The Wake

I never lack the courage of my conviction,
I, in turn, dare to dream.
This place, this bed with no blankets,
This house with no roof,
Stands as a breathing reminder of the person I'll become.
I have love, but no love.
I have a mirror, but no reflection.
I have a heart, but no organs.
I am human, whose clothing hangs,
As a veil o'er a body,
Given a taste, yet scolded never to swallow.
But even in the wake,
Drops of dew settle on grass,
I close my eyes, and drift to sleep.

~"These things that have comforted me I drive away.This place that is my home, I cannot stay.My only faith's in the broken bones & bruises I display"~

Bruce Springsteen, The Wrestler

Breathless

Enough for one more breathe now.
That smell just lingers, just sits there.
One more, one more,
Hold on to it, don't let it fade.
Remember, remember.
This body, this delicate cage,
These rules, these ethics, these morals.
They preach as if they knew,
They knew not the restrictions of lacking restraint.
They knew only good and only bad.
Look once more, once more,
Upon eyes, never evergreen,
Always looking, never seeing.
No tears, no tears,
Swallow pain, speechless, let it age.
Let it fester, let it grow, but don't let it control.
Feel, feel,
That soul, that power, that privilege, that freedom untold.
Seek the key but don't kill the bearer.
Too close, too close,
Pull away, but not too far.
Listen, listen,
Hear a sign, a clue, that you're still here.
Hope, hope,
It won't fade, grasp it, hold it, don't let it disappear.
Please, don't let it disappear,
Let it be real, let it be real.
Search, search,
Find the shattered pieces scattered in the dirt.
Nail and hammer it,
Watch it crack at the center,
Watch it fall.
Gone, gone forever.
One moment, one glance, one chance, one breathe.
Time for one more breathe now,
Smell it, taste it, feel it.
Close your eyes,
Sleep now, sleep,
Forever by the sea,
Forever in a dream.

~"When it's all too much...remember the wonders, remember the truths. Remember today can always be, the better part of yesterday."~

Alexander Schultz

The Art of Filmmaking in this Brave New World

Recently, I've picked up on a theme in award-winning motion pictures which, although realistic and at times depressing, I happen to enjoy. It's a fact that movies, not just in dialogue, story board, and acting have become far more "real world" in recent years in the style in which they are actually filmed; a harshly honest, artistic sort of way. I have been honored to sit in front of a screen and view the evolution of these films. The clearest and best portrayals of this particular style which shine in both storytelling genius and a battered trail of emotional ups and downs, include Slumdog Millionaire, The Wrestler, and Crazy Heart.

Movies like Slumdog Millionaire, which show the triumph of youth and dreams from characters beaten down my their realistic surroundings and terrifying lives in an underdeveloped country, introduce a new level of feeling within audiences. Personally, I believe Slumdog portrayed India in the most truthful of lights, showing the dark worlds of the very children who were cast in the film. That is their life. There was no cutting at the seams. Now, granted, Slumdog was based off of a book to begin with but, regardless of the actual story, the effect left on the audiences' eyes as they viewed the "inside" of a poverty stricken orphan in India is that of a lasting impression on the soul. Although, this movie still reached beyond the realm of reality and did perhaps leave us all with a triumphant "love conquers all" feeling in our hearts, a couple other movies, with almost parallel themes to each other, leave a whole different kind of impression.

The Wrestler gave a shockingly realistic look into the life of a middle aged man who confronts his lack of luck and reckless life and is forced to accept it. I was hesitant to see the movie at first, probably due to the advertisements depicting actual wrestling matches which honestly I had no interest in. I was under the impression that it was yet another Rocky movie, just a slightly different sport. Regardless, after several suggestions from friends, I decided to sit down and give it a chance.

Filmed in just a few short weeks, not far from the place I grew up, The Wrestler was, in my opinion, one of the finest cinematic performances given in a very long time. It was raw, reality; the truth conveyed that things just don't work out. The character, played by Mickey Rourke, begins to realize his own mortality is closing in on him and suddenly begins to patch up his completely torn apart life. The ending of the film is not triumphant, there are no new friends, no re-established relations with missing relatives, no cheating death, he doesn't even get the girl. What there is, is acceptance. Far too late to change anything, too much damage left from a broken past the audience knows nothing of, far too old to carry on with any dreams of another kind of grandeur. It is, in fact, the portrayal of the consequences of a lifestyle and the acceptance of those consequences and of self. This movie easily became one of my favorites, lacking a happy ending filled with hope for the future left a meaning so deeply encrusted in the fabric of all humans; we are alone, and we are responsible for that. However, another movie introduced the same type of character except this time with a little more hope.

When Crazy Heart opens in the first scene with a character that lacks any sort of caring nature for his surroundings, you feel nothing for him. That, I think, is the genius of the movie. This man is introduced, playing two-bit gigs to an endangered fan base, completely wasted and riding on prior fame. Over time however, the character progresses thanks to his slight devotion to his younger, single mother, lover who takes the risk in falling for him. Though alcoholism ruins any chance of a future for the two lonely hearts, his mistake forces him to better himself with rehab. The realism portrayed finally strikes at the end when the love of his life wants nothing to do with him, and neither does his long lost son. Just as The Wrestler, the protagonist is out of rope and time but instead of a story of accepting circumstances, Jeff Bridges's character, "picks up his crazy heart and gives it one more try."

It is these endings, I believe, which place the audience into a far more empathetic seat. We've all had moments where things seem to fall apart before we even began to get used to the idea that they were there in the first place. Just as picking up a book can capture a reader's heart and send the most truthful message to him or her with the gifts of literature such as The Scarlett Letter, or plays like A Streetcar Named Desire where things don't exactly work out the way they are supposed to. The benefit of the book is that it is able to send that message as well as portray the inconveniences which society places on people like Hester, Stella, and Blanche. Perhaps a few more years of evolving films will be able to place both these honest endings and realistic scenarios as well as provide that dark emphasis on the consequences of society's rule. For now, however, I have to say that I'm proud of filmmakers for taking a step further, as M. Night Shyamalan (a much underrated storyteller) said, "My hope is we broke so many rules we created a new rule."

What Hope Is (an excerpt)

I wanted to swim, so you obliged. But when the water reached our hearts you pushed me under and now hold me there, in that place of fading daylight. So I hold my breath, grasping that hand, I won't fight it because I believe in its equal ability to pull me back out. Here I wait with patience in the eve of the moment I'm to live or to die, my fate residing in the strength of the hand holding me under. And that, my dear friend is what hope is in its rawest and rarest form.

~"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”~

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act 3 Scene 3

The Story of Herm

When I was a kid I had this imaginary friend named Herm. I don't even know why I named him that, he was just Herm. I never told anyone about him. Whenever he was around I never pointed him out or talked about him because I wanted him all to myself, I was never going to share Herm. He was my best friend. When you don't have friends, you make them up. Herm and I used to build things. I was determined to build a town in my basement out of these cheap cardboard blocks that my parents had originally bought for my brother, but he never used them. Herm and I never finished because there weren't enough blocks. Now I look back and see that there really was no excuse for that, I should have found something else, anything else in the basement that I could have used to continue the buildings in our town. Herm was gone though, and we never really got to finish what it was we said we were going to do together. Every once and a while I get a real friend like Herm. We dream things we're going to do together and then one day I realize, they're gone, and I never really got to finish. I keep hoping that someday I can finish and finally put the story of Herm to rest.

To Be Set Free

To be set free would be such a wonderful thing.
I could see trees and stars and sun in spring,
I would be everything, everything he wanted me to be,
I would be strong, I would be passionate,
I would throw my whole life away for his dreams.
That's the way I want to be free,
I want to give everything.
But at night I walk alone,
I see his face and then I'm home.
He doesn't see what I could be,
He's too worried that I'm not free,
He doesn't know he holds the key.
Yes, to be set free
Would be a wonderful thing,
Too bad he'll never quite get to me.

October Tuesday (Excerpt)

~I love trying to imagine what I will do with my tomorrow, trying to actually script it. When I get exhausted thinking of all the glorious things I'm going to do with my day, somehow the script gets thrown out and the actors are all asked to improvise when the play starts. Nevertheless, I constantly find myself lying in some field wearing the wrong costume, reading the wrong book, and considering that maybe that's what eternal nothingness is.~

In The Hourglass

And so they fell apart.
Through the center of the hourglass tumbles she
he, at the top, her, the bottom
she gazes up at him,
envy and undying love bury her in silence and block his image.
She suffocates in the grains of her empty dreams, clinging to hope which still lingers.
But she knew, as always,
it was only a matter of time.

Inside Out

A mirror in the dark can unlock a certain gateway and introduce yourself to a new face, a person you've never met before. Stare into a mirror in a dark room and find yourself, the way you were meant to see yourself. The memory of that image which I cannot bear to see creates a parallel universe system, one in which I dress with a smile and another, deep inside me, where I live in constant fear. It's just my face, but there is something deeper than that hiding in it's dark image as if it were my very own soul staring back at me. I fear that effigy of me so much that I must refuse meeting its glare with everything in me. The reality of who I am and what I've done to those around me creates a terminal fear that is deeply manifested so that it haunts my daydreams.

Touch

It is an incredible thing to be a part of a species, any species, even if it be a rat in a city. Instilled deep within every portion of a species is a feeling of commonality, a sort of safe and homey feeling. Humans are of course included in that feeling. We (humans) are an intelligent race, we conceive self awareness, understand the benefits of companionship, and have even been so advantageous as to suggest the understanding of a euphoric emotion such as love. Some people forget how important it is for a species that has come so far that it can withstand lack of communication for great lengths of time with no struggle for survival, to continue to interact and be near each other. Some need companions more than others, sort of dependent spirits who whither when left alone too long. It is to those, and to everyone else for that matter, that the act of touch is so very important to upholding a connection.

Premature babies are a prime example of the importance of species connection. It is common knowledge that infants are helpless, lacking the proper communication skills as well as skills to sustain their own lives. Premature children live in plastic boxes, shielded from the toxic world around them, hooked up to monitors, they know nothing of which is happening to them, that is their entire world, their reality. They are perhaps the most alone out of all of us, so much so that without the touch of another human being, they die. Small things, not even being held, just the stroke of a hand over their body helps them breathe. That power continues throughout the course of a humans life and it is still small gestures that remind us that we are not alone.

A handshake is something looked upon as almost pointless and completely mechanical at this point. However, we need to be reminded of how important that handshake really is, that premature baby needed a small thing to live, and an adult needs it to carry on. Imagine how many times someone is touched during the course of a day, even just by accident. It is most definitely taken for granted. Now imagine going through an entire day without any touch, what could possibly be the most shocking and lonely day ending in the reality of insignificance.

Small gestures, a handshake, a pat on the back, an accidental bump, can make a world of difference in some one's day, and they may not even realize. The larger things, a hug, a kiss, holding hands, being wrapped in the arms of someone safe, are what we live for. As an intelligent species we have overlooked that which is most important to us, the knowledge that we are not alone. Never take that for granted and never take it away from a person, it is such a strong power and we must believe in its strength. Touch is a reminder of the existence of other humans, a reassurance that you are not alone.

"I only kiss your shadow/ I cannot feel your hand/ you're a stranger now unto me/ Lost[...]" The Dangling Conversation, Simon & Garfunkel

Tortured Souls

We are but tortured souls.
Sleeping in shadows through the night,
Stumbling home before the sun lifts his head,
Living in the shattered halls of secrets.
Living, for a moment,
Then left, to die.
No resolution, no truth,
Left as empty shells of passions cast.