Memories of The Colonial Inn

I was just there, eating dinner with M and Su, hearing the live music in the background. Dave First, who's interview I am transcribing today, reminds me that I was once a regular. I started at the bar (of course...), listening from afar, not really eager to hear anything bad. I didn't know jazz, traditional or otherwise, from a hole in the ground, but when I heard Jimmy, I knew I was hearing something special - something that would only be here for a moment. Lloyd heard him for the first time yesterday while watching my trailer (which SUCKS and has to be recut...). He said: "He sounds like..." "Louis Armstrong," I said, finishing when he couldn't think of the name. Lloyd is 23 and has heard of Louis Armstrong. There's hope in the world.

I love the way all these guys say the word music. It always seems like they're talking about God, or praying. Well, why not? Most musicians I know have a sort religious fervor and devotion to music. You can see them in their fog, walking around with inward-looking stares at the sofa, the floor, the mountain. They're not looking at the mountain, they're composing and seeing their own hands moving as they play. M plays in her sleep. Her fingers twitch. It's the cutest thing and one of the few things that's consistent about her.

This film is a journey for me. I'm stepping into a new role: filmmaker. I call myself a filmmaker like I call myself "gay." It's something for me to say that's socially acceptable. I'm annoyed by the need to be socially acceptable, but when you need food on the table you're forced to make certain concessions. I'm incredibly lucky that I'm able to put food on the table for both of us by doing something I love, while being able to do something else that I love (making documentaries) on the side. Life is good... Pity my mother never got a chance to really feel that.

Listening more to Dave I get the sensation of beer. I can smell it and taste it, feel the cold pint glass sweating, thick and heavy in my hand, and I miss it. But I've made a promise. Can I keep it? I have no idea. Luckily, the promise is to myself. We all know that we can't keep promises to others. We have to make promises to ourselves in addition or we'll fall flat on our asses. This is all very deep, isn't it? I don't mean to be deep. I mean to be spewing. Ah-HA! That, then, is what this is: spew. Like puke. Blogging your own life is like puking only this kind feels good. Having been a drunk for so long I can tell you that the bad kind of puking really does suck.

Percolating. That's what I've been letting this film do. Percolate. I've been deliberately spacing out the transcribing so an interview has time to percolate in my mind. Genius. Not really like procrastination at all...

Dave is telling a tale... "It's time for the blues, Jimmy." He's making my film for me. Thanks so much, Dave. Cough and all, it's going to be a good film.

...

Smack in the middle of transcribing I think of my childhood summer theatre group. The Something Players. What a great name. We mounted plays in an old barn that got as hot and uncomfortable with humidity as you've ever felt in your life. But I loved it. It was my place. So much so that when I learned to ride a bike I rode there in the off-season, and when I learned to drive I drove there at night when I needed some peace. There's no barn now, only M. And I've known her only a short time. She isn't long enough in my life to evoke a poignant, disarming memory in the way an old place from my childhood does, but she has potential. ;) I am a slave to memory, to the past, and I think it's time for me to let that go if I'm ever to make a go at progress. I'm currently too stuck in my thinking. That's why M is good for me. I see something new and say, suspiciously: "I don't know..." She sees something new and her eyes go wide just before she dives in. My mentor is a 26-year-old rockstar. :) Perfect.

It's time to start a book about life and leave this one I've been reading about death.