sound track

As many of my friends know, I'm in the process of doing preliminary interviews and pre-prodcution shoots for our promotional video as we enter into our fundraising phase of our documentary.

For those of you that don't know, I am about to start filming my documentary about love, sex and relationship.  I won't just be behind the camera asking the questions.  I will also be undertaking my own personal journey in front of the camera.  

You can find out more about what we're doing and stay current at our Facebook page, or at my company's production log.  

A friend of mine is scoring the film, but I'd love to acquire the rights to a few songs.  Here are some of the songs that I will be fighting (and paying a butt-load of money) for--

lost words

In my youth, I would channel all the emotional energy of puberty into heartfelt flowery prose.  I wrote poetry on a daily basis.  Thinking back on my early work, I remember that most of it was quite good.  Shamefully, those words are lost to time.

I wrote a poem of an experience I had in Venice while sitting at a canal-side cafe.  At that point, it had already been over a decade since I had put pen to paper.  I found this piece of work recently.  I'm posting it to my blog, not only to share it, but as a reminder to wax poetically more often.

On Calle di Accademia

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Her fiery silken sundress,

As radiant as the name,

Contained all of its powers

Within. 

She held lilacs and baby's breath,

An offering to Venus,

And beckoned with a smile.

I followed. 

The canals gush, over-flowing,

Cascading against Roman stone. 

A romantic city on the water,

And I thirst for love.

the depth

have you ever contemplated the concept of infinity?

if time stretches out infinitely before and behind us, then our lives on that line don't even register.

that not only makes our brief time insignificant, it removes the significance of everything.

all we have are our moments.

it forces every wisp of a second into importance; makes them special.

every encounter; every greeting in breviloquence, becomes divine.

the moments that I have shared this weekend, they shine with a golden hue in the depth.

---

some moments are worth a thirty-five minute drive.

my melancholy monsters

It always comes to me in the early hours of the morning.  I find that it is only when I am at the edge of sobriety and deep in the bitter forest that my words hold best to the page.  It is only by the force of my melancholy monsters that I am able to express.

It was Chris Robinson who said it best when he penned, “There’s a passion in being alone; a grace in a loveless time.”

--

We forge ourselves so that we may forge relationships.  I temper my spirit on the hot coals, reshaping who I am from who I once was.  I started folding my steel in hopes that someone long forgotten would love me more (again?), but what I found was a love for myself.  I love my found passion. 

--

I have spoken the prior words as a new mantra.  I have thrown myself into what I create.  I work ungodly hours for less than holy pay.  I stalk into the worlds I create by the glowing light of my Mac Book Pro.  I dive into projects that drain my energy, my emotions, and my will like a succubic mistress.  I do it under the pretense that I will make a better me, and therefore make better relationships.

In truth, I do it all to keep some of my monsters at bay.  

...of the century

as the storm churns above, emotions from the past float up to the surface for just a brief moment.  they quickly sink back to the bottom to be forgotten; buried in the sea.

---

it's not about these emotions. 
they don't matter.
they don't move the plot.
they just establish the character.

---

the swell isn't quite finished yet.  it rockets other feeling out of the clutches of the sea's dark fingers.  long forgotten, they had been sunk to the deep sometime before modern history.  they see the light of day for the first time in years.

the calm sets in and the crust of barnacles peel themselves from the sides, rejuvenating those long lost treasures.  those ancient relics float on the surface in the sunlight.

---

it's the same sunlight that touches down in a parking lot as two old friends say goodbye.  the two had never touched before, but each had dreamed of at one point in their lives.

it is only then that it is realized that those emotions might be destined to sink again too.  the sailor unfurls his sail down the length of the mast.

the nervous blather

I'm sitting at my computer, fidgeting when I should be sleeping.  My feet are tapping, elbows shaking while they rest on the table.

Why am I so anxious?

There is an excitement for tomorrow.  I will be auditioning (what I hope to be) a score of actors for a play; a play thick with emotion and weighty themes.  This show will not be an easy project.  I might be the only one, but I feel an intense electrical charge with this whole prospect.

***

I think the electricity might just be nervousness.  It is a twisting labyrinth of possibilities.  If this play goes well, it has the potential to help set my career as a producer.  If it crashes, I'm afraid that I will too.  My head fills with doubt every time I close my eyes.  That is the real reason that I find myself typing at this hour.

Did I read the script enough in pre-production?


Should I be concerned that I don't have a clear vision of every scene after all that study?


Is my vision of the play amateurish?


Did I not schedule enough rehearsals with only 5.33 weeks?


Will I get it blocked in time?


Will my actors respect my direction?


Will people even come to my show?


Why did I agree to let cameras film the whole process?!?


What the FUCK am I trying to prove with this DAMN play?!?!?

I haven't produced or directed a play since 2005.  I moved from the house that I shared with my wife during the production of my last show.  The emotional drain that I experienced robbed me of any ambition; stole my hope.  It took me years to recover my strength.

I now feel like a gymnast standing on mended bones and staring down the pummel horse.  One wrong twist, one wrong vault, and I will be shattered again.

With no family around and only a few close friends, this play is starting with an odd sense of loneliness.  I willingly sacrifice my time and love, and I shut people out to focus my energy.  My energy quickly fades though when I turn to find that there is no one to share my creativity with.

***

These doubts that I have, they're nothing more than raw emotion.  Where some would consider that a weakness, I consider it my muscle.  With any art, every emotion is a strength.

A play quickly becomes a family, and I will be able to share soon enough.

someday

i am grounded, oh but i have wings to fly
i don’t use em, i just look up in the sky
i keep them hidden bound up in a coat and tie
‘til the world is ready for a man with wings to fly

and i will fly someday
i’ll break these feet of clay
and i’ll be on my way

i am feeling though i do not shed a tear
my eyes are dusty, though i have faced my fear of fears
i am shaken by the coming on of years
i am a feeling man but i can not shed a tear

but i will cry someday
i’ll break these eyes of clay
and i’ll be on my way

i am loving though i make my bed alone
i’ve had lovers but i have no one of my own
but i could feed her from the garden i have grown
i am a loving man but i make my bed alone

and i will love someday
i will break this heart of clay
and i’ll be on my way