I finally caught a screening of Hamnet, and it stirred something in me that hasn’t been touched since Malick’s masterpiece released fifteen years ago. Instead of The Lower East Side, DC’s Chinatown was the stage for my post-film wanderings.

It is director Chloé Zhao’s fifth film. Her breakout, Nomadland, won three Academy Awards back in 2020, including Best Picture and Best Director. She helmed Marvel’s Eternals the following year, which I enjoyed more than most but which met with a mixed reception. And then Hamnet released this past fall, adapting Maggie O’Farrell’s historical novel about the death of Shakespeare’s and Agnes’ son.

The film won the Golden Globe for Best Motion Picture - Drama and is up for eight Academy Awards, including (once again) Best Picture and Best Director.

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I’ve been surprised by the pushback online. In some circles, the film is dismissed as “a textbook version of what the critic Manny Farber called white elephant art”:

“To Farber, white elephant art was that which announced its aspirations to be treated as a masterpiece, ‘heavily inlaid with ravishing technique’ to such an extent that no life can exist within it. In its quest to show off its ‘prizeworthy creativity,’ the white elephant work betrays ‘the need of the director and writer to overfamiliarize the audience with the picture it’s watching:

To blow up every situation and character like an affable inner tube with recognizable details and smarmy compassion.’ Hamnet’s white elephantness is so thorough that one almost does not need to see it to have seen it… Diet Malick cinematography, a brilliant unruly performance from Jessie Buckley, and the theme of grief gonging the audience into submission again and again.”

Zhao’s film is dismissed as “dull”, “simplistic”, and hellbent on “forcing us into unearned emotional catharsis… The mirror Hamnet holds up is not to any truth about the human condition but to our clichéd ideas of what makes for a worthy movie.”

I could not disagree more, on every count.

Strangers do not sit in the dark while the credits roll, crying together, when a film dramatically misses the mark. One does not sob uncontrollably after the film lets out unless it’s striking something true. For me, Hamnet was the closest thing to a religious experience I’ve felt in years - it put me in touch with a part of myself beyond words.

Perhaps because it taps into something primal and terrifyingly human.

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“I have been terrified of death my whole life,” Zhao shares in an interview with The New York Times. “And because I’ve been so afraid I haven’t been able to live fully. I haven’t been able to love with my heart open because I’m so scared of losing love, which is a form of death… It shouldn’t be this terrifying that I can’t even live.”

She continues:

“In Hamlet, there’s a line that goes, all things must die, ‘passing through nature to eternity.’ If you didn’t grow up with spirituality or religion, then the eternity part is out. You also lost your connection with nature, even your own body, so the passing-through-nature part is gone. All you have left is ‘all living things must die.’

Then it’s like, What’s the point? You’re separating from the oneness. I feel separated often from that oneness, and that illusion of separation makes me afraid to connect, afraid to create freely or even just live the way I want to live.”

This fear infuses every frame of Zhao’s film.

Hamnet pulses with a fierceness of spirit that bears the weight of crushing grief after the death of a loved one. It says, like Zhao herself - in its dialogue, through its impressionistic cinematography and dreamlike, elliptical editing, all of which invoke a sense of mysticism and transcendental relationship to the natural world:

“Keep your heart open.”

Risk love, though loss is guaranteed.

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If we strip away all of the posturing, the over-intellectualization and highbrow “tastemaking” of the online discourse around the film, I suspect that some of the pushback comes from the fact that it makes people deeply uncomfortable.

It speaks a different language that bypasses the rational mind - intuitive, unapologetically raw, embodied in the cast’s fearless performances.

In describing her creative process, Zhao speaks of myth, comparing the role of the director to that of both a general and a priestess. “Both can evoke the desire for people to follow their vision… If you have only the priestess, it’s total chaos. If you have only the general, it’s total order and nothing else.”

Over the years, I’ve learned that the need to understand why I’m feeling a certain way is a form of control to help me manage my fear. It helps me feel safe.

General.

But sometimes, life is so chaotic, so destabilizing that there is no clear explanation.

Priestess.

Sometimes, life forces us to ask, in Zhao’s words, as Hamnet does: “Can I sit in that?”

I realized that that is exactly the sort of reflection The Tree of Life invited fifteen years ago. It offers no easy resolution, only truths about the human condition that can be uncomfortable to see. In so doing, art brings us face-to-face with ourselves.

Zhao has never met Terrence Malick, but on New Year’s Day, she received a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize. She thought it was the dog walker.

Disoriented, she picked up and heard “this very soft voice: ‘Hello, this is Terrence.’ …I won’t share what he said,” Zhao reflected, “But I said to him that I feel I come from a lineage that is found… I feel that I come from his lineage. It is very significant as a storyteller because you feel like you belong somewhere.”

No wonder The Tree of Life and Hamnet play in the same register.

Part of that register, too, is Hamnet’s portrayal of the healing power of art. It is the truest representation of the creative process I think I’ve ever seen.

As artists, we take beauty and pain, joy and suffering, and we transmute it all into an experience for ourselves and others that invites those who engage with it into some aspect of the unsolvable mystery of being alive. It’s a principle that guides my own endeavors, from feature film screenplays to House of Snow.

That is why, for me, the act of creation itself is the reward. Making the thing - as part general, part priestess - is both journey and destination.

“Everything that I thought I wanted in life, or everything I thought about who I was, no longer is,” Zhao said. “So I’m at the end of that. Hamnet saved me in many ways, to have that film during that time.”

If that is “white elephant art”, then someone please tattoo it to my forehead.

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If you want a refresher on the project, this post will catch you up.

When you’re ready to dive in, you can listen to a cozy, audiobook-style reading of the manuscript - the voiceover sits just above.

Or you can read the opening pages as a PDF via the button below:

Read the Opening Pages

Enjoy! I’d love to hear what you think as I continue to develop HOUSE OF SNOW in the background. And of course, thank you all for being here. I’m keen to share new musings on cinema, travel, and everyday life in the months ahead.

I’ve also enjoyed meeting those of you who’ve already booked free 1:1 storytelling consults with me. There are still some spots open if you’d like to connect. Let’s talk shop and help you get unstuck in your creative work this year!

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If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.

Beginnings are hard.

I don’t mean the New Year (though here’s wishing us all a constructive 2026!) so much as the novel I accidentally started writing last spring.

Originally envisioned as a serialized co-creation, HOUSE OF SNOW gradually evolved into a more traditional mode of presentation. The result is the opening 40 pages of a literary manuscript steeped in my “form follows function” methodology - a prime example of “Iceberg Theory”, underpinned by countless hours of research and literally hundreds of pages of prewriting material.

Whether in film or fiction, there is always more beneath the surface than meets the eye. Those hidden depths are what lend a story its “lived-in” quality - the sense that it preexists the writer, excavated rather than fabricated.

It’s a hard-won degree of verisimilitude, and it’s why a big part of 2025 was, for The Lighthouse, a HOUSE OF SNOW-themed Year of Reckoning.

I shared the beginning of the story last April and a subsequent chapter in November, and do you know what I found? It wasn’t quite working.

Your feedback helped me see that the opening asked too much of the reader. There were too many perspective shifts and not enough orientation in place and time. It wasn’t clear whose story we were tracking, or why. As one test reader put it: “In the taxi driver metaphor, I do like the guy’s driving a lot, but I am not sure where he’s taking me or if he will pull it off. I wish I could see more where he’s going.”

So I went back to the drawing board to find the shape of the thing.

HOUSE OF SNOW follows a narrator (inspired by yours truly) who unearths a journal tracing the fate of a vanished expedition in Nepal. Its author, Edmund Bainbridge, is a geologist obsessed with finding his uncle, Arthur, a controversial academic who disappeared in the Himalaya chasing a theory about “cheating death.” Amidst the tea estates of Darjeeling, Edmund falls in love with Samantha, an unhappily married aid worker who entangles them both in a covert CIA operation. They’re drawn deep into the Tibetan mountains and a doomed guerrilla war, where their shimmering, luminous connection starts to influence the narrator’s own love story with Kasia decades later.

Structurally, HOUSE OF SNOW is a Russian doll. Kasia’s commentary frames the telling. The narrator’s first words foreshadow his disappearance in the mountains, echoing Edmund’s and Arthur’s before him. He writes most of the manuscript in the weeks leading up to his last expedition, anchoring it all in his past and an imaginative reconstruction of Edmund’s. The two threads braid together and eventually collapse into one, embodying the idea that our lives echo the lives of others.

In plot and form, the story reaches into the deep time of history - “no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end” - and reveals how we mythologize our experiences in order to survive them. It is a recursive, deeply personal love story about how the stories we tell ourselves can ground us, reorient us, or swallow us whole.

I’m grateful to everyone who weighed in with notes, and to all of you for reading this past year! I’ll be sharing the finished forty pages with you soon, along with my audiobook-like narration which folks seem to enjoy.

With that, we’ll officially wrap The Year of Reckoning. HOUSE OF SNOW will continue - I’ll keep writing - but it will take up residence in a quieter corner of The Lighthouse, making way for new musings on cinema, travel, and everyday life.

And to kick off the New Year, I’ve opened a handful of free 1:1 storytelling consults for the filmmakers and screenwriters among us. Beginnings are hard - let’s ride the January momentum together! ✨

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If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.

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I did not intend for things to turn out this way.

When I found the journals in the antique store where the air smelled of cardamom and burned dust, beneath the portrait of the man with blue skin combing his lover’s hair, I could not have imagined that they would lead to these words, penned on the back of a yellowing survey chart showing approaches toward the Tibetan Plateau.

This is the story of a lost expedition. It’s the story of two people who met in the Himalaya in the mid twentieth century, and who vanished into the snows amidst a doomed guerrilla war. And, I suppose, it’s the story of my disappearance, too.

What can I say, other than that I regret nothing?

I’m watching the mountains burn in the last light of day here. It’s so beautiful. So beautiful. Soon the moon will rise behind them into a purpling dusk, and I will go.

I’ve left you as much as I could.

I hope it is enough.

➡️ Did you miss Part I (the introduction) to HOUSE OF SNOW?

If so, start here:

No vestige of a beginning

Sometimes, just beyond Long Beach where the sun pours into the Andaman Sea, the horizon flashes green. If you see it, you’ll wonder if it’s an illusion, or perhaps the emerald glow of a fisherman’s boat hunting squid in the early dark.

At least, I did, all those years ago. But she laughed and stretched like a cat in the sand and explained that the atmosphere was a prism, bending the light as it vanished.

The first thing I noticed when she appeared in front of me, apparition-like - two rows of bamboo desks down, near the garden - was how the world moved around her. I struggle to put words to it… They bounce off the memory now the same way the light fell off her shoulders then, scattering. But I’ll try.

When I was a kid, I used to think the roads of East Africa sped past us as we sat stationary in my dad’s banged-up Toyota:

Cows, chickens, marabou storks - taxis and motorbikes and Kampala’s multitudes - all of them flowed around us, like water around a rock. Reality bent to my imagination until I grew up and learned about combustion engines.

Kasia must have missed that lesson.

Or more likely, she chose to ignore it since it didn’t apply.

I had just committed to life on the road, and Thailand was the beginning.

My first two visits to the Land of Smiles had been spent deep in the jungled mountains, in a much different context - long story; if you stick around, maybe we’ll get to it - so I was keen for a taste of the island life I’d heard so much about.

The jingle of keys, the sputter of 150cc, lurching down a ribbon of road through lonely fishing villages and between a procession of palms, around a bend in the cliffs that opened into a sweep of blue, pure blue, a cloudlessness melting into the sea. It was an impossible color. Freedom and possibility. Sweat glistened on my arms and stung my eyes, and I welcomed it along with the choking dust. There was the crash of the surf beneath the scream of my motorbike, spewing the fumes of a shitty petrol-whisky blend. My innards rattled as Koh Lanta flowed around me, all liquid frontier.

How can I explain it to you?

How can I make you understand?

As nearly as I could tell, she was between projects. The details were hazy at the time, but I recall something about a non-profit, no money, and real-world psychohistory - Asimov’s idea that the futures of large populations could be predicted by combining history, sociology, and mathematics. So, too, could the developmental trajectories of countries, Kasia said. With enough data, you could game out the implications of proposed policies. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing ever was.

She had just survived a moonless night alone stranded on an estuary in Costa Rica surrounded by crocodiles as the tide rose, so she shared my desire for a taste of the peaceful island life.

I can still hear it… The music of her voice touched by Eastern Europe, woven with the whisper of the palms.

The time she climbed Kilimanjaro, fell sick, got robbed by her guides and hitchhiked across Tanzania. The time I crossed three mountains with no water under cover of nightfall to avoid spies in the deep jungle.

We swapped stories over drinks at Lym’s as the sun went down.

Both of us saw the green flash that night.

Only one of us understood the magic was science.

Which one is multiverse theory, magic or science?

Does one preclude the other?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, considering all that’s happened since Kasia and I first met.

Multiverse theory builds on established frameworks - cosmic inflation, quantum mechanics, string theory - but as far as we know, it can’t be tested empirically. Still, the sciences circle, attempting to circumscribe it with their proofs.

Edmund understood the tension. At the University of Edinburgh, he followed in the footsteps of giants like James Hutton, quite literally. “The Father of Modern Geology”, Hutton proposed that the planet was vastly older than the few thousand years implied by Biblical chronology… Perhaps geological processes were cyclical and ongoing:

“No vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end.”

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In this particular configuration of this particular universe, Edmund and Samantha crossed paths in Darjeeling, in late 1950, just after the monsoon.

He was twenty-eight and newly unemployed. She was thirty, fresh off an exploratory aid trip to Nepal. Edmund’s journal mentions the Planter’s Club, a fading colonial outpost in the wake of post-Partition India.

I did the research and found that it’s still there today. The original twenty-one rooms have been expanded to thirty-seven. A pair of oxygen cylinders from George Mallory’s fateful Everest expedition flanks the entrance, now more than a century old.

Kanchenjungha looms overhead, long assumed to be the highest mountain in the world. Its name means “the five treasures of the high snow”, which the Lhopo people believe will reveal themselves to the devout when the world is in peril.

The Kanchenjungha of today is the same as in Edmund’s and Samantha’s time. It soars eight thousand meters skyward, high above the Victorian-era architecture of Darjeeling, like an exclamation mark waiting to finish our species’ sentence.

We can’t know exactly what their first encounter was like. But we can infer from Edmund’s journals, the historical context, and supplementary materials I’ve tracked down. Honestly, I’ve lost countless hours to the black hole of archival research since their story first possessed me what feels like a lifetime ago. Scribbled notes on dinner napkins, nights spent crawling the stacks, sifting and synthesizing fragments of a vanished world… You get the idea. More on all of that later.

For now, I hope you’ll forgive me for indulging a reconstruction of Edmund’s and Samantha’s first meeting. It’s the only way I know how to do their story justice.

So brew yourself a cup of coffee and settle in.

Journey with me to the Darjeeling of 1950… A gateway for Himalayan expeditions, its slopes spotted with sprawling tea estates, fast becoming a relic of the Raj.

The wrong lifetime

The main lounge of the Planter’s Club looks like it’s spent years aging inside a whisky glass.

Tobacco smoke stains wood-paneled walls. Sepia photographs hang there like stubborn memories of no one. Leather armchairs recline on Oriental rugs, and shaded lamps pool green on a handful of billiards tables.

The men, predominately white, chalk their cues, read their newspapers, and nurse their imported booze.

Collared shirts, loosened ties, tweed jackets shiny at the elbows, all of the chums aware of Samantha in her simple button-down blouse, leaning easily against the bar.

She can feel their eyes on her. Animals.

Her gaze wanders again to the man sitting alone on the verandah, in khakis and a field jacket, absently fingering a whisky glass beneath a ceiling fan stirring the air. He watches the mountains as if they might speak at any moment.

It’s possible, Samantha thinks to herself, as she nods in thanks for her gin and closes the space between them.

“You look lost,” she says to the man.

She watches his eyes find their way back to the present moment, meeting her own.

“Hm? No, I… Am quite familiar with this place.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She gestures to the open chair across from him. Curious, Edmund waves his hand in invitation, and Samantha settles in, sensing the mountains behind her.

Billiards balls crack in the lounge, and the men laugh, congratulating themselves. “I’ve seen you around the past couple of days,” she ventures. “Always in this same spot.”

He nods, almond eyes catching the late afternoon light. “You can feel the breeze coming down from Kanchenjungha,” he says.

“Better than the cigar smoke in there.”

He smiles and extends his hand. “Edmund.”

“I know,” she says, shaking it. “The bartender told me about the Teesta Valley Road. Apparently you’re quite the legend.”

Edmund sighs. “I told Kiran no more stories.”

“Hard to stop the one about the ex-soldier geologist who’d rather drink with Nepalis than his own countrymen. Who spent forty-eight hours directing recovery efforts after three days of rain washed away the hillside. That was reckless, you know.”

“Those men would’ve died.”

“You misunderstand. I’m not criticizing you. I’m impressed by the fact that you did anything at all.”

CRACK. More laughter, as Edmund shifts uncomfortably. “What brings you here?”

“I grew up here. Well, Kalimpong, but close enough.”

“So this is home.”

She considers. “Yes. No. I don’t know. We’d come to Darjeeling for supplies and father’s church conferences.”

“Missionaries?”

Samantha shrugs and sips her gin. “Not my world.”

“What, you don’t fancy a game of billiards?”

“No more than you do.”

An understanding passes between them. “Ex-soldier, hm? I’ve known a few.”

“American?”, he prods.

“Is it that obvious?”

“No.”

Samantha waits.

“It’s your energy,” Edmund admits. “Big. Loud, I… Ought to hold my tongue.”

“I’ll try not to be offended. British soldiers, actually. Indian, too. I was with the Friends Ambulance Unit for a long time. Calcutta, Dimapur, around. They kept the religion out of it.”

Edmund blinks. “Dimapur? Really? When?”

“Japanese offensive back in forty-four. The whole corridor was collapsing. We were in crisis mode, Allied troops coming through, refugee camps for all of the displaced workers. It was complete chaos. I was in over my head on that one.”

Edmund blinks and leans back, balancing his chair on two legs. Studying her.

“So Kohima,” he offers.

“Kohima.”

“Could be we’ve met already.”

A breeze floats through the verandah. “It rather feels that way,” Samantha says.

The ceiling fan whirs. “It was another life, but in forty-four, I was, uh. With the Fourteenth Army. Royal Engineers. They redeployed us through Bengal to Dimapur, then north, so…” He trails off. Goes somewhere far away.

“You… You mean you were there? For the fighting.”

CRACK.

Edmund flinches as billiard balls break in the lounge. “The, uh. The tennis court.”

He searches the mountains for answers but finds none.

Silence.

“I want you to come for cocktails at the bungalow tomorrow.”

Edmund drifts back to her. “The bungalow?”

“Friend of mine’s organizing a gathering. I hate these things, but you never know who you’ll meet.”

“No, no, no. I’m no good at all of that.”

She leans forward. “Please? Oh, save me from the bore of it.”

They hold each other’s eyes until Edmund resigns. “You Americans are impossible.”

“Seven. Meet here. I know where to find you.”

She stands and kicks back the rest of her gin.

“Wait. What’s your name?”

Samantha looks down at him. “Seven, hm? I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Are we the authors of our choices? Is every event the result of prior causes, a chain linking back to the moment of the Big Bang? Or do our decisions emerge from an interdependent web of conditions arising together?

When you plant a seed, the health of the sprout is determined by soil, water, sunlight, temperature. Changes to these conditions affect the outcome. If the future arises from countless conditions - new influences, new intentions, new circumstances, all perpetually in flux - then it’s open, too complex to collapse into a straight line.

Perhaps our choices condition which universe we inhabit.

What strikes me is how a single moment - fleeting, unornamented, a footnote - can alter the trajectory of a life, perhaps because the moment is underpinned by so vast a web of prior causes and conditions. It wasn’t the iceberg above the surface that sunk the Titanic. It was the one hundred thousand year-old behemoth beneath.

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One hundred thousand year-old behemoth

I remember the night of the full moon.

There was a party on a far-flung beach you had to know about to get to. Past the open stretch of land with scattered palms pasted in the dark, down the dirt road strewn with boulders, away from where I’d met the witches who’d asked me to dance around their maypole. The parking lot was a tangle of motorbikes when I arrived.

From there, all you had to do was follow the music.

Mushroom Bar looked like someone had uprooted a bamboo forest - shaken, twisted, and skewered it - then transplanted the surviving tangle to the beach, where it laughed and danced like a cartoon man with spindly limbs taunting the rising tide.

The moon pulled the ocean up the shore into the rickety venue, and the sands drank it up.

Already, people were surrendering to the primal beat of the drum thumping out of the festival speakers. Tourists, expats, nomads, beers in-hand, cigarettes, wind curling hair and smoke. Body paint, neon blues and greens and yellows, smeared on legs and arms and faces. Burning like fireflies in the falling night. The building, too, glowed and grinned wickedly.

I was glad to see the charmer from South Africa who traveled carry-on only and the girl with the backwards baseball cap.

“Do you want one?”, she asked, tapping her plastic cup full of brown slush. “You should go get one.” She seized my hands, twirled herself, and disappeared into the gyrating heave of flesh. I never saw her again.

Inspired, I pushed my way to the bar, where a thirteen-year-old kid in an oversized jersey was mixing drinks. He looked up at me with a hungry gleam in his eye. “You want shake?”

I did. For science!

With my very own plastic cup of brown slush, I made my way back to where my friend from South Africa stood on the periphery and took a meaty gulp... It was earthy, thick, sickly sweet.

“I heard they’re grown in elephant shit, bru,” he said. “The mushrooms. When in Rome!”

We drained our drinks together.

At first, nothing. And then - in a single moment, like someone flipping a switch - I felt my body shift into a constant state of ascension. I was flying through the music, I could see the music, each note a kaleidoscope of color, my vision a rainbow.

I staggered through the heat of sweating bodies to the men’s room. The toilet was brimming with piss. I fell to my knees, clutched the bowl, and vomited pineapple fried rice and elephant shit.

“You alright, mate?”, came a voice from nowhere.

“Fine,” I lied, as fireworks dropped the beat and crackled magnificently in front of my eyes.

Out and down, to a bamboo platform in front of the dance floor overlooking the ocean. I clung to it like a life raft. The tide rose, insistent, suggestive, offering to drown me in its depths, gently. I fell through a fever dream of fractals.

My South African friend was there. How long had he been there? And the Swedish girl leaning in, studying me. “I don’t like you,” she said to my friend, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. “But I like you,” she said to me.

I ignored her until she went away.

Eyes, eyes everywhere, empty sockets wreathed in shades of water, jungle, sun.

My raft heaved. I realized it had been boarded by a burly Norwegian sailor, shirtless, as shirtless as those people courting the madness of the waves, war paint blinding on their naked breasts, fucking, pleasure, salt on their lips beneath the moon.

Lars, he said. He told me of his time in the Navy. He told me he would guide me through. And he tells me that there are no spies, that there is water enough, and that the mountains are somewhere far away - not here, where the land meets the sea.

But there. In the shadow of the five treasures of the high snow.

They are looking out over the tea bushes rolling down, like waves in a manicured ocean of green.

I can see them perched high above, next to the wicker chairs and potted palms on the wrap-around verandah, leaning. Behind them, electric bulbs flicker inside the bungalow. A generator hums. Jazz bobs and weaves on a gramophone.

Samantha, three or four gins in. Edmund working another whisky.

“The tennis court,” he slurs.

“The tennis court,” she registers. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Let’s not go there,” Lars cautions, his voice trapped in some dark and distant place.

“The Deputy Commissioner’s bungalow,” Edmund persists. “Us on one side. Japs on the other. The net line, no-man’s-land. We lobbed grenades across the court like tennis balls. The dead lay where they fell. I had a mean serve.” He chuckles darkly. Sways. “The sun was out, real bloody bright. This one kid, eighteen, nineteen maybe, he falls right onto my bayonet. I can smell the jungle on his breath, the loam. Blood, heat. He, uh… He keeps reaching, wanting something, I don’t know what until he’s gone, I didn’t know what. My sunglasses... The reflection, he didn’t want to watch himself die. But I was too late. Too late. He was the last thing he saw.”

“Come back,” Lars says. “There’s someone here for you.”

Kasia, hair electric in the wind, the tip of her nose spotted with neon paint. She looks like a cat. She often reminds me of a cat, though to her childhood friends in Eastern Europe, she is “gazela” - quick, delicate, wild. “Do you want to go to the water?”, she asks in music. I feel Lars pushing me to my feet and suddenly her hand in mine.

How many hours have passed?

Low tide. Ribbons of wet sand exhale beneath my feet, exposed by the moonlight.

She speaks, but I hear only the music, only the lilting rise and fall of her voice, the sound itself the meaning, the words empty containers breaking against the mushroomed reef of my mind. I feel her touch as a sensation far away.

“Dance with me,” she breathes. Her arms drape my neck and the thought rises, no, she can’t possibly mean me. I don’t know the steps. They burned the village because of me. Malaria killed the mother because of me, her brain swelled, her body suffocated from the inside because of my selfishness, because of me. I don’t know the steps and I can’t understand you. You can’t understand me, we are separated by a world of experience that burns any bridge between us.

“I can’t,” Edmund says.

“It’s just a simplified two-step,” Samantha says, trying to coax Edmund into a swing.

“If you mean to move like that, I need another drink in me.”

“I think you have plenty.”

“I’m cold,” I say, pulling out of Kasia’s embrace. Willowy, swimmer’s shoulders, pools for eyes. “I have to go.”

Back to my life raft, where it is safe, where no bridges can reach.

Edmund watches Samantha float through the bungalow haloed by the light. She gets her glass of water, meets Edmund’s glassy eyes and starts toward him - but a man intercepts. Indian, linen blazer, crisp cotton shirt. Collar open to the night.

Edmund watches them speak. Samantha laughs in her American way.

They sway, turning gently, falling into the two-step meant for him.

Where the land meets the sea, I resume my post beside Lars.

“She’s into you,” he says. “I’m jealous.”

“She’s out of my league,” I say.

“I said she’s into you.”

My eyes follow Kasia’s solitary stroll through Lanta’s low tide, silhouetted against the starry black. And then suddenly she is not alone. The shape of a man approaches.

For a long time, they speak. Then they continue down the beach together.

My heart pours into a vast emptiness.

“Why did he win?”, Lars asks me in a teacher’s tone. I feel his brotherly hand on my back.

“Because he was there,” I say.

“Because he was there,” Lars concludes. “Because he was available. She was fucking hunting, my friend.”

I look after them as they walk away from Mushroom Bar into the darkness, until there is nothing left to see.

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It wasn’t the iceberg above the surface that sunk the Titanic. It was the one hundred thousand year-old behemoth beneath.

Assumptions crystallized by choices and their consequences, rippling through time.

I didn’t see Kasia again for many years.

And as Edmund left Samantha to dance with the man in the bungalow, he couldn’t have known that his decision, made in the blink of a single moment - fleeting, unornamented, a footnote - would alter the trajectory of his life.

➡️ Did you miss Part I (the introduction) to HOUSE OF SNOW?

If so, start here:

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I try to live my life by doing the things that scare me.

Over the past few months, it’s become clear that HOUSE OF SNOW is the most ambitious creative project I’ve attempted, and I’m terrified. But I’m also committed.

This story feels like a deep synthesis of my voice, vision, and travels, and I’m realizing that prose is the medium it demands.

Which is to say: I think I’ve accidentally started writing a novel.

From the beginning, I’ve imagined HOUSE OF SNOW as a sort of serialized co-creation with you. That now extends even further than I expected. I want your thoughts not just on the story, but on the writing itself.

What do you think of the experience? The pacing, the plot, the line-level craft?

What’s working for you, and what’s not?

This is your invitation into the creative process, as I strive to do justice to Edmund’s and Samantha’s story. It’s shaping up to be a lyrical, spiritually charged, time-hopping epic of memory, myth, and recurrence, where the uncanny hums beneath the mundane. The chapters I’ll share are, by definition, works-in-progress, so I ask for patience, kindness, and sensitivity in your feedback.

Moving forward, I’ll be holding what I call “the stupid stick”. It’s a concept I’ve introduced to collaborators and development teams over the years.

The stupid stick can be a pen, or a whiteboard marker, or really anything that’s readily available in the room. Whoever holds the stupid stick is granted immunity from mean-spirited criticism or doubts about their abilities. It’s a reminder that not every idea is a good idea, and that great ideas are more likely to emerge in an atmosphere of grace.

Our 2025 roadmap was a bit ambitious in its timing, but the next chapter is coming - this October. I’m putting the finishing touches on it as we speak.

Stay tuned, and thanks to you all for putting up with the wait! I’m pretty much the world’s worst multitasker - especially when possessed by a story that insists on being told! - which is why things have been relatively quiet around here, until now.

PS, for the filmmakers and screenwriters among us: I’ve opened fall bookings for 1:1 storytelling consults. They’re for you if you’re feeling stuck or ready to deepen your project, and they include access to the full Lights Film School curriculum archive.

PPS: Just learned that a script I cowrote has been selected as a Finalist at the Austin Film Festival! Which means out of 11,500+ scripts, it’s in the top 0.5%.

As my creative partner pointed out, this is THE preeminent festival for writing - so we are, ironically, at a loss for words.

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It was October, and the leaves were bursting into fiery shades of yellow, orange, and red. I was keen to visit Bran Castle on Halloween.

Famously considered the home of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the castle sits atop a rocky outcrop in the Southern Carpathians, at the edge of the Bran Pass. From there, it overlooks pine-covered slopes, misty ridgelines, and deep valleys.

That year, Halloween was doubly important.

It marked my spooky excursion and the deadline for a scene in the screenplay I was developing. I’ll never forget the days leading up to October 31… They were hellishly difficult, because I was completely lost in the story I was telling.

For two weeks, I (mostly figuratively) banged my head against the wall, desperate to divine how to move things forward.

I’d been circling the same idea for ages. My characters wouldn’t cooperate with my outline, the structure was crumbling, and feedback from well-meaning friends who didn’t fully understand the vision was only making things worse.

I felt stuck mid-draft, chasing a story that was slipping out of reach.

Some days, I wanted to give up.

But I didn’t.

Somehow, I managed to cast every spell in my creative grimoire and summon every screenplay god in existence to find my way through the darkness. It came at great cost to my sleep and wellbeing, but I made it.

How much time and trouble would have been saved if I’d had someone alongside me to pressure-test ideas, reframe things with fresh eyes, and help me reorient when I was spiraling!

The truth is, I’ve been there many times. I think most serious creatives have.

That’s part of why, for the first time, I’m opening up a handful of one-on-one storytelling consults, starting now.

These are 30-minute Zoom calls with me, designed to meet you exactly where you are, so you can get unstuck and feel even more alive in your creative work.

It’s not script coverage. It’s not a generic coaching session. It’s a conversation where we’ll pop the hood of your story and figure out precisely how to get you moving forward with more clarity, momentum, and direction.

You’ll also get bonus access to the retired Lights Film School curriculum - a 660-page digital archive that guided thousands of emerging filmmakers around the world for more than a decade.

It’s been gathering digital dust, and I’d rather see it live again in the hands of people it can help.

This offer grows out of the same impulse that led me to start The Lighthouse - a conviction that the stories we tell (and live) matter deeply, and that the creative process, while often lonely, doesn’t have to be.

Limited availability as bookings roll seasonally:

👉 Head here to book your 1:1 storytelling consult with me.

If you’ve been circling, maybe this is your chance to get back on track. Let’s drive a stake through the heart of whatever’s draining your creative energy!

And of course, if you have any questions, just drop me a line.

PS: Bran Castle was awesome. Best Halloween ever! 🧛‍♂️

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I’ve only ever walked out of three films in my life, and last year’s impeccable Nosferatu is one of them.

I got halfway through it the other night, but the feeling of dread was so overwhelming that I felt it like a physical force in my chest.

So I hit pause, made myself a cup of chamomile tea, and fell asleep with the lights on listening to John Mayer.

I’ll circle back some day - the craft is too impressive not to! - but in the meantime, it brought me back to my own journey through Transylvania.

I didn’t cross paths with any vampires on that trip, but I did have to fight my way through a creative hellscape while racing a screenwriting deadline.

I was still running Lights Film School at the time, helping emerging filmmakers tell their own stories for the screen. It’s been a while since Lights Film School closed its doors, and since then, I’ve wandered through many stories of my own - some fictional, some lived.

Throughout it all, one feeling keeps returning:

That there’s still more I want to offer the creative community that meant so much to me for over a decade. Which is why I’ve been building something. Not a school, not a course, but something smaller, more personal - and, I think, more powerful in its way.

I’ll share the details in a few days, but for now, I just wanted to share: Something new is coming. Something designed to meet you where you are in your creative journey, especially if you’ve been circling, stuck, or unsure what comes next.

It’s the kind of thing I wish I’d had during some of my toughest creative moments. Stay tuned.

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Mornings started crisp and cool. Midday brought the sun, burning off the fog. Evenings turned chilly, and the nights, cold.

Since the journey spanned many days, I didn’t want to carry a heavy hiking backpack.

I reached for my 40L Osprey, which imposed a hard cap on the number of clothes I could bring. Every piece had to earn its place in a minimalist capsule wardrobe capable in a wide range of temperatures, from 04 - 24°C (40 - 75°F).

Ideally, the kit would perform in the wilderness and still look presentable around town.

In the lead-up to the trip, optimizing my gear - the weight, the use case, the look and feel - became a game of min-max. I discovered a passion for fabrics that carried me through Guatemala and into the next 10 years of my life as a “digital nomad”.

Snowy mountains high above the clouds, sun-splashed islands, tropical rains deep in the jungle... For much of the past decade, I’ve been living out of a suitcase across a kaleidoscope of natural and urban environments, refining my sense of what to wear when fashion and performance compete for priority and space is at a premium.

If you’re searching for a battle-tested field guide for what to wear on the road, you’re in the right place. And for folks following our 2025 roadmap here at The Lighthouse, rest assured: HOUSE OF SNOW is still very much underway!

Honestly, I’m a little bit intimidated by the project, which is how I know I need to write it. I’m making decent progress and will have more to share in the months ahead. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this detour inspired by my recent travels through Alaska.

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The Magic of “Nature’s Finest Performance Fabric”

If we’ve met in person, you’ve probably heard me preach the gospel of Merino Wool.

For context, the Merino sheep is descended from breeds brought to Spain by the Moors around the twelfth century. Its incredibly soft, fine wool was radically different from the coarse wool common in Europe at the time.

By the fifteenth century, Merino wool had become a cornerstone of the Spanish economy - so much so that exporting Merino sheep was punishable by death! The material was a luxury, strictly regulated by the Mesta, a powerful guild of sheep ranchers who managed Merino migrations across the Castilian plains.

Spain began gifting Merino sheep to its allies and royalty in the late 1700s. By 1797, the sheep had reached Australia with settlers keen on creating a wool industry. Today, Australia is the world’s largest producer of Merino wool, followed by New Zealand.

I first encountered Merino wool through Outlier, a clothing brand based in NYC with an experimental bent that “makes high performance clothing for the wild/city”. They describe the material as “nature’s finest performance fabric”, and after years of wearing it across a wide range of environments, I couldn’t agree more.

It’s like magic:

The fibers trap air like all wool does, lending warmth even when wet. But Merino fibers are so fine that excess heat and moisture can escape. The result is a fabric that’s thermoregulating. It adapts to the body’s microclimate, keeping you cooler when you’re hot and warmer when you’re cold. Merino breathes and wicks, and since it’s naturally bacteriostatic, it resists odor, so it can go a few wears between washings.

Just trust your nose.

Oh, and it’s naturally UV resistant, too!

The fineness of the fibers allows Merino to flow and contour beautifully. There’s no stiffness or boxiness in the drape, and because it retains a natural stretch and “memory”, it doesn’t sag or lose shape over time. The matte finish absorbs light, enhancing depth and shadow in the folds so that garments look more tailored.

When the diameter of the fiber is 17.5 microns or less, the hand feel is buttery soft. At 190 grams per square meter (gsm), it can be durable enough to wear every day.

In short, I love this stuff. If I could recommend just one thing, it would be Merino.

Yes, it’s expensive, but it’s unbelievably adaptable, comfortable, and surprisingly long-lasting. You’ll pack fewer clothes and get more mileage out of a Merino tee than you would a cotton one, and you’ll look better doing it.

Just to illustrate, I have three tees from 2018 that I’ve been wearing regularly. They’re just now starting to show their wear, after seven years of around-the-world service.

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When to Use Synthetic Performance Fabrics

I’m sensitive to texture and feel philosophically aligned with natural materials, but sometimes you need a garment that’s been artificially engineered for performance.

Synthetic fibers are made from petrochemicals, materials derived from crude oil and natural gas. The plastic threads are melted, extruded, and spun.

Polyester came about in the 1940s and is prized for its durability, quick-drying nature, and wrinkle resistance. Nylon was developed earlier, originally for women’s stockings. It’s softer and stretchier than polyester, and the higher tensile strength resists abrasion, stretching, and shrinking. As a result, nylon is usually more expensive.

I don’t love the hand feel of synthetic fibers. They trap odor more than natural fibers do, and depending on the style of knit or weave, they’re usually less breathable.

For me, polyester and nylon are valuable primarily for their toughness.

If I know I’m going to be hiking with a heavy pack or moving through unpredictable terrain, then I might opt for something synthetic.

For example, I rely on an Aether Apparel sun shirt made of recycled birdseye knit polyester when hiking in hot environments. The textured knit increases surface area and airflow, facilitating moisture evaporation, while the interlocking pattern reinforces the fabric. In a cooler or rainy environment, I might reach for a nylon windbreaker to layer over a Merino tee. In both cases, I get the performance benefits of synthetic fibers while sparing my natural fiber garments from excessive wear.

Polyester and nylon can be blended with other materials to unlock additional benefits. A dash of elastane yields exceptional stretch and recovery… Adding cotton softens a synthetic hand feel… And Tencel - a sustainable, semi-synthetic fiber made from wood pulp like eucalyptus, processed with a chemical solvent - adds breathability.

My favorite example of a synthetic performance fabric can be found in Outlier’s Slim Dungarees. I’ve been wearing them almost exclusively for the past decade. They’re advertised as “the pant to travel the world in”, which is exactly what I’ve done.

The Dungarees weigh in at 275 gsm, and after breaking in a little bit, they transform into a second skin with a flattering silhouette, thanks to the cut and construction.

The outer face weaves rugged Cordura-grade nylon, while the inner face weaves a nylon-polyester blend for subtle softness. Elastane affords some stretch, and a finishing Durable Water Repellent (DWR) causes water to bead off instead of soak in, adding light but durable water and stain resistance.

Schoeller, the 150-year-old Swiss mill that makes the fabric, just shut down, so I’ll have to find a new daily driver when my Dungarees wear out years from now.

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How to Manage Temperature Extremes

One of the challenges of living out of a suitcase is solving for temperature extremes. Space is at a premium, so it’s not like you can pack your favorite winter jacket.

The hack? 800+ fill-power goose down. Down is the fluffy layer of fine filaments found beneath the exterior feathers of geese. These tiny puffballs trap air, creating pockets of warmth while allowing moisture to escape, making them thermoregulating, breathable, and lightweight. It’s warmer for its weight than almost any synthetic alternative, and because of its loft, goose down compresses beautifully.

However, down tends to clump and collapse in moisture, necessitating a rain layer. But you should be packing one of those anyway.

Down is versatile, reliably comfortable in 04 - 15°C (40 - 60°F). Add a wool sweater (I love mine from North Sea Clothing); Merino base layer; and Merino hat, scarf, and gloves to help weather colder environments.

I don’t have much experience in temperatures dramatically below zero, but I managed to survive a bomb cyclone in New York City with this kit just fine!

But what about the other extreme, when the air is thick and the sun unforgiving?

To fight the heat, I call upon the power of Merino Wool. Surprise!

Linen, too, is a useful ally. People have been cultivating linen for more than 6000 years, making it one of the oldest natural textiles on Earth. It’s a bast fiber - meaning it comes from the inner bark of the plant - so it’s quite labor-intensive to produce, driving up the price… But it’s worth it.

The hollow fibers of the flax plant allow air to circulate freely, making linen ideal for hot and humid climates. It actually feels cool to the touch. Linen can absorb up to 20% of its weight in moisture before feeling damp, so it’s naturally moisture-wicking. Flax resists bacteria and irritants, so linen is antibacterial and hypoallergenic, too.

From a durability standpoint, linen tends to soften over time instead of wear out. It has a beautiful, casual drape with a bit of stiffness that gradually relaxes into a floating wispiness. The fabric wrinkles easily, which bothers some people, but it’s a part of the charm. Linen lends itself to a breezy, lived-in, timeless aesthetic that ages gracefully.

Curating Heirloom-Grade Materials that Tell Your Story

No discussion of travel-worthy materials would be complete without considering leather. Although not a “fabric” strictly speaking, it was the original all-purpose material. In fact, its use predates recorded history.

By the Neolithic period, tanning techniques had begun to develop, and hides were preserved, softened, and waterproofed with animal fats, smoke, and tree bark tannins.

Roman soldiers marched in leather sandals. Medieval traders trusted leather coats to keep them warm on treacherous journeys. During the Age of Exploration, leather was the duct tape of its time, an everyday material that quite literally held the era together, used in everything from boots to bags to bindings.

Leather isn’t the lightest material, and it requires proper maintenance. For example, I condition my full-grain, vegetable-tanned, decade-old Saddleback at least twice a year - but in exchange, it promises to outlive me and look better the older it gets:

Leather darkens with time and assumes a soft sheen called “patina”, a visual record of its journey. Every scuff, scratch, and stain tells a story, blending into the patina beautifully. Leather is an organic material - literally a skin that breathes, reacts, evolves - its imperfections adding texture, depth, and character.

Leather also molds to your body and movements.

In other words, it becomes uniquely yours in a way that no other material manages.

Waxed canvas comes close. Its roots trace to the eighteenth century, when mariners applied linseed oil to flax sails to help them catch the wind and repel water. Eventually, cotton sailcloth replaced flax and wax replaced oil, since wax didn’t rot the fabric.

In the early twentieth century, waxed canvas became standard issue for soldiers, aviators, and explorers, prized for its durability and water resistance. Like leather, it’s heavy and requires proper care, but it ages beautifully. The patina tells the story.

Maintaining my gear is both necessary and rewarding.

It’s a ritual for me, as vital and grounding as making a morning coffee. I’ve loved watching the patinas develop over the years.

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Why Cotton Doesn’t Make the Cut (Most of the Time)

Cotton is a go-to fabric for many people.

It accounts for around 25% of all textile fiber use worldwide - much of the rest is synthetic, like polyester - and some estimates suggest cotton is used in as much as 75% of all tees. The problem is that traditional cotton absorbs and retains moisture. It loses insulation when wet and can feel cold or clammy against the skin.

For performance, Merino wins every time.

Still, not all cotton is created equal!

Upland cotton, a short to medium-long staple fiber, makes up roughly 90% of the world’s cotton and is what you’ll find in most mass-market garments.

By contrast, Pima cotton is extra-long staple, meaning longer, silkier fibers that produce a softer, stronger fabric. It’s grown in Peru, Australia, and the United States, where it’s sold under the name “Supima”.

“Organic” cotton has nothing to do with fiber length. It simply denotes how the cotton was grown, and unless it’s long staple, it tends to have a rougher hand feel.

My two cents? Skip cotton for travel unless you love a particular piece. Sure, Pima is cozy, but so is Merino, and Merino does more.

As an aside, I recently stumbled across Supermarine cotton, a nearly forgotten World War II textile. Developed by the British to keep downed pilots alive in the frigid waters of the North Sea, this dense, complex weave of extra-long staple fibers is exceptionally durable, water resistant, and windproof. Supermarine cotton was later used in Antarctic exploration and by Sir Edmund Hillary during the ascent of Everest.

The advent of GoreTex pushed it out of the spotlight, so it’s hard to come by today, but I’m keen to check it out firsthand. Any time a natural material outperforms a synthetic material, I’m there for it.

The Strategy Behind a Travel-Ready Capsule Wardrobe

My life is lived in motion, out of a suitcase. I need my clothes to mix and match effortlessly while performing in a variety of scenarios, which aligns me with the slow fashion movement. That means choosing quality over quantity. It means valuing sustainable materials, ethical production, and tasteful, understated design.

Here, I’m reminded of Terry Pratchett’s “’Boots’ theory of socio-economic unfairness”, from his 1993 novel Men at Arms:

...A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars… But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

I haven’t always been in a position to choose the “good” pair of something, but when I have been able to invest, I’ve done so gratefully.

It pays dividends in cost, comfort, and cut.

Of course, a minimalist approach constrains your fashion choices. I’ve sunk a not inconsiderable amount of time into brainstorming how best to maximize outfit options in a capsule wardrobe. In my case, these days, limiting bottoms to one neutral color (black) reduces mental load and frees me to be more expressive with my tops.

I’ll think, too, about how different textures can elevate an outfit - color isn’t the only lever. For example, how might the free-flowing, imperfect nature of linen interplay with the sleek weave of a slim-cut synthetic pant?

Look, there’s no way around the fact that a capsule wardrobe is a compromise.

It’s like that aphorism you hear in filmmaking circles, “Good, Fast, Cheap - pick two of three”… “Packable, All-Season, Styled - pick two of three”. The goal is to collapse the space between these three as much as possible, by strategizing textiles, hand-picking versatile pieces, and coordinating colors and textures.

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I hope my decade of trial and error can be of use to you as you prepare for your next trip. I’d love for you to avoid getting caught in a downpour in denim that refuses to dry!

For me, this is about more than what clothes to pack.

Over the years, I’ve found that owning less creates more space in my life.

The possessions I do have mean something… They solve specific problems and connect me back to nature, history, and myself. In so doing, they tell a story of their own, and that empowers me to move through the world with greater intention.

It’s a way to slow down.

To appreciate what I carry and attune to life’s simple pleasures, like the luxurious softness of Merino. Or the satisfaction of staying dry on a stormy trek through the mountains, listening to rain patter the hood of my jacket. Or the ease of moving from frisbee on the beach at sunset to dinner with new friends, wearing the same thing.

Sure, sometimes it means finding yourself underdressed at a super swanky rooftop restaurant in Bangkok, obliging you and your partner to charm your way past the maître d’ while shrugging off a few confused stares - but honestly?

That was a fun story to live, too.

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Nine years ago to the day, I packed my bags, left behind my New York City apartment, and boarded a one-way flight to Thailand.

It was the very beginning of a nomadic journey that’s since swept me around the world. I often feel I’ve lived a dozen lifetimes since then.

For the first few years, I traveled carry-on only. I was light on my feet, but it came at the cost of the “nice-to-haves” - extra outfits, trusted toiletries, my climbing shoes.

What did make the cut was a banged-up Playstation 4.

It was the first gaming console I purchased as an adult, for one reason: to stay in touch with my brothers. Every week, we played Destiny, a “Mythic Science Fiction Shooter” developed by Bungie, the studio behind the original Halo trilogy.

To say I loved that game would be an understatement.

Curious, I checked my time played statistics: 1,479 hours.

I wish I were exaggerating.

Against my better judgment, I couldn’t get enough. The game’s opening cinematic illustrates why (yes, that’s Bill Nighy and Peter Dinklage narrating!):

Unlike other games, Destiny delivered a sense of mystery, exploration, and wonder through its union of music, art direction, and innovative design. The tagline was literally “Become Legend” - fitting for a story not just about loss and longing, but about how we mythologize those things in order to survive them.

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An act of co-creation

Bungie set the board to tell its tale of fate and space magic over the span of a decade.

It was a wildly ambitious undertaking with a legendary development budget, reportedly in the ballpark of half a billion dollars.

Destiny made that money back in twenty-four hours. It went on to win more than 180 nominations and awards, including The Game Award for Best Online Experience.

For me, a key part of the experience was the Thursday update, or “TWAB” (“This Week at Bungie”). It was a space for Destiny’s developers to share their vision, keep people posted on game updates, and chat with the community. There was a real sense of Bungie and the players co-creating an evolving world. The studio invited people into the story, teasing ideas that would play out over many months.

We’re going to do something similar here.

It’s a desire I’ve had for more than a decade, stemming from a fascination with narrative design, but I haven’t had a way to explore the potential - until now.

Because the response to HOUSE OF SNOW has been overwhelming.

There’s been quite a bit of curiosity around the (cursed?) journal I found in Nepal, its eerie connection to my own life, and whether or not there’s more story to tell.

There is.

If you missed the first part, you can catch up here:

Seriously, people have reached out via Substack, email, WhatsApp, and even in person, eager to know more. In fact, I’ve been surprised and delighted to see Part I quietly become my most-read piece on Substack since launching last fall.

I want to honor that interest - and my sense that this story demands to be told.

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Our roadmap for what to expect

I think of story as a compass. It’s a powerful force that can help us reimagine who we are and who we’re becoming. Here at The Lighthouse, we explore how stories shape us, and how we shape them, through cinema, travel, and everyday life.

Part film journal, part travelogue, and part field notes.

Until now, I’ve more or less siloed these categories in my writing. One per post.

Which is why it’s been so fascinating to see that what’s most resonating isn’t a single film analysis or an individual anecdote from my time on the road or a standalone essay on identity and the creative process - but a story that weaves together all three.

We’re going to follow that thread for a season, wherever it may lead. Not indefinitely, but at least through the fall. To that end, we’re theming this season of The Lighthouse “The Year of Reckoning”, likely to unfold across 6 - 8+ meaty posts:

As I’ve already said, I could use your perspective in making sense of that little book. I’ve spent too long thinking about it, and maybe you’ll spot something I’ve missed.

Maybe, together, we’ll uncover details neither of us would’ve found alone.

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I hope you’ll come with me on this journey.

In reaching its end, perhaps we’ll uncover a new beginning - and I hope you’ll be patient with me as we do, because I definitely don’t have it all figured out.

I think I know how best to honor Edmund’s and Samantha’s story. It feels as timely today as it must have when they lived it, some sixty years ago. I’ve spent the past month trying to map a compelling trajectory for us here, but it can still feel like I’m aiming at a moving target. Honestly, my relationship to the material keeps changing.

It’s hard to explain.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m following the story, or if it’s following me.

This will be my only post for the month of May, as I’m juggling a screenwriting assignment and currently on a trip through the Inside Passage. More about both in future dispatches, but for now - thanks so much for being here. Y’all are the best.

Much love from Alaska!

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Although I grew up in a missionary family in post-colonial Africa, I do not consider myself particularly spiritual. But this past year has challenged my beliefs. I’ve experienced things I struggle to explain... Events and phenomena that do not fit neatly within the “rational” framework I traditionally rely on to make sense of the world.

Which is why I invite you to make sense of them with me.

Perhaps, between us, we can contextualize the magic as simply “science we don’t understand yet” - beginning, naturally, with the mid-20th century journal I discovered in a dusty antique store while in Pokhara, Nepal.

I’ll do my best to follow the thread of that day in early December.

A world out of time

Winter had come.

Trucks trundled by, heavy with fuel tanks headed for far-flung teahouses, where they’d feed fires for cooking and warmth. People scurried past in knitted hats, yak wool scarves, and knock-off North Face jackets. I was woefully underdressed and eager to get back before dark, when the temperature would plunge.

Not that it was anything like the frozen north - the high passes of The Himalayas, impenetrable to all save the hardiest caravans braving fierce winds and deep snows.

The cold doesn’t agree with me. But curiosity gets the best of my comfort.

So when I passed a store window beneath a blood-red awning lined with tattered prayer flags - stuffed with statuary, singing bowls, and deity masks - I stopped short.

There it was again.

It wasn’t the first time I’d felt it:

A strange sensation rushing toward me, like an avalanche... Then a faint tug pulling me forward, across the threshold of the store - and into a world out of time.

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Street sounds gave way to a river of flute music.

The air smelled of cardamom and burned dust.

Dozens of paper lanterns - hand-painted with flowers, fish, and esoteric symbols - swayed from the ceiling, casting a patterned rainbow of color like sunlight streaming through painted glass. They dappled a pantheon of sculptures on the shelves:

There were Buddha, Shiva, and the elephant-headed Ganesh, all cast in bronze. Beyond, miniature paintings of the seasons lined the walls.

One in particular caught my attention, sequestered in a shadowy corner. Curious, I drew closer, coming face-to-face with an extraordinary portrait of two lovers.

I so wish I could have snapped a photo for you, but according to the store’s signage, cameras were expressly forbidden. So I must do my best to describe it to you:

A man with blue skin, richly dressed, sits on a rock amidst the jungle at night. A beautiful woman leans against him, her wrist draped over his knee like flowing water.

He runs a comb through her hair. The woman holds up a mirror - not so that she can admire her hair, but so that she can enjoy the man’s reflection. It is a profoundly tender moment, brought to life through thousands of precise brushstrokes and gentle colors, capturing the hushed beauty of the lovers’ moonlit glade.

Meet Krishna and Radha, a couple celebrated in the Hindu tradition.

I’d learned from a taxi driver in Kathmandu that their story can be traced back to the Bhagavata Purana, a text thought to have been written somewhere between the fifth and tenth centuries. Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, the god tasked with preserving the order of the cosmos.

He assumes a human form whenever chaos threatens to overwhelm existence.

Naturally, then, his life story is full of adventure. Like Moses in the Bible, Krishna is spirited away to safety when his uncle orders the murder of all male children born in the kingdom that night. So despite being of royal descent, Krishna grows up in the countryside, where he falls in love with a milkmaid named Radha.

But the two cannot be together.

Some interpretations explain the gulf between them in terms of human drama:

Radha is already married, and Krishna has a great destiny ahead of him.

Different directions pull them apart.

Other interpretations suggest that Krishna and Radha share one soul in two bodies.

Regardless, the pain of separation is unbearable.

But as Krishna reminds Radha in the Bhagavad Gita, “Those who see me in all things and all things in me are never lost to me, nor am I ever lost to them.”

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The discovery

...There was that tug again, deep within me.

I followed Krishna’s gaze out of the painting, down to a shelf on the left. There, beneath a pile of yellowing postcards, lay a small leatherbound notebook.

I reached out, picked it up, and turned it over:

No title.

No markings of any kind.

Just a red thread binding the pages shut. Feeling suddenly self-conscious - as if someone was watching me - I looked around, but there was no one in sight.

The pull I felt to this notebook is difficult to describe… Like it might awaken something I’d forgotten to look for, or unearth a secret I already knew but had long ago buried.

I unknotted the thread and cracked open the cover.

The smell of must hit me. I took the flyleaf between my fingers - feeling the wrinkles, the age - and turned the page, revealing one line of handwriting, cursive, in black ink:

“Edmund Bainbridge | August 18, 1958 - ”

My heart leapt. No way. No way. 1958?

A sixty-plus-year-old artifact just sitting there, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie? Please, I thought. That doesn’t happen in real life.

Who was this guy, anyway?

A quick web search turned up nothing.

Honestly, thinking back on the night I found the journal, I still don’t know if it was real or some sort of elaborate hoax. One of those eccentric art installations, maybe, designed to make you question what’s real and what’s imagined.

If so, then well played. It convinced me completely.

But far more importantly, I’ve come to believe that it doesn’t matter.

Forgery or not, the story I found in that notebook left an indelible mark on my life.

It is a tale of freedom, fate, and coincidence - of two people who find each other again and again, perhaps across lifetimes - and how, in Dostoevsky’s words:

“Beauty will save the world.”

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Taken at face value, the journal belonged to one Edmund Bainbridge, an independent explorer and geologist. He seems to have been part of a privately funded reconnaissance expedition into the remotest regions of Nepal in the mid-20th century.

The pages were filled with scientific observations - sketches of rock formations, notes on soil composition, that kind of thing. But the more I read, the more I realized the expedition was probably a means to an end.

Edmund’s true reason for going was to find out what had happened to his uncle, a controversial mountaineer and mystic, revered in some circles as a spiritual visionary. Officially, he disappeared in the early 1900s, having followed his dreams too far.

But that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that Edmund’s deeper purpose, hidden even from himself, was to find Samantha again - a friend who, but for a chain of understandable yet heartbreaking assumptions made years earlier, might have been more.

By the time Edmund arrives for his expedition, Sam is working as a fiercely independent translator and field coordinator in the Himalayan region, on the brink of the Tibetan uprising. And as he soon discovers, she’s tethered to a convenient but unfulfilling relationship, too afraid to let go.

At least, that’s my read.

I wish I had more than Edmund’s journal and a handful of Sam’s letters to go on, but their words carry a deeply felt conviction that their reunion was somehow inevitable.

Considering the historical context, it’s easy to imagine how a brewing guerrilla war in the uncharted wilderness of the Tibetan mountains might have heightened their sense of destiny. Which doesn’t necessarily make it any less true.

That feeling - of being pulled toward who you’re meant to be by someone you can’t let go of, even as the world conspires against you - is maddening to read, and God help me, I can relate. Beneath all of the hesitation and misunderstanding are two flawed people trying to make sense of themselves, what drew them together, and the weight of the choices that have kept them apart.

From what I can tell, Samantha was as lost as Edmund was. Especially when they came careening back into each other’s lives on that September night in Kathmandu...

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Not for sale

I don’t remember when I got home, but it was definitely after dark.

Cold.

I huddled in my sleeping bag, watching my breath mist the air like cigarette smoke, one hour spilling into the next. Time lost all meaning in that dusty antique store - as it did every night I went back for the next few weeks.

I wanted to take it with me, but the journal wasn’t for sale.

I don’t fully understand why.

Probably something got lost in translation, but the proprietor seemed scared by that little book. Muttering something about bad luck, or a curse (I kid you not), or something along those lines.

So I transcribed it.

Every word, as best as I could make them out.

God... The missed chances, how they circled each other again and again, the way Edmund’s and Samantha’s story rhymes with my own…

All of it there, in my own handwriting.

I want to be able to say that I believe that if you’re meant to find someone, you will.

But I don’t know anymore.

An ocean separates me and the journal as I write this. Some mornings I wake up, look at the transcriptions I scribbled down, and wonder if the whole thing was just a dream.

But if it wasn’t?

Then I’m pretty sure it’s the most extraordinary discovery I’ve made in all my years of travel. Some of the stuff in there is flat-out unbelievable, but it’s written with such specificity. Such conviction.

You’ll see.

To be honest, I could use some outside perspective. I’ve probably spent way too long thinking about this, and maybe you’ll spot something I’ve missed.

Together, maybe we’ll uncover details neither of us would’ve found alone.

Or maybe I should just fly back to Nepal and see where the thread leads.

In the meantime, you’re coming with me as we try something new. I’m thinking I’ll share bits and pieces from the journal in a sort of informal serialization.

If The Lighthouse is about helping people navigate the fog of modern life through the power of story, then this feels right at home.

And since a story needs a name, I’m calling this one House of Snow.

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Following the thread

“What if she doesn’t remember who we were the first time?”

That’s the only thing Edmund wrote in his journal the night before he saw Samantha again, after eight years apart - each of them trapped in their separate lives.

I reread the line on the plane back to the US, after everything went to shit in Nepal.

I recognized the question.

I’d asked a version of it myself, many months ago.

Out the window, the Himalayas burned in the last light of day. I watched the moon rise behind the mountains into a purpling darkness.

It made me think of a message she’d sent me, from a time before we’d had answers. When we’d had only the questions, only a vague sense of possibility:

“You would love it here. Now watching the moon rise. It fills me with joy to get out of town and hear only the crickets and dance of the fire. That’s how our ancestors were ending their days for thousands of years.

Now we watch Netflix instead.”

I pulled out my iPad, tapped on a film, and hit play.

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It’s only a matter of time before they come for you and the person you love.

The two of you navigate a maze of nondescript corridors, outrunning fate. No plan yet. Just the instinct to survive… To stay whole… To be together for as long as you can.

[Spoiler alert] Without revealing too much, this is more or less where the second season of Severance leaves us. The finale recalls the last moments of Mike Nichol’s iconic film The Graduate, in which an unlikely couple flees into an uncertain future.

Where will they go? What will they do next?

Severance might be the best TV series I’ve seen in the past decade. Its puzzle box of a story follows Mark Scout, who - like his colleagues - underwent a medical procedure that effectively split him in two. Mark’s “Outie” leads his personal life outside of Lumon Industries, the shadowy corporation that conducts the procedure.

Meanwhile, Mark’s “Innie” leads his work life inside the windowless confines of the Macrodata Refinement department on Lumon’s closely guarded severed floor.

Neither Mark knows much about the other - until they find a way to communicate in the season two finale. Outie Mark realizes that Innie Mark is his own person, with wants and needs that don’t necessarily align with his own.

They are, in effect, two individuals sharing one body.

The finale wouldn’t leave me alone. It followed me into life’s quiet moments… Brushing my teeth, taking a walk, waiting for my coffee to bloom. It’s science fiction, sure, but on some level, Severance illustrates what many of us are doing to ourselves already.

We don’t even need a medical procedure.

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Products of efficiency

Culturally, the workplace has taught us how to “split” ourselves to survive, leaving parts of us at the door (or if you’re a Lumon employee, the elevator). In fact, a recent survey suggests that more than a third of workers would opt for real-life severance, if it meant they didn’t have to carry their work lives home with them.

One third.

Let that sink in.

“People who work in a corporate environment - or an environment where they’re part of a greater whole - they are often encouraged to diminish their humanity,” observes Dan Erickson, the show’s creator. “Come in, and only bring the parts of yourself that are going to be valuable here.”

So we do, incentivized by steady paychecks, the possibility of status, and vague assurances from on high that the work is “mysterious and important”, in Severance parlance. “Those of us who can’t feel like we’re being productive, we end up feeling like we’re useless. And we take that to heart.”

It’s an environment that can deprive us of agency, personality, and meaning, since the story it encourages us to tell ourselves about ourselves is that we’re primarily products of efficiency. Pushed too far, it’s a story that warps our perception of our own worth - especially in America.

I’ve lived on both sides of The Atlantic - in a small Dutch town, the self-proclaimed “cheese capital of the world” - and I have to say, this hits the nail on the head:

Broadly speaking, Europeans seem to have more balanced relationships with their work than many of their American counterparts. It was one of the few sources of tension between me and my Dutch girlfriend of many years.

In retrospect, I’m grateful for her perspective. It helped me step back and question the outsized influence of work in my life, which was especially confronting as a writer and solopreneur groomed by the competitive spirit of Hollywood and hustle culture.

Sometimes you just want to nurse a good book and beer on a terrace in the sun.

Nobody gets to their deathbed thinking “Damn, I wish I’d worked more.”

The pandemic inspired people around the globe to start thinking along similar lines.

What if it’s possible to live more fully and do your job at the same time?

What if there’s another way that doesn’t necessitate making a deal with the devil?

Rebellion is brewing - in Camus’ words, “born of the spectacle of irrationality, confronted with an unjust and incomprehensible condition.”

More and more of us are “becoming less optimized”, like Severance’s Mark:

[He’s] less willing to understand himself as a product of efficiency… Less willing to contort himself, less willing to sacrifice the stuff of life to a productive scheme that teaches us to understand ourselves as workers at all times.

So freelancing and self-employment are on the rise in modern life, which (for all of their unique frustrations) tend to return a sense of agency to the worker.

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Where the 9-to-5 comes from (& where it went wrong)

Historically, there’s precedent for systemic change at the corporate level, too.

During the Industrial Revolution, grueling 16-hour workdays were common. Reformers like Robert Owen pushed for more humane conditions, rallying around the slogan:

“Eight hours’ labour, Eight hours’ recreation, Eight hours’ rest.”

A century later, Henry Ford famously adopted the five-day, 40-hour workweek in 1926, believing it would lead to greater wellbeing, productivity, and profit.

It did.

The Ford Motor Company flourished, and other companies followed suit.

The 9-to-5 model remains the standard today.

Except it’s not just 9-to-5 anymore, is it?

41% of people surveyed struggle to “switch off” after work.

40% have been contacted by their employer after hours.

And 44% routinely check work emails and messages at home.

To be clear, we’re not talking about freelancers and the self-employed, here, who might choose to blur the lines in order to protect their agency, willfulness, and determination. These numbers reflect the experiences of people employed by Lumon and their ilk, in more traditional workplace settings.

I’m struck by the irony.

The 9-to-5 model was meant to course correct for the Industrial Revolution. It meaningfully improved workers’ lives while maximizing productivity and profit, aligning humanist imperatives with capitalist ones.

But for many, it’s become a prison, trading factory floors for office cubicles.

My mother rejoined the workforce so that she could help her kids get through college in America. For ten years, she spent her daylight hours in a windowless room on someone else’s schedule refining words, much like Mark and his colleagues refining data in Severance. That’s a decade of her life she’ll never get back.

It served its purpose, but again - there must be a better way.

The system should help prevent burnout, not cause it.

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The way appears

Two years after the introduction of the 40-hour workweek and one year before The Great Depression, economist John Maynard Keynes imagined what the world would look like in a century. He predicted that by 2028, “the standard of life” in Europe and the US “would be so improved that no one would need to worry about making money.”

Our grandchildren, he wrote, would labor roughly three hours a day - and even that would be more than necessary. The future, it seemed, promised a 15-hour workweek.

Keynes welcomed this age of abundance, but with a warning.

With so little need for labor, people would have to figure out what to do with themselves: “For the first time since his creation, man will be faced with his real, his permanent problem - how to use his freedom from pressing economic cares, how to occupy the leisure, which science and compound interest will have won.”

It’s 2025, and we’re working harder than ever.

Obviously, Keynes’ vision for the future hasn’t materialized - yet.

But the more I work with Artificial Intelligence (more on that another time), the more I realize that in all likelihood, unfathomably unprecedented change is coming.

“Electricity, petrol, steel, rubber, cotton, the chemical industries, automatic machinery and the methods of mass production” convinced Keynes that evolution was inevitable. Perhaps the missing piece of the technological puzzle was AI.

Sam Altman, head of OpenAI, recently shared “three observations”.

Love him or hate him, Altman’s post is worth reading in its entirety.

He argues that AGI - “a system that can tackle increasingly complex problems, at human level, in many fields” - is “another tool in this ever-taller scaffolding of human progress”, but “this time it’s different… The impacts on society will be significant”:

We will find new things to do, new ways to be useful to each other, and new ways to compete, but they may not look very much like the jobs of today.

Agency, willfulness, and determination will likely be extremely valuable… Figuring out how to navigate an ever-changing world will have huge value; resilience and adaptability will be helpful skills to cultivate.

AGI will be the biggest lever ever on human willfulness, and enable individual people to have more impact than ever before, not less.

Keynes asked how we’ll use our time in a world of abundance.

Altman is asking how we’ll express ourselves in a world where technology can do almost everything - except choose a direction.

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Which is why it comes back to us, as the emergency lights flash red, alarm wailing.

Sooner or later, they’ll come for you and the person you love.

The two of you navigate a maze of nondescript corridors, outrunning fate. No plan yet. Just the instinct to survive… To stay whole… To be together for as long as you can.

Where will you go? What will you do next?

Lumon & Co. may be threatened, but they’re still in charge.

“In a world that often discourages you… it’s hard to accept all parts of yourself,“ Erickson reflects. “It’s easier to just be one thing. But then that also lessens you and makes you more susceptible to being used by these powerful entities.”

Look, the future has yet to arrive. I recognize that stepping outside the system in some way - even for a season - often depends on things like logistical flexibility and the understanding of family and friends. I’ve been fortunate to have some of that, and I don’t take it for granted. Carving out time to reflect on your life path while also trying to survive it implies a kind of freedom that isn’t always easy to come by.

But if you can, start there. Make some space and give it some thought.

Maybe this can help: The Search for the Ninth Path.

The alternative is to risk getting swept into a future you didn’t choose, molded by values that aren’t your own. As my dad is fond of saying, “Decide what you want your life to look like, or someone else will decide for you.”

You don’t have to have it figured out all at once. Trust the process. Rumi did:

“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.”

[Spoiler alert] In Severance, before things completely fly off the rails, Mark begins the process of “reintegration”, aiming to collapse his “Outie” and “Innie” identities back into the same experience. It’s a dangerous and painful procedure - which is apt, metaphorically speaking. “Accepting all parts of yourself” can feel like swimming upstream through whitewater, with a hungry grizzly watching from the bank.

You might not get eaten, but the journey will still kick your ass.

Depending on what you need in order to feel whole, it could mean walking away from a steady paycheck, forfeiting your status, and having no superiors around to assure you that the work you’re doing is “mysterious and important”.

To the contrary, if you’re anything like me, some days you’ll wonder if what you’re pursuing is deluded and pointless. You’ll pine for a Lumon fruit platter.

It can be uncomfortable, to say the least. The temptation described by Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor is very real: “In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet, and say to us, ‘Make us your slaves, but feed us.’” Perhaps the scariest part of freedom is realizing you’ll have to choose for yourself what to do, and who to become.

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Not an anchor but a mast

In Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet, a man who’s spent years living in the distant city of Orphalese prepares to board a ship that will take him across the sea. Before he goes, the people ask him to share some parting words of wisdom.

At one point, a mason asks him about the nature of home.

The prophet replies:

Tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses?

…Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power? …Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?

…Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

…Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

Mark underwent Lumon’s medical procedure in Severance to avoid feeling the grief of losing his wife. His Outie is effectively “lulled to sleep” for a third of the day - a comparatively comfortable place to be - until he realizes what it actually costs him to allow “hook and scourge” to control him. And as soon as he does?

Rebellion.

Have you murdered your soul’s passion?

Quieted a part of yourself to be accepted, get paid, or keep up with the Joneses?

If you’re “severed” in some way, what is it costing you?

“You restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed,” the prophet concludes. “Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.”

Perhaps the real work - the kind that’s truly “mysterious and important” - involves plotting a course that’s consistent with who you are when you’re fully integrated… Fully grounded in yourself as your own sort of “home”.

That sounds like a worthwhile voyage to me.

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If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.

It’s so cold that when you step outside, your hair freezes. There’s little to no internet. You’re training hard every day to compete in a dangerous horse race that will establish your credibility, so that you can help meet the community’s needs.

Or leaving your job to become a fossil hunter, like some sort of real-life Indiana Jones.

Or selling your house, leaving your country, and traveling the world full-time.

These are real people I know.

Friends who’ve made choices that don’t fit neatly within society’s framework - and who inspire me to question, dream, and define my own direction.

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Venturing forth from the world of common day

Have you ever looked around and felt like you’re living a different story than everyone else? As if the choices you’ve made - your values, your priorities, what you find meaningful - don’t quite fit the script many people seem to be following?

If so, then this piece is for you.

“So many of us put limits on ourselves,” a mentor once shared with me, many years ago. “We’re afraid to think broadly about life and its possibilities.”

I remember that conversation vividly… We discussed his business in Hong Kong, death cafes, and a boat he was fixing up to explore the waterways of South America.

He was charting his own course, literally and figuratively.

I realized that so many of us never even dare to pick up the map.

It makes me think of a storytelling concept I sometimes refer to here at The Lighthouse, known as the Hero’s Journey. It’s a narrative structure popularized by Joseph Campbell in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces:

A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.

It can be a useful framework to layer into how we lead our own lives, especially if we want to be active agents in their unfolding and tap into the possibilities.

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The Ninth Path

Last year, I stumbled across a letter that Hunter S. Thompson wrote to a friend in 1958. It hit me at a time when I was questioning everything.

It’s on the longer side but is well worth reading, so here we go:

[This] is the question: whether to float with the tide, or to swim for a goal. It is a choice we must all make consciously or unconsciously at one time in our lives.

…But why not float if you have no goal? That is another question. It is unquestionably better to enjoy the floating than to swim in uncertainty.

So how does a man find a goal?

…The answer - and, in a sense, the tragedy of life - is that we seek to understand the goal and not the man. We set up a goal which demands of us certain things: and we do these things.

…When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman.

Why?

Because your perspective has changed. It’s not the fireman who has changed, but you… This goes on and on. Every significant experience alters your perspective.

So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day?

…To put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors.

WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

Thompson elaborates on his way to the main point:

But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors - but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires - including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL.

…As I see it then, the formula runs something like this:

A man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES.

…In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important… Let’s assume that you think you have a choice of eight paths to follow (all pre-defined paths, of course). And let’s assume that you can’t see any real purpose in any of the eight.

THEN - and here is the essence of all I’ve said - you MUST FIND A NINTH PATH.

That line stopped me in my tracks.

If none of society’s scripts resonate with you, Thompson suggests, then you have an opportunity to write your own.

He continues:

Naturally, it isn’t as easy as it sounds.

So if you now number yourself among the disenchanted, then you have no choice but to accept things as they are, or to seriously seek something else.

But beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life.

But you say, “I don’t know where to look; I don’t know what to look for.”

And there’s the crux.

Is it worth giving up what I have to look for something better? I don’t know - is it?

Who can make that decision but you?

…I’m not trying to send you out “on the road” in search of Valhalla, but merely pointing out that it is not necessary to accept the choices handed down to you by life as you know it. There is more to it than that - no one HAS to do something he doesn’t want to do for the rest of his life. But then again, if that’s what you wind up doing, by all means convince yourself that you HAD to do it.

You’ll have lots of company.

No. Something deep inside of me wouldn’t let me settle for “lots of company”.

I wanted to swim, not float.

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Where is your path taking you?

I’ve since read Thompson’s letter many times… For me, it recalls the words famously inscribed on The Temple of Apollo in the Ancient Greek precinct of Delphi:

“Know thyself”.

It’s some of the oldest advice in the world, and some of the hardest.

In screenwriting, we spend a lot of time developing characters so that they feel like real people you might encounter somewhere.

A key part of that process - and of building the scenes in which they participate - is identifying what characters want. Not in vague, nebulous terms, but rather with clarity and specificity, so that characters are relatable and the stakes are clear.

“I want to learn the ways of the Force and become a Jedi like my father”, Luke tells Obi-Wan in Star Wars, kicking off his classic Hero’s Journey. His desires direct his decisions along a path that leverages his abilities as a promising Jedi Knight.

To my mind, that is in effect what Thompson is saying in his letter - you need to know who you are, you need to know what you want, in order to lead a fulfilling life.

If you don’t know who you are, if you don’t know what you want (or if you’re not honest with yourself about it), then life may pass you by as you wonder what it was for.

I don’t know about you, but that scares the shit out of me.

Is the path you’re on in your life the path you want to stay on?

If so, that’s a beautiful thing.

If not, then do you believe that you have the power to choose a different path?

To be very clear: The point here isn’t to peddle some sort of entitled, idealistic, cotton candy version of the American Dream (“you can achieve anything you want if you work hard enough!”), so much as it is to help illustrate that it’s possible to change your life in both big and small ways. You can choose a different path by making a different decision - upsetting your “status quo”, if we’re going to extend the screenwriting analogy! - within your own unique context.

What would have happened if Luke had decided to stay on Tatooine?

If he’d resigned himself to life as a humble farm hand?

Imagine that path for him. Heck, imagine the fate of the galaxy.

Said differently, you are the protagonist of your own story.

And in writing it, personally, I’ve found it useful to distinguish between “What questions” and “How questions”.

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“What” vs. “How”

What I mean is that, quite simply, the question “What do I want?” is distinct from the question “How do I get there?”, and it can be useful to consider them separately.

Naturally, the two are entangled, but by separating them in the playground of your mind, you give your desires space to reveal themselves. You’re less likely to repress them - and more likely to be honest with yourself - since the thought experiment temporarily unshackles you from practical considerations.

Once you’re in tune with your desires, then you can start to address all of the realities that stand between you and the direction you want to move.

For example, last year, I felt stuck in my life in The Netherlands. It took a tremendous amount of honesty with myself to realize that I was on a path I did not want to stay on.

I lost count of the number of rambling walks I took through the Dutch countryside, beneath beautiful skies, fighting my way to clarity… Realizing I couldn’t stay, while accepting how much it was going to cost me to make such a big life change.

Eventually, I knew what I had to do.

So over the course of six months, I found it within myself to scale the mountain of practical and emotional considerations necessary to leave.

“What questions” first, then “How questions”.

But how do you figure out the “What” if you’re not sure of the answers?

What are you willing to struggle for?

Thompson doesn’t place a ton of emphasis on goals: “We must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal… The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important.”

That feels antithetical to the cult of productivity that thrives in much of western society. Thompson suggests that way of life is what’s important… Finding the “functioning” that you enjoy. “Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life.”

So for example, to bring it back around to my delightfully left-of-center friends:

If you’re passionate about helping communities deep in The Himalayas, arrange your life around it. If you’re drawn to the mystique of fossil hunting, learn about it and dig in. Or if you want to sell everything and nomad indefinitely, then carve out the time and space you need in order to work toward making that vision a reality.

Again, I’m not preaching a rosy version of the American Dream, here. It’s wise to consider your abilities and circumstances when weighing any life decision. If you have a family, then dropping everything to become a real-life Indiana Jones may be off the table - at least for now! I’m just encouraging you to truly answer this question:

What do you find meaningful?

Name it. Claim it.

And be patient with yourself while you do:

…Trust this process. In my experience, it often takes time for your truth to emerge - especially if it means swimming against the tide.

Ultimately, it’s about setting priorities, so that you’re living with intention in a way that’s consistent with who you are deep down.

Thompson’s advice feels as fresh today as it did in 1958, but Mark Manson offers us a more modern take when he asks:

“What pain do you want in your life? What are you willing to struggle for?”

…Happiness requires struggle.

The positive is the side effect of handling the negative… What we get out of life is not determined by the good feelings we desire, but by what bad feelings we’re willing and able to sustain to get us to those good feelings… If you want the benefits of something in life, you have to also want the costs…

What is the pain that you want to sustain? That answer will actually get you somewhere. It’s the question that can change your life. It’s what makes me, me and you, you. It’s what defines and separates us, and ultimately brings us together.

In other words:

Who you are is defined by the values you are willing to struggle for.

People who enjoy the struggles of a gym [in Thompson’s words, a “way of life”] are the ones who get in good shape. People who enjoy long work weeks and the politics of the corporate ladder [a “way of life”] are the ones who move up it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainty of the starving artist life [a “way of life”] are ultimately the ones who live it and make it.

…Our struggles determine our successes. So… choose your struggles wisely.

Just make sure that you do indeed choose.

Because as Thompson writes, “a man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.”

Remember, in the end, this is your “Hero’s Journey”.

Don’t float through it, friend. Let’s swim.

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Why you need to find your people

What if your life doesn’t quite fit the script others seem to be following?

It can hurt to look around and feel like you’re doing things differently compared to many of the people around you. Having spent much of the last decade doing the whole remote work digital nomad thing, I’ve been there. I have friends who assume I’m on an endless vacation. I’ve been in relationships where I feel unseen because my partner’s own interests, views, and values don’t align with my own, causing them to dismiss my way of life as the ungrounded fantasy of a perpetual Peter Pan.

It’s vital to surround yourself with people surfing the same wavelength as you.

Not to the exclusion of outside views - not in a way that rejects constructive criticism, because to live is to grow! - but in a way that reminds you that you’re enough.

Speaking from experience, the search for the Ninth Path can feel lonely - but that doesn’t mean you’re lost. Sometimes, it means you’re on the edge of something new.

So keep searching, if you can’t not.

And when you do find people looking for their own Ninth Path - because I promise you, they’re out there - recognize it for the gift that it is.

Call each other forward, and enjoy the journey together.

That’s part of why I’m leaning harder into our community here. The Lighthouse is a gathering place for all 15K+ of us to connect, regardless of where we live in the world (currently, we’re from 140 countries)! It’s an opportunity to explore how stories shape us, and how we shape stories - through cinema, travel, and our day-to-day lives.

Because stories aren’t just entertainment.

They’re how we make sense of the world and our life paths.

Stories help us navigate the change, uncertainty, and transformation that’s part and parcel of every Hero’s Journey, and they’re meant to be experienced together.

So I’m curious… Are you searching for your own “Ninth Path”?

What’s calling you right now? What feels meaningful?

Feel free to share in the Substack comments.

If any of this resonates, I’d love to hear about your journey!

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Sean Baker made history by becoming the first director to walk away with four Oscars for the same movie (producing, writing, directing, and editing).

“I want to thank the Academy for recognizing a truly independent film,” he said. “This film was made on the blood, sweat, and tears of incredible indie artists.”

Also how cool that Flow won Latvia’s first Oscar, for Best Animated Feature! It was made entirely in Blender, which is free and open-source software, for just $3 million. There’s no dialogue… Just a moving parable that follows a Cat surviving a flood.

The film reminded me of my Cat, Dino, who passed away while I was living in The Netherlands. I really felt like I was watching a reincarnation of Dino shepherd me through a story about life’s constant change and movement:

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The Lighthouse Is Growing!

Case in point: The evolution of this publication, The Lighthouse.

Since launching last fall, it’s grown into something bigger than I first imagined. What we’re building here is more than a newsletter.

It’s a gathering place for all 15K+ of us to connect… To explore how stories shape us, and how we shape stories, through cinema, travel, and our day-to-day lives.

Stories aren’t just entertainment - they’re how we make sense of the world. Historian Yuval Noah Harari describes them as humanity’s “superpower”.

They help us navigate change, uncertainty, and transformation.

And they’re meant to be experienced together.

Think about the last time you watched a great film… The urge you had to discuss it. Or when something remarkable happened in your life - a trip you took, an explosive sunset you saw, a creative breakthrough you achieved - the desire you felt to share it.

Which is why I’m creating more opportunities for us to meet, learn from each other, and exchange ideas - maybe even in-person one day.

For now, it’s happening online through interactive events, including:

• 🎬 Our Movie Club for live film discussions.

• ✍️ Guided writing exercises to strengthen your storytelling.

• 🔥 Conversation prompts to spark your creativity, cultivate your curiosity, and broaden your thinking.

How to Connect

As a platform, Substack makes these connections possible.

It’s about more than sending you emails - it’s where we can actually talk.

With tools like Chat, Notes (where I share additional content), and even live video, Substack turns The Lighthouse into a space for real conversations.

That’s far more meaningful to me than just a one-way newsletter! I don’t just want to share my thoughts on story. I want to learn from yours. I miss the community spirit that infused Lights Film School, and I’m keen to bring it back even better.

💬 You can read The Lighthouse in your inbox or on the web, but if you want to connect more deeply, the easiest way is to join us in the Substack app:

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It’s quick, it’s free, and it makes it easy to connect with each other.

So come pull up a chair!

Let’s swap great stories - and inspire each other to live them.

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If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.

Paul, himself an outsider, uses the moment to propose a reinvigorated alliance against the reigning foreign power “so that this planet can be yours once more” - and also so that he can avenge the massacre of his family.

Stirred by Paul’s commitment to winning their freedom, the Fremen call for him to be made “Fedaykin”, ushering him into their inner circle.

“He needs names!” the Fedaykin insist enthusiastically.

And so Paul adopts the war name “Paul Muad’Dib Usul“, which means “the base of the pillar who points the way”, connoting strength, wisdom, and leadership.

As a result, he is welcomed as their brother and treated as one of them.

[Spoiler alert] Ultimately, Paul’s acceptance proves disastrous for the Fremen.

He uses them to achieve his own ends at great cost. Of course, it’s not that simple - Paul doesn’t want to play the role of messiah and risk starting a mass genocide, nor does he want to lose Chani, the Fremen warrior with whom he’s in love - but he sees only “a narrow way through” to ensure the survival of his family’s legacy.

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And so, in director Denis Villeneuve’s words, Paul “becomes what he was trying to fight against”. It’s not your usual Hollywood story.

In many ways, given its bold craft and thematic complexity, Dune: Part Two feels more like an arthouse film than a traditional blockbuster. That’s why it’s disappointing to see it largely overlooked during this year’s awards season - especially since Part One received more recognition, despite primarily serving as setup for Part Two.

For example, Villeneuve didn’t receive an Oscar nomination for Best Director, which blows my mind. Adding insult to injury, the film’s score was ruled ineligible for surpassing the Academy’s limit on preexisting music - a real shame because I think it may be Hans Zimmer’s best work yet. Just look at the artistry on display!

Still, Dune: Part Two earned five nominations - half as many as Part One earned - including for Best Picture, Cinematography, and Sound.

I have this theory that you need to see a great film at least three times in order to fully appreciate it. The first time, you watch to experience it. The second time, you watch to analyze it. And the third time, you watch to understand it.

That third viewing is where heart and mind come together, when intuition and analysis integrate so as to reveal to you precisely how the film is casting its spell.

But for Dune: Part Two, I needed a fourth viewing in order to reach out and pluck that sense of integration from the ether.

I found it when I noticed how camera focus tracks the characters, not the spectacle, while explosions erupt behind them.

I found it when I realized I was watching an Extreme Closeup of Chani’s eyes filling a five-story IMAX screen.

And I found it in the film’s quieter, more contemplative moments - in how they intentionally hold space for the character of Arrakis to move us with its harsh, startling beauty. The sound of sand drifting across the landscape, the sight of spice glittering in the sun… There is time for wonder, for awe, two vital but elusive emotions.

In other words, Dune: Part Two engulfs you.

Yet despite the film’s impressive scale, it’s a surprisingly intimate experience that places people (and the planet) at its center, painted on the largest conceivable canvas. It’s relentlessly sensory, in a way that few modern films are.

The last film I remember locating me so squarely “in my body” was Alejandro Iñárritu’s The Revenant. I felt like I could feel the wind and smell the mud... Shiver at the touch of freezing water and bask in the warmth of a flickering fire.

No wonder Dune: Part Two landed nominations for cinematography and sound. They’re the elements of style that govern what we see and hear - the senses to which film has direct access - collaborating with performance, production design, and other departments to indirectly evoke all of our senses, creating a feeling of full immersion.

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Villeneuve plans for immersion from the very beginning.

After writing the screenplay, he storyboards the film. Then after storyboarding, he rewrites the screenplay. “Storyboards supersede the screenplay,” he explained at Lincoln Center in New York City while discussing his creative process. “And nature supersedes the storyboard, meaning that when we go on set, if something happens with the actors or with the light, or with a natural event that feels absolutely inspiring, I will just throw the storyboards over my shoulder and improvise.”

He also mentions incorporating sound ideas into the screenplay, so that sound is embedded into the structure of the movie early on.

By proactively leveraging sight and sound in his creative process, Villeneuve taps into the unique language and power of cinema. He’s not leaning on dialogue or haphazardly shooting coverage to figure out messily in the edit; on the contrary, there is tremendous care and creative intent poured into every frame from the beginning.

That same level of thought calibrates the film’s thematic treatment.

Far from being an abstract sci-fi with no relevance to the present, Dune: Part Two feels like a timely warning. It’s one of my favorite films, partly because it connects so deeply to my own experiences and observations. Paul, an outsider, steps into a cause he believes in, only to watch his intervention spiral into unintended consequences.

It’s a common problem with social action - for example, when people volunteer for a nonprofit abroad, go on a missions trip, or otherwise contribute to a cause that falls far outside their own purview.

Let’s give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that many such attempts to address suffering and injustice are well-intentioned. But well-intentioned actions can be misguided. What’s interesting to me is how they sometimes complicate the very problems they seek to solve, whether through some sort of misunderstanding, miscalculation, or moral failure.

It’s been a few years, so I’m probably forgetting some of the details, but while living in Southeast Asia, I heard about a nonprofit that was excited to “upgrade” houses in the jungle. What they saw were structures vulnerable to the rain, so they poured considerable time and money into replacing thatched roofs with tin.

The villagers made a show of thanking them. But when the aid workers left, they removed the tin and put the thatching back the same as before.

Why?

Because the tin turned the houses into proverbial ovens during burning season, and a little bit of rain was preferable to unbearable heat.

Instead of listening to and working with the villagers to determine their needs, the (well-intentioned) nonprofit dictated from the top down, implicitly assuming that they knew better than the people who lived there. The villagers didn’t share their knowledge because they didn’t want to appear ungrateful or risk offense.

Such miscommunication can be avoided, but in my travels, I’ve heard countless different versions of this same story, and they’re merely the tip of the iceberg.

Growing up a missionary kid in Uganda - where my friends were the kids of diplomats, military officers, and NGO workers - I saw firsthand how religion, politics, defense, charity, etc. can carry with them the assumption of cultural superiority, like a virus in a computer program.

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I’ve tagged along on international high school missions trips that cost more to run than they give back to the communities they claim to help.

I’ve watched aid workers fight over turf in literal war zones so that they can justify the scale of their influence to their supporters.

But what most stays with me, what most makes me question the efficacy of some forms of social action, is my own lived experience of a rather “Paul Atreides” story.

In short, I found myself welcomed by people resisting a colonizing power. I was ushered into their inner circle; given a “war name” (“The White Bird”, because of my long legs and skin color); welcomed as their brother and treated as one of them. But I began to wonder if I was party to some of the very things I’d meant to stand against - and if by involving myself, I was creating more problems than I was solving.

We’re all products of our experiences, and I’m acutely aware of how my own have tinged my worldview with a cynicism against which I struggle everyday.

I want to believe that it’s primarily a question of HOW we work toward a better world, not IF… That it can be responsible to try and affect change and indeed is possible to do so. If we work to mitigate miscommunication, if we keep our egos and assumptions in check, if we hold ourselves morally accountable and guard against serving our own agendas (subconscious or otherwise)…

Then maybe, MAYBE we stand a chance.

Here I’m reminded of Tree of Smoke, by Denis Johnson, one of my favorite writers. It’s a book about the Vietnam War.

The final pages belong to the character of Kathy, a Seventh-Day Adventist and aid worker who carries the weight of much of the book’s considerable grief. I know that weight. I’ve carried it myself - the gnawing realization that good intentions aren’t nearly enough in a world that sometimes seems beyond saving.

As Kathy reflects:

The scene before her flattened, lost one of its dimensions, and the noise dribbled irrelevantly down its face. Something was coming. This moment, this very experience of it, seemed only the thinnest gauze.

She sat in the audience thinking - someone here has cancer, someone has a broken heart, someone's soul is lost, someone feels naked and foreign, thinks they once knew the way but can't remember the way, feels stripped of armor and alone, there are people in this audience with broken bones, others whose bones will break sooner or later, people who've ruined their health, worshipped their own lives, spat on their dreams, turned their backs on their true beliefs, yes, yes, and all will be saved. All will be saved. All will be saved.

A while back, I met a woman working with a nonprofit to build a post-conflict society in Israel and Palestine. I asked her how she stays positive. “It’s sort of like a blues mentality,” she said. “Understanding the full weight of history and reality and the million reasons not to be hopeful, and still maintaining that hope.”

“How do you do that?” I asked. “Why?” She thought about it. Shook her head incredulously, shrugged, and met my eyes:

“Because you have to. Resistance is the highest form of love.”

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“What? Uh… No? No.”

My friend’s video call caught me in the middle of the Wicked finale. Since I’d been exploring The Himalayas when the movie hit cinemas, I’d missed it, but cranking up the volume on an old home theatre system still let “Defying Gravity” work its magic.

…As evidenced by the fact that yes, okay, fine, maybe there were a few tears.

What can I say? When it comes to musicals, I’m completely defenseless.

There’s just something about their sincerity… The big emotions, the extravagant production design, the physicality of the performances.

I can’t help but surrender to their spell.

Director Jon M. Chu’s Wicked is no exception!

Based on Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel - with a screenplay cowritten by Winnie Holzman, who also wrote the book for the 2003 Broadway musical - the film serves as a prequel to the 1939 Hollywood classic, The Wizard of Oz.

Part I has been honored with 10 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, with Part II due out in November. (Incidentally, 10 nominations ties Wicked with The Brutalist, my pick for Best Picture this year! We go deep into that film’s art and craft here).

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When we first meet Elphaba, played by a soulful Cynthia Erivo, she’s not “wicked” at all. She’s a talented young sorceress in training who’s been bullied and ostracized for her green skin. As a result, she’s learned both self-reliance and empathy - especially for those who, like her, have found themselves on the outside of society.

Elphaba has a natural sense of heart and justice, in contrast to the future Good Witch of the North, Glinda, played by Ariana Grande. Glinda starts off as a pretty, status-obsessed “mean girl” who tends to do the right thing for the wrong reasons.

The two begin as roommates at Shiz University and become unlikely friends.

It’s a fun and touching evolution that lays the groundwork for the story’s emotionally charged climax, [spoiler alert] in which Elphaba takes a public stand for her convictions at the cost of her reputation.

Of all things, I was reminded of Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight.

Oz sees Elphaba as wicked, just as Gotham sees Batman as a criminal. Elphaba is the hero Oz deserves, but not the one it needs right now:

Heroism isn’t about being celebrated.

It’s about doing what’s right, even if it means being condemned for it.

For her part, Glinda cares for her friend and wants to go with her, but she must walk a different path because of who she is. “She’s strong enough to know that she’d never choose [rebellion], because she can’t,” Ariana Grande reflects in a moving interview:

She doesn’t have the tools… She’s not a person who’s gonna do that.

And it feels how it feels in real life when you really love someone but the paths that you need to take for your own truth and life and who you are, it's like you can't actually… continue growing together, you're growing apart, and you can still love that person so much and acknowledge that that's going to be best for them. But it's not going to be best for me. So I do have to not self abandon in this moment, and I have to stay where I am. And I want you to go there, but I can't join you.

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Confession: I was that theatre kid in high school who played the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked on repeat, but I’ve never actually seen the show. Which means I have no idea what happens in Part II. I don’t know how the story resolves.

If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that Elphaba works to change the system from the outside while Glinda uses her newfound leverage to transform it from the inside. Do you burn everything to the ground, or do you shrewdly play the game?

Which approach is more effective, and what will history remember?

Such thematic considerations feel eerily relevant to our times. A friend of mine who works for the government is asking herself these questions in a very real way. What is her moral responsibility? Where’s the line between fighting to transform the system and inadvertently becoming complicit in it? All of this while her livelihood’s at stake.

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So far, Chu’s Wicked brings beauty, levity, and hope to its bigger picture questions.

I mean, heck, just look at these lyrics!

They speak to the swing-for-the-fences creative in me, too:

I'm through accepting limits

'Cause someone says they're so

Some things I cannot change, but 'til I try, I'll never know

Too long I've been afraid of

Losing love, I guess I've lost

Well, if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost

They’re also a powerful expression of Elphaba’s life path as it diverges from Glinda’s.

“I hope you’re happy now,” Glinda sings, frustrated. “I hope you’re happy how you’ve hurt your cause forever.” While Elphaba snaps back, “I hope you’re happy too/I hope you’re proud how you would/grovel in submission to feed your own ambition.”

Then together: “So though I can’t imagine how/I hope you’re happy right now”, which over the course of the song, grows from a conflict of differing perspectives into an understanding of how they’re actually complementary:

“I hope you're happy in the end/I hope you’re happy, my friend.”

It’s profoundly moving to witness Elphaba come into her own in the film’s final moments. Check out this behind-the-scenes interview, where Chu discusses the risky decision to interrupt the song with Elphaba’s dramatic fall:

There’s something perfectly poetic about Elphaba literally falling during “Defying Gravity” - and how she pulls up in the end. It’s enough to make you misty-eyed.

PS: Just a quick reminder about our Movie Club event TOMORROW, in honor of David Lynch’s legacy. We’ll hang out, network, trade stories, and break down Lynch’s film The Straight Story together in real-time.

Join us for lively discussion and camaraderie with kindred spirits, whether we wind up with an intimate gathering or a full house!

(Please note that you’ll need your own copy of the film if you want to watch along with us, but you’re welcome to tune in regardless).

This event is exclusively for paid subscribers. If you’ve already upgraded, then you’re all set - simply follow the instructions here at the appointed time.

Hope to see you there!

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“Ideas are like fish. If you want to catch little fish, you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish, you’ve got to go deeper.

Down deep, the fish are more powerful and more pure. They’re huge and abstract. And they’re very beautiful.” - David Lynch

The world lost a visionary filmmaker in David Lynch, who passed away on January 15. He opened my heart and mind to the possibilities of cinema… To how it can go beyond the ordinary and obvious, into the soul.

One of my favorite films of the year, The Brutalist, does precisely that - but before we dive in, let’s plan our next Movie Club event, where we’ll celebrate Lynch’s legacy together.

🎟️ Our next Movie Club event - LIVE!

Our second “watch party” here at The Lighthouse will feature The Straight Story.

At first glance, it’s an oddly straightforward film for Lynch, considering his reputation as a provocateur and surrealist. But for a time, he felt it was his most experimental.

The Straight Story follows an older man who embarks on a long journey atop a riding lawnmower. It’s a simple, heartfelt, G-rated Disney movie - no, seriously, I’m not kidding! - that’s inspired by true events and bursting with compassion. I’m keen to explore how The Straight Story both diverges from and fits into Lynch’s canon.

This will be my first time watching The Straight Story, so we’ll be breaking it down together! Like in our Interstellar screening a few weeks back, we’ll hang out, network, trade stories, and discuss the film’s art and craft in real-time.

Join us for lively discussion and camaraderie with kindred spirits, whether we wind up with an intimate gathering or a full house!

This event is exclusively for paid subscribers. If you’ve already upgraded, then you’re all set - simply follow the instructions here at the appointed time below.

(Please note that you’ll need your own copy of the film if you want to watch along with us, but you’re welcome to tune in regardless).

OVERTURE: In search of the Big Fish

Oscar Season is in full swing, friends!

Although Emilia Pérez leads the pack with 13 nominations, the true star for me is director Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist. It’s a titan of a film that proudly and unapologetically goes after “the big fish”, to borrow Lynch’s terminology.

For that, it’s been honored with 10 nominations.

I was lucky enough to catch a 70mm projection of The Brutalist at The American Film Institute’s flagship cinema in Washington, DC - twice!

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In making The Brutalist, Corbet resurrected a near-extinct widescreen format called VistaVision. It was introduced by Paramount Pictures in 1954 and used to capture some of Alfred Hitchcock’s greatest films, including Vertigo and North by Northwest.

The larger negative is eight-perf, effectively doubling the size of a traditional 35mm frame. This unique perspective enabled Corbet and his cinematographer, Lol Crawley, to capture the film’s expansive architecture without wide-angle lenses.

“The best way to photograph architecture is with rectilinear lenses that don’t distort the buildings themselves,” Crawley explains:

You can also shoot the most beautiful portraits on the format. Essentially, you’re encompassing two different things: You have the shallower depth of field of a longer lens, but also the field of view of a wider lens.

It’s a bold choice for a bold film, whose ambition among this year’s Best Picture nominees is rivaled only by Dune: Part Two, a blockbuster with the soul of an arthouse film. I had the privilege of seeing Dune four times on the big screen and expect to revisit it soon, but for now, let’s bring The Brutalist into focus.

We have a lot of ground to cover together as we take stock of the craft; go behind-the-scenes of how Corbet’s film was independently financed (and what the implications may be for the indie filmmakers among us); and explore why humans even bother creating art in the first place. So make yourself a cup of coffee, or tea, or whatever beverage is most suited to the time, and let’s get going!*

*Please note: This post was originally for paid subscribers only, but I’ve since unlocked it for everyone as The Lighthouse continues to evolve. My thought is to make all of my writing accessible to the entire community while offering deeper engagement and exclusive experiences for paid subscribers.

You can learn more about the different subscription tiers available HERE and discover how to join our exclusive Chats, Movie Club events, and more.

Enjoy the read! If this post resonates with you, consider becoming a paid subscriber to support The Lighthouse and connect more deeply with our growing community:

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ACT ONE: Setting the stage for an epic story

Corbet’s film has been described as “monumental”, but the word doesn’t feel epic enough. We’re talking about a sweeping historical drama that spans decades and runs almost four hours long. It’s structured as an Overture, Act One, Intermission, Act Two, and Epilogue. I can’t remember the last time I attended a screening with a proper intermission that’s actually baked into the running time. It put a big smile on my face.

The Brutalist grew out of a desire to explore the relationship between postwar trauma and postwar architecture. It follows the life of László Toth, a (fictional) architect from Hungary and Holocaust survivor. After World War II, László emigrates to America for a fresh start, in search of freedom, safety, and professional opportunity.

In other words, in search of the American Dream.

The film foreshadows a subversion of the American Dream right from the start.

László awakens in the dark, disoriented. He stumbles through a crowd, out of the underbelly of a ship and up into the light of day. He laughs, elated by the sight of the Statue of Liberty for the first time - except it looms upside-down in the frame.

One of the opening shots visually skews the symbol of America.

In that moment, I knew I was witnessing a film that marries style with substance. It further telegraphs its message with an ominous Goethe quote, in voiceover:

“None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free.”

Throughout Act One, László - played with great empathy by Adrien Brody - struggles to find his footing in a new country. He faces persecution, poverty, and drug addiction. Eventually, he helps his cousin renovate the library of a wealthy industrialist, Harrison Lee van Buren, played by Guy Pearce.

Impressed, Harrison commissions László to build a visionary cultural center in Pennsylvania. It could be the ideal intersection of László’s talents, interests, and needs… Decent pay, a place to stay, and even a way for his wife and niece, Erzsébet and Zsofia, to join him in America, leaving the traumas of war behind.

Freedom!

But at what cost?

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INTERMISSION: What good art is supposed to do

“One of the many things that makes Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist so essential,” film critic Brian Tallerico writes, “is how it defies easy categorization”:

It is “about” so many things without specifically hammering, highlighting, or bullet-pointing them… It’s a story of immigration, addiction, Zionism, architecture, inequity, class, violence, and even filmmaking… It’s a film that turns inward into itself, winding its themes around its characters like a great American novel.

Which means there’s much with which to connect, big and small.

In one scene, László shaves while practicing his English pronunciation. I lived that moment myself in The Netherlands, practicing my Dutch in front of the mirror with shaving cream all over my face, struggling to prepare for the language exams.

During intermission, I bumped into a Brazilian man who was keen to discuss the film. “I had no idea what this movie was about,” he said. “I just heard it was showing in 70mm, so I had to come.” His eyes flashed excitedly. He shared his background as a classically trained conductor who immigrated to the US five years ago.

He told me about the odd jobs he took - completely unrelated to his field - so that he could make ends meet, seeing in László a version of his own story.

In Corbet’s words, “like all public art, it means different things to different people… It is there to provoke discussion. It is there to provoke new ideas and to unpack old ones. That is, historically, what good art is supposed to do.”

ACT TWO: The unholy alliance of Art & Commerce

The film slowly reveals the toll that Harrison’s patronage takes on László, who “fled fascism only to encounter capitalism”. This is the idea I want to spend some time unpacking here. Many of us are filmmakers and creatives, so it’s especially relevant.

At the heart of The Brutalist lies a tug-of-war between art and commerce.

Heck, it’s a tension that’s baked into the making of the film! Corbet and his team spent SEVEN YEARS independently producing The Brutalist for only $10 million:

What they really need to be teaching kids in film school is building a budget and raising money for your project. And there are a few ways to do that. If you’re fortunate enough to have an international passport, whether the UK or France or anywhere in Europe, many programs are in place for raising soft money. I’m American, so unfortunately - because we have no cultural minister and don’t really have any meaningful support for the arts - I have to do it the Hollywood way.

Which is interesting, because these films really have one foot in the Hollywood tradition and one foot very much outside of it.

I realized that to make films for even over $1 million, I needed to go through the process of having the project sent to various performers… The best way to raise money is to build a package. I’m not saying that someone needs to attach Tom Cruise. Maybe there’s a young performer that had a big year and financiers might be more inclined to invest in a project that they’re attached to.

You just build the project brick by brick, and you have to anticipate a lot of rejection… If you feel confident about your material and you’re not just selling yourself on the delusion, then things tend to work out.

…You want to write material that attracts everybody. But for me, so much of this is very intuitive. I’m not that strategic. I don’t write something or make something as a means to an end. Ever. It never occurred to me that the project wasn’t commercial. Because in Hollywood, nothing is ever commercially viable enough.

…The truth is that Hollywood just usually waits for everyone else to tell them what to think. It was only when the film started getting a reaction... that it was perceived as being potentially commercially viable.

To overcome the challenges that Corbet & Co. encountered along the way, they had to get creative. For example, when insurance companies refused to insure the production because their original screenplay was too long, they shrunk the margins to make it fewer pages. And when they were in Hungary, a landlocked country, they considered shooting the opening aboard the ship in a parking garage.

They knew their project inside and out, so they knew what could work.

“My thing is: Give me a number, but let me move the sand around in the box,” Corbet explains. “I will deliver on that number, but don’t tell me how to make my fucking movie, period.” In the end, The Brutalist was shot in a mere 33 days.

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[Spoiler alert] As the film tips into its second act, Harrison shows his true colors.

He has money but no soul - so he tries to take László’s.

Here, I’m reminded of Judge Holden from Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, one of my favorite books. “The freedom of birds is an insult to me,” Holden says at one point. “Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.”

Harrison, like Holden, craves control. Nature, creativity, beauty are affronts to his impoverished worldview. So Harrison effectively strands László on his isolated estate… In an especially painful scene, he throws money at László, then asks him to give it back… And in a horrific moment deep in the mines of Carrara, Italy, he violates him unimaginably. “My poor husband,” Erzsébet remarks after witnessing László’s increasingly erratic behavior. “God has been robbed of you.”

Through one lens, it’s an extreme illustration of how broken the art/commerce relationship can be. Its dysfunctions are thrown into especially sharp relief by collaborative mediums like the movies. In the words of legendary filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky, “Cinema is unhappy… because it depends on money.”

I’ve experienced this firsthand in my own projects.

Screenwriters are often expected to work “on spec”, for free, harder than the competition. It’s a race to the bottom, and refusing to play the game is “amateur”. If-Come deals are on the rise in Hollywood, so the problem seems to be getting worse.

And it’s not just the screenwriters who struggle. Sometimes, it’s the whole team. A script of mine is currently with a production company - championed by their producers, development team, and a fearless director - and nobody’s getting paid.

That’s par for the course.

“Filmmakers frequently - and independent filmmakers, especially - make either very little money, or often $0,” Corbet himself confirms. “What that means, because no one can live on $0, is that you have to take on other jobs”:

I mean, I haven’t had a day off in many, many, many, many, many years. I do not remember the last time that I didn’t have something in the diary, and that’s exhausting physically and spiritually, especially when you do a job where you need energy and sleep to be able to focus and do your job well. It spreads people out too thin, and it’s just simply not sustainable.

I always find it interesting that there are so many people that reap the benefits of the projects that we conceive of and realize, and there’s something very odd about that imbalance… There’s real presumption from the public… that artists are doing a lot better than they’re actually doing.

I know many people that are currently campaigning for Best Picture for their movies, and they’re still struggling to pay their rent.

Obviously, it shouldn’t be this way. But here we are.

So what to do?

Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t have a solution to propose.

“I would have quit a long time ago if I could see myself doing literally anything else,” I once shared with a fellow filmmaker. He felt exactly the same way.

In my experience, there’s an obsessive quality to most acts of creation… An irrational but wholly irresistible urge to make sense of the world.

“That thrumming ‘I exist’ inside demands an outlet,” says film critic Stephen David Miller. “However hopeless things appear, the human spirit always seems compelled to make a mark. So we channel our zeal and our abilities, whatever we can muster, and we do our best to etch them into stone.”

Case in point, László sacrifices everything to the construction of his monolithic cultural center in Pennsylvania.

It’s the only way he knows how to express himself after staring down the traumas of first fascism, then capitalism. He goes so far as to invest his own fee back into the project, pouring all of himself into his creative vision - much like Corbet poured himself into the making of The Brutalist.

Art imitates life imitates art.

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EPILOGUE: That which endures

In a telling scene, Harrison asks László why he became an architect.

“Is there a better description of a cube than that of its construction?”, László replies.

In other words, the work is the answer. It speaks for itself. “Of course, I feel the same way about my films,” Corbet shares. “If you could tell a film, then why make a film?”

Architecture, cinema, both are mediums that have the power to express the inexpressible. They are their own languages, spoken into existence through singular vision, sheer force of will, and a collaborative effort against the odds.

And in their purest form, they often come at great personal cost.

Perhaps, as László’s niece puts it, “It is the destination, not the journey.”

It is the final outcome of one’s work - not the trials and tribulations informing and shaping the process - that has the last word.

After all, the outcome is what endures the erosion of time:

Studying at Bauhaus, László learned that design must serve its purpose... No frivolities, no flourishes, form as a perfect expression of function.

Both László’s buildings and Corbet’s filmmaking reflect such functionalist ideals. So, for example, the relentless rhythm of the music - when paired with the visual motif of the road rushing forward - suggests the relentless march of industry, of creativity.

No superfluous parts.

Even The Brutalist itself becomes a brutalist object.

It’s “a physically heavy object when it screens the way it’s meant to be seen, on 70mm,” recalls Corbet. “It notoriously weighs hundreds of pounds”:

It was really funny, because I remember getting the Pelican cases for the first time with all 26 reels inside of them. And I was like, “This feels right”…

I remember I always felt so bad, in a way, when I was making the film. It was an imposition for everyone. And now, physically, it requires several people to carry it around. It is a big object, but that is also the beauty of the project, and I think that’s what attracted people to it. It’s both.

It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s also a beautiful object.

These projects, that’s just what they are. It’s a lot more agony than ecstasy, but the ecstasies are what keep us all coming back, I suppose.

Corbet approaches filmmaking as an exploration, both thematically and in terms of form. His partner and co-writer, Mona Fastvold, goes so far as to describe films as “the closest we get to dreams... We speak in images and try to create as much meaning, symbolism, and subtext within those images as we can.”

They’re after “the big fish”, in Lynch’s parlance.

Corbet dares to dive down deep, where “the fish are more powerful and more pure… They’re huge and abstract… And they’re very beautiful.”

The Brutalist’s power, purity, scope, formal experimentation, and beauty make a strong case for it to win Best Picture, in my book!

In a risk-averse industry - with data driving paint-by-number movies more often than not - we need more films and filmmakers plumbing the depths. They should be recognized and rewarded, so that we get big swings more consistently.

“The algorithm and the data that many companies now rely on to decide what they do and do not greenlight is an inherently flawed, bullshit metric,” Corbet claims. “How on earth would we get the work of David Lynch, Sofia Coppola, or Wes Anderson, or any of these very commercially successful auteurs? We wouldn’t, because the fucking algorithm would never, ever support a Mulholland Drive.” He concludes:

What I’m hoping the film industry gleans from this year… is that whether you like or dislike the movies in the conversation this year, they’re pretty radical, independent films made by auteur filmmakers. Everyone should take a signal from that.

I pray that they do.

And if they don’t, well…

Then the next time you’re feeling down about it, pull up this photo of my sister’s Cats!

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 😻

It’s just that I’m pretty sure every edition of The Ultimate Boon (this extra “behind the scenes” newsletter for paid subscribers) will feature some form of Cat spam. They bring me such joy in life, and I hope they can make you smile, too.

Have you seen The Brutalist? What did you think? Can art and commerce ever coexist peacefully? Let’s put our heads together and be a part of brainstorming more sustainable solutions for the arts. There has to be a better way.

Until next time, and I hope to catch you at our upcoming Movie Club event!

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The Council was a ragtag group of spiritually curious creatives probing art and life’s biggest questions over at NYC’s oldest saloon. Even the urinals carried history - legend has it, Abraham Lincoln once used them!

The floor was strewn with sawdust, mugs of ale ran aplenty, and a cheeseboard with terrifyingly spicy mustard often made an appearance. Sometimes, if we’d attended Latin Mass that morning, conversation turned to its labyrinthine history and rituals. With different cultures and beliefs represented, our debates were always lively.

I grew up in a Protestant missionary family overseas. Church was a barebones affair, held in plain auditoriums and gymnasiums. So the first time I poked my head into a Catholic parish church in NYC, it took my breath away. It smelled of incense and looked like Europe. I could feel the accumulation of history. In short, it was a moving sensory experience that resonated with my inner filmmaker.

I came to appreciate how one of my favorite directors, Martin Scorsese, channels the visual and acoustic richness of his faith into his art - but more on that later.

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For now, let’s discuss Conclave, a sumptuous thriller directed by Edward Berger (All Quiet on the Western Front), based on Robert Harris’ 2016 novel. The film broke through at the box office and has picked up a lot of steam in awards season. For example, The American Film Institute named it as one of the top titles of 2024. It won Best Screenplay at The Golden Globes and has picked up eight Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Production Design.

The story follows Cardinal Lawrence, who leads his peers through the secretive process of electing the next Pope. They sequester in a special dormitory, meet in the Sistine Chapel, and communicate with the outside world only through the use of smoke. Gray smoke indicates that no candidate has received enough votes to be selected, while white smoke indicates that a consensus has been reached.

Lawrence navigates a labyrinth of competing interests and scandals. Egos clash, some advocating for more liberal views, others preaching fire and brimstone. It’s a procedural that’s driven from beat to beat mainly by conversation.

As Lawrence, Ralph Fiennes gives an Oscar-worthy performance. His quiet gravitas makes you feel the weight of the responsibility he carries - and how much he doesn’t want it. Lawrence would prefer to resign and join a monastic order, but the late Pope denied his request. As a result, in effect, Lawrence suffers from what I call “The Aragorn Complex”. He’s reluctant to lead because he feels unworthy, which stems from his struggles with doubt, not only of the Church but also of the faith itself.

In kicking off the conclave, Lawrence actually embraces his struggle:

It’s a compelling cry for institutional change… For tearing down the insular walls the Church has built to separate itself from the people. Ironically, this scene sets up Lawrence himself as a contender for Pope, which is the last thing he wants!

Director Edward Berger breaks it down in a brilliant analysis, exploring how different shot types and editing choices work together to shape the scene’s emotional flow:

For most of the film, the Cardinals are cut off from the rest of the world. But Conclave blows a hole in their seclusion both figuratively and literally, as a result of a terrorist attack. My favorite scene comes in the wake of the bombing, as they prepare to vote one last time. Critic Houston Coley describes the moment with conviction:

The windows above the room remain blown open by the blast. As they sit in a contemplative daze, something changes. The air begins to move and stir, reaching deep into their hearts. Rarely have I witnessed such a perfect cinematic distillation of the ancient understanding of the Holy Spirit as “breath” or “wind”… The Cardinals cast their vote… with renewed relationship to God’s good world.

[Spoiler alert] In a twist ending that some have criticized as underdeveloped, Lawrence learns the truth about Cardinal Benitez, whom the conclave unexpectedly elects as Pope. Benitez, a thoughtful and empathetic leader previously working in conflict zones, is intersex. “I am as God made me,” he explains gently:

“And perhaps it is my difference that will make me more useful. I think again of your sermon… I know what it is to exist between the world’s certainties.”

Lawrence chooses not to reveal Benitez’s secret to the conclave, so that Benitez can ascend without resistance or controversy. White smoke goes up, signaling that a selection has been made, while Lawrence rescues a lost turtle that belonged to the late Pope. The turtles in the film function as a strong visual motif. They live on land and water, suggesting the Church’s adaptability under Benitez, who represents change yet who was voted in by tradition - a bridge from the past to the future.

Or as Fiennes puts it, the turtles symbolize “spiritual independence”.

Narratively, then, the film comes full circle. The election ends along with Lawrence’s crisis of faith, resolving plot imperative and character imperative together.

The last scene shows Lawrence alone in his room, praying for the first time in a long time. He looks out the window at three nuns in the courtyard, the film’s final image. It hints that women have more to give to the life of the Church… That under Benitez, women will become more than “invisible” witnesses to roomfuls of politicking men.

Much like Lawrence, Conclave as a whole boasts a lot of heart and thematic depth. A tight script, masterful performances, and lavish cinematography truly elevate it. I mean, just look at these frames! They could be hanging in the Vatican Museums:

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So then why was I left feeling slightly underwhelmed by the experience?

Considering my background, I love stories that wrestle with faith. Why did Conclave leave me with a sense of “meh”, even though I appreciate the craft and message?

My thoughts wandered to Martin Scorsese’s Silence.

Fittingly, I first saw the film in Bali - the only Hindu-majority province in Indonesia - during Nyepi, which literally means the “Day of Silence”.

Nyepi follows the previous day’s Ngrupuk Parade. Statues of demons and other mythological beings called “Ogoh-Ogohs“ are marched through the streets to the cemeteries, where they’re burned to ashes as a symbol of self-purification:

With the evil spirits defeated, Nyepi becomes a day reserved for self-reflection.

You’re not supposed to work, travel, talk, or eat.

The only people outdoors are the pecalang, traditional “security men” who patrol the streets to ensure that the rules are followed. Foreigners can do as they please inside their hotels, but violating the rules in plain sight could lead to deportation.

We honored the spirit of the holiday by watching Scorsese’s spiritual epic.

Like Conclave, Silence adapts a novel. It tells the story of two Jesuit priests who go to Japan in the seventeenth century, where Christianity is strictly forbidden. While attempting to spread the faith, they search for their missing mentor.

They find him - and he forces them to question everything.

Should they commit apostasy in order to spare themselves and their converts from torture and suffering? What’s the right thing to do? What would their God do?

Unlike Conclave, I realized, Silence offers no easy answers. Its painstaking craft - including the cinematography, which was honored with an Oscar nomination - immerses us not in a tightly-wound thriller but in a raw, existential journey.

There is no promise of enlightenment. I’ve seen the film three times, and I still struggle with its deeper meaning, much like Father Sebastião Rodrigues, played by a soulful Andrew Garfield, struggles with his beliefs.

Scorsese’s insights here are helpful. In an interview, he explains that the story depicts a struggle “for the very essence of faith, stripping away everything else around it”:

The vehicle that one takes towards faith can be very helpful. So, the Church - the institution of the Church, the sacraments - this all can be very helpful. But ultimately it has to be yourself, and you have to find it.”

I think of the “spiritual independence” Fiennes sees in Conclave. Clearly, the two films share some thematic DNA, but they’re very different in execution.

Silence is BUILT around the search for faith. While Lawrence’s search in Conclave fuels the narrative engine, in Silence, Rodrigues’ search for faith is the narrative engine. It’s built from the inside out, not the outside in. As a result, Silence embraces a nuanced “form follows function” approach to its story that feels more exploratory than prescriptive. Its construction is informed - uncompromisingly - by its ambition.

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“When you talk about why did it take me so long to be able to attempt to put it on the screen,” Scorsese reveals, “That’s the issue: the inside out. It wasn’t the obvious story. It really was deeper… To the very understanding of what compassion is about.”

Also unlike Conclave, Silence was a box office flop.

It’s far heavier, far more complex, and far less formulaic - a big ask of the audience.

Which is precisely why I prefer it. Scorsese’s film is far more to my taste. It reflects my own experience of faith as a living thing, shaped by cross-cultural considerations, wartime conflicts, maverick personalities, failing institutions, and moral ambiguities.

But those are stories for another day.

To be clear, I’m not saying that one film is qualitatively better than the other! Both more or less accomplish what they set out to achieve. Silence is a demanding externalization of the internal experience of faith, whereas Conclave plays more like a traditional thriller with earnest but comparatively modest thematic ambitions. One reviewer described it as a straightforward, “middlebrow” movie “that doesn’t insult or overly challenge our intelligence”, which feels like a fair assessment.

As a screenwriter, I’m not quite sure what to do with the fact that I gravitate toward the more audacious of the two films… Obviously, you want your film to make its money back, if only so that you have the opportunity to make the next one!

So where’s the line?

How do you challenge audiences without alienating them? Do bold, uncompromising films only come with a small budget - or the cachet of an auteur?

Questions for The Council of McSorley’s, to which you’re cordially invited here! What do you think? Did you like Conclave? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

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While we wait for Oscar nominations to drop (delayed by the devastating wildfires in Los Angeles - no words 💔), I wanted to take this week to share a story that folks have been asking me about, ever since I teased it in a Substack Note last year:

…It’s not every day you put on a harness with a reverse parachute, attached by suspension lines to a wing-like piece of fabric, in the middle of The Himalayas.

You have no engine... No rigid primary structure, like in an airplane... So a paraglider opens the skies to you in a way that can change your perspective.

There’s literally nothing between you and the air currents keeping you afloat.

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Let’s rewind to early last November, when I first connected with Rajesh.

He’s the first Nepali paraglider in the country and has been at it for 28 years. At the time of our meeting, visibility wasn’t the best, so I decided to wait for better conditions before committing to a flight. For reasons I can’t explain, I got good vibes from the mountains the night of November 28, so I signed up to fly the next day.

The view from my room the next morning was spectacular.

“You have good intuition,” Rajesh told me. “This is easily the clearest day of the season. The dew was gathering and got heavy enough to settle the dust particles.”

“I guess my Spidey senses were tingling,” I said. He smiled proudly.

Around 11:30, Rajesh ushered me and several others into a van that trundled up to the launch point. Tourists - mostly from India, China, and Nepal - were strapping into tandem paragliders. Occasional gusts of wind caused the wings to billow, signaling the pilots and their passengers to start running, literally off the edge of a cliff.

Step, leap, and soar - I watched them all swoop up into the sky!

Well, for the most part.

One woman stumbled. Her feet dragged, and she pulled herself and the pilot sharply to the left, right into an attendant guiding the launch.

All three went down in a cloud of dust - just short of the dropoff.

Rajesh watched them recover, unfazed. He finished rolling a cigarette and read the sky. “Today even the birds are struggling. We’ll go last. Give the day more time to heat up, so the thermals can penetrate through the inversion, allowing us to fly higher.”

“What possessed you twenty-eight years ago to jump off the side of a mountain?”, I asked. He laughed, took a drag, and answered:

“God.”

Finally, the time came. I was the only tourist still at the launch point.

“Most of these people, unlike you, they’re not in it for the experience,” Rajesh claimed as he helped me adjust my harness - one strap around each of my legs, another around my chest. “They’re in it for the photos. Not very adventurous. Although honestly, the real adventure in Nepal is being on the road, not in the sky.”

He checked the carabiners and tugged at my harness, testing. “A bit unwieldy now, but it’ll be a comfortable seat in the air.” I fitted my helmet and watched Rajesh make sense of the tangle of colored suspension lines attached back to our wing. “It’s basically a kite,” I observed. He agreed: “Yes. One designed to make us fly.”

I could hear the passion in his voice.

He strapped himself in, took up position, and angled us toward the drop-off. “Walk at first,” Rajesh instructed. “Lean forward slightly, but don’t resist the pull of the glider. When I say run, run. And keep running until your feet are off the ground. Okay?”

“Got it,” I confirmed.

My eyes traced our trajectory. I imagined stumbling, pulling us sharply to the left, and catapulting off the side of the mountain.

At least we had a parachute.

“Okay, Michael,” came Rajesh’s voice, snapping me back to the moment. “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” I said.

“The wind’s picked up. Start walking.”

I did - toward the drop-off, heart racing.

“Good. Now run. Run. Run!”

…Forward, until suddenly my feet weren’t finding the ground, and we soared up over the tops of trees clinging to the slopes, bringing Phewa Lake into view!

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“I’ll ride this bubble,” Rajesh explained. “The thermal should take us higher.”

It did.

We circled, gaining in altitude surprisingly quickly. The launch point shrunk into a tiny patchwork of sandbags and limp paraglider wings.

I surveyed the ridge below, including a temple at the very top, poised like a crown - and beyond, unbelievably clear, the magnificent Annapurna Range.

You haven’t seen The Himalayas until you’ve seen them from the sky.

I watched wisps of cloud gather around the peaks.

A tiny red plane soared above us, away from the mountains, engine purring.

“These conditions are perfect,” Rajesh called out, thrilled. “The currents, smooth as cream. We can ride this at one-point-five meters a second. In February and March, it’s not this steady, sometimes you’re at five meters a second and you struggle a little bit. But this…” The wind whistled in my ears. “This is like cream.”

I listened to our wing flap in the wind like a sail.

My peripheral vision registered Rajesh steering - pulling left, then right, then left - riding the thermal higher. “Today you’re my copilot,” he said. “When we turn, lean into it, okay?” We arced left, so I angled left. “Yes! Exactly. You get it. Now… Fly with me.”

The wind lifted us. We hit a steady current, and he handed me a GoPro:

“I’ve kept you waiting all these days,” he half-joked. “We better make the ride damn good.” He pointed us toward a distant yellow paraglider, bouncing from bubble to bubble to get there, circling again to make the climb... The BEEP-BEEP-BEEP of our variometer told me we were brushing up against the 2000 meter altitude limit.

I gulped.

“What was it like, your first flight?”

He laughed. “Such a mix of emotions. I wanted to shit my pants. But I was elated. That moment you leave the ground, that moment of being airborne… I still remember it so clearly. You leave everything behind.”

I lifted my knees to sink back into the harness. I could feel myself relaxing into the fact of our flight, starting to trust the glider, although it was impossibly light.

Rajesh told me about flying cross-country with friends, sometimes at 5000 meters, sometimes for five hours at a time: “I really had to pee!”

He scanned the skies for signs of thermals. “We’re the only ones up here, now - unless you count the birds.” Rajesh signaled with his foot, and I looked out just as a Himalayan griffon sped past us. Its white-streaked wings flapped as if in slow motion.

“It’s the same principle that keeps us afloat,” he said with reverence.

I was vaguely aware that we were well past the 20 minutes of flight time I’d paid for, but Rajesh didn’t seem to mind… He was having as much fun as I was.

Eventually, we turned away from the mountains, into the wind to begin a steady descent. Two paragliders appeared around a bend far, far below us.

“They don’t know how to get all the way up here,” Rajesh observed. “For many, piloting, this is just a job. They’re in it for the money. And that’s a tragedy. It’s so important to find that balance between work and passion. And to prevent your passion from feeling like work, you have to find ways to keep it fresh.”

“How do you do that?”

“You fly for yourself. You chart your own course and keep pushing.”

I thought about that.

“Do you like roller coasters?”, he asked.

“Roller coasters? I mean, it’s been a minute, but… Yeah?”

With that, we fell into a controlled spiral.

A moment of freefall hit us… Of what felt to me like zero gravity at the crest of every violently swooping turn. The horizon spun in front of me like the needle of a broken compass. I felt myself start to blackout as we embraced the tailspin.

The wind screamed in my ears, and I screamed in Rajesh’s.

It was extraordinary, seeing the ground somehow above me, realizing we were very nearly upside down, diving toward land:

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Rajesh expertly pulled us out of it, and the landing site swung into view. “Stand up in the harness and run as we touch down,” he said.

…It was a simple, soft return to the earth. I felt the wind abandon our wing and collapse behind us like a deflating balloon.

In that moment, all I wanted was to be back up in the sky…

I met Rajesh’s eyes and found in them a glint of understanding. He pulled me into a hug. “Next time, we’ll launch from two thousand meters,” he said.

I’m a far cry from Tom Cruise, sadly -

- but seriously, the older I get, the less risk averse I become.

Paragliding was a big one for me, because even though rock climbing is my favorite sport, I’m a bit wary of heights. So this was an opportunity to face my fear.

The other day, I bumped into an Austrian paraglider who told me about her favorite pastime: Climbing in the Alps, then jumping off the peak she just crested.

I’ve got my work cut out for me. 😎

I’m not sure what’s next - flying off an Alpine summit? - but I’m realizing that the more I lean into the fear, the bigger the world becomes.

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That brought to mind a major family transition many moons ago, when my parents decided to move back to the US after a decade in Uganda, Africa, where I grew up.

I don’t remember much from that move. Just bits and pieces… Like how my brother’s “carryon” backpack was so heavy that he fell backwards at the airport.

Or meeting the pilot, touring the cockpit, and gazing out over an ocean of clouds.

Or driving past all of the big American houses, marveling that you could just walk up to someone’s door... There were no walls around them, like the wall that had been built around our house on the outskirts of a Kampala slum:

While sorting through old keepsakes, I rediscovered a drawing I did shortly after returning stateside. The “style” and handwriting were mine, but I have no memory of making it. It shows a flag rent in two... One half is the Ugandan flag, and the other half is the American flag. A stick figure stands caught in the middle, spewing blood.

It’s a violent and disturbing image.

Thinking back, there really is a “gap” in my memory from back then. Everything between leaving Uganda and starting eighth grade at a tiny Christian school in the middle of Pennsylvania - where my Earth Sciences teacher insisted that the planet is, in fact, a mere ten thousand years old - exists as a sort of murky blur.

What swims out of that mental fog is Link’s Awakening, a classic Nintendo experience that found its way to me when I needed it most. I spent many evenings immersed in The Legend of Zelda, peering at the tiny screen of my Gameboy Color. It had a considerable impact on my childhood, on some level helping me transition to life in a new country. The game’s story continues to resonate today - so much so that I almost named this Substack “Waking the Wind Fish”, after one of its key characters.

Link’s Awakening tells a story about impossible decisions.

About dreams, and memory, and the power of letting go... Themes that, as we launch into a New Year, invite us to reflect on the direction of our lives.

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Broadly speaking, videogames intrigue me with their unique storytelling potential. As legendary film director Robert Bresson argues in Notes on the Cinematographer, a creative medium should embrace its strengths. “The truth of cinema cannot be the truth of theatre, nor the truth of the novel, nor the truth of painting,” he argues:

“It is in its pure form that an art hits hard.”

Of course, as writers and filmmakers, there is inspiration to be found in studying other creative mediums in their “pure forms”… Think Caravaggio’s influence on Martin Scorsese, Francis Bacon’s influence on Christopher Nolan, or Edward Hopper’s influence on one of my favorite cinematographers, Conrad Hall, to name but a few.

Videogames are a newer art form, and so far, the inspiration has been flowing mostly in one direction, from movies to games - but that is starting to change. Series like HBO’s The Last of Us and Netflix’s Arcane are wildly successful adaptations of games that figured out how to tell compelling linear stories, leaning into cinema’s strengths.

This is a topic for another day, but briefly, what sets videogames apart is their interactive nature. The player becomes an active participant in the story, which helps to build empathy and narrative investment.

In my case, as we’ll see, assuming the role of Link helped me accept my new reality, working subconsciously (as much art does) to open me up to a new chapter in the US.

Like a film, a game begins with an idea that grows through the creative process.

Link’s Awakening is unusual in that it sprang to life as an unsanctioned side project. Its early, free-form development period took Nintendo’s team to some interesting places... They channeled the spirit of David Lynch’s surreal TV show, Twin Peaks, and leaned hard into the romantic vision of Yoshiaki Koizumi, the game’s lead writer. As a result, Link’s Awakening actually became the first Zelda game with a proper plot!

The story kicks off with our hero, Link, caught in a terrible storm:

He gets shipwrecked on the mysterious Koholint Island.

Marin, one of Koholint’s inhabitants, finds Link washed ashore and nurses him back to health. She’s a gifted musician, kind and curious, fascinated by the outside world.

The two grow close, but Link’s keenly aware that he doesn’t belong. He learns that he must wake up The Wind Fish - Koholint’s guardian, dreaming in a giant egg high atop Mount Tamaranch - if he is to return home. So Link sets out to find the Instruments of the Sirens, which when played together, will rouse The Wind Fish from its slumber.

The player, as Link, braves Koholint’s wilderness, delving deep into dangerous dungeons to recover the instruments. Clues Link finds along the way suggest that all may not be as it seems, but he persists through his fear of the unknown.

Toward the end of the game, Link spends an afternoon with Marin. They relax on the beach together. “Tarin says there is nothing beyond the sea,” Marin muses. “But I believe there must be something over there…” The sound of the waves fills the space between them. “When I discovered you, Link, my heart skipped a beat. I thought, this person has come to give us a message.” Her gaze takes in the ocean, wistful:

“If I was a seagull, I would fly as far as I could! I’d fly to faraway places and sing for many people! If I wish to The Wind Fish, I wonder if my dream will come true.”

If only she knew…

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As it turns out, Link is indeed a sort of “messenger”.

He’s confronted with a terrible truth about Marin’s world.

Here, I’m reminded of Interstellar, which we watched and broke down together in real-time during our first-ever Movie Club event. It’s a morally serious film that grapples with the weight of destiny, loss, and trajectory-changing choices… How so often in life, we have to make difficult decisions without seeing the whole picture.

At its core, Interstellar is a story about someone crossing a threshold - “someone walking through a door that locks behind them,” in film critic Lauren Wilford’s words:

It's about the things you can't take back. Becoming prepared for the moment, and then realizing that nothing could have prepared you, not really.

There's no way you could have known, and you had to choose anyway. It's about the way that a sense of destiny might kill you - but that it might save you, too.

[Spoiler alert] “The moment” for Link comes when he pieces together that all of Koholint exists only in the dream of The Wind Fish. If he wakes up The Wind Fish to return home, thus completing his quest, then Link will make the island and everything on it, including Marin, cease to be. Koholint is undeniably beautiful - his connection with Marin, real and rare - but it is ephemeral.

Literally the fabrication of a dream.

I remember this moment in the game so clearly.

It’s where Link’s Awakening, too, reveals itself to be a story about “someone walking through a door that locks behind them.” Waking The Wind Fish means letting go of a place, and a person, that Link has grown to love. But staying on the island, even if only for Marin’s sake, would mean embracing an illusion and rejecting his own reality.

Marin’s aware of this on some level, too.

She helps Link to the very end, and her desire to leave Koholint suggests a subconscious awareness of the island’s transient nature.

Still, nothing could have prepared Link for such a shattering revelation. There’s no way he could have known, but he must choose anyway… It is irrevocably Link’s “threshold moment”, with consequences that can’t be undone.

Ultimately, Link accepts that the beauty of Koholint Island is fleeting - that his relationship with Marin is but a moment in time - and that he must leave both behind, in order to fulfill his destiny. So he chooses to let them go.

In a sense, this decision honors Marin’s desire for freedom as much as Link’s own, since her “spirit” might then soar somewhere beyond Koholint. The cost of their transcendence - of freedom, of growth - is their separation.

An uncertain future.

But as The Wind Fish puts it: “It be the nature of dreams to end.”

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Resolved, Link collects the instruments and defeats a nightmarish enemy. He rouses the Wind Fish by playing a ballad Marin herself taught him, and in the story’s bittersweet climax, the island and its inhabitants disappear.

Link awakens to find himself stranded in the middle of the ocean. He clings to a piece of driftwood from his ship, while overhead, Marin takes to the skies as a seagull - whether literally or in Link’s imagination, it’s impossible to say.

So did any of it happen? Was Link actually shipwrecked?

“Someday, thou may recall this island,” The Wind Fish counsels. “That memory makes the dream world real.” In one form or another, then, Marin and Koholint live on.

Our memories make us who we are.

They shape our beliefs and thus our realities.

Link’s “sense of destiny” does indeed kill a part of him in the story, by forcing a choice that comes at a terrible cost. Imagine his regret, doing what he felt he had to do every step of the way, only for the outcome to be beyond his control.

But that same sense of destiny also saves him.

He accepts the loss and moves forward, understanding that the value of a dream lies not in its permanence, but in its impact. Sometimes, you have to let things go... Places, people, and pursuits you hoped would be a part of your life forever turn out to be catalysts only, coming and going. But that doesn’t make them any less valuable.

Letting go isn’t about giving up. It’s about making space for something new.

Link’s journey reminds us that holding onto something too tightly can keep us trapped in a dream, when life is calling us to wake up.

It’s an insight that requires a great deal of courage to embrace, and one that the universe beat into me last year as I faced difficult decisions about the places, people, and pursuits I’d been clinging to - just as it had done when I was struggling to accept my new life in America as a teenager, many moons ago.

Sometimes, you have to learn a lesson twice.

To help prevent against the possibility of having to learn it a third time, I decided to pull the trigger on something I’ve been meaning to do for more than a decade.

I got my very first tattoo here in Pokhara, Nepal:

This is the Triforce, a relic and symbol in The Legend of Zelda series. In many Zelda games, obtaining the three pieces of the Triforce plays an important role in the story, since they stand for the three virtues that Link needs in order to succeed in his quest:

Wisdom, power, and courage.

Wisdom without power is impotent. Power without wisdom is corrupted. So courage is the key to finding the other virtues, bringing all three into balance. It’s a reminder to embrace change, even when it comes at a cost, and to move forward with purpose.

As the New Year kicks off, perhaps it’s a good time to ask ourselves:

What’s worth letting go of in our lives? What “dreams”, what illusions are we holding onto that might be preventing us from fulfilling our potentials?

How do we carry our pasts with us, and what might we choose to leave behind?

“You can make a choice in the present that suddenly changes the next twenty years,” Wilford counsels in her Interstellar musings. “But you can also make a choice in the present that changes the tenor of the last twenty years… Things can go wrong, very wrong, for years, but somehow be made right in the fullness of time.”

Wishing you the wisdom to see clearly, the power to take action, and the courage to let go, as you navigate your own threshold moments onward into the unknown.

New adventures await!

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If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.

I just wanted to take a moment to wish you a lovely close to the year, and also to thank you for being here with me in these early days as The Lighthouse gets off the ground. I’ve got a post in the works that’s half looking back, half looking forward, intended to launch us into 2025 with intention and inspiration - but for now, let’s just kick back by the fireplace and savor these last moments of 2024.

…Beginning with a quick movie recommendation to stir up some festive spirit!

One of my favorite films to revisit around this time is It’s a Wonderful Life.

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Originally dismissed by critics for being overly sentimental, Frank Capra’s 1946 classic was a box office flop. Since then, it’s gone on to become one of the most beloved Christmas movies of all time. When owner Republic Pictures mistakenly let the film’s copyright lapse into the public domain in 1974, TV networks pounced, since they were able to air it for free. As a result, the film found its audience!

My dad watches It’s a Wonderful Life literally every year.

Whenever the family’s in town, he gathers everyone together to enjoy the film’s heartwarming celebration of life and love. Both thematically and from a craft standpoint, it really holds up, and it gets me every time. 🥹 I won’t say anything else here so that you can go and discover it for yourself.

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Gosh, thinking about It’s a Wonderful Life makes me so nostalgic...

If I wasn’t in Nepal at the moment, I’d indulge a glass of eggnog and cozy up for a screening. As it is, I spent Christmas Day chatting with Hamish - a fellow writer on Substack who happened to be in Pokhara at the same time as I! - musing about love, literature, and the art of storytelling over some tasty Indian food.

Then last night I popped into Blackbird, a cocktail bar in Kathmandu inspired by some of my favorites in New York City. The mixologist whipped up something special with a smoky Nepali whisky, and she told me about her remote mountain village and mother’s life in Tibet.

How are you spending these next few days?

What traditions do you observe, movie-related or otherwise? I’d love to hear about them. Feel free to chime in with a comment!

PS: Oh, and just a reminder about our very first Movie Club event coming up in the New Year! We’ll hang out, network, trade stories, and break down Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar together in real-time, in honor of the film’s tenth anniversary.

Join us for lively discussion and camaraderie with kindred spirits! I have no idea how many people will tune in, since this is the first time we’re doing this. But we’ll have fun whether we wind up with an intimate gathering or a full house.

(Please note that you’ll need your own copy of the film if you want to watch along with us, but you’re welcome to tune in regardless).

This event is exclusively for paid subscribers. If you’ve already upgraded, then you’re all set - simply follow the instructions here at the appointed time.

Hope to see you there!

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Get more from Michael Koehler in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

If you’re navigating a creative pivot and want a focused 1:1 conversation, I offer free storytelling consults. We talk projects, direction, & how to shape your next chapter.