All Too Human

I've mentioned before that I chose Fellini as the titular master of my quest in a seemingly arbitrary manner. My first director heroes were Scorcese and Coppola, beginning in elementary school with The Godfather, Taxi Driver and Raging Bull. In high school I moved away from Coppola (I wrote a paper on Apocalypse Now with a title based on a quote from Rudyard Kipling, It's Clever but is it Art?) toward Woody Allen and Sergio Leone. I dabbled with Fellini when I moved to Germany at 18, but Jim Jarmusch and Spike Lee came along and stole my attention. Soon after that I discovered David Lynch and Godard.
My point is that I could have chosen so many others for their mentorship and alliterative possibilities -- Seeking Scorcese, Limning Lynch, Chasing Coppola ... I loved things about Fellini films, but honestly didn't make the connection to Fellini's humanism. I somehow excused my stories as not being personal in the manner of a Fellini film.
I'm slowly awakening to the heart of my storytelling, trusting that I didn't choose Federico as my virtual adviser without reason. This morning I was jolted from my cynical slumber. I referred yesterday to the grief-like experience of post-production. This morning a friend spoke of the effects of the anniversary of her mother's death on her lately. I casually related, slightly nodding my head since my mother is also passed. When is the anniversary of my mother's suicide?, I asked myself. Oh, let's see, March 3. That would be last Friday. Grief. Grieving -- allowing oneself to process and adjust to profound loss and change.
I drew upon the grieving I did in the year following my mother's death in the preparation of But A Dream. I cited my inabilty to move, to dance, the complete shutting down of my physical life to Joey in relation to his inability to step forward in the mine field.
My cynical self says this is unconnected.
My cynical self is a fucking liar.

Ciao,
Signore Direttore