05 September 2007

a profundity and inside a torn between silent watching and words marching

I like to go to this workshop for local playwrights. I heard about it from spending a night in the mountains with a bunch of kids who's entire lives are devoted to graduating with something that will help them move to africa and be the certain kind of clever they need to be to solve all of africa's problems. I don't think one of them asked me what I wanted to do with film. They all assumed I would be following them to africa to make documentaries about the clever people saving the place.
I can only say I cannot do that. I cannot be another visual story teller to win awards for moving tragic photos/docs that never move anyone to do anything. I cannot save africa. They probably can. But I cannot. I would look out of my tent flap every morning and throw up over the tragedy. My skin would burn. And I would hate myself for my visual stories. I would want to reach back in time to grab my mothers old disformed green and white scrub brush to scrape out my soul. I couldn't make that beautiful on film. I could not worry about the cinematography or the editing or the manipulation. I would cut off my ear and sent it out in hopes of saving some one else or me from my fate.
But one person did ask me about my interests in film. And she led me to this workshop. And so I go. Once a week. I sit around with theatre people who seem at least five years older than me in age and 15 years older than me in life plans. In all physicallity we are in the same place in life. early twenties, university life or just barely graduated. Funny how age isn't always a real thing.

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