Barnes and Noble, Georgetown, DC.

I think something needs to be said about memory. I should say, as it relates to the present, or perhaps to writing.

It’s been remarked upon that I have a rather keen skill for remembering other people’s stories. Especially in relationships—I come off as a wonderful listener. Names I’m not always great with, nor can I always pin down the where and whens of things, but the narrative thrust of other people’s lives… I can be reliably counted on to maintain these things. As for my own life… I have a really hard time with this. Things come back blurry, like abandoned polaroid pictures or those water damaged books at the bottom of the boxes at every garage sale. As a writer this can be difficult… the notion that I have this whirlwind of other people’s stories in my mind and a severe absence of my own makes it difficult to truly fathom what I have to say… or even remember what inspire me to speak in the first place.

My first actual memory from my childhood (I say actual to separate it from memories that have been implanted in me through over-told stories and family photo albums) was from when I was maybe four years old. I don’t know exactly… but I remember, and I don’t know if this is strange or not, that I knew then that this would be my first memory. I was in a park in Skokie, IL with my Grandfather. There was someone else there, maybe another young boy, a cousin perhaps, and we were going to play on the swings. This was the day when I learned how to use the swings by myself. This was a pretty big deal for a kid… one of those milestones people talk about, I guess… but then things get blurry again.

I hear people tell stories of their first memories, and they always seem much more vivid, much more interesting… but perhaps that’s grass being greener and not the truth.

To be fair, I’ve always sort of thought my own truth wasn’t enough for my life. I told plenty a tall tale (to put it nicely) in my life, especially through grade school. At some point, I was saying that the Power Rangers were my neighbors and that my uncle was Michael Jordan (not understanding the subtler points of genetics and race, I guess). I grew up with hand-me-down clothes and hand-me-down toys, so it’s not surprising that I would embrace the notion of a hand-me-down life.

I think the fact is that the life I’ve lived and the life I’ve told are too deeply entwined to be easily untangled. Finding memories of my own feels more like panning for gold than sculpting from marble. Yet, I know that I want to find them. I want to remember as much as I can of my past, because without my past, without understanding where I came from, it will be too overwhelming to understand how I came to be the person I am today, and, I think, without knowing one’s own composition, it’s devastatingly difficult to imagine vivid and complete characters for a fictional world.

I wonder if I’m alone in this… I think that’s the biggest question of all, the reason why people surround themselves with other people, why we read and listen to stories, to find, hopefully, that we’re not alone in what we feel, how we think, the way we see this vast world of ours.

So, I guess I’m learning. Like my four-year-old self on the swings with my grandfather at my back, I’m putting my legs in front of me and kicking at the wind, hoping beyond hope that, someday soon, the proverbial gears will spring to life and from them, a new world will emerge.

That’s All For Now.

-e.-

Baked And Wired, Georgetown, D.C.

I sit here hoping that today, or maybe tomorrow, marks my return to the written word. I’ve been thinking, in recent months, about the road ahead. Being somewhere unexpected, how my life put me in Washington, DC, has made me think about the funny turns fate can take. The city is growing on me… slowly, not like a mold, more like a friend… certainly good people and fun hangouts make that easier. I wonder if we’re all just the right person away from being home again.

I’ve recently had a new person come into my life, the sort of unexpected wonderful that you only find when, frustratingly enough, you stop looking. I don’t know what the road ahead will mean with her, certainly not trying to think that far. For now, it’s all a lovely vacation for the both of us.

In terms of my writing (if this blog is any indication) I’ve been embarrassingly dry. I have written a couple new songs in the last month, which could be a good sign, but both came from a ‘nothing better to do’ sort of mindset, and if I want to actually make my dream of being a professional writer/playwright a reality, I’ll need to start making writing the better thing to do. Remind myself why I love it. Having people around to keep me accountable is helpful, and I’ll rely on them a bit in the months to come.

I have two scripts that have been coming down the pike, and I am far too judgmental of both of them at present… I’ll need to finish them despite their flaws and then start performing the medieval surgery that is the editing process. I will do my best to check in with this blog as a way of loosening my creative muscles, clearing the passageways so that fresh ideas and words can emerge and enliven my work.

The funniest thing about this, and it’s something that I was told by a friend and coworker at a recent holiday party, is that the biggest problem I’m facing right now is how much I enjoy my job. But… isn’t that what we all dream of? Isn’t that what we’re all striving for—a job that pays us well, that we enjoy doing on a daily basis, which is a reason to wake up in the morning and a welcome fatigue at the end of the day? It would seem, however, that for those of us on the creative end of the spectrum, the struggle against a dead-end job, a meaningless 9 to 5 could be the necessary void that compels us to create.

I have a fairly singular struggle at the moment, not in my love-life or social life, nor in my professional life (I suppose in my current profession… I struggle with the prospects of my future in my chosen profession)… but no, my current struggle concerns my finances. I have to change my juvenile habits, living check to check, and start paying off debt. I don’t know how to do this in a steady way. I have grown up when it comes to dressing myself, working 5 days a week, being responsible with harmful substances, discussing global politics (though I wonder if this is truly a requirement of adulthood anymore) but I’ve yet to mature in my financial life. I hope/need to quickly learn how to responsibly pay off loans and bills, debt and daily doings without overwhelming my bank account. What an exciting prospect. Ugggh.

I hope I will return to this blog more often in the new year, but I can’t promise anything.

That’s All For Now.

-e.-

…The Downtown 1 Train To Rector St. NY, NY.

It’s strange when you find yourself reminded of your parents—in yourself.

This morning, I’m knocking on Lily’s door at 6:15 in the morning (mind you, I don’t have to be up for work for another 2 hours, but it’s been many years since that’s mattered) and I get her “grrri’m upppp” which I know means I’ll be back in 5 minutes banging on the door again… and then, when all else fails I’ll resort to some sort of annoying carrying her out of bed to the breakfast table. Now… I personally know she enjoys this, but she’s slipping into the teenage angst finally, and it may no longer be cute when daddy carries you down the stairs kicking and screaming that you don’t want to go to school.

I wonder if the other kids know this side of her. I’m sure she shows a cool calm face to her little student government friends… christ. Reminiscent of her mother. I don’t think she inherited that side from me… that stoic face she makes when she’s listening… like a pure, unimpeded ear, listening to your thoughts and worries. I was always the one who’s face could be read from miles away. It’s probably better this way. Kids should learn to keep some secrets.

I’m reminded of my mother, though, in waking up my daughter… it’s kind of surprising that I forgot how she used to wake me. I didn’t even wake to the banging on the door, it was the sound of the footsteps creaking the boards beneath the hallway carpet that kicked me conscious moments before she arrived. I remember sometimes answering her knock before it came… because it was such a harsh sound that, if I could somehow avoid it, my morning could, perhaps, be slightly better. More smooth. “I’m awake! I’m awake!”
“Okay… but if I have to come back in 5 minutes, I’m carrying you out of there by your toes.”
“Ughhhhhhhh.”

I don’t know yet how I feel about the comparison.

That’s all for now.

-e.-

...A Starbucks Near Columbia. NY, NY.

Gordon would call it the Liminal space. This place I'm in. The in-between feeling after the ending of one thing and the beginning of the next.

Or is it? I mean... I'm doing something with my life... working for FLI, doing good work for these kids, this community (or at least intending to... still need to work on some of my own flaws to better serve them, but working on it.)

But I'm coming upon this realization that maybe I know where I need to go after this job.

And it's not the road I thought I would take. It is... at both ends both practical and impractical, both mature and self serving... so how do I reconcile those forces?

I shouldn't muddle about... the point is that I think, for now at least, I'm deciding not to return to the stage in July. At the end of this stage of my life... this job... I think I'll be going for another. Entering the working world, getting my own place and setting down some roots--in Brooklyn, hopefully. I'll be taking the GRE's and applying for Grad Schools and studying... to be a playwright. To be a better, productive, adult playwright. Like Joel Drake Johnson, or Kat Walat, or any of the other great teachers that have molded my craft.

No matter where I go, though, the time has most certainly come for me to find my voice, speak/write the truth and see where it takes me.

I'm scared. Is that good? I hope.

That's all for now.

-e.-

...A Bar on St. Mark's Place. New York, NY.

I'm a little bit useless right now. Lily's in the other room crying because her hair coloring whatchamacallit from the store didn't work out like she wanted and now she's yelling that nobody is ever going to love her.

Ughhh... was I like this at 13? I mean... no, I wasn't a girl... I didn't have issues with dying my hair. There was that time in my twenties when I dyed it all black for a summer... that was stupid. I think that's when my hair started thinning, but I can't prove it.

Anyway... her mother's in there trying to console her... I've been demoted to the living room because I couldn't keep a straight face through the whole ordeal. Does that make me a bad father? I don't know... It makes me human, I guess. I've never been good at holding that sort of thing in... the smirk... when I was in college and those girls with pitch issues came up to sing... it showed all over my face.

My wife had the cable guys cancel the service again... because we found ourselves spending too much time in front of the TV and she didn't like it... so it's back to dueling New Yorker magazines and crosswords at bed time. Works for me though... I always liked that better, anyway.

Oh man... she so loud in there! I wish I could just tell her... well no, I can tell her just fine... but I wish I could make her understand that all this stupid drama goes away... it gets forgotten.

For now though... I guess I'll let it be the end of the world for one night. Her and her newfound, haha, pink and blue streaks will be better in the morning.

That's all for now.

-e.-

...My Bed, In Sweatpants. NY, NY.

there is a spitty squid in my sink.
i'm about to turn the water back on
and send him back to the hell from whence he came.

die toothpaste squid.

die.

(:

...My Bedbedbedbedbed. nY, nY

you are a passionfruit martini
and i want to get drunk off your eyes

make me miss your tasty blinkings
so i have things to carry in my pockets
for the long walk home

police my phrases like we're
brass knuckle boxing for quarters
on fourteenth street

and i'm left breathing peace signs
and mexican ravioli

just think everything is collapsible
and that i think so too
but i believe in forevering things

poster me on the subway and
pester me on the sidewalk
to join your reckless one
man bandwagon of a cause
to go moonward

blow me like cash at a casino
and cry for me like madonna
begged you not to... i'll be
your country...

control alt delete me
because i'm
frozen

let me lick your
spaghetti straps
and travel your
paperback spine

i want to be the thing you cut to
like 'needle in the hay' was for the boomer
or like the credits or the close up

twist me like like your speech
into logic and make of me something
wind wanting and fire breathing

try me on like a thing you would shoplift

beg for my fingers
you know your skin
is my naked piano

rewind us back to when we met
and let me retake your 'me' virginity
lets make a box of first times and then burn it
for the first time.

show me how triumphant happens
and give me a bad case of the backflips

let me be your drill sergeant
and give me twenty of everything
especially naked things.

tell me it needs more cowbell
and then laugh like you never
heard a joke before.

punch me in a banana republic
because nobody ever asked me
how i wanted to celebrate my birthday
because i would've told them that.

take to studying morse code
so i can talk to you mid movie
with just my heart beats

but first, kiss me
on my mouth
with yours
i'm asking you nicely.