(no subject)

[sirbobalot]

I'm sitting in my pajama pants, freshly showered, hair akimbo. It has just started to rain outside, but I can only hear its million individual beats on other surfaces. It's not really rain until it hits me; right now I can only think it. I am listening to stripped down remixes of dido songs (not my usual, but i can't order bourbon on my laptop). I am looking at hundreds of pictures of the crew from the film I worked on last month. They are well lit and stark, expressive and full of clarity. They have obscured foregrounds and secret smiles and inadvertent moments. None of them are of me, or of any of the people with whom I worked most closely. This imbues me with a sense of pride, because it means that I have done my job so well that not even the people assigned to take pictures of the crew were able to find us. We skulked in like cobbling elves, made magical walls and posters and dishes and doors and entire buildings, and vanished before anyone else even woke up. We came back when everyone else had left to tear down the remains of our work. We had to remind each other what was real and what illusions we had created, what was existing and what was fabricated. We hid secrets in each set that were so elaborate even we couldn't remember where we put them. But we still remembered.

I like the full silence of a still-dressed studio. Whole eerily created lives exist in each abutting room or hallway. They're just that, though: created.

Anyway, tonight feels good and perhaps I will go to sleep easily.