“Those ones aren’t even moving.”
“It does seem a little long.”
“You’re reusing clips. I think you need more footage to justify the length.”
Honestly. Every one, the critic.
Friday afternoon, a simple dream:
Take the many several aggregate minutes of jumping gall video I’ve lately been obsessively collecting–crouched over the sidewalk, eye, iphone, hand lens–the bikes and joggers bending around my operation full of wonder–shooting–to gather these up against a Sun Ra soundtrack.
Missed by most, the oak-shaded sidewalks of the lower Sacramento Valley are alive for a few weeks in August with animated sesame seeds, pop the earbuds, shut your trap, and you can actually hear them crackling. It sounds, maybe, like a light rain in the searing summer heat or a pot just about to boil, but actually it doesn’t really sound like either of these it sounds like jumping galls: thousands of little cynipid wasplets wrapped in jackets of tumorous oak leaf cells hopping around like crazy. What are they doing? It’s not clear that anyone really knows for sure.
You have to pay attention to this sort of shit, or otherwise you are, frankly, wholly lost.
Note that nothing is sped up there. These girls move fast.
Here would be the place to mention Kinsey and parasitoids and the rest, but it’s 20 minutes past my bedtime.
Incidentally, neither of those versions of “Rocket Number Nine” were the one I was imagining, I of course was thinking of the frenetic schizoid Space is the Place version:
Seriously though. With a budget of $0, what did you expect?