Here’s something else


I wrote this while listening to this.

So what is this? My few last weeks in Estonia. It must be frightening, they say, to go to a new place all random like! Vancouver! Who goes to Vancouver from Tallinn!
I do.

I do.

My short is sent to various film festivals, we’ll see what happens. There’s no real point of hoping for anything. It’s such a crazy movie, and it’s in Estonian so… But I did start work on a next one. A feature, it would be in English too. It will still be odd. I mean, on the opening page I have a giant bartender. To make it clear, a bartender who’s a giant. That’s weird enough, no?

Well whatever, we’ll see. It might suck, who knows. But then it will suck in Vancouver! Hollywood North!

Wanna see something? Do you? Here’s something from the feature. Mind you, it’s early:

Giant
I know who I am, I know where I come from. I traveled around a lot, a bunch of different places. Very human, I think. Isn’t that the beating heart of humanity? Not these huge paragraphs of thought, but silent, honest moments of curiosity on the road. And these moments mean so much more to you.

Him
Weren’t you worried of anything? Bad stuff?

Giant
Nah. I lack the self-preservation. I had my own party though, There are no presidents, no vice-presidents or anything so it makes it tough to get in. It’s hard to pin down who’s in it, who’s not.

Him
Is that your philosophy?

Giant
No, no, no.

I’m gonna shoot it weird too. It’s gonna start off boring as shit and slowly turn into this surreal mess of a movie. But I hate when movies are weird for the sake of being weird, so I need a story in the middle of it all.

Anyway.

I’m still writing the book. But after I finish the 60k I’m gonna step away for a few months. It’s pretty draining, you become an empty husk after a while. Also, I’m gonna be done with it just before I fly to Canada, so the new environment will let me see the book in a new perspective. Plus! I wanna write poems again. I wrote a bunch before the book, and I feel like I’m loaded up on them again. There’s something to thinking you’re a poet. You can sulk in the dark corners of the world and feel like you belong there. It’s nice.

I read Sartre’s “Nausea” and it was fantastic. Chock-full of existential dread and it flowed down the same river of thought that I had occasionally enjoyed:

“The voice sings: Some of these days, you’ll miss me honey.

Somebody must have scratched the record at that spot because it makes a peculiar noise. And there is something that wrings the heart: it is that the melody is absolutely untouched by this little stuttering of the needle in the record. It is so far away – so far behind. I understand that too: the record is getting scratched and worn, the singer may be dead; I am myself going to leave, I am going to catch my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the next, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peels away and slips into death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.”

I’ll post one more before I go and the next one will be from motherfucking Vancouver. 7576 km from Tallinn. Jesus.

I’m gonna miss my piano. 

I still have to write a poem to a cute doctor I met here. Girls are poems, didn’t you know?

Here’s a weird picture of me cuz I’m vain as fuck.W7Ufdzl
S
ee ya

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