Distant Shore

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I haven’t written a blog entry in a long time. I had no intention, actually, of starting back up. But I’ve been sitting in front of my keyboard for over an hour now, and I can’t bring myself to open up Final Draft. I can’t bring myself to write an artistic statement about why I want to make my movie. I can’t bring myself to give two shits about any of that right now.

I’m a true chicken. I always tell myself not to look. Don’t look. Don’t watch that scary movie – it will haunt you for years. Don’t listen to that creepy song – it will wake you up at 2am for months. Don’t look at that disturbing picture – it’s important, it’s news, but it will never leave you.

I looked at the picture.

It’s not hard to find. It’s hard to avoid. It’s probably all over your Facebook feed. It’s on the front pages of your favorite news aggregators. It’s now firmly lodged with me. A child has washed up on a distant shore in the exact position that my own babies sleep in. Stomach down, cheek resting, quiet repose. Quiet.

There’s something to be said here. Something about a lesson, something about helping, something about making a difference, something about donating money/time/outrage. Something about heartbreak, tragedy, desperation. Something about the power of imagery, something about responsibility, responsibility as humans, responsibility as artists, photographers, filmmakers, something something something about tying it all into what I’ve been trying to do with my life. Something about how this kind of thing happens every day in other lands, in our own land, in our own backyards. Something about finding a way to do something about it.

There’s something to be said, and I can’t say it. I can’t say anything. There are no answers. There are no words.

There is just the picture.

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