strike a pose imagining loud ecstatic applause
This week seems like an improvement. I just sort of did the opposite of everything The Tao of Pooh suggests I should do. Well, not really, but I am happier because I didn't just go with the flow; I'm happier feeling because I did things. Instead of waiting for everything to work or not work, I just said, "Fuck it, we're shooting next weekend." I just made a decision. I feel like I looked at the way the wind was blowing and the way things seemed to be slipping and I stepped in a different direction, rather than be carried along.
And so now I've got shoot dates. And work has been more engaging, always a plus for one's mood. I'm almost writing again, the hotel of ghosts thing. Tonight I turned down an offer to go out with Andy and his friends ( again--shit!) so I could get back on the work-out wagon. I don't know if I should feel proud or silly for ditching out on some very healthy socializing, but I'm glad I hit the gym again -- for a good hour and a half, too. Felt good. My legs are a little rubbery. So that's, you know, something.
Had a can of tuna with salt and pepper for dinner. (It's much fishier without the mayonnaise and other goodies. Shocking.)
Watching Don't Come Knocking, directed by Wenders and written by and starring Sam Shepard. Don't know if I'll finish it tonight (I'd like to) or if I'll actually try to get more than five hours of sleep for once this week.
Here's what I'd really like: I'd like to shoot this film, lose my weight, maybe meet a nice girl who can put up with my shit, finish a feature script (or two), put three films successfully out into the world (Bathwater rescored, Open color-timed and sound-designed, and Every Room is Empty shot and edited), get some kind of funding for a feature film, someday move out of Portland, become famous and wonderful, fall madly in love, be in shape and look good naked, give my first million to my parents, stop being a coward and die proud of myself and accomplished, in my nineties or even in triple digits, still active and feistier than ever.
That's it, really.
For now.
And so now I've got shoot dates. And work has been more engaging, always a plus for one's mood. I'm almost writing again, the hotel of ghosts thing. Tonight I turned down an offer to go out with Andy and his friends ( again--shit!) so I could get back on the work-out wagon. I don't know if I should feel proud or silly for ditching out on some very healthy socializing, but I'm glad I hit the gym again -- for a good hour and a half, too. Felt good. My legs are a little rubbery. So that's, you know, something.
Had a can of tuna with salt and pepper for dinner. (It's much fishier without the mayonnaise and other goodies. Shocking.)
Watching Don't Come Knocking, directed by Wenders and written by and starring Sam Shepard. Don't know if I'll finish it tonight (I'd like to) or if I'll actually try to get more than five hours of sleep for once this week.
Here's what I'd really like: I'd like to shoot this film, lose my weight, maybe meet a nice girl who can put up with my shit, finish a feature script (or two), put three films successfully out into the world (Bathwater rescored, Open color-timed and sound-designed, and Every Room is Empty shot and edited), get some kind of funding for a feature film, someday move out of Portland, become famous and wonderful, fall madly in love, be in shape and look good naked, give my first million to my parents, stop being a coward and die proud of myself and accomplished, in my nineties or even in triple digits, still active and feistier than ever.
That's it, really.
For now.