The Cinematographer’s Party: Day Two Hundred Twenty-Nine

381407_7283Have I told you I’m obsessed – minorly, but still obsessed – with this Paul Simon song?  Well, I am.   Any spare moment I’m either playing or singing this song to myself.  It’s a thing that I keep in the back of my head.

I’m wishing now that I had a little reception to sit out with a pad of paper and a pen and get to pre-write another post.  That would sure make things easier after a long 13-hour day out in the blazing hot sun to just already know what needs to b e said, what was focal and what was forgotten.   And last night I needed to have an escape and the only one on offer was into myself and later, when I had to be the responsible one and wait for catering staff to finish cleaning, it was so valuable to keep myself from worrying about how I was as dead and not growing as the plastic (but very convincing) plants I sat next to.  My phone was dead and I’d drunk an ill-timed Starbucks and my heart and brain were whirling cogs, moving this body along the path to a coffin where I’d go without noise or notice into the dirt.  A lazy river of the soul.  I thought a lot of crazy stuff last night, really, you should have been there.  In the church and in my head.

Oh, you.  Where are you today?  I’m not just pressing you for olive oil, and silky, unctuous words, though you could probably bottle yours and make some money off your natural gifts. You would be excellent to rub my poor, aching, asphalt-pounded  (and now with an attended-to blister), if only for a price. I’d be so happy to pay it, to do whatever twists and dances, cobble together whatever pennies and jewels and rubies, thieve from whatever kings, to get your hands on me tonight when I am laying in this bed alone.    Throbbing in all the wrong places.

I am tired, but it is to be expected.  This is the eighth time, I think, for doing this festival and I think it was hard to miss my old boss and his ability to get things done.  We got things done, and there was less discussion, and it’s fine, but I felt a detachment about the process that I have to note.  Even after being thanked so effusively, I think more about the ache in my toe and the exhaustion in me than the fact that we’ve pulled it off and nobody’s as upset as we might think.

I want to be able to stop over and see you, and explain what we’re doing, what I’m doing, and for it to matter to you.  For it to be present and viable and alive in me.

I want to go to sleep now right now.

But, no, dear, I can’t just up and close my eyes and fall asleep despite the fact it feels so near, so imposing that I have to use tootpicks to keep my droopy eyelids propped open. Not just yet.

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