Hi everyone!
It’s been a little quiet on the blog front as I work my way through my compulsory film crewing and busily write and get inspired. 
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“My first memory has always been of me and my mom on a cold grey day down at some beach in Washington, along the Puget sound somewhere near Seattle. I would be around two or three years old and we’re with a friend of mine from the neighborhood and his mom. Walking around among the driftwood looking for crabs. Even now, I can remember the smell and temperature of the air, the feeling of the sand and the swaying tall grass I can even remember looking over at my friend and how his face looked when he smiled back at me Another memory that I’ll sometimes recall as my first memory is dressing up in the dead of winter as Jack London with tennis rackets on my feet and wearing my dad’s hiking pack, in the middle of summer after seeing Disney’s (terrible) version of White Fang. or There’s the memory of stealing my neighbor’s big wheel and riding it halfway down the block before getting caught and having to turn around defeated, or of wearing a fireman’s outfit while washing my parent’s car, or eating an orange popsicle from the ice cream truck.

These are and have always been some of my most distinct and persistent memories of childhood, so i came as a disappointment to me when one day as a teenager I opened up a photo album and found pictures of each and every one of those memories. I didn’t have a single memory that didn’t belong to or somehow grow from pictures my parents had taken of me when I was growing up even the scenes I remember so clearly in my head are from the same angles as those photographs and I don’t really know what to to make of it. I’m going to guess that I’d seen all theses photographs at some point, forgotten they were just photographs and over time made them into my most tangible memories. That’s scary to me in a way.”
Excerpt
Warren Gamaliel Bancroft Winnipeg Harding
Chicago, Illinois
April 6th, 2008

When I first read that, my thoughts immediately turned to my childhood. My first real “distinct” memory being my third birthday. We gathered around the glass-topped octogon table in the lounge room in the morning. My first tricycle, pink with white foam or rubber wheels, was my gift. It was small and light enough that it was sat upon the table.

Before that, vague moments exist. Snippets of a holiday to Perth when I was 2 and a half. Burning my arm on a hot iron at 18 months. Sitting in a green shell pool in the side garden by the carport at less than a year old. I am not even sure if those memories are real, or if they have been ingrained into me through photos and retellings over the years. Particularly my burn. I can picture the event from start to finish, from pulling the cord from the ironing board, to being thrown screaming into a bath with running cold water. My mum half dressed for work. I believe that it all stems from being told the story dozens of times over.

Yet these moments still feel a part of my history as real and tangible as what I ate for breakfast this morning. They might be insignificant in the grand scheme of who I am, but they still feel real. Our memories are biased, self-serving and at worst, completely false in some cases. Our memories lie to us every day.

If we try hard enough, and look back long enough, our history changes and distorts itself depending on our later needs and experiences. Stare at a photograph long enough, and it can be whatever you want it to be.

The camera never lies is a lie unto itself. So long as the human memory is fallible  the camera creates its own truth, to be reinterpreted countless times over.

A brief exploration of my protagonist’s past, and his discovery of the perfectionism of a photograph and its ability to distort memories.

The camera never lies… or does it? 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The old photograph of my Mother is something I seldom look upon. When I do, I still doubt the sound exposure and fear the sun may snatch it away. I was barely fourteen when I took it, with some assistance, after pleading with the studio photographer who had just opened up his shop underneath our home. I borrowed his camera, and used one plate, and paid him a penny. A pittance for him, I knew, but it was all the money I had in the world.
The camera was new, but even so the exposure took four minutes. The little moustached photographer squinted at the sun through the window, and timed with his pocket watch. I remember him nod to me surely. My heart beat wildly as I twisted off the stiff metal lens cover. I could hardly believe that this funny little box could capture an image.
Waiting breathlessly, I still expected her to rise, to jump back to life. Even in death, with the grey pallor of her face and unnaturally posed limbs, she looked as always. Her hands lay twisted in her lap, as though plotting to grasp at my hair and beat me like a misbehaving school boy. Her severe grey dress, made from thick heavy wool and clasped at the throat, made her a dark and formidable form. She had always been an imposing woman, well-built and standing at nearly six feet tall. Brief sickness had not withered her.
I knew that never again would I be subject to her spontaneous and humiliating blows that stung for hours after the pain left my body. Yet even in death she looked undefeated, ruling her domain from the throne of her rocking chair.
Father wasn’t home. I knew he would be down the road, drinking at the tavern. I knew he was there mourning – in his own way. My father respected my Mother, though he never loved her. She never allowed herself to love him back. For all that, he had been a consistent and adequate provider, if rather stoic and distant – and with a penchant for gin. In some way, I felt some deep-seated pity for my Mother, in spite of her coldness.
I looked upon that grim tableau of death, and it seemed that something had changed in her. It unsettled me deeply, and I wondered if this was the case for all death. I didn’t have the nerve to ask the photographer as he packed away his things. I only realized what had changed after the plate was exposed, and lay in my trembling hands. The dim and ghostly likeness of my Mother, a week and a day after her funeral, had been brought back to life.
It was a look of peace, and of resignation. All the knots of motherhood and hard work and spite had softened. It was hard to imagine her limp arms being raised in anger. Her eyes, which stared past the confines of the blurry edges of the frame, seemed to look beyond our world. At times my eyes could trick me into seeing warmth in them. She almost looks like a Mother.
I slipped the photograph back into the deepest recess of my case.

 

This was my horoscope in some sort of pullout magazine thing in a newspaper last Sunday. It must have been the first I’d read them in ages:

My Horoscope

It seemed to pinpoint the themes in my film-to-be exactly. In fact, it gave me new things to think on. A sign, perhaps?

No biggie. Just exploring the themes of my film. Several things have occurred to me:

  • Post-mortem photographs were important to those left living

but

  • A life lived is more important.

Which leads me to my question: What is the point in memorializing a life that has not been lived?

Behind the scenes

(source: The Skull Illusion)
Not sure of the facts behind this picture. Rigor mortis seems to have set in on the subject. An interesting find.

Image  —  Posted: December 19, 2012 in Stuff other people make
Tags: , , , ,

Hi there! This was a quick piece I whipped up after an interesting interaction whilst waiting for a tram in the city. It is fairly accurate, but some parts are missing, and slightly changed because I couldn’t remember the context of everything.

I found the character Fleck to be quite interesting. I’m not quite sure why it is, but I seem to give off vibes to complete strangers that they should talk to me, and they offload their entire life story. Maybe they know I’m just too polite to tell them to fuck off. But I’m glad this guy stuck around and spoke to me. I wrote this quickly, with little editing, hoping I could capture him instinctively through his words and voice before my memory faded. I wish he’d stayed a little longer.

Here it is: Bloody Chips (It’s a PDF. WordPress is being a bit weird, so you’ll have to click through twice)

It’s a bit long, at six pages, but mostly dialogue. Time is compressed in places too. I don’t fancy anyone wants to read about me eating chips for seventeen minutes!