E. informed me that I must whittle down my Desert Island Disk list to 10 songs. That seems near impossible and unnecessary–10 songs. No. Stuck on a desert island, with only 10 songs, for who knows how long? I would rather someone else picked them because, after a few weeks, months, years (my god, I am emaciated), I would hate those 10 songs anyway. Ruin them forever, perhaps, even if forever was spent on a tiny spit of land in the vast Indian Ocean. I may as well hate some shitty Blues Traveler song right off the bat rather than risk growing to loathe Hank, Sr.
Strange how much a creative endeavor needs one’s almost fanatical devotion and commitment to be successful. With the few films I have done (2, with 15 more percolating juicily in my head), I have had to let them consume me, believing that, even as silly as they were, it was essential they be completed as close as possible to my vision (an embarrassing word to employ here, perhaps, but in this case, it is quite apt). With my current project (downgraded from film to project), I have suddenly and irrevocably lost that necessary fanaticism and devotion. Odd how quickly it evaporates.
Perhaps it was naive of me to believe a worthy film could be completed in such a short time with so many clueless folks (me included). But I did, and still do, in a way, feel it can be done, if I was in charge, and had some more time. And money. So, after class last night, I quickly realized that, with only one formal class left and no actors, no location, no fucking film stock, and a shoot scheduled a mere 2 weeks from now, this thing was just going to tank badly, boy, and with my fingerprints all over it. I was going to have to make it an Alan Smithee film. With that realization went my zeal, my investment, my heart, and now, now it is simply a class. Whatever happens, happens. I have fully and completely let go. Which is ultimately good, right?
But, it is not good to get in the habit of doing this, though. Letting go of an idea, or a creative obsession (unless it is of the baboon’s ass variety). The follow-through, really, is what separates you from all those other folks who only dream of doing what you are doing. It would be so easy to join those folks, and avoid the crippling doubt, financial hardship, and sleep-losing obsession of any creative endeavor. Including tantric fisting. One day, perhaps, I will join them, when I really, really, really, really just have to have that brand-new 30-ft. Bayliner and have to get a high-stakes sales job just to make the down payment.
Led Zeppelin:Immigrant Song
Do I need to explain?