frozen stars...

It's been a weather-perfect summer so far. But it's hard trying to find any footing in a brand new place when you don't really know anyone, even after a year. A year in a brand new city means nothing - it just means that you know where some of the streets are and where the grocery store is. You don't really know anybody and they don't know you and that's a difficult thing to face when the empty summer rolls around. However, you just have to be a Grown Up and deal with it and do the best you can. And wait for some kind of break.

.....*looks in mirror to see if I bought that*


"I sat down at the desk and watched the light fade. The going-home sounds had died away. Outside the neon signs began to glare at one another across the boulevard. There was something to be done, but I didn't know what. Whatever it was it would be useless. I tidied up my desk, listening to the scrape of a bucket on the tiling of the corridor. I put my papers away in the drawer, straightened the pen stand, got out a duster and wiped off the glass and then the telephone. It was dark and sleek in the fading light. It wouldn't ring tonight. Nobody would call me again. Not now, not this time. Perhaps not ever.

I put the duster away folded with the dust in it, leaned back and just sat, not smoking, not even thinking. I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name. I didn't want to eat. I didn't even want a drink. I was the page from yesterday's calendar crumpled at the bottom of the waste basket.

I pulled the phone towards me and dialed Mavis Weld's number. It rang and rang and rang. Nine times. That's a lot of ringing, Marlowe. I guess there's nobody home. Nobody home to you. I hung up. Who would you like to call now? You got a friend somewhere that might like to hear your voice? No. Nobody.

Let the telephone ring, please. Let there be somebody to call up and plug me into the human race again. Even a cop. Even a Maglashan. Nobody has to like me. I just want to get off this frozen star.

The telephone rang."

-Raymond Chandler, The Little Sister

...but he don't know what it means...

I want to slap a summer in the mouth. Dirty fucking summer cool. I have seen it in films. People will do things in the depths of the summer that they would rather die than do any other time in the history of man. The Summer is like someone stripping the silver tape off your face one thousand times over. One is ready for cruelty. One is ready to live in a certain hell. One sees an unnatural end to unnatural times.


Cheap beer is your lame currency. You thought you knew day to day. You didn't. You look at the mail lady, and wonder why you never noticed her. You want to rip her clothes off and pour brandy over...well...why describe what you've already been thinking, you swine?


Summer is the loudest guitar you ever heard. Summer is the tears at the realization that there is no more shite beer. Summer is the rip in your sleeve. Summer is the stupidity of rationality.


I like summer.

airport college...

I found this in the old notebook that I'm putting Marlowe script notes in. It used to be a math notebook from the old Pulaski Tech days probably 5 years ago. As follows:
- College is like a huge airport only the passengers at the terminal never go anywhere. They just show up every day with their luggage to wait at the terminal. No one ever sees a jet. The airport personnel badger them every day with quizzes and books and graphs. If you don't cut the mustard you don't have the right to show up and wait every day at the terminal.


College is about waiting for the gravy train. With books. -


I was right, by God. Thankfully, film school is much different. In the end, I don't think anyone really gives a damn about grades on either side. You either have what it takes to make films or you don't. Half the class in Production I disappeared three weeks into the semester after they figured out that making movies is actual work. "I'll go to movie school because I like to sit on the couch and watch movies." Indeed.


It's also the kind of work that has to be done basically naked. You can't bring anything decent to the table with many clothes on. People have to find out exactly who are immediately. If you mind too much, you won't last. For the extroverted, it's like a party with hookers and blow. For the introverted, it's like going over the wall tied to a tree and searchlights and Thompson's fanning the yard. For the extroverted hiding the fact that they are really introverted....they need a psychologist to sort you out.


Indeed x 2, innit.


OK for the yard,
CS del celluloid

she had eyes like strange sins...

Now this is more like it. I miss the blog and the reel and the screed. You can write things on Facebook but nobody ever reads them. They probably won't read this either. I may not read it myself. However, it's nice to have a place to write sommat again.

I've named it Day For Night because it's a film term. It's one of my favorite kinds of shots. And it's my favorite Truffaut film (so far). A day-for-night shot is when you film during the day with either a filter on the lens or post-production that makes a day scene look like a night scene. And I think I'll primarily be jabbering about Film here, as suggested by a friend of mine.

Outside the cool Colorado summer evening is coming down. I have the sliding glass door open and the breeze is coming through it. On the screen is John Ford's The Long Voyage Home (1940) starring John Wayne, Ward Bond. Hard drinking, down-at-heels sailors and bums on a tramp steamer with German U-boats ruling the oceans. I watch so many movies these days that I may as well have a blog about what I'm watching and how it strikes me.

This is it.

OK
CS