My time in the east has run out, time to go home. The dwelling proved to be a productive period.
As a filmmaker, I always experience a startling sense of alarm when launching into production from an idea. Especially when the idea has been evolving for years. Perhaps it's the aviation, flying 15,000 feet above atrocious highlands or the 15,000 tasks that await me on landing in Reykjavik. Either way, I sense unrest in coming my way. Working exclusively on your own ideas is a bit like constructing free-floating objects in the sky. It requires you to elevate your thinking selfishly above other concerns more grounded in reality. Writing for film is really delusional work.
The troposphere is a comfortable zone, giving me one last chance to wonder how the scenes outlined in my script will play out. Almost definitely impossible to film and designed to invoke negative reaction within the powerful and liberal Icelandic film commission, tarnishing my already obscure reputation as a filmmaker on the island.
My train of thought is interrupted by the pilots voice is heard through the speaker; informing us that we are landing in fifteen minutes.
Down onto the ground.