.... ("small dots")*
The scene takes place in the living room of a home. There's two matching couches forming an "L" around a big-screen TV. The couches are worn-in but not out of place. Though they are clearly older than the house, their unapologetically aged state adds to the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the room. The TV is similarly out of date, despite its intimidating size. The impressive dimensions of the screen are kept modest only by the amount of space it takes in the realm of depth. The image of a "large box" immediately springs to mind. Along the wall stands a tall plant. With the height of an adult, the plant gives off an "almost human" presence in the room. It stands quietly, like a man, unspoken, leaning against a wall, always watching but never with any sense of judgment. Underlying these various objects, the floor is carpeted, an off-white colour with a seemingly random but consistently spotted pattern of light browns over top. Viewed peripherally, it blends nicely together. Like a coffee with too much cream. Like a rolling landscape in fast-forward. Like a "van Gogh" backdrop with no subject to focus on. But there are, of course, subjects in the scene. A suburbia without subjects is simply the end of the world. And this isn't that type of scene.
****
"What's wrong with your head?" she asks.
Flip - nothin'. Flip - nope. Flip - goddamnit.
"You got a headache or something?"
"No, it's not that ..." he replies, eyes chasing the flickers of light coming from the TV. He has his fingers to his temples, rubbing in slow-moving tiny hamster circles.
Flip - again, nope. Flip - god fuckin' damnit.
She lays off the "Channel Up" button for a moment and turns her head to the other couch and finds him sitting with his elbows to his knees and hands to his head. Her sight lines effectively connect the ends of the "L" formation, creating a conceptual triangle with the objects in the room. She stares at him, eyebrows raising in anticipation. But the triangle isn't fully realized. He keeps his sight on the TV, content on holding tightly to the images on the screen. He continues to rub circles to the sides of his head.
"Writer's block. I've got writer's block," he spits out.
"Oh." She withdraws the bridge, presses down on the button below her thumb, and returns her eyes to the TV just as the shapes take recognizable form.
"I don't get it," she adds.
Flip - sunnovabitch.
He closes his eyes. They're tired from the chase. And he can't keep up with her. With eyes still closed, he rubs a little harder.
"That's exactly my problem. There's nothing to get, that's the thing. I can't think of anything to write about." A scent of desperation fills the room.
"I know what 'writer's block' is," she retorts.
Flip - jesus mother fuckin' christ!
"I just don't have it. I don't have that problem." She presses down on the button a little harder now, like she's trying to put down an animal. Like maybe if she presses a little harder, it will stay dead.
"So how do you remain inspired? How do you find something to write about? He reopens his eyes and looks across the expanse of off-white towards her still eyes. When his gaze reaches them, he recognizes the tiny flashes of light reflecting off. His eyes immediately start feeling tired again. Without removing his aim, he blinks once, and takes a second look. Her eyes remain open, her eyelids still like a frame. Like a frame of a mirror.
"Oh. It's simple," she snaps. The lights in her eyes flicker into darkness for a split-second until new shapes and shadows ignite over top of them. She is no longer releasing the button under her thumb, but instead, is grinding it in a "back-and-forth" motion.
Flip -
"You just gotta see the magic in everything, yunno?"
Flip -
"Like we're in a TV show or movie or something."
Flip -
"Like someone's narrating the whole world or whatever."
Flip -
"Like everything's got some big deep meaning."
Flip -
"And you just write about that ..."
He still has his eyes on hers. He's chasing again. But this time, he feels like he's got something by its tail. He stops rubbing. And from the corner of her eye, she notices. She turns her attention away from the screen and stares back. They look into each other. For a split second, nothing in the room moves, not even the objects on the screen. For a split second, their eyes darken, having no light to reflect off of them.
****
For a split second, amongst the various furniture in the room, and the tall plant, four tiny dark spots form. Like punctuation. Like periods. Like a seemingly random but consistently spotted pattern of small dots
Flip -
in a room of off-white.
* Averages (1987) and We humans (1974) by Edward Ruscha.
