A Summer in the Land of Oz

“Nothing happens unless first a dream”
-- Carl Sandburg

I can’t say when it first occurred to me that I wanted to be a filmmaker. Somehow, I feel the idea existed before me. Not in any fatalistic way, but in a more general, biological sort of way. I just seem built for it.

I watched any number of friends and relatives drift into their first year of college and float to this class and that hoping a breeze might blow them in the direction of a fulfilling lifelong pursuit. The lucky ones found a place. The not-so-fortunate ones continue to wander to this day.

I once considered myself a lucky one. When I walked into my first cinema class, I felt a stunning sense of belonging. As I managed the confusion of high school, I had to coerce many of my disinterested friends to partake in my substandard cinematic efforts. This usually entailed elaborate action set-ups and GQ mugging. For the interested parties, my films became a massive vanity project; they volunteered for the shots that would get the most oohs and aahs upon their debut. For the less interested of my friends, my films were, at best, something to do.

But when I walked into my first cinema class, surrounded by men and women as dedicated as I, I knew I had made the right choice. I was on the right path.
Unfortunately, for any filmmaker, the path to success leads to Los Angeles. Looking back on my time in the Land of Oz, it served as a severe reality check to the young kid who ran on daydreams rather than oxygen.

As far as opportunity went, I could not have had a more delicious set-up. Thanks to contacts my roommate had accrued the previous summer, I easily landed an internship in NBC’s photo department. I ate lunch with the cast of Days of Our Lives, and I worked within a hundred yards of The Tonight Show. I met my hero at the time (WWF wrestler and best-selling author Mick Foley), and after one summer my name-dropping ability rivaled that of a Beverly Hills pizza delivery boy.

Still, even as I delighted in reliving my exploits for my friends and family at home, I could not shake the feeling of being completely alone. Living with three roommates, two who I hated and one who I alienated after I backed into his brother’s brand new SUV, I spent much of my time alone in my bedroom, chatting with friends back home.

I didn’t find L.A. conducive to making new friends. With each handshake, I met a person who was only interested in who I was and who I knew. Since an unpaid intern is about as low on the totem pole as a direct-to-video extra, I had nothing to offer those whose concerns did not venture past career opportunities. So while I enjoyed the work (and I did meet some legitimately pleasant people), it did not take long before I reached the conclusion that L.A. was not for me.

However, my career prospects would not be the only dream I would be forced to reevaluate in Los Angeles. My romantic philosophy would also take quite a beating from Hollywood. I admit to a rather egregious naiveté when it comes to relationships. I have still yet to find the proper balance between romance and reality in my execution. I’m quite exceptional at conceiving grand romantic gestures to impress whichever crush I happen to be pursuing. However, my limited foresight hampers my ability to consider the repercussions of these Say Anything moments. I have a sneaking suspicion that many of the girls who I never so much as dated can still remember my all-or-nothing attempts at their affection.

One such girl, my most appalling high school overlook, came to see me in L.A. Over the course of three years in college, we had both confessed our feelings for each other, but neither of us was in a place to do anything about it. Still, we kept in touch as we went about our separate lives, and I made sure to send her well-constructed love letters for her birthday. At that time in my life, I suffered from the delusion that despite the poor timing and unspoken yearning we both exhibited in high school, she and I were meant for each other. I take partial responsibility for this. The rest of the responsibility belongs to my father; of all the girls I ever brought home, as friends or otherwise, she was the only one for whom he volunteered his marriage approval.

I liked the idea of having a visitor, and the idea of bringing this girl to L.A.-- to impress as I never had -- seemed the perfect plan. Unfortunately, it had been a full school year since our mutual confessions (her first in college), and I was shocked by how much one year had apparently dampened our compatibility.

When I left this girl to attend college, she had been a somewhat timid, awkward girl on the cusp of a glorious late bloom. The girl who I picked up at the airport radiated self-confidence, due in part to a flowering that exceeded all expectations; she was a heartbreaker in every sense of the word.

It did not take long for me to realize that this girl had blown past me at the speed of light. Whatever dreams I had of meeting her at the end of the aisle evaporated as I put her on the plane back to Chicago. We still find time to talk occasionally, but I have not seen her face since that day. When it's been three years since you've seen a girl, it becomes harder to believe you are meant to be with her. Not impossible. But definitely harder.

I said good-bye to L.A. as well, and at this time I cannot imagine a scenario where I will return. My filmmaking aspirations have been pushed aside in favor of literature, and thankfully the path to success in that arena runs through no particular city. I’ve accepted that the route to my dreams may be a bit longer and a little more indirect than I would have thought at one time, but if the path to our dreams were clear to us, what would be the reward when we finally reached them?