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February 12, 2007

Aside from the corporate conundrums and daily drifts, dating debacles and blogging chronicles. In apart from weekly physical therapy sessions and in betwixt pug feedings, walkings, and tendings to. Beyond life’s structured responsibilities and obligations, grocery shopping, stopping for gas, convenient meals and everything going soft because I’ve not been able to exercise since last fall, there is another world inside of me, aching to get out. There’s a whole cast of characters, it’s a lot like something you might see on Sundance or the Independent Film Channel. It’s observant and explorative in nature, detail oriented, art house. It’s my mental masturbation. It’s gritty and raw, tender and real, touching and off beat, a little bit eccentric with maybe a foreign twist. You might run into Parker Posey there or handsome but unheard of leading men and adorable little actresses that make me want to have one of my own. An elderly gent with pepper gray hair who drinks too much and desperate but loving figures, boys and girls coming of age innocent but provocative, the newness and learning of it all over again. The sets and props are darkened wet cobble stone streets or a greasy spoon diner with the actors sipping syrupy coffee and chain smoking filter less cigarettes or they're wearing striped scarves on a country farm in a foreign land, vintage wool coats, riding pants and hats, shearling…no wait, white billowy cotton sleep gowns, Victorian or Parisian, dark and European, something like Under the Tuscan Sun only realistic. I wish I’d gone to film school so they’d have somewhere real to go, my characters and backdrops and cinematography. But it wouldn’t be enough to just write about them, I’d have to act and direct it as well. Not to be vain but because nobody else would know them as well as me, their creator. Oftentimes, it feels like that life and sometimes but not often enough the one I actually live, is an independent film and I’m sitting home on a Saturday night watching it play out and then one day I’ll get the call that I’ve been nominated for a Spirit award. I might be wearing something with chevron stripes and distressed denim or maybe a smocked Irish linen apron with straps that cross in the back and button at the hips. I might be a maid or slave but either way I’m probably a poor and tragic heroine or else a rich glamorous 40’s temptress who lounges about in silk Gossamer slips and high heels and makes a sport of seducing men to satiate her artistic hunger. Why not? Anything goes in Indie land where it’s organic and uncut. An exploration of the dark sides of politics, sex, and religion, but not so much we forget to laugh at the stereotypes and opposition because after all, the only time and place that Independent thinking is really acceptable in our society is when it’s in the name of art, which is exactly why I’m drawn to it, the art and the thinking. And even when its not and met with resistance they call it “critically acclaimed” and that makes the socialists hunger for it all the more regardless of whether they love it or hate it, are drawn to it or repelled by it. My love interest, protagonist and antagonist all in one is a British, Irish, or Scottish chap like Joseph or Ralph Fiennes or an older Jonathan Rhys Meyers. There are a lot of romantic scenes on plush beds and in porcelain tubs, in green fields and smoky nightclubs, hotel rooms or cozy cottage inns with fireplaces and bear skin rugs for making love on the floor and all but an ending that you never saw coming, like the ones that always piss me off when they come too quick before you’ve had a chance to digest it and weren’t even sure what it meant to the story. I like my characters and their endings to be neatly defined and fundamentally understood so there’s no question to their ever after.

Posted by Lori on February 12, 2007 6:44 AM permalink
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