Thinking of Chaos, and the way nature wants to balance the scales in a way that makes me fear its brutality.

#horror #writingsprint #writingexercise

There once was a girl named Quarantina. And her legs gave out at times, because her kid-sized body felt too heavy. And the obvious question she was asked was how she got her name. And one day she humored all the boys and girls in class, who poorly hid the snickers on their faces. And she knew she didn’t fit in this world. She wasn’t made for studying and writing exercises and nap time. She longed for an answer as to why her belly heavied when sadness filled the room. Like the time the blue fishy Mr. Ceviche, perished, and an altar was made to memorialize this, oh so cherished classroom pet. Or when the rain came down so harsh and loud and thunderous, the children screamed and ran inside from a recess cut short, and Quarantina smiled at the sight of it. And so when she answered the question from pudgy, blonde, hog-faced Billy Sanderson, Quarantina grinned as a light bulb pinged to life in her head and she discovered what she was actually made of: “I am a temporary prison. And this form, shall come to pass. And I will once again be made to sail the windtails of this Earth to places your ashes never will. I am carnage in waiting. I am pestilence.”

j

Script Stuff, Part I

At the beginning of the week, I worked like hell to finish the new outlines of what I have been calling, “The Mountain Mystery.” This thing has many moving parts, but I whittled it down over the last month or so to a small, intimate set of scenes that can be produced on a shoestring or nothing at all. This is part 1 of 2 and I am trying to get part 2 done this weekend.

I can’t wait to do this. It’s been a challenge, and I’ve grown to hate this cluster of characters and ideas. But goddamn, it would be so much fun to produce this! I better get going on the second half so I can bring some creatives together for it!

Plenty of forward motion this week, just have to keep the momentum going.

Much love,

j

thinking out loud about managing the four parts of life and how they meld.

A Productivity Exercise for a Working Class Creative.

When I stop writing blog posts, I’m at home ignoring the internet, being a father and husband, as well as watching Schitt’s Creek. Since my last post, I’ve ruminated on the following. Life can have compartments, but they’re stitched onto the same satchel. A satchel I can still load up with all of my favorite priorities and motivations. After all this time of people telling me this, I have concluded for myself that organizing and compartmentalizing are two different things. Most of my life, I have prevented different areas of my life from touching in order to prevent cross-contamination. This is such a childish, desperate argument to keep track of life. Nothing works better than bits of your life clashing into one another like a personalized hadron collider of feelings, tasks, and all other life happenings. Each part of your life strengthens the other. That is what I am after, and what I want to achieve. I’ve solidified my theory that life can be broken into four manageable areas of focus: The Self, The Emotional Home, The Nuts and Bolts House, and Community.

  • Self. If I want to do something that will keep me physically healthy, emotionally strengthened, creatively or intellectually fulfilled: This is where it’s going to go.
  • Home. The emotional well-being of the relationships in my life, from my wife and son, to the rest of my family, friends and loved ones. This means commitments, following up, being attentive, and present. Always be present.
  • House. A house with walls and a roof is a practical thing. I imagine that any task or responsibility to keep the house intact is more of a nuts and bolts endeavor. To keep the house going, we gotta pay bills, do chores, schedule appointments, and probably plan for the future, if possible. The adult shit.
  • Community. Showing up and reaching out for the causes and things that make your community better. Volunteering, sharing, and giving, are proof that things are going well, and it’s a natural extension of all the other shit going well.

Made sense to me. I drew up a new spread reflecting these ideas and it turned out to be just four checklists alongside my usual spread. It worked surprisingly well last week, and yesterday, I noticed I could clearly see where the imbalances were occurring, and what areas I needed to invest time and effort into. Will report again this coming week on this system of productivity. Wish me luck!

What do I want to do this week? Aside from husband/father duty:

  1. Get the script draft done tonight.
  2. Publish Creative Drive Episodes (backlog from last week).
  3. Our Kid’s Asleep Episode coming soon feat. a friend!
  4. The goddamn cat boxes.
  5. Put the phone down.

Looks like a plan. To be a working class creative is a give and take. More to come. Much love,

j

How do you find time to make art? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Mango Resistance: A poem from a prompt (10 Minute Sprint)

I’m not as still as you want me to be

Supposedly, I have rage underneath

Come closer,

the surface glides but the shades and the tones they skip

like rocks over the water and dirt cycling into the blades of green

I’m not as smooth as you’d like to believe

lopsided beating heart racing to burst at the gleams

and everybody belongs to the lines and

object to the grooves and oh, so disapprove of my

piously round and

unabashedly scandalous

shaped obstination

curvature, foul and indentured

soulful as fruit on a useful, yet lifeless plank.

j

even Apollo was afraid of the dark sometimes.

Apollo, you froze

as the sunlight of your eyes grew cold

the lyre, smashed across these cobblestone streets of Epidaurus

where you sought sanctuary

when the flowing melodies ceased as water in hard frost, unlike before

the day you remembered this place yielded no crops

in refuge of quiet, inquisitive starlight as you looked up

for once in your life.

Do you mend the sores of your intuition?

Your moral infection, rampant, plaguing the shoe less mendicant

when the bow became the archway to your temple of wax

and the arrow you left behind, atop the mangled olive tree

the one the muses grew bored of pursuing, on your behalf

before you knew if you had anything to give to your son

before you knew of Daphne, and how it would feel to watch her leaves depart her person.

And I recite what I see for when I close my eyes I see fear, instead of the tomorrows hidden in your eyelids.

The city waited for you to rise

and I also waited to see if you could heal yourself, you shining oracle:

be fearless again.

A script is upon us.

It begins! After stumbling for a couple of months on a direction for the script. I got a story backbone I really like and am moving forward with a draft! It felt like this took forever!

Initially, the plan was to do scene cards and create a more straightforward outline for the script. This script, however, is not linear. It is a three pronged narrative that, if executed properly, will have additional points of view supporting or countering the main perspectives. I am super excited because the fun is going to be in the subversion of expectations and leading a reader/viewer in multiple directions.

As an experiment, I recorded my one hour writing session late last night and narrated the process of starting this script. It was super informative for me because it helped me think out loud, and vocalizing so much of these creative thoughts is at the core of many writing setbacks. It’s like we need to materialize an idea before we can actually do something with it!

Given the nature of the script and how many surprises it has in store, I won’t be publishing the videos anytime soon, but it gives me a great idea to start using livestream to document the process or to bring others along with me. I think that would be a lot of fun! For the time being, I’ll focus on this draft!

Much love,

j

Procedure (Break Time Poetry)

In the valley of fluorescence
a narrowing conch
hiding a benevolence
underneath and above and outside of the things that limbed creatures should be doing
outside of myself,
looking down as a figure that knows not how to fly, mostly hover;
translucent
and afraid of what will happen
when the wind picks up
and retrieves
the rubbish
all around.
“Is this my place? Up here,
down below? A few steps to the left, or the right?
Is there policy for this direction forthwith?” No procedure for this.
And in my bedhead,
translucent as well, and loud to the touch,
these fingers,
these broken pointers
can no longer heal or cause
a damn thing.

j