Working at a film festival, I've been blessed with many opportunities to meet eccentric and fascinating people. Artists and businessmen, celebrities and laborers, and plenty of people who would go on to become dear, dear friends.
However, the project you are currently viewing, this
cataloguing of one man's descent into insanity, chronicles my years of interaction with a particular person who, despite an amazing intellect and an enormous amount of talent, has chosen to express himself solely in the medium of 'pointing at shit.'
Josh, in a rare moment of not-pointing-at-something
Much as the cat paintings of Louis Wain gradually became more frenetic, more frenzied and maniacally colored, the increasing frequency and inscrutability of his pointing is a journal of his eventual and inevitable madness.
Sometimes, 'madness' resembles Stephen Baldwin.
Join me, now, as we delve into what makes a man a man, and what makes a man a desperate cry for help. We must bear silent witness to this horror and learn from it, in the hopes of saving a person who was once a beloved friend. This is my purpose here, for while I support Josh in almost all his endeavors...
I disagree with him on many points.
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