Somewhere, I have notes on family and names, the infamy of Cuban fare, being alone together, breaking the seal, passing Damian on the way to Havana, salty hair from salty air, rum and brown, threaded fingers, not enough euchre, every life-guard trying to sell me lobster meals, patterns on palms, plus 20 minutes Cuba time, finding out how deep my scars run, blushing through my sunburn, sand everywhere and in everything.
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Heather left a package outside my door after trying to make plans and getting what must have been a distant answer. Organic herbal tea, 80% dark chocolate truffles, and not only sushi from my favourite restaurant, but my favourite kinds too. She knows me extraordinarily well for a person I barely get a chance to see, and she cares so much even though she has no idea what I’m going through. It’s helped me realize that some people are better at being what you need, that you can’t expect every person to fill all the roles in your life. I’m also trying to figure out what those needs are right now, and how to express those needs to others (or how hard it is for me to express them).
It always takes me a while to recover from these kinds of weeks, and this one was particularly difficult. When the cops showed up, I pulled the whole Drexl Spivey thing and ate my Chinese, carried on like I ain’t got a care in the world. I know what they need to hear, especially the second time around, and what’s more, I know that nothing they say will make a difference.
Everything has left me feeling numb and overstimulated. Almost all the hours are spent in Far Cry 3 with a bolt-action suppressed Z93, wasting time and lives in appropriate portions. Losing myself in that world and not getting anything productive done at all was an easy decision. I know I deserve to be okay for a little while, and we all deal with our damage in different ways.
The last time I saw my therapist, I said I hope I’d never see him again. That would mean everything was okay.
It’s been about two months now. A lot of the healing I’ve been doing lately has been about not blaming myself for the past. Tragedy and pain are easier to accept when there’s a reason. Often, it was easiest to deal with both if I was that reason, even though it wouldn’t leave me feeling very good about myself.
But sometimes there are no answers, nothing to point the finger at when things fall apart. Looking back on old plans and important people, given the knowledge I had at each stage in my life, I realize I would have done everything exactly the same, every single time. Understanding that has given me a sense of self-respect again, and helped me come to terms a lot of things I found difficult to get over.
Allie and Eric had a picturesque wedding at South Pond, a quant little farm in Bethany Hills. Their day was filled with delightful details, like carriage rides to the ceremony, dove releases, and paper lanterns. It all made for a wedding film that never loses it’s momentum. Even though I’ve been working with a composer to score my most recent films, I still take special requests from couples who want me to use songs that have personal meaning to them, and in this case it was Such Great Heights by The Postal Service.
I cut my teeth on filmography and discovered my personal style when spending time on Eric and Mark’s farm in Bancroft. Back then, I had a cheap camcorder but needed a subject, they had the snowboarding skills but needed a documentarian. That’s how I gained crucial experience with editing, composing, and grading, though it would be years before I got a real camera and finally understood aperture, shutter speed, and ISO as well. Filming Eric getting married was like coming around full-circle, where I could apply all the things I’ve learned through the years since those weekends spent in the country with his family and friends.