Seis de Mayo

Holidays are often misinterpreted. I get pinched for not wearing green for St. Patty's day and enjoy telling the huffiest of pinchers that I'm not Irish, and neither was St. Patrick. Mexican independence day is actually September 16th. Jesus was actually born sometime in June. Holidays exist more in the present than the past. Valentine's Day. Lovers. Sillyness. 

People are often misinterpreted, for that matter. The people who complain the loudest are often listened to, taken for face value, adn then eventually forgotten or avoided. The quietest peopl eoften do not defend themselves, and therefore allow themselves to seem guilty. A lot of people talk about what they want, but act on what they crave. Where does the truth lie in any of this? 

The question lies in trying to rise above it all. Holidays? You should always celebrate the spirit of a good idea. People? Each person should be listened to and understood from where they stand, not where they tell you they are in relation to everyone else. Is there room for error? Huge. Spacious. I'm trying to rise above it all, but I do have distinct feelings about why a friend's butt thinks more about me than she does (she accidentally calls my cell phone once or twice a week but never actually calls me). I get pulled into dramatic black holes of confrontation way too easily (because I'm a Libra and always try to right an imbalance? Who knows.) I'm also shamelessly used to being alone, so given a chance to feel wrong in a group of people or right alone, I have a knee-jerk reaction. Give me a guitar, notebook, or camera, and I've got company for dinner, drinks at a bar, or conversation before a movie. I wish it was as simple as some of my friends put it when they want so much for me. Unfiltered, I love people and the connections we make. In reality, the people who don't like me don't just leave it at that, they're busy with the pointlessly important work of getting everyone else on board.

What gets lost in all of this, in all of the likes, comments, gossip, jealousy, and even the believability when I think a group of people or situation has been poisoned by misdirection, is the simplicity still at the heart of it. That's something to bank in your mind. Whatever you create, be it an honest intention towards someone, a song, a book, or even a thoughtful email, there is a simple truth behind it. No amount of snark or doubt can take anything away from it, and if it doesn't fit, there is a place somewhere that it does. 

C: Wow, that sounded forceful. 

S: Ooh, what brought this on?

C: What brought what on? My reaction?

S: No, you. You just popped up. 

C: I thought I'd break in before you started playing a Sousa march and hoisting a huge flag behind you.

S: Was I going in that direction? I don't think so. I wanted to say something about independence. 

C: Yeah, yeah, I know you're proud, but listen. The prevailing message from your friends this year is NOT that you should be celebrating your independence alone. You should share that with someone. 

S: I - 

C: No no no no. Don't make the face. Don't do the fake acknowledgement - 

S: It's not fake! I get it...and yeah, I agree. 

C: But....

S: But what? 

C: Remember reading what "But" stands for? Behold the Underlying Truth. What's the deal? Why don't you just let it happen? 

S: The question isn't why, really. It's who. And how. 

C: Great. One waitress. 

S: Ha ha - no. That's cute. 

C: I brought it up for a reason. 

S: Ugh. I give up. I don't know, really. When I'm just interested, person to person, it goes nowhere. For the most part, it's exhausting, you know? 

C: Waitress? 

S: Oh my god! That was a moment in time, then everything blew up and she became friends with...I can't compete with the poison. One person hates me. She gets others to agree that I'm not a good person. They avoid me. What can I do? Be hurt? 

C: Well, yeah, it's hurtful. And I'm saying that it's hurtful to believe it, not so much that it's true. Your awkwardness might have inspired them to avoid you. 

S: I just don't know what to do sometimes. It's too complicated. People are complicated.

C: Build some robots, then. Be a cat guy. 

S: Both viable solutions.

C:What was it you said earlier? All you need is a guitar, a notebook, and a camera? 

S: That's not my desert island answer, but...you know what - come to think of it, it might be my desert island answer. I would need extra strings...maybe a few notebooks. 

C: Who are you creating for? I mean, what is the point of this whole creative life if you haven't given it to anyone? 

S: Damn. You got me. 

I am often misinterpreted. I try to portray an image of happiness, genuinely interested in people and, of course, fighting for everyone else's right to be creative too. I write stories that have deep, active meaning, and then forget why I needed to write them. I shoot photos with a longing for that moment in my gut, and then once they're posted I leave them alone. I sing, I act, and after lacerating self-exposure, all boundaries are dropped. I test my faith in the outside world, and back I run to the creative. I never talk about what I want, or what I should be celebrating. 

Maybe it's not a matter of rising above. It could be that other people cannot define me, that my sense of self can and should override every rule. I'll try again. The number of people on Earth is currently 6,819,418,658 (and counting). I think...I can safely say that the odds are working in my favor. 

Stand

I've been here before, sitting alone with a grab bag of feelings spread out along a spectrum of color between absolute resolution and complete defeat. I opened my mouth. I had just finished speaking with passion about what's right and what's wrong, using only my past and the precious spot on the ground I stood on. I spoke, not for myself, but for people who were at that very moment struggling, hustling to find creative freedom. Who was I to represent them? What vote elected me to be an obstacle? All I can tell you is that I saw a void of conscience so wide that we may not recover from it. No, every time you kill an artist's heart, you take away from the world as a whole. 


No, this wasn't the first time I put myself in this situation.


Sometime during the waning years at Playhouse I was sitting on a chair downstage center speaking to a house full of actors. It was difficult to get the words out, to even take the breath required to make a sound. We were about an hour or so away from opening the doors to the audience, and I called everyone involved in the day's productions, crew included, into the theater. This was to be the first of two speeches that weekend, and there I sat, a moment before word one, with a roomful of eyes on me. 


Deep breath. Eye contact. I never thought I'd be here. It went something like this. 


"All of you know, as you can see in the schedule, that this one act workshop is essentially over and done. You're the last people, the ones who are going to close this series out. Now, this wasn't a decision from the top, it came from me. What we ran into was a conflict of priorities in the schedule, and you were going to be given the basement. You would only be scheduled for matinees, and I thought you deserved better. I cancelled the series rather than cheapen it. All of you know my philosophy behind this; There is not a single actor here who represents the best we have to offer. All of you, by virtue of your dedication and talent, represent the standard for what we learn here. I believe in the standard. I don't believe in the best."


"Because this is coming to an end, I needed come here and apologize for losing the workshop, for losing the theater company for you. I'm sorry. I failed you."


This is where my emotions started winning the battle of restraint. 


"There was something I should have done to preserve this for you, something I didn't do or know how to do to save this series. I lost this opportunity for you. I need you to know that I'm still here and fighting for you. If you need a director, I'm in, no questions asked. If you can't find a play you believe in, I'll write one for you. All of you deserve a chance, and I lost this one."


The second time I delivered the speech, it wasn't any easier. The actors were overwhelmingly supportive and immediately responsive. They knew that for ten years, this was my entire life. I had work, I had Playhouse. Lower on the list of priorities was sleep, friends, romance, even my own projects. I felt I was only meeting them in the middle; They stayed with me through rehearsals that ended at 2am on a weeknight. They endured my pages of notes after performances. Their moments of truth and honesty on stage validated all of my sacrifices, more so than any accolades, and I never doubted my dedication to them.


I eventually left the program, totally foreshadowed by the moment I stood in Studio Two and realized that "...this will all go away. It's important now, but someday this will be a memory." A handful of productions later, it all went away and my life was redefined. 


I never stopped loving the artist, though. The very second we make the connection, the unspeakable knowledge that we are communicating on a whole other level, they become part of a family I owe loyalty to...and feel responsible for. I crave the sight and experience of someone growing as an artist, the light bulb that goes off when they learn something new or the discovery of having expressed something that defied explanation just a moment before. I love the process of searching, of dissatisfaction with everything that has been done before. I admire the hunger. I know the lonely struggle to find an audience.


And when someone is set up to fail, when even the odds are needlessly stacked against them, something alarming stirs up inside me. I sat for a moment after the talk, and I collected myself. I was coming down from 80% passion and 20% logic, and I sat because I was dizzy...or maybe a little lost...but I was right. What I inherited, however, was a heightened awareness that left unguarded, artists will be forgotten. That should never happen. Talent needs to be celebrated. 


I have, for the moment, an unanswerable struggle. I have the feeling that this leads towards something important, but am I the person to do anything about it? Who am I to represent the creative community? 


As always, if nobody else claims the spot, can I remain quiet and be satisfied with the outcome? I think you know the answer. 

Your Drug of Choice

Whether you are a person who is addicted to something or you're someone who has checked out of living and leads a dependable, predictable life, the question of what motivates you is something to consider. We get caught in our patterns and are attracted to certain things in our lives, all in the name of...what the hell are we feeding? What are we running away from? I think about this stuff as my niece sits in rehab, deconstructing her life and her addictions, while at the same time I know people who seem to slip through life without a care (or interest). I've written many times about moving through a life that feels like a mosh pit, and I get lost...and I stop to look back sometimes and wonder where and how time just slipped by. I can totally understand how people want to numb themselves, either temporarily or permanently. I get it.

I can feel myself getting away from patterns again, from choosing to be around just about anybody to not feel lonely or forgotten. I found myself mired in dysfunctional situations, caught in moments of clarity where I wonder "what are these people doing and why isn't anyone saying anything about it?" "Why does it feel...unjust and completely false?" Why don't I just step away for a moment and see if anyone notices? Circle one hardly blinked, with my contributions quickly being replaced by another person. Whatever I did in that circle was for a long time copied and repeated with more money. Circle two filed me in the "whatever happened to" files. Circle three is highly suspicious of my distance, thinking it's purposeful and damaging.

I watch shows about addicts and I understand that pain that they're trying to mask. I can taste the sharpness of directly touching it, and know that it's seeded, rooted towards how I react to everything. From being teased and harassed mercilessly through five of my eight grade school years through the traumatizing experience of falling in love for the first time and then falling from that height, I know I have to work hard on understanding some things about myself and the world I'm in. I haven't turned towards drugs or alcohol, nor do I take medication for depression, but this doesn't mean that I don't understand the rationale behind Andrew Koenig selling everything he owned, flying up to Canada, and hanging himself from a tree in a park he loved. I totally get the peaceful, morbid poetry behind it. In a world of endless possibilities, he was exhausted of the options that just didn't make sense any more. He stepped away and saw with a quiet clarity what he had to do. I struggled with understanding it when I heard the news. I wanted to reach out to someone who might need it. And then I realized that nobody I know has a void to fill. I attempted to come back to creativity, but because it's tainted at the moment with obligation and a difficulty that keeps ratcheting up, I'm not inspired to take any risks or feel my way through it.

None of this means that I have nowhere to turn. I still have family, with whom I can find moments of forgetting everything else in the world. I have a couple of people I can completely surrender to, if need be. I think I have a pretty good reputation at work, which can be overwhelming and unpredictable. I also keep myself busy - at the moment, too busy - which keeps me moving from one point to the next. I just have to manage these quiet moments.

What would help get rid of that grade school experience that makes me extra sensitive to people picking sides, talking about me, trying to sabotage every step I take? The only way it started to subside in grade school was when it became physical, but I was still talking about it in college. What would open my heart back up after being traumatized by the aftermath of my first real love, and being told that I "have a lot to offer a lot of people, but not enough for one person"? I can finally admit it changed me and left me with heavy, heavy baggage. It's a tremendous burden to believe that you can't be loved, that you can't trust, that somehow you don't deserve it...that this experience...somehow compounded and confirmed the first. It's all too easy to attach new experiences to that meaning, to make everything fit and to feel like the only reason people need me is to provide a service. It's a culinary disaster of the heart, a combination of emotional flavors that don't go together. The fact that months go by between journal entries makes me wonder if I keep replanting the seeds that feed on and destroy hope.

Just over a year ago, my family and I were at a backyard get-together, and Alfonso, who was in his 90s, locked into me and demanded my attention. "El Maestro", as I called him, began with one question: "How old are you?" Normally, he was a little difficult to understand and spoke only about South American politics, but this time it was about me. "How old are you?" At the time, I was 41. He asked if I was in a relationship or had a family of my own, maybe some kids. I told him no, that there wasn't even one girl I was serious about. He said that I reminded him of his brother. His brother was a workaholic, perpetually young until he got older, and then suddenly he got to his 70s and 80s and began to have health problems. He had nobody to take care of him, no woman by his side, no children to help their dad or talk to the doctors like my sisters do for my parents. He had only Alfonso, but Maestro was the older brother, and had health issues of his own. His brother died alone, without a legacy.

He lived a long life, and died alone.

Alfonso looked at me and made me promise I would try. Of course, he didn't know what kind of life I had, he just had the mental snapshot of me with my parents, my sister, and my niece's kids. He didn't talk politics that visit. This was all he wanted to say, and I couldn't forget it. I came home in January, and wanted to try. The first few times, it didn't feel right. I had two Valentine's Day dates that, in theory, sounds like I'm a player to everyone who hears that much, but in reality was me providing a service to others and deserving nothing for myself. I tried again, spending a weekend with an old friend that turned sterile and awkward. Everywhere I turned, I ran into someone who was holding out for a better thing and constantly looked past or through me. I stepped away, listened to the castrated version of my name - "Stewie," which vaguely takes away any importance of who I am - and eventually work started pulling more and more of my attention.

Alfonso died a few weeks ago. I'm now 42.

I am a little less than a week away from finishing a major project, and then I have to consider what I want my life to be. The first thing that occurs to me is that I'm going to retire from doing this kind of creative project. The second thing that comes to mind is that I tend to consume junk food versions of real interactions between people. I need to know the difference and to trust my doubts when they nag at me over time. The most important thing is that I don't lose hope, that it's not too late. It's not my fault that a whole group of guys didn't let me get through a day of grade school without persecution or humiliation, so I never feel comfortable being associated with a group of people unless I can stand apart somehow. It's not my fault that I was loved once, abandoned, and had to watch her with other guys...and that everything since has come with a guarantee that nothing would come of it. It wasn't me. It wasn't about me, though I've lived with the shame of...somehow representing it...of making all of them right.

My niece had the seizure, and for reasons unknown to me, she asked for help and ended up in rehab. Andrew Koenig, whom I've never met, but I know people he knows, never asked for help, and died. Alfonso, in his wisdom, stopped me and knew I needed help. What would I do to wean myself from the addiction to denial? I need to really look at the people who believe in me the most...Andrea, Vivian, Ninette, to name a few...and find hope in the fact that these people are here, now...and they could tell someone a story about who I am that is in direct contrast to what has come before. What they believe, I should understand better than I understand the numbness and loneliness of my past.

I should begin to try, anyway, because the world is filled with circles and none of them are complete. Looking for them should be my new addiction.

A Strong Word

I haven't written in months, and it might as well be years or even another lifetime. This is the equivalent of having my wings clipped, and I have not sung a song in my gilded cage. I may finally be embracing the idea of adulthood. No, wait. I may be abandoning my childhood. Either way, what I haven't said is that part of the reason I haven't written is that I'm a hated man. It's an active, poisonous sense of dislike hidden behind a face of indifference, and it wishes to see the end of me. You can tell me that it's too extreme a thing to exist between two people, but other people see it exists, too. Do I reciprocate the feeling? I don't think I know how.

“Hatred paralyses life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it.”
~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was shocked when I saw that Maya Angelou used the term "hater". If feels so juvenile to me and almost dehumanizes the person. It's dismissive, and yet, while I focus on this for the moment, please know that I have a lot of the right kind of love in my life. I know I share bonds with people that defy description. I'm crazy about them and totally feed off this mutual connection we have. There's love between us without question; Not a single move or word questioned, intangibles understood as if they were a private language between us. I've had a few "what the fuck are you doing?" moments with strangers...and let's face it...I know who they are because the real people in my life fill moments with truth.

In this case and only this instance can I mention names. If I ever look in the mirror and can't recognize myself, I know Vivian will remind me. If I sell out, give up, or surrender to a false definition, Andrea will grab me and set me straight. If I reach the end of reason and begin to let go, I can call Wes and open my eyes. These people are my history, along with new names both within reach and thousands of miles away. From their inspiration, I sit here to fight and write.

"We hate some persons because we do not know them; and will not know them because we hate them."
~ Charles Caleb Colton

I know what you're thinking. Okay, maybe not actually what you're thinking. You might say that you can't please everybody, and odds are that I might not be liked by everyone. That's fairly logical and easy to accept. It's slightly cliche, but there's truth in it. Like I said before, this is an active hatred. I've seen emails. I've heard stories. I've faced the neverending criticism and walk into the storm every day knowing that lightning can strike at any given moment. Do I feed it? I avoid it at all costs. Do I meet the mask of indifference with my own? I know the truth, and at times it completely deflates me because I haven't provoked it. It seethes and needs to be the only thing in existence. The love in my life is the starry night sky, and the hate is the huge sucking black hole looming nearby. That's exactly how it feels.

Cat tells me it's a matter of perception. I constantly see it, so it has to exist. When I forget about it, it resurfaces and reminds me that it's still waiting for me to trip, to fail, to be exposed and open. Jesus, that sounds abusive. I still slip into it, though I'm much better off than last year when this hatred was in my face and almost fanatical about making me unhinge and expose myself.

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."
~ Elie Wiesel

Thanks to Playhouse training, I feel everything (to some extent) and my curiosity prevents me from straying towards indifference. I've held my feelings and thoughts about this for a long time, and felt ready to finally talk about it. It's an insult, really, to those gorgeous stars in the sky. What's going to happen will happen, and I have some say in that. I can't, especially now, be what you want me to be, unless you accept me as I am or support who I want to be. It just can't work any other way.

Falling Sideways

I sit on this hill and I listen.

I listen to traffic, people floating snark in the air, and loud obnoxious music, and I push it away. I wait, and listen for wind. I smell the air and listen for rain. And then I give up. I surrender to it all and listen to my own breathing. She speaks.

C: Ohh, there's that feeling again.

S: I'm debating it.

C: What's the argument?

S: How much of it is necessary...or just my stupid perception...or actually valid. I indulge feeling everything because it feeds my writing, but on the other hand, at the same time there are some things I can fix or reconcile...which is what a healthy person would do.

C: Do we really need to define "healthy" or "normal"? You know, you don't need to make a stand and declare that you're different. The sad truth of it is, everyone is different.

S: But you know what? Hold on to that thought for a second. (pause) Listen, I don't work hard to create a mystique about myself. I'm not a puzzle to be solved by anyone. That's not my spine. I'll tell you something - I am used to going at it alone, and I don't need anyone's approval or validation. I create projects for me and hopefully I've broken down the guts of what I want to do in a way that makes sense to people so I can still collaborate with others, but it's my dream. It's my way of life.

C: That was a little unexpected.

S: In some instances, I say way too much and face the consequences. To myself, I don't say things until I can vent here.

C: What does it feel like?

S: What, the...wow, I really did get worked up there for a second.

C: What does it feel like when you - what did you call it - "indulge" the feeling?

S: It sinks. It starts moving down slowly with...a realization that...you've been rejected again...and right when you begin to shake it off and pick yourself up, you choose instead to let the moment confirm your worst fears, and then you face the truth about yourself. Do I really suck? Am I really not...I don't know how to finish that. I have to answer it, and then I move on.

C: It sounds masochistic. Why put yourself through it?

S: I like to believe that there's an abundance of feeling and color all around us, and most people walk past it like it's old and irrelevant...but all of it is alive and screaming for attention. I just do it naturally because it's about what's really happening in the present moment.

C: Yeah, but...if the end result takes a toll on you, is it a good thing?

S: Until I found a natural perpetual well of reassurance, yeah. This life is self-generated and self-motivated. I made decisions in the past - mistakes, really - that got me here, but in all honesty, I just don't have the same resources I used to have.

C: A matter of perception. Do you remember the girl from a few years ago and what ultimately spelled the recurring end to the relationship? She felt she didn't deserve what you had to give, but at the same time she inspired so much in you. You also never bluntly offered the real thing to her. It was always implied.

S: Yeah, so?

C: If you had to learn one thing from the experience, why did you have to take the concept of not deserving something? It's just...completely idiotic. Why did I give you that speech the other day?

S: God, everything would be easy if we were just talking about writing music or putting together a photo mosaic for charity. If all of it was left up to my own devices and invention, it's a no brainer. I just have to know that this is what I want, and then I make it happen. It's not so true when it comes to people.

C: Did you know you wanted...?

S: Yeah.

C: Why didn't you say it?

S: That works in movies, not in real life. It's perceived as being creepy in real life.

C: Is that what you really think?

S: Yeah. (pause) How's that for straightforward?

C: The statement is, but the thought process behind it is skewed. Just once, take a chance, okay? Be blunt and in as few words as possible, ask for it. Go down in flames.

S: I'll think about it.

C: That means...

S: That means I'll think about it.

And I listen to the cloud of thoughts that rolls in my mind, the very same one that keeps me up at night. The clock ticks, the wind blows, and the music plays a love song for no one.

How do I make sense of it all?

MONDAY morning update.

S: You know what? You're full of shit.

C: Huh? What? You're the one who -

S: "Take a chance. Be bold. Go up in flames." It's a load of crap. You know where that gets you?

C: Tell me. Oh, and before you do, get a good look at my deadpan expression.

S: Do you remember the "I can't match your level of honesty" theme that repeats? I'm telling you, there are friends I have that totally get it and don't use that as a starting gun for a windsprint to anywhere-else-but-here. I was talking to a friend last night -

C: I don't meant to cut you off, but...well, wait. Yes, I need to cut you off. Does it make sense to you when I say that being blunt and expressive like that is actually doing you a favor?

S: I'm not sure.

C: Listen. If people flip out and have a reaction - or non-reaction - to you, then they're saving you time. They...are...saving...you...time and effort, right?

S: Okay....

C: Then don't waste your time being someone else for the sake of anyone's sensitivity or needs. You are who you are, and you've learned your lessons in the past when it comes to that compromise. I know you have. Those people who "get you" can't afford to be overlooked. Wake up to that, and know that sometimes, you have to say what's on your mind and crack open politeness or small talk to get to what's really inside. Most of the time it won't be for you. Every now and then, though.

S: Point taken.

The clock ticks, the wind blows, and blah blah blah blah. It's time to step out of the mud and reconnect.

As You Are

I opened my notebook tonight and found two words inside the cover, with a familiar voice speaking them in my mind.

Begin again.

I woke up my iPod and chose the song I wanted to start writing to, and the voice of a great musician - a guy I met named Ziv - spoke to me:

Forgive everyone you know...'cause they were once a child too.
Forgive yourself and love again.
You've been waiting for it.

C: Welcome back to the right side of your brain.

S: Ahh, is that where my heart was all along?

C: So how have you been? Has work been that good, to take you away from doing all of this creative stuff?

S: You know what...I feel like I sold out. I let it become the main thing, and then writing and playing music became a distraction.

C: Who the hell is that person? I mean, okay, the job is great and all, but I seriously don't care about the fun stuff you get to do. You live when you write. If you don't get that out of your system, there goes a year with nothing to show for it.

S: I...you know, I get it, and for many reasons I've...been given a little clarity right now. But don't think I lost anything, because I haven't

C: I know. I can see that. I watched you lost in thought for two hours. I recognize that person.

S: It's a little scary.

C: Why?

S: When I get an idea like this, it turns and evolves, it needs to live and come into focus. There is a crazy need to get it out of me so I can start working with it. (pause) You know what? It's kind of like the guy from Close Encounters.

C: Is there a huge sculpture made of garbage in your living room? Tell me honestly if you're going insane because...well, wait a minute...this conversation is taking place, so....

S: No, I just always have it in the back of my mind. I'm fully inspired and filled with urgency. I'm writing notes on napkins and jumping from one medium to another. I'm a total freak at work, but people seem to enjoy seeing my brain fire up like this.

C: Okay....

S: Okay...what?

C: So I don't get it. What's the problem?

S: I don't have a problem.

C: I look over your head and I see a cloud of...I don't know, everything. It's hard to describe. There's more going on than this new project you're working on.

S: Really?

C: Do you remember the first time we talked?

S: Ohhh crap. That was a long time ago. It was...1987, right?

C: On a grassy hill, with the sun and wind tossing clouds across the sky. I remember how you had some distance from the thing you were dealing with and were trying to reconcile the lingering thoughts, the stuff that just wouldn't tie up neatly.

S: Yeah. It's weird to think about what it meant then.

C: So listen, I have known the intimate workings of your beating heart for a very long time, and I have seen every accomplishment you've had since what feels like the beginning of time. I know when you're afraid to ask for something and when you're taking a jump in evolution. This project is symptomatic of something else.

S: I don't like that you know this much about me.

C: So?

S: There are some things that I keep to myself.

C: Yeah, I know. But I do want to tell you something. (pause) It is altogether okay to have something other than...an invention completely of your own doing.

And there's no response. The song playing over the speakers by Jenny Owen Youngs - I shit you not - says:

I'll draw up the blue prints but i'll never use them.
Now i've only ever offered you myself and you always say it's not enough.

S: That's an old voice talking.

C: Isn't it weird to think about what it meant back then?

S: Oh, God. I hate it when things fall into place and you say something with such...fucking clarity that I can't explain it away. I like my struggle...sometimes.

C: Yeah, I know that one. You don't always have to earn things you get. Sometimes you get rewarded for good things you've done without realizing you've done them. Just take it. Ask for it. Whatever it is you don't want to talk about, take a step back and look, okay? It's easier than you sometimes make it out to be.

S: I'm a complicated person.

C: Not from where I'm standing.

S: Yeah. Thanks.

C: Okay...empty now?

S: It's good enough.

John Mayer now keeps asking me - and he's being persistent:

Do i have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

The answer might have been an obvious denial for a long time, but it's pretty clear that the simple truth is that right now it doesn't feel anything like it used to. Right now, the Law of Proximity is pretty much in full effect.

Defying Gravity

In 2008 I took a lot of shots straight at the heart and spent my year's allotment of optimism. It was like finding the surface of water on your last breath, and here I am standing just inside 2009 on a quiet, fertile ground that denies the turbulence of the path that led to it. It's quiet, hesitant as if waiting for me to collect myself, and I've brought some of 2008 with me into the new year. I shed some of it already, scattered on the days behind me, and today, I reached another breaking point where I let go yet again. I'm determined to see change. I've got pockets full of optimism again and a heart intact, and no room for excuses.

With few events at work for a month or two, I've got some time to grab some growth, to find that inspiration I've lost, and reconnect with people. I've got to sort out a few things, and I say this not putting that task first but rather with intention to make it all inclusive. This won't be a year with one silly resolution, or two to five goals to achieve. It won't be an opportunity to assign blame or to define myself in relation to anyone else.

Something snapped inside my brain, after which I immediately grabbed my guitar. That's how I knew I had to write before going to bed. Well, that's the way it usually happens with me, doesn't it? I think it means that both my left and right sides of my brain are agreeing on the state of my self, and that calls for me using some of this frustration and anxious optimism to stand right here, throw down a spike and signpost, and say that I deserve, as good as it already is, a better life than the one I have now. I've had it with expectations, I'm done with anything but truth, and I know it's time to embrace the creative life I should be living.

I've got a mixed bag of feelings right now, but I feel like I'm already burning it for fuel. I want to be busy. I want to do my job and then come home to work on something else. I want to look back on each week and have something to show for it. And then I want to have people to share it with. People here, right in the now, who are present in the present. That does require that I stop thinking about the past, and even the recent past, which will be hard, but easier if I stay busy.

So that's the beginning, the first brick on the road to Oz. What will I find when I get there?

Red Giant

I have started two or three entries about my strange, spectacular, and perilous journey in a new job, a whole new world, really. I write for about a paragraph about all of my dreams leading up to it, and then I look at everything that followed, and that cup of inspiration sits empty, indifferent to the whole story. I just can't write enough details of all the good and bad I've had over the past eight months because the real issue doesn't lie with job satisfaction. The thing that needs to be unearthed is altogether much larger than that, because let's face it: this is just the start of a new chapter in my career, so of course there were going to be struggles.

What I have to confess is that I am seriously lacking inspiration. I am starving, thirsty, my humanity draining and my need to create waning. Only now, as I am with my family in Miami for the holidays, can I recognize myself and realize mistakes I've made this year. I have seven days left of this vacation to examine my life, reconnect, and be brutally honest about everything I'm doing and not doing. For that matter, it's encouraging that I've gotten past the first paragraph. I think this means that I'm a little closer to the truth of the moment.

While I have watched my latest muse lose her brilliance and interest, I haven't been in touch with friends. I've allowed work to take my whole focus, thinking about it when I'm not at the office and not sparing enough energy to create new projects on my own. I've taken on projects at work that increased the target on my head, and I just have to ask, with everything I'm doing, am I spending my time wisely? Am I showing interest in the right things?

Being around family refocuses all of that in an instant. Nothing else matters here in the cradle of love. I can begin with this, let everything else scatter to the winds, and then there are obvious pieces that remain. They stick despite all of the changes, because I hear their voices on my phone, get messages from them, emails, and when I'm away, they stay and watch over my apartment. They seek me out and know me for who I really am, and still, what have I done?

I realize I'm hopping back and forth between the past and the present, but things have to change. I'm yelling into an echoless chamber and have finally woken up to see what I'm setting myself up for. I've been able to dim the lighthouse of my heart for maintenance in the past, so...I think that is exactly what's called for now. My heart doesn't lie, and thanks to years of theater where everything false becomes as obvious as those rare moments of truth, I can't lie to myself any more, either. Where will I find the inspiration that I've missed so much, and what is the name of my next muse?

The brutal, uncompromising truth is that I can't pursue what I can't create. That is what I do best. I don't compete, I don't express meaningless ideas. I'm made to live a creative life out of necessity, and that often means I have to go at it alone.

I aspire to be better than I am, so think about that when the changes come.

Sleeper, Awake

I see the image of her in my mind as I've seen it a thousand days since I last touched her, and I remember myself as I was. It's been a recurring theme, defining experiences sometimes before they have a chance to happen. It's a badge of courage, that memory, and it built a sobering tolerance of every difficult thing I've encountered in my life. I've struggled, I've gone head first through rejection and failure, and I faced much of it alone. That was by choice. I've seen in her my importance to another person, and though it's still there, what I never saw was the growth of myself beyond her eyes. I just set myself to pushing ahead, way ahead of the pack, stopping occasionally to see something beautiful, but not real. Because I wasn't alive, surrounded by people who constantly looked over my shoulder for the next best thing, I stopped looking and worse, I stopped hoping. No, I'm not a celebrity. I'm not rich, nor do I drive a nice car or own my own home. I don't walk into a room expecting all eyes on me, and I don't expect anyone else to open a door for me in my career. I only focused on building my life from and inside ground zero, but things are beginning to change.

I've come to a new place where I don't have years of investment. I am brand new, judged as I am, and there are no thoughts of what I once was. My value only exists in the moment, and if there once was a place to deny myself, to accept being overlooked and underappreciated, this isn't it. I am what I do. I'm trusted with difficult projects, compensated in more ways than one, and gain the exact measure of what I put in, at the very least. I'm in a land of appreciation, and this is a foreign place compared to where I have been, where I've paid my dues.

So, of course, I have to change. Darwin once said that "It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change." I can't speak to anyone else I recognize as older but virtually unchanged, but since I write to ask the questions I may not have answers to, and I constantly turn over the topsoil to try to figure out what the hell I'm doing at any given moment, it's not a matter of this possibly being the time for me to change. It's an undeniable truth. I have to be brutally honest with myself and begin to let go of old habits and beliefs. It's right there in front of me. It's that hill I can see from twenty steps away from my house. It's the addition of new people in my life, and the reintroduction of old friends.

I see an image of her in my mind, but it doesn't resemble a picture I've held for a thousand days since. She is redefined, with a new name and possibly...who knows...maybe a new promise. In fairness, I should hold and offer my heart with no hesitation, for I've kept it so long for no apparent reason other than fear. I'm not afraid any more. Let this be a new recurring theme for me.

The Jungian Thing

The unpredictability of day-to-day life never ceases to amaze me, but people do. Often, you appreciate people for whom they are and don't even attempt to define them, and then suddenly, like a hockey player being checked into glass, you see someone display an awesome boundary of their limitations, either through action or blunt inaction. These are the same people who will give you advice despite themselves, turning a blind eye to their flawed nature and repeating things they've heard, speaking with such hollow wisdom, embarrassing themselves without knowing it. They talk about a big picture but see the world through a pinhole. They correct your behavior and justify their own. They say exactly twenty words too far in the wrong direction, and everything after that is just mindless wandering in the weeds of their own dissatisfaction.

Words are as cheap as the unsolicited, unqualified opinions that literally litter every avenue of communication we know, and it's gone so far in recent times that people, I believe, have forgotten how to be polite to each other. People will enter a conversation - be it text, email, chat, or even in person - with one need in mind and upon getting what they need, the conversation ends on one side. It seems a growing majority want to be heard and not responded to. That's the impersonal Internet generation, built on more tenuous connections rather than few strong ones. That's where the search for real people becomes so difficult to hope for.

You know who you are.

And I mean that in the sense of you knowing where you stand. Are you sampling people and experiences from a party tray, or do you begin your search from within? Do you step outside and act with good intention, or do you immediately enter the race and cock your arm to strike down any person or idea that threatens to pull a distant spotlight from you? Do you know only about love for one, or do you know about love for all? This is not a test; I wrestle with those questions all the time, both with how people affect me and how I want to carry myself.

I said that you know who you are, and I meant it. Either you've examined yourself in a mirror and put it into words, or it's the theme song playing in your subconscious. These things are self-evident, and they create recurring patterns that can last a lifetime. One that comes to my mind is the constant reminder to rise above the moment and aspire, build, keep moving and searching for truth wherever I can get it. Most of what I've found lately has been the dirty and dense variety, poisonous and completely foreign. The minority - in truth - has been priceless and promising, and the very least I can do is weigh them equally. That's where I want to put my focus, as much as I'm able. I am distracted, but I haven't lost hope.

I am flawed, still reactive and can hold a grudge needlessly. While I try to practice diplomacy and steer away from emotional situations, I'm quick to react negatively when people make the simplest things difficult. In many respects, I'm stuck in the maze of my own making, but I'm not dull enough to believe the present resembles the future. I want more. I need to grow. I look up and off into the distance, and believe I can and should get there, even if I stand to fail many times on the way.

I will get there, despite myself. If I can help it, I'll choose the right words, find the right people, and let everything else fall away. The truth is - if I'm not blind to it - always right here, right now.

A New Prometheus

Enough is enough. I've written enough optimistic passages to qualify for the very first Hallmark book, an extended greeting card that not only expresses Happy Birthday and Thinking of You, but it also aggressively works towards spinning the negative on its head, regardless of what theme is playing in daily life. Right now there's so much noise. So much noise. I can't throw the iPod cone of denial over my head this time. What's more, I'm going to commit myself to writing something every day to get myself back on track. I'm in the midst of my rookie season and am beginning to forget the love of the game.

What's bringing me back to that? I meet so many people who once loved something, or were moved by something, and left it forgotten somewhere in the past. There are likes and dislikes, attractions and reactions, sometimes the search for an elusive truthful moment. And I get lost. I get busy, and I get lost. One thing I can see clearly now, which I've tried to ignore many times, is that I have lighthouses in the darkness of my memory, reminding me to write, to create, to play music. It's annoying sometimes, because I just want life to be simple. What's worse is the fact that I see these people, or at least read their words and visualize perfectly what they looked like the last time I saw them, and yet I can't tell them that they mean this much to me, still. I wouldn't dare, not even in a weak moment, or risk losing contact. I remain aloof and parenthetical, and brush the feelings aside. It's not fair, but it is the product of trial and error.

The trial has been acknowledgment of things going well, but denying what's actually happening. That's really hard to do, because as much as I may have aged, my body and mind in effect and interest, I still have my old enthusiasm for the simplest things. I will unashamedly let my inner dork come to the surface and say exactly what's on my mind, playing and cracking jokes whenever I can. I'll show interest in the smallest detail, and sink completely into music or a movie without judgement, as if that piece was written expressly for me to watch it. I'll often do things alone to preserve that wonder without judgement, and practically dance with that freedom.

The error has been trying to share that wonder with people, or slipping and saying exactly how I've felt. That seems to be the very last thing people want. Honesty. Appreciation. A complimentary, supportive nature. It all smells strongly of commitment and obligation, like a green cloud that will leave an unwashable smell in their clothes. I've already written here that I've been accused...and I couldn't emphasize that word enough...accused of being too truthful. I've been treated like the greatest medicine with the most bitter taste, shoved to the back of the medicine cabinet and forgotten.

So I step back into the darkness that follows, and I re-evaluate. I think about why I can click with some people so well and then be rejected immediately for an apparent fear that things are going well. Am I too open? Am I too available? Am I too different? At this point in my life, there are irreversible traits and choices that I live with, not understanding an ounce of regret. I've written about it the whole way - for 23 years - and I don't envy a single person. I don't actually optimistically hypnotize myself into thinking that my best days are ahead of me. I can only think obsessively that creatively speaking, I have something great yet to discover. I don't get that from faith, and I don't get that from past successes.

I look off into the darkness, and I see those points of light in the distance. One tells me that I could and should let someone love me again. Another one tells me that I'm smart, and talented, and unique. Yet another one tells me that no matter what decisions I make, they'll be the right ones and I can always alter my course. I tell myself....

Seriously, screw life being easy. My options aren't always laid out simply because there are things that I have to do for survival, and then there's the constant pull from my creative side. It has to survive. It has to keep an opening in me big enough to breathe, to feel things profound and unforgettable, letting out a hopeful voice that keeps searching. There are times I can't get to sleep at night because the overture is still playing.

I work, I pay bills. I buy food and sleep, and so, I live.

I listen to the muses, the lighthouses in my heart, and that makes me feel alive. I can't have it any other way.

The Devil With the Three Golden Hairs

Sometimes I need to remind myself of the quote "We cannot become what we want to be by remaining what we are." Yes, it's one of those things that people say while disconnecting themselves from the spirit of the idea, but damn, it's so absolutely true. I want to spend every day of my life practicing the act of becoming, and I have to remind myself because I get distracted with so many things from day to day. I lose sight of the big picture...which...and I realize this is very stream of thought...I have to consider myself lucky that I've got a sense of a bigger picture than this, you know? The big picture constantly comes into focus and continues to evolve.

Not that I actually have a lot of distractions, compared to what other people might have to deal with. Over this summer, which is about to end, I've spent five days a week working no less than 10 hours a day with two crackberries strapped to my body and 15 pounds falling off of me. It's as if I'm in a submarine that has been floating under the polar ice cap for months, and just now I'm beginning to see the sun shining through the surface. We have one week left of summer that has had so many moments beyond anything I could have imagined a year ago. One year ago I was isolated at a desk, working on my own, worried about my future in a strangely symbolic cul de sac on the 6th floor of an industry I had no interest in. One year ago, I was laying face down in a rut, fed up with patterns of my past and yet at the same time completely stunned by vertigo when faced with a distant, staticy wall of options. They were all out there, beyond reach or definition, but since I had a paycheck coming in every week, no matter how miserable I was I could still sit back, do nothing, and earn money.

In one month, I will be a year past my own personal independence day. I will have survived the thrust into the unknown, the pinpoint landing onto the top of a hill, and I will have faced the trials of a difficult summer. I've been away from family and friends, out of touch and entirely focused on sleeping and working. I can make this all worth it if I start making upward moves within the company. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy I sometimes ignore or encourage the opposite of, and really, the act of believing in the outcome is more powerful than hope. It's the innocent knowledge that the way to get to where you want to go is never a straight line, but as long as you keep your eyes on the next finish line, you'll get there. Here's the secret behind the secret: It doesn't occur to most people you'll meet to turn their gaze above the crowd and see that point in the distance. Because of that, they'll try to discourage you from being different. They'll laugh at or argue with your lack of compliance to their standards. They'll resent you once you're pulling away. After a while, their voices will fade off into the distance, and you'll find yourself in unexpected places, like deep beneath the polar ice cap or a very loud and brighty lit hilltop overlooking the San Fernando Valley.

I'm on a small team now, working in Entertainment and doing everything I can to keep my eyes up towards that big picture. When will I settle down? Will I ever have a family of my own? When will I start arriving at a creative plateau where I can look back at everything I've done? I haven't even begun to answer those questions. I still have so much to look forward to.

What you wish for

On Saturday, I did absolutely nothing. I spent hour after hour on my couch not thinking, not feeling, not worrying about anything. I simply let each and every responsibility bubble up to the sky and breathed in my own little space where I haven’t had to be good or great, nor have I been judged today. I earned that day.

The story to that point has not been told, nor would I want to directly revisit each and every emotion I’ve gone through over the past few months. To tell you the truth, it hasn’t been easy for me to – in essence – start over again, or at least, that’s how it feels. Yes, be careful when you ask for something, because you’ll get it up close enough to see the imperfections, jagged edges, and patched up areas. Did I say that I’m starting over again? I’m more like…replanted, put in a bigger pot…with better soil. I’m just more exposed to the elements this time.

The last most people heard of me, I got a job that on paper looked like the perfect fit for me. It felt like the two sides of my life, the creative and the professional, were finally coming together. The best things about the job are obvious to most, and I really do count my blessings, especially when I compare where I am today and where I was a year ago. I can hear live music by some really talented artists, learn about their creative processes, and soak in their experience and expression in ways I haven’t thought of before. I can plan events, run them with the same feelings and intentions that I had on more productions than I can count over the past decade. I’m working three miles away from home for a great company.

The steep learning curve of the job has been the most difficult thing to ignore, because of the crazy schedule we have. There are few personalities in the mix, a team of five regulars and a handful of part timers who help with the events. My obsession with how well I fit in reminds me of how frustrated I was many years ago at both my job and at Playhouse, and in that case, it just took months, years…to break away from the pack and make a name for myself. That’s when I had time. I was at that starting point in my late 20s. I’m now back to square one at 40. Again, that’s just a perception on my part.

I find myself using the phrase “at my age” a lot lately, perhaps to remind myself that I don’t have a lot of time to waste, nor can I allow myself to settle into any kind of satisfaction with where I am at any given point in time. I’ve been completely focused on and distracted by the 10-12 hour work day, finding it difficult to unearth the inspiration it takes to write a script or even a blog entry. I’ve lost touch with friends and family, glancing over at a loose collection of open-ended emails and voicemails. When that happens, I begin to lose a sense of myself apart from everything else. Descend on a hill in 91608, where neon lights and loud music ring in a beautiful chaos every single day of the year, and look beneath the lights for a person searching for a voice again, watching people pass through in a brief moment of their lives.

Let’s call the act of doing nothing an awakening, because as I learned in acting class, even nothing is something. It’s a chance to breathe, to remember, to see one’s surroundings clearly, short of being reactive. It’s an opportunity to say that from here on, I can change things on my own terms, and to accept the fact that I wanted all of this, for better or worse. I can’t ignore who I’ve been on my way to whom I will be. There is no actual starting over, come to think of it.

There is only the beginning, which exists only in the now.

It’s about damn time that I saw my way through writing this.

To See The Next Peak

I sit on the floor of my living room on this windy night with the lights off, a moment to see the difference between where I've been and where I am. There's a gap in my account of everything, a lapse in words but not action. Here's what has gone unrecorded.

My blind faith in the right job came at absolutely the right time. I refused to give in to the most obvious path into the entertainment industry, the secretarial admin route. I tickled the severance package and unemployment checks, and just as that fuel gauge touched red, I saw the job listing like a beautiful pair of brown eyes framed by dark hair. I submitted for it right away as one of my wishing well attempts and remembered a week later that I knew someone at the company, and two days after making contact, I interviewed for the job. A week after that, I had an offer in my hands. It was less than what I earned before, but my last job was paying rent on my soul. This job is actually the natural habitat for me, albeit with a bit of the new guy awkwardness that was tenfold for about the first year at my old job. I'm impatient. I want to know everything now. I'm human. I'm prone to mistakes when I venture into unknown territory. As far as an entry level door into the entertainment industry, this is the most attractive one. I am a Production Coordinator for Universal Citywalk Entertainment and Special Events.

All cool points about the job aside, I'm still me, you know. I still discover myself being rejected in the strangest of ways, and on the flip side, my connection to other people became stronger. I've been told more than once that because I am hard to respond to when honesty comes into play, responding to me becomes insignificant. That's not the intention, that's the reaction. I've been told more than once that my best reaction should be to run in the opposite direction from those people. I figured out that I don't have to run. I merely need to ignore the option to open that door. I mean, seriously. Seriously! Why would I place value in connections to people who place no value on me? No, no longer. I don't think it's right to point out a virtue as a flaw.

I've also worked on a different approach to this year's film festival, more involvement with the committee so that even if everyone walks away without a very heartfelt "thank you", the experience leading up to the festival is a good one. I must say, this year's committee has worked very hard on the selection and lost the battle a few times in the end, but most of the films that made the final list were really dissected and discussed, and therefore earned their spot. We are turning into this final straightaway as a team, and I'm proud for my part in it. Now...oh crap...I have to work on the presentations. Crap.

I still feel like I'm constantly in a dogfight, seeking targets of opportunity while looking over my shoulder. At what point do people feel like they arrived somewhere, and not just to a point where you see how much higher you might have to climb? When can I exhale?

There is that blind faith, the knowledge that everything you do to this point counts, and that you can change the course of everything should it ever occur to you. I have a good job. I have a regular rotation of friends I hardly get to see because of said job and days off where I just want to rest. I think...and I hope...that merely convincing myself that the next good thing is about to happen will make me more open to see it when it does, if that makes sense. Some might call that my annoying optimism, others might call it "the Secret" and make millions on merchandising the idea.

I call it a much better option than surrender.

Good Morning

It's Easter 2008, and no one has been able to explain the correlation between this as a fundamentally important Catholic holiday and the tradition of an abnormally large white rabbit hiding colorful eggs and chocolate from children. I didn't wake up with candy somewhere in the house, nor did I put on my Sunday best and go to church. I woke up this morning, just before six am, to the sound of someone rattling my front door. To put it more accurately, it was the sloppy sound of a drunken hand trying to stick a car key in my front door. Needless to say, I didn't need a snooze alarm. I got to the peephole just in time to see a bald head swaying, trying to focus motor skills, not expecting me to turn out the porch light. That was unexpected moment #1. He backed away after a delayed reaction, fell ass first onto my lawn, then staggerred off to the left out of view. That's when I opened the door, kicked his keys out, then closed and locked the screen door, followed by the main door. That was unexpected moment #2, which resulted in his zombie like path off to the right and down the street. When I left my house two hours later for San Diego, I noticed his keys and his...socks. The scene was everything Cinderella isn't.

I didn't care. I needed to get out of the house, out of the city.

The trip down to San Diego, and especially Balboa Park, should not be taken for granted. Once past the grey/brown haze, there are rounded green hills, gorgeous fields and valleys, and the very self-absorbed but mind-numbingly huge Pacific Ocean just out of reach in its own playground. Just now, as I write this hours later, I feel like I just took my first breath. Los Angeles doesn't allow you to breathe, and the journey South steals it.

And so, I've been practicing the delicate balance between wondering about my future and surrendering to it. Today alone, I saw things I didn't expect: the people and artifacts of Pompeii, a sexy grilled portobello mushroom sandwich that made eating it feel like an ilicit affair, an amazing photography exhibit, and a sign announcing an Ozzy Ozbourne tribute at the Santa Fe Springs swap meet. I think the theme of the day probably applies to me as much as it applies to religion and candy egg hunting. Everything lends itself to the next thing, regardless of what you choose to pay attention to. Sometimes the moments of your life fall like cherry blossom petals in a soft breeze, and sometimes they're the chocolate bon bons on the conveyor belt next to Lucy and Ethel. There is a progression that makes us wiser, smarter in a way, but again, that depends on how and when we recognize it. Wherever you're sitting, you are moving at about 1000 miles per hour, simply by the fact that you are sitting on Earth. You can choose to say that you're going nowhere, or you can realize that you are racing towards tomorrow. It's up to you.

In the movie "Singing in the Rain," Don Lockwood is being consoled by his friends Cosmo and Kathy after a disastrous opening of his film, The Dueling Cavalier. It was a technological mess, a shallow story showing the lack of the stars' acting chops. They were used to things as the way they were, and suddenly, they were thrust in the position of being left behind by the entertainment industry, of becoming obsolete. That was March 22nd. On March 23rd, Cosmo came up with an idea that not only pulled them back into the game, it saved the film and put them way ahead. That was one moment. One idea. They took it and danced and sang the rest of the way.

Here's to hope and being awake enough to see the moment when it comes.

Flight

Ahh, so new digs with more privacy and a little more dedication. I feel like I finally moved in with the more dependable of two options and remained friends with the other. This is where I should have written all along, and hopefully this kind of focus doesn't inspire any stalkers or....

Well, I've learned something about myself this week. I've learned that I sometimes act on ideas a little too quickly, before people have had a chance to adjust. Sometimes, I even get to ideas before others, and this causes a political ripple effect that tends to turn back on me. It happened with the theater company, and many years ago, and happened at one of my jobs when I was put in charge of a major project and upon completion I rewarded the team before my boss got a chance to. That man was very gracious but was caught off guard. People in the entertainment world are much less understanding, and feel entitled to a competition of ideas before collaboration. There's almost always the illusion of collaboration, but much too often, one selfish person ends up sitting on a big idea for lack of the ability to pull it off. Progress is held up, potential and opportunity are left on the vine to wither away, but let's keep our priorities straight. The ego stays intact.


And then there's the matter of an existence on the net offering people an alternative to a real exchange. I blog obsessively, sometimes not online, about my life as I try to figure things out, even going so far as to script conversations with people I couldn't otherwise talk to. It's a great device to use when you need to get things out of your head and lay some thoughts to rest. Of course, the unintentional purpose it has served has been to excuse some people from that real exchange, to satisfy a curiosity that completely absolves them from participaton. That much is not cool, especially on such a social site as MySpace. The great thing is, some people read my blog and still write, which is amazing, I think, because once you dig a little deep to write a blog, you never come off in an attractive way, I think. That really holds true if you stay on the traditional diary or journal theme of a blog. I am not a hot potato or an illegal substance. Some people get that.


On second thought, maybe all this isn't so much about other peoples' reactions to what I do or what I have to say. Maybe this is more about regret, and whether or not it's relevant. In either case, analysis of it is backwards-looking, which is dangerous. The best thing I can do is either react or not react for the moment, and then adjust to whatever change comes from inspiration or...well, those uncontrollable outside forces.

Such is life, I suppose. We rarely know exactly what it is we think, much less why other people do what they do. What do you really have control over, anyway? Think about it. In every instance of injustice that I've been through, there's been a mix of my actual part in it and my perception of other people in it. Truly, when the moment has come and gone, there's only one course of action to take.

Create distance, invite time, and rise above.

His Quietus Make

I will actually come through on a promise I posed on my very first entry here in MySpace, spoken out of caution and concern on January 11th, 2006. Since then, I have written almost 80 entries, but the real number of journal entries since the mid-80s makes this little experiment look like a playing card. In truth, it's not MySpace. It's our space, where we have shared friends, shared status, possibly a spot on someone's top friends list, and hopefully a photo that doesn't make us look like a mass murderer. We build who we are online, sometimes despite who we are in real life, and because I love to write, that option to blog here was the irresistible chocolate donut sitting there on the plate, daring me.

The truth is, if you let it, this little wading pool of thought can get deep and a little revealing. Sometimes, it even gives people the option of reading you without effort and that affects the lines of communication. The real question becomes: Why do I feel the need to write this stuff in such a public place? My journal began on loose sheets of college ruled paper, then moved to word procesed documents and printouts, all kept in the same binder. Eventually, three binders were filled and now sit in my attic, where in hindsight, I realize all of my thoughts should be kept. The geek in me couldn't resist the Internet, so here I am, swimming rivers of change and knowing that this is the wrong place to write.

See, my space is up here, in my head, in the conversations I have with my friends and family. It's in the stories I write (I'm in the thick of writing a script now, and that might be the reason I was jarred loose from the pattern), and the music I play. My space is wordless: a hug, a handshake, a kiss, the truth right in front of you.

So why do I write, and will I keep blogging? Somewhere I'll keep it up, because this is what I do. For more than half of my life, I have emptied my heart and mind into words so I could have a little perspective for myself and indulge in the demons and angels of doubt and hope. It's a habit I'm not going to give up easily, and eventually, the living, breathing line of this little section will go away.

What I said a few years ago is true. Blogs are stupid. We are much smarter than the thoughts we leave behind.

(Of course, this just means that I return to Blogger and stop writing on MySpace. Blogger's great, isn't it?)

Compass

The view from where I stand is so different, as if I took a long walk absorbed in my thoughts and didn't realize I left the city. Life had been the same for years, maybe a decade, where I was constantly going from one schedule to the next, creating, fighting, always hungry to get to the next thing. It was one half of life lived in the misery of a day job, and one half breathed onto stage, rehearsing and playing, working hard and trying not to blink so I didn't lose a single moment. The only problem was that though I did more and achieved more than anyone, including myself, could ever imagine, I didn't actually get anywhere. I made my mark at work, transformed the stage, but I stood at the same level, staring at the same four walls. I think that's why I quit managing the theater. It wasn't so much the politics and frequent miscommunication. It was the sense of being in a different place than everyone else.

Looking back, that might be where the crack was formed. I lost my job, lost a lot of contact with friends in the process, and arrived at this view, a long journey pared down to one set of footprints and more change on the way. I've had nothing but time and space to think about what I've done and whether or not all of this was worth it. I realize I've been flipping over this same exact theme as if I've been studying the little holes on either side of a pancake, but something always happens that takes me back for a moment...draws my eyes to the horizon behind me and then turn to scan the foggy future. Something always makes me wonder about my hands and the relevance of the things I can do. This is just one the many wonderful things about being 40.

Something always comes up...the other day I was cc'ed on an email from an old friend about the play we'll be in this Saturday. It's going to be her last. It will also probably be the last time I will see her for a long while, as she's moving out of the country to get married. She was my favorite girlfriend on stage, my duet in the musical that took so much out of me. She spent the day with me when I got ready to take that train trip, and took me to the station. I knew she was engaged, and newly so, but I didn't expect her to leave so quickly. In between her acting jobs, she was a great friend, and...okay, I just caught myself because for some reason I'm eulogizing her. Maybe I'm not really talking about her at all. New paragraph. Get off this.

I once wrote that you never see love coming, but when it leaves, you watch it's every step. I guess...I love my friends and sometimes wish things would never change, but they do. Friends in my past have gotten married or moved away, or just faded from one life to another, and they've all become unrecognizable in a way. I know I'll be in the right frame of mind on Saturday to say goodbye to this friend, because emotionally I have to become a little detached when I do this play (it's complicated), but in the back of my mind I know two other friends will soon be married, and I'll isolate a little more. Everything seems to be pointing to the things I've done and will do more so than the people I've been around, so I stand here with this strange, different view, trying to reconcile what I've done and what I'm meant to do at this point.

Make art. That's what Glen Hansard said at the Oscars when he accepted his award for best song. That was the first thing spoken the whole night that had an impact on me. Make art. That, of course, set the table for what his partner had to say after: "Hi everyone. I just want to thank you so much. This is such a big deal, not only for us, but for all other independent musicians and artists that spend most of their time struggling, and this, the fact that we're standing here tonight, the fact that we're able to hold this, it's just to prove no matter how far out your dreams are, it's possible. And, you know, fair play to those who dare to dream and don't give up. And this song was written from a perspective of hope, and hope at the end of the day connects us all, no matter how different we are. And so thank you so much, who helped us along the way. Thank you."

There lies the courage to move on and keep trying, in those words, in the heart of truth and pursuit of a voice in art. People have not always made sense to me on a very personal level, but find me in the middle of writing a play, standing in front of actors with my notebook in hand, or playing guitar and singing with others, and you can see me live in a way that love always failed me. As the new saying goes, "Unlucky in love, damn good at art."

It's time to get moving again.

Our Lives, Our Fortunes, Our Sacred Honor

Now that the Writers Strike is over, any idea of the struggle to be creative in Hollywood quickly fades from the public eye. It gave many idiots the chance to say that the TV shows or movies were poorly written in the first place, and that writers weren't missed. The only good stories were told many, many years ago, or worse, these people expressing opinions over the Internet hardly ever watched TV (which made their opinions about TV in the first place totally invalid). The first thing I can tell you is that the strike isn't really over yet. True, writers, producers, and actors are no longer walking the picket lines, but right now they're going over the latest contract they got from the AMPTP, and consensus is that it's definitely less than what it should be. I won't go into details, but there is still a tricky wording of the contract that needs to be navigated and debated. Do you ever read the small print in things you sign? You might be surprised if you did.

But that's Hollywood, the industry versus itself - the business of Hollywood versus the ideas of Hollywood - and it tends to believe people are expendable. It will exercise this belief from the top down to the smallest corner, many variations on the theme of short term gain for profit. It's practiced in the small theaters and acting schools, in the high profile dealing of organizations representing guilds, and unfortunately, there's more on the way. There is an ongoing debate right now in the Screen Actors Guild over the upcoming contract negotiations, and which of the members should be allowed to vote on the new contract. Obviously, if you pay dues you should be able to vote, but there are some in the guild who don't agree. From the top down, it's an embarrassing overture of narcissism, and the business might be focusing a little too much on "more".

While business looks at the bottom line, it's very easy to lose sight of the sacrifices people make when they choose a creative life, whether it's writing, acting, or whatever it is that requires practice, training, a commitment that takes away from other things in life...other, sometimes important things. The view from where I stand is of people busy doing, constantly creating and looking for opportunities. My friends, many of whom are actors, are perpetually working on films, plays, and auditioning for TV. They will work crew on other friends' films, keep returning to classes they can barely afford if not for the occasional day job or paying acting jobs. These people keep returning to an industry that keeps rejecting them, but despite these crazy priorities, including living a life with low pay and a constant hustle for work, there are still a lot of writers and actors out there, and they need their guilds.

On the other hand...business in general seems to have a similar lack of conscience. A few days ago, I received an email from some former coworkers, the next ones on the chopping block schedule for the extended mix of reduction in force. There's a get-together on their last day at the local restaurant/bar, and they were inviting me. I immediately went right back to the unfairness of the process, of previous layoffs where my friends were sniped from the ranks, where I was asked to dig my own grave and then afterwards endured the enlightenment of seeing who my remaining friends really were. Do I really want to go back there for a visit? I think, maybe, I already said goodbye. Over the years, I was known for writing monthly newsletters, and this was the last one I sent, after I was let go. In hindsight, I guess the most consistent thing about me is that I've always focused on people who struggle, who believe in ideas over profit. Someday I hope to be able to talk to both sides and bring them together. Enough already. Here's what I called "The Final Newsletter":

Greetings former colleagues, close friends, and...well, those of you still at the old Blackjack (the nickname I gave 21st). I didn't want to end my newsletters like...Laverne & Shirley (they had no final episode) or...well, that was a bad example. I didn't really have a whole lot of time to write on my way out, nor did I remember to include my email address, which would have been nice. Nobody could blame me, huh? All of a sudden, I was both Papillon and Neo from the Matrix, and I'm making one quick appearance to finish things off right.

The Tribe Has Spoken
This whole thing has been a surprise to many people, but not to me so much, because I've been through this before. I just wasn't as close to people back then as I was this time around, but I'll tell you two things: 1) I'm sure we'll be BFF, and that we'll keep in touch, and 2) Hey, there IS life after being pooped out by the auto insurance industry, and it's pretty awesome. Sure, John Edwards speaks to the dead, but I can offer the same advice he gives. Those who have crossed over don't really have any ill will over the circumstances that got us here. We're in a good place. We went towards the light and are doing well. We just hope you're surviving and are able to enjoy each other with the time you have together. That is what our bond was when we were amongst you, so I sincerely hope you keep up the tradition. Honestly, there's no resentment towards anyone or anything, only enlightenment in some cases, and relief.

Connectivity
First of all, I have to give you what I didn't give you before. My email address is: sjirel@gmail.com. Use it wisely. Or not. Up to you, entirely. Also, as long as we have the net, we always have a way to keep in touch, don't we? You know I have multiple websites and am busy at this very moment with outplacement and this exciting job search. I want to keep in touch and invite you to do the same. Who knows where we'll be in a year? I hope to send you an update soon to let you know where I land, but I also wish this kind of "upturning of the soil" for you, a chance to really see who you are and what you're truly worth. The main thing that I learned throughout the classes I've taken recently and seeing friends go through the whole adjustment period (Klaus, Yvonne, Hagay) is that I wish I had gotten myself organized much earlier. I had a decent resume. Now my resume is sexy. I had a cover letter and a couple of websites I could submit to, and now I've got a whole networking plan and some solid stuff to work with. It's great to be pushed out of the nest to discover you can fly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So that's it, gang, the last in a short history of long emails sent to you to let you know that I can hear you breathing in those cubicles and offices, and that you're not forgotten. This has been a great experience for me, and I'll do everything I can to avoid flipping burgers. You're all in my thoughts, and I really do wish the best for you. You made my time at the wrong job completely worth the time I spent there, and I won't forget you for it. Okay, honestly, some details will become fuzzy over time and should we meet again, I might use the wrong name. Don't take it personally. My brain is only so big. Take care of yourselves, and be good people.

Your friend always,
Stewart

Here's one last quote for you:
"And that's the world in a nutshell, an appropriate receptacle."
~ Stan Dunn

Science of People

I've been walking more recently, to the local restaurants and coffee places, and this has offered me brief moments of perspective to not think as much as feel the mileage of the past couple of months. I think I've outgrown this "living on severance" lifestyle. I need to be busy again. No, not just busy. Busy with the right things.

Creatively, I am looking at a blank canvas thinking wistfully about the palette of colors I used to paint with. More specifically, I miss the way I used to feel around people. I miss that effect that some had on me, where I rolled around details of our last exchange in my mind. I would search music for the right theme, see colors and textures that reminded me of what they wore, even called on things they said in the things I wrote. Sadly, in my night sky they are the few steady points of light, not the gaudy ones that sparkle and sometimes fade, disappearing with the belief in their own hype. It's too easy, much too easy, to say that this only happens in Los Angeles, but the truth is that narcissism is a global obsession.

Forgive me if I've mentioned all this before. Some things, I guess, don't change. Consider it a fact that few of my friends give me pause to wonder why some things are said or done. Well, let's face it; The simple, whole-hearted people in my life have given me the opportunity to be a friend in return, and there goes the perpetual cycle of reciprocation and understanding that builds good, solid friendships. They make it easy to differentiate what is real, and what isn't.

As I may have mentioned before, the ace in my sleeve is the ability to remove myself, and walk away, if needed. For example, I was supposed to go out with a girl upon my return to L.A. earlier this year, and it should have been easy. We exchanged emails. I called her and left a message. Then I had time to think - while she was busy not returning my call or emails. I remembered that every exchange was difficult, feeling as if she was trying to manipulate the fog of ambiguity around her as if to simulate an old-fashioned idea of mystery. I had to work hard to earn any secrets she guarded (while she, of course, made it very clear she was seeing other guys). All this play, and I could only wonder what exactly the prize would be. The immediate next thought was this: If I have to work that hard on something that isn't even a friendship yet, chances are the pieces don't fit.

My most practiced instinct is to step back and watch all this impartially, in much the same way I directed plays, watching my actors go through a whole range of emotions on stage. I'm so comfortable occupying that margin in reality, where I can exercise my curiosity. There I can ask, without investment, why people would say "love ya" with the same enthusiasm and emphasis they would have reading those words off a mylar balloon. I can ask why people would use pet names in the middle of largely impersonal ideas. That is my right, after all, to ask the questions, because it sometimes becomes necessary to hang those questions off of weird, open-ended words.

I asked someone, once upon a time on a long road trip, what she was thinking. She said "nothing." Nothing on your mind? It was just blank? There was no thought process fed by anything her eyes were looking at? Did she really shut herself off like C3P0? Okay, maybe her mind was blank. I've never really known that. Maybe she was feeling something and didn't want to talk. Maybe, even, she was thinking in abstract and didn't have words for it. "Purple taffy exploding jiggle warm frisbee sharks."

People really do think nothing, and think nothing of the things they say or do. We automate, follow patterns, and repeat borrowed thoughts. Unfortunately, we sometimes build a rationale for being the way we want to be, unique and different than everyone, just like everyone, just like the person across from you and the loud conversation coming from the next table. What truly sets us apart is how we pay attention to each other, or even, if we do amidst a crowd of unconnected names.

It's too easy to stay apart and alone.

What are you thinking?