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Down in the Depths (on the Seveth Floor)
Aug. 25th, 2005 06:06 pmFestival is coming, the goose is getting fat…I saw Sherry Coman today for perhaps the first sustained time since returning to work, since we only share one day a week this semester, and when I suggested we get together over the next Reading Week, she reminded me that she was running all her weeks together so that she’d have the time to attend as many pre-Toronto International Film Festival screenings as possible. Which I’m not going to do or be able to do; I have no accreditation, no prospective markets for anything I might write, etc. And so goes the world. I haven’t been to the Festival, as critic or otherwise, since maybe 2000—the same year that eye fucked me over, at any rate, when I covered it for that insane bunch of French freaks who "forgot" to pay me until two months afterward. Can’t actually say I’ve missed it all that much.
Once upon a time, if you didn’t see things at their Festival screenings—foreign films, for example, or Midnight Madness selections—you’d literally never see them again. But as Stuart Samuels pointed out, when I interviewed him, those days are long gone. The ‘Net alone practically guarantees that you’ll eventually be able to A) hear about and B) purchase anything your listed interests might flag you for. It’s a brave new world, in that particular respect.
Wednesday went okay, barring the fact that a whole bunch of people from my second class of the day chose not to show up…just a tad offputting, since this was arguably the single most important lecture of the course (the one on how to pitch a TV series). I therefore get the feeling that Friday is going to be more than usually crowded.
As we reach the end of our first week of NO MONEY DOWN, meanwhile, I find myself in increasing emotional turmoil. Not sure why—possible chemical reasons, since it is near the end of the month, too. But last night I had this moment of cold rage and self-hatred, of utter fucking blocked-itude: Staring at my books and wondering Who the hell wrote these? It couldn’t have been me. ‘Cause that would mean I could WRITE.
And it’ll pass, like it always does. But dividing my working time up into tiny slivers in between Cal’s meltdowns isn’t exactly helping my concentration; I’m finding it very, very difficult to take advantage of the situation and just pump out the wordage, let it go where it has to without worrying about form over function until the rewrite. I’ve got fifty different projects, and none of them seem to be doing anything but sitting there turning slightly brown. No recognizable voices in my head. No energy to do anything but chores. No no no, ticky ticky toe, ticky ticky ticky ticky…
Anyway, enough of that. Steve claimed this morning he would come back in time to take Cal out and give me a few hours alone with the computer...well, better be home soon, as the old Crowded House song goes. In the meantime, it's back to laundry and shit, notes on the side. I'll try not to slit my fucking wrists, while I'm at it.
Once upon a time, if you didn’t see things at their Festival screenings—foreign films, for example, or Midnight Madness selections—you’d literally never see them again. But as Stuart Samuels pointed out, when I interviewed him, those days are long gone. The ‘Net alone practically guarantees that you’ll eventually be able to A) hear about and B) purchase anything your listed interests might flag you for. It’s a brave new world, in that particular respect.
Wednesday went okay, barring the fact that a whole bunch of people from my second class of the day chose not to show up…just a tad offputting, since this was arguably the single most important lecture of the course (the one on how to pitch a TV series). I therefore get the feeling that Friday is going to be more than usually crowded.
As we reach the end of our first week of NO MONEY DOWN, meanwhile, I find myself in increasing emotional turmoil. Not sure why—possible chemical reasons, since it is near the end of the month, too. But last night I had this moment of cold rage and self-hatred, of utter fucking blocked-itude: Staring at my books and wondering Who the hell wrote these? It couldn’t have been me. ‘Cause that would mean I could WRITE.
And it’ll pass, like it always does. But dividing my working time up into tiny slivers in between Cal’s meltdowns isn’t exactly helping my concentration; I’m finding it very, very difficult to take advantage of the situation and just pump out the wordage, let it go where it has to without worrying about form over function until the rewrite. I’ve got fifty different projects, and none of them seem to be doing anything but sitting there turning slightly brown. No recognizable voices in my head. No energy to do anything but chores. No no no, ticky ticky toe, ticky ticky ticky ticky…
Anyway, enough of that. Steve claimed this morning he would come back in time to take Cal out and give me a few hours alone with the computer...well, better be home soon, as the old Crowded House song goes. In the meantime, it's back to laundry and shit, notes on the side. I'll try not to slit my fucking wrists, while I'm at it.
