Part of that is because I have three children. All three are at home at the moment, though only one is still in high school. Running a household of five gets in the way of things. It just does. Women still haven’t figured out the juggling act, but we’re working on it. My life works reasonably well because my husband is a superb cook and has done all the dinner labor for years now, so I don’t have to shop for groceries much or cook much. That’s marvelous help. Over the years, we have worked together in the mornings to make lunches and get children off to school, and that also was huge. Because of him, I was able to quit teaching right after tenure and stay home with words and children. (He also brings me truffles from exotic places.)
I have had a lot of demands in the past year that got in the way of writing, far more so that usual. Serving on the panel for the National Book Award in “young people’s literature” devoured months, and I also had three books come out in three countries between March and the end of the year: a novel, A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage (Mercer, winner of The Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction); next, a collection of poetry, The Foliate Head (UK: Stanza Press); and then the most unusual, an adventure tale in verse that combines epic conventions with novelistic modes, Thaliad (Montreal: Phoenicia Publishing.) So for a good long time now I have been doing smaller things—poems and revision of poetry and fiction.
With novels, I tend to have a seed daydream or a dream in sleep that sets me off, and then I am always thinking about the story until I am done with a draft, whether I am sitting at my writing table or doing something utterly boring like folding laundry. I will stay up or rise in the night to write (and I have one novel from when my children were small that was composed entirely in the night) and grab any little bits of time in order to write during the day. I am obsessive and fast during that period. Revision and tweakage are easier to fit into my days, so they are seldom a problem.
With poetry, I feel a transformative change coming on, unless it’s a poem that one writes simply because of an itch to write a poem; that is, I move into a receptive mode because a poem is approaching. Does that sound mad? No doubt it is. But it’s a delicious madness. Now and then I have a spate of poetry and write new poems every day for a month or more, and those are intense, happy seasons in my life.
THERE ARE BIRDS IN YOUR ROOM. TELL US ABOUT THEM.
I am wandering (okay, easing around—it’s a bit crowded in here, with stacks of books in the walkway) in my writing room, looking for winged things. Bat in a basket of finger puppets, Red Rose goose from the old fairy tale series of Wade tea figurines, Fra Angelico annunciation-angel print from the marvelous show in New York a few years ago, framed Cieslawski solo show catalogue with a stork-like bird accompanying a woman who is watching some fish flow up into the air in the shape of a tree, a goofy paint-by-numbers acrylic of turkeys found in an old dresser and stuck up over the door, a preschooler’s watercolor bird in a circle of glitter and shiny paper over the other door: I never realized how many wings are in this room. It must be the vine-and-flower wallpaper that attracts them. (I inherited the wallpaper from the prior resident. She must have outgrown it, as I found hundreds of nails hammered into its tiny arabesques.)
But you must be thinking about the carved birds. Two turtledoves on a branch hang from the edge of a bookcase. Those birds were given to me after Ingledove (FSG, 2005) flew into the world. It’s a properly mushy gift for a husband to give. A sleek (ravenous!) creature on one leg, which Michael gave me after the publication of The Curse of the Raven Mocker (FSG, 2003), stands above some sea-washed stones from Aberystwyth (where I went to honor my artist friend Clive Hicks-Jenkins on the occasion of his 60th birthday retrospective at the splendid Gregynog Gallery of The National Library of Wales) and a netsuke mermaid. That carved corvid may have nested in my mind afterward because the long series of poems that I’ve been polishing, The Book of the Red King, contains a lot of ravens… The storyline focuses on the figures of the Red King and the Fool, and the Fool has a terrible past, including a time that he spent in a dank, decayed forest with the ravens.
WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU WERE READING BUT AREN’T (BECAUSE IT DOESN’T EXIST)?
The first book that I will write after my death.
WHAT CAN’T YOU LIVE WITHOUT?
That “lyric gush.” The joy of playing with words and arranging them in patterns that follow the weird, arcing and falling paths of the human heart. Love. Grace. Joy. (And you, Alisa, thought it was truffles!)
WHAT SHOULD A READER DO AFTER READING THIS?
I wouldn’t mind a bit if a reader took a peep at the books I published last year, as it is a mighty job to play midwife to three books at once. Quotes and clips for the novel are here, for the collection here, and for the long poem here.
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/344123031/waylines-magazine-year-two
Christopher Kezelos has been making films for more than a decade. With a BVA from Sydney University in film production, he’s worked as a writer/producer/director on ads, online videos and award winning shorts. He even has his own production company - Zealous Creative. Christopher wrote and directed his first animated short in 2010, titled Zero. His latest short, The Maker, has screened at over 60 festivals and won 21 awards. Waylines features The Maker in our Janaury 2013 issue, so head on over to view the full film.
We caught up with Kezelos during the busy winter season where he gave us some insightful answers about The Maker, filmmaking and the future. Enjoy!
John Williams has been making films for more than 12 years. In that time he has made a number of short films, worked on commercials and directed music videos for Coldplay, Radiohead and The Offspring. On top of all that, his work has won MTV Awards, 2 Young Advertising Awards in Cannes, and numerous other awards. Waylines features one of this latest films, Paraphernalia in our March 2013 issue. Head on over to check out the full film.
In February, we chatted with Williams about Paraphernalia, his filmmaking and the future. Here is his insight. Bon appetit!
What was the inspiration for Paraphernalia & what was your goal with the piece?
Firstly, the story was inspired by a friend of mine (but not a child) who needed dialysis treatment four hours a day, 3-4 times a week. She described the situation with the machine in her life as a sort of ‘love hate relationship’, she hated being so restricted by needing the machine but also appreciated that without such technology, she would not have been alive. This became the story I wanted to tell, but my approach was to not be so literal, so using a child and playing with the idea of personifying the dialysis machine into a robot became an exciting idea to convey the same heart of the story.
Are there any secrets you can tell us about achieving such great animation? How long did all this take?
Creating the robot was great fun. I had a clear idea I wanted the thing to look 1970’s in design so I found a slightly retro dialysis machine (which we used in the end bedroom scene) and began the designs based on that. Also I found these great toy robot arms that could be operated remotely so I worked with an animator (Andy Peel) to modify these arms and paint them up to match the dialysis machine. Finally, I made the body of the robot so we’d be able to have the real thing in as many shots as possible to cut down on the post production.
In the finished film, probably less that 20% has the physical robot in it, as it was quite cumbersome to move and operate. But the textures were really helpful in making the CGI one look authentic. I do a bit of VFX supervising and I always push to get as much real stuff in as possible, I find it helps grounding things in reality and helps deceive the audience like a good magic trick.
Time wise the animation took about 6 weeks and and then the lighting and rendering took another 6-7 weeks and had to be done remotely in Portugal as Passion Pictures, where the film was produced from, got too busy to do it. This actually worked out well in the end as the guys in Portugal did an amazing job.
We think Elijah Muhammad did a wonderful job as Atari. How was it direc
ting a child lead? Were there any secrets to drawing out his great performance?
In an early test before I got funding for the film, I found young Elijah. He’d never acted before but on camera he had a real screen presence, so we did a load of workshops and developed the script around him. He was fantastic, he has loads of energy but as soon as we called ‘action’ he became the most professional person on set. The only secret was finding him, he did the rest.However, it did help that we spent quite a lot of time together before filming, even just playing football and stuff so we had a good friendship.
How big of a crew did it take to achieve Paraphernalia?
You can see the film crew in the photo above, post production wise there was myself, the editor, two producers, 1 animator, 2 guys in Portugal doing the lighting and rendering. 2 guys helping do the robot graphics and rotoscoping and the musician I usually work with. Nearly everyone worked for free or at least very low fees so much was squeezed in between other jobs.
We see that you have directed a number of music videos. Was making Paraphernalia any different than that process?
Paraphernalia was a good shoot to be on. We had enough time (which is never the case when shooting music video’s) and we shot the interior stuff actually at Elijah’s home and his mum who is an awesome cook, did the food for us. Also with the shooting style I didn’t want to go too stylized like with music video’s, I needed it to feel more real and natural so the lighting set-ups were a lot simpler.
Why do you want to tell visual stories?
I guess one of the reasons I was so drawn to visual storytelling is that I wasn’t that sharp at school and soon found I got a better response from stuff I made than class work.
I started out in my parents garage making stop-motion super 8mm films when I was eleven and I was hooked from there. All through school and college I was making little films and animations so when I got to university I was able to do what I love doing full time. I made a load of films at Uni and got as many as I could into film festivals. At one of those festivals (Edinburgh International Film Festival 1999) I met director Tim Hope. We got on well and a year later after I graduated he invited me to come help make a music video for a new British band I had never heard of called Coldplay. We made the ‘Don’t Panic’ video which went down well and the band asked us to make another video. Tim was making a Play Station commercial at the time so I was asked to write some ideas and a treatment for the ‘Trouble’ music video. The promo went down really well and we got a lot of other work (more music videos and commercials) off the back of it. I also started developing some of my own stories as well as co-directing with another friend (David Lea) and we made a few music videos and short films together.
What has influenced you most, as a filmmaker?
Music is probably the biggest influence for my work. When I find a piece of music that moves or motivates me then I start trying to find the story that supports it. Also the first movie I ever saw was E.T. I think that says a lot about my influences.
What are your plans for the future?
I now have several bigger projects in various development stages. The stories I love to tell are often drama in disguise. I have some big film dreams but I also know I need to take care of my family so my plan is to get the healthiest balance.
What are you currently working on?
Despite having a number or projects in development things have been a bit quiet this year so I’m currently looking for new opportunities. Finally, my site is where you can see just a few of my completed projects as well as two that are yet to be created: www.cargocollective.com/abstractjohn
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/344123031/waylines-magazine-year-two
No surprise when the trespass alert flashed in my little hermetic frost-box in the Embarcadero station. I only ever go out on one kind of call. I handle every non-violent detail involving a pre-ev in San Francisco. There are only 653 of us, untouched by that special evolution, who are left in San Fran, and in a sense I am caretaker to every one.
The details overtook my screen, but I was already getting my gear, moving as fast as my age and weight would allow. My office is tiny, but it’s only ever me in here, bored, waiting. The other officers in the department don’t need or want--or even have the ability--to breathe the cooled, oxygenated, carefully doctored air.
I exited through my office airlock, a familiar and welcome urgency having taken hold. My mask was on but not quite fitted, and I was still slathering fresh cloaking-salve on my hands, cheeks and forehead. So I was hurrying and fumbling, and I’m hardly spry anymore; I collided with a Newt in the corridor outside my office.
My hands touched the Newt’s flesh—slick, cool, textured. Like brushing a snake just emerged from an autumn lake. At least these beings are humanoid in shape. Normally I don’t make physical contact with them, and if I do, I control my reaction. But I was already thinking past this moment, to the trespass call, and I recoiled. I probably grimaced too, but the mask thankfully hid it.
“Sorry.”
I wasn’t even outside the station and the air was already laboring my lungs, forcing a rapid pulse in my veins.
“It’s okay, Lubrano. You on a call? You want somebody to drive you?”
The Newt, a fellow officer named Sussman, stood there offering his help in a way that didn’t allow me to just dismiss him. He was quite unlike me, and not just in age and weight. He was...other. is skin was differently pigmented, a kind of feverish greenish purple. There were also changes to the limbs, which jointed peculiarly. The torso was oddly proportioned, accommodating as it did the wholly remade bellows of the lungs, not to mention the slew of rejiggered organs which handled the new blood.
And the head--the shape of the skull, the face...
Yet his eyes looked unnervingly human. My “human. Pre-ev human.
I said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
Outside, surrounded by the workaday buzz of the city, the odor and pressure of the air immediately increased. Even through the elaborate filters clinging to my doughy face like a colony of black plastic lampreys, I tasted detergent and copper shavings. The temperature was crushing, a soupy heaviness that made me think about every stride I was taking across the parking lot.
Sussmann was younger, and not a pre-ev. Newts like him had been designed for such an atmosphere. This was of course his natural environment. I dumped myself into the passenger seat while he activated the car, his every movement focused and energetic. There was something regulation about everything he did. Hell, he even put his hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel. His appearance had that same disciplined quality as his actions—uniform scrupulously tidy, brass badge gleaming. It felt like a mockery of my own rather slovenly appearance.
“Ready?” he asked, tone courteous, even defferential.
It was hard not to take his politeness as distant contempt. “Just go—“ I bit back the last word, the direct address part, realizing I’d almost called him “Newt” to his face. Strange, though, that the expression “pre-ev” with its vaguely derogatory overtones is fair game. Annoyed, I repeated firmly, “Just go, Sussman.”
The first forced-evolution generation were dubbed New Terrans by the gene wizards who created them. That was where Newt comes from; and turning that to Lizard was inevitable and maybe just a bit childish on our part. Especially since, structurally, they look more like humans than reptiles. But like human isn’t human.
Sussmann drove us out of the lot, toward the foot of Market Street, and turned left at the seawall. Like a circulatory system, the city was in motion around us, its inhabitants on foot and in vehicles moving freely through an environment that perfectly suited them.
Sussman glanced over with a respectful nod.
I was old, and he was new. He was what I and the other 653 pre-evs in San Francisco had chosen not to become. That used to fill me with pride; right now I just felt left behind.
He smiled at me. I looked away. The mountain-like range of the old Financial
District’s buildings loomed on our left against the iridescently bilious sky.
“I’ve always wanted to go on one of these.” Sussman sat forward, craning his neck for a better view, as if he could make their destination appear sooner. Somehow his excitement felt belittling. This call meant trouble for a pre-ev, for one of my 653.
I blinked behind the tight lenses that sealed in my eyes. My eyelashes brushed the plastic. “How’s that?”
He cut around the street closures without consulting the vehicle’s grid. “A call like this,” he said. “One of yours.”
He spoke with absolute normalcy, colloquial speech, no strange modulations--a perfectly ordinary pre-ev voice coming out of that strange living shape.
I was only getting the usual shallow sips of air that the filters could provide, which added a little constrictive panic to every intake. The heat was baking me in my clothes. “Listen, Sussmann--”
He looked over long enough to flash me a grin. Like the eyes, the lips were normal, and the grin seemed dismayingly human. “Lubrano. Hey, don’t worry. I don’t think I’m suddenly your partner. You’ve got a helluva lot of seniority on me, for one thing.” He snapped out a bright little laugh. “It’s just that, well... your work fascinates me, if you want to know the truth.”