On Friday evening, a baby squirrel dropped out of the sky. It happened just before we rounded the corner, thankfully, so we didn't see (or, more importantly, hear) it hit the sidewalk. A stranger told us it sounded like a beanbag smacking the pavement.

At first it wasn't clear if the squirrel was alive or dead. Its black eyes were moist and seemed to have life, but its body was motionless, and it was nonchalantly lying on its side in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

A group of us hovered nearby, waiting for something to happen. None of us knew each other, but we instantly developed a tacit camaraderie, like that of fans pulling for the same team. When it twitched and sat upright, we let words of relief escape. When a passerby nearly stepped squarely on it, we spurt out panicked words of warning. We dumbly speculated about its injuries and its mental health, none of us sure what to do, not wanting to leave until we knew it was going to be fine or going to die.

After a good five minutes of fickle behavior, the squirrel finally granted our wish and scurried off down the sidewalk. "Now it's going to get hit by a car," one girl cynically joked. "But it won't matter because we won't know about it." We all walked away satisfied.

A couple weeks ago my department moved into new offices, on a new floor. The floor is still being built, and at any given moment, I can hear a chorus of drills, hammers, Steely Dan boombox, and syrupy New York accents. I like that the workers are still here, roaming around, making jokes, filling the air with the smell of wood chips, and adding chaos to the uniform beige that emanates in all directions, like a drab khaki supernova.

I've started to learn a little bit about their respective personalities, or at least which ones are extroverted and which are introverted. The guy with the nicest smile wore a new shirt today, the first time he's done that, I think, since we moved. A few of them noticed when I changed my hair color (it's red now), acknowledging the change as a matter-of-fact, or simply to make sure they weren't crazy. I've been wondering what they think of us, the ones who spend their days sitting, staring, typing. I imagine that they're not remotely jealous, and that perhaps they even take pity on us. It makes me feel a little embarrassed.

...

Unlucky with pricey new technology: after sending my Nikon D70 to the shop twice (it's fine now), I'm now onto seemingly major Powerbook problems. Mechanical things that break are overwhelmingly frustrating to me, mostly, I think, because I don't remotely understand what goes on inside their little bodies. (I like troubleshooting software, but I don't even know where to begin when it comes to hardware.) Faulty machines turn me into a caveman, making me want to shrug, hit the offending technology with a big wooden club, and throw it away. Yesterday, instead of giving into that feeling, I spent an hour-and-a-half at the Apple Store genius bar, waiting for them to take my laptop off my hands and disassemble it in their more civilized way. I should have it back in two weeks. (sadface.)

[Shoot a movie on a single three-minute roll of Super 8 film. No later editing, no post-production! Straight from the lab, we'll screen these films for the first time in front of the audience and the filmmakers themselves.]

I made a movie today, the hardest one. I'm more of an improviser than a planner, and this film required that I plan out every shot in advance (and in order), and make it fit into exactly 3 minutes and 15 seconds of tape. While I was writing out the shot list in painstaking detail, my brain was in revolt and kept telling me not to bother with things that are zero fun.

I was using film rather than video, which meant there was no LCD screen to monitor my progress, passing time was marked with a stopwatch and an unelectronic sheet of paper, and all (still unknown) mistakes will be unforgivingly preserved in the final product.

Other ways this project was not meant for me: the editing process is my favorite part of filmmaking, which is the process that got axed. I like overshooting footage so that I have a lot to work with (I'm indecisive and like to have options), and today I was forced to shoot conservatively. I tend to work with one person at a time, and dislike telling people what to do; for this project I had to figure out how to organize and direct a group. I'm a perfectionist, and there's no way this film is going to escape being a little messy.

Now that I think about it, this project is like some sort of therapy designed for me to overcome my entire personality. It's probably not so different from being locked in a room with cockroaches as a method of learning to be okay with them.

Not that it wasn't fun -- it really was; it was just challenging. My (charming/creative) friends exceeded my expectations with their performances, helpfulness, and patience; I'm kind of humbled by how much time and effort they put into the project, or that they had enough faith in it to be willing to do so. Also, today's weather was ignorably good. (I like it when weather is so mild that you hardly notice it.)

It takes a surprising length of time to shoot three minutes; by the end I was exhausted from hours of decision-making and being at war with my own personality. Now that it's over, I feel a weird mixture of accomplishment and fear. The first time I'll get to see the film will be in front of an audience, and I don't know if it'll even make sense. Or be in focus. Etc.