theses days

job searching:
lists:

*entered project for MTA subway station
Dondi's yard...

*entered Hearts in "Cinema Vérité"-
Iran International Film Festival 15-19 October

*compiled the never ending CV

*getting really good at driving people away,
maybe because i'm not painting.

*making press kits and wedding invitations.

*trying to get rehydrated

*wishing c. wasnt at a funeral
that i was supposed to go with her to.

*i really dont like fighting,
i think in the intro to mein kampf i wrote
something to the effect of "even the word
WAR makes me want people dead, what kind
of complex is that one?"

it scratches out the martyr, and jesus complexes, but leads me to think....

dictator/director. (thanks francis)

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).