Surrounded by Palms

I am not old
but older
I am not wise
but wiser
I am not complete
but aware

Life holds nothing in its hands
for its fingers will not bend
to just one thing

A Soldier's Fortune

hessian (HESH-uhn) adjective

1. A mercenary soldier or a ruffian.

2. Burlap.

The hardest lesson one can learn about writing is that no rules exist. Every time I feel stagnant with a premise, or bored with some dialogue, I seem to come across a book or play that's based in some alternate reality, or fuses dream-like images, or simply creates a world so different and interesting, I wonder if anyone else could have imagined it. What makes it a "hard" lesson, however, is not simply that it's difficult to locate or takes years to fully comprehend, but instead that writing without limits broadens the scope of general human existence to such a grand degree, fathoming the next step almost surely scratches the very action itself. Yes, there's the infamous "box" that separates all ideas into new and used, but my God, once outside the box, it's a frighteningly infinite universe.

I think a writer knows when they're writing something new and interesting--it's that moment when arm hairs tingle and the scribbling or typing stops and one thinks, "What in the hell just happened?" Sure, the next sentence might be total shit. But what you wrote before that: worth more than oil made from gold.

Fashionable Quotation

Here's a quote my friend emailed me that I really enjoyed. Apparently, it's from an interview with a famous fashion designer who became so agitated by the tenants of branding, he decided to resign his lucrative and oft-sought position as creative director. I find the last sentence particularly striking.

Because dimension is total, it is increasingly necessary to be vigilant on the direction. The direction, the idea, and engagement first of all. I am very skeptic on the tools of marketing. One does not advance while looking in a rear view mirror, unless being a follower. The idea initially, marketing then. Marketing can only support adhesion, and not replace creation. The formatting is not the performance; the performance, it is to know to think differently. I think of YouTube, but the examples are legion. One needs the intuition, before the reason. The insanity can also be powerful.

Watermarks

artesian (ahr-TEE-zhuhn) adjective

Pertaining to a well that has water rising to the surface under natural
pressure, without the need of a pump.

(I am dissatisfied with my daytime commitments and tired of complaining. My bitterness no longer serves as entertainment and when I encounter old friends--the best friends, the ones that know me best--I seem littered with sullen valleys.)

Change, strong personal change, can only occur after recognition. Before one can open a door, he must first see it.

No one sits in a room without exit.

(I am not proud of what I do here at the theater; it is not unique or interesting. And I should be proud. And I should participate only in interesting things.)

At the bottom of a pyramid, you are stifled by its weight and succumb to its pressure. At the top, you are too high to see the foundation and disillusioned with power. We are each blinded by where we could be. And that is civilization's ultimate flaw. Yet where we are--entrenched in the pyramid--was created by us. It is not what man makes that should define him, but instead why he chooses to make it.

Sometimes we are beings concerned more with the fountain than its water.

Yeah, well. Darwin's dead.

bombast (BOM-bast) noun

Pompous speech or writing.

I finished reading a book today--for the first time in months--and the first thing I thought was, "What a story says and what a story means may not always be different things."

When I finish my play, or flesh out any of the many parts of other things I write, I hope, when someone else reads it, they're moved to think the same way.

As a side note, if you ever (or more appropriately, never) question the human races' existence on this planet, I urge you to read Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut. I am now convinced that these "big brains" of ours instead represent an alien-like defect, and not the tools of infinite progress and created wealth. Sure, the possibilities of what we can do and accomplish in our lifetimes grows exponentially each day--all but one having been defined and refined within the limited scope of our self-constructed systems.

Ah, but I've said too much...

My Running Tab

grog (grog) noun

1. An alcoholic drink, especially rum diluted with water.

2. Any strong alcoholic drink.

At 27, life turns more backwards than ever. Your college days merge with your high school days merge with portraits of your best friends in junior high merge with when you used to slide down snow covered hills in your dad's backyard and how that old trailer doubled as a hideout for superheroes whose powers relied solely on a steady supply of Mentos. Suddenly, each memory spits out like a vending machine full of fortune cookies (no quarters needed).

You start to recognize dreams at 27--the ones you still pet, the ones you shelved--and all your loves and your loves lost. Tears, adventure, pain, desire, romance, the whole human spectrum of emotions in sepia-toned nostalgia. Running lists of laughter fueled by friendship and alcohol and general celebration.

Last night I asked, "When does life become about how much someone is willing to pay you to do something?", and that's exactly the kind of question you ask at 27. The kind that wonders how you got to 27 like this. Covered in cookie crumbs.

Drafting A Speech, Part I

ouch or ouche (ouch) noun

A brooch or buckle set with precious stones.

Lights Up

A moment of stillness passes before a suited man enters from stage left and crosses to the podium at a patient gait. He clicks on a small reading light, produces folded sheets of paper from his inside suit coat pocket, and then places them on the podium. He speaks slowly, with an accomplished confidence:

We are all privileged. Not just in the sense of what each of us choose to do for a living or choose to do on the side, or how we each adjusted our busy schedules to attend this event, or even in the methods by which we came to arrive here--in this unsecret hall for this unsecret occasion--and what form of transportation, owned or borrowed, drove us here. We are all privileged in the sense that we have seats. In the sense that where we go brings us to cushioned seats and that there are enough of them and, in fact, too many.

I, as you have no doubt observed, am not seated with you. But then again, I'm getting paid to tell you that.

And yes, it's true that I'm here, and that I am me, and that I should speak to all of you about the state of mankind and where I've traveled and what I've seen and all about what I think of those things. You probably know about me from a few articles in liberal publications and left-leaning magazines. Or maybe you read my blog, peruse through my pictures, my first-hand stories, the anecdotes of my travels. My life it seems sometimes. If not, you certainly can--it's all available through any basic internet connection. You can visit me from home, you can visit me from work, you can visit me from school, you can even visit me from your mobile phone. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, you should definitely consider visiting me and my website. I'm not hiding anything. And neither are you. Just ask the government.

But really, what good would recounting and reciting do in such a forum? What would that say about me if I stood up here and reminisced about familiar topics? If you've read me, then you've read me. If you've seen my pictures, you've seen my pictures. What you want is something new. If I'm a rock band, you want me to cover a forgotten song. You paid for a spectacle, not a review.

And this is what I have for you: We are all privileged. Privileged from every second we remain alive. I'm not talking about God, or Allah, or any religion. I'm just talking about me and all of you--any of you--listening to me speak here. All the ladies and all the gentlemen. We are all privileged. And in this sheltered, privileged life, we remain completely unaware or, at the very least, unwilling to look.

I've traveled the world. You know that. It doesn't make me any better or any worse or any thing than you. But more than likely, you have not traveled the world, and I suppose that's worth noting. Not a point of contention--that's not my role here--but instead something to consider. However you're feeling when you leave this hall, you might be sure to remember this one thing: I have traveled the world. You might think to mention it tomorrow to a friend or a coworker at the pub or the cafe or the water cooler when you attempt to describe this unsecret occasion you attended. When they ask you about me, about this curious person who spoke at a publicized event, you can tell them, "Well, he traveled the world," and that will be that.

To be continued...

Control + Alt + Delete

junta (HOON-tuh, JUHN-) noun

A group, especially one made of military officers, ruling a country
after a coup.

Yesterday afternoon a man was caught on camera covertly entering the theater behind two badge-wearing interns. According to the tape, he shadowed them as they flashed their badges and appeared to--or pretended to--receive a phone call on his cellphone. A member of the box office, in recognition of the badges, buzzed the front door and all three individuals entered as a group. The only reason anyone would know this detail, or why I in particular harbor this knowledge, or why anyone would consider reviewing a security camera tape in the first place, is universal and assumed: this man robbed us. He stole a recently purchased DV camcorder (high resell value) and a personal laptop (not as high, but valuable still).

Without surprise I am reminded about last year's Autumn Auffense, and all the heartache and anger and money and helplessness. It's quick to come back; it's easy. That specific feeling of invasion only gets repressed. Along with their footprints and sloppy exits, robbers always leave behind the gift of benign malevolence--that learned, jaded human instinct of distrust.

Sometimes I think, "Who has my old laptop now? Did they know it was stolen? Did anyone look at my files, my scanned-in photos, my unfinished essays and sketches? What about my music choices, what did they think of those? Is it all deleted? Wiped clean? Everything? My bookmarks? My homepage? My history?" I'm sure it is, really. I'm sure the motherboard got flogged and a pawnshop dealer turned the other way for $200 and this all happened in under a week's time. They probably took out the memory stick from my digital camera without even peaking at all the photos we took of Madison, Wisconsin on our trip the weekend before. I mean, why would they? Why would they care about our trip, about how it snowed one night and we got drunk at the hotel bar? Or how we drove to a nearby town famous for these little statues of gnomes, but it was a Sunday and everything was closed. So we ate breakfast at a diner. And drove back to Chicago. And slept that night in our dark garden apartment. With flimsy dowels in our front windows.

No Word Today

In my dream, a family of familiar faces welcomed me and Adrienne into their vacation home and urged us to watch their children perform a well-rehearsed song on the patio. They each had their own instruments, their own lines, their own tunes. They played happily and patiently; we enjoyed the show. And when they finished, the slightly overweight parents clapped proudly, the kids smiled briefly and then left the makeshift stage intent on dinner. The father watched his children scatter with a contentment assigned only to parents and then turned to me, and with genuine honesty, asked me to sing a song. He asked me this as though people are asked to sing songs all the time, in the same way a stranger at a bus stop might ask for directions.

I, however, was startled and taken aback. I'd been watching something without pretense and suddenly, unexpectedly flung backward into a state of self-consciousness. Although by no means an offensive question, its asking sent my brain spinning. Not a single string of phrases emerged, song or otherwise, and as stood thinking my body seemed to sink. I wanted to sing--desperately--and I wanted to sing something I knew and loved and wanted to hear. The silence strengthened as I tried to think of a song I knew to sing. Beats passed and pressure mounted--the father questioned me with his eyes, saying, I think, "Is there something wrong? Just sing, Zachary," and my mouth barely moved and no song came out. No singing.

That's me, I assume, in metaphor. Standing, lit, on a makeshift stage, wanting to sing but with no song. Stuck, gripped by the wanting. Elective suffocation.

Mr I'm On Fire Mr

mackle (MAK-uhl) noun

A blur, as from a double impression in printing.

verb tr., intr.

To blur.

Yesterday I bombed an audition with the vigor and relentless nature of a full-scale air raid, an unwitting kamikaze pilot with a jammed seatbelt and eyelids taped to my forehead. My radio sure as hell didn't work and my guns were out way past relevancy. Maybe someone hit my wing; I don't remember. Either way, I miffed. Missed the targets and dove to the ground in a crash. I said twenty-eight words, stammered, and miffed. Then, politely, almost robotically, like a true trained asshole, I asked to try again, for dear Sarge to just let me fly one more time to prove myself, to redeem myself. Yeah, I can do it now, Sarge, much better than the last time. All that was a fluke. I promise. Just watch, you'll forget all about the last thing.

And then I miffed again. Worse this time mostly because the stakes were higher. Mostly because I knew, somehow, that I was going to miff the whole time, but I watched myself do it anyway. Kind of sick, really. But all pilots are, I suppose. So this time, conscious as ever, I managed to eject myself, to pull the last trigger of self-preservation and fling myself right out of the condemned hot seat and into the lonely, unassuming airways.

Outside of being outlawed from ever flying again (in this war, at least), the hardest part about the whole experience is how, in a weird kind of way, I don't think I packed a parachute in that plane. Sure, I ejected myself. That hardened machine tossed me just like I asked--it's final task of execution--and my body spun out carelessly like in dreams that mean you need to find control. But my mind, man, I don't think I had a cord to pull for that. All I had left to hold onto was me and my own scratched shoulders. Falling. Just falling and falling. With no sound that anyone else can hear. Falling down to Earth.

Answering the Call

supramundane (soo-pruh-MUN-dayn) adjective

Above or beyond this world.

This whole week's been ridiculously stressful: It took me two nights to accurately submit an application for a job, during which I had to call old coworkers for references; regular evening storms have jarred me awake two out of three past nights; I'm blocked at a current spot in my play, that, in addition, has proven that I don't know what the hell I'm doing with Final Draft; my friend Justin is moving to LA this weekend and my friend Nate's in town from Arizona, making my ability to spend enough time with both of them super difficult; I have two auditions next week that I'm only half prepared for; and, all day at my job, all I can think about is my upcoming vacation. So, this morning, all that's on my mind--how's tonight's plan going to work? what's that line after Bruce talks about the gasman the first time? what if I put Act II in an interrogation room?--and then, while I'm opening up the office safe, the phone rings. At 9:15 AM, the only reason someone calls the desk line is to say they'll be late, an appointment took too long, slept in, loads of traffic, etc. That's what I expected; that's just what you expect. I picked up the phone, answered, and a coworker responds asking me if I'm the manager on duty. I am. Then voice starts to waver and she can barely say the words, "My aunt died."

Every ounce of stress from this week, every moment of tearing my hair, of staring at a computer thinking hard about the next sentence or an old job title or whatever, dissolved. Nothing, nothing compares to grief, to loss. What's so scary about all the bullshit I'm concerned with? What's so frightening? What's so overwhelming about all my human diversions? My God, have I lost focus? Someone I know, that I see almost every day, lost family, and I'm worrying about memorizing a couple pages of fiction?

Stress, worry--such self-imposed notions, such grey emotions. Life, love--so articulate in their expression. Yet, with which do I spend more time?

Sick on Saturday

identic (eye-DEN-tik) adjective

1. Relating to a diplomatic action in which two or more governments
agree to follow the same course in relations with another government.

2. Identical.

It's been quite some time since I last dropped any words in this online canister. Was I busy? Surely, sometimes. Was I lazy? Often, definitely. Regardless, today, as I sit on my couch, wind blustering in and out of the windows, a small ziplock of tissues at my feet, and tea cooling next to my laptop, I decided write again. To make a choice to write, and, more importantly, to choose to write something that need not be labeled as "good", "interesting", or "thought-provoking". Although I contend that those specific words rarely illuminate, they do sit heavy on my mind. Not in this blog really (how could they, you know? Thirty posts in a year or something?), but outside this blog, where I hope to create.

Do not write for the ends, write for the means. Focus not on the whole piece, but on a word, then the next word, then the next word, until you find yourself with a sentence. Like any art, to reveal something as "completed" marks a state of mind, not an end.

Oh, and as for the today's word, last weekend I saw SiCKO, and again found myself flung into the frustrating throngs of political disillusionment. I suddenly felt tossed into 2002, near the end of my college days and the very height of both my frustration and my action. Now, five years gone, as a day worker and a night performer, a renter and a consumer, I am further and further away from that self.

Here, before this computer screen, I am a glazed donut

sequacious (si-KWAY-shuhs) adjective

Unthinkingly following others.

The pulse, this machine's pulse, it sucks me dry, dry. I must find a way, a way outside.

Pigeon Holed

clay pigeon (klay PIJ-uhn) noun

Someone in a situation vulnerable to be taken advantage of.

Clay has a headset on and sits hunched over his workplace computer, scrolling through a webpage chronicling the effects of a chemical breach in upstate New York. His mouth agape, eyes half-shut, Clay imagines an onsite newscaster delivering the article's words: a cleancut, blue-blazered boy named something unwavering like Geoff Tammer, with stable eyebrows and a monotone voice that pronounces words with an annoying precision.

"...agephsitrin, a common chemical used in farms to increase livestock immunity to pesticides, previously thought harmless, is now being attributed to the death of nearly 100 cows in New York state alone. Farmers as far away as Michigan and Iowa have reported comparable deaths--"

He skims further down the webpage and encounters an interview. Here, a farmer emerges in his mind: dusty, dirty, donning overalls and a baseball cap; patchy facial hair, missing key teeth; underweight, or overweight, kind of hard to tell; and rusty, tight-jawed accent.

"First theyes look atcha bit clawdy, tongues'l dry and breff smellin sometin awfl. Then they's loosin weht...fastr n fastr. Jus ner fall ovr ded n to days time. Ain't nottin yous kindu. Nottin nobodys kindu. Jus gotta live, kno? Ho'l farm dead, nerly. Ho'l farm."

Sometimes Memories Feel Like Pocket Lint

verbigeration (vuhr-bij-uh-RAY-shun) noun

Obsessive repetition of meaningless words and phrases.

A month passes without a peep and here I am, a train stopped in spring. Sixty degrees outside, the sun shines calm rays while I sip coffee and contemplate change. Like the weather, I stumble between decisions--a week of heat, a day of frost--but May always stands as a month of assertion and finality, of graduation. Part of this past April included a breakfast conversation with my mom. She flew in to attend a conference downtown and we scheduled a morning one-on-one, an understood kind of meeting with expectations of such phrases as "your future" and "you can always" and "don't worry". No matter the gravity of the moment or situation, Mom (in a universal sense, really, or at least, hopefully) delivers a wisdom of balance. Over Swedish pancakes and eggs she said, "Zach, just make a choice. It doesn't matter what it is. When you make it, that will be the right one. But you have to make a choice."

Faced now with a cap and gown
only visible to me,
I must reconcile all the trials
and try again to dream.

That Sinking Feeling

paludal (puh-LOOD-uhl) adjective

Of or relating to marshes.

Last night I sat in the dark dressed like a hick lumberjack and listened hard. Mullet wig, red and black checkered shirt, orange vest, mesh hat--all thrown together an hour before in an effort to tease the audience. I had my glasses stuffed in a breast pocket for the full inward effect, hoping to generate character based on the newness of softened environment, of a blurry horizon. "Just listen and react," I kept thinking, "You know what you're doing." And I did. I did know, from the very minute it began. From the first moment I felt that familiar sensation, the physical sigh, the stickiness of a rotting scene. I knew.

Failing on stage strips the ego of all dreams. It's the papercut from a mailed letter that's never received. It's walking to work with splattered mud across your suit on Casual Friday. That grand godly scale tipping and pouring your fears all over your face.

Rhythm Or Without

pari passu (PAH-ree PAS-soo) adverb

At an equal rate or rank.

Whisper jazz as
overcast
clouds cover,
coast ahead.

All the pathways set
in stoned concrete
pavement squares--
a half-sleep haze
day
courtesy of the
WPA--
to the tinny tap taps
(my shoes
keep the beat)
mapped in my head.

Firm lipped
mumbled winter scats
blues up those flat souls
and frozen tongues
slapping the cement
amused by
the fuse lit in
what I say
instead.

Seasonal Affection

virga (VUHR-guh) noun

Rain or snow that evaporates before hitting the ground.

Here would best go a picture painted--or taken--specifically to evoke an uncertain mood. Insert: A man standing in the shallow end of the outdoor pool, water up to just under his knees. Black trunks, blue stripes (if in black and white, two shades of dark). Dry hair, uncombed. Centered, staring straight; a background of overcasting storm clouds.

Foreword: My job is a tennis ball caked in mud, hidden by last Fall's leaves, somewhere in the woods.

Caption: Do you remember what it's like to run without purpose?

Want To Get Away

misology (mi-SOL-uh-jee) noun

Hatred of logic or reason.

Lester sits at the breakroom table looking at the glossy pages of an oversized, hardcover book spread-out before him. A can of cola, opened, positioned to his left, fizzles. To his right lies an end-torn, squared column of saltine crackers on its side. The two seen pages of the book reveal vast photographs of natural settings: a springtime mountainside anew with green; thick dark-barked trees shading soft-moss underbellies; an overhead meadow view with a captured breeze in tilting grass and small shadows of distant clouds. Lester reads the photographs, studies them, turns the pages delicately, as if to the rhythm of a slow-moving waterwheel. His focus consumes him; his head lowers to the book; he breathes noticeably. The pages shine, flash with color that reflect off Lester's near-oval lenses--his lips part--and he blinks in deliberate disbelief. Grazing across the emanating photographs, his fingertips edge toward the center crease, then stop, suddenly, and stretch, flattening his hands to cover the most space available on each side. Lester straightens his back, closes his eyes, and mumbles a half-phrase while veering his head slightly back soas to face the ceiling. His body starts trembling--subtly, first, then quickly escalating to the point of near violence, his hands stuck to the book like stone. Bolts of color shoot from the pages, flinging off his glasses and brushing his hair back in sharp bursts of wind. The can of cola teeters, tips, rolls to the ground. A loud, tonal alarm sounds and Lester matches its intensity with a primal yawl. His sweat now mingles with tears.

All movement, sound, and energy stops. Cale, a coworker, enters the breakroom and opens the door to the microwave, his back to the table. Lester, his face lodged into the crease of the book, snores lightly and drools. A cola stream crosses the table, passes Lester's glasses, and drips from the edge of the table onto the floor, where a puddle has formed around an empty cola can. Without notice to Lester, Cale reaches into the microwave, retracts with a wince, briefly sucks on the tip of his finger, pauses, tears off a sheet from a nearby paper towel, then reaches again, covering his hand with the towel. This time, he returns with a mini pot pie.

"Aw, man. Shit's burnt." Cale places the pot pie on the counter and begins opening cabinets and, only after sound inspection, removes a plate, a fork, and knife.

As the commotion proceeds, Lester stirs, lifts his head. One page from the book lifts with him, stuck to his cheek.

A Quiet Snow

umbrage (UHM-brij) noun

1. Offense or annoyance arising from some insult.

2. Shade, as from a tree.

3. A vague suggestion or a feeling of suspicion.

Last week I put together a mix CD called "Wintry Mix", inspired by the sudden cold and the soft comfort of falling snow. I chose tracks based on how I thought they'd sound as music to winter's more iconic pictures or maybe accompaniment to building the season's first fire. Right now, outside my work window, I can't stop myself from watching one of those pictures form, from the quickly disappearing sidewalk cracks, to the now clearly defined branches on a bare tree.

Snow lacks the basic follies of human judgement--discrimination, fear, self-censorship--equalizing every civilized triumph and failure to the same state, blinding value and suffocating class. She touches, kisses steps like foreheads, fills holes and paints hills. Ignorant, silent like love, snow holds, embracing.