And Then There's Clong.

FOR THE LIFE of me, I can't believe this word hasn't come up in Sticksville before. But here it goes.


CLONG.


Clong, as it was taught to me by my mentors at the CFC  at a time that seems so long ago now, is defined as, "a sudden rush of shit to the heart."


It's the moment where you realize that you have bitten off more than you can chew, where you know that you're not just working on a theoretical project; that the task before you is daunting and what's more, that it's not just about making a movie.


There are projects where the movie is the movie.  And there are projects where, sadly, the movie doesn't even matter. And then there's the third kind. The kind where you very quickly sniff the sense of responsibility. The idea that, um, there are people who really, really, really care about how this one goes. And it's not just you and your Mom and the Producer and the Producer's mom and the Network Executive and the squishy, acid filled birthing pod that they...


...alright, that's cheap and uncalled for.  Just trying to cut the tension.  Oh I know you're not feeling tension. I mean me.  You know what that tension sounds like? 


It's really, really loud, and it sounds kind of like this ... say it with me, now...


CLONG! 


Today, I got to pore over documents about the Second Anglo-Boer War, (or if you're so inclined, the Vryheidsoorloeë,) while visiting the Military Museums in Calgary, and if you get a chance to take in these fine museums, you really should...they're something else.  I  talked military life and ethics -- a fascinating talk -- with an incredibly helpful and inspiring guy named Ted MacLeod. 


Anyway -- you flip through bits and pieces, koan like clues to the life you wish to portray, a life lived on such a large canvas you find yourself making jokes about it.  "Like Forrest Gump," you say.  "But for keeps."  You wonder who would not feel humbled by the size of that canvas and you come up with names like Teddy Roosevelt or Churchill or Mark Twain or Golda Meir and then you realize it's way worse than telling a story about those people because those people all had at least some level of recognition in the public mind and then your head starts racing again and it's a total clongfest.


So you have one small whiskey and you go to sleep, because tomorrow, way too early, you have to drive to Edmonton.  


And you realize that these little mood swings are going to be your constant companion for the next couple months.


clof.


(That's what it sounds like through the Advil haze.  Good night.)

Bubbling Up

A TIRING DAY -- first big foray into research for new project.   Calgary is cold but I'm warmed by the wealth of info ahead and the possibilities this new story presents.  Ideally, you always want to be able to change and grow a little outside your comfort zone on every project.


Well I'm way outside the zone.  


Today I was ushered into a back room and shown pieces -- little objects of history.  And beyond medals and trinkets there were things with heft -- uniforms.  Why is that uniforms retain a shape  that say, a sweater never does?  There it sits in a drawer locked away and you could reach out and feel the wale and the buttons between your fingers.  If you didn't have to wear white gloves, I mean.


Anyway...it's daunting and it's going to be a challenge and my Christmas is pretty shot right through with obsessing and reading and arranging and carding and discarding and dreaming.  And Gosh, I wouldn't have it any other way.


And I get to indulge my inner historian a bit too. Massive win all 'round.