2001-05-02 || 1:36 p.m.

|| it was not meant to be a horror film. ||

i forgot how i get in these situations: i re-drew the credits page eleven times, never getting past the title. i decided to type it: la bicycleta by [me.] thank you: madame adrianne y luis legorreta michael bland music by: the music tapes. we find out m has brought the wrong seven inch- he must have traded the one with the song i need. jeff has it/ jeff is at poetry bowling night at the alley half a mile from my apartment. i consider running down there. new credits page: la bicycleta by [me.] thank you: madame adrianne y luis legorreta michael bland music by: edith piaf. okay. i have super 8 splicing tape. it is a regular 8 mm movie. oh. i have no scotch tape. we decide not to splice, to live without the leader that was eaten by the projector. seat of our pants, flying, oh. we project onto the wall over the couch. the camera filming the projection is too far away, i am having to control the record's spinning and hold the speaker up to the microphone in a stance reserved for a contortionist game of twister. i bite my lip and wait for the sign to record. the camera will not record. we plug a cable to the tv so that it will record that way. i move the record player to the other side of the room. i am getting anxious. i want this to work. i don't want the footage to break/get too hot/lose quality. damn. we project onto the closet door. there is no color on the recording. the quality is bad. we move the camera closer. no better. we project onto a suitcase with white paper taped on it: better. we record. i mess up the audio. i run out of song before the reel is finished. the frame is jumping. i am pinching my leg trying to will myself to not get upset. it is now 11:00 pm and the landlady's head is on the other side of the wall, a mere foot or two from edith piaf's mechanical wailing. our little sparrow should not be wailing when other tenants are trying to sleep. one more time. fuck the tenants, this is my movie. the quality of the picture has gotten very bad. we argue over whether it is the film or the projector. i gulp grape soda like it is whiskey. i have gotten very bitchy but am able to compose myself to ask: could you come back tomorrow night and help me again?

the record player is sitting precariously atop the couch. the projector is in the middle of the carpet, a few feet away from the standing suitcase. cables and crunched up leader and discarded credits pages and a half empty bottle of grape soda.

i dread going home tonight.

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