Snowball in the Summer

Ha!  I love New Yorkers.  I was walking down the sidewalk today, headed for the grocery store, when a guy leaned out of a big white truck and shouted, “Is that your natural hair color, miss?”  Miss?  Who, moi?  He sounded so polite that I was forced to smile and tell him the truth:

“Why, of course it is!”  ;)

Anyway…

I met with Don and Katha Cato last night – the organizers of the Queens World Film Festival – and holy cow, they’re fantastic!  Funny, original, and upbeat, they share my enthusiasm for the art of independent film as New York sees it – which seems to be quite clearly, thank you very much.

There will be a lot to do over the next 3 months, but I’ve already started on it, leafing through the binders of info Katha sent home with me, looking up their websites and contact lists, and familiarizing myself with the whole shebang.  They’re even going to make me a business card with my name and phone # on it!  I haven’t had a business card since I worked at NAU.  For some reason, business cards with my name on them make me feel all fuzzy inside.

So I’ll get to finish out the week by helping them film a couple of events down in the Lower East Side on Friday and Saturday, then scramble to get the project edited by Wednesday.  Looking forward to getting behind the camera again, and then getting in front of the editing bay.  In the meantime, I have plenty of research and catching up to do so that I can get a good grip on the organization before I start throwing its name around as their representative.  They’re going to want some help with publicity.  So all that stuff I said about the Irish Pub Challenge?  Scratch that.  I’ll find plenty of opportunities to get over my timid nature just by helping to promote the heck out of this fabulous film festival that takes place during the first week of March in 2012, aptly called “Q2,” as it is the 2nd installment of the Queens World Film Festival (an upgraded, new & improved version of its previous incarnation as the “Queens International Film Festival”).

Not only did I have this great meeting with the Catos on Tuesday night in Queens (a fascinating city unto itself, by the way), but I had already previously scheduled a quick chat for noon on Wednesday (today) with a recent student, now producer of independent films here in the City, who was referred to me by my new hero, Chris Newman – you know, the guy I went all gabby about on Facebook when I met him at NAB, the one who won the Oscar for Best Sound Design for The Exorcist, and therefore my inadvertent idol since I was like, 9 years old, or something like that? 

Yeah, that guy.

So I met with her today in Union Square, and she told me about various internship possibilities, including a few websites to plunder.  Oddly enough, she’s from Arizona as well – Tucson, to be specific.  And Katha Cato, by the way, is from Dewey, Arizona.  All of us ending up here, now, in NYC; three Arizona women, converging, as it were, on the subject of independent film.  Coincidence?  I.  Think.  Not.

Okay, perhaps it IS a coinkidink.  But it’s still a little spooky, don’t you think?

So there I was, talking about what kinds of things I like to do - editing, scriptwriting, camera work, and so on - and she had some ideas, but wasn't quite sure offhand whether there might be any real possibilities...

But then I mentioned that I can do coverage, and lo and behold, she found that quite interesting, just as one of my instructors, producer/filmmaker Joe Cardone predicted.  He actually said to us in class one day, “If you can say that you can do coverage, you’ll most likely be placed somewhere, and that’s how you get your foot in the door in this biz.”

I now have a lead on a film producer who at this point shall remain nameless, but has certainly made a name for himself.  That’s all I’m gonna say at this point, because I don’t wanna jinx it.

And then I get another email from her saying that there may be yet another lead on a minor editing internship, and that I might be contacted soon by either a producer or director.

Snowball!  

(…or avalanche?)

Or, as Keanu Reeves would say as any given character, “Whoa.”

Ok.  So.  Priorities.  Of course the Queens Film Festival gets their 20 hrs no matter what.  They’re the reason I’m even here, in NYC.  But I feel like only putting in 20 hours a week, in only one venue, is just not enough to take advantage of the brief stint of time I get to spend right here, in the CENTER of the HUB of Independent Film and Network Television Heaven (yeah, to me, this is Heaven… don’t judge).

So I’m hoping to grow up big and strong and become a Big Fish in the Big Pond, so that if and when I want to move to a smaller pond, like, maybe Portland or Seattle, (or, dare I even fantasize about it?  Monterey, CA), I’m coming in as the Big Fish.  Or, perhaps New York will say it’s got room for me here – and only if I can live comfortably, will I agree to that invitation.  But right now it doesn't look good, as far as the cost of living here goes.  But we'll see.

Because New York and me, we’re like rival siblings, you see.  In a way, we often resent each other, but deep down there’s a strong bond of unconditional love.  We’re completely different from each other, but we have the same roots.  And if I’m going to find my way in this world, it’ll have to be through the boroughs and the subway tunnels and the deeply historical buildings that were constructed, brick by brick, by the hands of my predecessors, who had their own visions of the future.  I’d like to be one of the many who help to carry that vision forward, reaching beyond the boundaries of our mundane existence by helping to bring the collective unconscious into enlightened awareness – using the form of communication that I understand the best – that of independent film and mass media.

And THEN maybe I can qualify to meet Al Pacino.

How I Did It

I look back on my life about 5-6 years ago, when I had reached a really low point, both in my career and in my self-esteem – and I look at where I am now, sitting in a Starbucks on 3^rd & 92^nd in New York City, and I ask myself, well, how did I get here?  Maybe some of you are wondering the same thing.  So here’s my attempt to explain it all.  Maybe some can find inspiration from it – others might feel as though they can’t relate, but if you decide to read this whole thing, then you’re cool, either way.  :)

After having destroyed my rather lucrative career at NAU and reaching what I’d hoped to God at that point was “rock bottom” due to various other complications I’d created for myself, I had to pick myself up, piece by shattered piece, by exploring various options according to my interests (that is, staying true to myself) and delving into whatever seemed to catch my eye that might have promise.  I started out by learning about a Jungian-based form of art therapy called “SoulCollage” (http://www.soulcollage.com).  I’d bought the book and read it cover to cover, and started to put the lessons into practice (although slowly, because I was still very sick and very tired), eventually creating an ample collection of my own SoulCollage ‘cards’.  The author and creator, Seena Frost, had also studied Joseph Campbell (a Hero of mine, pun intended), and incorporated the Power of Myth into her philosophy of how and why this method of therapy works.  I got so into it, and dare I say pretty good at it, that when I learned about a weekend summer retreat in the hills of Santa Barbara to learn how to be a SoulCollage Facilitator (i.e. run your own therapy sessions and teach others how to make the cards), I spent literally the last pennies of my bank account on this trip – which turned out to be a wonderfully soul-searching and self-finding trip that I took all by myself, checking in with Gary every now and then, but ultimately being completely on my own for a week.

I discovered Monterey, California – the prime location for whale-watching trips, and had quite a mystical experience with the sea animals out there.  It was as if they were communicating with me, directly.  Perhaps I was desperate for some type of otherworldly tap on the shoulder, and just created this weird idea in my empty heart, but there were other outside factors, such as the Biologists on the boat (who’d been hosting the tour for 8 years at that point) literally jumping up and down and shouting “Oh my God!  Oh my God!” because the animals themselves – especially the dolphins – were jumping up and down around our boat.  OUR boat.  Not the half-dozen or so other tour boats scattered in various positions around us, but OUR boat.  Later on, I learned from a lady at one of the Chambers of Commerce farther down along the shore (somewhere near Hearst Castle, I think) that the very trip I’d taken had been publicized later that day on the local news.  So I decided to take it personally.  And this really helped – because I felt like I’d completely unmade myself and was just taking up space on this planet at that point, and the outlook on my future seemed black.  Not just dark, or even bleak, but black.  Those silly dolphins, curious greys, and nosy humpbacks made me feel special, somehow.  They were my new Jungian archetypes.  My new Myth.

During that same trip, I also found myself lost in the middle of San Francisco due to a reckless, devil-may-care decision to just drive my little rental car north from Monterey one late afternoon to see where it takes me.  That was an interesting test of my will to survive!  Not much of a city person, I thought I’d find a hotel easily enough, somewhere downtown.  Well, one that I could afford, anyway…  Nope.  The hotel chains are near the airport, miles away from the center of the city, as Gary pointed out after I called him in a panic at around midnight, rolling precariously through the Tenderloin district and seeing things that I’d never seen before, but didn’t exactly want to stop and gawk at, either.  I think it was then that I realized I began to feel some pang of self-preservation, at least enough to not want to end up mugged and knifed in a back alley in San Francisco (although I’m sure my fears were probably a bit exaggerated at that point).

So after I returned from the SoulCollage retreat (and subsequent “finding of myself” adventure along the California coast), I decided to just look for a job.  Any job.  I didn’t feel as though I could find another job doing what I was doing at NAU, both because my skill set and abilities as a Creative Technical Designer had suffered degradation over time, and because, well, it’s Flagstaff.  So I applied at W. L. Gore and bugged them until they finally agreed to interview me, and the next thing I knew, I was hired on as a manufacturing operator (official title: “Medical Device Assembler”) on their 2^nd shift – from 2:15-10:15 pm.  This worked out great, as I was still a bit physically, mentally, and emotionally drained from the previous couple of years at NAU, and still needed to sleep in – a lot – before I could get out of bed and be functional for any length of time.

After a while, I was able to get myself back into a healthy state of being, and when an opportunity to transfer to 1^st shift came along, I grabbed it.  Suddenly I was getting off work by 2:30 pm every day, and found myself getting a little bored with all the extra time I seemed to have leftover before the end of the day.  So I signed up for a summer art class – Drawing I – and surprised myself at how well I was doing in it.  The next thing I knew, I was taking Drawing II, and considering what might be needed to get a 2^nd degree in Graphic Design, or something related to what I’d been doing at NAU, but hadn’t had any official training for.  So by the beginning of the Fall semester, I’d worked out a flexible schedule at Gore that allowed me to take 2 classes, and I began following an academic plan to eventually obtain a B.A. in Graphic Design by the end of 2013 – taking a 'reasonable' 2 classes per semester.

I don’t really know how it happened, but I ended up going back to school full time, as I’d figured out how to select the specific classes that I’d need during certain times they were offered, which also allowed me to not have to change my work schedule too drastically.  One thing led to another, and as I took more and more Graphics classes, I kept eyeing the Electronic Media and Film students with pea-green envy.  I’d always kind of admired the job of the “video guys” when I worked in the Marketing department at Gore a while back, so I thought, well, heck – I’m going back to school to learn how to do something new anyway, why NOT learn how to do that thing I’m always jealous of?  So I switched my major to EMF and started taking those classes full time.  That’s when everything seemed to fall into place.

Working with an amazing crew for the 73-hour Film Festival contest, and subsequently WINNING first place in the contest, is what really etched the program in stone for me.  Well, that and the fact that I simply found myself oozing with excitement and delight every time I went on a film shoot with a group of people – for whatever or whose-ever project… and then I took an editing class.  That was it -- I'd found my niche.

So working full time and going to school full time kept me crazy busy and was extremely tiring, for sure, but the school part was so enjoyable (most of the time) that it just didn’t seem like work.  Except when I came home exhausted from a 16-20 hour day and had to get up and be at work by 5 or 6 am the next morning.  But I got used to that.  I can adapt.  I’m a Pisces, you know.  With a bad moon rising.

A far cry from only recently having to sleep in every day and dredge up the energy just to fall out of bed, put clothes on, and go to work for the day.

So to shorten this up a little (ha!), I worked, saved, worked, worked, and worked some more… and I saved, saved, saved.  And that’s how I can afford to quit my job and do this internship now.  For a little while, anyway.  It’s turning out to be more expensive than what I’d planned on, what with all the extra little things here and there that add up quickly (like shipping a 45 pound computer for 3-day delivery), but you have to invest in something in order to get a return.  Or as I’ve mentioned to several people now – if it’s not scary, then there’s no risk involved.  And without risk, there can be no reward.

My Face Hurts!

So what’s a good story without a few plot complications? 

Upon returning home, Gary had dutifully packed up and shipped my computer for a quick (and expensive) 3-day delivery, scheduled to arrive tomorrow, June 8^th.  Paid the extra shipping charges and everything, which I didn’t even want to ask about – the thing weighed 45 pounds, all packed up.  But what’s tomorrow?  A Jewish holiday.  Yep.  And so is Thursday.

According to the Residence Office, they’ll be closed tomorrow AND Thursday, which also means that they won’t be accepting deliveries.  Seems odd to me, since there is 24 hour security on staff at all times, and, you know, people LIVE HERE and stuff, but even security said they can’t deal with mail and deliveries, so if the office is closed, it’s like the whole building is closed.

For deliveries.

So that means I won’t get my computer until Friday, even though I’m supposed to meet with the Internship folks this evening and receive my first assignment(s).  If only Final Cut Pro would run smoothly on my laptop!  Alas, it is a pain to even open, much less try to dink around with various film clips on a 13” screen.  I’m secretly hoping that the security guards will accept the package anyway, being as how I asked them about it with puppy-dog eyes and mentioned that I need it to do my work.  Security guards aren’t usually easily swayed.  That’s probably, like, why they’re security guards.

But on a lighter note, I decided to join the Fitness Center for a few months, which is located on the lower levels of the 92Y where I live.  I decided that I must do this because back home, the one thing that keeps me from joining a health club there is knowing full well that I’m not going to want to drive across town to go create pain in my body, and then drive all the way back covered in sweat (I’m squeamish about public showers unless I’m forced to do it – you know – like I am here at the 92Y).  But when a full-body workout, a gamut of dance and aerobics classes, and a 4-lane swimming pool are literally a stair-descent away, how could I not join?

So last night I decided to check out the Middle Eastern dance class.  I’ve taken that style of dance before at Coconino Community College, and had a blast.  I’ve also taken many a dance class in my life, and have grown accustomed to a sort of love-hate relationship with them.  When I was younger, the girls in my dance classes were there because they were quite serious.  Serious about themselves, about their dancing, and about putting down other people whom they deemed unable to dance as well as they.  Stuck up bitches, to put it bluntly.  But I tolerated them – learned to ignore them, in fact (which turned out to be a useful skill for me later in life).  But it always put a damper on things.  Made my dance class experience always less-than what it could be.  So here I was in NYC, the absolute Mecca for dancers.  I prepared myself for the worst.  I expected to feel dumpy and old and uncoordinated among sleek, young, beautiful, talented dancers.  I didn’t even have shoes, and was going to wing it barefoot.  In a word, I was a bit freaked.  But I’d paid my money, which included any class I wanted to take, and I figured, with 8 million people in NYC, who cares if I make a fool of myself and never come back?  Will I EVER see these people again?  Probably not.  So down the stairs I plodded, in my old leotard from my previous jazz class, my ballet tights, and Nike workout pants.  It was all I could muster up and pack from my dance clothes at home, and I looked like a goof.  But I just didn’t care.  Well, not that much.

I showed up at the dance studio and there were women of all ages there – wearing all sorts of things.  One girl had a beautiful black, flowy middle eastern outfit on, but most of the others had on shorts, t-shirts, some had leotards and tights like me, but everyone looked different.  This was not your black-leotard-pink-tights, pink-or-black-shoes required uniform type of thing that they always pull on you in ballet or jazz.

And then the instructor came in.  A beautiful, long-haired, shapely woman named Julia Kulakova.  Smiling from ear to ear, she floated up to the stereo, cued up her CDs, and floated back to the middle of the floor.  This is where I expected to be told to leave the class because of my bare feet.  Instead, she told everyone else to take off their shoes, because we “ground” ourselves here.  This is a dance with roots, she says.  I felt a little tickle of excitement in my belly.

The first hour of class was difficult, but fantastic.  She showed us moves that I’d never seen before in my classes back home, in the SCA, or even from the Gypsy camp at the Renn Faires.   I wasn’t exactly coordinated – my body at 40 doesn’t want to do what I tell it to – not like it used to.  But I was able to do the moves just as well as most of the other students, and I was quite delighted to see that everyone there was simply there to have fun.  Smiles all around me – not a scowl or an eyebrow raised in judgment anywhere in sight. 

As the class progressed and I finally “got it,” I, too, started to smile.  Then I quickly found myself overwhelmed with emotion, and my eyes teared up – just a little.  I realized that this was the first time I’d felt truly happy since I'd arrived in New York.  I had been spending so much time sulking around, wondering if I’m doing the right thing, worried that I’m spending our savings on frivolous extended stays in NYC, perhaps wasting time here when perhaps I should just be out looking for a paying job, missing my husband with excruciating force, etc.  But here I was, finally, smiling to myself because, dab nab it, I’m having fun. 

The class ended, and I was about to go upstairs to join the Zumba class that started in 5 minutes, when I overheard Julia say, “Get a drink and get ready for the next class.”  Next class?  Fabulous!  I stayed right where I was and waited, and the next class turned out to be even more fun than the first.  We tried out a fusion of various Middle Eastern steps mixed with Latin and African dance moves!  Again, these were things I’ve never seen before, much less tried to do myself.  I laughed and giggled with the other women, attempted the hard stuff, danced myself silly when I got the Latin steps down, and just let myself fully enjoy the class and everyone in it.  There were women older than me and younger than me, of all shapes and sizes, but what we all had in common was a huge silly grin on our faces that told everyone we were just there to get a nice sweaty workout and have a great time doing it.

I was so invigorated after the two hours of class that I decided to climb 8 flights of stairs back to my room.  Then I peeled off the dance clothes and headed straight for the shower, washed the sweat of my satisfyingly aching body, and plodded back to my room, where I realized that even my face hurt – because I was still smiling.