I stumbled upon E.T. around the Maymont pond. He was feeling a bit stiff. Wooden, if you will. Nearby, The Fly. Jeff Goldblum never looked better after being teleported a couple of times and sucking up fly and teleport pod “stuff.”
I’ve hit a rut. Plain and simple. Not quite sure what happened, but I would imagine just about every “blogger” out there goes through it. Shoot. Any writer, painter, composer, or poet. It happens. Get over it.
In the weeks leading up to the bike race, Richmonders were brainwashed into thinking we would be caught in stroke-inducing gridlock and mired in a sea of interlopers determined to keep us from work, doughnuts and beer. But there I was, heading directly to it. The next three days, although exhausting, would be some of the most exciting I’ve had in a long time in this town.
My Wyoming year began with a roll of film, two parents, wine, the Gatsbys, and a healthy dose of rural decay. The Gatsbys were an ungodly number of attractive, well-heeled people who decided to converge on the beautiful Pippin Hill Vineyard. Credit my mother for introducing me to the term, “well-heeled.”
If, like me, you insist on taking advantage of what film has to offer, you’ll probably need to look seriously at developing your film at home. Who knows – you might even like it!
I got there in less than 2 hours and then made it back in less than 2 hours. Driving home, I opted for the EZ Pass lanes and gave a steady 65 mph wave at the weary travelers to my right who were stuck behind the omnipresent accident. I’m not sure why they didn’t get over there with me. Maybe they’re unaware of the new rules? Whatever. More space for me!
This tree is a solid example of fractals in nature. And it was in a graveyard – even better. Maybe it signifies the never ending cycle of life on top of the Freemason’s plot it adorns? Maybe it shows us how no matter where you are on the tree, you’re at a brand new trunk/crossroads – no way to change how you got there, but with infinite possibilities ahead of you.
I discovered a hidden feature of that indiscriminate winding knob – the one that doesn’t tell you when to stop. You have to look through a little red-tinted window at the film’s backing paper to see when the next frame is lined up. But what if you don’t? What if you just wind a little bit then shoot again?
It didn’t happen overnight, but I eventually realized my need and desire to create music had slipped away. I still played the piano some. Maybe banged on the drums occasionally. Would brush up against the guitar and run my fingers across the strings to see if they were still in tune. But there were a number of times I’d walk by the music room, peer in and ask, “Why did I waste so much time on this?”
Since last year I didn’t have an affair with an intern and the free trade agreement I signed with the Mexican restaurant at the end of the street hasn’t brought me any discounted hot tamales, I don’t foresee any 9/11 scale events…