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September 12, 2006 |
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November 21, 2004 |
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I passed two old men standing on the street corner with a sign that depicted the Virgin Mary and bore the words, "Abortion Kills Children." My initial thought was, "Why is it always grizzled old men who protest abortion? These guys look they haven't gotten laid since FDR could walk." As I neared closer and saw the fervent devotion in their eyes accompanied by the glimmer of hope that I might also be a zealot, it ocurred to me that their sign wasn't necessarily an ANTI-abortion sign. It was actually quite matter of fact. Not "Abortion is Murder." Not "Abortion is Evil." No. "Abortion Kills Children." They might as well have been holding a sign that read, "Cars Consume Gasoline". Sure, it might SEEM like I'm saying something bad about the consumptive habits of SUV drivers or America's dependency on foreign oil, but I'm really just stating the obvious. Cars DO consume gasoline. Abortions DO kill children. Or at least potential children. That is its purpose, isn't it? It's raison d'etre? You should have seen the looks on their faces when I asked them that. "Isn't that its purpose?" I could actually smell their brain cells burning out as they tried to process my question. And by the time they had, I was already halfway down the street chuckling smugly to myself. |
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November 14, 2004 |
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September 19, 2004 |
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|| || || IT SHOWS Howdy, kiddies. Today's phrase: ABSOLUTE MIND NUMBING TEDIOUS BOREDOM "I am boredy bored bored bored," to quote myself, as I am won't to do. Comedy Central is having a Reno 911 episode marathon. I enjoy Reno 911. I always thought that Lt. Dangle's shorts were just an exaggerated joke, but Jeni and I were watching "Cops" once and it made me reassess that position. In the episode, a police officer was wrestling a guy to the ground. Another cop car pulls up and the officer who comes running up is wearing shorts that were actually SHORTER than Dangle's! It isn't like he was a bike cop, MAYBE I could understand the shorts in that scenario, but this guy pulled up in a cruiser. And when he helped hold the guy down, he did so by straddling the poor guy's head between his tiny policeman short clad thighs. There was no need for that. He could have held down the guy's feet or put a knee in his back. This cop purposely jumped onto the guy's head so he could cram his groin into the camera and thus force America to look at his tightly wrapped package. I started writing a song and then ran out of inspiration... Ah, sluggish Ah, like a barnacle they look somewhat the same but its far too close to tell All you children standing on the shores of Hell affix your gazes to the hibernating spiral shell its quite fabulous to see its ball and truss its the the world's first fully autonomous nautilus I guess I could go to sleep. I am pretty spaced out and tired which makes sense considering that I've been up for almost 24 hours. For some reason I don't want to go to sleep? I think? Don't ask me why. I really have no earthly idea. It would seem the logical thing to do considering I am bored, have nothing to do, and really should sleep. Maybe I'm afraid of becoming nocturnal again. The world is more dramatic at night, it's more depressing too. I always feel like I'm the last person left alive in the universe. The night always seems to last longer than the day, too. It could be because late night TV sucks ass or that the darkness has an illusory effect on the passage of time, but whatever the reason, the hours from 9pm to 9am feel endless to me. When you (and by "you" I mean me) get into the bad habit of falling asleep while it's still dark and not waking up until after it's already turned dark, the days start bleeding seamlessly together. Long empty lonely stretches of dark quiet silence punctuated by brief moments of unconciousness. Before long little things like time lose all meaning and comprehension. Try and remember what day of the week it is? Hell, try and remember what MONTH it is. At this point your mind starts to go. It packs it bags and says, "I'm going down to Mexico to start me a U.F.O. Religion!" (wow...that is an amazingly obscure reference which only I will find funny. gee, kind of like 90% of my blog. hee!) So yes. That is what happened to me. On and off, on and off, from the end of March until the end of July. It wasn't that bad at first. Nocturnal for a day, nocturnal for a weekend, brought about by oversleeping, and usually (usually) triggered by depression. Jeni going back to Florida after visiting or losing one of my temp assignments. I'd would keep pulling myself out it. I'd gradually readjust to the daylight, decompression by keeping myself busy with tasks and errands. But it was almost like these episodes had a cumulative effect. The depression and darkness of the night building up in my system like it was asbestos or "sweet n' low". Sooner or later I'd oversleep or undersleep again and revert back to being a raccoon, each relapse growing geometrically in both size and intensity. By the end of May, I had seriously begin to doubt whether I actually existed. When I DID see fellow human beings they never spoke to me, not even the ones I passed during daylight hours, not even cashiers in stores. Some didn't even make eye contact. I decided to test the truth of my existence by not speaking unless spoken to. Politeness to the extreme. No words would come out of my mouth unless they were first triggered by the voice of another. I wouldn't talk to myself (as I do far too often), wouldn't talk to Max (I'd still play, just no speech), wouldn't even sing. It was 9 full days before I spoke. I think, but I do not exist. And I decided that if I didn't exist, then nothing I did mattered. If you kill yourself, and you didn't really exist in the first place, then you're not really killing yourself, you're just accepting that you don't exist. It made sense at the time, far too much sense, and it scared me. I panicked. I panicked. And I panicked. My mind shattered and I lost all rationality. Fear can do that to you, especially when you're already feeling weak. A drowning man can be a very dangerous thing. You see, those who try or have the power to rescue a drowning man must be very careful. In his frantic condition the drowning man will flail about, desperately grabbing for anything that may save him. This instinctual irrational behavior often leads to injury or even death. Lashing out and accidentally striking his rescuer or pulling them down into the dark abyss of a watery grave, all in a desperately pathetic attempt at salvation. ...a bitter sweet ditty in the third person I've never actually seen quicksand. But I know what it feels like to drown in it. And I am not giving up. |
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September 12, 2004 |
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|| || || OF MY BLOG HELPED ME CHANGE WHO I AM or, saying you've had enough isn't the same as quitting. When I first started this blog, it was called the Avalon Collective. It was named after an idea. An idea to create an Arthurian group of artists, who would revolutionize the commercial art world. Like Cahiers du Cinema meets Dogma and Punk, but without any pretentious rules. Just a creed to make good art or at least try your best. But I grew tired of that concept. It was flawed. I needed other people to make that dream a reality. Other people don't want to make your dreams come true. They're focused on making their own dreams come true. I have a problem depending on others to do things for me. It's not laziness, it's a deep down fear. I'm afraid to try things because I'm afraid I'll fail. So I don't do anything. And the thought of having someone help me mitigates the responsibility. It's sad, I know. My friends are all farther along in their various fields than I am. How am I, a beginner, supposed to come in and say. Hey, help me form this group of artists of which I am the king. It's silly. So I gradually started to shift my focus away from that idea. The Avalon Collective was razed to the ground in a great fire. All the little pointy hats ths I had made up were tossed upon the bonfire. I had business cards made up. They only cost $5 for 100, but still. That's just lame. And out of the ashes of failure, Israfel - Scorched Angel Films. The imagery of the Scorched Angel came to me during the summer of 1999. A summer of excruciating torment. The previous owner of my parents house had planted a Melaleuca in the backyard at the edge of the fake pond. (They made it when they made the subdivison. Everything in Florida is fake.) So this big ass tree, which is at least 25-30 feet tall, is up against this old ratty fence over looking the lake. And even though it's a horrible mess because it constantly sheds its bark in these long gnarly strands that fall every where, it's somewhat pretty, with pale green bark that's exposed when the bark falls away. The thing with Melaleucas. Melaleucas die very quickly. That's why they are a blight on the landscape. Some brilliant explorer type imported them from Australia. They suck up all the water around them, starving all the rest of the plant life in that area, and then after 4 years or so, they fall over. The roots just give out. So one day this enormous 30 foot tree crashes down into the lake. Of course we had to get rid of it. It was on our property. Since I was on break from school and out of work I agreed to chop it up into small transportable pieces which could then be toted to the dump. Luckily the old ratty fence was stronger than it looked. It was the only thing that was keeping the entire bulk of the tree from being submerged beneath the water of the lake. I hung out on limbs with a small hacksaw and removed branches at a time. I was swinging around like a monkey. The hacksaw was small and it was slow going. It took days before I ever started to make noticeably progress. On the fourth day, it was at least 100 degrees outside. I stupidly took of my shirt and didn't think twice about the ultraviolet rays boring down on me as I hung upside from a branch of the reflective surface of the lake. I didn't just get sunburned. I got sun poisoned. THE LIGHT FROM THE SKY POISONED ME. I had a 104 degree temperature. And I was delirious. But that wasn't the worst part. I was so severely sunburned that I couldn't wear a shirt. I just couldn't do it. It hurt too bad. All I did two endless weeks was sit inside with my back to a fan or smeared in ointment. I was coping quite well until the itching started. If you've never experienced the kind of boring-into-your brain-with-razor-hot-needles, so you can't think of anything else but how badly every inch of your body is screaming for you to scratch and how you itch and itch and itch until it burns...oh how it burns!!!, type of pain then you really don't know what you're missing. it's hell. And don't even jump in a pool when you itch that badly. It WILL cool you off momentarily, but only until the chlorine makes you itch 10 times worse than you did before. To distract myself during this time I was writing a lot. I was kicking Shadows around as always, as well as a script that required me to research Angels. Old Testament, not that PAX TV bullshit. Give me Pestilence and flaming swords not weepy bullshit about whitebread crackers getting God to do their penny ante bullshit chores. The script got abandoned long ago, but I still have the fascination with Angels. There's something just about Old Testament Angels that I really dig. Obviously they're very iconic. Magnificent statutesque beings with regal bearing and huge enveloping wings. They defy description. Some of texts report that the higher classes of angels possess not two, but 6, 9, or even 12 pairs of wings. The wings are definitely part of the appeal for me. I've always wanted to fly. I get vertigo looking up at tall buildings from the sidewalk, but I've always wanted to have a huge set of enveloping wings, like an Angel and just soar through the clouds. Angels are also romantic. The images of angels are very much like those of doves. Doves being another object which instantly leads the mind to thoughts of romance and peace. Angels are a force of nature. They are something completely unattainable, but uncontrollably desirable. They are mysterious. They hide in shadows, yet are beings of light. They are hopelessly tragic. Bound to do horrible deeds even if they do not want to as they have no free will. How sad such a being must be. To have the power of God and be a slave. Does having no will mean having no desires? Could such a being even exist? Or does it mean having no conscience? Like the Japanese view of Demons or the Faerie Folk. Creatures with magical abilities that exist in Nature and act without concern to others. I put the image in the back of my mind and never thought much about it again. Not until I decided I wanted to move away from The Avalon Collective. I needed a new vision. Something that was more personal. Scorched Angel immediately came to mind. I started flipping through my reference material desperately looking to see if there was a specific angel who represented this image. And then I read of Israfel. And everything clicked. "It is said that Israfel looks three times each day and three times each night into the depths of Hell, and is so stricken with horror and grief at the plight of the damned souls that he weep so that his tears would flood the earth, if God did not prevent them from flowing." From Pantheon: "God created him at the beginning of time, and of all God's creatures, he possesses the most beautiful voice. He will sound the Resurrection Trump which will ravish the ears of the saints in paradise. He holds this trumpet at his mouth century after century, for at any time God could give him the signal to blow it. At the first blow, all the stars and the mountains will fall down: the world will be destroyed. The second blast will set in motion the resurrection, when all the people will rise from their graves." The burning one. Filled with sorrow over the plight of the tortured souls of the damned and the eventual doom of all mankind. So much pain, and yet despite all that, he is the The Patron Angel of Entertainers. He is the Angel of Song. And his voice is beautiful. Or the story of The Torture Garden. In the walls of a Chinese prison, horrible atrocities are inflicted on those who go seeking the limits of pain and pleasure. It is an evil abominable place. And yet the blood and waste of the tortured which spills onto the ground, fertilize it, filling it with such nutrients which cause the most beautiful flowers to grow in all the world. Sometimes it takes something horrible to create something beautiful. It is easy to create great works of art when you are happy and content. Well fed, a regular Charley Potato. But to be in abject misery. To be consumed with unending sorrow, and still be able to sing. And that's not just beautiful. That's a miracle. And so. Israfel - Scorched Angel Films. A shining light in the dark. It didn't dawn on me until just recently, despite changing the name and outlook of this blog back in April, but I need to do as much of this on my own as possible. No one is going to do it for me. If I want to be Walt Disney and Orson Welles rolled into one tight little delicious package of man meat then I need to start working to get there. There are no short cuts. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step This is step #3 I've finally realized. That I have to do this. I started this blog for one reason. To force myself to be more honest in my writing. I was in an editing slump with Shadows. It just wasn't real enough. It was missing something. And I realized I needed to stop being afraid to say what needed to be said. Hence my many lengthy profane diatribes on here. It's worked. Despite the many juvenile examples to the contrary, my writing is more mature and focused and, most importantly, honest than it's ever been. It's forced me to be a better writer. And keeping it has forced me, on more than one occasion, to face reality. It helped me when I had a horrible secret. It let me scream and cry when I thought no one was listening. And it gave me something to do. So now I admit what I was afraid to admit for months. The truth. L.A. isn't working out. I tried. I did my best. But sometimes you have to know when it's time to cut your losses and admit defeat. As Kenny says, "know when to hold them, and know when to fold them." I'm not giving up. Don't think that, mon amis. I like MacArthur, shall return. In the case of this blog It'll be like I wasn't even moving. Although the posting is going to be sporadic. I'm going back to Florida. Back to my tenuous safety net. I shall be getting an apartment since my presence still dredges up unfortunate memories. But despite the fact that I'll still be living alone, it won't be like Cali. I'll be within driving distance of my parents, and JENI! And yet I'll be far enough away that they won't feel like I'm intruding on their space, nor they on mine. Plus Max will actually get to see sunlight. And I won't have to constantly worry about him being confiscated by THE MAN. I'm actually looking forward to this. I accepted this defeat and said to myself, "Look. It's not total defeat. You just weren't prepared. But you did it. And it's not that you failed, you just need a different approach to get where you want to be in life. This wasn't the right way. And now you know better." Ever since I did that it's like the clouds parted. I'm thinking clearly for the first time in months. My vision isn't blocked anymore. I can finally see how the script I'd been pounding my head against for weeks is supposed to unfold, and I wrote 5 pages of it in one sitting. I've come up with ideas and schemes and plans which seem so logical and simple that I can't believe I never thought of them before. I think I may go to school and get trained in graphic design. It's something I've dabbled in for years, but I really think that if I applied myself I could do something with it. I even have a graphic art and photography portfolio from things I did on my own, screwing around. It's pretty impressive for an amateur. I've thought it out. I can start small, free posters for college groups advertising events, then flyers for bands, then videos for bands. Then before you know it, all my websites (film production, film review, etc) are up and running. And looking stellar. It'll take a lot of work, and a lot of time. And a lot of money. I have to get a web hosting account, register domain names, get a better computer for video editing, get a camera, get software, pay for school. etc. etc. Yeesh. A lot of work. But I'm willing to put forth the effort. If I can't take these first steps, nothing will ever happen for me. |
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July 01, 2004 |
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* * * * [WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRATUITOUS (but wholly appropriate) PROFANITY] Rush Limbaugh is a stupid fuck. He's a stupid fuck and I'm not even taking into account the whole pompously arrogant, self-righteous, hypocritical pill-popping, head firmly wedged up his own anal cavity thing. From The Internet Movie Database [...] a young caller on the Rush Limbaugh radio show Tuesday described how he and his brother sneaked into a theater showing [Fahrenheit 9/11] and began denouncing what they saw on the screen. Limbaugh then asked what the other patrons did? Caller: 'Well, they start telling us to shut up and start cursing at us, and then a mean-looking woman ran out and called the cops on us right away.' Limbaugh: 'For how long were you debating while the movie was playing?' [debating? how do you debate a series of still pictures projected on to a wall at 32 frames per second?] Caller: 'I'd say it must have been like five minutes until the cops came. ...' Limbaugh: 'I'm sure they were furious. You probably ruined their night.' Caller: 'They wanted to kill us. They were throwing popcorn at us and everything.' Limbaugh: 'They wanted to kill you by throwing popcorn at you? I would love to have seen this.' I bet you would, you stupid fuck. Listen, jack off. If those two punk ass little bitches had come into the auditorium and started screaming shit at the screen while I was trying to a watch a movie, not only would they have had to call the cops, they would have had to call the paramedics, too. I would have ripped my seat out of the floor and used it to beat those stupid fucking cunts to death. Tell me something, Rush. Who the fuck named you anyway? Rush? What the fuck kind of name is Rush? Was your Dad in a hurry when he banged your Mams? Couldn't he afford the full fifteen minutes? Tell me something, Rush. How would you feel if I stumbled into your bedroom and started screaming "BLAH BLAH BLAH! I AM THE KING OF ALL WEASELS! ALL WILL BOW BEFORE THE MIGHTY WEASEL KING! FEAR ME YOU FUCKERS! FUCKING FEAR ME! RAAAAAAAAAH! RAAAAAH!" over and over while you're desperately trying to jack off with your tiny withered dick to old home movies of you squirming gleefully around in a bathtub while Cheney and Bush take turns shitting on you. (Bill Hicks is the man.) I don't care what your politics are. Be a Republican, be a Democrat, be a fucking Commie Pinko Bastard for all I care. If you encourage people to be as inconsiderate and disrespectful of others as those two dickheads than you should be publicly executed. (Check it, another 15 cent fatwa has been issued, baby! Kill him and Eisner and I will give you three shiny dimes.) The people in that audience paid their hard earned money to watch a movie, not listen to the retarded opinions of a couple of (I'm taking a "wild" shot in the dark here) spoiled suburban white kids who have too much time on their hands and have nothing better to do than act like fucking idiots. They don't deserve praise. They deserve a punch in the throat. They need to get a job and they need to be taught to respect other people. They should be hogtied and left in front of the theater so every single member of that audience can line up and take turns pissing on them. I guarantee that after that experience silence WILL be golden. |
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June 29, 2004 |
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