Making Some Thinkspace for Truth

Well, this blogging thing is interesting, isn't it? Some electronic form of talking to myself. Therapeutic or warranting therapy?

Fact: I make films because I like to record the truth as I see it.
Fact: I do not invent the truth.
Fact: I can only perceive truth as it presents itself. When the world seemed flat, it was.
Hypothesis: Someday the demons of this city, of every place on this big ball of trash, will have some answers for me.

Trauma Makes Monsters. The monsters are never happy to be exposed, but fuck 'em.

Today

I'm the only one at work today and what should I find tacked to the back door?

A death threat.

"You made my life shit and now you die. Rot in Hell."

No signature? That's not very nice...

knee deep in emotional sewage

Blame it on the moon. My dad left when I was kid. I forget how old and I doubt it matters. I told everyone the city gobbled him up. No-one believes me, but as far as I know, no-one ever saw him again.

Anyway, an only child with just a mom turns into a weapon. As empirical evidence with hands and feet and eyes and ears, I'm telling you a kid without both parents ends up unbalanced. A kid who sees that his city has teeth can't even find a balance.

My mom did what she could and we made things go along ok. This I know: I owe her a lot, even if I've sometimes despised her. When the day comes that I make a mark that gets me marks, I'm buying her a house befitting all that was taken from her by my father and me, her personal anchor.

Hey, that's pretty good for a guy looking up from the bottom of this bottle.

I guess that's enough nostalgia for now. The next chapter's worth hanging around for, buddy. It's all about death taking a face and making a point. I've still got the ring, but I see a dark hood in it's reflection sometimes.

Time to get shitfaced and watch cartoons.

Conclusion.

Well, I guess waiting is an option. "It'll all come out in the wash." You, dear reader, must know that I will wait forever for your analysis.

Life has a way of distracting you from living it.

Ring.

I didn't forget. But I tried.

I'm looking at the road and it seems like it splits off in three directions.

Me. Them. Us.

Can't have them all, I don't think.

thinkspace

Well, here we go. The electronic version of an autopsy. Let's take my mind apart and lay it out on the table. Find out what's killing it.

That sounds a bit crazy, doesn't it? I guess it's ok, since it's just you and I and further ok since crazy is about the best way to explain what we're up to anyway.

I appreciate your advice and we'll see if it works: laying out the strips of thought, the gore of inspirtation and the very heart of me in the form of ideas and phrases and fears and dreams on the table and seeing if it fits together. I'm not much for head-shrinkers, but this seems feasible. I'll have to trust you about the security of it all.

So let me make the first cut and we'll look it over:

Convergence is the dream most every driven person. A place where all your dreams and talents collide and if you're lucky, the monetary rewards come along for the ride. And here I am, standing at the edge of a cliff, the water below being that very place - the ocean of convergence.

I always thought it would just happen or not (hadn't thought of it a lot at all, actually) and never imagined it would be something you did or did not choose. How will I move forward?

Bagface is sure to be a success - we both know it - on a level none of our other films have been.

The statement of what's next is like a blindfold in a house of horrors: it keeps me from facing the fears that are there beyond it and simply exploring the question could cause it to blow away as though it were made of ashes.

Scalpel up, and cut (in a different sense than I'm used to).

WHAT'S NEXT BRODY?

Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter of brodyhawkinsgoesfukinutz.

B