As some of my readers may know, I have a passion for film. This evening I had the pleasure of beginning work as a cinematographer on the second season of a web series some of my friends have written. Setting up lights and thinking about shot logistics felt good. The hurried stressful business makes for a good contrast compared to my quiet writing time.
Also, it was interesting getting into another group’s creative flow as I didn’t film the first season. We both had to adjust to each other and I hope the change to the series will be for the better. At any rate, the first few episodes of season one have been released and can be viewed here. I find the show rather funny in a witty sort of way and hope my contribution will improve it.
Today, finally, it was warm out. And by warm, I mean above freezing. The roads began to melt and cautiously, we denizens of seemingly the new Hades, emerged. For the first time in more than a week we could go outside without immediately feeling the numbing grip of frostbite on any and all exposed extremities. It was nice. We wondered at the sun having feared that perhaps its warming glow would never grace us again, thankful that was absence was merely temporary.
Tomorrow it is supposed to be in the low fifties and in unison we cast down our gloves and coats for shorts and T-shirts. For compared to minus fifteen, fifty seems tropical, balmy, even perhaps too hot.Thus is the beauty of a little perspective, my friends.
Posted in Thoughts
Tagged arctic, chill, cold, cold snap, colorado, daily post, freeze, freezing, hot, perspective, snow, sun, weather, winter
Today, it was warmer than it has been but by most accounts the air was still bitterly cold. I warded off the cold with a bagel and tea. Nothing quite satisfies like a bagel and a cup of tea on cold day. That golden-brown buttery crunch followed by a bitter sip of tea is possibly among the greatest simple pleasures in life. We must relish such things in life to stay sane, I think.
Some things lose value when shared publicly, I think. Love is one of them. I find it curious that we have a desire to broadcast our affections. Love is a personal matter, a matter between those doing the loving. It should be noted that I have no objections of public displays of affection. I object only if the intent is to brag for bragging about it somehow makes the experience less special. It turns love into a competition and that is one thing true affection for another person certainly is not.
The same can be said for writing in a few ways. Some pieces I write just for me without the intent to share them and because of that they hold more significance. They are not my best works by any means (mostly they are just the gunk in my head that needs to be put down before anything sensible comes out) but they are mine and mine alone. For once I share a piece it is no longer mine. Instead it is possessed by those who read it.
When I am sad, I write. I don’t write about sad things, though. Instead, my writing turns out more or less the same regardless of mood and afterwords I feel better. Writing for me is a kind of mental reset button because while writing I entirely escape who I am, the entire world disappears, all that is left is the story. After a good writing session, my mind is cleared of garbage and generally I am happy regardless the mood before hand.
This evening I watched the Colorado University’s holiday concert. It took place in old Macky Auditorium which is a beautiful old theater with ornate woodwork and the comforting smell of an old building.
Despite the bitter cold here in Colorado, the place was packed. Every seat was filled as the lights went down for the beginning of the performance. A hush fell over the crowd but a tenuous one. The place was suddenly filled with whispers, and I was struck with a thought. We love to connect, we need to connect, and even with only moments until the air was filled with Christmas music some of us just couldn’t sever that connection.
I find a beauty in that desire for connection; rather, I find a humanity in it. Something about the intense desire to share an idea strikes me as incredibly human and in those brief few seconds before a great blasting chord from the horn section started off the evening I felt an intense pride and gratitude to be in room filled such creatures and to be a member of them.
I have begun using lists to help harangue my tendency to procrastinate. This, combined with my current challenge, has helped me increase progress on my novel as well as other side projects and decrease the amount of time staring blankly into Facebook. On top of the usual list rules (writing down what one needs done on a given day), I have add another rule that helps me significantly. At the end of each day I throw my list in the trash. It doesn’t matter how much got done. The day is over and thus the things needed to be done that day are over too. If it needs to be done, it’ll be on tomorrow’s list. After all, ever day that comes to us is new and we should dirty it with a gone day’s business.
As a writer I have found the best way to refill my creative tank is to read. Not just books , mind you, but blog posts, essays, short stories, and manifestos. Gobble the words down as though they are the most delicious food. Lately I’ve started to explore my fellow WordPressers and I have the community on this site to be fantastically rich. And now, I’ve offered myself a challenge: to replace the majority of the time I spend watching video (TV, youtube, Netflix, etc.) with reading of some sort. I feel this will make me more productive as well as elevate my writing ability.
A couple days ago my cairn terrier, Mr. Flan, bade the living world adieu. At the ripe age of 14, it was his time to leave this earth and from what I hear his passing was peaceful. He will be missed.
By no means could Mr. Flan be considered a good dog. On the contrary his ability to destroy property was on par with a slow, but determined, natural disaster. Either by tooth or urine, he destroyed more couches and rugs than anyone cares to count, and the lengths to which he went in order to get into the trash are the thing legend in the Kauffman household.
Despite his numerous shortcomings Flan was mine. He was a gift for my eighth birthday and has been with me in some fashion ever since. His passing seems to mark a new era for my family and for myself, Flan being the last remnant of my childhood. Now we must move onward. Rest in peace, old friend.
As I write an arctic weather system has pulled into Colorado. Fine powery snow drifts down in front of the orange streetlamps and temperatures are supposed to stay in the teens for a few days. After a great delay winter, my friends, has come to my home state. The windows in my bedroom are original to the house which was built in 1912. Moisture has accumulated on them and now has begun to freeze. . . on the inside. I’m in for few cold nights with nothing better to do than finish The Book Thief (the book I’m currently reading), write, and drink tea. I’d have it no other way.