turkey shoot

previously published by me elsewhere:

The united gorge fest commenced yesterday. Therefore, as a vow of our continued commitment to patriotic duty, perhaps out of fear of reproach and ostracism, many of us didn't allow our recognition of America's obesity epidemic to deter us from supporting National Glutton Day one more time.

This truly American holiday has become one of the last remaining vestiges from the Norman Rockwell image of the American family. However, we may have just had our least traditional Turkey (or Tofurkey, depending on your persuasion) Day yet.

Well, I guess the year we gathered on the following Saturday due to last minute sickness permeating my sister's house may have been the strangest one. I remember strolling through our local twenty-four hour grocery store looking for something interesting to eat that night, since we were expecting to eat elsewhere. I guess we're not really programmed to have a back-up plan if T-Day is cancelled.

This year we shared our big meal with our close friends' family. It was a nice position to be in, almost seeing the holiday from the outside for the first time. There's something about dealing with one's own immediate family during such high-stress occasions that I find reminds you why there's only one of these days a year.

civil warned

previously published by me elsewhere:

With all of this focus being put on key battleground states, and all of the concerns about malfunctioning voting machines, and all of the clearly visible corruption, and the downright nastiness that has been sold to us as everyday campaigning, whatever would turn someone apathetic or cynical enough to steer clear of voting did not work on me today.

So, like a remnant from another time, earlier today I trekked out to my polling place in the pouring rain to play the lottery that we call the midterm election. As I walked those seven or eight measly blocks, I got to thinking about the crumbling system of government we have in this country that has left us with the choice between socialism, fascism, and shutting the fuck up.

Election results are being tallied left and right, and I've taken a gander at several of them, but nothing is going to change really. There's no Lincoln or Roosevelt out there to bridge the divide between people, or solve any of our major problems or at the very least save us from ourselves. Cleaning up after the annihilation should be the mission at hand.

Sometimes it seems like we should have little kids running the show. Adult politicians typically break all of the golden rules normally demanded by parents of those lesser citizens known as children. Play nice. Play fair. Get off your brother. Don't tell a lie. Don't forget to wash your hands. On balance I believe kids would try much harder to be honest than their adult counterparts. If you tell them they will get stickers when they're done, maybe they'd be more inclined to vote too. Perhaps adults just need to be enticed by "I Voted" cocktails. I say bribe 'em with inebriation!

Maybe the point is kids still care about the little things.

sweet tooth

previously published by me elsewhere:

We just got back from our friend's house, who had invited us over to give out candy to the neighborhood kids as a low key Halloween celebration. Little did I realize that her neighborhood is amazingly popular with local families from elsewhere.

This became quite apparent as we pulled onto the first of a couple roads that lead to her house, and encountered lines and lines of parked cars on either side of the roadway as if every house on the block were hosting a party. We coasted through the neighborhood as the trick-or-treaters were in full swing.

There were so many little kids and their adult companions strolling the sidewalks and crisscrossing the street that it demanded almost constant pressure on the clutch to keep from stalling out. Either that or I could have run over some kid with an ugly costume, but that just wouldn't have been kosher.

The whole process of giving out candy was quite an interesting one this time around, given our friend prefers to forego the trick or treat method for her own trick for treat method. As a trade for the candy, depending on the general age of the kid it involves any number of things such as singing songs, delivering tongue twisters, or doing dances, etc.

When she first mentioned this bartering mode she uses, I kept my displeasure to myself. It just brought back a lot of the negative things about childhood, and how much of it had to do with adults wanting kids to do things, be they chores or homework or Sunday school or what else.

What really got me was how much most of the kids, of which there were a whole freakin' lot of 'em, really got into this exercise of tit for tat. There were a lot of untapped creative personalities in several of them, and some genuinely discouraging blank stares on a great many others.

Many of the kids whose parents didn't wait at the sidewalk would get impatient while waiting for other people's kids who were in the midst of "performing", and lead their kid on to an easier to exploit house. That's the thing I recall most about giving out candy. Quickly open the door, give the beggars some stash, shut the door, and go back to whatever you were doing. As a kid, there was always this assumption that you say those three words, and suddenly the elderly grandmother on the other side of the screen door would just OOH and AHH and that was that.

My friend seems to get this thrill from energizing the kids to think on their feet, and to think with new parts of their brains, and that sort of thing. Strange it may be that giving them all of that candy is just gonna fuck it all up. That's what I was busy doing most of the time myself.

I sat back a couple feet from the wide open door, watching the goings-on, knocking back that smack for kids: smarties. I remember spending a lot of time, as a kid, very meticulously shuffling through the 7-11 buying loads of candy with my lunch money. I guess you know you've gotten old when that sort of thing is just a passing fancy, or a faded memory.

Although I'm still not set on this method of making kids into child stars, it was nice to see the array of them on a more personal level. The brief interactions made many of them a bit more memorable. The old standbys of princesses and witches are still in heavy rotation for girls, as are pirates and ninjas for boys.

I stopped trick or treating in elementary school, but I know a lot of people who continued on through high school. Most of the oldest kids that passed through were in middle school, though. That's the age of the kid with my favorite costume, and the one that really caught me off-guard: Frank, the bunny, from "Donnie Darko"! There was also a Corpse Bride, a couple Darth Vaders, a lot of demons, and a couple of self-proclaimed whores.

Yes, whores (ranging in age from 10 to 14). I guess one could say that this all speaks loudly about our culture, but I resist putting some umbrella statement across these isolated incidents. It's intriguing nonetheless.

three words

previously published by me elsewhere:

"Love is too weak a word for what I feel - I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F's, yes I have to invent, of course I - I do, don't you think I do?" ("Annie Hall", Woody Allen & Marshall Brickman - screenwriters)

Our seventh anniversary just passed, and against the magazine rack judgment of how my brain should be programmed, I know the exact date of it every day of the year. I never comprehend the flakiness of people when it comes to these things, especially when they're the ones who got hitched in the first place.

Then again I am one of those frustrating people who keep up very well with such bits of info. Most people who know me realize if I forget something important like that I never knew it in the first place, or the inoperable tumor announcement is around the corner. Or maybe the Seven Year Itch will be rearing its ugly head any day now.

Of course I refer to the 1957 Billy Wilder film starring Marilyn Monroe, in one of her trademark roles. Truthfully something like that has less to do with the main character's period of marital dissatisfaction and is more or less unpreventable when Marilyn Monroe is your next door neighbor. I think a lot of modern couples have these types of unlikely special circumstances written into clauses in their private vows, but I think far fewer will share that information.

Long term relationships take a shit load out of you. You have to be invested in it one hundred percent of the time, and not lose sight of your commitment to it. Once you recognize that it's a condition and that you need to be constantly on guard for anything, you'll start to here the jingle-jangling of the ball and the chain, and you'll be well on your way through the twelve-step program. There's a long and involved de-tox process during which all memory prior to the relationship is erased, and on the other end you're very likely to no longer relate to single people.

They will all become a blur of creatively conceived dating shows starring people who aren't as humorous as those who write the running pop-up commentary or are merely spies traipsing through someone's dirty bedroom in the hopes to bond in some random way.

In this game there's a lot to be cynical about, and unfortunately I know far too many unhappily single people, ungratefully connected people, and lazily married people to not just assume I was one in whatever billion to be struck by lightning and lived to tell about it.

dream abacus

previously published by me elsewhere:

"I just want to wake up!"

It was the sentiment that ended that great surreal Spanish film "Open Your Eyes" as well as the local horror flick I was working on this past summer.

Sometimes the difference between the two states is so confused that questions arise which is more real. With my unpredictable sleeping patterns I sometimes wonder where all of the dreams go when you don't recall them? Or don't have them?

There was a certain period in my life I would have an amazing retention for them. I'd recall so many in such vivid detail that I started to write them all down until the process got tiresome, and when I got to the point of skipping the more bland among them as a form of self-censorship.

That feels like such a long time ago, though. Now I feel like I have such silent periods. Sometimes I wonder if it's completely dark up there most of the time. Maybe the divide between the two realities is just too stark.

I know someone who is so in touch with their non-waking state that they have a predilection for things in the realm of astral projection and the like. It's fascinating science fiction for those without it, and hyper-reality for those that know it.

People all share a certain amount of common life experience whether it's one of the major passages like adolescence or the conventional fear of death, or some ironic combination of the two. Is there common experience inside the head, or is the internal wallpaper merely another example of zebra stripes in nature? Can someone share the same dream?

There's always such a distance between what goes on in the head to the expression of it. Sometimes it's satisfying enough to consider that's why we have art.

Everyone has their means of dealing with their problems, flaws, hang-ups, and indiscretions whether it's in lucid dreaming, shock therapy, alcohol intake, or by ignoring it altogether. Sometimes I start to wonder if my dream world has started to feel so under populated because I've gotten deeper and deeper into combating my demons, re-imaging my regrets, and working on my soul through all of the writing I do in the waking state.

I know someone who doesn't even believe the "real" world is much more than another aspect of the astral plane. Whatever we concoct in our heads is truth for us, and sometimes attempting communication with other figments of our imagination just fucks things up.

Then again, maybe I'm just not sleeping enough.

dog grooming

previously published by me elsewhere:

I spent another evening at our local black box theater's performance of "Dog Sees God", as it shuffled into its last three shows. I was there to film for a second time, having spent the last filming occasion merely capturing some wide shots, which were an obvious replication of the stage experience. Tonight it got fun!

I've worked for the assistant director/co-producer of the show on previous film shoots. She strives for perfection from herself and demands nothing less of those around her. She comes bearing a lot of enthusiasm and passion, but sometimes fails to clearly communicate her goals with those who can help her fulfill them.

Fortunately, for my part, tonight she was able to communicate in clear terms what she wanted. I was merely the technical entity that would bring her grocery list of shots that filled 75% of a Mead memo pad to fruition.

I've never been particularly technically savvy. This is due not to a lack of interest, but to a larger leaning toward expressing my visual sense of composition and framing to others who are more technical. I'm just not usually the person to move it from that point to a finished project, unless you qualify all of my years behind a still camera.

Still photography has always been a passion of mine, to the point that there was a long mourning period between the loss of my cherished 35mm camera and this great digital camera I've now had for nine months. I know it's cheesy, but it was like a companion who saw things how I did. Using a different camera felt like cheating.

So, tonight I was the proverbial furniture mover putting the couch wherever the nagging housewife desired. It was a very specific paint-by-numbers type gig, but there's a lot of great energy to doing this during a live event. You have to remain loose, open, and ready to change it up.

That's precisely what I did, as moments came along. I'm not sure how "I had to improvise every now and then" was interpreted by her, when I made mention after the show. Oh, well. When you see a better shot, you've got to be spontaneous and not lose it, right?

The audience was far quieter than the last outing, but they still laughed and cried appropriately. I did hear this lovely monologue during intermission from a man sitting nearby to where I was noticeably planted with the camera.

He looked like the average person who would be quite unlikely to make an appearance at our local art house cinema, much less the theater, so I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when he said to his date:

"These things are okay, but they're boring. I'm sure this is the end of my theater experiences for the decade. The only thing that keeps me awake is that they keep turning on the lights."

It's fascinating to be able to be six or eight feet from someone, looking in the same general direction, and see a completely different thing.

Such is art, I suppose.

worlds apart

previously published by me elsewhere:

The annual update for our South American sponsor child arrived in the mail yesterday. It comes every year around this time and reads at four or five pages of frustrating broken English, as it defines in the most basic terms what's been going on in the village and how she's been doing health wise.

Every year the update arrives, as does a new set of pictures. It's always the same general couple of pictures, one or two of on-going productivity in the village, and then two pictures of her looking one year older. They are always very much like the mug shots taken for film continuity: the subject stands there devoid of feeling in a wide shot and then in a medium or close-up. It always looks like such an inconvenience to her. And I wonder what her thoughts are on the whole matter.

I've been sponsoring her since she was six. Back when I was studying Education in college I decided to answer one of those mailings that seem to randomly flow through households. Not surprisingly Katharine Hepburn was on the inside of the envelope giving her urging to help a child in need. Having always been an admirer of Kate and her film choices, I decided to accept her judgment of a legitimate organization and sent the spare change they spoke of right away.

Since then there have been sporadic letters from both ends, but it's never been much of pen pal sort of thing, like Jack Nicholson had with his child in "About Schmidt" (we use the same organization, though!). The most consistent communication would have to be what I call the inventory letters.

Every birthday and every Christmas we send a variety of gifts, which promptly get listed one by one in the form of a letter. It's a strange thing, and an understandable step for the organization to take to ensure nothing was lost in the mail, or stolen on-site. You know, to put those whiny Americans at ease that the Tickle-Me-Elmo they fought to the death over arrived without a scratch.

Surprisingly, a very random gift choice several years back of a Spanish version of the first novel in the Harry Potter series turned her into a fan. She's all caught up now. According to a letter from last year, what she'd really like is a computer. The entire phrase caught me off-guard.

There's this certain series of questions that have always existed about what things are really like down there beyond what I always interpret to be a sanitized version of the truth that comes in the letters and pictures. I tend to think she also has a certain amount of expectations what things are like here.

She's seventeen now, and this will be the last year we are supposed to be sponsoring her. I know I've been humbled by the situation, even though I still don't speak her language. I wonder what sort of effects this whole arrangement has had on her. Who would she be without this small additional involvement in her life?

generous seconds

previously published by me elsewhere:

I was really surprised by how different the experience of watching the performance of "Dog Sees God" behind the camera last night compared to viewing it as a mere audience member tonight. Maybe it has something to do with seeing something multiple times and therefore having another perspective on it that the virginal eyes lack.

My impression of the overall production improved, but there were some specific performance issues that became glaringly more noticeable with the second look. The turnout was far stronger tonight, and they were a much more expressive audience. Unfortunately I was sitting in front of a couple people who were more expressive than I think was warranted. Not only did they share the obligatory laughs and at least one major gasp of any attentive audience member, but with each communal moment it seemed a line of thought was spit out as well:

"Of course!"

"I saw that coming."

"Now I'm turned on!"

"You know they had to do that, right?"

"That SO reminds me of my brother."

"The blow job bit?"

"You know the story don't you?"

"Let me tell you. Okay, how 'bout later?"

There's a line between getting into the complex psychological dialogue between audience and actor, but then there's talking through the fuckin' show. It was quite clear that they wanted someone to hear their Mystery Science Theater morsels, but I was determined to tune them out as much as possible and enjoy the play.

So, I did just that, and found myself far more moved than while filming it. There's a wall that was put up between the performance and myself with the camera as my focus. I don't often get into plays like I do films. They generally lack the right kind of intimacy to really affect me, and it was really thrilling to enjoy some real connection with the piece tonight.

weather report

previously published by me elsewhere:

There's a calendar on the kitchen wall, in my checkbook, within the bowels of my planner, at the bottom of the screen on several cable channels, on every major search engine page on-line, and in any number of other places, yet October still seemed to have snuck up on me.

Even though we don't get the full-on experience of the four seasons in North Florida, October has long been a favorite month for me. There's something in the air. It's called a cool breeze, but for me there's more to it. The A/C starts to get turned off, the windows and sliding glass doors begin staying open much of the time and my spirit tends to breathe with far more clarity.

I am frequently at my most productive around this part of the year with the rest of the world essentially flowing through the open windows across the entire house. I know some people look forward to their birthday, Christmas, New Year's, or something else all year long, as they drudge through everything in between. For me it's that period we're edging toward as October begins.

goddamn dog

previously published by me elsewhere:

I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.

Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.

Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.

I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.

The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.

I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!

Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?

Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.

hello goodbye

previously published by me elsewhere:

I think Ferris Bueller said it well: "Life moves by pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you might miss it." (Thank you John Hughes!)

There was a flight today headed for paradise with a stop-over at LAX. A dear friend was on that flight, as she took an important leap in her life with the hopes she might truly find herself at the other end. Maybe a respite from the norm.

Or maybe a home. But what does that mean, really? Everyone has their own interpretations of what that entails. Some people envision Thanksgiving dinners around a big table, but other people might find it briefly on the set of a movie at 1 AM. Isn't it really just a place of comfort, and not necessarily an abode?

Throughout my life people seem to go away just when things are getting good. Many of my relationships have had to be forged across this sort of physical distance. I find it intriguing that in the same breath people can become out of sight, out of mind; and that same distance can make our hearts grow fonder.

I got a call from my brother today. He was letting me know that his mother-in-law had passed away from the debilitating condition she had been dealing with for the past year. By no means was I in the dark on what was going on in his family during this time, but the fact is I don't really know my brother, and he doesn't exactly know me. We have been light-years away from one another for so long, it's hard to know where to step when he's around.

I offered my sympathies and attempted to gauge his needs. With people I know far better, I can detect the small things, but I can't bear subtext when talking with him. I don't know whether or not he was close to his wife's mother, nor do I know if a hearty amount of animosity lurked behind every meeting. This sort of trouble with openness runs throughout my family.

There are plenty of catch phrases and movie quotes to define life's parameters, but sometimes living and watching the manner in which people enter and exit one another's life does the job just fine.

tidal pools

previously published by me elsewhere:

I remember one summer when I was about eight-years-old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' station wagon. We were roaring down the highway in the middle of nowhere during one of a couple summers in a row spent like the traditional image of Americana.

I recall sitting there listening to the deep vibrating hum of a car at high speeds, and whatever familial din filled the cabin. I had this extreme sense of self-awareness as I consciously started to listen to my own voice mumbling inside my head.

I wondered why I was me, and not someone else. Why these would be my experiences. I often ponder similar things, as certain people pass in and out of my life, and others take on unpredicted significance.

This September has been reasonably active in celebrating birthdays. Three people I consider close, for completely different reasons, have had one this month. Two of which have spread their birthdays out over several days, making it seem like much more.

One of those close friends came into my life only a year ago, but the intensity of the friendship came on as quite a surprise. She and I share one of those friendships that don't require a lot of frequent talking and hanging out because you relate on a different level. There's a certain understanding going on between us beyond the whole conversational.

Another of my friends is close in the more traditional sense of the word. She is half of a couple the wife and I have known for three years, who we spend time with several times a week, who we exchange presents with at all of the gift giving times, and that sort of thing. This is truly one of those lasting friendships built by shared experiences and mutual growth.

Tonight we went out to dinner with the third close friend celebrating a birthday this month. We told her several days ago that we'd like to bring her out for her birthday if she was free. So, we met at the restaurant of her choosing, enjoyed a good meal with some above average service, and held some pretty steady conversation.

Her boyfriend is twenty years her senior and frequently Mr. Quiet. In all of the years they've been together I've never been able to determine whether it comes from introversion, or just aversion, but he was there tonight as well. Surprisingly he did come out of his shell a little when a random bit about childhood pranks and mischief came into conversation, but that was about all we could get out of him.

And then the bill came. Sitting at the end of the booth within two feet of our waitress, he was able to do a quick pass of his credit card before we realized the bill had even arrived. How can we treat if someone else pays, right? I hate that whole check grabbing game that sometimes occurs, as the most determined demonstrate who's the more dominant of the species at the table.

That was tonight, but the friendship has been going on for seven years with a lot of lulls in conversation and contact. We like each other's company, and have spent a lot of nice times together over the years. I know that we are good friends even though I can't really express it here, but I can't help but feel as though it's as good as it will ever be.

She's one of the small margins of people who have always been there for me, even when I went through some dark times during this pursuit for the silver screen. I've shared a lot of painful stuff with her, but the discomfort that comes from doing that without reciprocation always takes over.

Throughout the years I always hit a wall with getting through to what's really going on inside her. It's upsetting to think that the friendship will only grow just so far.

I'm left to wonder why certain people grace the frames in your living room and some fill the pages of your memory, yet others remain forever elsewhere.

small potatoes

previously published by me elsewhere:

If there's one thing people who are close to me have known for years, my sleeping patterns are 100% unpredictable. Some weeks the number crunchers in my head tally up all of the bits of rest I've gotten, and gather a pretty decent average, but other weeks I'm in the red.

For some reason there's always something small that sets me off in big ways. I'm awakened by the proverbial crying baby, if you will. So, I woke up at 3AM this morning after my requisite two and a half hours worth of shut-eye, and I've been going steadily since then.

I'm finally getting caught up on some back issues of MovieMaker, and I have unexpectedly found myself developing some really strong new ideas for a script that I started working on during the summer of 2005, but had since set aside.

There's something about going back to a project after some time that's still in the midst of its development. I find certain senility has set in during that time, and going back you find personal gems that are far better than your best perception of self, and the material re-inspires you.

The frosting for this fine day comes from one of my favorite cable channels: Turner Classic Movies. They were running a twenty-four hour marathon of short films that just finished at 6AM this morning. Not being one of those people with TiVo, I have taped the whole twenty-four hour stretch on good ol' VHS. I tend to have trouble watching things that I would like to fully digest in real-time, so I'm going to watch it all at my own leisure starting this morning.

To me the short film is so fascinating in a lot of ways. Except those darling judges of the festival circuit, few viewers really get the chance to see many short films in their time. The most prominent forms, music videos, were always this side of four minute advertisements, but what has actually become of music television is now self-parody.

Simplistically the short film has the potential to fall somewhere in the wide expanse between trifle and pretension. It's like listening to the twenty song "Fingertips" cycle at the end of They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18 CD. Was that great art, or just an underdeveloped idea?

hairline fracture

previously published by me elsewhere:

In the past I've been given conflicting reports about some of the weaknesses in my character. I've been called impulsive and I've been referred to as overly hesitant in reference to the same sort of issues.

Truthfully I don't think there's any real consensus about what part of my personality causes the most ripples in my life. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I pre-navigate my own impulsiveness, and therefore only occasionally do significant things occur due to my pseudo-moderation in judgment.

My sister-in-law is in her mid-twenties, and seems to have found a workable way to take life by the horns with an exceedingly devil may care attitude with few or no negative consequences. It's perplexing at worst and admirable at best.

She has legally owned a hair salon in town for nearly six weeks, and has officially been relocated here for about two weeks. For someone so unfamiliar with planning, she's amazingly forward thinking and driven about the whole manner. She's got this frontier attitude about the hair business that includes thoughts of franchises and a complete overhaul of her shop. She came over tonight to get some input on some advertising ideas.

She's bought herself a real fixer-upper place with a cast of characters that fall together like something out of NBC's struggling line-up. She's the tattooed, young, attractive, modern stylist from South Florida, and they're God fearing, jaded, leathery, gray-haired men who look like something out of a police line-up.
Laughs should ensue immediately, right?

The truth is I very much want to see it all work for her, unlike the way I could feel about someone else trying to succeed in the film business.

Even though I don't feel I've gotten to many of the places I think I've truly worked towards, I don't really have that step on someone else's back attitude
I unflinchingly associate with Hollywood. Honestly I've worked through a lot more jealous rage in my past that has occurred as I have seen much weaker artists than myself "make it happen" just because they are more impulsive or less hesitant than I.

on display

previously published by me elsewhere:

Closure.

It's one of the pursuits in life that I feel I have sought the most, but have often found the least. To me life comes with so many starts and stops that only movies really flow in a neatly packaged three-act structure.

When things come to some point of fruition your psyche reacts to everything in a new way. All of a sudden you find yourself mentally erasing portions of the old slate, leaving yourself space to deal with a whole new mess from an improved perspective. Such is the process of littering the world with one's old baggage.

The world premiere, as they say, of the (AKA) 'indie flick with the longest fuckin' production I know of' went down last night at our local art house theater. There were two screenings (one at 7pm and one at 9pm). I attended the first one, and was reasonably surprised by the packed house, having torn tickets at the door when more major fare didn't fill but fifteen seats during an equivalent evening.

Unlike your average local movie showing, not everyone there was associated with the project, nor do I suspect they were several degrees out from the people involved. For that reason I can reasonably call it a success!

The production itself was a miniscule affair with a cast of seven and a crew of three, and the well-noted meandering production schedule. Looking back, the production was a constant state of someone gripping someone else's throat, at least on the level of subtext.

It seemed that someone was dealing with displeasure the whole time, which really dampened any opportunity to really enjoy the experience. Shouldn't the independent film world act differently than the Hollywood sorts? Isn't it supposed to be about connecting with people on a human level, instead of dealing with people like pieces of equipment?

Between Monday night's screenings several of us shared a champagne toast at the theater's bar, as provided by one of the actors. The toasters were an incomplete grouping of those involved, and the overall connections between us all remains under-developed. I did feel a spark of what could have been, though. And it made me hopeful.

status que?

previously published by me elsewhere:

Many of the most important people in my life, the people that really feed my soul, live at geographical distance from me. It's something I've surely recognized in the past, but it seems to be a recurring theme in my life that I've been noticing a lot more lately.

There's a certain safety, and personal comfort in having a lot of people at distance. To a certain extent I can't stand the daily update chit-chat that occurs with people who you see all the time. I think I like to constantly develop and change, recognizably, which tends to occur at distance.

It seems that a number of people I've grown close to have their sights set on being nearly everywhere but here. Sometimes my life gets into this holding pattern, and for whatever reason I have to sit back and watch everyone else live life around me.
Worse than feeling like a grade school teacher watching all of their students run off and live these far more interesting lives is watching things come far too easily to other people around you.

Watching people get to certain personal milestone points with minimal or no effort frustrates the hell out of me! Like the exceedingly scattered, youthful director of a recent movie I worked on, who took for granted that this group of people who he mistreated on a regular basis would ensure the project wouldn't fall apart, just because we were the responsible ones.

I guess the stable and the experienced always hold the shit end of the stick and clean up the mess left by the Mr. Magoos and the George W. Bushes of the world.
Sometimes I wonder why I must be one of the rational ones. Why can't I just make wild-eyed impulsive choices, assuming everything will just iron out in the end? What's with non-prodigious people finding personal successes with a snap of their fingers? What - are you one of Jerry's kids, or something? Why are you living your dreams, and I'm still stuck having them?

I guess everyone has something, whether it's home ownership, popping out smart babies, getting that dream job, or maybe riches and fame. My feeling is that if everything comes way too easily, you end up taking credit for that silver platter you had nothing to do with shining, to say little of having nothing else to look forward to.

Well, I guess that's the key to my perception of personal success. As sad as it may sound, I suppose I can only consider it success if it took a lot of work to attain it.

wild abandonment

previously published by me elsewhere:

After the last time I posted here I was starting to feel that I had no real interest in continuing rambling on about my life and moderate mental goings-on. After all, the last thing I needed was another distraction.

You know, sometimes most on-line journals feel to me like commentary tracks on any given DVD. No matter how bad the film turned out, the one thing the filmmakers avoid presenting over the course of those two hours of esoteric humor, vocalized pauses, and ego stroking is some much needed self-flagellation or honesty about the temperamental nature of creation.

I guess this is because flaws and human error can be the difference between having a career and not having a career in the entertainment business. That is unless you attain the mythical status of "celebrity".

It seems that the more flawed a celebrity, the more human they become to the rest of us mortals. Together we can all bond over our collective need for rehab, don'tcha know?

Not so with a filmmaker. Flaws mean you are incapable of "delivering". Nobody wants to know that you are a procrastinator, or frequently late, or impulsive with money, or legally blind. None of these things look very good to an outsider, but they are all the sort of weaknesses we all share.

In an extreme way, it goes back to what I'll call the Michael Jackson/Woody Allen Syndrome, which I view as the inability to separate the human being from the artistic creation.

One perspective would have it that the two are inseparable and therefore the judgment of one dictates the quality of the other, and another could conclude that the artist is merely a vessel through which the art flows and nothing more, thereby making the creation the only thing of note regardless of how it arrived.

Since the last time I posted here several very intense, physically and psychologically taxing weeks of shooting occurred on the most recent horror flick. The clock was ticking, and our deadline to wrap was July 12th. Unfortunately we didn't make it, and we are left with an incomplete movie, and an uncertain occasion to attempt a re-group to pull together the remaining scenes.

Our cinematographer hopped a flight out of town to spend a bit of time in front of the camera, our make-up specialist focused his attention on getting a gig with Halloween Horror Nights, and who knows what has become of several others.

My nature demands a fair balance of space and company. I have pulled away from it all a bit, back into my shell, back into the woodwork of Gainesville, uncertain whether any post-production activities are taking place.

I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately, tearing through several old layers of flesh and really getting into a several month late personal spring cleaning.

I have finally gotten back to work on my own scripts, which is something I never like to be too far away from. It's a blessing and a curse to be your own boss, and to manage your own time, and to demand everything of yourself. There's also a huge freedom in holding the reins over the creation of it all.

Well, unless of course I'm merely a vessel.

hand shake

previously published by me elsewhere:

One day you wake up and everything around you reeks of adulthood.

Coffee consumption has increased tenfold, frivolous cash spending is overtaken by pinching pennies for gas, phrases like "make it an early night" become more frequent, everything on that VH-1 "I Love Toys" show is merely nostalgia, and what you're going to be when you grow up is roughly what you are now.

By no means is this something that just occurred to me upon stumbling out of bed today, however there's one thing about inching myself toward committing to adulthood that has caught me a little off-guard.

Last night while driving home from the set I realized that most of my greetings and farewells with people these days are done by hand shake. When does something like that become commonplace without resistance?

have heart

previously published by me elsewhere:

One thing that defines many horror movies is little tricks that make the audience react on a visceral level. Tonight we shot one such scene that involves a most vital organ, but ironically my heart just wasn't in it. The material wasn't really exciting to me, and I know I wasn't the only one.

At the core of satisfaction in a relationship is the assumption that all parties involved are getting out of it something they want. For a lot of people doing this, there's the hope that the resulting feature film that comes from all of the work will be a success, or at least worth all of the trouble.

In my mind this same sort of prospects for the future test is put toward every relationship. This is something I really got to thinking about today, having just found out two of my friends have broken up.

I remember flying down the highway with them, while we were all on a road trip. A certain lull in our conversation was filled with an extensive conversation between them. It was then that I realized they were hitting it off in a different way than before, and I was witnessing the birth of something special. It wasn't long after until I realized I had quickly become merely a chauffeur.

The dynamic always changes between people when break ups happen. You always worry that you're going to be one of the things that has to go as people try to heal and step away from the past.

A few years ago a marriage-bound couple I once knew had a really nasty break-up that involved an unnecessary restraining order and a completely unsettling display of spite. I only know one of them now, and the other ended up losing all signs of their original personality.

As unlikely as it is, my romantic half often likes to think a separated married couple I know will get back together, even if they both ruined that relationship.
As selfish and simplistic as it sounds, it's like bands you know and love getting a new lead singer. You have too many positive associations with how it was the other way.

The thing is, I know too many lonely people to know two more. And this just breaks my heart.

mind control

previously published by me elsewhere:


A blackbox theater has been used as one of the locations for the last three film productions I have worked on, which is one of the reasons I spent the better part of six hours this evening in the dark.

I have to suspect there is a certain monetary minimalism making the decision to shoot there more appealing. That's the only reason I can come up with, because I've never written a scene that I thought could be best executed in a dark void. In fact I think all of these productions could have benefited from a different location for their respective scenes.

Whatever the case I got to the community college blackbox at five, and was expecting to soon gather up our host of scheduled extras. Instead two people showed up. They were in costume, and ready to go, and turned out to be pretty damn patient as well, but they didn't fill a room.

This was about the time desperation started to develop, and it became a matter of getting a hold of warm bodies. So, like the creative vampires that we are, we set out to recruit people from the campus. There were no takers, unfortunately. What's with that?

I remember a particular evening on a far less organized production when the same rounding up of last minute extras proved very successful. Many of them were revved to be involved in a movie. I recall one side of a cell phone conversation one of them was having about how cool they were being in a movie. Where was that interest tonight?

I think in many ways interest is really waning on the project. It's completely an uphill battle to get to the finish at this point, which was well represented by the non-vocalized communicating one of our actors was doing all evening.

He's one of a small collective of local well-respected talents, and for good reason. Unfortunately he's cast in our movie in a slight role that demands little more of him than breathing, and at some points not even that. All of this after several hours of waiting and some extensive time in the make-up chair.

Although I see him as more of a theater actor than a film actor, I still admire him and think if there's anyone we need to impress it's him. I think we fell flat in that regard tonight.

Though there are many more to come before we wrap, these evening shoots are really killing us. Tonight everything seemed to be running in slow motion, except the clock, and it's becoming harder and harder to hide my ambivalence with how things are corroding.

hair culture

previously published by me elsewhere:

The second day of the year celebrating procreation passed by on Sunday, and I've been thinking a lot about roots.

My sister recently moved back to Tallahassee. She has spent many years on the trek towards the right place for her family to set down roots and, after a fashion, start living. Though I wouldn't say their relationship is by any means strong, our parents also happen to live there in town.

Three days ago my brother packed up and moved to New England with his caravan of children. He also happens to be moving back to a town he lived in a number of years ago, up in Connecticut.

One of the legends of Gainesville is the theory that if you are born here you will likely never leave, and if you live here once and leave, you are destined to return. It's some sort of boomerang effect.

I, for one, have lived here on two separate occasions.

As it turns out my hair stylist sister-in-law has just bought a hair salon in town, so she will be relocating. My hippie father-in-law with the golf habit shouldn't be far behind.

I can feel the roots quickly setting under my feet as I type, and I'm not sure how I feel about that, except uncertain.

I'm not one of those Hollywood-bound filmmakers. I've felt like an outsider most of my life, and there's something about making that familiar stereotypical trek to Tinseltown and losing your ideals that has always offended me at the core. I want to remain honest, and make films from that standpoint.

So, the question is, and shall always be: can that be done from a small town in Florida?

I have a friend, I once called my best friend, who I grew up watching many films with, because his family used to rent a stack of eight new releases from X-tra Supermarket every week and tape them. Our pursuits were very similar for many years, but as time went on he went to a film school in California and I left school in pursuit of learning it on my own.

I've always had a tendency of getting antsy in my place at any given time. When I was a kid I would rearrange my bedroom on a regular basis. As I got older, I would get anxious to quit my day jobs very quickly, even if I didn't. And more recently I have been on this search to find somewhere better to live, even if my perceptions of many places only come from movies.

Within the past year or so, I found some like-minded individuals in town, who are also in pursuit of making films for a living. Sometimes I feel like that little girl in the bee costume in Blind Melon's "No Rain" video. I have found my fellow outcasts! Is that ever enough, or will I become dissatisfied with that situation just as quickly?

When is it settling, and when is it merely living?

the sequel

previously published by me elsewhere:

[THESE BLOGS USED TO EXIST ON MYSPACE AND I WROTE THIS IN RESPONSE TO THAT NETWORKING SITE]

Tonight, after a month here, I showed a couple real life friends what the whole Myspace thing was all about. One of them fears the identity threats possibly available here, and the other doesn't really have the time to spend on-line that an addiction like Myspace demands.

What's the deal with becoming a recruiter, or spreading the Myspace propaganda to others? Do we all communicate better if we have a list of each other's favorite things to refer to?

Going in I knew Myspace as little more than a place for the lonely, the bored, and the perverts of the world, which are all groups I have identified with at one time or another during my lifetime.

In my mind, it had become somewhat of a buzzword by the mainstream media and novelty t-shirts representing the site as certain downfall of our culture. I decided to join up as a whim, and of course to join in on the freefall.

I don't know if any of my pre-conceptions about what this virtual community is all about are wrong, but I guess I have gotten the chance to see it as something with more potential than that.

For example, we are creating a Myspace account for the current movie I'm working on, as one of the many marketing tools we have in mind.

Also, I have gotten back in touch with several people who have been absent from my life for over ten years. There's a certain amount of forcing fate within re-connecting with people you never would have without the site.

Does it matter, really?

black coffee

previously published by me elsewhere:

We had intended to capture a couple reasonably complicated and important scenes over three evenings this past week.

The little wind that could of Tropical Whatever Alberto was still unpredictable enough on Monday night that we decided to cancel our Tuesday shoot. The decision to scrub the other two nights was a result of what happens when only a couple people are consistently focused on a project: some oversights made us ill-prepared to make those scenes happen.

The production gathered again at 9:30AM on Saturday morning ready but not necessarily willing to tear through a rigorous schedule, covering a couple quick segue scenes, an involved fight scene, and three re-shoots.

Three hours in and we were well behind schedule, and very little could resolve our lag from that point forward. Our crew was short several members that made last week's shoot run so smoothly: our new production assistances were out of town, the sound guy had a paying gig in Orlando that took precedence, and one would suppose our assistant sound guy had better things to do.

Due to scheduling restrictions, an overall demanding day on our make-up specialist, and other considerations, I had one of our re-shoots scheduled first thing. Maybe that's one of the reasons things went so sluggishly for the first half of the day.

There's something about re-shooting a scene that reminds me of this quote from the live Joni Mitchell record Miles of Aisles. Mind you, this is during the early-70s when musicians were far more accessible and lifeless arenas hadn't overtaken the concert tour, and a certain intimacy still existed with famous musicians.

Between tunes several of the audience members are blurting out songs they want to hear, which inspires Joni to compare the performing arts to being a painter. The point that I always remember is something like: you can't tell VanGogh to paint A Starry Night again.

I kind of got the same vibe going back to a scene that was executed particularly well some weeks ago. Going back is overkill when hindsight teaches you nothing new, and you're almost Gus van Sant guiding yourself through "Psycho".

We went back for one small reason. It was something I feel the average viewer wouldn't pay any mind to, and something a more expensive movie production could have fixed in post.

This is the footing our day got started on, so it was only inevitable that I would have to call off several of our actors by an hour at a time. One actor's call time got pushed so deep into the evening that we cancelled with him entirely.

Eventually, we got to the scene that took us the rest of the night. By which, I mean we wrapped set around 5AM Sunday morning. There's something special, and almost predictable, about spending that much time with people that it is the fodder of the better reality television and sociology 101.

For the most part I think we all connected in new ways, but predictably people together so long also get on each others nerves. People get tired, but certain people also get funnier.

To me, it's thrilling to be a part of a group of people driven and dedicated enough to stick it out late into the night.

mood swing?

previously published by me elsewhere:

The new glow that has overtaken the production this weekend has revealed something to me. Even though we were getting a lot of strong footage shot, and we were all doing our jobs satisfactorily, there was a certain malaise that had set in.

It's unfortunate, but sometimes you spend so much time with a particular something that it gets stale and just plain boring. It becomes like a relationship you know is on the outs, and you loathe dealing with anymore. It becomes a do or die situation of breaking yourself off from it, or finding some way to reinvigorate it.

Have we found our "Kama Sutra", so to speak, or was this weekend just a fluke?

fire starter

previously published by me elsewhere:

My friend with the two names came up to work on the movie with us this weekend.

I had first met her when she posted a call for writer's submissions for a stage sketch show back in the summer of 2004. I sent out several good ones to be considered, and one I was still developing as a means to pad the pile. Unfortunately there was some trouble casting several of my sketches, so only one was ultimately performed. Even though one of the actors kept mincing my lines, watching that performance was a real treat, and a reminder about the creative energy exuded through collaboration.

Long story short, my friend also happens to act, so back in March when we were in need of someone to play a somewhat embittered middle-aged woman, I knew who to turn to. What are friends for, right? Yes, judging them to be both embittered and middle-aged in the same sentence!

It was actually quite comforting to bring her out for yesterday's shoot, since some sort of miracle has befallen our dear set. For the first time since we started we had many of our main actors on set, and a complete crew. We have been struggling with several occasions without our sound guy, or without our make-up guy, and our trusty production assistant for the first two months of production is currently out of the country.

There was something really special about yesterday's shoot in my opinion. Maybe we didn't get through our record-breaking five pages in a day, and maybe we had to take a pre-emptive strike against certain scenes, but one thing I got from the experience was a definitive reminder of why I decided to make movies as my life.

Whatever sort of machine metaphors can be put together to explain how the whole filmmaking process works would likely express what was happening yesterday. We have all developed a rhythm of working together.

This is something that was sorely lacking on the previous project I worked on. Since that shoot took place across so much time, there was very little occasion to genuinely connect, except in the way of familiar strangers who might meet at a reunion, let's say.

It's awkward and uncomfortable for a while, and then everyone gets drunk.

territorial pissings

previously published by me elsewhere:

We have stumbled through our trouble-filled production since the middle of March by shooting footage exclusively on weekends. Due to any number of circumstances, the least of which is the fact that we've been shooting this thing since the middle of March, we had our first evening shoot tonight.

There's always something off-putting about attempting to squeeze in a little bit of movie-making over the course of a three hour span. Full day weekend shoots are something everyone seems to look forward to, whereas the weeknights feel more like an inconvenience.

It becomes glaringly obvious that none of us are free from other responsibilities on the outside of what we are all so damn passionate about. Giving up most of our precious few hours to unloading and reloading equipment, waiting for the actors to come out of make-up, and the like, makes for an anti-climactic experience.

The focus is completely different, and the energy level is very low. There's something invigorating about spending every waking hour on the set, allowing the day to go through waves of inspiration, exhaustion, and finally delirium. True genius and creativity seems to thrive in this sort of space.

So, we spent our brief, rather uninteresting shoot in the men's room of the engineering building on campus. A public facility of this sort presents many drawbacks, the least of which is sound quality, which will be one of the first warnings out of an audiophile's mouth. It's a public restroom, and therefore not the best place to cozy up to a nearby wall, even if it keeps you from getting in a shot chock full of mirror.

no rain

previously published by me elsewhere:

My brother-in-law has this manner of recounting stories that frequently makes me second guess almost every word. I suppose there's a lilt in his voice that assumes, behind that lecturers tone, he's actually telling a joke. Truthfully it happens more often than he retells the same basic quip everyone's tired of hearing except him.

Since my sister's family just relocated to our lovely state capital, he felt the urge to share with me some memories of attending Florida State as an undergrad. Specifically he was talking about some period of time when the burgeoning film department was located somewhere within the football stadium.

It seems two worlds collided one day during a break between classes when all of the arty film students stood there in their Misfits t-shirts smoking their Marlboros, while the machismo football team tried to play within the ever-developing black cloud.

This past Sunday marked one year since the first day of production for a local movie that seems to have fizzled out, very likely to never be heard from again. There's something about all of those memories of frequent smoke breaks for everyone involved but two or three of us that makes me wonder if I really can relate to either of those groups supposedly brought together on that field.

I guess there are plenty of assumptions about what you're likely to get from an artistic person. It's likely why the government likes to cut spending on the arts. God help them if their children grow up to be a fuckin' bum with no discernible direction in life, to say little of a pension plan.

Though I've never really gotten into the Misfits music, and I pretty much quit smoking before finishing off a pack, I still am one of those misguided tortured souls driven down that dead end road.

At least what's at the other end is by no means lonely.

road trippin'

previously published by me elsewhere:

Whew! I just got back from Jacksonville, having gone with the director of our movie to check out a hospital for our shoot. This would resolve our location needs for about a dozen or so scenes.

Unfortunately our cinematographer was busy, but we took a bunch of digital pictures, that capture everything except the chilly air and funky hospital smell, and should assist with making our decision.

Things seemed somewhat uncertain at the start of the trip when I was picked up from the blistering heat in a vehicle with the windows rolled down and with no air conditioning on. It wasn't until several miles out of town that she turned on the air, and rolled up the windows, saying she sometimes forgets she has a/c. I don't get it.

Overall the trip itself was a good one, with the expected discussion of a whole flurry of films and future projects. What really struck me was how much we talked about normal stuff.

I had come to realize that we knew very little about each other on a personal level and coincidentally this whole untapped conversation route presented itself. It was very interesting, and I suddenly feel like I can relate to her in our business associations in new ways. Cool.

After we arrived and passed by the security desk, we were greeted by a man who was talking our ear off about things that didn't seem to relate to our general reason for being there. I was thinking for a while that he actually thought we were someone else.

It took quite a bit of time before his ramblings segued into something resembling movie talk. By this point it started to seem as if he was pitching us his movie ideas, in a "couldn't hurt" sort of fashion.

The one thing that really hit me about this guy was how enthusiastic he was about everything medical. It's nice to see people find their true calling, and make the most of it.

Although we have some logistics to work out for getting our cast and crew up to the location for a couple of weekends during June, things seem reasonably positive.
On the negative end, the man did warn that we NEED to have security escort us outside after dark due to this place being in a "dangerous" part of town.

I have to wonder at what risk it is worth a good location.

communication breakdown

previously published by me elsewhere:

There's a particular aspect of independent filmmaking I got to thinking about during the shoot today. Sometimes the things we do are like some sort of a sociological experience gone wild.

While taking the rare deep breath, and swig of bottled water, I looked around at the general goings-on and I was somewhat fascinated. Not just because things have developed in my life the way my twelve-year-old self would have them, but because we were spending our day in a stairwell. It's damn fascinating to see ten people spending twelve hours in a place few would be caught dead in. What might that cop who quietly passed through have been thinking?

Sometimes it's as if time stops, and you're Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day", living each moment again and again until you get it right. But, of course, the actual takes, and literally shooting the film are just a small portion of what can be called moviemaking.

Much of the rest is made up of various sorts of communication. There's often a lot of focus put on communicating with actors, since they're often seen as substantially different than other human beings, and they all have their "special" little ways of making the magic happen.

I've found that sometimes, on the set, we forget that everyone has their own way of communicating and perceiving what's going down. We're all basically the same regardless of title, or likewise interpreted importance. Today was such a day.
There was a certain amount of tension being felt today, due to a general lack of communication that has developed into this little tumor on our production that has been ignored for far too long.

As one of the main heads of production, it's become glaringly obvious that at least one of our triumvirate, if you will, is always in the dark at any given time.
I'd like to think that the core issue is a general assumption that three people of a similar mindset don't always need to speak about every little detail. Perhaps there's a space for non-vocalized communication in this setup.

As much as I'd like to, I don't know if I buy that, though.

predictable hokum

previously published by me elsewhere:

There seems to be so much stirring up inside me right now that I can't think where exactly to start. I know it's the general curse of a storyteller to determine when to introduce the story, and when to decide that the story is over. Sometimes that takes up more time than writing the damn thing.

From a suggestion by a couple of friends I have jumped on this bandwagon, and joined up at the trend that is myspace.com. I tend to steer clear of trends, or that's at least what I'd like to believe. Yet here I am, adding to the useless drivel that clogs the internet, and serving it up on the new devil music for teens space of choice: my.

As much as I have likened it to newspeak, ala 1984, I have even started to post these "blogs" on a fairly regular basis. I feel I am quickly becoming a far less private person than the sort I have perfected being for many years. Sure, I know I can select my readership, but for some masochistic reason I choose not to. There's something exciting about sharing with whoever cares to read, but then again it also makes me feel rather exposed. So, I'm undecided on the matter.

Sometimes I feel like I have to really contemplate each phrase to ensure I am not insulting someone who might stumble upon my site, and to ensure whoever reads it doesn't start to judge my overall writing ability. In that light, recently I was called verbose by a friend of mine. To me it was rather an insult, but only because I'm well aware of my failings. I'm reminded of a professor I had in college who referred to one of my pieces as overwrought. Look it up, it's not positive either. So the hell what - I like words!

So, this myspace thing has diverted far from my expectations. I still think my prediction that a lot of people use it for bootycalls is appropriate, but there's a whole other side to it that I have recently tapped into. It also has the potential to reunite people in a very controlled reunion type environment. I have actually gotten back in touch with some people who I fully expected would never re-enter my life. Ever.

But I do think there's a certain amount of it all that really gets my mind churning. I just keep looking around at people, whether old acquaintances or complete strangers, and everything that they'll share here about themselves, whether writing, pictures, or lists of interests. I think a lot of people just want to matter.

There's something that's really gotten me while looking at all of this collected life in pictures, and such. I'm reminded of "Wonder Boys", an under-appreciated film. There's a scene with Katie Holmes and Michael Douglas alone in his study, talking about how his 3,000 page book represents making no noticable choices.

I look at those pictures of all of those places people live, or have visited, or of activities they like to fill their weekend with. And I think again about choices, and I'm reminded of how little life we really get.

Don't worry, I'm really fuckin' far away from preaching that old carpe diem crap here. Okay?

But, anyway, there's something very elementary school about the whole matter. "If you choose to play in the block area, then you're not using the finger paints today." That shit never lets up, does it? If you decide to visit the Grand Canyon, you might never see the Eiffel Tower (financial figures aside, of course).

Choice.

Its about putting stuff in just as much as it is about leaving something out. Most of the time I find myself focusing every waking moment on something related to my career choice, whether it's writing scenes, networking with on-line colleagues, mapping out a shooting schedule, researching, or innumerable other things, even to the point of infringing on regular life. I think most people spend their whole careers trying to break in, paying dues, and honestly taking everything and anything that comes along.

You know, sometimes it would be nice if the right choice could be "no".

in waves

previously published by me elsewhere:

One of the many life or film-related quotes I keep posted on the bulletin board in my office, as a collection of clarity, I came across in one of those books of interviews with directors. It's something Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire) told Allison Anders (Gas Food Lodging) about filmmaking: The production always reflects what the film is about.

Surprisingly to me, this has actually rung reasonably true with some of the projects I have had the most involvement with. For example:

One of my scripts I have made a number of attempts to get produced deals thematically with the cyclical nature of life, and how certain things only comes in waves. Interestingly to me the development of the script, and the interest in it, has also come with similar brief intensity - again and again. Perhaps the nature of the beast.

The movie that recently wrapped took place in and around the teachers at a school, and dealt for the most part with the dread of going back to the grind day-after-day under overwhelming odds. As time wore on, this same feeling was felt by all involved, as we ended up shooting the movie over the course of a full school year, under hardly the best of conditions.

And finally there's the current show. I recently put it together under this same guide - almost by accident. I like to draw connections between things, and sometimes my conclusions are a stretch, but bear with me here. We have had several troubles with keeping locations, and have dealt with many a locked door (whether figurative or literal). What's the main connecting device between our scenes, and an important factor to a main plot point in the story: entrances and exits. What do you know about that?

deaf dj

previously published by me elsewhere:

Maybe I should have spent less time Saturday morning contemplating looking for windows to break and enter through and more time doing so. As we discovered out of necessity at the end of today's shoot, at least one window on the dark side of the building was unlocked and just asking for entry.

I came to discover from an early morning call from our director that one of the doors to our location was now open. So, after we "gathered the troops", as I once heard it referred, we were on-set and rolling through a couple scenes.

The dynamic changes drastically whenever a different mixture of people is on set. There's a different energy, and certain aspects of today's shoot really clicked and there was an overall good rapport and energy between everyone, but unfortunately certain things were lacking as well, be they key people or basic equipment.

Sometimes, and most especially on independent movie sets, ingenuity takes over and things seem to fall into place. At times, and maybe this happened today, the results are better since we had to make due, had to make it up on the spot, or had to toss heavy loads of duct tape on just about everything under the sun to make it sit still.

Although we really pulled through against a certain amount of challenges today on the movie, nothing quite compares to the one I worked on that wrapped on Friday night.

We went through that entire shoot with only three crew members. If everyone wasn't juggling ten different items, and balancing twelve different tasks during every take, something was truly amiss.

Ah, nothing quite like the little time!!

without warning

previously published by me elsewhere:

Like a literal metaphor for the hurdles of getting through the proverbial doorway into the "real" film industry, the five of us local indie folk stood there locked out of this weekend's location.

And don't think I didn't consider checking for unlocked windows, or testing my own skills at breaking and entering, either. Desperation often yields surprising results, and thought directions.

In many ways it's not so much getting knocked behind schedule yet again that gnaws at me. The other side of that locked entranceway represents something more to me.

Although still dealing with voluntary and deferred payment type positions, it's still a job to me and unlike every other I've ever had I look forward to doing it, so a scrub brings about a fair amount of disappointment.

For this current movie's production, it's certainly not the first bout either. We've dealt with one setback after another, worthy of one of those truly Hollywood movies about people overcoming great odds.

There have been: less than dependable people involved on either side of the camera, who have flaked out on us; hard to cast roles, still unfilled several weeks into production; false leads on major locations, some as far as 300 miles away; loss of promised locations, requiring re-shoots; sickness overtaking main actors and crew; as well as serious equipment trouble, necessitating nearly three weeks hiatus from production. And I'm sure I've skipped a bunch.

And in a lot of ways, the capitalistic roots of this country and, to a degree, this business come to mind. The money factor has been in my mind for many years.

My path to film started in the writing department, as I spent many years focusing on writing scripts, and developing stories.

One day it occurred to me that I couldn't have been drawn to a more expensive art form. It seemed to me that painters or sculptors or musicians or whoever else could get their materials together with more ease and less expense than what I could in essence birth with pen and paper but could pretty much do nothing with until I broke into Fort Knox.

So, I wonder, would all of these things really be solved with more cash flow? Or it is just an excuse?

302 days

previously published by me elsewhere:

"The end is near" is one of those stereotypical chants of the loony old bald guys hanging out on the corner in Anywhere, USA. I can assure you, the end is most assuredly here, but not the end that might be associated with that phrase.

There's often something unsettling about things coming to a close. A certain relief stirred in with a fair amount of disappointment. It's just this natural reaction, because what endings mean is change, and change is really difficult to swallow. No matter what!

With every ending comes a little death, but not necessarily closure. Most of the time a bit of unresolved feelings just hang out there, left to dangle forever. So, that's what's going on right about now.

Like death, however, it'll probably take a few days to sink in. In this case, it'll have to hit that obligations are nil, commitment levels can edge back to zero, and a certain footnote in my life is over.

The movie shoot that would not quit has finally quit, and we're all a bit older, maybe a touch wiser, and certainly out a few bucks.

Should that be satisfying? Was that the art? The art of the process of filmmaking.
Should it be more fulfilling since it took so long to complete the principal photography? Or, on the other hand, does it become art when someone actually sees something one can refer to as a movie?

I've just gotta hope some of the art rests with the process. That's what makes the most sense to me.

You know, if the outlook becomes grim for the future of the picture as a whole we all still got together and made ... something.