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?

Ways of seeing

click to enlarge, Chris Jordan, Prison Uniforms, 2007
10x23 feet in six vertical panels

Depicts 2.3 million folded prison uniforms, equal to the number of Americans incarcerated in 2005.

It was this time a year ago I found myself in Ucross, Wyoming luxuriating as an artist for two whole weeks. It seems like so little time now, but back then, it was two hard-earned weeks that felt like I had worked all my life towards. To be fed three square meals a day without shopping, cooking or cleaning up! To have not just a room with a view, but my own studio complete with saw horses, spot lights and enormous blank walls–repainted, I was told, after every artist left no matter if they were a graffiti artist or an artist of the loom. And most importantly, to have someone out there validate me as an artist worthy of hanging out with other artists and allowed to spend my day art making no matter what the results!

Ah yes, it was another time indeed. And though I promised myself that within the year I would, no doubt, be invited to attend another such residency, the reality is that I have been rejected three or four times. Turns out, they are rather hard to get into...

So here we are, lamenting the fact that I don't get to roam around the dusty plains, camera in tow, cowboy hat firmly on head, tooling around a rusty bicycle, searching for anything that makes me open my eyes. If I were to be honest, it's the seeing I miss most. Having spent the better part of the year since then either holed up behind the computer, hurriedly walking the dog twice a day, or negotiating the peaks and valleys of a new relationship, it is an exercise to which I greatly look forward. Focusing for one year on a singular goal, makes one tunneled-vision to say the least. It's about time I take some time to start absorbing once again, for, as John Berger would say, we only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice, obviously one critical for anyone who even dreams of calling herself an artist.

And I choose.

Detail at actual size:

What's not to love?

Corey Arnold, from Bering Sea Crabbing

My God, has it really been almost three weeks since I've written anything? Judging by the date of my last post, I have to assume Yes! Partly I've been busy. I mean like ass-glued-to-the-work-bench, sleeping-for-days-in-my-contacts, too-weary-to-even-run-for-breakfast/lunch/dinner busy. And partly, I've managed to piss off my family (again!) by writing something needlessly cavalier just for a cheap and most unlikely laugh.

So, insert deep breath here, to my sister who came up to visit with her family–kids and all–for probably only the third or fourth time in her own life and definitely the first time in their lives, I apologize. It was a pleasure to watch my nephew, scared and excited, delicately hand over the doggie gift he'd been holding onto for over four hundred miles, it was my honor to escort the gang through our city's exemplary children's museum of science–perhaps even redefining the "human scare response" exhibit–and it was with great sadness I left them standing at a long line waiting for a ride on our city's famous public transport (editor's note: Casey has perhaps taken some poetic license here).

I totally appreciated the visit and the only excuse I have, is that sometimes I totally suck. The girl who learns not to put her foot in her mouth is a girl I hope to one day meet.

Why come?

Adam Fuss, Untitled, image from pinhole camera

We survived the wedding. We survived the in-town guests. Hell, we even survived the 70's. But let's get down to brass tacks here: the film is done! No wait, it's not really done! I may cut it down to an hour. I may cut it down to 75 minutes. But technically it's reached the length it's supposed to be and that time is 86:40.

I still have to work with the composer, which means I have to let go of my temp track, which is a lot harder than I ever imagined. How do I let go? One song at a time I suppose. But I am sure the composer is sick of me saying, can you make it sound a little more like this? Something akin to giving line readings to an actor I imagine.

There are still a few more shots I need to, well, shoot. And then there's that spot about 50 minutes in where time seems to stand still, and that's not in a good way. Plus, there's the fact that we still don't have a title. OK! Not so done! But feeling done-ish. And ready to let the editor go.

The good news is that I am finding ways to squeeze in smaller moments that I really missed, but couldn't place anywhere. Like when one schoolgirl talking to another says: puberty, I don't know whats that anyways and later, when that same schoolgirl talks about her boyfriend, explains, almost wistfully: we give each other pencils. I have fallen in love with the action in the background, the things no one would ever catch upon first viewing, and I find myself spontaneously repeating the film's lines throughout the day: c'mon slow children! polyester...100% and that is so a lie! We find ways to amuse ourselves. We find ways to let go. We find ways to ignore the following question:

How will we define ourselves when this is all done?

Away from home

Jona Frank, Siobahn, Girl Scout, CA

A packed bag! An airplane trip! A family wedding to attend with my parents! OK, scratch the exclamation point on that last one. While I am happy to get out of town for the weekend, and happier still to be typing this up at my long lost friend's house while she breast feeds the baby, I do have to admit that I am not looking forward to another family wedding. Another family wedding where the bride and groom are at least a decade younger than me, another family wedding where I have to attend stag whether it's because I'm single...or well, because in the eyes of my family not being married means technically I am still single. And another family wedding where, in lieu of attending with a date, a partner, or hell even alone, I am tagging along with my parents. On the up side, at least I know that means I will be leaving early.

In other news, I have big plans for this short weekend in the city of my birth. There are palm trees to stand beneath, traffic to sit in, and star sightings to miss–and I'm not talking about those to be found in the ursa minor. Wish me luck! I'll have my screenplay in hand and a sharpened pencil for my free personality test.

A coupla three things to say here

Christine Wong, Green Present, 2007, balsa wood and paper

I haven't written anything here because I have been obsessed with finishing the film. OBSESSED. Assessing the howmuchmorevulnerablecanIfeel feedback, setting a date to ohmygawd lock picture, taking Ihatethispart publicity stills. I simply have no more room for creative thought in my brain. And obviously nothing to write about here. Yeah, I could tell you about the pain, the suffering, the long list of minutia one has to attend to, the difficulty in trying to replace the scratch music you love with the actual music made by the composer you hire. Let alone the absolute trauma that sets in when I actually have to watch my own film. It's not that I don't like it, or that I think others won't either, it's just getting to be too much to bear. Six years my friends! I am ready to move on, know what I mean?

What I do have energy for is cooking, for organizing the wee apartment we all share, and for walking the dog. There's apricot ice-cream. There's finally getting around to watching the last Soprano's episode. And there's a night of spontaneous in-town guests and accordion playing. But, I'm not getting out much these days. And that's OK. I've hardly noticed it's summer, if it weren't for all the available fruit at the grocery store.

On the horizon. Hopefully, a trip. Optimistically speaking, a job. And one day, a larger apartment to share.

Stop freaking out on me

Amy Stein, Halloween in Harlem

I am back, after a long, sweaty, and sticky weekend spent mostly in the car driving up and down our fair coast. Without air-conditioning. With one working window. And oh, including a 55-pound, panting dog squirming on my lap. Ah, the joys of owning a now-aging, gas-guzzling, pick-up truck. We arrived wilted and returned, if possible, even less unrefreshed.

All in all, it wasn't that bad. In fact, you might even say the trip was good. The boyfriend met the family. The family bought the dinner. The girlfriend, or, me, that is, felt comfortable enough to leave them alone together while she washed up. She returned to find both parties not only unharmed but actually engaging in conversation. To wit, she couldn't get a word in edgewise the rest of the night.

As for the rest of the weekend, it went smashingly well. And when I say smashingly, I do mean smashingly. The boyfriend broke the parent's shower, in addition to the side window on my truck. Though both events were, as far as he assured me, unrelated and accidental, I am considering a padded helmet and an insurance policy for any future southbound trips. Other highlights included: a pod of dolphins, a swarm of bees and a gaggle of siblings.

Jumping the gun

pee chee by Shizu Saldamando

oh
never
mind

oh boy oh boy oh boy

painting by Dennis McNulty

Take a deep breath. OK. OK. Did that. Now what?

Too much coffee. Too many things on my brain. Too much socializing. Too much beer. Too much homemade ice-cream (toasted coconut!) But all good for my health. The best, in fact.

The weather. Somewhat hot. The dog. Somewhat lazy. The boyfriend. Somewhat amazing. It could be worse. This order could be reversed.

¡Damas y caballeros! We could be reaching a break through here. Or maybe just a turning point. Or it could be more like the end of a really, really long journey. Like through the desert. Like being lost and then found. Like the coldest beer after the hottest car ride. Or the fizziest coca cola after unpacking all of your boxes. Do I make any sense?

I am talking about the film here. THE FILM! Other things, may be applicable as well. But THE FILM. It is nearing completion. It is nearing ohmygawd completion. Ready or not. It's done!

Shit.

SHIT!

And then what?

A vacation.

A much needed vacation.

No one cares about me more than you do

Idris Khan, every...Bernd and Hilla Becher Gable sided Houses

The weekend. The weekend! Can you hear me, I said the weekend!! Can you d-i-g i-t?! (and I do not mean digit!)

In short, a barbecue. Strawberries that were planted. More blooming flowers that were bought and subsequently planted. A dog that was bad, very bad, and scared away the neighbor's puppy after whom we all had to run in a million different directions looking and whom was found, but not by me, and at a much earlier hour, much earlier than the hour I actually came back from looking for her.

To continue: a strenuous hike. With a view! A knowledgeable fellow hiker who pointed out a rattlesnake track on the dirt! A break! A much-needed break from the film I can't finish! Potato leek soup, even though it is by no means potato leek soup season!

!!!

Also, a day spent helping the fifteen year-old with her special final history video project for which she had done hardly any work at all! All semester! And for whom I could offer very little assistance, seeing as she hadn't done anything at all, and also who had very little to say about Nicaragua, the subject of her special final history video project which, in addition to, is the birthplace of her father.

One more thing. One more thing!

I saw an OK movie: Since Otar Left. A crier! But slow! I read some good stories, like those that were inside the last issue of McSweeney's. I continue to read that good book, Everything Is Illuminated.

And

Ali Farka Touré on the stereos! Mom on the telephone!

And

An argument with the boyfriend that was resolved amicably and quite possibly for the betterment of the relationship! Apologies accepted!

Plus

Successful annual gynecological exam at 9AM this morning! Even though I was reminded that I am past my prime for child birthing!

Success!

No one knows me better than you

Hot Knives, Tim Barber

Coffee and donuts. No wait. More like cherries and peaches. More like, more like, chocolate. And tea. Fancy tea. The kind where the leaves unfurl like fists. Baby fists. The kind in the see-through tea pots. They kind they sell at upscale markets.

The kind I don't have.

That's what today feels like. Special and not special at the same time. But right. Just right. And me. It feels like me. Which is a good feeling. It means human. It means normal. It means I can feel excited and antsy and angry and sad and bored. And I promise I won't blame anyone else for it.

Tomorrow I hang out with the fifteen year-old. The one I made a film about.

Weird.

To quote Miranda July for no other reason than I just read her book and, whom, if you know me, know is both my hero and my nemesis:

I look forward to seeing you next week if you live in LA, SF, Portland or Seattle. It will be terrific, I will bow when I see you, you will bow when you see me, we will bump heads and knock each other unconscious and when we come to we won’t remember anything, we will mumble pardon me and shuffle off in to brand new lives. I really can not wait.

Coming through slaughter

Buddy Bolden and band

This weekend was all decentish (thank you to Kurt's OPE for letting me borrow one or two of his idiosyncrasies. Although technically I didn't ask, I must also assume he stole it from some where else). Though the weather gloomy and cold–despite the fact that it is now June–we managed an outing or two. One thing is that we discovered our local library. We both got cards and have become quite compulsive in scouring their DVDs, CDs, and New Materials sections. Did you know you can check out back issues of Harper's, The New York Review of Books (which modestly claims the title: the premier literary-intellectual magazine in English language) and, well, we haven't actually located a copy of Hustler yet, but we can see no reason why it shouldn't be there, too.

It feels really good to go to the library. Like riding your bike to work. Like I am a good citizen of the world! Hooray for me! Because of all the doom and gloom we spent the rest of the day browsing through our materials. I got two cookbooks; I am finally able to read Everything Is Illuminated; and here is a tip for you: do not confuse the band Django with the legendary musician, Django Reinhardt. Not all of our CDs, it seems, can be winners.

Cookies were made. No cleaning was done. Intimacy was had. And while some were out triumphantly consuming hot dogs, we were watching movies outdoors, in the park, with cute kids, all bundled up, some of the cute kids being kids I knew pretty well. And despite an expensive and alarming trip to the Vet, the days felt leisurely and long. So leisurely, in fact, I have a hard time admitting to myself that I am now supposed to be working.

The continuing existence of things I do not understand

All The Knives, Emily Prince

After both my mother and sister telegraphed their concern, I have decided to retract last week's blog post. I do not hate nor do I love any of you. The great influx of estrogen has finally leveled off and things are back to normal. That is, if you consider harboring fantasies of dropping everything and running to Belize normal. For whatever reason we hit a relatively rough patch and I am still hungover from all the uncontrollable sobbing.

But really, I am OK. The dog is alive and sleeping. The apartment mostly unscathed and the boyfriend still standing albeit now with a limp. The comforter is perhaps a little less downy due to all the languishing that had to happen but the pillows are finally dry. Words were said and while some of them held meaning, hindsight–and a few Motrin–now tell us that many of them, in fact, did not.

All this to say we are feeling back on trackish. There are gyms to which we must begrudgingly drag ourselves. Food stuffs to be purchased and then consumed before legal expiration dates. And a certain opus that could benefit from some attention. Namely ours.

Message in a bottle

Ann Hamilton, Reflection

You disappoint me. All of you. Each and every one.

But you,

You alone make me happy.

Cohabitation

*Emily and Her Pink Things, JeongMee Yoon

The tomatoes are in the pots. The sunflower seeds in the ground. And the new boyfriend has officially moved in. I'm not sure how any of these things happened. They just did. And for the record, this time around I have decided to take a particularly lax attitude. As in, so what that we haven't gone out and actually done anything 3 weekends in a row, who cares that you eat a significant amount more of the food products than I do and that when you do the dishes you always leave all of the cutlery unwashed in the sink, and really, honey, it's endearing when the night you decide you are going to actually cook a meal, you run out and buy burritos at the last minute. At least, well, at least you're not throwing the dishes at me, eating expensive meals without me, and um, the amount of crumbs you leave behind tells me that you must really exist. Let's just say that your idea of yelling at the pundits on Fox News for hours on end or obsessively writing letters to the editor of Salon magazine, is not really my idea of having a relaxing time. No, I haven't Googled your name in the last few weeks, no, I don't feel the need to watch the O'Reilly Factor daily in order to take the pulse of middle America, and yes, my dog is now your dog, too, complete with all feedings, walkings and sheddings that may occur.

It's been awhile, folks. And we are both a little out of practice. Suffice to say we are entering that blobby, somewhat murky period often referred to by psychiatrists as transition. We know not what lies on the other side nor how long it may take to actually get the hang of it. I don't need to tell you the exact measurements of our "one-bedroom" apartment for you to understand that it will take some measure of diplomacy for the three of us to come out alive. Perhaps, like the time I sold my house because I couldn't find a roommate or the time I moved four hundred miles because I couldn't sleep at night, or when I adopted a 60 pound dog despite the fact that I had no yard, I have once-again jumped the gun. And I want you to know. Mistakes were made. But not by me.

Ethan and His Blue Things, JeongMee Yoon

*Editor's Note: Any likenesses from the above blog post to JeonMee Yoon's photographs are purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.

No comment

Closer, Tim Sullivan

Casey is taking a personal day. Even though she is not actually employed and only in theory works for herself, she is taking the day off from even that pretense. Casey prefers that she might have chosen a better day, say one in which the sun actually shown and the sky did not look quite so bleak, nonetheless, she realizes that the school-yard saying still holds true: beggars can't be choosers. Her plans for the day might include such exhilarating activities as: doing the dishes that have approached the dining room, buying more soil for the as-yet-unplanted cucumbers dying on her front porch, surfing the internet ad nauseum, and maybe, just maybe, twiddling her thumbs. We can only hope she accomplishes half of what she has set out to do today.

At first glance one might think that were Casey to take a day off from the utterly non-lucrative practice of pretending to be a filmmaker, she might want to engage in more productive activities, perhaps by: looking for a real job with real–and by real we mean not of the imaginary kind–benefits, applying for an art residency where, at the very least, she could be with her own delusional kind, or securing a proper mate who can better sustain her hobbies, i.e. one who doesn't need to be walked twice a day. But alas, Casey has decided to put her own self-indulgent needs above the more practical ones that society has to offer, namely the suggestion that it might just be time to grow up.

The heart is a lonely hunter

Andrew Moore, Red Chairs

The days are getting really long. Too long? Is summer here? I can hardly tell. What I do know is that the weeks seem to be racing by. That I have been concentrating on one really important thing for far too much time and that that really important thing is actually going to end in the not too distant future.

A lot rides on that important thing. Which happens when you put your heart into something. And because a lot rides on it, I have a hard time letting go. This runs both in favor of the important thing and against it. In favor because you will not quit until your vision is met. Against because you completely loose perspective over time and can easily get stuck in the mire. Too much simply means too much.

They say, a film is never finished, but merely abandoned. They also say a film is never finished until it meets the audience. And I suppose I would add that a film is never done until the filmmaker actually agrees to stop looking at it in front of the edit bay. Until then, my friends, the important thing remains an important thing hanging over her head.

It's going to be long. And it's going to be uncomfortable.

Sweat. Blood. And tears.