All this started as a decisive exploration of who I might be and what's worth doing. Like, if I am going to be famous among cool people, WHY? What could I contribute to the collective fun and ease?

As I write this, outside the sun is setting. I am writing and reading this episode because I want to choose my words, I'm ready to write a love letter. To the mystery, to the shes who are so close, to my Earth, to you and of course, to myself. Improvisation won't serve my desire to laugh or cry. I have a little truth to tell, I think. Let's see if my moment of discovery can be shared.

Seems strange that I might actually be finishing this movie, closing several chapters of my life story simultaneously and I feel... not much at all. There's lots left to do, and still many unanswered questions. However, the uncertainly isn't fear, nor is it adventure, not tonight. Tonight I feel only the now. What I am right now, as the sun sets, lying on a red oak floor, like an astronaut alone aboard a magnificent space ark, stretched thin between impossibly distant stars.

Movie news in brief. Melonie brought over a couple of puppet tests for Veronique and we made some decisions.

I'm about to assemble I2. Sometime this weekend we'll slip past that milestone. I've been shooting almost every day, gradually gathering the rest of the story I need. Last night Alex and Cinder yanked the Odyssey out of a clay slog. I was on location, documenting dusk in a bomb crater, molten steel pooled deep under heaps of shattered concrete. I got spooked as I was wrapping up, panicked and drove desperately, wildly into slog. Got stuck.

I walked with faux fur in the forest and triggered a shaman harmonic. A pile of concrete becomes a collapsed tower, and escape is suddenly imperative, driving blindly into the mire. I begin to live this movie, which might not be a movie at all. Is there's a apocalypse pending here in this universe? Will consumer culture come to a screeching, crashing halt? Is there a nightmare shambling in our backyard?

I am pretty sure we can choose to enliven everything, I know I am the future in my choosing. Yet how vehemently we refuse to choose.

I've been drawn to rewatch 9/11 videos and posting a few on Facebook. I'm searching for something, I have no doubt that there's an inspiration in play. There's a morbid fascination certainly, creating an experience of being unique - only I can see what I see, know what I know. I can watch sunsets while enjoying spectacular vegetarian feasts. I can acknowledge that I am integral to perpetual war and empire. As a citizen of the United States, I'm complicit in terror and planetary suicide. I can let another world show up, I think I know how. I alone am responsible. Maybe you too. We can be alone together.

I've been feeling alone and slightly adrift, even as I count the days down to the next iteration of DOG. I thrive in solitude while craving connection and intimacy. This is an intriguing and indeterminate time for Dan Kelly, Shri Fugi Spilt. I grope my way forward, constantly returning to the only choice I have. To bloom. No matter what.

Shit went down on September 11 of 2001, shit is going down now. I parachuted into this brilliant horror show because rising to the occasion is my bliss. An exhilarating making. I am smart clay, molding myself into the optimal pot. With a pleasing geometry. Along with the pretty shape, what's the most important part of a pot? The space within. The inside empty, the nothingness ready to receive something. Water. Pancakes. Guts. Belief. Awareness. A chamber for resonating, reception, empathy. A Tibetan singing bowl, a bell ringing. To touch and be touched. Alone? Hardly.

That's the Daughter of Godcast, Episode 139 Extreme. I am not sure I've opened my heart completely to you tonight, today. I've opened as much as WordPress can display, as much as a Canon 5D Mark III can capture and a Zoom H6 can record. These words started as yesterday's too sugary East Cake, assisted by a few atoms of the the air that Frank Zappa breathed, sprouted in cognition and barked, whispered into a Sennheiser microphone, then uploaded to servers 1000s of mile from red oak floors, from sunsets over lakes. They are your words, cause we are one, so here you are talking to yourself, again. Every week you do this. You make movies, make love, make mistakes and you look just like me. To all those out there who want a better world, hang in there, we're on our way.