Every Waking Moment Read Online Free PDF

people with fascinating stories, like Mr. Garrity.” Devin ran a hand throug his hair. “I don’t have an agenda, but I know we’re going to find the right thread, the right focus in the midst of all the possibilities.”
    “You’re not going to find a man on a wire. Not in there.”
    Devin sat back, trying to figure out how to explain art to a number cruncher. The man asked if he’d given the film a title, and Devin told him.
    “ Streams from Desert Gardens ?” Whitman repeated with a scowl. “Mr. Hillis, the account you have with us has dwindled. Your inheritance is almost gone. I’ve been waiving the checking fee because you haven’t even been able to hit the minimum withdrawal on your credit card.”
    “Mr. Whitman, in ten years people are going to come to you and ask if this is the place where that filmmaker got his start. Seriously. I have an incredible guy working with me. Jonah’s a genius. He’s piecing together the documentary as we go, while at the same time working on these shorter pieces. We’re advertising aggressively on social media and in some strategic areas . . .”
    “You’re advertising the documentary?”
    “No, these short films about people’s lives.”
    “Devin, you put up flyers in nursing homes. You haveseventy-five friends on Facebook. I’m one of them. I don’t call that aggressive.”
    “It’s a start,” Devin said.
    “Well, I’d really like to help you   —”
    “Look, all I need is someone to catch the vision, to understand what we’re doing.”
    “Any teenager with a laptop can do what you’re doing. The music, too. Free. I have a teenager of my own. And you want people to shell out thousands for   —” he tossed the DVD onto the desk   —“a family video?”
    Devin put a hand up. “Indulge me. Five minutes.” He raised his eyebrows. “Please.”
    The banker put the folder down and leaned back.
    “Okay, thank you,” Devin said. He rubbed his hands on the armrests. “I believe in the cosmic story. That all of us are connected   —our lives, our relationships. Everything we do, everything happening in our lives, is like water on the planet. The oceans, lakes, rivers, rain from above, it’s all flowing and gushing. It looks haphazard   —rain, snow, a trickle here and then a monsoon. But it’s not. All of it is ordered and managed, cascading around us. Through us. We are part of the cosmic story being told every day with each of our lives.”
    “What’s the point?”
    Devin stood and leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “We are preserving stories. We are connecting family and friends and neighbors and every person on the planet. The world is shrinking, Mr. Whitman. People are closer to each other than ever before, but with the explosion of information, we actually know less than ever. You know what your sister had for dinner last night because she put it on Facebook. But you don’t know your sister.”
    The man seemed unimpressed, nonplussed. Devin took off his jacket and folded it across the chair.
    “My belief is that everyone wants to make sense of their story. You, me, the old man in the nursing home, the doctor in the ER. Each wants to know there’s a purpose, a reason we’re walking the planet. And that’s what we provide. Context. A record of having lived. Substance and meaning for every life.”
    “It’s a DVD of old people talking.”
    “No. This is not a talking head.” He picked up the DVD. “This is art. It’s not something a kid can do on his computer after visiting Grandma. I mean, a talented teenager can do some amazing things, and I’m sure your son   —”
    “Daughter.”
    “I’m sure your daughter does amazing work. I might hire her as an intern this summer   —that’s the beauty of this: there are so many possibilities.” His mind wandered and he had to close his eyes and rein it in, narrow his focus before he galloped off the reservation. “We’re not cataloging lives or just collecting