Three Visions Of Olympia
Three Visions Of Olympia
02: MIRIAM / TRUTH
Truth is bullshit. Tiring hacks like me use it as an excuse. Kids like Olympia have no idea what it is. Frankly we'd all be better off without it.
Okay, maybe not ... but I've chased the so called truth right to this dripping wet doorstep; filmed it, cut it, worked it hard for every available buck, and still I've got no fucking idea.
Which is why I'm here, about to knock on what I presume is her door.
Looks like I'm still hooked, after all. On her; or whatever part of me and my sad arse life she supposedly doppelgangs. I keep telling myself I'm over it but obviously I'm not, because here I am still cruising for scraps. Looking for leads in the trash.
Who is this girl? What made her this way? Why do I care? Et-fucking-cetera.
Yeah, questions questions. No wonder I'm tired.
Damn this damn riddle; this obvious, expensive distraction.
Standing here, sweating my arse off in this festering humid heat, things are starting to smell way too much like cheap soap to me, like some tacky, overhyped froth and bubble melodrama from my tabloid TV days, when it paid handsomely to be a cynical bitch and peddle vacuous, brain numbing distortion.
But wait, there's more!
Isn't that why I left it all behind? Wasn't that why I shook the golden handshake and caught the first cattle cart north to paradise? To shoot the film I always wanted, to cut something real, to say something worth saying?
I flew up here determined to live out my long suppressed filmmaker fantasy; but I arrived full of poison, kidneys aching as I stepped off the plane and into the dense sweet air of the tropics. In my baggage, like toxic cargo, the hard evidence on digital video ... weighing me down.
Yet with all that predictable shit came the lingering and not entirely unreasonable hope that I could somehow flush the madness out of my system and maybe, just maybe, unearth the 'real' Olympia.
But surprise surprise - a gang of defiant skeletons, still rattling madly in my closet, gave determined chase. Childhood stuff. Sex issues, self-loathing - you know the score. All the shitty leftovers I never quite managed to pin on her.
Even so, it was seriously good to wedge four thousand air miles between me and the fake universe I used to inhabit. Between the media spectacle I helped to fashion and the real life, skin'n'bone girl I'm hoping is waiting on the other side of this flimsy beige painted door. She's the one that I want; not the dysfunctional, fabricated Frankenstein who virtually stabbed me to death before doing her little vanishing number ... leaving the many fingers of blame pointing directly at my muddled head.
Like so many loaded guns.
First thing I'll do when she opens this door is to say sorry and forgive her. Maybe then we can wipe the slate clean. Start again.
Anyway, I'm full on shivering now, nervous as. It's been a long time. So here goes nothing.
Okay, so let's rewind.
When the star of the show first went missing, I was the number one person of interest. Rumours ran riot, rival networks set up camp on the street outside and the cops took bulldog interest.
The director and the starlet: what a story, what an obvious place to look.
The investigating officer was a certified spunk so I tried on my flirty unbuttoned blouse routine but it seemed to have no effect and I was grilled both sides till I was almost charcoal. He wasn't interested in the booty or the mitigating circumstances; all he wanted to know about was Olympia Grazia Gallo. Familiar story that.
So as soon as I was in the clear I made my feeble excuses to my jilted daughter, apologised to my incapacitated mother and flew to the rainforest country with sixty-seven tapes of raw f