Blogging is so 2005

Scott Kieran, Memory Holes (Random Access) II

Blogging is so 2005. My students, most of them in their early-twenties, had no idea what a blog was when the word was mentioned in class. When told to research a film blog for homework, they found the format confusing and the text hard to follow. How do I know how many friends this blog has? and Where are all the tweets? quickly led to Do you really want me to read all this? Students felt unable to follow the date, post, comment logic of each post and became lethargic when faced with so many words to sift through. Is this really how people used to communicate? they asked, shaking their heads in shock. One clever student, using the scroll bar on her mouse, realized there were even more paragraphs beyond the initial ones first seen on screen. Amidst the jaw droppings and guttural mumblings, I realized a simple class in film production had turned into a valuable history lesson about arcane forms of personal expression.

Woman sets fire at yoga class

sculpture by heidi johansen

Woman sets fire at yoga class. While struggling to make it to her once-a-week much-needed yoga class, woman rushes in and pays for class at crowded register to suddenly smell something funny. When other patrons begin to yell smoke and point in her direction, woman looks down to see her jacket's sleeve aflame from one of many scented candles lining the studio. As the other women push her out out the door and throw her jacket on the ground and stomp on it vigourously, woman mourns the loss of her newly purchased, off-the-rack winter coat. When they finally throw water on the frock, she sheepishly looks for a way out of this moment but remembers that she has already paid for the class. After stuffing her wet coat into the yoga cubbie, she enters the yoga studio to whispers of what's that smell and oh, some woman caught her jacket on fire around her. Woman sits Shavasana admist the not-to-subtle fingers pointing in her direction and wonders if anything like this has ever happened before.

Therapist likens patient to Border Collie

Liu Bolin from The Invisible Man series

Therapist likens patient to Border Collie. While patient freely admits to being born in the Year of the Dog, patient secretly begins to mistrust therapist. Therapists points out the Border Collie's many wonderful traits excluding their well-known nervous temperament such as loyalty, acute awareness to surroundings, and tenacity. Patient leaves office unsatisfied and more depressed than ever.

The house alone

From Empty LA by Matt Logue

The house without the boyfriend feels big. Like one could suffocate in an ocean of too much space. The bed is too wide now, the ceilings too high, the couch twice as long as it should be. The list could go on. Everything feels suddenly new and completely worn out at the same time: the stains in the carpet, the scuffs on the wall, the chips in the paint. And I guess that holds true for me as well. Caught between the newness of being alone and the familiarity of having been here before. I think they call that deja vu.

And so we trudge onward. Trying to hang our head high and look at the bright side. Now I have this awesome space to myself. The dishes will more or less get done. The pantry will lean towards stocked. And I suddenly get to be the steward of my own imperfect life.

Ideas for Student Films Part 1

From the series, Midway, Message from the Gyre by Chris Jordan

The Best Fight Scene Ever was in script form, to be precisely that. After the first round of shooting the title was downgraded to The Fight. When outdoor scenes were overexposed due to "too much sunlight" a decision was made to switch locations to the basement rec hall where the Christian Youth Group meets on Sundays.

The above photo is not related unless you think of my role as an instructor.

Tips #1

From Cranes and Containers by Allan Ayres

If you are lucky enough to want to leave the house say in the middle of an argument on a Monday night, you will also be lucky enough to get a very reduced price on ticket sales for volunteering to sit alone at a midnight screening of Up in the Air. We're talking matinee prices. Perhaps this only happened because I was a woman and this was a particularly un-womanly thing to want to do. But what I say is never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Promise

Handmade, Hannah Whitaker

Today while standing in line at the post office–something I seem to be doing a lot of these days–I overheard a conversation in the line ahead of me. A woman and her teen-age son were trying to mail a large box marked "dress outs" to a prison. I am assuming the abbreviation stood for "outfits", but I can't be sure. The woman–and again I am assuming this woman was the younger boy's mother–was explaining to the postal worker that the last box they had send had been returned. And that this time, she wanted to make sure her package arrived to its intended destination. The postal worker had to call her boss who then had to call another postal branch in order to determine exactly what-sized packages could be accepted by the prison. Apparently, the box was too big. They were instructed to buy a smaller box and roll the clothes inside, "military-style" so they could all fit.

I guess it was a mundane enough interaction. But I couldn't help wondering how the person to whom the box was addressed was related to the two standing at the counter. Daughter? Husband? Pen Pal? For some reason, maybe because it said dress, I kept imagining it was a woman. A woman in need of some outfits. It reminded me of a story a friend of mine once told me. He was working on an art project with a group of juvenile sex offenders. When engaging with them about their ideas for any projects, it became clear, that the daily hygienic products we all take for granted, were here, in prison, imbued with special significance. Shampoo, lotion, nail clippers were all highly prized objects...up there with cigarettes and other illegal items. The only time they ever had a moment to themselves was in the shower and the only thing they had any control over, was how they cleaned their bodies. That ritual–and the indulgence in that ritual–carried a significance beyond what any of us not in jail could imagine. Perhaps a reminder of existence. Of importance. Of visibility. What perfumed soaps and enriching lotions can promise, is that our body still remains.

I don't know. A moment to oneself. A moment with oneself. A moment alone. A moment of being valued and cared for, even if only by oneself, is a moment much needed. No matter where we are. And what we've done.

Things to do when it continues to rain and not even the dog wants to go out on a walk

Stefan Ruiz: Kaydee Nelson, Miss Rodeo Utah 2004, Las Vegas, USA, 2004

Unemployment. Sort of. Unemployment while sending in resumes. Unemployment while trying to raise money for new film. Unemployment while trying to sell old film for which one is in much debt. Unemployment while not qualifying for unemployment. All equals something that doesn't much feel like unemployment.

Freshly Butchered Meat

Freshly Butchered Meat, Emily Eibel

Things have been pretty spotty–I'll be the first to admit to that–and at this point I can't commit to anything regular, but...[stretches her arms and cracks her knuckles] it feels good to be typing in this tiny box again.

So there. The soup simmers on the stove and Piazolla accordions on the iPod. The rest of the house is quiet save for the occasional clanging pipes from the heater. It's Valentine's Day...or to be precise Valentine's evening. I've showered and changed to pajamas. This is it. And this is perfectly enough.

Well, there's more. A little bit more. My boyfriend is in bed. Watching telly with the wireless headphones on (how kind of him!) He, too, is in his pajamas...or whatever it is he wears to bed at night. The dog (all 60 pounds of him) is curled next to him. Around the bed are newspapers, comic books, empty water bottles, a couple dishes and some now-empty pill bottles. You see, this year, this holiday, is one of recovery, one of celebration-just-to-be-alive, one of transition from who we were to the better, stronger, more compassionate people we will become.

Because nothing changes one's perspective more than a hospital stay: with the rotating cast of characters even more sick and alone than you, with the never ending intrusions of staff whose full time job it is to equitably distribute the most intimate care to strangers, for the loved ones who sit by the bed quiet and inwardly anguishing, but holding hands and holding hands and holding hands until its all through.

I don't feel like it

Weeki Wachee Springs 1945 © Toni Frissell

Posting that is. I need some inspiration, some reason to return. Perhaps a New Year's Resolution. But aren't there more important things? And why bother to do things, if it's gonna be half-assed? Besides, now there is Facebook.

Gunnin' for Palin

Who here among us, is not ready to welcome some change?

A scene from Ulrich Seidl's "Import/Export"

It's in the air, the sun, the sky, the sharp angles, the crisp wind, the deep, deep blue in these last coupla days. Everything suddenly feels different. Better. More vibrant. More real.

And so, we are hopeful. For the first time in a long time. And it makes me a little dizzy to think about. Dizzy, but anxious. It all somehow seems appropriate that I am now teaching again.

Much to my surprise, one of my production classes had 23 students. That's a rather large amount to teach the fundamentals of videomaking to. But after my first class, when they so patiently and politely sat through 3o minutes of silent Lumiere films narrated to an incomprehensible French accent, I knew there was potential building. When I showed them a random assortment of more contemporary short films, cries of holy shit!, and is that real? with a handful of that's crazy! thrown in, all let me know that we were on to something. As we reviewed the films a second time now with the sound off, and talked about the choice of shots the director chose, I literally heard a few gears clicking. Earlier, I had asked them all why they were here, and only one or two really seemed to have consciously chosen the class. In fact, I overheard one guy talking on his cell phone during the break relay the message that he didn't really realize he had signed up for the class. He thought it was going to be web design.

Slowly, however, we were winning them over: me, the Lumiere brothers, and the collection of shorts. I handed out the first assignment and was bombarded with questions at the first break. Questions about things I was sure I had not only clearly explained, but were also plainly written down on the assignment sheet. Nonetheless, their sheer eagerness, or perhaps it was more their maleability, that permitted me to overlook those small facts. They were alert, I had gotten their attention, and even if they had no idea what the hell they were doing there, at least they seemed game.

We shall see.

Everything that happens will happen today

The view from the window

The series of tubes known as the internet are now up and running here in our newest neck of the woods! Although it took over 10 business days for the pay-for-service to be provided, we awaited patiently for the return to normalcy. Having to resort to outmoded means of interactions like reading, sleeping and holding up our end of the conversation, we managed to hang in there. But, boy was it tough!

Not as tough, however, as our new neighborhood! We hadn't even officially moved to the neighborhood formerly known as Dogtown–which, by the way, is adjacent to Lower Bottoms–when my catalytic converter was stolen right out from under me. In broad daylight. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my dented, over ten-year old Toyota Tacoma with it's bumper and plates falling off was apparently ripe for the picking. The mechanic didn't even blink when I drove the half mile to him and he calmly showed me right where it had been sawed off. But then again, I guess he could hear me coming.

All things being said or all equal being things, the new place is great. And when I say great, what I really mean is big! Big enough where we all, dog included, have our own special place in the house in which to hang out, kick off our shoes, and make a lot of noise (or whatever it is we do in our private time). Big enough where my boyfriend can bring home a discarded Best Buy shopping cart and use it as a laundry-basket-on-wheels without my eyes ever having to gaze upon its ugly horridness! Big enough where we never hear what each other have to say no matter how loud we shout and how many times we say what? Big enough, well, big enough where we probably will never have to go outside again.

Home sweet

photo by Allison Brady

After searching for multiple ways to procrastinate from today's work, it's finally come to this. And I have been so successful in procrastinating from writing this blog!

At the end of the week we will be moving and somehow (miraculously) things seem under control. We may even eschew U-Haul and opt for using our own truck and our own muscles for labor. The BF and I are coming up with a series of safewords to insure we don't waste valuable time as every one knows moving can be so...stress free. I suggested the word trumpet, as it's in at least five different jokes I know, but he thought let's calm down could work just as well.

The only thing I am dreading is the final inspection and the cleaning of the house. Despite my captivating charm and overall cleanliness, the once blonde carpet is now more of a deep brunette. I seem to be missing at least one blind from an otherwise perfect Venetian. And those holes in the wall where I once tried to install an Ikea metal shelf, were, um, already there? I've heard rumor that these landlords are picky. They even offer a pre-inspection, a free service to all vacating tenants which, to my ears, sounds more like finding out if I have the breast cancer gene. I mean, do I really want to know how much money I am loosing?

Wait, I have an answer for that one. I do not.

But it seems like we don't have much of a choice. The neighbors have all been really friendly now that they know we are moving out. I've never had so many mailbox-conversations and it's not like we have a storage space that will be up for lottery. Perhaps it's the thought that we could be moving on to better things that brings out the nervous, chatty energy in folk. Or perhaps they are excited about the prospect of digging through all the crap we'll be getting rid of. Or maybe they just know something that we don't: like the fact that we were all really nice, albeit lonely people, looking for a point of entry to forge real relationships all along. That we move in a coupla days means we'll never know!

But I do know this. It has been a real treat to live here, and even though there is no decent sushi to be had anywhere on the island, nor a real market within walking distance, nor any rack from which to purchase Sunday's NYT, I will remember this time fondly. When you start feeling sentimental about the crazy shouting lady across the hall and her over-protective grizzly man-mate, when you reminisce about the teenagers who repeatedly scald the milk and char the coffee at your local coffee shop every morning, when you begin to wonder what will happen in your absence to the Little Caesars sign twirler and his teenage girlfriend who sits on the corner with him all day with their new baby in tow, then you know that you have truly embraced a place as home.

There Is No Rewind Button for Life

A Nam June Paik image I found on the Internet to illustrate my point

That is the title for a life-retrospective book about one of my favorite pioneering video artists, Nam June Paik, who died only a couple years ago. What I liked about his work was that it was conceptual and simple, playful and direct. And when I saw that book in the Berkeley Art Museum bookstore, I told myself, Casey, remember that title. It will be useful to you one day. That day has not yet come upon us, but I am nonetheless hanging on to the phrase like some kind of good-luck-charm-for-tomorrow. As far as catch phrases go, I find that one to be pretty delightful. It rolls off the tongue rather nicely. It provides an easy-to-grasp visual. And when I am driving around in my truck looking for parking or when I am forced to watch Hardball on MSNBC by my politically impassioned boyfriend, it a useful phrase to shout out to all the asinine pundits or the meter maid who has just left behind a ticket.

It is also a nice reminder to get off my ass and do whatever it is I want to do with my life. Like now. And, from time to time, even I could use those kind of gentle reminders. So even though there was little of inspiration in the museum that day, and even though two floors were closed for installation and renovation, and even though when I first stepped into the bookstore my eyes instantly glazed over with the amount of, well, books, on the shelves, there was one book that stood out among many, and without even opening up its pages, I got every dose of medicine that I needed for the moment.

It really is that simple.

Leaving the island

Robert Frank, Sick of Goodby’s via That's A Negative

The rumors are true. We are pulling up the stakes, hitching up the trailer and packing it in. Or any other cliche you can use to describe the phenomena otherwise known as moving. It's been a good run over here on the island and it seemed rather eerie timing that our local neighborhood cinema closed it's doors only days ago. That it might have had more to do with the gargantuan cineplex opening it's doors down the street, does not deter me from coming to the conclusion that it is the end of an era...albeit a rather short one only spanning about 23 months.

It's not that the quaintness wore on us, or that the endless beach access became, well, tiring, or even that our mere residence next to a park with lots of trees, plants and well-tended lawns had a kind of relentlessly upbeat positivity that didn't always jibe with our cynicalness. We could pretty much deal with all that. No, it's more the fact that we are lazy and needed more space and that the easiest thing to do was to simply take over our friends' lease when they themselves skipped outta town.

Not that there are things we won't miss. Like the sounds of the local baseball team cheering us on as we come home from work, or the sight of children haphazardly jumping off of swings or the smell of the nothing-but-barbecue summers. And it's not like there aren't plenty of things that we will be gritting our teeth over as we tip toe back to the ghetto, like, oh, people shitting on our front porches or car horns blaring at 6 in the morning, or the overall lack of fresh fruit and produce available at the corner liquor store. But hell, more than anything right now I could use a little more space. And I think all of us, family dog included, would benefit from a change of scenery.

Well, we had a nice run. When I first settled on the island, it was just me, some boxes and a couch on its last legs. Now, not only have I collected much more hand-me-down furniture, I have also accumulated a dog and a boyfriend (in that order, at least, chronologically speaking.) One day when I grow up, I would like to move back to the island as it seems like it is hospitable to young children and a nice place to spread out when you decide it's time to let yourself go.

Until then, we will miss you.

I'm sticking with you

Jumping Rope, Jill Freedman, 1976

Hey whadya know, it's been a month! Congratulations to me! I've only had a few things to deal with this last month: like a paralyzed dog, a staggering vet bill, a difficult decision to make about how much the dog was worth, a laptop that was leaked on by a bottleful of water and, hmmm, what else? A new job, a looming deadline, a few parking tickets...ok, now I am starting to reach. I've been busy and I haven't even read any blogs, let alone write one. Not that I really read many anymore. Most of them have gone offline. I suppose it's cyclical and I admire those that can keep up. Kinda like keeping up with the latest in fashion, music and drugs! Impossible! As one reaches towards their, ahem, thirties, one has to let go a little bit.

I am sure you are all dying to know about my new job. Well, too bad I can't tell you! If I had to sign a confidentiality agreement at the interview stage, you can imagine the security issues as an employee. Let's just say there is a gun safe, surveillance cameras, alarms, locks, passwords and protections...you name it they got it. All for what? For a summer blockbuster that will be all over You Tube in no time. But who am I to complain? It's my first foray into the narrative world and it's a helluva lot better than the murder-reenactment reality TV stuff I was editing a few years ago. But don't get confused. I'm not actually editing this narrative blockbuster. No siree. I am merely editing the Blu-Ray extras. But for now, it'll do and it pays handsomely...gun safe and all.

The only other news is that I am traveling to the East Coast this week for my film. Yes, another festival has deemed us worthy of its laurels. Too bad we blew our wad on the premiere. We didn't even bother printing up postcards, and now I feel kinda like a chump. Oh well, it's too late now! So far none of the tropical island festivals have invited our film, but we keep applying. Right about now, I'd take a free trip anywhere.

The art of shameless self-promotion when you really don't want to say exactly what you are promoting

No sooner have I returned, than I am back en route this time heading south on the well-trodden road down to the town of my birth. Most of my family still resides there, and really, with the miraculous climate, what reasons would there be to ever leave?

I was expecting balmy and warm, but the weather declined to agree and I was forced to suffer the cold in my summer-y party dress and sandals.

Why I am here you ask? Well, two reasons, which is usually how I like to coordinate trips down to my family. The obvious and best reason: Mother's Day. I think it's been and quite a few years since I've celebrated this one in person and my family is a stickler for all things birthday, anniversary and holiday. The other is that I have a short "art" video playing as part of a sideshow related to an exhibition at a rather fancy museum. Well, we didn't make it inside the museum this year, but, for two nights only, the video will be projected outside as one ambles the gardens of this marbled musuem. Hey, it's a free event and they even printed up a nice brochure with some rather studious text:

Lxxxxx Pxxxx and Kxxxxx Gxxxxxx-Fxxxxxxx consider the body as erotic object in Bxxx Txxx Ux. However, in this case. the nude female body placed on display is composed of glistening plastic, as if the constant deployment of the female-as-erotic object finally renders her completely non-human.

Who knew thats what I was up when I made this film in graduate school?

All that she desires

polaroid by Patrick Romero via Amy Stein

I sat there bleeding on the airplane and watching the film about Jane Austen. I could not bring myself to get up and walk to the bathroom and the two, the blood and the film, seemed very much related. Do you know what it is like, to feel blood coming down and then dripping between your legs? I took pleasure in the feeling, in the knowing that without the other, each on its own would have been banal.

The flight had been delayed and I would be returning home late. I looked forward to the boyfriend and I hoped he would bring the dog when he came to pick me up. But, in some ways, I hoped more that the flight would continue to be delayed. I relished the idea of flying around the sky, never touching down, and retreating to some kind of limbo. Limbo was a luxury. A luxury I wanted to taste.

I saw the documentary about Cindy Sherman, an artist I have always admired. As a college student I had a box of postcards: pictures of her earliest photographs. I knew that she had taken the photos of herself, had become her own subject, but the photos didn’t reveal anything about her. Each of these photos told a story, melodramatic and familiar, and at the same time inconclusive. In the documentary, the filmmaker befriended the famous artist and, surprisingly, they end up together. But the shadow of her art and her success eclipse him completely.

On the plane, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my future. This is what all the self-help books suggest. It is even what a few of my friends suggest. I couldn’t seem to get past what the next step on the ground might look like. Tomorrow? Next week? I felt like an alcoholic in rehabilitation: one day at a time. Even when I tried to envision the secret to my success, I couldn’t get beyond the next day.

There are so many things to explore in the universe and it makes me dizzy to think of it. Like trying to count all the stars in the sky. A Herculean task.

I would like to close my eyes and drift instead of counting. I would like to feel the brightness of the stars instead of seeing. And I would like to know the limitless of the universe instead of imagining.

All that glitters

photo by Brian Ulrich (don't know the title)

I may no longer officially be a blogger. I haven't written in months. But that most likely means only good things. That I am out experiencing the world, that I am too busy to reflect, that I am concerned about other things, for once, than my own miserable existence.

Oh, and I have been traveling. Currently, I am in that famous East Coast City where my film has been screening, and I haven't even gone to see that famous Biennial yet. I am tired. I am broke. And I hate to admit it, but I am kinda happy.

But don't worry, I am still a grump and curmudgeon. I mean, you wouldn't really be able to see a difference from the outside. It's still me.

So yeah a famous filmmaker (yes, I am talking about myself!) at a famous festival with no job and no next film. Not the best strategy for promoting my career. But at least I made it here. The place I am staying is lovely. And the weather for the most part, nice. And of course, every time I come to this famous town, I can't help but fancy myself living here. Especially when it's not winter.

So. Sigh. How dullsville it will be when I return. And how nice it is to feel special-and I don't mean in that special ed kind of way. It does wonders for the morale. Maybe it will be the boost I need to get the next project started. I just can't imagine being at the starting line again.