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.

drama mama.

“Insecurity is love dressed in a child's clothing.” Gaelic Proverb

I have played on both sides of the fence when it comes to interpreting the distinction between the world before social media and the one we live in now. Surely I've been one to say that people act differently, or how my preference leans one way or the other. It seems so easy to plague the current generation's major communication form for abbreviated and harsh fashions of dealing with one another, but I'm actually thinking more and more that all it does is intensify what already exists.

I know someone with extreme esteem issues will likely spend every third day updating their Facebook status to its full character length with a long, meandering, rambling statement. It will be something welcoming pity and craving attention, and may often literally state these are not what are being sought. The begging and pleading for note and presumed advisement will be a lost cause by day's end, since the quick fix of interaction will not have had much effect at all and some variation on the same theme will show up periodically for time immemorial.

I believe it's a human imperative to go through awkwardness and discomfort about the flesh we wear. Without something to fight against, we often have no room for growth. But full grown adults should know better than to zip about the world dropping grenades along their tracks like breadcrumbs to etch out a trail of where they've been. Our problems are ours alone.

There's a concept that I realized without a phrase early on in my life, but discovered words for it about fifteen years ago. The world is populated by what spins in the new-aged pop psychology under the term energy vampire (also emotional vampire or psychic vampire). Whether or not your belief system allows for the concept of real world vampires, you can likely think of people with whom time spent is extremely taxing and after which you feel completely drained.

These folks do tend to bring a lot of drama and, in many cases, passive-aggressive tendencies. Over time I have disengaged myself more and more from these sort of people, using the block feature on my Facebook and literal distance in my real world approach to them. Unfortunately one can not always take a legal standing against such folks.

For one thing, I have a full time job with one such person. Recently our workplace was expecting the big-big boss to show up, to assess, criticize, and drop some whoop-ass. Despite my full support for the venture, this procrastinator had the audacity to drop some last minute panic in my lap in a text that culminated with: I am so totally screwed. Oh, well.

OH, WELL. There are few better bombs dropped on the English language than this phrase. What a brilliant way to give in and shoot up the place in a barrage of blame all in the same breath. It has taken me a long time, but I have found better ways to navigate my interactions with people like this. One thing of import is the ability to ignore the distracting bullshit conversations with them tend to get riddled with, and to instead focus only on what might be accurate.

I tell you, If anyone hates to be ignored, it's those blessed with this terrible disposition. They are quick to dive into the murky pools of resentment and insecurity. If you let it bug you, it's ugly, it's distracting, and it's all encompassing. These people become the conversation if you're not careful. They splatter their poison on you, even when they're many miles away. They want a reaction. Their air of self-importance and entitlement absolutely demand it.

Of course yesterday evening would close with an email containing these cherished words from my pop:

There are only two people on earth who have known you longer than you've known yourself. Your Mom and I. No news is very mystifying, if not downright scary. Please communicate.

As the writings in this blog can attest, as can those who know me best, I have never been particularly or consistently close with my parents. We have often done a dance of curiosity in an attempt to balance our extreme differences and our surprising sprinkling of similarities. I have spoken with them sometime within the last four or five weeks. Given history that's pretty damned current.




Ah, well.

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.

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.

fail blog.

In November of last year I put myself up to the challenge of posting:

314 posts with 314 photos with 365 days to accomplish it.

This is image 235. I have been posting chronologically since I started, to maintain a semblance of structure even as time passed. I took this at the end of August. I have likely taken the remaining eighty photos that I'd like to share on here, but I don't have the time. Last week I worked seventy-six hours, the week before didn't kid around, and this week won't be much better. There's no way I can find the chance to finish this challenge. Oh, and my computer's monitor is starting to give me seasickness.

On the plus side, I'm gaining lots of material for future creative projects.

(235)

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)

power play

He who controls others may be powerful, but he who has mastered himself is mightier still.

  ~ Lao Tzu

(228)

fertile ground

Like a welcome summer rain, humor may suddenly cleanse and cool the earth, the air and you.

  ~ Langston Hughes

 

Any second grader from my generation could tell you the one about Eskimos having hundreds of phrases to describe snow. Sometimes I wonder why we Floridians don't have a similar manual on how to speak of the rain, given its frequency.

(224)

twisted fate

(222)

overbearing mother.

Momma, do you think she's good enough, for me?
Momma, do you think she's dangerous, to me?
Momma, will she tear your little boy apart?
Mother, will she break my heart?
- "Mother", Pink Floyd 1979

(221)

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)

going bananas.

I will have a blushing bride in less than a month.

That sounds like a perfect time to start up a new job, right? Well, the universe seemed to think so. Aspects of the past two months arrive into my memory in a blur. Two months have passed since I was underhandedly demoted from my pseudo-temporary post at my store in the 'hood. Everything there was turned on its head, power struggles ensued, excessive dramas erupted, a mutiny was brewing, and my schedule was in essence flipped.

Now I no longer work there. I bid that old raggedy, stress infested place its due farewell and good riddance yesterday. As of this morning I will be inheriting the trouble on the southwest seas, the S.W. Neglected. In what seems to be likewise surprise attack fashion, I will be taking over the reigns within mere minutes of the lazy, undependable, former manager's forced resignation.

If life were truly a choose your own adventure novel, we'd rarely select the right course of action. Simply following the flow of life as it comes from our hopes, dreams, and prayers, and seeing what doors open and which remain chained, we frequently discover unexpected answers to our problems.

(217)

pure morning

When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
~ from "When Harry Met Sally" by Nora Ephron

(214)

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)

pseudo majestic

Am I a part of the cure or
am I part of the disease?
~ "Clocks" by Coldplay

You can taste when love comes out of the kitchen. It's noticeable when food has been prepared with heart and in harmony or with haste and through resentment. A meal made with passion and with regard to the end-user simply holds more flavor.

At the end of the day no fast food is made with love. It's not a place to expect it. Some kid who couldn't get a better job drops the frozen such and such in the deep fryer by rote and on command, not due to any culinary gymnastics or care for the customers. It's passionless. It has no pulse.

I've always enjoyed the whole waffle fry, savory chicken nugget, sweet iced tea meal at Chick-Fila. It's never been political. It's a matter of nostalgia and of taste. When given a choice between the wares of this joint and any of the other on-the-fly folks, they've always won hands down. But it's only fast food. And I haven't been there in eons. Now somehow they've become the poster children for the gay marriage debate.

I think people who oppose it are misguided and wrong, and I'm sad we're still discussing it. End of story. But I do have to wonder whether there'd be anywhere else to buy the things we need or the things we want if a socio-political position was riding on our selection process.


* Here, watch this video.

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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?

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seeing things

Our eyes can not be trusted.

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