My childhood was a horror story. Generational trauma had a chokehold on my family while growing up. Drugs, alcohol, mental illness, bank robbing, depression, narcissism... we had it all. I grew up in a cat piss stained trailer, where every night was about survival. Survival from a paranoid schizophrenic mother, played to the backdrop of the lower class Northern California countryside. When there wasn't food in the kitchen, I was thankful for the plentiful fruit orchards near my home... peaches, cherries and walnuts filled my stomach while my mother lay drunkenly passed out in the bathtub. My only escape was my father. His weekend visitation rights were the only days I looked forward to. We'd trek the rolling hills and forests of upper San Francisco, filling up on diner food as we drove. He'd sit by the campfire, his marijuana smoke molding with the camp smoke as I eagerly listened to his Bigfoot stories. But as much as I loved my father, he had a dark side, too. But his trauma was internal, sad and quiet. It was creeping and subtle. I take an unusual amount of pride in the generational trauma he passed onto me. And this film is an homage to him and his struggles.
