I've always said I think out loud. My thoughts spill out of my head- usually without filter, without foresight...often without end...and frequently surprise me. As you can imagine, this mind-to-mouth modus operandi can generate some backlash. General awkwardness or embarrassment mostly....failed jokes, or double, triple, quadruple negatives and contradictions...so far I've managed to remain largely inoffensive, luckily.
None of this particularly bothers me. I consider my stream-of-consciousness chatter to be part of my dubious charm.
What does bother me, however, is the elusive feeling that I am always just missing something. Some insight, some clue, that would splice together all the random scenes into a full length film. The biggest mischief (to myself at least) of this...ephemeral process is the cathartic element of it. I leave myself with nothing to build upon. I think therefore I am. An affirming concept, but what does it take to be more than I am? How do I build upon fading sound over drinks with friends...upon substance more like bubbles than foundations, that pop over my audience...leaving nothing more than a vague sense of sticky, soapy residue.
And so, on a random, cold, rather boring afternoon, I've decided to start turning my storyboard into a script.
This is my feature film. It is really just for me.
It doesn't have a theme. I’m not writing about my new diet, or my new year’s resolutions...I’m not writing about acting, or politics, or sex, or the books I've read or what I found at the flea market. I’m writing about all of that and more. I’m taking all the chaos that falls unhindered from my lips, putting it down on paper, and trying to make some sense of it. I don’t expect an audience (although I suppose I'm inviting one by putting this online). Mostly, I’m writing because I’m interested in what I have to say. Shameless, self-indulgent narcissism really.
Why start now? I’m 30 years old... I've gotten along this far, right? I have a job, a cozy little room of my own in one of the world’s most expensive cities. I have friends and lovers. With an objective eye, I’d say things are pretty good in my world.
So here I am to do just that. I’m going to talk. And I’m going to listen to what I say. And hopefully, I’m going to become better for doing so.
Well, they are. I’m not here to whine about my solidly middle class trials and tribulations. I’m here to explore them. How much better can they be? How much better can I be? For months now (years really), I've felt a vague sense of disappointment... or perhaps disengagement...or perhaps disenchantment.....I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I’m tired of dis-sing myself. I want to grow. I want to contribute. I want to appreciate.
