Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
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.
"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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
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".
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".
Monday, February 8, 2010
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....
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!
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!
Friday, February 5, 2010
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".
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.
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.
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