When I jump into something, I tend to do it in a head-first fashion; I suppose some might say in an obsessive fashion. Fortunately, I don't jump too often. Over my adult years, I've dabbled in almost every art form, and failed to find the one that clicks. When I tried modern dance, I recognized quickly that the groans and creaks meant I wasn't going to be the next Paul Taylor. I almost got sucked into acting in my early twenties, but the gay-press review of my first performance in a play ("Keith ... stood woodenly throughout... ") soon dampened my enthusiasm (Victoria Brownsworth, of the Philadelphia Gay News, if you're reading, I've got your number!). Throughout my childhood, I plonked gamely away at the piano, amusing myself, but never reaching a level where I could even impress my Auntie Doreen, whose concept of high art was a sing-along at the local pub on a Saturday night.

In between, I've tried writing, poetry, drawing, and playing the trombone, all without the sense that I've found something I could ever be any good at. Now, I've found film-making, and I believe I'm ready to jump in head-first. My perceptions may be fallacious, but I think there's just a chance that I could be half-way decent at this. Even if I'm wrong, at least I've an unqualified and conusming enthusiasm for it, and that's half the battle. I feel like I've spent my life looking for an artform which motivated me in this way.

This weekend, I'm filming my student project, with a cast and crew of ... seven. I've been so obsessive about getting everything just right, that I've been dreaming about it. Actually, dreaming is the wrong word. Whenever I start to obsess about something, sleeping goes out the window, along with dreams. It's more like a half-dream, where I think I'm asleep, but in fact the sillier half of my mind has set me an unsolvable and irrelevant puzzle. I can spend half the night trying to solve this puzzle before, at about three in the morning, I realize what tricks my mind has been playing on me, and I take a melatonin and a glass of sherry to kill that haunting process.

So I'm fagged out, as we say in England. But happy. And I've given myself something else to think about too. On Monday, I bought my ticket to England for my summer trip. It's going to be a short one this year, just two and a half weeks starting in mid July. But my best friend Brett is going with me! He has a kind of wide-eyed side to him that his forty plus years hasn't diminished, so it will be fun to see the same old tourist meccas (Bucks Pally, Westminster Abbey etc.) through his eyes. I'm sure we'll have a blast! London, watch out!