Short history of the earth

Kim Keever, from Short History of the Earth

Ironically, I am here in the city where the sun gazes down on it's inhabitants cheerfully 365 days of the year to edit a film about ice. It's odd to be back in a place that changes so little. Buried in a stuffy little edit room, scouring through snowy vistas of alpine ski-resorts, shots of blocks of ice gathered from hundreds-year old glaciers, and people bundled up in fancy Gortex parkas, there was a moment yesterday where I actually felt a chill. And then I stood up, realized I hadn't put the fan on all day, and that my pants wet with sweat were sticking to my chair.

I know. Gross.

But that's not all. Besides being sunny, this town has an enormous capacity for consumption. Last night under the full moon and the warm Santa Anas, I walked with my friend, the struggling writer who lives with his family, through a part of town that while being quite lovely and walkable was nothing more than an elongated mall. Shops and shops lined this promenade, all of which remained open til nearly ten. Walking beyond the shops, the blocks than stretched into rows and rows of restaurants, large and windowed, waiters standing by to greet the guests that would never come. Did these places ever fill up? So much space! So little occupancy! I felt sad for all of us: for the businesses that couldn't fill their seats, for the customers who–judging by the amount of restaurants open for business, had never had to cook a meal–and for me, realizing that we as a society would never be cured of this kind of relentless consumption.

I know, I know. Speak for yourself. We aren't all like that all the time. Most of us can't afford to be. And I myself was there for a dining experience with a friend whom I hadn't seem in a while at a small inconspicuous bistro where the corkage was cheap, and his uncle supplied the wine.

And I know, I know, that same city where I live has the exact same problems. I just know the right places to avoid that don't remind me quite as blatantly of my consumerism, visit only the areas I feel comfortable in, all the while trying to support the local Mom and Pops. But I guess I am saying that it makes me sad to find myself caught up in the same mindset (I have a wedding to attend this weekend and had to shop for a dress, than shoes to go with a dress, than underwear to wear with the dress, a small bag to go with the dress). It makes me sad that this if often the easiest thing to do. To buy thoughtlessly, wherever the cheapest shit is available, no matter the unfair labor practices behind the manufacturing, the toxins released into the environment, or the lead-in-the-paint of the actual on-the-shelf object.

And it makes me sad looking around at all these shops and restaurants, at all the people out for the evening enjoying themselves through purchase, that once we behave like this, and once we have taken it all for granted, we will never be able to act differently.

View of artist's studio set-up

400 miles from home in a place that I used to call home

Nathan Baker, Pot from the Rupture series via Amy Stein

Today, on the on-again, off-again early Fall rain, I drove four hundred miles south to the home of my family. For three weeks I will be living under the same roof as my parents (!), working as an editor (no longer a director), and most importantly, not working on my film which is supposedly done. I can barely admit it to myself, but the fact of the matter is that I am mostly depressed about the film, and I am not quite sure if it is because I think it could be better (there really is nothing more painful than sitting behind a sound mixer for hours on end, becoming inured to your own film as it's images flash repeatedly at varying intervals in front of your eyes and questioning every edit decision along the way) or if it is more of a post-partum blues kind of thing where the pain of letting go rivals the confusion of not knowing who I am anymore if I am not working on the film (something I have been doing for six years now).

You'd think there'd be some joy buried in here somewhere, and I keep waiting for it to hit me, some relief, some thing. But all I can manage right now is wavering between reviewing the credits yet again (gotta make sure I remember every one!), fucking around with the font size of my subtitles, chewing my nails over the score (which is actually the one thing I can't control since I am not much of a musician), and feeling like it may in fact, really be just, well, done, and even if it's not great, at least, it's all over.

I think the troops will rally here, and when I say the troops, I am really referring to me, myself and I. I am really, really looking forward to–at least, on a theoretical level–not being in control of every little thing, not having to look at my film every day, and diving into something new. I am also looking forward to establishing some new routines in my life, like writing regularly (as opposed to guiltily or desperately squeezing it in), making shorter, smaller and more introspective pieces, walking around and exploring the familiar yet always re purposed terrain of my crazy home town, hanging out with the good friends I never get to hang out with down here, and getting back to at least one of those things that are supposed to be good for you like yoga, or biking or whatever the hell it is, that'll put me back in touch with my neglected post-production corpse of a body.

There. Not very exciting. Not yet. But changing. And like the Phoenix from the ashes, or at least, the larva from the cocoon, we are hoping something new will happen here.

Negotiations, permutations and undulations

Jonathan Gitelson, from the Dream Job series

The boyfriend and I negotiate everything from the moment we wake up to the hazy fog of our slumber. A morning ritual might go something like this:

It's your turn to make the coffee. I made it yesterday. I did the dishes. I bought the groceries. I'll make us dinner...

While the evenings' plays out more like an Abbot and Costello routine:

Did you take the dog out? I didn't take the dog out. But you said you would take the dog out. Yeah, but the dog didn't seem to need to be taken out. Can you take the dog out now? I can't take the dog out now....

And so it goes. Future deals are bartered, past ones invoked and present ones renegotiated. Each has to feel like the other is engaged in some kind of compromise, or all bets are off. It's an art at which we are becoming highly skilled, a habit to which we are now accustomed and just an oddly practical way of being in a relationship. No matter if it's returning the DVD to Blockbuster, which side of the bed to sleep on, or at what time and in what way we should be having sex, the negotiations are deliberate, quite often fervent, and most importantly, necessary to the health and well-being of our relationship.

Although romance has not been high on our list of accomplishments thus far, there are more important ways–my boyfriend likes to inform me–in which one can prove oneself. After all, when we are diapered and forgetful, wheel chaired and cataract'd, when no one else will want to hang around, romance and it's illusions will be useless. Dependability–with a concise set of instructions–will be much more helpful.

I like that my boyfriend challenges me on my ingrained, and un-feminist notions, but why must they be so hard to shake? And if I can't train my dog - nor my boyfriend - to bring me flowers and chocolate–ok, in my case it would be more like potted cacti and well, yes, still chocolate–will someone advise me who I can train?

Burbujas de Amor

Jill Greenberg, Untitled #5

My boyfriend likes to sing in the shower. In English or in Spanish, it doesn't matter. He has this uncanny ability to remember the lyrics to songs after only hearing them once or twice. He's always telling me I should learn Spanish by listening to the music. But I have a hard enough time even understanding the words when sung in English.

This morning he was singing Burbujas de Amor, a song by Juan Luis Guerra that was wildly popular in every country where there was a sizable Spanish-speaking contingency around 1991. I was in Mexico at the time and I don't know if the song was written for the self-titled movie or if the movie came out as a result of the huge success of the song (and the same question came up in a recent dinner conversation about Against All Odds), but the basic translation is bubbles of love.

Guerra, known for reinvigorating the Dominican bachata-and there my musicology promptly ends, go to Sound Taste for the real scoop-became a crossover hit, went on to limn songs of protest before converting to Christianity and completing (or ending, depending on how you look at it) his career with albums of devotion.

Anyway, I suggest you download it. Although, the instrumentation sounds a little cheesy now, it's definitely a sing-and-dance-a-long. And not a bad way to learn a certain kind of ingenious double entendre in Spanish. Or for those in the know, a revisit of a classic that will no doubt take you back instantly. I mean, there wasn't a baptism, grocery store, or bus ride wherein that song wasn't played.

I wish I were a fish, so I could poke my nose into your fish tank and blow bubbles of love wherever you want … a fish, so I could adorn your waist with seashells and spend the whole night buried in your wetness.

The reason why

stencils from the Wooster Collective

It's day one of my sound mix and I decided today was the day that my film totally sucks. What was I thinking! And who chose that composer? Egads.

Sigh.

Yesterday, I thought it was great. I thought it was the balls (OK, I don't even know if that's supposed to be a good thing!) And now I am questioning every decision I ever made on it. At least I can be sure the font that I chose looks pretty good...I think.

Oh, hell.

It's the constant internal dialogue. The needling perfectionism on one hand and the desire to just fucking be done with it on the other. I have been telling my boyfriend that I have been done now for months now, but it never seems to end. There is always another creative decision to be made lurking on the horizon. I mean, when, I ask, when do I stop having to agonize over every little persnickety detail??

And when will the benefits start to outweigh the gut-wrenching pain of making something from my own two hands?