Always the question in my mind for this place in which I live, the in-between, not there and not there, and perhaps not fully here as well. All measured by what is interpreted by the electrochemical dance behind my eyes, reality an unknown commodity beyond that which I can glean from the mediated interpretation of my fellow man.
Is it a wonder really that so many films of late have carried the message of, "what is real, can you know real, is what you know as real really real"? On the one hand it is the thing that film is most easily able to do, to build and shatterable illusion. And I, I fully surrender every time I enter the chapel of film. I walk through the doors, interact with the ticket-taker, negotiate a seat in the collective experience, then willing fall into the world created by another mind. I let tears fall, I grip the armrests as tension rises, I squirm, uncomfortable a the moment, and I laugh.
But no, This is not such a simple thing. This is not the understood illusion of film. This is life. This is reality. Yet still, I search and can not find the edges of this 'real'.
How close am I to the man who wanders down the street on a Monday midnight in conversation with himself and the demons he carries within his cross-wired brain? How close am I to my neighbor on the bench just a half block away in the ever so lightly but coldly falling rain? How close am I to the breakthrough self-made man in the fine house in the edge of this hill, wife a child soundly sleeping? How close am I to the actor upon the stage in the round or on the set of tomorrow's indie breakaway hit?