Making a movie part 1

Met my actors (Talented! Beautiful!) Met my director (Talented! Interesting! Communicative!) Saw my locations (Beautiful, but not so inspiring....) and spent the night trying to come up with something that will hold together. I got lots of great ideas, none are the real deal yet, but several are probably the ones that will lead to the real one.

I'm not feeling the selfish part of the joy, because it's all about the team—Steve and I have the first job, to come up with a script and make it really great, in service to the actors, directors, location, etc. So I don't mind forgoing the selfish part of my practice for a couple days, because I absolutely feel the joy of engaging in the work I most love to do.

I took notes on note cards all day. I wrote down things people said, things I thought of, things I saw. I came home at night and spread them out and started to free associate these into movie plot ideas. Trying to use the specific talents of the actors I have, and the specific gifts of the locations.

OK, enough blogging. I need to write this movie.

Walk in the rain

It is no longer 98 degrees and 173% humidity in New York City. It is 75 degrees and raining, but there's a breeze, and it's beautiful, and I went walking in the rain. Walking in the rain. Usually we run for cover. Throw up an umbrella. Cover our head with a newspaper. Duck from awning to awning. But we can slow down. Take a deep breath. Notice if maybe we want to feel the cool water on our skin. Take a walk in the rain.

PS. I am starting a 4-day writing marathon. I will be writing a short film in 4 days, that will be shot, edited, scored, and screened all within 16 days. My posts over the next few days might be quite slim, as is today's, as I set my intention towards Ripfest. Wish me well!

Kizomba! Infinity! Dance! Go!

I walked into a public dance class, and decided to what-the-hell go for it.  I love to dance. I miss dancing. I saw two women holding each other close, arms draped around each other, cheek to cheek, moving in synch—and I got such a heart pang for my days of dancing tango, that I stopped to watch. Before long, that dance ended and an instructor came out to teach a new dance. (I never found out what that first one was, but there was chalk on the ground that said ZOUK NY.)

The new dance, however, was kizomba— a Brazilian partner dance created in the 90s. Before long I was dancing 1 2 quick quick slow (beat) 7 8 quick quick slow. Front step. Back step. Side step. And (ladies, this one will be your favorite) Infinity. In Union Square. With strangers. As the sun set behind the Abercrombie and Fitch .... (that was my attempt at Urban Pastoral.)

Sometimes you have to grab the opportunities for joy when they pop up in front of you, like a free pop-up dance class in the heart of the city. 

Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812

Right .... this is what I love about the freelance life! I get to go to the theater in the middle of the day, with a good friend/theater collaborator, drink a shot of grapefruit-infused whiskey, watch a rather good show that has a spectacular final 15 minutes that completely inspired me to think about structure, go out onto the Highline, sit in the sun and brainstorm theater collaborations we want to create together, run into two good friends while sitting in the sun, move to the shade, brainstorm some more, run into my friends again, and go home to watch the movie of one of the projects we pitched.

So ... those last 15 minutes.  Did you read the piece on Structure by John McPhee in the New Yorker some months ago? In it, he says he had a teacher when he was young who made them do a structural outline of every single thing they wrote for her—a habit that has stayed with him throughout his writing career. He doesn't always do a traditional outline, and in fact his outlines are sometimes whimsical and graphic. By the time Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 ended, I could see the structure clearly. It was a tangled web of relationships and chatter and banal interpersonal interests, swirling swirling swirling all around a man who is focused elsewhere, but where? we (and perhaps he) are not sure, but then in the last 15 minutes it becomes incredibly clear, and first we see him with one other person, and then alone in the universe, focused on one point of light.

I picture it like this:

What a joy to leave the theater with this graphic image, and then go out to discuss new works. What a joy.

Swimming with Mr. Darcy

I love artists. I love lakes. I love Jane Austen. I love this. 

Outdoor swimming! (not)

In NYC, the city pools open from 7-9 AM and 7-9 PM just for adult lap swimming. You have to sign up for it, and get a special card, and stand in line, and follow all their rules, but you can lap swim outside. I signed up, got up, got there, stood in line with other people, and ..... it didn't start until today.

I cast for selfish joy, but I didn't hook it and land it.

And today is a new day.

The Periodic Table

The Periodic Table, by Primo Levi, is one of my favorite books. I have read it maybe a dozen times, but not in probably 10 years. I was talking about it with Ilana the other night at Emily and Tara's party, and that got me thinking it might be about time to re-read it. The book is organized by element. Levi was a chemist, and each chapter is a story connected to what he was doing when he was working with a particular element—often stories of friendship, often friendship with other men.

Every time I've read it, I've struggled through the challenging first chapter (Argon), at times skipping it, and frequently skimming it, so I can get in to the rest of the book, which reads like a warm knife through butter. This time, I decided to settle down with the first chapter, and read it patiently, re-reading if necessary, so I could finally hear what Levi is trying to tell me. And that, it turns out, is a new edge of joy for me—as well as something I have never done. I am not actually through the first chapter, so I can't sum it all up for you, but I can tell you that it's about language, including Yiddish, and Provençal roots of the Piedmontese language, and I can tell you that once I read this—really read this—I am going to find it more fruitful than I ever have, and my reading of the rest of the book will be more rooted. The joy of growing more patient and diligent!