fear mongering

Halloween is here again, playing the yin to Christmas' yang with its overstock of ghosts, goblins, and underage vamps. It's that time of year when children take to the streets in droves in honor of some saccharin revolution and childless adults sit at home at the ready to feed the addiction of the local spawn.

The last time I donned a costume and went door-to-door begging for a hit of Smarties was the Halloween of my fifth grade year. The break in the cycle during sixth grade made it just the pause from tradition that meant I'd never go again, even though plenty of my peers continued through puberty and into their late-teens. I don't really think I missed out, but I think it did create a certain disconnect with the holiday for me.

Costume parties have their purpose, but I don't really need to wear a mask or put on a new visual persona once a year to purge my inner demons. Although, I realize the intent is more toward drunken and disorderly.

I do, however, get into creepy movies.

If there's one thing that makes Halloween for me, it's those unpredictable chills of a good scary movie. Now when I say scary, I really prefer those atmospheric and real world sorts ("Open Water", "The Exorcist", "The Others") as opposed to the obvious sort that are more about shocks than suspense which Hollywood generally peddles.
However, I'm in a different mindset today. My mind is involved with a different sort of fright. I've never considered myself a conspiracy nut, in fact the use of nut there assumes that I'm critical, however, I've been reading You Have No Rights - Stories of America in an Age of Repression by Matthew Rothschild, and it's downright unsettling.

It has to do with the seemingly random, but likely systematic squashing of constitutional rights of the U.S. citizens by the powers that be (AKA "The Administration"). For anyone who'd like to brush up on their constitution can go here, although I can't guarantee it won't be redacted before I publish this post.

back issues

This page has been lacking for me. I started on a high note. Happy stories tend not to ring true. Whatever I'm trying to say doesn't really begin there, anyway. It's all cyclical. And I've hit somewhat of a plateau that I've been coasting across for the past few days. I want to be honest and not merely avoid the words I shared elsewhere. So, I'm tacking some of them to the front of this story already in progress...

[scroll down to find them, if you like]

another one

continue

the cocoon bursts
inside my belly
erratic rhythm pounds
these knees to jelly
stumbling with purpose
bark sliver in hand
bobbing and treading
the river of demand
boasting of labels
and spinning a tale
speaking the language
winding their sails

second that

without prose

stale metaphors
pervade the page
eyes agape and glossy
nose flaring rage
quivers of the grin
near whiskery chin
ink dried clot
at the tip of my pen
thoughts undrizzled
words left unscribbled
digging at dry rot
into this canvas
withdrawn

new one

"Poetry: the best words in the best order."
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

October 2002 was the last time I put pen to paper and came up with something I considered poetry. I had been writing for over ten years, but one day I simply stopped seeing any point. I recently met someone whose voracious thirst for knowledge, experience, and interpersonal expression truly inspires me. So, I've decided to jump back on that horse. Here goes:


five to(ward) life

was strapped
to that machine
with a noose
around my neck
forced a smile
across these lips
bound my toes
up with leather
those shackles
of the daily
in small part
removed by
whim.

organic reality

I've railed on reality shows a lot over the years.

I'll admit it. I'm not above it. I couldn't get enough of the first season of "Survivor". I'd say I was the perfect audience member, since I never heard of it until the first night it was on. I jumped right in as a horde of people got tossed off a boat, and were swimming toward the shore of some remote island. It began in this heated, primal, "Most Dangerous Game" way that seriously made me question whether or not people were actually going to die. Not being a particularly avid viewer I sat there in awe, wondering whether Paddy Chayefsky's prophecies for our TV culture were coming true.

Working on the reality show earlier in the year gave me a refreshed perspective. Since it was created to follow the general formula of the more game show oriented reality programming, the bulk of what was shot related to rigidly defined competitions. All of these pre-written, pre-designed, and faux-sporting event aspects made the end result tiresome, laughable, and boring. Honestly what had some spark and edge was everything else. The on-set behaviors, the behind the scenes spats, and generally the underlying currents. Unfortunately none of these things, whether filmed or not, ever made it to airing. I guess some reality shows are actually documentaries with all of the wrong footage in them.

I feel like I got a promotion recently, however, because I started work on a documentary. It's definitely a welcome change from that earlier experience! Let me start by saying that I will only make vague references, if any, to the subject of the documentary on here. It deals with a nationally known story that demands a great deal of discretion, but I'm more than happy to delve into some behind the scenes action for you.

Today's magic word was diplomacy. The actual documentarians I am working with are grad students whose thesis project I am assisting. It's fascinating to watch as two people vie for control, especially when there are clearly underlying weaknesses in both that they are concealing through this exact means. Having only met one of them prior to today, I found it quite a rough terrain to navigate.

Making a fiction film interrupts general society, to say little of the space time continuum. As I look out from inside my second day of a documentary production I start to see an array of things to ponder. First, there's certain arrogance to regular moviemaking, such as the resolve that everyone in the vicinity must remain quiet. You can't interrupt real life like that. You have to take it on its own terms and try to find your bearings within it.

oh, brother

My brother turns thirty-nine today.

I guess since he's somewhere on the other side of the globe, his birthday began many hours ago. I just finished typing out a brief birthday message to him, although I can't be assured that it even got there. I've had problems with e-mails getting to him before when he's stationed on the submarine.

I didn't really say anything of particular note. In fact it was downright generic. Unfortunately the same can be said for our relationship, which has skirted on non-existent many times over the years. He's got his military and his God and his children and his box office hits whereas I've got my occasional unemployment and my doubt and my childfree and my independent films. I suppose its commonplace for family members to have only genetic matter fusing them together after awhile, but it doesn't keep me from wanting more.

scratching backs

My head is pounding!

The cooler weather that beckoned me at my office window has disappeared. The heat has returned and here I sit in the warmest room in the house. A thick comforter covers the window, hanging there like a stark reminder of continually making due, as it blocks out the sunlight and a bit of the warmth.

I'm still imbedded in that other guy's movie script. I'll be meeting up with the producer someday soon, although we've already had a scheduling conflict, since I'll be shooting some footage for a documentary on Thursday. I am beginning to dread our meeting, somewhat wanting to quit this project altogether.

Add in a dash of creepy coincidence for October 23, 2007:

"See if you can find a new way to keep yourself focused, because it's just way too easy for you to get sidetracked today. It's a good time for letting go of the projects that don't enthuse you all that much."

I'd like to think I'm one of those people who can equally see the forest and the trees. I have been trying to figure out ways to offer a few simple points of constructive criticism, and leave it at that, but my job on the movie requires that I over-familiarize myself with the material. I don't want to sound smug, but that prospect is really paining me.

I have no interest in insulting a fellow scribe, but I also don't want to mislead them with false positives. Everything is so competitive and two-faced in this business, but I should hope in the small town, indie context I should be able to share my opinions without fear of reprisal or (dare I say) firing.

ripple effect

I would like to think that I take most everything with a "grain of salt". It's one of those trinkets of sage advice I recall my mother offering again and again during my youth. Sure it doesn't necessarily mesh with my tendency to over-analyze, but it does extend to my discomfort with set beliefs and so-called answers.

That being said, I'm not above signing up for a daily horoscope service that day after day fills my e-mail with lies and misinterpretations. Strangely, since I've attempted to become more connected and involved within my own existence they have started to cut through the static and resonate.

This was today's:

"You've got a lot on your mind and your spiritual side may be more fully engaged. Now is a really good time for you to integrate your deepest desires with the mundane reality you navigate every day."

premature emo

emotional detachment (november 1, 1994)

feelings concealed - hidden from the world's eyesight
wind rushes outside like the start of a cold, winter storm
inside things are not much different, but more like autumn
i feel cold inside - cold & wanting - but i shall not say.

people don't really care as they once did ...
the walls come caving in - my heart collapsed
my feelings tumble down & become scarcely seen
am i free of the burden or left all alone?

now that my emotions have left & i am alone,
i must wait -
waiting for patience as my feelings once had ...

so here i sit, washing my faith with dishonesty -
dishonesty to myself.



Sure, the writing is a bit clunky and self-important, but it is a reminder of life when everyone else held the strings.

aged verses

Recent posts by my friend "Pallid" got me thinking about dusting off some of my old poetry, which I used to scribble down with some frequency. My early love of music got me writing the lyrics to bad unrequited love songs during grade school, then I moved on to the middle school protest phase when I started to see a world outside my own, and high school was likely my most furtive and stream of consciousness period. One of my girlfriends at the time was a brilliant, young poet well-deserving to be published, and quite an inspiration.

So, without further ado, I will begin with the origin of my on-line handle:

static eclecticism (november '98)

brightly

lit

room

of

frozen

energy

flowing into

a discourse

of unrequited

presence

peering through

jar lidded

slightly subtle

balls of crumbling

humored

essence

spent

righteous arms

of a babbling, babbling

rumbling

dot (.)

Even though it may seem like a lot of jibberish, it actually is a statement on something specific, but I will leave it open to interpretation.

parallax view

Eating an artichoke takes a lot of effort.

I spent many childhood dinners confronted with that peculiar green thing lying dormant at the edge of my plate. One at a time each leaf is removed. The soft end of each is dipped in warm, melted butter. The sample size edible vegetable that makes up the tip is nibbled off then the process repeats. Eventually the molested leaves have become a pile of refuse in a bowl at the center of the table. You're left with the prize, the core, the heart.


Life is full of artichokes.

We've passed the third week of October. The weather has taken a plunge by a very few degrees, but I sit here with the window open and my office curtains blowing in rhythm with the wind. Most of the year, I hate everything about living in Florida. A few times per year when the climate starts to shift it begins to feel like it was worth all of the toiling through the baking temperatures, dry mouth, and sweat.

The script for the new project has finally gotten under my skin, and I continue to have misgivings about it. Unfortunately the closer I look and the more I peel back the layers, the less I start to see. Based on my conversation with the producer he seems proud of the project and what it can mean for his company's future. He told me he was interested in hearing my opinion, but I don't know what to do because I doubt he expects the assessment I presently have. God, I'm tired of working on projects that seem like replications of below average fair targeted at an audience that must have amnesia to enjoy such tripe.

I have a friend who I met many years ago in a writer group, which he joined soon after being bitten by the writing bug. He went into screenwriting with minimal knowledge of the craft and had only seen a handful of movies. Very little about his early efforts indicated that he chose the right pursuit, but I still took him seriously and gave him the suggestions that I deemed appropriate. Since then life has gone back to normal for him. He's still got his wife, a couple of kids, a few scripts under his belt. In a way he's gotten the urge to pursue screenwriting out of his system.

There is something to be said for seeing things yourself, and gaining your own clarity. Being supportive is complicated, because it means standing side-by-side someone even if you predict failure and then again when they hit that wall you saw coming. The sun is rising on my sister-in-law and she is seeing things with a clearer vision after taking several nose dives into the unknown which I had seen as fitting of her impulsive nature.

I've often wondered at what cost experiences are worth the failure. There's a quote on my bulletin board that reads, "Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm" (Winston Churchill). Five long years have passed since the last time I metaphorically broke my neck from leaning over the edge too far. Experience and knowledge become power after a while, but sometimes a bad experience can make you walk around everywhere on your tip toes.

fourth wall

I read a screenplay yesterday.

This is not an unfamiliar task, given I am a screenwriter myself. Okay, I consider myself a screenwriter. There's something about the title that suggests that which I write sees the light of day upon a screen. This has yet to come to pass, so I continue to burden friends, family, strangers, and colleagues with my properly hole-punched attempts at art. If it's not art, then it's a prediction of theoretical art.

Art is a curious thing.

I called a childhood friend the other day. It was very much out of the blue, and in keeping with my new found attitude. We'd known each other since the fourth grade and developed a passion for film around the same time. Coincidentally we lost touch when he went to film school after college and I dropped out and began paving my own path. A couple years ago our lives intersected again, and it wasn't long before one of us dropped the ball again.

He's working a nice, stable, non-creative, industry job in the City of Angels. He was talking about having a family and all of those other buzzwords of paint-by-numbers maturity that make me gag. He offered his opinion on the instability of artistic jobs. Since art is so subjective it's ridiculously difficult to determine whether someone is doing a good job.



So, after a bit of lobbying my self-worth to a local producer, I have secured another film job for the middle of January 2008. With each project that comes along I invest myself deeper and deeper into it, making every effort to buoy the filmmaker's vision.

Tuesday afternoon I sat down with this producer for the first time. I hung onto the laurels of the first impression I predicted I made via my e-mails and spoke with ease. There was a decent rapport between us. He told me about the professional level equipment we'd be using, quoted me an approximation of the budget, and told me he'd get me the script in a few days.

I read it. And I've thumbed through it a second time. I'm disappointed. There is a surprising investment of cash behind this project. All I can see are the under-written characters, the poorly presented plot, and the lack of a point. It's hardly the worse thing I've ever read, much less worked on, but the budget would assume something more.

Financing suggests art where I see none.

third eye

Over the years, I have spent some time burrowing myself within the comfort of my home. In essence, I'll sit there waiting for something to happen, for opportunity to knock, for life to call me up for a date. Instead what's really happening is that it's all getting farther and farther away due to my low level of participation in it.

Now there's a point when every day feels indiscernible from the last. Eating starts to feel like a chore, but snacking begins to feel like the day's high point. Predictability and routine dig in deep, gouging away at the capacity to enjoy anything. I start to have noticeable patterns as I drive to those same boring places again and again. The turn signal is hit at the same time, each time. I keep getting caught at the same traffic lights. Conversations start to exhibit the same structure they always do. My contribution to them is solely response. And the bills just keep coming, dwindling away the funds, preventing any change to the status quo.



But I've had enough!

So, I'm starting over, cleaning my slate, turning over a new leaf, turning a new corner, or otherwise starting anew. Turn up the amps, because my transitional montage sequence has begun.

second coming

America is a culture of materialism, entitlement, and ownership. Everyday we live within the confines of the frontier attitude of obtaining more and more, of plunging our stars and stripes into the face of the moon or through the hearts of the oppressed.

What better way for a regular citizen to celebrate this than by caving in to a false sense of self-importance and scouting out a plot of cyberland to nail up a billboard of themselves? That's all this is. Self-indulgence.

But I live by enhanced feelings for the worth of my own expression. I'm a writer. Sure, everyone with a pen or a keyboard can call themselves a writer, but I have squandered a stable future on it. It lays there at the top of my résumé like a beached whale, a grotesque vision on the eyes that interviewers never ask about.

Even though I deftly define the skills involved that apply to the asinine day job that's on the table at any given juncture, they bypass it for one of my innumerable short term positions. Perhaps they don't even perceive writing as real work since I don't have a boss to answer to or always a paycheck to cash. Maybe they're jealous that I can go to work naked, even though I never do. Come to think of it, I'd probably make a nice hunk of change in court if they did ask about it. Or they could read writer and have misconceptions based on the chain-smoking, binge drinking that frequently represent the field in films ...

first taste

The piggy bank ran dry this week.

This is not unfamiliar territory. My life is often a precarious situation. Leaning over the edge of nothingness reminds you what really matters.

This couldn't have happened at a more appropriate time. I tend to go through cycles of inspiration and disillusionment, enthusiasm and depression, and insomnia and exhaustion. For some time I've been caught in first gear, splashing up wet mud, watching as my dreams disappeared over the horizon ...

f-f-f-fake it

previously published by me elsewhere:

I really suck at maintaining this blog.

I have several friends who post all of the time. It's so much more interesting to read theirs than to write one of my own.

Most of the time my life feels too empty to remark on.

I woke up around 5 AM. I was awkwardly positioned across our couch wearing last night's clothes. The remote control was poking into my ribcage, probably shooting cancer through my flesh. Sugar Ray's Mark McGrath was on the TV assuring us of his washed-up career by hosting the infomercial for the "Buzz Box", a radio friendly alternative CD collection.

I feel strangely refreshed from my sleep.

It couldn't have possibly been long enough, given the expectations of so-called health professionals. I do the math, but I have to count back first based on the last thing I remember watching. I didn't even remember watching TV. Maybe I was just flipping channels. Either way I went narcoleptic for a stretch in my own private Idaho, thankfully without having to be outdoors.

I wash down a glass of water, contemplating whether or not to grab more sleep. I'm not tired in the least, even though I must be running on about three and a half hours or so. It's nothing a couple cups of coffee can't cure. I'll make some in a couple hours, maybe when I think about sleep again. There's a system to spacing out your caffeine intake that just works.

But what's the point, anyway? I have a plain life, with minimal exertion. I went to a party last night. My whole day was building up to this, as if having anything scheduled starts to feel like busy. The problem is I didn't enjoy myself in the least. One of our friends has these low-key gatherings at his house every month with twenty or thirty people and eating, drinking, music, maybe a bonfire, but most especially drinking.

It's frustrating. There are always familiar faces who have been there previously, but they're consistently strangers. Any conversation at one of these seems all but forgotten by the next. It's all shallow chit-chat anyway, often just obligatory due to spatial proximity and not real interest. I hate feeling like I crashed somebody's party when I was invited.

That's not all, though. What did I say? My life is empty and plain. Wow, I must be great at parties! Truthfully, I have an ability to fake a better mood so if there's something wrong most people's radar completely misses it. It's an easy trick when doses of sarcasm are a regular guest, and not just representative of an irksome state.

Unfortunately like putting powder and rouge over bruises, it doesn't actually change anything except appearances. It turns out that a new coat of paint works just as poorly. We splashed a few coats onto our kitchen and living room of our rental last month, after four years of residence in hopes to introduce a new vibe and pleasure to coming home.

This isn't home, though.

I'm not sure what it will take to be satisfied with my life. Perhaps control. One of my friends tuned me into getting free daily horoscopes in my e-mail from this site. On a lark, I signed up for the whole gamut, and 95% of the time they are way off the mark. Half the time I delete them without looking.

I took at peek a little while ago at one that goes into more specifics about the general cycle of life, love, career, and whatnot. I was intrigued to find this being said in my career section. "Your quest right now is this: Does the end always justify the means? If you're in doubt, don't cock the trigger."

It always comes back to career with me, whether it's dealing with small town malaise, working long hours for free or literal peanuts, being seen as an un-hirable risk at regular day jobs, or going from one pointless endeavor to the next. There's a miniscule film scene in this town, who strangely do not all know one another, so I keep finding new people who are making the same crap elsewhere. I'm in the midst of trying to sell myself to these newly found folks, but what's the point? I'd like to think there's art in the process and not just the product, but what if it's just another ugly piece of crap no matter which direction you throw it?

Should I just fake it? AGAIN!