New Year's is a time of recollection and assessment, looking back and reevaluating, reliving the past and checking in with ones' self, remembering and taking stock, reexamining memories and analyzing, reliving and retrieving, taking a look at the past and learning from our mistakes, reminiscing and appraising, recounting and evaluating, relating and sometimes relearning, reviewing and taking measure, surveying and considering, recalling and calculating, recognizing and using perception, commemorating and reoccurring nightmares, forgetting people's names and their faces, using your words and your irresistible charm for things you don't need but really want, reliving memories that you thought you had buried with overwhelming large amounts of shame and regret that make you shutter uncontrollably when you thinking about them. The thoughts posses you as you walk home and when you wake up as you feed the dog and when your talking to the clerk, if only you could let yourself forget for one moment of one day, but it's like an peripheral image lingering out of reach but closing in. It keeps you vigilant and exposed. Isn't it' punishment enough that you have to relive that memory over and over? if you could take it back you could, but time will only intensify the guilt of the mistake. Like a violin climbing higher and higher up the neck, the memory turns from an argument into a single channeled voice, each day you think the note could not climb higher and the voice could not become clearer, sharper; it's growing. It's growing in you and you want to run and you remember when you were free, before the event, when everything seemed simple and clean and calm, and you remember the enjoyment of relaxing and breathing being able to look at people in their eyes. But that's over now, because you got Netflicks. and there's a special place in hell for you.
I was an extra on the set of The Master. If you've see the show Extras or done extra work or known someone who has, then you already know that extra work is not glamorous, it is depressing and is never a career move for aspiring actors or filmmakers, and it's rarely fun. I was almost gone, moving away for what I thought would be forever, and had no interest in the gig. Also, I had no transportation and the shoot was up north. When you get a call for one of these gigs you have to ask what the film is about and who is making it. Out of curiosity I asked. When I was told that it was P.T. Anderson's new film, staring Philip Seymour Hoffman, Laura Dern, Joaquin Phoenix, Amy Adams and that I had been selected for my "classic look," the compliment went to my head and I became full of fantastic ideas about my all but sure discovery by my favorite American director as his protégé. Long story short, I was having an awful time being on set and seeing the professionals just feet away, yet divided from us by an impenetrable glass wall. The day I quit was a 16hr day and most of it was spent trying not to smoke the prop cigarettes and avoiding the LA actors that seemed to have a grudge against the Bay Area, save for one that continuously propositioned me to join them in a dark hallway for "some blow and...whatever." During the scene where Hoffman sings a sea shanty to a group of followers the camera broke, one of only two in the US available at the time. While waiting for the second to be helicoptered in, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Amy Adams passed the time singing Neil Diamond songs to one another. Now if you know me, you know that I thought my whole life that Neil and I shared a birthday (turned out to be the other Neil), love his songs, and sing Brother Loves Traveling Salvation Show in the shower almost everyday. I was positioned about two feet from them. And Amy Adams had to remain naked cuz that weird fake pregnant belly was attached specifically for the naked scene (she wore a robe during this story). It was hour 16 or more and I was an emotional wreck. Hearing them sing my Solitary Man songs like bff's sent me over the edge. I was asked what was wrong by my admirer and explained that all the smoke and the long hours were making my eyes water (nope. I lied. straight crying y'all). When the scene was finally finished we all filed out a narrow passageway to get out of the house. I was behind Hoffman and without a thought I pulled out my phone, loaded up Sweet Caroline and tapped ma man on the shoulder. He politely turned to a stammering, bloodshot eyed fan. All I could do was hold my phone up to his face for him to hear and stutter out, "remember? From before?" Hoffman seemed puzzled for a sec and then it dawned on him. He replied, "oh yeah," and resumed walking out down the corridor. When I finally got home I drew a bath and cried a bit more. I don't know a thing about the man and can't speak on his personality. But anyone who shares my love is someone I love and I love me some Philip Seymour Hoffman.
