. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


25 February 2001

only what fits in the car.

Clinton's last day at the Revolution was Friday. Of course, I'm unhappy to see him leave. However, in the larger sense, it is better that he go, and I wish him the best. Certainly, I'll be maintaining contact, but there will no longer be the common lunch over which we debate (more precisely, I try to debate and he merely pummels) philosophy or just what it means day-to-day to be a person. Polymath, Renaissance Man, Storyteller, Clinton turned me on my head. If you read through the archive, you'll come across some of the stories. In many ways, he was the Demian to my Sinclair. I don't know what I could've (or have) taught him, perhaps nothing. I'm just glad that Redline's Fall instrumental will often find a way into his soundtracks. Somehow, despite all my foolish pseudo-intellectualizing, I think that wordless song of vast emotion made a point that sticks.

isn't it amazing?

quite possibly the world's shortest guard rail.

Tonight I went with some of the crew (Stacey, Michelle, Joe, Florence, JD, Stan, and Robin) to go see Pollock. It was a very good movie, but my mind, with that cruel gravity it has, kept connecting to each scene. So now, while I listen to the lovely rain outside and periodically pause to watch droplets slide down my window (don't worry, you won't notice the difference), I'll just ramble a little bit about what I saw, how I felt, what I was thinking. The whole time I was there, I was wondering about the nature of such genius; some call it touched by fire. Herman Hesse describes madness as flying and soaring, but out of control, lost to the skies. The most innovative people have often been touched by something which haunts them, which contorts their souls. I found myself sitting there and half-wishing for madness to inhabit me, if only to help me make something beautiful. It's true, I'm not deeply disturbed, just aware of what I miss. That ache isn't the consuming flame of insanity, merely the terrible awareness that I know what I'm missing out on.

Lee Krasner believed in Jackson Pollock, she saw his genius and loved it, and loved him. I'm finding that I have someone who believes in me; not that I'm a genius, not that I have any secrets or inside information to bestow, but just quietly believes in me. It doesn't make sense to me, I never much believed in myself... but she does. That I can change, that I can teach, that I can do things right, that I'm a good person (though I think the jury's out on that last one). I find solace, feel at home, feel accepted. And still it doesn't make sense to me, but I'm learning, and I'm changing. I'm working on doing things right, and hoping I can be a good person. I think I missed a lot of the movie, having spent a couple hours inside my head as much as there in the second row (too damn close!) watching the screen. My friends all followed the movie with plans for dinner, but I felt I needed to come home to find solace, to feel accepted and loved. Well, I'll see what happens.

musings of señor prod.

Busy as hell at The Revolution. It's a good busy, but the Raven's flown the coop... The tally so far: Directors of Production: 1, Senior Producers: 1, Producers: 1 (I thought there were going to be 2 this week... perhaps next week?), Associate Producers: 1.


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-