I love movies.  Specifically, I love making movies.  I was blessed to call it a profession for a few years in my mid-twenties, and it afforded me travel, adventure and truly unique experiences.  The hours were murder on relationships, however, and I made the choice for me to move on to something else when I chose to have babies.

It was bound to be a natural progression:  I was a theatre junkie from a very young age, spending my teens in the lighting booth and behind the curtain calling the show onstage.  I went to any play anywhere, and the Fall found me at the Fringe every year.  The stage bled into my early Uni days, putting up an avant-garde four-man show in Peterborough, thoroughly puzzling and offending the locals.

I miss it.  A lot.  I miss the performance, the very life of the production.  I struggle with how to maintain a connection while honouring my family commitments  – theatre is more forgiving, but film is a ravenous time-eating thing.

And so for now, I sit and watch the movies, the awards shows, and try and guess at who the Academy will favour this year.  Every year I try and see at least some of the shows up for awards, (Ironic, right?  I love to make them but don’t see a lot of them!) and understand what this years’ crop of movies is reflecting in us.

This year is a good year.  I have seen four of the best picture nominations, and I feel I can come intelligently to the table.  It’s ironic in some ways – some (sure a little more than last year) diversity, no female directors for best picture, and an antiquated machine that is in the process of ageing out in the era of Amazon, Hulu and Netflix.  And still I watch.

And dream.

Perhaps one day, I will return, re imagined and in balance.

I keep dreaming.