Pruneaux Tagine.
Unpronounceable French wine.
Bad English.
Good humor.
A good script is divided into several stages/parts. And some opium snorting Brit-head has taken the time to name these stages/parts and their sub-variants. (The only thing worth sub categorizing is beer. And bras.)
While I dozed through most of the lecture in film school, I distinctly remembered one stage that goes by the name of 'belly of the whale'. (For the over informed, here is a link to all that is useless: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monomyth. Go have an epiphany.)
Belly of the Whale:
The belly of the whale represents the final separation from the hero's known world and self. By entering this stage, the person shows willingness to undergo a metamorphosis.
When Henry Hill starts hallucinating choppers over his morning sky.
When Devdas starts hiccuping.
When Beatrix learns the five point heart exploding technique.
When you read the first page of any Murakami novel.
These past few days, I've been banging on the walls of this oval, vacuous, unnecessarily annointed belly. I was plucked out of my lovingly watered and nurtured routine and dropped headfirst into a pool of pruneaux tagine, unpronounceable French wine, bad English and good humor.(Note: a good script is not afraid to jump linearity in order to explain vague references made earlier. Said sleight of hand does not apply to a Leonard Cohen song.)
Every organism in my beloved familiar pond has reproduced. 2 laptops, 2 cigarette brands, 2 cups, 4 french toasts, 6 cats (huh?) and 2 nokia cellphone chargers float undigested inside this belly.
There is conversation yes. Lots of conversation. As I fluctuate in and out of my self consumed songe éviellé, I acknowledge the presence of someone else who is also banging against the fleshy walls of this very irritated whale.
We're both stuck.
Waiting for oceanic gastric acids to slowly burn a hole through our classy parisian cheese and move it permanently. But the key word that Sir Joseph Campbell added to his final stage of the hero's mono myth - 'the willingness' to undergo metamorphosis - has begun to test my patience. However, when I'm curled in bed, waltzing between sleep and wakefulness, I smell cinnamon brewing with 2 kilograms of fresh lamb in the kitchen, and I'm torn between one more snooze and one peek from behind a white shoulder, I think: "What a wonderful thing to be stressed about."
Meanwhile, my sucrose intolerance is getting better.
It has not choice.
Pruneaux tagine is sweet.
Eh.
