Smell as Sweet
I do not like the way those weather guys name hurricanes.
It is not fitting for so strong a force.
Should these storms not have amazing, villainous names according to their personality? Or perhaps names of awe and wonder, like the Gods of myths past?
That shit does not fit the thing that is about to put humanity in its place.
I mean, we could still go alphabetically…
The Kataranian, Krippilonia, Kalliptordecris, Count Krillio…
OK, so K is kind of hard.
And I guess this sort of naming convention would strike fear in the hearts of the masses. Of course, fear of the fitting name would prevent the ignorant public from understanding the news and science of the beast. Instead, the name of Betty urges us to learn how to go about dodging something that sounds like the person who grew up next door to our grandma, which is kind of like the opposite of Lord Volde, if you ask me, and still not any good in an opposite-extreme sort of way.
Now that I live on the west coast and don’t watch TV, it took lot longer for news of Count Krillio planned landing to reach me, but it still makes me worry and wonder.
I have stayed in Florida during hurricanes. I have been evacuated from SC because of hurricanes. I have watched and listened to how locals react to a pending storm. Some board-up, but will never leave. Others flee when the eye sets its sights upon them…
Despite these differences in storm philosophy, surely they can all agree that “Greg” is not a suitable name for the bludgeoning of winds that could change their lives forever.
Or take them away.
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Closer, still closer.
Always worse than you expect, even when you expect the worst.
Your streets, the places you live and know, can change in a day, minute, hour…
There is no measure for the thing that catches you with guard down, that will catch you sleeping, either in it’s long, creeping-wearing on your soul or quick demolishing of all that you know. You lie down for a nap and rise to find the world has changed.
The river overflows its underground banks and binds its way to every crack and crevice of your days to come.
Your new life is war.
Do what you can.
Is it enough?
What’s worse is a fight to survive where the enemy is not clear.
What do I know of governments and wars and disaster wars…
I have never seen someone die or be dead.
But, I know about life. It’s not the kind of stuff you tell.
I will say this:
The leaders, the true leaders,
The ones who people follow
Because they want to,
Because they need to,
Are there, in the midst.
They are never leading from far away.
Let us hope that there is someone at the domes and all of the places where things have gone bad who people listen to, whose only authority is being a good person.
And making decisions that help.
Because to the people who survive
Blancos and Bushes do not exist.
They are the ghosts of authority that reign no longer,
Ghosts that local heroes will always outrank,
When hell is here and now.
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Spiking, striking and corpsing:
The weekend has been full.
Back to the bare bones of theater.
Most people in Hollywood dare not come here.
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I have never felt so tired.
My vim is melting away...
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The Selfish Dreamer
You’ve come this far…
The first threshold ahead--
The gatekeepers fold their arms.
To you, they speak nothing, but the silence pounds in your ears:
“You are not enough.”
The moment has come for me to say goodbye. In fact, I have done already. I am done already. This will be my final entry. At the end of this week this site, along with all that I have fought for, will be no more.
I am going back to Virginia to live in easy, normal silence.
Because I’m tired of being too young or too small or too pretty or not pretty enough or too clever or too lonely. No one in this whole place cares about me or my stupid screenplay. They won't believe like I do. Why would they? It is impossible.
So it is that I have failed. I thought I had right things to offer, but I was wrong. And now you know:
I am nothing great.
I have written this letter many times.
But then I lie down for an hour or so…
And I wake to realize
That to fight the good fight, I must first get back out of bed.
And I rise to realize
That when I say, "if I do not succeed, then I will surely die,"
That it’s true:
There is no other way.
I must stay.
Tonight, to you I swear: When all the soul of me and all the dross of me says it means something,
Even if it’s nothing but fire and light,
I will pull the lamp cord,
Sit down at my desk,
Delete all my letters,
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The Constant Dreamer
When I am not in a show, I don't know what to do.
So I write. I write thinking that later I can tell the story in a show.
When that doesn’t happen, I get frustrated and upset.
I wonder why people can’t see what I see. Or why they won’t look in the first place. Open their minds…
Because there is something to be said for having your makeup station next to your favorite cast member.
Or that director’s speech before the show that you always know is coming and swear you don’t need or won’t buy into. But then when he says, “everyone here in this cast has earned the right to be on stage” and you’ve never heard that before and you know he’s right, well, you believe.
And that feeling when you jump a line and your scene partner saves you.
Then there’s the vocal warm-up, or prancing around backstage singing Beauty and the Beast.
Oh! And notes before every show!
And glow tape!
Or that stage manager who is so good that you never have to worry if your personal props are set.
And a friendly audience. Do they know that they, too, are a part of the show?
Three producers read my screenplay last week and their feedback was excellent. And, they all agree that the work is there and that they love the story, that it’s different and exciting, and that I’ve got something. So that’s something.
A huge something.
Sometimes, when I’m trying to solve a story problem, I lie back… close my eyes…
It is here, between sleep and awake, that my mind wanders to new places.
The places that will earn me a right to be on stage.
And if that’s not the way reality is,
Then I’ll close my eyes again...
And change it.
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