It’s never 12 hours. You have to start counting the time from the moment you open your eyes. When you stare at the ceiling knowing that you have to get up. You take a deep breath because you realize that any minute longer that you stay in bed, you’ll instantly be late, and not by a few minutes.
Today I’m stepping on the gas pedal like an elepant stomping to get away from a little mouse. One hand on the wheel, the other outside fingering the eyes of the people I pass. I growl at them because in that moment it’s their fault I nearly ran into them, not mine. Some would call it road rage, I call it politely nudging people out of my way.
There are two types of characters that take over depending on the type of production I’m working on. There’s the I hate waking up and refuse to get up until I realize that I have zero money and need a job. And then there’s the I’m excited for this one type of me. The type of me that wakes up and birds are singing magical toons, 12 hours seem like 8 and breakfast is always on time. My gear is lighter than feathers and my hair is actually having a good wavy time. Those are the usual two.
Recently I’ve been discovering another side. The “I need to move to the next level” me. The type of me that sees 12 hours as 12… And they would feel like the longest 12 hours in history. The type of me that goes into auto pilot because whats the point? I feel like many filmmakers reach this phase. The pivotal point in where they look at their careers and realized that something is missing.
Seems like I’ll be there for a while. As Im discovering new things about myself and what I want, as I explore other creative sides and other ways of telling a story. I’ll be there as I journey to the next level and when I get there, I’m sure I’ll be seeing birds sing again. Until tomorrow.