When you're finally alone for a moment, which is a very rare thing in New York City for a lot of reasons, tiny things quickly become big things. The clicks and squeaks of your knees. Small shifts in your weight when you walk which you might normally be unaware of. Empty space in your fridge. Extra time in your day. The sound you make when you breathe. Quiet thoughts which seize their chance to speak up.

For me, the most potent is the minimization of ego-willpower. No one is watching, which means I am allowed to be simple. This is not a bad thing.

The similarities to an image you love, whether it is a film, painting, or memory, remind you of your own awareness of yourself. Solitude creates reflection which heightens one's sense of self for a short time. Strangely, there is a sharp drop in that self-awareness once too much time has elapsed. You become a stranger to yourself, your thoughts bouncing off of themselves in a swirl.

got on an union square. they got on right after. he was maybe fifty-five, she was maybe forty-seven. she was drunk and he was exhausted. they got jostled getting onto the train.

"Yeah, that's why they call it the Hell Train."
"Ha. That's funny, a funny name. Fuck this train."
"Yeah, sit down here, it's too small for me too."

ten minutes of silence.

"What are we doing first?"
"I'm hungry. We'll go see the Muslims, get some food."
"What kind of food?"
"I don't know. Cheap."
"We... We gotta get cigarettes first."
"We'll get 'em."
"Y'want to get some beers?"
"Yeah, we'll get cigarettes, food, and beers."
"It's funny, we're talking about food right now, because you know, I was so hungry today that when I got a sandwich... I mean, I got one of those sandwiches--"
"I got one of them and it was bad. It went bad, I demanded my fucking money back right then and there, and they gave it."

nothing for a few minutes.

"Hey, what kind of food do you want to get?"
"I don't know."
"Y'want to get some White Castle burgers?"
"Yeah, I could go for two."
"Yeah, we could get some White Castle burgers, and then go home, and get it bed, or get in-- get in Jennifer's new bed and give each other back rubs."
"Want to get some beers? I can buy 'em, I'll give you the money for 'em."
"Yeah, that'll be good."
"Yeah let's get a 12."
"We can't get hammered, we're working tomorrow."

a long pause.

"...We're working again?"
"Yeah, nine to nine."

she sat there for a long time without talking, until

"Well when are we gonna fuck?"

nothing for many minutes. man with a bicycle enters the train.

"Hey can I just touch the pedals? Can I just spin them--"
"Hey, stop. Just don't pay any attention to her, sorry."
"What do you mean don't pay any attention to me?"
"Just stop bothering people."
"I just want to look at the bike!"
"Okay, so fucking just look at it."
"Well okay."
"This is our stop."
"Well what?"

they both get off at Montrose Avenue. right after that, the train broke down in the tunnel. we all sat in the hot dark without good air for about an hour. the silence underground is startling.

a woman walked up and asked if the door opened onto the tracks. she was cold and lonely looking, waxed in makeup, sneering, unfocused. i said no, it doesn't, unless you open it. she didn't laugh, but gave the wolf-snarl that suggested i thought she should have. i didn't want her to laugh even a little, so she wasted that one.

Because my name is Tymon Brown, this filmmaking and directing reel of mine is called "The Tymon Brown Filmmaking and Directing Reel." Pretty self-explanatory and non-contradictory. Anyway, here's what I can do with a camera, so far.

Kazu, a good friend of mine, had a cinema blog called Naive Cinema which I used to read regularly. Visiting that page sparked another weird kind of exploration desire in me to find underground movie blogs and to engage with the new-age Cinemateque-lings of the digital realm. Slashfilm, Indiewire, FilmThreat, all worked in different ways. Then I found a strange little blog called Distant Voices, with this list:

Distant Voices - 100 Films.

Finding this list woke up a strange appreciation for calculated darkness that I didn't know I had in me. It's wild.

A few books - On Photography, The Piano Teacher, French Cinema of the Occupation and Resistance, Jean Renoir, The Second Sex, and Regarding the Pain of Others - arrived in the mail. Most of them were already old friends, because I never lend books.

At a right-angle to the red brick is the drywall and wooden support beams that hold up this weird culvert in the wall of my bedroom. Three naked screws on either side hold up a plank of wood that strains a little under the weight of hard and soft-cover Sontag, Bazin, Tolkien, and some weird books that came from somewhere.

I like to look at them almost as much as reading them.

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