Closing Doors

 

2021- 40

A Year in Review.

This has become an unplanned tradition of mine. Often around the holidays, New Year, Chinese New Year, and my birthday.

This past year was… interesting to say the least. For me it’s been difficult for reasons I won’t go into here. It’s also been a year of immense change and good fortunes. My baby girl entered this world this past September, and I will never be the same. This little cherub smiles at me and my soul melts. She is love on a level I never before imagined and am eternally grateful for her.

I’ve pushed through a number of set backs in my creative endeavors. I think we all did. A lot of doors closed this past year, some that will never open again sadly. We all attempted to adapt and survive in whatever ways we could come up with.

“Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to.” ― Donald Justice

I’d read that quote many times before now, and thought of it in different ways. I understood closing doors on things we just wouldn’t be doing any longer. Lack of energy, lack of time, lack of interest. It is the “softly” part that jumps out at me now.

There’s something very sinister about the word “potential”. We’re often told in our younger years that we have great potential. But how much of that potential is left unrealized? Vast oceans, I’ve discovered. Some of us never find out rhythm. Some of us never find our opportunity. Some of us don’t apply ourselves, or give up before “success” arrived, whatever that means.

But to close the door softly, I think, implies that you’re not wanting to draw too much attention to it. There is a lingering of the hand on the door. You don’t want to leave that place behind necessarily, but you know that you need to. For yourself. For those that may depend on you.

I think there is also a certain amount of shame at times, for potential we feel we may have squandered. Maybe we were too busy chasing whatever shiny thing had our attention. Maybe we were too busy working to survive. Maybe… maybe…

This is not a tale of endings however. Not yet. There are some new chapters that I am delving into. Chapters that have been years in the writing. I am learning and admitting to myself that there are only so many hallways I can explore at one time. Perhaps only so many I will ever have the chance to explore. Time is so finite.

But as I delve into these projects, and this next chapter, I want to say thank you. Thank you to those that have loved me. Thank you to those that have tolerated me. Thank you to those that have supported me. Thank you for those I have been fortunate enough to call friend.

I am not just a writer or performer now. I am also a father. A title which I hold with great pride. Because I’m not just any father. I’m Audrey’s father. And that means the world to me.

Also thank you to anyone still reading. Thank you for the paths that you have shared with me in this journey called life.

I look forward to many more adventures to come.

And I love you, my first and second families. My compatriots and comrades in this maelstrom of existing, creating, hurting, losing, winning, discovering, loving and living. Hold on to one another my friends and my loves. Hold each other up, as you have done for me. And as I try to do for you whenever fortune allows me.

Be well, be brave, be jubilant at all the things we might otherwise take for granted.

Thank you.

Success and Skill: An Uneven Ratio

 An irregular Ratio.

This is a topic that has weighed on my soul time and again. And one that I believe is off overlooked or marginalized in our "hustle= success" culture.

It may hurt some feelings as well.

But I'm just going to go ahead and say it.

Skill does not equal success.

For every A List actor that is lauded in magazines and websites, there is an actor even better doing community theatre or little independent films you've never even heard of.

For every best selling author, there are writers whose sonatas to the soul will make your heart reverberate in ways you never knew possible.

For every Grammy award winner and multi platinum album, there's a musician at your local college or bar whose performances will have you dancing in your seat or bring tears to your eyes.

So what is the take away?

Well, first. Always take time to explore the little side alleys of the arts and entertainment community for little gems that could change your life. And please be patrons to these amazing people.

But more importantly, if you are one of these artists. If you're work brings you clarity, or solace, or joy, keep creating.

Your bank account is not a measure of your worth.

Your number of followers does not dictate your ability to move the human spirit.

Sometimes.... It's just luck.

And does that mean that the rest of us not making millions off our work should hang it up and give in?

Resoundingly no.

There's an old saying that the forests would be silent if only the very best birds sang.

That's not even what I'm saying here.

What I'm saying is, your perspective, your performance, your work will touch the world in ways you'll never know.

And I'm not saying this out of pure theory.

I've seen it. Heard it. Read it.

For instance, at the Cleveland Playhouse in the early 2000s, I saw a play called The May. (At least I believe that was it's name now. It's been ages.)

I remember the cast being uneven and the person playing the husband doing all sorts of "acting stuff" that I found nearly unbearable.

But what I took away from the show was the woman who played the daughter.

Her performance was simple and honest and captivating. And it was one of those performances that made me think "I want to make an audience feel like that."

I worked with a colleague long ago named Bill Davis. (Sorry man. I'm calling you out. 🤣)

His performances in college made me downright envious. I remember watching him from the wings of shows we did together and thinking "I want to be like him when I get better at this."

I'm by no means famous. I'm grateful for every moment I've had on stage and screen. But those two actors, one who's name I don't even know, and both who you'll likely never see, pushed me to want to be more. And hopefully helped me to better entertain others in my own career.

I've read short stories online that have leave me haunted or spell bound.

I've heard musicians in college who's work brought tears to my eyes. (In a good way. 😁😂)

So what I'm saying is, don't quit. Don't stop. Your work adds to the beautiful tapestry of the human experience. And this world would be less without your work in it.

Love and Be Held

 A baby is just starting off their life. All they want is to be held and some attention paid to them. They want to know they are loved, and that they matter, on an instinctive level. I think this is all any of us are really looking for during the rest of our pursuits in life as well.

To My Daughter

 Every tender moment, I’ve experienced, or thought I knew
Coalesced and distilled, into the shape my heart holds for you
Every swelling in my chest, that makes me so happy I could cry
I behold in your little smile when you look me in the eye
And holding you is completion, this little angel entrusted to me
To arm with love, knowledge and strength, to face your destiny
I wish this could be forever, this innocent joy of mine
That I could hold you close and love you, from now till the end of time
I never knew it would feel like this
To be so happy that it hurts
To introduce you to this life
To a whole new world of firsts
Your little hand around my finger
Like my heart wrapped around yours
Every fiber of my being
Focused on how much I adore
Every moment you are with me
And how I never really knew
How full my life would be
The moment I held you

 

Potential... lost.

 Potential.
Such a beautiful concept. Such a deadly word.
Potential of all the things we will never accomplish, but we could have, you know?
Potential cut short.
By an accident. A blood clot. An aneurysm. Cancer. Murder.
Suddenly, all that potential vanishes from this world, never to return.
And we, the survivors, the sacred carriers of that memory, are left holding the shattered pieces of what could have been.
We’ll never know the potential of their tomorrow. We’ll never see what they would have contributed toward today.
As I feel this pinching pain in my chest, I reflect on these, gone too soon. And I lament their passing. Not just for them and their loss of tomorrow, but in all of the new memories I myself was robbed of by losing them.
It’s selfish. I know. And for this moment, I want to be selfish, and angry, and broken. I want to cry for me, and my loss in never having them back again. Never hearing them laugh, never having them call, never feeling that warmth in my heart at opening a door to reveal them smiling to see me.
And I know they wouldn’t want me dwelling in sadness. But it does them good knowing I still care this much, even years later. And I do. I miss you. I want to hug you, and feel the endorphins run through my brain at having you near.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
That potential has been forever taken, never to return.
And like staring down a winding path in the forest, the snowflakes falling in their slow and silent dance, I realize that the potential lies within me.
Perhaps never to be great, but to be good.
To care. To laugh. To share. To spend time. To reflect. To create. To hope.
Potential.
It’s such a beautiful concept. It’s such a deadly word.
Share with me someone who’s potential you miss.
Share with yourself some good you can do with the potential that’s been passed on to you.

Nothing Hits Harder Than Life

 Nothing hits harder than life. Life will beat you to your knees and keep you there if you let it.

A line from one of my favorite movies but no less true.

So many of us push through life in a crucible of our own failings, missed chances, and narrow losses.

But if you've ever watched certain stories unfold there's a place where the hero is defeated many times before and suddenly they find the strength to overcome an obstacle that destroyed them in the past. And they Wonder at this new-found strength.

Because what they didn't realize is that they were facing much greater challenges then the obstacle they were looking at all along. The other thing they don't realize is that for all the immense strength they showed in defeating that opponent or overcoming that mountain they are actually far stronger than any of that.

Because the scars and the hurt and the pain and the discouragement and everything else that told them to stop and turn around and give up pushed against them like a hurricane of white-hot blistering sand. 

And in those periods of the unimaginable cruelty of life they would have traded anything in the world to get away from that pain. But digging down to not just survive but to overcome they became something more than they ever thought possible.

And so too will you. The defeats of the past are not your legacy. The moments that your knees buckled because it hurt too much to stand doesn't mean that you can't run again.

Because you've been training your whole life to unlock the hidden Force within you and you never even knew it. So go forth my friend I know but the greatness of of the Gods and of your every dream and desire dwells within you.

 And all you have to do is unleash it and believe.

Writing 'To Do' List

I thought this might be helpful to share with my fellow writers.

A Writer's “To Do” List

1. Have writing implements and paper at the ready.
   

2. Set up your workspace in a way that caters to your personal creative process.
   

3. Make a blood sacrifice to the creative gods that they may bless your current endeavor. Should blood for whatever reason, not be available (only you know if you're cheating yourself. But thankfully the Elder Ones work on the honor system), a mixture of espresso and cabernet usually works nicely.
   

4. Make sure you have the correct sacrifice for your genre. Warm goat's blood for horror. (Obviously.) And a warm cheese sandwich for news articles.
   

5. Remove all potential distractions that may pull your focus from your writing.
   

6. Be honest with yourself as to what those distractions are. Phone, work, family obligations, hygiene. If you need reference material, buy a thesaurus.
   

7. Carve out time for the actual writing. The time will not present itself.
   

8. Also, carve out anyone that attempts to impose on this time. You don't need these people in your life anyway, and running from the law can be quite invigorating for the creative process.
   

9. Try to put as much as you can down on the paper, even if it doesn't all come together right away. Sometimes you have to get the bad ideas out of the way first to clear the road for the good ones.
   

10. Stare into the internal abyss of existential dread that your life is meaningless and no one will ever enjoy your work.
    

11. Get a beverage! It's important to stay hydrated!
    

12. Back up your work. Nothing is worse than writing lost work.
    

13. Don't give up. Even if everyone in your life has told you you are just wasting your time writing. Especially the landlady and her angry pet poodle, Chastity. That dog hated you long before you were overdue on rent.
    

14. Occasionally work on something not at all related to your current project to till the old creative soil a bit.
    

15. Scream into a pillow when you realize that the chapter based on a deep personal experience that took you five months of therapy and three months of writing to get out isn't going to work for the final product. Once finished screaming, strike the pillow with your weapon of choice while enjoying a nice cordial and listening to some therapeutic music. I recommend Chopin.
    

16. Most importantly, have fun!

Uber Shenanigans

 Adventures in Uber:

My Uber driver tonight is an Indian gentleman that is currently playing Gospel Country.

Gospel.

Country.

That they're singing off key I feel I should add.

This magical adventure began with my Uber driver stopping at the edge of my driveway.

After I walk up to the car he asks if it's my home and I'm sure I want to leave.

Understanding a foreboding sidequest is ahead, I prepare for adventure.

Adventure at 50 mph.

On the highway.

With his left blinker on the past 4 miles.

Upon entering the car, he and if I still want to go. After assuring him I wish to proceed with tonight's adventure, he asks where I'm going.

I give him the name.

He asks where that is.

I look up the address. And then he calls me.

I let it go to voicemail, explaining I'm already in the car.

He asks if I'm Gideon.

I assure him that I am, pointing that this indeed my house and I indeed wish to leave to yonder destination.

And we are off, his phone still on my voicemail, and his hazards on.

Apple Store Visit

 So.

I went into an Apple store for the first time today.

I began a little perplexed. And it went downhill from there.

Rather than looking like any store I was familiar with, it looked more like a cafe that didn't serve coffee, which was rather disappointing.

I saw a wooden floor with a number of small square seats that looked like cubby holes you would see at a preschool, and they were all arranged like someone was about to read story time. (Story time also did not happen. No coffee. No stories. No check out. I'll get to that in a moment.)

So I see groups of people hanging out and mingling at long, rectangular tables and am wondering where the employees are. I circle around the tables of what looks like dozens of people just hanging out and talking. After a while, I notice that some of these people mingling like its a hipster bar with no beer (No coffee, no stories, and now no beer, despite all appearances. Seriously, it's like Apple thrives on empty expectations) are wearing black shirts with tiny Apple logos on them that I missed my first pass.

Either that's just a thing Apple fanatics wear, or I've finally discovered the elusive employees. I wander over and wait for any of them to make eye contact. Or acknowledge me in any way, as no one greeted me on my way in, and I don't see a counter or check out area anywhere. Spoiler, no one does. 

After several minutes of this and my walking to numerous coffee and beer free tables, I finally stand right next to someone with the black shirt and tiny Apple logo for a few minutes and stare at them until they finally happen to glance my way. I'm only guessing they are an employee at this point as no one has confirmed nor denied this as yet. They don't speak or acknowledge my presence. Apple employees are apparently all cats in human disguises. So I just immediately ask where I can go to purchase something before they look away again. They point at a random employee and say "you can talk to the guy in the middle"

I walk to the guy in the middle.

He points me to the guy in the corner.

I walk to the guy in the corner.

He's talking with two more people and never looks up or over.

I still don't see a cash register. I pick up an item and wait another couple of minutes. Corner guy still never looks my way. I look at the back of the box of a set of wireless ear phones marked at $160. Ear phones. For $160...

(I imagine at this point, an Apple board meeting.

"What should we charge for this item?"

"Let's take whatever a moderate consumer would consider to be the upper end of acceptable pricing for an item like this, and triple that."

"Brilliant!")

I walk to another employee who seems to finally have an idle moment and I ask if I'm understanding the pricing correctly. He says yes.

I ask where the check out counter is. He points me back to corner guy.

I set down the air pods and leave the store, never to return.

I never felt more confused and out of place in my life, and I've been lost in a foreign country.

But the surreal experience did save me $160! So I'll call it a win.

And I think I'll be avoiding the surreal Apple negaverse henceforth. :D

Writing on public transit

Until I get my headphone jack fixed, I'm finding other ways to amuse myself.

Writing on Public Transit without head phones:

               An old man sat on a bench, watching the sunset. The small lacquer box sat on his lap and he stared at its contents for moments that felt like ages. With a deep breath, he closed the box and watched the brilliant purples and oranges that followed the setting sun into the ocean.              

And she don’t need to be talking to him. I don’t care what she said about nothing.              

The old man reflected on all the promises he had made to the people whose lives had been lost so that someone like him could live to see this sunset.              

No, I don’t have the files on me. You’ll have to go into my computer. No, the one in my office. Ya, just go ahead and forward that to Peggy. Oh , Peggy's the worst. 

              

A tear rolled down the man’s weathered cheek. Too much weight, it felt at times. No one should be responsible for that much weight. Yet here he was, and here he waited.              

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!              

What the hell was that?

              

I dunno, somebody’s kid sitting over there.              

Are they being murdered?              

Na, they’re just little assholes and their parents aren’t paying attention.              

The old man cradled the box in his arms as the light faded from the sky.

              

I’m the freshest Atlanta rapper, the pop capper, on the streets I look dapper.

              

He focused on all of the memories-

              

Perfume, cologne, wrist watches! You need a watch?              

Of days gone by, of all the people that had been left behind.

             

Next Stop Lindbergh Center. Check out Marta at Marta on the go! Echa un vistazo a Marta en Marta en el camino!

He closed his eyes-

I need that sent to work right now! It’s got to be there  before I get in!

 Clutched the small box tight.

              

Put her on the phone! I’m ‘bout to tell her ass what’s up!

              

The hip-hop sensation, all over the nation, dropping stacks at my celebration.

Peggy! So glad to hear you!

Next Stop Arts Center, home of Fox Theater, Center for the Performing Arts and-             

The old man said fuck it, and threw the box in the ocean.

The end.

The boy with the bag of rocks.

There once was a boy who carried around a large bag of rocks. He would groan and strain, struggling to get from place to place. The bag of rocks he would carry around with himself were always weighing him down and tiring him out.

“Why don’t you put the bag of rocks down?” another child asked.

“Oh, I don’t mind it so much. You get used to it after a while,” the boy replied.

The other children were running up to the top of a nearby hill to play. The boy’s face turned red as he trudged up the hill behind everyone else. Another girl commented,

“You’d get up the hill much easier if you just put down that bag of rocks.”

“But I’ve gotten good at carrying it, don’t you see? It makes me stronger. Not just anyone could carry this bag of rocks up this hill,” the boy replied. The girl shook her head and trotted on up the hill.

By the time the boy made it to the top of the hill, the other children had all finished playing and were running off home. The boy collapsed, breathing heavily, and wanting to cry at having missed out on playtime. After a few moments of feeling sorry for himself, he noticed the girl sitting nearby.

“I missed all the fun! Everyone played and left without me!” the boy bellowed.

“You had every opportunity to join us. But we couldn’t wait forever. If you’d just put down that burden of rocks, you’d have been here,” she said.

“But I’ve had this bag so long. I’d hate to lose it,” the boy moaned.

“But is it making you happy?” the girl asked.

“It did once. When I first collected the rocks. They were all different shapes and colors. I was so proud of them. They did make me happy,” the boy replied.

“They did. But do they now?” the girl asked. The boy paused and looked at his bag of rocks. After a moment, he shook his head.

“Then why do you carry it?” she asked.

“What will it do without me?” the boy asked.

“It’s a bag of rocks. It doesn’t give a fig if you’re carrying it around or not. And if carrying around is just bringing you grief...” the girl said, standing up and dusting off her pants. She started skipping down the hill, then paused, looking back at the boy. The boy stood up and looked at the bag in his hands. He set it down, and stretched out his back, standing taller than he had in ages. He smiled, the burden laid down at last. He looked at it, it seemed silly to be so sentimental over something that didn’t make him happy anymore.

“I’m going to remember when it made me happy. And leave it at that,” the boy declared.

“That sounds like a fine plan. And if the rocks ever make you happy again, you’ll know where to find them.”

Jane the Ripper

     Blood dripped down from his knuckles. She cowered in the corner, hands raised in defense, obscuring tear-stained eyes and a bloody nose. This was power. Her fear was a narcotic. She'd never report this. Even if she did, it wouldn't matter. No one was coming to help street walkers.

     He grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed. Her crying had him rock hard. All those hours moving concrete, this was his sweet release.

     He was unbuckling his belt when he heard it. Whistling. An odd, minor key melody, haunting and sad. Eventually it passed and he focused back on the task at hand. As he stepped forward, he felt a sharp pain in his calf.

     A charlie horse? Now? He tried to flex his foot when he knee buckled. Something struck the back of his other knee sending him down onto both of them. He nearly toppled forward when the feeling of cold metal against his throat stopped him short.

     The terrified woman on the bed looked to the figure behind the man. It filled her with more dread than the man ever could. From underneath a mess of long dark brown hair stared two haunted eyes. Angry eyes. Kind eyes. Lucid eyes. Mad eyes. Eyes like she had never seen before and hoped never to again. She raised a finger to her lips conspiratorially, as though the two of them were sharing some secret. The new woman's voice was surprisingly light, a consoling whisper.

     "Are you alright?" she asked. 

     The terrified woman on the bed nodded.

     "Good. You'll want to leave now," the voice wearing the woman said. The woman on the bed nodded, scrambling to retrieve her purse and shoes before bolting for the door.

     "Oh," the new woman said. The terrified woman paused at the door. She saw something dark approach out of the corner of her eye. She flinched and raised her hands in self defense, catching something soft and smooth. His wallet.

     "His. He won't be needing it," the voice said. The terrified woman nodded and ran. She was halfway down the hall when the man's screaming began. Nearly an hour of screaming and gurgling later, the spectre of the woman emerged from the motel, melding into the shadows as the parking lot lit up with the strobe of blue lights that passed for justice in this city.

     The terrified woman alternated between drinking coffee and vodka, the melody stuck in her head. No, not just the melody, a legend attached to it. Of a woman, who hurt men, who hurt women. No, not hurt... ripped. Insane Jane they called her. Or, as she had become better known; Jane the Ripper.

Spiritus Dolorosa

She looked down upon her wilting body from the Shadowlands. Blood pooled over the edge of the bathtub, gathering along the tile in a puddle of tomorrows that would never happen. She noticed in the detached way they're only spirits can look at the world how thin she had become. In the last days she had no appetite and food had lost its flavor. Life and become an endless gray sky from which there was no escape. She looked up at the endless grey canopy above with a wan smile, realizing she had left only to come to the same place.

But here she no longer felt the anchor attached to her heart, tearing at it while pulling her through the floor. Here the constant aching in her chest and nausea no longer held her and its merciless embrace. She wandered for some time. There is no point in watching what became of her body, she wasn't there any longer. She did not know how long she wandered the graylands, alone and searching for nothing. Searching for nothing and constantly finding it, has she had in life.

One day she heard crying nearby and felt drawn to it, as though the sobs of this person were flame and she was a moth. She followed the invisible strands to the withered apartment building until it led her to a child. The child appeared no older than seven, crumpled in the corner of the bathroom in dingy pajamas. Her eyes were wrapped in tears. She could hear shouting from the other room and the sound of one person being struck by another. With each sound of flesh on flesh the child winced as though she herself were being struck.

She heard a fluttering behind her and turned to see black feathered wings. She touched them in confusion wondering where they had come from and how long she had had them.

“I have a task for you,” she heard a voice say.
She turned, searching for the source of it.
“There is no need to lay eyes upon me for I am formless.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the presence in the darkness that fills you with dread or makes you feel at peace when you are alone. I am the feeling of a warm blanket wrapped around you. I am the ache in your heart when you say goodbye to someone for the last time. I am the hope of tomorrow and the regret of yesterday.”
“And what tasks do you have for me?”
“To be an angel of comfort to the hurting.”
“Why do you think I would be capable?” she asked the sorrow of her former life gathering in around her throat.
“Because you know better than any the cloying creep of despair, the absence of hope, the growing strength of an ache that will never go away.”
“I was always told that suicides went to Hell.”
“That was for a time even worse than now to shepherd the tides of humanity from claiming the one escape they had from a life of misery and servitude.”
She looked back at girl on the floor.
“What should I do?”
“Let's the jagged lines in the memories of your pain be the roadmap that you need. Give to others what you did not have when you needed it most. And that will guide your every step.”
With that the presence of the voice was gone and she was alone again. No not alone this time. She shared the space with a wounded soul. So she sat down on the floor and wrapped her wings around the weeping child and cradled her close. From across the veil the child leaned in and wept against her. Her wings enfolded to guard the child against the awful sounds and creeping menace from all around. She held the weeping child until sleepover took her.

This new angel of sadness took a deep breath she no longer needed. The unsteady drip from the nearby faucet the only company to her thoughts. She felt a sense of completion within herself from comforting the child. As she stood she felt a new tether form. Another invisible string pulling her to some unknown destination. With her hand clenched around the possibility of purpose she strode into the gathering fog to find the next aching soul that she could land solace to.