Screenwriting Rules :-D

It's not necessary to say “hello” or “goodbye” when beginning or ending a phone conversation.

Police departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they're deliberately assigned a partner who's their total opposite.

When alone, all foreigners prefer to speak English to one another, sometimes fluently, at either times favoring the appropriate national accent.

The Eiffel Tower can be seen from any window of any building in Paris.

It's always possible to park directly outside the building you're visiting.

The chief of police will always suspend his star detective—or give him 48 hours to finish the job.

All beds have special L-shaped top sheets that reach up to armpit level on a woman but only waist level on the man lying beside her.

Having a job of any kind will make all fathers forget their son's eighth birthday.

Television news bulletins usually contain a story that affects viewers personally at that precise moment, and it's never necessary to listen to the complete bulletin.

If you decide to start dancing in the street, everyone you bump into will know all the steps.

All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red digital readouts so you know exactly when they're going to go off.

The ventilation system of a building is a perfect hiding place. No one will think of looking for you there, and you can travel to any other part of the building without difficulty.

Most laptop computers are powerful enough to override the communication systems of any alien civilization.
 
If a killer is lurking in your house, it's easy to find him. Just relax and run a bath, even if it's the middle of the afternoon.

A single match will be sufficient to light up a space the size of the Astrodome.

You can always find a chainsaw whenever you're likely to need one.

If being chased through town, you can usually take cover in a passing St Patrick's Day parade at any time of the year.

During all police investigations, it will be necessary to visit a strip club at least once.

If staying in a haunted house, women should investigate any strange noises while wearing their most revealing underwear.

A detective can only solve a case once he's been suspended from duty.

You're likely to survive any battle in any war unless you make the mistake of showing someone a picture of your sweetheart back home.

If a large pane of glass is visible, someone will be thrown through it before long.

When a person is knocked unconscious by a blow to the head, they'll never suffer a concussion or brain damage, and nobody involved in a car chase, hijacking, explosion, volcanic eruption, or alien invasion will ever go into shock.

Any lock can be picked by a credit card or a paper clip in seconds—unless it's the door to a burning building with a child trapped inside.

If there is a deranged killer on the loose, this will coincide with a thunderstorm that has brought down all the power and phone lines in the vicinity.

Any person waking from a nightmare will sit bolt upright and pant.

It doesn't matter if you're heavily outnumbered in a fight involving martial arts: your enemies will wait patiently to attack you one by one by dancing around in a threatening manner until you have knocked out their predecessor.

Makeup can safely be worn to bed without smudging.

Cars and trucks that crash will almost always burst into flames.

When paying for a taxi, never look at your wallet as you take out a note, just grab one at random and hand it over. It will always be the exact fare.

A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

When you turn out the light to go to bed, everything in your bedroom will still be clearly visible, just slightly bluish.

If you need to reload your gun, you will always have more ammunition, even if you weren't carrying any before now.

It's easy for anyone to land a plane, provided there's someone in the control tower to talk you down.

Once applied, lipstick will never rub off, even while scuba diving.

Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language: a German accent will do.


Screenwriter Jokes edited by Alan Baird

_____________________________________________________

Evenings



I like evenings:

warm, golden, shone through with light;

an orange ball of sun behind the window
stitched to unbelievable skies,
and honey light
streaming through lace curtains
to rest on the tablecloth.

I like evenings:

safe as a woolen sweater,
peachy, rosy, purple,
with wicker armchairs spinning webs of light.






***



The ball of sun
bursting with yellow warmth;
the intoxicating smell of grass,
ravishing joy of breathing.

Your skin smells with sun,
and clouds aren't clouds but little white lambs
running loose on the blue meadow.






Rapture



I understand the passion of fine machines,
aircraft stretched across the cracked sky
between one horizon and another,

with a neck, tail, and wings sewn into the baffled blue,
one second laughingly plunging down to earth
with the whole of its supposed weight,
then scarring the torn-up sky
with lightning.





Conversation with a Ghost



Thank you for being here for me.
I can't imagine how the events would weave themselves together
if not for your on-and-off presence,
unobtrusive and obliging.

Always by my side,
patiently listening
to me blabbing
about the laundry and the alarm clock that didn't go off again,
and the neighbors' dog I have a weakness for
(who makes it a point, after having dirtied itself beyond recognition,
to jump on me as I rush to work—and I swear it picks the days
when I wear white),
and how I should iron my shirts once in a blue moon,
but every time I do some shopping,
I forget to buy an iron,

and so on, and so forth.

We both know:
were you a living creature,
you'd be far away by now;
but as it is,
you're still here,
and I so appreciate it.

Today, I'm going to serve clams.
Don't you just love clams?
I know you do,
and I do, too (your likes and dislikes miraculously agree with mine).
After we eat, we'll go for a walk
on the Burrito Beach,
which we of course both like,
and after that you're going to listen to me sing
and tell me I sing just beautifully.

And in the evening,
we're going to shut off the light
the very moment I feel tired
and not a minute later.

You’re almost perfect.

If only you had blood in your veins,
disagreed with me every now and then,
left the room untidy,
got cranky when hungry,
snored—
Then you'd be perfect.

“I'm a ghost,”
you tell me,
“and ghosts don't snore.”

I know, I know.
One can't have everything.






Lost Mother Tongue



I deserted you.

You needed constant attention, like a capricious child,
a frail flower one must water every day.

I was your nest, your fortress,
your rain, your sun,
your guardian,
your mistress.

Spring followed spring,
fall—fall.
New bridges were built;
borders were erased and drawn anew;
even children were born,
and people just like you or me passed away.

I became forgetful and absent-minded,
preoccupied with little things,
always on the run.

Slowly, imperceptibly,
I became neglectful of you.

You failed me soon after.

Had I looked after this garden,
it would have returned the favor
tenfold, I know.
I know.

So where is this sorrow coming from?
Why?

Hush,
hush,

no need to speak.






Longing



I didn’t manage to find you.
Vain attempts. Futile efforts.

I’ve run through the garden.
Countless times have I looked under the sheets.
I’ve stared obstinately at the very empty seats in the subway
and at my own overly singular reflection in the store glass.

I can’t cope
with how ubiquitously
absent you are.

I’ve armed myself with heavy patience.
I’ve planted in myself confidence
of seeing you again.

My silly stubbornness should move you.
You should leave your hideout.

I know. You’re standing right next to me
in a cloak of invisibility
laughing up your sleeve.
Your laughter has wrinkled the air.

If this amuses you so much,
I can wait a bit longer.

I like when you laugh.






Fortuitousness



I, another one bewildered.
It has happened. It hasn't happened.
It could have happened. By a hair's breadth.

A strong believer in purpose and pursuit,
I have been humbled time and again.
I gave up attempts to control
where and how the story goes.
Now I'm just standing on the side,
curiously looking at the stage.

I want to say I wouldn't mind
giving a word of advice sometimes.
I wish to offer guidance without obligation.
Some kind-hearted mentoring.

But no. This is not
how things have been set up here.
Strong-headed myself, I finally acknowledge
I am to stand on the sidelines,
curiously watching.





Minute of Silence



As every year, the time has come to commemorate our dead.
This year, the time has come to acknowledge your dead.
The truth is the truth, be it bitter.

- Mr. Putin, how do we schedule?
A hundred thirty-four people here,
ready for takeoff.

- We thought you should all come on Wednesday,
but we need space for the orchestra and the flowers,
and the journalists.  One hundred and thirty-four people—that's too many.

- We thought to fly all at once,
but the plane is so small,
someone would have to stay at home.
And who's to decide who's to stay?
Such a historical event;
everyone wants to attend.

- Mr. Tusk, it's been decided:
only you'll fly today.
We'll all join you on Saturday.
There’s always so much to do;
one can't afford to stop
for a few more days.
If we can get there on the weekend,
that'll be enough of a political statement—
although I hear the weather is to be bad;
something about the fog.

- Goodbye, Mr. Prime Minister;
see you Saturday!

- See you.  Don't forget your gloves.
I hear it may rain.


_________________________________________
On 10 April, 2010, on the way to commemoration ceremony of the 70th anniversary of the Katyn massacre, the President of Poland and some of the country's highest military and civilian leaders lost their lives. _________________________________________





Caught



In the country of eternal winter, on a train,
a boy took off his winter hat.

It happened suddenly, without any warning.

I was so occupied with little things
that I overlooked the fall
and missed the winter,
only to awaken one day in a rush of buds
shooting into the dripping sky and the melting sun.

Playing the Piano

Notes, sounds, each with its own frequency:

I order frequencies around.

I make them collide.
I make them kiss.

I’m a matchmaker.

I know which ones complement each other,
which ones cancel each other,
and which ones fight.

Were I a bug, I’d worry about my food
and birds that could eat me.

But I’m human,
and as a pastime,
I order frequencies around.
It’s as mysterious to me
as the light of a distant star
I know nothing about.

Musing



Once upon a time,
beyond the seven mountains, across the seven seas,
in Neverland,
there was a girl who searched for answers.

Over the years, she wore herself out trying to find
what can never be found nor ever understood.


Today she is happier
living a simpler life.  She smiles
at the sight of children,
of trees in bloom, of people holding hands,
she smiles at the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

Does everything have to have a purpose?

Gophers whistle when they spot predators.
Ants work patiently on nests,
to be destroyed by the aimless wind.
People die and people are born.
We have just erected a bridge
after another earthquake.






On Writing



Poetry is like a tiger inside you.
One day it jumps out in a blaze of orange,
mighty, forceful, strong,
and you’re surprised it was there all this time.


How could it fit there, in such a compact space?
How did it hide there, without anyone noticing?

Wait.

You knew
you had a river under your skin,
and you had a fire under your skin,
and all the unspoken
and inexplicable.






Taming



I wish I could ask you
about this.

An owl, a cat without a smile, a friendly dolphin,
even a living and breathing girl with a black braid
could fit between the verses.

There is enough room
from one word to another
to house all your conjectures and trifles of imagination.

I wish I could ask you,
but you are wild,
and to approach you too closely too early
would mean to scare you away.

So I resolve
to wait for you
to approach me instead.






Complaint About the English Language



This is how I'm going
to break my tongue:

torture, orchard, literature,
three, through, throne,
fortuitousness, agriculture, culture,
and the hardest of all: children.

It’s a good joke to equip one
with an immaculate rolling "r"
and render it not only useless,
but a hindrance,
a stumbling block,
enticement
to go the wrong way.

I'm laughing
with an undertone of bitterness.

Most likely
you're never going to guess
what I'm talking about:
is he bold or bald?
Can I see a cup or a cop?
In case you haven't heard,
there was an oil spill in the Golf of Mexico.

(I'm lost without rescue.)

And this is where
I feel illiterate:
so how do I spell "ubiquitous,"
"loquacious," "unfathomable," "porcupine"?

What I do know is that
I can produce the correct spelling of these words
in my mother tongue.
Just let me translate them first,
and we’ll go from there.






Dresses



I have many flowery dresses,
the type that makes you think
I must be an innocent girl
with no worries
and no opinions of her own.

I buy more and more of them,
and they take up space in my wardrobe.
I don't wear them.
I’m very private about them.
I don't share them with other people.

They’re waiting for my daughter
to arrive one peachy afternoon
in bursts of faint infant crying,
so that I can give her these and all she’ll ever need
for her to become a sweet, innocent girl,
loved and pampered.






Child



He stepped out of the house
to indulge in the beauty of the garden.
He’s dabbling in the sun,
wading through the knee-high grass,
splashing about in dry leaves
that crunch under his feet like snow.

Landscapes of the garden:
rusty horseshoe on the rotted fence
of all shades of gray;
a family of daddy longlegs
marching on the bench
as at every break of day.

Good morning Mr. Brown,
how are we doing today?

Let’s go back in for breakfast.
Nancy needs to check your blood pressure
and give you your medicine.
We don't want to catch a cold now, do we.






Dreams



What happened to my dreams?

Canvasses of paper used to be inviting,
windows open to the untold future,
people, good.
I used to draw pretty flowers and happy faces.

What happened to my dreams?

Yes, Mr. Costner,
I gave them up for reality.

Good morning, Mr. Costner.
Yes, I did promise myself to dream big.
But that was before—

Yes, Mr. Costner.
I will.

I will dream big.

If this is even your quote;
with all that’s to be found on the Internet
one can never know for sure.

Thank you for your support.

Windows are wide open,
I know; I’d be blind not to see it.
And there's that scent of the big world in the air,
breathtakingly fresh and freeing.






Temporality



Enough of this poetry already.

A steak, a goat, a calf;
they too deserve your attention.
Canned milk, winter boots, a dirty street,
an ugly black bug—

they all do exist.
Some of them
are even needed,
why then do you ignore them?

Enough of this poetry already.
If you don’t stay in touch with your earthy side,
you're in danger
of inflating
like a big blue balloon
and rising into the air.

That, you cannot risk.
Not with all the errands to be run,
laundry to be done—
and, hell, not without a good dinner.

Maybe one day I could,
once I’m a pure soul woven of air,
devoid of what's here and now.
Although, to be honest,
I hope never to get there.

I protest against the set order of things
as much as a silly mortal human,
flesh and blood,
possibly can.

 



Gratitude



I am thankful for songs that we both know,
for the evening news and whimsicality of weather.
Utterly strange to one another,
at least we have a subject for conversation.

Silence, it rubs the wrong way,
like a too-tight collar.

Centuries ago, it was recommended
to politely converse
on neutral subjects.

Let's stick to those.

I am thankful for the songs that we both know,
the evening news, and whimsicality of weather.





Citizen Kane



We eat at a cold table
that stretches into eternity
between you and me.

Buried in dispensable things—
heavy fabrics, arduously woven by skillful hands,
chandeliers, satiated bowls of thick glass
(that will outlast us for successive eternities
longer even than the eternity
of our table)—
where are we headed?

You know and I both know.

This is why we're silent.




 
Friends



I feel you through the wall.
There you reside, divided from me by uncountable eternities
of ten steps.

Your room is dusty;
you never open the window.
Dishonesty nests on one shelf,
duplicity on another.
Dwarf Chatterbox inhabits
the drawer to your right.
He's helpful when you need to talk smoothly.
The air is thick with something—
I don’t quite know what;
I can’t put my finger on it.
And yet it is there,
prominent and intrusive.

Oh, these moments when you get silent
and still—
I dread them.
I prefer when you’re occupied,
and I can hear you through the wall.
Rudeness is better.
Peculiar friends we are,
you and I.
You like to call us that,
for it serves your purpose well.

There is such power in words
that she who listens to them
can be thrown into an abyss
of no escape.




 
Journey



You'd better toughen up, my dear.
The road is rocky and steep,
not a source of drinking water
in a hundred-mile radius.
Our camels are tired
and may not get over the pass.
We may have to leave our bags behind.

Think about what you’re bringing with you.
Remember:
Once the water runs out,
everyone will forget your name.
Only the ones you can trust like you trust yourself
are worth sharing with.
And I don't need to tell you this sort of distinction
shouldn't be given lightly.



 

***



He's racing again.

Dad, slow down.
Dad, stop.
Where are you rushing to?

Dad, slow down.
It happened once; it happened twice.

You well know
you're a walking miracle,
and every day of yours here
is a day torn out from nonexistence.

Our time is a borrowed time.

Slow down.

The next sharp turn
dissolves into white nothingness.




 
Suicidal Girl



Today’s the day
when buds of flowers
are shooting into the sky.
The sky’s melting. The air
is scented with spring.

Today’s the day.

A suicidal girl
came out to the street.

Today’s the day.

It’s so pretty out here,
and she doesn’t have worries,
and the air smells so different,
and the birds sing.

Today’s the day.

Today’s the perfect day,
for it is a perfect day.
She can go peacefully
as if the world owes her nothing.

A cloudy day is not the right day to do it.
A rainy day is not the right day to do it.
There’s too much to fight for when things are bad,
but a spring day like today . . . is the day.

Today’s the day.




 
Siege



It is not my intention
to exert myself to be polite.

You have inhabited my head
as if nothing had happened.
This is called a break-in;
make no mistake about it.
The mere fact that you're handsome
doesn't change a thing;
nor do your soft shirts,
nor that scent that you carry with you,
nor that tan skin of yours and your impressive physique—
this all means nothing to me.
NOTHING.

You're a plain squatter,
and I can't have any respect for a squatter,
even one with muscles so tight under his skin
that I could count each and every one of them.

Why don't you just move out
of my head?
I don't have space here.
Here, I’m growing a little plant; granted, it’s only a seedling,
a sprout, really,
but it’s growing every day,
and it needs space and sunlight.
And you steal all the sunlight—you catch it with your tan,
and the little plant doesn’t stand a chance;

and here’s a pillow for my cat-to-be,
and I can tell you right now:
you and a cat wouldn't fit here together,
for the cat that I want to get is ten feet long,

so just move out.

Take all these nice-smelling shirts of yours
and all your weights, which, as I can see, you must use a lot,
and all that magnetic presence of yours, and your bright smile,
and your wide arms,

and go.

Go!

Maybe leave some pictures.

Yes, this one, and that one,
and that one, too.

All of them.

And I want one shirt,
two shirts,

a wardrobe
full of your shirts,
and your weights,
and whatever else you have there.

And you don't need to stay dressed all the time, by the way;
your skin needs to breathe when you work out,
and—

 



Perfectionism


What I have learned about "perfection"
is that it only exists in a dictionary.

We strive to reach it. We never do.

Commas in just the right places,
polished glasses,
spotless silverware,
ironed shirts,
fresh sheets,
a perfectly behaved child,
the perfect manicure,
the perfect sentence.

The war with dust finally won: not a speck

for a split second

and not a split second longer.

I’ve missed the summer
and my dad’s birthday—again.

Nobody toasts with my perfect glasses . . .

. . . commas in all the wrong places, unpolished glasses, chipped nails;
guests are raising their eyebrows.

We cheer for my dad’s birthday cake over a card with an imperfect note scribbled on it,
and we comment on a butterfly we saw today.

The summer’s at its fullest,
and yes, it is settled:

I'll die unprepared.





To a Politician


Be vigilant, be chary,
for you never know what may befall you.

Some diseases mysteriously hit at the right time
for the majority to become the minority.
Some events are to be forever silenced.

You were aware of the danger.

Had you known the outcome of all this,
would it have made any difference?

We both know the answer. For, thankfully,
there will always be those
fighting and dying for the People.




 
The 34


When the time came
to cast a vote—

I did it for silver coins.
I did it because I knew he'd do it, and he'd do it,
and he, and he, too.
I did it because I believed I would belong to the majority.
Where the majority is, public sentiment will follow,
carefully guided by our own skillful hands.

Birds and seeds, and a song of a little girl
can all cross borders.
I—I live within the structures of my society.
They're rigid and they bite.

Learning the ropes took me quite a while.
I vaguely recall
I used to be innocent and curious,
and I, too, used to sing.

I can furnish explanations.
After all, I could be a believer
in a different cause;
and can’t everything be justified
one way or another?

Somehow, though,
when at the end of the day
I go for a walk,
I can see that everyone
walks in the opposite direction.

And I can hear the calling:
turn your flags upside down
to greet your elected officials.





At Play


I'll take the azure,
the breeze, your smile,

the red, the triangle, the whale,
that weird pen that you can't write anything with,
the purring of a cat.

I'll throw them all in a salt shaker,
giving an extra push to the whale,
add a few grains of rice just in case,

shake it all well—

or not—

and pull out a finished poem.

It’s all impressions,
a fleeting thought
caught on the run by the sleeve,
never to be seen again.