First Thursday

"Ano ba naman 'yan, unang araw na walang pasok sa bagong taon, nagsesenti ka na?"

Well, this song is nice. Not exactly the feeling I have right now, but somehow pretty close. I haven't found a CD rip or mp3 of this, the copy we had was on cassette from almost twenty years ago. I don't know who bought it - maybe my sister did. A shout out for anyone who has a decent copy.

Just this morning I felt like writing a script while I was walking home. I had spent the night at a friend's place, trying to get myself a little soused up but it didn't work. In the end, we played NBA 2k7 on PS2 - 'Sheed Wallace was a monster in that video game, he torched Stevie Nash and the Suns for 101 points in two games, which the Pistons and Suns split.

But I digress.

SCENE. Int. Man on the landing of the stairs, gently turning the joint of left leg. He is wearing a jacket ill-suited for winter weather, and on his left shoulder is a black laptop backpack. Pulls out a set of keys. Keys jingle in his hand. His POV shot looking down the steps. A slight exhalation of breath. POV shot uneven and unsteady as he climbs down steps.
Ext. Still dark. Ululations from the the various mosques calling the faithful to prayer resonating in the distance. Focus on some paper touched by a stray breeze. Otherwise, there is little movement.
Man walks onto the sidewalk. His POV shot is direct at a nightwatchman all bundled up with jackets, dozing while a radio blazes a prayer broadcast. Man takes short steps at a time crossing the street. He stops and takes a look, sighs, and walks.
Ext. He is looking into the grocery store of window, no particular interest on anything.
Int. He is inside a building with marble floors, pressing an elevator button. Shot on elevator floor read-out it is off. Sigh heard again, and his POV climbing up a dark stairwell.
Int. We hear a door shut, a little quietly. It is a small bedroom with little furniture but clothes and papers thrown about - a bachelor's room. Man drops his backpack, raises his right arm to his nose and smells something unusual. Takes off the jacket. He stares at some papers strewn about, and what looks like some pictures or a theater playbill. There is no focus.
Man kicks off shoes and takes jeans off. His POV is on the ceiling as he lies in bed. Enter music.

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS
For the definitive version, get one from George Benson's "Tenderly"

You don't know what love is
‘Til you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
Until you’ve loved a love you've had to lose
You don't know what love is

You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is

Do you know how lost I've been
At the thought of reminiscing
And how lips that taste of tears
Lose their taste for kissing

You don't know how hearts burn
For love that cannot live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is.