cleaning house

About eighteen months ago I was interviewed by a local grad student who was doing their thesis on a film-related matter. I didn't realize when I met her for that thirty minute chunk of time that the transcript of our conversation would be available on-line.

It is.

I just came across it.

And I decided to read it.

Without removing all of my surprisingly plentiful vocalized pauses, I initially found myself sounding like a lesser version of myself - less confident, less assured, less grounded, a bit nervous, and maybe a touch stoned. It took a second read-through to recognize that this objective, fly-on-the-wall stance I was receiving revealed that I have indeed grown in a myriad of areas personally and professionally.

Perhaps some of this has been evident in the writings here.

Paradox is the wrong word for it, but there's something startling about listening to oneself in this way, spending a few moments with a younger incarnation of oneself.


The person I was reading on that page is someone who I don't fully understand. I suppose I am more assured, more confident, and more grounded.

I've similarly been rediscovering my past against the better judgment of Don Henley:

a voice inside my head said don't look back

you can never look back

-"boys of summer", 1984

Even after a period last fall spent clearing out the clutter, then attempting to move into a more streamlined existence, I still look around the house and watch so many things collect dust.

And I hate dusting. It's nearly as pointless as owning a leaf blower.

There are so many facets of old me sitting around - the me that comes from a family of pack rats. I had a grandmother who had enough stockpiled in her basement for a couple nuclear fallouts. I have a dad who I watched continually fill the garage with random containers and whatnot. To his credit he was a re-user before it was cool and long before my parents became obsessed with watching and re-watching "An Inconvenient Truth". But it's the drive to accumulate that runs in the family. I know, I know - capitalism, consumerism, blah-blah-blah.

What I've got are neatly contained memories, if you will.

This is from the writer perspective now. I've been working on an old script. I hadn't tossed together a new draft of it in five years. It's always been very personal to me and quite painful to write. But it's got a lot of baggage and it has the burden of having been written by a weaker writer.

At this point, I've spent the last month and a half completely deconstructing it, shattering it into its finer pieces much like a film editor. Instinctually I feel that it's what it needed. What's interesting to me is that as I've been working on it, it's slowly morphed into something quite similar to what it was. So, it's been a cathartic experience to re-live this story, but also to re-live my own, reading old missives, excising old newspaper clippings, and digging deeper into why any of it matters to me.

Speaking of lightening the load, the short film seems to have hit a complete stop. To borrow a phrase, the ball has been in his court for nearly two weeks. I feel I've made my best effort to be supportive of this project, but after a while he's exhibited a lack of interest or commitment. I think I'm done with it.

I do have to wonder, though, how any of this will look in hindsight eighteen months or maybe five years down the road.