Thought a lot about contemplation and change, I pondered the processes themselves, by which we come to contemplation and arrive at change. I was at Battery Park. It's cold out, and anyone in New York City, knows today was no day to walk along the harbor, but anyone who likes walking alone knows a gray sky is a forecast for silence. I was thinking about a new idea for a film, every step felt forward and progressive; I began digressing from plot to production, to festivals and marketing. Then I realized the regard, the esteem I may achieve if, when it all goes through - myself in a tapestry, like some ancient hero sewn up for public eye - my revenue, a valid ID, a passport to some insider's venue. I thought of it as an indie thing, my work, myself not the work or the process, but the product, a product. And I could almost see the embroidery when I began feeling translucent.
My playlist ran out. A strain of thought sunk in the wake of sound, a city toned down by distance. I listened for sigh and the suspiration of air, exhumed by the surface of the sea against the moor, one wave crumbling on top the other until the ocean was flat. Swells emerging out of air or some variation of temperature, slipping to their finish at the foot of New York CIty.
It was then I thought a lot about contemplation and change. Pondering self-reflection and arriving conclusively: that it just seems two-dimensional.
