photo finish.

The freaks come out at night 

-Whodini, 1984.

They are everywhere. It becomes even more apparent as the sun goes down. Around every corner, like some sort of stock footage from a James Whale film from the 1930's. Harsh shadows and chiaroscuro emitting from intense low-key lighting. This neo-human race is addicted to their pocket lining lives.

Although I've been providing bus loads of locals with them for years, I only recently took the plunge into the whole smartphone game. Their whole presence seemed to interfere with common direct, daily interaction with others, as every few minutes of seemingly normal connection would become interrupted by a technological commercial break, a phenomena one of my good friends refers to as phone time. For a while it seemed like something I could do without, but I too caved or, as one could attest, caught up to the new evolution of our species.

The cultural edict of today that flushes with so-called smart technology is the need to personalize everything. In the process of marking my territory and mentally pissing all over this new device, I kept coming face-to-face with a bit of a nemesis: Instagram.

Instagram. For some time my initial thoughts were, oh great, look everyone's a photographer now. Take your garbage pictures, then pimp them out to within an inch of their life, using editing tools to give the distinct impression that you've actually got some talent. I know this is territorial snap judgment of artists who are overwhelmed with examples of having less and less meaning in the world, when it appears everyone can do what you do.

I have felt this in the past within all of the things that I value about myself, whether as an artist, a writer, a lover, a man ... or so forth. I know it comes from my childhood, when nothing was ever good enough for the masters of the house. I know it comes from being the quiet one, the reserved one, the one that few have 'gotten' over time and who would define me in those precise, inaccurate ways. I didn't spring from a particularly positive, encouraging environment, but one built on fear, paranoia, and sadness, so I suppose one shouldn't be too surprised what hurdles have existed.

As a kid, I was given the impression that our culture was created from specialists, from well trained, apprenticed folks whose last names echoed their lot in life. As our culture has matured into the twenty-first century it has grown apparent with the expansion of the internet as the key resource in most households that everyone can quickly become an expert in anything. There was once was a time when one actually had to hire a photographer. Now everyone IS one.

Through the nineties there was a big push in Hollywood, by the likes of auteur Martin Scorsese to make sure that the home versions of classic and contemporary films were being properly restored and seen in full widescreen format. I still hear to this day complaints from people about the black bars on the TV, denoting the complete aspect is being maintained.

Simultaneously a perk and a drawback of Instagram is the fact that the final images are perfect squares, so the best part of your pics are seen, which can easily remove key content from your image.

There's a major difference between the photography one might frame above their fireplace in their living room, and the slew of madness that shows up on any given page of this techno application. To a point this is the made for television version of photography. What I have resolved is that Instagram is not photography, in the clear sense of the word. It's a whole other pop art form, a Polaroid instant camera for the current generation. As it's entirely a public space, it's Polaroid without all of the mystique and secrecy. And dammit, if I'm not addicted to it now.

anti hero

HIATUS
a gap or passage in an anatomical part of organ.

The anatomy lesson reads like so: opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one.

AMC's highly regarded Breaking Bad ended its run last night. I have no input on the matter. I never saw more than a scene or two from it, thanks to promos here and there on awards shows and about the internet. My dark, twisty, anti-hero show of choice, Dexter, ran it's course the week before. I tend to keep my eyes off boards of this sort or another, especially as they relate to television programs.

Dexter's swan song was different, however. I couldn't get away from heavy handed remarks made by friends on their Facebook pages. And by that, I mean downright mean, uncharacteristic, and at times judgmental commentaries. The nifty hide and block features allow for a smoother road trip, but without these sort of personal designations the internet is rampant with unchecked aggression. We are overly inundated. Since everyone has a forum of one sort of other, it seems many people would prefer to simply yell the harshest, loudest thing possible to gain notice.

HIATUS
an interruption in time or continuity.

I have been on a lengthy hiatus from this forum on which I have been known to unload etchings of my lizard brain from time to time. Writing, like most pursuits, have consequences for absence. It is all too easy to lose the habit of it, allowing any number of other things to take precedence. I have a lot of almost books and other such material ferreted away that represent dropping the proverbial ball.

After a viewing of the surprisingly effective and engaging biopic Hitchcock, I caught a forty year old interview with the man himself in an appearance on the Dick Cavett Show. Essentially making reference to all art forms, he stated how he is always in the midst of directing. It's simply a part of his being. I can relate to that in a variety of ways.

I've been over this territory before, but I will decree here and now that there's no such thing as writer's block. That's not why I didn't post in here. I haven't been without words, or without expression, I've simply been putting all of that energy to better use elsewhere.

dirty laundry.

I like to keep my issues drawn
But it's always darkest before the dawn
Shake it out. Shake it out,
Shake it out... Oh-woah!!
  ~Florence + the Machine (2011)

When I was just shy of six-years-old I propped myself up on the counter of the second floor bathroom of the family's townhouse. Taking scissors in hand, I did my damnedest to straighten out and clean up what I perceived to be an unkempt mop atop my head. In the meantime since then I have spotted only a mere one or two ugly images from then bearing evidence that foretold of the sophisticated British hairline I would later develop.

Although these are hardly concerns I bother with given the '70's rock star beard and tresses I wear about town these days, the simple fact about hair cuts remains the same about many other aspects of life: there's no taking back too much.

The bane of the social media explosion of the past ten years is that of a pulpit open twenty-four hours a day. The expense of self-expression that unlimited is the construction of endless entitlement, whereby your concerns must be my concerns, your woes are now my woes, your sadness and dwelling shall be my cue to remedy, and so forth. I'm not above being there for a friend truly in need, but there's a harsher judgment to be shown toward those who have no ability to hold their tongue and must air out every thread of their laundry, no matter how snotty, how stained, how bloody, or seriously none of my business.

I take my art creation and consumption to visceral extremes, seeing the daring of new and unsettling exploration. I am not one to be easily offended by these things, but instead find the challenge invigorating. There is certainly a contradiction. I spent part of my morning performing an autopsy on our Amana clothes dryer trying to conclude what killed it. Maybe it's not so much what you do with your dirty laundry, as much as how often.

muscle flex

There are a few distinct tribes of people with whom I have relationships.

The most obvious to me are the ones to which I feel the most commonality, and who have been explored the most consistently during the course of this blog, so it should come as little surprise when I reference them. They come with very little introduction, and often very little cash. They are the ARTY TYPES.

The second group of people sound a bit like some carnival of artists' side project experiment. These subjects are given high likelihood to wrecking havoc, having it drenched upon them, or seek out the worst possible response to a difficulty in order to create future episodes of misery they can weep about in overwrought prose on social media. These are the DRAMATICS.

Then there's the third. It's the place either of these types go when they're done with all of their playing around. They leave behind all of their lofty hopes and dreams, and all of their sleeping around and fucking things up royally for a life of the expected basics, and little hope for the future but the vicarious thrills that come from their crazy friends and so-dubbed precocious spawn as they wax poetic about the old days. These are the SELL-OUTS.

Yeah, I know. This is a brash generalization, but even still, you have been quickly able to pick someone you know who'd fit in one or the other category. What about yourself, though? Why is it that we often know others better than we know ourselves?

Now that I've ferreted my way out of the seventy-five hour work weeks, running a retail mart for a company to whom I have a hate-hate involvement, I can set back to some good ol' soul searching. Getting caught up living someone else's life, even if it's one determined at distance via channels of policy and overly measured purpose overtakes so many parts of your sense of self. At least that's the threat.

Let the type of person you are, and the type of person you want to be act as a gauge for what muscles you work out.

dark passenger.

Emotions can't be prescribed, prepackaged, manufactured, or otherwise dictated, so why does our culture persist in essentially napalming Valentine's Day all across billboards, advertisements, shopping aisles, and mindsets? Mass marketing and dispassionate displays of repetitive catch phrases, gaudy trinkets, and farm raised bouquets strike up the question of whether we are all supposedly seriously that alike.

I can't think of the last time I took a serious second glance at the card section, heart-shaped candy area, or the cellophane wrapped grab bag of candles, lotions, and other such chick get-up. Even Fresh Market, that small grocery chain who always seems to create an authentic atmosphere for it's passionate relationship with food, sold out to the duplicate gift giving idea. My wife and I tend to venture there on the occasion to window shop primarily and to pick up a few whims mostly. We found ourselves there yesterday afternoon, and were instantly taken aback at the front entrance which had been overtaken by penis wearing vultures tearing at the chocolate covered strawberry and coronary cookie display.

be longing

STATICECLECTICISM is an on-line handle I have been carrying around for some time. I chose it based on the title of this brief bit of free form poetry I wrote to a kindred spirit of mine in November of 1998. I found myself attached to it as a secondary identity, because to me it spoke to a desire to be outside of norms and as a reminder to be ever evolving.

For me, creation sprouts from the culling together of many varied elements, whether dream, experience, memory, experimentation, research, synchronicity, or simply blind luck. Yet to remain static within endless possibilities addresses much larger concepts for me. I find that art without obstacles is rarely created and certainly quickly forgotten.

Boundaries can only be pushed when there is resistance and life is barely lived without challenge.

counter requiem

Lewis Carroll suggested we weave our tale by starting at the beginning. Shifts in narrative taste and the translation of truth into prose offers alternative paths to explore. It is often a better idea to jump into the deep end of the pool rather than talking yourself out of the whole swim knee deep in cold water, still holding onto the railing.

I have not written in here for months. This has hardly been due to a lack of words, which spout from my salivary spigot at a high rate on a daily basis due to necessity of rote oral defecation brought on by maintaining a talking job. Over the years, I have fine tuned my mode of delivery to avoid the robotics of many of my compatriots who have passed on, and those of the nervous newbies who've only recently joined us at the front. But half of what transpires is mindless at best and misleading at worst. The other fifty percent is made up of under-appreciated, under-valued quality information and of course plenty of one liners. My need for psychological exposition has been great. And dammit all, I have been hard pressed for quality creative outlets, or more than the occasional one night stand with the writer in me, because writing the most interesting, eloquent, grammatically correct work-related emails hasn't been cutting it.

My inner photographer hasn't let up, however. My aging companion of a camera travels with me nearly everywhere I go like some ventriloquist's dummy, countering my thoughts and echoing my visions without my needing to say a single word. I have captured thousands of images in a reasonably short time. The barrage of inspiration has been so strong. I have recognized the need and more importantly the ability to never put away the aching artist side of myself. With or without reward or note, it doesn't only have to come out to play on the weekends, but can remain in everything I do.

team colors

Pride.

Why so revered? It's a known deadly sin. Without it we seem without purpose, and drive. We want to take pride in our homes, pride in our work, and pride in our relationships. Yet it truly is an ugly animal, mauled over time by connotation and misuse.

A vision for it has been on my mind lately, as I have tirelessly expended myself attempting to create an atmosphere where pride can live and grow at my tarnished workplace. I have held all of the power, and none of it likewise. When it slips things go to shambles. This was the case when I arrived on the scene two and some months ago. Morale was in the toilet. Energy was held at a whisper. And anger ruled in a slow rumbling, underneath the surface of this place that leans a little to the west into a literal slowly digesting sinkhole.

I have held onto my pride with all my might. I value these things. Home. Work. Connections. I fight till last breath for them. Sometimes it's my own undoing. I don't always seek a tangible pay-off. I find worth in the action itself. I've always enjoyed kicking up dust, so to speak. I am terrible at being stagnant. I react like an animal in a cage, clawing and biting for any alternative.

I have been trapped here for some time, navigating instead through varied travails I've encountered. I didn't expect to be working for this company so long. It was the first shark that bit. Then I fell and fell into what came next. Inadvertent responsibility is tricky. I have invisibly done more than I have with note. I don't enjoy drawing attention to my contributions. But when you're a number, and little more than a dossier, to an amorphous corporate unit such as this, it becomes necessary evil, and a skill I don't have well tailored.

What I see as braggerts and bullshitters, the machine sees as success stories. I have fundamental disagreement with this methodology. It brings to mind a close friend of mine, who is (amongst other things) an actor. He doesn't believe the hype of his own cheerleaders. And he doesn't like to promote himself and network. My experience in the creative industries has shown the colors of these actions to be a self-congratulatory jerk-off cream toned mess. I can fully understand wanting to avoid it at the cost of... dare I say, pride.

(234)

act two

The more you are motivated by love,
the more fearless & free your action will be.
◊ Dalai Lama XIV

The last show I directed premiered one year ago, last night. Each and every aspect was a struggle and a fight, that left me longing for a different venue, another collection of board members, and some goddamned dignity. The core group of artists who did ultimately wage the waves with me without jumping ship command my utmost respect.

For a short time, I contemplated submitting a show for the theatre's consideration. Over the past nine months, in fact, I was asked time and again: Are you doing anything next season? What are you directing next? What's your next show? I thought about submitting something partially out of habit and mainly out of yearning to spray my creative juices all over something else.

After the mistreatment the general populace of the behind-the-scenes hacks offered the brilliant piece of theatre I assembled last time out, it appeared the only way to garner their attention and notice was to play it straight and way too safe. It seemed that grit and perversity were much too worrisome for their little minds to take on.

I thought about a few shows that their high school esteem could cheerlead behind that I could likewise add my own particular brand of spice to. I also had my moments of fuck-all, as I reconsidered shows like the unsettling 1979 work, Bent or anything that no one else in this town would have the balls to attempt. But there was nothing I could concieve of putting my blood, sweat, and tears into that wouldn't feel like I was wasting my time for a bunch of amateurs and a likely tainted prospective audience.

Oh, and I suppose there was the little fact that I was getting married. As the year passed, I came to realize such an event shares many attributes with putting on a show.

• BUDGET ($$$) - Whether you love it or hate it, money is a key component to any major undertaking. On previous plays I have done, the above theatre in question offered a reimbursement amount between 200 and 250 dollars, which would presume that a quality show could be put on for that precise amount. I have always disagreed. At ticket prices of ten dollars a pop, I don't believe that amount of moolah can put together squat which would warrant such an entry fee. I was able to pull off the last show for somewhere in the realm of 850 dollars, but the actual retail value far exceeds that given how many things were given to it pro-bono, to say nothing of a fair amount of DIY, which seems the proper buzz word for putting a little freakin' pride into the proceedings. I highly recommend putting yourself into everything you do, regardless the available funds. This is certainly the direction my bride and I took our nuptuals. It doesn't hurt, either, that we are both highly creative individuals who are also really good with money.
• LOCATION - As a wedding is essentially a limited engagement production, finding just the right scene for the folks in question is key. Working the theatre I have for so many years always made the choice an obvious one, but now that things have changed finding another option takes a lot more fore-thought and internal examination. I remember watching Paul Thomas Anderson's masterpiece Boogie Nights in a dingy, piss smelling, grungy dollar theatre that made my boots stick on impact. It was the right place to experience that grimy flick. The choice of venue for a wedding can easily link hands with the tone of the show. We took the better part of our eight month engagement to discover just where our show belonged. Ultimately we decided upon a ceremony venue that accepted our unboxable religious and spiritual belief cornicopia and lent itself to being a place embraceable by each person in attendance. Our reception space was the harder fought decision, which quickly became the obvious answer to the query. We decided on our favorite pub, an establishment with a history itself and for us, positioned on a street corner of much significance.
• PROMOTION - What's the point of putting on a show if no one knows about it? In this new speak age of Facebook and the changed dynamics of social interaction, the release of relevant information was highly considered. In ways we are quite old school. We quietly became engaged and shared the information with close family and friends before presenting the big reveal on the social drone machine. After that we dropped zero hints about any ounce of wedding planning or other adventures we were having, so the few handfuls of people who received our inventive invitation package in the mail by July were understood to be an exclusive lot, and the one-of-a-kind invite was in limited supply.
• CASTING - One can never spend too long in casting. I know from being involved in poorly cast situations. From the month of our engagement until the last few invitations were licked shut and mailed, my fiancee and I toiled over the guest list. Having been harshly shown the true colors of so many so-called friends over the years, we were more assured of the value of people who could see through all of the filth, all of the lies, and were worthwhile participants in our life ahead, as opposed to pawns for someone else's agenda or disingenuous soulless duds. A few additional flies would ultimately drop from view once it became time for the processional. The people who showed up, and gave it their all, and the ones who could not be there but certainly were felt from afar are the ones who continue to hold an invitation to the exclusive inner circle. The rest can sod off.
• SCRIPT - As a self-professed writer, words are significant to me. The tone of a script is often what draws me to material that I would like to share with an audience. The words are important, but so are the spaces between words that draw moment for reflection. Standing in front of our friends and family we heard more than a few people say 'wow' or the like. And there were even welcome moments of levity. The overall response was powerful.
• MUSIC - Music makes all the difference. I don't know if it's related to the choice of music that plays within a movie, at the workplace, in the car, or at a party. If the tone is set inappropriately or arbitrarily, the choice will be the production's undoing.
• COSTUME - If I learned a strong lesson from my first play, I say always have a costumer. Make sure it's their only job. I would certainly contend that my bride and I were the snazziest looking folks at the wedding. It would have been a disappointment if that were not the case. We set down ground rules after that. Everyone needs to wear what they're comfortable in, with the expecation of Florida weather and dancing. Without fail everyone looked like themselves. So much of what goes on inside of each individual was exhibited in their choice of attire. And humorously no one looked like they were going to the same place. The last show I did demanded the actors in essence dress themselves. They were advised to dress like their characters. They were concerned they'd just look like themselves, but in truth they found parts of themselves in their characters and wore that.

(219)

i peed.

(something about) the next ten songs on your iPod

I'll just dive right in.

(1) "Uprising" by Muse (2009)
Though seemingly seaped in political paranoia, Muse's straight forward pounding anthem is simultaneously an emotional inspiration for the outcast and underappreciated to say nothing of an obvious stripper tune for the Doctor Who nerd set.

(2) "Loverman" by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds (1994)
The disturbed stranger lurking in the dark of many a nightmare is likely modeled off the mug of the brilliant Nick Cave, who does some of his strongest work on 1994's Let Love in. This track is particularly unsettling yet captivating, in the fashion of a gruesome highway pile-up.

(3) "The Way You Make Me Feel" by Michael Jackson (1987)
Thriller was my childhood! Everything about that record helped to form my musical appreciation, understanding, and expectation. I am one of the millions who are still in disbelief every time a reference is made to Michael Jackson's death. Though personally and psychologically a mad mess, I refuse to dismiss his artistic brilliance that was in high gear through the peak of his career in the 80's. This tune from that album's follow up still cooks, and would no doubt still keep the dancefloor full.

(4) "C'est la Vie" by Robbie Nevil (1986)
This soulful, babymaking tune is sadly long forgotten by most. Even though he charted a few other times in the following years, Robbie Nevil will always be a one hit wonder to me.

(5) "Just Let Go" by Fischerspooner (2005)
A high energy minor hit by the electroclash duo Fischerspooner. It's like a modern day take on an Atari game, and one that I like to play a lot.

(6) "Apologize" by One Republic (feat. Timbaland) (2007)
Sometimes I'm not certain why I love this song so much. The dude on vocals has that vaguely whiny tone in his voice that tends to be the irksome modern sound that has ruined a bit of contemporary music. But then there's the commanding beats, and Timbaland's amusing tag that he seems to offer all he does, like aural graffiti. The truth is I believe this song. There's an emotional texture to it that I just get. And sometimes that's enough.

(7) "Drivin' My Life Away" by Eddie Rabbitt (1980)
If Thriller was music formative to my childhood, urban country circa 1978 to 1982 may have been even more so. I grew up the receipient of myriad musical moments. From my dad, I inherited classic country. The sounds of this period, specifically, find their way on the iPod quite often: Alabama, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Crystal Gayle, Don Williams, Juice Newton, Ronnie Milsap, and of course Eddie Rabbitt. This song and "I Love a Rainy Night" (his follow-up) are a one-two punch time warp.

(8) "I Feel the Earth Move" by Carole King (1971)
Upon breaking free of the Goffin-King songwriting team (and marriage), Carole King released her first and likely pinnacle work, Tapestry. The namesake says it all, the record weaved together all that was terrific about her: tight melodies, thoughtful lyrics, and some decent guest star friends.

(9) "Shellshock" by New Order (1986)
John Hughes, what wonderful 80's music we should all thank you for helping us discover. His films always intertwined musical experience with life experience. It's a combo I can relate to. This one first showed up in Pretty in Pink, and has consistently found itself onto many a shuffle. I often prefer it to the predictable "Bizarre Love Triangle" and "Blue Monday".

(10) "You Got That Right" by Lynyrd Skynyrd (1977)
Guess I was born with a travellin' bone. When my times up, I'll hold my own. When it comes to Southern Rock, there are few substitutes for these guys. Sometimes it comes down to death. This song is from their three days posthumously released album Street Survivors - the one with the flames behind the band that some would say foretold of their demise. One must wonder whether an anthem like "Freebird" would be the same song if it weren't for the plane crash that took the lives of so many band members.

(11) .... I could have continued, but I've got other things to do.

the grounded

Here's a truck stop instead of St. Peter's
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
~ "Man on the Moon" by R.E.M. (1992)

During the past couple weeks Netflix has been sending my fiancée and I the award winning mini-series From the Earth to the Moon, which neither of us had seen during the fourteen year stretch since its release. What an appropriate time to take a gander at it, since coincidentally Sally Ride recently passed and an SUV of sorts has landed on Mars!

A little known fact: during my sophomore year of college I receieved my highest grade ever (a ridiculously high A) in Astronomy. For one who went from studying elementary education as a paying job fallback for a posited film career to college dropout turned self-taught whoknowswhat, this comes a bit out of left field. But space is facinating! Give me science fact or give me science fiction, especially of the extra-terrestrial variety, and I'm interested.

The mini-series had its aesthetic failings, primarily minor directorial choices, but it was quite in depth. Separate some added trivia for the noggin one of the things that really stood out is the realization that everything great truly happens at a snail's pace. A million tiny steps, circuits, and moments of time move us from big point A to bigger point B.

(213)

look away!!

hell - 43
damn - 23
god damn - 5
pussy - 2
dick - 1
shit - 11
fuck -25
c<>t - 0

total # of posts: 481


When I was in middle school, I found Peter Benchley's original novel of Jaws at one of the many bargain bin garage sales my local branch of the library had. This was during an early surge of insatiable curiosity and avarice for all things storytelling. I had seen Spielberg's movie adaptation plenty of times, but I had never read it's source material.

It was a thick, daunting book that turned out to be a swift read. By the time I got around to reading it, at any rate. In the meanwhile it sat with hundreds of others, collecting dust on my shelf as I tore through library book after library book, often at the neglect of the ones I actually owned. But then my honor's English teacher offered us the chance to pick a novel to read for which we'd do an oral and visual presentation. I decided to go for this one.

I thought it'd be a breeze. I'd be able to tie it in with the movie, since my facination for film was advancing exponentially, during this time as well. But then I actually read it. And for a kid at that formative time, I was quite taken aback when I realized just the sort of elements Popcorn Steven had omitted in his version of the story. I can assure you there were certain key passages that found themselves read again and again, from specially dog earred pages.

When it came time to put together my presentation, I went artsy and nostalgic on the visual presentation by creating a newspaper from 1974 from scratch (no small feat in a time that seemed to pre-date everything I would use today to create the same thing), and a bit of a bullet-like retelling of key points of the shark tale. I skipped the whole matter of the sex, the nudity, and the graphic descriptions of things I had only begun to truly piece together. It became my dirty little secret from the class.

There is something thrilling about having an extra ounce of knowing. It's the excitement one gets from leaving the panties in the hamper when they go out or from whispering something off-color in a stuffy setting. Truthfully , it's our human ability to have whatever kind of thoughts we desire whenever or wherever we are. There's a gratification in that.

There are alternate, often unseen sides to most of life. I certainly think about that in context with this blog. I have been posting and posting pictures and observations for six years now. One could create a whole other page from all of the things left unsaid. There's so much buried within the phrases I have chosen or between the images posted. Somewhere between the combination of the two, the full story is transmitted.

More and more, especially over the better part of the past three years, what I've shared has been to the extent to what I would care to share. Fewer thoughts have been redacted. And it has taken me far less time to scribe the message. Words have flowed much, much faster. I believe it's because the life I live now has fewer barriers.

But then there's the pictures. My current series of images have just kept coming, as I end up snapping pictures nearly every single day. But still not everything seems appropriate for posting. Is it because this blog is still suggested for general audiences? I know a lot of people to whom the word mature would not apply, though they are considered adult. I think some of the concepts and ideas I spin here have a, pardon me, depth not found in most underage folks.

Is it merely the sight of nipples and not the suggestion that makes something adult?

(208)

heart strings.

Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.  ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Inpiration comes in many forms. It blesses the world in as many facets as we find creativity. From the rhythm of sprinkling on an array of spices in your daily culinary pursuits to arranging the pillows on the bed at the end of the night to how you display all of the disparate items that clutter up your desk, everything has a measure of art.

Everything.

I have held these inclings in my mind for a long time. Born the observer of my bunch, for a time I thought my quiet, contemplation masked emptiness. But in truth it was always a stirring, a percolation of my soul. My need to create is loud and brash. It's all around me. Lightbulbs of inspiration are burning out and being replaced all the time. And for this I am thankful.

(203)

= 64%

π challenge.

On November 11th, 2011, I began a new blog challenge, as a means to further hone my photography skills and to place additional pressure on myself to become a tad more prolific. The challenge is simple and open-ended: post 314 newly taken pics in one year's time.

(as of this posting, I just passed #201)

My earliest memories flash before me like a photographic flipbook. This is much like an occasion when a dream is being recalled. The brief bursts of significant moments reveal themselves a few at a time. As we retell it we weave it into something else entirely - a new thing. It's got some structure and it's got flow, unlike the film school avant-garde of our more daring dream space. Our brains don't require this as we sleep. I believe this is something pertinent to our awakened state, however.

When something already exists, we tend to take it a little bit for granted. It becomes part of our pre-packaged idea of how things are. Our recognition of the things that are and the things that seem not to be become very distinctive. This is why a moment like riding your bike out of eyesight of mom or off the block entirely is something I recall being quite powerful.

It's the realization that something more exists. And this something is far more captivating than what is present now. Many people fear it. Expanded horizons are so full of unknown. We don't tend to partake of very much unknown, since the known looks so good on our mantles just the way it is.

Ultimately this creates stagnancy. It breeds unpleasant relations that harbor resentment and complacency.

I was given my first quality camera when I graduated high school. Before that I had borrowed the family 110 camera or would use that cheap 35mm I was given for an eighth grade overnight field trip. My true passion was filmmaking, but I made the most of the point-and-shoot experience I had with this above average 35mm with adjustable settings.

This was a time that pre-dated even the most primitive household digital cameras by several years to say nothing of social media. It was a time when people would still shy away from the lens of a camera. I wonder if it has anything do with the contemporary instant ability to veto shots as they come.

Whatever the case, this was a particularly formative period for my creative juices. As an aspiring filmmaker, I saw photographic images as pieces in a larger visual puzzle. At least that was my hope. But my comfort level and skills were still at such a pedetrian level, I was a long way from connecting meaning into my pictures.

Since that time, I have actually had the chance to create extensively, in a variety of forums. It took me a long time to recognize the fact that no one project really had any more importance than any other. For an artist, what matters ultimately is a body of work.

The debacle from one year ago at my theatre led me to turn my back on the place that did me likewise. As is the running theme of the past couple years, I have grown up far beyond what it currently offers. There are other horizons for my artistic contributions.

Toward the end of last year, during a year when my writing had been at a particularly prolific high, I decided I wanted to tune up my photographic powers as well. So many people who post on blogs have attempted to knock out a picture a day for a years time, or some variation therein. I am not like most people. I decided to be honest with myself and curtail the number of pictures to 314 (based on π, which carries certain significance for me) within the span of one year.

As of this post, I have posted 201 pictures to this challenge. (Sure, there are a few freebies along the way that I haven't applied to this for one reason or another.) Even though they may at first seem like a potpourri, scrolling along should tell a number of continuing stories, full of my usual dose of subtext.

I also feel that I have become far more comfortable with creating something from nothing. Most of these pictures were taken completely on the fly.

Sometimes overthinking can ruin the best things.

(-113)



une fusion

a song you want played at your wedding

Last year when I undertook a music-related blog challenge, I constructed my own list from a variety of sources. One trigger that kept coming up while I was searching for ideas was a song you want played at your wedding. Truthfully I can't even think why it didn't make the cut, but I know everything has its proper time. I am getting married in less than two months. We have actually been talking about the music for it quite a bit, since our DJ wants a very detailed playlist from us.

After my lady love and I met, it didn't take us long to get stirred up in the power of one another's intensity. There was a kinetic energy and sensual passion to our earliest connections that was unstoppable. Our magnetism was palpable. And few of those who knew us during this time expected it to last. It's just a matter of opposites attracting, right? They'll get over it. After all, it must have been little more than a rebound from our now defunct fourth grader aged marriages.

Often one of the tell tale signs of being held back in the moving on process is going after a partner with similar characteristics as your recently estranged. My newly discovered pursuit could not have been more different than her. If she was like anyone, she shared commonality with a woman with whom I'd played around some nearly fifteen years prior. This new woman had striking depth of character, a twist in her humor, a darkness she wasn't afraid to explore, and a beauty befitting European erotica.

I was smitten, and I refused to let anything or anyone stand in my way. Take that christianmingle.com and the rest, I found my match all by my lonesome! It only took a lot of wrong roads to get there, for the both of us, but there we were facing the future together. This is a mighty powerful revelation when opportunity like this strikes precisely when the world is expecting a different reaction. We'd both stumbled along in our ill-fitting relationships, like actors playing the same tired roles year-in, year-out, speaking those same words until they had no meaning and our lips were numb. The details were different, but the outcome quite similar.

Have you ever been to an amateur dance class? There's a room full of mostly strangers who pair up and rotate through different pairings, attempting to learn the steps. Every rotation takes a new adjustment, and it's awkward and it's forced. That's what it used to be like. For a long time, I thought it had to be. Just when I thought reshuffling the deck one more time was going to do the trick, when starting with a fresh one was the answer. Everyone involved is so much better off! The new world that erupted into being when it was all said and done is a far superior place.

She makes sense to me. And I make sense to her. We've had strong rhythm since the very beginning. As I understand it, through experience, through knowledge of others, what we have is rare. We flood one another with a youthful enjoyment of everyday. Together we can be daring, and naughty, and take risks. And we function so freakin' easily! Sometimes I can't believe it's my life. I wake up every day pleased as punch.

And now we're getting married. And the guest list is really beginning to sparkle. But they're coming for the vows and staying for the party. So we need music.

There's so much. I'm going to go off the top of my head with this one:

• Endless Love by Lionel Richie & Diana Ross (1981). I will attest to this being one of my most favorite love songs of all time. Sure it was the theme song to a long forgotten Brooke Shields vehicle. It was recorded very quickly, and the final recording is said to be the first or second take. Yet the passion and unity between the voices is what really grabs me, as each shares or borrows phrases from one another, in a vocal dance of sorts.
• White Wedding by Billy Idol (1982). My brain seems to automatically be seeking out the early 80's. Perhaps it's related to something quite formative. Perhaps this is the most obvious choice of a wedding song. Any old wedding. I choose this one for many reasons. All of which are multi-layered fun! And no, I'm not letting on.
• Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads (1980). You may tell yourself - this is not my beautiful wife...How did I get here? -- Need I say more?
• Everlong by Foo Fighers (1997). I've waited here for you - everlong.... From the remains of Nirvana, Dave Grohl's seeming pet project created brilliance and their signature crowd pleaser with this one. It encapsulates so much romance, in all of it's varied hues.
• Cruisin' by Huey Lewis & Gwyneth Paltrow (2000). Speaking of duets, this Smokey Robinson cover is one of my favorites. It doesn't hurt that this song originates from Duets, a moderately enjoyable Hollywood peek into the world of competitive karaoke. As a karaoke enthusiast cum officinado (or at least more enthusiastic than previously), it's nice to have a touch of validation from the movies. Second only to that is the somewhat disconcerting fact that the characters in the movie are father and daughter, who share these empassioned phrases.
• Lucky by Bif Naked (1998). A quiet, reflective, nearly somber ballad which made its premiere on the cult classic TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Indeed, we are the lucky ones.
• Shelter by Ray LaMontagne (2004). Speaking of contemplative beauty, this man is the Van Morrison for our generation, to the chagrin of any number of whiny, indie poseurs whose souls are often phoned-in. You will shelter me my love. And I will shelter you.

Amen.

(194)

an in

I was recently told a theory on memory. Pick a year from your life. Now try to recall x, y, z details about it. Each recollection is said to unlock another piece, until you really start to uncover key parts of the story.

Sure, not all of life is worth reliving. At least not our own. There's too much pain, too much uncertainty, too many dead ends, but living it secondhand through the words, images, or sounds of those works that we return to again and again. That's not a problem. It's vicarious living. And it's safer.

I am sure you've done this. You've found yourself flipping through television channels, stumbling upon a familiar movie well on its way. And then you get caught up. You might have even been watching something else, currently on a commercial break.

A story well-told unfolds in such a fashion that each piece overlaps the last as well as the following. The mosaic it paints makes so much sense that we become enwrapped within it. This is true of books, movies, theatre, or even within our favorite music. Each time through we begin to recall how perfectly the next part follows.

The pieces of our life make similar sense, in retrospect. Each event eclipses the next. Over time, the more we look inward, the more noticable the saga becomes. If the universe can be expanding then the same can be true of our human lives. Personally, I can see it on my slight scale how each piece of my life has led to the next. Even simply reading back through this blog, new things reveal themselves. What's revealed and what's absent certainly tells quite a tale.

One of the key shifts I've recognized is a change in dynamics. Each person who enters and leaves our life readjusts the tone of it. We all can have such great affect on one another, whether positive, detrimental, or somewhere in between. Like attracts like, separating the honest from the false. Old friends return, holding new meaning. New friends are created as families expand.

And thus, we enter a new chapter.

(190)

la voix

Do you hear me
Do you care
Tell me, what are words for . . .
~ "Words" by Missing Persons (1982)

Self-expression isn't taught. It's discovered.

When I was in school the more notable outlets were caught up in electives. They were the seemingly less important classes that would quickly separate the inately creative from the paint-by-numbers crowd, who were simply trying to please.

I always tried to bridge a connection between these sort of courses and my mainstream straight laced venues, like English and History, by bringing in a sense of adventure and daring to my work. Rarely was it a success. Most of the time the bent of excitement and pizzazz I attempted to add failed miserably, since it diverted so harshly from the narrow description of the assignment and therefore couldn't be calculated off the standard rubric.

I didn't realize it at the time, but inch by inch I was developing my voice. It's the one thing that can separate and define us as human beings, and one of the most difficult things to realize, harness, and nurture. This is so much the case that it has continued to boggle me a time or two through recent years. Though I see it springing forth primarily in its arena, it's not solely a comrad of artistic pursuits. It rears its dusty head everytime we make a decision, every chance dilemma strikes. What would we do, it asks.

(187)

over cooked.

a song that makes you hungry

Hunger Strike

That old standby expression reads too many cooks will spoil the broth.

Soup is simple, though. All of the heart of it comes from being able to see what compliments what and to which degree. It's like creating a party guest list. It's not really cooking at all, but event planning. It's waiting for intuition to be either proven right or horribly wrong. There's no middle ground.

That's what work has become. There are too many cooks in the place. There is she who cooks with too much vinegar and little ol' me who uses a lot of secret ingredients.

Know Your Chicken

Respect comes at a hard price. It ages like a good wine. You can't force it. And you certainly can't make people distribute it in your direction.

• I have known far too many know-it-alls in my time.
• I have run across far too many folks with superiority complexes shoved so eloquently up their assholes, they can barely pinch out a smile without spitting vile.
• I have known from condescension, overactive judgment.
• I have found people with heavy-handed disregard, who could truly care less what others think, so long as gratitude and glowing praise continues to be bestowed upon them as they take credit for other's efforts.
• I have come across hypocrites, dying to secretly exploit in one area while wearing the mask of a saint.

Unfortunately the caricature that should come about from the totality of these descriptions is the new chef to my sous at my place of business. To that I remand myself the better cook.

So I am caught in the quandary. Should I let the rice burn or help make it right, keeping clear conscience and maintaining earshot of my ethical core? Do I let her die, or let myself bleed, so to speak?

Hungry Eyes

So, what does this have to do with musical appetizers?

Life and food link fingers at every turn. As a baby we discover our need for sustenance, which comes not just in a bottle or from a tit, but from connection, safety, comfort, and care. We continue to seek out the things that ensure we thrive. We have to listen for those moments when our soul growls for more of those things that fuel it, that drive it forward. And we must also listen out for when our soul begins to hurl.

easy tonight.

a song that got you through a hard time

Life always has a way of working itself out.

When things are rough, it doesn't often feel like it, though. Change is frequently drastic, evolution can be exceedingly painful, and much like that twisted comedy we are all cast in, everything always seems to fall apart all at once.

There is an undeniable healing quality to music. These are a few of the songs that have had that power to me:

"Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley & the Wailers (1977)

• Don't worry, 'bout a thing. Every little thing - gonna be alright. It's as simple as that. When all else fails, Bob is there, giving it to you straight. This is a perennial favorite of mine, and one that works in a multitude of contexts. The spirit of the track ensures its portability from lullaby to funeral anthem, and back through all of the times it was just the sentiment I needed to hear.

 "I Can See Clearly Now" by Johnny Nash (1972)

• I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. This little breakthrough reggae-infused gem is so full of positivity and hope. Simple as it seems hope doesn't always come in big doses. Sometimes it feels downright unlikely. I have been that man. I once found myself under that constant cloud of uncertainty with a dangerously murky view of the road ahead. This is the song I prefer when it comes to being reminded that the sun will come out tomorrow.

"Drive" by Incubus (1999)

• Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there with open arms and open eyes. This is arguably their best song. Even though they often had the tendancy to mince styles, the MTV unplugged vibe merged with occasional subtle record scatch expresses to me the moments when life truly jumps the groove. Fear often keeps us from the path we should be following. I have known well the freefall feeling of not knowing what's next, but allowing it all and taking enormous chances. Sometimes you just have to let go.

"The River" by Garth Brooks (1991)

• Choose to chance the rapids and dare to dance that tide. Pursuing a dream in the daylight is very different than that overnight afterthought we so often stumble upon. Whether or not we jot them down, we all have a bucket list. We all have in common longings for certain experiences or tidbits on our dossier. What we're rarely told is, though we may pick the big picture idea, the universe gathers up the details. How our dreams play out is never how we conceived of them. Often they nonetheless become just what was needed though.

what's this?

a song in a foreign language

Some might say music is the universal language.

We are born into this world, clinging like a kitty cat to the familiar rhythm of a heartbeat, letting ourselves become comforted by certain sounds and unsettled by the dissonance of others.

Though my personal collection contains upwards of 550 instrumentals, I have always been more drawn to songs with lyrics. In a manner of speaking an unfamiliar song sets out to be learned like a few new phrases of a language from a foreign land. As popular music has evolved, artists and styles from around the globe have found at least a temporary relationship with the Top Ten, as it were. Even the most middle of the road, tentative listener knows the chorus to Richie Valen's Mexican standard, "LaBamba", the melody of "Frère Jacques", that French nursery rhyme of yore, or comes to the realization that Falco's 1985 hit "Rock Me Amadeus" offers the unique opportunity to learn a bit of useless German.

When assembled onto my iTunes, my personal tastes do seem to play like a layover at an Epcot Center done right. Whether due to country of origin or influence, one can sample a little bit of everything. And for someone who has to live vicariously through Anthony Bourdain for his world traveling extravegenzas, my ears don't particularly mind the present substitute.

That said, here's a poo-poo platter of tasty morsels:

"Isla de Encanta" by The Pixies (1987)

• I know. I know. The Pixies were formed in Boston, Massachusetts. Sure the local accents have more in common with drunken and disorderly lazy speech difficulties and non-lager drinkers might feel out of place, but Pixie head honcho Black Francis (Frank Black) is highly inspired by Latin culture. That's the first type of song in a foreign language: non-native speaker variation. I first encountered this brief ditty about the Island of Enchantment during Jonathan Demme's bright and shiny comedy "Married to the Mob".

 "Concrete Jungle" by CéU (2005)

• Brazilian singer CéU's sensual rendition of Bob Marley's underrated classic represents another variation on this theme: foreign artists performing in English.

"Létt Ma" by Youssou N'Dour (2007)

• Thanks in no small part to Paul Simon's "Graceland" record, musical tones from regions of Africa gained worldwide appeal and recognition. A few years afterward, Peter Gabriel, whose music layers influences that extend the gamut, recorded the spirited and inspirational "Shaking the Tree" with Senegalese legend Youssou N'Dour. "Létt Ma" is a tune from one of his more recent efforts, which I believe spotlights the depths of his beautiful voice and deft, subtle percussian skills.

"Yellow Ledbetter" by Pearl Jam (1992)

• Eddie Veddar brings us to a fourth aspect of foreign language by delivering a famous rock radio tune in his own unique language. Rarely have I enjoyed a song so well without being sure of a single lyric.