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!
14 June 2007
13 June 2007
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.
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.
12 June 2007
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.
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.
04 June 2007
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.
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.
13 May 2007
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.
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.
08 January 2007
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.
"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.
24 November 2006
turkey shoot
previously published by me elsewhere:
The united gorge fest commenced yesterday. Therefore, as a vow of our continued commitment to patriotic duty, perhaps out of fear of reproach and ostracism, many of us didn't allow our recognition of America's obesity epidemic to deter us from supporting National Glutton Day one more time.
This truly American holiday has become one of the last remaining vestiges from the Norman Rockwell image of the American family. However, we may have just had our least traditional Turkey (or Tofurkey, depending on your persuasion) Day yet.
Well, I guess the year we gathered on the following Saturday due to last minute sickness permeating my sister's house may have been the strangest one. I remember strolling through our local twenty-four hour grocery store looking for something interesting to eat that night, since we were expecting to eat elsewhere. I guess we're not really programmed to have a back-up plan if T-Day is cancelled.
This year we shared our big meal with our close friends' family. It was a nice position to be in, almost seeing the holiday from the outside for the first time. There's something about dealing with one's own immediate family during such high-stress occasions that I find reminds you why there's only one of these days a year.
The united gorge fest commenced yesterday. Therefore, as a vow of our continued commitment to patriotic duty, perhaps out of fear of reproach and ostracism, many of us didn't allow our recognition of America's obesity epidemic to deter us from supporting National Glutton Day one more time.
This truly American holiday has become one of the last remaining vestiges from the Norman Rockwell image of the American family. However, we may have just had our least traditional Turkey (or Tofurkey, depending on your persuasion) Day yet.
Well, I guess the year we gathered on the following Saturday due to last minute sickness permeating my sister's house may have been the strangest one. I remember strolling through our local twenty-four hour grocery store looking for something interesting to eat that night, since we were expecting to eat elsewhere. I guess we're not really programmed to have a back-up plan if T-Day is cancelled.
This year we shared our big meal with our close friends' family. It was a nice position to be in, almost seeing the holiday from the outside for the first time. There's something about dealing with one's own immediate family during such high-stress occasions that I find reminds you why there's only one of these days a year.
06 November 2006
civil warned
previously published by me elsewhere:
With all of this focus being put on key battleground states, and all of the concerns about malfunctioning voting machines, and all of the clearly visible corruption, and the downright nastiness that has been sold to us as everyday campaigning, whatever would turn someone apathetic or cynical enough to steer clear of voting did not work on me today.
So, like a remnant from another time, earlier today I trekked out to my polling place in the pouring rain to play the lottery that we call the midterm election. As I walked those seven or eight measly blocks, I got to thinking about the crumbling system of government we have in this country that has left us with the choice between socialism, fascism, and shutting the fuck up.
Election results are being tallied left and right, and I've taken a gander at several of them, but nothing is going to change really. There's no Lincoln or Roosevelt out there to bridge the divide between people, or solve any of our major problems or at the very least save us from ourselves. Cleaning up after the annihilation should be the mission at hand.
Sometimes it seems like we should have little kids running the show. Adult politicians typically break all of the golden rules normally demanded by parents of those lesser citizens known as children. Play nice. Play fair. Get off your brother. Don't tell a lie. Don't forget to wash your hands. On balance I believe kids would try much harder to be honest than their adult counterparts. If you tell them they will get stickers when they're done, maybe they'd be more inclined to vote too. Perhaps adults just need to be enticed by "I Voted" cocktails. I say bribe 'em with inebriation!
Maybe the point is kids still care about the little things.
With all of this focus being put on key battleground states, and all of the concerns about malfunctioning voting machines, and all of the clearly visible corruption, and the downright nastiness that has been sold to us as everyday campaigning, whatever would turn someone apathetic or cynical enough to steer clear of voting did not work on me today.
So, like a remnant from another time, earlier today I trekked out to my polling place in the pouring rain to play the lottery that we call the midterm election. As I walked those seven or eight measly blocks, I got to thinking about the crumbling system of government we have in this country that has left us with the choice between socialism, fascism, and shutting the fuck up.
Election results are being tallied left and right, and I've taken a gander at several of them, but nothing is going to change really. There's no Lincoln or Roosevelt out there to bridge the divide between people, or solve any of our major problems or at the very least save us from ourselves. Cleaning up after the annihilation should be the mission at hand.
Sometimes it seems like we should have little kids running the show. Adult politicians typically break all of the golden rules normally demanded by parents of those lesser citizens known as children. Play nice. Play fair. Get off your brother. Don't tell a lie. Don't forget to wash your hands. On balance I believe kids would try much harder to be honest than their adult counterparts. If you tell them they will get stickers when they're done, maybe they'd be more inclined to vote too. Perhaps adults just need to be enticed by "I Voted" cocktails. I say bribe 'em with inebriation!
Maybe the point is kids still care about the little things.
31 October 2006
sweet tooth
previously published by me elsewhere:
We just got back from our friend's house, who had invited us over to give out candy to the neighborhood kids as a low key Halloween celebration. Little did I realize that her neighborhood is amazingly popular with local families from elsewhere.
This became quite apparent as we pulled onto the first of a couple roads that lead to her house, and encountered lines and lines of parked cars on either side of the roadway as if every house on the block were hosting a party. We coasted through the neighborhood as the trick-or-treaters were in full swing.
There were so many little kids and their adult companions strolling the sidewalks and crisscrossing the street that it demanded almost constant pressure on the clutch to keep from stalling out. Either that or I could have run over some kid with an ugly costume, but that just wouldn't have been kosher.
The whole process of giving out candy was quite an interesting one this time around, given our friend prefers to forego the trick or treat method for her own trick for treat method. As a trade for the candy, depending on the general age of the kid it involves any number of things such as singing songs, delivering tongue twisters, or doing dances, etc.
When she first mentioned this bartering mode she uses, I kept my displeasure to myself. It just brought back a lot of the negative things about childhood, and how much of it had to do with adults wanting kids to do things, be they chores or homework or Sunday school or what else.
What really got me was how much most of the kids, of which there were a whole freakin' lot of 'em, really got into this exercise of tit for tat. There were a lot of untapped creative personalities in several of them, and some genuinely discouraging blank stares on a great many others.
Many of the kids whose parents didn't wait at the sidewalk would get impatient while waiting for other people's kids who were in the midst of "performing", and lead their kid on to an easier to exploit house. That's the thing I recall most about giving out candy. Quickly open the door, give the beggars some stash, shut the door, and go back to whatever you were doing. As a kid, there was always this assumption that you say those three words, and suddenly the elderly grandmother on the other side of the screen door would just OOH and AHH and that was that.
My friend seems to get this thrill from energizing the kids to think on their feet, and to think with new parts of their brains, and that sort of thing. Strange it may be that giving them all of that candy is just gonna fuck it all up. That's what I was busy doing most of the time myself.
I sat back a couple feet from the wide open door, watching the goings-on, knocking back that smack for kids: smarties. I remember spending a lot of time, as a kid, very meticulously shuffling through the 7-11 buying loads of candy with my lunch money. I guess you know you've gotten old when that sort of thing is just a passing fancy, or a faded memory.
Although I'm still not set on this method of making kids into child stars, it was nice to see the array of them on a more personal level. The brief interactions made many of them a bit more memorable. The old standbys of princesses and witches are still in heavy rotation for girls, as are pirates and ninjas for boys.
I stopped trick or treating in elementary school, but I know a lot of people who continued on through high school. Most of the oldest kids that passed through were in middle school, though. That's the age of the kid with my favorite costume, and the one that really caught me off-guard: Frank, the bunny, from "Donnie Darko"! There was also a Corpse Bride, a couple Darth Vaders, a lot of demons, and a couple of self-proclaimed whores.
Yes, whores (ranging in age from 10 to 14). I guess one could say that this all speaks loudly about our culture, but I resist putting some umbrella statement across these isolated incidents. It's intriguing nonetheless.
11 October 2006
three words
previously published by me elsewhere:
"Love is too weak a word for what I feel - I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F's, yes I have to invent, of course I - I do, don't you think I do?" ("Annie Hall", Woody Allen & Marshall Brickman - screenwriters)
Our seventh anniversary just passed, and against the magazine rack judgment of how my brain should be programmed, I know the exact date of it every day of the year. I never comprehend the flakiness of people when it comes to these things, especially when they're the ones who got hitched in the first place.
Then again I am one of those frustrating people who keep up very well with such bits of info. Most people who know me realize if I forget something important like that I never knew it in the first place, or the inoperable tumor announcement is around the corner. Or maybe the Seven Year Itch will be rearing its ugly head any day now.
Of course I refer to the 1957 Billy Wilder film starring Marilyn Monroe, in one of her trademark roles. Truthfully something like that has less to do with the main character's period of marital dissatisfaction and is more or less unpreventable when Marilyn Monroe is your next door neighbor. I think a lot of modern couples have these types of unlikely special circumstances written into clauses in their private vows, but I think far fewer will share that information.
Long term relationships take a shit load out of you. You have to be invested in it one hundred percent of the time, and not lose sight of your commitment to it. Once you recognize that it's a condition and that you need to be constantly on guard for anything, you'll start to here the jingle-jangling of the ball and the chain, and you'll be well on your way through the twelve-step program. There's a long and involved de-tox process during which all memory prior to the relationship is erased, and on the other end you're very likely to no longer relate to single people.
They will all become a blur of creatively conceived dating shows starring people who aren't as humorous as those who write the running pop-up commentary or are merely spies traipsing through someone's dirty bedroom in the hopes to bond in some random way.
In this game there's a lot to be cynical about, and unfortunately I know far too many unhappily single people, ungratefully connected people, and lazily married people to not just assume I was one in whatever billion to be struck by lightning and lived to tell about it.
"Love is too weak a word for what I feel - I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you, two F's, yes I have to invent, of course I - I do, don't you think I do?" ("Annie Hall", Woody Allen & Marshall Brickman - screenwriters)
Our seventh anniversary just passed, and against the magazine rack judgment of how my brain should be programmed, I know the exact date of it every day of the year. I never comprehend the flakiness of people when it comes to these things, especially when they're the ones who got hitched in the first place.
Then again I am one of those frustrating people who keep up very well with such bits of info. Most people who know me realize if I forget something important like that I never knew it in the first place, or the inoperable tumor announcement is around the corner. Or maybe the Seven Year Itch will be rearing its ugly head any day now.
Of course I refer to the 1957 Billy Wilder film starring Marilyn Monroe, in one of her trademark roles. Truthfully something like that has less to do with the main character's period of marital dissatisfaction and is more or less unpreventable when Marilyn Monroe is your next door neighbor. I think a lot of modern couples have these types of unlikely special circumstances written into clauses in their private vows, but I think far fewer will share that information.
Long term relationships take a shit load out of you. You have to be invested in it one hundred percent of the time, and not lose sight of your commitment to it. Once you recognize that it's a condition and that you need to be constantly on guard for anything, you'll start to here the jingle-jangling of the ball and the chain, and you'll be well on your way through the twelve-step program. There's a long and involved de-tox process during which all memory prior to the relationship is erased, and on the other end you're very likely to no longer relate to single people.
They will all become a blur of creatively conceived dating shows starring people who aren't as humorous as those who write the running pop-up commentary or are merely spies traipsing through someone's dirty bedroom in the hopes to bond in some random way.
In this game there's a lot to be cynical about, and unfortunately I know far too many unhappily single people, ungratefully connected people, and lazily married people to not just assume I was one in whatever billion to be struck by lightning and lived to tell about it.
dream abacus
previously published by me elsewhere:
"I just want to wake up!"
It was the sentiment that ended that great surreal Spanish film "Open Your Eyes" as well as the local horror flick I was working on this past summer.
Sometimes the difference between the two states is so confused that questions arise which is more real. With my unpredictable sleeping patterns I sometimes wonder where all of the dreams go when you don't recall them? Or don't have them?
There was a certain period in my life I would have an amazing retention for them. I'd recall so many in such vivid detail that I started to write them all down until the process got tiresome, and when I got to the point of skipping the more bland among them as a form of self-censorship.
That feels like such a long time ago, though. Now I feel like I have such silent periods. Sometimes I wonder if it's completely dark up there most of the time. Maybe the divide between the two realities is just too stark.
I know someone who is so in touch with their non-waking state that they have a predilection for things in the realm of astral projection and the like. It's fascinating science fiction for those without it, and hyper-reality for those that know it.
People all share a certain amount of common life experience whether it's one of the major passages like adolescence or the conventional fear of death, or some ironic combination of the two. Is there common experience inside the head, or is the internal wallpaper merely another example of zebra stripes in nature? Can someone share the same dream?
There's always such a distance between what goes on in the head to the expression of it. Sometimes it's satisfying enough to consider that's why we have art.
Everyone has their means of dealing with their problems, flaws, hang-ups, and indiscretions whether it's in lucid dreaming, shock therapy, alcohol intake, or by ignoring it altogether. Sometimes I start to wonder if my dream world has started to feel so under populated because I've gotten deeper and deeper into combating my demons, re-imaging my regrets, and working on my soul through all of the writing I do in the waking state.
I know someone who doesn't even believe the "real" world is much more than another aspect of the astral plane. Whatever we concoct in our heads is truth for us, and sometimes attempting communication with other figments of our imagination just fucks things up.
Then again, maybe I'm just not sleeping enough.
"I just want to wake up!"
It was the sentiment that ended that great surreal Spanish film "Open Your Eyes" as well as the local horror flick I was working on this past summer.
Sometimes the difference between the two states is so confused that questions arise which is more real. With my unpredictable sleeping patterns I sometimes wonder where all of the dreams go when you don't recall them? Or don't have them?
There was a certain period in my life I would have an amazing retention for them. I'd recall so many in such vivid detail that I started to write them all down until the process got tiresome, and when I got to the point of skipping the more bland among them as a form of self-censorship.
That feels like such a long time ago, though. Now I feel like I have such silent periods. Sometimes I wonder if it's completely dark up there most of the time. Maybe the divide between the two realities is just too stark.
I know someone who is so in touch with their non-waking state that they have a predilection for things in the realm of astral projection and the like. It's fascinating science fiction for those without it, and hyper-reality for those that know it.
People all share a certain amount of common life experience whether it's one of the major passages like adolescence or the conventional fear of death, or some ironic combination of the two. Is there common experience inside the head, or is the internal wallpaper merely another example of zebra stripes in nature? Can someone share the same dream?
There's always such a distance between what goes on in the head to the expression of it. Sometimes it's satisfying enough to consider that's why we have art.
Everyone has their means of dealing with their problems, flaws, hang-ups, and indiscretions whether it's in lucid dreaming, shock therapy, alcohol intake, or by ignoring it altogether. Sometimes I start to wonder if my dream world has started to feel so under populated because I've gotten deeper and deeper into combating my demons, re-imaging my regrets, and working on my soul through all of the writing I do in the waking state.
I know someone who doesn't even believe the "real" world is much more than another aspect of the astral plane. Whatever we concoct in our heads is truth for us, and sometimes attempting communication with other figments of our imagination just fucks things up.
Then again, maybe I'm just not sleeping enough.
05 October 2006
dog grooming
previously published by me elsewhere:
I spent another evening at our local black box theater's performance of "Dog Sees God", as it shuffled into its last three shows. I was there to film for a second time, having spent the last filming occasion merely capturing some wide shots, which were an obvious replication of the stage experience. Tonight it got fun!
I've worked for the assistant director/co-producer of the show on previous film shoots. She strives for perfection from herself and demands nothing less of those around her. She comes bearing a lot of enthusiasm and passion, but sometimes fails to clearly communicate her goals with those who can help her fulfill them.
Fortunately, for my part, tonight she was able to communicate in clear terms what she wanted. I was merely the technical entity that would bring her grocery list of shots that filled 75% of a Mead memo pad to fruition.
I've never been particularly technically savvy. This is due not to a lack of interest, but to a larger leaning toward expressing my visual sense of composition and framing to others who are more technical. I'm just not usually the person to move it from that point to a finished project, unless you qualify all of my years behind a still camera.
Still photography has always been a passion of mine, to the point that there was a long mourning period between the loss of my cherished 35mm camera and this great digital camera I've now had for nine months. I know it's cheesy, but it was like a companion who saw things how I did. Using a different camera felt like cheating.
So, tonight I was the proverbial furniture mover putting the couch wherever the nagging housewife desired. It was a very specific paint-by-numbers type gig, but there's a lot of great energy to doing this during a live event. You have to remain loose, open, and ready to change it up.
That's precisely what I did, as moments came along. I'm not sure how "I had to improvise every now and then" was interpreted by her, when I made mention after the show. Oh, well. When you see a better shot, you've got to be spontaneous and not lose it, right?
The audience was far quieter than the last outing, but they still laughed and cried appropriately. I did hear this lovely monologue during intermission from a man sitting nearby to where I was noticeably planted with the camera.
He looked like the average person who would be quite unlikely to make an appearance at our local art house cinema, much less the theater, so I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when he said to his date:
"These things are okay, but they're boring. I'm sure this is the end of my theater experiences for the decade. The only thing that keeps me awake is that they keep turning on the lights."
It's fascinating to be able to be six or eight feet from someone, looking in the same general direction, and see a completely different thing.
Such is art, I suppose.
I spent another evening at our local black box theater's performance of "Dog Sees God", as it shuffled into its last three shows. I was there to film for a second time, having spent the last filming occasion merely capturing some wide shots, which were an obvious replication of the stage experience. Tonight it got fun!
I've worked for the assistant director/co-producer of the show on previous film shoots. She strives for perfection from herself and demands nothing less of those around her. She comes bearing a lot of enthusiasm and passion, but sometimes fails to clearly communicate her goals with those who can help her fulfill them.
Fortunately, for my part, tonight she was able to communicate in clear terms what she wanted. I was merely the technical entity that would bring her grocery list of shots that filled 75% of a Mead memo pad to fruition.
I've never been particularly technically savvy. This is due not to a lack of interest, but to a larger leaning toward expressing my visual sense of composition and framing to others who are more technical. I'm just not usually the person to move it from that point to a finished project, unless you qualify all of my years behind a still camera.
Still photography has always been a passion of mine, to the point that there was a long mourning period between the loss of my cherished 35mm camera and this great digital camera I've now had for nine months. I know it's cheesy, but it was like a companion who saw things how I did. Using a different camera felt like cheating.
So, tonight I was the proverbial furniture mover putting the couch wherever the nagging housewife desired. It was a very specific paint-by-numbers type gig, but there's a lot of great energy to doing this during a live event. You have to remain loose, open, and ready to change it up.
That's precisely what I did, as moments came along. I'm not sure how "I had to improvise every now and then" was interpreted by her, when I made mention after the show. Oh, well. When you see a better shot, you've got to be spontaneous and not lose it, right?
The audience was far quieter than the last outing, but they still laughed and cried appropriately. I did hear this lovely monologue during intermission from a man sitting nearby to where I was noticeably planted with the camera.
He looked like the average person who would be quite unlikely to make an appearance at our local art house cinema, much less the theater, so I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when he said to his date:
"These things are okay, but they're boring. I'm sure this is the end of my theater experiences for the decade. The only thing that keeps me awake is that they keep turning on the lights."
It's fascinating to be able to be six or eight feet from someone, looking in the same general direction, and see a completely different thing.
Such is art, I suppose.
03 October 2006
worlds apart
previously published by me elsewhere:
The annual update for our South American sponsor child arrived in the mail yesterday. It comes every year around this time and reads at four or five pages of frustrating broken English, as it defines in the most basic terms what's been going on in the village and how she's been doing health wise.
Every year the update arrives, as does a new set of pictures. It's always the same general couple of pictures, one or two of on-going productivity in the village, and then two pictures of her looking one year older. They are always very much like the mug shots taken for film continuity: the subject stands there devoid of feeling in a wide shot and then in a medium or close-up. It always looks like such an inconvenience to her. And I wonder what her thoughts are on the whole matter.
I've been sponsoring her since she was six. Back when I was studying Education in college I decided to answer one of those mailings that seem to randomly flow through households. Not surprisingly Katharine Hepburn was on the inside of the envelope giving her urging to help a child in need. Having always been an admirer of Kate and her film choices, I decided to accept her judgment of a legitimate organization and sent the spare change they spoke of right away.
Since then there have been sporadic letters from both ends, but it's never been much of pen pal sort of thing, like Jack Nicholson had with his child in "About Schmidt" (we use the same organization, though!). The most consistent communication would have to be what I call the inventory letters.
Every birthday and every Christmas we send a variety of gifts, which promptly get listed one by one in the form of a letter. It's a strange thing, and an understandable step for the organization to take to ensure nothing was lost in the mail, or stolen on-site. You know, to put those whiny Americans at ease that the Tickle-Me-Elmo they fought to the death over arrived without a scratch.
Surprisingly, a very random gift choice several years back of a Spanish version of the first novel in the Harry Potter series turned her into a fan. She's all caught up now. According to a letter from last year, what she'd really like is a computer. The entire phrase caught me off-guard.
There's this certain series of questions that have always existed about what things are really like down there beyond what I always interpret to be a sanitized version of the truth that comes in the letters and pictures. I tend to think she also has a certain amount of expectations what things are like here.
She's seventeen now, and this will be the last year we are supposed to be sponsoring her. I know I've been humbled by the situation, even though I still don't speak her language. I wonder what sort of effects this whole arrangement has had on her. Who would she be without this small additional involvement in her life?
The annual update for our South American sponsor child arrived in the mail yesterday. It comes every year around this time and reads at four or five pages of frustrating broken English, as it defines in the most basic terms what's been going on in the village and how she's been doing health wise.
Every year the update arrives, as does a new set of pictures. It's always the same general couple of pictures, one or two of on-going productivity in the village, and then two pictures of her looking one year older. They are always very much like the mug shots taken for film continuity: the subject stands there devoid of feeling in a wide shot and then in a medium or close-up. It always looks like such an inconvenience to her. And I wonder what her thoughts are on the whole matter.
I've been sponsoring her since she was six. Back when I was studying Education in college I decided to answer one of those mailings that seem to randomly flow through households. Not surprisingly Katharine Hepburn was on the inside of the envelope giving her urging to help a child in need. Having always been an admirer of Kate and her film choices, I decided to accept her judgment of a legitimate organization and sent the spare change they spoke of right away.
Since then there have been sporadic letters from both ends, but it's never been much of pen pal sort of thing, like Jack Nicholson had with his child in "About Schmidt" (we use the same organization, though!). The most consistent communication would have to be what I call the inventory letters.
Every birthday and every Christmas we send a variety of gifts, which promptly get listed one by one in the form of a letter. It's a strange thing, and an understandable step for the organization to take to ensure nothing was lost in the mail, or stolen on-site. You know, to put those whiny Americans at ease that the Tickle-Me-Elmo they fought to the death over arrived without a scratch.
Surprisingly, a very random gift choice several years back of a Spanish version of the first novel in the Harry Potter series turned her into a fan. She's all caught up now. According to a letter from last year, what she'd really like is a computer. The entire phrase caught me off-guard.
There's this certain series of questions that have always existed about what things are really like down there beyond what I always interpret to be a sanitized version of the truth that comes in the letters and pictures. I tend to think she also has a certain amount of expectations what things are like here.
She's seventeen now, and this will be the last year we are supposed to be sponsoring her. I know I've been humbled by the situation, even though I still don't speak her language. I wonder what sort of effects this whole arrangement has had on her. Who would she be without this small additional involvement in her life?
30 September 2006
generous seconds
previously published by me elsewhere:
I was really surprised by how different the experience of watching the performance of "Dog Sees God" behind the camera last night compared to viewing it as a mere audience member tonight. Maybe it has something to do with seeing something multiple times and therefore having another perspective on it that the virginal eyes lack.
My impression of the overall production improved, but there were some specific performance issues that became glaringly more noticeable with the second look. The turnout was far stronger tonight, and they were a much more expressive audience. Unfortunately I was sitting in front of a couple people who were more expressive than I think was warranted. Not only did they share the obligatory laughs and at least one major gasp of any attentive audience member, but with each communal moment it seemed a line of thought was spit out as well:
"Of course!"
"I saw that coming."
"Now I'm turned on!"
"You know they had to do that, right?"
"That SO reminds me of my brother."
"The blow job bit?"
"You know the story don't you?"
"Let me tell you. Okay, how 'bout later?"
There's a line between getting into the complex psychological dialogue between audience and actor, but then there's talking through the fuckin' show. It was quite clear that they wanted someone to hear their Mystery Science Theater morsels, but I was determined to tune them out as much as possible and enjoy the play.
So, I did just that, and found myself far more moved than while filming it. There's a wall that was put up between the performance and myself with the camera as my focus. I don't often get into plays like I do films. They generally lack the right kind of intimacy to really affect me, and it was really thrilling to enjoy some real connection with the piece tonight.
I was really surprised by how different the experience of watching the performance of "Dog Sees God" behind the camera last night compared to viewing it as a mere audience member tonight. Maybe it has something to do with seeing something multiple times and therefore having another perspective on it that the virginal eyes lack.
My impression of the overall production improved, but there were some specific performance issues that became glaringly more noticeable with the second look. The turnout was far stronger tonight, and they were a much more expressive audience. Unfortunately I was sitting in front of a couple people who were more expressive than I think was warranted. Not only did they share the obligatory laughs and at least one major gasp of any attentive audience member, but with each communal moment it seemed a line of thought was spit out as well:
"Of course!"
"I saw that coming."
"Now I'm turned on!"
"You know they had to do that, right?"
"That SO reminds me of my brother."
"The blow job bit?"
"You know the story don't you?"
"Let me tell you. Okay, how 'bout later?"
There's a line between getting into the complex psychological dialogue between audience and actor, but then there's talking through the fuckin' show. It was quite clear that they wanted someone to hear their Mystery Science Theater morsels, but I was determined to tune them out as much as possible and enjoy the play.
So, I did just that, and found myself far more moved than while filming it. There's a wall that was put up between the performance and myself with the camera as my focus. I don't often get into plays like I do films. They generally lack the right kind of intimacy to really affect me, and it was really thrilling to enjoy some real connection with the piece tonight.
weather report
previously published by me elsewhere:
There's a calendar on the kitchen wall, in my checkbook, within the bowels of my planner, at the bottom of the screen on several cable channels, on every major search engine page on-line, and in any number of other places, yet October still seemed to have snuck up on me.
Even though we don't get the full-on experience of the four seasons in North Florida, October has long been a favorite month for me. There's something in the air. It's called a cool breeze, but for me there's more to it. The A/C starts to get turned off, the windows and sliding glass doors begin staying open much of the time and my spirit tends to breathe with far more clarity.
I am frequently at my most productive around this part of the year with the rest of the world essentially flowing through the open windows across the entire house. I know some people look forward to their birthday, Christmas, New Year's, or something else all year long, as they drudge through everything in between. For me it's that period we're edging toward as October begins.
There's a calendar on the kitchen wall, in my checkbook, within the bowels of my planner, at the bottom of the screen on several cable channels, on every major search engine page on-line, and in any number of other places, yet October still seemed to have snuck up on me.
Even though we don't get the full-on experience of the four seasons in North Florida, October has long been a favorite month for me. There's something in the air. It's called a cool breeze, but for me there's more to it. The A/C starts to get turned off, the windows and sliding glass doors begin staying open much of the time and my spirit tends to breathe with far more clarity.
I am frequently at my most productive around this part of the year with the rest of the world essentially flowing through the open windows across the entire house. I know some people look forward to their birthday, Christmas, New Year's, or something else all year long, as they drudge through everything in between. For me it's that period we're edging toward as October begins.
29 September 2006
goddamn dog
previously published by me elsewhere:
I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.
Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.
Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.
I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.
The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.
I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!
Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?
Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.
I remember a period early on in college when I would frequently be asked if I were majoring in acting. It wasn't as if my Blanche DuBois was in good shape, nor was I particularly suicidal. Nah, I was pretty shameless when it came to saying whatever the hell was on my mind, not giving a shit about what people thought of me, and generally "acting" like myself.
Tonight I was described as stoic by an acquaintance to a few people who I'd never met. It was in reference to whether or not I'd get offended by something that was going on, which got the prompt assessment that I don't get phased by anything. Oh, and that I'm stoic. Supposedly. Perhaps I was expected to take flattery for being described at all, but it does make me wonder if life has hardened me in some disappointing fashion after all these years.
Although looking back it seems like an obvious choice to connect those awkward formative years more directly to my long-term goals, I was not involved in high school drama. Hell, I wasn't even involved in that other sort of high school drama that plagued most people and has become the main subject of any number of poorly made films and TV shows. Back then the dream of filmmaking was very much in the incubation stage.
I don't really remember knowing a whole lot I could do with the dream at the time, except by watching a bunch of movies and speaking about the future as if there wasn't all of this crazy competition. Sure, I wrote some tentative movie scripts, put together some little video shoots with friends, and bit my tongue as my parents called the whole movie thing a phase. It was life lived in a vacuum that I think the internet kids with similar dreams miss out on these days.
The whole high school theater experience always seemed to be an actors only club, therefore I never felt like there was a place for someone like me. The behind the scenes stuff that I might have been good at seemed quite downplayed, so I didn't realize the option at the time. Besides, I was busy for the first couple years of high school right down the hall from the drama folk in the band room.
I know, Band Camp. Blah, blah, blah. The actual music always seemed like the nerdy part to me, so I spent a fair amount of time just fingering. The far more social, female-centric aspect was what it became for me. I did befriend a number of the theater people, and quietly admired several others. It wasn't so much their acting talent that got me, but amazement at how much fucking they were all doing with one another. And in all sorts of interesting combinations, too!
Tonight I went out to our local independent blackbox theater for Bert V. Royal's "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead", whose director and several cast members I consider friends. I was there to film the performance, so I'm going to be going back tomorrow night to really enjoy and savor the damn thing. I feel like it'll be the first time I've seen the same theatrical production performed more than one time. Isn't that strange?
Okay, so maybe there was the time in seventh grade when I went to "Twelfth Night" at my sister's high school with her and a group of her friends. As it went, the evening's show was cancelled before the second act when one of the actors got stabbed in the eye during a sword fight. So, I guess I saw that show one and a half times. All I seem to recall about it was some strangely fitting Billy Idol and David Bowie music, as well as a couple hot young actresses. Sorry, Bill, but I don't remember your play.
26 September 2006
hello goodbye
previously published by me elsewhere:
I think Ferris Bueller said it well: "Life moves by pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you might miss it." (Thank you John Hughes!)
There was a flight today headed for paradise with a stop-over at LAX. A dear friend was on that flight, as she took an important leap in her life with the hopes she might truly find herself at the other end. Maybe a respite from the norm.
Or maybe a home. But what does that mean, really? Everyone has their own interpretations of what that entails. Some people envision Thanksgiving dinners around a big table, but other people might find it briefly on the set of a movie at 1 AM. Isn't it really just a place of comfort, and not necessarily an abode?
Throughout my life people seem to go away just when things are getting good. Many of my relationships have had to be forged across this sort of physical distance. I find it intriguing that in the same breath people can become out of sight, out of mind; and that same distance can make our hearts grow fonder.
I got a call from my brother today. He was letting me know that his mother-in-law had passed away from the debilitating condition she had been dealing with for the past year. By no means was I in the dark on what was going on in his family during this time, but the fact is I don't really know my brother, and he doesn't exactly know me. We have been light-years away from one another for so long, it's hard to know where to step when he's around.
I offered my sympathies and attempted to gauge his needs. With people I know far better, I can detect the small things, but I can't bear subtext when talking with him. I don't know whether or not he was close to his wife's mother, nor do I know if a hearty amount of animosity lurked behind every meeting. This sort of trouble with openness runs throughout my family.
There are plenty of catch phrases and movie quotes to define life's parameters, but sometimes living and watching the manner in which people enter and exit one another's life does the job just fine.
I think Ferris Bueller said it well: "Life moves by pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you might miss it." (Thank you John Hughes!)
There was a flight today headed for paradise with a stop-over at LAX. A dear friend was on that flight, as she took an important leap in her life with the hopes she might truly find herself at the other end. Maybe a respite from the norm.
Or maybe a home. But what does that mean, really? Everyone has their own interpretations of what that entails. Some people envision Thanksgiving dinners around a big table, but other people might find it briefly on the set of a movie at 1 AM. Isn't it really just a place of comfort, and not necessarily an abode?
Throughout my life people seem to go away just when things are getting good. Many of my relationships have had to be forged across this sort of physical distance. I find it intriguing that in the same breath people can become out of sight, out of mind; and that same distance can make our hearts grow fonder.
I got a call from my brother today. He was letting me know that his mother-in-law had passed away from the debilitating condition she had been dealing with for the past year. By no means was I in the dark on what was going on in his family during this time, but the fact is I don't really know my brother, and he doesn't exactly know me. We have been light-years away from one another for so long, it's hard to know where to step when he's around.
I offered my sympathies and attempted to gauge his needs. With people I know far better, I can detect the small things, but I can't bear subtext when talking with him. I don't know whether or not he was close to his wife's mother, nor do I know if a hearty amount of animosity lurked behind every meeting. This sort of trouble with openness runs throughout my family.
There are plenty of catch phrases and movie quotes to define life's parameters, but sometimes living and watching the manner in which people enter and exit one another's life does the job just fine.
19 September 2006
tidal pools
previously published by me elsewhere:
I remember one summer when I was about eight-years-old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' station wagon. We were roaring down the highway in the middle of nowhere during one of a couple summers in a row spent like the traditional image of Americana.
I recall sitting there listening to the deep vibrating hum of a car at high speeds, and whatever familial din filled the cabin. I had this extreme sense of self-awareness as I consciously started to listen to my own voice mumbling inside my head.
I wondered why I was me, and not someone else. Why these would be my experiences. I often ponder similar things, as certain people pass in and out of my life, and others take on unpredicted significance.
This September has been reasonably active in celebrating birthdays. Three people I consider close, for completely different reasons, have had one this month. Two of which have spread their birthdays out over several days, making it seem like much more.
One of those close friends came into my life only a year ago, but the intensity of the friendship came on as quite a surprise. She and I share one of those friendships that don't require a lot of frequent talking and hanging out because you relate on a different level. There's a certain understanding going on between us beyond the whole conversational.
Another of my friends is close in the more traditional sense of the word. She is half of a couple the wife and I have known for three years, who we spend time with several times a week, who we exchange presents with at all of the gift giving times, and that sort of thing. This is truly one of those lasting friendships built by shared experiences and mutual growth.
Tonight we went out to dinner with the third close friend celebrating a birthday this month. We told her several days ago that we'd like to bring her out for her birthday if she was free. So, we met at the restaurant of her choosing, enjoyed a good meal with some above average service, and held some pretty steady conversation.
Her boyfriend is twenty years her senior and frequently Mr. Quiet. In all of the years they've been together I've never been able to determine whether it comes from introversion, or just aversion, but he was there tonight as well. Surprisingly he did come out of his shell a little when a random bit about childhood pranks and mischief came into conversation, but that was about all we could get out of him.
And then the bill came. Sitting at the end of the booth within two feet of our waitress, he was able to do a quick pass of his credit card before we realized the bill had even arrived. How can we treat if someone else pays, right? I hate that whole check grabbing game that sometimes occurs, as the most determined demonstrate who's the more dominant of the species at the table.
That was tonight, but the friendship has been going on for seven years with a lot of lulls in conversation and contact. We like each other's company, and have spent a lot of nice times together over the years. I know that we are good friends even though I can't really express it here, but I can't help but feel as though it's as good as it will ever be.
She's one of the small margins of people who have always been there for me, even when I went through some dark times during this pursuit for the silver screen. I've shared a lot of painful stuff with her, but the discomfort that comes from doing that without reciprocation always takes over.
Throughout the years I always hit a wall with getting through to what's really going on inside her. It's upsetting to think that the friendship will only grow just so far.
I'm left to wonder why certain people grace the frames in your living room and some fill the pages of your memory, yet others remain forever elsewhere.
I remember one summer when I was about eight-years-old, sitting in the backseat of my parents' station wagon. We were roaring down the highway in the middle of nowhere during one of a couple summers in a row spent like the traditional image of Americana.
I recall sitting there listening to the deep vibrating hum of a car at high speeds, and whatever familial din filled the cabin. I had this extreme sense of self-awareness as I consciously started to listen to my own voice mumbling inside my head.
I wondered why I was me, and not someone else. Why these would be my experiences. I often ponder similar things, as certain people pass in and out of my life, and others take on unpredicted significance.
This September has been reasonably active in celebrating birthdays. Three people I consider close, for completely different reasons, have had one this month. Two of which have spread their birthdays out over several days, making it seem like much more.
One of those close friends came into my life only a year ago, but the intensity of the friendship came on as quite a surprise. She and I share one of those friendships that don't require a lot of frequent talking and hanging out because you relate on a different level. There's a certain understanding going on between us beyond the whole conversational.
Another of my friends is close in the more traditional sense of the word. She is half of a couple the wife and I have known for three years, who we spend time with several times a week, who we exchange presents with at all of the gift giving times, and that sort of thing. This is truly one of those lasting friendships built by shared experiences and mutual growth.
Tonight we went out to dinner with the third close friend celebrating a birthday this month. We told her several days ago that we'd like to bring her out for her birthday if she was free. So, we met at the restaurant of her choosing, enjoyed a good meal with some above average service, and held some pretty steady conversation.
Her boyfriend is twenty years her senior and frequently Mr. Quiet. In all of the years they've been together I've never been able to determine whether it comes from introversion, or just aversion, but he was there tonight as well. Surprisingly he did come out of his shell a little when a random bit about childhood pranks and mischief came into conversation, but that was about all we could get out of him.
And then the bill came. Sitting at the end of the booth within two feet of our waitress, he was able to do a quick pass of his credit card before we realized the bill had even arrived. How can we treat if someone else pays, right? I hate that whole check grabbing game that sometimes occurs, as the most determined demonstrate who's the more dominant of the species at the table.
That was tonight, but the friendship has been going on for seven years with a lot of lulls in conversation and contact. We like each other's company, and have spent a lot of nice times together over the years. I know that we are good friends even though I can't really express it here, but I can't help but feel as though it's as good as it will ever be.
She's one of the small margins of people who have always been there for me, even when I went through some dark times during this pursuit for the silver screen. I've shared a lot of painful stuff with her, but the discomfort that comes from doing that without reciprocation always takes over.
Throughout the years I always hit a wall with getting through to what's really going on inside her. It's upsetting to think that the friendship will only grow just so far.
I'm left to wonder why certain people grace the frames in your living room and some fill the pages of your memory, yet others remain forever elsewhere.
16 September 2006
small potatoes
previously published by me elsewhere:
If there's one thing people who are close to me have known for years, my sleeping patterns are 100% unpredictable. Some weeks the number crunchers in my head tally up all of the bits of rest I've gotten, and gather a pretty decent average, but other weeks I'm in the red.
For some reason there's always something small that sets me off in big ways. I'm awakened by the proverbial crying baby, if you will. So, I woke up at 3AM this morning after my requisite two and a half hours worth of shut-eye, and I've been going steadily since then.
I'm finally getting caught up on some back issues of MovieMaker, and I have unexpectedly found myself developing some really strong new ideas for a script that I started working on during the summer of 2005, but had since set aside.
There's something about going back to a project after some time that's still in the midst of its development. I find certain senility has set in during that time, and going back you find personal gems that are far better than your best perception of self, and the material re-inspires you.
The frosting for this fine day comes from one of my favorite cable channels: Turner Classic Movies. They were running a twenty-four hour marathon of short films that just finished at 6AM this morning. Not being one of those people with TiVo, I have taped the whole twenty-four hour stretch on good ol' VHS. I tend to have trouble watching things that I would like to fully digest in real-time, so I'm going to watch it all at my own leisure starting this morning.
To me the short film is so fascinating in a lot of ways. Except those darling judges of the festival circuit, few viewers really get the chance to see many short films in their time. The most prominent forms, music videos, were always this side of four minute advertisements, but what has actually become of music television is now self-parody.
Simplistically the short film has the potential to fall somewhere in the wide expanse between trifle and pretension. It's like listening to the twenty song "Fingertips" cycle at the end of They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18 CD. Was that great art, or just an underdeveloped idea?
If there's one thing people who are close to me have known for years, my sleeping patterns are 100% unpredictable. Some weeks the number crunchers in my head tally up all of the bits of rest I've gotten, and gather a pretty decent average, but other weeks I'm in the red.
For some reason there's always something small that sets me off in big ways. I'm awakened by the proverbial crying baby, if you will. So, I woke up at 3AM this morning after my requisite two and a half hours worth of shut-eye, and I've been going steadily since then.
I'm finally getting caught up on some back issues of MovieMaker, and I have unexpectedly found myself developing some really strong new ideas for a script that I started working on during the summer of 2005, but had since set aside.
There's something about going back to a project after some time that's still in the midst of its development. I find certain senility has set in during that time, and going back you find personal gems that are far better than your best perception of self, and the material re-inspires you.
The frosting for this fine day comes from one of my favorite cable channels: Turner Classic Movies. They were running a twenty-four hour marathon of short films that just finished at 6AM this morning. Not being one of those people with TiVo, I have taped the whole twenty-four hour stretch on good ol' VHS. I tend to have trouble watching things that I would like to fully digest in real-time, so I'm going to watch it all at my own leisure starting this morning.
To me the short film is so fascinating in a lot of ways. Except those darling judges of the festival circuit, few viewers really get the chance to see many short films in their time. The most prominent forms, music videos, were always this side of four minute advertisements, but what has actually become of music television is now self-parody.
Simplistically the short film has the potential to fall somewhere in the wide expanse between trifle and pretension. It's like listening to the twenty song "Fingertips" cycle at the end of They Might Be Giants' Apollo 18 CD. Was that great art, or just an underdeveloped idea?
15 September 2006
hairline fracture
previously published by me elsewhere:
In the past I've been given conflicting reports about some of the weaknesses in my character. I've been called impulsive and I've been referred to as overly hesitant in reference to the same sort of issues.
Truthfully I don't think there's any real consensus about what part of my personality causes the most ripples in my life. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I pre-navigate my own impulsiveness, and therefore only occasionally do significant things occur due to my pseudo-moderation in judgment.
My sister-in-law is in her mid-twenties, and seems to have found a workable way to take life by the horns with an exceedingly devil may care attitude with few or no negative consequences. It's perplexing at worst and admirable at best.
She has legally owned a hair salon in town for nearly six weeks, and has officially been relocated here for about two weeks. For someone so unfamiliar with planning, she's amazingly forward thinking and driven about the whole manner. She's got this frontier attitude about the hair business that includes thoughts of franchises and a complete overhaul of her shop. She came over tonight to get some input on some advertising ideas.
She's bought herself a real fixer-upper place with a cast of characters that fall together like something out of NBC's struggling line-up. She's the tattooed, young, attractive, modern stylist from South Florida, and they're God fearing, jaded, leathery, gray-haired men who look like something out of a police line-up.
Laughs should ensue immediately, right?
The truth is I very much want to see it all work for her, unlike the way I could feel about someone else trying to succeed in the film business.
Even though I don't feel I've gotten to many of the places I think I've truly worked towards, I don't really have that step on someone else's back attitude
I unflinchingly associate with Hollywood. Honestly I've worked through a lot more jealous rage in my past that has occurred as I have seen much weaker artists than myself "make it happen" just because they are more impulsive or less hesitant than I.
In the past I've been given conflicting reports about some of the weaknesses in my character. I've been called impulsive and I've been referred to as overly hesitant in reference to the same sort of issues.
Truthfully I don't think there's any real consensus about what part of my personality causes the most ripples in my life. In a manner of speaking, I suppose I pre-navigate my own impulsiveness, and therefore only occasionally do significant things occur due to my pseudo-moderation in judgment.
My sister-in-law is in her mid-twenties, and seems to have found a workable way to take life by the horns with an exceedingly devil may care attitude with few or no negative consequences. It's perplexing at worst and admirable at best.
She has legally owned a hair salon in town for nearly six weeks, and has officially been relocated here for about two weeks. For someone so unfamiliar with planning, she's amazingly forward thinking and driven about the whole manner. She's got this frontier attitude about the hair business that includes thoughts of franchises and a complete overhaul of her shop. She came over tonight to get some input on some advertising ideas.
She's bought herself a real fixer-upper place with a cast of characters that fall together like something out of NBC's struggling line-up. She's the tattooed, young, attractive, modern stylist from South Florida, and they're God fearing, jaded, leathery, gray-haired men who look like something out of a police line-up.
Laughs should ensue immediately, right?
The truth is I very much want to see it all work for her, unlike the way I could feel about someone else trying to succeed in the film business.
Even though I don't feel I've gotten to many of the places I think I've truly worked towards, I don't really have that step on someone else's back attitude
I unflinchingly associate with Hollywood. Honestly I've worked through a lot more jealous rage in my past that has occurred as I have seen much weaker artists than myself "make it happen" just because they are more impulsive or less hesitant than I.
12 September 2006
on display
previously published by me elsewhere:
Closure.
It's one of the pursuits in life that I feel I have sought the most, but have often found the least. To me life comes with so many starts and stops that only movies really flow in a neatly packaged three-act structure.
When things come to some point of fruition your psyche reacts to everything in a new way. All of a sudden you find yourself mentally erasing portions of the old slate, leaving yourself space to deal with a whole new mess from an improved perspective. Such is the process of littering the world with one's old baggage.
The world premiere, as they say, of the (AKA) 'indie flick with the longest fuckin' production I know of' went down last night at our local art house theater. There were two screenings (one at 7pm and one at 9pm). I attended the first one, and was reasonably surprised by the packed house, having torn tickets at the door when more major fare didn't fill but fifteen seats during an equivalent evening.
Unlike your average local movie showing, not everyone there was associated with the project, nor do I suspect they were several degrees out from the people involved. For that reason I can reasonably call it a success!
The production itself was a miniscule affair with a cast of seven and a crew of three, and the well-noted meandering production schedule. Looking back, the production was a constant state of someone gripping someone else's throat, at least on the level of subtext.
It seemed that someone was dealing with displeasure the whole time, which really dampened any opportunity to really enjoy the experience. Shouldn't the independent film world act differently than the Hollywood sorts? Isn't it supposed to be about connecting with people on a human level, instead of dealing with people like pieces of equipment?
Between Monday night's screenings several of us shared a champagne toast at the theater's bar, as provided by one of the actors. The toasters were an incomplete grouping of those involved, and the overall connections between us all remains under-developed. I did feel a spark of what could have been, though. And it made me hopeful.
Closure.
It's one of the pursuits in life that I feel I have sought the most, but have often found the least. To me life comes with so many starts and stops that only movies really flow in a neatly packaged three-act structure.
When things come to some point of fruition your psyche reacts to everything in a new way. All of a sudden you find yourself mentally erasing portions of the old slate, leaving yourself space to deal with a whole new mess from an improved perspective. Such is the process of littering the world with one's old baggage.
The world premiere, as they say, of the (AKA) 'indie flick with the longest fuckin' production I know of' went down last night at our local art house theater. There were two screenings (one at 7pm and one at 9pm). I attended the first one, and was reasonably surprised by the packed house, having torn tickets at the door when more major fare didn't fill but fifteen seats during an equivalent evening.
Unlike your average local movie showing, not everyone there was associated with the project, nor do I suspect they were several degrees out from the people involved. For that reason I can reasonably call it a success!
The production itself was a miniscule affair with a cast of seven and a crew of three, and the well-noted meandering production schedule. Looking back, the production was a constant state of someone gripping someone else's throat, at least on the level of subtext.
It seemed that someone was dealing with displeasure the whole time, which really dampened any opportunity to really enjoy the experience. Shouldn't the independent film world act differently than the Hollywood sorts? Isn't it supposed to be about connecting with people on a human level, instead of dealing with people like pieces of equipment?
Between Monday night's screenings several of us shared a champagne toast at the theater's bar, as provided by one of the actors. The toasters were an incomplete grouping of those involved, and the overall connections between us all remains under-developed. I did feel a spark of what could have been, though. And it made me hopeful.
10 August 2006
status que?
previously published by me elsewhere:
Many of the most important people in my life, the people that really feed my soul, live at geographical distance from me. It's something I've surely recognized in the past, but it seems to be a recurring theme in my life that I've been noticing a lot more lately.
There's a certain safety, and personal comfort in having a lot of people at distance. To a certain extent I can't stand the daily update chit-chat that occurs with people who you see all the time. I think I like to constantly develop and change, recognizably, which tends to occur at distance.
It seems that a number of people I've grown close to have their sights set on being nearly everywhere but here. Sometimes my life gets into this holding pattern, and for whatever reason I have to sit back and watch everyone else live life around me.
Worse than feeling like a grade school teacher watching all of their students run off and live these far more interesting lives is watching things come far too easily to other people around you.
Watching people get to certain personal milestone points with minimal or no effort frustrates the hell out of me! Like the exceedingly scattered, youthful director of a recent movie I worked on, who took for granted that this group of people who he mistreated on a regular basis would ensure the project wouldn't fall apart, just because we were the responsible ones.
I guess the stable and the experienced always hold the shit end of the stick and clean up the mess left by the Mr. Magoos and the George W. Bushes of the world.
Sometimes I wonder why I must be one of the rational ones. Why can't I just make wild-eyed impulsive choices, assuming everything will just iron out in the end? What's with non-prodigious people finding personal successes with a snap of their fingers? What - are you one of Jerry's kids, or something? Why are you living your dreams, and I'm still stuck having them?
I guess everyone has something, whether it's home ownership, popping out smart babies, getting that dream job, or maybe riches and fame. My feeling is that if everything comes way too easily, you end up taking credit for that silver platter you had nothing to do with shining, to say little of having nothing else to look forward to.
Well, I guess that's the key to my perception of personal success. As sad as it may sound, I suppose I can only consider it success if it took a lot of work to attain it.
Many of the most important people in my life, the people that really feed my soul, live at geographical distance from me. It's something I've surely recognized in the past, but it seems to be a recurring theme in my life that I've been noticing a lot more lately.
There's a certain safety, and personal comfort in having a lot of people at distance. To a certain extent I can't stand the daily update chit-chat that occurs with people who you see all the time. I think I like to constantly develop and change, recognizably, which tends to occur at distance.
It seems that a number of people I've grown close to have their sights set on being nearly everywhere but here. Sometimes my life gets into this holding pattern, and for whatever reason I have to sit back and watch everyone else live life around me.
Worse than feeling like a grade school teacher watching all of their students run off and live these far more interesting lives is watching things come far too easily to other people around you.
Watching people get to certain personal milestone points with minimal or no effort frustrates the hell out of me! Like the exceedingly scattered, youthful director of a recent movie I worked on, who took for granted that this group of people who he mistreated on a regular basis would ensure the project wouldn't fall apart, just because we were the responsible ones.
I guess the stable and the experienced always hold the shit end of the stick and clean up the mess left by the Mr. Magoos and the George W. Bushes of the world.
Sometimes I wonder why I must be one of the rational ones. Why can't I just make wild-eyed impulsive choices, assuming everything will just iron out in the end? What's with non-prodigious people finding personal successes with a snap of their fingers? What - are you one of Jerry's kids, or something? Why are you living your dreams, and I'm still stuck having them?
I guess everyone has something, whether it's home ownership, popping out smart babies, getting that dream job, or maybe riches and fame. My feeling is that if everything comes way too easily, you end up taking credit for that silver platter you had nothing to do with shining, to say little of having nothing else to look forward to.
Well, I guess that's the key to my perception of personal success. As sad as it may sound, I suppose I can only consider it success if it took a lot of work to attain it.
02 August 2006
wild abandonment
previously published by me elsewhere:
After the last time I posted here I was starting to feel that I had no real interest in continuing rambling on about my life and moderate mental goings-on. After all, the last thing I needed was another distraction.
You know, sometimes most on-line journals feel to me like commentary tracks on any given DVD. No matter how bad the film turned out, the one thing the filmmakers avoid presenting over the course of those two hours of esoteric humor, vocalized pauses, and ego stroking is some much needed self-flagellation or honesty about the temperamental nature of creation.
I guess this is because flaws and human error can be the difference between having a career and not having a career in the entertainment business. That is unless you attain the mythical status of "celebrity".
It seems that the more flawed a celebrity, the more human they become to the rest of us mortals. Together we can all bond over our collective need for rehab, don'tcha know?
Not so with a filmmaker. Flaws mean you are incapable of "delivering". Nobody wants to know that you are a procrastinator, or frequently late, or impulsive with money, or legally blind. None of these things look very good to an outsider, but they are all the sort of weaknesses we all share.
In an extreme way, it goes back to what I'll call the Michael Jackson/Woody Allen Syndrome, which I view as the inability to separate the human being from the artistic creation.
One perspective would have it that the two are inseparable and therefore the judgment of one dictates the quality of the other, and another could conclude that the artist is merely a vessel through which the art flows and nothing more, thereby making the creation the only thing of note regardless of how it arrived.
Since the last time I posted here several very intense, physically and psychologically taxing weeks of shooting occurred on the most recent horror flick. The clock was ticking, and our deadline to wrap was July 12th. Unfortunately we didn't make it, and we are left with an incomplete movie, and an uncertain occasion to attempt a re-group to pull together the remaining scenes.
Our cinematographer hopped a flight out of town to spend a bit of time in front of the camera, our make-up specialist focused his attention on getting a gig with Halloween Horror Nights, and who knows what has become of several others.
My nature demands a fair balance of space and company. I have pulled away from it all a bit, back into my shell, back into the woodwork of Gainesville, uncertain whether any post-production activities are taking place.
I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately, tearing through several old layers of flesh and really getting into a several month late personal spring cleaning.
I have finally gotten back to work on my own scripts, which is something I never like to be too far away from. It's a blessing and a curse to be your own boss, and to manage your own time, and to demand everything of yourself. There's also a huge freedom in holding the reins over the creation of it all.
Well, unless of course I'm merely a vessel.
After the last time I posted here I was starting to feel that I had no real interest in continuing rambling on about my life and moderate mental goings-on. After all, the last thing I needed was another distraction.
You know, sometimes most on-line journals feel to me like commentary tracks on any given DVD. No matter how bad the film turned out, the one thing the filmmakers avoid presenting over the course of those two hours of esoteric humor, vocalized pauses, and ego stroking is some much needed self-flagellation or honesty about the temperamental nature of creation.
I guess this is because flaws and human error can be the difference between having a career and not having a career in the entertainment business. That is unless you attain the mythical status of "celebrity".
It seems that the more flawed a celebrity, the more human they become to the rest of us mortals. Together we can all bond over our collective need for rehab, don'tcha know?
Not so with a filmmaker. Flaws mean you are incapable of "delivering". Nobody wants to know that you are a procrastinator, or frequently late, or impulsive with money, or legally blind. None of these things look very good to an outsider, but they are all the sort of weaknesses we all share.
In an extreme way, it goes back to what I'll call the Michael Jackson/Woody Allen Syndrome, which I view as the inability to separate the human being from the artistic creation.
One perspective would have it that the two are inseparable and therefore the judgment of one dictates the quality of the other, and another could conclude that the artist is merely a vessel through which the art flows and nothing more, thereby making the creation the only thing of note regardless of how it arrived.
Since the last time I posted here several very intense, physically and psychologically taxing weeks of shooting occurred on the most recent horror flick. The clock was ticking, and our deadline to wrap was July 12th. Unfortunately we didn't make it, and we are left with an incomplete movie, and an uncertain occasion to attempt a re-group to pull together the remaining scenes.
Our cinematographer hopped a flight out of town to spend a bit of time in front of the camera, our make-up specialist focused his attention on getting a gig with Halloween Horror Nights, and who knows what has become of several others.
My nature demands a fair balance of space and company. I have pulled away from it all a bit, back into my shell, back into the woodwork of Gainesville, uncertain whether any post-production activities are taking place.
I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately, tearing through several old layers of flesh and really getting into a several month late personal spring cleaning.
I have finally gotten back to work on my own scripts, which is something I never like to be too far away from. It's a blessing and a curse to be your own boss, and to manage your own time, and to demand everything of yourself. There's also a huge freedom in holding the reins over the creation of it all.
Well, unless of course I'm merely a vessel.
23 June 2006
hand shake
previously published by me elsewhere:
One day you wake up and everything around you reeks of adulthood.
Coffee consumption has increased tenfold, frivolous cash spending is overtaken by pinching pennies for gas, phrases like "make it an early night" become more frequent, everything on that VH-1 "I Love Toys" show is merely nostalgia, and what you're going to be when you grow up is roughly what you are now.
By no means is this something that just occurred to me upon stumbling out of bed today, however there's one thing about inching myself toward committing to adulthood that has caught me a little off-guard.
Last night while driving home from the set I realized that most of my greetings and farewells with people these days are done by hand shake. When does something like that become commonplace without resistance?
One day you wake up and everything around you reeks of adulthood.
Coffee consumption has increased tenfold, frivolous cash spending is overtaken by pinching pennies for gas, phrases like "make it an early night" become more frequent, everything on that VH-1 "I Love Toys" show is merely nostalgia, and what you're going to be when you grow up is roughly what you are now.
By no means is this something that just occurred to me upon stumbling out of bed today, however there's one thing about inching myself toward committing to adulthood that has caught me a little off-guard.
Last night while driving home from the set I realized that most of my greetings and farewells with people these days are done by hand shake. When does something like that become commonplace without resistance?
21 June 2006
have heart
previously published by me elsewhere:
One thing that defines many horror movies is little tricks that make the audience react on a visceral level. Tonight we shot one such scene that involves a most vital organ, but ironically my heart just wasn't in it. The material wasn't really exciting to me, and I know I wasn't the only one.
At the core of satisfaction in a relationship is the assumption that all parties involved are getting out of it something they want. For a lot of people doing this, there's the hope that the resulting feature film that comes from all of the work will be a success, or at least worth all of the trouble.
In my mind this same sort of prospects for the future test is put toward every relationship. This is something I really got to thinking about today, having just found out two of my friends have broken up.
I remember flying down the highway with them, while we were all on a road trip. A certain lull in our conversation was filled with an extensive conversation between them. It was then that I realized they were hitting it off in a different way than before, and I was witnessing the birth of something special. It wasn't long after until I realized I had quickly become merely a chauffeur.
The dynamic always changes between people when break ups happen. You always worry that you're going to be one of the things that has to go as people try to heal and step away from the past.
A few years ago a marriage-bound couple I once knew had a really nasty break-up that involved an unnecessary restraining order and a completely unsettling display of spite. I only know one of them now, and the other ended up losing all signs of their original personality.
As unlikely as it is, my romantic half often likes to think a separated married couple I know will get back together, even if they both ruined that relationship.
As selfish and simplistic as it sounds, it's like bands you know and love getting a new lead singer. You have too many positive associations with how it was the other way.
The thing is, I know too many lonely people to know two more. And this just breaks my heart.
One thing that defines many horror movies is little tricks that make the audience react on a visceral level. Tonight we shot one such scene that involves a most vital organ, but ironically my heart just wasn't in it. The material wasn't really exciting to me, and I know I wasn't the only one.
At the core of satisfaction in a relationship is the assumption that all parties involved are getting out of it something they want. For a lot of people doing this, there's the hope that the resulting feature film that comes from all of the work will be a success, or at least worth all of the trouble.
In my mind this same sort of prospects for the future test is put toward every relationship. This is something I really got to thinking about today, having just found out two of my friends have broken up.
I remember flying down the highway with them, while we were all on a road trip. A certain lull in our conversation was filled with an extensive conversation between them. It was then that I realized they were hitting it off in a different way than before, and I was witnessing the birth of something special. It wasn't long after until I realized I had quickly become merely a chauffeur.
The dynamic always changes between people when break ups happen. You always worry that you're going to be one of the things that has to go as people try to heal and step away from the past.
A few years ago a marriage-bound couple I once knew had a really nasty break-up that involved an unnecessary restraining order and a completely unsettling display of spite. I only know one of them now, and the other ended up losing all signs of their original personality.
As unlikely as it is, my romantic half often likes to think a separated married couple I know will get back together, even if they both ruined that relationship.
As selfish and simplistic as it sounds, it's like bands you know and love getting a new lead singer. You have too many positive associations with how it was the other way.
The thing is, I know too many lonely people to know two more. And this just breaks my heart.
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