So I’m going to try to shoot again soon. Writing is not my problem. It’s the making the movie part that has me a bit gunshy. I think I have developed a higher degree of obsessive compulsive disorder in some areas and have therapeutically resolved it in others. I am STILL remodeling my condo. It’s like I feel I can’t do the next thing until the first few things I set out to do are done. Unfortunately, I got antsy and tried to paint my living room myself. This didn’t turn out so well as my kitten Lorenzo Lamas Jones decided to ‘help’, by running through the orange paint and then running all over my brand new leather couch, and all over the tile. Since I don’t make that much money and the couch was barely over 72 hours old, I should have been angry, but little Lorenzo has had the magical ability to melt hearts and prevent any kind of anger or frustration. His little tiny orange paws took hours to clean and his big brother Vladimir Jack Bauer attempted to smack him upside the head, and got orange paint all over his own nose and forehead.
I think I was supposed to be really pissed off, but I laughed so hard that I nearly choked on the lack of air. My boys are my family. Taking care of my cats keeps me sane.
So I’m writing and re-writing a new Cell Phone Monologue that I am hoping to shoot very soon. The story came from Elizabeth McPherson, as it was a really good idea, but she didn’t want to write it. It deals with suicide, and as fate would have it, I’m in the perfect state of mind to write this one. I’m not exactly measuring rope for a noose, but to say my depression has gotten worse is kind of an understatement. It’s artistic impotence that sends me spiraling down into an abyss of malaise.
And yet, I won’t quit. I’m not sure why, but I’m not ready to give up. I’m 40 years old and starting most of my life over again. Redefining my artistic expressions is a part of that. I have to find something to say, and at this point it has to mean something to me and very little does.
Small relapses of depression come in waves. This week it was watching DEXTER and BOARDWALK EMPIRE alone. This was something I used to do with my ex. It was one of the things we shared. As much as I love these shows still, something is missing. The pleasure has diminished some in not having a shared experience. To discuss this, to predict (correctly or incorrectly) the course of a season, hooting and hollering at the screen and the characters that can’t hear you; I do miss that.