the nite, has better reception, the phone casts a barbazon lite… the lady, the one in the window … never answers.
are the empty mean streets of old Noir morphing into an empty oblivion of marketing imagery cliches with a market? ____________________________________________________________________________________________
Reporters notes by H. Scott Heist
(moving toward new style book, move next week)
The Trouble with Tanqueray
visual reflections, the CINEMA NOIR concept of the 2oth century & the lethargy 21st century. Perhaps Heroes all grown weary?
the empty mean streets of old Noir seem to be morphing into the meaningless oblivion of marketing imagery. Sam Spade unwraps a quarter-pounder with some cheese of inderminant origin …
Text are “asides” from some of my other stories and projects. Experiments rather than captions.
While looking over the mail, it occurred to me how faux and trivially our lives are depicted. An age apparently fearing reality. Potholes are not repaired with photoshop; telephones not fixed with computerized voices from afar; cultures are not made by pretence & talking points. The difference is between vitality and enthusiasm. The later: an affectation; the former: life.
Reality and truth are cousins of the same generation. The following photographs are quite authentic. Even if they look like our grandparents’ NOIR. They aren’t. Millennium Noir is the ubiquitous washed out colors, phony smiles, and body language of the “Marketing Culture” depicting us human beings as objects. Thoughtlessly, even when it makes no sense to do so.
Pull on a light jacket & take a walk with me.
I’ll tell you about the three stories the titles come from.
Be glad to know what you think.
Sure pick it up. A postcard of sorts, greetings from the shadowlands.
Maybe a name and a date.
Either they’ve got your number or you’ve got theirs. Or maybe its just the other way around.
Yeah, there it is, blowing against your shoe, next to the old Lucky pack.
Hell of a nite, dark and waiting for a storm. Just couldn’t count on it. Nature of the Shadowlands. Can’t count on anything. Or you’d be somewhere else.
three hundred and fifty 12″ circles
a TORN PIECE OF Manuscript
“Left the office with a hell of a headache. Wrote the last of the story & captioned the photographs. Managed to bump the last trip into San Francisco where I hoped contacts might do some good.¬† Last week before I left, I pulled all my notes and photographs before they had a chance to lock me out of the office. Remembering the office vultures pilfering Shuster’s desk for his black book. After he got killed in Beruit. What the hell. They run in circles. Whenever caged animals go nuts, they run in circles.
Swapped the blue suit for the blue jeans and my blue Air Force flight jacket in my over nighter. The last of my papers would fit there too. Left , walking the blue black streets, a bag on each shoulder, like I’d done for 80% of my life, through 2 circles and over the Georgetown Bridge to Au Pied de Cochin.
Georges, the nite bartender reached over the zinc top for the suitcase, placing it safely, behind the bar, while saying “Genug?” to a replied “C’est Tout. “In a¬†few moments¬† a very large snifter of Burnetts Vodka with a splash of Courvoisierwas set on my corner table next beside the big window. The Good-bye Toast.
I nodded as he raised his eyebrows and smiled. In about 10 minutes I’d have a 3 egg omelet with the best cheese he could find & frites and green salad with olive oil & lemon. One of the few things I’d miss about DC. Georges & Cochin.
Across the street was a new ice cream parlor. Part of a chain, designed on a screen somewhere by someone who neither knew or cared where it would go. Three 3rdworld ladies cleaning it out while its Georgetown Patrons slept, newly minted Phd’s operating out of 4 X 2 street level offices where the lights were never turned off over a decor of diplomas and handshake photos. All signed in ball point. Folks who could be counted upon to always do the wrong thing. At least these days. DC is a southern city, its history steeped in humidity and tradition. Some of the smaller town houses were slave quarters. Much of it built on a swamp or at least foggy bottom land.
When I started working this town, Au Pied might have a couple of Senators, congressman and more than a few journalists and even maybe a spiein the wee hours. Now it was all closed doors and servants. The buying and selling all standard stuff, the routine worked out in graduate school classes beside toothpaste and toaster over marketing. Au Pied was abut to become a fast food burger joint. What the hell
So the ladies worked. Bringing on to the street dozens of card board shipping boxes for the disposable ice cream plates. Each stamped in 80 point railroad gothic: “250 12 inch circles”. A perfect epitaph for DC.
Exhaling the fragrant alcohol, fresh and brisk through the noise, the cool from the window on my cheek with the damp of San Francisco Bay or musk of the Seine.
Something more like life. With a surprize or two in the air. At least I hoped so.
from: 250 12 inch circles by H. Scott Heist
the mOON can cast Some NasTY SHadoWs
The pleasures and terrors of a truthful reportage are that each time one glances toward it; one sees something different.”
From: Fast Ride in an Elegant Machine by H. Scott Heist
read ya like a booK_______________
a Place for Hereos noW grown WEARy
This is the work of H. Scott Heist and rights are reserved. ©H. Scott Heist 11 & other times. Portions of works in progress, titles, copy, designand photographs are protected by copyright as well as material in long use protected by trademark. Everyday is a Short Story, The view From Splinter Cottage, & Splinter Cottage are trademarks in use by Scott Heist for many years, their use is similarly reserved. Use is via written permission, only.¬† Please contact via e-mail to SplinterCottage @ aol.com The forwarding of this email in total is perfectly fine.
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