Fish... meet water

You never forget your first time.

I'm talking about directing. What did you think I was talking about? This is a respectable blog. Well, most of the time at least.

Strangely though those two firsts have some commonalities:

1. It's hella scary before you do it.
2. At first you're all insecure and timid.
3. Once you have a basic grasp of how it works though you begin to notice how much fun it is.
4. And as soon as you've done it once you'll want to do it again and again and again.

While one has happened for me quite a while ago the other experience has been a more recent one. Last Saturday I had a ten hour directing workshop scheduled at film school. I was wary, at best, of spending ten hours on my feet when I currently get exhausted by about two hours of running errands. I also had no idea whether the teacher was going to be any kind of good or all kinds of bad. But I packed my energy rations (coffee, water and nuts, never leave the house without nuts, and some chocolate) and an extra dose of Ritalin in case my Concerta wore off to fast. I printed out the scene I was going to work on and hopped on a curiously empty Saturday bus on a lovely spring day.

Boy was I wrong to be apprehensive! The teacher turned out to be fantastic, running us trough the basics of directing, giving immensely helpful feedback, and he even has a sense of humour (sadly, that's not always a given). Otherwise he pushed us into the deep end - the best thing he could do.

About two hours after arriving I was already in the middle of DP-ing for one of my colleagues, sketching storyboards on a whiteboard and discussing the benefits of purposely jumping over the axis. Then, before lunch break, I set the lighting for another colleague's scene and watched from the side as they took their first tries at directing.

The differences in style are completely fascinating. Everyone has a different way of easing into the job, of talking to the actors, the crew. I was learning a lot just by watching. Suddenly it was my turn. I jumped right in, assembled my crew, briefed the actors, and there I was, doing a first read-through already, then setting up the scene, blocking, sketching floor plans, figuring out the best camera angles with my DP. Shooting. Tweaking. Shooting another take. Working with the actors. Giving my DP the chance to get a focus change just right considering the limited amount of time we had for our practice shoots. Shooting another angle. Another take. Saying "Action" (although I prefer the more friendly "Aaaand go") and "Cut". Thank you, you were wonderful. Great camerawork. Everyone take a break. I got great feedback from the teacher, the actors, the crew.

And all of it - ALL OF IT! - felt so fucking right. Much like, fish... meet water.
Felt like I was meant to do this. Never supposed to do anything else. Like every other job I'd ever had was just a youthful indiscretion before getting hitched to this wonderful thing called directing. I fell in love, fast and hard.

I suppose this isn't surprising. Because me and directing, we were set up ages ago. After all, I grew up watching my father direct. He started out as a theatre actor, then became an editor at the Austrian Broadcasting company. He started directing for TV even before I was born. I suspect he did some work on documentaries early on but I mostly watched him direct television broadcasts of operas, concerts, theater productions, ballets etc., both recordings and live broadcasts. My mother was his assistant director a lot of the time then became a director herself. When I was older I even worked with them as a floor manager.

Sure, it's a bit weird working with your parents (though it didn't even take me that long to hammer it into their heads that it was definitely not okay to call me by my embarrassing childhood nickname on set) but I learned so much from listening to my dad's voice transmitting through my headset. The way he maneuvered the giant and intricate system of cameramen/women, sound mixers, lighting technicians, cable pullers etc. through live broadcasts has given me a certain instinct for directing. He was always respectful, never without a sense of humor, knew that everyone on set was indispensable and took care to treat them as such.

He knew how to talk to people, knew when to be strict, when to be diplomatic. Ironically, his communication sucked big time in familial settings but while working he knew what he was doing. He felt safe, I assume, like he had a spot in the world that fit him just right. I'm lucky to have seen him work, and while I wasn't aware of it at the moment, soaking up all that I could learn from him.

I was way to scared during my first directing stint last Saturday but I think if I had been viewing myself from the outside instead of, well, being wide-eyed and in the moment, I would've been able to spot a lot of my dad's directing style in my work. I choose to believe that had he seen me in that moment (and maybe he has, I'm agnostic after all) he would've been proud of his director daughter. I'm finally proud of myself as well.

Here's to my dad who unwittingly taught me a lot while I unwittingly learned from him. You would've loved seeing me do this, dad, I just know :)
I love you.

How I didn't become a professional bassoonist

Someone in my ADHD forum brought up the topic of ADHD and intelligence and/or doing well in school. My answer got pretty drawn out so I thought I might want to say some things about it here too. Because it is true, smart kids with ADHD fall under the radar of psychologists, teachers, parents. In my experience, a lot of us only get diagnosed much later in life, once we have reached the limits of our coping mechanisms.

I too did really well in school - albeit not socially - and graduated with honours from a school for gifted children. I never had to study for languages, and even in my weak subjects - that would be anything math or science or, well, boring (hello, geography!) - I got by with as little studying as possible and I got by pretty fine.

I played the piano first, then the bassoon. My teachers were tearing at their hair because there was this really talented girl who yet consistently resisted improvement by practice. I hated practicing. I just wanted to play. I'd show up at my teacher's house, grudgingly admitting the lack of practice I'd gotten in during the week past. So we'd just play for fun, duets, because he was a pretty awesome teacher who chose not to berate me for my lack of commitment. But he'd ring his hands in despair every single time because I played well and "imagine how well you'd play if you'd practice," he said. Eventually, the prospect of practicing six hours daily was what made me veer of the professional path - that and it would've meant giving up a lot of other things I loved, like writing. Unfortunately, I stopped playing the bassoon pretty much entirely once I quit school. Everything else had become so much to handle.

In retrospect I realise that graduating was a shock for me, because after school there was no system keeping me in place anymore. I spent two years in regular university, sleeping in, going out, studying whatever caught my fancy. I had a hard time concentrating during lectures and got the most miserable marks of my life. Hell, I cheated on exams I never would've dreamt of cheating on. It's not that I wasn't interested. I just couldn't concentrate either in class or on studying at home. Plus, a lot of university things come in the form of aural input which is simply a disaster for me. Does. Not. Stick.

I switched to a University of Applied Sciences which had more structure, and that eventually got me through to my diploma (a "Magister", which is comparable to something between a BA and and MA) in 4.5 years. Again, horrific marks! And quite a bit of... well... I'm not proud of it.

My therapist told me that in an ironic way my considerably high intelligence completely fucked with my chances of getting diagnosed with ADHD. And I tend to agree, I probably still wouldn't have cracked if my dad hadn't died. I'd still be muddling along at the edge of burn-out and depression, feeling like a failure most days of the week but always scraping by somehow. Usually by the skin of my teeth.

It's not that intelligent people don't have ADHD, it's just that no one notices with us. Under the radar, through the cracks. What teachers, parents, psychologists see is that these people "could do so much better" at anything they do "if they only tried harder". No one has an inkling - least of all the affected themselves - that they're already trying pretty fucking hard, harder than anyone else. It's exhausting and it leads nothing but complete and utter exhaustion, the one that makes you feel like an empty husk.

The funny thing is, had I gotten my diagnosis earlier, maybe when I was still in school, I'd probably be a musician now, sitting in an orchestra with my bassoon, blending in with the crowd. Or maybe I would've been a soloist. Either way I'm sort of happy I'm not. I'm quite content with where the drama of remaining undiagnosed has led me; to writing and telling stories. It didn't cut music out of my life, but going with music might have kept me from writing. And if I pick my bassoon up today I can still play it. I'd just have to practice a bit.

Objects in the rear view mirror....

2011.
2 0 1 1.
Asshole. Friend.
Fucked me up and built me up.
I honestly don't know what to think about this year. Maybe it's time for a pro/con list?


...


OK, I tried making a list, but apparently my life is not list-able. Instead I got this:


I got fired. From a job that could've been done by Grawp the giant.
But getting fired gave me the impetus to finally start being creative full-time.


I started running regularly and felt great about it... but my knee got fucked up and I had to stop doing sports altogether. Still can't run :(


I finally got diagnosed with ADHD and realised that a lot in my life was not my fault. But now instead of feeling crappy because I never managed to get anything done I felt crappy because of all the time I had lost.


I also learned that there are meds that could help me. But some of the meds fucked me up BAD. Like Charlie! But Charlie the elephant pales in comparison to throwing up into a trashcan at Praterstern underground station. Disgusting and humiliating - brought to you by Strattera (tm). Back to Ritalin then. I'm still not sure they're the right ones. However, when they do work, it's magical. I mean, shit is getting done! And instead of being "a person with tons of creative potential" I turn into a proper "creative person".


I finally had the courage to submit a short story to two literary competitions. I didn't get shortlisted for either one though.


I also submitted my first film treatment ever. This time I only barely missed the shortlist and ended up joining the team in a different capacity anyway.


I lost some friends. Because, apparently, 2011 was the year of people being pissed at me but not letting me know this. (Not a mindreader, I am.) To this day I still don't know the reason for one of those people's anger at me.
I made some new friends though.
And re-established contact with some out-of-touch old ones.


I wrote more than I ever did before. I didn't write nearly enough to satisfy me. But I started work on my first film.


I started film school.


I still don't have a paying job. But I feel I'm getting to a point where I could handle one.


My mother is nice to me again. Unfortunately, I think it is because now that I have a diagnosis she thinks I'm damaged goods and that I can't be held responsible for my own actions - and not because she sees her own faults in last year's ordeal. Oh, the irony!


I LEARNED TO SAY 'NO'!


We went to New York.
I FINALLY WENT TO NEW YORK!


I saw Beirut and Tori Amos and Amanda Palmer live.


I gave Neil Gaiman my short stories and didn't get any feedback.


A friend of mine gave basically forced Lee Sheldon to read my script and short stories and I got the best, most useful feedback ever.


I don't want to jinx it but so far NO ONE DIED THIS YEAR!


I realised what exactly it is that I'm exceptionally good at.


I finished therapy.
But most of all I fulfilled the one New Year's resolution I had: I scared the shit out of being scared.






Looking up/back at this I'm drawing the conclusion that 2011 was quite an okay year, all things considered. Definitely better than 2010. And hopefully 2012 will be even better.


What I wish for besides the basic health-no-one-dying stuff:


- Getting the meds thing worked out
- Making a good movie and getting it seen
- Lots of love and great music and good friends and some travelling




edited because I saw this on twitter and found it incredibly wonderful:

taken from http://dreamripples.tumblr.com/post/14900943949

Please, do me a favor and hit on me

My wife has been indecently propositioned.

Not by me.

But I'm not surprised.

Imagine this: You're regularly going to the same Starbucks near your workplace in the morning (easy to imagine since you probably are, right), maybe not every morning but with some consistency. Now let's assume that you almost never end up paying for your coffee because the barista gives it to you for free. One might then assume the barista might be hitting on you, yes? Well so would a lot of people. However not Finn. She's just that oblivious. Until today when the barista asked her out she claimed she was just a lucky person who gets a lot of stuff for free by salespeople (she does). I don't have the full scoop on today's incident yet but apparently after Finn told the barista that she's married the poor girl decided to put herself out there with an "indecent offer" (quote Finn) that was declined.

Yes, of course, honey, people give you free stuff because that's just what people do uh huh. "THEY ARE HITTING ON YOU", I've wanted to scream for 5+ years now every single time she innocently tells me about getting something for free or cheaper. It didn't occur to her that her only getting those deals when I was not with her might say something. But oh well, I'm used to it, after all I can almost always find a space to park the car. That might not be a particularly sexy superpower but it's something and I cling to that.

But this was the first time someone had actually asked her out. And I found myself getting mad. Which in turn surprised me enough to get me off the madness for a second and consider. It was odd. Because I don't get jealous. I know I have her heart and that's fine so I have no reason for jealousy. So what the heck was going on with me?

Oh I figured it out alright... (and I'm not proud of it).

See, I wasn't jealous because of the barista.

I was jealous because Finn was getting hit on. And I wasn't.

Yeah... I'm really that vain. As I said, not proud of it, but let's be honest here, the last time I was actually hit on was approximately a hundred years ago - it's what it feels like. Not even a drunkenly slurred half-assed attempt by some random guy in a pub. My ego would totally take that no questions asked. But no. NOTHING.

Meanwhile everyone adores my wife. Yes, she's my wife and I'm into her, no duh, but UCH we got it she's ADORABLE. She is this petite baby butch/boi that people seem to immediately take to. How on earth can you compete with that? I know it's not a fucking competition but the hardest part about being gay for me is that you can compare your flaws to that of another woman every single day. That's not healthy, not for a fragile ego like mine. I mean, not only once have friends of mine exclaimed their adoration within seconds of meeting Finn.

"She's sooooo cute."

"Your wife is aDORable."

And really, what do you say to that? "Yes, I totally agree, now will you excuse me for a moment" (and somehow I imagine this being said with a lovely southern drawl) "while I go dig my ego out of the trash". *rummage* "Nope, can't find it. You must've gotten what was left of it."

She loses weight so much faster than me. As far as I have figured out she's "just not hungry". Oh the beauty of that! I could eat my body weight in lovely lovely food most of the time.

She's more sporty than me.

Her hair is more awesome.

She has much less pimples than me.

I have no self-control when it comes to food.

My boobs are beginning to obey the law which is gravity. I've never been particularly fond of them but I really don't like where this - they - are going recently.

I've now had three horrible hair days in a row.

And the pimples, people, the pimples!

I seriously wish I had cherished my body more when I was 20. Man, I had legs! I should've shown them off more. The really annoying thing is that if I lost the stupid weight I could probably look like that again, legs and all. Well, minus the boobs, gravity is just a bitch that way.

What is it with us women and competition with other women? I know for a fact that I'm not the only one who operates like this. You can be stunningly beautiful and intelligent and STILL feel like that.

Oh please tell me you do. And if you see me on the streets just do me the fucking favor and hit on me, okay?

The fortune cookie is a fucking liar!

There's a ton of shit I haven't told you. Or maybe I have, that is if you've seen me in reality instead of in writing only. But if you only read me you definitely don't know this. What happened?

Back in November I got a job. Then in January I got a new job. One I deemed better. Then I got a new iPod - but that might be a little irrelevant however very pleasing. And now I have no job. I got fired. Not exactly sure what for, but in a very informal text message I was told to not bother to come since a replacement had been found for me. Mmmmkay... That was last weekend. Ever since I have been irritating people by being spectacularly nonchalant and chipper about this. It's not even a fake chipperness (chipperyness? chipness?), I am actually, fantastically okay with this. I did like the job, don't get me wrong, at first at least but last week I found myself beginning to wonder how to get rid of it without being a complete asshole; See, text message quitting is not my thing. Ahem. Ironically.

I felt like I was wasting time. There was nothing wrong with the job per se, but it was keeping me from something. For the first time in a very long time I have been feeling the need to go forward. It was odd, what with all the delving into my past and feeling stuck in the present (= the sofa) I couldn't place it at first. I thought I was just getting restless again. I know the feeling, the urge to run, I know it well. All my life I have been told that I give up too easily just like I've been told that my father was like that too. Giving up, throwing in the towel, being a loser. Why thank you very much for that compliment... But you were wrong, that's not it at all. I finally figured out me and my father. We were, in fact, not quitting things fast enough; We got ourselves stuck in the wrong things because we didn't dare quit them for fear of what that would say about us. Of course, I'll never know this certainly about my father but I can definitely confirm this for myself. I have wasted so much frakkin' time sticking to things that I very early on discovered were making me unhappy just because I didn't want to look like a quitter - weak, uncertain, undecided.

But that made me weak in the first place! I get now that walking away would've been the much braver choice. I always did it in the end but I could've spared myself so much pain if I'd only done it faster, the instant I knew for sure, follow my instinct instead of keeping up appearances. I believed them when they told me I was running away, but damnit I was running towards something, couldn't they see that? I couldn't, not for sure, not without giving in to the doubt that was implanted in me so carefully all my life. It took me all these years and getting fired at the right moment to see it. Getting the boot was a blessing! Otherwise I would've held out just like that fortune cookie said years ago: With perseverance you should go ahead. (Don't ask me how I'm still remembering a fortune cookie I ate about a decade ago but can't remember to take out the trash when I leave the house...)

I would've waited too long, again, just to keep up appearances. Well, pardon my language, but fuck perseverance, and fuck appearances. I'm done walking through doors that turn out to be nothing but the fake door leading to the back of the stage. The next door I'm taking I'll sniff the air first, see if there's an actual horizon waiting.

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