The Internal Conflict

A character who does not rise to the challenge: who gains small victories, at the cost of great defeats.

What is the impediment? The obstacle that must be breached?

It has to be fear of failure. And fear of the unknown. There has to be a kind of solace, in the expectation of diminished returns. "Life is a veil of tears", my mother once said.

And, "When you have children, your life is no longer your own."

This is how we compromise our dreams, and live with the day to day. And we find our joys in moments, even as we feel largely unfulfilled.

We come up with "coping" mechanisms, that gratify our collection of moments, because we percieve, that the larger tapestry is beyond our ability to weave.

As I see it, there is no way past this without an application of belief. A conscious decision to have a degree of faith, not in the inexplicable, or mysterious, but: if applied in a constant forward momentum, your actions will bear fruit.

A friend once told me, if you ask 20 chicks out on a date, one of them will say, "sure, why not?" Guaranteed! If you go to the club, and ask 20 chicks to dance, one of them will say yes. And probably way before you reach the 20th.

Another friend told me, "But what's the worst that can happen? That they say no. For guys like you and me, the worst is exactly what you fear the most." So rejection is not that easy, when it's rejection you fear the most.

Trial and error is the only way I can think of to get past the mountains one needs to climb. But I'm writing from experience, when I say, I had my training wheels on for a long time.

There should be training wheels for life. A safety net, from which we can bounce with joy, until technique organically develops, and your to fearlessly cast it aside.

The problem as I see it though, is that life has too many pitfalls, and moves at a pace, faster than can be seen by the naked eye.

So that we try to prepare our children even as we stumble and fall. And we say, "Don't do as I do. Learn from my mistakes." But we're bound to repeat those same mistakes, because we've never been shown the results otherwise.

This, as I've concluded, is the point where we must break with tradition. This is the point where we must forge our own path. But it's easier said than done. And it can take years, even a life time, to see the light of day.

I hope that's not the case for me. But neither do I see myself moving in a forward direction. This blog is as much an effort to break down my fears and static motion into its basic elements, as it is an impetus to consider something new.

Monologue #1: When All You Get Is One Shot

     Sometimes all we get, all we get, is one shot.You have your moment; it presents itself, and if your not ready, life passes you by. "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." But I don't know too many people, so focused, so aware, waiting for that moment to saunter in, as if aligning itself, in the cross hairs of human ambition.
     Most people I know, live for second chances. We fuck up. We make mistakes. And beg for a second chance: to make things right; to make a better argument. Say, "I love you", when it needed to be heard. Shut up, when you needed to listen. Not take that fourth drink. Pass, instead of shoot. Stop, instead of go.
     And I should never have let you go. But I was young, and had no idea how special you were. Or how unlikely true love is.
     I spent years, listening for your laugh in another woman's voice. Hunching down, or straightening up, trying to find the fit in my arms that you filled so well. And waking up, with the echo of your voice. And living with you in my imagination. And of what you'd say, about this or about that.
     And laughing. Over some joke you made years ago. Maybe hoping for second chances is really not being able to move on.
     But if so, then why else do we pray? Isn't that what redemption is all about? The chance to set the record straight? To live the life we were meant to live? Is there a time limit? As finite as our time on earth? I don't know. But I've carried this torch for so long, I've gotten used to the burden. I can carry it a while longer.
     My arms aren't so tired I can't hold you. My strides aren't any heavier than they've ever been. And I'm here. Whenever you want. I'm not so broken, I can't be mended. I'm not so tired I can't get up. I need something to believe in, but hey, I'm willing to believe. I can wait. Waiting is easy. It's just a silence waiting to be filled: with song; with laughter; with the spoken word, or the sharp breath of life. Silence is just a void, waiting to be filled. And does that remind you of anyone you know?

The Fringe and the Underbelly

     The first stripper I ever had a crush on was an ex porn star who turned me on to Tori Amos. She said, "If you like Kate Bush, you'll love Tori Amos."
     She was a feature dance, which meant she was booked for a week I went to see her on three occasions, and on the third, she pulled me up on stage and had me soap her body with a luffa sponge and enough suds to accentuate but not hide every luscious curve I felt of that beautiful body.
     The second dancer I ever had a crush on would dance to "I can't be with you", by The Cranberries. And I don't know if she was giving me a message, but never the less, I loved that song. It's very danceable. And so music, has always been an element of seduction for me.
     She was paying her way through college, studying to be a vet. So few of them make it all the way through though: once they realize they can earn more than a doctor in a week.
     For a while, at least. As they get older... they negotiate a little more... and a little more... what services they can provide in the confines of the champagne room.
     A stripper once told me, "Once you accept that your body is worth a certain cash amount, you start to put a price on everything else you'll do. Talk to someone you don't really like. Kiss someone with bad breath. Go down on them. Agree to fuck them. Most guys can't get it up in the champagne room anyway. When occasionally they do, you at least have protection."
      If you want to know the difference between a hooker and a stripper who "puts out", it's this: a stripper has sex in the same place, with a bouncer nearby. A hooker changes her locale, and if she's got a pimp, it's best he remain invisible, or the client might get spooked. A stripper has regulars, whom she will see again and again, over time. A hooker is always fucking someone new. A stripper to talk to over time and you get to know each other's life stories. A hooker is watching the clock, and will tell you when your time is up. A stripper is constantly reinforced over how sexy and beautiful she is. A hooker is treated like a vagina with a life support system.
     But chiefly, and perhaps inexplicably, a stripper is more confident, even free spirited, than a hooker who may be working through some guilt, or even low self esteem.
     Now, there's an argument, that strippers have self esteem issues too. Walk into any strip joint in the country, and you'll find that a fair amount of the boobs on display are silicone based. And sometimes the buttocks too. And whatever their issues, strippers aren't stupid. They know the "assets" for which they are being praised are transitory; and beauty is always in the eyes of the beholder.
     They know the level of charm they have to bring in order to stand out from the crowd. They know they trade in fantasy, in an alcohol inebriated den of lust desire. They rarely date their customers; preferring instead the complicated relationships of deception they have with their friends, family, and lovers. How much self esteem can you really have, when you lie to everyone about what you really do? But they carry themselves with confidence, and they're aware of their seductive charms.
     The last stripper... I fell in love with, is like no stripper I've ever known before. On the occasion when I found myself broke, but with enough cash to buy a $20 bottle of Victoria's Secret "Secret Passion" glitter body spray (with a 20% employee discount) and turned it over as a Christmas present, she not only paid for my drinks ($7 for a bucket of 5 beers), but gave me money, a handful of dollar bills, to tip the ladies with, as they came off the stage to collect their tips. THAT'S (at the very least) unusual and exceptional. Judged on its appropriate and relative terms, it is kind, generous, and even loving. A stripper that gives YOU money, is a rare creature indeed! So rare in fact, that I tried to set up a date with the lady in question, and meet her outside of work. Just to see what would happen.
     But strippers are not the most reliable of beings, and they lead very complicated lives. On the day in question, her dauhter had her car, and she had to work overtime, and I wound up sitting in a restaurant, waiting for two hours, getting drunk to the point of resentment. And anyway... do I really want to have a relationship with a girl who sucks dick for a living?
     But I still love her: at least, in the measured doses I allow myself to. We're still sort of "friends with benefits", in which commerce for "services" is engaged.
     Understand, there are two kinds of strip joints. The big, fancy, gentleman's clubs that on a Friday night will employee, easily, 100-150 woman: model babe after model babe, strutting their stuff on stage.
     And then there is the neighborhood bar. The neighborhood strip bar especially before 7pm. is where you get to have a few drinks, in a quiet corner by yourself, listening to good music, admiring the scenery, even occasionally writing, until your favorite gal walks off the stage to collect her tips, and you invite her for a round of drinks and some conversation. Shift change occurs between 7 and 9pm. Day shift girls, are by and large, not as pretty as their night shift counterparts, but some of the are; single moms who have no one to take care of their kids at night and find they can provide better for their children stripping than they can working retail. In Miami, we have a large immigrant population. A lot of people who discover for the first time, what a truly industrialized nation can offer for those who can afford it. But to earn it, they have to work much harder than they ever have before. And not being versatile with the English language, (although it IS Miami, where the majority of the population speaks Spanish. But still, the expectation, and demand, that you are fluent in English is still prevalent  among most employers), hampers their ability to find good jobs, in what is already a service industry driven economy. And stripping is... well, to quote Glen Fry, "It's the lure of easy money. It's got a very strong appeal!"
     I'm the son of a professional gambler. A very good poker player, who loved to play the ponies. He loved the big payouts. He loved how your fortune could change in an instant. He blew a lot of money at the race track. The opposite of a very cautious style he had developed at the poker tables.
     So I understand the urge to "go all in." I understand having big dreams, and the feeling of being frustrated by fate. It is that ability to dream that for good or ill, has always defined my art. And it is the reason why I am drawn to the fringe.          
     The fringe is not the underbelly: that soft spot/weak spot from where some people lash out and others reside. The fringe is right on the border. The fringe is where you get to have your principals, and compromise them to a degree. From the underbelly, your in survival mode, which is when you finally toss them away. It's at the fringe, where we have sympathy for others hanging by the precipice. It's from the underbelly, where we may even take pleasure, or a kind of solace at least, as we pull them underneath. People on the fringe, have generous spirits. People from the underbelly, wallow in despair. There's something very honest about people on the fringe. People from the underbelly will lie to serve their own ends. People on the fringe can trip and fall over the precipice. But people in the underbelly, often have nowhere else to go.
     I hang on the precipice on a daily basis. I'm broke, uneducated, and desperately alone. We face the chasm in our solitary despair, and we dream (or pray) of the inciting incident that will pull us away. And that's what we have in common. No matter how we express or negotiate those terms. We pull for the little guy; we root for the underdog. We buy our lotto tickets, and celebrate with hope renewed, when we win a free ticket.
     Because anything is possible. Because anything can be won. Because dreams are meant to be followed; and promises are only waiting to be kept. Here, on the borders of the fringe,  we see the remains of dreams broken and renewed; and gather the pieces, as we try to make something new.

A Romance IN A New World

     My mother and father had what you might call a tempestuous relationship. It started out rocky enough: my dad was already married with three grown sons, when he had an affair with my mom, with a daughter from a previous marriage, who's husband died of cancer, it represented a second chance and an escape to freedom. For my father, fifteen years her senior, and whom had known my mom all her life, it must have represented a chance to revisit his youth he'd known since she was a child. It was a May/December romance they had to wait 'till their middle ages to consummate. My father had been a cop before the fall of Batista, and had used his political connections to have my half sister sent to America, where, still being a minor, after six months, she could claim my mother on humanitarian grounds. He then used up his remaining favors to get him, his wife, and his children, out of Cuba and onto Ellis island, where freedom surely beckoned him to its shores.
     Once all that had been arranged and achieved, the affair began full swing. From what I remember, and what I've been told, it was not an easy time for my mom, being "the other woman." Many lonely tears were shed, and a good catholic girl from a small town like my mom, must have felt the weight of guilt acutely.
     Eventually, she got pregnant, and being a woman in her forties, there were risks and complications. I was a rather large and heavy baby (12 lbs. I think) and they had to perform cesarean section in order to deliver me safely. Years later, my mom would show me her cesarean scars whenever I misbehaved and say, "Look what I had to go through to bring you into the world." And like the petulant child I was, I answered, "I never asked to be born!"
     My mom told me once, that my dad never wanted her to go through with the pregnancy. But I never felt anything but love from him. He would dote on me, whenever he was around.
     And there in lies the heart of our rather complicate trinity. My dad had a wife and children he lived with. He'd visit us every couple of days. But still, I remember his absence was keenly felt by the both of us.
     My mom was a seamstress in a clothing factory and she'd get home late and tired after a long day of work. It's easy to see why, in my early years, I acted out so much. I craved attention and lacked structure. In many ways, I still do.
     My sister hated my dad and the effect the relationship was having on my mom. She couldn't wait to get out of the house, and as soon a she turned eighteen, got married and did, with a man who had a short temper, and would later abuse her, both physically and mentally.
     She told me once, she used to change my diapers, and would baby sit for my mom. I have no memories of this. Indeed, my earliest memories of her after she moved to Miami, and my mom followed soon after, in order to "keep the family together." This would be about 1971, when I was 8 years old.
     Within 6 months, my father got a divorce and followed suit. My parents got married in 1972. I know this from rummaging around their room without permission and finding the marriage certificate in my mother's dresser drawer.
     They lived together for two years and fought all the time. And made love too. This, I also discovered, having walked in on them "in the act", once I learned the trick of opening locked doors with a butter knife.
     Eventually, my dad moved out, but not far. He rented a little studio a few blocks away, where he kept a cat as my pet, fed me lunch after school, and bought me comics to read. It was a routine I grew to love.
     I think I blamed my mom for my dad's absence from our home. I remember I used to claim I loved my dad more than my mom. Eventually, they got back together. In a two bedroom house, where my uncle also lived, my father insisted I needed a room of my own.
     Not long after he moved in, and the anteroom was constructed, he died of a heart attack. I was asleep in my room while my mom and uncle accompanied him to the hospital. He forbade them to wake me because he didn't want me to worry. But in the morning, my uncle awoke me, telling me why I had to go to the hospital. And not long after I arrived, he was pronounced dead.
     Now comes the resolution; the point that I've been leading up to. Despite all of the strife, and all of the ups an downs, there at the funeral, with my dad lying in an open casket, my mom shed all the tears which I was unable to. They were not phony tears, or begrudging tears, or the tears of misspent affection. They were genuine and heart felt, and remorseful of all the days lost. A river of sorrow, racked from a heart of regret. And I? Shed not a one. And felt guilt for years after, for never having done so.
     So that now, I do not know who to blame.; only, that love is a journey on a turbulent sea. And more than that, I've never known, in all the years I have lived.
   

Damaged Goods

The people that I love
     are not winners or losers
          by any definition
               of that word.


I love them
     because they have a unique gift.
They have a dream
     because they are dreamers.
And it is not their ability to achieve their dreams
      which define them.
It is not their work ethic
     their unrelenting pursuit
          their clarity of vision
               their perseverance in the face of adversity.
The dream is not a job that is performed,
     or a mountain that is climbed.


It is the shape of which
     that defines our souls.


The people I have cared for are damaged
     but they know love.
They live with diminished expectations
     but they demand your respect.
They forgive
     as easily as they forget.


And they hold on to their dreams
     and occasionally dust them off.
And with a polish that belies their age
     and a sheen as bright as the sun
They create something new
     that fades in the mid day sun
          and changes forever
               how you look upon this world.


You see the gate open
     you see the horizon just beyond
You make love with wild abandon
     The kinetic motion becomes a song
And nothing we achieve
     can ever be defined
Our souls are just relieved
     by the inexplicably sublime.

Walking on the Precipice

     I there is one central theme to my life and my art, it is thus: "Sometimes good people do bad things too." That's it. In a nutshell. It speaks of the human consequence of making bad choices, staying in damaging, unfulfilling relationships; stealing a bottle of shampoo; having a beer, when you have nothing to eat; allowing yourself to be addicted to anything; getting busted for picking up a hooker, when all you are is lonely.
     Life is a series of shades of grey. And yes, grey is a color that is closer to black than it is to white. It is also the color of human frailty. And it is there, on the border of divinity where the chasm yawns open.
     It's where a son falls for having rebelled against his father. It's where a mother falls for having abandoned her child. It's a narrowing chasm, that makes us smaller as we fall. And it is there, for which but for the grace of God go I. Because we all have a toe hold upon that very edge. We will trip, and stumble upon that very edge. Perhaps it is THAT which defines us. Not the climb up, but the stumble towards. Humility, as opposed to  rightousness. The soldier, as opposed to the war.
In a in any case, these are the people most interestting to me. Those are the people who's stories must be told. because have LIVED! And they have something to say. About life on the other side. Indeed, about the Darkness on the edge of town!

Even Atheists Can See The Sublimje

     I am, for all intents and purposes, a comic book nerd. My three favorite Super Heroes are Superman, Batman, and Captain America.
     I am also an atheist. HARDCORE! I do not believe in God, goblins, ghosts, ghouls, past lives, the possibility of aliens having visited our shores. I also do not believe in the actual existence of King Arthur (although I DO love the storeies). But I do believe in symbols and stories, and their possibility to inspire!
     I own a Batman ring (which I NEVER take off my finger). I crave a Superman ring which will likely enjoy the same privilege. There is nothing equally iconic about Captain America (except his shield, which I wouldn't mind hanging on my wall). But I figure the combination of  Superman and Batman equals Captain America..  It's the amalgamation  of individual achievement, in the service of something more.
     And although I may be an atheist, there are SOME things I consider holy. One, is a symbol: the Superman "S". It says to me, that ANYTHING is possible. And that "anything" can serve the common good.
     The other is a theatre. An actual theatre, or any space in which I am booked to perform. If it is an "empty space", it is a space where you are enjoined to create magic. If it is an established theatre, it is a space where magic has occurred before.
     Whenever I step into a theatre as an audience or an actor, I feels a sense of history enjoining me to approach its borders with an open mind.
     Whenever I am booked in a park, or a warehouse, or a restaurant, or an unexplored open space, I am struck with the feeling that the magic begins with me.
     So the "S" may stand for Stanivlosky, or it may stand for the super me. But it reminds me that there is more to this world, than my narrow view of it. And it's up to me to discover what that is.
     And THAT'S why I love comic books! And THAT'S why I have a reverence for something greater than this world or my place in it. Because in order to get to the next stage of evolution, you must find something greater than yourself to serve.
     It can be and "S", it can be the footlights in the proscenium, it can be the refrigerator in your apartment; "May the force be with you." As long as it makes you think, "you are not alone", and you have an obligation to your fellow man.
     I may be an atheist, but I believe in totems. And I believe there are more things in this world Horatio, than are yet dreamed by man. And that it's our obligation to seek those dreams out.

Life During Wartime

      I figured out a way to pay for non perishables and other sundry items with food stamps.
      A food stamp allowance will not allow you to purchase the following: soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Toilet Paper. Asprin. Cold Medicine. Pet Food (and as any pet person will tell you, "My pet is my baby!" ).  Beer, Wine. Cigarettes  (and as any nicotine junkie well tell you, "I'd rather go two days without food, than two days without cigarettes), .
     It also doesn't allow you to buy "prepared" foods. It assumes you have access to a kitchen, and it fails to take into a account, that microwave ready foods are more expensive (in the long run) than unprepared one's.
      But I found a way around it. Buy something you have no intention of eating, return it for store credit, Tell them you lost the receipt, and get whatever it is you need to get through the night. It's easy, dishonest, and somewhat "skeevy."

     What sucks is the feeling of guilt you must overcome to purchase cigarettes and beer. But we Latino's have a saying: "What is life without a few little vices?"

      The presumption being here of course, that you don't abuse your vices. That you merely allow them to flavor you days with a little sweet sin. And in THAT sense my conscience is clear. But I'm still cheating the system! And THAT does not sit well. No matter how you justify it. And it's precisely these times, when you wish life were simpler. 

Shaw and Hemingway and the Pimp Daddy Willie the Shake

I love Shakespeare, because I "get him." No, seriously. I've gotten better at understanding him, but I don't think I was COMPLETELY lost, at what he was trying to say. George Bernard Shaw, a much smarter man than I, couldn't stand Shakespeare. Partly it was political. Shakespeare often wrote propaganda for the noblesse oblige, and Shaw was a Socialist at heart. But part of it, was simply that he found him to be a self indulgent writer. And yeah, I get that. I get where he's coming from. Although the revolution of "economy of style" wouldn't truly begin 'till Hemingway came along, I get, and appreciate the value of "saying what you mean in as few as words as possible," I've written my fair share of haiku's.


Still, I mean, I get where he's coming from. Shakespeare was writing on the fly. He gave himself very little time for re-writes, and often he was writing for his "buddies." Members of his troupe. Trying to keep everyone happy. Trying to write to their strengths. And often, he'd belabor the point, or take his time getting there. But as a writer by practice (if not by trade), I get it. I know, sometimes, you write a clever turn of phrase, and follow it with another, until you arrive at the point you're trying to make. And you go back, and you look at what you have written, and you really love how you got to the end. And it would take a few weeks to re-write, and you got only a few weeks to rehearse. And you say, "fuck it", it's good enough as it is."


And I'll say this for the man, to anyone, alive or dead. For all his meandering, for all his belaboring of the point, NO ONE, has captured the argument and dichotomy of the soul... or expressed it so beautifully, as William Shakespeare. If you think you can do better, if you think you can do so in poetic terms, go ahead! Knock yourself out! Show us all, how it's done!


The fact is, George Bernard Shaw isn't a dingleberry on the ass of Shakespeare.


And so, yeah, I get the language is difficult, and off times self indulgent,  but I get where he's coming from. I see the argument that he's making, and I don't have to be a misogynist to play Petruchio in Taming of the Shrew!


The fact is, Shakespeare's characters are very easy to play. Most of them are very earnest, and forthright.


With say, Pinter or Mamet, you can't always trust what the character says. Often, what they say, has NOTHING to do with what the character is trying to achieve. As an actor, and as an audience member, you have to look at their behavior. And it is often not reveled until the end of the play, what the characters are trying to achieve.


In Shakespeare, the opposite is the case, and in the rare exceptions (Iago, Lady Macbeth, King Richard III) they'll always tell the truth to the audience, at least.


If you know how to break an argument down to its components, if you know how to stress the right word or phrase, you can make the language intelligible, for yourself, and anyone who cares to listen..


Some people won't get it. Some people will never try. You can't fix stupid. This is something you have to realize.


But if you put in the effort. If you just open your mind... There are vast worlds to explore, which you never knew you could find.

The Heat Haze Blurs the Mirror

Between Gratitude and Ingratitude; between rage and serenity; it is there, in that terrain, in which I reside. I'll tell you what it looks like, 'cause it's easier to describe in metaphor. It's that heat haze, that makes the terrain shift and blur, until you're not sure of your own footing. That's the best image I can come up with; when one minute your calm and serene, and the next your filled with rage and cursing like a sailor. You feel slighted, abused, and taken advantage of, because you didn't get the thing you want, you didn't get your own, simple way.


A shrink once said to me, we are, who we are, in relation to others. It is only in relationships, that we discover ourselves. And so what does that say about a hermit, who keeps to himself? Who goes out of his way, to keep his head down? And not make any waves? A hermit who loves to perform in front of a crowd, and then hides, whenever a picture is taken.


What it says, it seems to me, is that he wants to be loved, but only on his terms. He wants accolades, but not scrutiny. Maybe, maybe, he wants the modicum of respect which he feels he deserves, but doesn't know how to earn.


And maybe that's because they've been robbing it of him it, all his life.


They. Who is they? The lady at the counter, who's just following policy? And needs the forms filled out, before he is seen? The girlfriend who tells him, "I need a man who can handle a crisis, and doesn't buckle, in the face of oncoming storm."


They. Huh! They, is anyone or anything, that takes him back to that corner, in front of that parking lot, a few yards from the grocery store, standing in front of a newspaper vending machine, crying and screaming, "Why God, why!?"


And in forty eight years, he's never once received an answer. And in thirty two years he's learned to stop asking the question.


It's taken him this long, to find a modicum of peace. The peace of the lonely; the disenfranchised true blue.


Yesterday, I was broke. And someone bought me a $3.50 sandwich to eat. Today, I worked into the wee hours, and this girl; a sliver of a young thing (that I have a minor crush on) said, "I wish I had two dollars, so I could buy a cup of coffee." It was late in the evening, and she had been working 10 hours straight.


And I can't pay my rent, but still, I took too long to decide, when I said, "I've got two dollars you can have."


I took 10 seconds, But it was 10 seconds too long. And I can't pay my rent, but two dollars, won't make a difference.


So why did I hesitate? I should have been quicker on the draw. I know, yes, of course I know, that at least I came through in the end. But when I took that sandwich, I wan't as grateful as I should have been. I was mostly incensed that my check was a day late. And when I tried to pay him back, he said, "Merry Christmas." And still, I didn't have enough gratitude to bestow upon him.


Gratitude and Ingratitude. My journey between serenity and rage. I stumble. I fall. There are so many potholes, I can barely walk at all. I want to ride in a corvette, and leave the horizon far behind. Leaving on the wind, the songs of Simple Minds!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljIQo1OHkTI

Crashing Satellites

We crash together, like satellites spinning out of orbit, pushing and pulling, at the moments that inform us, and the moments that we share. With little regard for consequence; with the inevitability of rain; we push and we pull, for succor and warmth, and demand to be known. And plead to be loved.


When the very best of us is praised, and we refuse to believe; what is left is a cup. A cup with a hole which can never be filled. "I'm not the man you think I am." And, "To love me, you must love me at my worst." So he hides all his love, for fear it's not enough.  He hides his ambition, because he doesn't know how to use it. He hides his true self, because he's never faced a mirror.


Until one day when they decide to start everything anew, they fight and they argue, because it feels familiar and true. And he storms out, angry, incensed. She continues the task of moving boxes to the car. He's got to clear his head, he tells himself, as he circles round the block. He needs to find a place of calm, where the noise is shushed away. And as he circles round the corner, still filled with an anger he feels righteous, he sees her bent over, picking up the pieces of a poorly packed and flimsy box. A stranger has decided to give her a hand. A moment of kindness which has slipped him by, and as he approaches, he sees it's his box of porn tapes and magazines. The stranger never says a word, just helps along, until he hears, "I got it, thanks," in the worst possible tone. As he stands and turns to walk away, she reiterates her thank you, and the couple wordlessly continue to repack the box. And that wasn't the first time he felt he didn't deserve her love. It wasn't the first time he didn't say or do whatever it was he needed to do. And whatever that was, he simply could not figure it out. Because he was paralyzed with anger. He was angry still at her, and something she said, which in a week, he won't even remember. He was angry at himself, and these feelings, so large, they burst from the seems of his soul. But it was the first time he felt the indignity of what she must have suffered; of his temper tantrums and tirades. It was the first time he knew, he wasn't ready for love.


Oh he could write about it. Describe it in a poem; dissect it in a movie or book; recognize its immensity in some other couple striving to build something, in a world that tries to tear that very thing apart. But he didn't know how to earn it. Or recognize it from close up.


 Satellites spinning and crashing out of control, their gravity inexplicably pulling, at forces which they should not effect. Tugging at the strings to find those moments, frozen in amber, and strapped to our backs, that make us more, and less, of who we might or will become, when forged on the anvil of time.


And he thinks, "A little bit of quantum physics would come in so handy right about now.A little bit of time is relative, and you are what you perceive: and a pair of rose coloured glasses to make it all true." Because he's tired of the sunset; he wants to rise with the day. He wants to live each moment as if he's at play. He wants to hold her hand oh lord, for forever and a day.

I can't read your face

"What's the matter? I can't read your face?"  "Nothing's the matter, I'm just waiting for instruction." "I know, but your so serious." And that's when I discovered I don't have much of a poker face. Actually, I've known for a while. It just takes me by surprise whenever I'm so easily read. I'm an actor. I should be better at hiding my emotions. But the fact is, it's not about hiding. It's about shouldering.

I'm drifting on a boat. Bare fingers sliding across the surface of the lake. Algae on the surface, the air hot and heavy, as the sun drifts it's way down towards the horizon. There I am on a lake with no egress. Looking for a signpost to rise like Excalibur's  sword. And it feels like time does not move here. But when I look at my reflection, I see the lines which have deepened on my face.


How long must I carry my regrets? How long must I make the same mistakes? How long to recriminate? How long do I have? Time moves slowly (except when you look behind).

I've been drifting for a while now. Without purpose or direction.


I've been mostly unemployed for the past two years. I've been mostly unloved for the past thirteen (though there, I must admit, the time is longer if you count myself). I've been mostly unfulfilled for the past twenty nine. Where does the time go?

I am full of the nectar of hubris. And like a tapeworm lodged in my stomach, it leaves me wanting for something more.

Of my talent, I have no doubt. Of a native intelligence, I am somewhat assured. But whatever self love, or self worth, that makes one get up, and ignore one's fear of failure... THAT, I do not have.

Was that fear beaten into me an early age? Was I ridiculed to the point where I believed it as truth? Or is it as simple as being lazy? And making bad decisions that addressed the immediate with consequences for the future? Is it dirt in the engine? Or no gas in the tank?

I saw a video the other day. And I'd like to share it with you now.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=TdkNn3Ei-Lg

What I wanted to say to this kid, beyond "have courage", "hang in there", "it gets better when your older" (?) is to never mind the noise and pick something, anything; a pencil, a guitar, two pieces of wood, and dedicate yourself to making something that no one else could. Do that. Find that. Make that. And it won't matter what they say about you today. They will praise you tomorrow. The longer you wait to do that. The harder it becomes to believe you can do it. The steeper that road becomes. And right now, you have the time to pave that road smooth. As you get older, you just get more tired.


I was that kid. Eleventy three years ago. Standing on a street corner, after a beating by the neighborhood bullies, I stood in front of a newspaper dispensing machine, kicking it it to the point where I nearly broke my foot. Crying. And screaming, "Why God, why?" Not a soul stopped to inquire or console. Understandable. I was beating the holy hell out of that newspaper dispensing machine. I'm sure I must have looked like a maniac. But I had no other outlet. I had no one to answer the question. It would be a few years still, when I would decide to stop asking that question. It would be a few years when I would decide that there was no one who could, and my problems are my own. But I don't wish that conclusion on anyone. And I want to hold this kid, and make it all better. And yeah, I've read enough John Bradshaw to know who I'm really addressing. And how little good I'd be doing until I address myself.


There's a lot of details, and a lot of questions I've left out. Who am I writing this for? How truthful do I dare be? What good can it serve? Is this going to be a creative outlet? Or am I just using this blog to regurgitate the detritus of my life? I suspect it's going to be a mixture of both And there in lies the difficulty. I'm not sure I want to publicize this. I'm not sure I want anyone to know. So for now... well, for now, I'll leave you with tonight's soundtrack. And bid adieu.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zs35CBGOxbc