jump start

I don't have a layout of the sect spectrum at my disposal, but I'd guess I'm about the farthest thing from a Catholic one can be. That said, after so much time away from this blogging trip, I feel as though I should begin with a confessional statement like "it's been two months since my last..." I wonder, would it be too anti-climactic to actually start out with something like this.


HMM.


So, it's been two months since my last journal...

the voice

I have been speaking with someone else's voice for the past day. The tone has become flatter, the timbre unfamiliar, and the cadence unremarkable. My dry wit and sharp asides usually spoken under my breath ring differently, perhaps too loud or too forced as if merely my own dialogue without discernible inflection on the page loses all of its meaning. Quiet has become much more attractive and mono-syllables seem to make better sense.

At last night's show I kept getting peculiar stares and reactions from my friends and fellow artists. One of them wanted to record it, perhaps for posterity or a future prank. Another was exceedingly flirtatious due to the deep, rough, raspy nature of my every breath. None of them seemed aware of how differently they were treating the "new" me. Being stuck with such an ailment seems akin to getting rhinoplasty, I should suppose. One becomes identifiable by certain key features and characteristics.

The voice happens to be a significant one.

Given my penchant for metaphor and symbolism, this whole scenario speaks (dare I say) to something greater.

The third weekend of the show wrapped up last night. The show has been going exceedingly well since I last wrote. That rough night seemed to be a minor speed bump in our brief four week run. In my mind, the best show happened last night as everyone appeared in top form, our audience was at its largest, and my family came into town to see the show. It has been an uphill battle for the last sixteen or so years, as I have struggled to get any regard for my true identity, the fuel of my existence.

This was the first time they made an effort to support something I've done creatively. As someone who grew up feeling unheard and like little more than the mumbling outcast, it seemed reasonable that my literal voice would go out on me. Last night as I stood there on stage introducing the show, speaking with someone else's voice, I found that the presentation and my involvement therein were left to speak in ways I could not.

Suddenly a spark of interest from them!

A couple months ago my life calendar flipped the last few pages between thirty and thirty-one. I felt the self-assessment bug biting and watched as another year flew past without my own satisfaction. Out of nowhere my knees started locking up, keeping me up all night, making stair climbing a challenge, and generally moving me from one place to another at a geriatric pace. Then a friend solidified things for me, offering me the energetic meaning behind the knees. It's said that the condition of the knees represent how one moves forward in their lives.

That was the light bulb I needed! I had come to a standstill personally and professionally. It all made perfect sense. This realization refocused my energy, but the new plans and re-assessment of goals only moved me so far as I became more and more distracted with this play, in support of someone else's voice.

Lately I've not been putting ink to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or feet to pavement in support of my own desires. In a way I see it as a metaphor for a loss of literal personal voice. As a writer, I've been sculpting my voice, my place in it all for so many years, nearly tapping into it on a number of occasions. Sure, one facet of me comes through my involvement as the oil to the gears of this theater production, but a big part of me is left wanting.

Losing a voice, even in the slightest, offers the chance to listen more, to be more selective in your speech. It gives me thoughts of that great old show "Northern Exposure", whether Marilyn Whirlwind's deliberate contemplative cat-like silence or Chris Steven's episode long voice loss that led him to this on-air speech:

"After my recent brush with voicelessness, I thought I'd share with you a few thoughts about speech. Don't take it lightly my friends. If music is the pathway to the heart as Voltaire suggested, then speech is the pathway to other people. Live in silence and you live alone."

Somewhere in all of this a point lies. I find myself fascinated by the intersections in life. The collusion of these elements are always easier to see and examine closely in a book or a film, but when it comes together in life there are fewer barriers, fewer finite truths, but for me right now I see something to ponder.

So as my illness-related post-concert strain of voice continues to cross my lips, I wonder what I'd really like to say when I can speak with my own voice again...

paying dues

The life I lead never seems to warrant frequent posts in this journal. I let so much time pass between them. I go about my business, forgetting that I even have one or that I've been neglecting (if nothing else) some facet of myself. I find it far easier to step away from my little-read ramblings than most any other daily distraction that suits my fancy.

My main focus of late has been some menial labor in a local theatre. I fill the shoes of a stage manager. The show got underway last week to an opening night filled with strong performances and spirited applause. The review from that particular performance was in the local paper today. It was quite a glowing write-up, giving appropriate credit throughout the talented cast and offering a decent run-down of the play itself.

Tonight we entered our second weekend on a rainy night with some strange energy. Though more responsive than our weakest night last weekend, the audience seemed distracted. Some of this became reflective in the cast as the positive review and dead audience seemingly blended together and seeped into the performances to create a less than stellar evening.

Things were just a bit off, and being in the non-creative backstage position I am, I was left to bear the brunt of actors who disbelieved my encouraging words and who placed me in the continued position of a librarian as I continually attempted to keep everyone quiet while off-stage. There's a disconnect the actors can have between their on-stage and off-stage demeanors that allow them professional strides in front of the audience that quickly becomes conversation and cigarettes backstage. To a point I could only wish for this, since I have to be "acting" in my role the whole time. This leads many to misinterpret me in a variety of ways and creates a wall I'd prefer wasn't there.

The thin line that exists between the social and the professional are one of many things that draw me to filmmaking as a career. I know that theatre moves through a similar space. I get the feeling it is not really my place and I have admittedly reacted quite well to the expected culture shock. What gnaws at me is how I keep getting caught up in this cycle of doing behind-the-scenes grunt work that advances other's goals and helps earn them praise while leaving me nowhere particular.

...

After the show, I walked into my darkened house with tired feet, a tinge of hunger, and minor bruises to my ego. Each step seemed louder than the last as my wet boots smacked kisses upon the wood floor. Following my predictable computer time of checking e-mail and whatnot, I put together some munchies and popped in the "Wonder Boys" DVD. This little gem is one of my go-to films when I'm feeling down about my writing or my career in general.

Add to that, a rotten night at the theatre.

begin again

I'm rarely satisfied.

I've changed that line nearly ten times.

I still don't like it.

Ever since I was a kid I've had this need to alter my surroundings. I moved the furniture, wall hangings, and miscellanea of my youth around so frequently I can hardly remember any given layout of any of my bedrooms at the time.

On a smaller level I often come up with new rules for games, conceive of inventions I never write down, and any number of other things. I can't seem to settle for my world the way it is. Somewhere else always seems to hold the key to my longings.

Wanderlust smacks me in the face, but is unaffordable.

Looking at the bare walls of the cardboard cut-out condo for four long years hit hard a number of months back, beckoning me into an introspective bout of what I now refer to as paint therapy. It is astounding what a couple cans of paint and a deep personal exploration can do for a person. Unfortunately when the paint dries and your perspective becomes equipped with more clarity, those same surroundings become little more than a new version of the same prison.

It seemed inevitable that a real change had to come.

And it did.

Even if it was merely across town.

The character and aesthetic appeal that was lacking before has been replaced with an aged charm and walls that have every reason to talk. Even the well-maintained wood floors would hide the beating heart of a Poe character if only they could.

It's not New York.

It's not London.

It's not a lot of places, but it's a short walk from our downtown. A step out the front door does not offer a parking lot. The neighbors look you in the eye. There's a peculiar sense of community that is foreign to me on a number of levels.

This too will change.

I know the novelty will wear off, but the new reality and personal change that this welcomes and allows will be what matters as time goes by.

disappearing act

Just because I wasn't posting does not mean I have not been writing...



(see below)

1-1/4" aspirin

I have a friend who seems to have a fantastic dream world! Not only are things intense and metaphoric in there, but he can also retain an immense amount of the details to share with others on-line, in person, and likely at parties.

There was a period that I recalled most of my dreams. Then it was gone. I thought that the theater had gone dark, but as my own psychology changes so too do my inner-imaginings. Generally I wake up disappointed to have nothing remain from the other side (so to speak). My mental slate is cleaned from where I had been overnight, as if the Men in Black showed up or I exited a sorority house during Rush Week.


Anyway, last night I had a dream so slight, I'm hesitant to share.

All I recall had to do with a visit to Minnesota and swallowing the brads (as screenwriters call brass fasteners) off a script. I tossed them back without question. No water. Nothing. I remember feeling like there was a barrier within my chest created by all of these things taking up residence at the pit of my stomach.

It's a fascination and an occasional talent of mine to analyze these sorts of things.

My first thought springs to mind this quote by Picasso:
"Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction."

Hmm.

holiday couture

I had conceived of writing about the different holiday things that did ultimately come up after I jumpstarted the holidays with my Scrooge-y rant. I thought I'd go on about my resistance to push, shove, and elbow others in the crowded streets or at the mall and how I don't feel the need to scurry around like that. Isn't it just a means to solidify relationships into the next year?

Well, I thought I wanted to write about that, but I keep hitting a wall. I feel like I don't really care. I don't really want this forum for personal expression anymore. I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes it's nicer to be anonymous. It's like hearing the neighbors through the wall. Make of it what you will, but it's not the truth.

Speaking of anonymity, I write short on-line film reviews. After I was involved with screening movies for a local film festival I posted a couple reviews about some of those flicks on IMDb. Out of nowhere I received a personal message from one of the actors who was in one of the really dreadful ones. He was offended, pissed off, and whatever about my opinion of the movie he was in. It really caught me off guard. I was so taken aback I almost felt uncovered from behind my IMDb moniker. I wrote him back to smooth over whatever injury he had to his pride. Strangely, he wrote back and felt comfortable enough to share how right I was about the low quality of his movie and how unprofessional the producers and crew were, and on and on. I don't know what it was but with a small bit of diplomacy on my part I gave the guy an opportunity to vent a little.

What does that have to do with the holidays? I don't really know.

It's hard to be sure of anything, growing up in one of those Easter-Christmas presumably Christian homes, where the occasional redemptive rush to church in the early morning seemed to excise my mother's demons in the off-season. It's hard to know what to take from the holiday when what you've quietly known since you were a child and began to speak up about as a teenager is that your beliefs don't coincide with what you were being fed. It's hard when the traditions are fun, taste good, and the like. It's hard to give it up just because you are repulsed by the commercialism from a standpoint that mass-marketing, pop star sell-outs, and big conglomerate buyouts make-up the news of the day and it just doesn't go away. It gets worse. Nothing becomes more about family or more about friends or simpler around the holidays. The wolves pound harder on the door and the sales get brasher.

Phew! It seems appropriate that the New Year will be met in a new apartment with a few less things after another personal purge.

I need a change.

candy store

In one of those writer e-mail newsletter subscriptions I get was an article entitled "Creativity: Overcoming Too Many Ideas Syndrome". It involves the writer who finds themselves so overwhelmed by inspiration that they never seem to finish anything. As clunky a title as it is, I can fully relate to the concept of starting one new idea after another and then moving on. No closure, no fruition.

I was once told by a film school buddy of mine that some writers like being in "that" world so much they don't want to leave. I don't know if it's exactly that, though. I get so much out of the creative process. Sometimes I'm just not sure of the value of finishing. Building up the stack doesn't really seem to get me anywhere. All dressed up with no where to go, so to speak.

The thing is that I have plenty to say and I never lack a place to go next. There's always another story for me to tell or for me to go back to tell in a new way. I have never really had a fear of the oft-spoken about sophomore slump that affects filmmakers and musicians alike. For example, think of Kevin Smith's "Mallrats" as an example of a flick rushed out much too quickly or Terrence Malick's "Days of Heaven" given much too slowly.

It's not so much about finishing something that really gets me. It's about giving it up to the world. Well, sort of...

The best example is what I've done with this journal. I've written about four or five entries during the past couple weeks and have had little or no inclination to post them. I find it sort of peculiar. Perhaps it's about the give and take with the instant commentary and analysis, the lack of reciprocation, the want of opening up and exposing parts of myself, but feeling ultimately needy, empty. And I'm left wishing many of my readers would be so bold. I think it's the actor's sensitivity: standing alone under the lights, quelling up with uncomfortable emotions, while the audience sits their critiquing.

The main difference is that this is me. I'm not playing a role, except the one I play everyday. I am the perception of who I think I am, of how someone like me walks through the world, of how I see every movement and thought. True, that's all siphoned through me before it gets here, but putting it out without the guise of created character and interwoven theme like I can do in fiction is something I am hardwired to avoid.

I've heard it said that "blogs [yuck] are for bloggers [double-yuck]" and the presumed audience is secondary, but I've always written with an audience in mind. I used to write personal journals in that same way, as if with some overwrought expectation that one day they will be referenced in some bombastic memoir.

Yeah, right.

hypocrisy 2

Just got this through my Filmmaker Magazine e-mail newsletter:

"WHAT WOULD JESUS BUY? Just in time for the holiday season, Morgan Spurlock (Super Size Me) brings us a Christmas tale that is sure to cause some controversy. What Would Jesus Buy?, directed by Rob VanAlkemade, introduces Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping's Gospel Choir to the big screen as they load up their bus for a cross country trip and attempt to save people from the holiday season's rampant consumerism. The film is much less silly then it sounds, and actually brings forth several issues most people forget to think about this time of year, such as how much consumers really spend, the risk of debt, and what the big chain stores do to local economies."

Thank you!

balance beam

Years always draw to a close for me in a similar personal fashion. Like many, it's a time for personal spring cleaning: dusting off the old identity, cleaning out the mental closet, wiping off the counters of my soul, and all sorts of other mixed metaphors that quickly ensue.

The hustle and bustle of the holidays always overpowers such efforts toward taking stock. Since I was a kid, there was always a part of me that felt that December was a wasted month. Better put, it didn't really exist. Everything quickly becomes the year-end wrap up, as if the year's eulogy is offered prematurely. Does life really cease? Sometimes parties overtake general workplace agendas. Everything seems to take a backseat.

So, befitting one who enjoys eating his cake and complaining about the frosting, the holiday season moved a foot forward this past weekend as I took in a holiday-themed matinee and the holiday tunes eased themselves back into the music library blend on the computer (one such tune found itself awkwardly placed between some country song and Rage Against the Machine).

The matinee was a stage performance of "Bell Book and Candle". The film version starring James Stewart, Kim Novak, and Jack Lemmon was one of the first five movies I ever saw. The movie always had a special place in my heart, and it was in pretty regular circulation when I was growing up, along side the original "Miracle on 34th Street", some artificially colorized version of "A Christmas Carol", and "It's a Wonderful Life". For some reason my mom would always call it "It's a Good Life", lacking any irony or cynicism. I'm sure that says something.

film library

"You can never get enough of what you don't need to make you happy"
-Eric Hoffer


I'm moving.

Streamlining.

Parting with a large percentage of what was briefly an impressive movie library that was accumulated through some expenditure and rolls of (now antiquated) VCR tape that I used to buy every two weeks in the bulk 10-Pack. Surrounding myself with the "ownership" of movies and stacks of books about film and filmmaking does not represent my love, passion, and involvement in the art.


I do.

what hypocrisy

hypocrisy (n.) a feigning to be what one is not or to believe what one does not.

Thankgiving is gone.

The polishing of leftovers has wound down.

It could not have gone away fast enough, because we must make room for the next consumer driven holiday to kick into full swing. The turkey wasn't even thawed, much less pre-ordered by the time one of the local radio stations had begun spinning all of the holiday favorites. In fact Starbucks, that tenacious wet Gremlin of a company, started the holiday season by November 2nd.

More on that later.




Having the supposed minority opinion around the holidays (PC code word for Christmas foremost and Hanukkah as the occasional afterthought) makes it imperative to shut the hell up as everything begins to glimmer with predictable end of the year glow, marked by sale signs, Santas, and sanctimony. The holiday specials with the celebrity of the minute decked out in all of their shot-in-the-middle-of-August red and white (pardon!) gaiety are aired in defiance to quality and taste.

Christmas is one of those things that leech itself underneath the surface of your consciousness from a young age. It usually begins with an innocent enough visit to some shopping mall knock-off of this old mystical philanthrope lard ass whose story reads a lot like the boogieman with a stable full of pets addicted to meth. It's ingenious to plant all of these lies into children, whether it's Claus or Christ, because they are apt to believe absolutely anything they're told.

For me the trouble arises when I try to stop playing contrary and nestle up amongst all of the Pagan baggage the season offers. Giving in means hearing the Christians babble on about the reason for the season, almost as if they "won". Meanwhile the cash registers ding, the credit card rates sky rocket, and the tinsel glimmers almost gold, emitting the true reason, which is to enter the next quarter sitting pretty. Every year, it's the same thing, as our culture's over-emphasis on consumption and materialism continues milking that same cash cow of Jesus' supposed b'day. I would love to see the same fuss being done for Martin Luther King, Jr's holiday which is right around the corner and maybe serves us up a single day off from work and a poor whimper of register action. Why not combine the two and have a greater big ol' gift giving, shopping extravaganza?

It's like a disease, this Christmas thing, when under the command of tradition and expectation people either do too much or too little, or in my case adapt enough or spoil everybody's good time. A drive through any neighborhood in the greater West Palm area will demonstrate that even some Jewish folks feel the need to get in on the gauche holiday home decor action donning their strings of blue lights across their gutters. We hike up our electric bills, chop down forests, add to landfills, and clutter up one another's life in some misfire effort to do what? Perhaps to find redemption for a year's worth of relationship negligence. Maybe this is just Valentine's Day without the sex.

But seriously, I really love this time of year: the graying of the clouds, the chilling of the air, the hum of the heater, and the fall of the first snow. The seasonal change is an absolute necessity and a validation of the arc of life, and the normal gloominess is more honest than what we get where I live. Florida has very little resemblance to any of this and I have to stir up memories of my youth to retain some grasp. It's not all bad, right? There is something to be said for the strains of a Christmas song quelling up inside your head that first time of several hundred you'll hear it. Maybe a kiss under the mistletoe is sweeter and softer than one under a bare ceiling. Perhaps hot chocolate is better with a group of friends. And there is something to be said for hearing from an old friend out of the blue in the brevity of an end of the year card.

I think the problem is that this is all a manufactured reality, a dictated normalcy.

The first week of November I was sitting inside a Starbucks that looks very much like the one in your hometown. This has sadly not been an uncommon evening during this past year, as an obscene amount of my bank account has paid some latte maker's rent. Halloween had just dissipated, and what should appear all across the windows of this location of that coffee-music-dishes-dessert-games establishment but Christmas paraphernalia. And holiday tunes were the entirety of the playlist. See, it's a disease and this year it consumed the entire month of November. But I know how it works, they were not piping in those tunes to enhance some advanced holiday spirit. No, this was a backhanded means to shuffle Christmas CDs and other seasonal product off the shelves.

I often group Starbucks together with Walmart, but I have had a much easier time boycotting the latter. On the other hand people seem to denigrate my distaste for entering those Starbucks establishments, which I have taken to coping with quietly at this point, by countering with the like of comments about how well they treat their employees.

That's not really the point. They represent a bigger problem of the mono-culturalization of our society, wherein the biggest variety between different Starbucks locations is its placement in proximity to William-Sonoma or the Pottery Barn. I suppose this place is there to offer a false sense of home, but they are as inconsistent as they are insincere. There's even something about each and every Starbucks employee that I have ever encountered that harkens back to "The Stepford Wives". But I keep going in, slapping down the cash, and guzzling their adequate beverages. I think rationalizing is the instant response to doing the wrong thing, so I won't bother doing so.

I appreciate going against the grain. This is why I understand when my brother-in-law swerves to Judaism in December and my father-in-law closes himself up away from all the hype like a modern day Scrooge. I realize that I will still dress up that artificial tree we bought last year, move the Christmas songs back into the music library, and give into more and more trips to Starbucks with friends and family. I give into my reluctance, not because my principles and perspectives have no merit, but because sometimes it's better to not rock the boat or be a killjoy, and to let majority rule.

Bah-Humbug!

dream some

I received an e-mail from a colleague yesterday that was sent to a heaping helping of his filmmaking compatriots about a really unique filming opportunity he'd heard about. It involves living and working on a documentary shoot in Antarctica over the course of two months, much like "March of the Penguins", "Deadliest Catch", or the "Planet Earth" series, starting next week. I actually pondered this prospect for a bit, but I realize that even though my technical skills are growing, I don't suspect the full breadth of them could surface under such climactic duress. But given the ironing out of certain logistics, it does make me wonder if this might have been the sort of thing I need to resolve a number of the gnawing issues in my life.

Issues like my yearning for somewhere beyond the reaches of my backyard, because living in this small college town frequently gets to me with its limitations and predictability. I know that I belong elsewhere and this place is merely a waiting room for the rest of my life. My mind often wanders to the bigger and better opportunities that might exist in places like New York, Toronto, London, or even New Zealand, Minneapolis, or Austin. The far reaches of the globe are merely mirages in my vision and beyond my grasp, but I feel displaced.

Or there's my need to tweak my technical skills and overcome my failings. I learn really well in a trial by fire setting and nothing could be a better instant education than filmmaking on the high seas near the barren wasteland of Antarctica. I know that's too much adversity for me, given the film that I was going to work on in January may have been a place to tweak some of that, but many other things dictated that choice.

Then there's the disconnect I feel with my family. I think about the common bond between my father and my brother. They both spent time in the Navy and they both are sailors at heart. Would living and working on a ship with my uncertain sea legs have meant anything to better relating to them and feeling a kinship I never receive while trying to divert attention from weather conversation with my dad or incongruent banter I'm likely to have with my brother?

It's the easy answer to look outwards for some quick fix to the disappointments in one's life. I know this whole mess doesn't sound like "my kind of thing", but I'm always trying to alter other's expectations of me. I do envision these pirates with cameras hanging out on board this frozen metal deathtrap that is far more suited to someone else. The fact that I'd even consider it unearths truths about what I wish my life looked like. I long to see the world, to live somewhere where people would actually care to visit, to become a stronger filmmaker, and to find a means to connect with the hopelessly distant people in my life.

Is that too much to ask?

mending fences

After an internal tug-of-war and with much anguish I closed the book on that film project set to roll in January. Since then I've been tossing the whole mess around in my head. Instead of spotting defeat as I stand before the rubble of this lost opportunity, I see a small personal victory. As immodest as that may read this mere footnote in my life feels like a turning point.

I'd like to think I have gained a semblance of control over my life. I've spent so much time selling myself short with my self-deprecating humor and urge to please that it was time to open my eyes wide enough to actually see a dilemma, a choice. I do wonder what my decision to not do that film means. What's next, really? The New Year is coming. I feel like I need to make plans, to have some concept of what will disappoint me at the end of 2008. What can I decide to do, to be, to act like, to see, to have, to [other verb] during this year that will define my perception of self at the other end of it?

blood ties

Thanksgiving...

It's that all-American establishment promoting gluttony and excess, antiquated in a time of expansive obesity and gross impoverishment. Few really need to bulk up for the winter months ahead like bears preparing for their hibernation. We gorge ourselves silly on starches, sweets, and overstuffed meat. We pick, nibble, and grind on our bonus guest who clearly didn't RSVP in time to get a place setting. The tryptophan stands as both the perfect punishment for fowl consumption and necessary panacea for long periods with one's family. The loopy relaxation works well with families like mine whose sharp edges are concealed just under the surface of a veneer created from years and years of ritualistic tolerance and civility.

I went into the holiday hoping to see things with the theoretical new eyes I've been adjusting to for the past month or so, perhaps looking forward to some new wrinkle or alteration only visible through these other lenses. Mostly things were the same as usual, with everyone fulfilling their expected role, hitting their mark at the right beat like a stale performance in a long-running play. The first bite of cooled-off food followed grace, a blessing offered to "their" God, with the predictable pre-meal jab toward my deference. They always try to point out that I'm different in their under-handed fashion, this time expecting that I have something to say that goes with this particular holiday, as if I must be a member of some cult who has a special chant to open the official turkey slaughter day.

Sure, the day was predictable. There's a known significance to sharing a meal with someone. This common experience often creates an attachment and bonding. With my family I see things differently. There's an awkwardness and discomfort associated with the fancy dining room table, the cloth, the candles, and the wine glasses. These are traditional notions from etiquette guides and long-passed eras that tense my shoulder muscles and tighten my belly to the point of hearing nothing but the clink of silverware to china and incite fear of the incidental table cloth tuck where a napkin should be.



I often find family gatherings to be forced, uncomfortable, and out of place amongst a year of spending most waking hours and evening feasts with so many others. It's strange that we go back to give thanks with the nuclear unit in a world with so many new meanings for the word community and family. Leaving the fold and seeing a world outside of the traditional family construct I grew up with has slowly eroded my perception of that as the end all and be all.

burning bridges

"When you don't know where you are going, every road will take you there." (Yiddish Proverb)

My mind has been churning and my stomach has felt twisted over the past couple days. I've felt torn down the middle over the concept of letting go of this new movie. Every turn has left me feeling out of place or even very much in the wrong place. I detect something's not right with this one, but I'm nervous about turning my back on it since this town is limited on its opportunities.

I think it's a risk to say no. I've been flaked out on before and don't want to be perceived like that here. I'm just not sure I'm a good fit for this one. I don't suspect I can get better communication from them, or build a better rapport, or have any of my script suggestions heard, or suddenly become promoted to my agreed upon position. I just don't care, and I have this need to be involved with projects I can be more passionate about.

wearing thin

I finally heard back from the producer of that movie in January. Over the past several weeks it has become a ridiculous game of innumerable scheduling conflicts and limited to no communication. I was beginning to question what this might suggest about actually working with the guy. Then I began to reconsider doing it at all. Just when I started to write him and his project off of my radar completely, he popped back in only to reschedule with me once more.

Against my better judgment, I decided to attend the meeting today. I brought the script, the five pages of alteration suggestions I put together, and some other things I'd worked on, ready to have a good dialogue about this flick we're preparing to work on. Unfortunately all of this enthusiasm I brought to the party was quickly deflated.

The most glaring issue is that he has me assigned to a completely different job title than the one we'd discussed three weeks ago. He made some dumb apology for having given me "that impression". There was never a question in my mind. At our first meeting I made certain he reiterated it for me. I think he's making a mistake. This new job completely under-utilizes my skills and strengths.

I wasn't certain going in whether or not I'd mention my displeasure with the troubled script, in my pre-determined tactful fashion. As our time was winding to a close, and I needed to be elsewhere, I decided to drop the bomb. I would've felt dishonest with myself not even alluding to my tub of ideas I feel can really improve their concept.

I merely asked how different he thought the final draft might look. That about did it. I opened up a big ol' can of arrogant, but illogical, worms with that one. Given the time constraint I mentioned that I could e-mail him some of my thoughts so he could have more time to mull them over. I didn't want to put him on the spot and have him pull together a quick retort.

Unfortunately he got me to make one point, which got a prompt interception of silly, less than logical rambling that culminated with "the whole movie is leading up to the last fifteen minutes". I hate to state the obvious, but all movies are. I decided to jump on the e-mail idea again in an effort to divert attention from the wall my statement hit. I think it's a pretty major flaw. I wasn't even nit-picking. If that's the response I get from the writer's brother, then I just don't know what to do. If anything.

I know what it's like to write with blinders on. The whole world just doesn't get it or some variation. When things are going well, it feels like Christmas morning. Most of the time things are not going so well, though. Creating from nothing and getting all of these elements onto the linear plain of eight and a half by eleven from that more fluid mental place is no easy feat.

A lot of times the average reader misses what would come from a deeper look, however sometimes they're right on the mark but the writer fears their influence. I fully understand the weighty prospect of other people's fingers on your "baby". I've been there! But let's call making a movie with a low budget high school. Well, in my opinion they're going in making first grade mistakes. Maybe that's the mark they want to hit, though. He was damn proud to attest to killing off most of the characters at the end of all of their movies. Can you say cop-out?

time tunnel

I love live music!

Whether it means listening to some one-a-kind performance tucked away on an otherwise sorry compilation CD, tuning into Austin City Limits or CMT Crossroads or the long gone MTV unplugged or VH-1 Storytellers, or simply going to a show, the core of musical passion comes from being near it.

Before last night, it had been three long years since I'd been to a concert. It was October 2004 at Hard Rock Live in Orlando, and possibly the penultimate concert experience of my life. For years I didn't know I was waiting for the Pixies to reunite. It had seemed like a forgone conclusion that I'd never get to see them live, but then it happened. The clouds separated and a minor miracle occurred.

You can always get a sense of people's familiarity with the music at a concert based on their bodily response. There were so many young kids traipsing around and dancing about, clearly introduced to the band during the end credits of "Fight Club", and possibly having full knowledge of the singles collection. I remember having these strange feelings of entitlement, as if I wanted to be there far more than other people, but I know the high school version of me that constantly cranked up the Pixies to my parent's displeasure was hardly in the league of fan that knew them since the Purple Tape days. What is it about fandom that makes people so competitive?

In my mind, it was hard to follow up the Pixies show. Nonetheless, the Shiny Toy Guns concert was a hell of a lot of fun. They are a band on the rise, as they say, with only five years under their collective belt. I'd only first heard about them when I saw their video to the infectious dance-pop-rock "Le Disko" on MTV2 some late night last year. I was absolutely smitten two or three beats in. It was like something pulled directly from new wave rotation, circa 1983.

Some might want to pass off their sound as derivative for this very reason. Although they, The Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Kaiser Chiefs all wear the synth nature of new wave on their sleeves, in ways they all happen to create more solid albums than their single-heavy 80's one-shots. I was actually quite impressed by the show. The band has a tight if tailored sound on the album, however the true test is on stage and I'd say they're even better in concert.

The opening act was a nice Florida electronica duo called Indigovox, who mixed in performance art with their quite competent dance beats. The singer was a young woman who kept reminding me of pictures I'd seen of Tina Yothers (from "Family Ties") in her later years when she darkened her hair and started a rock band.

The venue was this club called Common Grounds that I think has a fun little history. There used to be a coffee house called Common Grounds. They moved locations a number of years ago, to a location that was previously a venue called the Covered Dish. Now they're a music venue/bar that doesn't serve coffee even though their name remains the same.

Ten years ago I saw the South Carolina funk-jam band Uncle Mingo there when it was still the Covered Dish, which might have been the best "small" show I've ever seen. Their show had so much energy and not a single person in the crowd was still the whole time. I think it was part of their shtick, but I remember their keyboard/saxophone player Jason Moore getting up on a pogo-stick and playing his sax simultaneously. Knowing the sax from five years of school band, I can assure you it's no small task.

The whole time I've been writing I've been thinking about the way I am interpreting live music here. It's assuming the definition of concert isn't merely being in close proximity to someone performing music, because in that case all of the free downtown smooth jazz and guys with acoustic guitars on the street during the Micanopy Fall Festival would figure in. I guess Joni Mitchell was right.

Nobody stopped to hear him

Though he played so sweet and high

They knew he had never

Been on their TV

So they passed his music by

(from "For Free" - 1970)

dawned upon

We don't see things as they are.
We see things as we are."
(Anaïs Nin)

A month ago I wrote this about my friend's party:

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.

Last night I decided to go to this month's party complete with the eating, the boozing, the music, and the fire pit, and I had a glorious time. The location was the same, but to me it was entirely different.

There are so many issues within my psychological make-up that I have been steadily trying to peel away like old, moldy wallpaper stuck to plaster. It has put me in this odd place of late that has made me feel simultaneously empowered and fragile within my own skin. The guarded, private persona that I've worn as a shield for so long and held at my core is being pried apart by my own volition.

I'm hardly an open book, but I fear what it will make of my creative urges. Over the years I've often thought there's something about self-loathing and depression innately wired into those blessed with artistic abilities and creative proclivities. Might I ultimately cozy up too close to my flaws or carve away one too many scars of unresolved issues at the cost of continued inspiration?

tick tocked

Daylight saving time started again today.

Regardless of its original intent, I think it has become little more than an exercise in altering circadian rhythms, giving people similar mindless tasks, and a means to control the inevitable. There's always the requisite confusion as darkness overtakes rush hour and the systematic timepiece adjustment, but what it comes down to is attempting to harness the biggest pendulum of them all.

We are owned by the clock, yet we fight it with our down to the minute news, our express checkout, our fast lane, our to-go everything, our packages hitting their destination at breakneck speeds, our high speed internet, and all the rest. Being able to move that minute hand gives us great power. It's as if we briefly time travel during this paradoxical sliver of time. In the spring an hour goes forever un-lived and in the fall we have our own sixty minute version of "Groundhog Day".

When I was in grade school I would set my alarm clock a number of minutes ahead in an attempt to psych myself out. If I gave away all of those minutes I wouldn't risk riding my bike onto school grounds after the patrols had departed for class and after the pledge had already been regurgitated. This fuzzy logic never really worked, so I continued to arrive late to school for years to come. These days I try to live by my own rhythms, frequently away from the time clock and nonchalant toward a sleeping schedule, but a clock is always ticking nearby and a life will always be measured in time.

amateur hour

"Comedy is tragedy plus time." (Mark Twain)



We took in some local stand-up tonight at the dimly lit lounge of the Holiday Inn. That in itself has a depressing ring to it. One after another brave, young soul stepped behind the microphone to deliver five to six minutes of material to a small, quiet crowd. It was one of those occasions when you expect feedback to shriek through the speakers, allowing the performer a moment to run away from their flaming crash already in progress with some of their dignity intact. Clearly this weekly comedy show is but a training ground for many years to come of futons and Top Ramen.

Getting up in front of an audience is no easy feat. It must be twice as hard while attempting to stroke a room full of funny bones. The evening wasn't all bad, but as predicted for this sort of thing the end result comes down to averages. Of the ten guys (yes, only guys) that performed maybe three of them were deserving of the spotlight and a few others were downright despondent by the lack of applause, laughter, and love the audience was offering. We were supposedly a "shit audience", to quote one Lenny Bruce wannabe. In the middle was everyone else, who seemed to have either too little material, decent material but no idea when the joke was over, an incessant need for audience validation, the occasional minority "joke" misstep that marred the rest of their set, or some combination therein.

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