Artistic Therapy Part 4

I've dredged through pre-production and production. I've taken a break from this therapy. I could say that it is because I've gotten too busy what with the kids on spring break, which is kind of true. Or maybe I can just say I'm 'avoiding'.

But I also promised myself 2 weeks ago I would submit my latest manuscript to a chosen publisher - and I still haven't done that. So maybe, I am avoiding not only that but also this. Maybe the two are connected.

And now I'm thinking - where would my energy be better spent? Here or on polishing that manuscript.

I'm going to spend 15 minutes here at the very least.

Artistic Therapy Session 4

So, we made it through production. It wasn't all bad.

I forgot to mention we had some publicity - X lined up a reporter to come out and get a cast/crew picture of us, which was nice. We also received a write-up in the paper. We were told to go to the local paper where we were led into a board room. The man assigned to interview us didn't seem to care too much about this thing - but then again, neither did I. My girlfriend broke up with me, I was withdrawing into this continuing sense of isolation, of totaling screwing the pooch on this one and now we were taking a day off to do this interview.

I recall later getting in some shit from X because apparently the reporter thought we were 'unprofessional' during the interview. Whatever that means. We weren't professionals, we didn't know what to expect and I don't know what the reporter was expecting of us.

I forgot to also mention the great things my producer did besides that. We had an outhouse on set (remember we were in the woods for most of this shoot) and I seem to recollect a camper there for a few days at least - it was where I would go to work on the afternoon's shot list during lunch break. Due to the short days, we had to get through a lot of thing using as much daylight hours as I could. Because I had been an AD on student shoots, I wound up piecing together much of the shots to do that day, while my real AD became more of an all-purpose wrangler and gopher. He was also a great help and I wish I acknowledged him more during the shoot.

We had a wrap party thanks to XXX at a local night club. I don't remember much about this either. We handed out some joke awards as thank yous, got a few last minute cast pictures done. I have one ragged photo of me that night which i feel truly captures the exhaustion I felt. I had a heart to heart with my producer/girlfriend and we briefly made up. I lost over 20 pounds in the month-long shoot, I was exhausted, albeit quite tan.

I think she wanted to hear how much I needed and missed her during that last couple of weeks. I may have even apologized for being a dick to her. I recall talking with her in her car and thinking if I should tell her what she wants to hear or speak my truth. I decided to tell her what she wanted to hear. We lasted about a week.


Then, we all went back to our normal lives. Except for me; there was a lot of post-production to do now. I took the tapes back to my town with me; 17 of them in all, rough footage which needed to be logged. It would have been nice to do this on set but after the third day, logging the shots was all but forgotten. "I'll fix it in post" became a bit of a mantra for me.

And then THE FIGHT. I wanted to edit the movie on my computer, in my town, on my time. She wanted a friend of hers to edit them in her town. I said that was never going to happen - I never met the guy and he wasn't so keen on meeting me either. Most, if not all, this fighting happened over the phone. 

The biggest problem, which I tried to avoid telling her, was the lack of log sheets - even if I wanted to hand the project off to someone else, the amount of work needed to be done was insane. He'd have to log each tape, pick the right take, find the matching take, cut it together (and that was just for the picture edit). It was an insane amount of work. There was no way anyone would do this for a couple hundred bucks. And, because I felt I was responsible for this mess, I was the one who needed to fix it.

She accused me of stealing the tapes, they were the property of the investors. I offered to copy the tapes and give her doubles. She said no but I did it anyway. I flew to Calgary, paid a film co-op to make duplicates and sent the copies to her. "There you go. We each can make a film now. FU."

But to edit the tapes, I now also needed a camera and the hardware to play back and download the tapes to my computer. So there was another $1500 VISA  expense to buy that. I used Adobe Premiere for editing software, pirated by a friend. All I needed to do was learn the program and start transcribing 17 hours of tapes, long, long hours.

I found out I was missing one tape. A complete scene disappeared plus whatever else may have been on there. It was the classic 'foreshadowing' scene, involving a dead eagle nailed to a tree. My producer had borrowed real eagle wings from the local Native center for realism and my mother helped to make a paper mache body. It looked better than the totem pole but even so, I positioned the camera so the viewer couldn't see much of it.

But who cares. I no longer had any proof the thing was even shot. 

I emailed/called the DoP continually, telling him the problem. Finally he answered, said it was in the back of his car in his camera case. I practically begged him to mail it to me. Weeks later, still no tape. When I finally got in contact with him, he stated his car was broken into and some STOLE THE TAPE from the trunk of his car.

Crock of shit but whatever. I had other things to deal with. My producer, never one to use computers or email was writing me long angry letters in ALL CAPS. She sent my employer a fax addressed to me with a cover letter saying 'DON'T READ THIS'.

beat head against this repeatedly

And when I'm not working my real job, not writing angry letters back, I'm watching the footage, trying to match camera angles, getting coverage, wishing I rehearsed more with the cast.

I'm watching one scene where the trophy girlfriend is bitching about the cold - I realize her wardrobe is pretty much the same as my producer/girlfriend. They could have been twins. Why hadn't I realized this before?

Then work gave me the chance to transfer to Moncton. Now, at this time, Halifax is the center of Canadian comedy TV; Trailer Park Boys and This Hour Has 22 Minutes. Part of our plan was to move there when this was done. I saw us walking into Salter St. Films and I don't know...becoming famous?

So I applied for the transfer and moved myself - there was no financial incentive to do this. I basically left what little support system I had in BC to move across the country to escape from my angry producer. Moncton wasn't Halifax, but it was a lot closer than BC. And at that moment, that film was all I had in my life. I carried my 2 goldfish with me onto the plane and a new co-worker allowed me to live in their guest room until I got settled.

Admittedly, I never could get settled quick enough. I had a rebound girlfriend who came out to see me. I had been kicked out of the co-worker's house by her husband and was staying in a hotel. Again, my expense. Then Rebound came out and it didn't go well - I fully admit it was all me. But I'm homeless and Winnie has sent me a letter signed by all them telling me not to do any work on the film. I'm also hemorrhaging money. Rebound left and I returned to a solitary life with a pile of tapes with no future.

I still clung to this idea that I'd edit this movie, send it to her and everything will turn out all right.

It was all I had.

Eventually I rented a small room in a house with 2 girls and 4 cats. The couches had tin foil on them for some cat-lady reason.
I made a few superficial work friends, worked on editing in my spare time. Some days I'd rent a car and just travel around the Maritimes. I'd drive to Halifax and once entered the production offices of Salter Street. Nobody was at reception. So be it. I walked out again. Mission accomplished.

In some weird way, that was all I wanted. I sent her a postcard saying something to the extent of I made it, wish you were here.

Back to the film. My best friend, once bass player turned sound engineer did a score for me long distance. I used the Internet to transfer the file, took a few days off to fly back to BC and spend a few long, long days with him in his basement as we created a scoundscape.

I might have paid him a few bucks. I don't know. Whatever it was, it was pennies compared to what a professional sound edit would have cost. I had no idea how her 'version' was going. To this day I have no idea if she even started one.

It was done, as best as I could do. My producer was no longer able to send me letters or yell at me over the phone. But I missed her terribly. I'd call her store up after she closed, knowing she wasn't there, just to hear her voice in a civil tone. I cursed the film for making me choose it over her. I cursed myself for thinking that once I sold that film and recouped the money for the investors, we'd make up and everything would return to normal. I cursed her again for making me think we could do this.

I sent it off to 2 film festivals - Vancouver and I can't even remember the other one. It was rejected.

I organized a screening in our local university for the cast and crew. Whoever wanted to attend, basically. I rented a popcorn machine and we had about forty people come out. They had some laughs while I sat at the very back of the theater. I felt some satisfaction but also, an emptiness. My producer didn't come. We didn't make up. We never spoke to each other. Some of the cast went out that night and it felt goood. Nobody threw a drink in my face. Nobody said it was awful.

But again, I had to return to my normal life, which was now in the Maritimes. Work was not going well. I was working in a toxic work environment. The 'Heathers' felt our manager was having an affair with her/our regional manager - it was the only thing to explain why she was their manager. It was tough to keep my mouth shut.

I also made some bad, anonymous jokes on our internal internet on the Hamilton base and got caught. I had totally forgotten about the jokes but was given a 3 month probationary sentence. I was completely willing to take responsibility, even offering to go to the Hamilton airport and apologize to everyone. For some reason, they didn't want me to do that. I got in trouble for complaining about not getting any food for an after-hours corporate meeting over intoxicated passengers. Although I wasn't the catalyst (it was more the Heathers) my attitude wasn't appreciated and was told it was in the best interest of the company's bottom line that they didn't even offer to buy the 12 of us a pizza or two.

I think I moved out there in October. I stayed until June. Then, my company announced opening a Halifax base. I immediately applied and was transferred out to Halifax - again on my dime but fine, whatever. I was finally making it to the center of Canadian comedy.

I was still following our (my) quest, perhaps hoping/dreaming things would work out. Little did I know, it would only get worse from here...

In Moncton, I had moved out with my roommate from the cathouse into a 2 bdrm apartment. I gave her my notice, and found a room to let near the Halifax airport - I was a bit better prepared. I packed up my uninsured car, a Honda Accord I bought for a grand and never insured all through the Maritime winter.

At my going away party - I got a bit too drunk and after my manager raved about how great the 'Heathers' were, I couldn't take it anymore. I told her what they said about her sleeping with her boss. She immediately left. I wouldn't be there for the fall-out that was to come. 

On Moving Day, I stopped at the Moncton Chapters on the way out. I bought some type of red fruit slushie. (this becomes important later). I bought a cigar to smoke on my way east. New cigar, new life. Things will get better. That was perhaps my fourth cigar smoked to commemorate another new life in less than two years.


So I drank the fruit juice. About halfway to Halifax, I stopped on the side of this country road.
It was a nice day. I smoked the cigar. It was sunny and quiet. There was a small creek in the ditch, no more than a few feet across, crystal clear. I felt thirsty. I recall hopping onto this small island in the middle and having this tiny, yet internally humorous debate over which side of the island should I sip from; like if I drink on this side my life will go here - if I drink on that side my life will go there.

It was very philosophical.

So I picked a side and drank a little. It was cold and refreshing. I told myself I made the right choice, the curse of my shitty life had been broken.

Forty-five minutes later I stop at an A&W in some nameless town to go pee. I am surprised to see my urine is pinkish-red and there are bits of dark red solid flakes coming out as well. But nothing hurts so I'm confused. I assume that colour is due to that fruit juice I had earlier. The red solid flakes are... cigar flakes? I don't really know but I shrug it off - after all, I'm off to my new home.

Now I've arranged to sublet a room with an older single man in a small bedroom community twenty minutes from the airport. I arrive late afternoon, he shows me the room. I bring in a few basics, leaving most of my stuff in the car. At eight pm, his cat comes up and jumps on my lap.

An hour later, I'm at the hospital. I had to ask my new landlord if he could lead me to the closest hospital. It's a day hospital, meaning there are no overnight stays. I barely am able to drive there but make it. He goes back home, no doubt wondering what the hell is up with his new boarder.

The admitting nurse thinks I have kidney stones. I tell the nurses looking over me I'm at an 8 for pain level. It hurts worse than anything I've ever experienced. I am given some major pain pills, told to call for a ride and my landlord comes to pick me up (I didn't even know what my street address is yet).

The next day I'm back for tests, the day after that I'm having an operation to remove the supposed kidney stones. This turns into a 4 day hospital stay. I've been given a stent up my uretha and the first time I piss it feels like my dick has been sliced in half, length-wise. I am standing on my tip-toes when I'm pissing, it hurts so much.

Nobody knows where I am except my landlord. I've missed my first two days of work before I'm able to finally call them and tell them what's happened and where I am. All thoughts of movie productions and fame are put on hold. I have many tests.

My kidney stones turned out to be a tumor in my kidney the size of my fist. It's cancer

C'est la vie.

Cancer represented here by Sea Bass.