++I GOT MY MOJO BACK++
Have just returned from the long awaited and absolutely necessary Visa run to Poipet, border of Thailand where I finally secured my Cambodian business Visa. What a hassle, but at least I got it done and now can extend indefinitely. There's a bit of a story that goes with the Visa, but first I have to write about my newfound Mojo, because it's more important to document this and I have to fucking write it first:
My Mojo is back. I may have only $400 to my name right now, but I don't care I am going to fucking regenenate myself and build an edit station and I am going to start cutting Susan Hero myself, ASAP.
I have my fucking mojo back and I am going to tear water buffalo from their bony skeletons with my bare feet...I will eat a cake of dust and bleed my stumps dry on all the landmines in the hills of Pailin; I will shower my living sperm over the humps of all the temples in Angkor before the yawning, gasping flocks of monks; I will bewitch the last wild elephant of Mondulkiri and use him to trample my enemies, and then I'll carve flutes from their bare bleached bones; I will inherit a tribe of magic snakes who will hiss my song towards the furthest four corners of all continents; I will flail myself with the gourds belonging to the ghosts of all the departed ancestors of all the Prey Arak--all the Spirit Forests-
--and all my departed ancestors: my dear old Dad, dead when I was only 8 cut down in his prime by cancer; my great Dupka spanking Polish grandmother; Uncle Bill from Florida, who lived in a trailer with pitbulls and went mournfully blind from diabetes.
Yes, I will burn my own fatty fuel before that goddamn movie eludes me!
Susan Hero will go on. Hilltribe documentaries are on hold, grim and bitter expats and fat NGO ladies will eat their cakes in the strange bakery, but I will wrestle the movie forward, I will try, and I will succeed.
After the final cut, when the picture is locked, I'll take the heads of all the folks who did not believe, all the Elvis Mitchells, the cultured critics, the ones who pretend to know with sad amusement the awful travails of those who slog it out daily, without a map (although I still have all four limbs, and currently, my health). And I'll sun their heads on slanted rocks, until they wither and lighten, so that I may string them all like beads around my waist, to carry and fondle them...as reminders of a different time.
I'll build myself a PC from parts and find a pirated copy of Sony Vegas or Avid DVXpress!
I will drink molten engine grease from the legions of Phnom Penh motomen's skinny motorcycles; I will, in mad celebration, tear the skin off my worn, rank red, pulpy cock, sore from banging every single available taxi girl to canonize the thumping rythm of postproduction!
I will carve a living genital from the magnetic signal of the tapes. It will uncurl as a fat, giant, magic Anaconda of the mind. It will curl itself on the basal plate of humanity and squeeze us til the viewer evolves from ape to man. My own movie will dribble fat, rich milk into my gulping mouth.
Susan Hero will emerge from the fog of doom like the ghost of gone admirals, like pretty angels, gentle as the smell of newly cut grass!
I've let it go far too long; I recently and amicably emailed G to discuss things, and it's apparent that there's no way I can finish the picture given the long distance methods we're using now. I have to be by the picture, I have to cut it, and I can make the fucker dance.
++I have my Mojo back++
We'll see how this pans out in due time. Meanwhile, I have to be practical, and so I will resume a monklike lifestyle, continue to Ebay Buddha heads, try to hustle as much cash as I can any way I can.
Every dollar must be fought for; every moment is prescious, matters. Every frame, every passing feeling, every waking idea is part of the Magic Mountain.
My Mojo is back. I may have only $400 to my name right now, but I don't care I am going to fucking regenenate myself and build an edit station and I am going to start cutting Susan Hero myself, ASAP.
I have my fucking mojo back and I am going to tear water buffalo from their bony skeletons with my bare feet...I will eat a cake of dust and bleed my stumps dry on all the landmines in the hills of Pailin; I will shower my living sperm over the humps of all the temples in Angkor before the yawning, gasping flocks of monks; I will bewitch the last wild elephant of Mondulkiri and use him to trample my enemies, and then I'll carve flutes from their bare bleached bones; I will inherit a tribe of magic snakes who will hiss my song towards the furthest four corners of all continents; I will flail myself with the gourds belonging to the ghosts of all the departed ancestors of all the Prey Arak--all the Spirit Forests-
--and all my departed ancestors: my dear old Dad, dead when I was only 8 cut down in his prime by cancer; my great Dupka spanking Polish grandmother; Uncle Bill from Florida, who lived in a trailer with pitbulls and went mournfully blind from diabetes.
Yes, I will burn my own fatty fuel before that goddamn movie eludes me!
Susan Hero will go on. Hilltribe documentaries are on hold, grim and bitter expats and fat NGO ladies will eat their cakes in the strange bakery, but I will wrestle the movie forward, I will try, and I will succeed.
After the final cut, when the picture is locked, I'll take the heads of all the folks who did not believe, all the Elvis Mitchells, the cultured critics, the ones who pretend to know with sad amusement the awful travails of those who slog it out daily, without a map (although I still have all four limbs, and currently, my health). And I'll sun their heads on slanted rocks, until they wither and lighten, so that I may string them all like beads around my waist, to carry and fondle them...as reminders of a different time.
I'll build myself a PC from parts and find a pirated copy of Sony Vegas or Avid DVXpress!
I will drink molten engine grease from the legions of Phnom Penh motomen's skinny motorcycles; I will, in mad celebration, tear the skin off my worn, rank red, pulpy cock, sore from banging every single available taxi girl to canonize the thumping rythm of postproduction!
I will carve a living genital from the magnetic signal of the tapes. It will uncurl as a fat, giant, magic Anaconda of the mind. It will curl itself on the basal plate of humanity and squeeze us til the viewer evolves from ape to man. My own movie will dribble fat, rich milk into my gulping mouth.
Susan Hero will emerge from the fog of doom like the ghost of gone admirals, like pretty angels, gentle as the smell of newly cut grass!
I've let it go far too long; I recently and amicably emailed G to discuss things, and it's apparent that there's no way I can finish the picture given the long distance methods we're using now. I have to be by the picture, I have to cut it, and I can make the fucker dance.
++I have my Mojo back++
We'll see how this pans out in due time. Meanwhile, I have to be practical, and so I will resume a monklike lifestyle, continue to Ebay Buddha heads, try to hustle as much cash as I can any way I can.
Every dollar must be fought for; every moment is prescious, matters. Every frame, every passing feeling, every waking idea is part of the Magic Mountain.
