director's statement

I had a dream about a summer evening in Kansas in 1983.

It didn't start that way. It started on a Mark Twain quote about choosing the right word — knowing the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug. So I thought the film was about that. Then I thought it was about a ten-year-old kid in a wheat field, taking three pitches and making contact on the third one. Then my mom passed away on June 28, 2025, on a Saturday morning, in ICU Room 235.

The film became all three.

Up until the moment she closed her eyes, I thought I'd been through some hard things. I had been through some hard things. Nothing like that. We can do hard things. They can get harder. I probably haven't been through my hardest yet.

The thing I keep coming back to is what I hope the takeaway from this film is — even if only for a few people. Whatever container you're in, whatever the weather is, inside or out, whatever darkness you encounter, there is, in my mind anyway, always at least a small crack of light.

It can be natural. It can be artificial. It can be virtual. It can be reality. It doesn't change the fact that it is a little bit of hope.

I've watched a lot of films, including some research for this one. I listened to a lot of songs. I created some of my own pictures and visuals and lyrics. I recorded my own voice — both speaking and singing. It's honestly kind of amazing what you can do.

But what I've learned in the last couple of months is that it isn't easy. Maybe there are versions of AI-generated films that are easy, and really, really good ones. One of my biggest takeaways from the last couple of years of doing projects like this has been the need to stay busy — and the equal need not to be busy. The balance is the thing I'm still trying to articulate.

A sense of appreciation. A resiliency for those three pitches we get. Patience, along with persistence.

Hopefully you don't need any of this context to appreciate the film. Hopefully the film tells you that story, or tells you a different one.