Out of Gas, Refusing All Refills

 Visceral Arrhythmia

When They’re Gone

I don’t usually blog about such matters as those in the entertainment realm; usually I have interest but nothing new to contribute. At other times, it just feels right that something is said. The cinematic world this week lost two of, what I considered, the greatest actors of my generation with the untimely and unexpected passing of both Brad Renfro, 25, and Heath Ledger, 28. Of course, much has been speculated about what happened to cause their deaths – but I always felt such speculation was incredibly inappropriate, and no matter what the case, how they exited this world should not be how they are remembered. Their contribution to art is how many of us should remember them. But I’ll remember one on a more personable level.

Last week I was sad to learn of Brad Renfro’s death. Many years ago, while I was a young teenager growing up in Orange County, I had the pleasure of meeting Brad on the set of “Tom & Huck.” I was friends with another one of the young actors in the film, whom I had met via my prviate schooling at The Crystal Cathedral Academy. I was invited to the set by my friend, and spent about five or six hours there, most of which was little filming and mostly just blocking and rehearsing. Most of that time was spent conversing with both my friend and Brad. I had been a fan of his one previous film, “The Client” with Tommy Lee Jones and Susan Sharandon, and was shocked to meet him — he had lost the blonde hair and troubled boyish looks and grown into a young man with shoulder-length brown hair — much more grown up than I had thought he would be. We chatted on all the things 14-year old boys chatted about when there was really nothing to do and hanging out was the only goal. I remember thinking, even then, how down to earth and “normal” he was. I had gone to school with a couple individuals with names you would recognize, and even worst, the sons and daughters of those whose names you would recognize. Brad’s attitude was far removed from theirs.

Years later I was back in Los Angeles on an inner-city mission trip with my church to the Skid Row and inner city areas. I had managed to sneak away for five minutes to a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf near the base of the Library Tower in the Financial District. By chance, I ran into Brad, and I said hello, fully expecting him to have no idea who I was; our meeting those years ago were of no consequence. However, he fully remembered me and even my name. We spoke for about twenty minutes until I had to get back to a prayer walk that was being done up the sidesteps of the Tower up to the plaza above Bunker Hill. Still very personable, still very energetic, and grounded. I thought it a bit odd at the time, but he gave me his cell phone number and told me to give him a call the next time I was in the area. A year after our Coffee Bean encounter, I attempted to call him when I was in Hollywood with Dan, Tim, and Mike. His number was no longer in service, and we never spoke again.

I have no personal memories of Heath Ledger, but I always did admire both him and costar Jake Gyllenhal for their willingness to portray homosexuality in the film, “Brokeback Mountain.” The film was not one of my favorites, but it deffinitly said something when two prominent, idolized young actors would be willing to take on such a role. It says something about them, the time we live in, and the acceptance of others when they were not “blacklisted”, as would probably have been done in Hollywood not even 10 years prior (they went to extremes far beyond that of Tom Hanks’ portrayl as a gay man in “Philidelphia”).

As much as a loss to the cinematic world as this is, and as cheesy as it sounds to say, they will live on in their films and their works. Both actors, for the most part, chose roles that were artful and cinematic in quality, roles that would be challenging and stretching. They chose work in a matter similiar to Vincent D’Onofrio and Chistian Bale, and like those two actors, they would have only improved with age and experience. Luckily, we will be able to see them both one last time on the big screen — Brad in the upcoming “The Informers” – a “Crash”-esque drama set in 1980’s Los Angeles, and Heath as a masterfully portrayed Joker in “The Dark Knight.”

Both lived a short time, but gave the world incredible performances, and gave all every time.

Substitute Sundays

Last semester, I was running around in a constant hurry with work, school, and my other writing projects. There was relationship I was working on. There were goals I had. I accomplished everything I wanted to within that time period, but I was always stressed. Not a moment too soon, the winter break came. After a couple weeks of being hopelessly bored with my sudden time freedom, I wandered into Barnes & Noble at Tempe Marketplace and started picking up book on psychology (my major), business and networking (my interest and area of improvement with Project Forever), as well as a couple books by Deepak Chopra and a couple books on the law of attraction.

As I have been reading, I have also made some other changes to my life as well. The past month I have been eating almost exclusively organically (Fresh & Easy markets are my new love), drinking has been at a minimum (I’ve had vodka only three times in the last month, wine three times as well), I have been smoke-free for a week, and I purchased an entirely new wardrobe. I have also changed my perspective when it comes to relationships — I have always put others and their needs first when it comes to romantic relationships. I have come to finally understand the true neccessity of meeting in the middle or of a fair give/take, and to that end, I understand that I need to begin looking after my needs and desires first, as a primary. Of course when a romantic relationship does come about, there is a receptive end on both sides, but one cannot base a romantic relationship off giving one your primary best and leaving yourself the mediocre seconds.

I have also been working on not stessing myself out this semester, on being able to slow down and enjoy life generally a bit more. To this end, I created an hour-and-a-half break in between work and school in the afternoons where I can sit in a coffee shop and read and relax my mind, or I can meet with a friend if need be. I am in school five days a week, but only taking one class a day. I am out of class by 7pm, and am free to go to bed, go home and read, relax, meet with a friend, go to the gym, go on a date. I am free to do whatever I need or desire to do to round out my day before retiring for the evening.

Lastly, I’ve been taking some steps to drown out some noise. I still watch tv, but I am reducing it by quite a bit (for example, I’m watching The Sarah Connor Chronicles right now). I like peaceful, quietness. I like being able to think and have space for my mind to be creative. I am getting more writing done this way. I am getting my homework done efficiently and I do not feel pressed for time.

So, just my two cents on my world at the moment, and a reminder to you all: take some quiet time, and read, meditate, relax, or just be and enjoy breathing! It really is nice to be calm!

Kambuki

Fearing growing piles of laundry and yet another TBS movie, my roommate Christina and I decided to venture out of the house and return to Tempe Marketplace, where I had just wrapped up a rather successful and fun date. Upon our arrival we agreed to have dinner at Kabuki, the Japanese restaurant on the south end. We decided to sit in the sushi bar because of the long wait, plus the very fashionable interior and pumping techno music made us feel that we were popular, in a movie, young and smooth and sexy as we waded in and out of the metropolitan crowd wearing only the finest jackets from Nordstom’s and Banana Republic, respectively, us both looking our best and hair done perfectly, turning heads with our confidence and brillance as we walked with the music and the waves of crowds parted for us, eager to let us walk past, in anticipation that we might bestow upon them our raidience and glowing sexuality and youthful vigor.

Knowing who we were and how smooth the moment, we dedicated this night to trying new things. My mojito and her mai tai were much too strong but I drank hers for her since she was driving, but it was the red snapper sashimi, which replaced my usual tuna or salmon sashimi, that made me happy. It was the discovery of the lobster roll. It was my bright green and spicy flying fish roe that crunched in my mouth. It was my octopus sashimi and the way the suckers on the tentacles felt on the inside of my lips. But finally, it was in the oyster shot: a 2-ounce shot of a raw oyster, green onion, horseradish, soy sauce, chili paste, 1 ounch of fine Japanese vodka, and a raw quail egg. Encouraged by the kitchen manager and finally offered a free shot of vodka as a chaser if I drink up and do it in one gulp, I obliged.

Now that’s fucking sushi.

Face

At the risk of sounding arrogant or coincided, I say the following:

Words have power. We forget that, I forget that. Writing becomes common place, and there is some writing I have done previously that I don’t really wish to do ever again, such as reviewing music. I can say what is preferable to my ears, yes, but I am not going to put down someone’s effort-laden talents based on my personal opinions of what they can do better, or based on what others, in my opinion, do better than them. There is some writing that I have done, such as news reporting, that can be dry or wet, depending on the angle and the people you involve. Maybe you can get a real answer instead of just a sound bite but you must realize as the writer — you are the creator, they are not. You are creating this universe, you are a god in the universe you are creating — a god without the obligations of omnipresence in all prayer rooms or the comedown from a cocaine high.

But there are other times in writing when you just are. You are perfect. Every moment is perfect. This is not to say that the writing and the moment cannot be made better, it is to say that a new definition of the word “perfect” must be accepted and we must understand that in this world, in this state, in this situation nothing can be made better or worst but all your personal experiences, other people’s personal experiences, and a series of events both planned and coincidental have conspired to make that moment what it is. Therefore it is perfect. We must accept that. It is what Morpheus once said in an elevator, “What could have happened, did happen. It could not have happened any other way.”

I have been reading a good deal about coincidence, perfect moments, and understanding what those perfect moments mean. I have come to understand that there are no coincidences, sometimes the day is structured as such. If you ever had those days where several things in several different situations impact you profoundly, or you run into a good deal of people you know randomly in one day, you have experienced such an event.

The day started off with my first class of the new semester; a Saturday morning class about creative poetry writing. The day started off with us having to flip through our text book and find a poem and read aloud to the class. I opened the book randomly, but immediately coming to a poem, a long poem, about a gay mentally abusive relationship, written by an author whom lives in Tucson. I stood, and read it aloud, my dry mouth and quiet voice giving way to a booming resonance that spoke with authority. I read all three pages of it. The class stared at me. The teacher later told me she had not heard anyone outside of the poetry slam, and seldom then, read a poem with such conviction and tension.

Later in the class we were teamed up with partners, and we were instructed to take five minutes to write a poem about the other person’s face. I was teamed up with a 44-year old black woman, dressed in gray and crippled with arthritis, teeth that could have been polluted with either too much soda or too much crystal meth. But when she spoke earlier she spoke with conviction about how poetry came into her heart when she was in a shelter for battered women in Anaheim. I am from Anaheim. I wrote about these shelters for a film I worked on. I know about her program. I am a 25-year old white gay male. I am removed from her world. I read the poem aloud to the class. I looked up, she was crying. She said it was beautiful, it was what she needed. I didn’t mean to do anything near what I did.  

After this class I returned home, ran errands, took a nap. I went shopping. I finished a movie. I went to Starbucks, one which I don’t usually frequent. I ran into old friends. Nikki Graham. I ran into her brother Kyle the week before at Seattle’s Best across the street. Previous to this, I had not seen either of them for nearly two years.

I went at night to Tempe Marketplace to buy some clothes. Near the theater, by myself, I run into Rylan Lombard. Nathan. I have not seen him in nearly a year and a half. He used to be good friends with Nikki. Tim Trainor and David Wheeler are inside, as is Rochelle. I have not seen Rochelle in nearly six months but she has been on my mind intently this last week; I used to always run into her at Coffee Rush. I spoke to Tim earlier in the day, didn’t know he would be here tonight. Tim is leaving tomorrow for Anaheim. I hugged David Wheeler. David and I were in Israel together. No, Israel does not factor into anything else here; stop looking for connections that aren’t there.

But I am told that I just missed Brandon and Andrea Willey. This is the third time in at least a month’s or so time that I have been told that I have “just missed” Brandon and Andrea. This, again, serves to remind me that I need to call or email Brandon. Soon. I have not done this. But I am meaning too. Missed connections remind me that this run-in must be purposeful, it is more important than to just happen by chance.

Here is the prose poem I wrote about the black woman today in class:

The surface belies stories, the words spoken coincide with those stories and there is more that is inside. What is inside? Her eyes tell a story but that story is not complete … inside there is a story that seems to speak of experience, interests, past lives and future lives. What is inside? The face in front of me, beautifully perfect and beautifully imperfect, the knit cap and shoulder-length brown hair. There is more inside. What is inside? Glimmering orbs stare out and pierce, speak of humanity and sympathy, but not of arrogance or pity. Strong. Determined. You do not dare to criticize or assume to know, because you are not as learned about her as you think you are. You do not dare to cast judgment or apply labels or stereotypes, as probably many already have. This face will surpass them, will triumph you and all you know and you think is possible for a face such as hers – the face that has been present in situations and relationships you cannot begin to comprehend. The eyebrows raise and the lips smile with a determination to get it right, then the lips grow more serious but the eyebrows remain in their stance as you can see what is inside is working – working harder than you.  A bow of the head and the facial gestures remain, a tip of the mind and an attentive ear to what is around. This face will not miss one detail. This face will not miss one fucking detail. The five senses will be controlled from her window, and you will know her through this window. But you will not get inside. I dare you to try. She is stronger than you, seen more than you, been more people in more situations than you can even dream. What is inside? You will not get inside. The voice speaks and the woman calculates how much she can afford to let you know, how much she can afford to give away of herself, her pain, her past, her future, her joy. This voice is the opening of the window, and she’ll give you enough, bread crumbs from this window, enough to be satisfied, enough to be confident that you have the entire puzzle arranged and can put together the bigger picture. But she will not give to you more than she can give to herself. She has done that before, and the lesson has been learned. The window is not closed tight, the window is not blocked with curtains, the window has not been boarded up. The woman recognizes that one cannot be calloused or jaded, but she will not give it to you, give it to you all. What’s inside? Too much. But you will not get inside.

The Vagrant Issue II

From The Vagrant Site:

The newest issue of The Vagrant Literary Quaterly, a special edition with issues both I & II in a combined, 337-page paperback, is now available from Project Forever by clicking here. This issue, for only $17.00 ($5 if ordered in e-book format for download), includes all of the wonderful stories from the prototype issue released in February 2006, including “How Water Crackers Are Earned” by Ian Grody, “Baseball” by Ken Keegan, “Missing Pieces” by Debra Abrams, and Dave Hart’s four-piece, four-state travel ministories.

Highlights of Issue II include “Castles In the Sky” by Jericho Parms, the masterful gay love story “A Shudder of Angel’s Wings” by Dominick Montalto, and “Hollywood Subway” by editor William J. Nash-McAdam, presented as an excerpt from his upcoming book, “Avenue of the Giants.” Previous writers Douglas Silver and Edward Gladue also return with new pieces.

Site Update

Hey everyone. I had some trouble these last few days with the domain forwarding function that I use through Go Daddy for both this site and projectforever.com. The site was still accessible through the direct link, sharoute.wordpress.com. Anyway sorry about that and welcome back!