In The Time Before Day, In The Day After Dawn

Moby's Hotel-Ambient in the background.
Yankee Candle Autumn Wreath subterfuging the stink of compost & age.
Unwashed bowls of Manhatten Clam Chowder.
Dim room with 2! lightbulbs now blown.
A stack of bills at thigh-level-- Citibank, Fleet, Best Buy.

Sketchpad with incomplete storyboards,
the pencil lines faint and timid after so much delay.
Piles and piles of paper and old Miltons shopping bags,
squandering the spare bed.
The same bed my brother always threatens to use
(he hasn't slept in it since the night before his wedding
and before that...since we shared the room as kids).

Nothing about this room is substantial.
It's been temp housing for 4 years now...
but it's not a home. Not even a refuge.
It's a place to bunk down
and eat meals
and check E-M
and write checks
and read in the early pre-light on weekends.
But that is all.

No decorations. No habitation. What's here
has been here for so long...
Or else plopped down in symmetric lines
and spaces.
Kept neat. Kept simple.

Flight Response

Went to see Rondo aka long-form Harold troupe
perform @ Improv Boston last night.

No simple feat. They've had a run of Wednesday's
there for Hump Night all month. Yet I find excuses
not to go. Like Chinese food. Or Netflix. Or dopey,
forgetable excuses (see...I've forgotten them!) I'm
even working late last night-- 6:30PM & I'm still
shooting sun-flared billboards in Taunton. But I
race back up Rte 28 & make it into the driveway
by 7PM. One costume & cologne change later, I'm
on my way into town. I actually arrive @ the theatre
early & listen in as two comic book collectors in
the middle section drool Joss Whedon fanboy talk.
How embarrassing. At least I keep my comic collecting
to myself.

Rondo is paired w/ Tivo Nation which goes on first.
Despite being exceptionally gamey & high-concept
(host controls "remote control", can switch to any
station & get fellow players to enact any TV channel
program, genre, etc...can also fast-forward, replay,
watch alternate episodes) they are really tight. OK
3/4 of them are. One guy has some good lines but
they're sparse & insular. His fellow players seem to
work overtime in their scenes with him.

Reminded me a lot of myself. Thank God I don't
improv anymore. Enjoyed it but was barely adequate.

Rondo goes on 45 mins later. They open awkwardly
& slowly. I wonder if these are all the same players.
There's sort of a feeling-out at times esp. in some of
the set-up 2-person scenes. Lot of talk & little action.
Thank Heaven for Will Luera. He turns a talk scene
into a ping-pong match & then intro's one of the funnier
call-backs-- characters circling each other for dramatic
effect. The action racks up a notch after that & people
find their characters, their voices. While Tivo Nation
peaked mid-way, Rondo crescendos w/ some nice
physicality and cross-over.

I dash off right after. Wanted to talk to Will about
upcoming project. Wanted to talk to S. But I chicken
out & skeedaddle. I even see S on the street later
but do I shout out, "Hey! Great show!" or something?
Nope. I chicken out & skeedaddle.

Sadly, I'm getting a lot of my social advice from msn.com.
I read an article about shyness. Shy people stay shy
because they don't put themselves in new situations,
interact in varying environments w/ different people.
The common response is to run when placed in one of
these situations.

I'm reminded of the Grub Street writers' party a month
back. How long did I stay? All of 10 mins. All the way into
Boston from the burbs & I duck out in 10 freakin' minutes
because I start to get uncomfortable, self-aware.

I have become a clumsy hermit out here.

The Lack Of Emotional Glissando

Stasis these past 4 years.

Emotionally.
Physically.
Socially.
Mentally.
Career-wise.

A big balloon full of sand. Rote and routine.
No earth-shaking, operatic quakes. No car
crashes or violent set-backs. Just the brushing
of teeth, the consumuation of frozen foods,
the Netflix addiction aka escapism.

But my choice. What's the Spike Lee mantra?
"By any means necessary!"

And I have to remind myself constantly how
far I really have come. When it seems like
nothing's budging, like I'm fighting my way
through a crowded subway car of indifferent
stares and expensive attache cases. Every
other passenger going somewhere...but aren't
I too? Just hard to tell when you're staring down
necks and aftershave.

There have been upheavals. This hasn't been
a cakewalk by any stretch of the imagination.
Remember--

The initial cancellation & the sheer bile of
a single cel phone conversation. The
absolute readiness to embrace defeat. (2002)

Small claims court-- both times (2003).

The break-up w/ K (2003).

Moving back home & into the old high school
room w/ the old high school posters & the
same broken closet door (2003-present).

Kicked-out & disparaged (2004).

Repeated LEF defeats (2004-2006).

Bob Hawk's absolute dismissal while he
readied for a dinner party (2006).

A rushed Rough Cut proving nothing to
Sundance, Slamdance, SXSW (2006).

No reality TV for me. Non-response from
"Project Greenlight" (2001-2002) &
"On The Lot" (2007).

And the worse part is-- I'm numb. Either
a callous or an obstinate streak predominates.
I don't know which.

Trailer

Editing yesterday. A whole day for "AERODYNAMICS" trailer.

I have 2 pages of notebook notes-- my "honey" shots. Also
those soundbytes I hear for Willy, Lil' Moe, Lex, & Mayor.

Steve, the editor, & I watch various low-budget & sci-fi film
trailers for inspiration-- "The American Astronaut", "Primer",
"Sunshine", "The Signal", Series 3 trailer for "Doctor Who".
What stands out for me 1) if you're low-budget & SFX stingy,
the more mysterious your trailer...the greater the allure 2)
facial expressions/reaction shots predominate, rather than
fully played dialogue scenes.

I feel increasingly uninspired as the morning wears on. The
endcap idea I have for trailer isn't working. The pacing is
flat. None of my shots verge on spectacle. All my directing
faults glare at me, even 2 years after the fact. All the things
I should've did if only...if only...

What do I hope to gain here? All my 30's squeezed/pressed/
air-blasted for what? I see films w/ less dollars & flaire on
the festival ciruit, profiled in Filmmaker, on Netflix...yet those
are features! "AERODYNAMICS" is a mere short. A skipping
stone to full-length #2.

Oh, so this is what a blog's for. Boo-hoo me. Poor struggling
filmmaker me. Everyone feel sorry for how hard I've worked,
how I've sacrificed, how I've held on for dear filmic life.

*****************************************************

The afternoon's better. We go chronological, slowing building
up Willy & Lil' Moe relationship & the escalation of ventriloquist
act. We even use some of the flashback score for these shots.
We cap out at 1 minute mark, prepping transition into space
mission bulk of film. That stuff will work. It's just amazing that
the footage we were struggling with was the most vital,
emotional elements of the film. Again, I question my own internal
meter-- as a director, shouldn't that have been the most
obvious dynamics for me? the most fore-fronted?

The Valley of Baal

The truck descended forked roads.
The morning mist tinged with anesthesia.
The only radio broadcast from a Hartford, CT seminary,
angel children voices, Salvation Army brass bands...

The townhouses were scattered and bare.
Leopards in the derelict shop windows.
The soapy musk of laundromats and coolant.
Old men with pinched trousers and tentpole erections,
shuffled the sidewalks.
Voices in front of Sunday bars,
accents and slang from some forties' movie.
Barking and laughing, jolly and rugged.

He parked the truck by a thick field.
Resin from the long-slung branches dripped on the hood.
He walked amid the weeds and overturned beehives,
only stopping when he noticed--
The stones lapping the hemoglobin from his bare soles.
The ivies and poison dander reddening his flesh and lungs.
The fishheads piled in some sloppy offering.

He was frozen as the first face appeared,
some giant glistening green thing...
peering from around the abridging trees.

The second face lapped and purred,
eyes black as pen ink.
Its whiskers upset a robins' nest,
its teeth gobbled the eggs.

The third and final face,
with the lean nose and waxed expression,
the countenance of a Duke...
blinked and dislodged a fir.
Ashen smoke wafted toward the open spaces.

He ran.
Then drove.
Always in concentric circles,
always past the same inclines and billboards,
always always always...

For that was the curse to those who came here--
The duty to lost spaces.

The One Thing Holding It Together

Terrible dream.

Laid off from work yet neglected to be told.

Not the supervisor in the hotel lobby "checking in" on me
while I'm in the field ("But you ran off before I could tell
you," she'd later defend.)

Not the exuberant, stocky Home Office Rep...feigning
interaction & work transition ("Can you help me categorize
these filters?")

The co-worker/peer only sobbing & embracing ("It's
not fair. It's not fair...")

Even detached high school acquaintances make an
appearance as I buckle & fall on... an escalator? ("Ted?
Is that you?")

How do I go on? I think. My thoughts rapid-fire &
destructive like tusks puncturing membrane. I need
that money. So many bills...I'll never catch up now.

Odd, little things too. Dream logic things. I pretend to
hurl my camera (aka the company's rather expensive
digital Coolpix 8800) out a window but secretly lodge
it in the jamb, hidden between pilings of discarded
matteboard & screen.

Crawling toward the front door, my back seemingly
broken. The President passes, gives an arched greeting
& is gone into his office. I extend my middle finger
after him.

My replacement is named Jim Shooter. Ex-management
from corporate who's fallen on hard times. A few strings
pulled to land him my job many states away. I am the
random causalty to nepotism. No wonder I wake in anger
& frustration.

Sunday morning. Time to go to work.

Jesus Wept

He came down off His cross, His palms mucky with sweat and blood. The tender, finite bones in His ankles shattered. The crown of thorns tossed into the wind-swept sand. The crowds dispersed, only weary centurions stood guard.

It was an immaculate exit. Heaven nor Hell neglected to split.