This place stifles me. I feel caged, manipulated into a sense of vacation. I sleep more than I should, I indulge in rich food. I do not feel the need to physically move, which is as we know very dangerous. I’m sliding into a black hole of irritation. Everything irritates me. My father, my brother. The rude man who took the paper without asking for it.
Randomness: I gotta go to Cuba. Why Cuba? Because I’ve always been fascinated by the place. And because I once promised to go before Fidel Castro died.
The question, I think, that faces most of us is, not whether we will work, but what kind of work we are willing to do. Do we go to the studios and work like rats for canned storylines geared only towards the masses? Or do we sit at the doorstep of Indie production companies and pray that they have space for another intern?
Or do we stick to our guns and make our own features from scratch?
What is it about artists that lead them into either poverty or overnight sensations? We never seem to find a middle ground. Those who magically do are, well, never heard of. I think our capacity for success is mostly dependent upon luck – and obviously being prepared when the opportunity comes knocking.
I need to be part of the film community again. I would be lying if I said that any part would do, but right now I’m close to allowing the role of grunt/coffee girl into the job possibilities I am willing to consider just to get back.
