Cosmic Relief

During the time of year where everything is slowly dying before your eyes, each day becomes an elegy. The world paints its tribute to decay in gold and red, and you buy yourself another sweater. Every sun-soaked moment is absorbed with the utmost gratitude, every frigid raindrop foreshadows the inevitable freezing over of everything. It is during this time that you feel most inspired to get behind a lens, out of respect for the coming dark.

With only the faintest clue of what we’re doing, Lizzie and I climb into the truck and make our way north of St. Albert to a little piece of earth where Laura, a childhood friend of Lizzie’s, lives. I convince Tom to make the hour drive as well and bring some of his fancy toys, and the four of us set about capturing a transcendentalist meditation dreamed up by Lizzie and me over morning coffee. We are all in love with Laura and this is what will carry the story more than anything. Mostly we are just thrilled to be there, thrilled that all of this isn’t passing us by, thrilled that we’re taking some action, that there will be some record of this time, this place, this person. At six-thirty the following morning, I’m falling asleep when I should be waking up, and in near-delirium I think I discover an ending.

A week earlier, my little tribute to summer resonates with the local jury at the Gotta Minute Film Festival and receives first place. I am legitimately surprised and humbled. I suppose it is the desire to preserve these fleeting moments of Northern beauty, to halt the cycle of decay and rebirth for a few minutes at a time, that motivated me to pick up a camera in the first place. As much as I find myself beating my head against a wall, hoping that the perfect and perfectly affordable story will materialize, this instinct for preservation (survival?) cannot and should not be ignored. So I entertain it, in hopes that others will too. The alternative remains unthinkable.

Until next time.

Dylan –  Edmonton, AB

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