Off the Record

My living out of a suitcase is soon coming to an end, as I leave the extreme inversion where the cold and smog is trapped underneath a hood of warm air coming from the mountains. No more new city, new friends or Mormons. It's back to the grind of spending time alone, going to bars, coffee shops and libraries, and not daring to step outside my apartment for a casual walk. I heard about a tourist attraction just a few blocks from my Mayor's house, which captured the rather large Mexican Catholicism in the area. I noticed it from about two blocks away, for it looked like a small treehouse that wasn't quite in the tree, but moreso next to it. The small wooden platform had stairs leading up to it and was covered in colorful portraits of various saints of the church. There were a few small tables surrounding the tree which held dozens of devotional candles also with pictures of saints--their prayers listed on the back in Spanish. I circled the area and, with slight hesitation, I walked up the steps that lead to an area of the tree about eight feet off the ground. Where a branch had been cut off was what appeared to be some sort of image--of Our Lady of Guadalupe or, to others, the Virgin Mary. There was a framed photo of the image, and the remains of what had initially been uncovered during a tree trimming in 1997. I could see nothing. Just bark. And lots of flowers littered at my feet. I felt slightly disrespectful as I stood on an area of worship for many Mexican Catholics whose neighborhood I was in solely to see this rarity in the predominantly Mormon city. My question is: was the image's identity assumed because of the large Latino influence or did the Latinos assume the image's identity? Conversely, if this were an Islamic area, would Allah have been the tree's bearance? Cars rushed past and people walked by, and I felt attacked and preyed upon and slightly intrusive. I carefully walked down the steps and walked over to a small park nearby to call my displaced Salt Lake pal who I hoped could further explain this phenomenon. As she was telling me more, a Ford Ranger pulled up and a larger Mexican woman of about 26 got out and immediately knelt before the tree on a freestanding kneeler. I began to feel even more irreverent as I grilled my friend about the substantial size of this monument. The woman walked up the steps, said another prayer before the effigy and then left. When I told my cousin about this occurrence he said: "Someone told me that when they visited the tree the virgin mary waved at them. Of course I wanted to know if she waved with all of her fingers........" So I didnt' see the Salt Lake while I was here and I never got to hear the Mormon choir sing, but I am content with my pilgrimage to honor the divine and miraculous Our Lady of the Bark, er, I mean, Guadalupe.

Wood wrote: "Yet she still gets away with her endless B." And Wolf Ira told me, "I woof you."

I am not a good storyteller. I do not have the ability to capture audiences with my audible voice. They do not gather around me and hang onto every word I say. I am good for interjections, off-color comments and appropriate reactions. Never will I be able to tell a joke, relay a story or make up an outlandish tale for my interested friends. Instead, I write. I communicate with the written word, and capture the masses with simple yet full mots de moi. Only when I write, whether in a letter, an instant message, an email or a note, am I able to fully convey what I really want to express. The truth, the whole story, the honest, truthful story. Is this because I was raised in the time where internet, text messaging and postcards were big? Is the world becoming more reliant on their writing abilities than their speaking abilities? Is that the reason why so many things are misinterpreted and misconstreued? Speaking is about inflection and intensity and wit and dryness and volume, where as writing is merely reliant upon compostion and the building of words in a sentence. Who is keeping the art of speech alive? The President? Theatre companies? Debate teams? More and more people have blogs and newsletters and mass emails, etc etc. Are we reverting back to the times of Shakespeare and Homer and Martin Luther? Is writing now the base root of all expression? Will we evolve into those who cannot intonate or inflect or demand or sob? I hate answering my phone because I find myself uncomfortable in an audible conversation. Who will say goodbye first? Who will end the talking? Will there be silence? What if I stutter or say something that I didn't mean? I can't delete, I can't erase, I can't edit or walk away from it as I try to think of something witty and redeeming. I could tell you the world if you were only willing to read it.

As I wandered around Temple Square again (this time in the company of three gays) and saw young couples holding hands, staring reverently up at the large statue of Jesus, I thought about what it would be like to actually have a god of some sort the focus of ones relationship. They would pray together, go to church together and I'm sure they'd have lengthy discussions about the presence of the Lord in their lives as a Christian couple. I know many of you may disagree, but, as someone who knows a great amount about religion (the first 18 years of my life were spent in Catholic educational institutions) and whoh as somewhat strayed from the 'way,' I feel that religion could possibly be a way of avoiding reality by putting unfortunate events on the shoulders of someone other than yourself. Dad, relatives, friends of mine: I respect someone's right to practice religion and I'm amazed at the self-discipline that you all have, but I suppose I've turned into a realist who right now chooses to rely on myself for help with challenges, problems and trying times. What's so intriguing about the Mormon lifestyle is that it is an actualy LIFESTYLE. It's not only about prayer and missions and the president of the church and the goal of having your own planet and immortalizing Smith and Young, but it's about living a life without alcohol, premarital sex, immodesty and coffee. What if one was just to live his life as he pleased, with no rules established by someone other than human society? Would this world be a safer place? Less fighting, less opposition? If each lived by his own bible, with the ultimate message being goodwill and humaneness, where would established relgion be? And, are more people turning to religion now than compared to the 1950's? What if the flock stops following and we're all just lost sheep in the meadow? Maybe we'd have to turn to those reverent couples holding hands on the grounds of the Temple for some guidance.

Fest is passing by quickly, as I'm having tons o fun on my shifts. 8.5 hours a day! Hooray! I've seen 5 movies thus far--I'm a bit behind others, but I like my sleep and my alone time. Had an enchanting conversation with Leonard Maltin today when he offered me a chocolate chip cookie. Over the headset, I told the rest of the theatre crew, "Leonard Maltin just offered me a cookie." That spawned a reaction of comments such as, "Leonard Nemoy is sitting in the theatre" and "Lynard Skynard is watching a movie" and "Leonard Bernstein just wrote me a song," all over the radio network for our venue. After much laughing and nonsense, we do run what is probably the best theatre at Sundance. We also play music from somone's phone into the megaphone and dance with each other for all the patrons who are pissed off that they probably won't get to go see a film they've been standing in line for for 3 hours. They like us. And we like them. Maybe sometimes a little too much.

From: Bowling Subject: And you can create transparent VolatileImage objects. From: muyeke Subject: URGENT PLEA FOR ASSISTANCE {this is not spam}. From: reinforcement Subject: breast-fed.

A film about a girl with a toothful vagina. The mom from Growing Pains. A package received two days late full of cheese, sauce, pizza shells, an issue of 52nd City and a Christmas card. A bus-full of people singing along to a Weezer song playing over the intercom. People lining up 6 hours before the start of a film where Dakota Fanning gets raped. Up to my knees in snow. The Mexican guy in Dirty Dancing 2 and Y Tu Mama Tambien. Bloated from eating nothing but carbohydrates for the past 5 days. Free Hoegaarden and wine for 6 hours a night. Only partaking in the latter once for two hours.

Anthony Hopkins, Tara Reid, Molly Shannon.

Made it up the mountain safely and had my first day of set-up at the Raquet Club Theatre. It's one of the bigger theatres at the festival, and a lot of good flick are coming here. Big names, big producers, most likely movies that will make it to the theatres in wide-release by the summer or fall. Just like Little Miss Sunshine did. Saw two films last night--one was a doc (Chasing Ghosts) about arcade games in the late '70s, early '80s. Followed the lives of record-holding champions and there they are now. Ten of the ten guys are still pretty odd. It's amazing the kid of mind you have to have to play video games as much as these guys did. And why does it only seem to be men? Interesting. I then saw a film (Angel-A) by the maker of The Professional--Luc Besson. Amazing black and white film in French about a man who, on his way to committing suicide, saves a girl with the same thought. She then turns out to be an angel and a direct reflection of him. She tries to help him pay off his debts by participating in destructive behaviour, much like his. After he learns to love himself a bit he falls in love with her and then prevents her from going back up to heaven. Kinda corny at the end, but the message and the filmmaking was spectacular. Scenes of Paris were great, too. The thing about this festival is that you are either watching movies or working. You plan in advance how long you have to get to each venue, then you have to wait in line for at least an hour if you want to get in as a volunteer. It's a very long, exhaustive, tedious process, but, in the end, you've seen 15 movies in 10 days and you're ready to go make one or write one or hang out with the people who are involved in them. Seeing two last night, back to back, I'm almost ahead of my record of three that I saw last year. I work the 2.30-11pm shift tonight then partying or movie-watching or bedding so I can wake up at 6.30 to make the hike to another theater across town to watch The Savages--a film with Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney--two of my fave actors. Sensual and talented, they are. It's snowy and cold here, but it's absolutely gorgeous. That is, until the altitude sickness sets in.

I fought off sleep because I was afraid I might miss something. Like the lady at the coffee shop I overheard say she had an audition for a modeling job. She was oddly shaped, sort of eggish on top and very small on bottom, drenched in make-up and fake eyebrows, smoking at every chance she got and talking to herself in between. When she sat at the table next to mine and began her talking I started to smell something and wrote to the editor that it was gross. Like a carnival. But not the oooo popcorn/cotton candy smell--it was the bad carnival smell. It could have had nothing to do with her, but it reminded me of that. If I go to sleep too early I might miss looking at the pile of change on the ladder and saying to myself that I should always put it in my pocket before I go out just in case I need to feed a meter or even out and amount or feed a bum outside the Temple. If, in the morning, I get up too late, your fame may have exceeded me and pushed me in a corner as you bask and wallow and star in your own movie. You will have walked on, beyond what I could possibly provide, in search of more of what came your way. Basking and wallowing and starring. Who is she? Handy? Unmotivated? Enviable? All of those things make her worth keeping around, whether it's in the eyes, ears, nose, flesh or mouth. She wants nothing but the carnival where the eggish lady auditions and holds spare change (just in case) for her own movie.