Afterparty

The three of us
you, me and tom.
What a laugh it was
sitting in the booth at 3 a.m.

Oh sure the waitress said she was fed up
but who can blame her at 3 a.m?
You could see deep inside
She was happy to see us
what with her normal clients
being greasy truckers and
mudd ruckers--the grime
at the bottom of the coffee pot
she said

What a laugh it was
at 3 a.m. the four of us,
you, tom the waitress and me.
The hipest people at the party
after a hard night's jam.
What a laugh it is,
when you're the only people there.

a random thought:

A giraffe throwing up....



it would take FOREVER!

Experiences you don't write home about.

In Ernest Hemmingway's book In Our Time, the predominant character, Nick, finds resolution for his restless soul by going off into the wilderness alone, to be alone with nature and his own thoughts. In the simple actions of pitching a tent, and fishing a mighty river, Nick calms his mind--rattled from the great war, and the ensuing disillusionment from living in Europe--and seems to find himself again right where he had left it, the forests surrounding his old home.
My english class let out into the rain that night, Monday. I walked with my friends through the cold and wet to my car. We said our usual goodbyes, the promises of seeing each other next week, and went our seperate ways. I sat in my car, dark and cold ruminating on the class we had just left. Had everyone else read the same book I had? Had they heard the same conversation I had? I felt like Hemmingway had reached through is book across time to touch my forehead and say "I wrote this for you."
At the end of every week on Saturday morning I sit in the quiet and I reflect on the past six days, trying to find some common thread of self-improvement that gives me life meaning, or at least direction. I should say that "quiet" isn't exactly that. There's something playing on my laptop, the TV may be on, some idito is screaming out his window across the park, no matter how "quiet" it is, there's always noise. It seems that everytime I try to concentrate on self-reflection, there is a little bit of flotsam from life's gutter openly trying to distract me. That was before Ernie taught me about finding my voice in absolute quiet, and that it is the only way to center one's mind. Hemmingway taught me (in this single book) that if I cannot find absolute solitude near me that I must seek it out, intentionally and willfully.
I learned that on Monday night.
Tuesday progressed normally, I didn't have any classes so I slothed about, ignoring my cluttered desk for the instant gratifcation of 99 channels of cable that I'm not paying for. Wednesday was hectic, bogged down with classes and insecurities of what the rest of my week was supposed to hold--so far it was turning into a normal week. So why this nagging feeling? What was this deep, gruff voice with a midwestern accent berating me about how trivial and idiotic I was being? Hemmingway was still there, in the back of my mind watching over me.
Thursday came, another break from classes. A second chance. A letter from the cable company remding me that if I did not return the cable box to them they would hire goons to come and break my face reminded me that I needed to take a trip out to Topanga Canyon to turn the cable box in. After looking up the address for the cable company, I realized that it was very close to Stony Point, the small moutain jutting up from the earth. A few miles before the nothern wall of the San Fernando Valley, it stands as the gate keep to the kings posing behind it. Stony point is a mecca for local fee-climbers, adreanline junkies, and adolescant romantics feeling their need to blossom in it's fertile trees. As I saw it's jagged rocks on the map, I felt a rough heavy hand slap me on the back of the head. That heavy, gruff voice was back "Go climb you idiot." Hemmingway isn't very nice...
Thursday afternoon I found myself at the base of stony point, starin up at it's summit. My car had driven itself there, my cameras and waterbottles packed themselves into my back pack, I felt after so much effort on their part the least I could do was oblige them. I hiked. I climbed. I found a trail and skittered along, barely taking time to breath I was going so fast. Each step propeled foward with greater tenacity than the one previos. When I came to a wall, I climbed. When I came to a view, I stopped and took a picture. After an hour I reached the summit and turned and looked out over the valley. I was standing on the shoulder of a giant, and he whispered his secrets in my ear with heavy gusts of wind. Secrets so big they nearly knocked me off his shoulder. I stayed on the top of Stony Point and found a comfortable notch on a ledge at the top of a very tall and sheer cliff. I sat down in the notch, I pulled out my Hemmingway and I read.
After that, everything made sense.

I'm not copying Joy, I promise.

If you were a breakfast food, what would you be?

eat, drink, and be merry...

for tomorrow you shall surely diet.

I need help. To anyone who is listening. I want to lose weight, I am unhappy with the weight I have or my body really and I'd like it to change. Before anyone goes accusing me of a low self esteem, or a lack of decent self-image, I'd like you to know that I can pick up a couch by myself.
That said, it is not really a matter of how I look, it is a matter of how I feel. I am discovering that the transition to becoming an adut is proving to be a hard one, and where I though I would have more control of my life, I am actually just trading one set of rules for another. I feel out of control, and I feel that a strict diet that I can stick would be something I can control. Getting in shape, and feeling good about myself, will give me an attainable goal that will leave me feeling like I have control of something.

So, any ideas?

It's a cloudy blue sunday morning. The masses are gathering in the tall sparan sanctuary in quiet reverence, some kneeling, some sitting with their heads politely bowed. In the back of the sanctuary a little girl sits by her father precociously, following every little nuance and gesture he makes. I walk in quetly, following a line of elderly people and my new friend, the other bass. The choir heads up to it's loft and takes their places and prepares for the worship service.
The general murmur that has crescendoed now dies back away as an austere man walks in slowly wearing a thick white robe and a heavy purple stole, followed by a succesion of elderly gentlemen looking like knights--with feathered plums in their hats and long floing glossy capes. I know that this exotic service is going to be an interesting one.
Most undercover reporters write about the time the spend embedded in a street gang in Los Angeles, or a Mental Hospital, or the the republican part in Washington D.C. I'm not that brave. Instead I chose a subject just as foriegn to me as the chicano gangs of LA: Catholics.
I was walking through the hallway of the music building and saw several fliers about a substitute bass/baritone needed "POSITION PAYS!" with no previous experiance neccessary. I call the number, because there has to be a catch. Getting paid to sing? The only thing easier is getting paid to screw. And singing has a little bit more dignity. Still, it seemed a perfect but I wanted to know more about it before I agreed. As I told Jennifer "the only thing that would make it a bit harder is if it's a catholic or a baptist church." So I call the guy, and everything seems to be in order.
"So what kind of a church is it?"
"It's Catholic."
"Of Course it is."
"What?"
"nevermind."
It didn't matter, because he wanted to pay me $50 for the rehearsal and $50 for the service. If someone wants to pay me a hundred dollars for four hours work, I don't even care what language it's in, let alone what denomination. Unfortunately as I found out Thursday night I spoke too soon.

Geeking Out

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=399518662556032906

this is the coolest thing I've seen in a very long time.

all's well that ends well

Yes, it is a cliche. But cliche's are born because people find them to fit the situation at hand so well. I was sick, had a good day, and feel better: all's well that ends well. It's amazing how rotten we can make ourselves feel just by letting our emotions get overworked with worry. I was deathly afraid of both my creative writing class and my jazz combo class--having not prepared for either. As the day progressed I lost more and more focus until I finally showed up in creative writing simply not caring what would happen.

Apathy is like a comfortable bed: you know you need to get out, but you can never think of a good reason as to why you should, the longer you stay, the worse it gets.

Obviously all of my worry and my eventual lapse in passion was uneccessary and subsied quickly. I told my creative writing teacher that I didn't have my assignment done. "okay--bring it next time." In combo I stopped worrying and simpy just started playing (which is the essence of improv anyway) and didn't do too terribly.
This isn't the first time I've stressed myself out so much from feer and worry that it's made me sick. And yet, everytime I face the music (as it were) and just go through with it ,it never turns to be as bad as I thought it was going to be. Isn't it interesting how one tends to be one's worst critic. When we know we haven't done all that we could, or could have done something better, we come down harder on ourselves that anyone else does. When pen up our apprehensions it manifests itself into stress and eventual ailment; if we just let our problems go and quit worrying about what's going to happen, life is less stressful and actaully fun from time to time.
It's an easy lesson to forget, people get so caught up in self doubt and worry that we are sure the world will have a contract out on our lives by the end of the day. But the world doesn't really care about us, and that's sort of comforting to know. When I think about the hardship I have seen, the faces of the little of children who have to struggle through their lives without a possesion to their name, I feel guilty that I've wasted so much energy concerned that my teacher won't like me as much. I have an absolutely wonderful life and I should be thankful that I have it so lucky.
There is a neccessary balance between ambition and apathy. There is a place between two mountains of extreme emotion--a feild of calm and composition, of thoughtfulness and intellect. In this feild flowers grow as they are needed and do not grow when they're not. Shade is provided at the right moments and the when only blows to whisper the words "get it done." This is what I'm searching for--this place of motivation without compulsion, but relaxation without lethargy. When I find it, I promise I will show you how to get there too.

Yet another Thing I Wish I had Learned as a Kid

When your mother always said "don't go out in the rain without a jacket" don't ignore it. You will in fact catch a cold.

I feel miserable, and it's bright and sunny outside....damnit.

A Character Study

Grace Hodges – Mrs. Hodges is the last daughter of wealthy and powerful family dynasty. “Old Money” she always called it. In the waning years of her life, Mrs. Hodges has made it her sole intention to make sure that the family name leaves this world with the dignity and respect it is accustomed too. She is a woman brought up in the school of propriety, and clings to her upbringing the way a Baptist clings to a bible, especially in this age where propriety seems to be slipping from the attention-deficit minds of the youth. The youth: she always called it “wasted energy,” in fact she never seemed to like the idea of having children of any age around. She had a preemptive curtness for people she considered less refined than her, and children (and the working class) were definitely of that breed. Though neither want to be around her much with such a sullen face as she wears.

Grace Hodges is a formidable woman, with a disposition to match. Many have tried to break through the glacier she carries on her face—lawyers, brokers, and bankers alike but none have succeeded. When one looks at the icy face of Grace Hodges, one will not see any resemblance of emotion, save the mild annoyance with her oncoming feebleness in her old age found in the tight, down-turned corners of her thin lips. Indeed, Mrs. Hodges is a hard person to know. Yet beneath this cold exterior, lies the younger version of Grace Hodges—a woman full of mystery and intrigue. Her life was not always spent cradling the fragile pieces of her family’s reputation. When she was younger Grace would go on tours of Europe, safaris in the African Savannah; she could rub shoulders with business moguls and artisans in the same week. She spent most of her young adult life taking the world in by the handfuls—as much as possible at a time, much to the chagrin of her father.

Her father was one of the top business men in the country during a time when industry separated the mere men from legends. All he ever wanted was for his little girl was to settle down with a nice young man with a good head on his shoulders, for her to lead a happy and simple life away from worry, and to be safe. But Grace would not hear of it, she continued on in her own wild and charismatic way, growing more charming and irresistible by the minute. She was always “beating them off with a stick” as they say. she was never want for attention from her opposite sex; she loved every bit of the attention. But her father’s gone now, and Grace can never get over the remorse she feels every time she thinks about the way things were left between them. He never liked the impulsive attitude she took towards life and was absolutely certain she would squander and ruin the precious family name. It’s all Mrs. Hodges ever thinks about.

Those keen enough can look into her cold blue eyes, and see a disappointment that only those who must carry the entire history of her family on her shoulders. With a deep look into those pools of sapphires, one can see the fiery young girl full of adventure, the tumultuous young woman with a razor-wit and ambition to match, and finally the nostalgic longing of an old woman, who has had to endure the hardship of giving into the steady flow of time. But her father is gone and, having never married, Mrs. Hodges has resigned to being the refined woman her father had always wanted her to be. And now in her old age, all she can do is wistfully recall the memories of her tumultuous youth. If one manages to gain Grace Hodges trust, and she does let her guard down even just a little, then a clever person can see that longing her innocent eyes.