December 26th-29th, 2007. Bristol, Vermont. Be There...
Prairie Creek Road, Redwoods Nat. Park, California
The Golden Bluffs were fogged in, it was like looking out of an airplane window. We had drank more red wine with our lunch.
Carmel Beach, Carmel, California
The wedding we attended was held at a winery, that sparked some enthusiastic red wine drinking on the beach.
Piney Woods Rd., Monkton, Vermont
EXT. VILLAGE - DAWN Scene #169
Camera comes out from behind a hut to reveal the decimated
village, now peopled solely by wandering zombies.
Zombie-Sandy crouches by a nearby hut, gnawing on a detached
arm. Her yellow eyes dart up at the sound of the chief’s hut
opening.
Kohi comes out, sword drawn, with Anna at his side.
Zombie-Sandy stands. Zoom in on a shocked Anna...
Piney Woods Rd., Monkton, Vermont
"Even when we are diligent, when we give Amanae the sacrifices that are his due...still he sends his winds of destruction upon us... Why should we follow his law, when we receive injustice in return?"
Savannah Beach, Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands
Pesky cannibals, they're always ruining a nice day at the beach!
Savannah Beach, Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands
"Chester", played by Theodore Bouloukos, waits out a rain shower, before his big death sequence.
Devil's Bay, Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands
It is a shame that the cannibals and the zombies are ruining this natural wonder.
By the train tracks, Elkhart, Indiana
"...yeah, shit and then not only am I abondoning my fucking jeep here,
everytime we sit down to smoke-it starts fucking raining! I mean come on, give us a break...
Man-I knew it was all over when the tow truck guy welcomed us to the 'RV capitol of the world!'...Fuck dude!"
Old Route 4, Rutland, Vermont
When insitutions or a state "produce" histories or create a mode for the disemination of knowledge, they effectively legitimize the existance of that insitution or the right of that state. This creates not only rhetoric and propoganda, in general terms, it creates a language by which to understand what is NOT that state or institution. With this, a state, can then begin to make claims about what it is, based on the facts of what it is NOT. In other words, using the Other to explain it's own identity. Creating this language of civilizational authority, then using it as a basis for understanding a national identity, makes a government or at least those in power, believe that what it is doing is right or just, in comparison to everyone else. Not only that, but it creates a frame for those inside the state, the masses, to understand thier own identity through a nationalistic scope and begin to discuss the identity of others, with the state's language.
In my day to day life, in post-9/11 America, this effect, has left a void in the language available to discuss modern America. I cannot narrate the sub-altren. It must be based on the terms, the vocabulary and the language of it's own displacement or migration. The struggle therein, is framing a discourse without the terms and the language given to it by the establishment. How does one seperate a common language with a common understanding? One has to move beyond post-modernism and post-orientalism, and must critique stucturalist modes of knowledge. However, Precosh stated,"... the sub-altren must use old forms of knowldege and foundational histories, either to react against or critique. In doing this they must critique themselves, what are they trying to say, how do they mark identity, how do they assign good and bad..." Thus, it is the role of the contemporary historian and documentarian to break foundational claims and provide new perspectives. We must base our writings, findings and commentaries, not on that which is narrated through a categorical identity or established methodologies. Together, we the artists and historians of the 21st century, coupled with those of the non-western diaspora, MUST use history, language, and art, as a different disipline than what was established by Europeans or the west at large. In creating this perspective, we will effectively rewrite history in a language that knows only itself, that is removed from the establishment's notions of categorical identities. May, 2007.
Naddi Village, Himachal Pradesh, India
We hiked to the sacred Dal Lake one morning but found it to be quite dull. We stayed only a short time and began to hike back. Not more than 100 paces into the trek, we were found ourselves caught in a wicked hale storm. We grabbed a rickshaw to take us the rest of the way home, only to then be caught in a herd of sheep and goats being lead up the mountain. April, 2007.
Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India
Wendi looks over the Yamuna River from the Mosque at the Taj Mahal. April, 2007.
Sarnath, Uttar Pradesh, India
In 2000, I travelled to India, as a naive 20 year old to shoot my thesis film while attending Hampshire College. About half way through excursion, I wound up in Varanasi, a 4,000 year old city, on the banks of the holy Ganges River. There, over breakfast in a crowded local cafe, I met a Kazakstani poet, who was a practicing Tibetan Buddhist.
He told me of his many trips to India and Mongolia. He went on to tell me of a Tibetan monk, he had become friends with, who lived in the Chinese monastery in Sarnath, 10 kilometers outside of Varanasi.
I had been to Sarnath. It was a lovely small town, where the Buddha had gone to teach the Dharma after gaining enlightenment in Bodh Gaya, some 200 kilometers east.
This Kazak poet, then asked me to do him a favour: To deliver a package of red seeds to his monk friend. These seeds had been blessed by His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, at a private audience, that the poet had had with HH the Dalai Lama. For some reason, I cannot remember, a death in the family perhaps, the Kazak, had to leave India with great haste and was unable to deliver these seeds to his monk friend himself. These seeds were something like echinecea of the west, with healing and immunity properties, but also with this blessing were extra special for the Tibetan people.
I agreed to the mission. Delivering a mysterious package of great auspicious and power to a Tibetan monk, who could refuse?
The next morning I caught a rickshaw for 50 rupees back up to Sarnath, where I was dropped in the center of town. I wandered down one of side streets to the Chinese monastary. I walked in to the residence area, asking around for an English speaker. Eventually, I found a frail, old nun who spoke English, I told her who I was looking for and she guided me in the right direction. As I approached the door, I saw a frail old monk, sitting, seemingly sadly on his bed. The nun announced me and lead me into the room.
It was a dark, dank room. With very little furniture. A small bed was wedged up against the wall, where this wrinkley old monk sat. He didn't wear the normal maroon and saffron robes of a typical Tibetan monk. He wore a yellow sleeveless shirt and an orange dopata. His eye brows grew long, down over his eyes. He had terrible cataracts in his left eye. He sat like the Buddha.
He invited me to sit, along with the nun, who would serve as translator.
We sat.
I told him, I had met this Kazakstani poet. The nun translated. The monk knew who I spoke of. I went on, telling him that the poet had an audience with His Holiness and was given this package of seeds. I pulled out the package and handed it over. The nun translated, "The poet wanted you to have these, they are from the Dalai Lama, he blessed them."
The monk looked shocked. He froze for a moment. Took the seeds from me and began to cry, while at the same time, saying a prayer and thanking me.
The nun, translated his Tibetan back. "He says: he doesn't know why or how this could be, but he is so thankful and happy, he says you are a great messenger and have given him something, that is out of impossibly out of his reach, a great gift, indeed," she explained in broken English.
I didn't know what to do. I just pressed my hands together, closed my eyes and bowed slightly to the monk, as he continued to chant with the seed pouch in his hands.
A few minutes later, the monk made a move to the edge of his bed and reached for a crutch near leaning on the wall. But got seemingly winded. He had a gimp leg. In fact he was paraplegic. The poet, did not tell me of this. Essentially, this monk was immobile and needed a lot of assistance. I was shocked.
He motioned for the nun, instead, to get a jar from the top of his dresser. She obliged and took out a big jar of hard candies. He said in Tibetan, to give me a handful of them. She did, and I accepted. He gestured for me to eat some, I did. As I sucked on the candy, we continued to chat, via the translating nun, about what I was doing in India, where I was from, as well as his story of leaving Tibet and how he ended up in India as a refugee. I have to admit, I forget the details of his story. I was so overwhelmed with his joy and the whole situation, I was in a state of awe during the whole exchange, I sort of just have that memory. I do remember, however, it was a daring escape and took him through the Himalaya and Nepal, before he eventually came to Sarnath.
About an hour went by and it began to get dark, and it is hard to get a rickshaw back to Varanasi after the sun goes down. I said my goodbyes, in my broken Tibetan and was off.
I have held that experience with me as one of the most exciting and fulfilling moments of my adult life for 7 years now.
-----
This winter I wound up getting a job as the Hi-Def Camera Tech on a Pakistani feature film. We shot for two months all over Sindh, Pakistan. After we wrapped, I took the opportunity to head back into India, where my girlfriend Wendi, met me in Mumbai. We headed out on a little sojourn to retrace some of my steps from six years ago.
Our first stop after Mumbai was Varanasi. After a few days of walking along the banks of the Ganges, we headed up to Sarnath. After visiting the main temple and some old ruins, Wendi asks me,"What about your monk? You told me that crazy story, I remember, you should go find him!"
"I don't think he is still alive," I said.
"Let's go see," she insists.
A few minutes later we were walking down that side street, toward the Chinese monastery. It came up quickly, I didn't remember it being so close to the main temple, but there it was. We walked through the main gate, I remarked, "I bet he's not here, he was so old, there's no way." We continued across the court yard toward the shrine.
As soon as we walked through the main gate, sure enough, sitting there on a grass mat, was my old, long eye-browed monk, reading through some booklet with his one good eye. I walked up to him and knelt down. He said something in Tibetan. I tried to tell him I knew him in English. He didn't know who I was.
Wendi laughed. I said,"This is my guy!"
"Clearly," she says and laughs some more.
I tried to grab a couple Indian tourists that were passing by to explain to him what the scene was, but the monk did not speak Hindi and I could not get across my story to the Indians anyway. Eventually, someone motioned to another monk across the courtyard,"Thai-monk...English" they said.
I went to the Thai monk. He spoke English. I explained my story. "Do you speak Tibetan, can you help explain who I am and my story?"
"Of course," the Thai monk says.
And we crossed back over the courtyard.
We knelt down to explain.
As soon as the Thai monk explains, the Tibetan monks eyes light up and he laughs and begins to chant and reaches out for my hands. He grasps them so tightly, closes his eyes and says a prayer as I kneel there with him. The Thai monk explains,"He remembers you, he just didn't recognize you, because you have grown a beard and have gained weight!"
We all laughed.
Tando Allahyar, Sindh, Pakistan
The corner room of an abondoned, British era building, to be used as a location for an interrogation scene. Febuary 23rd, 2007.
Khakhanyar Rahim Ali, Sindh, Pakistan
Several kilometers of sand track lead us here for a week of shooting. March 4th, 2007.
Bodhesar Jain Temple, Nagar Parker, Sindh, Pakistan
Habibila Khan, our best boy, lights a night scene with a homemade reflector and an old school Arri 2.5 Fresnel. March 3rd, 2007.
Arabian Sea, French Beach, Karachi, Pakistan
After being out all night, we watched the sun rise from the rocky shore line, drank one last beer and played Radiohead covers on acoustic guitars. Febuary 16th, 2007.
Maya Dam, Nagar Parker, Sindh, Pakistan
When the military intellegence agency watching us, shut down the production for a few days, we took the oppurtunity to hike into a near by canyon. Febuary 5th, 2007.
On the road from Mithi to Islamkot, Sindh, Pakistan
Shooting a scene on a local bus. March 3rd, 2007.
Gori Temple, Nagar Parker, Sindh, Pakistan
We travelled several kilometers on a dirt track, which lead us to this 900 year old Hindu temple. Made of alabaster and brick, it has stood through wars, earthquakes and abandonment. We staged a dream sequence here, where our intrepid 'Ramchand' searches for his beloved mother, only to meet the wrath of the many bats that hang from the temple's dome... Sofian Khan, our DP, looks out for the frame; Febuary 3rd, 2007.
Ash Cave, Logan, Ohio
Our intrepid team braved the heavy down pour on an expedition leading us to a rare Appalachian sight. January 14th, 2007.
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