Friday, December 19, 2008

My Parallel Universe

The following is a very important public announcement:

I can't explain, only describe...

Last night in my sleep I started making my film. Spielberg was there, supporting me - reminding me of Jewish blessings - but mostly remaining wisely silent, watching me gain my sea legs, grasping what needed to be done. He let me vent my insecurities but he told me of a neat little trick to use. "You're not really making a film. It's just pretend." That took all the pressure off me and my mind opened up and I was like, "Oh, yeah, now I know what I wanted to do." I had a vision in my head of what I wanted the scene to be and that's what I would construct.

But of course, I don't have dreams, I have nightmares.

My "parents" showed up and they had fatally suffocating ideas on how the film should be. They reminded me I was in a Star Wars film as a child so I should do well as a filmmaker. I was too ashamed to tell them one had nothing to do with the other. Also, if I was in a film, I wanted to know why I wasn't paid for my part and how I sure could use that money now. Aren't all actors rich? But the truth is I was never in a movie.

But the theme of my dream was all things are out of reach.

"I'm not ready. I'm not ready." I kept telling everyone that over and over. No one would respond. My film, my beautiful film, the film to change all films to follow - was compelling me and driving me no matter what. This glorious act of love dragged me through the streets naked, dirty and crying, exposed as a perfidious loser for all to see. No one could help.

I ended up wandering around other films being shot and I watched in pained jealousy. I saw a funny South Park scene and after the enjoyment faded away, so did I. I resorted back to the despair of hanging out with those to whom I am opaque. They know not the dreams I'd destroyed so maybe I would find acceptance there. Problem was, though: they know not my dreams.

Some homeless people will ramble incessantly of their previous lives (sometimes their previous lies). What they're really talking about is the echo of shattered dreams hounding them in their head, the disconnect between where they are and where they need to be. The soul takes no prisoners. The definition of Hell is watching others live out your dreams of love and the flames burn most when you realize your unique dream can only be brought forth by you.

Wafting spring sweet smells,
Inspire desires in my cell;
Life's promises lost.

If O.J. were to confess his crimes, he'd be a free man. But no one believes my crimes because they can't see the dead bodies. Marooned on the moon, exiled by the shame of my choices, I see no sound stages here. No cameras, no fervor of life, not a whisper of hope. And no audience wants to come here anyway. You can change what is to be but you can't change what's meant to be. I'm a disaster - and you can't make a film without it being about yourself. But we all must carry on the charade, mustn't we?

Alright, Mr. Spielberg, I'm ready for my close-up.

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