balance.

something good happens, then something bad happens,
and im too angry to get into it right now, i just have to paint,
tomorrow i will paint, but this fucking thing has become a self fulfilling prophecy;
i should be used to that right now in my life, 13 years of calling myself a suffering bastard from the old testament on the streets, and now when things are getting all too shiny, i find my marlon brando, and in a strange sense in the same person, coppola's ex-wife. i did ask for this in assuming the role of francis ford coppola as the director of a project like this, and for three weeks i thought i was willard. reality just hit.

the butoh portion of my piece and a large financial portion crumbled today, im not going to blame, its just fucking people's relationships to commitments and promises and the value i hold them at; without the budget, without hollywood connections, without... i am faced with the same fucking shit he was, and now not only am i director, but i am actor(s)(i thought i could just pick one), filmmaker, editor, fucking everything.

my title for the short was that perfect self fulfilling, dooming, prophecy... or maybe the whole piece is based in that, im a fucking painter living beyond his britches right now, and i dont know if i like it.

i think i just did a really good job about not really venting and blaming, i just dont know what to do right now. im so angry, i could spit, im so disappointed, i could cry, im so frustrated, i could give up. could can be replaced with should in every single one of those prior sentences.
theres no alcohol or drugs of power here like i desperately need to fall asleep, after 3 weeks of 3-4 hours a nite.

i wont say im done but im on the fucking edge. and im sick of fucking lies. (which i guess is where this whole piece started).