NEW FILM ON SCHIZOAFFECTIVE DISORDER
—<a class="StrictlyAutoTagAnchor" title="View all articles about Denis Waitley here" href="http://www.jharnisch.com/tag/denis-waitley">Denis Waitley
I am attempting to move and rearrange some of the different genres of my work and artistic expressions onto more appropriate platforms/websites/pages, so please bear with me. The main, and most popular Jonathan Harnisch website is right here on the "Porcelain Utopia" Blog & Website at <a title="Porcelain Utopia Blog & Website Link" href="http://www.jharnisch.com" target="_blank">http://www.jharnisch.com.
Things will be going through an adjustment phase for a while, at least for the next month. Thank you for understanding this idea and this adjustment process.
Jonathan Harnisch
Premiere Transgressive Literature Series
by
Noted Author and Screenwriter Jonathan Harnisch
The various works of author and screenwriter Jonathan Harnisch have been noted as some of the most original and thought-provoking of modern day.
012
—Michael Jordan
So you see, Dr. C, it's like I have these schizophrenic blue-movie skits, and sleazy hardcore videoclips, flashing through my nightmares and daydreams all of the time - night and day, and day and night. It's not like I'm making them happen. It's not like I'm writing the script. It's not like I'm the director or producer, or anything - it's more like, I'm just another spectator or bystander out there in the invisible studio audience, watching the skits and clips flash past. Or maybe I'm the invisible cameraman behind the invisible video camera, just rolling along and shooting the pictures, and watching and waiting for whatever happens next. I can't switch the channel, or change the script, or rewrite the scene, or even make the whole stupid thing just stop!
You see, Dr. C, it's like those schizophrenic blue-movie skits and sleazy hardcore videoclips just keep playing over and over again, in some kind of continuous tape-loop or endless cinematic flashback. They're stuck on instant replay, or whatever - and sometimes the same scuzzy characters show up and the same crazy scenes keep playing like it's déjà vu all over again, you know? Like there's Georgie Gust, okay? There's that Claudia Nesbitt - and there are maybe three or four other characters who keep showing up in different bodies or different egos, even though I know they're really just the same creepy people. They're the same creeps and perverts, the same suckers and chumps, the same bitches and yo-ho-hos - I already know - and they're always stuck in some kind of perpetual jilted lover's quarrel, or some self-destructive and abusive relationship. It's like they just can't get out of the same stupid trap, or get away from wherever they are - or even just make the whole world stop.
So sometimes, you know, Doc - sometimes I think that maybe they're trying to tell me something. Maybe they're sending me messages and beaming me signals through my daydreams, my fantasies, my nightmares and my wet dreams. Maybe, someday, it'll add up to some kind of message or morale or something - like in those old-time movies and old-fashioned radioplays -or, maybe, like those fairy-stories, folktales and myths. But you know, they just don't fit together; those schizophrenic blue-movie scripts and hardcore porno clips - they just don't fit together, no matter how I try to write them down, or how I try to play them out, or how I try to shuffle them and juggle them into some kind of storyline or movie-plot. And then the whole stupid thing falls apart like some jump-cut, film splice flick or cut-up videoclip that didn't really work - and it won't get taped up, or glued down, or somehow stick together again - ever. No matter what I do.
So then, you know Dr. C, the only thing I can think is that maybe the whole world is crazy, and maybe I've gone crazy too - and the whole world's getting crazier and crazier, every day, and in every way. Or like that Georgie Gust says to his shrink, somewhere in this whole crazy mess: in all his NYU undergrad, and Harvard graduate education, and all that Wakefield prep-school jazz, and all of that psychology, those humanities, that literature and art - it just makes him think how ridiculous he really is and how absurd everyone else is, too. It makes him think how the whole world is just wacko when you get right down to it. The whole world is stupid, and meaningless and empty. And then I think, well, if the whole world really is absurd, and everybody else is just as ridiculous as me, then why bother to write, or paint, or do anything? Why bother to make movies, or tell stories, or even get out of bed for that matter? Why even bother to go on living?
You know what I mean, Doc?
—Jonathan Harnisch
In some completely different big city, Georgie and Claudia are completely different people. This Claudia wears a stunning blue turtleneck, a long blue skirt, and blue-rimmed glasses. Her stylish chic clothes and faux European accent are quietly rapturous. Georgie wears a blue pinstripe suit and an outlandish paisley tie that doesn't quite cover his bulging paunch. Georgie's slightly graying but Claudia still has the flaming frizzy red hair and svelte hourglass figure of her misspent youth.
Georgie rides up alone to his swank inner-city penthouse apartment, carrying a small bonsai tree and a bag of chocolate kisses. At the thirty-third floor the elevator stops. The elevator door opens and Claudia gets in.
“It's just like déjà vu all over again, isn't it?” Georgie suavely strikes up a conversation. “I believe we've met before, haven't we, somewhere-perhaps in Paris? Prague? Schenectady?”
Claudia smiles but doesn't answer. She's obviously struggling for words.
“Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” Georgie goes on. “Maybe on the Riviera? Rio? Or in my dreams, perhaps?”
Georgie's the epitome of the sophisticated debonair playboy.
“What's your sign?” he asks slyly. “I'm a Gemini. You must be-” Georgie smiles mysteriously, “No, don't tell me. Let me guess.”
“To answer your questions,” the Francophone Claudia smiles again, “I am, obviously, how you say, a French girl. Je parlais francais, tout court. A-and, the English, it is, for me-how you say? Tres difficil?”
“So,” Georgie deftly picks up Claudia's cues, “what part of France are you from? St. Louie, Cincinnati, Notre Dame? Or, maybe, Quiche-Lorraine?”
Fortunately, Claudia completely fails to catch his drift.
“I have been in your United States for five months now,” she says, obviously excited to have a sophisticated gentleman like Georgie to talk to among so many swarming, sweaty, belching barbarians. “I love your summer weather. To swim. I, love to stay-how you say-in shape? But me, I am just - what do you call that? I just love the chocolate. Your Hershey kisses.” She grins widely.
“Simply ravishing to meet you,” Georgie kisses her hand. His eyes fall to her brightly painted toes and stylish feet.
“Who does your toes?” Georgie gushes. “I just love your pedicure! Can I have your phone number? Or, am I being too forward?”
“Oh, you Americans!” Claudia simpers. “You are so naïf! But so so charming.”
Claudia's mannerisms and accent shift to a slightly sinister Zsa Zsa Gabor, as she hands Georgie a slip of paper.
“Here you are, dahlink-my cahrd. Please call my agent. Perheps, ve can arrangch, a-rendezvous?
“Oh. My. God.” Georgie falls to his knees. “You are too, too kind. Perhaps I might kiss your feet?”
“Please to make arrangechmingks vit my agent?”
Finally, Georgie snaps out of his wild reverie. Resuming his sophisticated, suave manner, he elegantly requests Claudia's home address and phone number. She scribbles something on a business card and presses it into his hand. Immediately, the elevator door opens at the sixty-sixth floor and Claudia walks hurriedly away down the romantically lit penthouse corridor.
Georgie dazedly scans the business card. It reads:
P.S. I don't know why you want my home address, but here it is. For some strange reason, I trust you. I believe in fate. Call me.
CLAUDIA.
Georgie's already missed his floor. The elevator door slams shut and the elevator rumbles and rattles downward again.
#
On their first date, Georgie and Claudia drive onto the Interstate southbound, into New Jersey. Georgie wants to show this elegant, French Mademoiselle The Real America and The Real Americans who populate it, right here in Passaic, Hoboken, Parsipanny, and Patterson. And Claudia's eager to impress this well dressed, mysterious man-about-town who epitomizes for her The American Dream, which she too heartily believes in. The statuesque French torch singer with the spiky hairdo and sculptured robes, who sings the glittering promise of freedom, liberty, and equality (banality, mediocrity.)
Claudia now looks slightly younger. With her sophisticated, elegant clothes and heavy pancake makeup, she resembles a Lauren Bacall, a Katherine Hepburn. Georgie can't get enough.
As he drives, Claudia leans back in the reclining passenger seat staring out the black-tinted window. She rests her head on a throw pillow and resumes speaking her fractured French.
“Zeorgie, dahlink,” Claudia purrs. “You are so very, how you say-recherché? You are supposed to be a good American host, you know. Like our Jerry Lewis, your movie star-but instead, I come here and you rob the bank, you kill someone, maybe-and we are always on the run! Where's the America I see in the movies? Where is what you call - the American Dream?”
Georgie's wearing a 50s gangster get-up: snap brim fedora, dark suit, and dark tie. He sneers at Claudia under his low hat-brim and smokes incessantly. But when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly calm, bland, and matter-of-fact like a TV newsman.
“Well, you know, the government-the government controls our movies, Claudia. The government is into organized crime. The government is organized crime. And the government, well, the government looks out for its own. Why, just look at that financial bail out racket, the colossal national debt-and who services the national debt? You know, I think it's easier to commit robbery in the U.S. by setting up a big bank rather than holding up a bank clerk. People give liberally to big corporations and big financial institutions-the bigger the better.”
Georgie's non-descript, flat-toned voice trails off.
Claudia laughs a very dry, French laugh.
“You are so very funny, my little one! In France, it is very different. France is the country where the money, it falls apart. How you say? Poof! Oh, the French, Georgie the French! We are so-je ne sais quoi, you know?”
“Yeah, I know about the French,” Georgie deadpans. “You can't trust the franc-and you can't tear the toilet paper.”
While Georgie shakes his head, Claudia just keeps on laughing almost hysterically.
Finally, Georgie cuts her off. “But, seriously, Claudia, you know,” he says. “There's always been something fishy about the French.”
Abruptly, Claudia stops laughing and becomes sophisticated, languid, and blasé once more.
“Oui, my little one. You are so right.” She waves a slim black arm. “Where I come from, it so, so… I hate it. Everyone, they complain all the time. About everything. Nothing.”
Georgie nods. “Thank God it's not like that, here in America-or not yet, anyway. In America, we still have seasons-four of them-and all in the right order. But, France, now, France? There's no winter in France, no summer and here in America, we have morals. There are no morals in France, either-are there?”
Shooting a quick look at Claudia, Georgie realizes that he might have offended her Francophile sentiments and Parisian sensibility.
“Apart from that, though,” he continues before she can answer, “I think it's a fine country. Le France, and a fine people, too. DeGaulle, and Marianne, and, who's it? Mendes-France. Pierre Mendes-France. Yes, the French.”
He pauses, diplomatically, seeking words to express his profound admiration and eternal ardor for the Fourth Republic.
“They gave us The Statue of Liberty, you know,” he says. “And Louisiana! Where would we be without Louisiana?”
But Claudia doesn't answer. She's still seductively daydreaming of Parisian cafes and street-scenes.
“Mais oui,” she murmurs. “Paris, is the café of Europe.”
At the word café, Georgie immediately snaps awake. His black-rimmed eyeballs pop open, and he grips the steering wheel with white knuckles.
“Oh, God, yes!” he snorts. “Paris! The cafés! The coffee!”
The Francophone, Claudia, shares his passion for bon vivant. She blushes.
“Oui!” she says. “We must stop for coffee, non?”
Taking a deep drag on his cigarette and letting the smoke curl out his nose, Georgie pulls himself together again. Now he's perfectly cool, calm, in control.
“Perfect,” he says. “It's still morning, sweetheart. It's morning in America, and there's a little place I know, just around here, where we can get a good black cup o' Joe, my little French kumquat.”
Claudia swoons. “You are so suave...so romantique!”
#
After their drive, Georgie sits in his briskly-upholstered, crowded office.
Computers, monitors, and electronics fill this elaborate office space. It's fit for a pin-striped, bow-tie-wearing, traditional pipe smoker-a Great Tycoon or CEO.... But Georgie's dressed down, sporty, casual, as he sits handwriting a passionate letter. He's still slightly dazed from his fatal meeting with the mysterious, exotic Claudia Nesbitt. So, even though he's in his usual office routine, he can't really make himself work.
“I prefer snail mail,” Georgie's whispering to himself, as if talking to Claudia. “There's something more meaningful about the whole act of writing to someone special. Taking out the pen, feeling the handmade paper, personalizing the print, smudging the fingerprints, sticking the stamp and licking the envelope....”
Georgie shivers with scarcely suppressed excitement.
“I like the whole idea that Claudia and I are taking our sweet time getting to know one another. We're keeping the pace of our little romantic affair discreetly slow, what with the mail and me.... There's nothing I want less than another doomed relationship that flies on too fast, but this thing with Claudia...it's something special. Meaningful. Real...I can just feel it.”
The enormous wooden door to Georgie's office abruptly swings open.
On the front of the door, there's an elaborately embossed sign:
GEORGIE GUST ENTERPRISES
Georgie Gust: CEO.
And below that, a print-out:
Long Term Investor in a Short Term World
In steps Ismael Marks, Georgie's male secretary. He's around thirty-five years old, flustered, disheveled, with messy hair and a loose tie. He's sweating profusely and his sleeves are rolled up. He brusquely storms in, oblivious to Georgie's romantic passion.
“Georgie!” Marks shouts. “All hell's broken loose on the floor-Intercoastal's taking a dive! It's a two dollar stock now. What'll we do? We're ruined!”
Georgie's perfectly calm, cool, collected, although slightly peeved.
“How many times have I told you, Ismael?” Georgie's lip curls with his withering scorn. “Knock first.”
“Sorry, sir,” Marks answers. “But-”
Georgie cuts him off.
“Marks, I bought that stock at fifty cents,” Georgie speaks clearly, as if talking to a lunatic or idiot. “Whatever I do, I'll make a killing...now get lost. Can't you see I'm in the middle of something really important?”
After his bewilderment wears off, Ismael Marks sees the shy smile behind Georgie's witheringly curled lips.
“What's this?” Marks asks, gathering courage. “Another one of your peculiar obsessions? Another of your curious perplexities? Whatever happened to the online dating...you must've made the moves on a pen pal.... Is she hot? Is this...a hook-up?”
Three other associates in Georgie Gust Enterprises (sometimes called “the Guys”), stylish young men in their early twenties, approach the door. Their eyes widen with jealousy and curiosity. When Georgie notices the peepers peering through his door, he discreetly covers his love-letter. With an imperious gesture, he chases them out of the office.
“Guys, get lost.”
But the guys don't scare easily.
“Oooooo-o-o-oh, Mr. Romantic....” they chorus. “Dream Boy...the Poet...a modern Casanova....”
Georgie slams the enormous wooden door on his not-so-secret admirers. He tries to pick up writing his romantic billet-doux, but he can't recapture the passionate mood of before....
Somewhere outside the office door, several different alarm clocks ring indistinctly. The whole scene changes once again....
Georgie reclines with a half-smoked cigarette on the closely clipped front lawn of his modest, three-story suburban home in an anonymous subdivision. All too soon, the smoke runs out.
Georgie groans as he rises to his feet.
He walks down the deserted beachside street along the windy shorefront, near a flashily lit convenience store.
Sluggishly, slump-shouldered, he slouches through the swinging glass doors and into the air-conditioned store. He walks through like a zombie, like a rat in a familiar maze grabbing exactly what he wants.
Georgie pays the pretty sales clerk for a pack of smokes and a snack. She smiles.
“Have a nice day!” she chirps.
Georgie grunts, turns, and leaves.
On the waterfront Georgie strides home with his trembling hands full, trying to smoke a cigarette and eat a burrito at the same time. Suddenly, he's struck with a wild idea. He juggles the burrito and the cigarette, pulls a memo notebook from his back pocket, and scribbles:
“WRITE DOWN ALL THE THINGS I WANT TO DO WITH MY LIFE. START WITH TODAY.”
Then he draws a flashing light bulb (for inspiration-get it?), which he turns into a fat lady bending over, seen from behind.
Satisfied, he shuts the book and walks on.
He starts humming the song he heard playing when he was in the shower. He passes another sleazy, fleabag motel and keeps singing to himself: “Such a lovely place...such a lovely space....”
Out of nowhere, a strangely familiar woman's voice starts humming the melody.
Georgie and Claudia make a cute meet. (Don't you think?) Like some cute teenage surfer couple in some wholesome, 50's beach movie, they're both singing.
“We are all prisoners here, of our own device....”
Abruptly, Georgie stops singing-but Claudia keeps right on. “Livin' it up at the Hotel California.”
She's not embarrassed. She's not shy. (She's singing for us, isn't she?) And when she sees Georgie watching, she only sings louder.
“Such a lovely place, such a lovely place, such a lovely space.”
Georgie looks down at her shapely, well-manicured feet.
Suddenly, Claudia stops singing too.
He's looking at her brightly colored, bluish-painted toenails.
As he walks past her she finally speaks to him.
“What are the chances of that?” she asks.
Georgie stops staring at her feet and briefly looks into her eyes.
“Huh?” he asks. “Of what?”
Claudia smirks.
“You were just singing 'The Hotel California,' weren't you?”
Georgie's too befuddled and embarrassed to answer.
“I don't know,” he stammers. “I don't remember.”
Claudia laughs.
“Well, don't be embarrassed! You don't need to be shy with me. That's amazing, isn't it? I mean, like, the coincidence-us both singing the same song at the same time, like that?”
Finally, Georgie lightens up and laughs a little.
“Yeah, that was weird.” he admits. “You were singing 'Hotel California,' too, weren't you?”
Intrigued by his mysterious shyness Claudia tries to draw Georgie into a conversation.
“Hey, you live just down the corner of the next block, don't you?” she says.
She pauses like she's just remembering something-she doesn't know what.
“Oh, hell!! I know who you are!” Claudia snorts. “I know where I know you from!”
“Yeah?” Georgie says. “Where?”
“You're the guy who's always out there on the front lawn, smoking a cig. Right?”
But Georgie is still staring at her feet.
“Yeah, maybe,” he confesses. “I guess.”
Georgie's evasive, noncommittal. But Claudia picks up on his shyness and confusion.
“Hi. Hey!” she says. “You really are anti-social, aren't you?”
Politely, Georgie corrects her.
“Not anti-social,” he says. “Just non-social, maybe.”
Georgie's still being evasive, but Claudia doesn't push the issue. Instead, she simply acts supportive, compassionate, caring.
“Wow!” she gushes. “That's amazing! I just had this flash, like-you know, déjà vu or something. I had this flash like we've met before-in another life, or something, maybe?”
Still, Georgie says nothing. He can't think of anything to say-and he can't escape the feeling that he's stuck in some old, bad dream. So Claudia picks up the slack, all by herself.
“Anyway, I was just on my way to get my nails done,” she says. “I've been over at the Sea Port for the past week.”
She pauses, then confides.
“It's this professional pedicurists' convention I have to go to for work. It's so damned boring!”
Finally, Georgie breaks his stupefied, tongue-tied reserve and blurts out:
“What's your name? If you don't mind me asking.”
“I'm Claudia,” Claudia smiles. “Claudia Nesbitt.”
“That's nice,” Georgie flashes back. “Or, I guess that's nice, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Claudia laughs. “What's yours?”
“I'm Georgie,” Georgie agrees. “Georgie Gust-or, at least, I think I am. That's who I was the last time I checked.”
They shake hands, firmly. Georgie's grip is strong, but Claudia's is stronger.
“You've got a firm grip there, Mr. Gust,” Claudia laughs. “Would you like to arm wrestle?”
Georgie apologizes.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn't want to hurt you.”
Georgie looks down again at Claudia's open-toed feet. Claudia's hooker-blue toenail polish is peeling off intriguingly. It looks slutty, Georgie thinks. But sweet-like sex-candy.
#
There are doctor's papers, notes, and conference binders strewn around the cluttered bedroom area of the cheap motel room.
Georgie's giving Claudia the pedicure she always wanted in the brightly lit bathroom. He's using “New Blue” nail polish-Claudia's pick. Claudia basks in Georgie's rapt attention.
“I really can't believe you've never given a girl a pedicure before,” she says. “You're just so-so good at it!”
Georgie basks in Claudia's praise. “Really?” he says.
He buffs furiously on the last bluish layer, laughing at himself for being so strung out behind the whole foot-polishing routine. But it's turning him on, sexually, at the same time.
It's making Georgie horny-Claudia, too.
#
As sunset fades over the white sand beaches Georgie walks home still excited by this afternoon's meeting with: The Love of My Life, the Number #1, The One and Only, Great Love. My soul mate-Claudia Nesbitt.
Just as he gets home the phone rings. He rushes inside.
When he picks up the phone, he's already missed the call.
He pushes the “MESSAGE” button.
Out of nowhere, Claudia's silky, languorous voice fills the empty room.
“Hey Georgie,” she purrs. “I was just thinking of you. I was downstairs at one of the lectures. It's sooo boring. I wish I were with you, instead. Doing-” she pauses suggestively, “you know.”
Georgie's swept up and possessed by the fragrant memory of Claudia's shapely feet, blue toenail polish, and the fragrant smell of her foot-sweat wafting to his nose.
Almost immediately another message comes in, clashing with the previously recorded message.
Out of nowhere, Claudia's choked-up, sobbing voice fills the empty room. She's very distressed, nearly in tears.
“Hey, Georgie,” she says. “It's me again. Claudia. Hey. Ugh. I'm just calling-I'm just calling because-I'm sorry. I'm just so bored at this stupid conference. I'm not going to go to this class I have in ten minutes. I'm getting so sick of listening to the same thing over and over again. I'm just in my room, taking a bubble bath. Anyway, I'm sorry to bother you. Thanks for letting me vent.”
Almost immediately the phone rings again.
Georgie picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Georgie?”
“You must look beautiful in that bubble bath.”
“Oh, Georgie. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”
And she really means it, too.
“Seriously, Georgie,” she says. “That is one of the nicest things a guy has ever said to me. You just don't know-the things guys say, when they-you know.”
Through the swirling mists of the motel bathroom, Georgie massages Claudia's feet. He makes wild, passionate love, orally to her fetidly smelly feet.
She moans in ecstasy.
“Oh, please.” she pleads. “Don't stop. Do me right on the arches.”
Georgie is in ecstasy as her feet quiver with delight.
#
Georgie and Claudia wake up together both still fully clothed. Georgie smiles into Claudia's eyes. She immediately falls back to sleep.
Gently, Georgie caresses her hair and her feet. For a few brief moments, he watches her sleep, still oblivious. Then he leaves, quietly without waking her up.
As the cheap motel room door closes, we see the blue nail polish bottles strewn across the cluttered nightstand. Beneath them, Georgie's left a note that reads, simply:
Thank you.
-Georgie
#
Georgie comes home with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. As he steps to the front porch, he tells himself he's really ready for the day. He opens his mailbox and shuffles through a few bills. Then he unlocks the front door and steps inside the empty house.
The house is still a mess, with dirty dishes and clothes lying haphazardly throughout the kitchen and the living room. Quickly Georgie picks up the dirty clothes, cleans a few dishes, and sets his house in order before he finally sits down to write the first installment of The Secret Love and Death of Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt.
I'll have to begin the story with me, as ridiculous as that sounds he thinks. It's been forever since I actually sat down to write.
He starts writing:
By the end I knew I'd succeeded. It was just one of those things.
I enjoyed myself and left. That's all that mattered.
God probably took delight in watching his orchestration of me that day.
I guess I'll just chalk it up to “personal growth.”
The next day, things were even better.
I'll probably never hear from her or see her again-or, maybe not for a week at least, anyway.
He turns on “Hotel California” on the CD player and keeps typing through the whole day without distraction, looping the one song over and over again.
Out of nowhere, Claudia's brisk business-like voice breaks into the quiet room.
“Hi, Georgie,” she says.
~Robert Adams
2012
—Sz Magazine
Porcelain Utopia[/caption]
