...I had an epiphany in my coffee

I’m at work, taking a break from what it is I do (web design wage slave), and getting my daily dose of “what’s going on in comics, film, and video games”. I do this everyday, to renew my inspiration and enthusiasm, which normally happens while I’m at work...

important aside: I’ll tell you about the significance of that statement later, for now, let’s get back to the epiphany.

...So, as I was saying, I’m at work, projecting my mind to the day when the work I do on a daily basis, will be the work I love to do now, in my spare-time - Comics, Films, and Videogames.

That’s when it hits me...

There are literally MILLIONS of people, energetically, and oft times frantically, working towards the same goals as I. They engage in the same rituals, recite the same mantras, seek out the same inspirational tidbits, and dream of the same same, ambrosia filled grail.

Then I wonder. What makes me different? How is my dream any more or less golden, what is it about me, that makes me shine brighter than the rest? What gives me a luster, that few others have, or will ever hope to have?

Now in the private moments of our own minds, we do one of two things, and I firmly believe this. One, we’re brutally honest, and have thoughts unmarred with past regret or issue. And two, we have thoughts based on learned behavior, past triumphs, and failures, consciously ignoring past regret and issue.

And that was the birth of my epiphany for today, and it is as follows....

It doesn’t matter what makes me different, I bought the ticket, I’m taking the ride, I’m having fun, and I’m not getting off until I’m good and ready.

End Epiphany.

...In simpler times...start now, continued later.

In days when chewing on your toes, speaking complete gibberish, that delighted mom and dad, your biggest concern was... Well, you had no concerns. You were 12 months old and your world consisted of food, sleep, gobs of attention, more food and sleep.

I'm obsessed with...

I'm a bit obsessed. I have assessed the situation. Weighed the pro's and con's, pondered the ramifications of my obsession, and have come, quite happily to the conclusion, that I am once again obsessed with comic books.

My uncle, the first raconteur (before I even knew what one was), I'd ever known, introduced me to comic books. They were a source of fantasy, adventure, and belief that you should always do they right thing.

So, as I embark on a journey, down a new, but at the same time old, path of storytelling. I delight in the prspect of learning a new way to tell a story. Comic books fueled my imagination, and now they'll serve as a new creative outlet. One I actually started down a long time ago, but as one is prone to do, when faced with something new and daunting, you freeze. I'm now thawed, and completely excited about creating my own book.

Ok, thats it for now. This scattered and poorly written entry was brought to by the makers of Day Job" and "Best friend Phonecalls".

A scientists dilemma: What is Love? Or How many monkey's does it take...

When less than esteemed scientist Harry "Me hates monkeys like poison" Harlow was asked "What is love?" He responded "Well, you know that feeling you get when you've been locked in a tiny dark space alone for a year? It's the opposite of that." for more info, both disturbing and well... even more disturbing click here

CRESTFALLEN - And The Quest for the Golden Rationalization.

When we last saw our hero, he was nose to the moderately overused grindstone metaphor, when suddenly, hordes of crusty footed monkey ninjas poured through his window, broken glass and cringe worthy shrieks heralding their arrival!

"We've come for your nearly completed, yet utterly brilliant screenplay!" cried the Leader of the monkey ninjas. As he flashed a gleaming battle worn katana.

The other monkey ninjas, rattled there ancient martial arts weaponry, stained with the blood of other fallen screenwriters.

"I'LL BE DAMNED, before I let you take, what I've obviously spent months and months, carefully crafting. You simian fiends!" Our Hero, rather heroically shouts. "I am not afraid to shed monkey blood, from rivet to rafter, in this my pristine and uncluttered domicile!" he continued.

The monkey ninja leader, grimly advanced on our hero, it's eyes a glowing alabaster, it's fangs, surprisingly clean and well maintenanced.

"You labor under a misunderstanding, Foolish writer. We have not come so far..."

"How far have you come." our hero queried.

"Quite a long and arduous voyage, have me and my blood thirsty...Wait.. did you just interrupt me?" said the Monkey leader.

Embarrassed, our hero says, "Sorry, I thought you were finished."

"Was the fact that my mouth was still moving, and words were still coming out of it, not give you a clue that, I had indeed, not stopped speaking!?" The now furious monkey ringleader croaked!

"ENOUGH BANTER!, Give us your, obviously brilliant, blah, blah blah, screenplay, NOW!" the simian assailant bellowed.

"NEVER!!" shouted our hero.

At that moment, the now restless, evil ninja attackers, lunged into to battle. A wave of crusty monkey feet, flashing teeth and gleaming martial arts weapons, was all that could be seen, as the overwhelming numbers, brought down our valiant hero. As he lay in a heap, clothing torn and bloodied, the mockingly triumphant simian thief, hung in the now shattered window pane. Holding the only digital copy of our hero's screenplay, and said. "Now no one will know of your brilliance. Now no one will be entertained by your ability to match tone, with dialogue". "Same time next year, foolish writer...we will be watching...and waiting." he snickered, as he and his evil brethren disappeared into the night.

As our battled but unbroken hero, struggled to rise to his feet, he could be heard saying, "Yes. Oh yes, you will see me next year...next year."

The End.


Now....

Were that we lived in a world, where crusty footed, ninja monkeys actually existed, as well as the added bonus, of having an uncontrollable craving for the unfinished screenplays of writers everywhere, there would be only reality television, and poorly written nightly news.

And since we don't live in that world, the cold realization, that I was going to miss the Scriptapalooza Competition, it me rather hard. I'd always been either too busy, or unaware of it in the past. And since following Scriptapalooza on both Facebook and Twitter, I felt more connected to it, more on point. So much so that my hubris got the better of me. At the time I surmised that I could complete 2 screenplays, and one teleplay for the Television competition as well. One could say, I hung "them" out there as far as anyone should.

And on the evening of April 11th, at 11pm, eastern standard time, "they" were lopped off. I realized that I'd bitten off more than I could chew. I tasked myself with writing an entire feature film in less than 48 hours. Completing Act One, only fueled my bravado, the bold little competitive voice in my head, nattered "This is nuttin.. you can do this, super-genius!". It never registered that only other super-genius I knew of, would inevitably wind up with and acme rocket placed in an inconvenient and uncomfortable bodily orifice, primed to explode.

And explode it did, into a million little pieces, and a million different reasons to avoid claiming failure, until the moment I simply owned up to it.

I'd failed. I'd set a bar impossibly high, and so lofty a height, it's doubtless anyone could reach it. And I did this with all my senses about me (relatively speaking), and wide awake and fully aware of the consequences. I said I was gonna do it, and there would be nothing to stop me, but me. And as prophetic as that sounds, it's true. I stopped me. I failed.

But, it's not over until the pleasing plump lady sings. In the most epic of fails, I learned and discovered. I learned that I need a process. I discovered that coming up with an idea, and barreling through until the end, is not a process, it's more akin to punishment. I learned that I need a comfortable, relatively clean, and relatively quiet environment to write. I need to eat, to be satisfied, not full. And I need to be free of distractions. I discovered, I'm probably like every other screenwriter out there. And I felt a relief, a great cooling, and calming relief come over me. I've no ones expectations to live up to, save my own. I've no ones standards to live up to or surpass, same my own, and I don't have to impress anyone. My writing will do that. And, I will from time to time challenge myself with a 48 hour screenwriting assignment, just because I can.

Hubris aside, I am good, and getting better, and if I take care of me, and continue to learn , and discover, I'll be where I dream I will be. Ain't nobody stopping me, but me.

And possibly a horde of talking, crusty footed, ninja monkeys.

Something in me aches...

I'm in the mood to write something short. A rant of sorts, without the customary vitriol, angst or venom. I'm not railing against one or anything. I have no axe to grind, nor an enemy to put to shame. None of that applies here and now.

My ranting is about the ache, an ache to do the kinds of things that bring me joy, and happiness, in even the smallest of increments. I ache to direct films, to write the films I chose to direct. I ache to direct films for Marvel Studios, Warner Brothers, Fox, and so on. I ache for this.

I'm a late bloomer, I came to my love of this art-form late in life, but I came by it honestly. Not casting a stinky eye on anyone else, merely stating a fact. My mother was and is my muse. She fostered a love of movies, that I carried with me to this very day, to this very minute. And in my darkest moment, when a seamless cloak of despair and desolation was very close to enveloping me, it happened.

"BING!" A light, in the form of a screensaver I'd created on my computer. A simple series of soft cross fades from one forrest image to the next. And in the background played, a soft gentle song (Little Wing, played by Stevie Ray Vaughn), and I sat, and stared, gobsmacked.

Then, sometime later, I'd heard of screenwriting, and dismissed it as easily as it came to me, and moved on to devour everything I could about how to make movies. I watched every "Behind the scenes" "Movie Magic", and every "In Production" show I could find, bought dvd's labeled "Director's Cut", movie magazines, trade publications, I obsessively threw myself in to finding out every nuance, every idiom, every quick and beautifully technical aspect of filmmaking. It was glorious, and i loved every minute.

Times passed, and I'd joined film forums, and movie sites, and the more I looked the more it seemed, the only way to truly be the director, I wanted to be, I'd need to write. No, scratch that, I'd need to lean HOW to write. Now, I'd been an artist all my life, visuals were everything to me. I had no desire to find words to convey, what my hands could create effortlessly. However, during this time of discovery, I was losing the love of my life, and for completely different reasons, she was soon to be gone forever.

Being the angst-ridden tortured artist of the much belabored stereotype, I'd only learned to express my emotions through physical acts, either benign, or malevolent, my emotions shown in pieces, and in destruction. Needing to find a better way, I began to write how I felt, I began to emote all over paper, using a pen as a cudgel.

Having read and loved the classic works of Shakespeare, Maya Angelou, Henry Miller and above all Langston Hughes, I learned to craft missive upon missive with words that expertly conveyed exactly how my heart felt. And how wounded my pride and ego were, and the depths of who I thought I was, and who I wanted to be some day.

That and seeing Ben Affleck and Matt Damon win Oscars for Best Screenplay for "Good Will hunting" was all the impetus I needed to learn the art of screenwriting. An art, that before I entered into, thought easy and of no great effort. "It's only writing, I've done that all my life, how hard could it be?" were the monumental, and arrogantly stupid words that rolled from lips. And I would learn, after the completion of my first screenplay, how wrong I was.

It takes more than talent to craft a good story. A drunken marmot could write a screenplay, this is true. but it takes far greater capacity, to tell a good and lasting story. To create something that not only sticks in the psyche of the viewer, but becomes apart of who they are, and invades how they think, and view the world. It takes great discipline, fortitude, and an iron-forged resolve to start, complete, and tell a good story. and even more so, in ninety minutes running time (approx.)

Fast forward four years, to today, where I'm still learning how to tell a good story, both visually and literally. I'll never be as good as I once mistakenly envisioned myself to be, and never as good as I want to be. But with providence and God's guidance, I'll create stories that stick, and entertain, and make people happy. that is what the ache is, that is the desire that drives the engine inside me, and that is what will be.

...Ok, so not so short.

The Super Duper Inspiration Machine, or what is otherwise known as "Oscar Season"!

Can a man, who looks like a cross between, a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, and a lighter (weight, not complexion) version of The Notorious B.I.G., be giddy?

I answer that question with a reverberant yes!

In the most recent of days, I've been riding on a crestless wave of creativity. it's one the few effective ways, I manage my condition (Manic Depression/Bipolar) and lead, what I consider a normal life.

In the mornings I wake from a 3-4 hour sleep, look at my computer, go over the lines I've written, lament having to go to, but always propelled, to work. I complete the tasks in front of me with speed and efficiency, rarely taking a lunch break, and complete my day with an "Adios, Fellow Wage Slaves, until tomorrow..goodnight", and speed my way home.

At this point, another writer would have used the "and thats when the magic happens". Well, not me.

I'm not a trained writer, I'm an educated writer. In fact I taught myself, just about everything I know; from Art, to Music, to Computers, to Writing, and now, to Filmmaking. If we seek knowledge and new experiences, the way sharks seek food, what glorious lives we'd lead. But I digress...

Now, were I the kind of writer, to cast of the consummately disposable line "..and thats when the magic happens" I'd be lying. It's not where the magic happens. Its where the magic is translated into words, and situations, occurrences and characters, lives and the approximation of living. The "magic" is in my head, my gloriously, chemically imbalanced, and unmedicated head.

My imagination, and the act of bringing it into reality is my medication, it keeps me sane, focused, and present. And I love it.

So much so, that the thought of being able to go home, after a long stressful day, and devise ways a two-bit criminal, with his right pinky snipped off by pruning shears, will triumph over an amoral police detective, literally, makes me giddy!

And just what does this have to do with Oscar season? Well, every year I watch. whether its holds my attention, or loses it like a virgin on prom night, I watch. And every year I watch.. I feel one more year closer to being on that stage, accepting on of three Oscars, with my Mom and wife in the audience, friends family, and children at home, cheering me on.

And for a 6'4", bear of a dude like me, the thought of it, makes me GIDDY!

P.S. The following scenario is from my screenplay "Lead Pipe Cinch".

She wore paper lingerie

From time to time, while online, I'm approached by the occasional "web/sex-worker" soliciting all manner of goods and services. The following is a conversation I had with one such worker, and having been hopped up on coffee and oatmeal raisin cookies, I was in a "playful" mood....

Gladys Jollymarbles

hi there?

LoudVoiceFilms

hey hey hey

Gladys Jollymarbles

how  r u?

LoudVoiceFilms

awesome... and you?

Gladys Jollymarbles

great

LoudVoiceFilms

where ya from , Beautiful?

Gladys Jollymarbles

are you from NYC?

LoudVoiceFilms

yes I am

Gladys Jollymarbles

cool

Gladys Jollymarbles

im from arlington va

LoudVoiceFilms

what do you do in Arlington, Va?

Gladys Jollymarbles

im working as a sexy lingirie model for a site

Gladys Jollymarbles

and you?

LoudVoiceFilms

Ooooo....my mother wouldn't like that

Gladys Jollymarbles

ohh why is that?

LoudVoiceFilms

She's really very picky about the girls I marry

Gladys Jollymarbles

ohh

Gladys Jollymarbles

wer your mother?

LoudVoiceFilms

Upstairs

Gladys Jollymarbles

ok

LoudVoiceFilms

So.. do you have a boyfriend?

Gladys Jollymarbles

no

Gladys Jollymarbles

do you want to see all my stuffs first?

LoudVoiceFilms

stuffs?

Gladys Jollymarbles

yeah

Gladys Jollymarbles

i just want to invite you to my site for us to talk privately

Gladys Jollymarbles

but dont worry

Gladys Jollymarbles

i invited you so it will be free

LoudVoiceFilms

oh ok.. that sounds like fun

Gladys Jollymarbles

ok

Gladys Jollymarbles

just follow my instruction babe

LoudVoiceFilms

ok

Gladys Jollymarbles

http://typical_nude_chick_asking_for_creditcards.com  >>>just clikc it and let me know if your there so that i cna guide you how you cna go to my private page directly

Gladys Jollymarbles

ok?

LoudVoiceFilms

ok...

Gladys Jollymarbles

?

LoudVoiceFilms

Surf nanny says its not a good site

Gladys Jollymarbles

wat?

LoudVoiceFilms

Surf nanny

Gladys Jollymarbles

wat do you mean

LoudVoiceFilms

it keeps out bad sites

LoudVoiceFilms

like bad words and boobs

Gladys Jollymarbles

ok

Gladys Jollymarbles

bye

LoudVoiceFilms

whyyyyyyyyyyyy

Gladys Jollymarbles

i want you to go there

Gladys Jollymarbles

just trust me

Gladys Jollymarbles

im here to guide you

LoudVoiceFilms

the computer won't let me

LoudVoiceFilms

can we just talk here

Gladys Jollymarbles

no

Gladys Jollymarbles

bye!!!!!!!!!!

LoudVoiceFilms

?whyyyyyyyy

LoudVoiceFilms

what did I do?

LoudVoiceFilms

I thought you liked me

Gladys Jollymarbles

disable the firewall

LoudVoiceFilms

I don't know how

Gladys Jollymarbles

go to control punnel

Gladys Jollymarbles

and disable the firewall

Gladys Jollymarbles

how old r u?

LoudVoiceFilms

whats a punnel?

Gladys Jollymarbles

how old r u?

LoudVoiceFilms

33

LoudVoiceFilms

I'm an adult

Gladys Jollymarbles

open this

Gladys Jollymarbles

gateway.mw

Gladys Jollymarbles

let me know if your there

LoudVoiceFilms

Is that on my computer?

Gladys Jollymarbles

no

Gladys Jollymarbles

copy that

Gladys Jollymarbles

paste to you browser

Gladys Jollymarbles

ok

LoudVoiceFilms

ok

LoudVoiceFilms

whoa!...

LoudVoiceFilms

Its saying all kind of stuff

LoudVoiceFilms

I don't understand it

LoudVoiceFilms

Surf nanny says its not good

And she abruptly signed off. Much like the men she's probably encountered online, frustrated, confused, and completely unsatisfied.

And this has been...

ADVENTURES IN INTERNET!

To the end of LOL's

*NOTE* This piece was written in 2001 (or thereabouts)


There are times in your life when the hardest thing to do, is facing the demons you've had throughout every step of your existence. It's not so much the facing them, it is the purging of them that's the most difficult. Laying them to rest, or wrestling them to the ground, once and forever.

It turns out, that is what I have to do. I've fought long and unsuccessfully to run as far and as fast from issues and hang-ups. Buried myself in work and other indulgences, only to to find my demons, waiting around the corner, welcoming back into the fold, with open arms.

I've effectively lost my mind. I'm not insane or unsafe to be around. But I've lost my way and my purpose. I was put on this earth to do great things, to move people and open hearts and minds. Its a big thing, a herculean effort, and the only way to do it effectively, is to strip away the things that distract you from your work. I've been distracted too long.

I've grown weary, and disheartened at where I am, and things I've done.

I want my life to be much more that momentary flirtations.. I want warmth and satisfaction, Instead of cold plastic and hints of more. This is not the way mankind is supposed to connect with his fellow. We are creatures of touch, and sensation. Our senses hunger for input, not of ones and zeros, moving at speeds faster than perception, but in whiffs of earth and traces of sunlight.

When did it become justifiable to relinquish the attempt to connect on a human level, why is it now acceptable to hide behind facades of acronyms and double entendre, blatant profanity and nick-named body parts. Why would you venture out of yourself to touch the hand and heart of a newly met friend? It is too risky, too unchartered, too unsafe. The possibilities of failure and disappointment have become hurdles and deadly obstacles to days when meeting face to face was the only acceptable form of friendmaking

I too am guilty, I covered myself in a cloak of mystery.. made from all sorts of insecurities that I carried with me from childhood to adulthood. Lived in fear of rejection and ridicule. It's a lonely life, when the guardians of the gates are large slobbering beasts that tell you your best is not and never will be good enough. That you, as a person are somewhat lacking, and in that lack are repugnant and repulsive to others, no matter how worse off they appear to be.

But that's just me, one voice among incalculable numbers of solace-seeking people. Needing and grasping at anything that gives comfort, compliment, and carnality, to them thats needs it. I can't blame them. I, in that number, have sought love in the eyes and words of those who could not possibly return it, in the amounts my wounded psyche needed. I've used those, who like myself, simply needed to be needed, to be wanted and desired, to be lusted after and adored for my weakest attribute. Its a drunken whirlwind of needs, far out of control and not one whit aware of what is left in its wake.

I too have sped home, dodging those, unaddicted to this plastic and silicon narcotic. Couples weaving in and out of waves of other couples, and solitary but involved individuals, only to slump in a chair and "jack-in", fixing my cerebellum with the purest "shit" known to man, the needy needing the needy. We feed on each other, syphoning ephemeral whisps of involvement, awaiting the "long email", punctuated with "lol's" and ";-)'s", tales of quiet weekdays and heady weekends. Promises of days when the veil of electronica is lifted, and flesh will touch flesh, eyes will not look through man made proxies, but real eyes meeting real eyes, emotions coupled with real touch, senses filled with real scents, the touching of lips and hands, hearts and hips, skin to skin delights.

These are the promises of the machinery, this is the grail that our fingers and eyes endlessly search for, click after click, scrolling and blogging for, all to the end of "lol's".

Yet to be satisfied

Why are people so lonely these days. It's true, and those who deny it, deny themselves. Harsh, isn't it.. but very true. Our lives are lived in quiet, or our lives are lived with a stillness that we can't quite describe.

Some would call it boredom, others call it restlessness.. still more call it.. nothing. Because nothing it is. We all long or have longed for someone. A person who makes us smile. Not just the smile of recognition, but a smile of salvation. A smile that tells us.. "I'm not alone, I'm not in this often farcical life, alone."

Yet with that knowledge, we misuse that urge. That driving impulse, that drive that pushes us to seek out, and obtain, that which will give us peace. That which will be the salve that soothes our aches, mends our hearts from past misfortune. That which tells us, because it speaks to that child. That child that resides in either a meadow, sun-filled and joyous. Or in a room, poorly lit and foreboding. Each child speaks to us. Tells us of its greatest need, and its most fervent desire.

But what we crave, can lead us to greed, and that greed can lead us to excess. And when you have more than you need, you no longer have need. You wallow in overindulgence. You gorge yourself on the surplus, and delight in it. What began as a simple, unwavering need, has become a drug, a deeper craving. A craving that can neither be sated or quenched, and in the wanting, overcomes that which created the need.

We all stand in vanity, whether rejoicing or recoiling, we stand in it's reflective glory and stand in awe. I'm condemned of this. I stand duly charged and doubly guilty. I've stood in the poorly lit room, arms outstretched and grasping. Longing to be both held and loved. And have fallen to its addiction. No more saint than sinner. No more palmer than priest. I am human.

So why are people so lonely... I don't think that we're lonely, I think we've yet to be satisfied.

Earthbound Venus

The morning's light greets her like the kiss of an old friend,
pleasured to see her eyes sparkle with it's brilliance. The air, fragrant with new blossoms, caress her, as her steps bless the very ground she walks upon.

No legend of ancient beauties, gives her ample contest. She, stands in standards place, she defines that which beauty once was and forever will be.

In vistas to wide and elaborate for minds caught in the grip of tedium, she sees the rich tapestry, the multi-colored weave that longs to have her a part of it. She embraces like kinds and other hued wonders of god's creation. She drinks deep the experience of life's intoxicating splendor, and levitates above the throng.

I, enthralled and enraptured, marvel at her. I am at once awed and made giddy at her brilliance, and her humanity. She is my love, my earthbound Venus, my sultry Socrates, and my angelic vixen.

And I, her love. infinitely.

Lays Down Singing

Eyes, deep calling me, using music not heard by man since times creation. A primal symphony of wants and needs, and beauty of ages past, but never forgotten.

She, in glorious splendor walks on earth that neither gives her regard, yet offers her bounty. She, of the stuff of queens and empresses, countesses and contessas, graces the sky with her form. The air around her delights at the touch of her skin, and dances in her hair.

Men, some kind, some craven, bark and bellow for her affections, prance and preen to be the ones seen before her, in hopes that, luscious lips and and soft sweet embraces, be their nights treasure.

But in light, she is the luminescence, dispelling all darkness, creating a king from common stock, to walk the earth in strides not of men with feet of clay, but with gold and bronze footfalls, that echo her hand, and her words, and her caring caress.

For she, born screaming, lives laughing, and lays down... singing.

Don't &$#! with me..

i am the fire, that all consuming conflagration, that melted Pompeii and fuels the uncivilized beast within me, I am the thunder that shakes your foundation and leaves you excited, scared, and gasping for air.

My hands shaped the heaven's and tore down Olympus, leaving fake gods and goddesses, shells of spent power. take not my kindness for weakness, lest my wrath be swift you leave you speculating glory that could have been yours.

Come unto me, yet tread lightly, because the false and trifling will be left shivering and struck dumb. But for the brilliant and remarkable, oceans of wonder will be yours.

I search for home

In truth, I never saw the brightest of days,
they, hidden by sights too vivid, and by sounds, not yet recognized
were just the faintest of waking dreams,

Upon waking, new eyes wince at the brightness
creating cool water to ease the shock and soothe the burn,
Yet that, is the image that lingers, that is the image that
paints, in permanent colors a mural on the minds eye.

In truth, I who have never known the life, undisturbed,
Seek solace in soft errant caresses, in urgent sweet kisses,
in gentle whispers, in dimly lit places.

i look for joy in normality, and taste the deep dark sweetness
of lust's fountain. In converse and in contrast, I seek the thing
that while wanting it, shifts to that, which I need, and not what
I desire.

In her eyes and in her touch, I search for home.

A Bright Glow

*Note* This was written years ago, and I felt vain enough to post it online.

With beauty like yours, I could sing hymns about you,
Shining bright amongst a sea of counterfeit goddesses
you shame even Venus herself. Her hand grows weak
holding the candle that could never glow as brightly as you do.

I want to walk with you, find out the things that excite you.
Create things that would adore and delight you, masterpieces
in tribute to you. You are the woman that men dream and
scheme for. Go to work and provide for, hoping one day
you will mean more, than any priceless gem.

I want to know you, find out more about you, from your
favorite song, to your saddest memory. From the thing
that makes you laugh out loud, to the thing that gives you
the sweetest joy. I want to discover all this and more.

You will be the harbor, that I will come to, and never sail
away from, you will be my home.

... if you let me...Will you let me?

The Box and the Bench

The warmth of the midday sun was pleasing to Crawford Steadywell, as he made his way through a fairly crowded New York City street. The yellow of the taxicabs reminded him of bumblebees, darting to, and from a nearby hive, with the hive being the city itself.

With Crawford, on this sunny day sojourn, was a beautiful crafted box. He cradled it, as a mother would an infant, now to heavy to hold, and despite its beauty, be seemed agitated. Agitation became pique, as he nearly stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, that the lovely full box, obscured from his view.

After regaining his composure, he righted himself, spotted a group of benches in a nearby park oasis. With the determination of a starving man, eyeing much desired sustenance, he nearly sprinted for the empty bench, nearest the entrance to the park. Before seating himself, he placed his precious cargo, on the opposite side of the bench, away from him.

After a while, feeling unburdened, and much less encumbered, he began to smile. His mood shifted from dour to slightly jubilant. His eyes bounced from one object to the next, taking in all that was around him. Offering pleasing smiles to passersby, and admiring the boxes they carried with them. Forgetting himself, he wanders off, entranced by the millions of boxes in the city, of all shapes and sizes, beautifully decorated, to pleasantly plain, each one found his eye, and carried it away, along with Crawford.

Short seconds, turn in to long minutes, as Everett Collier walks up to a partially unoccupied bench. It strikes Everett, as odd, why a box, beautifully decorated, in a satin cloth that shines like, rich caramel, wrapped with a bow, that could have been made of chocolate, rather that linen. Why this box would be left, unattended, undervalued, and disregarded.

Everett, being a kind and protective man, assumed that whoever was in custody of this box, would not leave it so, in such a casual manner. Some great ill must have become of him. Perhaps, Everett mused, that he was the unfortunate victim, of falling piano, or a stampede of dervish-like patrons, running herd-like into Macy's.

He chuckled to himself, these scenarios, while far-fetched, would be nothing to keep him from such a treasure. He would regard it as part of him. As a gift, for that is what it truly is, from God, and regard it as such. Much unlike the phantom owner, who hours now, has not come to reclaim his gift.

Everett stands, looks down at the box, as if to silently entreat the box to allow him to safeguard it. To his its new protector and giver of care. A moment passes, and a smile glides across Everett's face, as he leans down, and gently picks up the box. Gently cradling it as Crawford did, only with great affection, and with far more regard. As box, and new owner walk away, contentment mixes with belonging, and a glow can be seen, everso slightly, to come from the two.

The next day, the sun is as warm as it was the day before, as Crawford gingerly makes his way toward the spot he stopped at the previous day. Only he seems puzzled, as if he'd mistakenly come to a different bench. Yet this one the same bench, near the entrance to the park. His puzzlement, turns to concern, and concern melts to regret. And in this moment's clear revelation, he realizes the one true constant, that exists, in every culture, in every corner of the world.

A treasure given, once neglected, soon will be gone forever, and in its place, regret will flourish.

Might not be a good thing

I'm going to make this short but sweet. It's a fable of sorts, for those of us who are in offices and cubicles throughout the country, or even the world (my grandiosity truly is boundless), and we sit for hours on end, doing a job of work, and in some cases....engaging in some rather interesting ways, of passing time in the slow moments of the day.

This is the story of Timothy Timmons, who as a young boy experienced a trama, few adults are emotionally resilient enough to withstand, yet this stalwart young lad grew to manhood, without a significant moment to be had since. Now, a drab and listless man, who's daily work was of such monumental tedium, he was often heard muttering through the halls, a mantra, of his own making. To the occasional co-worker, passing close enough to hear this odd chant, they would experience a feeling, very similar to fear, mixed with a generous amount of disgust.

Timothy, being the type of man, to whom great power eluded, took singular pride in this, as he would, with great regularity, wander the most populated of hallways. Gleefully muttering his strange mutterings, and barely muffling the giggles, that the shocked reactions would create.

As the months would fall away, like lead paint chips from a derelict building, Timothy's glee would increase, and only after increasing the severity of his barely uttered utterances. He would sit in his spartan apartment night upon night, gorging himself on instant noodles and instant orange flavored beverages, and concoct ways to sicken his co-workers with, the depths of a damaged, yet deviously creative mind.

One fateful day, upon waking from an especially productive nightmare, Timothy rose from his bed, with purpose and drive. His breakfast that morning was a symphony of flavors and textures, that seemed to take Timothy by surprise. He wondered to himself, if he'd ever had a meal this delicious, this remarkable. In fact, he had, every morning, for the best part of twenty-five years.

He noticed that the clothes he'd worn everyday, fit better, more complimentary, and more flattering than ever before. As he left his apartment, he noticed that the streets gleamed with a shine that bathed him in a light that felt unnatural, but welcomed. As he rode the bus, a realization that was so completely profound, his body shuddered with delight. He looked around, hoping others had noticed, hoping some other soul would be looking at him, so he could share a look of contentment. Finding no one, he smiled to himself.

As the bus stopped, and opened its doors, Timothy nearly bounded to the sidewalk. He gait was springy, and playful. To on-lookers, it would appear as if "Guys and Dolls" or "West Side Story" had decided to have street performers, complete with Jerome Robbins choreography. With the office building he worked, looming in the distance, his walk became firm and determined, his footfalls more deliberate and strong. As he stood in front of the large class doors to the building, leading to the lobby, a look of complete confidence shown on his puckish face, and he walked inside, like a conquering Caesar.

To be continued...

Inspiration's Older Sister

If there is a trick to being inspired, I'm not sure I'm not sure I know what it is. I've had moments of unbridled creativity, weeks of feverish invention, and words and images lowed from my head, like a multicolored head-wound.

I was mater of creation, and I was in the groove of all things.

Then....

...there are places in Death Valley that have more life in them, in comparison to how lush my mind wasn't. I was dry, parched, devoid of competent thought or idea, and it was as vast as the Sahara, and equally as comforting.

Nothing took hold. I would sit, often times with a classical blank stare, at my television, as I whiplash channel surfed, for hours...literally. Looking for inspiration, in whatever form I could find it in. I searched on the "web", only to be met with the profound abundance of incredibly bad junk. It's like going to a candy-store. Only this candy store is filled with the cheapest, get anywhere for ten pounds for a penny, candy. All bad for you, and will rot your brain as quickly as soaking your teeth in a one hundred percent sugar solution.

Again...I knock upon inspiration's door, only to be met by her manly, mustachioed older sister Agatha.