Awe into envy. Admiration into despair.

A production designer being interviewed in a documentary about Stanley Kubrick made a comment about the difficulty involved with the intellectual justification of one's creativity. I was distinctly moved by that. I think that is often of greater interest to me than the creative act itself. It may be a luxury to search for shadows of reason in things that burst through the stubborn membrane between idea and reality. Why do I think this? Why do I want it? What does it say? What will they see or hear? What of this is me? I like asking questions. I especially like asking questions that can't be answered. Discussion for discussion's sake. The dig over the find.

Stanley Kubrick is such an anomaly. His career seems a study in exceptions. He's a keen representation of the brand of accomplishment I have always aspired to but have never really thought myself capable of.

It makes me feel small and meek and slightly hopeless to consider all that was wrought by those I admire. My, but I've got to get busy.

Brilliant and passionate people. That's who I keep in my secret locket. That's the reflective surface on which I measure myself. To be inspired. To be urged. To be shown how much more can be asked and expected. There's no gift I treasure more.