Bruce Wagner
The Chrysanthemum Palace
for Laura
THE INFINITE
That hill pushed off by itself was always dear
to me and the hedges near
it that cut away so much of the final horizon.
When I would sit there lost in deliberation,
I reasoned most on the interminable spaces
beyond all hills, on their antediluvian resignation
and silence that passes
beyond man’s possibility.
Here for a little while my heart is quiet inside me;
and when the wind lifts roughing through the trees,
I set about comparing my silence to those voices,
and I think about the eternal, the dead seasons,
things here at hand and alive,
and all their reasons and choices.
It’s sweet to destroy my mind
and go down
and wreck in this sea where I drown.
To a sensitive and imaginative man who lives, as I have lived for a long time, constantly feeling and imagining, the world and its objects are, in a way, double. He sees with his eyes a tower, a landscape; he hears with his ears the sound of a bell; and at the same time his imagination sees another tower, another bell, and hears another sound.
~ ~ ~
I AM AN ACTOR.
Not long ago, and right on schedule, I had the hair-raising epiphany which inevitably occurs to most who ply my craft: Time is running out. At such a moment, tough-minded players can elect to soldier into denial, turning a cheek to the cooler side of their pillow toward pleasanter dreams of sudden, freakish, breakthrough stardom. One may file through a mental inventory of all those stage and screen personages who remained relatively untouched by fame until, say, the age of fifty, or even supertriumphed at sixty-five. If the lotto fantasia doesn’t excite, a more humdrum (still serviceable) idyll might present itself: retirement to a Carmel-by-the-Sea bed-and-breakfast, purchased with a never-ending stream of residuals generated by TV commercials and radio voice-overs where one may live out his or her days in legendary local bonhomie and embroidered remembrance of roles past. On the other hand, if the actor is of weaker or even neurotic disposition, he may choose to put on a dignified face and set his nautical cap on that course dreadfully referred to as “reinvention.” Meaning, he decides to try his hand at screenwriting.
There — I’ve said it.
Among such metamorphoses, enough unlikely success stories abound to either raise or sink our adventurers’ spirits, depending on their mood. So: it was with a cultist’s coltish energy that I spent nearly twenty-four months in solemn pursuit of the right story to apply my as-yet-untried skills, likewise the formula in which the whole shebang might be crammed for maximal artistic, commercial effect. The fact that I was completely convinced I’d create a blockbuster did not at all preclude, in my humble opinion, the deliverance of an authentic work of art — I would have my cake and screen it too. In service of this shamanic storyquest, I downloaded and Web-surfed, culled obscure regional newspapers, watched bad films from the thirties, shamelessly trolled for plotty treasures amid a flotsam of anecdotes wrung from friends and loved ones, and even went so far as to examine my own life, loves, and adolescent stirrings. I became a diner solitaire, a fisherman for dialogue, the better to eavesdrop on shadowy couples ensconced in contentious steakhouse booths. After much labored, almost scientific contemplation, I lit upon one scenario or another, imbuing each with the suitable grandiosity required to sustain propulsion for proper launch. My stamina was enviable — for even though my heart wasn’t wholly in it (it never really was), once I committed to protagonist or theme, I behaved as if I’d found the message in a bottle that not only would make the world a profoundly more intelligent, amazing place, but as if that very message was one which only I, chosen by God Herself, could decode. I excitedly embarked on a series of false starts and even falser stops before the bottle, corkless and forlorn, its damp square of scratchy, smeary hieroglyphs outsourced, the bottle that only days before seemed to promise so much yet deliver so little, was tossed with a shrug to reloiter the sea.
After licking my wounds, I cheerily regarded each misstep as part of an elaborate, fateful hazing, a rite of passage inexorably moving me closer to my goal, eventually to become part of a legendary behind-the-scenes story of great and stubborn conquest. Like a novice Buddhist thrown from his meditative horse, I remounted with cool alacrity. In order to achieve the intended transformation from loser to Oscar winner (always pragmatically set two years in the future, a figure that encompassed completion of script, said script’s discovery by dynamo agent or producer, production of said script through the offices of a major film studio or indie consortium, and subsequent arthouse-platform or 4,000-theater release), I shunned the Silverlake social circuit and even declined a few — well, very few — industry functions in which my profile as fledgling film and television actor could quite possibly have been enhanced. I kept recreational drug use (and romantic entanglements) to a minimum, employing the leash of AA meetings to keep myself in line.
I cocooned for the sake of my inchoate art. I was patient, I was disciplined, and I was proud, waiting diligently in the wings for my wings.
Now while it’s true such endeavors require a different sort of perseverance than that required of an actor, the happiest screenplay alchemy can still be elusive, particularly when operating without guide or mentor, notwithstanding sundry software programs or annoying how-to-write-a-film manuals. Unfortunately, it became clear early on that I was not to the three acts born and whatever I conjured would be the product of erring not on the side of talent but on that of blood, sweat, and fear (fear of outright plagiarism too). By coincidence, my acting-class confederates were engaged in their own similarly secretive, feckless attempts. Looking back, we seemed like wanna-be witches and warlocks, scouring the countryside for toadstool and tongue of Charlie Kaufman without the faintest idea of what was toxic or edible, let alone a clue to which ingredients would combine to make that magical Sundance stew — in short, we were kids straddling branches for broomsticks. Sadly, the mystical blush of childhood was long gone from our fashionably stubbled, sun-damaged cheeks; one by one, sojourns into Storyland came to their anticlimactic ends, leaving only shredded three-hole punched Hammermill paper and a sour taste in the mouth.
Still, I must admit that with the failure of each effort I always felt a shrug and gladdened shiver, as if having quit a job in some dispiriting, faraway mall, grateful not to have been recognized at the register by a wayward relation or fellow delusional traveler.
That period thankfully ended, though my ambitions did not. Then one morning I awakened as if from deep sleep with the notion that the story of all stories had unfolded unwittingly beneath my very nose. Of course, I immediately set headlong upon “sorting it out” (as my Brit friends and budding warlock hyphenates would say), said phrase being really just a euphemism for the careful process of planning, staging, and micromanaging a royal fuckup. The faux sorting went on for several weeks; but it wasn’t until a certain Thursday afternoon, sitting at the Sugar Plum Bakery on Beverly Boulevard awaiting my soy latte, that something decisive happened — I had a happier epiphany, this one imperious enough to allow no further procrastination. I was suddenly forced, as if by legal summons, to abandon the project at hand (a nasty little novel which I was actually being paid to adapt; more about this later) and march home to transcribe my tale.