffee from 2016.
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