there's an old miner's siren that sounds at 9:59pm every night to let park city know there's a curfew. somehow--even after a decade, or 9 months of non-sequential time--i forget that it sounds. sometimes, there are canons, fired to prevent avalanches. Utah is such a strange and beautiful place, gobbled up and claimed the way white people take beautiful places and call them theirs.

despite the snow (which I love), there is a part of me that hates it here. it is at once western and posh: the affluence and impracticality of fur juxtaposed by DIY snowplows on ford F-150s. I rode in two different trucks I could barely step into within the first few hours I was here, hoisting luggage without assistance into first-time Lyft drivers' vehicles. they asked about what movie stars are here and which ones like selfies and complained about the traffic. the film festival hadn't even begun yet.

wearing sunglasses or all black means people are constantly trying to figure out, Are You Somebody? Should I Care Who You Are? but isn't everybody somebody?

-

for a moment I couldn't remember how long I had been here, and then I did the math: 36 hours. already I have been working this festival job and my day job all but 5 hours of 36. in 31 hours I have: booked 14 flights and 5 shuttles and 3 lyfts, gone grocery shopping, walked in a baby blizzard, told Kenneth Cole I love the color purple, used my I-need-to-speak-to-a-manager voice thrice, spoken to a manager once, delivered credentials and tickets, meal-prepped for the week while sending dozens of emails, met what I believe may be an all-queer venue staff, resorted a guestlist spreadsheet 30 times, cancelled 2 flights, and it so it will go until it is over.

​my roommate is lovely. she reminds me a little of that time my friend minerva dressed as amy winehouse for halloween, by which I mean, she has a similar intonation of voice, and looks up above her when she talks in a way that reminds me of my friend, but then also sort of looks like amy winehouse (though that might just be the perfect eyeliner).

it's been 10 years of coming to this festival. 11 fests and, at least for the last three, I've half-heartedly made the claim this might be my last. it's a hard thing to walk away from in that every fest is different. so I am approaching this one differently in various ways as an endurance test for myself. can I be completely sober? can I be creative in my downtime? can I even do this without my festival twin spirit beside me? I am purposefully skipping out on the parties that made me feel shitty in previous years, as well as on DJing the volunteer party (for similar shitty-feeling feelings).

--

if I were to distill this festival down to phases it would be the following: a manic feeling of too-many-options, a summer-camp feeling of reunion, bonafide exhaustion (or the flu), and then, before you know it, it's over.

sending this tinyletter is a time capsule--a way to capture how it feels in the beginning. a quick sketch, an attempt to hold onto the fleeting. there is real magic seeing your first screening of the year: even the introductory festival trailer garners applause on those first few nights. and for me: even after ten years, I still get goosebumps.