Comments and criticism (and money) are appreciated!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
INTRODUCING... Furling Industrial Films
...and our first vignette, The House Guest, is semi-experiemental. We decided to give it an Expressionist sheen, simply because of our mutual regard for German silent film.
Also in this film is my beautiful wife, Victoria. God bless her.
Check it out! Comments and criticims are appreciated!
Also in this film is my beautiful wife, Victoria. God bless her.
Check it out! Comments and criticims are appreciated!
Monday, August 20, 2012
The weight of a word
It isn't because of a lack of interest that I've (seemingly) abandoned this blog.. The weblog that, perhaps for a few creatively explosive weeks, was so crucial to my online manifestation. Indeed, my life has seen a succession of ordinary and extraordinary events -- most notibly my marriage last year to the love of my life, Victoria. And in between those crevices of time, when I could have (should have) been writing, I've baptised my mind in forgotten pop culture and art house films, whilst learning to negotiate the uncharted perimeters of marriage.
My life is a good one. I'm not in want of anything that I need or (mostly) desire. Certainly I'm blessed with a beautiful wife who - God love her - gives me all the understanding and support that I (don't) deserve. And in the interim, the sun ascends in the east and slides down in the west. Everyday. Until it doesn't anymore.
Putting all these things aside, I'm afraid.
Of failure, specifically.
Dig: There are precious few things that I do well. Fewer even the things that I excell at. For a large chunk of my life, I've either been told or I've imagined that, in my adult life, I would be a writer of books and short stories. Maybe screenplays. Lord only knows what else. Simply.. Applying the English language into sentences, paragraphs and pages was to be my occupation.. a source of income that was to be the unshakable backbone of a happily married (and lived) life. Understand, there was a time when I believed all these things would be a fact.
Enter adulthood. Enter the cold, selfish truth of the world: It was the decietful fabric of a dream. What was it that Billy Crystal said? "A writer writes.. ALWAYS." With the exception of the shards of a few short stories and plays I've casually flirted with, I have precious little work to call my own.. A few seeds of promise, and a lot of doubt.
It's the FEAR, I tell you, the anxiety-racked valley of terror that's persuaded me....that even in one hundred lifetimes, I will never actualize those naive aspirations. Writers write and they do it every day. Steve doesn't write because he's afraid that doesn't know how to do it.
And it's as plain and straightforward as that, folks. It's the reason I've not contributed to this blog in well over a year. It's why I don't finish short stories or write an inspired thought onto paper. I'm not good enough, smart enough.. and dog-gone it, even if I were, nobody's gonna take notice.
I do not believe in new age philosophy or mysticism. There's nothing that's corrupted my soul or deflated my appetite for creating plausible characters and concrete stories to assimilate them in. Maybe I've read to many good books, recognized the genius from the generics, and decided that it's all too much. Employing words in want of a story isn't enough.. The greats had premise. They knew how to weave great, epic stories in such a style that one could only speculate how they were able to pull it off. I've read those books, and I just don't know that it's in me.
Which scares me.
Which leads me to wonder about....stuff.
A couple of years ago, I began this blog as an exercise in applying words into thoughtful, cohesive arguments. I miss that. And I want that. I'd like to make mindful contributions to the digital ether, even if no one notices. In order to vanquish one's fear, one need only stare it in the face. Maybe I'm doing something like that right now.
That's kinda what I'd like to think, anyway. I guess we'll see, won't we? I hope you'll check back from time to time, see how I'm progressing. And, please, a little criticism goes a long way.
Thanks.
And now... into the ether with you.
My life is a good one. I'm not in want of anything that I need or (mostly) desire. Certainly I'm blessed with a beautiful wife who - God love her - gives me all the understanding and support that I (don't) deserve. And in the interim, the sun ascends in the east and slides down in the west. Everyday. Until it doesn't anymore.
Putting all these things aside, I'm afraid.
Of failure, specifically.
Dig: There are precious few things that I do well. Fewer even the things that I excell at. For a large chunk of my life, I've either been told or I've imagined that, in my adult life, I would be a writer of books and short stories. Maybe screenplays. Lord only knows what else. Simply.. Applying the English language into sentences, paragraphs and pages was to be my occupation.. a source of income that was to be the unshakable backbone of a happily married (and lived) life. Understand, there was a time when I believed all these things would be a fact.
Enter adulthood. Enter the cold, selfish truth of the world: It was the decietful fabric of a dream. What was it that Billy Crystal said? "A writer writes.. ALWAYS." With the exception of the shards of a few short stories and plays I've casually flirted with, I have precious little work to call my own.. A few seeds of promise, and a lot of doubt.
It's the FEAR, I tell you, the anxiety-racked valley of terror that's persuaded me....that even in one hundred lifetimes, I will never actualize those naive aspirations. Writers write and they do it every day. Steve doesn't write because he's afraid that doesn't know how to do it.
And it's as plain and straightforward as that, folks. It's the reason I've not contributed to this blog in well over a year. It's why I don't finish short stories or write an inspired thought onto paper. I'm not good enough, smart enough.. and dog-gone it, even if I were, nobody's gonna take notice.
I do not believe in new age philosophy or mysticism. There's nothing that's corrupted my soul or deflated my appetite for creating plausible characters and concrete stories to assimilate them in. Maybe I've read to many good books, recognized the genius from the generics, and decided that it's all too much. Employing words in want of a story isn't enough.. The greats had premise. They knew how to weave great, epic stories in such a style that one could only speculate how they were able to pull it off. I've read those books, and I just don't know that it's in me.
Which scares me.
Which leads me to wonder about....stuff.
A couple of years ago, I began this blog as an exercise in applying words into thoughtful, cohesive arguments. I miss that. And I want that. I'd like to make mindful contributions to the digital ether, even if no one notices. In order to vanquish one's fear, one need only stare it in the face. Maybe I'm doing something like that right now.
That's kinda what I'd like to think, anyway. I guess we'll see, won't we? I hope you'll check back from time to time, see how I'm progressing. And, please, a little criticism goes a long way.
Thanks.
And now... into the ether with you.
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