Sketches of Alice (novel)
a slice of life, coming of age tale. or maybe a slice of age, coming of life tale. with lots of jazz.
a coming of age romance / portrait of the muse by the artist as a young man
a short novel for the incurably romantic and the persistently wistful.
*
It starts with an establishing shot of a boulevard. Trams, buses, traffic, all the way down we see green and church, and river, and the southern bank. The sidewalks are full. Isaac hurries. We know he’s the protagonist because the camera gets close and follows him as he turns the corner. A double decker bus is parked outside a hotel with an art deco façade, elderly east asian tourists come out as one giant mass blocking his path. He crosses to the other side. Now there’s a plaza, also full of people. And then he sees Alice.
At this point everyone is stuck in place, except for Isaac, or his stand in in the movie. He comes to meet the camera and says, That’s miss Finisterre, she was my favorite teacher, you can probably guess why..., camera whip pans away and zooms in on her, lingering only for a second, and then he’d say, calling the camera back, She’s a knockout, isn’t she… smart too... and you know, we kissed once...
Cut to them caught in a rainstorm. All the other students and teachers scatter out of frame. The camera follows as Alice and Isaac rush to find shelter in a narrow tunnel. We get close and just before they kiss, we’re back in the present.
The people in the street who were frozen when he first saw Alice are getting restless, looking at their watches, starting to complain, Hey, is this going to take long, Yeah, I have a doctor’s appointment, Vee are on a valking tour…, completes the german tourist. Alright, alright, Isaac says, or his stand in in the movie does, and time resumes. Alice notices him and waves hello.
*
about romantic love, and romantic friendship. about youth, and growing up. about creativity and art. about places, and the importance of places, especially those of our formative years. about memory, and history, and movies, and jazz. lots and lots of jazz.
*
Because you proposed the suggestion a few posts back (and because i've been stewing on this idea and this is a convenient excuse haha), i offer a spot of fiction(?) in return:
The man shuffled forward. his head was lowered. he had no clothes.
"Are you indeed so fragile?" the Blank asked. "I admit, I hadn't expected to see you. Not for a long while, anyway. It would have been smarter to stay outside. But you came in, foolishly, and now you are broken. Ha. If it's any consolation, I very much enjoyed the spectacle. Quite a performance. And I do so love a bit of poetic irony."
The man remained silent. the Blank frowned, then shook his head.
"Before I send you on, I am curious... the one you stole... how did you do it? I can't even see that one, now. It's... frustrating."
The man still held his peace, but now there was a little, sparkling blade in his hand.
"Ah!" the Blank exclaimed as he noticed. "The Razor! Your father sent you with it! Haha! How foolish! Now I have it, as well as you! But... when he pared them all from me, the cuts were rough and uneven. But you... the one you stole, it was so... Don't tell me you wield that little toy more artfully than him? Impossible... hm. I wouldn't have guessed it! You've always been so violent, so... blunt. How many have you sent back to me? Haha... Well, no matter. It's time for you to go."
Suddenly, the man lifted his head. his grip tightened on the blade. the Blank took a step back, surprised. then he laughed.
"Don't tell me- ha! You don't mean you... you..." his voice wavered. he seemed to understand. "...No. No, no, no... it's not possible, you- you can't mean to fight me...? Not here! Not in my own place!" he reeled back another step. the man advanced. the first cut was beautiful, straight and clean. dark was sundered, light burst forth. the Blank screamed. the man struck again.
when it was over, the man stood over the Blank. he looked no longer defeated. the Razor glittered in his hand. a million million radiant souls stood laughing and weeping behind him, full of the joy of newness.
"How...?" the Blank asked the man, gasping. "Th-they... and you... are become like the Outsider... they... no longer... I cannot feel them... they live, yet... die not... how...?" he gathered his strength and howled: "How!?"
But the Man gave him no answer.
Sounds like a jazz novel, fusion of Sketches of Spain and Alice Coltrane.