I pulled this photograph off one of my CDs the other day. I went digging for it because I was rewriting a part of my novel where I wanted to use this scene, so I looked at this series of photos that I had taken to remember. The girls were pretending to be in prison. I think the blond was speaking German. The brunette was nice and more submissive. I had met her boyfriend/husband on another shoot. He was very thin. I believe they broke up. The girls were nice to each other. The rest of us stood in the doorway. Me and the director and the photographer. And there was a lighting guy who had a nickname I wish I could remember. And in the room opposite this one, there was this. And it was in the back of a soundstage. In North Hollywood. And it was nighttime. And I came alone. And afterward or before this scene or on another day but at the same location, I watched the same thing happen but with a midget pretending to be a warden and a woodsman pretending to be a prisoner. He had a tattoo on his ass that had an arrow pointing to his asshole, but I can't remember what the message next to it said. Later on he went to prison. Or jail. It's hard to recall when you're trying to turn your head around to see what's behind you. The strange thing is that all the stuff that happened in between fucked up my head in such a way that memory isn't what it's used to be. Mourning in reverse. That's a phrase of my father's. And grief like a slideshow. Only now, from when everything got short-circuited, it's like all the slides got all mixed up. I'll recall one thing, and another unrelated one will surface, and it's like a puzzle that I don't know if I want to put back together again. If you know what I'm saying.
