Recently I’ve been put under pressure by my employers to clarify my position on the American film craft unions, specifically IATSE, the Teamsters, and even SAG. My Sensei isn’t involved but is unable (or unwilling; he’s been uncharacteristically cagey these past few days) to aid or intervene on my behalf. Mr. Fincher is, once again, shooting the 90th take of someone turning keys in a car’s ignition. Every shot matters, he says. But there are only so many hours in the day, and only so many days when we’re free to pick daffodils and talk to houseplants. I do a lot of things in my spare time, but walking among the flowers like a record collector soothes me; it must be what Thurston Moore felt like perusing record stores in the Bronx for unlabeled dub sides in the early-1980s. We all have our hipster moments.
But these flowers are not a passing fancy for me. They’re an obsession. I’ve been collecting daisies, daffodils, dandelions, and primrose for as long as I can remember, and whenever I bring a flower home, I hope against hope that it’ll live, but it never does. None of them ever make it through a night or two removed from the soil, banished from their natural environment. I’m not sure why cats and cactuses can do it but the majestic sunflower withers indoors. Why do I do this? It creates a lot of garbage, which my cousin Rooster complains about cleaning up (his wife Monica doesn’t get involved; I’ve always sensed that she was a fan of flowers as well, and, perhaps, she didn’t mind humoring my outsized interest in what grows out of the earth).
This is another example that proves women are smarter than men.
Apparently, I’ve created “an intolerable mess” in my trailer, and the company financing this whole circus—starts with N and ends with X—aren’t happy. The representatives I spoke to, and the “guards” who verbally accosted me, let any pretense of “woke” fall by the wayside as they inveighed slur after slur at me: “menace,” “nuisance,” “foul” (or “fowl,” which is still rude), and, worst of all, “chicken.” People really still don’t know how damaging that word is to us? How hurtful it can be? Apparently not. I’ve struggled to communicate to these drones that I’m an artist, and collecting flowers and allowing them the opportunity to bloom in an unfamiliar environment is as much a part of my creative process as any “method” used by any other actor. If Daniel Day-Lewis was starring in a movie about the tulip fever phenomenon, would he be getting these kinds of insults? Somehow I doubt it.
My Sensei told me I have to explain my side to the trade unions, who N-X engaged to “take care of me,” treating my process as a safety hazard for the entire production. “You have to show them that this is necessary.” I could tell he was kind of annoyed—making a movie is so hard no matter how famous or experienced you are—but I also knew that he was used to dealing with far more trivial problems from less talented people. “I’ve never worked with a bird before,” he told me, graciously omitting the adjective “talking.” He knows I’m special and why, but he also knows enough not to treat me like a circus freak. My Sensei’s nice that way. I’m not even sure Mr. Fincher knows who I am anymore.
So I wait to go before the mysterious “Boards of Southern California,” confident in my case but nervous about this organization’s all-seeing eye and obvious power. What’s a rooster even supposed to do? I can’t fly. I’m going to tell them that my process won’t interfere with their plans, or their equipment, anymore. And I’m going to be honest about it. Brad (a friend) bought me a small garden in Hermosa Beach, and I’ve been tending to it. I still like to bring them inside once they bloom, but now my flowers get a few more days outside, a few more rays of sunshine, before my experiments begin. You may ask, why are you doing this? Nothing has ever survived, and yet you persist. Why?
I counter with another question, a single word: “Qualm?”
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