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!

empty pallette

Our ultra-reliable 2004 Honda Civic ran out of gas yesterday. Strangely it happened in the parking lot directly outside of our townhouse. It was comfortably parked and we were all set to go meet our friends across town. There was little more than a brief yelp from the engine, a couple sputters, and then nothing. Our automotive neglect put us at a standstill, as the closest thing we have to a child passed out from inadequate nourishment.

high hopes

previously published by me elsewhere:

I am adrift, yet again...

This is not unfamiliar territory for me, but my wish is that every successive time I turn a corner and find myself here I'd know better how to handle it.

The news of my show's theoretical cancellation has been confused by several postings on its official website. Those specific season two announcements that have been there for several months remain side-by-side vague references to speed bumps in the proverbial road that just barely explain why we've had reruns on the air instead of the remaining episodes we shot, as well as the ones we didn't.

Did we ever have an audience besides the people related to the show that would require this information?

Predictably I always tuned in, or at the very least recorded it on my primitive VHS device. Sometimes it felt more like somebody's vanity project than a real show, but I knew most of the people in the credit scroll and had privileged knowledge about what never made the final edit and should have.

But that's not all...

I'd been slogging through a mean stomach virus the week I first received the call about the show. I also happened to be polishing up a sizeable application for an important screenplay contest. Those dark comedy moments aside, due to years of perseverance and commitment things were finally falling into place. Right?

Who the fuck am I kidding?

My life is far more like that dark comedy than the serendipitous romantic tale I'm trying to spin. The show's gone kaput and I've just been christened the proud recipient of yet another rejection letter for the cellar walls of my little jaded soul.

To truly survive it you've gotta either have a great fuckin' sense of humor or a masochistic streak a mile wide, or a bargain bin combo pack. I'd prefer to simply leave my proclivities open for interpretation.

There are times when I've felt in control, such as while I was marshalling that loveable slew of deadbeats together to shoot the movie last summer within some complicated scheduling. And then again I'll often wear myself out treading water, presuming that I'm actually waiting for something to happen.

I guess it's a forest/trees, big pond/small pond sort of deal. These dichotomies were not lost on me during my recent visit to the Big Apple.

The nice corner apartment my cousins have has several large windows overlooking several different buildings on either side. For a moment during one of the afternoons, I stood at the center of their living room peering out through the breeze-providing open shades through multiple other windows as other people's lives hung on display like a work of art in progress. I felt like the fascinated, obsessive voyeur Jimmy Stewart portrayed in Hitchcock's "Rear Window".

I was quickly drawn to one of the writing tablets I'd brought with me, inspired toward several hours stream of consciousness scribbling.

Yet one step out the front door the city was in charge. My high-end amateur Sony 5.1 digital camera was no match for the big city, which instantly dwarfed my efforts to capture it as if everything I knew about composition and the like was erased and all I could do was point-and-shoot and hope for the best.

I see this as a metaphor for my struggle.

company secrets

previously published by me elsewhere:

It was about twelve hours into our trip to New York that I heard the news about the television show I've been working on. The word cancelled didn't come up, nor did the less stifling "permanent hiatus", but it appeared that I wasn't going to come back from our trip to another week of racing drama. Sure, we'd been on "break" from shooting for a number of weeks, but it seemed as though we were caught coping with one of those communication breakdowns.

I had joined the show partially on a whim, as well as due to the good graces of one of the producers. As I slowly shook off the shock of several miserable episodes and a concept that hardly sounds like my stein of beer I really took a shine to the work and to the crew I was working with, only to now feel like it has taken the same turn as several other projects I've devoted myself to.

Granted I was only working for peanuts and two predictable meat and potatoes meals. Maybe all I really have to show for my time is a silly baseball cap I wore for protection from the outdoors and swarms of gnats, a couple of blackened toenails, and a deep farmer's tan, but it still felt like something stable and worth my time. It's too bad certain key people had other intentions in mind, which I would gladly go into had I not signed away my life with all of that obligatory legal paperwork.

. . . leavin' today

previous published by me elsewhere:

The distinct stench of Fritos put up a fight against the mint scented chewing gum occasionally sticking to my dental work that I was using to keep my ear pressure at bay. The air conditioner blew what felt like the exhales of every unhealthy passenger that had spent time inside the cabin, or at least that's how my mildly hypochondriatic tendencies see it.

As the flight began its decent into the New York area, I could feel my heart palpitate a different rhythm as I was overcome by childlike giddiness as ant-size New York and northern New Jersey came into view. Through the smudged window I could see the tightly constructed residential neighborhoods and industrial regions with their railroad tracks headed in multiple directions like something out of the original version of SimCity.

Once on the ground the quick paced movement, rather foreign to the laidback Florida sensibilities I feel surrounded by, feels so full of purpose and intent. New York represents regular life, only amplified, and I happily became a part of it as we moved to the front of the line that was waiting for a taxi into the city. As the cab jerked in and out of traffic on the Long Island Expressway (L.I.E.) my eyes were wide, taking it all in since our visit was going to be all too brief.

As we drove into Brooklyn every turn became reminiscent of a sequence from a Woody Allen film, easily imagining the leaves falling behind two or three people immersed in intellectual conversation. Walking along those same streets later on felt exceedingly unreal to me, as if I was stepping along a Hollywood back lot. However, the spuriously blown trash on the ground and the chained up potted planters were recognizably the sort of details Tinseltown tends to neglect.

For me there's such a romanticism, mystique, and sensual allure to city life to the point that I often overlook the very ordinary things that go on everywhere. Even still it doesn't make me feel any less interested in becoming a face in that ever-growing crowd.

flight patterns

previously published by me elsewhere:

Like something lifted directly from some hackneyed, non-invasive, mainstream stand-up comedy routine of the mid-eighties, Friday saw the wife and I standing in line at the airport. Yes, that old standby punch line for when housewives and the family pet are already booked elsewhere sneaks its way into my writing.

We were slowly shuffled through like some perverse beef cattle ride into Disney, stripped down to our socks and bare feet, shaken empty of loose change, gum wrappers, and other shiny objects that might entice us to do evil. What other place would your shoes come off and all of your private pocket possessions be placed into a plastic bin for close examination? Oh, yeah, probably prison. Thank you Homeland Security!

On the other side of the X-ray machine and personal parcel conveyer belt everything seems such a blur. The sedative begins to take effect, and we're left stumbling about aimlessly like an infant who's just learned to walk, in awe of big crowds and shiny things, roaming about with a minimal sense of direction. It's as if you come to the airport and unlearn all of the knowledge and common sense you possess outside those walls.

We give up absolute control and offer our trust to these strangers in form-fitting fashion faux-pas, hoping they won't drop us out of the sky once we're picked up and pray we'll be brought our snack and blanky before we get too cranky.

What a strange, infantile, semi-humiliating experience to pay money for.

starting oveur

previously published by me elsewhere:

Surely I exaggerate, but I feel as though everyone around me is having a career crisis, as if it's the epidemic of the day.

Now I'm no foreigner to such an event over the years, being what I am. Depending heavily upon my strength of self-esteem I have called myself the likes of that all-encompassing artist, the gorgeously noncommittal filmmaker, the simplistic misunderstood writer, as well as opposite of "this" (i.e. this day job isn't really what I am).

And all of this has been on the chopping block at one time or another. However I have completely no idea what I would have given it all up for, since without my aspirations I don't really know who I am.

But as suspect as this following of dreams really is, not everyone has that to turn to in times of inner-crisis. Some people's job-related dreams don't involve long periods of unemployment. Image that!

There are some people who believe in the concrete, and don't let everything they choose to do merely satisfy whims of one's ego. There are realistic hopes and dreams that relate to a work environment fulfilling one's ideals, whether it's how it affects society, the structure of management, or the intelligence and compatibility of one's co-workers. Like in any relationship, if you can't find what's important to your core you're bound to go elsewhere.

The new is interesting. The new is different. There's something about, as they say, the new and improved and clearing the proverbial slate that is both invigorating and terrifying.

When I was in middle school, and even high school, I used to wish I could move away. I longed to go somewhere no one knew me so I could make a better, improved first impression on everyone. I felt so ill-placed in my own little world that practically becoming somebody else would make it all better. I suppose I am simply my own cross to bear, regardless how unnatural this notably religious metaphor lays upon my shoulders.

I guess it was like after college, when I moved back to the Orlando area. Besides being where I essentially grew up, it had been the hot spot for my sordid early college adventures, so to speak. Obviously it would offer more than the quiet, little Gainesville. Clearly there was a good reason to return.

Well, yes and no.

Three years later and it was right back to Gainesville, which was far more a daunting change than Orlando for me. It felt like running back to the simple life from a failure in the "big city", and even worse was moving there simultaneously with my sister's family as they sought a place to put down roots. Roots! That's what happens when you've seen the world, and it's time to settle down.

Around that time, I had chatted with a close family friend about the transition back to the old, the overly familiar, and she quoted the old saying about entering the same river twice (Heraclitus, by the way).

I have a friend who went north a few years ago, and has been seriously considering returning "home" to Florida. Its human nature, or at least harshly American to see the failure, the animal with its tail between it legs, in such retrograde.

Over the weekend I had a conversation with a friend, which included our seemingly outlandish thoughts of relocating to Canada. Then someone at a party was talking about giving away all of their possessions and living off the land, which I suppose would be some sort of faux-Buddhist cleansing ritual.

Wouldn't it just figure that I watch Michael Moore's new film "Sicko" yesterday? Fantastic stuff, but besides the obvious intentions of the film, it left me feeling like moving out of the country wouldn't be such a bad idea. Canada, sure. England, sure. France, what the hell. Add in those requisite feelings of sandpaper rubbing across vital organs that July fourth had on me this year and that blind patriotism always offers. It really felt like the country was celebrating the birth of someone who had long since died, which I tell you is no reason for fireworks.

Maybe it's not only career crises that plague many around me these days. Maybe it's a general swelling of transitional behavior that I feel receptive towards. An old friend considers coming home. A new friend moves to art school. A close friend works through their career options. Another 'finds herself' halfway across the planet, away from all that is familiar.

These are not really new realizations for me. I know the only constant is change, and all of that blah-blah-blah, but for me sometimes walking through life feels like drudging through wet cement. If you stop for too long, you're stuck.

sacrilegious inanity

previously published by me elsewhere:

The houselights poured down upon us. Our shadows melted onto the remnants of the set from the show that closed two weeks ago. There was a chill in the air and some vague attempts at misappropriated British accents. This was the scene at our local blackbox theater on Tuesday evening. Several of us were there to run through a couple scripts of tentative shows for next season. I've steadily become the standby camera guy for their shows and I consider many of them my friends, but beyond that my presence was pretty much unjustified.

On the menu were the screenplay for the 1985 cult classic based on the Parker Brothers game, "Clue", and that rabblerousing "Hamlet" via "Waiting for Godot" piece, "Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead". My apologies in advance, but for my picky palate the soup du jour kicked the entrée's ass.

Over the years I'd merely heard buzz from my dorky Thespian pals and intellectual compatriots about the greatness of the latter work. Although I'll grant that the inactive read-through won't do much justice to most shows, I found it to be a real yawner in parts, mostly for its Shakespearean ass-kissing. When will this persistent canonization of the Bard end? I was set to share these opinions with my brethren, but they all seemed so enthusiastic. That same enthusiasm I have seen before, many times.

That enthusiastic Will Love often comes across to me as disingenuous, as if most people are just trying to impress, look learned, and show the gigantic size of their brainstem. Bill and I go way back. In fact, I recall trying to travail Juliet's tower at a pre-teen age. The tattered copies of Shakespeare's plays filled part of a shelf in the living room, and I've always fancied things full of dialogue instead of all of that other nonsense.

A couple years ago I had planned on making a short film based on "A Winter's Tale" with a friend of mine, who was trying to get me to see or, rather, understand the greatness everyone else seems to grasp. Ultimately the language feels oppressive to me, as if what was once open for the dumb masses has left a sector of the populace out in the cold, scratching their heads, disinterested, and insulted. Might I add, filled with ire? I liken it to my wife's distaste for Bob Dylan. He's highly revered for his extensive contribution to music, yet she'd prefer he shut the fuck up and let anyone else this side of Tom Petty sing the tunes.

Hey, I'll admit I'm limited in my refinement, regardless of the many stories I'd like to tell to dispel such a rumor. I'm less Frasier and more, uh, some less brie-scented option. I'd rather drink my wine, not smell it. I'm the antithesis of a Shakespeare snob, and damn proud of that fact. I've no problem missing the next tights and swords show about some King, or stomping my muddied boots all over Wm.'s coattails, conceiving whatever tragedy that might strike my fancy of my own according and without offering sampling credit on the liner notes.

Take that Kenneth Branagh!

mirror mirror

previously published by me elsewhere:

Growing up, an arms length or more was kept between my immediate family and my extended family. It's all part of the inner family lore as to the melodramatic twists and turns that created this situation, but what resulted was a small, sad huddle of five displaced individuals hoping this was the group whose membership we sought.

In our own ways my brother, sister, and I have been reeling from this familial awkwardness ever since. My brother has created a small tribe to call his own and my sister has made sporadic attempts at reconnecting with the outer branches of our genetic foliage. One of those efforts happened this week according to an e-mail that floated into my inbox. My sister forwarded a page and a half long treatise from one of our horde of long-lost cousins, updating her on the current goings-on of what possibly accounts for thirty people. It almost felt like something fresh from the Associated Press.

I've gotten similar deals stuffed into Christmas cards, bringing me visions of the assembly line procedure that it must entail to go along with those sugarplums already taking up residence. My first reaction should be to use the return e-mail address to stamp out some semblance of an update from here, but I've been down this lovely trail before. It must have been three years ago when my sister felt the inclination to reconnect, only to have a disappointing M.I.A. situation on her hands. I tried too, but two e-mails later and it was over again.

It's frustrating to me, this D.N.A. I feel driven to build on a foundation built of literal building blocks, since the bulk of the memories any of this family has of me were when I played with those wooden wonders of grade school. If my brother feels the need to over-populate and my sister uses her birth month as a line of demarcation for catching up, this nametag required family deal leaves me reconsidering what the hell that word really means anyway.

sublimated reality

previously published by me elsewhere:

A dreamer tends to be associated with thinking big, but finding myself in that pool of whack jobs I've often found myself restructuring my impression of what actually constitutes "big". There's the big that's conveyed as the carrot on that dreadful movie-related program "On the Lot" on the FOX Network. Just mention the name Spielberg to a group of moviegoers or moviemakers and they flock in droves, cash in hand.

Granted Spielberg is probably the reason I got interested in film in the first place since his Reese's peddling "E.T." was the first flick I ever saw, but as I've inched my way through my career's pursuit I feel far more enamored by the Cassavettes of the world. That's the other big; the little-big, if you will. I don't really get a rush from the prospect of having my name in lights and being associated with well-oiled moneymaking machines so much as representing something honest that welcomes ideals and sustains in a different fashion. It's the more accessible and sometimes more ordinary part of the (dare I say) industry.

With that in mind, I've been working on a reality show for the past couple months. I absolutely never expected to utter or type, as the case may be, those fateful words, but it's an honest job and entirely different than I had predicted. The show has aired its first four episodes already and just this week received its first comment on IMDb. Even though many aspects of it strike of the big Hollywood machine with stockholders, executives, and a network to please, the day-to-day labor that I participate in and hold a modicum of power over feels separate.

There's something very real about the collective coming together, working through the unbearable sweat cascading from our brows and everywhere else it may, to assemble this (pardon me) "Little Show that Could". That's at least what I've gained from going to work everyday, what I felt while watching our most recent episode amongst my new peers, and the thrill I felt from reading the vague thoughts from some random viewer. It's the upward climb, the nursing of the whole project that I respect the most and puts me to bed at night.

unforgettable loser

previously published by me elsewhere:

For me several classic moments in Sam Mendes' "American Beauty" strike significant chords within me. The bit that comes to mind right now happens during some annual real estate dinner. Upon being introduced to the so-called Real Estate King, Kevin Spacey's character Lester says that they've already met, then adds the clincher: "I wouldn't remember me either."

A couple weeks ago marked one year since I signed up with Myspace. I had initially been resistant, because I had perceived the site as a place for the high school set, and felt I'd be a glaring example of a married, steadily aging thirty-year-old in search of his youth or a means to identify with contemporary culture thanks to the echoes of late sixties America about not trusting anyone over thirty.

I have come to discover the site as something altogether different.

Sure there are the occasional so-called ninety-nine year old fourteen year olds scantily clad in their default pictures. It's also a place to discover underground art, meet new people, and reunite with long gone friends. I've reconnected with a number of friends who've been out of touch for upwards of thirteen years. Recently I tried to do the same with an old college friend from UCF.

We had met through one of our low-level sophomore year classes. My initial interest in her was predictably in the romantic pool, which was often the case given my overflowing libido and disposition as a hopeless romantic. Unfortunately she wasn't real receptive to my initial inclinations. In fact she was noticeably blind to them, but we had pretty well hit it off in the friend department, that specified area that usually makes lesser guys run cowering for the hills. Even though the relationship never worked out, a friendship did development through e-mails, letters, phone calls, lunches, and whatnot.

When I left UCF for UF in the summer of '97 we completely lost touch. I spotted her on Myspace about a month ago, and considered e-mailing her, but I cope with hesitance like it's alcohol. Add to that her "old flame" status so to speak in that 1950's vernacular that makes conversations evermore classy. The wife even thought I should write her.

So I did.

And it turns out that she couldn't even place me. What the fuck?! It's one thing to pass by someone in the halls of your middle school and promptly forget them, but to actually interact with somebody over lunch and whatnot and to completely lose sight of them like Jim Carrey in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is ridiculous. The scenario is one of my worst fears, and the reason that anytime I've contacted someone through Myspace from a number of years ago I include the phrase "I don't know if you remember me". Usually that's just the underdog in me whimpering.

pet sounds

previously published by me elsewhere:

We just got back from our bright shining capital city. Our little excursion only lasted the heavier side of a day, but with the profusion of smoke from forest fires throughout much of the drive as well as the multiple detours due to a partially closed I-10 for the presumed same reason, it was that much more taxing.

Oh, wait, and the fact that we spent our time with family!

Tomorrow encompasses not only the hallmark holiday called Mother's Day, but the less emphasized my-dad's-birthday. Conflicting schedules and the sheer dread of going anywhere on Mother's Day morning turned Saturday into Sunday, but it's not as if my relationship with my parents really dictates anything predictable and card-worthy. What actually exists between us wavers from indescribably complicated and leaf-crunchingly boring.

I spent much of the night tossing and turning on their pull-out sofa, not out of irritability from their company, but more that hotel-related discomfort you feel when traveling. Spending time in foreign beds, in unfamiliar sheets, breathing the air of someone else's world, everything becomes more intensified and disconcerting, and at an extreme what I have heard the first night of homelessness to be like.

My mind was racing through mental calisthenics more than calculating an exit strategy. The house was uncomfortably quiet, in those spurts fitting of suburban, USA. A silence broken by the incessant ticking of the wall clock that seemed to move like Willie Nelson sings, or the occasional rhythmic party on wheels that would pass by the window, and the heavy internal thunder being emitted by my parent's cat as I stroked behind her ears. Every bit of kneaded fur led to a deeper octave and an erratic twist of her little head. She cozied up to me, tiptoeing with her claws tapping delicately into the comforter, with much needed gentleness and calm.

singular glory

previously published by me elsewhere:

"More people get their news from CNN" is that deep-voiced refrain frequently heard as that particular news station advertises itself to those about to switch the channel. What is it about standing out from the crowd that so drives our society?

Last night I lay down on our rather threadbare couch to begin a book I picked up from the library, solely based on its intriguing title, which is always my way of choosing my next read. It's called "Hello, I'm Special: How Individuality Became the New Conformity", and already the first several pages fit into a certain outlook I have, so I continue to flip because it preaches to my choir.

I'm instantly reminded of one of my favorite "Simpsons" episodes from the fifth season called Bart's Inner Child. In it the town gathers to listen to a motivational speaker who grows a certain fondness for Bart's lackadaisical and youthful attitude toward life. Soon enough the entire town is doing 'what they feel' and Bart loses his rebel status. The book's theory either comes ten years too late, or "The Simpsons" were once ahead of the curve. Maybe the curve rotated a lot slower back in 1993, and now with life being so instantaneously gratifying we are a little bit more spoiled, and therefore demanding.

On a recent visit to see my sister in Tallahassee we were in the downtown area at a holiday festival of some sort. It was full of bright lights, overpriced fried foods, and excessive stimulation for children. Our four year old niece was enthralled by it all, especially a region that had machines feathering fake, soapy, snowflakes onto the kids and their unsuspecting adult tagalongs. As any proud uncle might, I crouched onto the damp ground to snap digital pictures of my niece playing in the manufactured post-global warming nature. I had taken two or three pictures before some little kid, who stood no more than three feet, approached me saying "Let me see". The era of waiting for anything is clearly gone.

I want it now! Instant cash, status, and fame are the things we are birthing in our culture, at least in an Andy Warhol timeframe. There's even something self-congratulatory about doing nothing to get a pulpet from which to scream here on Myspace (*previously), and I don't miss the irony of saying these words here. Every word, especially the misspelled and made-up ones, all feed the machine of setting the tone for the 'you'; the 'you' that wins recognition on the cover of Time magazine. Honestly, though, I don't know a single person who reads that rag, so does their canonization of the pronoun matter to me? Really?

Some might say presenting an air of difference and importance are respected attributes to gain buzz in the film industry, but in a myriad of ways showing similarity and acceptance of norms becomes the way to show 'them' you can replicate what already makes them money. Sometimes rebellion only seems to be respected in hindsight. For some reason I'm reminded of this novelty picture frame the wife and I were given some years ago. It's like the ones that are so prevalent at every gift shop in the greater U.S. with the thick wood framing with random words and phrases etched into it. One statement stands out for me: each one is different, yet unique in their own way.

I have a close friend who went to New College for their undergraduate. All of the things I have heard about the place shows a strong acceptance of freewill and whatever floats your boat type mentality. When I was in high school several people thought I'd fit in there. Wasn't it the point that no one fit in, thus redefining the aesthetic of everything? Interestingly the recent movie "Accepted" kind of dealt with a school founded on those same principles, yet for something about non-conformity the movie itself clings heavily to the expectations of its genre.

Can you have it both ways? I think my ramblings have definitely had it both ways. This is the culture where alternative has the easy to devour mainstream connotations and the purist middle finger in permanent rigor to anything that sells perspective. This is a very masturbatory success by numbers culture and for some fucked up reason I dream to be a part of it.