from my journal:

February 11, 2013

It’s a late Sunday night in February, and I’ve returned from another Hollywood Industry Awards show. Tonight, I heard dull remarks and passionless accolades. I recoiled at film clips that were filled with explosive, heartless, gun pointing violence. One of the few conversations I had was with a preeminent camera operator (he’s done the last dozen Spielberg movies) who told me he’s leaving next week to go to Canada for three months to do Godzilla.

It’s come to that.

On the drive home, I was overcome with sadness. I realized the final attachments to my camera career had taken a last gasp, broke wind and died. My career identity had been on life support for years. Tonight, as it rolled over and exhaled its last, a glitzy neon marquee spelled out “DONE”, and search lights illuminated the black night sky, hoping to get a  glimpse of what I’m supposed to do next.

I’m sad and grieving. The “me” that was thrilled by movie sets, soaked up Hollywood lore, and enjoyed the respect that came from working within the once-mysterious process of film production – that “me” is no more. In spite of my grief, I know that tonight’s death knell is required curriculum for moving forward. I know the last morsels of resistance to change were jettisoned tonight, and I am now fully available.

Spirit, do you hear me? I’m talking to you! I’m yours. Judgment free. Unattached and fresh-faced again. So, bring it on.