Failed Expectations

I can't say that I have this for everything in my life.
There are quite a few things that I'm quite realistic about.
Career, friendship, my abilities as a man. As a person.

But there is one aspect of my life that I can't get a grasp on -- Relationships.

You've never met a more romantic, giving man.
And I think a lot of who I am as a lover, is because of what I've learned through film.
Damn films.

I've read articles before about the detriment to society romantic comedies are.
Well, I am the living embodiment of this exact issue.
I am all at once a cliche and a flawed creature.

I dream of love constantly. It's a part of me.
Dream of hours of sharing.
Of long stares and laughter. Of arguments and annoyance.
Of knowing glances and inside jokes. Of soft, passionate love making and downright, dirty fucking.

I find myself becoming one of those people who sits at a coffee shop and when I see someone walk by holding hands,
looking very much in love, I'm a combination of jealous and envious.

I'm flawed. And I know it. I've known it for awhile and I'm not exactly sure how to trace it back.

When I look at myself, I find this:

I fall hard. And way too fast. If I meet someone I have a "connection" with, the connection stays. Lingers. Even if it doesn't work. Which it apparently never has. I meet a woman and destroy that initial impulse in her that told her to give me her number. After she's done it, of course. I'm jumping, no no, diving in the "Honeymoon phase" before we're even dating. She's thinking "Hmm, he's kinda cute. And funny." And I'm thinking "We'd have cute kids."

I'm the chick. When the FUCK did this happen?

I'm at an age when all of my closest friends are married. And they have been for awhile. My besties, who I would literally die for. Dan. Bruce. They all got lucky. SO lucky. They found the perfect mate for themselves. And vice versa. Their wives, "The Stephanies" are so happy.

Now, there's a part of me that wishes that I was the guy on Friday night who rallied with his "boyz" and went out to rage. All the while screaming, "YEEEAAAGH, LET'S GET SOME PUSSY, BRO! FUCK YEAH! LET'S GET LAID! AND WASTED!" Sometimes I wish I was that guy because the bullshit that I'd be dealing with would probably be less than now.

I drag myself through the mud constantly. Simultaneously being the recruit and drill instructor. Running myself through my own little confidence course and when I slip off the rope and hit the water, I'm pissed. Hurt almost. Then I come to the edge of the water and starting yelling at my love-soaked self. "Get the fuck up, you! You get the hell outta that water and get back on my course! You hear me?" "Yessir." So I run back around and begin the course again, but I'm still wet. Still soaked. So, yes. I'm running the course, going through the motions, but when I get to that rope again, and look down -- I'm thinking, "I'm still fucking wet from the last time I ran through this."


Does this mean I need time? Time alone? I don't think so. The whole "You have to love yourself before you can love someone else"-thing isn't really a problem for me. I have love for myself. I sometimes have issues about feeling adequate. Fiscally speaking. My last relationship didn't help that one in the least. Dan tells me that when I get my first paycheck for directing that will all change. That it's not unique that I'm feeling that. A lot of people feel that.

There's a part of me that wants to skip forward. I'm trying to live in the moment. Enjoy the process. But I find that's it always a combination of enjoying "the moment" and wanting to move past it to "the good stuff".

For example: Right now is a very exciting time for me with my career. I've been pushing hard to achieve this goal for many years and approaching the precipice. One film is getting signed, one is getting financed, and my new project with Dan and Elwood is so exciting. Creatively inspiring. Fun. It's a wonderful time. But there's a part of me that is saying "Enough already, gimme a fucking premiere party!"

Similarly, I don't date well. I enjoy the little moments. The getting-to-know, the little laughs. The adoration. But inside, I'm going "Enough already, gimme the fucking wedding party!" I hate dating. I don't think I always did, but I do now. I love the excitement of first dates and all that, but there's a part of me that wants to skip all that. I was having a conversation the other night with a friend and we're were discussing how it's hard for men to prove that they're "men" nowadays. Everything has changed. Is that why I wish I had lived in the Old West? On the Frontier? Is that why I crave the mountains? Adventure? Because that's something that I have control over? More than nought?

Is the only way to prove that you're a man, to make money? I feel like that's wrong. I actually feel pretty strongly about that. I think being a man has to do with taking responsibilities for your actions. Being honest with others and yourself. Loving with your whole heart. Protecting the honor of the people you love with your everything, even death sometimes. None of these traits require you to have money.

I've gone off path onto a tangent. Back to it --

There is nothing more important to me than love. Love for my friends. Love for my family. It dwarfs my new car. My nice apartment fails in comparison. All of my belongings are but a mere breeze compared to the tornado that is love. And I feel like that tornado has been touching down around me for years. I'm prepped and ready. The windows and doors are boarded up. The cans of food are labelled and inventoried. I'm ready for love to touch down one last time. Touch down and sweep me up in it's funnel. Pulling me higher. And higher.

Into the clouds.

Knock Knock at the door.

Are you expecting somebody? Who the fuck is it?

I don't know who it is.

You're not expecting anybody?

No. Don't you think if I was expecting somebody I would have told you?

No. I don't. I mean, since when do you communicate with me?

Oh, fucking nice. Way to bring it all back around. Way to go. You know how I called you a dumb fuck? Yeah, well I take it back. You're a genius.

Just shut up, Leslie.

Don't tell me to shut up, "JOHN".

Knock, knock.

Oh yeah, you forget that someone's at your door?

Jesus Christ, lay off, will ya?

Fine. I'll lay off.


Silence.


Knock, knock, knock.


Silence.

John, if you don't answer the door, I will.

Goddamn it, shut up. Seriously. Shut your fucking mouth. Do you hear me?! I mean really hear me? Shut up. Just shut up.


Silence.


Who is it?



Silence.




Hello?




Knock, knock, knock.




I hear you knocking, who is it? What address are you looking for?



Silence.



John, who is it?


I don't know. Obviously. You can hear too.

Put your ear up to the door. See if you can hear something.

Okay.



Silence.




Silence.




Silence.




What do you hear? Anything?



Silence.



John, why are you looking at me like that? What did you hear? Why are you opening the door? Who is it?




John?

Lost and Found

I've found within myself that I am somewhat lost.

I know the path that I should be walking on but have somehow found myself drifting through an endless grove of mile-high trees.
Their trunks are straight. Rigid. And shoot straight up to the heavens. Branching out far towards the top.
I run my hand along their rough bark. My skin catches on the surface. Tearing my flesh.
I quickly run to the left, only to find myself once again on the path. Pea stones and rosemary.
I reach down and grab a clump of rosemary. It sticks out between my fingers. Like a handful of hair.
When I stand up I discover that I am in the forest once more. A giant redwood an inch from my face.
Because it seems appropriate, I slam my forehead into the redwood. It hurts.
I feel that surreal sensation of when you've been hit too hard.
I do it again. Again. And again.
I'm bleeding on to the tree. The redwood has become more red.
Until I turn around and run into the opposite direction.
Ah..., the path. Here it is.

This pattern happens again and again. Over and over.
The loss. The finding. The loss. The finding.
I know that I will stray off into the trees again. And again.
I will hurt myself. Again. And again.
And I will find my way home. Again. And again.

My First Film Review! "The Last Airbender"

Ok. I didn't really plan on doing this kind of thing on my blog, but the movie I witnessed today demands that I speak out. All I have to say is..., M.Night...WTF?!!!?!!! What the fuck are you doing? I mean, I hate to judge, but come on!

We all remember the first time we were watching "The Sixth Sense". When we laid eyes on that weird little genius kid for the first time? You know, he steps out the front door of his place, puts on the lens-less glasses? The kid who had more emotional depth than a "Monster"-ous Charlize Theron? Yeah. Goosebumps. Big ones. When he looked at the camera, he was looking at us and he was peering deep into our souls. Fuck that movie is brilliant. Or even the little kid in "Unbreakable"(my favorite, I don't care what anyone says). When he is sitting at the breakfast table and he and his Dad exchange those looks!! HOLY SHIT! A-ma-zing. "Signs" with Culkin and Breslin? Don't even get me started.

So, when I watched this movie today I didn't feel angry as much as I did sad. I felt as if someone I loved was dying a slow, painful death. And I either want one of two things to happen: A) He begins to heal and get better. OR B) He dies quickly to avoid any more suffering. For himself or the other people around him.

I think my biggest issue is this: Does fantastical have to replace quality? Meaning, let's take a look at "The Sixth Sense" again. In it's heart, where is all the money going in that film? The actors, right? Bruce Willis, Toni Collette? Of course. Because how many special effects are there in the movie? And of the special FX that they do have, they're not particularly amazing. Some lame bodies hanging in a school hallway? A kid with his headblown out? Mischa Barton puking up oatmeal and yogurt? No, the money went to the actors. And guess what? The movie fucking rules! Those people acted the shit out of that film. You overlook things like poor FX and Bruce Willis' hairline because the actors are so engaged! So truthful that it's impossible not to believe them. Once again, this is not unique for M. Night. The aliens in "Signs" were crap but the actors sold it. "Unbreakable"? The weights. We know they're not real, but they damned sure felt real the way that Bruce Willis was acting! "Lady in the Water?" and "The Village", no comment. They don't factor into this.

"The Last Airbender", however, M went all the way with the Special FX. Tons of CGI. Tons of greenscreen. And..., I get it. I understand. If you're doing an adaptation of a cartoon, you HAVE to spend on CGI shit. In cartoons you can do anything and if you're adapting to live-action you're gonna have to do that. BUT..., does that mean you have to skimp on actors?

From the first lines uttered, I knew I was in trouble. I honestly don't know why I didn't walk out, but I didn't. I stayed. These actors were horrible. And I know they're young so I don't entirely blame them, if at all. I blame M. What are you doing, M? You are that same director. That same one who wowed us all. How could you let these performances be seen? How did you not sit there on set and push these young actors to get a performance that was worthy? Did you think that by making some of the supporting actors gifted thespians(Cliff Curtis, Shaun Toub, even Dev Patel from "Slumdog" fame has some honest moments) that we would overlook the lead actors? Noah Ringer - This kid is an unknown in every sense of the word. And he should have remained that way. Buried. His only talent is that he moves well. But you can't tell me that you couldn't find a child actor who actually has depth AND can move well. Nicola Peltz - I actually don't think she's that bad. She seemed to have some great moments but I chalk it up to editing. There seemed to be an added/missing beat every time she would have a line. It made her performance come off as..."off". Jackson Rathbone - First of all, he doesn't deserve his name. That name should be owned by a villain in a Sherlock Holmes novel. More importantly though, he shouldn't be acting. I am embarassed to say that I've actually seen the first two "Twilight" films and I feel less intelligent because of it. He is in both of those. All he basically does is stand there with these huge, weird, psychotic eyes and say nothing. BUT I preferred him in those cases because he said nothing. In "Last Airbender" he has to speak, unfortunately for us. I didn't give a shit about his character one bit. Or any others. Except for maybe Dev Patel's "Prince Zuko". He's the only one that seemed to know what he was doing. Even Aasif Mondvi, who I loved from years back when I lived in NYC. He would do a little sketch comedy show called "The Associates" and killed it. Yeah. He's miscast. Are we sensing a theme here??

I'm not even going to get into the accusations about M being racist for casting White actors in Asian roles. The only reason that bothered me was because it took me out of an already crap movie. "Why are they the ONLY white people in their village of, basically, Eskimos?" I don't think M is racist. I think he's lost.

Take it back M. Take it way back. Take it back to where you excel - The family unit. Keep it simple, damnit. I haven't lost faith in you. And, obviously, based off the $70 million opening, others haven't either. But we won't hang on forever. We will only give you so many chances. As my parents used to tell me "Think before you speak". You need to think before you take on other projects. Think about what made you who you are. Sure, twists are great. But that's not what made you. What made you was your ability to make actors feel so comfortable that you evoked such incredible performances it brought people to tears. Literally. Your ability to edit those performances together seamlessly with breathtaking scores. Wow.

Do NOT let the opening numbers of this film fool you, M. I dare you to watch this film back to back with any of your early work. "Sixth Sense", "Unbreakable", or "Signs". I guarantee that you will see exactly what I'm talking about and will pinch yourself on the inside of your thigh saying "Damn you, M. Night. Damn you."

Let Me Be Free.

I'm trying, Lord. I'm trying.
My mind gets in the way though.
Of so many things.
Just living.

I find myself drawn towards the ground.
Just to lie down.
Anywhere I can.
Lie down.
Stare up at the clouds.
The sky.

My mind is a mess.
Fluttering thoughts of madness.
Sadness.
It Burns.

I try to focus on a swaying palm tree.
Focus on the reflection of the Sun on the leaves.
It's calming.
Soothing.

The tears come rushing.
Pouring from a well that I didn't know existed.
The tightness in my chest.
The gasping for a breath.
The twitching of my hands.
My feet.

I rest my hands on my heart.
Please, oh please.
Give me silence.
Give me silence.
Feel the breath in my chest and live in it.

Find the little things.
A flower.
A child smiling. Saying your name.
The sky.
A breeze.
A hug from a good friend.
The ocean.
A mountain.

I lie here. Alone.
And I wonder.
Let me be free.

Why can't everything be as badass as this poster? If I had my way, I would become this poster and walk around. Just "cool" people to death.

A Bizarre Encounter at a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf

Can I get something started for the next person in line?

Yes, can I get a quadruple espresso with breve?

One quadruple espresso with breve, coming up.


Hi, what did we get started for you?

A quadruple espresso with breve.

For here or to go?

Both.

I'm sorry?

Both. I'm everywhere.

Um. Ok. We'll just say to go. That's $3.85.

I don't have that.

What?

I have nothing more than my hands. And feet.

I'm not really sure how to respond to that.

You don't have to respond.

Ok. Wait, so you don't have the money to pay, sir?

Pay for what?

The quadruple espresso with brev -- I'm sorry, are you Jesus?

Yes.

Oh my God.

Yes?

No, I was saying 'oh my, nevermind'. What are you doing here?

I'm trying to get a quadruple espresso with ---

Yes, yes. I know that. I mean, why are you here? It can't be just to get a coffee.

In this moment, it is.

That doesn't make any sense to me. Aren't there more pressing issues in this moment?

Yes, of course there are.

So?

'So', what?

Why aren't you taking care of them?

If I'm everywhere and nowhere at the same time, can't one of those places be a Coffee Bean?

I guess so. If you put it that way.

Indeed.


Quadruple espresso with breve!

Right here.


Thanks to you both. This coffee is divine.



Damnit -- Jesus!! You forgot to pay!!!

A thought by a NON-Punk.

I am standing in the Starbucks at Beverly and Robertson. I'm waiting for my coffee to be made. Two guys just walked in and they couldn't be any more punk. Or Rock n Roll. Or who knows. All I know is that they don't look "right", standing in here. They look like sell-outs because they came in to the "establishment". They both order their little wussy drinks and then are so damned polite to the girl who made it.

Which makes me wonder a few things:

A. Maybe they were faux punks.
B. Maybe they were both in a drug-induced schizophrenic episode which made them nice, "aka not punk".
C. Why hasn't anyone thought of a coffee shop for punks? Like Starbucks or Coffee Bean, but way fucking cooler.
D. In this day and age...

Where's a punk supposed to go?

I am sad.

At least 102 that day.

Twenty years ago I saw a man. I was only a boy of eight years old, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was a Saturday.

I had been playing with Eric that whole morning. He always came over to my house. I didn't like going over to his house because his step mother, Linda, made these horrible pickles. I feel like she pickled everything. Zucchini, asparagus, apples, pears, and(of course), cucumbers. I liked pickles.

Just not hers. And not every day.

So, Eric came to my place. We had already watched all the good cartoons and had eaten, at least, three bowls of cereal each. On Saturdays, I got to treat myself to "sweet" cereal like Captain Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, Cookie Crisp. During the week, it was Nutri-Grain or Grape Nuts, (which I actually liked, but only because of the crunch factor). It was like the kid version of what most do as adults. You work for the week so you can party on the weekend. Same mentality.

We told my Mom that we were gonna run down to the store. There was a little shopping center not too far from our house. You had to walk through the old people's home courtyard across the street, then along a little path we created along the brick wall at the drug-dealer's apartment complex(until they built a wall there), then cross the street, walk through the laundromat, and you were there in the middle of the sidewalk. The only thing to the right was a Coronet and a Safeway. There did happen to be a really cool handrail that you could swing under, but that didn't matter because to the left -- was gold.

Thrifty's. And they had ice cream.

Their ice cream was the best. They had incredible mint chip and chocolate chip because the chips were almost like flakes stuck together. The Rocky Road was good and that's what Mom always got. But for me? For me there was only one choice. Chocolate Malted Crunch. It was a no-brainer.

Eric and I grabbed two scoops each. Eric with his regular cone, I with my sugar cone. They also had those weird cylindrical scoops which I think were designed like that so they would be easier to lick the edges. So, we dropped our cash, 25 cents a scoop, and took our cones outside. We sat on the edge of some planters and enjoyed our weekend treats. It wasn't even noon yet and we were already having our dessert.

Then we saw the man.

The first thing that I noticed was his glasses. They were thick. Black. Straight. His hair was cropped really close. Like he was in the Military. In fact, everything looked like that. His plaid shirt was tucked into his new blue jeans. He had a familiar belt on, one like the ones I always saw at Beno's and chose not to get because I hated the stitching. He had a briefcase in his hands. It was black leather. It shined in the sun. Kinda matched his shoes. Black, plain. Boring. He walked right past us, looked down at us and noticed our ice creams.

"Looks good." He smiled and kept going.

Eric and I nodded our heads. I looked at Eric. He had dried ice cream all over his face. He grinned a fake toothy smile at me, then went back to his ice cream. I licked my ice cream and then turned my attention back to that man. He was walking past Thrifty's, past the William's Bros grocery. Looked like he was headed to the Mid-State Bank. He was fascinated by this guy. He stopped right out in front of the Bank and put his briefcase down. Knelt down and untied both of his shoes. Then he cinched them back up again. Grabbed the briefcase and went through the double doors.

The day was hot. We were close to summertime so the sun was really giving us a run for our money. At least 102 that day. It was beating down on our ice creams and the second that we would take a bite you would also feel a drip on your hand. Was impossible to keep up with the melting goodness but we tried. Eric seemed to be better than me. Though he was the smallest kid in school, he was the fastest. At everything. Melting Ice cream licking was no exception.

I remember how much I jumped when I heard the bursting doors. I spun around and the man we had been watching was running out of the bank. He looked different. Disheveled. Shirt had become untucked and his hair was more messy than it had been. Even his glasses looked crooked. His briefcase was weaving back and forth as he ran. He didn't get far before we heard screaming. From inside the bank.

"Stop!! Freeze!!"

He kept running.

Then a gunshot. From inside the bank.

Eric and I looked at each other. It was like Dukes of Hazzard! Live!

There was an old Toyota Celica that a woman had stopped due to the commotion. The man ran up to her car and grabbed the door handle.

"Get out of the fucking car!!" He sounded flustered. His sounded like his clothes looked.

She jumped out, and he pushed her aside to get in. She fell to the ground. Screamed.

Another gunshot. The side window blasted out of the passenger side. The man slammed on the gas and the car screamed forward. He fishtailed in the parking lot and headed towards us.

Another gunshot. It happened so fast but I remember the rear window blasting out, and the man's brains being scattered all over the windshield. His body careened forward onto the steering wheel and the last thing I remember was the grille of the car.

Blackness.

Blackness.

They didn't know how I survived. They said my body had been crushed. My "spine looked like an accordion", one doctor told my Mother. I spent almost a year in the hospital. Mom created a wonderful little home there for me. And she slept next to me on the bed most of the nights. Some nights I would have really bad cramping and she would massage my muscles until they stopped.

When they wheeled me out of the doors of the hospital for the first time, my eyes were almost burned because it was so bright. It was hot. Really hot. At least 102 that day. Mom loaded me up in the car and I waved goodbye. Mom flipped off the hospital as we left. I laughed really hard. Mom looked at me and smiled.

When we were almost home Mom asked me if I wanted anything from the store. "Or Thrifty's?" I opted for a box of Cookie Crisp. She parked the car and I waited inside for her. I could see the bank. I could see the repaired planter. Thrifty's. I zoned out for a second. Almost seeing the entire thing happen in my mind again, but from a different perspective.

Mom hopped in the car. She had two bags of groceries. Two bags filled completely with different kinds of cereal.

"It's all your, Toad." She liked to call me Toad. "You should be good for the rest of the day, at the very least." She smiled. My smile was a little more half-hearted. Mom saw.

"What is it? Do you want something else?"

I looked down at the grocery bags on the floor. All the cereal boxes. The characters. Tony the Tiger. Captain Crunch. Toucan Sam. Diggam the Frog. I looked at my legs. My atrophied legs that would never walk again. That would never run. Never hop a fence. Kick a ball. Dangle in water. I looked at my Mom.

"I miss Eric."

Mom hugged me.

Marrakech

It had been 24 years since I started working here in the Djemaa el Fna. I began coming with Father when I was eleven years old. Eleven was a ripe age filled equally with a hunger for knowledge and a hunger for breasts, slightly siding on the side of the latter. I'm not sure why I hadn't noticed them before this time, but this particular summer that I came to the souq with Father, they seemed to be everywhere. Though mostly hidden beneath layers of cloth, I knew that they were there.

Indeed, it has been many years since that growing obsession and I think that I can honestly say that I am through with it. All that remains now is the hunger for knowledge. Father was very good about this. Teaching me. Teaching anyone who sought it out. He considered himself a student of life and he always listened to the teacher. When the wind swept through the alley, Father kept his ears open. When the tourists spoke of foreign lands, Father took notes. After all, he was storyteller. Like myself.

I loved the air here. Something about the life within it. Both literally and metaphorically, the air within the market contained life. When I would arrive in the mornings, the square would be mostly empty. Some remnants from the night before. Signs that the night could not be silenced. Shopkeepers setting up their booths. The snake charmers setting up their baskets. Charmers always looked to be hungover to me. I half imagined seeing a charmer walk into the morning light with a cup of coffee and cigarette in his mouth. Then the cobra would come out of the basket. With a small cup of coffee and a small cigarette. This was always a funny thought to me. And the charmers always wondered why I smiled so widely at them.

There wasn't much required for myself to get set up. I had a small wooden box for listeners to leave gratuities. I had several small pillows to sit on. One small stool made of wood and goat leather, for myself. And sunscreen. I hated being as dark as I was. I was always hot and, maybe this is just my own neurosis, I thought if I applied sunscreen more often I could possibly stop the darkening of my skin. I don't think it was working.

Of course it depended on what day it was, but generally I would have my first listener around 10 in the morning. People have officially woken up, embraced their lives, and now looked for escape. That was my job. And it always began with a question -- What is your name?

The answer to this question alone can inspire an entire world within my head. Names have meaning. Names have histories. Emotions. I once met a man named Thomas. Something about the way he said his name reminded me of a small home in Brussels. I can't quite explain why. I closed my eyes for a few moments. Smelled the fresh waffles. The chocolate. Then I asked Thomas to sit.

I spoke to him of love. As I often do. My mind drifts towards love. This is something that I embrace about myself. All people have things that they want to change within themselves. This "gift", however, was something I did not. When listeners sat with me, they opened their ears first, then they slowly opened their hearts. And with this newly opened heart I would watch them rise and take in the market. It was beautiful. Love makes everything brighter.

Once you have felt it, things are never the same. You can never close that door, though people try. You can never take back the moments. Though I have tried. To have loved and been loved in this lifetime -- Is there anything else? Is there anything more important?

I can say this now because I have lived it. I have loved. I have lost. And anyone who has lost love becomes an expert storyteller. They may not believe that they are, but they are. I challenge you to approach someone on the street. A stranger. Ask them if they have ever loved before and then sit back and watch their eyes. Glazing over, lost in memories. In moments. They time travel to a cafe, to a park. To an ocean, to a bedroom. And they can describe to you the smallest details of that scene. They may have trouble putting it into the right words, but give them a chance. They can do it.

People love my stories because even if they haven't loved before, I give them an opportunity to feel love. And if they have felt it before, I let them feel it again. There is a sublime feeling that rushes over me when I see a tender smile appear on the face of a listener. They are giving in. They are surrendering. Because to surrender -- this is the only way to feel true love.

I was nineteen when I met her. I knew her for only a half of an hour. And I would never be the same.

It was an early morning and I had just finished setting up. Father had recently stopped coming with me due to his increasing health issues. So, I sat alone with my tea. Waiting.

Are you open? I heard a voice like I had never heard before. Looked up into the morning sunlight. She was silhouetted and I could not see her face. I raised my hand above my eyes, blocking the light, and my eyes fixed themselves to the light. Her face became visible. The face that would imprint itself on my thoughts for the rest of my life.

Yes, I am open. You are the first of the day. She smiled at me. That was the first. Please, sit down.

Thank you.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. Who I was. There wasn't any more room in my mind for myself. She consumed all of me. Then I came back. Long enough to ask her the important question.

So, what is your name? No matter what it was, I knew it would be perfect. I just wasn't prepared for how perfect it would actually be.

Shahdokht. Her accent was Iranian.

Tehran? I asked.

Yes. Am I that transparent?

No. I laughed. I am just that good at dialects.

She laughed with me. Her laughter made me want to immerse myself in warm water and float for awhile.

So, are you going to entertain me with a story?

Yes. But first, I have one more question for you. What does your name mean?

She gave me a curious look.

I'm sorry but, Farsi is not my strong suit.

She laughed again. My name means "princess" or "daughter of the shah".

I nodded. Smiled. If I were to name her, I would have given that name as well. And treated her as such. She was petite. Not tall. Maybe a little over one and a half meters. She looked as if she were about my age. Eighteen or so. But not like the other girls that I had known. She was not a girl.

She was a woman.

Her hair was long and black. It reminded me of waves. Not like the violent waves of the world's oceans, but the waves that I see in the great Sahara. Soft and rolling. Her skin was pale, unlike mine. Like a pearl. Unflawed. Her eyes dark like the night. And just as infinite. I could see the constellations in her eyes.

Apparently, I was staring.

What is it? She asked.

For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words. I didn't know how to answer. I wanted to be honest with her, but I was scared. I couldn't feel an answer coming any time soon, so I decided to just deny the impulse and do what she was there for --

Tell her a story.

Shahdokht, "the princess" -- Are you ready for your story?

I am.

Good. I will begin.

I adjusted myself on my stool. Trying to release some of my nervousness.

Before you start, I just have one question for you. Do you mind if I ask it?

I swallowed my excitement. Unsure of what she would say to me. Most listeners that come to me, just want to be indulged in a story. But I was curious. And I felt young.

Please. I welcome your question.

A breeze picked up. A lock of ebony hair blew into her face. She swept it aside. Licked her lips.

What is your name?

This I can answer. I stood slightly and introduced myself. My name is Amal.

Amal. She nodded. My name had never seemed to fit me as much as it did when she said it. And what does your name mean, Amal?

For a moment I retreated into my memories. I remembered asking Father the same question when I was just a child of five years. We were walking in the early morning. He was holding my hand. When I asked the question he looked down at me. Swept me up into his arms and held me in front of him. He wiped my hair from my face and kissed me on the cheek. Then he answered.

As did I.

My name means "Hope".

She smiled and repeated my name.

Amal.

Poor Boyle

Boyle Langston Hughes was not a particularly happy man. He'd managed to reach the ripe age of 26 and he managed to do it pretty much alone. Quite a feat for anyone. Something about genetic makeup had managed to pigeon hole him into a life of seclusion. First, there was his name -- "Boyle". His mother had always liked the name "Boyle" mostly because she was obsessed with the film "Young Frankenstein". At one point she had even toyed with the notion of naming him "Gene Wilder Jeffries". Instead, it was "Boyle". Not a horrible name, if it's a last name, but if it's a first name and you have a glandular issue that makes you more robust than the average kid, "Boyle" can be a nightmare. "Gonna pop you like a Boyle, fat-ass!" "Eww, is that a Boyle on my dick?" Mom didn't really think that one through.

Then, there was "Langston". And "Hughes". The last name was inevitable, but the middle name...this was his Dad's call. His father considered himself a bit of a poet. He was constantly turning everyday situations into prose. Even when it was embarrassing, MOSTLY when it was embarrassing. That aside, his middle name had gone mostly unnoticed until a ninth grade English teacher pointed out the origin of his name in front of the entire class. It wasn't meant to be derogatory, but when you're then asked to read a poem by the author who is your namesake, in front of the entire class, it can be "socially harmful". Especially when the poem is titled "The Negro Speaks of Rivers".

A disgusting growth on your body and a famous African-American poet. Then there was anemia. Boyle had it. Low red-blood cell count. He got tired a lot. Bruised easily. God forbid he got a paper cut. It wouldn't stop bleeding. This always made for some fun on the playground. There were constantly games to see who could run up behind Boyle and "tag" him. Whomever left the biggest "tag", won. Boyle hated this game, though he was never really involved with the rule-making aspect of it.

A childhood that was solitary and meek, which led into an equally depressing adulthood. He went directly from high school into a job working at his local grocery store. He stocked at night. Saw it originally as a chance to work with very few people. He could work by night, sleep by day. Limit his "exposure". This had lasted for the past nine years. And, so far, it had worked. Women? Not really. He had slept with one woman. Her name was "Trudy". At least, that's what she said it was. Boyle knew that probably wasn't her real name, but it was all he knew. He saw her once, paid what he had to pay, and that was it. And to be perfectly honest, he was worse off because of it. When she left his apartment, he felt an emptiness that he'd never experienced before she had been there. It had been a little over three years since that night.

Things were bad for Boyle. Always had been and he didn't really see a light at the end of the tunnel. So when that hooded motherfucker asked him if he was "ready to die", Boyle looked him in the eyes and said, "I've always been ready to die".

Only thirty minutes before that --

Things had been going on like normal. Boyle finished work at 9:00 am. Grabbed his bi-weekly paycheck and walked down to Ed's Coffee Shop. He went there every morning to eat some hot cakes(one of his few pleasures in life), and read the "calendar" section of The Times, just to see the lives that others lived. After his cakes he walked to the bank and waited for them to open at 10. He could have easily deposited his check through the ATM, but Boyle never really trusted those things. Not with deposits. He had always feared that he would put a check in and then it would tell him to deposit his check again. Not acknowledging that he'd already done so, and then it would escalate from there. So -- he waited.

But not alone.

A girl was waiting, as well. An attractive girl.

A very attractive girl.

She was tall. Taller than Boyle. That wasn't saying much,( Boyle was only 5'7"), but she was pretty tall, nonetheless. She looked "carved". Sculpted. At least she did to Boyle. Due to his introverted lifestyle, he rarely got the opportunity to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Things like mid-afternoon tea, picnics, and the smile of a pretty girl. Yes, she smiled at Boyle.

The doors unlocked. She walked in first. There wasn't a puddle but if there was, Boyle would have thrown his coat down. She walked to one of the loan officer desks and sat down. Boyle watched her. He tried not to make it too obvious, though it was. Very. He filled out the deposit slip. Watched her.

"Sir?"

He continued to watch her. She was so cute the way she complained about her adjusted APR.

"Sir?" Boyle turned. He was "Sir". He walks up to the teller.

"Sorry. I was..zoning out."

"That's okay." the teller said, a young Latin man of about nineteen years. "I get it."

Boyle realizes just how obvious he was.

"I..."

"Bro, don't worry about it. She's fine. I follow you."

The teller looks at her. So does Boyle.

"You gonna talk to her?" asks the teller.

Boyle turns to him. "I don't know. I mean, I could, like, maybe go over and..."

"You should."

Boyle looks at him.

"Listen Bro, girls like that...girls that look like that, sometimes they feel alone too. They feel alienated 'n' shit."

Boyle not quite following. The teller reaches for his wallet. Pulls it out, opens it to a picture of a breath-taking Latin woman.

"Who's that?" inquires Boyle.

"That's my wife, bro. Now look at me. I'm nothing special. I ain't rich. Not particularly good-looking or nothin'. Can't carry a tune to save my life. But what I did have was the balls to walk up to her and tell her the way that I felt. Now she's my wife. And I still tell her the way I feel. Everyday. That's why she loves me."

Boyle looks at the picture. Then at the girl.

"Here ya' go". The teller hands him his deposit receipt.

"Thanks." Boyle nods. "I think I might just hang out for a few minutes."

"Good Luck, bro." the teller smiles.

Boyle walks over to the chairs in the waiting area. Sits down. He flips through various brochures. Different types of accounts and such. Reads about student loans, for a brief second wishing he went to college. Almost immediately thinking against it. Reads about some new checking accounts that has really low interest rates as long as the balance never drops below $10,000.00. Boyle has never had that amount of money in his checking account. Or savings. Wishes he had more money.

She's still at the desk. Still talking it out with the loan officer. Probably a student loan. She looks "learned". She looks like she maybe went to an Ivy League school. Or Pepperdine.

CRACK!!

Boyle quickly turns! Sees the security guard drop to the ground! His head split open by two armed men!

"Nobody fucking move or a bullet goes into the head of this dumb fuck!!" His Glock pointed at the fallen guard.

The other hood runs over to the loan officer desk and grabs the guy by the back of the neck. Gun to his head.

"Listen to me very carefully. You are going to walk me behind the counter. Then you're walking me into the safe. It's just that simple. You trip an alarm? You die. Someone tries to call out? Another dies. Anything even remotely stupid, someone dies. Do yourselves a favor and don't test us. There are only..." He takes a silent headcount. "...seven of you in here. Mistakes can accumulate quickly. That number could drop faster than you'd like."

The loan officer nods. Walks him over to the counter and types in a code. They enter.

In all the chaos, Boyle has just stayed in his chair. Frozen. Not really noticing that "she" has made her way over towards him. She's retreated as far back as she could get. Just so happens that happens to be right next to Boyle.

"I'm sorry." She whispers to Boyle. "I just -- I'm scared."

"Me too."

"Really? You seem...not. You seem calm."

"You two!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" yells the lobby gunman.

They stop talking. But only for a second. Boyle isn't going to miss his chance.

"You can be both. Scared and calm. -- Ever been bullied?"

She shakes her head.

"I have. Once you lose count of every time it happens, a calmness hits you. It becomes an inevitability. Doesn't mean you're not scared, though."

She looks at Boyle. She's shaking like a leaf. Petrified. But she still notices that he's cute. And probably the most honest man she's ever met.

"I'm Emma."

"Boyle."

She smiles. "Oh my god, Woof"

Boyle just looks at her.

"Young Frankenstein? The Mel Brooks movie?"

Boyle is silent.

She shakes her head. "Nevermind."

BLAMMM!!!!

A gunshot from behind the counter! Blood and brains all over the security glass!! The safe gunman stands up on the countertop.

"I told you all not to test us. But this bitch had to go for the silent alarm. And let me warn you, if the cops are on their way then I ain't got no reason to keep you alive. Cuz that means we ain't leavin' either. There's six of you now. Don't make it five." He goes back to the safe.

Boyle looks down. Emma's arm intertwined in his. She's gripping him.

"I don't want to die." She whispers. Pure terror in her voice.

He rests his hand on hers. "You aren't going to die. Trust me."

She looks at him. Not sure why -- but she does trust him. Completely.

Boyle looks around the scene. One security guard, unconscious on the floor. One masked man above him. Two tellers behind the counter, against the wall.(one of which is his friend). One loan officer in the vault with the other masked man. One young woman named Emma. One young man named Boyle.

"Hey Fat-man", the lobby hood calls. "The fuck you looking at?"

Boyle just shakes his head. "Madness."

"Say what?"

Boyle clears his throat. "I said, madness. I'm looking at madness."

The gunman takes his foot off the security guard. Starts walking over towards Boyle.

Emma's grip tightens. "What are you doing?"

"You'll see." Boyle whispers.

The man walks over. Stops in front of them.

"So, madness, huh?"

Boyle knows what's coming. "Yeah. That's what I said..."

CRACK!! The pistol gets whipped across Boyle's jaw. He spits blood. A huge bruise almost immediately appearing.

"That's fucking mad. You're turning violet, Violet!" The masked man begins cracking up.

BLAM!!!

The laughing stops. The man looks down at his chest. A smoking hole through it. Looks back at the security guard who has woken up long enough to fire a round right through the guy's chest. Then the security guard passes out again.

The masked man falls to the ground. Dead.

"What the fuck!!!" The other man runs out and sees his dead partner on the ground. Gun still in his hand. Looks at the security guard. Gun still in his hand, as well. "Stupid motherfucker." He makes a b-line for the security guard and then fires a slug into his skull. Blood everywhere. He looks back at his fallen partner. Walks over and rolls him to his back.

Talking to his dead partner, "Forgot to take his fucking weapon, bro. Big mistake. Big one." His voice emotional. He's trying to sound hard, but he's not fully pulling it off. This one will linger.

But he "feels" something. Someone watching him. He raises his gaze to meet Boyle's. Who is staring him right in the eyes. His partner's Glock in his hand. He stands slowly, setting his own gun on the ground.

Boyle stares him down. His hand shaking. "Big mistake. Big one."

"Listen, pal. You don't have to do this. You and your girlfriend are free to go, if you want. Just walk right out the door. Pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing happened? People died here. Innocent people!" Emma runs over to hit him...

"Emma, NO!!" Boyle screams!

She runs right into Boyle's line of fire! The gunman draws a blade from his sleeve. Slamming it into Emma's stomach!

She gasps --

Falls right on top of it, collapsing on to it. The guy spins her around and holds her in a chokehold, facing Boyle. The blade at her throat. Her stomach bleeding badly. Trying to cope with the immense pain. She looks right into Boyle's eyes.

Boyle looks into hers. Unsure of what to do, but feeling connected to a person. For once.

"Lower the weapon or your girl is fucking dead."

Boyle doesn't see any other way out. He delicately lowers his arm. Defeated. "Please, just...just don't hurt her anymore. Please."

The gunman, still holding on to Emma, bends down and retrieves his gun.

"Well, someone has to pay for this shit. We told y'all not to fuck with us. I would most definitely call this "fucked with"."

Boyle looks at her face. Her eyes. So soft.

"I'll pay for it. Take me." Boyle says, never feeling so sure of anything. But still scared.

"No shit? Dying for your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

The gunman scoffs. "You stupid then, man. Must be ready to die. That right? You ready to die?"

Boyle sets his gun down. Looks at her. She looks at him. At his heart. His soul.

"I've always been ready to die -- I just never thought it would be for love --

BLAM!!!

Boyle takes a shot to the chest! Catapulted off his feet, against the wall. He slumps down.

"Boom!!" The gunman throws Emma to the ground. "Hope you know what had when you had it, bitch. I sure as fuck wouldn't die for your sorry ass."

He walks over to Boyle's body. To finish the job, if he's not already dead. "Yoo-hoo..." Rolls Boyle's body over --

SHTICKK!!

Boyle jams a utility knife into the guy's throat! Rips it out, dragging most of his throat with it!! The guy collapses. Dead.

The knife falls to the ground. Boyle gasping for air. He has a massive sucking chest wound. Emma crawls over. One hand over her stomach. Holding her wound. She perches herself above Boyle. Puts her other arm under his head, cradling him.

The other people, the tellers and the loan officer, pop up. Boyle's latin friend, "I called 911!!"

Emma nods. Notices the utility knife.

Boyle, struggling with his words. "I...I'm a stocker."

Confused, Emma looks at him. "You're a what?"

Seeing the possible mix-up in his choice of words, he laughs. "Not that kind. I stock groceries. At night. I stock groceries."

She laughs. They share a laugh together. Until a surge of pain rushed over Boyle. He's "close". And he knows it.

"God, it was nice to meet you." Struggling with his words.

"I know it was. But it's not over. You're not going anywhere. Ok? Besides, you never asked me out? You waited that whole time for me to finish and never asked me."

His eyes widen a bit. A slight smile. "You knew?"

"Of course. A girl always knows."

Boyle smiles.

"The answer is 'yes', in case you're wondering. "

A tear runs down the side of Boyle's cheek. He's never been as happy. Another surge.

He's going. And she sees that he is.

"Boyle, what...what can I do? What can I do to help?"

He struggles with his breath. His lungs filling with fluid. With blood. "Just talk please. Anything. Anything is fine."

Emma doesn't know what to say. This may be the last words that he ever hears, and she doesn't-know-what-to-say.

When it hits her --

"I've got it!" She smiles. "When I was a freshman at Yale, I studied poetry for a semester. It wasn't really my thing, but there was one poem that I never could shake. Every time I would sit in stillness it would come to me. It's the only poem I know."

Boyle just nods slightly. He can't speak.

Emma runs her hand over his forehead. "I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins."

Boyle smiles. He knows this one.

"My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset."

Boyle's head slowly drifts to the side. Emma still runs her hand softly over his face. Caressing him.

"I've known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers."

Boyle closes his eyes. And rests in her arms.

Unseen Short Film...

Every Halloween, one of my besties throws a party called "The Halloween Happening". This party is not a normal Halloween party. There are no costumes. Very little, if any, candy. Not Jack-O-Lanterns. This is a party of art. A month or so before the party, my friend sends out a topic. This topic sets the theme for the party and everyone that attends, everyone, must create art based off of this topic. It can be a film, a song, a painting, a book report, a poem, a performance, anything! But you MUST do something and it can't be longer than five minutes.

Each year I usually shoot a film. It's fun and it inspires me, to shoot something so quickly and then screen it days later. That said, over the years I've become more and more of a perfectionist and have started forgetting what it was all about -- just enjoying yourself and enjoying what you made.

On the Halloween of '08, the topic was "Revenge" and I came up with a blues-inspired short titled, "Ma'Blues Run Red". It hasn't been seen, except for that night of the party, and I was holding it for all this time trying to think of a way to "fix" the technical flaws of the film. When, in fact, those flaws are some of the things that make it what it is -- Just a simple short that we shot for fun over the course of one Fall day.

THE ACTORS really did a wonderful job and they each give a truly nuanced performance. CHRIS MASTERSON as the lead is cold, detached, and frightening. KATE TOWNE is both funny and heart-breaking in this. She makes you laugh at her and then hate her the next minute. And KEVIN DANIELS, though only in it for a few moments, truly takes advantage of his time on screen. Their performances alone make this worth watching.

Sorry for the delay in putting this out there and enjoy the film! - JOSH

Cry Baby Cry

One man kneels on the ground. He's got a burlap sack over his head. Hands tied behind his back. Legs tied at his knees and ankles. He's wearing a worn USC hoodie and boxers. No shoes. His knees are scraped. Bloody from the dried lake bed below him.

The other man circles him. He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a black t-shirt. This is STEVEN.

In the background a Suburu Outback is parked, it's hatchback still open.

Steven walks over and takes the sack off the guy's head. Revealing SETH.

Steven throws the sack on the ground. Seth squints, his eyes adjusting to the blinding morning Sun.

SETH - What time is it?

Steven checks his watch.

STEVEN - 6:47.

SETH - Fuck, that's early. Can't remember the last time I was up this early.

STEVEN - Yeah. It's -- early.

SETH - So -- what are we doin' out here, Stevey?

Steven walks over to the Suburu. Grabs a can of gasoline out of the back. A USC duffel bag. Full. He doesn't answer.

SETH - You grab me in the middle of the night, Brandy's asleep next to me, drag me out to fuckin'...

He looks around.

SETH - Fuckin' wherever the hell we are, the least you could do is tell me why?

Steven still doesn't respond. He just sets down the can of fuel and duffel bag in front of Seth. Stares at him. A deep sorrow in his eyes. That, and a hint of madness.

SETH - So that's it? No explanations, no fuckin' excuses. Nothin'?

Silence.

SETH - Wow. Wow. That's -- bullshit.

STEVEN - Is it? Is it "bullshit"?

SETH - Yeah. It is.

STEVEN - And what constitutes "bullshit", Seth? Huh? Who makes up those rules? Those guidelines? You? You make that shit up?

SETH - Look, bro, you need to calm down. Just cut me loose and let's go back to the city.

STEVEN - Fuck you, "calm down". You're not calling the shots now! Not anymore!

SETH - You're goddamned right, I am! I could be tied up to the fucking Titanic and if you're with me, I'm calling the shots! You never have, Stevey. Not now, not ever. You just always been the weak one.

This "hits" Steven. Hard. His eyes are welling up. Seth notices.

SETH - See? Look, I hate to say these things but it's true, bro. You don't have the stomach for it.

STEVEN - Please, stop calling me that.

SETH - What?

Steven runs up to his face.

STEVEN - Brother!!!!

Seth is silenced. Steven walks over to the duffel bag. He unzips it. Pulls out a sheet of glass. A bag of gravel. A baseball bat. Some leather work gloves. Seth sees this -- trying to piece together what the hell is going on.

STEVEN - I was 23 when I first saw her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was walking to work, I think.

A tear runs down his cheek.

STEVEN - I didn't really know what to say to her, so I thought honesty might be the best tactic. I mean, what the hell do I know about tactics. I ran over, maybe a bit too fast, cuz I scared her. Made her jump. "Sorry about that." I said. "That's ok. If you weren't so cute, I might be pissed." I smiled and basically said what I was feeling at the time. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." I remember her eyes. They were so blue. Like some lake in the sierras. Like they were made from snowmelt. She didn't know what to say. So she kissed my cheek. It was the happiest moment of my life.

Seth listens. Shakes his head.

SETH - Dude, is this all about Michelle?

Steven just slowly looks at Seth. Something "switched" in his brain.

STEVEN - When I got the call to come identify her body, I collapsed on the ground. My legs lost all feeling. I couldn't get up. I was just sitting there in the entry way, paralyzed. Shaking. -- I remember grabbing the phone and hitting my legs with it. Trying to get some feeling back. Cracking it against my kneecaps. My shins. Every time I'd hit them, a little bit would come back. Little by little, I eventually made my way to the car and drove down to the coroners. They uncovered her body.

Steven picks up the baseball bat.

STEVEN - I could barely recognize her. The CHP was waiting there and he explained what had happened. How she was thrown through the windshield doing about 60. But before she went through it, her legs buckled and hit the dashboard. That's what broke both shins. Snapped her tibia like it was nothin'.

His grip tightens on the bat. He glares at Seth. Seth finally sees that he can't talk his way out of this. He rolls onto his back and then rocks to stand up. He gets to his feet.

SETH - Look, Steven, I know you're upset but this is not the way to deal with this. She's gone, man.

STEVEN - Seth, sit down.

Seth slowly backing away. Inching away.

SETH - I'm serious, brother. Just relax and --

STEVEN - SIT THE FUCK DOWN! NOW!

Seth sits down.

STEVEN - I now see that taking that sack off your head was a bad idea.

Steven drops the bat, grabs the sack. Seth struggles as he's fit with the sack again.

STEVEN - Don't worry. You're only going to have to wear it for a couple seconds.

Steven backs up a good ten paces. Methodically. Leans over and grabs the bat.

Through Seth's veiled sight --

SETH - Steven, what the fuck are you gonna do? Don't do anything stupid.

STEVEN - I won't, Seth. I just think you deserve, at the very least, a good scare.

SETH - A "what"?

Steven gets a running start, bat behind his shoulder. He stutter-steps the last few feet and heaves the bat into Seth's shins!

CRACK!!!

Both legs bend immediately. Like tin foil, they collapse.

SETH - AAAGHHHH!!!

Steven takes the sack off of Seth's head. Both his legs severely broken. He rolls back and forth on his back in agony. Steven walks over and drops the bat. Grabs the thick piece of glass.

STEVEN - The only good thing was that it all happened so fast, they said that her mind probably didn't have time to register the pain of the broken legs before she went through the windshield. Sorry that I can't speed this up at all for you. Unfortunately, I don't think it's humanly possible. Unless there were a couple others and it was well choreographed.

Through his coughing, his spit, his fear --

SETH - Br--broth...

STEVEN - Don't say it.

SETH - St-steven. I'm sorry, man. I'm so fucking sorry.

STEVEN - I know you are, Seth. For the first time, I see how "sorry" you really are -- And to think I envied you all these years, when it was you who envied me. Wanted what I had.

SETH - It was an accident. Honestly. It was an accident.

Something about the word "accident" connects with Steven. Snaps him back in to the moment. But everyone lives their moments differently. As where Seth's "moment" is in the desert, Steven's -- is in a wrecked Volvo off River Road and Creston Ave.

Steven walks over and grabs the piece of glass. The gloves. Looks back at Seth.

STEVEN - You know the average windshield isn't just a piece of glass. It's two. Two pieces.

Inches towards Seth.

STEVEN - They put them together like a sandwich, and put a layer of plastic in between them. Makes it stronger. Prevents the whole thing from going if one of them cracks. About a quarter of an inch, total thickness. Pretty thick shit.

As Steven stands above Seth, he looks at the glass. Through it, at Seth.

STEVEN - Do you know the amount of force you would have to possess to go through it.

Seth says nothing.

STEVEN - No, I'm asking. That wasn't rhetorical.

SETH - Please, Steven. Don't do th --

STEVEN - 60 miles per hour, I don't know what that is per inch. Pressure-wise.

Seth tries to roll onto his stomach but Steven stops him with his foot. Rolls him back over and steps on his shoulder. Pinning him to his back.

STEVEN - 60 miles per hour is pretty fast.

SETH - Nooo!!!!!

Steven raises the glass and slams it down onto Seth's face! It cracks. Smashes him over and over again. Seth's face becomes more and more bloody. Until finally the glass can't retain it's shape. Limp like a towel. Steven tosses it aside.

Seth is a mess. Not unconscious, but he should be. Steven breathes heavy, sits down on the ground. Next to Seth.

STEVEN - Why, Seth? That's all I want to know.

Seth stares up at the sky. The sun. A bird passes through it. A buzzard. Seth takes a breath.

SETH - Be...because.....I......could.

This stings Steven.

SETH - Yo...you are right....about me. I am not you. I wanted...what you had. I'm....not good. Never have been. I take.

Steven shakes his head. Catches his breath. Walks over and grabs the bag of gravel.

STEVEN - Upon flying over the hood she hit the gravel road, face first. Didn't have any time to react and put her arms out, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. They would have broken on impact and just delayed the inevitable.

Back to Seth.

STEVEN - The figured, by the marks on the ground, that she slid about 35 feet before stopping. Mostly on the right side of her body, judging by the exposed ribs and exposed parts of her skull. You'd think, after all of that, that she'd of been unconscious.

Seth doesn't even have the strength to scream now. He's just waiting for it all to be over.

Steven raises the bag over his head -- then stops. Lost in a thought.

STEVEN - You take. You took.

SETH - I...know.

STEVEN - It wasn't enough that you fucked my wife, you had to kill her too.

SETH - I know.

Steven lets the bag of gravel fall to the ground. He collapses to the ground.

STEVEN - You took her from me. In every way you could.

Seth doesn't know what to say. But he sees his little brother. The torment on his face. There's really only one way to go.

SETH - D...don't stop.

Steven looks at him.

SETH - You brought me out here to kill me -- keep going. Kill me

STEVEN - I can't. I'm not like you.

SETH - I'm not happy. Do it for me.

Steven is about to "give in", when a realization hit him.

STEVEN - "For you"?

He stands.

STEVEN - You were right about me. I almost did it. Did what you wanted me to. Killed you -- Not today. Not ever.

Steven walks back towards the car. Grabs his "supplies" and tosses them all in the back of the car.

SETH -Where are you going?

STEVEN - The Sheriff's deputy patrols these dry lake beds every afternoon. One of them will spot you.

SETH - Steven, no. Come back here! I deserve to die!

Seth starts crawling towards the car. Weakly, but he's moving.

Steven just gets into his car. Shuts the door and just sits. He turns on the ignition and a song comes on. A CD. "Cry Baby Cry" by the Beatles. This song resonates with Steven. He becomes lost in a beautiful dream -- remembering when he met Michelle.

The music plays -- He runs up to her on the street. Scares her, but she laughs. The music plays --

While lost in his memory, Seth drags himself towards the car. Dragging his limp legs. Closer and closer.

Steven remembers their first kiss -- how soft and lovely it was. How perfect it was.

Seth inches closer. Finally reaches the back of the car. Sits himself up and leans against the bumper. He leans a bit, loops his tied wrists over the top of the trailer hitch. Sighs. Relaxes against the bumber, listens to the words of the song --

Steven, lost in his blissful memories of Michelle, listens to the words of the song --

"Cry Baby Cry, make your mother sigh, she's old enough to know better..."

Steven opens his eyes. Seth opens his eyes.

Steven puts the car into gear ---

Observations.

I'm sitting here on Easter Sunday and it's the first time I've ever been alone on the holiday. Not with family. Not with friends. Not because I wasn't invited, I'm just alone. And it's an interesting feeling. I'm not sad or unhappy. I'm just still.

It's quiet. The town. The streets. My apartment. And I'm reminded of the past week and things that I encountered during. Here are some of those observations:

- Last Sunday I was walking down a long stretch of road in Beverly Hills. Perfect street. Tall palms lined the sidewalks. There was a slight breeze. No cars were parked on the street. I had my earphones in, listening to classical music. As I approached a patch of grass I saw something black laying there. I got closer and realized it was a yamika. It must have flown off of someone's head in the wind and they failed to notice. It seemed lonely lying there. I found myself feeling sorry for it.

- I went out for a close friend's birthday on Tuesday. We laughed til we cried. Ate food. At one point I had a long conversation with an actor I've been trying to make contact with for years(literally). I also got drunk. Apparently, no one noticed, but I did. My mood changes when I've had too much. I can become snappy. Considered that maybe booze isn't the best mood enhancer for me.

- I was running the other day, around the time of dusk. Earphones were in. I had a good pace going and I was transfixed with the horizon and the sunset. And I thought to myself what a beautiful world it is. And how I take that for granted.

- I listened to a friend perform live the other night. He was on the piano with a string quintet backing him up. It was candle lit. I cried in rapture.

- I went to a coffee shop today and walked towards the restroom. There was an older gentleman who was leaning against the wall, he looked like he was waiting for a coffee. I walked past, to the restroom when he proclaimed "I'm in line for the bathroom." He glared at me with scornful eyes. "Sorry, I didn't know you were in line." I replied, almost defending myself. He looked at me. Stared. "Well..., now you know." I paused, not really sure how to react. I was so tempted to tell him off and give him a piece of my mind. I felt disrespected. He had pushed a button in me that usually remains untouched. But instead I said nothing. I watched him go to the bathroom and then walk out. He glared as he walked by me. I watched him sit down, alone. He was angry and it seemed like a deep anger. A sadness. I felt bad for him. And I was glad and proud of myself for not saying anything. I wished that I had the foresight to wish him a Happy Easter.

- People gravitated into my world this week. I saw and heard amazing things. I wondered at people. Met people that I could see being in my life for many years.

- My best friend directed his first day of shooting on his feature film. He excelled. He commanded with tact and grace. It was a thing of beauty and I was proud of him.


It was a good week and I'm going to leave it with a line a heard in an Audrey Hepburn/Peter O'Toole film, "Ok, you're the boss. Just do as I tell you."

Show Me Your Anger

There’s an old koan about a monk who went to his master and said “I’m a very angry person, and I want you to help me.” The master said, “Show me your anger.” The monk said, “Well, right now I’m not angry. I can’t show it to you.” And the master said, “Then obviously it’s not you, since sometimes it’s not even there.” Who we are has many faces, but these faces are not who we are.
–Charlotte Joko Beck

Apperception.

Sometimes I lack it. How many times in my life have I not learned from my mistakes. Have I not taken the experiences of my past and laid them over my new experiences like a template.

I see it happen daily and I'm trying to change. Trying to grow. To learn. I feel myself fall into ruts. Sometimes I dig hard to scale the sides of the rut. Other times I can feel myself getting comfortable in it. I begin pushing all the rocks to the side. Clearing out a nice little spot to lay my body and rest. Then, after a rest, I decide to half-heartedly attempt to climb out. It rarely works. Almost never.

It takes that impulsive desire to get out of a rut. That drive. That rush of electricity. And I think that's what I'm saying --

Sometimes I don't feel electric. And it is that temporary lack of electricity that sometimes makes me freeze. And blind. And deaf.

I become mute to the world around me and inside of me. Not seeing the events of my past. Not hearing them.

How long have I been like this?

Aftermaths.

Let the waves come crashing down.

I'm just going to write --

She walked in to the coffee shop. She had hair that looked like wheat. Dense fields of wheat piled into a beautiful mess on top of her head. She held it in place with a mechanical pencil. A modern spin on an old fashion statement. Her jeans were just tight enough to be considered tight, but they looked comfortable. Worn in the knees. Some threads of denim from being a bit too long. Dragging under the heal of her red Chuck Taylor's. The flannel shirt could have been seen as lazy looking if it were anyone but her. I imagine it being an old shirt that belonged to her Dad. She grabbed it when she was moving out of the house for the first time. She wanted something that made her feel like a little girl. Dad's old flannel shirt. That would work. It hung off her shoulders and was unbuttoned far enough to see the front clasp on her bra. No doubt a choice that she had made. She turned heads. That was her thing. She was a head-turner.

When she stood in line for her coffee, that's when he turned HIS head. Almost as quickly as he locked eyes with her, he turned back around. "Wasn't really expecting that.", he thought to himself. He decided to muster up the courage to talk to her. He was no slouch but she was the kind of woman that you had to muster up courage for, no matter who you were. She was a head-turning, courage-musterer. She was texting.

"Anything good?" he said.

She looked up from her iPhone. "I'm sorry?"

"Your text...anything good?"

She looks down. Reads the text. Looks up again and quickly takes him in. "Nope. But don't tell the guy I'm texting."

"I'll try not to mention it the next time I see him."

She looks in his hand. Sees his Blackberry. "How about you? Anything good on yours?"

"In my texts or just on my phone, in general?"

"Both."

"See for yourself." He hands her his phone.

Without any hesitation she starts to scroll through his texts. "Who's Amber?"

"She's a girl I occasionally date."

"What marks the occasions?"

"When I'm lonely. I know that sounds messed up but she already knows this. It's not like I'm taking advantage. She does the same thing to me."

She looks up from the phone. Hands it back to him. "So, are you saying you're lonely now? Because your texts are from earlier today."

"Hmm. Hadn't really thought about it. Yeah. I guess I'm kinda lonely right now. Don't know if I'd use the word 'lonely' but I've definitely been alone lately."

They move forward in line one spot.

"Is that why you're talking to me?" she asks.

"You? No. I'm talking to you because you're stunning. And because of your shirt."

She laughs. "My shirt? What is it about my shirt that intrigues you?"

"It's dirty." he replies.

She laughs heartily. "You're funny."

"No, seriously. It's dirty." He points at a stain on the lower corner of her shirt.

She looks down and notices. "Ah, damnit! I didn't even see this."

"It's okay. I love a woman with character."

"And I love a man who pays attention to detail."

They move forward in line. He's one space from the counter. His phone beeps.

"Is that Amber?" she asks.

He looks down at the phone. "Yeah."

"Anything juicy?" she asks.

Looks at the phone. "Not really. She wants to know if I have plans for tonight."

"Ah. I guess that's the big question." She smiles at him.

"Yep. Big question. Not that juicy though."

"So?"

"So, what?" he replies.

"Do you have plans for tonight?" She asks.

He smiles. "Who's asking?"

"Amber is, of course."

"Ah, I see." He nods his head. "I don't know. It depends."

"On..?" her eyebrows raised, curious.

"On you." He replies.

She blushes. Smiles. Puts her hand out to shake.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Jesse." He shakes her hand.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Amber."

They step up in line. Now at the counter.

The barista looks at them. "Hi, what can I get for you today?"

Jesse replies, "Hi. I'll have a medium drip and the lady will have a Soy mocha, half the powder, and an extra shot."

Amber weaves her hand into his. Whispers into his ear. "You're fucking cool." She kisses his cheek.

And he kisses her back.

Loss of hope.

How badly do I want to hold on to hope. How badly do I want to embrace it.
It's a tough thing to do sometimes. The world likes to throw you curve balls and sometimes you think they're going one way, you duck, and the ball ends up hitting you right in the goddamned head. You fall to the ground, and if the pitch was fast(and they usually are), it may have done some serious damage. Your skull may be cracked but, more importantly, your psyche might be fucked. Sure, eventually, the physical wounds heal but I can guarantee the next time you come up to the plate and that pitch is thrown, there will be some hesitancy. The moment you step up. The feeling in your stomach will creep up and you just have to swallow it. Some people never recover. Some people can never step up and bat with the same moxie that they had before. Something in them dies when that ball connected.

I remember when I was 13 years old I got in a very bad motorcycle accident. I was in the hospital for quite awhile. It scared the shit out of me, as it did my family and friends. I knew that my Mother never approved of me riding motorcycles in the first, but I remember my Dad telling me that he got the motorcycle all fixed while I was still in the hospital. It was all ready for me when I got out to get back on and ride again. I'm not sure if he knew how powerful that act was but it was my Dad's way of telling me not to let life's little accidents slow you down. You take the hit and get right back up.

I'm not sure if it's related in any way but as I think about all of this I also begin to think about my attitude towards death now. Having had a decent amount of it in my life, as we all do at one point, I've found myself becoming simultaneously empathetic and apathetic towards death. When people tell me that someone in their life has passed, I find myself understanding exactly what they are going through, but I also feel a thousand times removed. As if they are explaining their feelings through a soup can radio. I can hear it, but it's distorted. And distant. I don't like this about me. I don't like that I feel detached from that emotion. And I think it's a self-defense mechanism. To accept that other people have deaths in their life, is to accept that my own Mom is dead. That is something that I'm still dealing with. It's still something that I don't truly want to accept.

Is it the same with love? Do I do the same thing? Am I unwilling to accept the nature of things? The nature of failure? How is it that when things in my life don't work out, I look at it as even more of a challenge but when relationships don't work out I become a pessimist? Almost like I need to adopt my attitude towards my career and carry it over to relationships.

I don't want to meet people and feel hopeless from the get-go. It exists. It happens every day. It happens when you least expect it. It happens when you're not looking for it. But how many people are TRULY not looking for anything? It's always there. In the corner of your mind. Or the front. You just have to embrace the exact moment that you are in. But isn't it difficult to embrace that moment and not look into the future when the moment feels so amazing that you can imagine a million of them back-to-back? This is where I fail. Or, should I say, where I have failed in the past. Maybe I will learn. Maybe through all of the pain of cracked skulls and battered egos I will be able to find my way back to the plate. Stride with confidence to home plate and lift the bat up. And when that pitcher reaches back and is about to release the ball, I will be ready to take a swing with zero hesitancy. And, in that moment, the fears fall away.

Birds and Orchids

To compare birds and orchids --

One has the ability of flight. To fly away at any time and rush back in with force.
One topples the other in terms of sheer numbers and diversity.
Both can be found at just about any place in the world, no matter how severe the conditions.
Both are beautiful, soft to the touch. Silken. Curved edges.
Both have their own means of self-defense.
One blooms and also lays dormant for long periods of time. But it's beauty is still admired through its slumber.
One creates a nest so it can come home to something.
One eats daily, searching the land for new food.
One rests, waiting patiently for the next meal. Getting all it needs in short bursts.
One is calm. And quiet.
One is fast-moving. And often noisy.

They have evolved like everything else.

I sit in a stool and look though a window. A yellow orchid sits in the sill. The sun creates a glow on the petals.
A small bird flies into my line of sight. He is moving his head back and forth with great speed, as if looking for something.
He looks like he is in a hurry. Impatient. Unable to stand still. Ah, the things he must be able to see. His unique view of the world. She basks. She is calm. Breathing. Still. And I, all of a sudden, begin to feel sorry for the bird. If only he could bask. If only he could stop for a moment and breathe. Sitting in all that he has experienced. And I, all of a sudden, begin to feel sorry for the orchid. If only she could fly. If only she could escape the sill and see the world from the clouds. Feeling the rush of energy. To be a bird and an orchid.

The wind touches them both.
The wind leaps over the sill and touches my face.