Stompa Fiction: Installment Uno

Her new film was set to a dreamy French opera song called called "Faites le Velo", and featured the lyrics transposed upon an deep urban Rhumba beat. She had heard the song on a record she found in the city-- performed by Francetta Belorouge-- a 1920s Parisian Blues Harlot After practicing it, she recorded it and forwarded it to her 1st grade sweetheart, Adam Williams. Adam was an infamous Rasta DJ sought after by the most subterranian of underground clubs across the country. He played it at a party in Denver held in the abandoned Keebler cookie Factory and July cut footage for her video. She also had the idea about editing in a poem, one word at a time, to be read during the sequence, subliminal-like. Finally, she intended to combine it with images she had collected over years of concern for a of a desperate planet and people. After a year of preparation, she finally had all the material, all that was left was the editing.

One might ask why. Why would a mostly shy trailer girl partake in such scrupulous, lonely activity, but July never did. She wanted to make a film that would impact people who saw it. Why the hell not?

Hunched over the mess of computer spread across the Ping Pong table, she mouse clicked away with the frames of footage. Her gracile frame perched neatly upon a crimson velveteen stool, her legs in striped stalkings angled with teen haphazard. Her hands donned fingerless wool gloves and she wore a scarf with her sleeveless top. Her black hair was self-cut short in back but long in front. She had to retrace it behind her ear every few minutes as it kept falling-- blocking her view of the unfolding vision of her film. As she chopped in the sound and camera angles, her mind fell to a certain silence. The kind of silence that the mad scientist experiences right before a theoretical epiphany. Sitting there, alone in her room, she felt joy. The kind of simple joy an artist feels when tools match intention to create a fluidity unreachable to non-creatives. The same joy a figure skater, or a fencer, or a marble sculptor feels when time disappears to a task. She was creating. Not creating something good, necessarily, or beautiful. But she was creating something new, and that made it good.

It was major work putting together the movie that was in her mind's eye. It seemed to take an hour for every five seconds of video. She stood transfixed none the less. At some point her mom came in with a tray of cheese and apple slices and said goodnight. There was no night for July. Only the film. And she knew she couldn't do anything else until it was done. She stopped every few hours and rode her bike around the block for some fresh air and starlight, but even as she did so the movie played through her mind. She maintainaed the focus of a great creative spirit for most of the night. Finally, as the sun rose outside her dirty opened window, she added the last frame. The movie was finished. In that state of rapture and focus, she clicked "Play Video" on her computer and watched her creation come to life.

As the author, it is impossible to describe the combination of images and words that this movie portrayed. There were scenes of dancing, bicycle, unicycles, sunrises, and urban magic. The images blended with the words and the sound of July's melodic and innocent voice. It wasn't one particular element-- the song, the poem, the images-- that created a sense of volitility, rapture, impetus and joy in the viewer, it was the combination. She had created a masterpiece and she knew it. Only the trained eye of a failed artist is wise enough to know when it beholds a masterpiece, and July knew. She knew. Now-- she only needed a venue, the proper Global Creative Cycling Collective, to publish it and see what would happen. It was not a matter of if, but how big.

Serene visions, Spots of light blue and red.
A dreaded DJ clenching headphone between ear and shoulder
explosive bass, Behind Ray Bans

Dark forms of revelers funking it up
Sweaty youth in a room with no ceiling
City streets, butt of beautiful bicycle babe
Now a bigger butt in embroidered jeans

Now two huge butts in sweatpants, holding hands
Pan down--
The dancers ride unicycles.
Slum boy in alleyway no shirt, racing BMX through chickens and potholes

Huge white smile
Chinese man on chinese bike, entering a sea of the same in someplace Beijing
Polar bear swimming, flooding, fire.

Unicycle dance party, Mudslide.
car, mangled, white sheets cover bodies
Blue and red flashing lights

Emerald, and Riotous pink
Glaciers melting, factory chugging giant blue plume forever.
Man in hospital, debribultor, flatline
Dancers, wild now. Kissing, fighting.

Chickens in line to be slaughtered,
cars in traffic
Slow motion of boy on bike

blasting through a puddle.
unicycle dance party, revelers crying out
pain and elation, celebration


R`squared said...

first taste of the first installment....thank you Car-less-one.
I will be re-quoting one particular sentence - watch for it......

Sz said...

ACarb, this is a monumental undertaking! Bravo!!
Writing is a such good thang, and I support it.

Now, do we all get to draw the pictures?

AdamCarb said...

Indeed. Maybe it should become a graphic novel. Installment two coming shortly.