Louise and I have been working on the script very intensively. After two or three hours pounding on that, I am a bit intellectually exhausted. I don't have those kind of writing muscles built up yet, I guess. But very good progress so all involved are pleased. Besides working on the actual project, I did research and note-taking on script writing, in general, and my head is fairly a-buzz. That same head leans toward a pile of pillows not too many feet away.
I watched another PBS documentary, though I watched it on Netflix. This one, again highly recommended, Primetime in America, was particularly interesting to me at this time, as I think about the amount of time I spend thinking about film and tv. The last episode had a lot of resonance for our screenplay … and some for my life as well. The fourth episode was on the archetype of The Crusader.
One of the talking heads quoted a Stanley Kunitz poem, "… In a murderous time the heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking …" Hmmm … the heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking … I certainly know about the heart breaking and breaking, not so sure about the "lives by breaking" but it is something to ponder.
So, in lieu of having too much to say, I thought I'd share the whole poem, which is, of course, a good one.
The Testing-Treeby Stanley Kunitz
On my way home from school up tribal Providence Hill past the Academy ballpark where I could never hope to play I scuffed in the drainage ditch among the sodden seethe of leaves hunting for perfect stones rolled out of glacial time into my pitcher's hand; then sprinted lickety- split on my magic Keds from a crouching start, scarcely touching the ground with my flying skin as I poured it on for the prize of the mastery over that stretch of road, with no one no where to deny when I flung myself down that on the given course I was the world's fastest human.
Around the bend that tried to loop me home dawdling came natural across a nettled field riddled with rabbit-life where the bees sank sugar-wells in the trunks of the maples and a stringy old lilac more than two stories tall blazing with mildew remembered a door in the long teeth of the woods. All of it happened slow: brushing the stickseed off, wading through jewelweed strangled by angel's hair, spotting the print of the deer and the red fox's scats. Once I owned the key to an umbrageous trail thickened with mosses where flickering presences gave me right of passage as I followed in the steps of straight-backed Massassoit soundlessly heel-and-toe practicing my Indian walk.
Past the abandoned quarry where the pale sun bobbed in the sump of the granite, past copperhead ledge, where the ferns gave foothold, I walked, deliberate, on to the clearing, with the stones in my pocket changing to oracles and my coiled ear tuned to the slightest leaf-stir. I had kept my appointment. There I stood in the shadow, at fifty measured paces, of the inexhaustible oak, tyrant and target, Jehovah of acorns, watchtower of the thunders, that locked King Philip's War in its annulated core under the cut of my name. Father wherever you are I have only three throws bless my good right arm. In the haze of afternoon, while the air flowed saffron, I played my game for keeps-- for love, for poetry, and for eternal life-- after the trials of summer.
In the recurring dream my mother stands in her bridal gown under the burning lilac, with Bernard Shaw and Bertie Russell kissing her hands; the house behind her is in ruins; she is wearing an owl's face and makes barking noises. Her minatory finger points. I pass through the cardboard doorway askew in the field and peer down a well where an albino walrus huffs. He has the gentlest eyes. If the dirt keeps sifting in, staining the water yellow, why should I be blamed? Never try to explain. That single Model A sputtering up the grade unfurled a highway behind where the tanks maneuver, revolving their turrets. In a murderous time the heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking. It is necessary to go through dark and deeper dark and not to turn. I am looking for the trail. Where is my testing-tree? Give me back my stones!