I like to drink water from mason jars much more than standard drinking glasses. I like to drink from large mason jars filled with cold cold cold ice water. One sits next to my bed at night (I am in a constant state of caffeine/alcohol induced dehydration). I wake up often and propel my body forward in desperation for the sweet moist thick glass. This is my greatest form of passion. These are the things that pass through my bed.
Being the first post on this blog, I should explain myself. I am a filmmaker. Of all the things I know that interest me there is one thing that of all of them interests me the most, and that is film. It’s the sliding glass door: unseen-ungraceful face plant tepid red runs back side heaven. Film is the glass door, and I am the unseeing two-legged that walks with the intention of walking through the things that I know are there. But luckily for me and for others (every living) there is a nice awakening that keeps me from walking too fast. It is education, realization, reality bending, aesthete’s dream.
These are the things that I love, and of all the things to study in this place that is a place that I do not love, I have chosen (or been chosen) Film. More specifically– Communication and Culture. I have a production slanted course load, but I take media theory/history/tear it up and shake em down classes.
My favorite class so far — Native American Film and Video by David Shorter. I have never been so shaken. I had white guilt for the run of the course. I cried in public, and I stopped using words that I had chosen to use before. I paid attention to representation of the people that I had (in youth and bits in adulthood) attempted to emulate for their natural prowess. I used to grind corn, I constructed a teepee in my backyard. I sang gibberish Native American chants while walking to and from school (I still catch myself doing this when I make noise and pay no attention).
I was a spoiled child in that I was allowed completely inside of my imagination. My parents were a child’s dream play companion. They used to make up stories with me while walking down the beach or taking a bath. Much of my younger childhood (7 and down) is comprised of tall tales with only the smallest remnants of truth remaining. I remember we had a white mouse that lived under our patio for awhile. My sister and I liked to feed it and we checked on it every day after school. As she is 4 years older than me and was 10 at the time, we have absolutely divergent recollections of that mouse. As I am I and not her, I will only recount what I remember: This mouse was the size of my adult foot (women’s 9). Mouse’s ears were tea saucer frisbees that hung back to about the middle of the creature’s body. The inside of the ears was pink- pink like donut frosting with sprinkles. It had golden toenails that most assuredly glistened in the mild California Sun. It had deep sea blue eyes with the smallest speck of a black night pupil inside. The snout was purple underneath the white fur and the nose was the same frosting pink as the inside ear. The mouse talked to me. When I came home from school I would coo with my face smashed parallel on the patio planks. My feet pumping eagerly in the air with anticipation of the response. I heard the nails on the gravel first. It was a sing-song scratching as Mouse scurried to strike up the conversation. Mouse stood on hind legs so that the pink nose twitched and tittled just so close to my tiny peach ear. We talked about the grass and the donuts I would feed it later. We talked about trees and the beach and I promised that someday I would take Mouse to these exotic places. I asked Mouse if it were scared of the black widows that my mother had said lived in caves under the patio. Mouse said they lived in harmony, perfect peaceful harmony. — I don’t really remember what happened to this Mouse. We moved to Indiana shortly after discovering it, so maybe I just left My little Mouse hiding under the patio.
My sister called while I was writing this. She told me that Mouse was quite assuredly Rat. huh…
As the name of this blog is “Mostly” I will start with my first Mostly proclamation.
What I know and knew is mostly fabricated.
