Shawnja

2005-01-20T09:46:00.000-08:00

Forced Communion

Did I just witness an inauguration or a church service?

I'll be under the covers, undercover, if you need me today.

2005-01-09T15:38:00.000-08:00

New Year. Old Reminders.

-Fall in love with taboo all over again. Show your humility. Then transform it.

-Exercise your right to be wrong. It's how we learn. Most of your loved ones can see through you when you are trying to save face anyway. We are not perfect, nor are we designed to be, and that fact alone makes you wonderful.

-Regain control of your thoughts! Take what you hear and see from the media with a grain of salt, and throw it to the wind. Become your own media outlet, your own celebrity, interview yourself on all things worth reporting about, then live by it, as much as you wish.

-Swim, hike, run and fly against tradition. Keep the masses guessing, and let them in only on your accord. Apply this to your art, your love, your ethics, and the words you speak. Create a new color and throw it into the face of the suburban flatlands.

-Curb your jaded self and your hard sneers. We are entertained by drama queens, but we rarely ever fall in love with them. Heighten your senses, and the rest usually follows. Become present in those judgmental moments and change your scope, even by a few degrees.

-Turn off the computer and read a damn book. Even one with pictures.

-You are a writer, a actor, a singer, a director, a dancer at heart. Therefore, you are not called to be a role model. Break the molds! Use your eyes to see the signs around you and show us the truth, be it the real truth, or your own. Rules don't apply when you are grasping for notes or finding the word.

-You must love even if it hurts you. You will hurt yourself more if you don't love.

-It's perfectly all right, if you're straight, to say that someone of the same sex is beautiful. And it's just fine, if you're gay, to watch a tiny bit of football. We won't be dumbfounded, we promise.

-I really don't care how serious or over kids games you appear to be. Buy a coloring book. Play a video game. Get a rubber ball for a quarter. Hopscotch your way into work. You may find yourself grinning by doing so. Seriously.

-You are multi-layered and complex. This does not isolate you from everyone else. It actually brings you closer to people, so try to make something of it, even if it's just a cake.

-Drink wine, but not too much. Overindulged in small doses.

-Personify your hopes and fears into gods. It's great for the imagination. Dream is everywhere, Delirium may be just around the crooked corner. Discipline is knocking at the door. By giving these ramblings in our minds a physical entity, we can tackle them easier. Plus, it's fun to do so.

-Take a one day mental fast. Refuse to digest information and emotional charges. Stretch.

-The hatred in this society can transform you. It can literally change the shape of your body and the scope of your ideas and interests. Fight it. Utterly. Don't let them win. You have been given some space and some time. Float, or flee, or run, or dash.

-Keep your true friendships holy and support them as best as you can. Simple, but true. Sometimes challenging, but worth the effort.

-Try.

2005-01-03T04:53:00.000-08:00

Happy 2005 To All!!

.....and more words soon, with paragraphs and stuff, by the end of the week. So sorry for not keeping up. I have no other excuse besides giving in to the rain and the slip of the moon. All you people with blogs of your own are doing a mecha-fabulous job! Amazing Friends.
I'll see you soon.......

2004-11-05T01:58:00.000-08:00

Not Again

"The Bush Administration has had success in carrying out its policies and implementing its intentions, aided by majorities - political and, apparently, ideological - in both Houses of Congress. Substantively, however, its record has been one of failure, arrogance, and - strikingly for a team that prided itself on crisp professionalism - incompetence."

-The Editors, The New Yorker, November 1, 2004

Ohio was still a colorless looming question mark as I left for work. By the time I approached the nightclub, the looks on the happy hour barflies confirmed my newfound political fears. As Florida fell into the red, the rest of us just stared at the television screens, trying hard to find a solution to the new equation that presented itself to us. "They're calling Florida too early again!" I yelled at Tom Brokaw, not really knowing if it were true, but trying to find some simple problem, some way out of the mess. Anxiety rose throughout the bar. While many around me tried to cover it all up in nervous laughter, the rest of us knew otherwise. I started to become my hard hardened self, that part of me that I try to reserve for only the most pressing of matters, because it takes such a toll, it consumes my thoughts and posture, it usually wastes precious time. But by the time I had arrived home, that part of me had won, and was now reduced to tears and long pauses in the lonely night air. This had hit me harder than I thought. After months of having two candidates faces ingrained in my mind, the one I thought was the obvious replacement had lost himself in a land of Red bookended by lakes of Blue.
And it all sounds so overly dramatic, doesn't it? Judging by my words, you may want to shake your fists in the empty space and label me a liberal crybaby. You may want to give in to all the jargon you have amassed over the years via local news and instant gratification that currently spellbounds the sound bite society in which we live. You have chosen your pipeline of information, be it Fox or Harpers, the AP or the net, and you have combined it with the church you attended or didn't attend, what mom and dad told you was right or wrong, what you learned in college and afterwards, the school of life. And you chose to listen or not listen. To truly Listen or not Listen.
And you voted accordingly.
I don't know where to put my anger right now. My deepest hope concerning the whispers and shakers in Washington is that the Fortunate Son who has gained four more years will find a way out of his exclusive faith based bubble he has created, and will learn to listen. I don't think that is asking too much. But looking back, I have reason to be concerned. Profoundly concerned.
What bothers me the most is the black and white mentality that seems to have shackled the country. Does it really exist, or is it another easy way for the media to define us? Just because you don't believe in the war does not make you unpatriotic. And just because you are pro-life does not make you a God fearing patriot. I don't believe that most human beings live that way. But do they think that way? Has our laziness and lack of curiosity about what goes on past our own backyards completely warped our worldview? I don't want to believe that people don't stop and question and think for themselves. But again, looking back, I have reason to be concerned. When eleven states oppose civil unions for gays ( and I trust this audience knows why those propositions were really placed on the ballot ) I don't only feel personally attacked, I feel like a pawn and a tool for people that have nothing......nothing to do with the way in which I live my life. How is my biological structure harming a family that lives in Montana? My God, am I really that threatening?? I wish nothing but the best for that family in Montana. I hope they live long and free. I hope the children go to good schools and achieve all that they want in life. And yet they want to deny me certain rights. Just who, I ask you, is being perverted here?

This landscape in which we live and play, political and otherwise, is it going to get worse before it gets better? Now that many of us have validated the president, will anti-Bush protests around the world be transformed into anti-American ones? The president says he will work to earn the trust of those that voted against him. Fine. I am listening. Truly Listening. And for those of us who tried to push the national agenda into a more honest and worthwhile light, please allow whatever anger or sadness you feel to create a new pull for yourself. I think that this election process showed us that every deed, small and large, plays a role. Imagine patterning that kind of mentality over your own hopes and artistic deeds. It is so easy to become jaded and misinformed in this world, and that's unfair, but in this moment, right now, that's life. So fight for what you believe in, the words you write, the songs you sing, the smiles you offer both the stranger and the lover. Be cautious and free flowing at the same time.......it can be done. There is too much at stake. We need to be the balance, we need to make the difference.

"Let them remember that there is a meaning beyond absurdity. Let them be sure that every deed counts, that every word has power, and that we all can do our share to redeem the world in spite of all the absurdities and all frustrations and all disappointments.
And, above all, let them remember to build a life as if it were a work of art."

-Abraham Joshua Heschel

2004-08-05T11:19:00.000-07:00

Two Seasons Two

If there was never any doubt in all his life that he knew that this was the proper moment, it was then. It was two summers ago, and the city was constantly forced awake by the concrete tiers that absorbed the bitter heat and sent the old and young either outside or in, depending on their motives. Having overslept, he was sensitive and alert that day, and cut through the park to finish the hours with a book, and the usual quiet meditation that sometimes takes place among the grass. Flipping through the crisp pages, he wondered just where his cat had gone off to, as it had always wandered off at this hour, but he knew it was safe, and he knew it would return. He sat beside the parks slivered path, body down, the sprinklers to his left quenching the dry wind, providing a fine mist. To his right were the old Russian men, who with little discussion concentrated on the chess boards that lay before them, while their wives walked together in sane and varied circles. The men looked like military strategists, he thought, warhorse hands moving a black or white piece, mirroring thought. He watched the men play, and then the moment, the one he had no doubt of, occurred suddenly. The men turned simultaneously, observing the figure that stood in the sun, paperback Tolkien as guide in small hands. He stopped. She caught his forward grounded glances and brushed the hair from her face. Above them, a tiny aircraft flew, and for reasons he did not fully understand, he found himself invested in the way she took in the heavy tone that surrounded the air above them. He lowered his book, and she stood in his sun now. She waited. Time, as it were, did not freeze up, but then and now, swiftly pulsed at such a pace that they had never experienced before in the past. He focused, squinted, and crushed pulled grass between his fingers. She grinned hard, than swallowed, pushing herself closer to this boy who had obstructed her path. She saw hair as black as night with dark eyes to match. Sienna skin and a crooked smile, a knowing smile. She saw a thick neck and flat, long hands, and a bracelet made of cloth around his wrist that had been worn away in worried places. His face was solid and soft, and full of a rare curiosity. He was confident in the the face he witnessed, and as he looked closer her eyes became more weary and sincere. There was a willingness in her face that filtered down her body, a tall T swerve with arms open. Her skin was the color of liquid ivory, and as she graced her arms out, the smile she offered did not sway. In the foreground, the women continued to wander the parks and the men played chess. He set his book by his side and gazed at this newfound mirror. She regained her posture and resumed her stare, and reached out slowly for the broken grass.

The study lasted for many moons, between a unforgiving rainfall, branches that snapped and a cat that missed his faithful owner.

And then he knew, as time restored itself, that it was indeed, time.

She slowly arched up, and began to walk away. He watched her go, and closed his eyes.

The words, the poet, completed the circle.

2004-07-16T03:07:00.000-07:00

Two Seasons

If there was never any doubt in all her life that she knew that this was the proper moment, it was then. It was two Junes ago, and the city was in hibernation, a quiet sleep before the more sweltering tiers of heat crept in, forcing the very old into those climate controlled dens, and pushing the young out towards the plastic byways and neon angles, innocence lost by dusk.  She was tired that day, and lacking deep sleep she cut across the park where her home, and the cat, hopefully, awaited her. The cat wasn't hers, but it greeted her on the steps to her modest apartment, and would patter with her to the door, and for whatever important reason, this gave her a sense of security as she tightened the deadbolt, leaving the cat to its original owner. She walked along the parks narrow path, face down, dodging the waterworks from the sprinklers to her left. To her right were the weary Russian women, in packs and scores, talking silently, walking slowly while their husbands played chess together in huddled masses on thick concrete tables. The women looked like Greek philosophers, she thought, necks slightly curved and hands behind their backs, stoic steps keeping tempo with the topic at hand. She watched the women sway, and then the moment, the one she had no doubt of, occurred utterly.  The women glided to the left and right, like human curtains, revealing the figure that lay in the sun, Proust as pillow, bits of paper and pulled grass resting on his chest. She stopped. He caught her sudden frozen disposition, and brushed the grass from his shirt. High above, an aircraft flew, and she found herself focused on its low pitched tone. For reasons her eyes and legs did not understand, this tone provided comfort, and a willingness, however small, to walk towards him. She lowered her backpack, and he lay in her shadow now. He waited. Time, as it were, did not stand still, but in this instance, accelerated at such a pace that they might never experience again in the future. She blinked twice and tapped her side. He swallowed hard, then grinned, pushing himself up to sit and to see more clearly this girl who had eclipsed his sun. He saw auburn hair with wise eyes to match. Pale skin and thin lips, knowing lips. He saw a long soft neck, and small hands, and polish on the fingers nails that had been chipped away in nervous places. Her face was round and tight and still, and he held his grin, his place in this shadow.  She was certain of this face she observed, yet as she drew closer his eyes became more dark and pleading. There was a curiosity in his face that matched his body, a long S curve planted heavy on the green. His skin was the color of coffee and milk, and as he placed his palm to the back of his neck, the smile he gave implored her to stay.
In the background, the men continued to play chess and the woman wandered the paths. She placed her backpack near her feet and sat, gazing at this newfound twin. He straightened his posture and broke his stare, slowly pulling out blades of warm grass.

The study lasted for many months, between a relentless snowfall, sparrows that hatched and a cat that missed his apartment stoop greeter.

And then she knew, as time resumed its proper place, that it was, indeed, time.

She slowly arched up, and begin to walk. He watched her go, and closed his eyes.

"Every moment it's deepened, restored," she quoted the poet.

"Cada segundo se profundiza y renueva," he quoted her back.

2004-06-29T03:50:00.001-07:00

Albuquerque, New Mexico, June 29, 1973, 12:19 AM

Happy Birthday To Me,

Happy Birthday To Me,

Happy Biiiiiirthday Dear Shawn/One Who Loves/ Honest Smile/ Samwise/ Love me Yeeeah...

Happy Birthday To MEEEEEEEEEEEE.......

....Whose your American Idol now, ya bitches???

(Clenches fists towards the heavens )

WHOSE YOUR AMERICAN IDOL NOW????????!!!!!!!!!!!!

2004-06-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

Born Again

Drag Queens. Masterbeat. Gay Dads. Cruisers. Daddies. Twinks. Drag Kings. Dykes on Bikes. Ambercrombie Zombies. Tweakers. Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Prettyboys. Leatherclads. Geeks. Bi-curious. Bi-sexual. Buy sexual. Skinheads. Gay cops. Badpuppies. DNC. Sailorboys. Hombres. Bears. Rice Queens. Size Queens. Go-Go Boys. Goths. Musclebounds. P-Flag. Straights. Outfest. Advocate. Jocks. Trannies. Boy Next Door. And about 162 men dressed up like Cher. Well, as it turned out, Cher having a really, really bad hair day.
Gay Pride Weekend. I have been witness to several of them since I work at a nightclub which happens to attract a large gay clientele. And I don't think I fit into any of the above, so I am not exactly sure where I fit in. But that's besides the point.
In the past, Gay Pride was undertaken by intimate movements called Act Up and Queer Nation, and the driving force that made the people march was serious, unforgiving, a massive silverstreak bound by rainbow flags and pink triangles. Today, the festivities are sponsored by Absolut Vodka, Miller Lite, and Malibu Rum. And nobody seems to mind as they are all drunk by noon. Is this a bad thing? I can't really say. But there does seem to be something missing. It's a Catch 22. As gay culture continues to edge its pretty head into the mainstream, the places where that culture originated from starts to lose, slowly, its own originality. Big Business looks like it is here to stay. As a colorful result, the gay community is being pulled in every direction. There are those that don't want the fear and loathing from the past, they want marriage, they want the picket fence, they want another season of Will and Grace. There are those that want nothing to do with the possible sterilization of their lives, they don't need marriage, they want the barbed wire fence, they want another season of Queer as Folk. And there are many shades inbetween, points being made by gay political figures, the couple walking hand in hand, the shirtless vamp bumping coke in the bathroom stall.
I am not sure what Gay Pride stands for anymore, but that's alright, because I don't think Gay Pride knows Herself. It's interesting, a party, a bit of fun, a flighty weekend.
Oh, and yes, the Jesus people were there too. Army of God. They came to remind us that we are going to this place called hell. The crosses they carried were fucking huge this year. So big, in fact, that they had these training wheels at the base, and a nice padding at the intersection of the cross so that when they carried it, it would not bruise the shoulder. They planted themselves at a busy street corner. I love talking to them:

Army of God Person: Alls I am saying is that you need to be born again. I would really be sad if I didn't see you in heaven at my side. If you are not born again, you will go to hell.

Me: How can you just verbally throw away a life like that? You don't really know me.

Army of God Person: I know that you chose to be gay.

Me: I can assure you, that's not the case. I like your shoes.

Army of God Person: Can you name me just one book that is more powerful than the Bible? Just one?

Me: Umm. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

At which point, she knew the battle was lost. I didn't even get a chance to tell her about the kind of God that I believe in, but I don't think she would of cared to hear about it. I suppose the major difference is that my God has the ability to laugh, while her God has brimstone and Hitler for breakfast.

Biology vs. Religion is getting so, so old.

And besides, what needs to be born again is Gay Pride. I have no idea where to start. I look really bad as Cher, so don't count on me to fill in that particular botoxed Hedwig...

2004-06-10T21:40:00.000-07:00

Remembering the Future

Last week, I found myself back home, hoping to help my friends through the Transition of Loss, those closed spaces in the mind where past, present, and future collide into a sort of frozen shore, as we gathered to remember the passing of a woman who joined the wide open sea above our hearts and prayers.
Camilla Tortoreto Rowe was the mother and mother-in-law of Adriana and David Roze, two souls who have always been strong and steadfast in my eyes. This strength has been tested so unforgiving this past year. As I stood in the background at Camilla's funeral, a reminder to my friends to remember the future, I witnessed a rare shade of them both that only Love and Loss can tap into, and is therefore indecipherable.
I will always remember Camilla as a pillar of that same strength, the anchor of a family, of curious eyes and golden laughter. These are ideas that I have of her. And ideas don't die. We walk and we play and we cry and we remember the future through The One whose spirit we add to our own, and we honor it, as we walk and we play and we cry.

I have heard it said that when you really know someone, there are times that you can be with them in complete silence. Sometimes that silence is forced upon us, thus the closed space, thus the frozen shore. But there are multitudes of words and memory between those white capped breaks, that moment before the next wave hits the wet sand before our tired feet, and we remember.

Adriana, David, I am here for you, in silence, or not. You are free to decide for as long as you deem fit.

At Camilla's wake, in the Rowe's backyard, there is a statue of Mary standing atop a low hill. Circular concrete steps lead you to Her. The children, of which there were many, had found several pieces of blue and white chalk. Before long, the steps had become works of art...round stone portraits of faces and sunbeams and ocean waves. I took another breath, and turned in slowly towards the house, remembering the future, honoring the past.

2004-05-26T03:38:00.000-07:00

"Look at this stuff, isn't it neat.....?"

You either understand or you don't. The collector's mentality. You either understand why one would pay $600 for a piece of original comic book art, or you stand there, staring at the ground, hands in your pockets, thinking of half a dozen other ways you would spend so much money. You either understand why your friend would commit the time to spend hours in line to autograph a Disney sculpture that will later be silently placed in a curio, or you just smirk, then smile, and love your friend anyway. The collector's mentality. I have been blessed with it since I was a boy. Or cursed, depending on whether or not you understand. I remember it well. It started....with Smurfs. Yes. This I admit. While my childhood friends hacky sacked their youth away, I was amassing Smurfs by the dozen. They were displayed proudly on my small wooden desk, and Papa Smurf was their leader, and This Was Good. They hid in my backpack as I walked to school, and were placed under my pillow to guard the lost tooth that would magically be transformed into a silver dollar by the tooth fairy. Sun drenched summers passed too quickly. In time, the blue elves and evil Gargamel gave way to transforming robots. Transformers ruled the latter part of my childhood. Every cent went to these citizens of Cybertron, and I controlled the war that they fought in my own backyard. Optimus Prime was my generation's John Wayne, and he fought the good fight, and he never floundered, and he was six stories of transforming might that possessed my mind well into my teens. Around my 220th Transformer, I decided the war should end. But the collecting bug bit back in the form of comic books. More summers gave way, and at some point during college, I was looking at long boxes totaling 5200 comic books, give or take a few hundred, before the burden of long rehearsals at school forced me to stop reading those 22 page episodes.
Now during all of this time, I found I was drawn to animation. I remember watching an animated version of Gulliver's Travels that, even as a child, I found breathtaking. The rich colors I desired to fall into, the world was different and yet I understood. Other animated films represented other rites of passage. My first beer at 16 was spent with friends as we watched a bootleg copy of Heavy Metal, and the knowledge that we were getting away with something grand was measured in the gritty cells of that rock 'n roll flick. Akira, the Japanese anime film that opened the U.S. floodgates of many more imitations to come, was watched in my college student union building with my fellow sophomores. For weeks, the battle cry of "TESUOOOOOOOO!!!" from that now cult film made us all giddy. Then came Disney. I know what you're thinking.... How could the idea of Disney co-exist with my Tori Amos, Beatnik, Coltrane induced view of the world?
Well....it happened on one of those Zip-a-Dee-Do-Da-Days...
Now that's the kinda day where you.....throw down four quarters at your dollar theater to watch Beauty and the Beast. (Does the dollar theater even exist anymore?) Anyhow, there I was, a teen, almost alone in the theater that summer day, not knowing what to expect. Then the unexpected happened. Scores of children rushed into the theater. By scores, I mean hundreds. Loud, pushy, and sweet as can be. The local Parks and Recreation Department had planned a movie day, and as it turned out, this is where these summertime school-less children ended up. With me. The lights lowered, the film began. I was enthralled from the very first frame that beamed through the arclight and onto the slightly concave silver screen. Suddenly, and without warning, something beautiful happened when Belle began to sing. The children joined in. Quiet at first... a inspired princess behind me began singing aloud and with no inhibitions. Then two more in front of me. This wasn't embarrassing. It was quite magical, really, and as more and more children began to sing about the plight of Belle, and then the Beast, well.... you either understand or you don't.
This foray into Disney films, combined with my natural love for animation in general, added a colorful new chapter in the hunt known as the collector's mentality. Books were purchased. New names entered my vocabulary, the names of Disney artists that I began to dissect voraciously: Marc Davis, Ollie Johnston, Frank Thomas, Ward Kimball, Andreas Dejas. I watched these films, then I really watched them. Life was being created by hand drawn images, the older the better, I found, something no computer could ever replace. The tempo of these films became soothing lullabys that helped me relax and helped balance out my sometimes hardened, oversensitive view of the planet. It's a very difficult passion to try to explain. It goes beyond just making me feel like a kid again. Come to think of it, I don't think it even has anything to do with that. It is instead a fragile yet successful combination of voice, color, music and movement that my imagination responds well too. Right or wrong, it's there.
Recently, I had the chance to meet like-minded collectors like myself at a Disney Convention. The action took place at Disneyland, and around all of her surrounding parks, heavily themed storefronts, and nightclubs. Before the first night even ended, I had found my own stylish set of Mouseketeers to spend the days with: Noella! Sherri! Stephen! Don! Jason! Daniel! John! We went to our guest panels. We bought our sculptures. We ditched a few moments on the itinerary, in lieu of Jack Daniels and margaritas. We snickered on the Small World ride and snacked in front of the Electrical Parade. I met fellow collectors that I paled in comparison to, people that knew it all and spent thousands. For once, here were folks that could speak my secret language, animated and whatnot, simple and present and without remorse. They understood.

Disney has had it's share of problems over the last few years. The traditional animation department has been scrapped, replaced by digital ones and zeros. And this convention was the last, they say. But I still have the memories of sitting alone in the dark while hundreds of kids serenaded the screen, and spending time with adults who knew where I was coming from and where I was going. And I am sure that our collective collector's mentalities will find a way to bring some of the magic back.

"See ya real soon......"

2004-05-13T04:30:00.000-07:00

I have always preferred mythology to history
because history is made up of truths
which eventually turn into lies.
Mythology is made up of lies that
eventually become truths.
And if I have the luck of living on in your mind,
it would be in mythological form.

--Jean Cocteau

2004-05-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

plank- n.

1. A piece of lumber cut thicker than a board.
2. A foundation; a support.
3. One of the articles of a political platform.

S/he found her/himself in more or less the same place, and within the same time. Only this time, the plank, suspended, was wet, or more wet, than the last. Like the last, s/he found her/himself standing on the plank. S/he looked as far as one could see on both sides, and saw that the plank reached out in both directions, seemingly forever. There was no end to the plank. There was nothing, s/he realized, but her/himself, and the plank, suspended. S/he looked down, slowly. There was nothing. S/he looked up, and again, nothing. But for a slight ivory grey haze above her/him, which provided just enough candlepower to see the plank, and her/his feet on the plank, there was nothing. At the very least, the light helped her/him know which way was up, and which was down. S/he knew, at least, if s/he fell off the plank, s/he would be heading down, and not up, not unlike the last time. The haze above her/him was numb, and very far away. Was s/he outside, or in a room that did not end? There was no scent, of cloud or plant or rock, that could suggest even the slightest hint to her/his void. All s/he saw, for certain, was her/his feet balanced on the plank, and the plank, suspended, did not end.
S/he took a step, a slender tightrope sway, one foot in front of the other. Slowly forward. S/he looked up/down. Then side to side. Balance was the theme, s/he discovered. The time had come to take another step. Again, s/he chose forward. S/he knew that forward would take her/him to the place that s/he was heading/not heading. Glancing up/down, s/he caught her/his breath, and saw that the breath carried with it a tone. Yes. There was a tone. There was sound now. It had perhaps always been there, but was so small and yet alive, and yet now s/he heard it as it bridged her/his breath. S/he knelt down on the plank, one knee resting and both of her/his hands holding either side of the wet board. S/he closed her/his eyes, and listened. Yes. The sound was there. A heavy hum. It was everywhere. S/he felt the hum vibrate through the plank. The plank, a soundboard, was absorbing the invisible hum, and sending it out into the grey space around itself. Her/his two hands, the plank, the breath, formed a tetrachord, and it was indeed speaking, and there was indeed a promise of sorts near the end. The chords held the plank in place, this s/he realized suddenly, and s/he rose. With this answer in place, s/he could feel the chords vibrate in her/his fingers, and they shot in and out and around. There were sixteen directions that s/he was aware of now, and of the sixteen, s/he knew at least where forward was, and so s/he continued forward. One foot in front of the other.
S/he measured the days/nights by her/his steps. It had been several days/nights. Sixteen directions had become thirty-two, yet still s/he knew where forward was, and s/he continued. Then, one day, s/he made another small discovery. S/he was sitting on the plank, looking out towards nothing. S/he sat, with her/his arms behind her/him, her/his fingers grasping the underside of the damp plank. As her/his fingers ran along the underside of the wet board, s/he felt a groove. It was not deep, but it was a groove, and it was there. S/he twisted just so and turned her/his head towards the top/bottom of the plank. The under/overside of the plank read like a book, carved words and symbols forming a sentence that did not end. The heavy hum, still present, shifted, changed pitch, and sighed. The grey haze above her/him, far away, settled and froze. S/he tried to make out a word. S/he brushed away the cold that resided within the carved words, and s/he saw: Meiosis. Aspergills. Bifurcate.........Provenance....Planget. Glossolalia. This last word, Glossolalia, it sung. S/he stared hard at the word and saw in her/his mind that the heavy hum had carved these words, over time, brown and grey, and that Glossolalia was hers/his. S/he pressed her/his hand on the word, so hard, and again, over time. The chord changed, charged, and bent. S/he rose, her/his left knee popping, and looked out. S/he lifted her/his left hand. The word was imprinted on her/his palm. Or rather, perhaps, was always there, but was now realized and intact, and her/his hand sung: Glossolalia. S/he placed this left palm on her/his forehead. S/he breathed. S/he stepped forward, the words underneath her/him dripped and swayed, the plank steady and unmoving.
More days and steps passed. The chords supported the plank and the plank held the words in place, and the grey haze above gave into the newfound directions. But s/he was growing tired, and restless, and wondered if the word in her/his left hand was the right one. S/he had been a silent observer up to this point, but suddenly and without any real cause, s/he became the effect. The roar inside her/him started at the base of her/his feet, and up her/his backside, and s/he screamed. Her/his whole being became a conduit for sound, a sound so large and without mercy that it drowned out the nearby hum, and the void cracked and the haze began to break, the sound of two moons colliding, if it were possible, and it was, and s/he became the sound. The scream carried on, and when it was time to end, s/he stopped.
And there was a very long and very noticeable pause. An empty pause.
And the plank.....the plank began to rumble. Up and down and side to side in search of the thirty-third direction. And s/he trembled....perhaps a mistake was made. Perhaps s/he made a great mistake. No. This was the way of the sound and the way of the hurt and whatever came next would beat through her/him, but the words, at the very least, would remain intact. S/he hugged the plank, holding on, as it rumbled and shook and s/he closed her/his eyes. There was something/one approaching, far away, but with such heavy intensity that it shook the plank. Was it running towards her/him? With eyes shut tight, s/he did not know. But still s/he held on and still s/he breathed. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the rumble stopped. S/he blinked a half dozen blinks and lay on the plank, her/his forehead resting on the wooden surface. It was time. There are doors that must be opened, regardless of the make and absurdity of the locks that hold them in place. S/he stood, and turned. Before her/him, words away, stood her/him. A twin. A mirror image. But there in the body, and s/he looked at her/him and s/he looked at her/him. And now they stood, toe to toe, duel patterns, the same as before, one falling into the eyes of the other. The plank would be defeated, in time. And the words on the left palm will change and will blossom, as all words, over time, change their pitch.
And now there were two. And there will be more. And the haze will break, and new symbols will be carved by the clear water that creates them.

2004-05-01T17:26:00.000-07:00

50 Lines

It is so cold in the early mornings here, and so warm at high noon.
The mobiles need dusting, yet they continue to dance.
The hum of the fan, on low setting, I still find soothing.
Replacing sugar with forest honey for my tea was the best idea I've had all week.
I sometimes wonder why when I am deep in thought, I find that I curl my toes.
Autumn in LA is an oxymoron.
It is perfectly all right to wait for the song to finish before you get out of your car.
The first play I was in as a child was "Hansel and Gretel", I was a narrator and a dancing moose.
I hope that Eartha Kitt lives and loves for another 100 years.
I wish I was living somewhere that would allow me to get a dog.
I had no idea Jennifer Lopez had such a heavy accent.
I wonder if Amani had her baby yet.
It has been 15 years since I felt a moth flutter in my hands, but I can still feel the tickle.
The dial-up connection is working just fine, thank you.
It helps, in times of minor stress, to imagine yourself as a dolphin child, swimming in a sea of light.
I should get to drawing again.
I saw a hummingbird perch yesterday, than dart towards the sun.
I wonder what Yeats would be doing, if he were alive today, around age 22.
And Rimbaud, around age 17.
I prefer pencils to pens.
I can do a perfect impression of Louise Jefferson.
My apartment has no central air conditioning unit and I am dreading July.
The sound of a new book being opened, its spine silently cracking, sends shivers down my own.
I have become an Aveda whore.
The shade of blue sky from my window is cornflower, and bright, and I am thankful I can see it.
I still have a eight year old poem addressed to me, from Adriana, that begins "boy hobbles patiently."
Long walks, either at dawn or at dusk, still may heal.
It is crazy how many faces and places and things I can make out by staring at the texture of the ceiling.
The last time I stood in the pouring rain was in Manhattan, and we were drenched, and we didn't care.
I can recall using socks for mittens as a child, and packing the snow in my hands so very tight.
Finding a good Mexican restaurant in LA has been next to impossible.
Perhaps it is time to kiss his hand and let him know just how rare and beautiful he is.
Perhaps it is time to place your hand on her heart and remind her just how forgiving and bright she is.
Sometimes a random cold shower is all it takes to get your mind off that wasted topic.
Remembering your first dog's panting smile during that summer that never ended should make you smile too.
My carpet is so thick that I can draw crop circles in it, it works best when I use my big toe.
I prefer a murder of crows to a gaggle of geese.
Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong time and place.
Never underestimate the power of Nabokov's butterflies.
Eating more chocolate than brussel sprouts is fine, just don't make a daily practice out of it.
No doubt the windows are being pried open and the bottles dusted at the summer stays in Provincetown.
His breath was of peppermint, his eyes a caramel twist, and his arms too long aside his red sleeveless top.
The spiky top of the palm trees above the second story window remind me of the yucca's back home.
I don't think I am getting all the fluoride I need by strictly drinking bottled water.
A good meditation involves sitting alone under natural shade, and nibbling away at a pomegranate.
There are indeed more holy grails then you may be aware of right now.
The fog was so thick that June evening that I could barely make out the mop of Jeremiah's hair, feet away.
She comes every seventh morning, the leaf blower, and she hums while scattering the brittle debris.
Sometimes the floor is better then the bed.
He looked out, then looked back in, then held his ribs, and laughed with God.

2004-04-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

My first literary involvement occurred when I was around 3 or 4. Scattered among the building blocks and baby blanket that I had yet to outgrow, a copy of Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown was always nearby, my first paperback crush. Little Bear and Frog and Toad are Friends quickly followed, the first of which I fondly remember defacing with oversized crayons. Then, out of the periwinkle and peppermint blue, came my first psychedelic experience, as Dr. Seuss came knocking on my playroom door. The latest Seuss book would arrive in the mail, a gift from my parents. I remember being handed the plain brown postage box with my name on it, and the book inside was mine, all mine. From out of these boxes spilled Yertle the Turtle, Hop on Pop, and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. When these books weren't serving as fortress walls for my cadre of army men, they were being read. Again and again and again. I will forever have engraved in my mind Harold and his purple crayon as it sky rocketed him into space, and the look of dethroned horror on King Midas' face as he realized that he turned his only daughter into gold.
Before long, I was all grown up. I was 8. Enter the Scholastic Book Club. Every month or so my teacher would hand the students the colorful order forms of the latest selections. Anything involving dinosaurs, science experiments, and Ramona Quimby were must-haves. Ramona was my hero. She was lanky. She was crafty. She ate grass. Imagine my childlike glee when my parents handed me that check for a unheard of 7 dollars to send to Scholastic as soon as possible. Then, the waiting, oh, the waiting. But it was worth it. I would place my shiny new books into my bag, and proudly walk home, ignoring the jokes from the older fifth graders and their basketballs. "Look out guys", I would smirk, heading home for a sunny after school snack, "If you're not careful, Ramona's gonna get you. She's gonna get you but good."
More books followed, but with fewer pictures. For years I was stuck in the maze of Choose Your Own Adventure books. The stress levels I encountered reading these mysteries were wonderful. Do I go into the beachfront cave, and turn to page 37, or should I stay with Laura and Pedro, play it safe, and turn to page 42? What should I do? What should I do????? If I met a quick end, I always cheated. The point was to read all the endings. These stories would accompany my dreams at night, as I begin to fashion my own adventures, all with varying outcomes.
And then suddenly, like Little Jackie Paper, the pictures were no more. At 13 I encountered John Steinbeck and The Pearl, and that was the summer that everything changed. The pictures were now wholeheartedly in my mind's eye, long movies being played out, the words providing the soundtrack. Ramona Quimby slowly faded, being replaced by Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye. Teen angst and heavy questions began to plague me, and books either solved my misery or made it worse. Sometimes the endings didn't agree with me. Why couldn't Death of a Salesman be a Choose Your Own Adventure series? "Don't take the car out, Willy Loman!! Just stay home and eat your damn cheese!!" But no. Willy drives. And there was nothing I could do as he slipped off the road, and I was 16, and this upset me greatly.
In college, the playwrights took over my life. When I was cast, I sometimes mirrored their stories on the stage. Shakespeare, Feydeau, Brecht, Wellman. Giovanni's Room became my personal torchsong, as Ram Dass and most especially Mark Thompson helped light the way even brighter, leading me to a more honest and exciting world. I was watching less television, then none at all. Entire universes comprised of all the right words lay in my hands, and my eyes devoured them, under sunlight, candlelight, flashlight in the forest. Many books had me so strong and powerful in their grasp that I felt literally transported. I could taste the wine and smell the olive fields in The Mask of Apollo. I could hear August's sandy voice so forthright, over the Provincetown dunes, in Something Cloudy Something Clear. Within these images I was totally unforgiving. They saved me, at times. They were a type of sweet air that my mind and body needed to survive. They still are. And I doubt they will ever be replaced by any other medium.

The leatherbound hunt continues. Online, in bookstores, the occasional book fair. Used bookstores, now a dying breed, can be heaven. In used bookstores, you find the forgotten, neglected, and replaced. It's amusing to find old inscriptions from the previous owners. I have on my shelf a copy of Hamlet from 1912, once owned by one "C.E. Frederick McLeod, May, 1916." Frederick didn't mind using his copy as a ledger, as various numbers and notes fill the first few pages. He knew what was going on, however, as lightly written in pencil on the inside back cover he quietly reveals "Act III, sc 3, turning point."
And I can't forget the copy of American Heritage, April 1968. This is a favorite of mine. The inscription reads "To Jay--Happy Anniversary, 9-1-73. Love, Judy. PS. Will we get married soon? ( Ha Ha)." I want to know what happened! I wonder if Jay got married a second time, fulfilling Judy's written wish.
There are many inscriptions to me as well. The inside cover of Dale Peck's wounding novel Martin and John reads "Shawn- Enjoy this take on outside love lost and inside love found. Enjoyed having you in class. All the best, Alan." I'd share the outcome of that gift, but some things are best left alone. And in another book, written in red pen, "To my Shawn Toby, Love, Elizabeth, XOXOXOXO." Yes. The girl that fell in love with me in college that I tried so hard to love back. It was a heartbreaking affair. She had to know, however, as the book she inscribed was a biography of Greta Garbo. I miss those days. But they aren't all over. There are still more books to find and read, and with any luck, perhaps an inscription to give or receive.
My library is now a modest collection of Here and There. Essays by Ingmar Bergman nestle with Japanese manga. Tennessee Williams and Gertrude Stein are married, side by side, blue and green. Peter Brook's face pouts from a lackluster book spine, my personal Falstaff. Neil Gaiman's American Gods sits proudly next to The Dictionary of Imaginary Places, completely content. Goodnight Moon, however, is missing. But that doesn't mean that I can't replace it. Sometimes, you see, the endings turn out to be quite happy.

2004-04-17T03:15:00.000-07:00

Yeah...so...I'd like to introduce you to my neighbor. Needless to say, it was a strange day. Shortly after 4:00 PM yesterday, I heard a very loud knocking on my apartment door. As I opened the door quickly, I encountered what best would be described as the Most Masculine Woman I Have Ever Encountered. White tank top, red hair pulled in a tight ponytail, and a black belt pulled just as tight around her powerful frame. Revealing brown pants that have seen more than one rough week. She was kick-ass. She was all business. And she wanted me out of my apartment yesterday. "WE are evacuating YOUR building NOW, there IS a bomb threat in THE area." Well. OK. "NOW!" yelled the bomb squad professional. And the whole time I thought, as I hurried out of my room, grabbing my keys and leaving candles burning, "I am SO glad that I wasn't totally fagging out on this woman...what if I answered the door and she was met by a gentle face mask, a martini in my hand, and ABBA blaring in the background??" Well, she would not of cared. All she cared about was saving lives. She looked like Sarah Conner from T2 and she was going to change the future.
As I hurried out of the apartment building, the LAPD greeted me with loudspeakers. "Do NOT look to your left. SOMETHING may pop." Pop? He said it so casual-like. Like two fingers about to collide between bubble wrap. Finally, I was in the clear, past the yellow tape. At the end of the street at Franklin and Orchid, about 8 or so large police vans blocked the area. The Kodak Theater behind me sat silent and still, blocking the sun and providing shade for the residents and cops that stood motionless. All of the police appeared very distant. I don't know why, but I wanted to make conversation. I approached a young Latino policeman, chewing gum as if it were the last thing on earth. "How did all this come about?" I asked, taking the chance. "The apartment manager and a policeman were going to take a resident down for eviction....they found explosives. Probably a drug dealer."
"Oh." I replied, staring at the ground.
And it occurred to me in that instant, that I live and breathe in Hollywood. The streets are clean now, retail and capitalism have replaced the grime from the 1980's, and tourists flock to my street corner. But these facts have not totally prevented the Bad Guy from infiltrating, with his grenades and guns and snakes found in a dirty aquarium. And seeing my own reflection in the gum chewing policeman's flawless sunglass lenses, I felt it was time to stop asking questions, and let them get the job done.
And praytell, all you will find in my apartment is a innocent, humble space, a fifth of half full Jack, candles still burning, and a shitload of comic books in the dressing room closet. I am harmless. I mean no harm. Try the neighbor next door.

2004-04-15T10:12:00.000-07:00

Carlos Javier: And do you not fear there are things God did not intend man to know?

Sir Reed Richards: Ah. As I once told Fury, God gave us eyes to see, and hands to grasp, and minds to understand his creation. And perhaps--with God's grace--to save it.

- 1602 #8, by Neil Gaiman

2004-04-12T18:27:00.000-07:00

While families in the Bible Belt and beyond helped "The Passion of the Christ" reclaim a number one position this past weekend, the most heartfelt cinematic Passion in my mind occurred in 1928. That was the year that Carl Th. Dreyer's French film "The Passion of Joan of Arc" graced the silent screen, much to the joy of France, and to the dismay of England. This film may be the most enduring concerning not only an individual's faith, but in artistic waves, it is also a vast study of the human face. ( Lord of the Rings: Return of the King comes very close to these two ideas as well, but I'll save that for later. ) Almost every shot in this film is a close up of either Joan's face, or the fevered face of her cleric inquisitors. I have only seen the film three times. It is a very overwhelming experience for me....and I am not ashamed to admit that the last ten minutes or so usually leaves me teary-eyed, and feeling complete, for reasons I have yet to fully understand. I do not understand because Joan, or the idea of Joan, appears so far away from me, from my everyday life. Here is a woman who, at a very young age, began hearing the voice of God. God revealed to her that she would be the driving force that would help chase the English forces out of France. Winning over the heart of her king, she was given an army, and instead of remaining safely out of battle, she charged side by side with the men in her command. She was not yet 20. She took up a banner and she wore men's clothes. ( Not because she wanted to, but because the tight laces from the vests and pants would prevent any possibility of rape. ) Her life, thanks to various documents and both written and drawn eyewitness accounts, is one of the most studied personas from her time.
I believe that "The Passion of Joan of Arc" does her justice. It does not matter to me if what she received from God was real or imagined, as every frame of the film is heavy with her struggle and the struggle of the church to condemn her. Again, the camera's gaze on the human face is all that is needed, it tells the story and tells it utterly. The actress, Renee Falconetti, is Joan in her eyes. She is grounded, she knows her fate, and her eyes seem to channel that kind of energy that we usually see in stained glass, or truth, or war. For a sensitive viewer, once you have fallen into these eyes, there is no escaping until the end, until the fire. The faces of the clergy are just as determined, they are cunning, quick, and blocked. Dreyer requested that his actors wear no make up, that every crease and fold of the actor's face be there to help push the trial forward.
Falconetti/Joan is tried. She is questioned. She is forced to sign papers. Ugly guards fashion a crown for her head. She is threatened to be tortured, but falls, with fever. The judges don't want her to die a natural death, so they perform a bloodletting procedure on her arm. It was believed at the time that bleeding the arm would reduce fever. This is the only time in the film that blood is spilled, but it's hard to watch, as the doctor pricks the arm with a thick edge, and the blood of Joan literally archs into a bowl. After much questioning and regret, Joan must die. One scene that affects me deeply in the film is when the then beautiful Antonin Artaud, playing Jean Massieu, tries to comfort Joan before she is taken outside. Throughout the film, it is Artaud's character that has had some sympathy, yet he is not brave enough to attempt to put a stop to the inevitable:

Massieu: How can you still believe that you are sent by God?

Joan: His ways are not our ways.

The understanding that follows these lines between these two characters is paramount, as he is pulled to Joan, and roles have reversed, and she becomes his Last Sacrament. It will be Massieu, regrettably, that holds the cross over Joan as she is tied to the stake. As the flames engulf Joan, the study of the face diminishes, the observing crowd rebels, the guards respond. High above a church steeple, doves sit and watch, then fly in accordance with the smoke that rises from the flames, as if to carry her soul away.

It's only fitting that the film suffered the same fate as Joan. The original negative was destroyed in a fire in Germany, after the film's release. Joan was made a saint in 1920, rising from the ashes of her past. Then, in 1981, the film rose from its own ashes, as an original cut was discovered in a Norwegian mental institution. So, in some form or another, Joan has endured, from voices to banner to paper to film. I am not sure why I feel connected to her. I don't need to know why. But as I watch the silent film that tries its best to keep her spirit alive, the voices in my head are serene, as I come face to face with a woman who refused to apologize.

2004-04-07T05:54:00.000-07:00

When the time comes that you can afford me a visit, before we saunter up to the second floor, I will grab you lightly by the wrist and say quite directly, "I want to apologize for the shape of the carpet in the hallways of this building. The apartment is just fine, you see. But that public netherzone just outside my door, the apartment hallway, well, it's just wrong. Besides the fact that it was installed around the time Christ was a child, the Hallway Carpet has a personality all its own. And it's very, very angry. It wants to die. Instead, it just sleeps there, soaking up the past, wanting no future. And so, I am sorry."
And then you might respond with a small "It's all good," or a silly "No worries," and you might giggle somewhat. Until we reach the second floor, my floor.

And then you will shriek in horror, a silent scream, as I carry your scarred form into the security of my place, where the carpet is fresh, and vacuumed, and home to safe, bare feet.

Carpet can make or break a living space. Yet in the hallways of this building, it summons ghostly carnage and past lives. I have seen the face of Carpet Mary on more then one occasion. On another, the carpet has snickered one of those carpet-like snickers, damning the soles of my shoes. I have seen cats released temporarily by their masters patter across this carpet, and they are pissed. There is nothing left to scratch. The smell overrides their senses, and they sit and stare at the wall. A lowly purr of a cat, with visions of clawing out the apartment manager's eyes, eyes that have denied the life of the carpet.

Yes, I am obsessing, if only a bit.

But this is carpet that I must pass by everyday, this carpet is part of my reality. It is carpet that you would be horrified to introduce to the parents. It is carpet that was produced before there was carpet. And it has affected the people that live here. As the true story goes, about a month ago, my neighbor down the hall found herself in a drunken stupor. She snapped, and thus tried to erase the Hallway Carpet. Grabbing a can of spray paint, more or less the same color of the muddy creature in the hall, she sprayed. She sprayed over every damn spot she could see through her moist alcohol induced eyes. She wanted to paint the past away. She tried so hard. Bless her heart.

So now the Hallway Carpet is splotched, a spotted extinct dragon, with pools of brown painted memories of her tried and true art attack. Mind you, the rest of the building is fair and square. Like most old Hollywood buildings, it has its moments. But these problems are usually quickly remedied. Only the Hallway Carpet has survived. Only the carpet has witnessed the passing loving couple, the retired general's heavy boots, the forlorn stride of the drug dealer. Yes, the Hallway Carpet has seen all of this, and it knows.

I want to kill the Hallway Carpet. I want to grab it by the stringy remains, and pull, pull down the length of the entire corridor, the sound of twisted staples popping up, giving in. I want to roll, roll the dead mass into a funeral pyre. I want to throw it out of the second story window, free at last. And it will vaporize from the sun it hasn't seen in decades, a vampire of a carpet. And I will point and laugh. I will laugh so hard and loud that all the apartment cats will join me. And they will purr high and sigh and thank me by brushing against my tired feet. And there will be a feast, the cats and I. And we will dine knowing that we did the right thing.

2004-04-01T03:01:00.000-08:00

Let us lighten things up a bit, yes?

So some time ago, a good friend of mine gave me what is turning out to be a pleasant guilty pleasure: A deck of fairy cards. No no, not THOSE kinds of fairies, I'm talking about the cute and crafty ones with wings that possess various magical powers and can provide colorful insight on an otherwise mundane world. Well, on second thought, maybe they ARE those kinds of fairies as well, but I digress....

It's something like a tarot deck, only there is no hanged man or tragic ending. In other words, it's perfect. Lately, the bill paying part of me has searched them out for fun, while the Peter Pan part of me is taking their advice with all the seriousness of a buttoned nosed Lost Boy. The cards are quite beautiful too, the pictures are rich, as the winged ones swoon or dance or stand still, listening. Sometimes, as most of you know, it's these little things that help add a little carefree weight to our days.
This early morning, I'll be asking my question, and pulling from the deck, with you, the beautiful audience. My success (or humility) will be there for all to see. So let us begin.

Q: Am I being true to myself?

Ok. Now. I'm going to draw the card. This will take a minute, so go grab a fruit plate or something. I'll be right back............

Huh. Heh. Ok. The card says "Miracle Healing". ( As a sidebar, Tori's "Silent All These Years" just started playing on my RealOne Player. No joke. I don't lie. ) There is a picture of a fairy in flight, and she is reaching out towards the earth. The card meaning states: "Expect a miracle. The more completely you surrender your situation, the more rapidly you will realize your healing." It goes on: "You needn't beg or petition heaven to help you, as your situation is already healed in truth. The healed reality is one of several parallel realities currently available to you. Feel grateful that your situation is now resolved, and be open to the creative solution that greets you. " The affirmation offered is: "I focus on the truth, instead of the illusions of fear."

I want to add, that besides this card totally making my day, it speaks volumes as far as where I mentally reside concerning my talents and all those other things that seemingly force us to question our days. Simply put, good stuff.

And now it's your turn. Simply leave a question in the comment box ( or if you prefer, just request a card, you can keep your query to yourself ), and when I feel the time is right, I'll respond in the comment box by letting you know what fairy card came flying into the palm of my hand. Because really, the fairies, even the craftiest ones, don't lie. And even these days, if you look hard enough......well, you know. They haven't all disappeared yet........

2004-03-28T05:01:00.000-08:00

Strolling down a sidewalk, I'm looking up, and my peripheral vision tells me there is cobblestone under my feet, brown and bronze and bone. Only it isn't, as it's thin marble, and there are five pointed stars that break up the marble, and these stars have names on them. And there are people that have traveled many miles to see these stars, so they must be important. A young boy, about 17 or so, breaks my brittle concentration, as he hands me a small piece of thick sun baked paper. "Jesus loves you, man." He says, and he is excited by these four words. Fine. I suppose I somewhat love Jesus too, there really isn't anything preventing me from doing so. Taking the paper, I find not the face of Jesus on the thin wafer leaflet , or even Mary. There isn't even a happy dove, with cosmic rays bending out of her wings, promising truth and peace. No, instead, it's the face of Mel Gibson, and he has a few things to say, and he really wants me to pay him to see his latest movie, which apparently sometimes involves a robotic Christ figure thrown out to dry on a dramatic cross, the ultimate celebration of product placement.
And it's moments like this I need to remind myself just where I am ( Hollywood ), and where I'm headed ( Someplace in the Future ) and that sometimes that brittle concentration needs to be protected, for all it's worth.
There is a Moby video in which he is singing about how We Are All Made of Stars, and really, it sums up Hollywood quite completely, because this is the land where technicolor dreams come from, and it's all just a little bit of history repeating. Hollywood is a churning, teflon machine, both old and new, fueled by the young and all of their mistakes, angst, and successes. For every 100 people that leave the city everyday, foregoing whatever dream they wanted to grasp, there are 100 fresh new faces to pick up where they left off, filling in the headshot space and that quiet coffee house corner table where the next Great Epic will be written, and when that cell finally rings, it rings loud and clear, and jealous heads will turn. The physics here are magical. If you are 30, it's permissible to be 27, and if you are 27, shoot for 24. And if you are 24, yes, you are 21. And it's best, if you are gay, to audition straight, but mind you, if you are straight, give them your best gay. And really, this is not the honest truth, it is not all black and white, there are vast colors in-between and yes, sometimes what they want to happen does indeed happen, and that is what keeps them here, under the constant sun and over their heads and hearts, and just a small step away from that........what? That........who? That. Just that.
And then there is the other reality: The homeless man who is waiting outside my apartment building for me to come home and unlock the lobby door as he desires a good nights sleep on the roof. Fine, I tell him, just don't get caught. The poetic bank teller who makes my day by suggesting I should purchase insurance for the color of my eyes. The quiet candle lit conversations with friends, revealing how greatly David Lynch scares us but we need it anyway. That moment alone on a Sunday early morning, feeling the ocean waves lightly pound my bare feet, seagulls searching, Rilke's poems in one hand and a plump nectarine in the other, and my gaze meets the beautiful man that walks slowly by, and we study each other, and perhaps next time, words will be spoken. That crisp inhale of lightly salted seaweed air can do miracles as it drowns out the dumbing down that it takes to survive back in Hollywood.....

And so, it all balances out. For every minute spent trapped on the 101, we spoil ourselves with live comedy or the pristine format that only the Egyptian Theater can offer us. For every dollar we waste in the meter to avoid a 30 dollar ticket, we tip the bartender and share our latest exploits and maybe get a great story in return. For every fear we have convinced ourselves of, that we are not smart enough, or talented enough, that we are too big or too small, that what we wish to offer will be ignored, there is that absolute moment of clarity, as you meet the dawn in your mind, that you are on the correct path and the right turn that you made in the personal fork in the road was the high one.

And that is all you have to go by. And that's OK. It beats handing out leaflets with the face of Mad Max, imploring us all to admit our sins, to confess with a ticket stub that will end up on the faux cobblestone streets that present the forget-me-not names of the bronze and bone stars.

2004-03-24T03:35:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you wonder why? And other times, before sleep, you wonder, why not? And really, considering this world we live in, this real time and fake time and electronic debris thrown at us, at our face that we want to preserve and at our wants and at that dream, the small spark of a silver dream that you rarely share with anyone but you know this dream of which I speak, it involves: Charity, applause, giving back and giving in, arms wide open and the world accepts our fears and what really does not matter is the pride or the falsetto or the money but just to meet that twin with constant insurance and Neverland Forever... That yes, its going to work, and yes, you are on the right path, with this ring around your finger or this song in your heart or this boy/girl at your side as you pound the cane down and part the dark waters. There is safety there, and you need it, there is water there, and you are thirsty, there is knowledge there, and your imagination, the one thing that offers a lifeline to the Goddess, your imagination will save you from the snickering behind closed doors and the forbidden censor that blocks your art and the One With The Secret Past that prevents you from laughing at the universe, clenching your ribs, looking up at the moon, and laughing. These demons are easily swept away. They require: Giving into your poetry, your words, your art, your music, the kiss on your lovers forehead, be it the lover you hold in your hands or the one in the mirror, these demons are swept away. Accepting this white hot truth you will find one singular fact, that: Time and Patience and History have collided to create only you, and think, for a moment, the odds that were against you, so many chromosomes competing, the egg that waited patiently for the color of your eyes and the curved beauty of your neck, and finally, there you are pulled and cry and years later there you learn and now here you sit and wonder why? Or why not? And in the dead of night while no eyes are prying take that moment to study your hands and see this Imprint or Music or Play or Talk or Sex or That Vice That You Have Created For Yourself and create the net that is underneath your fright and jump, jump jump with all you have because the rest of us are waiting, the rest of us that are living and otherwise, they all look down and up and they have your back, they/we will guide you, if you need it, as you guide yourself back into yourself, the child that speaks honestly and knows no fear, and didn't forget how to play, and spins and giggles at the riddles and lands in the grass, eyes on the clouds, and wonders what the future will bring as the smell of rain hits the clear air.........and....................

2004-03-21T15:38:00.000-08:00

A helicopter woke me up yesterday morning. Red eyes. Tired hands. It swung low, and hovered, like a dragonfly, before going in for another circle. Then there were two. They began teasing each other, making half swirls, obviously eavesdropping on something below. I needed coffee. I got dressed, cleaned up quickly, and headed outside. Past the Hollywood hotel, and into the outdoor complex that offered the latest perfumes, the most recent films, and a fresh cup of brew. The usual Tired Tourists were not making an appearance today, as I noticed a heavy hum ringing to my left. Catty, I grew curious. This is what the dragonfly was honing in on, no doubt. Turning the corner quick, I was greeted by a crowd of thousands. Hollywood Boulevard had been taken over, occupied. The anti-war protest was in full swing.

As I dove in the river, out on the street, coffee was quickly forgotten.

An anti-war protest in Hollywood. It just sounds somewhat off key. But people came. As far as I could see, looking west towards the ocean, the crowds gathered shoulder to shoulder, as more than one drum circle began to tell the truth in rhythm and beats. Looking east, past the stage, flew the flags of Spain, of Greenpeace, of two long white rectangles, knocked over to the side, an equal sign, the flag of human rights. The American flag was there, yet each star had been replaced by one of fifty corporate symbols....Enron, Gulf, Exxon, Gap. People milled. Others danced. Several languages filled the air, multiplied by thousands. Last month, the high bronze arch of the Kodak Theater welcomed Oscar nominees into the fold, a high fevered empty pitch of pride and white knuckles. Today, the arch bent to admit people of every class and color, as sweeping cardboard hands, one holding currency, the other, bombs, framed the now silent gateway. The theater lay empty. Employees at the Disney Store locked the doors, but continued folding shirts and placing stuffed pigs on the shelves. The flat, white models plastered on the billboards above Hilfiger and Banana Republic looked down on the masses, angry to be ignored. A tall drag queen in a black dress that didn't stop, her makeup harshly reflecting the sun, held a sign that said "War Monger." Between the two words sat the face of the president. A group of young girls, clearly exhausted, huddled against the glass walls of a tattoo parlor. Their sign said "Arms are for hugging." And there were other signs, too: Veterans for Peace. Bring the Troops Home. Democracy Died in Florida. Children Are Dying for Oil. Buck Fush. Impeach Bush. Outsource Bush to Mars. Peace In Haiti. Peace in Spain. Peace In Iraq. Peace in the US.

Peace at Home.

And there were murals, ten feet high, spray painted reminders consisting of bloated politicians, laughing dogs, falling towers and fallen angels.

A girl, close to ten years, the thick lenses of her eyeglasses blurring her wide brown eyes, wanted to make her point at every cost. "Janet Jackson is NOT obscene!!!" read the pink posterboard in her hands. The other side stated "End the war NOW." Two in one blow.

The milling fortified, the dancing from the drum circles raised the energy from yellow to red. Drums, yes, but also buckets, flutes, a shell. The brave ones stepped into the center and swayed without effort. Emotions grew. The drums told the story now, blocking out the hums of the media dragonfly above. Within each powerful strike of the drum and that split second of silence, an unseen movement grasped the fear and loathing from our dry throats and thrust it headlong, past the canyon buildings, past the billboards that blocked the sky, and into the hands of the empty void. And Elvis was there. And Legolas. And Judy Garland. And Superman. Usually, tourists will pay them a dollar or two for a picture. A silly memento. But today, the look-a-likes danced among the real. Nothing faltered. Everything blended.
And as the King of Rock 'n Roll cut a concrete rug with The Girl with the Ruby Slippers, the sage that possessed the dirty air tried Her best to cleanse the ego, to forgive the sins of the fathers, to make everything all right again.

2004-03-17T03:15:00.000-08:00

Get To Know Me, Part the Third ( And Final in the Series ) In Which Shawn is Violated, than Interviewed, by the Ghost of Orson Welles.

Shawnja: DAAAAA!!!!! OMYGOD!!! ITS THE GHOST OF ORSON WELLES!!!!!!!

Ghost of Orson Welles: I AM THE GHOST OF ORSON WELLES!!!!! BRING ME HAM!!!!!!!

SJ: Um. I don't. I haven't any ham. I have butter squash from Trader Joes. Wait...jerky. I have jerky.

GOOW: WHAT IS THIS? WHERE AM I? IS THIS NOT THE THIRD LEVEL OF DANTE'S INFERNO? ARE
YOU NOT BILLY WILDER? I'M DUE FOR A GAME OF BRIDGE WITH BILLY AND YOUNG
COBAIN AND I DESIRE HAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SJ: Please, stop with the yelling, fat man. I really admire your work but I've had enough of the brash and
obscene.

GOOW: Feh. This place looks familiar. I sense a bit of old Hollywood nostalgia.

SJ: Well, this apartment building I'm living in is about 70 years old. It used to be a classy hotel for the
likes of you and your ilk. When I first moved into this building, my dreams were crazy. They
consisted of Cheshire Cat grins and all the scenes that ended up on the cutting room floor. A mad
dash in the spirit of Hotel Paradiso, if I may be so bold.

GOOW: Ahhhhh yes. I remember. It was the fall of 1940 and I was in room 107. Hedda Hopper
brought the whisky and Bette Davis brought the bitters, as she always does. Heh.

SJ: But you hated Hedda Hopper. Even Bette hated--

GOOW: What happens in some Hollywood hotels STAYS in some Hollywood hotels, child. Even with your
powerful press and their shallow lenses.

SJ: Want some jerky?

GOOW: Shawnja? What, praytell, is Shawnja?

SJ: It was a nickname given to me in college, while I was dissecting free form improvisation. I've since
learned that in more than one far eastern language, it means: Loving Turtle. Which I find apt.

GOOW: Fine. And this...I haven't seen this in ages.

SJ: Its denim. I think that fashion changes too much, and for whatever reason, I don't have the energy
to keep up with it. I never really acquired the fashion gene. I prefer architecture. Its more
permanent. So, for the most part, its just a simple shirt and jeans for me.

GOOW: Sad. ( Humph..this jerky isn't half bad... ) And the artwork on your walls is.....questionable.

SJ: Come now, Orson. To each his own. That one over there is a Lichtenstein lithograph. I love the dots.
And those, over there, are Marcel Dzama. He colors his pages in root beer. And in the kitchen hangs
a print by Shag. He was local until about three years ago. The spacing is pretty flawless.

GOOW: I grow bored with you child, but I must confess, this jerky is tops.

SJ: Take it. I'm sorry you made a wrong left turn. You're late for your bridge game.

GOOW: Oh, its always the same thing anyhow. Cobain always breaks down in song, Wilder wins the
pot, and Garland and Garbo arrive late, like so much turned milk. Dammit. At least they didn't
end up hosting specials on Nostradamus or providing voice work for a giant robot. Thats--

SJ: Hey!! Don't knock your work on the Transformers movie...for many of us kids, thats how we were
introduced to you. Come on, do a little Unicron..before you go??

GOOW: Oh child. ( Ahem....) " Your bargaining posture is highly dubious...but very well..I will provide
you with a new body....and new troops to command..."

SJ: And?

GOOW: "AND NOTHING!!!! YOU BELONG TO ME..NOW." He....ahahahaha!!! Oh, the vainglorious 80's.
Ok, I need to go. I'll keep an eye out for you. Oh...hold on a second.....yes....Montgomery
Clift says "sup".

SJ: Serve no wine......

GOOW: Before its ti--- stop it.

2004-03-15T03:55:00.000-08:00

Get To Know Me, Part the Second: The Obligatory FAQ Sheet.

So, where do you live?

That was already covered in the first part. Aren't you paying attention?

Touchy touchy!! So, where did you grow up?

Albuquerque, New Mexico. Growing up there was routine and safe. Its a little something like purgatory, and I can't see myself ever moving back there. Not for a long, long, while. Decades, perhaps.

Ok, I just glimpsed over the first part. So what is Hollywood like?

Truth be told, I do enjoy it here now. You just need to learn to emotionally and spiritually protect yourself in several ways. Avoid the sketchy ones. Try to stay focused. One can play the game without totally losing themselves.

So why are you in Hollywood? Are you one of those amoebae actor types that loudly name drop on their cell phones while they are waiting for their venti slim cafe mocha?

Near the end of a very short lived experience in New York, I decided to move to LA. Primarily, it was to change my environment, and acting was on my mind. It still is. I have been in a sort of creative hibernation concerning acting. I don't know why. I'm working on it. I am. And I don't own a cell phone.

Nobody's perfect. Do you miss New York?

Yes. I hope it becomes more than just a footnote concerning my life.

So where do you work? How do you pay the bills in Hollywood?

We'll discuss that when your a little older.

Ummm....Ok. What do you do in your free time?

I have been surprising myself by writing more than the norm. I read. I get lost in film. The time spent with friends is always a blessing.

I get lost in film too. What kind of film do you like?

Directors: Fellini, Kurosawa, Tati, David Lean, Powell & Pressburger, Dryer, Antonioni, Bergman.

You like Ingmar Bergman? Wow, what do you wear a beret while smoking in dark bars and stare at people and than jot something down in your leather journal, thus making those people uncomfortable?

No. Smoking's not allowed in LA bars.

Yeah, I mean, you also like Disney. That kinda contradicts this whole subtitled world you seem to immerse yourself in. What the hell?

I love animation. Love it. Disney has become, over the years, something of a security blanket for me. Its something warm that I can escape to. Really, that's it. I love the characters. It lowers blood pressure.

Right.....Music. What do you listen to?

Tori, Peter Gabriel, Coltrane, Bjork, Jane Siberry, Holly Cole, Pet Shop Boys, Radiohead, Patti Smith, Annie Lennox, Jeff Buckley, B-52's, Gorillaz, various jazz, classical, and The Endless.

Whats your favorite song?

In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel. The song always comes around when I need it most.

Books? Who is your favorite author?

That's a tough one. Do playwrights count? Shakespeare, now and always. Yeats, Jean Cocteau, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Mary Renault, William S. Burroughs, Rilke's Book of Hours. I still enjoy Artaud's essays on the theatre. Tennessee Williams. Rumi has saved the day, on more than one occasion. Neil Gaiman is a personal god. And than there's Lorca. Lorca. Lorca.

Most of what you just named are poets, but whatever. You seem to be one of those hypersensitive types.

I try, when alone, to see with more than five senses, if that's what you mean.

Sure. So, what is your first memory?

I was in Los Lunas, New Mexico. Two years old. I can remember looking up at a screen door and pushing it open. I crawled out the door and into the grass. It was a bright day. I remember the sound of birds.

That's cool. My first memory, I can remember the smell of bourbon on my grandmothers breath. We were in a Ford pickup in Casper, Wyoming, and my mother was yelling at grandmama because the shotgun was loaded wrong. You see, my father--

I need to go. Its early morning.

My father had stolen my mo--

Really. The birds are out. Shawny needs some shuteye.

Ok. Well. Maybe next time?

Maybe.

2004-03-11T20:42:00.000-08:00

Get To Know Me: Shawn's Index, Part the First.

Number of months Shawn has lived in Hollywood, California: 49

Number of parking tickets acquired during the first twelve months getting to know Hollywood: 11

Number of tickets acquired in the last twelve months: 0

Number of hanging mobiles, from Sweden, that adorn Shawn's apartment: 3

Number of times Shawn was awakened last month by shrieking fans of the Ryan Seacrest Show, located next door: 4

Rank of Marcus Aurelius as Shawn's most intimate philosopher: 1

Rank of Kermit the Frog: 2

As of today, total number of comic books in Shawn's collection, not including reprint trades: 1044

Including reprint trades: 1114

Including hardbacks: 1131

Number of times the word "nuclear" appears in Shawn's auto insurance policy: 2

Number of times it appeared last year: 0

Ratio of Friends episodes seen by Shawn to that of The Jeffersons: 0:34

Number of times Shawn has surpassed the major Gods and instead prayed to poet Federico Garcia Lorca: 7

Number of times Lorca has responded by crowning the moon with laurels: 3

Ratio of Joy Division CD's to that of jazz recordings in Shawn's collection: 2:4

Ratio of Criterion Collection DVD's to those featuring artist Matthew Barney in Shawn's collection: 146:1

Total number of Walt Disney Classics Collection sculptures owned by Shawn, not including opening titles: 94

Amount paid, in US dollars, for the latest sculpture, two weeks ago: 120

Concerning popular culture, rank of Giant Robot as Shawn's favorite magazine: 1

Concerning film, rank of Jean Renoir's The Rules of the Game, as Shawn's favorite: 1

Number of times per year Shawn ransacks his apartment, "keeping what I love, giving away what I like.": 3

Total number of days between the original pilot date of Twin Peaks and the moment that Shawn experienced it for the first time: 5081

Number of minutes Shawn sat, kinda sad, regretting this fact: 12

Amount Shawn recently gave to a homeless individual because he needed " a stick of butter or two.": .55

Rank of roaches, rush hour, and republicans, respectively, that sends small, horrific quivers down Shawn's imagination: 2, 3, 1

Number of times the word "collection" appears in this index: 6

2004-03-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

H....Hello.....HELLO-OOOOO??? Is this thing on? Well. What an infernal..commie machine. Um. So. Ok. The words are here. And so it goes...........

2004-03-09T14:30:00.000-08:00

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