Stationary

I e-mailed this to myself on 22nd August 2004, over a decade ago. At the time, I was incredibly pleased with it. I remember thinking that it was the best thing I had ever written. You be the judge.

Oh, and apparently I thought it should be filmed.

“My name is Jonah, and I am neither alive nor dead: I exist. I awake, wash, walk, work, return, eat, sleep. Over and over. I watch films that reflect off my blank eyes. I read books that sit awkwardly on my mind like a pile of coins. Rich treasure that slides and tumbles off into nothingness. I talk at people who talk at me.”

(Succession of shots that match the images – quick cuts of waking up in the morning, brushing teeth, walking to work, standing robotically at a till, walking back, spooning food into mouth etc. Extreme close-up of unblinking eye with flickering image reflected there. A finished book tossed onto a pile. A conversation where clearly neither is listening to the other.)

“Let me tell you about my job. I work in a stationery shop. I sell pads of paper. Pens. Pencils. Typewriters. Fresh ink. They will become shopping lists, notes scribbled to a neighbour, love letters, suicide notes, novels. I sell oil paints, watercolours, greasy crayons and crumbly charcoal. Great works of art in their rawest, purest form; untouched by the artist. The moment a pencil touches a blank piece of paper, the pencil is no longer perfectly sharp, and the paper is no longer perfectly clean. All art is degradation.”

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