Hey everyone,
I’m very excited to share the third and final instalment of my latest One Word, MOVING.
This film was a journey. It took roughly five months to make, and way back in March when the idea first percolated in my mind, I never imagined I’d have a 3-part, 48-minute film at the end of the road.
But “moving” as a concept grew and grew, until it became a promise to myself: I wanted, more than anything, to explore new ways of telling One Word stories.
Part 3 is dedicated to my daughter. Our baby is due next week, and I wanted to capture our lives together before all that change and blessing arrives at her doorstep.
Also, a quick note: I created each part as both a single story and a standalone experience, but if you’ve missed the previous chapters and want to get caught up, here they are:
All the music in MOVING is by Toronto-based ambient artist Daniel Field and his Kilometre Club project. You can find him on Spotify, Bandcamp, and Apple Music. I also made a playlist on Apple Music of all the songs featured in the film. Listen to it here.
As always, you can read the written version below, but I highly recommend you watch MOVING: Part III.
- T
P.S. Scroll to the bottom to find out what else you missed on One Word this month.
Part III | Moving Pictures
Time moves one second per second. Every moment of every day: one second per second. The weight of all these seconds has started to catch up with me.
It’s as if, for the first time, I looked out the window of a moving train and noticed the light and noise streaming by.
Out of fear and wonder both, I take out my camera and capture some of that light, like dipping a ladle into a moving river. The action doesn’t stop time. But it gives me something to hold onto. It gives me a way to assemble the moments, not unlike a puzzle, and find the meaning hidden in their passing.
Atlas, my first born. Cutsie, shmegie, my golden girl. This last part is for you.
I’m making this film in the final hours before your little sister’s birth, sitting in my office when I should be spending time with your mother. But she’s given me this time because she knows it’s important, too.
As I started assembling this video, I looked at all the images I’ve collected over the years, and it shocked me how much life before you felt so… empty.
I have hundreds of pictures from my previous life working in construction, before I quit and your mom took over the bills and let me stay home and take up writing.
In that old life, I drifted across a barren concrete landscape. I was lost and half-made among other half-made things. I had dreams then of buildings with exposed insides flashing like the teeth of some knowing Goliath — giant structures in the basin of the earth, and I was held in its bosom, waiting for the crews to lay the rebar and raise me towards the sky.
But when I collect the seconds now and assemble the pictures, I realize I was at the foundation of our family’s life, on my knees, among the holes in the raw concrete floors. Despite what I thought back then, my time wasn’t wasted.
Piece by piece, our family grew upward. We left the city and bought a house north of Toronto, in Caledon. During the pandemic, I found a job as a copywriter. Imagine that — your dad the construction worker now a copywriter.
I became obsessed with words. Every day, I learned one new word as if they were steps that lifted me further and further away from my old life surrounded by holes.
And when you arrived Atlas, my camera roll burst with beauty and light.
These moving pictures are a wonder.
Like magic, I can assemble the seconds and watch you crawl, walk, then run in seconds. Hair that once barely covered your head today sits on your shoulders.
My world. My daughter. My little bug. You’re becoming your own person in front of my eyes. You’re funny and caring and love kittens. You named this one Mango. This one is Figaro. This was Wolfgang, but you changed its name to… Atlas! Atlas! What’s it’s name now?
“Black Cat.”
You speak to me in sentences. Words that carry flashes of who you’ll grow into. Witnessing your life is changing me. I can’t say exactly how, but I feel it happening.
I feel older, too.
I’ll be 38 this year and I’m in my second year making videos. When I started this project, I thought they were documentaries. Now, I’m not so sure. I’ve noticed that moving pictures are a reflection not just of reality, but of the author, too.
What we’re making together mixes the real and the imaginary. I share my life with the man on the screen; he’s the artist and is like your dad, but parts of me are missing. The everyday parts, the boring parts; only you know who I really am, Atlas.
No matter how true this story feels, there are inconsistencies, retakes, and failed attempts. I am in conflict with moving pictures as much as I am in love.
In my first film, I said:
“They say video will rot our brains, but I’m not so sure. I’m part of the most educated generation on the history of earth, and we were raised on video. Some of us have recieved its supplemental light more than the sun itself.”
Having made half a dozen videos, I’m starting to see another side of this statement.
As an adult, I’ve got a few VHS tapes of my childhood and a box of pictures. I’m fortunate — many I know have less. You, on the other hand, will have a deluge of videos. Thousands of photos. I worry you could lose yourself in the seconds.
But remember this, Atlas: although I use some of the seconds in this project, it’s not real. What is real is the feeling you hold within you. The knowledge that you are loved and will always be loved by your mommy and daddy.
What you’re watching is a story, and my hope is that as you grow up, we tell this story together.
Like any good story, this one moves: It started at a for sale sign in a sleepy Ontario town and ends on the edges of space and time.
That’s what we’re doing here, kiddo: We’re moving.
Atlas, my first born, my golden girl, I just want you to know how much my time with you means to me. I started making moving pictures because I needed some proof that you really did arrive on Earth. My videos will always be for you, even if one day you are not in them.
It feels far away right now, a light in the nebulous distance, but one day your childhood will be a collection of seconds assembled alongside this moment. You’ll grow up and want your own life away from dad and his camera.
That’s not for us to worry about right now.
Right now, we’re moving at the speed of light and flying by the black holes on our way to a new world. We’re days away from landing on our mission to meet a small, delicate alien, loud and vulnerable and hungry for life — your baby sister.
Before we land, I want to tell you the one thing I’ve learned moving with you: I’ve seen 1.2 trillion seconds on this planet, but the 86 million as your father changed my life. It’s the only evidence I need to know it’s not the seconds that matter, but the love you experience within them.
Despite everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve done, I’m most looking forward to what’s ahead of us, and we’re moving towards it, kiddo.
One second per second.
Every moment of every day.
Thanks for reading and watching my work.
In case you missed them, here are my other July posts:
On the Works Podcast, I interviewed from Poetry and Process. We talked about the creative process, of course, but also the power of failure. Listen to it here.
I started a VLOG. I’ve been having a lot of fun creating talking head-style videos for my paid members. This is a much smaller group, many of them artists themselves, and I talk about whatever interests us.
My latest episode, for example, was an introduction to Carl Jung. And on the August VLOG, I’ll rundown what video and audio equipment I use… and some stuff you should avoid.
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