Holding a Candle to it

We have a very limited amount of time for this edit, see, so I’m trying to compress a lot of work into that time. Whole I can’t compete with benzedrine-chewing Hollywood legends like Zanuck, I am drinking plenty of coffee… Since my editor is already working all the hours that God sends, I have engaged another editor to work the other hours, the ones God claims are in the post but which he’s really hanging onto, and meanwhile I’m editing stray bits of footage by myself in the hours God forgot he had.

This is all made possible by one simple lifestyle adjustment — Momo is staying with a friend. So I no longer have the feline equivalent of Klaus Kinski screaming at me from dawn to dusk (and on into the time that God forgot). Don’t get me wrong, Momo is a marvelous fellow in many ways, though his ears are, as Fiona says, stupidly small. But he is a kind of furry male hysteric, expressing all his thoughts, and the spaces between them, through the process of incoherent bellowing and screeching, as if appearing in some kind of experimental theatre piece.

With him temporarily on vacation, life in the Shadowplayhouse suddenly seems sedated, submerged in a noiseless bath of tranquility. The mute button of life has been depressed.