Monthly Archives: August 2011

You’re my big bear

and that means you’d get a big bear hug the next time I see you, but they say you’ve shattered your rib cage, lost a pile of teeth, and broken every bone on the right side of your body, save the arm.

I’ve been there man. You know that. That’s why you know I’ll never judge you for what happened. You told me we could always talk cause you were once on the edge of the same blade, so you should have known the same, but you didn’t pick up when he said maybe there was a better chance you’d listen to me. All I could do was sit there, trying to keep calm, but expecting the next call to be about a body.

I should be angry. Not cause you didn’t call me to say goodbye before you took off, but because you hurt yourself and you’re my brother, and that means you hurt my family.

I can’t stay mad cause you’re conscious now, your vitals are stable, there’s no brain damage, and relief has surpassed anger. They say it’s mainly injuries to the bones and that bones heal, long as it may take.

Will I recognize you the next time I see you? Will I cry? Will you ever understand how scared I was? I can’t call cause the nurse needs to be by your side, and I can’t visit yet cause only immediate family are allowed for now. Otherwise, I’d be in a car, driving down there with a case of Blue ready for you when you’re out.

I don’t want to worry anymore. I want to see with my own eyes that you’re okay. I want you drunk at my wedding with your cap on backwards, screaming your ass off when I walk down the aisle. I want you at every New Year’s party, cause you’re one of the only reasons I go anymore. I want you to teach my kids how put someone in a proper choke-hold cause they should know how to take care of themselves, and you’re smart in all the ways I’m not.

We all need you as much as I do. That’s why you’re still alive, and that’s what I’m going to make you understand one day.

Geneviève + James — Wedding Day

Interested in hiring me? Check out my portfolio.

Earlier this month, I had the pleasure of filming Geneviève and Jamie on their wedding day. It was a beautiful outdoor ceremony in the country with only about 50 people, and a vegan dinner for the reception.

One of the interesting things I got to see was the sock dance, an old French-Canadian tradition where the eldest unmarried sibling has to don a pair of ugly socks (symbolizing their cold feet) and do a silly dance. People throw money at him or her, which is then collected for the newly married couple.

I decided to keep the grading natural cause there are so many vibrant colours in each scene — from tattoos, hair dye, clothes, foliage, and decorations — that I wanted to bring out for a lighthearted, playful mood. Goddammit I love grading; it’s become my favourite part of the process. You can set so many kinds of tones with colour alone.

The colours also led me to decide on using Beirut’s “Postcards from Italy” for the song, as the ukulele and horns emphasize that festive feeling wonderfully.

I also got to work with Liz, a photographer who’s as fantastic1 as she is considerate. So far, she’s been the only one to say to me, “Tell me if I get in your way”, before I could say it to her. Guess who I’m referring if anyone asks me for a wedding photographer recommendation.

Sometimes I study the films of videographers I admire, and I’m inspired by their style but it never feels right when I try to achieve the same for my films. They rely on editing to make their films interesting, and the films end up looking posed or unnatural. I’ve realized that I have to follow my own style — telling a story by capturing the beauty in the simplicity — because that’s what I’ve been trying to do in words and photos my whole life.

  1. She has a preview on her blog. []

small world

The drive to Toronto is getting easier. It’s my only chance to really listen to albums nowadays1, not to mention the comfort of seeing familiar towns on the way, like the names of subway stops you can’t help but memorize as a child on the way home from school. And in a way, so many years later, Toronto still feels like home. Getting there is a journey, but the people always make it worth it.

My patience tends to wear out about a quarter way in, when it becomes hard to maintain a reasonable speed. It’s a test of whether I can drive safely to see how far I’ve grown as a person.

I fail every time.

Toronto view

The view from Alex’s downtown apartment. You can easily tell Yonge Street apart from how brightly it’s lit.

Continue reading “small world”…

  1. Editors in both directions this time, cause anything I listen to nowadays is Antje recommended. []

the path of least resistance

on the path of least resistance, you discover:

  • it is impossible to explain the appeal of dubstep to someone who’s never heard it
  • everything works out in the end
  • moonwalking is easier to do without pants on
  • just hugs are completely different from hugs after kisses
  • no one is ever too old to eat Pocky
  • saying we can still be friends is like your mom telling you your dog died and saying you can still keep it
  • there is never enough time
  • Dolly will do anything for food

cause you’re bored and you can doesn’t mean you should

I always wonder if I’ll ever reach such a complete peace that I’d stop writing completely. One of the reasons I started this blog was to have a place where I could get things down and sort my thoughts out on a page, but I don’t need to do much of either nowadays.

I know so many people who’ve continued writing, even after finding that kind of happiness in their lives. Unfortunately, happiness has robbed them of literary inspiration, and now they have nothing interesting to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if they stopped writing, but they post for the sake of posting instead of having something to say or express or vent, and it reeks of desperation and insecurity.

I used to worry that happiness would make me a boring person too, but now I wouldn’t mind as long as I realized it and gave up this blog. It’s so embarrassing to write out of a belief that it’ll make you interesting. Or even worse, to be oblivious to the fact you’re writing about the most inane things.