Documentary (road and truth)

Documentary as a creative treatment of actuality. It is a subjective filmmaking; a creation with a necessary agenda.

Documentary (and, perhaps, all filmmaking), necessarily deals with the unfinished business of one's own life. This is to say, my film will be reflective of my personal experience: and will contain themes essential to my self. I am interested in creating film about journey and transition and change, and I think that this can be attributed, in part, to the journey [of my youth]. I want to reflect upon this event, and I want to know how journey has affected others, as well.
I recently indulged in a spate of 'road' genre media: I read On The Road, watched Wolf Creek, and listened back to an interview I conducted with a friend who drove his postie bike from Melbourne to Perth (and home again). The allure of the road, the freedom, the boredom and the peace. I loved the style of prose in On the Road: I feel that it allowed the reader to 'feel' the experience (immersion).
 I have never driven across a sprawling country. I like silence and I like solitary. I like to meander through hot towns. My back gets sweaty in the car; the cooling is broken and the air is stagnant against the black interior. Sweat pools, drips and slowly saturates.

Steve said, documentary often contains paradoxical truths (this is the nature of the form).
Documentary truth is such that nobody could make it up.
"No one can recreate what happened here"
We discussed the notion that, in documentary film, people are 'performing themselves' - it is necessary that human behaviour will be changed by the presence of a camera. While it is possible to 'acclimatise' the subject to the presence and glare of the lens, it is a distinction from the norm, a disruption to an otherwise unrecorded life.

Summertime passed:

Death (and all of his cruel friends)

Death (and all of his cruel friends) ::
They ask, they plead : 
why do bad things happen to good people? Why? ? ? 
Nobody can say, nobody can know, the world works without regard for our feelings, a steamroller on consequence. Things they happen, and such is life, as Ned Kelly intoned. How prophetic was he, the brave man in tin, fearless and lawless. He is a legend here, he is a hero here, he was a lawbreaker. Our Heath played Our Ned : it was a match that a sunburnt Straya embraced. We were proud of Our mottled history; our Heath! But then, do you remember when our Heath died? Where were you when Our Heath died? The beautiful talented golden man, ripped from a hopeful country, from a family and friends. But why why? Such waste, they cry in the streets, painting macabre joker grins, stretched and mocking in the occasion. Had he lived too much? Did God want His golden sunbrushed boy back? It doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense, nobody can make reasonings of it all. The strands of reason are flailing loose, whipped around by the hurricane of grief. Nobody can understand, because there is no sense to be had. It is impossible, but try please try, this is what makes us human, this is what keeps our hearts beating and our veins pumping in a predictable pulse