My addiction to storytelling all began when I came out of my mother’s vaginal walls, covered in blood and creamy mucus; fighting desperately to get the attention I deserved from her. When I was seven I had to compete with my three brother’s for the love of my dying grandma. I easily won by deciding I wanted to be a country musician, using the sweet old ladies classic fender guitar. I sang her songs I wrote; strumming that old guitar till my fingers bled. I played her those damn songs until her final breath. No shit, I saw her take her last breath at nearly the exact moment her song ended. I never played the guitar again.
This storytelling obsession continued into junior high when I tried to impress a girl by telling her I was going to be a filmmaker. She didn’t believe me but was enticed enough to marry me five years later. I made three shit hole movies with her as my inspiration. It continued in a new way with the birth of my daughter, which gave me a happiness I had never known.
And then all the women left me. My mother moved away, my wife divorced me and kept custody of my daughter. And it was when all the inspiration left that I forgot how to write. So instead of writing what I did was convince myself that I knew how to make a “professional movie”. If I could do this then I could have a cornucopia of inspirations (because women must love real filmmakers). So I made an attack plan. I would make a movie about how beautiful women are. The process was very simple:
-Fill up with obsessions and anger and sadness and joy and shattered dreams (yes all of the cliches of the rainbow)
-write this diarrhetic rhetoric into a a semi straightforward story line, title it some pretentious title and proof it with your friends and trusted movie snots.
That’s the beginning. The horrid beginning of an even more horrid event.
The next few steps were the easy parts, and the parts to which I failed miserably. Preproduction. What a cunt. It consisted of: Convincing people to believe in my vision. Convincing people to work hard at putting together a well oiled machine. And convincing people to be loyal. I did this for several months, painstakingly, not getting anywhere, and realizing that the screenplay I had written had nothing beautiful about women in it at all. It was ugly, it was despicable. it was hateful and filled with angst.
We went into production for about two days, and realized that everything was all wrong. The false loyalties and bullshit ideas that had been concocted by a team of people that were about as compatible as a tweaker and a porterhouse steak, had no relevance to any human emotions.
It all became void. It had to end.
Over the next few months the darkness set in. No one would talk to me but my two loyal friends and occasionally my mother. My computer screen stared at me with disgust forbidding me to write. I tried to forget about my failures and tried to move on, write something new, squirt this shit into a new story, recast, do the movie, stand up, live!
But the most I could do to feel creative or useful was violent alcohol binges, cigarette cereal, popping pills, smoking dope, jerking off, quitting jobs, hiding in my apartment, day dreaming about pretty girls, battling imaginary bastards with handle-bar mustaches (who followed me home every night and tried to sodomize me), and read a copious amount of existential essays and books realizing all over again how small and meaningless my existence really was until finally I became so angry and alone and pitiful that all I could do was scream and fuck holes in walls.
Then one day I went to my friend’s house and sat in the dark living room holding their adorable child and the door opens and a girl steps into the room and the movie is reborn. It becomes restructured to a story that actually means something more than just my own ouroboros. It becomes a culmination of everything I had experienced in the previous two years from divorce, to failure, to obsessions, to addictions, to horniness, to desperation, loneliness, perversion, sadness, joy, shattered dreams (and all the other colors of the human rainbow).
It becomes what it was meant to be. It becomes Nausea. Which is not about the beauty of women, it is not about anything but the condition to which we are all capable of becoming. It is about the darkness from which masculinity is born. And finally after nearly three years of not working or completing one single piece of existing human study; I become what I love being, a tiny ball of disgusting flesh running around with a camera and a boom mic, my close friends, and a mission to complete a project that could assist in some way of attaining some miniscule amount of immortality. It becomes a rebirth of my belief in creation with the sole purpose of creation. It has no delusion of grandeur or of worship. It just is.
And yes it all happened that fast.
And then I become what I am meant to be.
At this time I have become Nausea.
And like all important things… it all begins and ends with a girl.
So glad she’s playing the lead.
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