The Orphan

An Orphan

What once manifests itself as judgment and desires,
Placates the mind in its ever search for congruency.
When reality is gained, retribution befalls it,
And displacement is the coveted acceptance.

If the mind is a prison, then who else to rely better on?
An obsession with survival clouds the ability to trust.
Inheritance does not fall short of a name, or a past,
But looking for answers yields only flat conclusions.

The aging face hardens when reflecting on its image,
The ponder is no longer of who made it.
In actuality it never crossed the mind-
Nothing is what made me this way.

The nothing is a beautiful emptiness, though,
A small spark can become an uninterrupted explosion.
The freedom to create anew, design with a concrete plan,
To start a legacy bold enough to outlive the lost.

I am thankful that I was told to be polite,
When I am served hardship, I finish my plate.
But I’m not a damned fool to ask for seconds,
… I just have to pretend I’m not that hungry…

The Restless Beginning

Once there is nothing left to gather
The sowing does not immediately begin again
Everything we’ve prepared for must follow our design
Deliverance comes but between each harvest

If even the best laid plans sour
Who provides us when we’re at a loss?
The measure from survival to comfort
Tastes like a reward for something…

If hard work doesn’t pay off
And the slanderous are rewarded
What benevolent eye is privy to it?
Where are the footprints in our muck?

The consequences of inaction
Reap heavily at the soul
An anxious hostility ignites
And passes but with a puff of air

When we are lost, we look to the familiar
When we starve, we hold back energy
When we go blind, we smile inside
But the sage told me, ‘Love is blind’

The revolution is loving-
-Love the revolting

❤

The weekender

What if we considered our absolute self as only what woke up Sunday mornings?
What if every morning that we woke up for work we immersed into a different self?

I don’t want to be trapped.  The constructive self is hindered by the work self.  The grip on the bridles of creative energy relies on the absence of routine.

The motivated self is the one that moves faster than reason.  It is for that reason I make my stand here.

I want to conceptualize and create in a new medium.  I’m not aware of any medium that exists as of yet that is compatible with my style.  I chose to write because it is the next closest thing.  If I could paint or draw, I believe I could have a close bond with what I’m thinking.

I enjoy writing in that I can choose words that help indicate the appropriate meaning of what I am trying to say, and can construct an archeform that mimics the sentiment as a whole.  I enjoy the blagosphere further because I can actually interrupt conscious thought and type with my fingers without censoring my artist self.

What I want is a new medium.  I want a world where I can think and dream and share my philosophies, like the director of a film, but in a world that cautiously leads the viewer into my own domain, if only for a second at a time.  It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, but I don’t know where to begin.  Creation seems to only work on the creative.

It’s like I forgot that I write sometimes

2 doors down from ol' Franky boy

There has been a death in the family.  I’ll use that as my excuse for slacking off.

Instead of merely slacking off, I find myself wiking off.  I recently learned about the distinction between barred and unbarred spiral galaxies from clicking on a candy bar disambiguation page.

This line of thinking got me to a fantastic place… reading self-help pages for only problems i don’t have.  I strongly recommend it.  I also recommend spelling recommend with only one “c.”  I also do not recommend picking up American English grammar rules like putting punctuation inside the quotes despite ambiguity.

Our Laurie Weeks

Weeks

Dear L. Weeks,

It’s a rainy Saturday evening and I’m cooped up (decidedly) in what is actually a quite lovely 2 bedroom apartment in Woodland Hills. I’m pushing words out on a screenplay that will ultimately decide a whole course of fate for my future, and I can’t help but look back at my favorite times, those in writing workshops. Well, at least yours.
I always fretted as a writer learning to become a writer. I became hesitant to create because I felt like every action held such meaning, and I had no mastery of anything in the world. I’d write what I wanted and adapt it for my assignments, but I’d never edit or proofread. I was lazy. I never considered myself for a position as a writer, I merely beheld my musings lovingly as an interested hobby, with the full intention of striking it rich as an heir or lottery winner.
When I realized that my greatest passions could be potentially slain when entering a field of work concentrating solely on them, I was crushed. Once bitten, twice shy. Aware of this now, I bite my lip as I try and demonstrate my “ability to command dialog” to a perfect stranger who may “consider me for hiring.” Can I create on command? Will this job actually work for me? The short answer is yes. Dialog-driven plots are banal and simple… I hate them.
It’s when I look around myself that I truly realize how lucky I am. Truly. I wish I could just face to face, and say to you “Holy shit. This is all real.” And it is because I didn’t realize it at the time that your ability to teach craft was going to fester and burn inside me with a genuine product.
There is a moment somewhere between being young, and being an adult where this statement changes dramatically. “I want to imitate who I admire” becomes “I want to admire who I imitate.” And so be it, while I choose to never let my dreams go unrecognized (choking back dismay, whatever) I am now pleased with who I am. But why? Is it because I can (barely) afford rent each month? Cook fantastically? Walk to work? Keep a clean, and tidy home? No. None of these things. In actuality, it is because I have this laptop open with four pages of a screenplay written and I pace the living room back and forth, and get caught up in a million little things between each carefully punctuated and indented paragraph, and think “Damn. What do you think Laurie Weeks is doing right now?”
And I have no idea. NY? LA? SD? Tragic, truly tragic. So once this letter finds you, you’ll have to tell me what is up.

As for myself, I got a job playing Guitar Hero a couple years ago, they decided I was awesome and invited me to hop on. Sadly, all the writing I do is squandered on database entries and technical jargon. But as the climate so warrants, I’m also facing down the wrong end of a giant lay-off stick prodding in my direction. (Hence the job seeking intonation previously strewn).
I’m 25, and I remember it like it was yesterday and you said something to the effect of “my classroom is a place of love.” We fell in love with you. We fell in love with each other. And God, does it feel strangely absent now…

…because we all gotta make a living in a fascist society.

Much love,

Generational Causality

Rollin'

So when an era of flash media and snapshot advertising was blamed for making the youth suffer from ADD and ADHD, its hyperactive cousin, I managed to slip through the cracks.