Matt takes lots and lots of pictures, some of which are of the landscape but some are shots of Jared filming Matt photographing him creating an infinite recursion. or an interesting lizard or a dick drawn in the sand. there are a lot of shots of boles scowling and one of him asleep with his hat tilted low over his face. they’re all oddly beautiful. even the dust dick.

the development of inside jokes like the “coulda done it better for 20 grand” thing

getting high out in the desert under the stars when the sky is so immense it makes you feel like the space race is an act of hubris on par with the tower of babel. right now you can say anything with the assurance that neither of you will remember it in the morning. (matt rambles about owen. boles says something very incriminating about the kennedy assassination)

the breaking point is in the middle of a heatwave. the ac is on but it’s not doing much and boles has a chronic pain flareup (semicanonical, see the masters thesis) but is fresh out of weed (see prev) and slowly losing his mind. matt has been talking nonstop about angles and close ups and the pioneering work of buster keaton for at least thirty minutes, boles hits the point of desperation where literally anything seems like a better alternative. he abruptly gets up, stalks across the (tiny, cramped) motel room, crowds matt against the wall, and lays one on him. it does work: matt is stunned speechless for a good thirty seconds. then he starts to sputter and ask questions which means boles has to do it again. they keep at it for a while

i see your asshole straight(?) guy boles uses matt to get off since it’s not gay unless he’s touching someone else’s dick and raise you asshole straight(?) guy boles reasons that it’s not gay as long as HE’S not getting off on it. crossed with canonical chainsmoking oral fixation. i think he leaves matt dizzy, red-faced and covered in bite marks then walks away and lights another cigarette and acts like nothing happened.

matt likes it enough to keep going along with it but fundamentally this is never ever going to approach the level of emotion and affection he has for owen. owen is his person. boles is a destabilizing external force. it’s like and lust, that’s all.

the roll of film in boles’ camera is mostly unused. there are maybe ten to fifteen shots of desert rock formations. they’re clumsy, out of focus, overexposed. no attention to composition. then there’s a couple that look like they were taken all in a row: the same long shadow stretches out from the bottom of the frame. there’s matt, digging in the dirt. there’s matt, squinting down the viewfinder. there’s matt, looking up at the camera, confused, caught in the middle of a “what?” there’s matt, shielding his eyes from the sun, smiling.

this went thru so many drafts and sketch layers and its messy and weird but yanno i'm happy. fun fact that IS a hi-standard hdm/s which was apparently standard issue for cold warrior intelligence agents. AND an 8mm bell & howard zoomatic aka the camera the zapruder film was shot on :D

I think maybe art is like going to the gym in that you show up so energetic and excited and then when you leave you're worn out and ready to be done :)