Sitting on Trop of the world

SPOILER WARNING: If you haven’t seen the 2013 Tropfest shorts, particularly winning film Bamboozled, this piece of writing may reveal certain facts that will spoil the impact of first viewing. Please take that into account before reading.

Is it possible to make a good film without offending anybody?

Yes, I think so.

Is it possible to tell jokes that don’t offend?

Certainly. Is it possible to make a comedic film that is inoffensive?

It’s absolutely been done before. Can you do it in under 7 minutes?

That’s more difficult, but still possible.

So the big question is this – why does the world’s largest short film festival congratulate and reward a film that appears homophobic, that verges on transphobia, and that ridicules sexual difference?

It wouldn’t be Tropfest without an argument.

Every year (and twice in 2013, lucky us) twitter trends the #Tropfest tag as 16 (supposedly) unique stories are told by 16 (occasionally) unknown directors competing for their big break in the Australian film industry. Or perhaps a car. The festival offers huge national and international exposure, broadcast this year on SBS2 and watchable in perpetuity on the Tropfest YouTube channel.

Tropfest calls itself the “winner’s ticket to a successful career in film or television”, and vocally claims responsibility for international Aussie success stories like Sam Worthington, Robert Luketic, Nash Edgerton, Adam Zwar and Rebel Wilson among others. While the exposure and springboard potential of the festival may have helped, these stars first had to create something outstanding before the festival recognised them, and perhaps we can assert that the modicum of talent and hard work they all put in would’ve garnered them success in their own right anyway.*

The criticisms levelled at the festival in recent years range from tacitly permitting plagiarism to supporting racism/sexism/gender-based phobias/oppression; from reinforcing unequal gender/race/identity representations in the Australian film industry to the judges clearly making the wrong decision on the night couldn’t they see that the nice little film about the child with a lollipop was clearly superior??

I don’t envy the judges their job. They have as long as everybody else to decide which of 16 (usually) exceptional pieces is better than the rest, and they know their judgement will be questioned and dissected in the days and weeks afterwards with no thought of the immediacy and vast range of their choice. How do they judge an animation compared to a documentary? Do they generally prefer comedy or drama? Is production value more important than dialogue or story in their minds?

As with all art, the shorts presented in the Tropfest top 16 are open to subjective interpretation – we all view them through our own lens of perception and our enjoyment of them is informed by our own unique experiences. The family of a soldier may have been particularly affected by the quiet narrative in Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense, while die-hard romantics would’ve enjoyed the richly textured absurdist Makeover. It seems twitter was particularly fond of someone called Wolfman removing his shirt in Darkness Comes.

And many people found particular offense in the December 2013 winning film Bamboozled.

On the one hand, it uses transgender identity as a function of an elaborate punchline, and implies great shame in two men being caught sleeping together. On the other, it extrapolates the uncomfortable and exploitative lengths that television goes to in providing entertainment, satirising the media and reality television.

One’s perspective will depend entirely on one’s personal experiences.

I will admit to laughing at the setup – much of this is because of my friendship and experience with an actor in the piece, and I enjoyed seeing him clown around on national television – and at the first twist/reveal. I will also admit to feeling uncomfortable at the conclusion – the “we fooled you into sleeping with a man” grated on me more than “we fooled you into sleeping with someone you didn’t want to” or “we deceived you for the purposes of entertainment”.

I also felt that the transgender identity was more a functionary of the setup rather than the butt of the joke, but that is not my experience. I can see the potential for someone to take offence, and I wouldn’t try to dispute the assertion that the film is offensive to some.

I also wouldn’t claim that the winning film shows that the filmmakers involved or Tropfest in general are homophobic, transphobic, intentionally offensive, dismissive of minority groups, a waste of time or money, a bad film festival or a good film festival. It’s what the judges chose on the night, we don’t have to agree with it.

I would, however, question the collected perspectives and strategies used in selecting films for the top 16, when two of the films used the shame apparently caused by sleeping with a man as thematic points. I would question the fact that only two of the 16 directors were women.** I would certainly question the response that if the audience thought the winning film was Trans-/Homo-phobic then they are “completely missing the point”, because I believe if you want to make art you have to accept that it’s subjective and that you will invite responses from all perspectives.

You don’t have to let dissent tarnish the glow of your win, but you can maybe listen to the feedback and think about it from the point of view of someone who may not be a straight middle class white guy – honestly, the world supports our stereotype much more than we’re entitled to. We can afford to broaden our gaze and our mindset.

And I would hope that the official Tropfest response is something more than their past efforts of official obfuscation and shirking of responsibility. This may be an opportunity to focus on what Tropfest offers to the Australian film community, how they shape our cultural perception of marginalised groups, and how they can positively affect our national discourse surrounding persecution, judgement and diversity.

Ultimately, the standard you walk past is the standard you accept. I wonder what standard of film is acceptable for Tropfest?



*In fact, for someone who wins Tropfest that would be success in their own right, not the OzFilmGods descending to lift them to a higher plane of...whatever. I digress.

**And the assertion of Yumi Stynes that if women feel they are underrepresented in the Australian film industry, they should “stop complaining and go out and make a film, ladies”, because a 17 year old ex-neighbours actress could do it; but that’s more to do with SBS than Tropfest, and an unfortunately phrased comment in the heat of a live broadcast can probably be forgiven if we allow ourselves to think she likely didn’t mean it the way we all heard it.

Smoke and Mirrors

In the second season of Entourage, way back in 2004, James Cameron makes a half joke that in 5 years he won’t even need actors. A part of me likes to think that this line was at some stage improvised by Cameron and the producers loved the joke so much that they threw it in. Considering this would have been ten years after Cameron says he first dreamed up Pandora’s 3D world, perhaps the issue was already on his mind.

Crazy Canadians.

Of course motion capture had been around long before a computer pinned a tail on Zoe Saldana and painted her blue, even before Andy Serkis arguably redefined digital performance. A quick Wikipedia search* tells us that in 1990 Total Recall was the first film to use motion capture for CGI characters, that Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within(2001) was the first to use motion capture for all its’ character’s actions, and the first film made primarily with motion capture was, apparently, Sinbad: Beyond the Veil of Mists in 2000. I haven’t heard of it either.

Just like the advents of colour and sound in film, CGI and motion capture techniques have taken audiences to new and wondrous places – without these advances, films like the Matrix or the Lord of the Rings trilogies would have looked and felt entirely different. Different, but not impossible.

You see as much as these technologies may give the audience a greater, richer experience within the world of the film, without a story they are nothing. By today’s standards, Hitchcock used some terrible effects in his films, but they still remain some of the most compelling pieces of storytelling on celluloid that have ever been seen.

The Uncanny Valley, that realm of not-quite-perfectly-replicated-humanity between cartoonish imitation and true human image, becomes more prevalent in film discussion the further Hollywood moves towards trying to replace human action on film with computer generated substitutes.

To me the greatest hurdle in accepting an artificial construction as a true part of the film world it is placed into is simply that the brain knows. We know it’s not a young Jeff Bridges reappearing after years being lost in Tron: Legacy, we know the Governator didn’t age backwards to fight naked in Terminator: Salvation, and we know that Sam Worthington’s facial expressions in Avatar were all thanks to animation. If only they’d autotuned his accent too.

Because our brains know these things, we cannot accept them as reality. We’re kinda clever like that.

So we come, in a roundabout way, to Rise of the Planet of the Apes, which I saw this evening. After reading the conjecture surrounding Andy Serkis’ performance as Caesar and the push from affiliates of the film and the large online film community to have Serkis’ work recognised come Oscar season, I was keen to form my own opinion.

Of the film in general I was a little disappointed, but perhaps that’s my fault for expecting more than just another effects driven blockbuster. Every performance** is typical of this fast-paced, box office busting genre – find your light, say your line and if your character is feeling an emotion it must be overplayed. David Hewlett is the perfect example of this, using his experience in weekly pulp sci-fi serial Stargate: Atlantis to optimum effect, and you could be forgiven for thinking James Franco was only captured on film accidentally as he passed by the set to pick up his paycheck.

Within this painstakingly calculated formulation of script, cast and effects, Caesar the Ape is a renegade protagonist – an animated monkey finding his way towards ruling the world of men – and the work of Andy Serkis is evident. You obviously couldn’t have such focus on this character without an actor of great skill and capability giving everything to the role.

Recently, Serkis has been quoted as saying “I never approach a live-action role any differently to a performance-captured role. The process of acting is absolutely identical.” I agree entirely. Unfortunately for those who campaign for Serkis’ Oscar cause, the final product is not absolutely identical.

Just as the animation would not succeed without Serkis, Serkis would not succeed without the animation – he would never be able to perform this character fully without the benefits of motion capture and CGI. Because he’s not a monkey.

All past Oscar winners for performance obviously owe a debt to the people who set the tone of the film – lighting, musical scoring and so on – and the editors who pick the best of their bits from in front of camera and assemble them to give the best effect overall, hopefully more in the interests of the film than the actor particularly. But the performance that is seen in the final cut will always be entirely the product of the actor.

And the greatest job of an actor is to be a conduit for the story – to present the reality of the constructed world to the audience simply and effectively, without undue artifice or complication, keeping as little between the audience and the story as possible. To hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature.

The problem with computer generated (or possibly computer enhanced?) performance is that between the actor and the audience is at least one artificial layer – the mask of the animation. We will never see the actual performance that Serkis gave onset, because for the story to have a human impact we must suspend our disbelief and accept that it is a real ape rampaging through San Francisco on cue. Even then it’s a difficult leap, because our brains know.

I cannot picture James Cameron’s dream of a world where actors aren’t necessary, because I cannot imagine any computer that could recreate the full range of human emotion and reaction in all its’ complexity. There can never be a substitute for honest, unimpeded and entirely human performance.

And if you don’t know what that’s like, head to the theatre sometime.

*I do not apologise for quoting Wikipedia as an information source. It’s easier than doing my own research at midnight.

**With the possible exception of John Lithgow, who brings majesty and brilliance to everything

I believe

Last week, if you live in Australia and respect the importance of quinquennially collating accurate data on the socio-economic statuses of the populace, you filled out the census. Essentially it’s a way for the government to keep track of how and where the people of Australia are living their lives, with how much money and where that money is coming from.

Despite the amount of joking that surrounds some of the questions and the chance we all have to alter our lives on paper to suit some misguided sense of imagination or humour, I treat the census fairly seriously. The census is used to allocate funding and refine our government’s understanding of who their people are. I suspect. I’m not completely sure, it may still be a waste of time and paper.

Regardless, I take it seriously.

But amidst the standard bricks and mortar questions of locality, employment, affluence and living arrangements, there is one question that made me think a little harder. Not about my answer, but about the question’s general purpose within the overall gathering of information. Right there, between investigations of ancestry and special needs, sits question 19:

What is the person’s religion?

After casually marking ‘no religion’ I got to thinking – what concrete information can the census gatherers possibly glean from question 19? Remember, this isn’t a shopping centre survey or audience questionnaire, this is a government document that (hopefully) informs political thought for the next five years. The scientist in me would like to think the conclusions it draws would be based on the cleanest of data.

The question in question* has no follow-up as many others do – nothing about frequency of observance, how the person came to follow this faith, whether they have a social community within their religious life or if it is a solitary pursuit etc. The question is even listed as optional – the only one of it’s kind on the form.

So why question 19?

I can understand the theory – asking people to align themselves with a formalised religion is an easy way to identify what the majority of the populace believes. Great theory, but what about those who identify as a particular faith by descent but are lapsed in practice? Or those who only observe a portion of their faith’s precepts and practices?

And what about all those who opt not to answer? Or answer with a pop culture reference**? Or those who, like me, identify with no formal religion? Do we then get ignored when the government considers the importance of religious organisations in allocating resources? Or is the census office of the understanding that without a religious group to identify with, I effectively don’t believe anything?

Because I do. Many things.

While I have always envied the faith other people have in divine beings and heavenly otherworlds, I believe the mask of organised religion has been responsible for more unnecessary pain and destruction than any other organisation in the history of mankind. This is not to say I believe all religion is bad, just that some people are.

I also believe that atheists can be as narrowminded, stubborn and offensive as religious people when attacking another person’s belief structure. I believe if people breathed deeply and thought before making every statement, many would find much less in the religious debate that was truly worth arguing about.

I believe that an inability to explain the impossible or prove the immaterial is not an argument either for or against anything - there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

I believe there is a Shakespeare quotation for every situation.

I believe in free speech and in free thought, that revolution need not be violent, and that theatre has the potential to change the world. I believe that no people should fear their government and no government should fear their people. I believe that fear leads to anger, anger to hate and hate to suffering.

I believe that, despite a grammatical speech impediment, Yoda knew what he was talking abouI believe that we are all connected, whether we are conscious of it or not, and the more we become aware of each other energetically the closer we will come to living in a global community with peace and understanding.

I believe love is the great equaliser, that regardless of country, colour or creed we all love in the same way, and that if everyone acted out of love there would be no need for war.

I believe no art is safe – the very act of expressing an idea, whatever the medium, is the greatest risk a person can take. I believe we should take more risks.

I believe we all have greatness within us – it may be in leading a nation, in healing the sick, in throwing a ball at an object or in selling bread, the pursuit of greatness is worthy of the greatest respect.

I believe perfection is unattainable and immaterial.

I believe the great depths of tragedy are necessary to give our joys greater significance.

I believe in so much that is not covered by the census form that I cannot fathom the effectiveness of question 19 in truly defining who I am as a greater part of our society. But I don’t think it matters all that much.

Because in the end, it’s what I believe.

*I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.
**To those who answered Jedi, this does not give you telekinesis or a lightsaber. However many sexless 15 year olds giggled themselves to sleep on Tuesday August 9, the Jedis of Australia will lack legitimacy as a religious order until they present a formalised document of beliefs and practices. Even then...

Til Human Voices Wake Us

This REACTION contains references to the film Sleeping Beauty, which may dilute the impact of the film if you haven’t seen it. Please take this into account before deciding to read. 

A beautiful young woman living in a state of disillusionment and disconnection from the realities of the world. Protected from a harsher life she stumbles into a dangerous situation, the consequences of which she is not fully aware, and is eventually brought into real life by an unexpected action. 

This is a fairytale. 

In the version many of us know it is true love’s kiss that brings the beautiful princess back to life. It can be taken as a metaphor for emotional awakening and growing to maturity from a state of innocence and naivety to realise that we can withstand the dangers of the world if we live happily within the accepted definition of happiness. 

It is not an unattractive scenario. 

Julia Leigh’s debut film Sleeping Beauty has attracted attention and reaction, both glowing and derisive, after premiering at Cannes, including the wonderful phrase “psychosexual twaddle”, which I find a touch too demeaning for an unbiased review. 

I am a particular fan of Marc Fennell’s Triple J review, which states “It’s not necessarily badly made, it’s just a movie [pause for humourous effect] that hates you”. For the record I agree with almost all of Marc’s comments and find it a fair way to describe the film for a prospective audience of Triple J listeners, I just reached a different conclusion. 

The film doesn’t hate us – quite appropriately, it hates itself. 

Every character shows, in a variety of ways and degrees, dissatisfaction, disillusionment, regret and longing. The self-loathing humans can feel as a result of living in a perfect-image-based consumer society is evident throughout the film. 

Friends who happened to attend the same screening as myself commented that all of the acting felt self-indulgent and overly pretentious – a statement I don’t disagree with. Rather than saddling the actors with responsibility, I suspect it is a result of a first-time director working with their own material leaning on what is, to them, the most important direction of the work. 

I don’t think it’s a poor decision. 

It lends the film a distinct style – the coldness and distance that Marc Fennell describes – that is offset at unexpected times by moments that insist on feeling different. There is warmth to be found – a glimpse of gilt edging a bed, the rich red of the wine that Lucy (our sleeping beauty) pours, even the luxuriant image of flesh in a vulnerable position that is otherwise confronting and disturbing in its’ eroticism. 

All the warmth is found in Lucy’s possession, but she isn’t aware of what she holds. To emphasise her ignorance, almost every frame contains deliberate and overt sexual imagery – and possibly at this point my penchant for reading too much into a film takes over. 

The way two women consider each other locked together in a bathroom stall; fingers delicately probing a payphone in search of change; the particularly clear scientific testing of a gag reflex; even a lingering shot of two identical doors, one open one closed, describes the illusions and expectations present in any sexual transaction⁺. 

For my tastes it is a dense and intelligent exploration of sexuality as distinct from love and the disconnection we can feel in our lives despite living within a community that can support us. This is my opinion. 

Why does a film attract negative criticism? Of course it may just be badly made; possibly it only aims for too narrow an audience – the blue rinse set or lovers of matinee musicals will likely never respond well to the work of George A Romero. 

But sometimes we react strongly to art and stories, either positively or negatively, because we recognise so clearly the characters and situations they portray. The emotion that can overtake us in the experiencing of such material colours our viewing and our reaction whether we are conscious of it or not. 

Emily Browning’s Lucy is a passive force in her own life. Aside from a few brief and beautifully unexplained theatrical scenes with Ewen Leslie’s tragic Birdmann, she relates to other characters through an idea of her own sexuality that is uncertain and dishonest. She is the princess in an ivory tower who isn’t forced (or indeed able) to deal with the world. 

Every new step she takes to discover her sexuality and express it takes her further away from the real world – the fairytale she finds herself in, the life she thought she wanted, becomes more like a Grimm Brothers Fairy Story than the Disneyfied world of animals singing in harmony. Her reaction is self destructive and isolating – the common youthful cliché is ‘anything to make me feel’. 

While only snatches of her life prior to the film’s beginning are offered to the audience, we understand Lucy has experienced angst and torment that has (we can assume) caused her retreat from the world. When she asks for all the details of her enigmatic fairytale to be laid bare and eventually awakens (the metaphor is physical too), the pain and torment she experiences as a result of her immediate assumption carries with it the force of a burst dyke of repressed emotion. 

None of this is explained, but we feel it through Browning’s performance*. It is an unsettling and unresolved ending, despite the visual tag reminding the audience of what they already know – Lucy’s emotional realisation is based on a lie. 

And now I shall read too much into this. 

How many people live disconnected in some way from their world and the people in it? How many swear they are living the dream when they know, maybe only subconsciously, that they’re lying to themselves? How many among us have feared, in the isolation of a dark night, that we may never experience true happiness in love? 

Our greatest fears are often that, in achieving our greatest dreams, our fairytale will be exposed as a hollow lie. Is it better then to accept a safe alternative and protest (too much) that it is happiness? To say so many times ‘this is what I wanted’, that you start to believe it? 

And do audiences react so strongly to Lucy’s portrayal as passive in her own fairytale because they fear this reality in their own lives? If Marc Fennell is right, if the film does hate us, it hates us for accepting a second-rate fairytale.

It may not be a blockbuster actioner or a heartwarming rom-com, it may not be a touching story of an animated howler monkey, it may not be entertainment in any recognisable shape. What it might be is too much of ourselves. It is Hamlet’s mirror, held up to nature. 

It is certainly a challenge for an audience, but every challenge brings a reward. 

You just have to want to see it.

*Which is, in my opinion, stunning. She show’s amazing range with the smallest variation and beautiful simplicity. Plus, she’s gorgeous, which makes it much easier to want to support her emotional journey.

⁺Shakespeare puts it very well in Sonnet 129 – A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe; / Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream. You should read it, it’s kind of excellent.

**This is a REACTION to Sleeping Beauty, in Australian cinemas now; as well as to Marc Fennell’s Triple J review of the film.

A very good place to start

As an actor, winning a role usually follows the same process whether the work is on stage or screen. Typically a casting director working with the production company sends out a brief for the characters they’re casting. These can vary in length and detail depending on the role, but mostly they will have at least an age range and a physical description of the character.

Agents then submit suggestions to the casting director from the actors they represent that they think would be appropriate for the roles. The casting director will narrow down the list of submissions to a manageable number of candidates that they will offer auditions to.

Material is sent out – either a monologue or a scene, or multiple pieces if the role is large enough to warrant seeing many sides of the character – and, to coin a phrase, an actor prepares. They arrive at an appointed time and place and do their best in a limited space of time with limited material to display the entirety of their skill and potential.

It often encourages me to remember that all along the chain – from writer to production company to director, casting director, agent and actor – every single person hopes that the when you walk into the audition room you are instantly recognisable as the perfect choice for the role.

Despite what we can learn from Entourage, and despite the voices in our heads that will sometimes whisper ‘They’re all against you...’, nobody in our industry wants you to fail. It makes everyone’s job much simpler when the choices are obvious and perfect and brilliant. This knowledge should make it easier to relax in an audition, and often does. If your audition is expected.

However.

If you happen to be sipping coffee in the middle of Melbourne on a mild winter afternoon, struggling to keep ahead of the hangover brought on by excessive enjoyment of the company of friends in theatre, and you get a phone call from a director who had forgotten to let you know about your audition slot two hours earlier but would still like you to come out to the suburbs, yes, now if possible...relaxing becomes a touch harder.

This was my Saturday, hangover and all, when my only thought had been to crawl home and catch up on DVDs I hadn’t watched since Christmas I found myself on a train to the suburbs desperately trying to appear as actorly as possible.

While waiting for the forgotten phone call that would have informed me of the audition I had read the script, but in the absence of a confirmed time had not done any specific preparation. As I swallowed mints and resisted the vomit-inducing sway of Melbourne’s trains I swam through my mind in search of a monologue.

My swag of Shakespeare* was inadvisable here – onc piece of the audition was a reading of Poe’s The Raven, so verse was already covered, and the nature of the text called for something contemporary.

It wasn’t until I met the director and producer at the station – an awkward, blind date type moment, but without the red carnation – that I remembered a monologue I discovered in my 3^rd year of study and had last performed for an audition at the beginning of 2010.

It was a longish storytelling piece with a touch of darkness and inner turmoil, a story that always struck me as beautiful and simple. A decent choice when compared to the script I was auditioning for, but the last time I read through it was 8 months ago, and that was just to remember the words.

So what does an actor do in this situation? Get out of the way.

Even in the most difficult (or unexpected) of circumstances there is a certain amount of our craft that, practiced long enough, becomes innate, almost subconscious in its execution. Things like standing simply and breathing, focussing on the world that your words create, conveying the clear sense of the monologue without excessive adornment. Even remembering thoughts from 8 months ago.

And if you can stop your mind from spinning, from worrying about the pants you wore or what the director is thinking about your hairstyle (or possibly if the panel can smell lager on your breath), and get out of the way, the text will speak for itself.

That’s usually what it wants to do.

So how did I do? Honestly, I’m not sure. I got out of the way for the most part, remembered the words and felt the sense of the monologue, read the poetry piece well** and communicated as humanly as possible. The reception was friendly and positive, but possibly they were better actors than I?

Whatever the outcome of this episode, it’s always a comfort to know that when I’m on the ropes the training kicks in. The skills are there, even the material if I dig deep enough.

I just have to get out of my own way. 

*Shakespeare is one of my greatest loves, I learn monologues in iambic pentameter for fun. Seriously. At last count I have 18 Shakespearean monologues that I could perform at a moment’s notice. And about a dozen sonnets.

**I’m damn good with verse

For loving me at my worst

An open letter to everyone I’ve ever met. Or am yet to meet. 

I don’t say it enough, so I want to thank you. 

You. Yes, you. Really, honestly and from the depths of my soul, thank you.

You may not remember, but you’ve been there for me when I’ve really needed you – perhaps not you particularly, but I definitely needed someone and you presented yourself with an admirable sense of timing. You’re good like that. 

You once brought me a glass of water when I was so drunk I couldn’t stand, then you laid me on my side and let me rest my head on your favourite cushion.

Or you bought me a coffee when I miscalculated how much money I had until the next payday. 

I particularly remember the time when you needed to get home, but you missed three trams so we could finish our conversation about Kubrick. Or maybe it was the conversation about milkshakes. Or something else, equally important.

Or the time, before we had met, when I was standing alone in a room full of people I knew and I kind of caught your eye and we shared – what was it? Not really a friendly smile, but a silent connection and acknowledgement of presence. That was nice, wasn’t it? 

Because that day I was a little, (How would I best put it?) not depressed but, y’know, a touch blah? Just not having the greatest time with things. Life and such, you know how it goes. And then you, with your ineffable timing, were there. Not doing anything other than being you, for me.

We were in a group of people, or we were alone together, or we were alone apart, or we were on opposite sides of the planet and you thought about me and I felt it, remember that? Because we’re connected. A lot. Or a little.

And I needed that.

I probably didn’t realise – you probably didn’t realise, not consciously anyway but in that clever little energetic connection way that you have – but that time (you remember that time, right? I do), you were exactly what I needed to keep breathing for another second. And the one after that. 

Because we all need that now and then.

And we all know – we know we do, even though we don’t say it enough – that we go through this. Because it’s life. It’s not about crying for help or calling a hotline or the black dog, because it’s not that serious is it? It’s not a clinically diagnosable state of being, but it’s...just a touch blah. 

And the smallest thing, the smallest interaction that costs nothing to one but means so much to the other, can keep the world spinning on its axis for just a moment longer so that momentum can kick in and do its work.

You gave me that. Yep, you. Truly, you did, and my god I thank you for it. Because it was something that pushed me up and made me think and made me love a little bit more. 

It helped. You helped.

And I know you’re sitting there, modest as you are, thinking that I’m not talking about you. But I swear I am – I’m talking directly to you. And you. And you! 

Maybe I’m the only person who reads this much into every single human interaction (I can’t be, because I know that you do too) but every single human interaction has helped form my perspective, opinion, past and future. 

And they’re all essential – without them I’m not me.

And they’re all perfect. 

And I love you, for all of them.

And I really hope that one day, when neither of us realise you need it, I can say or do something that is equal to the perfect nod, or smile, or kind word, or drunken 5am conversation that we once had that I remember so well. 

I hope that I can do for you what you once did for me. That I keep you breathing. That I keep your world spinning.

That I show you love. 

Goodnight.