!!!! Heavy Hands !!!!

Well good evening,
Good evenings,

In regards to my film tentatively titled Heavy Hands

I came back to the area around my house yesterday to do “location scouting” (I’m going to put anything that sounds official in “ ” to avoid sounding like a: I know what I’m doing- Which I don’t or B: like I’m important-which I’m not. Maybe to myself I am. Anyhoot…)

Basically because I don’t really know what I’m doing I’m going to log everything I’m doing on this blog to keep it straight in my head, remember what I did and who did it with me. Not a very concise paragraph.

Also I believe that your “passion” be it film, painting, photography, writing, horseback riding, pig wrestling, fashion, music, cooking, learning stuff, teaching stuff, helping people, construction, whatever should bring the people in your life together. So this blog and the website that will follow will be a way for people involved in the film as well as those that are just interested to see my “process” as I make Heavy Hands.

Also it provides the opportunity for everyone to give me suggestions as well tell me I’m stupid for doing things one way or another. (Which I won’t listen to but will keep me in check and maybe hurt my feelings)

Heavy Hands is a film (BW Super 8) about a bunch of fucked up country criminals who get back at each other and stuff. (That’s the official blurb.)

So I’m looking for good country, outdoor locations to shoot a variety of scenes (suggestions?)

My email is worldwidedirt@gmail.com

Here are some of the shots I took yesterday and today.

(all these sentences are coming out awkward. I would say that it’s because it’s late. But one AM is my 2:30 PM)

this is on a really empty road next to this crazy tower below.

Below are pictures from an abandoned motel outside of Fort Atkinson. I went by myself and it was scary.

Anyway thats all for now. Have to maintain some mystery right?

thanks for lookin.

going back to milwaukee city

I get sick and vomit ice

When I climb condos

I get the ice crystals in my blood

When your hot tears lap your cheeks

My breath turns to smoke when you smile

And I fall asleep every time a bell rings

I dream whenever branches creek across the gap

And my dreams know who’s the president and who I’m in

Love with and how long I’ve been an astronaut and how

I got diabetes but it never knows when it’s over and

It’s always blinking when it’s supposed to begin

And sometimes my headache is a distant car alarm

And sometimes it over-inflates my cock

And sometimes my hands ache from too much fidgeting

And sometimes it’s because I lost my gloves

And they hurt so bad I wish I could cut them off at the armpit,

At the bottom of my left ventricle

And sometimes the air could be sand

And I hiccup it all night

Sometimes my skin doesn’t belong on my body

Sometimes I know that a good night’s sleep will medicate me

And sometimes I Ludivico myself for days at a time

Until my eyeballs become one with the air and gasp for me to cry

And sometimes I wonder if the comatose don’t get too sad

If they never dip below melancholy then I’m in

And more people love me in real life than in my dreams

But I love more freely in the farmlands of my dreams

I whisper craziness in hot ears

And kiss girls while they’re behind the wheel

And in real life I shake involuntarily

My brain goes gray and my lungs go black

My teeth hurt and I use vodka to cure my cold

In real life, I try to give back what I receive

And am lost to find the what’s genesis

I look at the people in the next train car

And are they just like me and faking it

Or is that how people like me really behave?

Sincerity is impossible if you don’t mean anything

Intimacy is impossible if you don’t really exist

It’s not that I can’t love

It’s just that I never get around to it

I get distracted easily by soft hands and peekaboo armageddons

It's not further funny
or anything like that
not being salty or feeling less than,
cause I'm probably not...
probably,
Sure we all got friends, i got friends, i also got butt sweat.
demons, or monsters, or other things aren't other things.
they are just me and you
and all the sad shit we do.
there is no more time for all of this,
unless of course, i wake up a little earlier,
but I'm having a really hard time
more an more and more
making up reasons for me
to stop doing what I'm doing.
doing it faster,
to stop doing it faster,
it isn't a process anymore.
my guess is I'd be past that.

Suicide Note

When I was six, I went on a summer hike with my parents.  My mother, being no more than four and a half feet tall and weakened with typhus, walked slower than my father and I.  My father suggested we walk ahead and meet her on the way back and that's what we did.  We walked through prairies that led into forests, forests that lead into marshes and over streams in bowed bridges.  We were offered a little sip of every climate in a midwestern summer's repertoire.  It hailed, it rained, the wind dried us, the sun revealed itself as we stepped into a hilly field of plants that looked like living hay and there were two rainbows on the way back.

I don't remember the rest of the night.  My father told me what happened, and of course I have always believed him.  First he found her necklace, a frayed plain braid of hemp, and he thought we had somehow missed her; she had perhaps gotten off the path to relieve herself just as we should have intercepted her.  He picked up the necklace in order that he could return it to her.  He turned around the way we had come and shouted her name.  "Martha!"

The cry came behind us.  Just around the next turn in the road, there she was.  Her hand lay at his feet and for a moment he could not unlock his gaze from it.  Every bone of her hand was visible; her palm winged away from it like the cover of a wet dictionary opened to dry, doomed to curving pages and blotched pronunciation keys.  The cries continued ten yards further down the path.  He caught up to her and tried to kiss her, but kept losing her lips in the mangled tears of her face while ceaseless bleeding drowned her features and muddied her hair.  My father said she was barely recognizable as a human at all, and hardly as the woman he had chosen to partner with in his voyage through the gray corridors of this thousand-leveled condominium building called life.

We had been poor.  I had eaten with my father when he chose not to sell the foodstamps, my mother when she allowed herself to eat, and my neighbors whenever I could.  But the day after we returned from the hike, my father prepared me a feast: spaghetti and meatballs with a vanilla shake.  No meal has ever seemed to fit into my tummy so perfectly as that one.  It seemed at the time that it had taken weeks to digest, that the meal had been so rich as to protect me from the grief and trauma that should have seized my every molecule.  I was protected by a forcefield, a magical product of the chemical interaction between spaghetti, meatball, milkshake, and stomach acid.

The grief did come later, my father was institutionalized and later killed by the very leukemia he had spent so many years trying to fight during his tenure as chief resident at Brownsville Regional Hospital.  I was raised by our neighbors, the Fitzes, and I just felt comfortable enough to accept this as my last name in the past year.

I had never had a milkshake since that day.  I always thought wistfully that no milkshake could really be as good as the one that had possibly saved me from perpetual shock.  However, I had brought a date to the malt shop and though I desired a banana split, she wanted us to share a milkshake with two straws.  She smiled at me and I was helpless to refrain from indulging her.

I had spat the first sip into her face before even realizing I had tasted it.  I had been both right and wrong about the milkshake: it was even better than the milkshake of my youth's nightmares and dreams, and yet what disturbed me was that it bared no resemblance to what I recalled the taste of that decades-old milkshake to be.

My date left immediately, not knowing that I had granted her what was perhaps the greatest favor in her life.  I had spared her future intimate moments with a man who had eaten his own mother and taken it for a milkshake.  Father, you cruel bastard.  We must have survived on her meat for weeks while you traded our foodstamps for Mad Dog and Marb Reds.  Motherloaf, Mother in a blanket, Mother and cream cheese.  I was so stupid.  It was mother all the time in my stomach, enriching my blood, cursing my fate.

And now I stand forty feet above the shark tank.  Perhaps some of my spirit will be absorbed into their veins as my mothers was into mine.  Perhaps there might even be a little of her blood left in me for them to taste.  This is the end.

Sincerely,

Vance J. Doorson

P.S. - I didn't mean the end of the letter. I meant my life.

Facebook Profile of Mayor Schutzstaffel, the guy who likes breakfast

Sex: Breakfast

Birthday: Breakfast Day, 1988

Hometown: Eggwich, IA

Religious Views: Eating breakfast is like cumming in God at the start of every morning

Relationship Status: Breakfast

Interested in: Breakfast

Looking for: Breakfast

Personal Information

Activities: Breakfasting and egg whisking and sausage steaming and pulp grinding and toast crisping and and bacon licking and and receipt filing and and coconut hauling and and Kix smearing and coffee straining and and and and and and and and fart knocking and gracefulness

Favorite Music: The sound of smelling pancakes in the AM.

Favorite TV Shows: The Egg-Ventures of Olly the Omelette and his Pet Gummy Bear Smitty (Seasons 3 and 8)

Favorite Movies: Ernest Saves Breakfast, Earnest Scared Breakfast, Ernest Goes to Breakfast

Favorite Books: Incan Sandies: The Sandy Breakfasts of the Lima-Area 12^th Century Incas.  (only funny if Incan and Pecan rhymed, which they didn’t)

Favorite Quotations:

“Breakfast is a dish best served constantly, without interruption for bowel movement or sleep or respiration.”

“Walk softly but carry a big whisk.”

“The simplest explanation is usually breakfast.”

“You know you a sweet little lovemaker, foxy eggy.”

“You can lead a pancake to syrup and you can make it delicious.”

About Me:

B is for big old cakes of totally fuckable pancakes

R is for rifling through the thrift store, looking for deals on eggs

E is for each day is a chance to swallow two loaves of french toast

A is for a Pall Mall cigarette while the potatoes are cooking

K is for kissing delicately the soft shivering center of a danish

F is for 4 as in I like to eat breakfast fourever

A is the Alps, the Mecca of breakfast & for “ASS” as in breakfASSt

S is for safe sex

T is for trying to be the best damn fuckface I can be

O is for an outstanding breakfast, which I eat every day

What does that spell?...

If you speak Spanish, then you know this is the Hispanic translation of the Anglos’ “breakfast.”