Summer/Fall

We had the hottest summer on record, this year in Texas. Between that and depression, I haven't seen much sunlight relatively these past few months. I needed to recoup. Regroup. Spring saw new growth, with producing the documentary, the alleged dawn of a new era in my career. Summer I lost my cushy job at the arts org, broke up with my lover, and split from the house I only in retrospect realized was my first real attempt at making a home. Shit got real, quick. Higher aspirations get even less human resources-- energy, attention, etc -- when the basics aren't secure. Be grateful for family. As independent as we strive to be, man knows survival rates are higher as a social creature. Much respect for the plight of the immigrant, who is without an accessible network as soon as they hit a new shore. Who's couch would they sleep on during transition? Oh, it was real for a minute. I had never been so lacking in motivation. I knew what had to be done to get back on my feet, so I went through the motions mechanically, like trying to stand when both your legs are numb. Life is constantly about feeding and sheltering, so finding a new source of those didn't bother me. It was the feeling of being trapped on the base that weighed heavy. Trying to get ahead, it's sometimes called, seemed dumb. The temptation was to abandon all lofty goals, and to just work a menial job & die. Maybe go to the movies a few times in between. I was wrestling with the idea of being as educated as I ever would be, as travelled, of being finished with newness completely. I imagined my scattered works being collected & presented as evidence of this so-called writing, and scoffed. Pathetic. Then I got caught up trying to save Troy Davis' life. I ranted like a madman, until thankfully the cause went viral. So many different people joined in to support that we actually thought we could halt an execution with will alone. People were talking about the broken criminal justice system as if it were an approachable problem, it was surreal. Then he was killed. I woke up darker the next day, the last day of summer. I had aged overnight. The first day of fall, I picked up a pen. I've always written out of necessity. Seasons change. That's where I am with this thing.

So far...
no good. It's been two weeks as of yesterday since I left the plantation. Talk about the road less traveled, the career path of independent artist is pure wilderness. I say "independent artist" because "freelancer" is a shitty title.  There's an ever present sense of urgency. It seeps from the outside-- society, spouse, past due notices --skips the bulk of me, and settles in the core of my doubt. Primarily focusing on trying to create a "job", as opposed to looking for one, is a life-stakes gamble. Sill, I roll. I feel like I can always find work. I'm not now & hope to never be above sweeping floors. I'll do what it takes to live in this society until I can buy my way out, but there's no escaping the urge to write. Art is only a luxury to the rich. It's a necessity for the world. Just as Dorothea Lange opened America's eyes to the Great Depression, I'm one of those "we have a responsibility" type of nerds. Love is undocumented throughout the history of the world outside of poetry and song. Same thing goes for hate, justice, and all the things we say makes us human. Histories are always trying to make themselves look good, so the so-called artist has to tell it like it is. The history books never said slavery was wrong, that's why teachers have to use text like Huck Finn, a fictional novel, in  their teachings. The vast majority of us spend the vast majority of our time as pegs in some machine, keeping the profits coming. But we all individually know that there's more to life than profits. The bottom line isn't actually the bottom line. We don't say it aloud, but the plan is to work work work, only living between shifts & towards the latter end of life. What about our lofty goals? The individual ones, of stopping & smelling the roses, or writing a book, playing piano, or whatever? The societal goals of making a more perfect union, & all that jazz? Our individual lives seem to be to big for us. Managing work & daily life take so much, who even has time to think about the big picture, let alone influence it? I can, that's who. For every historical moment documented, there are a large amount of people who could have taken part, but they had to work. Selma, Montgomery buss boycott? "Sorry dog, I need to get to work & I'm late." Tiananmen Square? "Sorry Lee, I would go with you, but finals are week after next." It happened: I went to the mechanic not long ago. He ran some test on my old raggedy truck, and gave me the diagnostic. I asked, "Is that something I can fix myself?" He replied, "Of course you can. You're a man: you can do anything." Can't I? Can't we? Nothing is unlearnable, or undoable. Spell check says both of those words are incorrect. Spell check is wrong. Buck spell check and societal norms, I'm going for the life I want to live. Get your life up.

Sacked....
 Canned. Pink slipped. Downsized. Mark Zuckerberged. Fired. I stopped saying the name, because I refuse to speak ill of the place [as much]. At least, I'm trying to cut down. I didn't deserve it, but shit happens. I'm only a player in a much larger story. Maybe it wasn't the right place for me. Womp womp. Now is always most important. I've been writing (Co-authoring? Editing? Penciling mustaches on?) my story for a while now. Professional writing has loomed in parenthesis for too long. The untrained eye sees dark skin and unemployment, but my vision has never been a strong point. My goal is to "make it" ( Whatever that means. Aren't we all technically making it until we die?) as a writer. If it can be done, I can do it. People write. I'm people. Unfortunate for you, reader, I need a place to write all my crap to get to the good stuff. Everything Picasso put on paper wasn't a masterpiece, take his tissues for example. Not to say I'm Picasso of the pen (have you seen my archives?), or that I wipe my ass with these entries, just that there is a certain amount of honesty over artistry that comes with this format. The low profile offers a certain seclusion, or privacy. Free to act out, here is my mirror to dance in front of alone. Almost. So while may or may not bust a move, I can promise that in my preparation for the big dance, there will be the occasional botched MJ impersonation. I plan on logging my quest, analyzing everything, experimenting, and coming up with better final list items on this b l o g. Filthy word, I don't enjoy saying it. I hope to one day look back at this all and laugh. If not then I'm sorry, future generations and self, but it all seemed hilarious at the time. I write about humanity as seen from my point of view. I have other formats for that lot. This is the view from ground level, my life. My life as a self proclaimed artist. There I said it. Artist.

The Morning After...
the big premier. What did I learn during the film making process? More details, how to collaborate, how much I value my own opinion, and such. It's sort of like pushing  a toy boat out to sea. You're on your own now, kiddo. Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. It feels good to be unattached again. As a project nears completion, the possibilities of what it can be become narrows, until it just is what it is. My eyes are peeled for the next pile of clay. This documentary was important and satisfying work, but so is homework. I'm ready to play now. I enjoyed it, but the orgasm was fake. Too many rules, and regulations. I needs to be free now. Do you see how I  did that? Needs? Bad grammar, wide screen- panorama. Paranormal activity seen on the camera. The point is, I can do whatever I want again. That's cool...

April Rising...
Your colors keep my eye
And your petals are so soft
But your thorns grant you delicacy
And so
I watch you grow

-J

I said I was going to start doing this more often. 
Sometimes it's hard to write here, knowing one of the imaginary readers could be the person I'm talking about. Everything I ever have to say is usually based on people- interactions with people- and I don't like to hurt feelings. Hence my hesitation to do this more often. Freewriting, I guess they'd call it. The main thing on my mind is this project I had been working on until recently. It's like my baby has been ripped from my arms. I'm at peace with it now, but the urge to scream lingers. Less cryptic, I was making a movie and am now not. C'est la vie. Meanwhile, I feel stuck in that place where ever artists are just before they become. Langston and Malcolm worked as servers on a train. Sometimes I can't tell if this is my Nation of Islam or train. I notice I didn't type hajj. Regardless, Malcolm wouldn't be Malcolm without the NOI. Nor without the conk, the white girl, or the record. That's the kicker: it takes [insert sweet & sour speech]. MLK wouldn't have been MLK in 1905- just another pool sharking cat daddy preacher. Jokes. Less cryptic, I would have never met challenge had the challenge not first come to me. Is there any way to describe my anguish aside from arrogant asshole metaphor? Without a Lex Luthor, the world would just have to suffer another Clark Kent. I'm starting to wonder if I've ever done anything I didn't have to. I can feel a ramble coming on, so I'll wrap this up. Inner Supermen, you don't have to wait until Doomsday shows up to pull out your cape. Action trumps reaction.  

Why did Benihana laugh? Because he realized he was already that which he was trying to become.