hi everyone! :)
i'm so honoured & excited to be a part of the team of resident curators for the site, as a video & text curator. i'm champing at the bit to support & encourage the incredibly talented writers, video-makers & remixers on hitRECord.
here's a little video i put together to introduce myself & tell you a bit about what i'm planning to do.
I think how you put on a duvet cover says a lot about you. I mean, first up you have the bolshy types who turn it inside out & pull it over their head, before grabbing the duvet and turning the cover back the right way round. They’re the not-afraid-to-get-their-hands-dirty folk who don't fear going head first into a situation, quite literally in these circumstances. Thinking outside the box while inside the covers. Creative problem-solvers. And, well, then you have the people who just crawl right on inside to get the job done and I’m pretty sure that has disasterous consequences most of the time - worst case scenario is suffocating for the clumsiest (and I’m sure it’s happened) - though I must say I admire their gumption.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, you have the people who shuffle it in a little at a time, feeding it in a bit then shuffling, feeding, shuffling more, all the while wriggling it around a bit to get it just into the right place. Cautious types. Methodical. They probably write to-do lists and never go overdrawn. And they also probably get all snarky at the unruly no-holds-barred just-shove-it-in-and-button-it-up people. Not really my kind of folk either. The do first and think later types. They’re the ones who phone into work on Monday mornings with hangovers. Plus, people who don’t understand the luxury of a well-made bed baffle me senseless.
As for me, I’m a four corners kind of girl. What that means is I wrangle in just enough duvet to reach the four corners of the cover, then I hold onto them for dear life and shake shake shake until all the rest of the duvet gets straightened out. And I suppose that shows that I like to get the very important stuff sorted and in position, then create a bit of chaos and watch the rest fall into place. It’s fool proof, works every time. Unless you’re a little too vigorous on your shaking, of course, and that’s when corners get dropped and you have to drag it all out & start again. And sometimes once you’ve shaken the duvet, you realise you had the duvet twisted in the middle all along. And you have to pull apart the poppers again and switch around the bottom two corners. Or, worse, you then twist the bottom corners the wrong way again getting a double twist and then you have to re-configure for a second time. And, well, sometimes you just have to sit down on your half-made bed, blow your matted hair out of your hot red-cheeked face and call a friend to come and help. Cause sometimes you've just got to have a friend on standby when you’re doing the important things in life, like making sure your duvet cover goes on in just the right way.
Stop Motion & Icon: IrmaVep
Music by: TheTenant & TheBoxSets
Key Illustrations: xobreexo23
Shakespeare's Sonnet 29, read by David Hyde Pierce.
Made & screened at Sundance Film Festival 2010.
INT. HOME - DAY
An ALARM CLOCK goes off. We see a montage of a man, GRAHAM, getting up & excitedly going about his morning routine as he gets ready & goes to work.
Do you ever feel like a salmon? Wait, hear me out.
So, there are all these fish: trout, cod, haddock,
rainbow trout - - uh, what were the ones in Finding
Nemo? Anyway, there's all these fish just going with
the flow, making their way sensibly down the river.
Then there's you, the stubborn little salmon forcing
your way upstream against the current, like an idiot.
Mondays make me feel like a salmon. Fridays too, but
mostly Mondays. On Mondays I'm a happy go lucky
salmon, and by the weekend I'm not usually feeling
so upbeat anymore. Perhaps it's all that swimming.
INT. OFFICE BUILDING - DAY
GRAHAM arrives at work. Head up, he strides past a bunch of people who look miserable at a slow pace. He greets the receptionist, MARGARET. She has a mountain of coffee cups already forming at the corner of her desk.
Morning, Margaret! Lovely day, isn't it?
Margaret just looks at him sourly as he walks past. He goes up in the lift to his floor and sits down in his cubicle. The office is drab, his colleagues all look grey and beleaguered. He looks across to the adjacent empty...
Audio & Story: MadisenMusic (& Gabrielle)
Images: Kimshuttle & tori
A long time ago, I had this idea for how to animate "Skip & the Turtle" by MadisenMusic, but I didn't have the time to complete it. Well, finally, a year later - here it is. :)
Beneath it all, beneath the smiles and the gentle resting of hands, I was water. I was a prayer. I had accepted the fate that was uncurling and I was imitating an obelisk. Starchy. Between the Saturday and the Sunday, it was the hour of it. No one knew, until it was in retrospect. Sucking on gums. The hand released from under the blanket, with its familiar ring, now still. The carved diamond glinting in the low light of the lamp. There was a finality in the way you had said god bless and in the way you had said goodnight. I had focussed on the door, then left for school, my head pounding like running footsteps on pavement, with the urge to move, to evangelise your makeshift bedroom, to bend open the roof and airlift you out of your disillusion. But I was not a brain surgeon. I was a girl. And, for a little girl, it could only be a waiting game.
I'd waited for the time frame. I'd waited for the countdown. I curled up into a spiral, eyes wide and estimated the hour of it. It was early morning when the stretcher arrived. The men in black suits looked like slugs, top hats in hands, bowed heads. You looked like you were made of chalk. You looked like you had never been living, had never blinked, had never made a joke. They carted you down the hall and out through the back door. It was their business. You were their product now. Reality fell away and I found myself lying face up under my bed, staring at the brown weave like it was a magic eye puzzle. I had left my feet in the hallway. I had swallowed my tongue. The bones in my body had disintegrated. Still, my eyes fought for clues.
At some point, it had grown dark. My father picked me up with hands like great white handkerchiefs, parachutes. He laid me, paper thin, onto my mattress, touching my grey face delicately. There will be big black cars in the morning, he said, get some rest. I kept inhaling and exhaling. With the light peeking through the crack in the curtain as my sun dial, I memorised the ceiling until
I careened forward into a genuflection, tracing a cross with my finger over my chest, my Sunday routine on a Thursday. I was pretty sure my ears were coming away slowly so that only vague noises could get in: the shuffle of footsteps, the connection of wood with wood, the curtain pulled shut on you. I worried I was suffering an echo when an apology got stuck in my eardrum. I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry. A snake of suit trousers and black skirts, a procession of waists past me, with the occasional solemn pat on the head. The line dispersed and clusters formed, everyone clutching paper plates with sausage rolls and cake. With drooping eyelids that wouldn't close, I pondered what I was supposed to be celebrating with them.
Over time, I found words for you, saved them up, nurtured them into sentences. I ensnared you in the jaws of a string of poetry and then, wet-faced, finally, I fell out of consciousness in the same way a person. falls. down. dead.
the full double BREATHER page for the manifesto
there will always be an almost between us, silent like a shadow. a 'what if' every time our fingers brush together accidentally. (and sometimes on purpose.) it makes hour hands heavy in the time before i see you & the time after you leave. i wish i didn't breathe better in your company, life wasn't so colourful and i didn't know we would always just be an almost. we play in the same key, you and me. we always did. you mended me when i mended you when we both needed to be mended. it was messy. we were tired heads lolling, exhausted hands, red eyes, aching bodies from being huddled together on floors nursing hushed whispers. it was messy, but it had to be. we were losing light. we were broken. we seeped between the cracks of crowds and we pulled ourselves inside out in empty spaces because we couldn't understand and we foolishly believed the answers were somewhere inside us. it was always late. we were always following an inkling, a movement just out of sight, a sound just out of ear shot. we circled around, back to back, our pilgrim hands at a safe distance. we were young. we were deathly afraid of mistakes. we almost. one time. we almost did. one flint rock look neither of us could look away from, two pairs of eyes daring each other, two question marks hooked around each other, hearts thumping. we were young. we were afraid. we were broken. we were tired. we didn't know. we didn't know we could have. we could have. we almost we almost we almost. but we didn't.
10 minute writing - 2:17 - 2:27am.