Wednesday, January 24, 2007

If I could, I would

live on Pinot Noir, bread pudding and Sour Patch Kids
be cooler than Patti Smith
make Johnny Depp realize he’s neither cool nor French
play the piano like Oscar Peterson
sing like Sarah Vaughn
bring Jeff Buckley back to life
party with Sam Peckinpah and Keith Richards
cook like Chef Pepin
marry Jon Stewart
lock Bill O’Reilly with Tarantino's gimp
make it impossible for Ann Coulter to get a vibrator
feed the vegans
liberate the Anne Geddes babies
hide Billie Joe Armstrong’s eyeliner from him
ban anything Uggs
star in a Godard film
never misspell another word


“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.” --Graham Greene

I put on my running shoes, wire myself to my iPod, and hit the road. During the first forty minutes I work out my problems, then I break the wall. After that, I can go on running until my legs quit on me, usually at the two hour mark. During this time, I create, find story and structural solutions to my screenplays, direct the film in my mind, storyboard, etc.

It has often been said that therapy kills creativity. Paul Schrader said it was the opposite, that it opened new doors. I don’t know. If I could afford therapy, I don’t even know if I would try it. I don’t know if I want to find out what is wrong with me. I think if I did, I’d turn into a very boring person. I like being hopelessly flawed.