At 9/9/09 03:29 AM, Jezuz wrote:
On a desk that was built in the 30s, by a man born in the 00's. 1900's, that is. Next to that is an incense holder, burning poor quality nag champa. The incense is about an inch in length, the ashes that are improperly falling off are now longer than the incense itself. There's a cup of half drank water, in a blue, oddly shaped glass, next to which is a lighter, which had lit the incense, and the candle.
Charming. I am illuminated by a desk lamp from the 50's. Next to my white, Mac keyboard sit a set of five dice, four white and one red. They read, 2, 5, 3, and 4, with the red die showing 1. Next to the dice are a three-quarter empty bag of plain potato chips, the bag assuring me that they were made with all-natural oils, because, as any potato chip eater would be, I am very concerned with the healthiness of my salty snacks.
I sit here with the flicker of candle illuminating the room, overshadowed by the large backlight of my monitor. On that monitor is one chat window, a downloader for a game I won't play tonight, and a FireFox window, with 5 tabs open, one of which is blank. Within those tabs are websites that I go to on a regular basis, although off the top of my head I couldn't tell you what they are, mostly because they've become so routine I simply don't care any longer where I go or what I do on those presently mysterious websites.
My white keyboard has been receiving many Command+tab commands tonight, moving me between my two open applications, Firefox and Celtx. Firefox has four open tabs. Hotmail, NG BBS, dictionary.reference, and google. I'm using these tabs to waste time, waste time, check the spellings and definitions of words, and check the accuracy of my facts, respectively. I have primarily spent this night writing on Celtx.
In front of all of what I described, is me. I'm sitting here looking at the words I've spent 10 minutes writing, wondering what the purpose of it all is, if there is any. Not the words, I know the purpose of the words, but rather the purpose of this night. I think of how useless tonight was, of how little I have accomplished. I realize this is what I have done for the past 4 years of my life. I realize life, as a concept, for me, is useless. I fall asleep as I ponder this, only adding irony to it all...
On Celtx sits the script I've been working on. By moving from script mode to typeset, I can see that it has now reached the monumental length of 89 pages, including the cover page with it's title and author. The title is a working title, and it is a horrible title. 88 Pages will in theory roughly translate to 88 minutes, still slightly short of the average film length. I am almost done with it. Three technical scenes still need to be expanded, the other 46 scenes are already complete, and most of them have already had their dialogue naturalized.
This script is the result of the sacrifice of 80% of my summer, which started in late May, and has ended just a week ago. This script is going to be turned into my first feature-length movie. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm not sure if it's good enough. But whether it's quality it up to par or not holds no bearing on it's future. I will be casting this movie, shooting it, and editing it in the coming year, and there is little I can conceive of that would be able to stop me. $10,000 budgeted towards it, I'll be using college acting majors for cast and media majors for crew. The money is my own, and it is roughly 95% of my total savings. For the next six months at least, the production of this movie will completely absorb my life.
I feel sick thinking about it.
What have you done with this night? What will change tomorrow night? No matter how different your life is from mine, your days and nights are merely a series of reoccurring events that become so obscured to you that even the most exciting events become mundane... Yet this night is forever gone, and I can't help but feel sad. For what, though?
This night, I have expanded two scenes, and fixed the dialogue of five others. This night was well spent. Tomorrow, I will expand another scene or two, and naturalize others. Very soon, this script will be finished, and I will cast actors, send crew to scout locations, and purchase equipment. The nights of this summer have not been squandered. My days and nights are a series of unique events, gradually moving me toward a goal. The first of the three phases, pre-production, is nearing completion.
Will it be exciting? I can't say. But my days will not be mundane. Of that, I am certain.
This flickering light, the now dead incense, this unnatural light shining in my face, the eye that stares at me from below my screen...
My script, my savings, my summer . . .
We've made it, kids. We have arrived in hell.
I'm doing it . . . my life has finally begun.
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Jezuz. Don't go running away now.
If my life can progress, and my presence on the BBS remain active, then you certainly can escape your hell without forsaking us as well.
I won't lie to you, I have never been more unsure of myself. But this instability that I have willingly thrust upon my life has been a necessary bitchslap to knock me out of my routine. You just need to discover an end, and furiously beat a path toward it.
Beat a fresh path out of Hell.
