Io Sono L'Amore

I love Tilda Swinton.  She's powerful and gorgeous and sort of grotesque.  She's not afraid to contort or expose her body and soul in unflattering ways.  She's an actor from the old days of film - her beauty is a result of her artistry rather than just another pretty face. 
My friend suggested this Italian film called "I Am Love" the other night.  "Tilda Swinton is in it."  All he needed to say for me to agree.  But it was god awful.  It tried so hard to be good the first third.  Which was annoying, but there were many beautiful shots and settings and people to get to know.  They were all presented as if the filmmaker thought he were Rossellini.  But he isn't and Rossellini's once avante-garde manner of introducing a place is now passé.  Tilda was amazing in the first act, however.  She palyed the patrician wife perfectly and quietly.  So tall and regal.  She has such an expressive body in the simplest of ways.  (Think of her in Michael Clayton.  Her physical life was amazing.)
Then the second third of the film a lot of stuff happened without motive, but again, it was pretty.  But not that pretty.  Or simply pretty the way some blond women are pretty - kind of boring.  The film was so dull that Tilda Swinton getting very naked did nothing for me.  If kind of make me feel like she had wasted something in exposing herself so in this dog of a film.  It seemed as if the filmmaker stopped trying.  And then in the third act, it was if he was trying really hard to be bad.  The music got really overt.  Opera would seem understated in comparison.  Agonizingly solemn and at once tragically hysterical.  As we walked out of the theater my friend said he was glad he saw it for one reason only, that he would be able to use it as a barometer for film tastes.  If he met anyone that loved it, it would tell him a lot.
I still love Tilda, but I won't blindly go see another film just because she's in it.

Swooning

Swooning is a physical sensation often brought on by a profound feeling of adoration.  It is experienced as a sort of electrical charge traveling from the chest downward, sometimes all the way to one's toes.  It is usually followed immediately by a sigh and a relaxation of the muscles accompanied by a heady giddiness.  To swoon is often amorous in connotation, but it can also mean to experience generic symptoms of light-headedness, dizziness and, or fainting.
This more debilitating swoon is known as a vasovagal attack.  A vasovagal attack is a condition involving slowing of the heart, reduced blood pressure and reduced blood circulation to the head which reduces the oxygen supply to the brain and can lead to fainting or convulsions. The condition is brought on by over-activity of the vagus nerve, a remarkable nerve that supplies nerve fibers to the pharynx (throat), larynx (voice box), trachea (windpipe), lungs, heart, esophagus, and the intestinal tract as far as the transverse portion of the colon. The vagus nerve also brings sensory information back to the brain from the ear, tongue, throat, and larynx.
The condition is more common in females than males and is often associated with conditions such as lack of sleep, illnesses involving fevers and excessive fasting.
Of course these things are related -- we experience many sensations in the organs and body parts listed above when we love.  It makes sense that as the tenth cranial nerve, the vagus nerve transmits mucho informaccion from our heads downward.  In a new love affair there is little sleep to be had, falling in love is often associated with fevers and one rarely has an appetite when in the throes of early courtship's passions.  These symptoms are also common for parents of newborns.  There are other objects of beauty, both in the natural world and things manufactured, that make one weak in the knees.
I wanted to give the physical sensations of appreciative adoration a little thought tonight, because I've been swooning all the goddamn time lately.  I'm finding Fellini all over the bloody place – life is freaking grand.

We Really Shouldn't Bomb Iran ... Ever

Eyes Without A Face

Oh, the random joys of living in a digital world.  By the way, if you're over forty, think of how often you read, said or heard the word digital in the first two thirds of your life compared to the past third.
So anyway ... I was enjoying the morning today.  No reason to jump out of bed and take the day by storm for once.  The soft light was casting shadows on my walls and ceiling of the lovely patterns of the tree branches outside my window.  I was playing some Billie Holiday on my iTunes.  All was well in the world.
Then one Billie gave way to another and Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face started.  It felt so out of place and remote.  Not in a bad way.  Maybe like a status update from someone that you don't know very well on Facebook -- mildly inappropriate and unwelcome somehow.  But there it was.  In between Billie Holiday and Billy Riley.  Just one song from some random 80s collection.
The song always reminds me of a message left on my answering machine in high school.  I was friends with a guy who later went on to become one of the founders of a major social networking site.  He had a very deep-toned and distinct way of speaking, very drawn out and bassy.  "Neal, what's up, power?  What would it be like if your girlfriend had eyes without a face?  Call me back, it's B____."  As if I didn't know that or could ever forget it.

The Perfect Gift

 Today is my birthday.  Several months ago I bought three Pendleton muchacho blankets commemorating Oregon's sesquicentennial.  They're beautiful blankets that come with a beautifully written letter from Oregon's current First Lady.  I'd been waiting for the right occasion to present them to my children.  I didn't want to give them to them for Christmas as they would get lost in the shuffle.  Nor for their birthdays or other special occasion as they would hardly be welcomed instead of a desired toy or video game.  This morning I decided that my birthday would be fitting. They opened their boxes as I read the First Lady's letter just after breakfast.  I could tell they got it, each according to their age, and that it was a gift joyfully and proudly received by all.  Throughout the day I noticed my son proudly laid his on his bunk bed.  My older daughter used hers as a cloak of invisibility.  My youngest as swaddling for her favorite doll.
After dinner and birthday cake, they presented their gift to me – the Pendleton robe pictured above.  It is described below.  As a long time collector of Pendleton and other trade blankets, this exchange of gifts was very touching.  I was especially proud that my children enjoyed the richness of their blankets and were able to keep it a secret all day that they too had a blanket for me.  Especially as I read the letter explaining the tradition of exchanging blankets to show respect.

Our Father’s Eyes is a tribute to the men who watch over and guide us as we journey through this earth. Diamonds represent the eyes of a father. They are symbols of the clarity and wisdom with which he watches over and guides his children. Within the diamonds, outstretched arms of the father reach to embrace his children. Arrowheads signify the unwavering protection a father provides for his family and the direction that he offers to his sons and daughters. In traditional Native American symbolism, arrows pointing to the right offer protection and those pointing left ward off evil. Feathers signify the spirit and creative force as well as honor. On the left the spirit feathers of the father await birth. On the right, feathers remind us that our father continues to watch over and send us his prayers after he passes on. The traditional step pattern echoes a father’s lifesteps from birth, to adulthood, to old age and finally to the spirit world. The wave design represents water and the ebb and flow of life’s ups and downs through which our father offers his love and support.

SF Kitchen

Big Sur

I can't tell you what I was doing there nor who I saw while there nor where I stayed nor anything specific at all aside from this:  after a few days up on those mountains and down on those shores, the back of my neck felt like jelly.  A magical place to let go of some tension.  An unforgettable few days.

Four Wheels in Big Sur

Live Fast

I'm temperamentally inclined to slow living, or so I'd like to think.  Yet I'm very impatient and impulsive.  So there are times that the stream of life is a rushing wall of water crashing through my normal existence.  The profferer of the Canada job called me two weeks ago with yet another job that I accepted and spent the following eight days completely absorbed by.  It went well.
Then I spent another week wrapping that job and recovering physically and organizationally.  So here I am, sitting quietly on a Friday night.  Thinking about old friends and more exciting, but not necessarily better, times of my life.
The motorcycle has proven to be a very good idea.  I'm enjoying that.
What else?  Not really sure.  I'm not writing or missing writing.  I'm trying to stay connected to finishing Dangerous Writing, but it feels like a chore for the most part.  I do want to see it finished, but the process is a trudge to say the least.
I just moved out of the office I've had for the past two and half years.  I had to go through all the detritus of making movies and teaching acting.  I tossed a lot of it.  Not most or anything drastic, but I let go of somethings that I've been hauling around for a decade or more.  Part of me would like to see all of it go.  I'm not very attached to it.  But some of it still makes me money through rentals and the occasional job, though the more photo jobs I do, the less I want to make movies for any amount of money.
The other reason I find it hard to let go of my film-related stuff is that it is stuff that has value, or so it would seem.  I had a collection of scripts from the 60s-80s that I offered to whoever on Facebook and to the NW Film Center.  You can get a lot of them online now, but these were copies from the studios and from the time when there was no internet.  There were no takers.  I tossed each of the one to three pound bricks into the recycling skip at my old office.  And that was that.  Times change within and without.
I have an old film camera that I need to sell as well.  Part of me wants to heft its heavy metal case up into a corner of my attic and see what the world thinks of it in twenty years.  But my attic is mostly empty and I'd like to keep it that way.  So I'll donate or sell my beautiful and trusty old Arriflex to someone that will find a use for it.
My father-in-law once reminded me that money is just an exchange for time. That holding onto stuff that you think you could sell or use again someday is really just shorting yourself time.
Since I tend to live faster than I often realize, I suppose I shouldn't short myself time by hanging onto possessions that no longer serve me.

When One Door Closes ...

This week I got calls for two very interesting jobs that involved a lot of travel with the promise of generous pay.  I'm at the stage of producing photo shoots that just getting the calls is fun and encouraging, especially good jobs such as these.
I heard about the first gig Monday morning.  It involved going across Canada from BC to Nova Scotia by car for two weeks.  Initially I thought it was a producing job wherein I would be asked to shoot some behind-the-scenes stuff.  Right up my alley and a very exciting proposition to get to an opportunity to see Canada in such a way.  I've got some other stuff going on right now that makes this trip even more appealing - let's just say, it's a very good time for me to get out of town.  In my excitement, I didn't realize that what they were really looking for was a director of photography.  It took a couple of days.  Even before that I was offering to lower my rate to make it happen.  But once I lowered my rate they wanted to see some work samples that closely matched their brand messaging. 
Ugh.  Before I continue with this post, I have to vent.  I hate brand messaging.  The only way I'm able to work in advertising at all is as a producer, because in that capacity I'm taking care of the photographer and the crew, making sure they have all they need to do a great job for the client.  I don't really want anything to do with the product and I'm perfectly happy not being asked what I think about such things.  I'm much happier making sure we find a perfect location or cast the best talent and, most importantly, that we have good food to eat.  I like to book travel arrangements, too.  I also like to create budgets and schedules and to assume the responsibility of staying within their limits.  I'm sort of like John Cusack in Say Anything - I don't want to buy, sell, process or distribute anything bought, sold or processed ... something like that.  I don't want to photograph anything that doesn't have anything to do with the people that I'm working with that I find interesting.  I can't stand the schlock.  So behind-the-scenes, making-of type videos and photographs are my bag.  I like observing people doing interesting things.  I like authentic behavior.  While models are posing the photographer is trying to manipulate them to best sell the product, but my pictures of that process are about something else.  I don't want the client to see my pictures most of the time.
Anyway by Wednesday it was clear that the Canada job was not for me.  I was bummed, but also glad to know that I need to be clear about what I'm trying to do.  I thanked the photographer that put me up for the job while reiterating that I'm very interested in work as a producer.  And that while I'm producing, I'm interested in and capable of shooting behind-the-scenes stuff that could be used for content in some cases.
Then, the very next morning, I received a call from a photographer's agent that asked me to put together a bid for a job that would take he and I and a small crew around Oregon for three weeks taking pictures of cultural figures and places.  I don't know yet if we'll get it, but can you imagine if I had said yes to a job that I wasn't really right for and missed out on a job that's EXACTLY what I want to be doing? 
Even if I don't get either job, it was a lesson is staying lucid about one's intentions and goals.

10 Steps to a Better America

1.    Stop Immigration
2.    End Free Trade
3.    End White Discrimination
4.    Stop Interracial Marriage
5.    Stop Foreign Aid
6.    Stop Homosexuality
7.    Stronger Law & Order
8.    Support Small Business
9.    Defend Gun Rights
10.  Live by the 14 Words:
       "We must secure the existence of our race and a future for our
       white children."

This according to The World Knights of the Ku Klux Klan based in Sharpsburg, Maryland.
Their motto is, "Be a man, join the Klan."

Almost Picked a Winner

Manic Monday

I've made the most out of Monday, getting up early and now refusing to retire.  I worked a lot.  I enjoyed most of it.  The work was successful, which helps.  Of course I shouldn't be tied up by results, but you know ...
There was a point today after spending some time with an old friend's parents after the first part of my workday that I felt extremely happy and connected.  After that I rode my motorcycle to have dinner with a friend.  He shared some strange stuff with me.  Stuff he's shared with me before, but today I just had to tell him I was confused and that I understand why he might be confused about his behavior.
I was distracted when I was with him.  As I've been distracted all evening.  I did some web page stuff for work.  It wasn't as hard as I thought it was going to be and that made me happy, but it took a very long time and ended up being tiring and tedious.
I like the motorcycle.  Glad I got it.  I need some sort of bags so I can ride it when I have stuff to carry.  I've been a lot more comfortable on it the past couple of days.  It's weird.  Like something has opened up in me, yet when I feel that way it feels reckless.  Maybe it's carefree and I'm being paranoid.
There's been a fair amount of communication in my life recently that I may be misinterpreting.  Perhaps more paranoia.  I don't know.  Maybe it's that I'm out in the open, living more.  Not hiding out in my accustomed ways.
I used my new camera for another job today.  I like it.  It's pretty amazing to be able to shoot stills and HD video with the same camera.
Feels like some things in my life are changing fast.  That's the likely source of what I've referred to as paranoia.  It's probably more simply a case of just shaking things up a bit.  Quite a bit, actually.
Maybe the reason I don't want to go to bed is I'm dreading a couple of tomorrow's appointments.  I was looking forward to them, but  like I said, there's been a lot of change happening.

Portland, oh Portland

I was born in Portland and have lived here for about two-thirds of my almost forty-three years.  I've lived in other places that captured my imagination and my heart for a time, yet I've always returned here.  For many years it was because my family was here, though that's no longer the case.  Sometimes I came back here because it wasn't working out someplace else.  There were times that I thought I might not ever return and others when return was inevitable.
This city has changed considerably over my lifetime.  There are a lot more people.  New buildings.  New people.  Neighborhoods that used to be undesirable now have reputations as destinations worth checking out or investing in.  I don't know.  A lot of it is hype.  Some of it is cool.  You really have to decide for yourself.  I just moved to a very nice, but very uncool part of town.  I like it a lot more than I thought I would.  But I'm not going to suggest you move here, unless of course your needs are similar to mine (good schools, families, trees, big houses that are not new construction on big lots for under 650K).  The New Seasons just down the hill from my house is just a good grocery store.  In North Portland and Southeast, where we lived over the past few years, the New Seasons offer more than the opportunity to buy locally at a reasonable price without going to a farmer's market.  There seems to be more of an agenda aside from shopping for groceries in those Eastside stores.  I really like to buy food that comes from a farm rather than a factory.  And I suppose that could be a political choice, but it really isn't for me.  I eat at restaurants all the time that buy crap from food factories.  I would rather not, but life is too short to try to sort all that stuff out.  That's part of what I like about living on the Westside.
For many residents of Portland these issues seem to be the type of thing that preoccupies them.  Riding bicycles is a political statement.  Eating is a political statement.  I ride bikes.  Sometimes I even put my bike on my car to drive to a better place to ride it.   I like all the bike lanes in Portland.  I'm guilty of turning right across bike lanes sometimes without giving that extra bike-specific look in spite of logging over three thousand miles on a bike myself last year.  When I forget to look, am I bad person?
Last weekend I took a motorcycle safety and skills course.  One of the questions on the written test was, Why do drivers in cars and trucks have trouble seeing motorcyles?  The answer was because motorcycles are relatively smaller than the other vehicles on the road.  There was no moral quotient.  One of the things that they emphasized is that as motorcyclists we are responsible for being aware of the fact that we are hard to see and that we should ride as if we're not seen at all.  Again, this wasn't suggested as a political compromise, but simply to preserve our physical safety.
So no, I'm not a fan of the smug and the arrogant.  Yet I'm really supportive of getting people out of their cars and onto bicycles or onto mass transit.  And I appreciate laws and traffic devices that encourage and require me to watch out for bicycles.  As I appreciate the growing awareness of the many issues that the residents of Portland trumpet: safe food, safe water, sustainability, all that fantastic stuff that hardly anybody had anything to say about just a few years ago.
A former news editor at The Portland Mercury just left Portland and wrote this farewell on his blog. A friend brought this to my attention just yesterday.  I have mixed feelings about it.  First off, he's young.  Secondly, he's English.  And third, the Mercury just doesn't inspire a lot of admiration on my part for incisive journalistic content.  Still, I think he makes some fair points.  But the problem is that he's speaking to a very narrow section of Portland.  He's now in New Orleans, a perfect destination for someone seeking an authentic experience in their place of residence.  A recent post talks of getting his hair cut by an eccentric local.  I used to get my hair cut by a very unknowingly eccentric barber in a tiny shop across from Civic Stadium.  Carl the barber was there for years in the big green Multnomah apartment building that has been replaced by a high rise with some slick corporate street level anchor tenants.  Maybe if Matt Davis had moved here in the early 90s (when he was still a teen) he might have liked Portland more.
Back to point number two as to why I can't take this guy too seriously - he's English.  I find English people very suspect in general.  They take a lot of pride in never being sincere.  Always giving you the wind up and taking the piss.  It's amusing for awhile, but I'm too old for all that now.  Imperialism is in their genetic makeup.  While they may seek authentic culture, they are all too eager to improve upon it.   Another thing I don't trust about English people is their accents.  No matter how long they live abroad, they still retain their accents, yet when their pop stars sing, they sound American.  Okay, now I'm taking the piss.  But there's some truth to what I'm saying.  And yet another thing about the English, they often live somewhere other than England and go on and on about how rubbish everything is.  I've spent a bit of time in England.  I enjoyed myself and found a lot to like, but it's pretty clear to me why they're bitter in general and why they're in no hurry to get home again.
There was a time that people moved to New York to become New Yorkers, but in the past twenty years or so, those that move to New York want the city to accommodate them.  This is a problem everywhere in the digital age.  And yet, in an age of rampant global cultural homogenization Portland seems to be emerging as a distinctive place.  How could this be?
Portland is not perfect.  It's pretty.  It's easy to live here in many ways. (Maybe too easy.  Davis blogs about putting his emergency kit and his evacuation plan together for the upcoming hurricane season.  He jokes about not having experienced the trauma as some other residents down there have. I just received an email yesterday from a New Orleans native friend that referenced his Katrina PTSD in a somewhat more sober manner.)  Portland is kind of provincial.  It's not very snarky.  The weather often stinks.  You can get out into the countryside very quickly compared to cities in California or the East Coast.  There's a lot of creative stuff going on here that's pretty interesting given how relatively small Portland is compared to other American cities.  There isn't a very fascinating cultural heritage here - logging, fishing, some soggy little native tribes scattered about the region.  It's fairly homogeneous racially.  Though over the years I always seemed to have a variety of friends in Portland of different races and politics in spite of this being the whitest city in America not run by Mormons.  There are a lot of rental houses that can be shared by a lot of young self-proclaimed hipsters so that they can live cheaply and create a weird little quasi-artistic subculture.  They're kind of annoying in their rigid lemming-like limited fashion sense and their disinterest in the contributions of the generations that preceded them, but I suppose they bring something into the equation of what makes Portland earn its identity.  I miss some of the mom and pop businesses and Carl the barber, even though I wouldn't dare let a barber like him touch my hair now that I've been getting $75 haircuts for ten years. 
And when I've gotten sick of Portland, I've left.  So a fond farewell to those of you that don't like it here.  It was probably a good decision to move on.  It probably won't do any good, but I suggest you drop the animosity.  It's just a city.  And you never know, you might end up back here someday.  I did.

Digs and Gigs

I gotta get back to that DW trailer.  But first there's a plumber coming in the morning.  I would rather call a plumber and shop for a new tap for the kitchen and a new dishwasher than cut that f*ing trailer.  Editing is not really my thing.  I can do it quite well, but I don't enjoy the process.  I need results quicker than is prudent.  I did get back to the music this week, though.  Rejected a song that the composer brought me.   Hated doing that, but it just didn't feel right at all.  He had the idea to contact an old friend of ours that specializes in the type of music I want for that particular scene.  After D. left I composed a quick blues strut in Garage Band to play under a bar scene.  Need to add some barroom chatter and glasses tinkling and maybe some sort of jukebox effect filter for the blues tune.  I knocked that song out because I'm really tired of losing momentum on DW.  I really want to finish that goddamn film already.  I'm just not that interested in making films as a writer-director right now and yet I need to finish what I started.
I got a call to produce a cool photo shoot for one of the awesome photographers in town.  It's for a prestige client and agency.  I worked up the budget this morning.  Even if it doesn't go through, I was really happy and encouraged to get the call.  I'm hardly broke, but I need to earn some money.  Mainly for my psyche.  Filmmaking was starting to feel like a giant vanity project.  Doing something that I like doing, that I'm qualified to do and getting paid well for it has been a long time coming.  I've made plenty of dough in my life, but I haven't enjoyed the ride on a paying gig for a long, long while.
Earning money on that photo shoot last month and the video gig I'm working on currently felt really good.  I want to keep it up and the potential gig I worked on today is heartening.

Avedon, Stegner, Curtis, Hatfield, McCoy ...

The American West.  Says a lot.  Ralph Lauren made his fortune on it.  Hollywood spent much of the 50s and 60s filming it.  I've lived most of my life in it.
One of my great-grandfathers walked behind a covered wagon from Minnesota to Oregon in the late 1800s to his family's new homestead, the wheat ranch where my father grew up and my grandmother and two of his sisters still live.  Pendleton, home of the famous rodeo and woolen mill.
I spent my first seventeen years yearning to get out of here.  I wanted to be in New York and Europe.  I lived in the latter and then settled on San Francisco before making my way to the former.  I longed to be part of the East Coast establishment - educated, sophisticated, genteel.  Preppy.  Throughout high school, Lisa Birnbach was my guide and fashion consultant.  Wanting to go into some sort of foreign service career and sometimes Wall Street seemed attractive.  Then, suddenly I realized that wasn't me at all, and I wanted to be an architect and a painter wearing leather, engineer boots and riding vintage motorcycles.  Levi's four sizes too big with a Ben Davis work shirt or a crisp white tee.  Working as a bike messenger, window display artist, in nightclubs and  as a graphic designer.  A psychobilly bohemian, looking the part and only occasionally building or painting something.  Then finally to school to study architecture, then painting, then history, then Spanish; thinking academia might be the answer while rediscovering hip-hop.  The clothes were the same, except I swapped the leather jacket for a Carhartt and pulled a stocking cap low to my brow.  I swapped the vintage bikes for a Chevy low-rider hooptie.  Whenever the cops had a chance to stop me, they did and I always ended up sprawled on the pavement while they searched me then the car.   When that got boring, there were more vintage cars, but nicer and with drop-tops.  The clothes changed to DaVinci shirts and crisper jeans with a turned up cuff.  The music rockabilly, early country and jump blues.  I wore an Open Road Stetson and Justin ropers.  I scoured thrift stores across the country, sometimes selling things that weren't my size to vintage dealers.  The outlaw literary hero, living the life without doing much writing, doing my best to look and carry on like Johnny Cash and a cowboy version of Charles Bukowski rolled into one.  I then stepped into a life as a cartoon character living concurrently in the late 30s -early 40s and the mid-90s.  I wore tailor made suits and hats, danced the lindy-hop in spectator shoes, drank in speakeasys and dated girls with complicated hairdos and vintage dresses.  I could continue, though things settled quite a bit after the Swing phase.  Basically, there's a trend of fetishizing fashion and lifestyle choices.  I cringe at the searching and the vanity while admiring the resourcefulness and the energy.
I haven't been inspired by this type of thing for a while.  I recently embraced athletic and outdoorsy clothing which I'd abhorred for much of my life, realizing that such activities were better enjoyed wearing the proper gear, but I never wanted to be seen in a social environment dressed as such.  I rediscovered preppy to an extent.  Brooks Brothers opened a store in Portland.  It felt comfortable to a degree.  A little stiff.  Funny how it coincided with reconnecting with many high school friends after more than twenty years.  I'm certain many of them assumed that I had been dressing in the same manner since high school.  I rather liked giving that impression as I felt slightly embarrassed by my various clothing fetishes over the years, especially in the eyes of my conservative peers.
To my credit, over the years I rarely totally abandoned one look for the next.  Most of the time I repurposed my wardrobe, transforming the way I combined things rather than swapping out my entire closet.  (Though I must admit that my zoot suits were worn primarily as Halloween costumes for a few years after the Big Daddy Swing phase and though I have no foreseeable use of them, I cannot part with them.)  And once I added permanent ink to my body the tattoos,  many of them vintage flash, served as long-term commitment to a bit of an outlaw rockabilly legacy.
Original Glory is largely about trying to hold onto an idea of the past through one's devotion to fashion, though the characters' view of their style is so myopic that they don't see it as fashion but a direct embodiment of themselves and their ideals.
Anyway, lately I've come around to design and fashion with a renewed appreciation.  I've been wearing my handmade cowboy boots that once cost me a month's pay.  I bought a motorcycle - the Bonneville.  I've been reading up on Pendleton blankets and Native American history.  I've been researching cowboy boots and bought a few pairs of gorgeous Luchese's at a church rummage sale yesterday.  I'm going to start going on some buying trips in search of boots and blankets.  I plan to keep the blankets for my growing collection and sell the boots on eBay or to a friend that's a retailer of vintage western wear.  While I'm on these buying trips across Oregon and other western states I'm going to be photographing locations and people for my production resource library.  And I'm going to make the effort to get to know people in these communities by attending their fairs and other community events.  Hopefully I'll have the opportunity to play matchmaker between city and country folk in various ways over the coming years.
And all the while, I'll have some time to myself out on the road to explore my own stories.  I'm sure my fascination with the American West will ebb and flow as it always has and that I'll discover many other interests along the way.

Some Things That I Like

Handmade cowboy boots with a walking heel
Making someone laugh
Mountain Biking
Playing Tennis
Tennis Rackets
Chambray
Fountain Pens
Short Stories
NBA Basketball
Pictures of Bob Dylan from the 60s
Jean Gabin
Fassbinder
Fresh Sawdust
Dark Chocolate
Flat-chested women that don't wear bras
Red Guitars
Pickup Trucks
Skeet Shooting
Snow
Goatskin
Fresh Eggs Softboiled
Pendleton Trade Blankets/Indian Robes
British and Italian Vintage Motorcycles
Cashews
Lemonade
Mexico
Japanese Gardens
Old Soda Machines
Canoes
Sergio Leone Films
Hardcover Books
Leather Medicine Balls
Push Lawnmowers
Sitting in a proper barber chair
Big Noses
Rumba
Mismatched Cufflinks
Antlers
Boxing Gloves
Records
Walking in New York, Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid and San Francisco
Oysters

Nothing is ever as difficult as you think it's going to be.

I was feeling some measure of despair over the past few weeks.  I laid off the regular fitness routine in February or so, but I was working all day seven days a week on the house.  My jeans were falling off of me.  I had to punch a new hole in my belt with my Leatherman.  Then the house was finished.  We moved in.  My wife left town for most of March and April.  I didn't get the garage organized, so my home gym was covered and surrounded by all the stuff that needs to be organized or sold or given to charity.  My personal training clients and I didn't reconnect after the lay-off.  And I didn't need the new hole in my belt or the next one after about six weeks.  Then the Kapital job happened and I ate way too well for two weeks.  And drank a lot of Cokes for comfort and energy.
I felt a lot of anguish about letting off the fitness and gaining some fifteen or twenty pounds - I didn't know exactly as I didn't really want to get on the scale until yesterday.  Not only did the vanity aspect bother me, but my body just wasn't working the way it had been over the past year and some.  And my clothes were feeling tight.  I had a lot of doubt and fear going through my mind.  I couldn't seem to get out the door for a simple walk.  It all seemed so huge in my mind.
Last Monday I made up a spreadsheet to track my movement and mediation for the week.  I managed to meditate every day and to get in some yoga daily as well.  I went for a couple of walks.  I scheduled a session with a trainer friend after telling myself for weeks that I couldn't call Eric until I had gotten some level of fitness back.  I sent him an email early in the week with the subject line: Help!  He, of course, was understanding and got me in on Friday for some boxing and conditioning.  Then yesterday I did a TRX suspension intro class that was half strength and half stretching.  I really liked it.  It reminded me of Pilates but without the holiness.
Another benefit of the meditation – I notice that I am better able to be mindful when eating.  Twice this week I brought food home from restaurants when I got full.  I have some ideas about improving my tactics for better eating that I want to start practicing.  One thing I need to resume is recording what I eat.  And I want to challenge my sense of need and obligation, transforming my energies into a desire to nourish and respect myself rather than an onerous duty driven by fear/ego.
Last night I went to bed sore but feeling in my body.  I woke up energized.  Took a long walk and came home and did some housework.  Now we're off to Bend for the night.  But first, I want to get in some meditation.

%*Y@h*Yxf$*!!!!!!

Shit, fuck, goddamn motherfucker!  I don't like this fucking news at all.  In his irreverent honor I'm going to write the most obnoxious blog entry of a eulogy for the craziest bastardo to ever grace the silver screen.  I loved Dennis Hopper the actor.  And the director.  Who cares about the crazy unwatchable shit he made.  If all he ever made was Easy Rider, he's a greater filmmaker than Orson Welles, the other misunderstood great-actor-turned-one-hit-wonder-helmer.  I think Easy Rider is a masterpiece not only for its craft but for its cultural significance.  The film defines the American New Wave, or New Hollywood as it is also known, that brief period of beautiful films financed by the studios in the late 60s and early 70s.  All those gritty little films that reflected the cultural revolution of that time - Midnight Cowboy, Two Lane Blacktop, Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, Fat City, McCabe and Mrs Miller, Dog Day Afternoon, Badlands,  The Last Picture Show, Five Easy Pieces ...  I could go on and on and on.  Basically almost all of my favorite American films were made between 1965 and 1975.  Until Speilberg and Lucas came along and created the blockbuster epidemic that along with video destroyed the hope of seeing very many gritty personal films in a theater near you.  It's over and that sucks, but I am sure glad I got to be a part of it however young I may have been.

Dennis Hopper the man seems like a total nut job.  I'm not really that turned on by his kookiness and dysfunction in life.  But where he was able to channel it and focus long enough to act in or direct a film, I've always been a big fan. 

When I was eight and nine, my mom was married to an outlaw biker.  It was a dark time in my life in many ways.  Of course it was also a very vibrant time as well.  Kind of like surviving a war.  Everything is pretty vivid in my memory.  My step-dad was a huge Easy Rider fan.  This was just before VCRs.  Yet somehow we managed to see it on tv a few times.  We had the soundtrack album.  My stepfather had Harley wings patches and stickers on everything - his truck, his jackets, his lunchbox and thermos (he was an ironworker).  I remember the time he took me to a Harley shop and said I could get a patch for my jeans jacket.  I chose this one:

It was more Peter Fonda/Wyatt/Captain America than Dennis Hopper/Billy.  My stepfather was a little disappointed I could tell.  That period of my life was not something I was eager to celebrate for a long, long time.  When I started getting into filmmaking, I finally revisited Easy Rider.  First through the cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs.  The Hungarian really saw America as it was at that time and captured it beautifully.  As I watched the film several times, I came to appreciate how masterful it really is.  Initially Kovacs didn't want to do the project, but Hopper pestered him until he did.  Hopper knew what he was doing, even though he was whacked out through much of its filming.  The Mardi Gras and the graveyard funeral march scenes were shot months before principal photography with a 16mm camera like the Arri S in the photo above.  They had dropped acid and were just shooting some tests while scouting and writing the script.  Even if the film was a result of accidental and incidental factors, it doesn't take away from Hopper's vision. Like I said, he knew what he was doing.
In high school World Lit we studied Apocalypse Now in relation to Conrad and  Yeats and the other books on Kurtz's nightstand like The Golden Bough.  Our teacher was fresh out of Brown and a devotee to the 60s and 70s.  We read all sorts of the new Vietnam war literature that was coming out.  It was not a traditional high school class.  The teacher lives in SE Portland and I run into him from time to time.  We have interesting conversations and I thank him for that class.  Anyway we watched Apocalypse Now frontwards and backwards.  We wrote papers on it, comparing it to Conrad.  I loved the film and still do.  I seem to recall finding Dennis Hopper distracting and annoying back then, preferring Willard and Kurtz and the other guys on the boat.  But later on, Hopper became one of my favorite characters in the film.
When I came home from being in the Army in Germany in the mid-80s, one of the first films I saw was Blue Velvet.  Hopper was frighteningly present and bold.  His performance was far more chilling than any of the visual shenanigans.  He alone makes me love and fear that film.  I have an aversion to watching it because Frank Booth is so god damned disturbing.
Through his work, Dennis Hopper will always be with us for better and for worse.  That sort of immortality is what many of us long for.  He definitely earned it.  Rest in peace, you crazy fucking cocksucker.

There's Gold in Them Thar Machines!

Pretty Goddamn Cool

One Would Think...

... that having a family would ground me and make my life more regular.  Pshaw.  I have to get up at 5:15 tomorrow.  I was winding down around 9.  A couple of paragraphs of Adam Gopnik's piece in this week's New Yorker was going to do the trick.  But.  (Not very surprising that there's a but as it's now just past midnight and I'm blogging rather than sleeping.)  But our four-year-old decided that she had to cuddle daddy in his bed.  Then she couldn't fall asleep.  Not through all of the Gopnik article.  Or the Roddy Doyle story.  Not even through the interminable piece on Afghanistan.  I finally gave up on the article with more "Taliban's" in it than all the articles I've read since 2001 combined.  I find reading about modern conflicts stultifying.  I was an avid reader of war stories and histories as a kid.  I love the military, political and social histories of all the American wars, including Vietnam and Iraq.  But for some reason stories of the Middle East bore the hell out of me.  Same went for Bosnia and all the Nicaraguan and El Salvadoran stuff.  Though Joan Didion's book Salvador was pretty readable.  Maybe what I find intolerable about those regions is the hopeless futility of their conflicts.
Anyway, I'm at war with the clock.  I have a long day of shooting tomorrow and I'm dog tired but wide awake.  There's a little redhead sprawled in the middle of our bed and I couldn't lie there wide awake any longer.
I went to look at bikes today.  The Guzzi is out.  Too small for me.  I fell in love with a black, white and gold Bonneville T100.  I almost bought it.  I felt that fear creeping up in me - what if they sell it?  Even though he told me they only sell a couple of each Triumph model a year.  Beautiful bike.  More so in person.  I thought I would like the British Racing Green option, but the black and white one jumped out and grabbed me.
Overall, life is really good right now.  I have more and more job prospects coming my way now that I've committed to producing.  Rather than rushing in, I'm taking my time setting up meetings with people to see where the best place for me might be.  I love the freedom of free-lancing but there are a couple of in house gigs coming up that might be a good move for me.
Other than that I'm in search of quality chambray shirts, preparing for trip to Bend to see Band of Horses and She & Him.  I love Matt Ward but I'm not so keen on Zooey Deschanel's voice.  It works on some of their songs.  I'm sure she'll be very charming live. 
I love Bend.  Not so much the town itself, but Central Oregon.  When I was a teenager I had this vision of myself as a lonely dustbowl refugee.  Not so much by style or disposition, but by pedigree in some naive literary fashion.  I loved Fitzgerald and Hemingway and so desperately wanted to be of their ilk - a super combination of urbane Ivy Leaguer and macho adventurer.  I see now how contradictory the two were.  Nonetheless, as much as I was drawn to those expatriates of the Lost Generation I was truly more kin to Steinbeck's disenfranchised Westerners.  I felt a little trapped and resentful by the smallness and the hopelessness of their lot.  Still, the quiet lonesomeness of the high desert and the plaines appeals to me.  More as I get older.
I am really grateful that I'm from Oregon.  It may not be New England or New York City or New Orleans or San Francisco or any of the great American lierary cities and regions, but it sure as hell beats anywhere in the Midwest.  Which is whence both Fitzgerald and Hemingway hailed.
I visited the Finca Vigia in Cuba about ten years ago.  Hemingway may have hailed from the midwest, but he was a citizen of the world.  His place outside of Havana was amazing.  I could easily imagine his presence, both from the property but also from having read everything he wrote several times.  It just made perfect sense.  His writing is very visual for me.  And he's so present in all of it.  I feel almost childish, puerile to be sure, in my appreciation for him.  Though I don't buy the great man, Papa mythos wholesale.  I see the pain and suffering, especially as he aged.  I take pity on him, which is probably what drove him  to take his life in Sun Valley.  My father was born in Idaho.  And lives there again now, last I heard.  My father won't shoot himself though.  More stubborn than proud.  Cowardly and bitter.
So this is one hell of a meander.  I think I'll try to get to sleep now.

The Daily Mind

One day at a time.  Be here now.  These simple mantras can be seen as clichés or as the simple and powerful reminders that to truly live authentic lives, we have to be present.
It doesn't take a lot of analysis to make this happen.  In fact the less thought the better.  For me it takes some simple actions to stay grounded and centered.  It starts with making the bed when I get up.  Ten to fifteen minutes of yoga.  Eight to twenty minutes of meditation.  Some simple and healthy food.  Water.
Straightening up my desk and clothes.  It's not a bid deal.  But it makes all the difference.

Moto Guzzi

I might go for the Guzzi instead of the Triumph.  I think Fellini would approve.  One of my favorite bikes in the past was my 1973 El Dorado, which had the same transverse V-twin engine as this new model.  We'll see when I go look at them soon.  The V7 Special has less power than the Bonneville T100 - about a hundred cc's less displacement.  I'm not really going for speed, but it's something I might need to consider.  I feel like if I need more power,  I can upgrade to another classically styled Italian bike in a few years:

                      

I signed up for my safety course for the weekend of June 10.  I should get my motorcycle endorsement at DMV the next week and be on my new bike by mid-June.  In all my years of riding motorcycles I never had a motorcycle endorsement.  It was never a problem, but I never wore a helmet back then either, so playing by the rules or personal safety weren't the priority that they are now.

For a long time I didn't think I wanted to ever ride a bike again.  It crossed my mind a couple of times, but I always dismissed it as not a good idea for a man with three young children.  Statistically it probably isn't.  But I talked to my wife about it and she didn't see a problem, she liked the idea actually.  Her father is huge enthusiast, still racing The Isle of Man and other European classic races on his Nortons or his many other vintage bikes, including a Vincent.

Last week I took my Japanese clients to Langlitz for a visit.  I tried on some jackets as I don't imagine the Langlitz Cascade that I practically lived in during the late 80s and early 90s will ever fit me again.  As part of the fitting they had me sit on a motorcycle seat.  It felt really good and started to work on me over the weekend.  

I should think about it longer than that; right?  Nah.  What is there to think about when making a decision to buy something so impractical?

Dysrhythmia

Before I went to work on the photo shoot, I had a nice little rhythm going.  Not perfect or anything, but it was easy to get up and make my bed.  And I was getting to bed at fairly consistent time with a little reading time before lights out.
Now my body and mind are out of sorts.  Instead of words on a page before bed, I want to be in front of a screen.  Instead of waking in the morning and reading a short story before rising and making my bed, I stumble across the hall from my bedroom to my study and check my email.  This morning's emails were not to be missed, I tell you.  There was something from MacWeekly about passwords and such.  An alert from an Ebay seller that an item had shipped.  A spiritual meditation from a subscription.  And some other trash that I don't remember.  Nothing urgent or validating.  Nothing worth sacrificing for more grounded routines and rituals.
We did go to the beach yesterday.  Cape Lookout.  We met some friends that had camped out the previous night.  The sea air was wonderful.  I played a game with my son and one of his friends that involved drawing targets in the sand and throwing large rocks.  Then we built castles and played a territory game that my son invented.  After that I laid on the sand until a storm came in and we drove home.
Ive been super negligent on my fitness commitment lately.  My clothes are starting to feel uncomfortable.  Yet somehow the simple act of walking out the door and taking a walk is overwhelming me.  I'm overthinking it.  Getting ahead of myself.  Trying to take some action today.
Thinking about getting a motorcycle again.  It's been a long time.  1995.  I'm going to take a safety course for a refresher if I pursue it.  I've got my eye on a new Triumph Bonneville T100.  Vintage styling without all the wrenching.  I don't have the time or the desire to be working on a motorcycle.

Rules For My Unborn Son

 I don't agree with all of the rules in this award-winning blog, but there are some winners to be sure.

Two Week Whirlwind

I've been very busy the past couple of weeks working on a photo shoot.  It was a very rewarding experience.  I liked all the people that I worked with and felt like I helped them achieve a very successful and economical shoot.  I like producing.  I'm pretty good at gathering resources and bringing things together.  I've most often worked in that capacity for my own projects.  It's a little tough to not be directly and consistently involved in the creative aspects of a project, but I've gained enough humility to accept my role.  I find that by keeping my eyes and ears open I am able to offer support and guidance without taking over or intruding into someone else's process.  It's trickier at some times than others.  Overall it's  lot less demanding than doing it all.  It seems rather easy in fact.  One of the most difficult aspects of the job was coordinating childcare while both my wife and worked last week.
I hope to work with this company again.  There was some talk of Mexico or Cuba, two places that I know well.  Y yo hablo español, casi perfectamente.  Me gustaría ir a Cuba o México para trabajar por un par de semanas.  Claro que sí.  Obviamente, guay.
Now I'm on to a less demanding and somewhat less interesting job next week, however it pays more for three days of work than I earned in two weeks with the Japanese.
At times over the past couple of weeks I felt a little nuts from jumping from one extreme environment to the next.  Hanging in the snow on Mt. Hood for an hour, then off to Warm Springs, then dinner at Jake's and in cool downtown loft to cast models the next morning.  Then off to Bend and Mt Bachelor, stopping in antique stores along the way.  One day we're creating a hippie commune music fest, the next we're in Old Town, then skiing and hanging out in a log cabin.  We ended the week on a trip up the Multnomah channel on an old steel ketch that I chartered.  We had sun for much of Thursday's cruise but at one point dark black clouds rolled over the west hills and pounded us with hail.  All but the captain and I went below deck.  I stood in the bow just behind the bowsprit and absorbed the fresh feeling of being totally alive.

I can't post too many photos from the shoot as they're trying to to keep photos of the clothing off the internet until they publish the photos.  But I took hundreds of really cool behind the scenes photos over the past week.
I'll miss those guys.  I already miss my expense account dinners.  Jakes three times, Ruth Chris, The Oyster Bar ...  More out of town clients, please.

The Master Says 370

Specialization is for insects.

Robert Heinlein

Friday

Beautiful morning.  Just the type of sunny and cool to get me up and going.  I have been sleeping very poorly lately.  We switched from a king to a queen hoping to discourage our daughters from co-sleeping and to reclaim some floor space in our bedroom.  Who likes a bedroom that's all bed?  Not me.
I went to bed about ten last night instead of one.  I didn't crash out straight away, but it was a good idea.  I did some reading.  Bicycling magazine came in the mail yesterday.  I haven't done much riding so far this spring.  One really beautiful ride last week.  I wanted to get up and go out for a ride this morning before work.  But I had to find my bluetooth headset as I'll be in the car much of the day trying to produce a photo shoot.  I cleaned up some stuff in my office but I couldn't find it.  I knew when I bought that thing it was going to be another silly tiny thing to keep tabs on.  First I misplaced its charger in the recent move and by the time I found that I had misplaced the earbud.  Ugh.
I'm pretty ADD sometimes.  I ended up going through some old report cards of mine and my mother's.  I didn't get too deep.  I was surprised to be reminded how shy I was a young child.  My kindergarten teacher wrote that I rarely spoke and was always respectful when I did.   Probably more terrified than polite.
I also pulled up a four-button iPod.  I tried to plug it in, but I think it requires a firewire connection rather than USB.  Goodness knows what mixes are on that device from 2003.  I don't even know if it will take a charge.  A lot of these digital devices, especially hard drives, need to be plugged in  every so often.
I read the final story of Refresh, Refresh last night.  I acclimated to the horror a bit and the stories became less supernaturally creepy.  The last story said it was about a bear, so the suspense as to what was being confronted was minimal.  I didn't get to sleep after Percy so I delved into a T. Coraghessan Boyle story called Modern Love that I'd read before.  Funny and a bit morbid.
I took a walk this morning instead of a ride and thought a bit about Percy.  (I didn't remember reading Boyle until now.)  My thoughts about his writing are faint at the moment.  I'm a bit preoccupied with the work I've been doing.  I'm meeting up with the photographer later this morning.  I'll be showing him around this beautiful city, helping him find places that will help him tell the stories he needs to tell next week.
Life is good.  I am amazed by all the loveliness that surrounds me.

BP* by BP**

  *Beautiful Picture
**Beyond Petroleum nee British Petroleum

Cameras Rolling, Calling Cut, Directing, again

We went and shot some footage yesterday.  It was kind of strange.  Casual.  But not entirely uncommitted.  I was driving as Jordan rolled camera on Portland.  I had a very loose relationship to the outcome.  "You want to see it?"  "No, that's okay.  How did it look?"  or  "Sure, let me pull over."
But it certainly wasn't random.  I definitely directed what we shot both by where I drove and how I asked things to be framed.  It was interesting to be relaxed yet specific.
Portland sure has changed.  I know that, but putting a frame around it really underscores the development the city is undergoing.  Twenty years from now the stuff we shot yesterday could be quite wonderful to have access to.
It's nice to have access to it now.  I'm going to use it for an idea I have for the Dangerous Writing trailer.  And maybe in the film.  I'm not sure.
It felt a little funny to call cut.  I preferred to say, that's good or you can stop now.  But I realized that cut was what Jordan wanted to hear.  For clarity.  Habit.  Comfort.  I don't know.
I woke up with an idea for a short film this morning.  I have this very special friend that is a model and an art historian.  I thought it would be cool to do something with tons of art books and her in a nice bedroom.  With the camera really close to her as she lounges on the bed buried in books and talks about art while wearing glamorous clothes and hair and makeup.   She talks, we cut to the page, we cut back and she's got a new look.  Just let her flow and let the stylists play.  Maybe shoot her while she's getting her hair and makeup done.   Letting the beauty be less constructed.  This is my friend from a long time ago.  I saw this picture of her before I ever met her.

She never really looked like that to my eye or in other photos, but this photo is how I'll always see her.  This is what she really looks like:

I just Googled her for an updated picture and this one on the bed came up.  I've never seen this one before.  Not quite the vibe I was thinking for my video, but kind of an interesting correspondence.

Brady Udall's Letting Loose The Hounds

Udall's collection of short stories has also been on my nightstand for the past week or so.  I've read them more casually than Percy for no other reason than they're less demanding on my nervous system.  I don't really like suspense or horror in general and I suppose it says a lot about Percy that I'm willing to stay with his stories.
Udall is more fun.  They are dark and the characters are definitely from the underbelly of our society.  Some are even from the underbelly of society's underbelly.  They're light and fluid enough to read before bed and I've read two or three in a single sitting.
I found the Ballad of the Ball and Chain the most relevant to some of my current storytelling challenges. I'm working on a story about a woman trying to help her boyfriend that's having a mental  breakdown that I've written in the third person with my authorial stance from the woman's perspective.  Ballad of the Ball and Chain is in first person from the woman who is dealing with a mentally ill boyfriend.  Our stories are quite different other than that, but just reading his use of detail and other elements fired some cylinders for me and inspired several pages of notes about my own story's possibilities.
I liked all of the stories in the collection.   He's imaginative and playful and though his characters encounter serious situations, the pathos is more comic than tragic.  He allows them to laugh at themselves.  Which is a winning consolation that doesn't entirely make up for the lack of redemption Udall deprives them of, but it does make things rich and honest and more complete.
I look forward to reading more Udall.  I have a novel of his on my shelves, but it's not going to replace Letting Loose the Hounds as I'm committed to reading short stories for now.

The Master Says 369

To be alive is power,
Existing in itself,
Without a further function,
Omnipotence enough.

Emily Dickinson

The Master Says 368

I'm always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught.

Winston Churchill

Ain't No Olivier

Lust for Life oo1

Analysis of Benjamin Percy's "The Woods" - Part 1

In a word – chilling.  Even read in the bright light of morning.  I don't want to get trapped by describing the story or even offering an oblique critique.  If you plan to read the story you should probably stop reading this entry right now and revisit it after you've read it.  Description is a start, but my reading comprehension and summary skills don't really need work.  I want to know why and how the author achieves "chilling".
So I reread The Woods the following morning to better understand the why and the how.  Right off he vividly recalls an event in the distant past in first person.  He puts us right up close to the narrating character's younger self with short, sharp sentences decribing his experience in sensory detail.

     My father wanted to show me something, but he wouldn't say what.  He only said that I should get my gun, my thirty-aught-six, and follow him.  This happened just outside Bend, Oregon, where we lived in a ranch house surrounded by ten acres of woods.  I was twelve at the time:  old enough to own a gun, young enough to fear the dark.

So he takes us into the woods with him.  He describes a keening sound at once like a woman, otherworldy and grating.  (Women do not fare well in Percy so far.)  They pursue the source of the awful sound until:

     Then, between the trees, I saw the inky gleam of its eyes, and its huge ears drawn flat against its skull, and then I saw its body.  Blood trails oozed along its cinnamon color.
     "Man alive," my father said. 
     It was a four-prong male deer ...


Note that he says "cinnamon" in color.  Not tawny or brown or sable or mahogany.  He uses a more sensory adjective, one that conjures taste and smell to describe how something looks.  Throughout that paragraph, and the many that lead up to it, we don't know what's making the awful sound.  By withholding it, Percy prepares us for the phantom that haunts the main body of the story.  But I forgot about the otherworldly possibility once I got to the later pages because after a few tense paragraphs, the sentence offers a simple explanation of things – It was a four-prong mule deer caught in a barbed-wire fence.
This led me to be believe that there's a simple explanation for things.  I relaxed.  It wasn't a pretty situation, but it seemed normal once explained.  An accident.  The trauma the narrator experienced was not really the discovery of the trapped and wounded deer, it was what his father directed him to do once they found it.
There's another passage of nice detail in the prologue preceding the father's directive:

   I stood behind a clump of rabbitbrush as if to guard myself from the animal.  The bush smelled great.  It smelled sugary.  It smelled like the color yellow ought to smell.  By concentrating on it so deeply, I removed myself from the forest and was thereby able to contain the tears crowding my eyes. 
   Then my father said, "I want you to kill it."

I admire the way he repeated the verb "smelled" three times.  I often avoid using the same simple word in the same paragraph.


The bush smelled great.
It smelled sugary.
It smelled like the color yellow ought to smell.

– – –– –
– –– – – –
– –– – – – –– – – –

That's poetic.  It's got rhythm.   I'm tempted to count the words and even the syllables as I was taught when studying Spanish poetry.  After his father's order, another three word sentence brings the prologue to a close:

Just like that.


I sit here thinking of giving the moment at hand some description.


I'm overwhelmed by the garbage truck sounds in the cul-de-sac.  Is that the compactor or the transmission struggling up the hill?  Gears and crusher blending and then gone revealing a bird's intermittent warbly tweeee and some other more typical sing-song chirps from other birds.  The furnace quietly blows from the register.  A bread bag rustles in the kitchen followed by the closing of a cabinet.  My stomach grumbles.  A feeling of heaviness on my chest.  Constriction across the bridge of my nose, especially the right nostril.  The long husky tweee continues its rhythm.  There should be a Shazam-like iPhone app for bird calls.  My stomach is empty.   Nearly painfully so.

The first thing I notice about my inventory of the moment is that there's a lot going on.  I couldn't even get to the multivalent use of descriptive words like cinnamon.

My sense of sight:  light, white, green    moss on the trees branches outside, cedar.  Soft shadows on the ceiling.  Almost camouflage, everything is white green and brown aside from the two washcloths, one pink, the other orange, dried and stiffly retracting on opposite ends of the towel bar in the bathroom.  There's no bigger towel between them.  I want to put one there.

My phone then rang with a call from a potential employer. (I booked the job today as production coordinator for a fashion photography shoot happening here in Portland by a New York photographer and Japanese client.)  And the morning's notes came to a close.  This blog entry was a transcription.  Is that cheating?  Like when a smack talking caller to a sports radio show scripts his call before calling in?

Two things contribute to this new blogging approach.  One, I've committed to keeping digital out of the bedroom.  When my wife is home and I'm not responsible for making lunches and getting the kids off to school, I've been waking up and reading a story and writing some notes before getting the day started.  Two, I feel like writing for an audience in the blogger.com browser window evokes a different quality of writing than I'm currently interested in.  This is an exercise.  There's no self-promotion aspect to these entries.  I'm not trying to get anywhere on the outside.  That I'm currently aware of at least.

The Caves of Oregon by Benjamin Percy

 I went to bed wide awake last night.  In the past couple of years I would have watched a TV show streamed on Hulu or a movie on Netflix' Watch Instantly, but we've resolved to keep digital devices out of the bedroom in the new house.  Which is great as I've read before going to sleep for most of my life and I'm glad I didn't lose that pleasurable discipline after a long period of succumbing to more passive methods of enjoying stories.
One thing I'll say about Percy is he not a writer to soothe and prepare and his reader for slumber.  I don't want togive away much at all about Refresh, Refresh's second story.  There's a conceit/invention that is truly unique, at once commonplace and absolutely absurd.  Throughout the story, even now, it had me wondering if it could really exist.  I suppose it could.  No, not a chance.  My mind still ping-pongs on the possibilities of that particular detail.
I will give away, as does its title, that the story involves a cave.  Last summer while camping in Tumalo, we visited the Newberry National Volcanic Monument which is home to the longest lava tube in Oregon.  (approximately one mile long, crossing under Hwy 97)  It's cool and dark down there.  You scramble over some craggy sections, wind through others and climb and down steps, some natural and others man-made.  There are portions as wide and as tall as a gymnasium.  I've also visited Carlsbad Caverns.  Newberry's lava tube is much more humble an attraction, but shares with Carlsbad the safe feeling of being in the deep, dark underground with many fellow tourists.  I don't much care for being amongst a group of chattering fools, so I create a safe distance from there compulsive  and inane babbling, but I do like knowing I am not alone down there.
In Percy's story the characters are indeed alone down there.  As I traveled with them I was sometimes driven to nervous distraction wondering if perhaps the rest of his stories might be better read in the morning.


I'm reading Percy for pleasure, to become more familiar with contemporary fiction and to absorb something of his craft for my own writing.  I was so absorbed that I will need to read The Caves of Oregon a few more times to absorb some of the latter.  One thing I notice is that his authorial stance is really really close to the characters even in the third person.  He puts us right in the room and the cave as it were.  And as I mentioned regarding Refresh, Refresh, this would be Stephen King or Peter Straub type stuff were it not for his lyricism.  He's got a very light touch to counterbalance his heavy subjects.  Very worthy of studying.

Refresh, Refresh by Benjamin Percy

There's a cursor arrow under the title on the inside of the book.  Right off it made me think, Of course! The title refers to surfing the web.  Something hip and modern.  But the author is from Tumalo, a very tiny and absolutely unhip little Central Oregon town just outside of which we camped for a week last summer.  I rode my bike every morning on the roads surrounding and passing through it. Logging about a hundred miles or so, I have a pretty good feel for the lay of the land around there.
Ultimately as I sat down to finally read the first story of the same title as the book, I really didn't know what to expect other than something good.  Why good?  It was recommended to me by someone I trust and beyond that it just had that aura about it.

There is indeed a reference to refreshing a web page in the story, however the urgency is much more visceral than trying to get the latest sports score or Facebook updates.  The anxious impatience with technology is but a tiny thing awash in the wake of the raw, desperate violence and pain that drives the story's plot.
Notwithstanding its angry savagery, the sweet humanity of the main character comes through with masterful subtlety without a trace of sentimentality.  Perhaps its the sparse but lyric quality of the prose.  It's a pleasure to read Percy.  And culturally insightful as well –  it's loud and clear why volunteers walk into armed forces recruiting offices in small, lonely towns to sign up in spite of the bleakness of a sure trip to the endless fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I've read but the first of Percy's collection of eleven stories in Refresh, Refresh.  I went back for another read of the first before proceeding further.  If the dense pathos continues in the rest of the stories, as I suspect it will, this book will secure its place on my nightstand for several weeks of patient and gratifying reading.

On the Nightstand oo1

The Master Says 367

All I can do is be me, whoever that is.

Bob Dylan

Dangerous Writing Trailer Test v2.7

Dead Man Trailer

Down By Law Trailer

¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡I'M BACK!!!!!!!!!

FUCK YEAH! I'm fired up and I haven't even fired up the tea kettle yet.
Actually I never really left according to some of my Felliniesque beliefs. The whole "no beginning, no end ..." which bears repeating like a fucking mantra:

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only the infinite passion of life.

I've been doing research. Recharging. A sabbatical.
One of the things I realize I'm very guilty of is not being clear. I evade exposition for fear of being a bore. There are other reasons like racebrain, intellectual arrogance/inferiority (which really just an elaboration of the fear diagnosis) and general impatience, but in the end I end up confusing most of the people in my life and feeling defensive about not communicating what I intended. And let's face it, all this jumbled jim-jam confuses the hell out of me, too.
So to be clear - I am back in the sense that I am formally resuming my practice of work as a storyteller. I've no new film projects in mind nor do I intend to resume making films. Actually I do intend to resume making films. I already have. I'm working on Dangerous Writing again, cutting a trailer and making music for it. And I've booked a couple of jobs to produce some mental health training videos.
I realize my attitude toward that is all jacked up. I'm looking at it as a check in the bank account and nothing more, when the fact is I really like the woman doing the presentations and I find the topics interesting. It's really going to help her career and possibly many others. And it's going to provide work for me and a couple of friends. Truth is, just as I want to avoid exposition - which is to say the appearance of making an effort to communicate - I want to avoid the giving the perception that I am making an effort to make money.
Wow.
Okay before I bum myself and start listening to my inner critic (however accurate he may be) I want to get back to the topic of the day - lust for life. Falling in love. One of the things I've accomplished in the past year is finding, buying and renovating a home. It's a perfect structure for our lives. I'll post some pics soon.
Jumping around a bit again. Again? All I've done is jump around. So in short I was working on this New Orleans project in the fall of oo8 and it felt like maybe I could take a giant step forward in my career so I wanted to get in better physical shape both to increase my fitness and to present myself to the world better. So I started a fitness regimen for the umpteenth time and soon realized I had to do something different were I to have any chance at succeeding. Then there was a snow storm and my kids were home everyday and the combination of relating to myself physically and being with my kids so much opened my eyes to some significant realities that I had been avoiding. As I gave myself over to those truths it consumed my energy and interest to the point that I lost interest in pursuing telling stories. I formally said goodbye to this blog eventually. I got pretty involved in lots of physical activities and then went back to school to begin preparing for a career in public health. I took a term off to remodel the new house during which I was very resourceful and design conscious in ways that I hadn't been in some time. It was suggested to me to pursue a career in interior design by some of the contractors working on the remodel. (I appreciated the compliments, but don't find that path interesting.) I continued doing yoga and strength training and working with personal training clients almost all the way through. The last six weeks of the job I was working seven days a week and that seemed to be more than enough activity, so I backed off from some of my fitness commitments. We spent a lot of money on the new house, and while I was happy with the results it was becoming clear to me that I was going to need to start making some money to contribute to the family budget. Going back to school became both less tenable and less interesting. I resolved not to make any decisions until I was finished with the house, because I knew the stress and fatigue were wearing me down considerably.
Nicola had a two-week job in San Francisco and the kids and I drove down for a weekend visit. That drive has always been an interesting window onto myself. And being in downtown SF where I lived when I first moved to the city in 1989 was a good experience on many levels. In short I decided not to worry about school or my waning interest in pursuing a public health career or getting a job. I elected to simply do what was in front of me. Finish Dangerous Writing. Finish settling into the new house. Get back into a routine of meditation and movement. Help my family adjust to our new home and neighborhood while my wife has been out of town for three of the past four weeks. Cook, clean, shop for groceries. And to explore the possibilities of writing prose in a more directed but less ambitious manner.
So that's what I've been up to the past couple of weeks. I don't have it all figured out. But I'm happy to be working on DW again. I happy but a little afraid of the new stories I'm working on with an editor/teacher.
I was on Facebook yesterday and the long tail of the past led me to the blog of a woman I knew in passing many years ago. She looks really happy. I could tell she was in love with life by the way she documented the things in her life. I was inspired.

Independent Film No More

"Sundance unveils complete lineup:
New films directed by Philip Seymour Hoffman, Michael Winterbottom, Nicole Holofcener and Joel Schumacher, and starring such thesps as Ben Affleck, Kristen Stewart, Ryan Reynolds and Adrien Brody, mark the lineups of the Premieres, Midnight and other noncompetitive sections of the 2010 Sundance Film Festival"

This was the headline and intro tag in Variety for the annual Sundance announcement of entrants. Last year I already knew a few days ahead of time that But A Dream didn't get in, so there really isn't any suspense for submitters by Dec 1st, 2nd or 3rd, when the announcement is usually made. This year I was about to check to see if any friends or acquaintances have anything going to Park City. Over the past ten years, I've known at least one such filmmaker every year. I'm always happy for them.
I don't really have a problem with the fact that Sundance has grown over the years. Or that the names mentioned above have films in the festival. What I find troublesome is that Sundance remains the holy grail for indie filmmakers. It ain't what it used to be folks. I was just talking to a friend that does post- down in Austin the other day and he was telling me how he's on hold for a bunch of projects that were waiting to see if they got into Sundance before they hired him to do a final color grade on their projects. Probably better off buying lottery tickets. Unless of course, you're connected and your film gets seen by the people that matter instead of those that view the general population mountain of submissions. It isn't rigged or unfair. It just tends to work out better for submissions when you get that email or call asking you if you have a submission this year than when you send it in at the deadline.
I'm probably more bitter than I'd like to admit. In any case, I'm glad to be out of the game.