18 May 2009

a third world summer

For most of the summer you'll have to pretend that I'm sitting next to you (you know, all sidled-up and friendly like) because mi casa is not like su casa, mi is internet-less.


I've lived with the internet as my bedmate since Al Gore invented it.

The internet walked out the door sometime the morning of May 4. I have missed it, but not in the ways that I expected. I'm not feeling deprived of musica (although my iTunes has been "application not responding" for two weeks), nor do I worry about email or the trendy ol' facebook, I miss having a web of recipes and food blogs at my fingertips. And I can't google what time businesses close or where to buy glycerine (petrolium jelly does not cut it).

In the evening before I fill my brain with unconsciousness and I wrap myself up my cozy blankets (despite the summer heat my camarade de basement bedroom and I are contemplating acquiring a space heater from someone.We seem to be inhabiting the southern hemisphere) I find my fingers scratching at the air aching for some typing, some clicking, some internet reading. Today, since I'm obsessed with documentary production meetings and had to be on campus at 8am, I started my plan for coping by picking up a New York Times to devour tonight. Less clicking and tapping, but still a wide wonder of delights.

Hopefully, though your favorite blog in the [pick your favorite prefix]-iverse will be less posted, my posties will be more toasty. Thoughts more thought through and grammar more grammared.

[sigh] Don't worry, kids, sometimes I even annoy myself with my incessent playing with words.

Love you all,

08 May 2009

my brain feels like cement

There is still a cavernous hole in my documentary. I'm still reviewing tapes and reviewing tapes, churning around the cement in the mixer. I think the next step is to pour it all into the hole to fill it up and make a solid foundation that something can be built off of but I'm nervous about the grade of cement that we bought and whether we should have put gravel down to allow for settling or erosion or water to drain. Something like that. See, I don't know anything about how you make a building. I tinker around in the cavernous hole avoiding the cement mixer.
There's this one section, no actually half of the hole that I'm worried about. We didn't start interviewing the teacher until February 6. Don't ask me how that happened, don't ask me how any of this happened, it's just the way it is. How do I frame months September through January? How do I tell that half of the story that we don't have? Can I breeze over the first 100 days of kindergarten please?

06 May 2009

fair fair fair weather.

The last clouds that remained were dashed away by a breakthrough in my documentary. Providence! Providence! Lovely, lovely, I'm tearing up over mini-DV tapes and hard drives!

La, la, la, la

03 May 2009

i'm in the fridge

I feel as though there's an organ lying beneath my ribcage that has been rubbed raw. Maybe you were trying to marinade me for your barbecue this weekend. A salt rub? Perhaps you wanted to start with a good salt rub? And now none of us are sure what to do for fair weather is not here and how long will I keep in the fridge?
Sitting in the fridge here I feel tender. Like Achilles heel, the underbelly of a dragon or a snake, I've got this tender muscle in my rib cage. It never broke when we did. Since day two I have never been sad that we broke. But now, a long time later, something has peeled back this layer of stalwartness and I've realized this muscle is tender because it is absorbent and it's absorbed all the wrong things. It absorbed all the times you weren't charming, all of those--well, I won't make a list here. Mainly, it's tired because it works very hard when people work their way into its vicinity.
I've told this organ, my muscle, that resides here, under my ribcage, that we could take a vacation. We could take a break. We could take it easy. We will potter about and curl up in bed with a book and go out to breakfast with friends.
Sometimes, though, we go out on the town. Sometimes my dear organ, that muscle inside my chest, has been a little fearful but we've had a bit of fun. I've winked at a few fellas and let a few of them have my phone number and even pay for some of my meals. A few times, this dear little organ was fluttering about in a manner many call "twitter-pated." We quite enjoyed that for a couple of weeks. But at the end of the night, we like to come home and rest and read Chekhov and listen to Grizzly Bear or Possessed by Paul Jones or the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band or Lovin' Spoonful (or etc. etc.) and be alone.
I was looking inside my ribcage this weekend, investigating and wondering like Nancy Drew what to do and I thought that maybe, just maybe, because it's a muscle in there, maybe it wasn't so much to worry over that we were feeling a little sore. I've heard muscles when they work ever so hard (like when people come into their vicinity) get little tears in them, then they stitch themselves back up again and all the stitching embroiders a wild pattern filling up all of the weak empty spaces.
But, right now, if you open up the fridge, and you've found something that is tenderized and about the size of my fist or something like that, it's actually mine and I'd like to keep it for sometime to come. So shut the door, please, don't leave the refrigerator open long, it wastes electricity. We're taking it easy in here. (And I think we'll keep for a long, long time.)

02 May 2009

the looming documentary crisis

I am huddled, ensconsed in the cave, being stared down by three computer monitors. They're staring down into my soul asking me if I really have any idea what I'm making a documentary about.

"I do!!....." but my last exclamation point falters off.

"Then what is it about, Mz. Bjork?"

"Well, uhh--"

"Is it about the kindergarten teacher like you said it was going to be? Because she speaks in run-on sentences that rarely have clearly defined subjects and direct objects. She is lacking in the necessary sound-bite-ableness."

I will show them! They will stop leering at me!
"But then we organize it into something coherent and we visually represent her thoughts that aren't clearly communicated. Plus, her run-on sentences will serve to illustrate her character, a dynamic character that will engage our audience."

"Mm-hmm," they are not convinced, "Good luck creating that portrait of a dynamic character. We think you're going to have to write up a script and bring her into a sound booth for some ADR. Or, ha ha, you'll hire a narrator!!!! That's right! The Voice of God Narrator!! There go your dreams of an 'organic' documentary! Ha ha! You'll have a Flaherty train wreck on your hands then!"

I'm deflating, "Noooooo......I still have hope......We'll address that when that happens...."

"And if you care about illustrating her character why is she always talking about that literacy program?

"Well....ok, it is really about the literacy program. You've got me there."
Oh the glee that shines in their technological gadgetry, "You're making a promotional piece?!!!" The peels of laughter are now reverberating around this cave.

"No! No! No! No!!! NOOOOOOoooooooooo!!! Never! It won't be like that, I swear! It will all turn out and then you'll see and it will not be promotional it will--the truth will prevail!"

"Certainly. And when it does you'll have spent a pretty bundle of money that belongs to people who have a great influence on your education and carreer on that Voice of God and that nifty animation your mentor is pushing for."

"I could pull this power chord right now! Then we'll see who's laughing!"

"You pull the power chord and you lose nine months of work, little girl."

I sigh. I sigh and watch a few more hours of kindergarten classroom footage.