Sunday, September 30, 2007

Life Is Better Behind the Camera

Okay. Feeling a little better. Still scared shitless when I really think about it, but I've returned to familiar stomping ground and am feeling a little more solid than I did during my last post.

Dave and I are in Pittsburgh for the weekend. I made the rather crazy decision to come up here with my remaining dollars and patch up some holes in "Hunt for the Holocron," and Dave, to his amazing credit, was entirely responsible for the idea of getting me out here to do this. I have been feeling really down on myself recently (note the flowery language of my manic-depression below), and I think instinctually he knew that thinking about Jedi Knights and F-stops would cheer me up. Not only did he put his costume back on (the third time after we were officially "done"), but he paid his own way here, fed himself, woke up at 4:50 AM with me after going to bed at 2 AM, trudged around the woods all day, and spent two hours watching the rough-cut and helping me see it in a new light.

We got beautiful footage today. It was the first time I had ever filmed a sunrise. The sun erupted over the far hill, splashing over a sea of low-hanging clouds in the valley below. Dave stood, hooded, on the outcropped rock overlooking the valley, and I was filled with the sense that I was in the right place.

Of course the lens of the camera was a little dirty and we couldn't go as wide as we wanted and the tripod sucks for anything but stills, but tonight, as we watched the footage, it didn't really matter. It is a beautiful shot. Dave called it our "street cred" shot, the one that folks see and go, "Oh, they're for real." The movie, and my life, needed scope. Perspective. The larger picture.

I own the book "Shot By Shot," but I've never read it. I used to be proud of my ability to not read things and still seem to know them, but now I'm just embarrassed that I never took the time. I am convinced that this approach to my life is the reason why I feel so paralyzed now, why I feel so much like the illusion of a person as opposed to a real person. I never wanted to do the hard things. The boring things. If I was really smart, shouldn't I be able to just DO it?

I only remember one thing from the book "Story" (I haven't read it yet, either. There is a pattern here), and it is this: Talent is gasoline with no engine. Craft is the engine. Talent without craft is like gas on the ground - it burns quickly and accomplishes nothing. I have enough of the former and very little of the latter. Perhaps I should start reading.

There were other shots we picked up over the course of the day that belied a new visual sophistication for the film. They would not be present had I not ventured out four years ago with a cadre of friends into the woods to make a Star Wars movie. It sounds so crazy now, you know? I mean, four years is freaking FOREVER. I was 20 when I started this thing. It's becoming a veritable time-capsule.

What I know now, more certain than I ever did, is that if I don't finish this Star Wars movie, I will never be able to finish anything in my life. I can't take the next step until I finish this one. Part of me knew that this is what I needed, that this is what would count, however ridiculous that sounds. And if I don't see it through, I will have sinned against myself and others.

So thank you, Dave. For knowing me better than I knew myself. For inspiring me to keep working. For continuing to put on the suit with the shredded boots and the missing sleeve guards. For continuing to believe in me.

And thank you, Dear Reader, for continuing to read. The other night, writing to you kept me from melting.

Your,
Martin

P.S.- I'll post pictures when I get back to Alexandria on Sunday!

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Unqualified to Live

Dear Reader,

I have come to the realization, perhaps later than others, that I am not qualified to be alive. Yes, it's job searching time, and I am two barrel clicks away from kiss kiss bang.

I can feel my sperm count getting lower from the impotence of unemployment. That shrieking sound you hear are my dreams boiling off in the jobless sun. Soon I will be curled up on the couch, my toes poking through the holes in a moth-ridden afghan, wondering whether to bid higher or lower on the dinette set on "The Price is Right." And then it will be too late. Martin will have gone, leaving nothing but a dried skin on the cushions before he slithers, broken, into nothingness.

Okay, so I'm depressed. And use descriptive adjectives. And am still unqualified to be alive.

I have $81.99 left in the world, with about five times that amount coming in bills. If you think it unbecoming for a man to discuss his finances, let me be the first to heartily admit that I am nothing resembling a man. A man can pay for himself. A man works hard, never complains, bears the labors of the day with skin that crackles and hands like sandpaper. A man never has to talk about money - his gait speaks to his situation. You can see the money in his walk, his saunter, his loping trudge. You can see his money in the smiles on the faces of those around him. He is no liability, no expense to them. Rather, he is the groundwork on which they walk, the planks that stand unbending beneath their high-heeled shoes and sharp edges. My father is a man. My brother is a man. I am nothing resembling a man. Not yet. Not anymore. I don't know when I will be again, or even if I ever did.

It is an awful, awful feeling.

I know I'm not the only one who has struggled in DC. Most of the people I talked to who tried to find jobs in DC lamented how much like Hell's Table the job market can be. So much fruit, ready to be picked, and ten times as many hungry hands, each tearing and clawing for a trickle of syrup under their fingernails. I don't know how I'm going to stand out here. I realized that I am only qualified for film work. None of my other qualifications stand up to the heat of cover letters. And, fuck me, everyone wants to be a film guy. Maybe I can get a job in Hell's kitchen, washing the dishes of the damned (or maybe start a rock band of the same name).

I mean, I'm not entirely worthless, right? I didn't just move to Alexandria and realize, oh Jesus, I'm actually nobody after all. This storm was coming whether or not I was in Pittsburgh. Maybe it's a cruel curse that all of my ideas and contacts and connections and securities and assets and investments are in Pittsburgh, the communities and little rivers and rivulets that I could tap for ideas and sustaining words. I have about four good ideas for film projects and all of them take place in Pittsburgh, making the pursuit of them somehow a negation of my new life here.

The one project that I really want to do involves examining the issue of the exodus of youth from Pittsburgh. In my own small circle I can name you 12 fascinating stories of people who have either chosen to stay and make a difference or leave and forge a different path. I feel that stylistically I could create a film that people my age would actually watch and respond to, one that they could feel and not just hear. I wish I could get up the cahones to write the grant application. I know who I would send it to. Dad has connections at the Heinz Endowments. I could ask Carl Kurlander and Deb Acklin to be on the review committee. I could in five swipes of my pen put this thing into action, and yet I do nothing.

Sometimes I wish I could buy a big eraser, blot myself out, and draw me again.

Anyways, I'm rambling now. At least I'm still good at that. Rambling is easy for words. They were meant to do it. I am not a rambler. I need some arrows along the way, at least once in awhile.

yours as long as she feeds me,
m

Saturday, September 01, 2007

The Pirates of Aisle Fourteen

It's official. I hung all of the sconces. I live in Virginia now.

I am butt-pirating internet access until we can afford Verizon - the little antenna icon on Jessie's iBook is blipping from one bar to three out of what I can only assume is guilt (the network is ironically labeled "LeGal") - but I am connected, and holy crap, for a man who does not "work," I have been freaking busy.

I own a lot of things. Many of them are nice. Some are heavy. Most were unreasonably expensive. And Jessie, bless her, owns nearly as many. Also heavy. Also nice. And all have been moved up and down stairs, in and out of doorways, and from car to room to car for three. days. straight. If we had videotaped it and played it back really fast to the Benny Hill music, you would have some idea of how ridiculous the effort was, how ludicrously enormous. Tonight is the first night where I feel as though things are finally settling in. We've transformed, through an obscene amount of money and finger-breaking labor, a wholly uninspiring space into a cozy, homey, trendy, chic, snazzy, comfy little pad. When I first saw the place back in August, I wasn't exactly thrilled. It looked tiny and glum, a dank hobbit-hole buried above a flower shop. The only thing I liked about it were the bedrooms, and that little glimmer of hope was enough to convince me that maybe we could make something out of the space which, up until about two hours ago, was only a fool's hope.

To date:

i. Three trips to the Goodwill after they'd closed to illegally put donations outside the bin, including, but not limited to: clothing, that stupid color-lamp that would always fall apart when I moved it, a futon (after I had set it up and taken it apart again... elapsed time: 2 hours), a box full of dishes and glassware I inherited seven years ago, futon cushions, old sheets, old comforters, a casserole dish, etc...
ii. Four trips to Target to replace all the things we hauled to Goodwill: picture-hooks, a frigging carpet, comforters and bed sheets, wall-art, a universal remote, pillows, towels, candles, lamps, paper-towel dispenser, tumblers, wine glasses, deodorant, shave gel, a toothbrush, Swiffer sheets, curtains, curtain rods, table runner, salt-and-pepper shakers, toilet paper holder, magazine bin, cookie sheets, shower hooks and matching soap-dispenser, etcetera, etcetera, omigod there is more stuff to bring inside, etc...
iii. Three, as in the number of feet higher the two dumpsters that are not ours got after we heaved our trash into them.
iv. A kagillion dollars, i.e. the amount poorer we are now than when we started shopping three days ago.

And so on.

Even after all of that, it wasn't until tonight, as I surveyed the apartment, still cluttered but much warmer-looking, that I realized we'd done it. We made it into ours. Clumsily, sure, but like vines crawling over dead concrete, breaking it apart and filling it with green, so have we brought greens and yellows and blues and earth tones and the light of a thousand sconces (okay three) into the new apartment, and it looks great!!! As is never the case with us, we failed to take any before-and-after photos. I think we were so busy actually doing the thing that the thought of taking any time to document it seemed like a luxury we didn't have, but I will post photos of the aftermath, the color-coordinated aftermath, and you can see how neat the place looks!

Lots more to say, but there is a girl next to me not getting any more awake. Will write soon.

XO,
M