Skip to main content

Featured

Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

that good tired


6AM on a Sunday, and I am lurching from the bed. The bags are all packed. Camera, lenses, freshly charged batteries and tripod sit in a neat row by the front door. They are waiting patiently for me to eat something, to splash water on my face until things connect. The phone rings, Alexander will be here soon. The baby is sleeping in such a perfect pose. N is curled around her, in the fuzziest pink blanket. I tiptoe back into the room, because I forgot my lucky shirt, the one I wear on flights. It hangs wrinkled and lopsided in the closet, but I put it on all the same.

We are quickly off the main road, and driving in some secret, forgotten corner of Moscow. There are dogs barking, a horse and rider moving slowly, looking back at us just once. The trees look strange here, like they are from Mars. The main road is close, a steady hum of traffic bleeds across so there is no way we can shoot any scenes with sound here, but take that invisible traffic noise away and we could be anywhere - some barren, lost corner of the world. That is one thing I need for Blackbetty - to turn a busy city into an empty one. 

Later, we are driving in an old business district. There are old bricks slathered with a hundred layers of paint. There are no straight lines here, just sagging, curving, bending walls that finger off into the distance. There are trolley cars on metal wheels, still running up and down the tracks that shine along the asphalt. There are filthy windows, reflecting nothing. There are steps to closed doors. A bus stop sits, empty and patient. We try to capture it all, hustling up and down the main road before the sidewalks fill with people, before cars are barreling up and down the roads.

And then we are done. Back at home, the bags are slung across my shoulders, the warm goodbye, the ritual of making a film with the same people often transforming into such an unspoken shorthand, a nod, a moment when you lean your head to one side and you have said everything. 

Upstairs I eat a second breakfast. The baby is smiling at me. She wants to steal my orange cap.  I sit and sigh and feel that good tired, that peaceful exhaustion after you accomplish something. 



Comments

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs