rain, shine.

Everyone has routine. It's imperative to look forward to some of it.

(8)

unbreakable cycle

Know your place.

(7)

look closer.

I was born an observer. It creates varied perspective and enhances visual memory. Sometimes it suggests regret or disconnection from the action and at other times it offers the chance to miss out on inconsequential dramas.

(6)

maximum exposure

It is said that a picture can express a thousand words. However, our vocabulary will always be limited by the ones we see.

(5)

waste not

(4)

walk about

Those must be comfortable shoes. I bet you could walk all day in shoes like those and not feel a thing.
- My feet hurt.
My momma always said you can tell a lot about a person by their shoes - where they go, where they've been . . . .
-Forrest Gump

(3)

seeking: balance

Many musicians have fielded the question about whether the music or the lyrics come first. It's another variation on the egg-chicken riddle. Like dreams, inspiration comes to us piecemeal, which we glue together after the fact in easier to translate fashion. In life it becomes a matter of finding the proper measurement of looking forward and gazing backward to create the complete image of the present.

(2)

mixed metaphor.

I loathe stating the obvious.

I am fascinated by the power of images. And I adore spinning words into tasty phrases. As should be clear upon reading this blog, I prefer to let them meld on their own. The connection between my choice of imagery and the associated wordplay is yours to make. As I undertake another photo journey, I don't predict a commentary track, but I do expect a deeper exploration of both of these passions.

(1)

π challenge.

(11.11.11, said I) - I am considering committing to another blog challenge. Many others have attempted to undertake a post a day for a 365 day period. I tried two 30 day challenges earlier in the year. I still have a few remaining ideas from bursting those at the seams. As November 10th is the 314th day of the year, and has a bit of multi-layered significance to me, I am leaning toward challenging myself to a 314 photo effort.

The main reason anyone ever undertakes something such as write a novel in a month, or take a picture a day for a year, or drink eight glasses of water each day is to create a verifiable commitment with more likely results. Vague ideas like wanting to write more or exercise more are certifiably the worst ways to ever do something.

So, here goes:

314 posts with 314 photos.
And since I know I can't possibly post every single day,
I'll give myself 365 days to accomplish this.

rust settles

“Rhythm is the basis of life, not steady forward progress. The forces of creation, destruction, and preservation have a whirling, dynamic interaction.”
- Kabbalah (translated)

I have rarely been the sort of chap who accepts things point blank. The standard, the ritualized, the status quo, the accepted all suggest something boring, plain, worn, and wanting to me. I have been known to direct the action, change the rules, or aim my eye for detail toward unforeseen improvements.

Ever since I was a toddler I've had a fascination with construction sites. Though they may have been the requisite boy gift, not surprisingly I grew up on Tonka trucks. These comparatively massive sturdy toys were far more tangible than their contemporary counterparts. I enjoy having grown up on toys and with experiences that threatened or caused injury. The world can be a dangerous place and I think scars create character and daring can be in support of backbone.

Perception allows us the chance to try on so many other pairs of eyes. If you open yourself to it, there's a veritable Sears optical department worth of opportunities to let your soul become reborn. Over time I have discovered that life is usually under construction, which is a mighty beautiful thing. Much like the dramatic moment when the bats fly out of the dank house in a classic scary movie, I look about and find myself so frakkin' inspired. In truth there's no wrangling it, there's no honing it, there's only breathing it in and flowing with it.

veterans day

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
-Kris Kristofferson

We all wage our wars. Eventually we must bury our dead.

(-1)

unattributed quotation.

A particular quote has been floating around my Facebook feed of late, and has echoed quite well within my present understanding of the way of things.

If someone wants to be a part of your life, they'll make an effort to be in it. So don't bother reserving a space in your heart for someone who doesn't make an effort to stay.

gimme π.

I am considering committing to another blog challenge. Many others have attempted to undertake a post a day for a 365 day period. I tried two 30 day challenges earlier in the year. I still have a few remaining ideas from bursting those at the seams. As November 10th is the 314th day of the year, and has a bit of multi-layered significance to me, I am leaning toward challenging myself to a 314 photo effort.

freeze frame.

“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time”
- Barbara Kingsolver

“Memory is deceptive because it is colored by today's events.”
- Albert Einstein

For five seasons that began in the spring of 1989, Scott Bakula starred in the smart, influential, sci-fi-dramedy Quantum Leap as time traveler Sam Beckett, who bounced through time following an accident during testing at an experimental test site. Each episode found him leaping into the body and into the life of someone else, consistently losing elements of his own memory - a phenomenon referred to as Swiss cheesed in the show.

I get it now. I once had an amazingly detailed memory full of tons of family history, complete with correlating dates for even the most innocuous things, streams of random facts, an endless recognition of actors and actresses at the ready to kick ass at the Kevin Bacon game, and a perfect recall of life events and birthdays.

Christmastime is around the corner. For as long as I can recall this is the time that production companies re-edit, re-package, and re-align band and artists' old material into shiny packages. Without my conscious effort, my brain has been doing similar things with my past. It seems to prefer the Elvis Costello bent of filling itself with B-sides, outtakes, and other randomness. In the stir I find the strangest memories floating to the surface. These are insubstantial lost moments that now have resonance.

In amongst the small amount of bits and bauble I have lugged into my current life is an undeveloped roll of film dating back at least six years, on the inside. For a moment I think it might have been something that may have been way down a to-do list.

Image is an interesting thing, and one that has fascinated me since I was young. Life hits the retina upside down. In time we adapt to seeing it right side up.

keep yearning.

tire rotation

Because things are the way they are,
things will not stay the way they are.
- Bertolt Brecht

Four weeks ago the doors shut hard on my most recent production. This show came and went so fast, I am still recovering from the whole experience it unearthed within me. In my effort to branch out and find undiscovered, challenging material brought with it a tornadoes worth of wonderful. The disarray it caused has offered a healthy opportunity to express things artistically that have been lodged deep within. Voyaging along the unexplored paths of full-on, deft, human comedy has allowed for layers and layers of actual drama to be shorn off, bagged up, and toted away.

The other night I pulled into the parking lot at the local hybrid high school for a theatrical production, feeling vaguely like a parent showing up to support a child's endeavor. Many colors shade the support of a friend:

2 pints want
1 cup obligation
1 tbsp. need
1/2 tbsp. urging
1 tsp. reciprocation
a splash of just because

It was a production of To Kill a Mockingbird, for which my friend did the costumes and make-up. It wasn't quite the amateur hour production I was expecting, having seen my share of teenage Thespian standards, however it did have plenty of awkward moments. It has been said that a weak play needs strong actors to nail, but a great work can be done justice by anyone. If this play fits into the second mold, then it seems surprisingly safe for our current era and almost downright stale and dated. The show had its good moments and my lady love and I picked out our favorite couple of young performers, who probably shouldn't give up the dream.

However, from my viewpoint, taking up the most prominence on stage was an 8 x 8 x 4 foot platform placed at upstage center. It was used to convey an old woman's front porch and the second act colored section of the courtroom. It was hard to look at that chunk of beautifully painted and constructed wood without seeing the lead actor from my most recent show writhing uncontrollably atop our support actor to the subtle tones of Sinéad O'Connor's I Want Your (Hands on Me) during the naughty and hilarious bedroom scene in our show.

If you allow your gaze to open to it, there are hidden depths and unexpected charms to be found in most anything. I find it's like synchronizing your proverbial watch with life. The world expands if you want to see it. Things take new form and new meaning, whether from the simple act of pragmatic sharing of set pieces or from allowing things their own organic reformation.

demonize me

“Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials.” Lyn Yutang

Closure.

Closure. I've started this way before. Every writer knows the most unenviable obstruction for their craft is an empty page. And the rule book would suggest that every story begun requires an ending. Though it's true in dramatics, this is less true in life. Each tale we weave is far larger than our prediction and much of it goes on under our keenest radar. Most of the points of passage we tend to spotlight are but transitions and not the key beginnings or endings we convince ourselves they'll be.

My sister and parents have been having a veritable war of veiled diplomacy for some time now. A turning point in their relationship left all of the chaos, all of the drama, all of the unresolved feelings up in the air, and in their ways and from their individual perspectives they await the crash landing. Missing that clean ending puts all three of them on edge, and heightens their need to be in the right.

I once heard it said that there are three sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth. My parents are convinced of one set of stories and my sister assures herself there is another. She is certain to recount these tales again and again ad nauseum on most occasions that she and I get together. It's one of the more frustrating things about spending time with her. One thing that never changes is her perspective. It is forever stalled out in bitter tragedy.

If I had it to dictate now, perhaps I wouldn't have lived the childhood I did or I wouldn't have dwindled under the shadow of those formative years, but every life has its share of stumbling blocks and inevitable potholes. We have to off-load the things that make our journey unbearable. Eventually we just have to bid farewell to that drugged up, useless passenger, that monkey on our back. Turning inward is the only way the outward will ever change. You can't force the hand of others, you can't correctly suspect the motives of others, and you certainly can't alter who someone else is, except yourself. You only get one lump of clay to play with, alter and morph. It might get brittle and it might get dented, but those are the places we find character, art, and meaning.

The empty page suggests that every road leads everywhere. As a writer, the possibilities are dizzying. Every possible outcome can come of this. What is true in art echoes in life. I used to get caught up in future thought. I would seek results of actions, trying so hard to choose the ones that would bring me to my goals, avoiding those that would lead me away. We can't choose our strings. We just have to learn to navigate them, and pluck despite the rhythm caught in the tether, fighting against the power of accidental frets.

These are our demons. I don't mean the Paranormal Activity brand of demons. Well, not exactly. I once thought we had to travel with them. I figured we had to tote them wherever we went. They were our crux, our Achilles heel, the bane of our existence. Well, I say, set that funeral pyre aflame with all of the things in your life, in your soul, in your heart, you don't need that don't help you thrive, that don't motivate you, that just don't matter.

I've had my fair share of monkeys, clawing at my back, weighing me down, pinning me to the past. I say, excise your demons. They are your responsibility. When it comes to these things people like to project blame. It's similar in a fashion to guilt. People may send you on a guilt trip, but you're the one who packs the bags. Own up.

Be your own solution. Poison that monkey and feel the brutal pain, the emotional exhaustion, and then the relief of having cut that umbilical of sorts, the thing that's cutting off your life energy, and sapping your spirit. There are myriad ways things manifest in your body over time. Just let that dead zombie monkey corpse that means you harm punch its way out of your body however it will.

What outcome do you want? In contrast, while a writer begins with endless possibilities, endings need to be bought, raised, owned, and earned. We allow beginnings to start nearly anywhere, but we need to be convinced and sold the safety of the foundation at the other end of the arc.

Closure doesn't always wear the colors you expect it to. It doesn't always show up on time. Sometimes it rears its head in those quiet moments between notes. It comes when the silence is comforting and allows for more than an opportunity to hear that cacophony of disconcerting white noise that muddies everything. And it comes when items of nostalgia begin to take new form, or consequently none at all. The same can be said for the people in our lives. We only get one chance to live this life. Do it with vigor. And prance along to what's next.

♫ enjoy yourself
take only what
you need from it ♫
-"Kids", MGMT

bite me

Halloween lurks just beyond the other side of the weekend. It breathes across the nape of my neck, offering itself inside out and exposed with chills and the allure of things forbidden and dark. My beloved and I have been devouring more than our share of the unsettling, the offensive, and the creepy, given both our propensities toward the strange, the dark, the twisted, and the visceral. This cinematic marathon has been a welcome change of relaxation, though heightened and enticing, following the close of the play. My literal season of theatre, drooping end to end across the full length of summer has been gnawing at me ever since we closed.

This part of October offers the opportunity for many to don a mask, a costume, or a disguise. Often times the inner beasts of our souls come out, as quiet waives bare their inner whore, I.T.s show off their true comic doppelgangers, executives' ties becomes nooses, and others merely continue to speak from alternating sides of their mouth.

As the third show of the season opens at the theatre, the larger picture of the behind-the-scenes dramatic flow is evident. The first show received much notice, as it launched the season and was directed by the promotional chair of the theatre and was easy to swallow Jell-O for the local blue hairs and nostalgic set. The new show has gotten additional press, promotional push by the aforementioned idiot senior who shat all over mine, as well as the theatre as a whole who seemed bewildered and distracted while mine was in production.

Watching all of these primarily under-appreciated cult classic films, my recent play experience feels akin in many ways. Frankly, my small core team and I put on one hell of a piece of theatre. The fact that so many people missed it is a loss I am resistant to remedy, even though I did film two of the best performances. There is a call to share it with many of these folks at a favorite local hang-out, but my figurative middle finger goes up in response.

This show didn't need to be the commercial bomb that it ended up. The common expression leans toward a ball being dropped, but in this case we were on the loosing dodgeball team, getting constantly plummeted. So, much like the hasty manner in which we were instructed to tear down our set following the last show, the theatre has moved on to its new baby, wiping away clean the memory of this recently aborted one.

As I walked through the dim, quiet theatre taking clinical pictures of my set before the last weekend, I could still feel the energy of the space that continued to draw me in. I crave and feast on the creative, exploratory moments shared in this venue. These walls can certainly speak louder than any of the people currently inhabiting them, as the building is the only consistent part of its thirty year history.

The fear that guides so many away from the dark recesses of the human spirit are the same ones that people consistently seek out around this time of year. Making so many people uncomfortable, so uneasy, and so out of their element (in some cases, in life changing ways) will be what I can take with me from all of this.

cargo cult.

As the butterfly flutters each person who we encounter offers the opportunity to have meaning within the fabric of our whole, or at least a temporal segue. There are people who thrive on those moments of first glance, first touch, and falling in love. I feel their social equivalents must exist. They are the people who must meet new people, steadily adding to that base of their acquaintance stew, in a matter to make themselves feel more prepared for their own social apocalypse.

I once had a whopping 500 friends taking up residence on my FACEBOOK account. That's more people than fill the House of Representatives. It's five hundred people having five hundred first names and five hundred birthdays, experiencing five hundred different life stories. No one can have five hundred friends. Not all at once, anyway. For a brief time this all made perfect sense, as the ticker inched its way up and up in seeming social surplus. This was a period fraught with frequent forecasts of heavy flurries of named strangers, notable passersby, and CLOSE ENCOUNTERS-sized MIA returns of those once known.

A body at rest tends to stay at rest. The collective we operate the same way. Human stasis can grow roots or it can grow mold. There is a wonderfully misleading warmth gained from surrounding oneself with a multitude of familiar faces, in the way that there's a heightened excitement upon starting a movie with an all-star cast. Unfortunately commonly these films are overwrought, clumsily assembled, tipped over by ego, and lacking in pure soul as everything rides on its empty star power.

I'll admit it. Taking out social insurance has its benefits. Sometimes that conversation we have at the local pub with a limited view acquaintance who staggers far on the outskirts of our orbit or that out-and-out stranger who puts a word in edgewise can have more meaning then all of that recalling, recounting, and nostalgia bullshit played out with someone with whom we now share zilch.

Real life more often resembles a subway terminal with people passing one another, sharing little more than a nod or a brief communal acceptance of the weather. We share in these small moments together more out of necessity and coincidence than out of a single thread of connection. We weave in and out of one another's worlds at such a high rate that most relationships in our lives can be chit-marked off as failure.

true colors

A friend to all is a friend to none.
-Aristotle

True friends stab you in the front.
-Oscar Wilde

A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
-Walter Winchell

in digestion

Every commentator gets their chance to have a post-show wrap-up. They're used for sporting events, fashion functions, and political debates. They come in many shapes, sizes, and hues, but they are all the opportunity for one voice to suggest the overall meaning, quality, or key points. They are the conclusion paragraph to the proverbial high school essay.

Monday night, my play's debriefing was held at the theatre.

My stage manager went back to wearing her Presidential cap, as she, my show's sexy, second in command, and I sat awaiting the arrival of anyone else. The next show's set is in stark contrast to mine, with an empty black stage save an over-sized desk. The lighting was harsh and dropped shadows on Mrs. President, who chose to sit behind the desk instead of any of the other ninety-eight seats in the building.

The technical director of the theatre showed up after we had already begun our discussion. I am not sure if it was a discussion, in the clearest terms, though. A cast member and friend of mine suggested it be less debriefing and more dissertation.

Given all of the battles I faced during the production of this show, whether from outside forces, the theatre itself, or any of the other folks in the room, the four pages of notes I prepared were all intended to steer directly clear of anything that could be construed as personal attack. I have come to discover that the timing of this show was poor, the conflicts of most of the theatre's Board members was notable, and I decided to let it slide that many were having an off three months when it comes to offering aide, support, and common courtesy.

So, I had pages of thoughts, observations, and suggestions that I - as a seasoned director at this theatre - felt could help other productions this season and in the future. Many of these were echoed by the technical director, who also happened to be my key set doctor on the show. Was the response of our supposed esteemed-so-nominated-for-a-local-leader-award President to jot these things down to give them their due, consider them, or even table them for the following night's Board meeting? You can probably discern the answer from the phrasing of the question that the answer is a big fat NO.

No, let's not sit back and digest it more. Let's not take any of the perspective of one who has just been to war to help better arm the troops in the future. We'll go ahead and simply get defensive, proving that this meeting was scheduled in hopes to receive endless streams of accolades and praise for how smoothly everything is running compared to year's past. The fact of the matter is that the disorganized, pseudo-leader-free days functioned in similar fashion, albeit two differences: fewer rules and fewer people wearing big titles.

bitter. sweet.

Look around me
I can see my life before me
Running rings around the way
It used to be
-Wasted on the Way (Graham Nash)

As the darkest of storm clouds gathered above the theatre, the cast and crew of the show disassembled the tangible pieces of our play, packing things away and cleaning up the remnants of our short-lived presence there. Under the shadow of the approaching rain, a palpable sense of urgency to clear out and move on was felt by all.

From a numbers position this show was a total failure. One can never fully grasp the why of failings, but it doesn't hurt to ponder. Our three weekend schedule was up against big name plays, a hippie music fest and other local concerts of note, Gator home games, and the like. Following all of the controversy that started up the rehearsal process, the theatre attacked my show with kid gloves and blinders, most notably the so-dubbed Promotions Chair person. The lonesome task of promoting the show with everything else fell quite heavily on my henchwoman and myself, yet even those efforts wore through with holes as positive Facebook event respondents with familiar names (friends, acquaintances, and frequent enthusiasts) ultimately numbered fifty plus in no shows. The mind becomes boggled by streams of disappointment.

Then again, from a creative standpoint, I feel this play was the most assured work of my career. Though I bypassed the budget several times over, straight from pocket, I put every red cent on the stage in highly tangible ways. The audience was instantly engulfed by a set that offered nothing extraneous, but set tone, suggested what was to come, and sold itself as a livable space. The production also offered me the chance to work with actors in new ways I hadn't explored before, thus helping us create an ensemble cast dynamic of actors who knew their characters inside and out, and shared much underlying chemistry with those they've supposedly known for the better part of twenty years.

Oh, how quickly our show's flame flickered out. Our swan song may have been the strongest performance of the whole run, as choreographed and tailored stage elements properly aligned with audience response. It was one of only a couple occasions that we received standing ovations. The production had been pinned down and against many an odd for such an extended period of time, only to be cut off at the knees as it began to rise, dusting itself off, building up confidence and steam. This beast of a show was tranquilized before it could truly have a profound impact. The old philosophical quandary about a tree falling in the forest would apply well to this one.

mmm hmm.

Art is never finished, only abandoned.
Leonardo da Vinci

primal scream.

I learned long ago how burning bridges can be akin to professional suicide. For a lot of these nosedives I have fortunately been on the sidelines, observing, taking in the lessons others couldn't see plowing straight toward them. There's one industry friend of mine who I worked with on several projects who has never conveyed a single negative word about any show that has come along the pike. I have often seen this position as living in shameful denial while reaping the benefits of experience and a steadily bubbling résumé.

Tonight begins the final weekend of my play. There will be three more performances, and then this temporary dysfunctional family will scatter to the wind, focusing on other things, memorizing new pure moments, locking another one away in the mausoleum of memory. For a show so intimately about the nuanced and the obvious flavors of food, sex, love, and life, the absolute last thing I want to do is leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth about this unfortunately rushed but tightly woven experience. Once all of the warts are scraped away and the animal is skinned, what lies beneath is a work of art to make one proud.

I have such apprehension about the whole debriefing meeting set to occur on Monday evening. To quote the play: 'why are you asking me to criticize you?' I think the world already has far too many meetings, conference calls, and jam sessions, that a pow-wow with this forced outsider can only have a couple of extreme results, either possibly pounding on principles or on future opportunities. The iBoss died this week. I feel that the previous week he was loathed, yet in death he's a prince, a champion of our entire culture. Clearly no one can play it straight. No one can comfortably speak their mind. There's always merely a time and a place. My mom would always refer to that as picking your battles.

What's the answer? The Zen in my motorcycle maintenance has me taking deep breaths. I have seen this show develop so organically that I feel as if I can easily deconstruct it all down to its finer points, whether it be the dispositions of others or each layer of every metaphor. One must occasionally wonder about how far reaching ripples can be felt. My opinions are strong, but perhaps the bravest thing to do is add another line to my résumé and move on. Sometimes the best thing you can do is let people discover things at their own pace.

sacrificial lamb

it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors
- Oscar Wilde

I'm not a particularly political person. I don't get energized by things the government does, by elections, by political rally, or by seeing talking heads in pressed suits exchange rehearsed ideas on C-SPAN. I have tried in the past to make my voice heard. It hasn't always been my voice, but the prescribed one given to those I was surrounded by - the assumed, popular position. But honestly it's simply not my bag. I'm glad for political uprisings over the years, giving votes to those who need now rock it, and the like, but politics are simply not my arena.

Though reasonably apolitical, I have a strong definition of ethics, boundaries, and principles. It comes as no surprise that there would be a literal sacrificial lamb in my current play. I think most people simply play politics. In the same way I work for a giant corporation (Radio $hack - so you don't have to scroll back through) who have been in existence in some fashion for ninety years, I am but a peon way the hell down the food chain. Some months ago they tossed out a survey about the overall conditions of the job for all employees to take, should they wish. Since we had to log in to the computers to take it, I can hardly guarantee the anonymity of the affair.