Thwarting Complacency

The View from Valdez

2010-06-03T15:11:00.009-04:00

Recently returned from an amazing trip to Valdez, Alaska, where I attended the Last Frontier Theatre Conference. The annual event, which just wrapped its 18th year, brings together hundreds of theatre artists -- playwrights, actors, directors, producers -- for 10 days of readings, workshops, performances, and fun. I was honored to attend this year's conference with my fellow Theatre Daedalus playwrights Michael Parsons and Jaclyn Villano. Peter Roth, one of our regular collaborators also made the Conference this year. Here are a few photographs from the trip.

Michael, Jaclyn, and me enjoy some of the last frontier.

The cast of my show, Twisted Tales. A huge thanks to Jerry, Darcy, Nathan, Karina, Scott, and Muriel for tackling these roles. And special thanks to Michael for directing.

Wayne Mitchell (left) is a talented actor and I was thrilled to read with him in the Play Slam at the Conference

I had the pleasure of directing the reading of Jaclyn's beautiful script, Unanswered, We Ride, and here we are getting set up. Thanks to Joy, Luke, Sarah, and Anya for being a wonderful cast.

Here I am with two talented writers, playwrights Reginald Edmunds and Jaclyn Villano, at the champagne reception. Reggie is an alum of the Ohio University MFA Playwriting Program where Jaclyn and I begin our studies this Fall.

The sun felt closer in Alaska, so we made sure to be prepared. Michael brought his collection of plays Dis/Connect to the festival and it was a triple pleasure to see my friend's work read, to see him on stage, and have him direct my plays during the conference.

Alaska is an incredible place. I could post more photos, but I urge you to visit yourself and experience it.

If you're into theatre and can find a week in June 2011, I recommend the Conference for your summer plans. It was an absolutely fun time and grand adventure. Thanks, Alaska, for the memories.

Recharging the Batteries

2010-06-02T22:10:00.002-04:00

Six words. 60 seconds each. Then a line of dialogue and 3 minutes to scribble out a conversation. Another. Then another. If I'm up for it, a monologue to follow. A basic writing workout, courtesy of my best friend. 15 minutes or more of daily writings to get my juices flowing.

And I'm gonna need those juices.

This Fall, I embark on a new journey --- another life shifting chapter, or whatever you wish to call it --- enrolling in the Professional Program in Playwriting at Ohio University. Had the pleasure of spending some time in Athens last weekend, checking out the work of my predecessors and future contemporaries at OU. It felt great being there, hearing the new work at the festival, and getting to know the MFA playwrights.

Following on the coat-tails of my trip to the Last Frontier Theatre Conference, I feel recharged heading into the summer. There's much to be said for placing oneself in an environment of success, of purpose. The past few weeks have been so centered on writing that it seems almost wrong that I've waited even five days to seriously get moving on some serious writing.

So let's get going, shall we?

Thief in the Night

2010-03-03T08:21:00.002-05:00

One of the greatest mysteries to me is how does a playwright survive starting a theater? Don't fret, for I will soldier on and find equal success as a writer and theater-owner, but in the infancy of achievement, I am reminded of old adages like "Rome wasn't built in a day."

It should be clear from my lack of posting in 2010 that it's been busy. Summary statements of weeks gone by is not why I'm back, however. Best to let the past unfold through stories than bulletins, I say. Back on the horse because I see this as a chance to write. To get the words out. To sort them. To exercise a muscle that has atrophied from being placed down the list on my priorities.

So the writing exercises begin. I may post them here. I may not. Not sure I'm completely ready for exercising in front of the window. Heck, I'm not sure I'm ready to go to the gym. But I need to (and that statement applies in metaphor and the literal). It'll come to be. Sings a muse on my iTunes. Gretchen Pleuss and her song "Yellow Brick Road". Absolutely inspiring and haunting. Beautiful emotion from someone so young. Perhaps she has an old soul.

Old soul. You've heard that phrase. I never know if I have an old soul or a young one. Sometimes, when I was a kid, I felt so grown up --- so ready to be a grown up. Felt like I'd seen it all, knew it all, been there, done that. I was a Calvin. If you get that, bonus points for ya. Now... young, old, middle-aged... how do you balance the soul with the body. The mind with the world.

Welcome to existence. Yeah -- doing one of those soundtracks to life now. On the rotation? "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot. Yes, I admit, iTunes is acting as my personal life coach and motivational speaker this morning. What? Like you never rely on your favorite music to inspire? "The tension is here, the tension is here, between who you are and who you could be. Between how it is, and how it should be." Tell me that's not fitting and I'll give you a cookie.

The sun shines outside my window. Morning has arrived. And sleep -- well, I know I slept because there were dreams. Odd dreams. Too much "Burn Notice" methinks. It's not often that I slumber and visit a dreamscape where I'm some international thief. Not usually. Though this time, it felt more like Burn Notice meets Northern Exposure. Maybe the talks of Alaska have finally seeped down to the subconscious. Happens on occasion.

The time needed to talk about Alaska, or Daedalus, or Caught in the Act, or everything on the front would be more than I could spare this morning. We're coming up on T-Minus 6 hours to the really busy part of my day. So let's just focus on the busy part now and get to the really busy in a timely fashion.

Hopefully, I'll be back on here later this week. It would be good to blog. Even if it's gonna be rusty at first. Just gotta get back in the gym.

Choosing the Path

2009-12-24T04:57:00.002-05:00

Or how about just walking A path. Any path. Any frakin' path that leads to something resembling a written page and scene that's advanced some plot. Too much to ask this happy holiday season? I don't think so. But then, hey, what do I know? I'm just the writer who's trying to get something down on paper before February.

That's all.

Piece of cake. Oh, sure.

Relaxing here at an hour that makes me weep a bit at how tired I will be "tomorrow" when I have much to do. And before I drift off to dreamland again, the urge to post returned as wondered about how people (and by people, I'm referring here to writers) choose to write what they do.

Currently, there are a few stories and plays on permanent stand-by in my brain. They're sitting on this ginormous tarmac in my head, waiting to take off but there's this one behemoth play that's broken down at the edge of the runway and it's holding up the whole gorram line. So how to fix it.

Earlier today, I took a few minutes out of an otherwise hectic day of not writing to read the pilot script for Studio 60, that NBC show by Aaron Sorkin that NBC killed. And wow... it was interesting to see entire characters and plot lines in the original drafts that didn't make it to final cut --- plot lines that show up later. It actually made me feel good about my writing and reminded me of a valuable lesson. Writing is rewriting.

This Sorkin script was good, but it wasn't (as Stephen King would say)... boss. It was just there, with random moments that were redundant, characters that I'm glad were removed and saved for better usage later on (Martha O'Dell), and some of the characters had the wrong names (Jamie instead of Jordan, Moore instead of Tripp). It was surreal to see an earlier draft of something like that.

Makes me curious to know what earlier drafts of his play A Few Good Men looked like. Or what an early draft of Steven Dietz's Inventing Van Gogh might resemble. Need to remember, this isn't about perfection. Not out of the gate. It's about getting up and moving. Getting on a path, any path. Eventually, through the rewrites and workshops, I'll find the write path for each play.

Hopefully that day comes sooner rather than later. But not tonight. Need to sleep, but I feel like the dawn is coming when I can start writing again. And I welcome those rays of first light and will smile when they shine upon my face. Until then, I bid thee adieu.

Amalgams in My Dreams

2009-12-22T21:02:00.002-05:00

It was surreal to see a nine year old wielding an automatic weapon, smiling the way movie villains smile when it's their turn to shine in the story. Surreal. Terrifying. And not like any dream / nightmare I'd had to date. It's not often that I dream of violence or guns. In fact, I recall with odd clarity the last time some one held a firearm withing the confines of my dreamscape. She was one of the good guys. But this moment... it was not right. And yet, I wasn't afraid. Unlike the entire dream leading up to this moment, I was disengaged and watching it like a movie. My mind editing the scene together, cutting back and forth through the chaos of an L.A. traffic tunnel being taken hostage by mercenaries. Led by a nine-year old boy with an itchy trigger finger.

Not one to analyze dreams beyond the usual "maybe it's something I ate," I didn't think much of it, except that it was so vivid and such an odd climax to a random series of events.

When I was little, I was convinced that dreams were not dreams, but rather a place where we go when we sleep. The dream world. Yes, I was voracious reader in my youth and the tales of "Alice in Wonderland" and "The Chronicles of Narnia" sat upon my bedside table regularly. It made perfect sense at seven years old that we existed in two places: here, the real world. And a subconscious realm of interconnected dreams.

So it was odd last evening to find myself in a rapidly changing world where reality was close enough to this one that I didn't question when day turned to night in an instant. Friends appeared and disappeared randomly -- or sometimes switched places on me just in time for a car chase through, where else... the tunnel which would soon be taken over by this kid and his crew.

Perhaps it was too much "Dollhouse" -- the Joss Whedon show that I'm sad to see leave the air. A recent episode was quite dreamlike and I can see the parallels if I pay attention. Or perhaps it was just the entertainment my brain concocted last night to make sure I got enough rest. Either way, I'm curious to find out what happened to that tunnel.

Do you take stock in your dreams? What's the most memorable one you've ever had? These were not my most memorable. And not the most real. But they were fascinating in the way the events in the dreams blended so smoothly that it felt like one dream, instead of the sequence that it truly was.

off to write. Hopefully I can keep some bit of creatively flowing and produce some work by the end of the year. A friend just instructed me to write a comedy. We'll see how that goes. My stories are leaning to not-comedy, but you never know.

Late Night Rambles in December

2009-12-18T04:40:00.003-05:00

And over there, a feline stares as me from atop her throne and wonders why I'm not asleep. I wonder myself. The dawn will soon make its way over the horizon and I've yet to make it to bed. Not even MY bed. I'm house sitting for my best friend (once a known blogger, now silent), and I'm too hopped up on Coca-Cola Classic and sugar cookies (thank you, John) to get even a wink of sleep.

Or maybe it's the fact that this is the most writing I've done in just about forever? Maybe. Guess I'm just out of habit. Been tweeting and Facebooking and the blog has been left to rot mostly. Which isn't fair. But it's the gorram truth.

Alot has changed this year. Quite a bit. Too much to sum up here, but I enter month five without a job, note that I am keeping a positive perspective and optimistic view of the coming decade which eagerly awaits on January 1.

Best to ease back into blogging. So that's enough for now. There's a bed waiting for me and I aim to use it.

Inspiration verses Will

2009-07-21T01:51:00.001-04:00

Which is it? What does it take to write? A lightning bolt stolen from Zues by a precocious muse? Or a level of determination that would trip up even Ghandi? To write... to breathe life into a page... into words? What does it take?

My answer? BOTH. I could have a million ideas zipping through my over-taxed cranium and yet, if I'm not on the ball and excited to sit down and push them from potential to kinetic creativity, I won't have anything word reading when I stand up. Conversely, I can sit all day and stare at blank paper (or the dull blankness of a computer screen), but with out that muse nipping away from her friends to whisper deliciously in my ear, I'll spend most of my time doing nothing more than staring at a wall or cursing said muse for standing me the frak up.

This synergy is crucial for proper writing to take place. And yet it is elusive.

I'm up late... past my bedtime. An odd phrase since it's me who determines that hours which I slumber. I choose them. And though I'm tired, I feel this need to stay alert and at the ready. As if writing were akin to sitting inside the fort waiting for the enemy to come. Waiting with your weapon in hand. Poised. Still. Focused.

Should I be frightened that I've equated my pen with a weapon and waiting for the muse to descend to something out of "Platoon"? Perhaps. I know that I am running out of time. Deadlines approach swiftly from the north and south and as my horizon collapses upon me, I am struck with the simple realization and inspiration and will have to co-exist if I'm ever going to write something worth reading.

But tonight, the will is not there. Tiredness takes hold quickly.

There is much on my mind. It will be dealt with in the morning, I'm sure.

When Worlds Collide

2009-07-14T17:17:00.004-04:00

I'm struck by a memory of a scene from the movie "Chicken Run" when Mr. Tweedy, all covered in chickens, shouts "Mrs. Tweedy! The chickens are revolting!!"... his claymation body brought down with a thud as the poultry revolutionaries take their first prisoner in this fantastically fun film.

WHY am I thinking of claymation chickens that ramble off physics and mechanics all in a British lilt? Because in my world, the chickens are my characters. And they're still at it. And in their own quiet way, they've started a revolution.

It's really quite something and more and more of them get into the act with each passing day. It's not all of them... we're not talking flash-mob here. But my characters, some of them, seem tired of waiting and once again I hear their cry, "Write us!"

And yes, I know they're not actually real people. I just read that last bit and realized that I'm writing my own pass to the asylum with each word --- but you get my point. Characters that I've been carrying with me for years are suddenly springing to life again. And it's not exactly how you'd think they'd do it.

To quote Mr. Tweedy again, "They're organized."

By simple virtue of "write it, don't talk it," I can't get into more detail than that (yes, I'm a tease; some people like that you know?). I'm just observing. And hopefully in about two weeks, I'll be able to explain these postings and you'll see what I mean by all this.

Someone once asked me, "How do you keep it all straight?"

"What?" I asked.

"Them -- the voices... the characters and the stories?"

"I just do," was my reply. There's a lot in this world that I don't know. Much of it involves dates in history, names of songs, and sports statistics. My brain isn't designed to retain such things within easy recall. But a plot... a character... the words on the page... that I know. That I remember. It's like they're plays and books and movies I've already seen. I recall them with fondness, even if they haven't been written. I've been watching them, reading, living them... for years.

Always looking for the right story... the right vehicle... the right moment. Weird how that works since it's all coming from my brain anyway---you'd think I'd be able to craft those scenarios by now, huh?

It's frustratingly serendipitous. I have two plays I've been itching to write for months. And now that I have the time, they're not there. And these other characters and plays are. Very much so.

The natives are getting restless.

But, before I can write tonight, I have real world things to do. To deal with. Events. Discussions. Meetings. Life.

And then... we'll see how the revolution goes.

Voices in the Night

2009-07-12T19:27:00.002-04:00

Being a writer has its ups and downs. I guess that is true of any profession, or matter of lifestyle. Nothing is perfect, and once we learn to accept that simple truth of the universe, you would think all would become clear... or perhaps easier.

And yet here I sit... not writing. Thinking. But not writing. I have two plays I am trying to finish in less than three weeks. These are plays that have sat with me for ages, the characters strolling about... at this point, I think they're all at some cocktail in my head having a laugh at me.

I say this because I've been focused on these two stories, and yet another group of characters have come back and voiced a request. A seemingly simple, and probably legit proposal:

Write us. Write us, damn it.

"Write us"? Yeah, because that's worked out oh so well all these years. Maybe I should. Maybe I should just give them another story -- another version of their lives that plays out simply and efficiently without question. Just do it. Without the tacky 90s commercialized catch phrase.

Maybe I should.

I love creating characters. I love when they speak to me. Spill their secrets. Connect to me. Whether they come from muses long forgotten. Or chemical switches in my cerebrum. Or some "Stranger Than Fiction" connection that's impossible to explain, yet makes the writer in me smile when faced with the minute possibility of improbability. I love to see them, to meet them, to write them.

But the room is crowded. The cocktail party bursting and everyone's vying for their spot. So how to put order to the chaos? Take a number? Draw straws? Pin the tail on the character?

Close my eyes, breathe deep, and see if anything becomes clear?

I don't think there's an answer.

"Write what comes out," he said. "Write what you want."

Okay, Northman.

I'm gonna try that simple maxim for a couple days. And hopefully something will be written and stories will be told. Because otherwise, what the hell am I doing? Exactly.

Interruption of the Flow

2009-07-12T12:16:00.003-04:00

For a lazy Sunday afternoon, I'm feeling extra lazy. And blogger is annoying the shit out of me. Oh yeah... I've decided to start swearing online when appropriate. No worries, I'm not gonna become a vulgar person for the sake of vulgarity. But I may sprinkle my notes with a bit of the crass from time to time. And a bit of the pure. With a side of sex. And a hint of nostalgia. All those things that run through a man's brain on a lazy Sunday (and in a few weeks time, we'll add football to that equation).

Man. For the first time in a while, I didn't qualify that with the word "young". Maybe because I'm not young anymore. Not really. Though I'm still not feeling wildly grown up. But I'm working on it and it's happening more and more everyday.

I haven't been here in a while.

On the blog.

I stopped.

I ... forgot.

I'm sorry.

I actually am trying to revamp the entire thing, but blogger has been evil today and the changes stick but do not show. Maybe by now, they will. I can only hope.

I will concede, for a lazy Sunday, I'm really stoked about a lot of things. There's potential swirling about and I'm trying to grasp on to some of it to make it kinetic. Trying to write. Trying to be heard. Trying to love.

I want her.

Okay, that was a jump. A little jarring. But it's true.

Who? You ask.

Well, that's just something you'll have to live with not knowing. But rest assured that thoughts have formed and actions may be taken. I say 'may' because while I want her, I don't know if I should. And that's a cop-out, admittedly. To steal from Joss Whedon's "Serenity" -- 'If I truly wanted someone bad enough... wouldn't be a thing in the 'verse could stop me from going to her.' I spend too much time worrying about all the things I have to do and putting goals ahead of things like love, that I start to feel like Whedon's Simon -- never leaving time for myself when it comes to matters of the heart.

But then I've posted and lamented on that plenty that I need not dwell on it today. No, other things to dwell on. Scripts that sit dormant that need hammered out. A blue sky that knocks at my window and deserves attention. Lunch with a friend.

More (possibly) coming soon.

For now, I'm gonna get back to the other writing.

If you can see the new layout (and you're still reading my blog), let me know what you think.

Cutting through the static...

2008-12-30T10:56:00.004-05:00

There was a year called 2008. And it went by so fast that no one actually remembers seeing it. Those who lived through it recall it like a foggy dream... wisping around on the edge of the ether. But it went so fast.

I have been neglecting this blog for any number of reasons. None are good. But then that's how it goes. I have, in the past month, taken strides towards a creative endeavor that is awesome as it is demanding. But demanding like a lover worth having. Any relationship is give and take. Even in art.

So as I furiously plow through scene after scene and shot after shot of "Separation Anxiety" the movie, I stop this morning to look around. And maybe catch a glimpse of 2008 before it shuffles off its mortal coil.

Creatively, it was glorious. I directed two well-received stageplays. I wrote 10 ten minute plays. Saw three of them produced with the birth of my own theatre company (partnering with two amazing playwrights in the process).

My full-length play "Separation Anxiety" saw itself staged in a workshop production (as my second show to make the Curtain Players Playwrights Festival).

I won a national writing award. They printed my essay in a collection.

And I adapted "Separation Anxiety" into a film script, shot a trailer for it, and plan to film it in the fall of 2009.

And yet for all that, I feel like there's more to do. That 2009 will have to top my acheivements to make it worth it. Is that foolish, or is it intrepid? A finer line was never drawn.

The year also brought about some turning points in the lives of my friends and family. My sister married and I gained a brother-in-law, and soon will have a nephew to spoil. Loved ones lost jobs, homes, and any sense of stability in this stressful economy. Saw relationships coming and going, solidifying and crumbling. Flirted with a chance to connect and let another slip away. Friends moved for amazing opportunities and while excited and happy for them, I still feel the void their departure has created in my day to day. I celebrated two years with my company, quietly and without pomp. Or circumstance. And I watched my family come together to mourn the passing and celebrate the life of my grandmother -- a loss that I've yet to come to terms with.

Perhaps that's why I haven't blogged. Here. My latest entries can be found all over at I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin' - the blog I started to catalog the creative pursuits in my life. Or perhaps you'll read me over at the Separation Anxiety Blog, geared completely to the film (and on which I'm one of three authors). Those are the blogs where I can focus on the creative side. The hard work. The things that keep me busy and running on the ragged edge as long as my body can stand it.

Not here. Where emotion lives. Where the thoughts dance around in nostalgia and evade portions of my reality which still sting when touched. As I don't want to become utterly morose, I avoid popping in to blog since this past month -- when you strip away the "busy," the caked on festive grins, this hat or that hat I'm wearing or whatever I'm doing to just keep moving -- I'm quietly screaming. Crying. Aching from the gaping wound that's slow to mend.

There's a hole in the world.

I thought I knew... but I think I only truly realized in these past few days the full magnitude of how much my grandma's presence impacted my life. It's one thing to "know" it. Another to feel it when it's ripped away from you. To be driving home from the mall and be overcome with anger for no reason other than because you feel different. Altered. Being alone with your thoughts and -- it's not a sense of not recognizing myself... no, that's not it. It's more like... something's gone. I lost a piece of me in that hospital room when the count went to zero. When the quiet took over... I can see the thestrals now.

So if I've been somewhere else, that's a good guess as to why. I'm not distant because I'm busy. I'm busy because I'm distant.

Thanks for listening. For someone who talks as much as I do, it never ceases to amaze me how much more I can say with the written word than I ever could articulate in speech. As most people do, I have my slew of resolutions for 2009. One is to get back to this blog. The rest, I'm sure you'll hear about if that one sticks.

Happy New Year.

No Easy Way...

2008-11-28T17:42:00.002-05:00

This will not be a long post. That will come later. For now it's harder to write than it was a few days ago. It is with great sadness that I share with you the passing of my grandmother. I will soon be posting a bit more about this amazing woman who played such a grand role in my life. But for tonight, I can't.

If you knew her, I invite you to celebrate her. We will lay her to rest in five days time. Please join me on Wednesday to share your memories of her. I will be posting a eulogy soon --- right now there are too many feelings and too many stories and ...

I'm going to keep her to myself for a few more days. And smile.

We are the lucky ones... why don't we remember that?

2008-11-20T01:28:00.000-05:00

Reposted from my Facebook notes:

This is odd for me. I'm not --- I don't --- I'm an emotional cripple, as my sister would say. And that's not an insult... just a funny way of saying that I don't exude much emotion. And I don't... publicly. Many of you know this. You've seen it. Or the lack of it. I could be over the moon about something, but you might never know if I didn't tell you. I'm so mellow that people often think I'm not impressed, or that I'm judging. When really, I'm just trying to maintain control.

I'm working on it. Outwardly displaying the feelings that surge through me. Because I do feel. A lot. There are so many things in this world that can easily move me to tears --- not in sadness, but in that way that you're overcome with a wave of emotion and feeling so intense that you... burst, for lack of a better term, and it's one of the main reasons that I write. A story. A blog. Some note. The next play. Transcribed into film. Lyrics of poetry.

And right now, I'm not sure what to do. Do I write? Do I cry? I don't know. As I crawl into my bed tonight, my grandma is fighting for her life in the heart of the city. I won't get into many details here, but the short version is that things were really bad today for her. But I know that she's a tough old bird. The oldest of eight, she raised half of her siblings after losing both her parents by the time she was 19. And if I start getting into the amazingness that is her, it'll be a long night.

Today was one of the ones that I wish I could forget, but being with my family... seeing aunts, uncles, cousins, and the whole tribe together... it was really quite something. It reminded me just how close we are. And how one woman, going on 84, truly is the heart of this family --- the one that holds us all together. And we are lucky to have her.

Out of the Woods

2008-11-15T05:19:00.003-05:00

The fact that I'm not asleep is all by itself a tiny miracle. Or, perhaps just the result of several hours of dozing in a frigid car as it traversed the map from one state to another.

I post quickly tonight... this morning... whenever it is. Alwhen... isn't that his phrase? Might do might do. I don't steal. I homage things. And verb the nouns as best I can when staring through the trees.

Kirby's right... mustn't talk when lacking sleep. The sense I make does not entwine with human thought as much as I would like to wish. Statements crumble under pressure.

And I sit here and chuckle to myself. Out loud, though there's no one 'round to hear it. They sleep tonight. Something I should be doing. But I don't. Can't. There's a story reaching its destination. Characters at the gate.

The path illuminated.

Back to the story.

Hi. I used to blog here...

2008-11-12T21:20:00.000-05:00

At some point tonight, I will fall asleep. It's pretty much a certainty. The mulled cider will most assuredly assist in that. On a perfect day in October, when the frost stops by for its first of many visits, the cider must be warmed. And mulled if possible. But somewhere along the fibers of space and time that drift rhythmically to a drum beat I yearn desperately to find, a series of events must take place tonight if my tomorrow will be what it needs to be. And that's not too much to ask is it?

Nice opening statement, wasn't it? And so it was written, 14 days ago. And then it was now; and even though my body aches with exhaustion, I am compelled to post. To break my silence. A silence that had no meaning. It's one thing to choose to be quiet, it's another to let life muzzle you.

And then I crashed. Hard. That'll happen well after 2am.

Apologies for the lack of posts. In the blogosphere, absence does not make the heart grow fonder... in some cases it causes worry. But I am fine, in case you were fretting. Or perhaps you were getting ticked that I'm just taking up server space for no apparent reason in October.

October. What an interesting month it has been all around. Truly. I'm not sure where to begin. So I'll pick a topic at random, based loosely on how it relates to my immediate time table, and go from there.

Tonight I'm off to meet a friend of a friend. One of the few people I've friended on Facebook without actually ever meeting in person (you all know who you are). We're grabbing drinks to discuss a script I'm writing/adapting from a play I wrote.

SIDEBAR

This is where I think I've discovered WHY I haven't blogged. You see, you'll notice that I don't use things like my real name on this blog. I just don't. Funny that. Probably because the internet is just so damn searchable and my boss likes to read-up on people. And I seldom dabble in working in the name of a friend. It's this thing about identity, anonymity, virtual v. offline, and some respect I have for a secrecy that I invented.

Yes. Strange.

What it does, you see, is create, in no uncertain terms, a bizarre rhetoric where I talk in circles and cryptic messages which when read back to me don't sound like "Meeting a friend of a friend for drinks at an undisclosed location," but rather "the condor flies at night" and other such nonsense. [Note: I read the pre-sidebar stuff and it sounds perfectly normal... I think the afternoon blogging was coming in at a peak stress moment. Back to the sidebar...]

And yet, cryptic I remain. Which is hilarious considering I have a twitter account. And it's not under Jamie Rotham. But if you know who I really am, it's not hard to figure out. And really --- does anyone read this who DOESN'T know who I really am? Lizza found me quite easily... but then she's a longtime friend of the blog and recalls a time when anonymity wasn't my deal.

Sigh.

Where was I before the rant of idiocy on myself?

Ah yes... drinks. About a script. It's almost Hollywood. Except there's no chance of sushi and we don't have agents.

FASTFORWARD

(I'm even writing this is quasi-script form)

INT. BURTON'S HOUSE -- NIGHT

A hodge-podge decorated room that clearly did not survive the midwest in the 1970s comes into focus. A tired man in an orange shirt hunches over his laptop, further destroying what little posture he claims to have.

Nearby, a cat sits on a couch, staring out a window into the night.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. EUROPEAN COFFEE BAR, COLUMBUS -- NIGHT

A thriving cafe near the heart of the city where there's a laptop for every person. In a time long forgotten, people gathered here to read and discuss literature.

Now it's meet ups and term papers. Music from the mid-90s is quite happily embedded into the ambiance. Wine. Coffee. Left-leaning newspapers. The children of the revolution, circa 2008, feast on panini-grilled meals and rejoice that happy hour here means no corking fee on the wine.

It's November 12. In case you missed that smash cut and the sudden removal of italics. Sorry, let's just ponder that for a moment.

Not the italics. The date.

NOVEMBER 12.

Frak me.

In the time since I last published from this platform (far too long), we have elected a new president. And let's stop and ponder that too. Did you vote (if you live in the US)? Did you stop and take part in that glorious right called voting -- that right that countless men and women have died protecting? I hope so. We're lucky to live in a world where the people have a voice. Where people are willing to die to defend that voice. And I think it's been a while since the people made themselves heard so clearly. One way or t'other. I'm not here to talk politics and as Edward knows, I'm annoyingly tight-lipped about my leanings. I'll just say this: I exercised my right to vote. I hope you did the same.

So, October came and went. And now we're plowing through November. So many things I too am just catching up on. A cousin of mine married on All Hallow's Eve. Congrats to her. My co-worker who wasn't expecting anymore kids after her two little boys found out she's having a girl and cried happy tears with her mother knowing that she'll have a daughter of her own. I finally came up with a clever Halloween costume. And I took my 7-year old cousin/God-daughter to see a play. And she loved it. And I ached a little at how grown up she is at 7 and how much I've already missed.

The song that just came across the speakers is from Empire Records and images of my freshman year at Notre Dame come rushing back. Maybe that, or because earlier I found my old website and shuddered and laughed at how an 18 year-old in 1997 tackled HTML and the internet. Anonymity be damned. The web was smaller then. And yet it was easier to stay hidden.

I'm sitting here working on a script. It's the one I mentioned in the above text. The backstory to this moment. In fact, I won't stay long here as I have three days. THREE DAYS to finish the full draft and present it to my producer. How awesome is that. My producer. And I'm the director. Again. With the awesome.

If this Fall has done anything for me, it was started to show me a path and illuminate my priorities. I've been fortunate to have some extremely creative people getting my back and offering encouragement. The usual suspects like Keaton and Snowflake. Some newer faces like Edward and Chase. ... I chuckle. Does Chase know who he is? Edward must (and no, that's NOT his real name). It's like coming up with code names for the president. Edward might become Starbuck. Sounds more code name than Edward. I'll think about it.

Well, I aim to keep up with this blog as much as the writing and the other places where I pop up online. I owe my readers and followers updates. I have followers! How cool is that. I promise, it won't go to my head.

I'll just leave you with this. Another things I've come to notice in recent days is the precious nature of our existence and just how random things are. Friends of mine are dealing with unbelievable trauma -- those things they never expected. We don't. Do we? Expect.

Predict. Think about. The random illness. One life intersecting with another so with such force that things irrevocably change. A forgotten moment. A missed touch. Bad timing. I think about all the friends and family that are scattered about. The distance between us. How we try amongst the swirling cacaphony of life to keep in touch. To connect. It's nice. The smile brought by a TXT. The voicemails we don't delete, but hold onto for months just so we have those someones close at hand when we need to hear a comforting voice. Wondering when we made the transition from first to know to finding out on Facebook. Counting down the days to the weekend because it means more than it used to. Realizing you're still growing up at 30. When you're not even 30. We are, all of us, more alike than we realize. Just some of us are walking around with our eyes open. Others, not so much.

I think about the conversation I had with Keaton into the wee hours. Got me thinking about where I'm at and -- it was very quo vadimus for me. And if you don't know what that means, go watch Sports Night. It was a good talk.

Lots of those lately. Seems we're all seeking. We're all wanting. More. Less. Something. And we look ahead... together... apart... we look ahead.

Is your path illuminated? Can you see the world around you and still keep on target. Are the people in your life contributing to the betterment of your existence? Did you see yourself in that earlier 'graph?

I feel like there's been a massive amount of change since we last spoke. As I enter these last days of my twenties, I feel like I'm meeting my thirty-something self. I like him. We have coffee after work some nights and chat about the things that stay with a man. And the things that go with the boy. Who I am... who I want to be...

Another song from college. Everlast. Everything to everyone. How very appropriate. God, I have to laugh. Don't you?

Okay, time to go. Time to write for myself. But I'll be back. Thanks for still being here. I hope we can reconnect soon because there really is so much to share.

A Glimpse

2008-10-05T00:45:00.000-04:00

I should visit Byrne's more often. For a pub, situated next to one of my favorite pizza shops, it has the wonderful side effect of stimulating creativity. But then we all have haunts now don't we? Places where we feel a skosh more at peace than other places, more in tune with the self, and more likely to produce something original from a creative standpoint. I suppose if you're not the imaginative type, then places like this serve simply to give you a place to be yourself and free to speak your peace.

I've been up since about 8:30. ish. Awoken by an Irish jig on my cell phone that signals a call from my best friend. Breakfast and some writing were on the menu this fine October day as he's down from school for a short weekend. We managed breakfast, taking Zubov along for the feast. The diner we ventured to sits in a decent, yet declining area of the suburbs. It was crowded today, maybe the post church crowd from the early services. A room, where the scent of breakfast hung thick in the air, a room full of strangers, and yet if I listened enough I would have learned a bit about each of them. The waitresses know us all by name. And they remember what was happening in our lives the last time we stopped by. And like "Cheers", they shout their greetings across the restaurant when you enter, and you already know their tip will be high because you already feel good before even sitting down.

She asks Keaton about grad school and today finds out that he's recently had a run-in with the dentist and will have trouble today with ice and straws. There's a joke in there about sucking and we chuckle that she could hold her own if we ever had a contest of wit and sarcasm. And then, a middle-aged couple that look younger than they are strolls in fresh off a bike ride. From a glance, the man looks like Lance Armstrong. It's the biking suit I reckon. Both of them where one of those spandex suits that clings to them. I am thankful that they're both in shape and can pull off that look in public; but even still, their level of fitness helps to curb my appetite and opt not to eat the hashbrowns that I nixed off my order but received anyhow. I don't mind. Our waitress is great and I'm sure I mumbled the last minute potato removal. The amount of senior citizens who have hunkered down to break bread together pleases me. I glance across the table as Zubov cracks a joke that creases the corner of Keaton's eyes with amusement, and I imagine the trio of us sharing coffee four decades from now, still laughing at some antic that only we find funny.

It's a pleasant thought. I make sure to hold onto it.

We're home again. I am supposed to be writing. That was the plan. So this post is my way of warming up. Apollo distracts me, but I don't mind. He seems to want to lounge, but he keeps moving after a brief stop to get his ear scratched. He moves on... restless. I know the feeling.

Working on a new show and trying to revise an old one. Both have moments of clarity just sitting in my brain. Scenes I can see as clear as if I'd watched the show already. But both have blurred areas... they're out of focus and my eyes water a bit trying to see through the haze.

And then last night while I was sitting at Byrne's --

Apollo interrupts the flow. We play catch and soccer (as much as a human and a cat can play catch and soccer) with a torn-up foam basketball. I throw, he chases. From time to time he paws it back to me from down the hall. In moments like this I think maybe I can train him to always knock it back my way with the right combo of treats and positive reinforcement. But for today, I take the role of the big cat in the house and we take turns being the hunter and the hunted throughout the first floor. I haven't been home much these past few days and we needed some time to connect. He's my cat, and I'm his human. He's been with me for coming up on two years now. And even today he still surprises me. And now he's a little spent, and hopefully pleasantly surprised himself by our playtime.

Where was I? Ah yes... last night. I was sitting at Byrne's, and it was sometime after midnight. Football had been watched, pizza put away, and Knot Fibb'n was once again playing the reels of the emerald isle. The music ranged from haunting beauty to invigorating power to simple old Irish drinking songs (or that "diddle-dee-dee shit" as the band jokingly calls it). Knot Fibb'n had fun with a small and intimate audience. Fans, regulars, and some new faces populated the establishment. And I'm sitting there with a good friend. Me on my fourth glass of Coke (which followed my first venture into Oberon territory). Her finishing off an amaretto sour. It's nice. She and I haven't really hung out much one on one. And it's nice. And this group of eight college kids strolls in makes their encampment for the final hour of the show. One of them politely asks if we can still see since they pulled two tables together right in front of us. We can, no worries, and appreciate her thoughtfulness.

And I watch them. The college students. Not in that creepy older guy way. But in an anthropological way. In a writer's way. I profile them. Four guys. Four girls. Two pairs coupled up, one on their way to marriage, one maybe just enjoying the sex. One pair in the group is clearly on their way to something, even if they don't realize it (wait... she see it, he doesn't). A third wheel that steals too many glances of his buddy's girl for me to like his motives. A young woman who looks bored by the people on her side of the table. In this group of eight, her people are the couple with the third wheel... she being the obvious fourth that has been sidelined to the junior varsity. The seemingly most mature woman among them (from the couple that maybe just likes the sex) quickly reveals her age and mentality with her drunken behavior. It's not embarrassing. Just young. She's having fun and not afraid to show that. Maybe it's not immature, I think. Maybe it's just free-spirited. Her beau seems to enjoy it, but she is most assuredly the aggressor in their physical relationship. He's going to get lucky later, that is certain. But is that tolerating I sense? Yes, he tolerated that kiss. And the next one. She's oblivious to it. I wonder how long they've been, or will be together.

And through this hour-long observation of this octet, as the band builds to their exciting finale, a beautiful cover of U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name" that isn't their best rendition (that they later apologize to me for), I realize who these eight people are. In a weird twist, they are characters in one of my plays long stagnant. Sean, Tes, Alan, Noah, Emmy, Cate, Jamie, and Veronica. One of the original group, Hanna, is mysteriously absent. But they are them. They are characters that still linger with me. Only in college form. Transubstantiation. In a much less religious sense. But then again... Stranger Than Fiction flashes through my thoughts. See them ignited that story in my head again. A story that connects me to a great friend and fellow writer. A story that we never finished. And I wonder... is it trying to make a comeback. Does it have legs? Not enough that it will usurp the shows currently vying for the title of "Next Big Play" (you know, from the reality show happening in my brain). This I can tell.

So this morning, after an adequate breakfast of dippin' eggs and sausage links, I recline on my couch. Zubov takes the other sofa, while Keaton feverishly types away across the room trying to get an update posted online. I'm here, glancing out the window now and then. A jet flies overhead. I don't see it, but I hear that familiar rumbling of its engines. The sky is a gorgeous shade of blue, the kind of blue that makes you smile. No clouds. The air crisp. And yet here I sit. On a couch. In a cave of a house. The 70s were not a great decade for houses. Too much paneling.

A congresswoman. Ahh! There... the glimpse. I don't talk much about my plays before I write them. Well... I do, but not on a blog. No offense. It's just that a wise man (and by wise man, I mean Keaton) once said, if you talk out your play, you won't write it. Makes a sort of sense. So I'm sitting here... been trying since Wednesday to write something down about this character and the others that will stand along side her. Trying to flesh out their story. Plot. Theme. Character. You know, simple stuff.

So, to help me focus, to help me get these words on the page, I am going to try to create accountability. Because a deadline for yourself is so easily moved. So easily missed. Excused. And that's crap. And yes, only hurting myself... but don't we all hurt ourselves? We are a self-destructing species. And it begins within each of us. Optimistic though I may be, I know my faults and I know myself. To avoid this story falling victim to bad excuses and a needlessly busy schedule, I have made commitments to a few of my writing partners and I will make it to you, dear readers, as well. I will have a draft of this play by Thanksgiving. A draft. It will be something, not ready for staging, but that's okay. It will be a draft. Those writing partners will read it. They will critique it. And I will revise from there. But it will be done by Turkey day.

Or what? Well... hmmm... I don't know. Bribes, bets, or any of that, I've never been a fan of. I shouldn't need incentive (good or bad to get me to write). I shouldn't NEED it. So I'll just say it's going to be written. And I will, over the next month or two, occasionally post about my progress. My thrills. My set-backs. Those moments that will be equally hard as they are rewarding.

Need to get started.

I'll keep you posted as to how things are going. And by the end of November, I plan to post a simple statement: "It's done".

That will be my shortest post ever, and I look forward to you reading that one.

Rumblings on the Brain

2008-10-03T17:27:00.003-04:00

I eat too much at my desk. No. I eat too often at my desk. The child-like meals of a man staring down thirty in a job that he loves/hates in a normal sort of way. That photo there was taken Wednesday and I couldn't not take it. There was just something... funny about it. But then I have been working like 10-12 hours a day and running on little to no sleep (and yes, that part is completely MY fault), so I'm just the TINIEST bit slap-happy.

Have you ever had a cookie that you would describe as sensual? Yes. Sensual. I have. I know, a cookie, right. Well, it's not just a cookie. Not some milk-dippin' crumblin' little piece of frak. No. It's a macaron and it's from this amazing little bakery in German Village. And I swear, if any desert was ever going to give me a hard-on, it would be this one.

I'll forgive you if you laughed at that. It's amusing. And no, before you hide the Chips Ahoy, I do not have a cookie fetish. It's just... you know how some things draw certain memories to the forefront. Certain images and scents and sounds that dance from the recesses of your memory, caught up in a wave of emotion? Well, this little pastry does just that.

First, it melts. It's looks tough and hard to get through, but once it touches your lips, it melts. And there's the sweet burst of raspberry, which makes you smile. And you savor it because it needs to be. Soon the burst of flavor that gripped you fades... only to be replaced with something more intoxicating. The silky, delicious taste of a rose. It tastes like a rose petal. It fills you with its aroma and flavor. And then it's gone and you hold onto that in your mind and lock down the memory. And to me its sensual.

What? (He says with the devil's grin)

There's an empty Coke can on my desk today. Shame. Utter shame. My horrid attempts to "eat better" and "cut out caffeine" have been met with mockery. Self mockery. That little devil on my shoulder who hog-tied the angel and left him squirming—left me to watch him squirm as I reach for another Coke, another snack, as I drive home and ignore the gym—the devil laughs and the angel curses.

I need to take a walk.

Need to get away from my desk for two frakkin' minutes and stretch and get outside and enjoy just two minutes of the day before it's gone and I'm rushing off to another something or other.

I don't take a walk. I sit at my desk and do my job for a bit. Searching out stock imagery online. Like sifting through fleas on a farm cat. Instead I think back to the weekend past and apple picking with family. And I came upon a tree that seemed out of season with its brothers and sisters. All spindly and dry... dead to a world still thriving. And it was beautiful. The picture above doesn't do it justice. It recalled tales from my youth and a story about a magician's nephew and a tree that would become a wardrobe that would fill my imagination with such wonders.

I knew since I was eight years old that I would be a writer. I knew it. I remember the rush I got from listening to my teacher read us The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And running home, begging my mom to take me to the store to buy the book because I couldn't not and would not wait until Monday to find out the fate of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. And I felt like I'd made some discovery akin to bottling lightning. That we could put our imaginations onto paper. And the magic would follow.

I was driving to work the other day and a report came on that claimed that each time a memory forms, it it assigned to a neuron. And when that memory is recalled, that same neuron fires again. And that it does seconds before you are conscious of the memory.

It's funny how some things set off certain neurons and synapses in the brain. The butterfly effect on our subconscious. The taste of a macaron that reminds you of a woman. The image of a tree that reminds why you create. That scent in the air that only October in the midwest can carry, that smell of summer's end and a season of football and bonfires. The sound of a tune that returns you to your adolescence, to the night you stole your first kiss and realized that puppy love was for boys and you now longed to be a man. The feeling of fresh cut grass between your toes and sensation of running across a park, collapsing onto your back and watching the sky explode above you on a hot Fourth of July.

That's enough rumbling for now. Time to run. Another weekend has crept up on me... hell, it came at me full speed. And I aim to slow it down, dance with it a little if I have to, and see if I can't do something worth remembering.

Staring Through the Glass... part I

2008-09-18T23:57:00.003-04:00

[Editor's Note: This was originally published on my Facebook on Wednesday. I am republishing it here and will continue it here, probably on Saturday. Maybe Friday.]

It's one of those days in September where you have to stop and breathe it in. And here I sit, with the somnambulant public, in a building where the power lies. Plugged in, tuned out, and each in our own little world.

The past few days have been... interesting. There's a word for it. Anyone remotely near central Ohio knows that most of Columbus hasn't had power since Sunday. And by "most", I mean me. And about 400,000 other people. And so with work closed and many of my familiar haunts closed, I've been adrift through the city, in search of a little juice for the Blackbird and sustenance for my own gullet. Nights spent with the roommates, conversing by candlelight are nice, but candlelight should be used for other things and it strikes me how a power outage reminds me how very single I am.

Nothing like the darkness to make you feel alone. When the lights go out. When the energy around you stops. When it's just you and a very quiet house, natural instinct is to reach into that darkness and hope to pull in someone close. Someone that compliments you... that fits against you when you're dozing on the couch.

Losing power. Losing control. It's interesting. And probably the best thing to happen to me in months.

A week ago, some will attest, I was... reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope. Various factors of the universe were converging in this perfect storm type of way that left me all but exhausted. Eight solid months of being "on", of working, of going, going, going, will do that to a man. We all know that I'm one of those uber-busy types. Always working. No vacation. And even when I vacation, I'm doing something else. Writing. Theatre. Family. Theatre. Work. Planning. Visiting. Always moving. Always doing. Never ceasing.

And then...

The winds came.

And they stopped everything. They stopped me.

The whole city just shut down. Everything. Stopped. Suddenly, I didn't have cable or internet. Or power. And while that has come with the price of taking more cold showers than I'd like, it has also given me something I haven't had in some time.

A break.

So I'm just... here. Working on work when I need to. Reading scripts. Jotting down ideas for my own. And just... breathing. It's nice. To suddenly have a week to stop and calm down. And to appreciate the world around me.

Last night I was standing out by the theater. And there's no power out there, so the whole world was asleep. It was still and quiet. And on the horizon... nothing. Just the dark, dancing in the moonlight. It was so beautiful. A throw back to a simpler time when we weren't plugged in. When we weren't dependent on machines. When we were connected with the world instead of the virtual.

How novel.

So today, I'm sitting here at Panera. People coming and going. And wondering what can I do that will let me enjoy this gorgeous day.

And then the phone rang. And I'm heading out to go horseback riding.

No rush to get reconnected to the virtual, when something tangible and real is waiting out there.

Go enjoy a world without power. We don't get to do that very often.

Things Best Left Forgotten... or not.

2008-09-07T11:04:00.003-04:00

[Editor's Note: This post began on Thursday, Sept. 4, 2008, and has morphed since. Posting the end result now.]

I'd almost forgotten how the soft touch of a woman in a darkened theater can be so arousing. When her fingers graze your arm and then return for another pass. Lingering against you. Maybe she's just enjoying the feel of your micro-suede jacket against her skin. But her touch is just controlled enough that it's flirting with you. And you shift in your seat, one, to move closer and let her feel your weight move towards her, and two, to adjust the hard-on now visible through your well-fitted jeans.

It felt good.

A man shouldn't almost forget such things.

But that can happen when you exorcise your demons. Sometimes the familiar takes a hit.

Recently, Keaton posted a blog that got me thinking. Rather than sum it up or offer you some commentary on the piece, why don't I just wait, while you read his post. If you'd rather not, that's fine too. His is not a prerequisite to mine, but might offer you a baseline from whence this posting came.

All right? Are we are set and ready to move on. Good.... lesson one: Ghosts

I don't believe in ghosts. Up until recently, I would've defended that statement. No, I'm not speaking of the kind that haunt buildings. Those I believe in, ironically... or perhaps hypocritically of me. The ghosts I don't believe in (supposedly) are those fragments from our pasts. The memories that haunt. Intimate friends long forgotten. Lovers, once a vibrant force, now shadows, if that.

I make myself forget.

And lately I've been wondering why. Why push it all away? Because it's painful? Because I don't want to relive the pain of breaking again? Because that's what I do, says my brain. Logic dictates, thus it must be so. But we're not logical creatures. Not by nature. Logic, reason, order... it's forced. It's artificial.

Before anything there was chaos. Something to that.

Impulses not taken. Actions thought, but pulled back. Sometimes that can be a blessing. How many times do you experience a moment where a part of you thinks it would be fun and another part of you (with more weight to its voice) shouts No, that's not a smart idea!?

And I do not sit and pretend to think that an orderless world, where impulse become action without pause, is the way to go. But every so often, we need to be who we are. Say what we think. Do what we want. While sometimes we just imagine a life so... free.

I took all my clothes off in public the other day. But no one saw it. So... if a man gets naked in public and no one is there to witness it, is he really naked? You think I'm joking. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just frakking with you. Doesn't matter. Is anyone ever truly naked? There are always layers somewhere. Maybe we don't see them. But they're there. And we're... hidden. From each other.

These online journals... self-published commentary... they make us think we maybe have a better understanding of the person writing them. But do we? How much do we not say? And when is too much, well... too much? Depends on the poster, I suppose. But then, even offline, most people only get a fraction of each other.

So many thoughts, pulling in various directions. An episode of Coupling filters in. Jane's epiphany that she might be a fraud. Lines from The Guys, "...public shadow." The playful mew of a cat that bites at my foot. Get off the computer and play, human.

I'm digressing. It's all the thoughts. The pace of it all. There's a massive attempt going on... trying to stabilize. Get my footing. Because this post began, in earnest, to address the issue of ghosts. And why I don't like them. And how in ignoring them and banishing them, I have forgotten some things.

Who are my ghosts? A valid question. And one not easily answered.

I tend to be the type that deals with heartbreak in the most expedient and calculated of ways. There's a grieving period, which usually is defined by an outburst of emotion. Yes, I can be moved to tears. Try not to faint. But it's often an intense moment and I never share it with other people, not directly, though some good friends have been within the blast radius and I thank them for standing tall in those moments. But most never see it. So when it comes and goes, unobserved by the world, there are those who would accuse me of never loving in the first place because they don't witness the fall.

And that will rankle me. Yep. I can get pissed too. Very much so. Again... rare and you have to really cross me to ignite that spark. And presuming to know how I feel, or felt, about something or some one, is a top notch way to incur my quiet fury.

So where do ghosts come from? From the fall and the fury. If we limit ghosts to the women in my life, most never cross over to that fate. Of course here's the rub.... I haven't been in that many true relationships. That explains a lot. I say true relationship in the context of being in love. I've always been the selective sort and in my youth, I held a romanticized ideal of relationships that pretty much followed the world of fairy tale bullshit to the nines. Don't misunderstand, I like a good happy ending as much as the next person, but in my off-kilter scenario from those days, I was under the guise that to be in love was the end-all-be-all... coming with me on this? To fall in love was to find the one.

And that was terrifying as all get-out to a tall, gangly-fuck such as myself back then. So in looking back... I don't think my ghosts are the women I loved. But those I never did because I was too afraid to take a chance. To risk everything. How many have I let slip by because of fear? How many chances did I blow because I didn't just ask the question? In some misguided attempt to protect myself, I've basically succeeded in putting up a wall around my heart.

This wall is made of glass. It would be easier if it were brick or steel. But no, this wall is translucent. But just blurry enough that when a woman approaches it, I see her, but I don't see her. Her shadowy visage smiles at me through the thick lense of fear and though I may smile back, I don't break through. I don't ... try. I find reasons and excuses that often revolve around a busy schedule or pseudo-plans that won't happen but keep me on a self-imposed leash.

Because the last time I broke the wall... forced it away to give myself the chance to experience something beyond myself... it was amazing. For a while. And then it was heart-wrenching. It killed me. I wonder if she ever truly knew how much it hurt when she gave up. It was actually quite poetic, says the writer. She built her own wall. I watched it happen. Stone by stone. And I couldn't stop it. God knows, I tried. I was always trying. Felt like for most of that relationship, I was dismantling a wall. I pull down a brick and she'd slap down the mortar and have two back in its place. In the weeks after it happens, I think sometimes that I gave up. I'm the one who stopped pulling at the bricks. But I didn't... I never stopped trying. Eventually she put the final brick into place and the wall was solid... strong... and there was nothing left to grab hold to.

But there were good times. So many.

And over time, those memories have been closed out. Hidden away. Making love on the porch of our cabin. The next morning, after breakfast, she stands at the sink, washing dishes. A game, I think. I kiss the nape of her neck. She's not expecting it. A gasp escapes her lips. I don't stop and she doesn't pull away. With each dish cleansed, I remove some clothing. Hers. Mine. My hands caress her. Tease her. She understands the game. Takes her time with the dishes, her body leaning back against mine. The last dish drops into the water. I want you, she purrs in my ear. I take her, there against the counter. It's tender and deliberate and beautiful. The world goes away.

I remember wanting to savor that moment. And I did. For a time. It was one of those moments when you connect in every way possible. It was perfect. Making love is always better when it's unexpected. When you can't control yourself with each other. When you let love take hold and you let everything go. That's when you know you're in it. And it feels good.

A man shouldn't almost forget such things.

Strolling through bookstores. Exploring the world together on road-trips. Standing in front of one of your favorite paintings and realizing how beautiful the woman standing next to you really is. Seducing her in an empty theater because she gave that look when she walked up to and kissed you hello. Walking around a lake in Spring, holding her hand. Being happy just to smell her perfume in the breeze. Napping together before a class...

A man. Shouldn't forget. Such things.

And yet... in my odd little way of protecting myself after a fall, I hide everything away. Somewhere. Because that's what I do. Bull. Because I'm afraid to let myself experience... life. Love. A moment of beauty so intense that you cry from the sheer joy. To relive that, I fear, would be painful. So when I shut out the pain, those moments that made me smile go dormant. And I tip-toe around them as to not awaken the beast that comes with them.

What's the point in that? Why would I want to erase some of the happiest moments in my life?

I should embrace them and welcome them. They are the moments and the lovers that made me the man I am. I don't believe in bad ghosts. Or I don't want to. That's really what this comes down to. But I connect them to the good ones. I guess I hide those ghosts because I'm not prepared for the chance of heartache they may cause. Or because I'm worried that they will hinder me with any new possible lover that I meet? Again. Bull. Each one is a muse in her own right, imprisoned by my fear of what they might teach me about myself.

And that's not anyway to live. If a man lets himself forget the moments that make life worth living, has he ever really lived at all?

Here Comes the Sun

2008-09-01T04:30:00.003-04:00

No human should ever be up THIS early. I think that's what my best friend mumbled as he strolled out to his car this morning. Though, to be fair, it's mid-morning in London and someone there is enjoying tea right now. Of course, that doesn't matter a lick here in the States when I'm up way before my alarm. Or the crow of the rooster. Cocks rise in the morning with the dawn, whether you want them to or not. Take that sentence how you like.

Seems most of the world awakens before we do. Apollo is up, on the hunt. This morning, he stations himself by the fireplace. A good sentry, ready to pounce on whatever might come through that gateway. Spiders and the occasional silverfish would be on his breakfast menu. I'd applaud his devotion to the hunt, except I think he takes after me too much. Yep... the little soldier is falling asleep at his post. Seems that before 5 a.m. is too early, even for this tom.

Why am I awake? Why does my soft, pillow-top mattress sit empty when it should hold me and my dreams soundly within its frame? It will... soon enough. I am not up for the day just yet. This is only a temporary break in the R.E.M. cycle, which begs for me to return.

My eyelids grow heavier.

And that sneeze just now reminds me that I'm wearing the body of a man, not a boy. Still, I'm too young to feel my muscles ache from something so commonplace as a sneeze. Then again, my sneezes are mightly powerful. He says to comfort himself in his young age.

I am more alert than I let on. I'm awake, he answers finally, to see Keaton off to school once more. He was in town for the weekend and stopped by on his way north to drop some things off; and, as is our modus operandi, our conversations took a leisurely turn and like the timing of a shuttle launch, he missed his window. Apparently the new window was 4:20 in the morning. Aside from the ungodly hour (though, if you're of the spiritual yolk, is any hour truly ungodly?), it's probably a fantastic time to drive today. Early, before the holiday traffic hits. Hell, early before any traffic of any kind hits. Just a man, his car, the stars, and the road.

Fucker picked a good time to drive. And I use that term with complete endearment.

And THERE, my eyelids commit mutiny. Leading the charge, they begin the initial assault. Eyes close first. Then breathing slows. The dream-world breaches into this one, projecting sounds and thoughts about me. A klaxon is blaring... high pitched and in the distance. It's not real... but I can hear it on the edge of reality. In that place between sleep and awake.

I'm almost there again.

But I promised a blog post.

Another hit... a dream breaking through in full force. But it's gone again. Just in and out, like a ninja. I knew something was there... but when I looked, nothing. Can't even remember what it was about.

I didn't promise it per se. But when your best friend tells you to post again as he drives away in that way that only a true friend can ask by stating (it's a rare gift), you post. Because I'm pretty certain that once I wake up "in the morning", I won't have time to sit down and crank one out.

Okay, I'm tired, but even I know that didn't sound completely right. You know what I mean.

Ah... the little soldier has completely given up his station. Curled up by the fireplace, he jumps a little at a new sneeze and then settles back, outstretched across the hearth.

I think that I too shall retire. Before the dawn. She's on the horizon. Keaton is hedging his bets that he'll make it to the final leg of his journey before she crests. He's got that eastern route to wrap it up and it'll be a bitch to drive straight into the sun. Don't worry, he's chasing the stars these days. He'll make it.

But I won't. Not tonight. The theme from "The Office" just took hold, blaring around me, and there was something about... the need for something. Can't recall. It's all fuzzy and dissipating too quickly to catch. Wisps of thoughts fragmenting in a place without time. Were they ever even there?

I smile. And that's for only me to know why.

Time to go. To find the thoughts that tease me. To meet them and their bretheren. The world of dreams. Of sleep. Of life before the breaking dawn and all that comes with it.

The Emptiness of Days

2008-08-31T10:47:00.003-04:00

I like that title. Though it isn't mine. Nah... belongs to Panda and is but one chapter in his epic tale that I hope beyond hope he publishes one day soon.

I've been letting myself get too far away from the blog lately. I keep looking up and weeks have flown by, the stench of jet fuel searing the hairs in my nostrils. What the hell? How is Labor Day within sight?

Within sight... hell, it's breaching the hull. And there's a part of me that sits here wondering if I have the time to post today. That's the brunt of my lapse in blogging -- the worry that there isn't time for such luxuries these days.

We all know how I hate the recaps, but here are some highlights of the past month:

• I became an award-winning writer! Yes, my essay "Hard Stop" (which was born of this blog) took 1st prize in the 77th Annual Writer's Digest competition (in the personal essay category). And how stoked am I? Pretty frakkin stoked. I got the voicemail while I was driving to work and that made for a fantastic day.

• Reconnected with an old friend from my trumpeting days at school. We were in band together in college and through the magic of Facebook, we learned that we now lived in the same town. So we did what any good Irishmen would do, we found a pub, ordered some pints and spent many an hour catching up. I'm sure we'll be hitting the pub more and more this football season.

• I moved a couch. Not a history making event on any global scale, but many a friend of mine teased me for years because I was never what most humans would call "strong". Fortunately for me, I'm older and stronger than I was then (the actual difference being that I do workout on occasion) and I'm not so bad at heavy lifting.

• And though I don't much care for the heavy lifting, there was a good chunk of it happening in mid-August as Keaton moved to grad school. And I helped. There's probably an entire blog-post that could happen on the ineptitude of Budget truck rentals, but at this point I don't wish to relive that morning of my life that I will never get back. Keaton is now off studying Playwriting and I'll touch on that in a bit.

• We moved offices. (Are you noticing a theme here?) My work built a new facility next to the old one and we moved in this month (the same week of the Keaton move). For the office move, there was no heavy lifting. Office people don't lift. We just don't. We pack little crates and moving people do all the hard work while we sit at Panera wondering why our boss skipped out on the breakfast meeting.

There was much more, but it's all been a blur. My chief time committment has been to the theatre this month.

I'm directing a play called "The Guys" by Anne Nelson. A beautiful piece about a fire captain and a writer dealing with the aftermath of Sept. 11, and trying to pen the eulogies for the captain's fallen men. The play touches on themes of coping, grief, being a New Yorker, being human, and really taps into the idea that we don't really know people until we stop to really see them.

That's one of my favorite messages in the play. "We have no idea what wonders lie hidden in the people around us." Such a simple, elegant, statement. I remember after Sept. 11, how there was a surge in patriotism in America. But more so, there was a surge in humanity. For a time, everyone "knew" everyone and we were all united.

I was driving home from rehearsal, through my neighborhood, and can recall how there were American flags soaring proudly from every doorstep and window that late autumn. But now... they're gone. And I wonder why.

I guess things change.

That's been a reoccuring theme this month. Change. And yet, what's really changed. I look around my house. I've had a lot of time to myself this weekend as my two housemates are both off on mini-vacations. Anyway, I look around... and the house... nothing's changed. Though it needs to.

I have this overwhelming urge to cleanse the house. Both for the sake of cleaning, but more so for the sake of—for lack of a better term—growing up. I noticed, when we were moving Keaton to grad school, that he lived in, what I would deem, a man's apartment. There was art on the walls. Books on his shelf. Yeah, he still had a Playstation, but when you walked in, you knew a grown man lived there.

When I walk into my house. I feel like I'm back in college. Living in a really large dorm room. It doesn't help that the house has never been ours. It's a hodge podge of me and my housemates trying to blend in with the twenty-five year old tastes of my parents (who owned the house before we moved in). My childhood hovers around me. It's like we moved in and I turned the house into how I would have liked it to be when I was a teenager.

I look around and see a manifested Peter Pan complex. And that's not a good realization to have on a Sunday morning.

Apollo is curled up next to me, one chair over. And there he goes... Why is it that cats always do the most obscene things when you glancee over at them?

It's funny. I started the month without a voice. And the silence taught me a little but more about how to listen. How to connect.

And now I finish the month in an empty house. A few days now of me spending time with me. Alone with my thoughts. Surrounded by the silence. The emptiness. And I think I've sort of got a picture now of how to fill that. How to make my life a little more fulfilling.

Man has to cut loose, learn to stand on his own.

I have some things I need to tend to. I'll be back. Sooner than you think.

Silence is Overrated... or is it?

2008-08-03T09:18:00.003-04:00

I talk. I talk a lot. My friends would say those are understatements. And then something funny happened last night.

I lost my voice.

How weird is that? And it was. Weird. They had probably never heard me so quiet for so many hours in a row. It's funny though... you stop talking, and you start paying attention. To everything. To the masses of people surrounding you at an Irish Festival in Dublin, Ohio. We were at the Gaelic Storm concert; so it was loud and most of anyone around me couldn't hear each other, so talking during the show wasn't a real option anyway (though it would have been fun to be able to actually sing the songs). And so I watched people.

The little old ladies across from us; I only hope that when my hair is gone and the wrinkles can tell you how many days I've spent on this Earth, that I can sit and enjoy a Irish rock band with the best of them.

The happiness of a reunited couple who spend much too much time separated for the greater good. The love that exudes between them. Two people that compliment each other. And make me hopeful that I might not be alone watching that concert in my 80th year.

The beginning of something, possibly great. Possibly heartbreaking. The potential for something... or just the wishful thoughts of a man who doesn't know what to think.

There is something fascinating about listening instead of talking. Seeing instead of looking. I see why people take vows of silence. It clears up a lot of room in your head and allows you the opportunity to really connect with other people. To watch life unfold around you.

Keaton often makes the comment that sometimes you can talk out your writing and then there's nothing left to write. You've talked it all. It's a good edict. And a good thought process on living. Sometimes I think I talk out my life instead of living it. As if I'm terrified of silence... terrified of being alone with my thoughts. Maybe I am.

Maybe I have gotten so used to communicating through talk that I no longer communicate in more subtle ways. The glance you might share across a table. A smile you might otherwise miss. People can say so much without talking and until I couldn't, I didn't realize how much I truly depended on speech to connect.

Sometimes you don't have to say anything. And that can say everything.

The Winds of Change

2008-08-02T07:21:00.001-04:00

[A post from the other night that needs posted before it becomes irrelevant.]

I don't know what to think. You ever get that? Just... can't figure out which way is up? Tonight is one of those posts when I'm probably going to ramble and twist and spin and flail about within the walls of complacency. Bear with me. I've been sick all week. I'm tired. I'm up later than I should be. And I've been thinking too much about too many things.

Things... are changing. And ... and I don't like it much. I don't. Moving offices. Friends. Changing software. Even Facebook has jumped on the bandwagon. It's all changing. And I'm sitting here on my couch fighting a head cold and heart-burn. And I'd rather be outside, but the spiders will attack and probably devour me.

Okay, they're not that big. Yet. But the one I saw tonight was creepy enough, that was certain. Quick little fucker. So here I sit at four past two. Thinking.

About shit. Not literally because that would be gross. Figuratively. Metaphorically. All the stuff. The flotsam and jetsam. Of life. Of this week. This month. This... I was just talking to a buddy online and I related to him that I feel like I'm... that my life is that subject of a TV show. And as we all know, I've penned a bunch of this out and often the show points to how my life follows sweeps patterns (basically, the really dramatic things happen in February, May, and November—I don't like any of those months). But this year, it feels like we're coming back from summer hiatus and the writers have gone crazy and changed everything for the season premiere. A shake up. Tweaked it in some way for no reason other than to fuck with a good thing.

Example. Shiny new office digs. Shows always get better workplaces after enough seasons. This change will bring new coworkers together and change the entire dynamic of my job. Ugh. Other things... new supporting characters we weren't expecting. Sub-plots never planned. The realization of plot continuations from the end of last season which told you certain things would happen... but it doesn't mean you're thrilled about the changes those plot twist have created. (Just because we expect something difficult is on its way, doesn't make it any easier when it arrives).

And I'm whining. Listen to me. I'm actually sitting here at 2 a.m. posting about the winds of change and blah blah blah. But I just... things were making sense to me. And this summer has been a mildly wild ride that would make even Mr. Toad start to spew a bit. But things were making sense.

Rambling. Cryptic talk in the wee hours of the morning.

...

Give way to early morning thoughts during Saturday rush-hour. My phone alarm woke me up. That daily buzzer that normally preps me for work has made the innocent mistake of thinking today was a day for such things.

And it should be. Though no part of me feels like doing work today. Not one ounce of my body feels that pull. Other plans, other ideas, other needs call... but nothing to do with anything called work.

Breakfast sounds good. I think I'll start with that. I'll get back to the change and the dealing. Later. For now, where did I throw my phone... ?

Update #2 --- Reverends and Vegas and Playwrights, Oh My!

2008-07-30T11:00:00.007-04:00

It's been month. That's all. A month? So nonchalant, this one. What happened to me, to my posting, to my need to share and connect to something beyond my four walls? I guess I only have so much capacity for writing and Project 10 tapped me out for a bit. I'd like to think that I'm quicker to get up off the mat, but as we sit now on the cusp of August, I can't help but wonder, what happened?

I'm ordained. And not much for reruns, so I'll keep this bit short. In a bizarre twist in the plot of my life, I decided to become ordained over the internet. There was good reason for it, but the purpose of the ordination became moot soon after and now the certificate sits idly on the buffet table in the dining room. I keep thinking that I might just pop over to the state office and become vested to actually perform weddings. You know, just for grins.

Not that I'd just start officiating, but I like the idea that I could. That I might be so humbled as to preside over the wedding of friends or family. I've been the best man a few times now, and so now I guess I'm looking to upgrade. Plus, normally it's just people like priests and ship captains who can do this. And since I don't own a boat (yet) and I'm not willing to accept permanent celibacy, this is like the next best thing.

So I got ordained. But as I said, it was all for naught as the couple I had planned to join together in holy matrimony (or cyber matrimony?) opted for something a little more traditional. Vegas baby! Vegas!

Me an Vegas. We don't gel yet. I'm always there with family. And I'm sorry, but it's just too odd to see a burlesque review with my parents sitting shotgun. We're not... well, they're more like peers now than they used to be. I love them dearly, and while we're inching closer to "friends" --- still not sharing a Jack and Coke at Les Folies Bergere with them. 48 hours in Sin City. Flash-seared under the 112° sun. No sinning what-so-ever. Life lesson No. 1,265: Don't go to Vegas in July. Just don't.

I do ponder when I will reach that comfort level with my parents that I envy in my other friends. They're probably wondering how I've gone through life not drinking, not swearing, and not once talking about sex. The ordination probably seemed quite normal to them thinking about it.

Interruption of flow. The message light on my work phone is having a little siezure. It's been doing that all week. I have ignored it fully for probably longer. Some message that hasn't warranted my time. Yet I let it flash. I don't delete and I don't call it up. Voicemail limbo holds it snug against her bosom. And there it will probably stay.

In the month between my last update and this post (a month that passed by with the relative speed of a Cheetah on steroids) I've been busy with Project 10. To quote Johnny Ensemble: WOW! The picture there is of the Blue Team rehearsing a short-play I wrote called "Holiday Idols".

Project 10. What can I say? It's a little sad that it's over already. Three months in total between all the writing, prepping, and producing. Three months for a few hours of theatre. And absolutely worth it.

Truly a fantastic experience. It was... transcendiary. I couldn't possibly emote the flurry of sensations coursing through me that night and in the days since. I've done theatre before. Been in many shows. Traveled and won awards for it. I've even seen my work on stage.

But this time... it was different. This time... it was inspiring.

I noted on my Facebook the other day that I woke up and realized kinda what I wanted to do with my life. Whatever it is, it's pretty much some amalgam of Saturday night and the past few months. The premiere of new work. A troupe of actors and directors who care about the words. A packed house.

My best friends sitting beside me.

Theatre Daedalus took flight this past weekend. And with the help of my co-founders, Michael and Jaclyn, it's going to keep soaring. I know this because of Saturday night. No more questioning. It's not a matter of "ifs" anymore. I just know.

Oscar Wilde once wrote that "One's real life is often the life that one does not lead." Saturday night... I saw a glimpse. I saw what could be. What will be. And there's no going back. If there was ever a voice in the back of my brain that quietly and softly suggested that growing up to be a marketing director who Chairs nonprofit boards and drives a Volvo—a beige one—would be a good thing... that voice has just been silenced.

No more wanting. No more planning. No more... waiting for everything to clear up. A path has been set. My real life is just up the hill kissing the horizon. And sometimes that hill feels like a wall of ice five miles high. Like Everest, I'm sitting at the last encampment and it's those last few meters that are the real bitch. But there's the summit. I can see it. And I'm not closing my eyes. Not anymore.

Project 10 set something loose. I want to tear into everything in my life, rip it open and examine it from the inside. See what's working and what's not. Gut the things that hold me back. Remove the baggage. Clear the clutter. Fuck the detractors. And climb my Everest.

Update #1 --- Project 10

2008-07-01T11:19:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to write for ages. AGES. At least it feels as though an epoch or two has crept by unnoticed as Thwarting Complacency sat unattended. Unloved. Unwritten. But no more! No, no, no... it's time to get back to updating in some aspect before I look around and see the wrinkled hand of 2008 pass the mantle to the screaming babe that is 2009.

My trouble is, and I'm sure you can all attest to this, is that there's almost TOO MUCH going on to pick any one thing to write about. It's actually tough to decipher what is and isn't appropriate to say and what is and isn't worth mentioning.

So I picked one that is a large plate topper for me. Project 10.

Created in collaboration with two of my dearest friends who just happen to be talented writers in their own right, Project 10 is a night of ten-minute plays written by the three of us.

The concept is simple: each playwright writes one 10-minute play a week for ten weeks. In early July, we will assemble and choose the top ten plays from the stack of thirty completed works and will hand them over to a troupe of actors and directors to bring them to life.

The shows will be performed in rep, back-to-back, over the course of one evening. Minimal setting, props, and costumes — the chosen actors will stay on-book, using the words, their bodies, and the limited materials around them to bring more than forty characters to life in 100 minutes.

Are you excited yet? I am.

Now this posting gave me a reason to pause—you see, marketing Project 10 as it needs to be marketed would then require for me to start using actual names and putting real identities to the aliases I've plastered about the blog in some vain attempt to protect the anonymity of my loved ones.

And then I realized that I'm not, in fact, a super hero. The need to protect my identity and the identity of those around me isn't nearly so crucial as it is for those comic book heroes we so admire. And as Keaton once said, anyone in central Ohio already knows who I really am if they have any connection to local theatre. They know my full name, and that Jamie Rotham is about as real as a smurf. And really, most people who read my blog... you know me too. Or at least you know me enough.

For the purposes of the blog, I'm not going to shift everything again (my name for example). Burton works just fine. And Burton isn't fake. It's my name, just not the one most people use. But it's there, quietly playing second fiddle to its older brother. So yeah, Burton deserves a little time to shine and thus has become my call-sign, if you will, online.

It's funny — I'm so particular about what people know and what they don't. When I began this blog, I wasn't at all concerned with anonymity. I used everyone's name, including mine, and tossed them about with abandon. And then I thought about it and decided that I shouldn't talk about people without asking. And so they all got nicknames to protect the innocent. And eventually, I slid into that trap as well.

I'll have to tell you the story of where Jamie Rotham came from one day. It's really a treat. And one of my stage names (the other being my actual name). I'll tell you this: I owe the name to Keaton. I created that stage name to be in one of his plays in one of my most favorite roles. One day, I hope to see that play professionally produced and a professional actor will "originate" the role in the memory of Broadway. But I will forever call it mine and hold that character close to my heart. It's always an honor to be the first actor to breathe life into a character—to give that to a playwright.

Amazing how much one can digress on a beautiful July morning (HAPPY CANADA DAY by the by). Long story short (too late), if you put two and two together, I'm not going to lose much sleep. The point of today's post was to talk about Project 10. And to do that, I'm going to link you to a new site because I'm just so proud of this whole thing and the work that has gone into it and continues to go into it. I'm very much looking forward to see the troupe of actors, that we're getting set to cast, take on these newest characters and to see them take form and walk from the page into the spotlight. I get chills just thinking about it.

If you happen to be near central Ohio and you happen to like theatre, or maybe you know me offline, or perhaps you've been meaning to expand your cultural horizons and see some live acting in your own hometown—then I invite you to come see Project 10 on July 26. You can get all the details by visiting www.theatredaedalus.com and following the links to the Project 10 page. (Theatre Daedalus itself will be another post.)

So that's one of the myriad of things I've been up to in June. Coming up next: my sister's wedding; or perhaps we should talk about my ordination. Yeah... that's probably a good solid post or three.

Walking in the Rain

2008-06-03T17:40:00.000-04:00

It's pouring. And my car is a million miles away. Or at least that's how it's going to feel. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't for the lightning. That could be, well, deadly. But otherwise... shiny.

Ah... it's Tuesday. And it's June.

And wow -- SO MUCH has been happening lately and I've been a horrifically bad blogger-pal. No updates. No musing. No rants. So I apologize to any loyal readers who have felt a little unrequited lately. I will endeavor to make amends.

As I promised a while ago — you know in like April — I am posting this pic from Keaton's Wake. Quick memory jog: we toasted away Keaton's 36th year at an Irish Pub. The guest came wearing kilts or barmaid outfits depending the make-up of their chromosomes. And Knot Fibb'n was there. And it was glorious.

I have more adventures to share and tales to spin, so I'll try to do without playing catch up. I tend to blog best in moments when I'm living "in the now", typing right from the soul, be it out of happiness or some other emotion, the re-caps never hit the mark for me.

So here's a living in the now comment: there's been nothing remotely complacent about the past 96 hours. I'll touch on the highlights this week, but rest assured, Sunday was fantastic and revelatory.

Revelatory. It's really as fun as it sounds.

I'm off to get wet. But hopefully not electrocuted.

Touching Base

2008-05-27T16:54:00.002-04:00

The amount of stuff that has happened since my last post, or at least my last serious post, is mind-blowing. And there will be posting about it soon. Right now, this very moment, I'm expanding my horizons and linking up to Technorati. In fact, I'm building a Technorati Profile, which isn't at all ready to be viewed. But I'm working on it.

And I've been writing. A lot. Which is probably why my posts have become so few and far between.

So for now, please know I am alive and well. And I have stories and photos. And I will post them. Soon.

Waiting for the Dawn

2008-05-07T04:15:00.002-04:00

For someone who gave up caffeine, I'm up way too late. Or I'm up early. Both, I guess. Lounging here in my recliner, staring at the two-dimensional trees that adorn my office wall. A throwback to the early 80s when wallpaper murals were "in". It's actually quite tranquil.

A Toast

2008-04-21T23:47:00.001-04:00

It's going to be okay.

The things we tell ourselves in the late hours when everything else is asleep or far away. Of all the things to say, that's a good phrase to hold onto. And it's true. No doubt in my mind. My previous postings this month probably seem a bit... hmmm... darker than per usual, but don't let that mislead. My optimism is still there. It just sometimes feels... I don't know. Just feels that way.

On a much lighter note, today is the birthday of a man I quite admire and regularly call my brother; though the title is strictly one of honor, not birth. I think that counts for something more in this world. And so rather than do the usual and sit here and talk about myself, I'm going to say a few word about the man of the hour.

And for once, I'll use someone's real name. Don't be alarmed. I'll only use his first one, which he'll tell was quite popular in the year he came into this world.

Michael is one of the friends I plan to have right up until the end. Some people have asked me why. He sometimes can't keep a secret, and yet I trust him completely. He engenders loyalty and I fully expect that had we been born twelve-hundred years ago, he would have been in battle with me. Probably would've saved my neck more than once. If someone were to ask me why I was friends with him, I'd answer simply: because he's everything a friend should be.

The other night, we threw him a party in the form of a Wake (it'll be explained in a future post) and what with all the debauchery and Irish reels filling the air, I didn't get a chance to lift a pint and toast a dear friend. This is sort of what I would have probably said that night:

All too often, we honor those no longer with us. We wait until our loved ones have gone before us and then it's hardly useful and it becomes our comfort, not theirs. If only every man were so fortunate to hear his friends speak of him at his own Wake. To laugh with them at the stories, to share a pint with them, and for just a few hours to only think of the best of times. To be remembered for the good things.

If Michael has taught me one thing, it is to be strong. To stand up for what I believe in and stand with the people I call my friends. To lift up my voice and be heard. And to not settle for anything less than victory in everything I do.

I don't always achieve that. But that does not deter Michael from offering the support that only a friend and brother can. He always has two simple words for me when I think it's too much. Grow stronger. Said with encouragement and the absolute belief that I will.

I am proud to call him my friend. Prouder still, my brother. And I am honored that he might consider the same of me.

As he celebrates the passing of another year and looks forward to one full of new adventure and fresh opportunities... Michael, I raise a glass to you brother. May this year be your best yet, and only the beginning.

C>_

2008-04-15T10:46:00.001-04:00

It's going to be okay.

Hard stop. Reboot. System Check. Error.

2008-04-15T10:45:00.001-04:00

My birthday balloon is still here. Floating above me, swaying in an artificial breeze. The Mylar is holding the helium in place and I've decided to leave it up as long as possible. No reason. Maybe because it makes me smile.

Stop. Reboot.

The sun is hitting the glass on the window and struggling to pierce the curtains that do nothing but look tacky on the door to the patio to which we're not allowed to venture.

System check.

I WANT TO GO HOME.

Sorry... didn't mean to shout. Just happened. Just popped out. I do want to go home though... well, maybe not home. More like somewhere. On a trip. I don't know. But being at work today feels torturous. And while there are many an important thing happening at my office today, they all feel small and finite. Total rubbish. It feels... this isn't how I want to spend the rest of my life.

Sitting at a desk doing somebody else's planning and thinking. Taking the little creative reserve I have left and pouring it into every work related project I have and thus leaving nothing but a withered husk where my creativity once flourished.

I feel dry.

Inside.

Cold. Like the Antarctic dessert. My latest script sits alone on some disk space, whimpering at me, asking why I don't talk to it anymore. Why I avoid its stares and change the subject when someone asks me about it.

I should have skipped work today. Yes, there's a huge work group thing today. Yes, we're all supposed to be there. Yes, it would've really bit me in the ass to call in 'sick'. But fuck it. Yes. Fuck it. There's a time for frakin' and a time for fuckin' and right now I feel like being a little more vulgar than my usual less vulgar self. And for that I cannot apologize. I should've called up my boss, told her I couldn't make it, and taken a friend up on his road trip offer. You can't live forever.

Here's the kick in the crotch. I actually like my job. How much more unbearable is this feeling for those who hate theirs? I sit here today and want to be anywhere else. I want to sit at a bar upstate and share a beer with my best friend. I want to go to a non-commercialized coffee shop where the people are artists, not pretenders, and write a scene of my script today. I want to have lunch with my mother. I want to stand at the edge of the world and sound my barbaric yawp.

Not the squeak of a crushed spirit. The pathetic whimpering of a man trudging through existence.

Error. Reboot.

More thoughts I do not wish to share in public forum. I don't like secrets. But I understand the need for them. And these aren't secrets so much as just my private musings... they are for me. Some might be fit for sharing down the road, but right now, they are mine.

I lie to my coworkers. They ask me how I am and I tell them that I'm well or that I can't complain. "Can't complain"? Seriously? Yes. Yes I can. Legitimately? Probably not. But in the grand scheme... I'm not fine at work. Good job, but it's eating my soul. I'm constantly creating here and that takes away what I might create at home. And yes, I work on my own stuff as much as I can. But lunches and breaks are ill substitute for the freedom of waking up, slinging the Blackbird over my shoulder, and heading out to write.

To see. To observe. To love. To live.

Here in the confines of these old walls, that does not happen. We all make our own personal Hell. My high school band director taught me that. It's unfortunate that I'm good at making things happen.

System check. Defragmentation.

I have a meeting in 4 minutes that I don't want to attend. I want to walk outside, get in my car, and drive to Lake Erie. Not even to jump in. Heck, I'll take a day at a local lake. I want to sit on the water in the crisp air today. I want to write something that isn't about selling the message or the brand.

I should be on my way upstate right now. I don't do things like that. And that's responsible. I know that. It's also killing me.

You'd think I would've learned something in college. Maybe just something. Like how sometimes it okay to fall down. It's okay to take the leap and not make it. It's not the end of the world to fail and to admit it. It's okay.

Sometimes crashing and burning creates the ashes from which a person rises anew. I haven't crashed yet. But I feel like I'm in the steep dive, hands pulling up on the stick as best I can. And everyday that I walk in here. Or do anything antithetical to me becoming a writer, I get a little closer to the impact crater.

Seventeen noises. Typing, air circulation, coworker chatter, construction nearby, birds chirping, my own breath, a podcast wafts through the air, phones ringing... and more and more and more in the wild cacophony that echoes about me here and follows me outside and everywhere I go. So many thoughts. So many things to do. E-mails I don't want to read. Phone calls I don't want to take. Nail me down an' whip me. The vegetables will rot. Shit needs cleaned. So much happening. So much going to happen. Still life moving. That's mine. Can't have it. Going to change. Going to be hard. Caffeine is my drug of choice. Off the Coke. Not withdrawal of commercialized addiction. Clarity. The black hole is not the portal. Ancient bricks doth crumble and statues topple. To sands stretch far. Out out brief candle. Talking nonsense. Never ceasing. Never changing. All the din.The lion roars. The girl cries. Wind blows across my face and I feel it calming me. Waves crash. Like thunder. The thunder cliffs. Goodbye Northman. Can't change it. No take-backs. Uh-uh, that wouldn't be fair, old sport. Interaction at its lowest point. A hollow fuck, a meaningful kiss. Confusion on the Orient Express. The rain comes down. Like grace. It's washed away. The boss is talking. I smile. Espresso punches me. A tic-tac. Not happening. Confusion. Derailment. Interruption of the flow. Can't stop the signal.

Hard stop.

Paralysis

2008-04-14T02:56:00.000-04:00

Am I seeking perfection? I know better. And yet here I sit. Well past my bedtime. Any actual hopes of getting to the gym long since shot. And even still, as I sit here in my bed, the soft covers draping over me, listening to the train whistle howl in the distance as a middle-aged house creaks for no other reason than it's a house and it's after 2:00 a.m. in flyover country and the only real sound wafting about is my typing in run-on sentences.

And thinking in flashes... the synapses are firing at will tonight. They've been doing that more and more lately. The cacophony in my brain is fierce and finding my way through the din isn't something I'm enjoying. Random thoughts. Feelings. The cool --

-- I'll get to it. But just when I thought I was going insomniac on myself, I'm drifting and violently falling into and out of the dreamscape in my subconcious. One of my nameless friends (she has a name, but I can't think of a good blog-moniker for her and thus the nameless) ia pulling double duty as a spy tonight. I saw her just now in a car, under a hail of gunfire... I was there... we were fine. Irish music was playing in a beautiful reel, and we were about to relocate our position to something a little less hairy. And then I was here.

And now I'm back to my thought from earlier. The cool contour of the glass, palmed in my hand. And the sound it would make smashing against the fireplace. The fantastic glimmer it would make across the brick as shards of it embedded themselves into the carpet. So then reason took hold and I didn't throw it.

But I wanted to. Earlier today I was quite angry with myself and I recall standing there in the family room, back to the hearth, cup in hand, like a major league pitcher ready to throw the fast ball. Just because I've never smashed a glass before. Ever. And I thought it might feel good to do it.

And at this point, I am rambling. And I'm tired. I'm dozing. And this post is crashing into sweet oblivion. I'll tell you more about the glass that survived and why I can't write and why I'm still up on a Monday morning / Sunday night when the rest of my world slumbers.

Not the only one it seems. Keaton had a good post tonight. I hope he is safe with his sword and his muse. I don't live in area nearly as frightening as he paints his. Which is good. Because my sword is very much downstairs.

The Things We Never Tell Each Other

2008-04-13T11:11:00.000-04:00

It looks dreary outside. I think it's raining. Or it will be. I can't blog about it. What I'm thinking. What I'm feeling. You ever get that? I'm sure we all do. That weird sense that you have something to say but you don't know how or even to whom you might want to say it?

Nonsensical musing on a Sunday morning in Ohio are brought to you by some self-realization that perhaps this growing up thing is much harder than I expected. And no, before anyone thinks anything, I am not posting today in seek of pep talks or encouragement that I really am a super cool guy. Today's just one of those days when you look around and...

The harsh light of day. I like that phrase. And normally I'm a very "look on the bright side" guy with the neverending optimism and all that. And it's still there. It is. Today it's just fighting ten rounds with reality, doubt, and a skosh of terrified mixed in.

I don't hardly ever post about things that aren't wonderfully fantastic. Sure there were dramatic postings in the past that revolved around downsizings and the end of a relationship that up until the end I thought was solid... but those now seemingly mundane things are the grittiest I ever get. I get this overwhelming feeling that it's wrong on all levels to admit on a blog that I might not feel 100%. That I could maybe perhaps be worried. Or stressed. Or, God forbid, scared of something.

And then you have to ask yourself... what's the point of having a blog if you're not going to use it to express the full spectrum of your emotions? Now... let's step back and understand that I'm not advocating a completely filterless society. Or a filterless me. No... we have filters for a reason. It's softens us to the world outside.... makes us all seem a bit more manageable.

You don't know what other people think. I don't. I never do. Rubbish at reading people and I have a horrible habit of thinking I know when I obviously couldn't. I ... have lost this sentence in my head. Something just shifted again. It's hard to write in a stream of consciousness mode when you thoughts feel jumbled. Like the stream is breaking off in too many directions. Or too polluted to see to the bottom.

His tail feels soft against my arm as it bats me. Apollo. He's fantastic, by the by. Curled up on the couch next to me. That's why I love certain animals. We know each other pretty well by now. He's my cat. And I'm his person.

The day is rapidly passing by. The hall clock is not afraid to announce that fact quite loudly today.

Now I'm just stalling... I have things to do. Other writing. Planning. Just... things. And yet I haven't figured out how to say what I want to say. Not on here anyway. Do have any idea how irritating that can be? To know in your head exactly what't on your mind, but there's a filter that keeps it in check. Keeps it from everyone. But again, sometimes a filter keeps the peace. Or at least keeps the status quo. But then, is that what I want? The status quo? Shouldn't we seek for something better than that?

The window has beckoned to Apollo and he perched himself on the sill. A sill that once held a small kitten now amusingly supports a beast of a feline. He doesn't all seem to realize that he's grown up. But then is my cat. So I guess that sorta fits now doesn't it?

It's a Funny Business...

2008-04-11T18:33:00.000-04:00

First, this title has absolutely nothing to do with anything. I've just been meaning to blog for most of this week and have managed, without much difficulty, to avoid it. Not that I'm trying to do so. I just have found other things to fill my time. Some have been productive. Some have not. Some have been good for my soul. Some thought provoking. Some were simply nice. Some were perfect.

Not bad for a few days.

I am spending most of this weekend in one type of theater or another. Kirby and Zubov are both appearing in shows that open this weekend. So tonight it's off to Curtain Players. I'm not one for the uber-promos and plugs, but my pals have been working very hard and so I'll take a second to advert for them.

If you're local to central Ohio, I recommend visiting www.curtainplayers.com and reserving tickets for a night of "Arsenic & Old Lace" with Kirby, and then hopping over to Vaud-Villities Productions for their annual showcase. Zubov's in twelve dance numbers over there, so that'll be entertaining (in a good way).

There. I did it. I pimped out my buddies in the name of show-business. As Artie Isaac said on his blog today, "The theatre, she is a greedy lover. Mmmm." Oh how wise the man can be.

Speaking of that greediest of lovers, I must away for now, gentle reader. The sun streams in my office window and kisses my back and just as quickly ducks behind a cloud in an impetuous game of hide and seek. There, it's back. Teasing stellar body, isn't it? Has been today. Warring with the rains and clouds throughout the day. We shall see who is victorious come nightfall when the moon comes out to play (should the moon make its appearance tonight and not be thwarted by the clouds that did so torture the sun this afternoon).

Oh, and in the spirit of honesty, I've not yet stepped a toe inside a gym. But next week, cries the wolf, everything changes. I figured something out recently. Some things cannot be done on a whim, nor can I think that easing into it will do any good. Endeavors to change... to better one's self take everything. The body. The soul. The mind. The heart. In a recent chat with a newly established friend, we got to talking about self-improvement and I offered up these words: Improvement isn't handed to the lazy and weak, but earned by the bold, the fierce, and those willing to endure the pain of metamorphosis.

It's time to be brave. 354 days left. I've dubbed it the MOMENT OF TRUTH. When I have forty-six seconds of free time, I'll come up with something a little more original. Point is—I've made lots of bold statements about change. Now given myself a deadline. The working out. The writing. The absolute desire and determination to finish my journey from boyhood to manhood. In 354 days, I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that I am the man I want to be.

354 days.

I better get moving.

Blogging at 32,000 Feet

2008-04-07T23:01:00.004-04:00

Note: The following was written on the last leg of my flight home.

Somewhere below me, New York or probably Pennsylvania sits under a cloudy April sky. I'm not a fan of flying. I'm not. But when I can peek out the window and see a shelf of clouds that looks like a vast chunk of snow-laced Antarctica, it helps. Above us the sky is a pure blue, seemingly unfettered by smog and debris. Planes should have clear ceilings, for I am positive that what I see out this airship's port-hole pales to what hovers above.

The stewards (a term that we shouldn't be so quick to drop in this time of political correctness for something so simplified as 'flight attendant') are heading down the narrow aisle with promises of free drinks and snacks. I waffle as to whether I will partake or if I'll let them pass by. I am just happy to be on board, in the air, and on my way home. It's been a long day of delays. A nice solid 11 hours of traveling when all is said and done. Thank you Skybus for that last kick in the crotch.

For those unaware, Skybus was a radically cheap way to fly. No frills. It was what it claimed to be, a bus in the sky. Tickets were sometimes ridiculously cheap (as low as $10 each way) and the crew wore long-sleeved t-shirts and the pilots when by their first names. So we flew them up to Portland. And for my first trip on Skybus, the first leg was pretty good.

And then they went bankrupt. Yes, while I was on vacation. I'm not going to bore you with the details of how I ended up on another flight home. I can feel this blog falling short of my original goal -- though really, I suspect the only reason I have the laptop open now is because how often do i get a chance to write a post at 32,000 feet.

This would be a first for me.

Snowflake (who deserves a lot of props for being an excellent hostess), has this card on her fridge that says something like "When was the last time you did something for the first time?". I love that. It sums so much up so very neatly for me.

Lately I've been trying to achieve just that and when I saw it, it really did make sense to me. How many things in my life have I let slip by because I thought I could just do it another time? Or I didn't see a reason for it right then and there. Some things I did on this trip for the first time:

Blogged in flight.
Drank steamed milk with hazelnut and chocolate.
Ate clam-cake (it was salty and I wasn't a fan).
Climbed down a rocky bluff to the ocean.
Been stranded by an airline due to the airline no longer existing.
Had a New York bagel.
Been given a dessert on the house.

There are probably more, but off the top of my head I cannot think of them.

We're 40 minutes out from home. I will post this tonight sometime after I land. Perhaps with pictures. For now I need to spend some time with Panda before our vacation comes to a close. He's got another four hours plus, before he gets home to Lady Panda, so he won't be staying in town for very long after touchdown.

I wonder if I could try something new everyday. Nothing huge—just something different. A new drive in to work. A new recipe. Anything. I should list too.

Staring at My Other Life

2008-04-07T01:44:00.003-04:00

You can hear it. A dull roar from here, but even across the bay, behind the small juts of land that separate me from the true ocean, I can still hear it tonight. This morning. Now. My breath dances in front of my face, performing for the stars that speckle the clear sky above.

I can see the wind tickling the water below me... lights from the homes and warehouses surrounding the black icy sea reflect quietly.

And something annoying just stopped screeching in the distance. Some machine, doing its job has settled down for the night and I sit here, with only the Blackbird to keep me warm, out at the edge of a ... I'd like to say cliff, but that would be an insult to cliffs. It's the end of the parking lot where Snowflake parks her car each night. Behind me she and Panda are settling in for the night inside the warm sea-side apartment.

Me, I wanted one more look at her. Or at least part of her. Atlantic. She is beautiful as she is awesome, and I use the latter in its strictest form. The raw power that stretches out before me, the world that flirts with mine own. If I were born in another time and place, I would have been a sailor. An explorer. I would be the man who dared to cross her.

This trip has been fun. And surreal. And when I'm safely back in Columbus, I will post about the little things. I will tell of my adventures with a defunct airline and all such insanity.

But tonight I sit and my fingers grow numb from the biting chill that sweeps against this rock. Bundled up as best I can, I'm taking a few moments to enjoy the view, which you can imagine in the night isn't much to look at, but it's still more breathtaking than most things I will glance upon this week. I can hear the buoys in the water. And far across the bay, a lighthouse winks at me.

I wave. And notice the small light show happening before me. Tiny blinkers, appearing in the darkness and vanishing like ghosts. There is a symphonic pattern to their madness, but I can't yet make it out.

My fingers are colder still. Almost to the point where I will begin mistyping more and more. But I don't care. I'm stubborn sometimes. Thought not thoroughly. I did not actually wade in or touch the ocean on this trip. I stood at its doorstep and let it sing to me. But the ice off-shore and my friends' intelligent suggestions kept me from being completely mental this weekend. I wanted to. To wade in. Would've froze to death or at least suffered for my desires, so I respected Atlantic and her icy grip and I stood just out of reach. And the waves crashed up against the rocks and after a polite acknowledgement of each other, I climbed back up the rocky bluff and promised to return when she warmed more to me.

I do love the ocean.

Didn't realize it so much until I was standing right beside it. Hopping along the rocks like a kid. No fear. No worry of slipping or nervousness from the approaching tide. Just felt at home. Felt real. I felt brave.

I think if I could see the ocean every day, well... no power in the 'verse could stop me.

I'm going to finish this one inside. There used to be a bench here and I think it didn't survive the snowplow this winter so I'm sitting on the edge of the parking lot. Literally. On the ground. My ass is freezing.

Did you hear that? Seagulls... crying or playing in the distance. I didn't know they stayed up as late as me.

...

I'm in Snowflake's kitchen now. She's fast asleep (though she's bogarted my air-mattress) and Panda has just finished packing and is settling himself in on the couch. We leave for the airport in six hours and in about 14 or so, I'll be home. Back to my life.

I read Keaton's late night posting before heading out into the cold night. And he asked his readers to write about their 'other life'. I can only interpret that to mean the life I might have led. What could've been. Or maybe just the life that somewhere in some other universe I do lead. Down the rabbit hole, he said.

I live by the ocean. And everyday I walk or ride my bike to a small cafe, one of those ones that's run by the same couple who have run it for fifty-seven years. They know me. I remind them of their grandson. I am likened to the grandson of so many people that the sentiment seems sweet and not at all intrusive. It's early. I'll eat a light breakfast there as I do everyday and watch the surf smash against the beach. I have my laptop, but I never use it here. Instead, I read a book -- this time of year it's Bradbury. My sixteenth time through "Fahrenheit 451" since I was twelve.

That's one rabbit hole. It was nice. I try another.

I lean back in my chair, my feet stretched out onto my bed in my shoebox studio. My lover stirs under the covers. An arm stretches out to find me and caresses my pillow instead. I smile at being wanted, but I can't crawl into bed just yet. My latest draft is due in the morning and I'm on the last scene. My professor needs my words, not my reasons for abandoning my work, even if it would be for another passion. The night is warmer than I expected. I slink to the fridge to get another Coke. The caffeine might, I delude myself, fuel the characters in my head to find their ending. But before I open the can, a soft moan wafts across the room. Frak it. The Coke back in the fridge, I slip beneath the covers for better inspiration.

And so that journey continues.

There are so many possibilities as to who I could be. But really, for me, what matters is who I am and who I will be. I control that. I can make my own rabbit holes. Live by the ocean? I can up and move. If I want to be in school, I only need apply and see where it gets me. I firmly believe that life is what we make it.

It's late. Another hour plus has passed and I should be asleep. Traveling in the morning and maybe catching a baseball game after I land. Or maybe visiting some auditions. Or perhaps none of the above. Been kind of winging it lately. And that terrifies me a bit because as those who know me know, I love to plan. My Google calendar is wildly overused. And yet in recent weeks I've been more apt to go with the flow in my own way. In another rabbit hole, I'm spontaneous. And I laugh at myself more and I'm not afraid of what other people think. And I gamble even when I might lose. And I love, even when I might lose that too. In another world, I am brave.

Figuring it out. April 2008. Cape Elizabeth, Maine.

The Bed, the sheets and pillows

2008-03-26T23:44:00.000-04:00

Ah, to sleep. To rest. Ha. What's that? Some mythic form of being not busy where in the end you feel rejuvinated? Rejuvination... I'm in that kind of place today. Maybe it was the gorgeous weather. The sun kissed the Earth and the wind played innocently with the trees. And wow... that was... way too new-agey for this hour. Or for me.

Can you tell I'm kind of just going with the posting flow and writing without stopping? Writing without borders. Well... there are... just less of them tonight.

Speaking of new leaves and turning them over... a stretch on the metaphor...

... ooh, iTunes, you sneaking devil; I was not expecting Skynyrd before bed. Nice. Simple Man. A good closing song I think.

... back to the new.

I've done a little house cleaning. Both offline and on. Here at the blog, I've updated some of my pictures above. Some of those pictures were tired. If pictures can be such a thing. But they didn't reflect my life at the moment. Now they do. In fitting with that, I updated my blog recommendations along the side there. And I sorted them out a bit better.

This all started with the office getting an overhaul. Now the blog was spruced up. To complete my online upgrade, I've finally purchased a domain for the blog. Eventually this the old blogspot address will redirect to www.thwartingcomplacency.com. And I am stoked about that. Stoked.

Skynyrd has taken a bow. And iTunes, I lay thee to rest until the 'morrow.

And where the frak did that pithy talk come from? It must be late. Synapses firing at will. I can't be held responsible for what comes out. Shadayim! (some of you will get that joke reference... some won't, it's okay).

So where was I?

Sorry if this is coming across all business-like tonight. I guess the point was that I'm still in that rejuvenating mode. The house, the blog, the body (no, I STILL haven't gone to the gym, but Thursday's the day, I can feel it!)... and this is probably my way of bracing for the arrival of another anniversary of my time on this planet. Yes, my birthday is coming soon. More will be mentioned.

I love birthdays. But this one has me thinking. Not so nervous about the age, it's not a milestone really. But it's one of those penultimate birthdays. My last year of my twenties begins next Tuesday. And while I've gone on record as not holding much stock in that whole concept that certain things must be established by the time you're blah blah blah... I can't help but feel a drive to set some goals and, well... maybe grow up a little.

Maybe that's it. I'm ready to be a grown up (to an extent). And it's time to really take strides towards that goal. The housecleaning is just one of the baby steps. Hitting the gym goes along with that. From there... well, there's more... but it's later than it should be and I should be asleep before the clock strikes twelve if I ever truly hope to see the gym from the inside tomorrow.

My warm, albeit empty bed beckons. I bid thee good night. Dream not of today.

Thinking Out Loud

2008-03-25T17:13:00.003-04:00

I just got my vacation update that we get every month. Right now, I've got just over a week saved. Not much, but that happens when you start from scratch and have to accrue and you take a day here and there for theatre and life. But now, today, I've got a week. It's just ready to be used. And sometime later this year, I'm going to take it and go somewhere. I'll save up, and just go. Maybe rent a little car that gets way better mileage than mine. Maybe not. Leave on a Friday after work and take a week off from my life. Drive around. Stay in little towns in roadside motels. Eat at local places where I can chat with the owner. Meet new people. Make a friend. Find a lover. Sleep on a beach. Write everyday. I don't know. See, this is the first time I've ever had a week's paid vacation sitting in the bank and can actually use it. And it's all mine. Right now I really like that feeling.

That paragraph was excerpted from an e-mail I sent out today to a good friend. In randomly offering what I considered sage advice, I spun off into a tangent about my desire to hit the open road and have an adventure.

And in the middle of it, I decided that I'm going to go on that adventure. Talkin' aint' doin'.

Doesn't it sound nice? I've always wanted to be a wanderer... even if just for a short while. There's so much out there, just in my own backyard, that I'm naive to. An America that doesn't live on the web or live in the fast-paced world. Somewhere there's a diner with an empty stool and a parking spot waiting for me to pull up for some chow.

I just have to find it.

Work wear thin today. Most things have gone as planned, but not everything. So adaptation is in order.

Oh, and for the first update, no, I haven't gone to the gym today. I hope to maybe right now, if I post this and run. This morning was just not going to happen and work has kept me later than I wish. Not a shock really. But if I leave in the next five and get up to the gym before 6:00 p.m., there's a slim chance I could get in 20-25 minutes of cardio and not feel like a total slug today.

Time's up on the blog. Gotta jet.

Hope all your plans are working out and that you're planning some vacations of your own. When I decide where I'm going and what I'm doing, I'll send you a postcard after the fact. :)

Zero Hour

2008-03-24T18:20:00.001-04:00

dis·ci·pline (dĭs'ə-plĭn) Pronunciation Key
n. Training expected to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior, especially training that produces moral or mental improvement.

Today was to be my first day back to the gym. Notice the "to be" quietly inserted into that sentence and realize how impactful those two tiny, deceivingly innocent words can be.

For the past several weeks—hell, months—I've been screaming from the rafters that I'm buckling down. Heading back to the gym. Trimming the holiday fat that taunts me like the ghost of Christmas Future. And yet the mornings go by and the nights that precede them keep me up long past my self-imposed bedtimes and... as you might have already summised, I did not venture out to the gymnasium this dawn.

I publish the photo above as a reminder of what I should have seen today. Keaton sent me that snapshot a couple days ago on another cold morning where the soft and warm blankets in my bed cradled me into a state of blissful rest while he and many other disciplined people did what I've yet to do in 2008.

Holy frak. We're eighty-four days into the year. Coming up on the end of the first quarter and me and that gym are as foreign to each other as a whale on the moon. It's altogether sobering and mildly infuriating as I sit here at work, 45 minutes until I could even think about leaving, sipping a Diet Dr. Pepper in some twisted lunacy that tells me I'm being healthy by using a product that has zero calories, when for all I know it's all a horrible ruse.

Then work happened.

It's now over an HOUR past when I could have thought about leaving and here I sit. Some work popped up at the last minute (as it is oft prone to do) and as the clock ticks past six, I'm going to wrap up this discombulation of thoughts so that I can a) get out of here and get some dinner, b) get some writing done, and c) find a way to get a neck rub, because I need one. Pain. Lots of pain.

So where was I? Oh yes. I was lamenting that I haven't been to the gym once this entire year. And that is really pathetic. So, I've decided that everyday that I don't go to the gym (when I should've—it's a six days a week kinda thing), I'm going to post about it. Not a huge thing. But just enough public humiliation to do a body good. Like losing a bet with myself. If I don't go to the gym, I have to do X.

I have thoughts of wildly embarassing things I could do to accomplish that level of embarassment that's just enough to scare me into the gym, but it would scar you and I like you all too much to be responsible for years of pyschological torment (yes, nudity was involved).

I'll come up with something else. Need to ponder on it.

And I need to get the frak out of dodge. I'll let you know how my first day back at the gym goes. Or what horrible embarrasing thing I'll be doing tomorrow to make up for it. Suggestions welcome. Nothing illegal and no promises that I'll incorporate said stunts. But still, I invite you to be creative.

The Absence of Clutter

2008-03-23T23:54:00.003-04:00

This will not be a lengthy post as it's past my bedtime and I need to find slumber quickly tonight and get some rest if I am ever going to get to the gym before work. But I wanted to jot down some thoughts as another Easter comes to a close.

Snowflake and I had a discussion about Lent and the Easter season earlier this year and what it means. And she had an interesting take that I had not heard of. Lent, to her, is a time of rebirth. So it makes me wonder what changes this Lenten season has brought to her life and where does she go from here.

I could ask the same of myself. And I'm not really sure of the answer, but I think the overall thought process follows some of the basic themes of my previous postings. With one new twist.

Clearing out the clutter.

Literally and metaphorically, I need to get my house in order. On the quite literal side of clearing out the clutter, the office, which had fallen into ruin essentially, has been excavated and cleaned. It looks fantastic.

This was the room in my house where I used to write. It was mine. A sanctuary. And I let it decay over time. I didn't respect it and it was pretty much lost. Until yesterday.

Without too much pomp, I will offer up a heap of praise and thanks to Keaton. There's friendship, and then there's a good kick in the ass. And sometimes we need both in this world and I have to say I'm grateful that I have a friend who knows the difference and when to play the right hand. Thanks, Keaton.

I now have my room back. And I will respect it. I will keep it free of clutter. The clutter that consumes and infests. The clutter that poisons the mind and pains the soul. It's amazing how your space defines you. I will not stop with just this one room. The house is being reclaimed.

No more clutter.

And with that, I must get to bed. There's a gym down the street that I haven't seen in ages. I need to change that too.

It's beginning.

Waves Crashing on the Beach

2008-03-16T10:23:00.003-04:00

I'm a little bit crazy sometimes. Some would laugh at the thought. I'm not. Many years of doing what I was told, when I was told, and having just enough fear of legal or (worse) parental repercussions, that I would step back and not take the leap, so to speak.

And that is not always a bad thing. No, do not misinterpret my ramblings. Thinking things through is often a wise course of action and I would say that it has saved my hide more oft than naught. But on the occasion where the leap would have only resulted in a wicked tale of fun and galavanting, or where I would have maybe felt more alive than people tend to feel during the day to day without all the messy consequences, I still tend to err on the side of... well... lame.

And so I want to jump into a lake. Yes. A lake. The large one a few miles to my east at that moment. Why? Because it's cold out. It's crazy. And it's a story to tell and a moment of reckless abandon without the reckless, or much true abandon. Baby steps people. Baby steps.

A while back, I posted a ... damn repetition... a wrote a post about a trip to another lake and aired my first video blog in which Keaton randomly decided to jump into Lake Erie. No reason. It was there. He wanted to do it. And I know it's just odd, and maybe a guy thing, or maybe our best-buddy rivalry, but when he did that, I remember thinking that I wish I'd thought of it first.

It was spontaneous and crazy. And yeah... some might say that it was JUST jumping into a lake and how is that really intense or anything... but to me it was. I'm the one who holds back on most things. For fear of what? I don't know. Maybe what other people will think. Maybe what other people will say. Maybe a fright that I might... gasp... mildly injure myself.

Living.

Again, not really advocating inappropriate, illegal stuff here. But jumping in a lake. Being silly. Yeah... that's a way to put it. I'm not silly. I'm too serious. And I feel like being silly.

We shall see. I might. Keaton keeps mentioning it and I don't want to take away from his spontanreous acts of communing with nature. But I want to be silly. We shall see.

Do me a favor. Do something silly today and let me know what it was.

Our friends think we are crazy. I have not mentioned them as I do not have monikers for them yet. Those are still forming and I'll figure them out soon. But the ladies have at least promised to get footage of any lake jumping silliness, so, IF anything happens... another vlog might have to happen too.

Okay... heading off for another day of adventures. I'll catch up with you on St. Patrick's Day.

Tales from the Windy City

2008-03-15T23:58:00.001-04:00

Now THAT is a green river. I mean, I know that every year the river in Chicago gets a solid dose of dye to help the Windy City fully embrace its Irish heritage (because ALL the rivers in Ireland are green), but wow... it was frakkin' green. There are pictures and I will upload them when I get them.

Today was... it was good. I'm traveling this weekend, so I won't be on here too long this round. Just couldn't resist mentioning that river.

And yeah... really, that's all. More soon. More about adventures in the Chicago underbelly, navigating the city with an oragami map, plotting a cold leap into the waves of Lake Michigan, and so much more.

What are we doing here?

2008-03-07T04:47:00.002-05:00

I feel shell-shocked sometimes when I read the news. Do you? Does anyone? Sitting here in the middle of the night as the snows march toward rush hour, I hop online to check out what's happening in the world. And what I see ... it leaves me saddened. Not always. But tonight, there's a family in Georgia and people in North Carolina, who are grieving over a senseless death. And for what? A car? A couple tons of steel was apparently worth a life. I don't get it.

Basic lack of respect for humanity, you know? For people. I can't even begin to think about knowing how to fathom this. Where in our brains does it make the distinction between the value of a human life over the value of something that in 20 years will be a rusted, rotted, shell? How does someone even make that jump, that irrational thought process complete itself to make them -- to give them the impression that they should wield the power of life and death?

I don't get it.

I never will. I can't ever grasp the idea that a human being is worthless. I know there are billions of us, but every single one of us is a person with the right to live. And everyday on the news I read about another senseless shooting, a robbery, a botched this and frakked up that, people being used as fodder or to set up as examples.

We should be upset. And we are -- but where does the solution come from? Where's the fix all? How do we teach each other to respect one another? To stop being selfish. To stop seeing the world in terms of "mine" and look at it in terms of "ours". Basic lack of respect. I see it everyday.

Yesterday, a lot of good was done in the world. A lot. There are people out there who do care. Who do show respect. Who stand up everyday and fight for equality, human rights, and do what they can with what they have to bring some type of help to what seems like a rapidly decaying world. A lot of good. But we don't see it on the news. Headlines to hold up the respectful. They hold up the ugly. Why?

Show us something good for once. Remind the species of the species in good way. In a way that ignites the fires in our bellies to rally together and make changes that we can be proud of. Encourage us to respect our brothers and sisters. Show us what a little caring can really do. Give us the tiniest glimpse of something wonderful and let us see that we have the capacity to be more than we are and better to each other than barbarians. Open our eyes to the idea that humanity can do something. We have charted the world. Invented machines that can fly. Composed symphonies and written words into stories and poems that can render people speechless.

As I'm often want to do, I like to quote film and theatre. And the occasional literature. But today, tonight, this morning, the two passages that spring to mind come from a play by Tom Griffin called "The Boys Next Door" and the movie "Contact". Two works that are radically different and yet carry a similar theme: asking us to stop and look at humanity and realize that we are more than we are.

"I am here to remind the species of the species. Without me you will never be frightened of what you might have become or may become." — Lucien, "The Boys Next Door"

"I... had an experience... I can't prove it, I can't even explain it, but everything that I know as a human being, everything that I am tells me that it was real! I was given something wonderful, something that changed me forever... A vision of the universe, that tells us, undeniably, how tiny, and insignificant and how... rare, and precious we all are! A vision that tells us that we belong to something that is greater then ourselves, that we are *not*, that none of us are alone! I wish... I... could share that... I wish, that everybody, if only for one... moment, could feel... that awe, and humility, and hope. But... That continues to be my wish." — Ellie Arrorway, "Contact"

They kind of sum up what I'm feeling right now. Sitting here on my couch in the middle of the night. There's a whole world going on outside. 12 time zones away, someone's making a decision or doing something that will gave an impact on this world. I hope it's a good one.

I love that in a few hours I get to go to work at a place that's entire mission is the betterment of humankind. I'm fortunate that I get a daily reminder of the species. In the most wonderful of ways.

It doesn't help me understand senselessness. But it reminds me of the species and how precious we all are.

A human life should be worth more than a car. More than the 20 bucks in their wallet. More than their beliefs. We are worth so much more than that and if a human being has to lose their life, it should be for the advancement of our species, for progress, not the other way around.

There have been people throughout history who have stood up and risked their lives for the betterment of mankind. Explorers charting the unknown, scientists, scholars, soldiers, and heroes. There have been so many people who have willingly sacrificed themselves so we might thrive as a species; so that this world might be something better than it is.

We should respect that.

Don't you think?

Manic Monday... er...Wednesday... no wait, Thursday... aww, frak it.

2008-03-04T23:48:00.002-05:00

Note: Another forgotten post. I'll let you know when it catches up to the present.

You never run a man-to-man defense when you're up by two with a minute-seventeen to go. Zubov sucks at defensive play calling. According to Keaton.—This random interruption brought to you by the letter X, B, O, and X. And the numbers 3, 6, and zero.

That was written about... 9 days ago... and I just didn't get to it anymore that day. Sitting here at work on what could be misconstrued as lunch. It's just after twelve and the Wednesday sirens just pierced the din of my office. Not much din to pierce. It's quiet, thankfully.

I'm sitting here secretly loathing Zubov and Keaton as they are both home today and thus free to see a movie. Okay... not loathing. I wouldn't loathe them if my life depended on it. And they'd probably both actually be working today, but still. Tiny tiny jealousy dances around my brain like a mosquito. It's there just enough so that I know it's there and yet it doesn't pierce me.

The sun looks nice on the brick outside my window. It still looks colder than frack out, but at least... spoke too soon... the sun has been abducted. It was slow and I watched it happened. There was nothing I could do.

In a funny little mood. Starving to death probably contributing to this, but then that'll happen when you leave your lunch at home. My stomach rumbles now and then like a tired beast. It knows it needs food, but it's too weak to hunt. So it waits, hoping some stupid creature will pass by close enough for a tired claw to lash out and deliver the kill. Like that python in Australia.

Seriously, did you read about this? A python slithered into some people's back yard and swallowed their dog whole. In front of the kids. Now that's a bad day.

Ooh... the sun's back.

Yes, shiney objects distract me. Having a giant one hanging in the sky above doesn't help. It's probably good that I live in Ohio. I wonder if I'm more productive in the winter?

Random thought: I'm craving blueberry-peach dump cake. End thought.

Note: Another shift—it's now a week later. Tuesday night. Hoping to post before bed.

My cat thinks he's a ninja. I'm sure of that. Maybe he's possessed by a warrior spirit? I did name him after a god. He's too funny. And hyper as we approach the witching hour.

I'm sitting here on the Blackbird, trying to write somehing other than this blog. No offense. But whatever writers' block has Keaton in the throes of torture, I'm thinking it's latched onto me.

Wow... that was a horrendous yawn. And the audio quality wasn't up to snuff. My tiredness is creeping up over my head like a bad dream.

Gonna post this to get it up there. But I need to get back to regular posts AND I need to get back to WRITING again. Staring at the computer doesn't count. I'm learning this.

Now Boarding on Track Number Seven

2008-02-27T21:47:00.002-05:00

Note: I wrote this on Sunday, Febraury 24. Just haven't been around the computer enough this week to post it. Working on another post... hope to post on Thursday.

The unanticipated. Sitting here in the tech booth of the theater. A rehearsal is in full-swing for a show that opens this weekend. My good friend, Gigi... yes that will be her alias on the blog... is directing "The Boys Next Door". If you've never had the pleasure, I'd recommend seeing the play.

Got a sneak peak of her director's note and without spoiling it, there's a theme of dealing with things you hadn't quite anticipated—and how those things can be just as wonderful as what you'd expected.

I am reminded of that tonight as I sit back, more in observance, as the tech rehearsal moves forward. I can't even see the stage as we're in a full booth tonight—lots of new blood. Rookies learning the ropes.

It's a treat just to listen. To the actor's voices. To the script as it unfolds. I wonder how long it took Tom Griffin to pen this one? I hope it was a while, because I'd hate to have to hate him if he's one of those "one play in a week" guys.

There's some mild sarcasm in there.

I wonder how the awards are going. While Curtain preps for the next show, Emerald City (where I did "Rabbit Hole") is hosting their annual awards banquet. They do this whole thing with the Oscars. It's probably going well. I was going to go and everything. Pressing my suit was involved.

And yet I'm here. This post is actually boring me a bit, so I don't know how much longer it will be. I know, that was random. Guess I'm just in a tired mood today. I'm just a little shell-shocked that it's Sunday night and the weekend it over already. Wow.

It was a busy one again. As per.

They're coming up on the first real sound cue. They'll be fine.

In fact, instead of posting about them doing tech and speculating as to how the awards are going across town (they actually JUST ended as it's time for the Oscars), I'm going to work on my script.

Gotta find writing time when I can. I've got a chance to steal some now.

p.s. Got the 411 on the awards I missed. I took home the Audience Choice Award for "A Few Good Men". Several of my pals took home acting kudos, including Zubov (well-deserved). And Keaton garnered directing honors. Congratulations to all! It was an honor working with you.

Playing Catch Up: Part V of V

2008-02-18T00:35:00.003-05:00

Posting from the country. It's cold. Actually colder than that. My hands are here and my fingers can find the keys, but it would be nice if things in this old church were just a little warmer.

The cast and crew giggle innocently at their fellow actor who steals a bite of his dinner in this pre-rehearsal mini-tech. Three weeks out... maybe four... and they're working in some lighting tonight. Very cool.

I walked in to the end of a fight choreography session. Not really a fight, but a slap. But in theatre, everything is acting. Even the violence. It looks very real and it's only their first lesson. Looking forward to seeing how far they take this moment by opening night.

The water froze. Random I know. But we're out here, in the land that lies beyond the horizon of the city; the cold, empty, deer-filled countryside. This is where pipes freeze no matter what you do.

And wow — a picture just popped up on my internal slide slow (that little window in my Vista that randomly shows pictures), and it was one that a buddy of mine really does not want me showing people. I will have to shift it into another folder.

Right now actually. Once Gigi slides away from my side. She need not see this photo either (at least not on my computer).

...

So for this post, I'm keeping it real and rather than continuing that Monday moment as if I were still there at the theater, I will jump us to the now.

Friday. Wow. Already. I'm pretty sure it was just last week and this one went by in a blur and well, by the time I get to wrapping this, it'll be Saturday. It just will be.

...

And so it is. The Blackbird is doing a wonderful job for me right, sitting on a table in the middle of CIAO. Why is that such a grand achievement? It's not. I'm just a little tickled that I'm not connected to a power cable. For now. I've been flying without a net for most of the day, so the power is actually being squeezed out to make things churn so that I can work on this post.

To update — the photos that shouldn't be seen are now more hidden and moved, so no worries there for my buddy.

Okay, back to whatever thought is racing through my head. I think I'm supposed to be playing catch up again... part V it is. But I sit here listening to a quick jazz number as the scent of recently extinguished candles wafts over from another table. Been sitting here with Keaton for quite some time, lounging over dinner and chatting with the owner of this great little restaurant. If you're near central Ohio, I recommend CIAO for dinner, dessert, or just if you feel like a beer. I don't usually do endorsements, but I've never had a bad experience at this place and they have wonderful food, wi-fi, and play great music on the jukebox. So there's my commercial for the night.

The past few weeks have been busier than I expected. But then I'm still supposed to be catching us up on January. As my thoughts solidify, I will say that some of the best parts of January came in the form of seeing good friends who I don't often see in person.

Those friends who live in other states like Snowflake and Panda. And Lady Panda. And Liesle. And of course the ever enchanting Paros. How fortuitous that as I typed her moniker, her photo popped up on that little slide show that is omnipresent. That was nicely serendipitous. And I think I just typed an oxymoron because I do not think there are bad serendipitous things. Hmm... regardless...

I must pause as I consider my current agenda. And maybe power down as the Blackbird is running on bingo fuel.

...

It is the blog that never ends. Yes it goes on and on my friends. I started blogging this not knowing what it was. And I'll continue blogging it for no reason just because...

I guess I keep coming back to this post... part V of V, because I am hoping that a muse will descend and I'll be able to fill the entry with something more than just random observations and the poorly strung together events of my past few days.

But nothing is there. No muse is near. Perhaps they dislike 'Star Wars'? Or just Episode III? One massive fight sequence interlaced with poorly scripted "acting" by very talented people. Sorry, I'm not a huge fan of the new ones. Too much animation. Maybe in 20 years, they'll be "classic" too. Maybe.

It's crossing over to Monday now. It seems like forever since I've stayed awake long enough to see that. Seems like forever since many things.

Been a solid week since I began this post. Tossed in part IV in the middle. Saw the coming and going of an over-hyped, commercialized holiday, and still haven't really figured out this post. This thought.

Was driving home from the theater today, riding shotgun with Keaton at the wheel, and mention was made of times gone by and the glory days. As we're old enough to yet have glory days. those are still in front of us I will wager. But say we did — say that we now live in the shadows. Shadows of what? It's like a TV show that has hit its last season and it's just not the same any more.

That's kinda how it feels. Like things have, like things are changing. This past week only reminded me a bit more about the direction my world is heading.

Don't get me wrong, I like the direction. It just makes the last year or few seem so very far away indeed. Having the epiphany that I've been living here with Kirby and Zubov for two years. Lots of lightning strikes like that this year. A year that's already seven weeks down.

They keep moving faster don't they? The days. The weeks. The months. And the ongoing theme of this massive series has been recapping and also looking forward. And lamenting, as I'm apt to do, about roads not taken and the journey and all that. And I keep saying how I need to eat healthier. I need to hit the gym. I need to buckle down.

And yet I just sat on my ass tonight and ate pizza. And hung out with friends, but that doesn't balance anything. And tomorrow — now today — I claim that I will take my first painful steps back into a gym that I used to see everyday. Back in one of the forever times ago. "Tomorrow" I'll write that screenplay. "Tomorrow" I'll buy myself healthy eats. "Tomorrow" I will walk at least one mile on the treadmill.

"You wait your whole life for a single moment and then suddenly it's tomorrow."

I always loved that quote. And while it verges on the dramatic in this instance, it's nonetheless the mindset I sort of have at the moment. It comes back to the choices we make. Those moments that seem innocuous, but aren't. How many more tomorrows can there be? Not enough to keep pushing things back further and further. There just aren't.

So thus ends the retrospective. And here begins something hopefully a little more than a blog about tomorrow.

Playing Catch Up: Part IV of V

2008-02-13T13:55:00.003-05:00

"Rabbit Hole" is not an easy play. It was never meant to be. David Lindsay-Abaire isn't shy in making that clear. I applaud him for that, because life is not easy. He painted very real characters, each of them grieving in their own way. But like most people, they're functioning, spirited, funny, and alive—even in the face of tragedy. Quite simply, they're human. The theme of other versions of the self is touched upon within the play and it's that idea which drew me to "Rabbit Hole" in the beginning—exploring the people we are and the people we become in any given circumstance. In taking on the task of bringing this play to life, I had to go down the "Rabbit Hole", so to speak, and imagine a universe in which I wasn't there. More than two decades ago, I was Danny—a slightly different chain of events and an obviously different outcome and I was just the luckier version of him. Death is something that connects each of us, and yet it can also separate us just as quickly. Whether we are expecting it to enter our lives or are surprised when it kindly stops by, we think we get it, and yet none of us can ever really understand how it effects those around us. How it changes us. It is the one constant in a universe of never ending possibilities. And I'd like to thank David Lindsay-Abaire for reminding me that life keeps moving among those endless possibilities; beautifully, painfully, exquisitely, it keeps moving. And that's... fine, actually.

Sometime back in the middle of 2007, I picked up a copy of the script of "Rabbit Hole". It was being slated for production at Emerald City Players, another local theatre that I was also prepping to audition for (they produced "A Few Good Men" by Aaron Sorkin in October of this past year). A good friend of mine who has taught me much about directing, we'll call him Moist (yes, that's what I called him), has been scheduled to helm the project but had to step down as he was moving. So a vacancy opened. And I applied.

Long story short (too late), "Rabbit Hole" wrapped up a three week run in early February. And it was fantastic. The actors really made me proud and my tech was quite something (and the set—I could have lived there).

But this post is not meant to sit here and trumpet myself or my cast/crew. Boasting is unbecoming on most people and I've yet to find a way to make it look good.

It was a learning experience, as most things in life should be. But it was more.

"Rabbit Hole" for me was a mildly surreal experience for it takes a family and examines their grief in the aftermath of an accident that caused the death of their four-year-old son.

A car accident. He was hit by a car. And the fictional Danny shares that uncommon experience with a very real and very six-year-old me. And that was partially how I approached the whole thing. Imagining a universe in which I wasn't there.

That's pretty surreal I would wager. The play brought up this concept of other universes, running parallel to ours, and how each one was different and that there were different versions of everything and everyone. And so I came into the show wondering if there is a universe out there where I wasn't as lucky on that cold winter day.

I can still rmember every moment. Every smell. Every step. I can still feel the ice slipping beneath my feet as I carefully treaded across the street. I even looked both ways. Didn't do much good.

I remember seeing the car, only too late, and I recall the sensation of skidding across the icy road for what seemed like an eternity. Until I hit the curb.

The impact of the car snapped my left femur. One break. Quite clean. I was lucky in that it wasn't a compound fracture. There was no splintering and nothing broke the skin. It just snapped. And no one believed me about it.

When you're six years old and you've just been hit by a car, several things become quite clear. First: none of your neighbors have jobs. It seemed there were a ton of adults suddenly on the scene in the immediate aftermath. Second: none of them believe you when you tell them your leg is broken.

Most of them just told me I was scared and that the doctor would be there soon. None of them took me seriously, even when I politely said "look" and moved my right leg. They humored me with a look. And then I said "look" again and I moved my left left; only it didn't. I pointed to a spot, about mid-thigh, and said "this is where it stops". I could feel the bone, the femur, from the left hip to about mid-thigh, slide back and forth inside my useless leg.

That was twenty-three years ago today. I wonder if there's some guy out there blogging about the day he hit this kid. Never knew who it was. I'm sure my parents knew or the police and hospital knew. But I don't remember.

It's funny how certain events effect us. Months later I would spend the hours after school relearning how to walk. That accident took me out of playing T-ball that year and some might argue that it put me more on the track of the student than the athelete. I never got into sports after that.

So what version of me would exist today if I'd crossed the street in a different place? Or walked home a different way? Maybe I would have gotten into little league and become a student athelete along the way. Maybe not. Maybe it didn't have any effect on me whatsoever except to put me in a cast for three months.

The thought of parallel universes has always intrigued me. And I wonder some days about the different paths my life could have taken. On a crisp fall day back in 2003, I read a notice about an audition for a local play, "Greetings!". And I remember thinking it would be fun. I recall driving to a local senior center to pick up a copy of the script and as I went through the last intersection, something triggered a memory from my college acting days. A scent in the air. Couldn't tell you what it was. But it took me back to the auditions I'd done in college. And it was just enough of a sign that I was on the right path. And I wonder how very different my life would be right now if I'd not read the paper that day, or pursued something as seemingly unimportant as an audition.

Very different.

I wasn't too fond of being hit by that car. But in retrospect, it, like every other event in my life, did its part to shape me into the man I am today. That's why I loved about "Rabbit Hole". The idea it presented that there are other versions of us out there living different lives or the same lives with only a few things changed. And while my entire post would seemingly preach the wonder of fate and how everything is so amazingly interconnected, I think a subtle message in that play is that we make the choice to be the version we are. Our actions make us. Choices we make every day dictate the path we walk. Smart choices, dumb choices. They all do something.

I chose to cross the street where I did. I should've known better. I do now. I chose to audition for that play because I had the confidence to do so. Had I chickened out, the number of wonderful people I've met in my life since then wouldn't know me. And vice versa and that would suck. Didn't know at the time how much one moment could radically shift my world.

And so I try to make decisions wisely. I don't always. I'm not perfect. But I strive to be confident and smart in my choices. I strive to be clear in my actions. I think that if I'm at least going into each moment with my eyes open, then I'll be fine with the path I find there.

All right... playing catch up is almost done. Almost. Going to tell one more story about the last few weeks and then get back to good ol' living in the moment stream of consciousness writing that I miss so terribly. But that's for tomorrow.

Playing Catch Up: Part III of V

2008-02-06T19:18:00.001-05:00

And then the curtain closed. Figuratively. There wasn't an actual curtain.

The Playwrights Festival went on for two more weekends after my show. And over the course of those two weeks, I got to see Zubov take another leap with his acting. He's got a knack for the comedies, the boy has. Kudos, bro. And I had the pleasure of seeing a script by The Portland Rose, which was awesome because I was there when the show was first written. And finally, another play I'd seen take its first steps in readings came to life the third weekend; that was Keaton's latest endeavor.

I love this song. Might have mentioned it prior, but it's called "On Your Porch" by The Format. Listening to it. Reliving some very fond memories. Still fresh. The kind that race through your mind, creating smells and sounds and sights so real you'd swear you were back there—or that you could travel reality and bend it to your will.

But then I like to pretend I can do that on a regular basis. With my writing. I exude joy when I can write. Nothing short of euphoric ecstasy can top a solid writing session. And even then, writing can feel like that. When you finally figure it out.

So it'a Ash Wednesday in my little flashback of a tale. And I had pepperoni pizza for breakfast. The flames of hell lick deliciously at my feet. I was only slightly mortified by this trangression on my faith. Honestly just forget what day it was. I guess that's kind of sad when put into that context. For those not familiar: it's Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. I'm Catholic. Mostly. My old college roommates used to jokingly call me the heretic. Love those guys.

Anyway, Lent brings up the idea of sacrifice. Giving up something you care about for a greater good. And sitting here reflecting on that thought, I realize that I'm much too selfish and spiritually imature to really grasp the concept. Horrifically brutal self-assessment, but none the less real.

Or is it? Some might argue that I once lost someone I cared about because I could not make that sacrifice; I couldn't give up theatre or my busy pace or my need to be all thing to all people to keep her. But it wasn't so simple. Sacrifice, in any stable relationship (and I'm not referring only to people, but to anything that exists in a perfect symbiosis) needs to work both ways.

I'm reminded of something intriguing that Keaton said recently to a group of us as we discussed auditioning and directing for theatre. He said he looks for giving actors on stage. I like that. Giving. Much like a relationship, it's not about taking away from yourself to make things work; it's about what you give.

I think that's a good overall thought process for me this first day of Lent. Rather than deciding what sinful joy I should excise from my life (because that in itself amuses me), maybe I'll think about how I interact with people and how to improve the quality of life of those around me.

Less snark? More patience? Arriving on time? Writing without homonyms? Being there for the people who are there? Pitching in more around the house? Encouraging a friend? Inspiring a stranger? Laughing at a joke at just the right moment? Buying lunch for someone who needs it more than I do?

All good things.

Between Lent and the Festival, I see lots of areas in my life that could stand to be altered a bit by giving a little more.

There seemed to be a prevailing theme in this year's festival.

Honesty.

Being honest with yourself and true to who you are. Good or bad. Being aware enough to stop pretending that you're something or someone you're not. "Separation Anxiety", "No Worse for the Wear", "Tabloid Love", and "Chasing Ozymandias" were four unique shows that all contained characters that were struggling with internal identity crises. I think that's an interesting corallary and statement. Was it serendipitous, or strategically orchestrated by a cunning committee? I guess we'll never know.

So how about that? I think I found my Lenten sacrifice. It works well within the parameters of my recently discovered sense of self-actualized honesty and the radically shifting projection of myself that I cast into the world.

So maybe I'll post part IV of my little series in real time instead of altering history and pretending I'm actually finishing these on the dates they're posted on. Self-deception. It's a bad habit. I think Lent is just the thing to help me get that monkey off my back.

See you on the 13th as I look down the rabbit hole...

Playing Catch Up: Part II of V

2008-02-05T21:27:00.000-05:00

Gonna jump around a bit. No point in being all orderly with January; it was blurry anyhow so why not have some fun blogging, gasp, out of sequence.

Random notice-points for anyone who picked up on the fact that I've started using blog as a verb. Which shouldn't be out of the ordinary considering the amount of the English language that I've put through a meat grinder in my time.

But the word blog to me was always the page I wrote on. I posted. Like how one posts a letter. Hence the post office. This was my little cyber post office to all of you. And yet blog just got verbed. That's what a busy January will do to a man.

Back to why where here --- which, where am I then? Let's see, it's Tuesday. At least we're pretending it's Tuesday for the sake of keeping the blog mini-epic-series going. So on Super Tuesday...

Ciao. I'm at Ciao. And I'm enjoying a nice pepperoni pizza as only Ciao can make. And I'm post-blogging.

About celluloid. We talked about theater (and don't get your knickers twisted, we're coming back to it) and so I thought we should revisit an old love of mine: film.

As 2008 begins (and yes, I know, it's already February—Chinese New Year coming up, however, I think just screams for a fresh start) and I aim to get my writing skills up to snuff, I'm turning to screenplays for a time. Not forever, don't worry (Snowflake was gettin' all wonky and didn't know why), but so get back to writing visually again. And this is for a multitude of reasons.

I'm taking some time to adapt my play into a script. I'm stoked about it and am glad to see some time in my schedule to undertake the project (it's amazing how busy I still am when I have nothing to do anymore).

I have an affinity for both script forms, well all three: stage, screen, and film. A tagline Keaton suggested for my as of yet non-existent business cards. I'll have to remedy that this week.

Each medium has stories that exist only within that medium. Not that there aren't those that try to force themselves into worlds in which they do not belong. I like to think that I have enough smarts to keep them all in order and make sure the story works in this translated form.

And it will. "Separation Anxiety" as a film script will be different than the play, that's a given. Moments will be tweaked or moved. Arcs will shift. Slightly. Just... I want to tell the same story, only it'll be like hearing it from another source. Seeing it from another source.

It's funny. I think I'm a solid film writer—at least I will be in a few years once I start getting some scripts sold and filmed—and yet I've never seen myself as a terrific filmmaker. I wonder if that translates at all. Let's just say there's a reason I will be seeking out partnerships with people who can produce quality films.

So... as I sit here and recreate a memory to blog about, I think about the songs that always play while we're at Ciao. And they are so very fitting at times and usually fantastically easy on the ears (sometimes there almost too much Bono—but then I like U2, so whatever). They become like themesongs.

I won't get into the sweep theories again. It's just too much to take at this point. But I'll say that I've compiled a soundtrack or two for the show and it's that music that I will listen to and from there I will draw out a film.

Ever see "The 13th Warrior"? Love that film. Keaton got me hooked on it and I can watch it anytime and be immersed in another world for a time. And there a point where one character says to another (this is a poor man talking to a writer): "A man might be thought wealthy if someone were to draw the story of his deeds, that they may be remembered."

God I love that. The more and more I sit and think, the more I know that I will be remembered for being a writer. If someone were to draw the story of my deeds one day, I think that writing will be one of those drawn first.

But I sit this week and much like how I will need to just bear down and force myself to hit the gym if I'm ever going to reverse the effects of too much fast food and a desk-jockey way of life, I'm also going to have to sit down and force out the distractions and focus on the written word.

Random insertion... hearing your pal quote a line from your play (in the inflection of the actress, so really he's quoting her, but no worries) is frackin' awesome. And it just started warming up in here.

Back to the flashback of Tuesday. There has been so much time spent doing NOTHING resembling writing. This week, the mini-epic-series, is like my warm-up. Getting the juices flowing and the words churning. Brain's been either asleep or preoccupied with other things to the nth degree. I am reminded of another stellar moment in "The 13th Warrior" as they prepare for battle.

"Merciful Father, I have squandered my days with plans of many things. This was not among them. But at this moment, I beg only to live the next few minutes well. For all we ought to have thought, and have not thought; all we ought to have said, and have not said; all we ought to have done, and have not done; I pray thee God for forgiveness."

No, I'm not rushing off to fight the wendol, but writing is like a daily battle. Don't get me wrong. I love it. It's fun... it's a rush. Some days it's all I can think about and when I don't get a chance to put pen to paper, it kills me. Like a warrior without a battle.

I write because I think that's what I'm meant to do. Some people will be remembered for being soldiers and heroes. Others for being inovators of technology. Some are memoralized for the good they impart upon humanity and others we only hope to forget for the extreme opposite of reasons. What will they draw about me? It's really up to me to make sure now isn't it?

Squandering's done. I beg only to live the next few years well. For I have a feeling they're going to make all the difference.

Playing Catch Up: Part I of V

2008-02-04T19:15:00.000-05:00

So do I go back to the beginning, or start randomly at somepoint that suits my fancy? Hmm... could go either way. Sitting here at Keaton's working on the Blackbird. I'll get to that later.

Such a whirlwind of a month. January. The reason the blog became more than a bit anemic was simply because that was the busy version of me. But then what isn't? January, and 2008, brought with it an exciting debut and enough theatre to rival the days of "Darkside" simulcasting with "Van Gogh".

Let's start at the beginning.

On a chilly January 10, a Friday, I took the day off work. For that day would be a special day for many reasons. It began with me having the distinct pleasure of welcoming a friend of mine into town. Hmm... she needs a moniker, doesn't she? This one I'll steal. I'm in that kinda mood (a good stealing mood).

So Paros came to town. I won't sit here and retell this as a journal post, as I'm not good at those. But the day was filled with good friends and fun and living. And new clothes. Which to some is a form of existence in and of itself. I was just happy that as evening fell, I would not look like a complete tool. And that was the magic of Paros working her... uh, magic. I write real good.

And then came the night. Opening night. And wow... as a writer, as a playwright, it was rewarding.

The 2008 Curtain Players Playwrights Festival premiered with my full-length play, "Separation Anxiety". As the lights started to dim, the rush was nice. Very nice.

Cole Simon and Amanda Cawthorne as Bailey and Jess in "Separation Anxiety"

I've been writing since I could write, literally. My earliest tales took on the epic, like retelling Greek myths and rewriting the tall tales of American lore. And then I turned 9 and decided to be more original. Somewhere along the way I stepped out on the elegance of pure prose and began dabbling more and more with a mistress called dialogue. And I gotta say, she's a good lay.

I love to play with speech patterns. To adapt them. To find them. And yes, sometimes it's not pretty. But then sometimes it doesn't have to be. But when it's just right, when it becomes "real" to the ear and when an actor nails it in front of you. That's the rush. And if you're lucky, it starts at curtain and doesn't dissipate until long after the final bow.

This wasn't the first time I'd watched an actor deliver words I'd penned, but it was the first time I'd walked into it not knowing at all what to expect. Okay, I knew a little because I'm way too curious for my own good and I just happened to drop by the theater during tech week. You know, on my way to somewhere else.

Those who know my theater are laughing. It's not "on the way" to anywhere (except Fracasso's pizza), so it's pretty absurd that I basically drove a half hour out of my way to "pop by". Yeah. But I only watched one scene and then bolted. And at the point I was psyched to see it come to life en masse.

I have a great urge to let looose a gutteral cry of victory and satisfaction. I'm still pumped, just thinking about it.

After the show (opening night) we went to another pizza place as a group. It felt like graduation day. There were so many people there and I spent most of the night making the rounds because that's what I do at these functions. But before I ramble on and on, why don't I focus my energies on just reveling in what was an awesome weekend.

Good friends from out of state made the trip to see the show open. Paros and Snowflake were competing for the farthest distance traveled. And one of my cousins that I hadn't seen in forever happened to show up. That was really a good surprise.

The Festival did a great thing in that it bolstered my confidence I'm bound and determined, more than I was. More plays will be written. That will not let this be the last time I feel those rushes. Or live that deliberately.

Prepping to Play Catch Up

2008-02-04T02:33:00.000-05:00

Hello gentle readers! If you weren't able to tell, January wasn't big on the posting. But it was large on the living, so I'll tap into some of my adventures and catch you up on the essential things that might be of interest to you.

But not tonight. It's late. Or early. It's not a normal time for me to be having thoughts and conversations with people. Because I quote my own plays when I do that.

Soon... VERY SOON... there will be an update. Like before nightfall on Monday (well, MY Monday). So check back in about 18 hours and I will begin my tale of where I've been, what I've been up to, and explain why I haven't been posting.

And there might be pictures. Very serious about that. I wouldn't tease about photography.

Another Pre-dawn Posting

2008-01-06T06:13:00.000-05:00

I'm too tired to post anything really, but if I don't write now, then the problem is that I won't have time again to post until... oh, I don't know... February. Wow, I think the actual thought of the amount of things I need to do today and haven't done yet just gave me my eighth headache. Or maybe it's the ninth. Hard to keep track as each one is less painful than the first.

Here I sit (on a hotel off of Sunset) quietly typing across the table from my pal Keaton. We must look like complete tools, each working feverishly on our respective blogs, making sure to get some thoughts down on "paper". I'm just tired enough to admit that I wouldn't be up typing this if he wasn't. We're competitive that way. But it works for our friendship to push each other in our writing endeavors. Even blogging.

So it's what? Like 4 days, maybe 5 until the Playwrights Festival launches and I get to watch five actors bring my characters to life. I surprisingly haven't posted much about "Separation Anxiety", but I will say that I'm stoked to see it. I know they've worked hard on this and on Friday I'm going to watch them perform a show that I wrote. Words that I typed. Characters I imagined. All realized. How amazing is that?

And that's about where I need to nap. I was truly going to type and type and expound upon the works of other talented playwrights who I'm fortunate enough to call my contempories and my friends. But that will have to wait. For it's becoming a task to keep my eyes open and sleep is overtaking me with such ---

--- such force that I actually just sat there with my eyes closed. I think I was almost in REM sleep, which yes, I know is hard to do so quickly, but I swear I was there. Almost.

I wonder if Keaton noticed. He seems determined to finish his post and I hope he can.

Me? It's now officially another day both here and somewhere in the Pacific Ocean as well. And I think there are places actually approaching Monday at this point.

... ... ... ...

And they're there... because I can't not look it up (the Internet is my drug of choice, thank you), I see that it's already Monday in New Zealand. That's terrifying. Just a little bit.

I smile now at thoughts of my bed. It's upstairs waiting patiently and I'm going to go now.

And sleep.
And dream.
And sleep some more.

Good morning, Auckland. Hope Monday is going well for you.

Silly, Silly, American Man

2008-01-04T04:07:00.000-05:00

I'm none too bright. It's well past my bedtime. Actually, it's almost my waketime. And I have to work today. Yeah... told you I wasn't bright. Or tired. That's the catch. I'm... I don't know. I'm just... AAARRRGGGHHHH.

It cartoon characters walked freely about the 3-dimensional world we call home, I'm pretty sure Charlie Brown would've just wandered in and shared in that long angst ridden cry. Yes. I'm sure if Charlie Brown ever spontaneously materialized in the real world in some wicked cool display of transubstantiation, that he would seek me out to share in my insomnia-driven frustration.

Not even tired.

Okay. I'm a little bit tired. But now I've stayed up long enough that sleeping feels risky. Like I'll be too embedded in REM sleep to hear my alarm sounding. Not to mention that my trusty rusty telescope... wow... okay, so I'm tired because I meant to type "trusty cell phone which serves as my alarm is dormant with an empty battery and missing charger" and ended up latching onto a memory from my youth triggered by the word "trusty".

Remember records? Those large black vinyl discs that spun around at 44 r.p.m.'s and funneled sound through a needle? Good, glad you're coming with me on that. Well, I had a record when I was a kid starring a bunch of random characters from the PBS show "Sesame Street". Ernie (of the classic controversial pair, Bert and Ernie)had this whole segment where he took you on a wild adventure into the jungle using only his "trusty rusty telescope". Then there was something about lava and natives and lots of running.

Okay, sidebar wrapped. I've started yawning, so maybe now's my chance to catch some sleep. Ugh... I'm just not completely ready to stop blogging today.

Brain full. Lots of thoughts.

So I'll head to sleep with good ones.

Like that my cat dreams... I can hear him right now (he's shifting over on the couch). And there's my NAP blanket... it's so comfortable I would wear it and only it in public if it were socially acceptable. I smile at thoughts of my friend Kirby for bailing me out the last two nights and being selfless about it. Walnuts... yeah, figured out I love them today, so I'm thinking about walnuts. And surprises... they can be so incredibly wonderful... like when a good friend strolls in to welcome in the new year when you least expected her... sneaky that one. The Wendy's Frosty... 'nuff said. How about the smell of lavender? Or stolen kisses? A good book on your sixth time through it? Friends who stay on the phone with you way past their bedtime until your phone dies so that you can't thank them properly until tomorrow...

Speaking of tomorrow. It's pretty much now, so I should head upstairs before I wake up all over again and blow my chance to get a little shuteye.

Think happy thoughts. And pray I wake up in time for work, if you're so inclined. G'night.

Threshold of Revelation, part II

2007-12-24T01:49:00.000-05:00

[Note: Much of this was written in the wee-hours after midnight. Then I fell asleep. Then I woke up, finished, and posted.]

It's not worth it. It's really, really not. First of all, the fact that a week has passed between posts is a magnificent tragedy. And yet altogether beautifully poetic with relation to the topic at hand.

Revelation. I keep having one about every day. Sometimes more than one. And they all end up the same. Basically, my life is far too complicated and it's time to uncomplicate it. And that is a sentiment that cannot be realized quickly enough.

And annoyingly, it's tough to blog about major epiphanies and the like without causing issue. The curse of a quasi-anonymous blog is that the part that's not anonymous can get you into trouble if you're not careful. Or if you care too much.

Maybe I shouldn't give a frak. Maybe I should just sit here in my giant red bean bag chair and type everything that's on my mind right now. Like what I'd really like for Christmas. Or how infuriating some people can be over things that should not infuriate me. Nothing, short of cruelty to animals and other humans, should actually drive me to a state where the word fury is part of the word used to describe it.

I mean, it's Christmas. Or just about. Close enough. It's a time for joy and giving. A time for me to relax with friends and family and enjoy some of that peace on Earth and goodwill that's supposedly going around.

But it's not flowing freely these days. There's too much behind-the-scenes drama. Too much happening for me to think straight. Doesn't help that it's late and I'm tired and I still have lots of shopping to do when I wake up on Christmas Eve. Fun times.

So what's not worth it, you're still wondering. Well, hard to actually say it without causing a stir, But let's just say that I'm frustrated right now because of some really stupid shit. Stuff that doesn't matter really when all is said and done. Yes, it matters on some level -- but it's not worth the hassle and torque it's causing; that feeling that I'm frustrated with someone I'd rather not be frustrated with when in all reality, it's the situation that has me on edge. Or maybe it is the person and that's why I'm irritated. I don't know. I just don't like the feeling. That's all I'm saying.

But I have to live with certain responsibilities because I took them on (like a fool who cannot say no). And this causes unwanted tension in my life and makes me question certain commitments. I mean, if something in your life is causing stress and worry and fracturing your connections with the people you care about, is it worth it anymore?

I'm a -- I can't even think of the word. I can't say no to projects. To tasks. To helping. To whatever planning needs to be done, I do it. I'm a task-slut. See, that doesn't flow. That doesn't do it justice. Overall, I'm the guy who is always ready to tackle the next big need without stopping to see how it will effect me.

And it's effecting me. Hence the revelations. The key one of which is that 2008 will be more about writing and less about everything else. Less about all the distractions in my life which make me so busy that a week passes before I can post again. Where I'm so tired that I can barely finish this one because I keep falling asleep.

There are distractions in my life that have me upset with the people I care most about in the world. And why? Because I let it get this way. Too many compromises. Too many retreats. Too many instances where I ignored a problem because it was a friend in the fray.

No more. It stops. The complications need to end. And I know it will not be easy. Because I cannot just start dropping things left and right to uncomplicate the world. That would be bad. For some.

[That's where I fell asleep --- and now I'm awake again.]

It's morning. Christmas Eve morn. I can smell bacon being sizzled in the kitchen. Zubov's awake then. Kirby is undoubtedly off to work, and probably grumbled there since me and Z have the day off (for very different reasons).

Just reread what I'd written in those wee hours last night. For the sake of cohesive thought. And it holds up. It does. Something has to change. Been saying that for a while now. Talking about answers and change and how my life is at some turning point, or if it's not, I can see it fast approaching.

It's like I'm on some runaway train. It's barreling through the dessert like in an old Looney Tunes cartoon and up ahead I can see the split in the tracks. One direction leads to some type of happier existence and one leads to one of those broken bridges that scares the cartoon shit out of Yosemite Sam. And right now, I feel like I'm aiming for the bridge. I can see the switch though. It's coming up fast and I've got my shovel ready to trip the frakker and switch my track and speed off towards Paradisio.

But I'm left wondering about that other track. What's along that path that I'm so anxious to drop. If that is the path of distraction -- what constitutes a distraction?

See, I've been praising the coming of change when in all reality, it's not exactly a comforting switch. Yes, I believe that bringing about a massive paradigm shift is what the doctor ordered -- that certain things have to happen now if I'm ever going to succeed as a writer and be able to look back and say that I gave it a shot.

There's this song I'm particularly fond of these days. It's called "On Your Porch". And there's a line where he says, "And if I fail well then I fail but I gave it a shot". I know, sitting here in my bed under my NAP blanket, enjoying the wafting scent of bacon through the vents, that I have to give it a shot. Or I won't be happy. That track towards Paradisio -- that's giving it a shot. And that's not to say it's a smooth track. No guarantees that it's not actually a rougher course to take. But not trying -- well, hopefully you now get my simile. It was actually supposed to be a metaphor, but I said the word "like" so many times, I think I bastardized it into a simile. That, or it's the valley-girl's metaphor.

I almost chuckled at my own really lame joke.

Wow. It's later than I'd hoped. 10:00 a.m. here and I'm wasting daylight. There are presents to buy. Gifts to wrap. Tracks to change. I think the first of many changes coming is that I'm going to start speaking up. Okay, okay, I know you're kind of wondering how I could possibly talk MORE, but trust me -- talking is just talking. Speaking one's mind is different. We say lots of things just to say them. I need to start restraining myself when it comes to useless chatter and actually spout off thoughts that mean something. And I think, if I can truly do it, I will surprise people. For in the world in which I live, I'm the diplomat. To some, I'm a leader. Can I still lead and say what needs to be said.

My mind now travels to a play I wrote. The one that's going up on a stage in just under three weeks. "Separation Anxiety". And one of the themes of the show is that we never really say the things to each other that we need to say. And one of the characters says to the other "And that's not friendship, that's just polite."

I think I'm sort of tired of being polite. Been polite for most of my life, if not the whole thing. And more often than not, I'll come through a moment or situation where I don't speak up. I don't say what needs to be said. I bite my tongue because of what other people might think if I spoke up. Like I said, I shouldn't give a frak. Truth is truth and yeah, it might sting. It might hurt me and others. But frak it. Being polite is stressful and causes nothing but problems. Well -- the "polite" I'm talking about does that. Not saying I'm gonna morph into some prick who steals lunch money and makes snide comments about everyone. That's rude.

I'm just saying that that there are too many instances this year where I kept my mouth shut. Where I didn't stand up for a friend. Where I didn't stand up for a group of colleagues. Instances where I had every opportunity to just stop everything and take a stand. Instances I let pass by because I was too distracted to see what needed to be done until it was too late.

That stops now. This is my stand. My paradigm shift. Big words, I know. A lofty goal, trying to change years of habit in one day. But then hey, it's Christmas. And in looking at the ghosts of my past, it's clear that something's gotta give. Change needs to be taken by the horns on this one. Take the shovel to the switch. Change the track.

It's like metaphorical chaos there, but you get the idea.

So first thing's first. Need to get up and see if there's any bacon left. Then I need to head out into the mass hysteria that is "last minute shopping" and procure material objects that I could just as easily give out on a random day in March instead of a day of mass organized gift exchanging.

I'm really not that cynical about Christmas. I'm just not looking forward to shopping on Christmas Eve. Which, yes, is my own frakkin fault for waiting until the last minute. But as my good buddy PapaJoe always says, "If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute." He's like a zen master, that one.

I think this closes the posting on revelation. I'm not done with it or anything -- being here at the threshold... nope, still here. Just need to sign off, get to my Christmas shopping, eat something before I snark someone's head off, and in the grandest sense of the phrase, take a deep breath. And relax.

I hope to get in a couple more posts this year. At least one with the whole looking back motif. 2007 has been extremely wild overall. From the height of the Pacific to the depths of Everest. And yes, I know that seems backwards, but trust me. If you know the song that comes from, it sounds better this way (though that song really has nothing to do with anything in my life this year... I just like the phrase).

Wishing you all a joyous Christmas that's stress free and filled with friendship. Don't let the distractions keep you from enjoying the most important things in life. If I can follow my own advice on this one, I'll have given myself quite a wonderful gift indeed this holiday season.

P.S. I got this cool pic from Babs.

Threshold of Revelation, part I

2007-12-16T12:17:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here on a cold December afternoon. The backyard is blanketed in two days of ice, snow, some wintry mix that makes driving a bit unnerving. It's still snowing, ever so lightly. It's nice.

Here inside, a football pre-show is holding court the family room, which Zubov has decorated with extra Christmas lights. They look good. He has a knack for holiday decorating.

And to complete the whole picture, Apollo has decided that he's a lapcat for a while, pushing his way between me and my laptop. So typing this has been interesting.

But right now there isn't time to wax philosophical about life in this blizzard-filled world. For there are friends to track down and football to watch. And other such things.

Today is one of those days where I feel like chillin' out. Find myself a way to relax. And maybe then I'll be able to blog about more of my recent revelations. It's been a December where things are just coming into focus. Gotta let that sit and settle for a bit before I can properly write about it.

Unfinished Business

2007-12-14T11:38:00.000-05:00

Jumbled thoughts. Images flashing by more rapid than any simile I could possibly think of. It's much too late for me to begin a blog, let alone finish one of any decent quality. But at the moment I'm in a frak all mood and blogging seems like the next logical choice to conclude my day.

It was a long day. And that, in and of itself, does little to distinguish it from any other day in December. And now my eyes are heavy. I feel the exhaustion pushing against my shoulders... weighing me down. It's warm. Probably from the cooking. And the mild cleaning. Though the cleaning did little to dent the wasteland that is my house.

It's days like these. Or weeks. Weeks like this one. That pull at you from every direction in every possible way... physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting you until you want to scream out against the fury. Scream until there's nothing left to hear you. But that would take a while and we've established already that my schedule is already booked up.

It's funny. Aside from the fact that I keep falling asleep in mid-type and finally just

[Note: That's where I fell asleep about three o'clock this morning. I'm just gonna post this now. I'll post again later if I can.]

Writing Under Pressure

2007-12-09T11:36:00.000-05:00

Another day, another blog. Another perhaps unfinished string of thought to tease and make you wonder just what happened to me when I was 18 that it takes several posts to spit it our. Trust me, the reports of my youthful indiscretions are greatly exaggerated. It was nothing that would cause a sensation. In fact, this monumental shift in thinking came quietly in the night, for only one simple reason:

There was no other alternative.

We've all heard of the phrase "Fight or flight". Every creature in nature has this option when faced with danger. Some of us flee, running fiercely through the deep snows, the cold ripping down our throats to burn our lungs as the sounds of the world are replace by three things: your own breathing, your feet tearing through the snowy landscape, and your predator's eminent arrival.

Overall, I've never been faced with much real danger. Not physically. I avoid confrontation at all costs. Diplomatic is one word for it. But that doesn't mean that I don't fight. I just choose my battles carefully and mine tend to be wars of words or emotions, engagements of the mind rather than the body.

But ten years ago, I think I was a fleeing rabbit. And my predator? Pressure, life, school... and the crowning king? Expectations.

That night was cold. It was the end of finals week and many people on campus had already left for home. So to add to the cold, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that allows to actually hear those thoughts in your head you'd rather not entertain. Nothing sordid, but they were hard to hear nonetheless.

They were thoughts of failure.

Heading into Christmas break of my Freshman year, I walked around campus, then through my dorm. I thought of the past 16 weeks and the adventures I'd had, the friends I made, and the opportunities laid out before me. And then the world dropped out from under me.

For all the great things I'd done that semester: earned a spot marching with the Band of the Fighting Irish; been published in the student magazine; created friendships that have lasted a decade... I didn't do the one thing I should have. Respect my education.

Sitting there on the third floor of my dorm, I knew I'd frakked up. And it hit me. All at once. I'd spent so much time living my life and focusing on the wrong things that I had risked everything. And I was sure I was about to lost it all.

So naturally, there was stress. There was worry. And that lasted a good couple of hours.

And that's about when I got it. Well, that's about when I got HALF of it. I understood then that worry and stress don't solve problems. It's the equivalent of mentally retreating. And the bitch about running is that you're already weak by this point and your problems will catch you. And they'll just beat you down more harshly than before.

So I decided to stay and fight. I went to the Dean, the one person that up until that night had terrified me, because I had let myself believe that she controlled what happened to me. But she didn't. I could have given up, gone home, and probably would have not been invited back for second semester.

Instead I stood up. I faced my predator. I fought. And the Dean seemed to respect my determination to make amends and granted me that opportunity. One that I wouldn't squander. I figured out from then on how to keep up with my extra-curriculars without screwing up the curriculars. Not only did I fight for what I wanted, I respected the challenges before me. But at the same time, I wasn't worried.

That worry and stress had only gone to create a scared little boy who ignored his problems. I wish it hadn't taken me the realization that there was actually nothing left to lose before I saw that. Of course, perhaps that's the kick in the ass we all need sometimes. When you finally see that you're at the bottom, you have to start looking up. Otherwise you'll probably never crawl out of whatever hole you've dug for yourself.

I made it through. Now a proud alumnus and grateful to the Dean for letting me step back into the fray all those years ago.

So now it's December of 2007. The boy I was back then has been keeping tabs on the man I am today and I think he's wondering if I'm about to figure out the second half of the equation.

The snow is melting outside. And my stomach growls from lack of sustenance this morning. The noon-day sun has absconded behind a blanket of dust-gray clouds and errands I have to run are waiting for me to finish this post.

Things I have to do because I agreed to do them. Things which are vital to something, but not overly vital to me. And I'll do these things. So many vital things to so many people... these daily distractions will continue for a while and I won't stress or worry about how I'm going to keep juggling everything and keep it all in the air.

But the second half of the equation, for me, is coming into focus. It was something that Keaton ruminated on. In his post this week, Focus The Mind, Focus The Body, my friend spoke of getting his house in order and finding his focus. And it's something I've been pondering this year as I realize the thing which I ought to be doing aren't the things I'm doing.

And what decided where I should and should not focus my efforts? Me. And I've let myself fall into other happy distractions. Some of them are productive distractions and have led to better things in my life. But overall, I've gotten off course. It felt like I was making progress... and to be fair, I was... but perhaps just heading in the wrong direction. Like ending up at Magnetic North instead of the North Pole. Yeah, I think it's like that.

Not only do I need to fight. I need to focus. For lack of focus is pretty much retreating. Letting distraction take control is just running from what needs to happen. Every distraction is another step away from my goal and I'm tired of running.

Remember when I said the answers are coming. I think this is what I was talking about. The next eight weeks will seem to continue on as if nothing has changed. Wrapping up the first set of major obligations and prepping to finish out a few more by midsummer. But underneath the seemingly calm surface, a resistance is brewing.

A resistance? you say. Yes. To distractions. To blindly following temptation and false goals when the real one is right in front of me. If I'm going to become a writer, which has been the single constant passion in my life since before I knew what passion was, I need to take steps in the right direction.

I need to focus.

I've done it before. More than once. I've looked around at my life, and while apparently satisfied with the day to day, I realized in those moments that I needed a mid-course correctional burn. So I do something. I stand up. I fight. I rally. I make things happen.

And then it's five years later. Or ten years later. And I'm closer to the goal, but not as close I should be and definitely on the wrong track.

Speeding along through December and into January, I don't just need to change tracks. I need to change trains.

December's like that. It makes you question things. It makes me question things. And this time, the answers are here. It's a change that's now on the horizon.

Gotta run and take care of a distraction. And then mark it down for destruction. The first of many that will be excised from my life to help me focus on reaching my goal. The next six months are going to be fun.

A Quick Post (from last night)

2007-12-08T18:23:00.000-05:00

This morning I sat down and was going to write a magnificent blog full of anecdotes, observations, and general wisdom that would transcend my blog and find itself spread into the offline world. Yes. It was going to rock that much.

But pleasant diversions and a day spent with good friends led me astray from the laptop and I'm not sitting back on that same couch trying to write something, anything, before I hop in the shower and head out to listen to the wonderfully talented KNOT FIBB'N, an Irish folk group that is hitting the stage at a local pub here tonight.

So a day with friends followed by a night with friends. And nothing productive to show for it. Except a day of relaxation and a day in the life of me. Which in itself was productive. I just didn't write anything. I talked a lot about writing. A lot.

And that got me thinking again about that night in December ten years ago. It was cold and snowy, much like this week. And that it's been ten years is frightening in itself. But it was one of those nights that you don't ever let go of. Nothing monumental happened in the grand scheme of world affairs and history.

But that was the moment that I let go of my worry.

Many people have noted that I don't often seem stressed. And oftentimes, I'm not. And if I am, I am only for a moment and then I realize that stress and worry never solved a damn thing and I get back into whatever fight I'm in.

I was 18.

More tomorrow... I have to go save some seats.

This Post is Late. No Surprise.

2007-12-07T19:33:00.000-05:00

Like most things in my life right now, this is behind schedule. 6pm was the promised time of this post to my best friend, but alas, that promise has gone the way of the Dodo. And my writing is apparently in a mood for the cliche. Dodo. Seriously?

It's been that kind of week.

A weird week. A fun week. A week to remember. But it's not the week that I lay to rest tonight that prompted me to blog. It was another post on Keaton's blog. He spoke of the past and of something he's been lacking lately: focus.

Focus is an allusive and teasing mistress for me. I think I have it figured out only to realize how often I am played the fool in spite of my efforts. Silly, silly, delusional man.

Today, Decemeber 7, usually reminds me of things gone by and of the past. Every year. Never fails. I'm oft to think of the events that drew us into a World War sixty-six years ago. Pearl Harbor. I don't know why. It just always strikes me into a mood. Though I'm one of those people that remember the battles that forged my history. I think of the sacrifices those people made and I wonder if I could ever do anything to compare.

When I fall, will it be for something or because of it?

Told you I was in a mood.

And with a certain wisp of irony, I confess that this blog will be only partially finished tonight as things (like always) came up.

So I will post this for now and I will continue this on Saturday and tell you a little bit about my past and a night ten years prior which now seems not just an eternity ago, but feels as if I am looking back on another person's life. The boy I was at 18 in the early winter of 1997 is so vastly different from the man typing these words.

And yet he's never truly gone from me.

How I wish to continue this post at this moment. But a lot of people, including those who ushered me into this world, will be a bit upset if I pass them up to write.

Funny. Since it seems my life is passing up the writing when I always thought it would end up the other way around.

Next up: a glimpse.

Counting Down to Anxiety

2007-12-03T18:25:00.000-05:00

Hello, gentle readers. I'm sitting here on a mini-lunch break that I don't deserve, watching the message button on my work phone pulsate with fury that I haven't check my voicemail today. But then overall, I feel like crap today, so checking voicemail has slipped to the netherworld of my priorities.

Oh, and it's December and nothing horrible happened on November 30. Had a nice weekend actually and drama was kept to an absolute minimum. Hooray for that. But then I couldn't quite escape drama entirely and it snuck up on me this morning.

Woke up late. Felt sick. I am sick. Ah, welcome to cold and flu season. You know, if it weren't for the fact that coming up with a cure for the common cold would cost this ecomomy billions in pharmecutial sales, I bet it would have happened by now. I wonder if the Robitussin family actually has the cure and they just doll out those fancy colored placebos every season to make us feel better?

And so I rolled into work a little later than I should have (oops) because I didn't feel too spry this morning, and was even debating calling in --- but overall, that would have been futile. So here I am. Thought I had this huge meeting that I was going to miss. Ironically, it's a meeting about scheduling.

Yeah. A meeting to make schedules. Don't you love the real world. It's about as far removed from real as one can get.

But the meeting is tomorrow and I popped antacid for no good reason as I sped down the highway in traffic much lighter than I am accustomed to. Still feeling sick. Sniffly.

Blah.

So how about something much more exciting and interesting for a topic? Yes, yes, methinks we should speak of pleasantries this cold and dreary afternoon.

39 days. That's all. 39 rapidly passing days until I walk into Curtain Players and see my latest play, SEPARATION ANXIETY, on stage. FRAKIN' AMAZING! I'm sooo pumped about it that I elongated the word so. And I think I've literally jumped up and down with happiness about this. So yeah, you could say I'm excited about January 11.

Had a nice phone chat with my director last night and I think I should do that about once a week because holy mac n' cheese it gets the adrenaline going. We talked about characters and scenes and lines of dialogue and she's been so great with talking through some moments in the show to help realize them into better moments.

Listening to someone else's take on the show has been educational to say the least. And I envy my director in that she's getting to watch the actors develop their characters and create these people that I created first. As someone who has acted, I know what it's like to take a character and infuse him with a life and all the little quirks that makes us each human. So as I hear stories about the cast discovering their characters' idiosyncracies, I get a little jealous.

Workshopping is like a drug to me now. But then I was recently told by Keaton that I'm one of those collaborative types. I do well in that environment. And he's right. I love it. Working with other creative people. Getting outside eyes to see my work and then give feedback. I thrive on it. So that's why the Festival is like hitting the lottery. Two nights with a willingly-captive audience who are there to see my show and talk about it.

For those who do not know about the Festival, it's a three weekend event where new plays are staged, workshop style, and audiences offer feedback during a Q&A with the playwright, director, and cast. I plan to use this opportunity to examine the show's strengths and weaknesses as I work to get it in shape for a full premiere and/or production (my ultimate goal with the script).

Terrifically frightening and exhilarating all at the same time.

More to come about the show. Until then, here's a synopsis:

On a cold morning sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Quinn Murphy finds himself stranded in Denver, waiting for a flight to take him to the funeral of one of his best friends, Bailey Palmer. Quite content to stew in his grief, he is befriended by a woman named Lily Cameron whose brutal honesty brings out the truth about his friendship with Bai. Back home, his other best friend, Jess Duncan, searches for answers about her friend's mysterious death, finding only his father and more confusion. Interspersed with memories from the last days of Bailey Palmer, flashbacks reveal truths which Quinn and Jess aren't ready to face as the people who loved Bailey the most grapple with the possibility that the accident which killed him might have been something else, and show us that on some level, separation is a state of mind.

It's Not Quite Over...

2007-11-30T01:06:00.000-05:00

Ever get that feeling? THAT feeling? Yeah... like something's not settling right. There's a force or a thing—yes, a thing, it's late and I'm exhausted so my vocabulary is a bit lacking this evening—and it's getting under your skin. Infesting itself into your thoughts. And it's telling you that the drama that is your life in November still has ONE MORE DAY to totally kick your ass.

Yeah, that feeling.

It's hard to explain to most people, but my life follows the ebb and flow of American television sweeps. This is not a new concept if you've known me for more than a couple months. November is one of those times when things get... interesting. Weird. Wild. Crazy. Or just dramatic. And this year has not disappointed.

I hoped that the writers' strike might strangely effect me this year, but no. Apparently my sweeps affliction has its own guild.

Not getting into the specifics of the sweepworthy stuff, but I'll say that as I wrap this up and prep for bed I can't help but feel like something is wrong. And it's buggin' the frak out of me that I can't figure it out.

Hope I'm just being paranoid. Maybe I had one too many Cokes today (and the two Pepsi's later) and my brain is melting. Because things are usually not as bad as they seem. But then... this THING that's got me up this late, I'm often times right about stuff like that.

Something's wrong.

Not looking forward to finding out what when I wake up (it's Nov. 30... time for the cliffhanger episode).

Writing to Access

2007-11-12T12:32:00.000-05:00

I heard the most interesting theory the other day. Artie Isaac, who I'll get to later, said "Our natural state is to be creative" and that it's the hustle and bustle, the distractions and diversions, that interfere. And then he said something about flow.

Words like that will stick in your brain, dangling on a synapse like a monkey from a tree. Swinging there, taunting you, possible throwing feces at you just because it can. Because you don't know how to calm it down. It just keeps getting more excited.

It was the thought about diversions and distractions that got me. Not a new idea, really, the thinking about distractions and how to eradicate them from my life; but the whole presentation was very inspiring and actually offered up some concrete solutions. Although I didn't like most of them.

But then I don't much care for concrete. It's not a flattering material on a building or surface areas. It cracks and is easily infiltrated by weeds. And it hurts when you land on it. I'm trying to work in a metaphor here but it's just not happening today.

Seems to me that just about everything is a distraction right now. Almost everything. Depends, I suppose, on exactly what I consider the goals or thing on which I'd like to spend my time. That dictates what is defined as a distraction.

When I boil it all down, the one constant in my life is writing. Creating. Mostly through writing. There are many things in this world I like doing—many things with I enjoy and many which give me pleasure, two words that I really didn't see a difference between until the other day. But if you break it down, one fuels the mind and the other fuels the body.

But in almost every day, how often to we achieve fulfillment for both? I don't eat well. Not like I should. Haven't worked out in ages. And I recall that when I did work out, when I got up with the sun (or before) to hit the gym, I felt good. And that in turn, helped me focus on the mind. Funny how that works. And sadly it doesn't work in reverse. I can write all I want and try to create, but if I'm not running with all engines firing, then I'm just crashing. I think that was another attempt at a metaphor.

Wrote some of this last night, when I should have been sleeping. It was well past my bedtime, and probably why I was rushing into work a wee bit tardy. Because I was up. Typing. Never was one for bedtimes. Or sleep. Always felt it a waste of time. I mean, we only get so many trips around the sun on this ball of dirt; I'm not wasting mine keeping my eyes closed. Yet napping is a pleasure that I do enjoy.

I'm paradoxical like that.

Which is probably why I'm having trouble figuring out my distractions. Admittedly, this blog is one of them. But only from work. And sleep. But then work is just a distraction from writing. Of course I can't just not go to work. That would be considered poor form. I guess my trouble is, distractions remove us from the things that bring us enjoyment and pleasure. But what if things I enjoy distract me from other things I enjoy. Where do I draw the line?

Theatre. I enjoy it. It's fun. A challenge. I'm working creatively with my fellow actors and tech crews. And as fun as it is, it distracts from my writing and family. But then, to be fair, writing distracts from my family and friends. How many times have I passed on spending time with real live human beings so that I could write dialogue for the imaginary ones in my head?

Friends distract from family. Family distracts from friends. Everything. Distracts. Everything. So it makes me wonder if there really is an answer, aside from prioritizing (easier typed than done).

Actually, there is a sort of simple answer. All of the things I've listed are things that bring me massive amounts of enjoyment. Family, friends, writing, theatre, blogging. Even work, because in the end it provides me food, clothing, and shelter and those things bring me pleasure in that they keep me healthy and alive.

Artie says cut out the distractions. So what are those? Been thinking about it. And it boils down to a few things. Drama, a sense of importance, and malcontents.

Yep. That's all. The meaning of life. Take away those three things and everything will go much more smoothly. And when I say drama, I mean the gossip, the soap-operatic elements that course through our everyday lives. I like to think I've been cutting back and working that out of the system. Seen too much and I don't have time for it. None of us should. I wonder how much time we would all save, how much more we could accomplish, if we dropped the drama-kicks and just moved on. Plus, I think I'll just feel like a better human being if I don't let myself get sucked into things like that. Petty, petty stuff that in the end won't be remembered by anybody. So why worry about it now?

An over-inflated sense of self-importance. Yep—I've got that. I do. I have a t-shirt. It's not subtle about where I position myself in this world (hint: in a past life, I was one of those people branding Galileo a heretic for his heliocentric beliefs). And yet, I know this about myself, so I like to think I've reigned this in a skosh. One of my biggest weaknesses is perfectionism and my egotistical proclivity to assume that anything you can do, I can do better. Annie Oakley and me would've given each other quite a run for our respective fortunes. I'm one of those people who thinks he can do it all and that has come back to bite me. So I'm trying to learn the ancient art of delegating. In everything. There's no sense to stress myself out. Trying to be all things to all people is one of my biggest distractions.

And finally. Malcontents. I have no patience for them any more. This kind of hits back to the wanting a life free of drama. Life is too amazingly wonderful to be brought down by those who seek only to destroy what I hold dear. Not with guns or bombs or threats, but with attitude. Now, everyone is entitled to a bad day. We've all had them. Those spit in your face kick you in the crotch bad days where you'll need a shoulder to cry on after and a friend to listen as you unload. Not against that. Just against general sourness. An overall outlook that defines pessimism. Call them what you will. Crotchety people. Curmudgeons. I'm done. My outlook is, if you're having a bad time then do something to change it.

That's what I'm trying to do. Not that I'm having a bad time... overall, can't complain and I understand that anytime I think my life to be less than great, there are people out there who would trade with me in a second. And that's not arrogance. Sounds like that whole world revolving around me attitude, but it's just an observation that I was born into a good family, with enough money to keep me fed, clothed, protected, educated, and grounded. I live in America. I have freedom.

And there are things I need to do in this life if I'm going to be look back in the last days and be able to say I enjoyed it. That starts by cutting out distraction. Focusing on my goals and the everyday. Writing. And writing some more. Because as each week goes by and we rapidly approach 2008 and my 29th birthday (and, in effect, the dawn of my thirtieth year on the planet), I feel like I'm on the brink of figuring it out. And here I thought I wasn't one of those "by the time I'm 30" people. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just one of those "before it's too late" people.

I'm going to post this now. I've been writing it for days and it shows in the seams. But there's no time to make it perfect. And that's okay. Besides, if I keep on lamenting about the state of the universe, when will I have time to post about the beginning of "Rabbit Hole"?

And the Playwrights Festival. And how much fun this winter is truly going to be.

It's beginning...

Wake Up the Echoes...

2007-10-28T08:57:00.000-04:00

I didn't even prep the speech. Decided to wing it. And came through surprisingly unscathed.

I had the pleasure of serving as Best Man in the wedding of my college roommate. For blog tradition's sake, we'll call him Professor. It's quite the honor to serve in that stead. Best Man. I can't even imagine if I ever have to choose one. Oh, and that pic of us isn't from this weekend... that's from another wedding of another roommate here at N.D.; I just wanted to post a pic and that's what I had. I'll update with the new pics soon so you can see us in our Calvin Klein, overpriced, tuxedos. Nice monkey suits, but steep on the green. Wow... that's not even a saying... "steep on the green". I don't see that catching on. It's about on the same level as "fetch". I shouldn't blog hungry.

Or try to use negatives. I'm rubbish with them... had to edit after the post because I often forget the negative and that used to read "should blog hungry".

Anyway. The Professor and I go back over 10 years now. He's pretty much the reason my lazy ass didn't get punted out of school frosh year. Dragged me kicking and screaming to the library just about every night when I would have rather been at some club event, or out with the trumpets, or sleeping, or online, or chillin' by the lake, or... well, you see how he earned his moniker now.

I know he doesn't read this much (he's not a blogging fan), but if he does: Thank you, bro, for the honor and privilege of standing beside you on your wedding day. You've found a wonderful woman and I wish you both the best. Like I said in my toast: Love is not necessary to life, but it's what makes life worth living. Congrats.

That's about as long as he wanted my speech to be. He told me several times, "dude, keep it short". Knowing me for a decade, he's under the impression that I ramble.

I kept it short and still managed to ramble. Hit all the right notes, off the cuff, and while the Matron of Honor did upstage me with better comedic timing and that emotional quiver in her voice that makes the audience dab at the somethings in their eyes, I think I did okay.

At least I wasn't trembling (yes, I'm an actor who has stagefright when not in character, so sue me).

Cut to this morning; I'm sitting here in my room at the Morris Inn, within walking distance of a few of my most favorite places in the world (the Grotto and the Dome among them for those keeping track) and the weekend is winding down. Soon, I'll be on road back home.

And I just thought I'd blog quickly before brunch to express just how fortunate I feel to be a part of the tradition here at N.D. and to have made the friends I've made through my journey on this campus. Without waxing way too nostalgically here, I'll just say this: I don't know of any other place in the world that centers me like this one.

N.D. has now become a little refuge. The spot to go to for refueling. I do wish I could stay a bit longer. And I will not leave until I make a trip to the lake (and no, I'm not jumping into this one... just strolling around it, taking in the view). And I will visit with the Grotto, walking amongst the living prayers of my fellow Domers. I've posted about this place before, so I'll invite you to read about it from one of last year's memories and close with a final thought.

When I'm tired or overwhelmed, I need only stop and breathe, close my eyes, and think of a few things: the places I love, the things I love, and most importantly, the people I love. For that's what this place is... it reminds me of some fantastic moments in my life (though not everything was Christmas and kittens back in college) and the friends that were standing beside me in those times.

Lately I've been talking about going for drives, trying to get out of my routine, get out there and recharge, when in reality, the things that I needed to begin recharging are already there. Luckily, when I go home today, I'll be with my friends. The N.D. friends via my cell phone, my friends in other states via the Internet and occasional I.M, and of course the wonderful group of drunken bastards that I call my friends back home.

Recharging is nearly complete.

Bittersweet Pangs

2007-10-23T17:55:00.000-04:00

I love my friends. Been lucky enough to have some pretty solid ones over the years. Had some rough patches now and then with the best of them, but in the end it all plays out well and I can't complain. So when a couple of them succeed where I fear I have failed, I'm am torn between my hapiness for them and my disappointment in myself. Heading home from work now. Scared of what I might not find in my mailbox.

It thickens the skin though. I'm probably gonna need that one day. Starting with this evening, it seems.

2:38 to Freedom

2007-10-22T17:59:00.000-04:00

They put new windows in at my office. They're so clear that I'm surprised directionally challenged fowl haven't concussed themselves upon them (or worse). Actually, I am Jack's complete lack of surprise. I think the feathered creatures would be wary of the large amount of bricks and plaster surrounding the windows and thus they might be spared the unfortunate (and absolutely embarrassing) scene of soaring full-speed into a well cleansed piece of glass.

I don't like the new windows. Which is unfair actually—they're lovely and haven't done a thing to me personally... it's just that getting them was a huge disruption at work, and now they're too clear.

I can see what I'm missing.

The weather is changing. In more ways than one. We just wrapped up a three-week run of the Aaron Sorkin drama, A Few Good Men. I was fortunate enough to land the role of Smilin' Jack Ross. That's me to the right; it's the closest you'll ever get to seeing me in a real uniform. Gotta admit though, I liked the feel of it. Not rushing off to enlist, but after studying the history and the culture of the military, I can see why people do and I have a lot of respect for them all.

I'm in a mood. Maybe it's post-curtain depression. You spend 10 weeks of your life (not to mention the prep you put in before auditions) living and breathing a character. Going to rehearsal everyday with amazingly talented people. Pumping your heart into words that you can only hope to emulate in your own writing one day.

And then it's over. I think there's a reason I don't act as much as I once did. It's hard to let go. But then more oft than naught the projects in which I immerse myself become such a part of me that when they end (which they always do), there is an immediate fallout. A void. The wind is rushing out, replaced by an icy cold.

Naturally I do what any person lamenting the passage of a kick-ass experience would do: I begin another. And down the "Rabbit Hole" I go. In a few weeks I will step off the stage once again and take the helm of a theatrical production. I look forward to it with relish.

But for now, I'm going to happily recall the lighter, more fun-thrilling moments of AFGM. Nailing my scenes. Joking around backstage. Late nights out. The swords... ah, the swords! The cast purchased swords for our stage manager (Sultry Sue) and our director (Keaton)—two people who make my general existence better by being a part of it.

Aren't they sweet? Now, I'm not a violent man. But I frakkin' love weapons. I could see myself collecting swords. I really could. Keaton later joked that he'll never be able to act for me again because he won't be able to top this director's gift. To be fair, the cast of Darkside got me all the Apollo mission patches and mounted them with a cast photo and the Apollo 18 patch from our production. So yeah, I think we're even.

So yeah, it's over. AFGM is wrapped and I actually don't have tons of theatre related things to do tonight. I could actually go to Ciao and watch football tonight. Holy buckets. I could actually take a moment. Take a deep breath. And try to find something to recharge me.

That's probably why I'm in my mood. I'm tapped out. Need a kick-start. A jump. An infusion of zee life force! Been sprinting through this year without question or pause and now I'm heading towards home on nothin' but bingo fuel. 2008 is knockin' in the distance and I never slowed down to take in 2007.

It's been a wild year thus far. Life-changing in small ways. But still I remain standing still. Complacent as the world shifts around me. It only feels like I'm moving quickly, racing through life... but in all reality, I think I'm the one standing still. The things I've chosen to fill my time are not fulfilling me as they once did.

If they were I wouldn't be dozing off at my desk or blogging in the middle of the afternoon.

I want to live. I want to do something I've never done before. I want to think of something spontaneously instead of planning the frak out of it. I want to drive hundreds of miles and jump into a lake for no reason other than it's not something I would do. But then that's been done—thank you Keaton—so I'll just have to find a way to up the ante and make jumping in a lake more interesting this go around.

There are precious few times in a person's life when that person can truly claim to be free. We let ourselves become subordinates to our jobs, our hobbies, our habits, and expectations. When was the last time you did something for yourself? Truly, just for you and you alone? Something you'd wanted to do, thought about, but never took the time to experience.

How about the cliches? Paint a picture. Watch the sunset. How about something more inventive? Write without homonyms. Take a leak outside. And don't care. Order off the kids menu. Book a flight to a city you've never been to. Fly there by yourself and take it in. Jump in a lake. Clothing optional.

I SOUND MY BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFTOPS OF THE WORLD.

I look around and see that this isn't so. I don't yawp nearly often enough. That's going to change. I want to be the man I know I am—the person I am deep down. You'd like him. I think. I don't know. Doesn't matter. Because it would be me. The real me. Unfiltered. I want to write how I want to write and act how I want to act. Do the things I don't do because of some person I thought I was a decade ago. I want to live and experience a life that I'll look back on without regret. I want to stand up. I'm not talking rebellion. I'm talking realization.

Maybe it's the weather. Or the new windows. Or perhaps the last 10 weeks have opened my eyes to possibilities that would have gone heretofore unexplored in a life that while ultimately—sorry... channeling Sports Night a bit there.

This post feels like its walking a tightrope of profound revelation and incoherent dreck. Just trying to pin down what it is that has me in a mood. Something does. That's obvious. Anxiety about directing? Nerves about writing? Facing a winter in an empty bed? I really hope I'm not succumbing to that "oh no, I'm almost 30 and what do I have to show for it" crap. Setting life goals based on one's time on this planet is a-whole-nother conversation. The only deadline I adhere to is death. Can't miss that one.

I'll close out with a passage from the movie Dead Poet's Society that sums up a bit of what I'm feeling these days.

They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it? - - Carpe - - hear it? - - Carpe, carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.

The Lake is Calling

2007-10-15T17:50:00.000-04:00

Feel the urge to do something crazy. Ever get that? Tired of routine? Tired of the everyday drama that filters over your life and takes you away from things that you'd rather be doing (or maybe it spoils the things you are doing). So you feel tired. You feel drained. There's a pull on your entire system and you just can't shake it.

So the drive within to push outwards, to break away from your norm, to bend the rules of civilized society, that drive starts to fuel your waking thoughts. And sometimes your dreams. Because maybe if the road less taken were to be taken, things would be different. In a better way.

Maybe it's the weather. October is a wicked time of year. A visceral change is happening. I'm likin' it. Just not sure what to do with it.

Reliance

2007-10-12T17:00:00.000-04:00

The number of things I do at work that rely solely on electricity was never so clear as it was today when for about an hour—poof—it was gone. Actually, it didn't poof... it sputtered, clunked, banged, and died in a magnificant spasm. In an extremely morbid way, it rather seemed to echo how anything must feel as it dies. Fighting against the darkness with such futility... though in those final throes, I'd like to think that it doesn't feel so futile. Funny how a little power outage can bring about such thoughts of human mortality and our place within the universe on a chilly October afternoon.

Speaking of places... I have a show to get to. And a sister's birthday party to visit on my way to the theater. No rest for the busy. None whatsoever.

Favorite phrase today: Mr. Potato Head. Why? It's how my boss refered to one of our clients today... I do love my job.

I Bought Champagne

2007-10-08T23:51:00.000-04:00

Overall, it was a nice weekend. And yes, it's Monday, but a) it's Columbus Day and b) I took a holiday. So yes, to me these are those last precious moments before another week of stress and busy, so I won't write much tonight.

But this weekend, from Friday night to now... well, I don't wish to boast about perfect hours spent with wonderful people as I'm a little bit Irish and thus a little bit on the superstitious side—and to knock on any wood, I'd have to stretch out my leg and tap the coffee table with my foot... okay, I'll go ahead and do that. Damn my superstition. I can't even talk about it without getting paranoid.

It's just about to be tomorrow. And I'm exhausted. Spent the last few days with some of my favorite people. Some traveled in from afar, while others are right here all the time (and for that I am grateful). We premiered a show. Read another one. Helped a friend move. Sat around and ate ice cream. Napped. God, did we nap. And generally just relaxed. Haven't done that in so long, I'm not sure I remembered how.

That was the summary. So yeah... I'll get into the who, what, where later... for now, I'll just say this. My friends, you rock. You are stupendous and awesome and I'm sane only because of you. If days like Sunday and Monday could be carbon-copied and sold, I'd be rich.

Warm Blankets

2007-10-01T01:31:00.000-04:00

It's been a couple of hours since my last post. And in the grand scheme, very little has changed. Except I can sleep now. The one thing that really had me tossing is no longer... one answer has come to me.

Can't elaborate too much, but I'll say that today was a very good day. I lift a glass and toast to taking another step. And really, to say that very little has changed ranks up there in the massive understatement category.

The answers are coming.

Twitchy

2007-09-30T23:14:00.001-04:00

Can't sleep. Want to be driving. Want to be out there... on the road. The wind screaming by and rippling my clothes around me. Cool. Crisp. Just a hint of the coming frost. I want to be driving. I want to be sleeping, but I can't. Too much going through the brain. It's exhausting, but I'm too twitchy to sleep. Too... nervous? Anxious? Hungry? I don't know. No word for the feeling that stirs within.

We're 5 days from opening night. But that's not my worry. That worry belongs to another man. A dear friend. Tonight that is his burden... his insomnia. There isn't much I can do for him—I want to... I've got that loyalty thing going on and sense of following the general into battle—so I will do what I can. I will show up. Smilin' Jack will show up, to be more precise. If more is required, I'm at the ready. This does not phase me. For this is not my worry this eve.

No... many other things prey upon my slumber. Many other things... petty things... Why do people feel that they know everything? Why do they feel the need to sully that which I deem good. Other things that prey... things out of my hands... things not yet beyond my grasp... they have nested in my brain like termites and now they are chewing... I feel it but there's not much I can do.

Been craving a chocolate malt for days now. As if that will cure my ills. But are they ills? I mean, what's really the issue here? What is the crux? That which vexes me terribly? There is an underlying question that seems to be something popping up more and more. And that is simply to ask myself if the things I am doing are making me happy.

And some of them really are. And some of them are not. And so you begin to wonder if the things being done that aren't the happiest are those things which must be done and then I have to ask why I am the one who has to do them. It's a fantastic question. A subpondering of that thought is, what happens if I pursued only those things which bring me joy. Or advance my life in some capacity. Professionally? Personally? What if I were to focus on the things that would better my life and do the things I should be doing... not what everyone expects me to do... or what I expect people expect of me.

Cryptic thoughts on this final day in September. The answers are coming.

Directing and Acting and Cops, Oh My! (Part II)

2007-09-12T23:36:00.000-04:00

Anyone care to explain to me how it's already the 12th of September? Was there a freak slip-stream event or perhaps I was abducted by otherwordly beings and "jumped" forward in time (very "Flight of the Navigator" style—only without the 80s haircuts)... or maybe Ferris Beuller had it right.

This past week has been spent mostly working on "A Few Good Men". But I'm not posting about that one yet. Today's blog needs to take us back a ways to the week BEFORE auditions. And even before that.

Ages ago now, it seems, I had set my heart on bringing THE LION IN WINTER to the stage at my theater. It's one of those plays that nobody liked when it premiered and yet it has mystically endured the decades to become a great show (if done well). I bought it on a whim at Barnes & Noble because I was in the market for a play and it had a completely irrelevant, yet beautiful and sexy cover. I am a marketers pawn. Or so I've been told. Actually what I am to a marketer isn't polite to say in mixed-company, but let's just say it's a good thing for the marketer. Anyhow, I read it, and loved it from page one. Or maybe page two. Liked it on one. Loved it on two. Wanted to direct it on three.

So imagine my surprise and immeasurable envy when I learned that another theatre company in town had already booked it on their upcoming slate. I was shocked... nearly livid that they would dare... that... it... it... flam - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, heathing... breathless, heathing breaths. Heathing breath...

Then I got over it and decided I would just apply to direct it at THAT theater (which happens to be the theater producing "A Few Good Men"). But WAIT... the story got a new twist. You see, there is, in the small world of community theatre that is Ohio, a director that is very wise and very much in demand. He's got the decades of experience on me. And he was also applying to direct. Lucky for me, however, he was chomping at the bit to direct a more recent show—fresh from Broadway—RABBIT HOLE.

And then another twist happened (well, the first real twist... that last one wasn't more than a tease really). He decided he was moving. And he withdrew his application.

And RABBIT HOLE was up for grabs.
So I read it. And decided that it had to be mine.

Okay, I'm not really so fickle.

It's interesting, the things in a script that draw a director to a project. I often wonder if my own writing will ever have that magnetic pull that some scripts have on me. For here were two shows which I thoroughly enjoyed and wanted to helm. "Enjoy" is probably not the best term. While LION is witty and clever and full of family secrets, backstabbing, and soap opera, RABBIT is raw, quietly soul-wrenching, and about family played out with stark reality. No shiny melodrama. No real soap opera. Hints of affairs, betrayals, and all that "family stuff" sure, but all played out under the shadow of grief rather than greed.

So, to make a long story short (too late), I applied for both.

And since I started this blog ages ago and need to catch everyone up on SO much, I'll just let you know that there were some interviews and in the end I ended up getting tapped to direct "Rabbit Hole".

That was entirely too anticlimactic.

But here's what you need to know: I AM PUMPED FOR THIS! "Rabbit Hole" will be a challenge and I'm so excited for it. It was my number one pick of the two. As a good friend pointed out, when will I get the chance to direct this show again. The smoking gun's got a point. "Lion" will make a return sooner than "Rabbit", I'm pretty sure.

This one's coming on the heels of "A Few Good Men" so no rest for the weary. But then that's me and theatre. Some nights I sit and wonder if I do too much. And other nights I say, "Nah... worry is a sign of weakness... and besides, I'm directing 'Rabbit Hole' and it will rock."

Yes, my little pep talks to myself are rather lame sometimes. "...it will rock" just doesn't have that classic orator feel to it. I mean, let's reimagine the Preamble to the Constitution of the United States:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America—and it will rock.

See? They were smart to leave out that last bit. Kinda ruins the gravitas of the whole thing.

Anyway, looking forward to getting to work on "Rabbit Hole", though getting my lines down for Jack Ross is pretty much front and center at the moment. But I digress...

And I'm tired... so before I tell you the story of me, Keaton, and our run in with the law, I'll leave you tonight with another unfinished blog. This was something I typed up while on a writing retreat that I took at the end of July.

I spent the weekend writing/finishing a play and plowing through Harry Potter VII. And there was no internet. And no cell service. And it was heaven. So here it is... as much as I "blogged" that weekend; for the rest was spent doing what I set out to do... writing my play, reading the concluding chapters of a magical saga, and sleeping whenever I wanted. Actually, heaven was never so good.

Writing in an Offline World...

Since the point of this trip is to work on some of my creative writing, this won't be too involved... I don't even have the internet here. That was on purpose. However, I wanted to briefly catalogue the moments of my retreat—the ones that stand out anyhow—as they happen, rather than trying in vain to recall fleeting experiences that by Sunday will have lost their zest in my mind.

Observation #1: I should have left on time...

Last minute chores, my overt hated of packing, and Harry Potter caused me to wait around until about 9pm to leave for this trip. No good excuse for that. And it wasn't even the 'Deathly Hallows' that held me up... no, it was the fourth movie. On HBO. I hang my head in shame. I mean, I've see it. Loads of times. Have it on DVD (which, to be fair, my mom borrowed last week to prep for the 5th film); yet there I sat, watching it in full screen (FULL SCREEN—oh, the humanity), when I should have been on my merry.

Leaving late did two things. It caused me to be around, still within cell phone reception, so I could receive a phone call that only presidents of theatre companies receive. Or the president of anything. One those minor "crises" that will be soothed out by Monday and not something to lose sleep over. At least, that's my interpretation. I'm also stupidly optimistic and mellow about most crises. So there you go. On the flip, the other thing being late did was get me free pie from a cute girl. Wasn't going to stop for food—I'd been to the grocery and stocked up on the essentials to feed and water myself for the weekend. Since I'm essentially "camping"— well, camping for this place, which means I'm in a solid wooden structure (thank the good lord since it's POURING RAIN today) that has electricity, a fridge, and a microwave. Yeah... camping. Though compared to the people staying in the castle, this is really roughing it (though I don't think they get a microwave...).

Anyhow... it was almost 11 p.m. as I got just outside of the city. Lots of lights behind me and nothing but the black in front. And then I saw McDonalds. And I caved. And yes, Keaton, that's what a 'Marine' would eat at 11 o'clock at night. Sure it is. So I ordered my food, waited forever to get it (I was the only one there and I think they closed at 11:00 p.m., so I was that annoying traveler who orders his value meal at 10:59 p.m. and then they have to cook it fresh (which made it some of the better McD's I've had in a while).

And as I'm driving away doing the obligatory food check (since I'm used to the mindless teens in the city who routinely forget something in your order so often that I've actually thought about making it a game to guess which item they'll forget), I notice there are not one, but two cherry pies. Two FREE cherry pies. How oh so nice of the cute drive-thru girl. While I like to think she stocked my order with sweets because she thought I was cute or deep or whatever was floating her boat that night, logic dictates that she was trying to get rid of them as they would've gone to waste... or maybe she felt bad that I had to wait for my fastfood to the point where "fast" was legally removed from the term. Yeah, probably that one.

Observation #2: You can see lightening when your eyes are closed.

Holy Mary, Mother of God. This storm is passing over the castle ground today. Wicked rains (and not wicked excellent mind you) and claps of thunder so loud that you think a tree fell on the gypsy wagon in which you're trying (horribly in vain) to sleep. Now, me, I love storms. They are actually one of those things in nature that I hold up into the status of awesome. So when I awoke this morning (after a ridiculously wonderful amount of sleep, I might add), I was pleasantly surprised to hear the rain falling and the rolling thunder in the distance.

But then it shifted. And was right on top of me. I was drifitng in an out of sleep (and oh, wow... the dreams you have after free cherry pies --- I think I was "in" Jurassic Park: the Next Generation for this one... I'll get to that). Eyes closed. Listening to the storm getting closer.

And then I saw a flash. Seriously, a bright, searing, rapid fire explosion of light. Followed immediately by one of those deafening, wagon-rocking thunderclaps. I think the lightening hit a nearby tree. It must have. It was one of the few times where the sound was practically on top of the light. It was that close.

But yeah, I didn't know you could see lightening with your eyes closed. That was pretty cool.

A Sticky World

2007-08-23T23:58:00.000-04:00

That's the general problem with Ohio. Weather that seems to exist only to torture. First there was rain for days on end. Arks were actually in the planning phases. Then the clouds parted and the sun found its new best friend, humidity. And humidity is actually a bitch, but the sun doesn't seem to notice.

And so when you step outside, you can feel your skin melting.

And on that chipper note, I think I'll head off to bed. The rest of the previous blog is coming soon (hopefully tomorrow). I haven't forgotten. Just been one of those weeks. Sticky, with just the slightest bit of nausea thrown in for grins.

Directing and Acting and Cops, Oh My! (Part I)

2007-08-18T08:30:00.000-04:00

NOTE: This was originally written Wednesday and finished today (Saturday).

I can barely type. There's construction going on downstairs—hammering, sawing, God knows what else—and I'm sitting here, uncomfortably, at my desk at work, wondering when I can go home and take a nap. It was a late night.

Been a long week. You know, Sunday thru Wednesday... those really long four-day weeks. And shockingly, most of it has been good. Really has. So today, let's focus on the good, the fun, and the wacky.

I'm already smilin'.

For the past few weeks, I've been prepping for an audition. Been salivating over the show for months (the drooling did not go unnoticed, I'm sure), but it was only in these past couple of weeks that I was able to really focus on it. And with the way the world works, I wasn't able to focus nearly as much as I'd planned. So this past Sunday, I was scared.

I was sitting there about to audition for "A Few Good Men", the play by Aaron Sorkin (that was made into a movie you might have seen)... and I was scared.

It's funny that some of my fellow auditionees asked me how I was so calm. I took it as a compliment to my acting ability. Though anyone watching me up there would have seen my hand shaking... the nerves coursing through me like electricity. It was my first audition in two years (thank you, call casting and AACTFest) and the first time I'd ever gone up against THAT MANY PEOPLE. Holy frack—the room was practically pulsating with actors. Talented actors. Talented, less shaky, better looking actors. So yeah... me, with the nerves, worried.

I sat there, about five rows back everynight... envious of Zubov with his apparent serenity. He was so relaxed. He was so confident. He was so getting a part. Why? Because he wanted it and he had no fear. Now, some people were not shy to say similar things to me during the breaks. But then that's how the breaks work at auditions... we all get humble about our own performances and then reassure each other... lots of "oh, you're so in" or "I don't have a shot against you"... yeah... nice words, but then you stand there and think to yourself that you're in a room full of actors. No offense my peers, but the eighth circle was never so crowded.

So we read. We read... and we read some more. For those of you not familiar with auditioning... a "read" is getting up, taking a script, and acting out a scene with some other people. Then you sit down. And throw up a little in your mouth.

Don't get me wrong. It's fun. It is. Like how rollercoasters and scary movies are fun. Thrilling, sickening, terrifying all at once. At least for me. Though sometimes... sometimes there's a read where you just get it. You feel it. The character takes control and the nerves are suppressed. The fictional emotion of the moment is more powerful than the real stuff... that's a nice moment.

That happened a couple times for me by the second night of auditions (oh, yes, there are two nights). One happened when I was reading for the role of Sam. He has this speech about why he doesn't like the defendants. Why he hates them. And he talks about how they beat up on a weakling. Fantastic monologue. Dripping with emotion.

Intermingled with the emotional onslaught of Sam, I was also being read for Jack Ross, the prosecutor. He's fun. The fact that I was slicked up in a nice suit probably helped me get into character. Sure, Sam dresses nice too, but I always buttoned up and smoothed out when it was time to read Jack. I think I stood taller too. Jack's more aggressive than Sam, and yeah... I'm slipping into the tiny details of what I think about while auditioning. But then you need to think of that. How else is a casting committee going to choose you if you don't make a choice on the character?

SO... the auditions ended after two nights and we were all sent on our merry with promises of being phoned within 2 days. Translation: Go home. Get ulcer from anxiety. Your phone will ring. You might want to pray if you're so inclined.

We went to Applebees. It's a restaurant. Standard fly-over American fare. But tasty and cheap (late night happy hours on the food). And a small group of us are just sitting there. Nervous conversation. Nervous laughing. Ulcers forming. The five Pepsi colas I downed probably didn't help steady the jittery hand holding the glass.

If you've never auditioned... it's like a job interview. The after part anyway. You leave and now you're just waiting. You begin psychoanalyzing every thing: your posture, your choice of clothes, your voice, your movements. You try to imagine what the committee was thinking and if you're the type they're looking for. Essentially, your worry yourself sick over something that's completely out of your hands as the phone sits quietly taunting you.

Torture.
Sheer. Agonizing. Torture.
And then my phone rang...

It was the director. Now, at this point, there was a part of me that was cocksure that I was cast as something. Probably Sam or Jack Ross. I'd been reading those two back and forth for the whole second day (realizing quickly that my readings of Dan Kaffee—my other top pick—hadn't been what they wanted). And I'll admit that I thought I'd nailed a few of the reads and was feeling good about them (those would be the 'moments' of which I spoke).

Yep. This would be a good phone call.

Hold on there, Huckleberry, come on back to the stable... that's what the OTHER part of me was screaming. The scared part. The part of me that stopped beating for a microsecond when that phone rang... panic coursed through me... doubt... worry... this utterly sickening fear that I was still playing second fiddle and after narrowing myself into two possible roles, hadn't landed a thing.

It was a tough audition. I had cause to fret.

But a few minutes later (because the director likes to drag this part out... seriously, felt like he took a holiday and then came back to tell me this), he offered me the role of Jack Ross.

He doesn't know it, but I jumped up and down and screamed with joy. In my head. See... I was the first to get a call and I wasn't sure how many of my comrades there would receive calls like mine, so I just politely accepted the role. Thanked him. Hung up. Sat back down. And told them of the casting decision.

I think there was shock involved too. I'm always mildly surprised when cast in a role. It wears off, but it was there. And it was tough being the first one called. And while there were a couple other calls that night, not everyone got one and the longer it takes your phone to ring after an audition, the less likely that you're getting a call you'll like. And wow... it sucks because you want to celebrate, but you want to be there for your friends who are still in the worry-place, still nervous, and rapidly convincing themselves that it's not gonna go well. Bracing for impact, in all reality.

It's been almost a week and the pieces have fallen where they may. Some of my friends are in this show. Some are not. And that's theatre. A lot of playing pretend and fun times, peppered with moments of unbridled competition and fierceness that can be rough.

For the cast, we're gearing up for read-thrus and table work and then... well, I'm sure I'll blog about it soon, so I won't get into it here. I'll just say that I'm smilin'. Alot.

So that's part I of my big news. Yes, part I. Because, you see, a few days before the auditions, I received another wonderful tidbit of information that I'd been waiting to hear. And it rocked. And I'm stoked.

And I have to drive to Cleveland this morning... so I will post part II later today or Sunday... promise. Yes. This is incredible torturous and mean to make you wait to hear about it. But this is another huge thing to me that I'd like to preface and talk about.

Like this news. Sure, I could have said: "Auditioned for a play. Got a role. Playing a guy named Jack." But that wouldn't have been, you know, boss (doesn't Stephen King say the best things?) and wouldn't have properly shown any respect for just how pumped I am. A short post cannot do justice to these victories in my life. I'm completely on cloud nine about "A Few Good Men". Heading back to the gym soon and planning a lot of things to help me prep for playing a Marine. I hope you'll come see it if you can. More details on that soon.

Gotta go for now. Check back for the other news soon. And an explanation about the cops in the title. In fact, some of you can probably figure out the news from that. The rest of you... hope your hearts grow fonder for me while you wait. Until next time...

Lift Your Head and Lift it High...

2007-08-14T08:12:00.000-04:00

I'll elaborate later this afternoon. The grindstone is beckoning my nose for now. Check back after lunch... okay, closer to dinner (let's all be realistic).

Hoo-rah!

Hard to wordsmith some things... wicked excitement, coupled with exhilaration, is one of them.

No Time for Post, Dr. Jones

2007-08-13T17:30:00.000-04:00

Another day has escaped my grasp and the thoughts and musings in my brain will have to be content to jump about my synapses for another night. Just wrapped up a long day at the office and I'm heading off to the second night of auditions for a play written by one of my favorite writers. His name is Aaron Sorkin. The play is called "A Few Good Men". Wish me broken legs (theatrically, please) and I'll keep you all posted as to the outcome.

And no worries... my big news is still on the tip of my tongue. But I'll hold back once more. Tomorrow --- or late tonight, I'll post an obscenely-long post that will make you want for these terse entries. Now doesn't that sound fun?

I Should be Skywatching

2007-08-13T02:57:00.000-04:00

Can't sleep. But I will. I'll find a way. Probably much easier than I think it is. Just a lot going through my head tonight. One of those weeks. Wanna talk about it. Chat about it. Have a beer about it. Can and can't. Maybe it was the activity of tonight. Or the behind the scenes drama of the weekend. Or maybe I'm just up because there are meteors flashing across the sky right this moment. And yet I stopped watching for them hours ago. I wonder if I could see them if I wander outside.

I wonder a lot of things.

It's funny how theatre has a way of creating a family out of a group of strangers, giving you amazing friends and introducing you to these other human beings that get you—but how sometimes it can be... interesting. That sounds more ominous than it is. I shouldn't blog when I'm yawning. It's just showing off the fact that I'm not as smart as thinkle peep I am (and yes, I'm half quoting and am fully aware of the glaring typos there; and mortified that I'm spelling things out to the audience... bad writer... bad...). This started somewhere but it's rapidly losing focus.

RANDOM FACT ABOUT ME TONIGHT #1: I joined a fantasy football league. No... pigs are not soaring in the heavens.

RANDOM FACT ABOUT ME TONIGHT #2: I think I'm addicted to mini-cheeseburgers. They're all the rage in all the restaurants here and I can't not order them. Tonight I ordered other food just to order them because I wasn't allowed to have just the mini-cheeseburgers. Curse you Applebees!

On an fantastic side note (and to stop the tired random ramblings), I received some news last night that I will share in full in the next post. It's awesome and deserves a proper post. Not a rambling blurb from an exhausted me.

Yes. That's called a tease.

Speaking of... sleep will be had now. No more promising my body and brain a nice restful REM-filled evening and not delivering. More blogging later today if I can swing it. Otherwise, it's coming soon. I promise.

Falling Asleep at the Keys...

2007-08-10T01:01:00.000-04:00

There was a stickiness to the air that embraced us like a former lover. The way you might be hugged at a reunion by an old flame while your current significant other looks on with that tactfully perfect grin plastered across their face. Yes... the humidity this past week (and especially on Sunday after a breakfast trip sporting the same clothes donned the previous evening) has been downright uncomfortable.

So where have I been, you might be asking in earnest. And rightly so, for like many of my friends here in Ohio, the hectic pace of life has swallowed up my precious free time and I have been left unable to post. But fret not, for I was doing exactly what I said I was doing.

Writing.

Dancing with a muse. My latest play is "finished". I use the ubiquitous quotation marks because like all things in writing, nothing is ever truly finished... sure there's a point when the pen must lift from the page and be set aside indefinitely, but that time is not now. Not for this play. Actually, I'm not even to the point where I'd post the work. It has been submitted, however, for a new works type of festival. I'm to the point with it where it needs a good public workshopping. I need to see it, hear it, watch someone else take it and breathe life into it.

Keeping the name classified for now because the festival is local and while it's no secret that I submitted, the readers are anonymous and the playwrights' names are removed from the script, so leaking the title of my latest endeavor for the stage would be a bad thing right now. I promise to reveal it in the future.

Before moving on to further topics, let me just take a moment to pause and offer Keaton some props and some much deserved praise for his unfailing friendship and selflessness. Yes, big words, but all deserved. While the story of that night could be recalled as funny to some (it was much enjoyed by Snowflake), it needs not be recounted here. Let's just say that if not for him, I wouldn't have made my deadline. I owe him for his quick thinking and precognitive planning (and isn't all planning a little precognitive?). And should my play be selected for the festival, I'll owe him much more indeed. Thanks, bro.

Doesn't feel like there's much to post about, when at the same time there seems to be much on my mind. Perhaps it's the heat of August which stifles me every time I walk outside, or the uneven sleep pattern I've developed that spins my thoughts about like the groaning drier that begs, with each painful cycle of laundry, for sweet oblivion. It's growling right now—a sound that makes me think that it's time to close up the laundry room until we can procure ourselves machinery that won't kill us in our sleep.

I'm suddenly reminded of Olivia Soprano and the episode of the HBO hit drama "The Sopranos" in which she's so insulted by the thought of moving to a "retirement community" that she calls out to her son: "Go. Into the kitchen. Take the knife from the ham. And stab me, here. Here!" she says, hand beating against her chest over her broken heart.

Don't know why I thought of that just now. Guess my synapses jump about a tad in the moments before I drift off to sleep. Not in bed or anything, but I am tired and should be finding my pillow soon if I'm going to be any good at all tomorrow (or on time to the breakfast meeting with the boss).

But I feel the need to post. Probably because I haven't in so long. Didn't post about the Irish festival... and how I have a hat. Which is odd since I'm not much for hats. Never wore them. Didn't like them. Caps and me don't mesh. But this... this is one of those Irish wool caps. This one's from Donegal. It's brown. And I love it. Kirby likes to mock me some for wearing it, but I don't care. It rocks.

Fest itself was a treat. Saw some great bands and had a good day hanging with Keaton and Smokey. She bought a hat too. Wears it better than me. I think Keaton would agree with that statement. And the corned beef sandwich I had... Jaysus...

Buzzers. Klaxons. A countdown... oh... I drifted off and from the other room I can hear a movie. Alien. Or Aliens. Not sure which. Zubov is watching it. Sounds like a thrilling part. Sigourney Weaver is not happy, whatever's going on...

And Apollo is napping beside me. It's good to see the little spaz calm down. I know he's just lonely. Most of the day we're all at work, so he's just playful and trying to be fun when we get home. Gotta love that. He's the most puppy-like cat I've ever met. Actually greets me everyday when I come home. How cool is that?

Okay... I've descended into pet-talk. A solid sign that the post has either gone on too long or it's way past my bedtime. And sometimes it's both.

Oooh... the countdown ended in Zubov's movie. I think something blew up.

And on that random and anti-climactic note, I will sign off and try to post again this weekend. Wow... I didn't even write about the coming days. Of course there's still so much to catch up on, so maybe jumping ahead isn't quite fair.

Non sequiter: Emma Thompson is a fantastic actress and anyone who writes should see "Stranger Than Fiction" for her alone (the rest of them are great too).

See how the brain just warps into lunacy when it's falling asleep? Like a toddler trying to stay awake, it's reaching for anything to think about just to avoid surrendering control to the subconscious.

Taming of the Shrew. Battlestar Galactica. The clock strikes one. And the post ran away with my brain. G'night.

Here Comes the Sun

2007-07-24T15:45:00.000-04:00

Come on, do it with me... in good stuff [deep breath]... out shit [exhale]... in good... out shit...

So many things have I learned from this last show. First off, if you want a deck, go to Sultry Sue and ask her and her husband... let's call him Q because he can build ANYTHING... to help you. Seriously, it was wicked excellent. I guess, rather than writing this out in paragraph form, I shall make a list. And compliment it with photos from the production.

So where were we? Oh yeah... how's your dog? (The correct response to "how's your dog?" is "Good, how's your dog?"). Now onto the list...

1) A lot of waves all bunched up is called a roost.
2) Liebfraumilch means "jumping woman milk" (okay, I already knew that)
3) Nantucket is farther East than Martha's Vineyard.
4) Cygnus (the Swan), in late summer, rests in the Northern sky at the 47th latitude.
5) There is a cereal called Gorilla Munch. It's organic.
6) Wavepad is both wonderful and cruel. Overall, designing sound... completely rocks.
7) Keaton knows how to put together a soundtrack. He may want to take it up professionally.
8) There are 18-year-olds in this world who have never had Twinkies or Funyuns. Oh the humanity.
9) Kevin is a distinctive appellation for a woman.
10) With the right lights, set, beautiful music, and two very talented actresses, you can reduce an audience to tears in less than a minute.

Sunday night was very bittersweet. I liken it to the feeling of school ending (and I mean college—you know, when it actually hurt to see it wrap). The show really took on a family atmosphere and I am certain that reunions will follow. But yeah, family. What I loved the most was how quickly and warmly I was welcomed into the group. I knew some of the cast and crew going in, but I joined the production officially much later than most, during a not-so-smooth point in my life. Kind of a mid-course correctional burn. I came in to take on sound and assist in any way I could and in return, the things got... well, smoother.

But not everything I'd been going though dissipated. A fog still lingered. And lately it has come to my attention that I haven't written much. Not this year. Not since May. Not much at all. And while that fact does ruffle my feathers a skosh, don't misconstrue... I must say straight away that it wasn't being a part of experiences like "Gillian" that have hindered my pen from hitting paper.

I just couldn't see. Thick fog. Like fallen clouds... too heavy to hold themselves up and too tired to rain. They just fall.

But that's all changing. Realized that for all the planning I do, I never plan for myself. I'm a man of the people. But it wouldn't hurt, I think, to be my own man for a while.

In fact, I have a couple days coming up at the end of this week where I'm heading out of town to a place where the trees still outnumber people. Where the Internet and cell phones do not exist. A hidden treasure of a place, buried within a forest like a living fairytale—complete with a castle. Not even kidding. This weekend I shall find my voice again on the page. Return to a story that I've neglected for far too long. And I will write.

That simple statement... and I will write... you have no idea how fantastic that feels rolling over my lips. Or pouring onto the keyboard. Or dancing through my synapses. Life has been slamming along at this frenetic pace and it seems that every time I've sat down to write in the past six months, something else pushes in screaming for attention. And like a fool, I've given all of it my all.

But now... for just a few days, I'm going to take a break. To relax. To read "Harry Potter" (I'm on chapter five of "Deathly Hallows"). To take walks in the woods. To stare at the stars. To enjoy the sound of silence. THREE DAYS. Such a blip of nothing on the cosmic scale... but oh, so much to someone who lives at the pace I live. Ahhh.... serenity. To find calm. To reconnect with my creativity. And most importantly, to write. I'm going to be alone, living like a Gypsy for a while, and words will be written. Characters will be fleshed out. Storylines will arc to completion. Seriously... I'm practically frothing at the mouth for this "break". It's like Christmas, wrapped in my birthday, dipped in chocolate. Or sex. Dipped in chocolate-covered sex. It's that good.

Do me a favor... think of the one thing in this world that fuels you—it can be anything that takes your soul and makes it dance in the air—and do it this weekend. Just do something that makes it all worth it. Lately, every person I've talked to is stressed, tired, burned out, or when asked "How's your dog?" (or even a traditional "How've you been?") responds with "BUSY". Busy. We're all busy. It's like 2007 has been chasing us all down, throwing life at us... throwing work upon us... asking us to carry it all on our tired, bruised, and crumbling shoulders.

Not today, Trevelyan.

The waves are singing tonight... well, I'm sure they are somewhere, where they have waves nearby... and it's actually daytime... okay, so sometimes I can't incorporate all of my favorite show quotes into a post. It happens. Point is, I'm feeling this surge of energy and I don't want to squander it. Those pesky metaphorical clouds that have clung to me over these past couple months seem to be breaking—the brilliant warmth of the sun kisses me on the head. It feels good. Feels like I'm getting my muse back. Though, ironically, I'm not sure where she's coming from—but there's a muse around. Most definitely.

Maybe it's the sweet idea of vacation. Maybe it's seeing Apollo run free throughout the house. Or the freedom that comes from living life with your eyes open. Or it's a fast-approaching deadline. Or could it be that I'm coming off the high of a fantastic theatrical production that sits in the upper echelon of my theatre experiences? 'Cos that'll inspire you.

Or I just don't know and maybe I never will. Does it matter? Perhaps it's not always good to know why a muse has entered your life... better to just acknowledge that she's there. And thank her. And then get to work.

Do Not Come Lightly to the Blank Page

2007-07-20T00:52:00.000-04:00

If Blogger autosaves your post in cyberspace, but there's no content when it does... does the post really exist?

Makes you wonder. Actually, it only happened because I was so exhausted coming into this weekend that I literally fell asleep at the computer. Not something I usually do. The norm would be that I'd realize I'm about to be assaulted by the sandman and I'd take a moment to place the laptop on the table—rather than pass-out, laptop balancing precariously upon me, waking up only because my roommate came home from seeing Harry Potter V and proclaimed loudly, "Dude! You're snoring".

Which, if I'm the only one in the house, does it matter?

For the record, I don't snore. Well, I do... but it's not what you think. Not that I've ever had my sleeping pattern tracked, but I have shared my room with various sorts over the years and was told once by my freshman-year college roommate that most of the night I was very quiet and then there would be a horrendous cacophony of noise that would erupt from within my chest in an Exorcist kind of way—you know, if Linda Blair had snored all over the priest.

Speaking of college roommates, today is DB's birthday. In keeping with my grand blog-tradition of assigning nicknames to people, that's the one I shall choose for him now. Not very original, but I don't think he would like some of the ones I thought of first. DB was one of my other roommate's in college (not the one that watched me snore—that was TS) and we have known each other for almost 10 years now.

The amount of things that change in ten years is staggering. Our friendship hasn't. Sure, we don't talk as often as we once did; but hundreds of miles and being grown-ups will do that to old college buddies. When we do talk or get to hang out, it's awesome. I'm both stoked and honored as this October I will be serving as his best-man at his wedding. He said I get to guard his football. Not the rings... no, that's too easy... but the football, which will be used by the bridal party at the reception. Yes, it's a very Notre Dame wedding, indeed.

So thinking about Notre Dame, I decided to Wiki the place and found out something equally inspiring as it is daunting. Father Sorin (the founder of my beloved Alma Mater) was less that 30 when he founded it. Of course this is how I felt when I sat in film class and learned that Orson Welles was twenty-five when he directed Citizen Kane. Revolutionary for its technical achievement, the film made use of deep focus shots for the first time in modern cinema (wherein everything was in focus... adding layers to the the scene). ER is a current show that utilizes such a technique fairly often.

And wow... I just morphed into my film history professor, Randy. I did, didn't I? Glad I caught myself before I started talking about rack-focus and Hitchcock's Vertigo.

And once again, no real point to this post. There are things to discuss. Originally it was that I fell asleep because I couldn't think of anything to post about in the wee hours of night. I tried to come up with brilliance and was left with nothing but an empty page and cacophony.

I could have talked about making a Survivor audition video (not for me). Or perhaps the new adventures of Apollo now that he's been liberated from tyranny and oppression (sorry, Kirby, I gotta milk this—maybe I can sell the movie rights!). Those will have to wait until I get home. For now, maybe I could speak more on the toxic fumes wafting up from the lower-level of the mansion (a now weekly occurrence).

I think I will... post later. Maybe with video (as I so often tease), but not until this afternoon. Gonna try to get my work done and out of the office as soon as I can. So with that, adieu my friends. Until later. And Happy Birthday, DB old mate.

OH... and in case I don't get to blog later...

BREAK A LEG to the cast of "Gillian" on your closing weekend and more broken legs to Zubov and Kirilenko on your opening night!!

Countdown to the Break

2007-07-16T16:40:00.000-04:00

Had an interesting day last week. It was Wednesday. The 11th. Had lunch with my mom and sister (the latter whom I haven't seen in seems like forever). Caught up on all the family gossip (which as far as my family goes, was pretty juicy stuff). Work was... work. Meetings. Chemical fumes filtering in. Evacuation.

Okay, okay... nothing so "Die Hard". But we were asked (politely) to vacate the premises as they are renovating the main floor of the building in which I work. It's an old mansion—very classic, very cool. Very old. So we work upstairs whilst the construction guys painstakingly restore the main floor to its original luster and elegance.

And that takes varnish. Lots of varnish. Needless to say, there were fumes. None that you could really smell actually (you could, but it wasn't overpowering); these were the kind that you don't notice until you stand up to take a project file over to your boss and suddenly feel a little light-headed. Yeah, those kind of fumes.

Looking at my Google Calendar these days has the same effect. Doesn't seem too bad at first, but then everything gets a little wonky.

I have decided that I need a vacation. Ideally I would spend about a week on a beach somewhere warm. In fact, I'd camp there. On the edge of the surf. Falling asleep to the crashing waves.

But reality and fantasy seldom make nice and play together, so I had to consider my alternatives. A long weekend. Yeah... a long weekend. I could do that. And since I can't get to an ocean, I'll take another of nature's luxuries on this go—a secluded forest. Camping. In a gypsy wagon. Yeah, I could handle that.

Not that it's been all uber-intense since the last post. It's more of a slow-burn coupled with visions of a never-ending future of meetings, e-mails, committees, projects, events, et cetera. The lack of woo and hoo in that last sentence stems from the spirit chilling fact that all that happens two-, maybe three-fold in my life right now. So yeah... some waves crashin' on the beach...

Did get a slight reprieve from the rigors of my self-induced scheduling this past weekend when Snowflake and Panda came bustling into town for a much needed (albeit altogether short) reunion. These are two people who always make me laugh and constantly remind me (especially when together) that letting loose is a key ingredient in the antidote for crazybusy. Letting loose. Ahh... if I only I remembered how; though, to give myself credit, I eventually was able to relax this past weekend and let go of the world for a while—I even controlled the urge to have some brats tossed out of Harry Potter 5 last night.

Never, ever in my life, have I ever been THAT GUY. The guy who tells people to "keep it down" or glares and shushes people in cinemas. Nope. But last night was a test on all of my nerves. And seriously, whatever parents let their thirteen year-old daughters out in public looking the way these children looked need to be arrested for child endangerment. And that's not what bugged me (but it did make me feel old and parental). It was their talking. TALKING (well, high pitched whispering that apparently only dogs and myself are capable of detecing). They took phone calls. From people in another theater at the multiplex.

Ever read or watch Peanuts? You know when Charlie Brown screams in frustration at the state of the world? Right then, I knew exactly how he felt.

For the record, HP5... wicked excellent. Darker. More grown up (i.e. more character and slower bits). Very cool FX. Better than the book (my least favorite of the series). Overall, it gets my recommendation and I'm sure I'll watch it on DVD a few times.

Wow... that really wasn't the ringing endorsement it sounded like in my head. Must be the fact that I've still got work to do and my break is over. Back to all that stuff that's raising my stress levels and probably reducing my life expectancy (it's no wonder we don't often make it to 100—life is hard; after all, it kills you).

Cheery, right?

Well, take stock. It's a lovely day in my part of the world. And the work day is ending soon enough. With any luck, I'll be eating dinner soon and will have just a few moments to ponder just how and where I'm going to vacation next week. I don't have the whole week. Like I said... a long weekend holiday, really. But it's something. And I've just about settled on it. Relaxes me just to think about it.

Will post more tomorrow. Hopefully Panda will email pics from this weekend and I can post them. OOOH.... should've done another video blog... hmmm... I do have something I could post from our Texas trip the three of us took last year. Maybe I will... it'll have to be a surprise. Stay tuned.

Finding the time to Play

2007-07-11T10:33:00.000-04:00

Learned something over the weekend. Sweet-potato chips from "Cheeseburger in Paradise" do NOT do well in the oven the next day. Which is very sad. Those chips are mighty tasty. At least they were on Friday. Saturday, they were charred beyond recognition. The mini-cheeseburgers fared better—really, I'm a better cook than I am a reheater.

These past couple weeks have been... well, I'm tired of using the word 'busy'. There has to be another word for it. I could say 'very busy', but that's just poor writing. As Mark Twain said: "When you catch an adjective, kill it." So how about... these past couple weeks have been... hectic... fervid... frenzied... no... how about just 'not leisurely'? Yeah... I like that one. Sorry Mark.

Not leisurely. And not in a bad way. It's just been... not leisurely.

Random interjection to my own post—I absolutely love the ending sequence to the film, "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" (the new one with Mr. Pitt and Ms. Jolie). Well, the second to last sequence as they rip up the inside of what is essentially a Great Indoors store... the actual last stand moment with the rotating camera sweeps—beautiful. That's the film school geek in me. Every so often there are shots in films that I just have to stop and admire. Feel free to mock. I'm a big boy. I can take it.

Back to my post about the last couple weeks: like I was saying... things have been crazy, but in a good way. You know, the way that when it's happening you want to scream but after it's over you can look back and actually smile about it? Yeah, that way. And most, no, actually ALL of the wonderful insanity has stemmed from theatre.

Three weekends. Three major theatrical events in my life. And nary a post between them.

First up was a trip to a regional theatre "competition" (they like to say "showcase" but when you're vying for a bid to "showcase" at the next level... i.e., advance... I call that competition). I was honored to have the show I directed, DARKSIDE, picked to represent my theater.

Quick explanation: every Fall, fifteen community theaters are invited to showcase an excerpt from their past season at a state-wide festival. To get an invite, you attend one of five regional events geared to showcase your local area theaters. Adjudicators hand out awards and decide who should advance to state. Was that quick?

I won't go into too many details. I will say that I am very proud of my cast and crew. They were awesome and made me look good as a director. We won several awards. Two of my actors were feted individually and the whole cast took home an Outstanding in Ensemble award, which is awesome. The set received accolades (much deserved) and I walked away with an Excellence in Directing (also awesome). It was a good day.

And now we're going to the state competition which takes place on the American Labor Day weekend holiday. Basically, if you like theater and if you're in Ohio (near Cleveland) that weekend, you might want to consider coming to this 4 day festival. Lots of events, workshops, parties, games, fantastic theater (and yes it's community, but in a state where professional theaters tend to tour through, we can hold our own), not to mention a masquerade ball and banquets. Seriously, it's like the Olympics of Ohio Community Theatre.

Speaking of banquets, I sort of co-hosted one. Sort of. My theater had its annual banquet and thanks to the tireless efforts of Keaton, Gigi, Zubov, and myself, and unstoppable determination of Smokey, the whole thing simply rocked (Smokey deserves a parade for all her hard work on this event). But again, I'm not one for going on and on about events, so I'll spare your the play by play. But what I will mention is that it was great to see so many people show up this year and we really appreciated all the support we received from members and local business (who graciously donated our door prizes). The food was delicious (even if Stefacula accidentally piled a lot of poultry onto his plate thinking it was just pasta... he's allergic, which is why it was memorable). And the capper of the evening, an hour long Friar's Club-style Roast of our retiring Artistic Director was, to quote Snowflake, off the hook.

And then this past weekend, we (the theater) opened our latest production, To Gillian on Her 37th Birthday. And once again, I was able to work with my good friends on a show that's just amazing on all levels.

If you're anywhere near Curtain Players, please check out this show. If not for the fantastic cast (don't they look awesome in the water?), or the stellar lighting, or the precision directing, than come to listen to awesome sound (yes, that's a shameless self-promotion as I designed the sound for this show!). My first foray in the tech booth and I had an absolute blast with it.

The reason that the not leisurely past few weeks haven't killed me is (and brace yourself for an abundance of schmaltz) because I was doing all of this stuff with my friends. And the whole point of being in theater for me is to hang out, have fun, and be a part of something special.

Too often in life I find myself driven to the breaking point by work and stress and all the stuff that fills up my Google Calendar. And one of the things I've recently learned is that for all the insanity, there's a passion there that needs to flourish. Yeah, I'm busy. But I'm busy doing things that I love to do. Things that fuel my soul. Things that make me smile (even if that smile is fighting through the gritting of teeth). And most of all, I'm "busy" being around the people that make life more interesting and more fulfilling.

I like genius. I like the tenacious. The passionate. The fun loving. The determined. The spirit of those around me when we join together to create. To play.

And now the mad rush of theater has died down and everyone is relaxing, like we're on some vacation. Except me. Except Keaton. Except Sultry Sue. For we have embarked on a new adventure. Filmmaking. No, no, nothing like Sundance or anything. Something more fun. Something spirited. Something with tenacity. And my next blog, maybe, will be all about it.

For now, this post has gone on long enough (been working on it for a while). Time to release it into the wild and see how it flies. Coming soon in the next posts... learning to be a Survivor... Operation Apollo Freedom sees victory... and why Granddad's Hawaiian pizza rules.

2007-07-08T02:19:00.000-04:00

AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!

That's really not the same on a blog as it is in real life. Blogger is bugging me tonight. It won't let me title my blogpost. Not sure what that's about and only adds to the immense sense of frustration coursing through my veins at the moment.

Nice to see you too, by the by. :) Sorry that after a couple weeks of no contact you had to be greeted by the screaming. It's late... in the morning, I will feel better (I hope) and I will post a nice blog about what I've been up to. Consider this the prologue. And no, the screaming will not continue into the second post today. This will be one of those non sequiter prologues. 'Cos the screaming... that's just for right now. And not really for any particular reason. Just took a moment and thought of all the things currently raising my blood pressure and decided I needed to vent a little to avoid combustion. It happens.

A better post coming soon. I promise.

A Hole in the World

2007-06-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

The things that seem so big in our lives really aren't. The things that stress us out and breed ulcers within us, that pour concrete into our heads and jackhammer the Hell out of us, the things that we lose frakin' sleep over... those aren't the things that matter.

They are... but not the way I paint them. Not the way I let them consume my life. Because every so often we're reminded about what IS important. Something happens and we see it. Clarity washes over us. Like a cold shower. Usually in our darkest hour. And how quickly it can go from being a beautiful day to something else entirely.

A kick to the stomach. Haven't felt it in a long time. I'd let myself almost forget. This morning wasn't a full blown kick—but it was... painful. Surprisingly so. And why shouldn't it be? A bad thing happened. I won't elaborate too much because I was asked not to, out of respect.

For the record I am fine. Repeat: F I N E. Fine. Still have a cold, but don't worry about me. My family is fine. My closest friends are well and good. But someone that none of you know isn't fine. Someone that none of you know... isn't. Just isn't. I knew this person. Not well enough. Like an almost-friend. And that's my own fault. Didn't know them well enough, but just enough to see that now there's a hole in the world where there wasn't before.

My desk is cluttered. And I know there's a billion things happening at work and in the outside world that need tended to, that need my attention. But why? Right now, this little microcosm I'm in is suffering. The people around me are searching for strength because they're hurting. Some more than others. Some less. And I hear a truck outside. Some guy at work, no doubt. Cars on the street. Birds in the trees. Phones ringing down the hall. Tragic though this event may be, it didn't stop the planets turning. And I think that upsets me just as much as the event. Our little world stopped... and everything else out there seems fine when it isn't. Yeah, everything jolted to a halt about an hour ago, but it'll start up again. And we'll cope. And I'm all for that... for healing.

But not forgetting again. Not taking it all for granted—letting the wrong priorities take hold and missing out on things so grand and so lovely; like friends and family. I am reminded today of how much those closest to me truly mean to me. And I begin to wonder how to make sure I make the time for them while I have them.

Hug someone. Preferably someone who is on your normal hugging roster. Smile at a friend. Call up a buddy. Have lunch with a coworker. Don't take it for granted that those moments to be with loved ones will last or that you'll find the time to get know that person you've always wanted to be friends with.

Because there are days like today where the sun shines bright and you achieve clarity, only too late.

To my almost-friend who left us this day without warning, I'll miss you.

How Josephine Cameron Will Save My Soul

2007-06-21T01:24:00.000-04:00

It's cold tonight. Out on 31. I'm heading North and waiting for the sky to tell me. What I'm searching for. What I'm searching for.

Not my words. But lyrics that echo sweetly in my head, with the faintest strum of a guitar in the background. I used to go to this little coffee shop near school with my roommate and his sister and listen to local grad student do what she did so well. Sing. Something I cannot do. Well, shouldn't do. It's not pretty. But probably entertaining in a cat-in-heat kind of entertaining. No, best to leave music to those with the gift. Like Josie. Josephine. Ah, to know someone "when...". If you want to hear those words above as only Josephine can deliver, then here's a very short MP3 download from her website.

And how will she save my soul? You're probably wondering that considering the title promised something along those lines. I think it'll start with relaxing. Step one. Breathe. Step two. Listen to more soothing music. My choices lately, while fun and loud and awesome in the jamming, leave the mellow guy in me aching for calm.

Step three. Sleep. There's probably another step or five in this poorly designed master plan, but I'm dozing off at the keys here. So I will venture upstairs and pop in one of Ms. Cameron's CDs, and fall asleep to music more suited for a calm and rested mind.

More tomorrow about whatever I was going to say tonight. Truly, it is way beyond my bedtime and I'm pretty sure I have back-to-back meetings come morning. And it would be polite of me NOT to fall asleep during either of them.

My First Manic Monday

2007-06-18T17:15:00.000-04:00

No, today was not the first time my ears were met with the sounds of that classic 1980s Bangles hit. This will be my first official jump onto the blogosphere's Manic Monday bandwagon. For those who do not know of what I speak, this is simply a weekly theme that is posted and then people are invited to post about said topic in whatever way that word or phrase strikes their fancy. While it doesn't originally stem from her, I learn the theme each week by keeping up with Lizza's blog.

So I'm sitting here on a mildly dreadful day, made so only by the fact that I overslept this morning (thanks Kirby and Zubov for waking-up my lazy arse) and the idea buckling down and working feverishly until dinner time is making my left ear hurt a little (that, or someone's talking about me to such an extreme that my isn't just burning, it's combusting internally and creating a pressure change inside my head—yes, that would be painful indeed). Wishing it were Sunday. "But if wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak." Instead of quoting Joss Whedon characters all afternoon, posting about a random word seemed the most logical direction for my life to take at the moment.

“Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience.” —Henry David Thoreau

How very true. There are stories and plays I started years ago that were never finished and now I find it hard to get them to their respective endings because, as Thoreau said, the iron has cooled.

But I'm not here to write about heat as it relates to writing when there are so many levels of meaning in one small four letter word. Naturally, the first thing I think about when I see the word heat is, well, heat. Warmth. Fire. And that bridges to other things, like life. Passion. Danger.

Life can be very dangerous, even if you're careful. And I do not speak of that kind of mortal danger, where we might fall prey to attack or a falling piano. But danger that stems from heat, from passion. Finding ourselves swept up in an emotional tsunami that rips through us, through those closest to us, and leaves nothing but gutted destruction in its wake. Or maybe, to help with the analogy of heat, I should have used a volcano.

Yes. Beautiful and destructive, it draws us all in, like moths really. We want to see the majesty of this force up close. That heat, that intense, dangerous, beautiful heat... there's nothing quite like it. True passion in its rawest form is something we should be so lucky to experience. And in an instant, it can explode. And then what have you got? After the fires die out. After the ash settles. After the lava cools hard and cold. The heat is gone and you're not doing so hot yourself.

But that passion lingers. A passion for the arts. For living. For cooking. Painting. Writing. Singing. Football. Family. For your job. Your pet. For saving the world. Helping people. For that one person who is your fire. A passion to see your dreams through to fruition.

Where does that come from? Heat. A heat deep inside us all. The core of our beings. It fuels us. We do the things we do for one reason, at the base of all other reasons, because we want it. Yeah, we do things we have to do... and sometimes we're even helpful and unselfish and we do things for others. But something drives us to it. Maybe it's just a want of survival. Doing what you have to in order to make it to the next day. Maybe it's nothing so dramatic. But everyday we make choices. There's something driving that and I'd wager it's a little bit of heat buried deep within us.

And can this heat be misdirected? Could the passion be misled? Sometimes I stop and wonder why I do the things I do or why I've done the things I've done. What, at my core, made me take the path I did? Don't know, really. This year's been... it's been odd. And today I feel like the heat inside is cooling. Sure, it's meant to fuel me, fuel my passion; but I think it's a symbiotic relationship. I need to fuel that heat as much as it fuels me. And I haven't.

It's staggering how much thought one word can produce in my brain. How it can go from a simple noun referring to temperature to referencing my very soul in the span of a blog written in quiet rebellion against the established institution which asks me to sit in on long, boring meetings that cause me to look around and wonder what the frak I'm doing there. Seeing a future filled with meetings and rescheduled meetings and frakkin' meetings about other gorram meetings.

I'd scream. But that would draw unwarranted attention and discussion. And probably a meeting. So I'll sit here and just go quietly mad.

And I'll think of how to recapture the heat of my spirit. The ocean didn't do it. Maybe I should seek out a volcano.

I Just Long for a Bungalow, Part II

2007-06-17T20:25:00.000-04:00

If a boat hits submerged debris, what sound does it make? Ever find yourself pondering such questions? It'll happen when you start working on sound for a theatre production. I can hear it in my head. I just haven't been able to recreate it as of yet. And that is slightly annoying to me.

Oh the things I have to do in the next few weeks. And wow, the amount of time I don't have to do them. I'm even typing slow right now. I can feel it. It's probably the summer cold I'm inefficiently battling. This cough is torturous. Isn't it amazing how something so small like a germ or microbe or virus can do such monumental damage to us? Sometimes the tiniest things can cause huge shifts in things not so small. Are we really that frail? Don't answer that question.

Tonight I find myself longing for a vacation. In a bungalow. Somewhere new. Not "new" in a just appeared on the map, popped into existence, kind of way... but new. Somewhere I haven't been yet. Colorado comes to mind. As does Ireland. The former would be easier to reach at this point. Though neither are known for bungalows and both are just far enough away in the realm of possibility that I will have to be content to live these next few weeks going places in my head. Though, realistically, I don't even have time for that.

...And I've completely lost the ability to post with any actual purpose. Shouldn't be so hard. There are things in this world to discuss. Critical things. Mundane things. I know... I'll check out Lizza's blog and see what's up for Manic Monday... since it's already Monday morning in her part of the world.

...

Oh the humanity. Her blog is still sitting on Saturday. But, bright side... this blog was among those she highlighted in her Blog World Saturday this past weekend. Sweet. Thanks, Lizza! It's always fun to check out her weekly recommendations and see what posts have caught her eye from week to week. It's amazing the people you meet this way. And I have to forgive her delay in updating because she's probably voraciously catching up on Heroes as I type this, and for that I cannot fault her.

A terrific show. I won't spend time raving or anything beyond that. If you've never watched it, NBC will give you every opportunity to jump on the bandwagon. But now my thoughts turn to heroes in general and those we might have in our own lives in the real world. The ones that don't fly. That don't time-travel or regenerate. But somehow, they are the people who inspire us and protect us or perhaps just teach us and make sure that we have what we need to survive in this world.

It's actually a coincidence that I stumbled upon Lizza's post about heroes tonight, which is Father's Day in the States. But I would be less than respectful if I didn't mention how awesome my dad has been to me. Sure, there are times when I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing and don't need the dad lecture that I'm oft to receive (even at my age), but all in all, he only looks out for me. And I appreciate it. I probably don't say that enough to him. One of the drawbacks of being insanely busy and over-involved with everything is that the family takes a backseat sometimes. A lot really. And every year I say I'm going to make more time for them.

And we're back to the time issue. Or the lack thereof. It's a nice night. What I'd like to do is go for a drive. Cruise around and take in the evening. Got my dad's truck for the weekend (lent the folks my car for a roadtrip they decided to take this weekend). I should check the weather. Have the insane urge to throw some blankets in the bed, drive out to where the city disappears and sleep under the stars.

To stare at the heavens and ask what's life. A magazine. What's it cost? Ten cents. That's cheap. That's life. Not my words, but fun ones to say. I like looking to the universe for perspective (and for my dreams). For all at the same time I am reminded that I am a tiny, tiny, force in a great awesome thing we call existence. And then I cough and remember how powerful I am really am.

I Just Long for a Bungalow, Part I

2007-06-16T03:25:00.000-04:00

As I sit still I hear the rattling,
it's filling up the room,
the air is cold, it feels of dust
on construction afternoons.
My desk is rightly messy,
I never clean at all.
My eyes shut tight, a sneeze
rings out, echoes in the hall.

And that's where I stopped, a phone call interrupting my "poetry". No worries if it didn't turn your crank, I don't claim it to be epic, or even any good at the delicate art of using a few words in order to say so much. Just something I do when I'm in a mood. Which is funny to me—and maybe that's why I do it—because I'm not the poetry type. Not often. I like Dickenson. And sometimes Dr. Suess hits the nail. But more often than naught, poetry and me pass in the night and we're lucky we don't sink each other in the murkiness.

I rhyme. That's my inherent flaw and while I'll never be poet laureate. Of anything. I rhyme. Like song lyrics. Of course there is great poetry set to rhyming couplets, words of such beauty that clip along at a beautiful pace, dancing on the tongue like sprites around the feet of Oberon.

I remember the last time I wrote more than one poem in a twenty-four hour period. It wasn't a good time. Though the poems were fun. I should try to find them sometime. Maybe be so bold as to publish them online. I'm laughing. Out loud. In my quiet room where the small fan that once clung to modular dormatory furniture now hums a white-noise tune from the edge of my dresser.

It's late. Or early. That time of day that I once claimed I missed seeing. And I did—but all too often now I find myself awake in the middle of the night just tyring to wrap up another long day. I keep saying that July will be calmer, more peaceful. But then you have to have some hope to keep going. At least I do.

Ah, to sleep. Peacefully and not with a hacking cough that robs you from your rest. There. I coughed. I thought it and it was so. Maybe if I think I'm a millionaire, that might work too.

...

Nope. Nothin'. Oh well. Now I'm just posting in a delirium-induced state. Exhaustion and a little bit of Blue Moon Summer Ale. Never good when mixed. Fotunately, I'm just self-aware enough to realize that things could be said here which could not be repaired. That or I'd just piss some people off for a while and have to wait for them to cool off before joking about it.

And I'm spent. Just thought I'd wrap something up tonight. Started this blog the other day at work. And can I just say, what a week. So much has happened and yet, to the outside world, nothing has changed. Trust me on this one.

Glad you guys enjoyed my first Vlog. I will endeavor to do some more of those. And if I can, I will add another post sometime on Sunday. Something tells me this is a two post day.

Spring Awakening

2007-06-11T16:52:00.000-04:00

Bugs. Little ones—like dragonflies, only stunted by too much caffeine or something. And there are thousands of them. Everywhere. Surrounding the godforsaken hotel I was in like the 10th plague (if that particular plague were little mutant flies that seem to like pockets of light).

Before I explain that paragraph, I have a little blog business to take care of. Thinking of changing my posting name from Sony to Burton. I don't know if that's like some cardinal sin of in the blogosphere, but it's something I should have done a long time ago. Any thoughts on that? It's not completely random (it's actually something people have started calling me in other posts, etc. and a nickname I've had before—just not online) and I'm not gonna randomly be jumping to another name next week, like Crispin or Swift. No, just pondering the ramifications of changing my name within the blogosphere.

Anyway, onto the story about bugs, roadtrips, hot fudge cakes, and how the best and the worst of something can come through in just a weekend.

Mayflies. That's what those bugs were. A complete misnomer since they swarm upon Lake Erie in June. They were EVERYWHERE. You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom with all the bugs? Just like that. Only they all fly. And they hold onto everything like Super Glue. My car was covered in them the moment I parked at the hotel. And they crunched when you walked on them... which sometimes was unavoidable. To my credit, even when they were happily landing upon me like a giant walking tree, I did not scream like a man afraid of little flying bugs. I just cursed them loudly and in a manly way and knocked them the frak off.

This past Friday I once again ventured away from my hometown. And once again to the water I went. Not so much with the ocean this time, but the lake. One of the great ones. Actually, my journey was not to see the water, but to watch a lot of community theatre. Took the trip with Keaton and met up with Scooter and the Red Lady. I won't bore you with a play-by-play of the trip (WOW, now THAT was a bad pun). If you want the stream-of-consciousness version written on the road, you'll find a link to that post later on in this one. For now, I will post those brief snippets which I logged into notepad (as our hotel did not have free wi-fi and I chose not to submit to their overpriced rates to obtain it).

So first, a brief flashback to Friday, June 8:

So I'm traveling again—typing this from an uncomfortable bed with crappy pillows in a hotel whose night watchman is a woman who received the wrath of Keaton this evening when she couldn't find our reservation. That ever happen to you? You spontaneously decide to attend a conference and the conference chair emails you and tells you that she's reserved a room in your name at the local conference hotel and then your buddy (who's also going on the roadtrip) calls and confirms the reservation, so that when you arrive there is absolutely no record of your existence for a solid five minutes? Yeah... just like that.

Wasn't that fun? Margie, from the Our Guest Inn located in Port Clinton, Ohio, was none to pleasant with us once she and Keaton began to square off. Our reservation had been changed, but not by me nor my pal. Nope... just up and changed for no reason. Now remember that it was late, after a long workday, and we'd just driven well over two hours to get to this hotel—and our room wasn't there. Hmmm. Interesting (he says, mimicking Eddie Izzard). Immediately we became good cop/devil cop about the whole ordeal. Now, normally I would feel sympathy for someone in Margie's position. Innocently working the night shift when a couple of guests show up and their reservation is gone and they're not happy. And Keaton made it clear how he felt about this incredible negligence on the company's part (it was confirmed the day before and now, poof, it was gone). And I wanted to apologize for his stern tone... after all, it wasn't her fault right? So she says something like that, about calming down while she does something about the problem and Keaton answers with something like "well, just fix it" and this is where Margie lost my support.

I'm all for treating customer service people with the utmost respect. Most of the time, the people in these positions did nothing wrong, yet bear the brunt of anger and frustration that so many of us have experienced with certain products and services (there's a reason the cell phone companies pay those people well). But all in all, there is a very noticeable dip in customer service skills these days. That whole "the customer is always right" dogma is fading. What lost Margie my support was when she slammed down her pen, narrowed her eyes at Keaton across the counter and proclaimed loudly for the whole lobby to hear (the whole "lobby" being me and Keaton), "I'd like to fix you!"

It was like watching an actor break character on stage.

Her professionalism melted away in an instant. Even she seemed surprised by her outburst. Now I'm not saying the woman didn't have every right to think it. They were sparring and she was honestly doing what she could (though to be fair to both sides, her "story" about the reservation change varied—first she said she couldn't see when it was changed and only insisted that she didn't do it... but five minutes later when I asked her to get the manager on the phone, the only other person who had worked that day, she figured it out quite quickly... hmmm.... interesting). Really, it's not about the room. We got the room. The room was open and waiting and things were all good after about five minutes of drama. So I guess, what I'm saying it, whether you're the customer or the employee in a customer service position, don't succumb to arguing. It solves nothing. Simply accost them with logic and reasoning (this goes both ways), and always ask to speak with the person who's in charge (again, this goes both ways).

So now let's visit the night of June 9th:

And it's another night. The fun of blogging offline is that it jumps through time like that guy in Quantum Leap. Sam. But the actor... wow... Scott... yes, Scott Bakula. Posting under the influence isn't as easy as one might think. And it's frakkin' cold in here. In my room. At the hotel. Wow... you notice that when I've been drinking I'll write shorter sentences? Run-ons are apparently the result of my sobriety. :) There's a party going on downstairs and I'm not there. Why? I don't know. I'm just not. I'm just... I'm just not in the mood. I will be. It's not even a party so much as people hanging out together. That's all it really is. And I miss some people back in Columbus. Looking forward to hanging out with them next Saturday night. Again, the people here are fun and cool. I just was suddenly overcome with the urge to be alone. To watch Fight Club. To not be... there. Ridiculous. I mean, really, it's just being odd. No reason I shouldn't be down there right now instead of watching Ed Norton kick the shit out of Jared Leto. My hair was that color once. The color Jared Leto wore in that movie. That bleached, fuck your hair up, blond. It was not a good look on me. He wears it better.

Well, I am suddenly sobering up and Fight Club has become not as entertaining. Maybe I will venture back to the party and see if there's anyone to hang with or if they've all wondered off and gone home. Who knows. Hard to say. Kind of just want to relax here, watch the rest of the movie and blog and then go to sleep. But that would be anti-social. Right? yeah... it would. It's funny. I love having parties. I surround myself with people. Love to be part of something. But sometimes, it's overwhelming. And no, I don't think I have Social Anxiety Disorder. I mean, so party planners... does it make sense that someone who can't be alone ever has a disorder that makes them anxious around people. Well, that would be almost cruel.

I wonder if I'll self-edit in the morning. If sobriety and a drive home will make me rethink the things I say when I type a little drunk.

By the by... Fight Club is a fantastic movie.

I didn't self-edit. That was 100% Burton unfiltered. Ah, see... I used it. The new name. Burton, unfiltered. Sounds like a memoir or a new brand of smokes. And I thought about my sudden fortress of solitude moment at the conference. I'm shy. No seriously. I'm shy. And have you noticed that I swear in blogs when drinking (instead of using more fun words like "frak"). My normal rat-pack wasn't there. At other theatre conferences there's this group of people I hang with. And they weren't there. And while Keaton was, he was talking to old friends and people he hadn't seen in a while. To him it was like a reunion. But I knew maybe four people and most of them went to bed early. And in those situations, I just become a watcher. Or I leave. That night I both left and watched. I did leave the room again. Wandered around and ended up by the pool and just watched the other people having their drinks and hanging out. Actually was just getting into conversation, not being shy, when Margie came outside and shut down the party. Oh Margie, you lose my reservation and then thwart my social growth. All in one weekend.

That was said with some dripping sarcasm, by the by. I have no problem with Margie. None what-so-ever. But a lot of people at the pool sure did.

I "blogged" again that night. But on paper. And on paper it will stay. It was under more influence and badly written and I'd post it, only I'm sure you all have lovely eyes and I wouldn't want you to have to gouge them out upon reading it. Yeah. That bad. I think at one point, in mid-sentence, I wrote: "Pearl Jam is in my head. Pretty, pretty lights." See? The whole thing was non-sequitur to a hideous degree.

And then it was over. Not the bad, drunken "blog", but the weekend. It was a good weekend. It was. I didn't even get to the hot fudge cake I slammed on. And I haven't posted the funny video that involves Keaton and the lake. Nor did I rave about some amazing theatre or vent about some of the really awful stuff I had to endure in that auditorium. Just didn't get to it last night as I wrapping up. I will say though, there is a Gilligan's Island: The Musical. Not even kidding.

Wrapped up a theatrical weekend the only way to do so. Crashed a wrap party (our theater's most recent show closed yesterday) and then had people over to watch the Tony's. And can I just say that the talent on that stage was frighteningly good (mostly). Didn't see the whole show, but I did catch the cast of "Spring Awakening" doing their number to "The Bitch of Living" and holy frak, it was awesome.

Foreground, John Gallagher Jr., left, and Jonathan Groff in "Spring Awakening," based on an 1891 play. From the New York Times review. Photo by Sara Krulwich.

Maybe helps that the music rocked. But what got me was that the whole cast had to be no older than college kids, maybe younger. At least that how they looked. Heck, even if they're twenty-somethings, they rock. And the power they put forth was incredible. Smokey said she's probably gonna buy that CD. I may have to steal—ahem—borrow it from her.

Then the night was winding down. And then... things got interesting. There's a word for it. And no, for those who have read my last play and recall that line, it was not that kind of interesting. Just... not how I expected the evening to end.

Deep breath. In good stuff. Out shit.

Now we're in real-time. It's Monday. June 11.

And today it's like I woke up from an amazing dream, one where I'd won the lottery, beat the villain, and went home with the Bond girl... hello, Ms. Galore. I know that's not the quote. But saying "Hello, Pussy", even with a Sean Connery-best-as-Bond accent could have been misconstrued by those not familiar with the movie Goldfinger, where the Bond girl's name really is Pussy Galore. And you thought my pun earlier was bad. So anyway, I awoke this morning and reality was harsh and cold. I wasn't rich. The bad guys are still out there... I don't know how to fight them. And the only pussycat in my bed this morning had four paws and a tail. For the record, I'm fine. Since I'm about to get all cryptic again and mention the word drama in a non-theatrical way, I'd thought I'd preface that with I'm fine. Just wanted to make a point.

I don't want to be at work. I wanted to sleep in. Wanted to hang out with Apollo. Wanted to visit Zubov at his work and have lunch with my friend who I never see anymore (and that sucks, 'cos I live with the guy). And hey, find time to hang with Kirby too. Wanted to work on stuff for the theater. Wanted to visit my folks. Wanted to be outside. It was SO NICE up at the lake and I spent most of the weekend in a high school auditorium watching shows. Again, some really good stuff in there (amid the dreck), but it was inside. And wow, some sun would have been nice. Feels like I took a vacation, but didn't vacation.

And now I'm tired.

And then there was drama which flared up out of nowhere. And no sleep was had. Well, enough to keep me on bingo fuel, but that's made for a rough afternoon. Still tackling the aftershocks of some stuff and it's just something no one needs to worry about. Hardly concerns me except that I'm concerned about it. That's what happens when you care. But now I'll speak of this no more on the blog. Learned long ago that what goes on a blog, stays on the blog. And that isn't a good thing like in Vegas.

So since I can't just leave my desk and blow off work, I'm gonna upload something and post my first ever video blog. Yep! While on the roadtrip, we tried out video blogging. I warn you, I have no public speaking skills and this won't be pretty. There's a reason I write my blog. But with all the upcoming work and busy and drama, I'm in the mood to think of fonder times. I mean, isn't that why we have them? Memories, I mean. Flashes of times when things were simple, easy, and fun. No agenda. No politics. No drama. Just fun. And thanks to digital cameras and video, we can share our memories with the world. And while some of the best are best kept private, this memory is one that I'm happy to share and it's better to be viewed than relived in the written form.

Now, before viewing, you need to remember that this was recorded after Keaton and I spent two days of watching theater, some of which was awesome; but there was some that made me wish for sweet oblivion (or a pen to the eye). Once you've wrapped up here, you should hop over to Hopelessly Lost for Keaton's account of the weekend.

As for now, in rewatching this video, I do wonder if the humor will be lost on those who didn't experience it. Kinda had to be there... that sort of thing. So how to put you in the right mind-set? Have you ever seen an awful production of "Summer and Smoke" where the lead actress might as well have been a poodle? Now watch that in your head at least five times. Okay, once the horror of that subsides, you can see why this moment, now recorded forever, was so completely great for a moment when, in the grand scheme of the universe, nothing really happened.

So... without anymore ado and further gilding the Lily... I give you my first video blog!

Enjoy it. I did.

If the video doesn't play, it just means You Tube is taking its sweet time. I wanted to get the whole post up since I won't be back online until late tonight, so bear with me and check back. It will be there soon.

If it's already working, then watch away.

Spontaneity, people. I'm always inspired by it. It's something I should employ more often. Though I didn't actually employ it here. After all someone had to hold the camera. So maybe next time...

And I'll just have to find a way to make it even more spontaneous.

Check Back Later Today!

2007-06-11T12:41:00.001-04:00

An update about the weekend. And my first VIDEO BLOG! Stay tuned. Check back later today and something will be posted (by 5:00 p.m. GMT(-5:00)).

Hard to Concentrate

2007-06-07T12:48:00.000-04:00

Would you look at that? Frakin' amazing. To some, the image of a lighthouse perched on a rocky cliff isn't anything worth doting over. But to me, it's really quite something. It's magical. Timeless. It helps that there's an ocean right there and that I was standing right next to it, breathing in the salty air and enjoying the random cries of seagulls darting overhead.

Sitting here at my desk, that moment seems worlds away. Ages ago. But overall, even just the picture calms my frazzled nerves and reminds me that peace is found in the most random of places.

I can't even begin to think about knowing what to blog about today. It's one of those heavy Thursdays that should be a Friday. Yeah, one of those. It's probably because it's nice outside (albeit getting a tad hot), and I'm heading to the lake this weekend for a couple days of theatre. Lots of theatre. It'll be good. To be at a theatre conference where I'm just there to watch.

Though I'll tell ya, I'm not in the best of spirits right now. You might have noticed that from my last post. Yeah... I was just a might stressed. Busy stressed. Lots of things on my plate... so much that it's all spilling over onto the floor, my pants, other people's plates... messy things, people. Messy things.

It'll calm down. Six minutes past forever. That's about when it'll calm down. Or July. Yeah... July seems like a nice, relaxing month. It's funny. May was work month. Truly, my days revolved around my job and there was no escape. Everything hinged on this one pivotal moment that has come and gone and was awesome for the organization... but now it's past and it was reminiscent of a New Year's Eve party that doesn't live up to expectations.

June has been allocated to the theater, in every conceivable way. In fact, I just thought of something I need to do before the weekend.

...

But then work got in the way. Yes, this is one of those posts that it composed on mini-breaks and during a lunch. Actually, lunch will be phone shopping. I need a new cell phone. Mine has been a trusted companion for many years and is finally showing its age. Doesn't help that I dropped it a couple weeks back. A good fall it and a solid hit. Even its case couldn't completely protect it from impact. And now I can see inside of it. Very not good.

So I sit here vacillating between Verizon and Sprint, wondering which service to go with. Yes, I'm in contract with Verizon, so switching will cost me, but in the long run it might save me money (at least that's what I'm hoping). I figured it up. The people I talk to the most on my phone... not with Verizon. So yeah, that whole mobile-to-mobile or IN calling or whatever isn't doing me any good at all.

I'm sorry. This has become boring. It's become me talking about cell phone service. That happens when work consistently interrupts a post. Or when I'm hungry. The fact that my stomach is digesting itself is becoming distracting. Besides, I should blog about something that means something. Or at least tell a funny story. Or I could sign off and head to lunch. Yes, that's what I'll do.

But I'll leave you with this, a funny picture, rather than a story. Because really, what better way to finish a blog than with a good laugh, especially at my expense. :) It's actually much more humorous in person, but this'll do.

There's a Quartet....

2007-06-06T23:58:00.000-04:00

To my happy place I go. I flee. I turn up the volume to drown out the world. Oh, to scream. To yell. To let out a mighty and barbaric yawp. Breathing helps. Deep breaths. Petting Apollo. He's fairly calming when he's not using my leg as a scratching post (and even that is somewhat endearing right now). To bed I will go soon—but I have miles to go before I sleep. And stress to discharge along the way. Sorry Sally, my quartet doesn't play Madam Butterfly, but rather "Pretty Donna" by Collective Soul. And I see waves crashing against rocky cliffs. An Icelandic gull soars over, calling out. And I am relaxed. If only it were that easy. More blogging tomorrow. I'm out of time.

Quo Vadimus

2007-06-03T16:14:00.000-04:00

Life is not a television program. But then, yeah, mine could be. You've all heard me doll out my theory before, in small, teasing, increments. Well, I'm not sure if I'm going to go into thesis detail here, but I will say this: my show (that is, the fictional show of my life) had a season finale of sorts last weekend. And it was very, very, "quo vadimus". Smokey and Keaton (and hopefully Zubov and Kirby) know exactly of what I speak.

May was... interesting. There's a word for it. I had more words for it, but that one sums things up in that annoyingly ambiguous way that I love so much. Of course I have no clue where to even begin. Because "summing up" seems cheap and unfair to the monumental shifts and events that transpired over the course of thirty-one sometimes normal, sometimes spectacular, and sometimes wrenching days of the fifth month of the seventh year of the twenty first century.

Random sidebar: Just saw a cruise ship float by. Trust me, this will be explained by the end of this post.

Or I could just talk about it now. I know, I know... I'm all about writing this fantastic post about the nature of life and seemingly innocuous series of events which in one night converged and dissipated with beautiful symmetry. One of those days where, even though the ones before it had been downright lousy and or heart wrenching, you could stand there and smile a little and know that really, everything would be okay. "Everything would be okay," is probably the most cliche thing I could type in that instant, but then... that's how it felt.

Very "quo vadimus". Very... I don't know. I haven't posted much about my recent break-up. And in thinking about it, I didn't post often about the relationship. Kept that side of my life fairly offline, fairly private, and very much to myself. And so I've been cryptically posting about the loss of muses and the snarky and not really saying anything. But do I need to? We all know that there was something and then there wasn't. Not so cut and dry I know. Just wasn't up for bringing the world into this moment of my life—those that experienced this as shoulders to cry on can attest that it wasn't exactly wicked fun (and should all be sainted when the Pope has a few moments). So in the past month, my posts have dwindled to weekly because what I truly wanted to say, I felt I couldn't. So I didn't. And even now I find myself side-stepping certain topics. I like to think it's out of respect. The lack of mention of this shift isn't in any way trying to downplay the significance of the whole thing (or the significance of what was lost). Just trying to keep something between two people between two people.

And then last weekend, I'm standing in my driveway at nearly eight in the morning, having just stayed up all night with friends. There was drinking, talking, singing (badly on my part), tiki torches, a greasy-spoon diner (which rocked), and tons of conversation. And no, none of that made me forget anything that had happened in the week prior. Nor was I trying to use the night to do so. But as I stood there and we all, one by one, gave our leave and shuffled off, there was very much a sense that something was concluding. A span of time was wrapping up and things, while still shifting and changing, were set to be all right. For a while at least. You could see the tiny shifts though... and not just for me. I noticed them all around. Maybe it was watching the sun-rise that day, maybe it was connecting with the everywhere spirit, but I felt a little more hopeful than I'd felt in recent weeks.

That was a week ago. And now I'm sitting in Portland, Maine, in the apartment of one of my good friends, staring through the window at the harbor. Listening to the repetitive menu track from my new "Stranger Than Fiction" DVD—thank you, Snowflake. Panda will get that nickname, I think. It works better in the blog posts than J.Vlo. So now, J.Vlo, I dub thee Snowflake. And I will grin to myself each time I hear that word and remember the story you told me as we watched the waves crash against the rocks of Cape Elizabeth.

The weather here isn't what it should be, I've been told. There should be sun. Lots of sun. But it seems more like the other Portland, the one nestled on the western side of the continent, than this mythical sun-city of Maine (though, this is pretty much what I pictured). There's a light fog, maybe it's a haze, lacing the harbor in front of me. Small boats have been zipping by since about five o'clock this morning. Yes, I was up at five o'clock. Up before that. The soft light of morning found its way though the living room window, drawing me from a forgettable dream. Was hoping to watch the sunrise, but the clouds kept that perk from my gaze.

Of course I was hoping to stay up all night again, like last weekend, but here in Portland, chatting and hanging out; but exhaustion won the battle and I was asleep by 11 p.m. (hence the early wake up). It was one of those, "I'll just rest my eyes for twenty minutes" naps that turned into a full-blown slumber (the one with forgettable dreams). But then I cannot complain (and sidebar: I just said 'cannot'... usually a contraction kind of guy); I've been so tired lately. The job, the theater, the drama... not to mention just trying to catch up on "Heroes" (which I finally did, thank you). And this IS a vacation, so if I want to nap... or eat cookies... or slam on the food and not feel guilty until my Monday workout... or... well, anything I want... it's a freedom I'm beginning to relish.

Speaking of... Portland isn't going anywhere, but I am... in about 17 hours. Back home where there aren't so many ports and the seafood isn't as fresh. So I'll post this and bolt. Don't fret... there's more to say and more to post; I'm only stopping because I should be outside, visiting a lighthouse or actually walking along a beach and touching the ocean. Connecting with nature tangibly is one of our greatest gifts... one most of us are too apt to forget in the bustle of our daily routine. As my good friend Sultry Sue once said about some land she's fortunate enough to own, "as long as I can touch the Earth there, I am strong."

I think the ocean has the same effect on me. So I'm going to go recharge while it's within my grasp.

More posting to come later... and some pictures... perhaps tomorrow when I get home. Maybe some from the airport. Maybe just later tonight after some Maine Blueberry Ale. Haven't posted under the influence in some time... might be a good, embarrassing, and downright humorous post that yes, might mortify me in the morning; but it also could be just the sort of unfiltered writing that this soul needs to answer a very important question: quo vadimus.