Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Bad dream

     Starting with the front of my mind, drowning out large portions of the day. 
Sleep is interrupted by a melting parking lot near a brick church. Something is so close, anxiety breaks. 

"I never want to let this go."

     Muddied, disfigured, the concrete melts away. A forest grows tall in it's place. A bench is orphaned on top a hill looking down at a lake. An old man's voice penetrates all thought. His question lingers in the air. His eyes, disappointed, glare through me. 

"Where are you going?"

     I struggle to find a word, any word to combat his gaze, but nothing comes. Futility overwhelms my core. I failed and lost everything. The forest is caged by three fences. Climbing all of them. A coffee shop, a park guard, and a swing. 

"I hated all of it!"

     I can never stop those words from falling out of my mouth. I relive this moment again and again, only to arrive just to watch myself puke out my emotions over a hungover mess lying weakly in bed. I want to take it back, but I am always too late. 

Fries find their way into trash bin just outside a hotel suite. 
A bench by the river.
A game of pool at a housewarming party.

Then I wake. Haunted.

I think dreams are unanswered questions. lingering thoughts that were never resolved. The brain recalls and relives the complex equations, searching for their solution. What if one never comes? Am I forced to relive the same four memories until my memory gives? 
Dreams suck. 

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Thoughts while editing hours of footage

     I love watching the subtle quirks of a person. Their hand gestures, or the pausing words like Um, Uh, and Yeahh, the glance upward when trying to quickly recall a thought as though they were being timed. Something you don't often notice but a gem when working in video.
     The answers, most commonly practiced are the ones that tend to surface. When working through an interview I often wander how much is true and how much had been skewed by time and perception. Memory is a fickle thing. My closest friends are always catching my false memories.

     What would happen if you got to relive some of those favored or feared memories? Would it play out like it has a thousand times over in your mind?
     Would it be anything close to what we remember?

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Life goes.

Those words sit safely on the seat next to me, waiting to be pushed onward.

My chest thumps loudly.

I never know which way to go on these open roads, so I go where I want and make a million mistakes on my way.

I may never get a chance at this again, so I might as well go with all the might that I possess.

I'll be slow at first,

but I know I've got a million more mistakes to make before I get this right.

Seeking

Falling asleep. I can barely keep my eyes open. Drudging through three feet of snow for two days now. My legs have accustomed themselves to the constant aching. My shoulders slouch to the weight of my pack hugging my back. I have been searching this mountain so long all the terrain has melted together. White snow and frosted trees blend together in a blinding fashion. The excitement and expectation of all this trip had to offer has faded into a dying ember of hope. Still, my feet wade through the frozen ocean in rhythm.


I am interested in your eyes.
     
        I want to see your soul.

I want to glimpse into what makes you, what moves you, what pulls you.
   That is what excites me.

I want to know what you dream about,
      what you say when no one is listening,
what you think about just before you fall asleep.

I want to know that you can stand on your own.
That you are not afraid of death,
                                              or life.


The light touches the horizon, stretching it's hands across the sky. Fatigue brings me to a pause. The warmth of the sun is diminished as dusk arrives. Camp is made, a fire is built. My heart is filled with an old melody, a nightly hymn to warm my soul. The stars pick up the tune, and I fall asleep to the voices of the night sky.

She is out there, somewhere, but she is not what I am searching for.


Sunday, February 2, 2014

Inspiration

Good morning world
It is four am where I am sitting. Here are some videos that I find inspiration from:

Wes Anderson's Castello Cavalcanti


Spike Jonze's I'm Here:




Thomas Blanchard's Pi:



Wes Anderson's Hotel Chevalier:





Thursday, January 17, 2013

Winter

Do you remember the days when it would snow up in Truckee? We would wake up and come down the metal stairs to the sound of dad snow blowing the driveway. There was a fire glowing in the living room, warming the downstairs. Mom was making homemade hot chocolate. After breakfast we would argue over who owned what pair of gloves as we struggled into layers upon layers of clothing. The next debate would be over whom get's what sled. It was a short distance across the street. We would all find ourselves at the top of a large cliff hidden with fresh snow. The bravest would push off first. The hill took us past the trees and under the playground, over the bump that separated properties, and if we were lucky, a berm would have been made by the plow to stop us from sliding into the street at the bottom. The journey was always quick and the hikes back up always longer than we hoped. By the time we had completely tired ourselves out, we would bust through the front door stripping off our coats. our bodies were warm but our limbs were cold. Wet clothes would be hung over the fire and schooling would begin.
Mom would always find new and innovative ways to capture the attention of six children as she taught us Math, Science, English and the Bible. The rest of the afternoon was quiet as each of us found our forms of entertainment. There was no TV, no computer. There were Beanie Babies, Legos, toy soldier wars; American girl dolls in home made dollhouses, blanket forts, C.S Lewis stories, and Tales of the Kingdom. The slamming of the front door was always a highly anticipated occasion in our house. We would always run out from our corners of the house screaming, "Dad's Home!" Each one of us would smother him with hugs, and try to get his attention as we bragged about our achievements of the day; Mom would always get the last hug.
Dinner was the next big event of the day. Everyone would hold hands and a song would begin. "We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing..." Second helping went quickly, sometimes resorting to sneaky forks snatching favorite foods from foreign plates.
The dishes were always an ordeal in the Stamps family household. On some nights music would play, as we would race the clock to finish as quick as we could. Other times an Odyssey would play and the pace was slower as we listened to Mister Whitaker teach the children of Odyssey valuable lessons. Desert was rare but usually consisted of home cookies or cake made from earlier in the day.
Dad would then pull out his guitar. The same songs were played each night. Bowls were used as drums, Mother would sing harmony, and everyone danced around the living room to the light of the glowing fire and a few reading lamps. We would all sing of the glory train, marching saints, and God's amazing grace, played in a boom chunk chunk rhythm. Sometimes the pile of cards would find it's way out of the closet, and the large-scale game of Pounce would begin.
As the night came to a close, mom would read us books of far off lands and secret kingdoms before wishing us goodnight. As eyelids grew heavy I would lie in bed, hoping for more snow to make the world a new place again, imagining the possibilities the next day would hold before letting sleep take me away.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

je ne conais pas

Like old crusted skin, boiled and dry, peels off with little effort to reveal a fresh new layer, soft and sensitive hiding just below. A small sting spreads as the flesh is torn; a welcomed and expected pain that comes with change. I just want to smile like that, and mean it.