(begins in her room by the window)

Clarissa to us: You know how sometimes things sound like they're gonna be really fun, but then they aren't. I hate when life suddenly flips off from totally cool to major bummer. For example, having a brother.

(clipped to Clarissa and a cool guy 0:13)

Clarissa: The concept is good. A best bud who'll protect you, combiding you, and let you wear his cool leatherjacket.

(clipped same scene where Ferguson is instead 0:20)

Clarissa: But then, the reality. I mean, is brotherly love overrated or what?

(clipped to Clarissa by a tent in front of the house 0:26)

Clarissa: Then there is the ever raid idea of camping in your back yard. Just you, a starry night and the great outdoor.

(clipped to her getting rid of flies 0:32)

Clarissa: Pretty cool until you get a thousand and one bug-bite, and a visit from your neighbour bulldog.

(clipped to Clarissa in the kitchen 0:40)

Clarissa: And take homework, like getting to make a topographical map of the Baltic states. Sounds like so much fun.

(clipped to her in a total mess 0:48)

Clarissa: But then, it turns into a chore from hell.

(clipped back to her in her room 0:53)

Clarissa: Which brings me to the poem I'm supposed to write for school. Hey, my chance to express my inner-most feelings, to challenge my creative impulses, to boldly go where no poet has gone before. Or, maybe it's just the change to go brain-dead and totally embarrass myself with the dorkiest poem in the universe. Yack!

(theme song 1:13)
(in her room by the window again 2:03)

Clarissa in a poetry tone:

A candy wrapper blows across the yard. A rusty bike upon the grass dos sit(???). I'm finding this assignment very hard. Oh, look, I see somebody's baseball mitt.

Clarissa to us: No, I don't know about this. Mrs Wenchpenny says we have to write a poem about what I see outside my window. But I've been sitting here for an hour already and I haven't seen anything worth writing a poem about.

(ladder hits 2:30)

Clarissa: Hey, this could be interesting. A ladder hits my window, Sam climes up and up and, oh, hi Sam.

Sam: Hi Clarissa. Working on your poem?

Clarissa: How'd you guess?

Sam: I spent all day staring out my window too.

Clarissa: So what did you see?

Sam: Dirt and grime.

Clarissa: Doesn't sound pretty Sam, would you write? An oath to fill(???).

Sam: No, I cleaned my window and then wrote a poem about my brand new view.

Clarissa: Maybe that's my problem. I've had the same view for so long. So lets hear what you came up with.

(Sam gets a piece of paper out of his pocket 3:02)

Sam:	There once was a guy named Sam Who's homework required he cram. He looked out his window, The Grass needed a mow, And suddenly felt in a jam.

Sam: What do you think?

Clarissa: Not exactly "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", but it's solid enough.

Sam: Too bad Mrs Wenchpenny thinks limericks are the lowest form of poetry.

Clarissa: At least you have something to hand in. Besides, Mrs Wenchpenny only likes poems about sunset, sumicos and daffodils.

Sam: There are none of those outside my window. I'm just going to hand in my limarige.

Clarissa: And I'm just gonna throw in the towel.

Sam: Why not write the sappiest poem you can think of? Mrs Wenchpenny will love it.

Clarissa: Sam, I can't think of a poem. Sappy or sapless. This window and I have had an all time low on the inspiration scale.

Sam: My dad and I are going to sportsmen show. Maybe I can pick you up some rainbow-coloured fishifloors.

Clarissa: Thanks Sam.

(Sam prepares to go 3:55)

Clarissa: Bring me some sunsets and daffodils while you're at it.

Sam: Anything to help to create a process. I'll check you out later.

Clarissa: Ok, bye Sam.

(he goes away 4:03)

Clarissa to us: Ok, if I don't want my creative process to get a big fat F, I better get off my bud and get moving. I have to look far and wide for real inspiration.

(clipped to her in the living room sitting by the window 4:15)

Clarissa: Tree, oh tree. Hey, that's a start. So far only about a ten bazillion poems have been written about trees, but hey, who's counting?

(Janet enters 4:27)

Janet: I think that I should never see a poem lovely as a tree, or so I've read.

(Marshall enters in dancing clothes 4:32)

Marshall: Alright, you ready to cha cha cha?

Janet: Cha cha cha? I thought it was a salsa class.

Marshall: Yea, well I was speaking metaphorically.

Clarissa: Cha cha cha? Maybe that's a metaphor I can use.

Janet: You know, I just not sure I wanna do this. I put my dancing years behind me, Marshall.

Marshall: Oh, come on, the first three lessons are free. We can't turn down my prize for being the 100th customer to buy Rod Recounts industrial strength red death salsa.

Clarissa: Red death? Now that's poetry. Too bad red death and rainbows don't mix.

Janet: Clarissa, in poetry, when you look through the window, look through the window of your imagination.

Clarissa: That sounds great mom, but see, I really got to see my window through Mrs Wenchpenny's eyes. Rainbows and daffodils, yack.

Janet: Why don't you borrow my volume of Emily Dickinson poems to help you get inspired?

Clarissa: I'll take all the help I can get. Even if it's from the 19th century.

Marshall: You know sport. You can always try the 21st century.

Clarissa: What do you mean dad?

Marshall: Well, it's a little trick of mine, you know change perspective, like I know they'll be building buildings in the future, but how will they go about it.

Clarissa: So you're saying I should think of myself as the poet of the future?

Marshall: Yea, it works for me.

(Ferguson enters in dancing clothes 5:40)

Ferguson: Are you ready? I wanna perfect my lambada, forbidden deaths.

Clarissa: Looking like that should be forbidden.

Marshall: I didn't know you where interested in these dancing lessons Ferguson.

Ferguson: Yes dad, I think dancing is the highest form of nonverbal communications. And if I someday want to run successfully in porpecst port business with our friends in North America, I have to be able to speak the universal language of lambaka.

Clarissa: You mean the universal language of dorkada.

Janet: I think it's great you want to join us for dance lessons Ferguson, but we're not learning lambaka, we're learning salsa.

Marshall: Yea, we better get going, or we're going to miss our first lesson.

Clarissa( to us?): Little league, ego scouts, fishing trips. But father son salsa-lessons?

Ferguson: Come on. They have not to feet on the conasees calling(???).

Clarissa: Which is the beat of the alien mutans calling you back to your rightful birthplace.

Ferguson: Keep laughing Skusbrain. Just wait till I'm making a bungle off sweet little old ladies who paid to have a handsome young dancepro to lead them around the barroom.

(they leave 6.36)

Clarissa to us: Ferguson gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dancing-fool".

(clipped to her room 6:43)

Clarissa: Ok, in order to fulfill the Wenchpenny requirement I've tried to put myself into a poetic state of mind. First, I've got this starting artist thing going. No murchis, just a pottery of tea. I'm wearing my most poetic gear. All lurcy, all creative, all black. And, I'm using a ink-leather feather pen to write, just like Emily did. Except I'm not actually writing. Maybe dad was right. I got to get to with the future.

(she looks at the computer 7:10)

Clarissa: I've got it!

(she throws the pen out of the window and jumps to the computer 7:12)

Sam: AA!

(ladder hits 7:15)

Sam: Hi Clarissa.

Clarissa: Shhhhh! Not now, it just hit me.

Sam: Really. This flying feather thing just hit me.

(he shows her the feather she threw out of the window 7:30)

Clarissa: Sam, I've seen the future of poetry and it's name is PC-poem.

Sam: What are you talking about?

Clarissa: I'm talking about computer-generated poetry Sam. Why wreck my brain when I can let the computer wreck its harddrive?

Sam: Wow, that's pretty cool. But is it really poetry?

Clarissa: I'm sure if Lord Byron had a labtop he would have done the same thing.

Sam: So how do you do it?

Clarissa: All I have to do is modify this vocabulary program. Ok, now all we have to do is put in those sappy geeky Wenchpenny words and let the computer do its thing. Here.

(she writes in the words *??? ??? ???*)

Clarissa: Daffodils.

Sam: She'll love it. But how can your computer look out of the window.

Clarissa: Simple. Input: window.

Sam: Don't forget to include your backyard.

Clarissa: No problem.

Sam: One thing. Can your computer be grammatical?

Clarissa: Sam, this is poem, the less grammar the better. Ok bud, do your thing.

(some animations on the computer 8:35)

Sam: This is pretty awesome. I feel like the future is now.

Clarissa: We're witnessing a powerful mind at work here. A multimegabyte mind to be exact.

Sam: No blood, no sweat, no tears.

Clarissa: And it's done. Poetry of the future.

(the computer prints it out and Clarissa gets the paper 8:49)

Sam: So lets hear it.

Clarissa:

Grey cube, rectangular light, cantilevered rainbows. Sunshine open close, open close glass. Square sunset. Outside outside outside. Sunset inside. Daffodils.

Sam: Wow. That's either the worst poem I've ever heard or the most brilliant creation since Dutlu Exacle lady.

Clarissa: At least it's a poem, I think. Just one question. Now comes this feels kind of like, well, cheating.

(end of scene 9:27)
(clipped to the kitchen where Marshall is dancing a little 9:29)

Marshall: One and two and three four, and one and two and three four. Hey I'm getting a hang of this.

Ferguson: You're looking really good dad. Of course you wouldn't mind throwing in a few extra private lessons.

Clarissa: Let me guess. There wouldn't happen to be a fee involved would there?

Ferguson: Oh, I just don't want dad falling behind the rest of the class.

Janet: He's doing just fine Ferguson.

Marshall: That's right. Sheff said that I was the most improved student in class this week. Of course when you got this far you has to go(???).

Clarissa: You're a great dancer dad.

Marshall: Hey, I'm having fun, that's all that counts. Let's tango.

Janet: Oh, that's salsa, Marshall.

(telephone rings and Janet gets it 9:58)

Janet: Hello. Yes this is Mrs Darling.

Ferguson: Ah, that's probably one of my weirdos calling for a dance lesson. Aunt Doherny recommended me to a masham partners.

Clarissa: Great you're not above exploiting the senile.

Janet: Yes, Mrs Wenchpenny, Clarissa's poem.

Clarissa: Mrs Wenchpenny? That does it, I'm baked.

Janet: And the principal knows?

Clarissa: Make that fried.

Janet: Don't worry, I'll tell her.

Clarissa: Deep-fried.

(Janet hang the phone 10:22)

Janet: Clarissa, apparently your poem caused quite a sturb.

Clarissa: Well, you know how much trouble I was having, mom and...

Janet: Family Digensen wasn't it?

Clarissa: I tried to write it mom but I just couldn't get into it.

Janet: Clarissa, Mrs Wenchpenny said that you have been chosen to recite your poem at the Ritinal Youth Poets United Banquet.

Clarissa: Me? Recite? My poem?

Marshall: Yea, that's fantastic sport, I knew you where a poet of the future.

Ferguson: Are you sure Clarissa's poem wasn't chosen for the Youth Idiets United Banquet.

Janet: Ferguson, you should be proud of your sister. She just may be the one who win the Golden Quill Award.

Clarissa: Let's go back. I have to get up in front of people and actually read this thing.

Marshall: Poetry doesn't really come to life until you say it aloud.

Clarissa: I don't think this poem is going to come aloud without serius medical intervention.

Ferguson: I can perform a dancing interpretation.

Janet: Our little poet. We'll make this a celitury dinner.

Clarissa: That's ok, I think I just lost my appetite. You know what they say about writing poetry. Begins in joy and ends in wishdom. (to us) Make that total embarrassment.

(end of scene 11:29)
(commercials 11:34)
(in her room 11:37)

Clarissa to us: Ok, my computer poem has just been published in the school paper. And I'm ready to go into hiding with Salman Rushdie. Now Mrs Wenchpenny wants me to memorize my poem for the Youths Poets United Banquet of major embareshment. Personally I'd rather just forget the whole thing. But before I become a expatriate poet on the planet Xornax I think it's time for a Darling family update. Shew Corn Cheriff world of dance has turned the Darling house into world of dorks.

(clipped to Marshall and Janet 12:02)

Clarissa: Mom and dad are salsing up a storm. Mom has even got industrial shrink of losches(???) to protect her.

(clipped to Ferguson dancing with an old women 12:08)

Clarissa: Ferguson's backyard dancestudio got of on the right foot when Antorny signed up to relearn the Lindyhop. Now, that's entertainment.

(clipped to Clarissa somewhere clipping something out of a lot of papers 12:18)

Clarissa: And I've been doing my best to remove my poem from every copy of the school paper I can get my hands on.

(back to her 12:25)

Clarissa: I'm cought in a nightmare of conflicting emotions. Embarrassment in having written a poem that even mentions the word daffodils and guilt because I didn't really write this poem at all.

(knock knock on the door 12:35)

Clarissa: Come in.

(Hillary enters 12:37)

Clarissa: Hi Hillary.

Hillary: Hi Clarissa. I just came over to congratulate you and your poem.

Clarissa: Thanks Hill, but you know, you've already congratulated me ten times.

Hillary: I just think it's so cool, and now you're a publices poet.

Clarissa: You mean the school paper?

Hillary: Yea, but somebody cut your poem out of my copy before I got to it. Just think. You already have fans. "Through my window" by Clarissa Darling is probably tacket up on bold toward all across the school distury(???).

Clarissa: I seriously doubt it.

Hillary: Well, I'd love to have an autograph copy of it. It's just so cool to be friends with the price winning poet.

Clarissa: You where the runner up. If it wasn't for me you'd be the price winning poet. Besides I really didn't put that much into it.

Hillary: Don't tell me that. I truly agonised over my sanity and I only got a A minus.

Clarissa: Mrs Wenchpenny wouldn't recognize a really good poem if it bit her on the nose.

Hillary: No Clarissa. My poem wasn't as good as yours. Which is why it'd mean a lot to me if you'd take a look at poems.

Clarissa: Hillary...

Hillary: I have to get your feedback. Here.

Clarissa: Are you sure you want me to look at these?

Hillary: I've been writing poetry since I was a little, but I was really embarrassed to tell anyone. I never knew you wrote poetry too.

Clarissa: About this poem. You see, I don't really know anything about poetry.

Hillary: You don't have to be modest Clarissa. And be brutally honest about my work. I'll only get better if I learn to take criticism.

Clarissa: Ok, see the thing is that...

(ladder hits 13:59)

Clarissa: That must be Sam.

Hillary: Don't show anyone these poems, ok? They're kind of private.

Clarissa: No problem, I know how you feel. Hi Sam.

Hillary: Hi Sam.

Sam: Hi guys, what's up?

Hillary: Oh, nothing. I better get going. I think I take the window, it will be like exiting through you poem.

Sam: I never thought about that.

Clarissa: Me neither.

Hillay: You should, this might be a landmark window someday. Bye.

Clarissa and Sam: Bye.

(she leaves 14:20)

Clarissa: I've got to tell her Sam.

Sam: Tell her what?

Clarissa: The poem, I can't go through with it. Not only is it embarrassing but it's not mine.

Sam: But it was your idea. The computer can't really think or look through the window.

Clarissa: This poem has nothing to with me, Sam. People put their souls into poetry not just their software. I can't get up there tomorrow and read this thing.

Sam: So what are you going to do?

Clarissa: I just have to tell everybody, that's all. If Mrs Wenchpenny fails me, she fails me.

Sam: She won't fail you. She didn't even fail my limerick.

Clarissa: At least the limerick was yours, Sam.

Sam: Yea, my D minus.

Clarissa: I'm gonna come clean. First I better let my parents down easy, they're acting like I just won a poet surt.

Sam: Hey, I wonder if your computer can write a whole novel.

Clarissa: Sam!

Sam: Just kidding.

Clarissa: Well, you don't want to give it any ideas.

(end of scene 15:10)
(in the living room 15:13)

Clarissa: Hi, mom. What are you doing?

Janet: Oh, I'm trying to find my collection of Lorens sporn and getty poems(???). I think you'll enjoy them.

Clarissa: Mom!

Janet: I saw Ferlinghetti read once when we where on vacation in San Francisco and he signed his book for me. I'd never image I would be able to pass it on to my daugther the poet someday.

Clarissa: Mom, I'm not really a poet.

Janet: Don't be silly Clarissa. Your poem had a real frill and getty ask quality to it.

Clarissa: Are you sure it wasn't more of a PC ask?

Janet: PC? Is he one of the Beat generation too? Oh, maybe I left that Ferlinghetti upstairs.

(Janet goes upstairs 15:45)

Clarissa: I feel like one of the Beats too. A dead beat.

(Marshall enters with an old typewriter 15:50)

Marshall: Clarissa, just the poet I wanted to see.

Clarissa: Dad!

Marshall: This is a 1947 runningtam rand typewriter.

Clarissa: Gee.

Marshall: I bought it at junkshop when I was a undergraduate and they told me it once belonged to Robert Wolf(? Lowell ?). I always loved his poetry.

Clarissa: Oh, great! I have to read him.

Marshall: Better than that, you can write on his old machine here.

Clarissa: Oh, dad. I can't accept this. See, I used my computer to write my poem.

Marshall: Oh, no no. Clarissa, you can't write poetry on a computer. No, this has a much more hands on quality. Now come on give it a world.

(Janet enters 16:25)

Janet: I found it. I'm going to pass on my Ferlinghetti to Clarissa.

Marshall: And they have strange licence plates, and engine that devaver America. Great poem.

Janet: And you sounded that beautifully Marshall. Poetry is really a spoken art Clarissa. Have you been working on your recitation?

Clarissa: Actually, well, no.

Janet: Oh, you can practice on us tonight.

Marshall: Yea, I'll give you a couple of veilers.

Clarissa: Oh, thanks. But don't you guys have a salsa lesson to get to?

Janet: Oh, Marshall. I wouldn't mind skipping it.

Marshall: Oh, come on Janet. We only have a couple of days to get our moves down(???). And if we really salsa out our boots down(???), we could run a whole month of free lessons. Come on.

Janet: My toes will pay it a quit(???).

Marshall: Oh, come on honey.

Janet: Oh.

Marshall: You ready?

(they dance 17:13)

Marshall (dancing with the music): One, two, tree, four. One, two, tree, four.

(they dance out of the room 17:17)

Clarissa: I think it was a famous frence poet who said the worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired trough being misunderstood. He must have had Mrs Wenchpenny too.

(end of scene 17:28)
(in her room 17:32)

Sam: So how'd it go?

Clarissa: Well, I got a new old typewriter and a new old book of poems. I just couldn't tell them Sam.

Sam: Did you try?

Clarissa: Well, I started to, but they're totally in love with the idea of having me as the new Wolf Melten(? Walt Whitman ?). He wrote song of myself. I wrote song of my software.

Sam: The banquet is tomorow. You better memorize your poem. Time is running out.

Clarissa: There got be some other way out of this.

Sam: No way. You're representing the whole school.

Clarissa: Maybe I'm already off the hook. Maybe this was a computer error. Maybe this is supposed to somebody else.

Sam: You got to calm down Clarissa. It's not like you ripped it off.

Clarissa: Sam, this poem just isn't me.

(she looks at the computer 18:12)

Clarissa to the computer: This is all your fault. You're the one who got me into this and you're gonna help get me out of this.

(she does something with the wires at the back of the computer 18:16)
(end of scene 16:16)
(at the (•iceland=ljóðasamkoma•) 18:18)
(the whole family and Hillary walk into the (salur) 18:24)

Ferguson: Wow, this place is a goldmine. I'm glad I brought my flyers.

Janet: Oh, look. There's Mrs Wenchpenny.

Hillary: Isn't this exciting?

Clarissa: Well, I do have knots in my stomach.

Hillary: Why aren't you gloving? This is your night. You've earnd it.

Mrs Wenchpenny: There's my winning poet. Welcome to your first evening with the inner circle.

Hillary: Knock them dead Clarissa(???). I knew you're wet(??? knew you'd win?).

Ferguson: Have a flyer. You know it takes two to tango.

Mrs Wenchpenny: Let me bring you to the head table, and introduce you to your fellow skrais.

(they walk up to the head table 18:57)

Mrs Wenchpenny: Everybody, this is Clarissa Darling. My protégé.

Woman sitting next to Clarissa: Oh, you're Clarissa Darling. I just loved the way you rejected iamic pentameter in favor of a nonliniar structure for a post-nuclear age(???).

Clarissa: Well, you know, this being the 19s and all.

Guy sitting next to the woman: Personally, I feel poetry should have more rigour. Your poem was so sloopy, so messy, so human.

Clarissa: Oh, hey, that's me.

The woman: Oh look, we're having my favorite. Endive salat.

The guy: Actually that's pronounced 'ondy'.

Clarissa to us: Looks like this is going to be a loooong night.

(clipped to later at night 19:42)

Some boring guy: The symbolism in the early joan bearim reminds me of an tasken bar releave, and it's a splendear and tikuty and intensially a fully enpackly biary...(??? all hard to understand)

(Marshall snores 20:01)

Same boring guy: ...the typical of this inscolish fiel. (??? all hard to understand)

(clipped to later 20:05)

Announcer: And now for the final speaker, Mrs Wenchpenny of Tomis Upper Junior High.

(applause 20:13)

Mrs Wenchpenny: Thank you. It is my pleasure to introduce this evenings Grand Price Winnig Poet, Clarissa Darling.

(more applause 20:27)

Mrs Wenchpenny: Congratulations Clarissa. As her teacher and poetic mentor, I am a little vius, but I can honestly say "Through my window" by Clarissa Darling upholds the poetic attage: Beauty is truth, truth beauty. Mrs Darling has dug down to the bottom of her soal to give us a deeply personal poem, an unparalleled vision of Daffodils. Clarissa, as a representative of a whole new generation of poets, please, share your poet with us now.

(more applause 21:20)

Clarissa: Thank you. I know this means a lot, but I have to be honest. I didn't write Through my window. I'd like to introduce the real author now.

(Sam pushes the computer into the room 21:39)

Mrs Wenchpenny: Not that limmering boy?

Clarissa: No. My computer. And there you have it, the rhyme and reason of the future. Hit it, Sam!

(the computer activates and reads the poem in computer voice 21:52)

Computer: Grey cube, rectangular light, cantilevered rainbows. Sunshine open, close open, close glass...

(end of scene 22:05)
(in the kitcen 22:08)

Clarissa to us: I'm saying goodbye to price and hello to my proud.

(the parents enters 22:12)

Janet: So we didn't win an extra month of free lessons, but shef thinks your father has a lot of potential.

Marshall: Yea, potentials of being in traction if I keep these lessons up. Why didn't you warn me that you were going to do all those, you know, fancy dips and twirls.

Janet: Oh, my old dancer sence suddenly came back to me, once we where our there I just couldn't help myself.

Marshall: From now on the only salsa I want to see is on a taco chip.

(Ferguson enters 22:33)

Ferguson: I can't believe that freaster worn want to be(???) wouldn't want sell me a frestice. She's just threatened by my youth.

Clarissa: Better it wasn't your dancing.

Janet: Don't worry about it Clarissa, and if you're really interested in dance, you can keep on studying.

Ferguson: Actually mom, I prefer to speak the universal language of shuffleboard. I hear there's big money in retirement homes.

Marshall to Clarissa: What's in the box sport?

Clarissa: A golden quill.

Ferguson: I can't believe she gets a price for cheating.... What's your secret?

Marshall: Now, Ferguson, everybody aggries that Clarissa's poem was an inervate experiment.

Janet: Mrs Wenchpenny thought Clarissa might be a true pioneer. Forget the Beat generation, this is the soggydisk generation, right Clarissa?

Clarissa: That's floppydisk mom, and thanks, but I can't keep this. I'm gonna give it to a real poet.

Janet: Your computer?

Clarissa: Hillay.

Janet: Oh, that's very sweet Clarissa.

Clarissa: Well, lets just call it poetic justice.

(the end 23:23)