Monday 1 October 2018

In Other News

An old film friend of mine reached out and said he'd been writing something. I offered to read it.

It was some of his own therapy regarding his love life of years past.

It wasn't anything special. But then he linked me to his own blog and was blown away. I told him so. It was original, had a unique voice, etc etc. I told him this was a book waiting right there. He writes short and simple, with great imagery. I don't know if it is because I know him or if his writing is that good but I really relate and/or get frustrated with the protagonist's views.

Here it is.

He thanked me for my thoughts but wants to write of a different girl right now.

I'm a bit envious of his writing style but remind myself we are all different. I think his story could be more successful than mine ever would be, but then again - two completely different ball parks.

He writes kind of like this;

I'm listening to Creep by Radiohead right now. The dogs are laying on the couch, one is licking itself. I have to bathe them today, if for no other reason than to delay other mini-projects.

Artistic Therapy Part 5 Cancer


So, having cancer really puts a stop to things.

But it doesn't, life goes on.

I have a good doctor who is able to schedule me for a kidney removal in one month's time. I have my parents fly out to join me for the big day. They are divorced and remarried but they both come out and everything is weird again. I think they are staying in my nice landlord's place while I am in the hospital. I don't recollect much of this time.

I do remember, and this part still messes with me, for the weeks before the operation I was given a sieve to pee through; the thought being I'd pee out any kidney stones that were in my uretha. I did that every day until I had to go to the hospital.

The night before I was given 2 liters of electrolites to drink; that's basically a super-cleanse and by the end of the evening, it was going in me as a liquid and coming out as a liquid. My insides had never been so cleansed. All this was so there was plenty of room for them to do their digging around in there as they cut out my kidney.

So there I am, in my johnny, getting ready to go on the gurney which would lead me into the Operating Room. I go to have one last pee. I no longer have that sieve after all, what's the point, right?

So as I flush I notice this little turquoise tip-of-a-pencil thing going down the toilet. Or did I?

I get on the gurney, say nothing. I go into the operating room and it's lights out.

I recall waking up, or maybe this was from the first operation, and lifting myself over to the stretcher. I then pass out again. Next thing I remember is waking up with a young nurse over top of me. It's all foggy for a bit here - needless to say, the movie is the last thing on my mind.

I spend a few days in the hospital. When I'm able I fly home with my Mom to BC and convaless at home in her basement, my old room from my twenties. I listen to a lot of Bif Naked, hiding down there doing ... nothing I remember.

I hear somehow my ex-partner's sister also has a cancerous brain tumour. There's no contact there.

Facing Facts



I was angry at her. I was so angry at her.

I was tired. We were tired. I left a note saying we were going for pizza. Call me. Yes, I get she felt excluded. Yes, I was part of making her feel excluded. I didn't want her there. I wanted her studying on movie-making, learning the business side, figuring out how to enter film festivals, doing producer-type stuff.

I didn't want our days spent discussing shots, her swishy-snow pants swishing, the inevitable cutting remarks that I felt would be directed her way by X. I could visualize his scorn spreading to the others, making her the omega wolf, the one picked on, despite it was her drive that brought all of us together.

I felt I was protecting her.

I was wrong to do that.

I wanted to be entirely in control, to not have to argue with her about what to do, defend shots, scenes, lines. To avoid another discussion where she tells me we need to have a dream sequence with Y because she has two friends willing to go topless in a car wash and boobs sell movies.

I was so angry. I was angry at Sound Guy coming in and pointing out all the holes in the ship - holes I knew about and was the reason I called him.

I was angry this dream, making a movie, wasn't fun. I was angry my friend, the guy I trusted to shoot the movie, fucked off on me. I was angry I felt pushed into doing this, that there was no way to go but forward, ever since she said we had an investor.

I felt so alone, nobody to turn to to complain we weren't taking log notes. In the back of my mind, I knew every day meant another tape I would have to go through later, take by take, to figure out which was best.

I wasn't staring down the camera. I was angry that every day was such a complete tiring mess where I wondered what exactly I was shooting here. I was angry she said our relationship was over once the movie ended. I was doing this for us, I told myself.

And if there was no 'us', what was the point of anything? Being dumped on any day is never the best. It was only a slight drop below being stranded at the alter.

I was angry when she told me we were through. I said fine but we could we finish the movie first. We finished, hooked up for one more night and then I was angry she expected me to continue to fly back and forth to edit the movie, knowing the relationship ended.

I was angry I didn't get a choice in the editor - not even a fucking demo reel from the guy. We already got burned for $800 by the 'FX guy' for a shit totem grade school kids could have done in 20 minutes and a fake head so realistic I had to shoot it mostly from the back. Then there was my original DP, then there was the new DP who left town with one master tape still in his possession.

And now she was saying I wouldn't get a choice in who was editing this fucking mess? Were they aware we had no log sheets? Was he going to go through 18 hours of tapes for free?

So she kicked me off my movie. I was furious. She even got the investors to all sign something saying I was fired. I still have it. Along with a ream of angry letters sent over the next few months.

I was angry that I loved her, agreed to do this movie because of her, that she made me decide between the movie or her in the middle of filming.


I hated her. I hated her so much I moved across Canada. I hated her so much I sent her the masters after making my own copies and told her to go ahead. I hated her so much I had to ask her cancer-fighting sister if she was seeing someone else as she was recuperating in a hospital bed. I hated her so much I spent $1500 on a camera just so I could edit it myself. I hated her so much, I learned to edit. I hated her so much I would call her business phone from 3000 miles away in the middle of the night just so I could listen to the sound of her voice on her messaging machine. I hated her so much I never left a message.

I hated her so much I kept all her letters, a dying art, the angry letter - all capital letters, hand-written. I still have them, that's how much I hated her. I have pictures of her in my memory chest, from happier days of course, when I loved her and thought she loved me back. She was as old then as my wife is turning now.

(... that made me pause).

I hated her so much I yelled Happy Birthday to her when I saw her on the street five years later. I hated her so much I tried to say Merry Christmas to her when I saw her selling something in a department store. I hated her so much I left chocolates on her car door that night. She knew they were from me. I hated her when I saw her car beside mine, her staring ahead - either unaware I was right beside her or painfully aware.

I hated her for killing my dream, for no longer being part of my life. I hated her for making me feel like I could do anything and then telling me I couldn't. I hated her for the amount of times she'd blow me, far more times than actual sex. I hated her for pretending to believe in me. I hated her for all her arguments about her 'editor'.

I wanted nothing more than to win her back. I thought if only I edited this whole mess into something, entered it into a few film festivals on our behalf, then maybe she'd see I was doing it all for us. I wanted her to believe in me again. I needed her belief in me.

And when it was gone, so was I.

Life happened. I got cancer. She didn't acknowledge that. I moved back home. Not even a peep. I left, came back, got married, got divorced. Met someone else, and we are still together, two kids now. Happy life, happy wife.

The last time I saw her, and I've googled-creeped her name many times over the years to see where she was to no avail, she was entering a furniture store. I was inside, holding my months old baby daughter in my arms. I turned quickly, kept my back to the door as she entered. When she passed, I exited.

And that was the end of her. Physically.

Yet, she's still inside me. She found people willing to invest $15000 in our vision. It was an amazing, awful, one of a kind experience which will never happen again. For a few months, I was a filmmaker.
For a few years, I tried to recreate that lie, believing in an impossible goal, 3500 miles away from her.

Do I still hate her?

She did her damage.

Do I still hate her?

Did I ever hate her?

Or did I always hate the choice I made?

The Hilarity of Depression



Sometimes, I want to laugh at how depressed I get because I'm pretty good at hiding it. I think most people with depression know how to hide it; they remove themselves emotionally and physically from everyone.

I know that the more productive one is, the less depressed they tend to be; like the act of keeping the mind busy will keep those nagging thoughts at bay.

So here is my morning.

I wake up and get the kids to school. No problem so far, my mind is busy with the kids, we walk, we talk, we say goodbye.

Now I'm in trouble.

But wait, a friend's wife is running for council in our local election. She's off to put up some signs with her 2 other children not yet in school. I'll totally help, for I was busy trying not to think of what
I'm going to do today to avoid being with myself.

That takes about 30 minutes and then I'm back at the house. I have so much I could do so I'm going to take a long shower first to figure out my plan.

Such a long shower.

Here's a list of things I think about that I can/want/should do;

  • research some lit agents (3)
  • research similar publishing houses
  • update my social media
  • read and review some homework
  • watch a movie that my wife probably wouldn't want to watch
  • take out the compost
  • buy tickets to a bucket list item. 
  • go to firehall and work out
  • apply to EI (hours recently cut back)
  • update resume
  • take the dogs for a walk. 
  • Do some editing of Karmageddon
  • Do some writing of anything
  • clean up spare room for son #1
  • dismantle legos and put on kijiji
  • clean up carport
  • unlock some more characters in Lego Batman 2. 


I go through all this and then decide I will do the last one first. But only until 10am.

I figuratively give my head a shake. I realize that's the least important. What's most important to me? Probably the computer stuff. But then I need to go downstairs, unpack the laptop, log in.
Just the thought of that is overwhelming in this mindset. Let's get dressed first. Make some coffee.

So I broke it down into little goals. And while it might seem to go down 2 flights of stairs may only be a problem if I was morbidly obese (I'm not), it is.

But first I make a coffee. I find the laptop. I go downstairs, clear off my desk. I power it up.

And now I'm here and it's 10am.

Deep breath...