Robert and I

I had a meeting today, and the goosebumps elicited by said meeting have yet to leave my skin. I answered an ad on craigslist, posted by a documentary filmmaker looking for an intern to help him on an upcoming project.

After months of combing through craigslist for an opportunity such as this, only to be met by wet-footed students and salacious older men, I was relieved to have finally been in the presence of someone who clearly knew what he was doing.

His name is Robert and by god he is a lion of a man. We sat for hours on the patio of the Drake Hotel--a stream of coffee slowly leading to an ocean of beer. Robert is a striking man, his face looking as though it was drawn by Jack Kirby himself. His hair is a dusty gold and his teeth a blinding ivory white. He has to be at least sixty years old but the pretty, hipper-than-thou twenty-somethings that peppered the sun-stroked patio couldn't look away.

For hours in the shade, then sun, and in shade again we discussed (passionately, at times) a cornucopia of subjects. He has made an enemy of Dubya and was deeply affected by the recent passing of Sydney Pollack, almost as if he had lost a close friend. Robert spoke intelligently and carefully about the arts, and in particular the theater. He nostalgically reminisced about the golden years of Miller and Williams, reveries freely leaving his lips and planting themselves firmly onto my conscience. I was in the company of a man well-read, something that's always made me a little nervous.

The hours sailed by as my missed calls and unanswered texts piled up. Robert's Blackberry lay inconspicuously on the table and was never a distraction. We spoke briefly about his upcoming project, a historical surveillance of Jackie Robinson's road to the majors. He could have told me he was shooting a documentary on the health hazards of decapitation and was in need of a guinea pig, and I still would have gladly volunteered. Thankfully, I would only be traveling with him to Cooperstown and to Cairo, Georgia as an assistant researcher and occasional boom operator. However, something tells me I will still manage to lose my head.

I look forward to working with this man. He is an authoritative figure but remains approachable. He looks like a movie star as much as he does a retired mountaineer. There is a weight to Robert that is unmistakable and a charm that is presidential.

At one point our waitress--with a Monroe piercing and a tattoo of a raging bull covering the left side of her neck--nervously asked Robert for his autograph. "Sure sweetheart, no problem." he replied graciously as he autographed a crumpled cocktail napkin. "Does that happen often?" I asked, surprised that an independent documentary filmmaker with a social bent had, um, groupies. "You'd be surprised." he said, licking the stout from his upper lip.

Needless to say I am very excited about the heaps and mounds and piles of potential that have been suddenly thrown my way. I am excited to begin work on this film with Robert, but I am utterly grateful that I get to spend more time with the man. He is sensitive to the needs of young artists and has a soft spot for independent filmmaking. He didn't go into much detail, but at one point Robert mentioned a film festival that he founded many years ago in Park City, Utah. Apparently it has become a haven for those on the outskirts of Hollywood--men and women with cameras but no real outlets for their work. Sundance I believe he called it. Interesting name.

From our conversations today, I know in my heart that this "Sundance" of his will succeed. Robert is a man of true ambition and conviction and for him, failure does not seem to be an option. I'm just hoping some of his stuff will eventually rub off on me.

Here is a picture of my new friend Robert and I walking along Queen Street West.

Some Literature.

I somehow must prove to myself that I am creative. I have been creative in the past, and hopefully I will one day be creative again. The problem is I'm not exactly sure how to go about doing so. A mere poem won't cut it. Neither will a half-baked short story. I can't draw so a drawing of some sort is out the window. I can't play an instrument or carry a tune so a song is completely out of the question. Interpretive dance is an interesting idea but I am as limber as I am graceful.

Boy these doors sure do shut quickly don't they.

Clothing design is intriguing as it usually leads to a glamorous lifestyle where plastic women and exclusive parties are run-of-the-mill. But alas, my ability to express myself through fashion is average at best. Photography is an obvious choice, but it has become too common and accessible. Take a digital camera to Rio De Janeiro and you have yourself a coffee table book.

Filmmaking, which is by far the most visible of all current art forms is way too daunting. If I were to make a movie I would have to write, photograph, dance, sing and sew. I'll leave that one to whiskey-swilling cowboys and confused kids from the Bronx.

I guess I'm left with only a handful of options, most of which will get me little if no publicity. Papier mache could be fun but from what i understand it gets quite messy and I live with my parents; best to avoid unnecessary conflict. I could maybe delee into the world of installation art, perhaps by tacking a lock of my mother's hair onto a wall painted in cow's blood, but I risk crossing that thin line of pretentiousness that art school so vehemently told me to avoid.

Crocheting is for grannies and finger painting is for babies. Graffiti is for hustlers, and hairdressing is for gays. Jewelry-making is for Peruvians and silkscreening is for hipsters.
I am a lacklustre suburbanite with mediocre social skills, a penchant for drinking too much, and pining after things I can't have.

I got it!

I'll start a blog.