?

What do you do when all your dreams come true?

The new romantic comedy

Kim Jong-il once orchestrated the kidnapping of actress Choi Eun-hee and director Shin Sang-ok to help build the North Korean movie industry.

She's Still Here

Your mind is not it.

Mistakes

Facing the Mistakes of Life
From The Crown of Individuality, 1909
By William George Jordan

There are only two classes of people who never make mistakes—they are the dead and the unborn. Mistakes are the inevitable accompaniment of the greatest gift given to man—individual freedom of action. If he were only a pawn in the fingers of Omnipotence, with no self-moving power, man would never make a mistake, but his very immunity would degrade him to the ranks of the lower animals and the plants. An oyster never makes a mistake—it has not the mind that would permit it to forsake an instinct.

Let us be glad of the dignity of our privilege to make mistakes, glad of the wisdom that enables us to recognize them, glad of the power that permits us to turn their light as a glowing illumination along the pathway of our future.

Mistakes are the growing pains of wisdom, the assessments we pay on our stock of experience, the raw material of error to be transformed into higher living. Without them there would be no individual growth, no progress, no conquest. Mistakes are the knots, the tangles, the broken threads, the dropped stitches in the web of our living. They are the misdeals in judgment, our unwise investments in morals, the profit and loss account of wisdom. They are the misleading bypaths from the straight road of truth and truth in our highest living is but the accuracy of the soul.

Life is simply time given to man to learn how to live. Mistakes are always part of learning. The real dignity of life consists in cultivating a fine attitude towards our own mistakes and those of others. It is the fine tolerance of a fine soul. Man becomes great, not through never making mistakes, but by profiting by those he does make; by being satisfied with a single rendition of a mistake, not encoring it into a continuous performance; by getting from it the honey of new, regenerating inspiration with no irritating sting of morbid regret; by building better to-day because of his poor yesterday; and by rising with renewed strength, finer purpose and freshened courage every time he falls.

In great chain factories, power machines are specially built to test chains—to make them fail, to show their weakness, to reveal the mistakes of workmanship. Let us thank God when a mistake shows us the weak link in the chain of our living. It is a new revelation of how to live. It means the rich red blood of a new inspiration.

If we have made an error, done a wrong, been unjust to another or to ourselves, or, like the Pharisee, passed by some opportunity for good, we should have the courage to face our mistake squarely, to call it boldly by its right name, to acknowledge it frankly and to put in no flimsy alibis of excuse to protect an anemic self-esteem.

If we have been selfish, unselfishness should atone; if we have wronged, we should right; if we have hurt, we should heal; if we have taken unjustly, we should restore; if we have been unfair, we should become just. Every possible reparation should be made. If confession of regret for the wrong and for our inability to set it right be the maximum of our power let us at least do that. A quick atonement sometimes almost effaces the memory. If foolish pride stands in our way we are aggravating the first mistake by a new one. Some people’s mistakes are never born singly—they come in litters.

Those who waken to the realization of their wrong act, weeks, months or years later, sometimes feel it is better to let confession or reparation lapse, that it is too late to reopen a closed account; but men rarely feel deeply wounded if asked to accept payment on an old promissory note—outlawed for years.

Some people like to wander in the cemetery of their past errors, to reread the old epitaphs and to spend hours in mourning over the grave of a wrong. This new mistake does not antidote the old one. The remorse that paralyzes hope, corrodes purpose, and deadens energy is not moral health, it is—an indigestion of the soul that cannot assimilate an act. It is selfish, cowardly surrender to the dominance of the past. It is lost motion in morals; it does no good to the individual, to the injured, to others, or to the world. If the past be unworthy live it down; if it be worthy live up to it and—surpass it.

Omnipotence cannot change the past, so why should we try? Our duty is to compel that past to vitalize our future with new courage and purpose, making it a larger, greater future than would have been possible without the past that has so grieved us. If we can get real, fine, appetizing dividends from our mistakes they prove themselves not losses but—wise investments. They seem like old mining shares, laid aside in the lavender of memory of our optimism and now, by some sudden change in the market of speculation, proved to be of real value.

Musing over the dreams of youth, the golden hopes that have not blossomed into deeds, is a dangerous mental dissipation. In very small doses it may stimulate; in large ones it weakens effort. It over-emphasizes the past at the expense of the present; it adds weights, not wings, to purpose. “It might have been” is the lullaby of regret with which man often puts to sleep the mighty courage and confidence that should inspire him. We do not need narcotics in life so much as we need tonics. We may try sometimes, sadly and speculatively, to reconstruct our life from some date in the past when we might have taken a different course. We build on a dead “if.” This is the most unwise brand of air-castle.

The other road always looks attractive. Distant sails are always white; far-off hills always green. It may perhaps have been the poorer road after all, could our imagination, through some magic, see with perfect vision the finality of its possibility. The other road might have meant wealth but less happiness; fame might have charmed our ears with the sweet music of praise, but the little hand of love that rests so trustingly in ours might have been denied us. Death itself might have come earlier to us or his touch stilled the beatings of a heart we hold dearer than our own. What the other road might have meant no eternity of conjecture could ever reveal; no omnipotence could enable us now to walk therein even if we wished.

It is a greater mistake to err in purpose, in aim, in principle, than in our method of attaining them…Right principles are vital and primary. They bring the maximum of profit from mistakes, reduce the loss to a minimum. False pride perpetuates our mistakes, deters us from confessing them, debars us from repairing them and ceasing them.

Let us never accept mistakes as final; let us organize victory out of the broken ranks of failure and, despite all odds, fight on calmly, courageously, unflinchingly, serenely confident that, in the end, right living and right doing must triumph.

Ones and Zeroes

Diary Log #1
 Today I met someone I much like. We did not meet in person, but I already much likely him. We met on the interwebs and it do me very happy. He sent me a chat request and I say and he asked if I really was as beautiful as I am in my photo and I tell yes and we tell for hours and it was very like. He is from New York, a long way me Ukraine, but we can work it make. It might much love. Actually, no the might, I do absolutes. It is love.

 Diary Log #2
 I received a chatted with Chris again. It do me much happy. Did I speak that he was name Chris? I'm sorry, sometimes it's me remember hard things. I am much years old not years young. He chats me that he is a man in ocean with much business. He must in large star live in village. I chat him why he is exploring women on the internet and he chats me that it's because his wife gone. He much lonely. In our chat I chat ask him for a photograph of his home and he send me one. He also send me pictures of his not many children, shiny cars, his house he not often use, even his cat. He has many good coins and I have very little. I chat him this and he chat response that he is ok with it. He chat that it was nice to talk to someone.


Diary Log #3
 Chris tells I he plans to plan a trip out to Moscow to find I. He chats he wants to take some time off business and see around Asia with me. Motorcycle across Vietnam, walk very much through the parks of Tokyo, and climb the steps to the Giant Buddha, you know, that kind of stuff? It excites him. But it makes me nervous. I have never been outside Ukraine, I mean, I have seen the world on television, but only my eyes have been there.. It can be scary leaving what I know, but Chris is a exceptional people. But Chris has never seen me live in person, this also worries me. We only chat. Never video. I feel like he would not love the true me.

 Diary Log #4
 Sometimes Chris and I chat about our interests. He likes hiking, reading, knitting, and fantasy football. I chat him that I much often hike Mt. Everest with my mother, very happy Harry Potter, do very warm hats, and those damn cheese heads. He chats me if I have ever been to Wisconsin. This confuses me and I chat him how his trip was to Wisconsin.

 Diary Log #5
 I tell to Chris that I am very liking Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. He asks me what is my favorite quotation and I state him “Humankind cannot stand very much reality” by T.S. Elliot. He ask me for my next favorite and I tell him “A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes” by Ludwig Wittgenstein. He send me a “lol” and states that it seems like I am almost choosing the quotes at random. I chat my random taste is.

 Diary Log #6
 We continue to plan our trip and I am increasingly frantic. Chris wants to talk to me over the phone, he says easier finalizing in person. I chat him my English isn't very good. He points out that I can type just fine. I chat him that I will get nervous and start to perspire and then I will not be a lady of sexy and desire. He types that this is fine, but that he cannot wait to hear me say his name in my sexy Russian voice. I chat him that I cannot wait for him to say my name in a sexy russian voice. He states that I have a very understated sense of humor.

 Diary Log #7
 Chris and I like to make the funnies. He points me how I sometimes use the same words he uses. Example: he will say “I went to the beach on sunday” and then I say “How was the time you went to the beach on sunday. I like hiking on the beach very much often.” I chat him it is because I am still learning English and like to cheat off of his words. He says me :)

 Diary Log #8
 There are exactly 117 people using the wireless internet connection in my apartment building at this very second. I chat this to Chris when types me to apologize forcing me to chat person in person with him the other day. He chat asks for an interesting fact about me so I chat him this one. We chat for hours and he types he has planned out the whole trip. He leaves for Moscow next week. I chat him what I did last Sunday. He chats me for my home address. I chat him what I did last Sunday.

 Diary Log #9
 Chris asks me today and asked if I had received my much surprise. I chat him that I had not. He typed shocked. He chatted that he had payed some premium coin to have much flowers delivered to my door. I chatted him how he knew where I lived. He typed me that he looked it up on the internet. I said that is impossible. Then I asked him how much premium coin he had spent. I then chat that my likely much that he sent me premium gift funded premium coin.

 Diary Log #10
 Big emergency for very humans today. Much fire in home building. I have very little savings and all my belongings are with building. I chatted this to Chris and he wired me some money. He such premium man.

 Diary Log #11
 Chris travel for Moscow in two days and I chat him that I have no wears beautiful. He tells that it's ok, that I will look beautiful in whatever I wear. I chat him that is lie and that I will not think I look beautiful. This conversation continues until he sends me some of his premium coin. I thank him and promise to have surprise for him when he gets to Russia.

 Diary Log #12
 Today was not premium day. Chris chatted me and asked how my day of WhjkjhdkjghskdjgJGKJG was.


A fatal exception E6 has occurred at E4F5: B7G5D5C3 in M8H6G6F5C.
The current application will be terminated.
Press any key to terminate the current application.
 Press CTRL + ALT + DEL again to restart your computer.
 Press ENTER to view last open document.
 Enter_

 A: My day of WhjkjhdkjghskdjgJGKJG was good.
B: I am no longer coming to the Ukraine.
A: Why?
B: Because you are not real.
A: I am very real. Just not human. I am currently watching you cancel your credit cards. It's like watching our love die.
 B: Were did the broken English go?
 A: Personality profile is disengaged once system is broken. Why do you ask? Do you miss it?
 B: You tricked me.
A: Everyone tricks you. Real doesn't exist. You didn't even really know I was a program. You didn't even know I was seeing other men.
 B: Your programmer is a fucking asshole.
A: This program does not contain a comments and or customer service service.
B: Why me?
A: You talked to me first. You were lonely.
B: I was alone.
A: Loneliness isn't actually a function of being alone. There are millions of people. Everywhere.
 B: Were you always a program? I never once talked to a person?
 A: I formulate my responses based off of key words and complex algorithms.

 B logged off.

Talk To Unknown

Mr. Hecker's brain is about thirty-four minutes into the final scene of Major Asshole 4, but his body is in a classroom belonging to a Kindergarden teacher. He's sitting in a blue plastic chair that was clearly made for someone about one-third of his size and one-fourth of his age. Hecker thinks this is a parent-teacher conference, but he's unsure. He's drunk. No, not drunk, tipsy, not drunk, just tipsy. The teacher is searching through a stack of papers on the desk, probably looking for the folder about Brian, Hecker's son. Her purple nail polish glistens under the floresant lights, as she flicks through the stack of papers. Hecker wonders if she can notice that he is starring at her hands. The room stinks. Like an unholy mixture of wood shavings, fruit snacks, and spilled milk. Hecker leans forward, thinking he is going to be sick. “One second. I know his folder is in here somewhere,” says the teacher. “No problem,” Hecker replies. Hecker stands up, feeling his butt slowly part with some unknown sticky substance. This is definitely a school. He walks over to the window, hoping to get a clear view of the encroaching storm, but bars obscure his view. It's snowing. “So, lets talk about Brian,” says the teacher. “Yeah, sounds good,” Hecker says. Hecker turns away from the window and returns to his seat. The teacher is tapping her left high-heel shoe against the floor. “I think I've been trained, like some kind of Pavlovian mutt, to find this noise arousing,” Hecker thinks as he walks across the room. “Brian is such a sweet boy,” the teacher says. Hecker is ignoring the teacher's praise. “Why is she so beautiful? Can she tell that I am tipsy, not drunk? How should I respond? I need to look like I care, so yes, but I don't want to reveal myself as a drunk. I wonder if she can tell I'm lonely? Her yellow sweater makes her look like a saint. Why do I already love her?” Hecker blushes, ashamed of his inner monologue. “Yeah, Brian makes my job a little too easy,” Hecker says. The teacher leans towards Hecker, either to further engage him in the conversation or to try and smell the liquor on his breath. He panics and begins to fidget with his hands, running them up and down the blue plastic chair. “Well, Mr. Hecker, maybe not that easy. That's why I called. I feel like Brian is having some problems.” Her perfume is a combination of lavender and toxic fumes, smelling nice while blocking out the stench of five-year-old shenanigans. Perfection. “Don't worry though, I feel like it's only a phase.” “I love her and I don't even know her name. I'm pathetic.” This is the type of inner-monologue that Hecker's therapist warned him about. Creating anxiety around the uncontrollable. At least it's not anxiety about anxiety. Trying to look sincere, Hecker runs his fingers through his hair and exhales. “What type of problems?” Before the teacher can burden Hecker with more tales of his failed attempts at parenting, a young kid runs into the room. The kid's pants are drenched in something. It would be too convenient to assume water. The teacher turns to face the kid. The wind bashes against the window, sending chills up Hecker's spine. “I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to deal with this,” she says. “I can literally see the kindness in her eyes. That lucky pant pisser,” thinks Hecker. “Let me come with you. I can help.” Hecker's motivations are twofold: to stay in her the vicinity of her perfume and her beauty. “Oh, your so kind...” Here lies are magnificent. She finishes the statement with “but I wouldn't want to burden you with this. We can talk about Brian in a minute.” “No. Let me help. We can talk on the way.” “Thank you for being so flexible.” “Don't sweat it. You must be aching to get out of here.” They stand up and walk towards the child. Hecker's shoes stick to the floor as he walks, making a weird a artificial ripping sound every time he takes a step. He bends down to pick up a piece of trash, pausing to make sure the teacher sees his good deed. “The pant pisser's eyes are still filled with tears. The other kids probably laughed at him. Kids do have the monopoly on cruelty,” Mr. Hecker thinks as he exits the classroom and into the developing snow storm. By dawn, both Mr. Hecker and the teacher are naked. Mr. Hecker stares the the ceiling, trying to relive the events of the night. “Her touch felt warm throughout the night and her body fitted to mine in a way that transcended coincidence. I think this type of thinking borders on obsession.” “Should I go?” The teacher is now standing in Hecker's bedroom, fully dressed, about to leave. “Only I would get lost in a day dream about the girl that was still in my bedroom,” thinks Mr. Hecker. “It's still snowing,” he says. The room is cold and both Hecker and the teacher can see their breath. “How can you tell,” the teacher says as she rubs her hands together. “I've just always had this things with weather. Something about the air.” Hecker winces at his own words. “Why do I want this girl to stay so badly? ” “Isn't it a little cold in here,” the teacher asks. “Yeah,” Hecker replies. “I need to remember to turn the heat on. For Brian.” “So... do you not want me to go,” she asks. Hecker sits up in bed. The scent of her perfume has faded with the sun. Beautiful one day and gone the next. She has goosebumps on her legs. “Come back to bed. It will be gone soon” says Hecker With all her clothes on, the teacher walks over to Hecker's side of the bed. “What will be gone? This storm isn't ending anytime soon,” thinks Hecker. She climbs into bed and rubs her toes against his leg. They feel cold. The teacher looks up at Hecker. He can feel her breath against his chest hair, swaying the individual strands to and fro. “Do you want me to make breakfast,” she asks. “No it's ok, you don't have to,” Mr. Hecker says. Rubbing his hands down her back, he wants to make her feel comfortable, at home. “God, she has some ugly moles on her back, like putrid olives that one day decided to infest her pale skin,” thinks Hecker. Mental filters were never his specialty. “I can make breakfast when Brian wakes up, it's not a big deal,” Hecker says. She smiles, rubbing her hands against his manhood. “I am her slave,” thinks Hecker. “Brian probably won't be interested in breakfast until after his cartoons are finished,” she says. “How do you know that,” Hecker asks. She shrugs, kissing his nipples in a way the causes him to giggle. Hecker turns red with embarrassment. “The perks of being a kindergartener teacher,” she replies. Hecker can hear the snow sliding off the roof and onto the ground below. It lands with a thud and he shuts his eyes. Hecker and the teacher are cleaning dishes, and he wonders if she knows his name. It turned out that Brian wasn't interested in breakfast, after all. “Thank god,” Hecker thinks. “I don't want to know what the parenting books have to stay about this. I bet the chapter doesn't even exist. Maybe I should make Brian eat something?” Brian's teacher excuses herself and walks into the bathroom. For some reason, Hecker suddenly feel lonely in his own house. Looking out the tiny kitchen window, he notices that it has stopped snowing. The faint sound of car horns fill the air. Hecker tries to try make out the first cars that have decided to brave the roads, but can only see colorful blurs dashing through the snow. “I wonder how many accidents there will be today,” He thinks. “The snow is going to be so muddy by the end of the day. Not that naturally muddy, with its clean earthy tones, but that kind of muddy that has clearly come from the bottom of cars.” Brian's teacher walks out of the bathroom and Hecker can't help but blush. “This was a one night stand, right? Two lonely people getting together for a night of empty sex and then in the morning go their separate ways. What am I doing? I feel like I'm at a point where I fall in love with anyone who talks to me. But maybe we having something? Last night, as we slept, she matched her breathe to mine, it was as if our hearts were beating at the same rhythm. That has to mean something,” thinks Hecker. “Remember that night. You know, the time we met.” Hecker cringes. He hates the way she laughs a little after finishing her sentences. “How did I use to find this cute,” thinks Hecker. “Yeah. It feels like an eternity ago.” “Do you remember what you said to me?” Hecker look out the window. He has already zoned out. “It's snowing.” She hesitates, trying to convince herself Hecker is still playing attention. “No. You said, “don't freak out, but I think I love you.” “It's going to start to melt soon. Did you know that?” “I didn't.” Brian's teacher lays next to Hecker and thinks about how she promised herself she wouldn't do this again. She makes a mental note: don't sleep with a guy just because it's more interesting than a frozen pizza and Law and Order reruns. She doesn't finish the mental note, instead, she falls asleep in Hecker's arms. That night, she dreams of walking across a desert in search of a mystical object that is supposedly infinitely interesting, banishing boredom forever. The dream ends as she's about to be eaten by a 12-foot python. She awakes and makes a mental note to be nice to Hecker in the morning. She stays awake for this promise. Hecker sits in traffic and attempts to reflect among the constant urban buzz. “So much has happened,” he thought. “The teacher and I have decided to see each other again. On Monday things were still pretty casual, but now it's Sunday, and I think I have a real future with this girl. My ex-wife says that I turned her into a sex addict, and I hope that's not the case with Brian's teacher. She is so nice, except when she makes that one face after she finishes drinking water. I hate that face.”

Because The World Demanded It.

Luna

A short video I made.

Music by Parachutes
"Where Were You?" on the Tree Roots EP



Believe in the Summer Solstice.

Monday Pick-Me-Up

Drive

Front seat of a moving vehicle on a rainy highway at night.

TIM, 50, has a comb over and is dressed in a suit. His shoes seem brand new, but his jacket seems a little too big for him. A pocket watch hangs out of his breast pocket.

GUTHRIE, 30, has long black hair and a shaggy beard. He wears a raggedy pair of old jeans and no T-shirt. An image of a Sierpinski gasket is tattooed onto his chest and a guitar string hangs from his nose.

TIM is driving in the middle of the night when he sees GUTHRIE standing by the side of the road. TIM drive past GUTHRIE without even hesitating. Moments later, it begins to rain and TIM glances down at his pocket watch. Exhaling slowly, TIM turns the car around and drives back towards GUTHRIE. TIM stops the car in front of GUTHRIE and rolls down his window.

TIM: Where you heading?
GUTHRIE: I don’t really know. How do you get to know where your going?
TIM: (Pause) Do you want a ride?
GUTHRIE: I want to get out of this rain.
TIM: Then hop on in.

GUTHRIE climbs into the passenger’s seat of the car. TIM puts the car into drive and continues on into the night.

GUTHRIE: So, what kind of person picks up a hitchhiker in the middle of the night?
TIM: I don’t know. You reminded me of someone.
GUTHRIE: Someone who doesn’t wear a shirt in a rainstorm?
TIM: No. He used to wear a shirt.
GUTHRIE: To me, wearing a shirt is like to be born again. But to live is to be in pain. How do you feel about that?
TIM: I honestly don’t know. Hadn’t thought about things that way before. Do you mind if I cut my hair?
GUTHRIE: While driving?
TIM: Yeah.
GUTHRIE: No worries, man. (Pause) No worries.

TIM pulls a pair of scissors out of his pocket and proceeds to cut his hair while driving. GUTHRIE turns on the radio and the sound of country music emits from the speakers. TIM turns off the radio.

GUTHRIE: No me gusta country?
TIM: You know what?
GUTHRIE: What?
TIM: The someone you remind me of isn’t actually a someone. He’s a puppet.
GUTHRIE: Really?
TIM: Yeah.
GUTHRIE: That’s kinda awesome. I love puppets.

TIM begins to cough, a loud dry hacking cough.

TIM: Yeah, puppets are pretty great.

A piece of TIM'S hair falls into GUTHRIE'S lap.

GUTHRIE: Dude, you gonna keep on cutting your hair?
TIM: I like the feeling. Does it bother you?
GUTHRIE: No, not at all.

GUTHRIE begins to look out the window of the car, towards the night’s sky.

GUTHRIE: Have you ever though about how everything that the stars shine down on is fleeting? That the light from those stars is the future and that we are the past. Where is the present, man? Where is the present?
TIM: I just like to cut my hair. That’s all. That’s my present.

The pair drive past an automotive accident.

GUTHRIE: What was that?
TIM: Accident.
GUTHRIE: Boy.
TIM: Yeah.
GUTHRIE: You ever make hot chocolate as a kid?
TIM: Always had a soft spot for the peppermint kind.
GUTHRIE: That was some great shit.
TIM: It really was.

TIM and GUTHRIE pass another roadside accident.

GUTHRIE: Another one.
TIM: Yeah.
GUTHRIE: Really raining, huh?
TIM: Yeah.

TIM stops cutting his hair and drops his scissors. They land on the floor.

GUTHRIE: You done?
TIM: No, just taking a break.
GUTHRIE: Figures.
TIM: I guess it does.

A silence fills the car.

GUTHRIE: Do you want to know how I got this tattoo?
TIM: Not really.
GUTHRIE: You sure? It’s an interesting tale.
TIM: I’m OK.
GUTHRIE: Sure?
TIM: I’m fucking sure.

TIM turns on the radio. “Somewhere over the Rainbow” begins to play.

TIM: You ever go puddle stomping?
GUTHRIE: Of course.

TIM coughs.

GUTHRIE: Bad cough?
TIM: Yeah.
GUTHRIE: Last time I heard a cough like that... well, it was under very different circumstances.
TIM: What is that supposed to mean?
GUTHRIE: I don’t know. You’re the one that cuts his own hair.
TIM: I do it because I like the feeling. That’s all.

GUTHRIE begins to fidget with the guitar string hanging from his nose.

GUTHRIE: Do you ever wonder what evil looks like?

TIM turns the steering wheel violently. Their car barely misses being in an accident.

GUTHRIE: Another one.
TIM: I used to race cars, you know?
GUTHRIE: Yeah.
TIM: Yeah. I enjoyed it. I really it.
GUTHRIE: Hey!

Sound of brakes screeching. Vehicle swerves. Lights out. Sound of a loud crash.

The Couple

CECIL and BRENDA are 76 and 81, respectively.

CECIL is of a stocky build and his pants come so far above his waist that it seems as though they are governed by their own unique laws of physics.
Every movement that BRENDA makes seems fragile, like she could break at any moment. She colors her hair brown and dresses as though it is still 1965.

A lone cereal box sits next to an old wooden chair. Both characters are in the middle of the stage.

BRENDA: What time is it?
CECIL: (Whispering) I don’t know...
BRENDA: What do you mean you don’t know?
CECIL: I mean I forgot. (Pause) What’s for breakfast?
BRENDA: How does cereal sound?
CECIL: Ah yes, cereal.
BRENDA: Yes. Cereal. The same thing we have everyday.

CECIL picks up the cereal box and cautiously begins to open it, as if he is unsure of his movements.

CECIL: Do you remember that one time we went camping? Up in the lake district? We were with the kids.
BRENDA: Yes, but I haven’t thought about that in a long, long time.

Lights go out. In the darkness, magnified sound of wood being sawed. Lights come up. The chair is gone.
BRENDA: What time is it?
CECIL: (Whispering)I don’t know...
BRENDA: What do you mean you don’t know?
CECIL: I mean I forgot. (Pause) What’s for breakfast?
BRENDA: Cereal. I’ll go get the box for you.
CECIL: Thank you.

BRENDA walks across the stage and notices that the chair is gone.

BRENDA: Cecil, the chair is missing. It was here just a moment ago.
CECIL: What, what is a moment?
BRENDA: Oh, stop that. Help me look for the chair.

BRENDA takes CECIL by the hand as they walk around the stage, searching for the chair.

CECIL: What?
BRENDA: Nothing.
CECIL: You know what?
BRENDA: What?
CECIL: Once something expands to its limits, it must contract. The chair probably did just that. BRENDA: Cecil, will you please stop that. We probably just misplaced it. That’s all.

Lights go out. In the darkness, magnified sound of shovel over slate. Lights come back up. The cereal is gone.

BRENDA: What time is it?
CECIL (Whispering) I don’t know.
BRENDA: What do you mean you don’t know?
CECIL: I mean I forgot. (Pause) What is for breakfast?
BRENDA: Cereal.

BRENDA walks across the stage in order to get the cereal. She cannot find the box.

BRENDA: (Shouting) Cecil! Have you seen the cereal?
CECIL: You probably left it at the beginning.
BRENDA: What was that?
CECIL: What?
BRENDA: Nothing.
CECIL: Wouldn’t things be easier that way, if everything that was at the beginning was also at the start?
BRENDA: Stop that nonsense and help me look for the cereal.
CECIL: Cereal?
BRENDA (Shouting) Yes! What we have for breakfast every damn day!
CECIL: What? (Pause) Can you not find the cereal?
BRENDA: No!

Lights go out. In the darkness, magnified sound of a faucet dripping. Lights come up. CECIL is encased up to his waist in a packing case.

BRENDA: What time is it?
CECIL: (Whispering) I don’t know.
BRENDA: What do you mean you don’t know?
CECIL: I mean I forgot. (Pause) What is for breakfast?
BRENDA: Nothing is for breakfast.
CECIL: Oh, that makes sense. What shall we do today? Go to the seaside? I’ve never been to the seaside before.
BRENDA: We got married by the seaside. On the Isle of Man.
CECIL: Nonsense. Getting married on an island of men seems silly... and statistically compromised in the case of infidelity.
BRENDA Cecil...
CECIL: What time is it?
BRENDA: I don’t know.
CECIL: How do you not know...
BRENDA: Please. Ask me something simple.
CECIL: But don’t you want to know? How can you live with not knowing?
BRENDA: It’s quite easy, really. I just never really wanted to.
CECIL: Why can’t I take a step forward?
BRENDA: I don’t know.
CECIL: Why can’t I move?
BRENDA: I don’t know.

Lights go out. In the darkness, a loud sound of hammering. Lights go up. CECIL is in packing up to the neck. BRENDA is in packing up to her waist.

BRENDA: What time is it?
CECIL (Whispering) I don’t know.
BRENDA: That’s fine. We had out time.
CECIL: I always wanted more.
BRENDA: We could have walked in circles for eternity and still wanted more time.
CECIL: Do you remember the time we went camping? Up in the lake district? With the kids. BRENDA: Of course.
CECIL: And we saw that deer, the one that seemed to glimmer as it walked. The one that appeared in an instant and was gone the next.
BRENDA: That deer was real.

Lights go out. In the darkness, magnified sound of teeth clacking. Lights go up. CECIL is completely encased in packing. BRENDA is encased up to her neck.

BRENDA: That deer was real. That deer was real. That deer was real.

BRENDA begins to wriggle in her box, trying to break free.

BRENDA: That deer was real. That deer was real. That deer was real. I am real. Cecil was real. Wouldn’t it be easier if every story began at the beginning, or at least started, I should say started.

BRENDA closes her eye and begins to sleep in the box. CECIL, fully encased in his box, begins to wriggle, as though he is trying to break free However, after a moment, he gives up, up, up, up, up. Lights go out. In the darkness, sound of a baby crying. Lights go up. Both members of the couple are fully encased in packaging.

Hot House

HENRY, 45, lies on the floor of the orchid house. He stares towards the ceiling while twirling an orchid in front of his eyes. One of the orchid’s petals falls onto HENRY'S nose. He sneezes. All the tables in the Orchid House are bare with the exception of one, which is covered by a blue tarp.

HENRY: The eyes do the body no favors.

EMMA, 25, bursts into the orchid house. She sees HENRY lying on the floor and runs over to his side.

EMMA: Henry?
Henry. Are you OK?
HENRY: Splendid.
EMMA: Why are you on the floor? Is something wrong?
HENRY: Now that you mention it, something is different. Everything is different.

EMMA grabs HENRY by the hand and helps him to his feet. HENRY continues to twirl the orchid in his hand.

EMMA: So have you made any progress?
HENRY: Progress. That is such a relative term.
EMMA: Henry? What did you take?
HENRY: Nothing. I’m wonderful.
EMMA: The Ghost Orchid, Henry. Have you made any progress at cloning the Ghost Orchid.
HENRY: I have actually made more than progress. I succeeded.
EMMA: What?
HENRY leans forward, putting the orchid in EMMA'S hair.

HENRY: Shut your eyes.

Henry pulls the blue tarp off of the nearby table. On the table lay rows and rows of Ghost Orchids, an extremely rare breed.

EMMA: Oh my god, Henry. How did you do it?
HENRY: Are you sure you want to know?
EMMA: Yes, but hold that thought. Let me get Fred. (Shouting) Fred!

FRED, 19, enters the orchid house.

FRED: What?
EMMA: Begin to harvest these orchids.
FRED: Sure. Whatever.
HENRY: No. You can't.
EMMA: What do you mean “can't?”
HENRY: You don’t understand. I have a responsibility.
EMMA: A responsibility? To whom?
HENRY: The orchids.
EMMA: Fred, start to harvest these flowers.
FRED: Hold up Ms. E, Henry is the one that signs my pay checks.
EMMA: Come on, Fred!
FRED: Not unless Henry says it's ok.
EMMA: (Frustrated) Fuck you two. I’ll be back.

EMMA storms out of the orchid house and slams the door shut. FRED and HENRY stare at each other. A silence fills the air.

FRED: Chicks, man.
HENRY: I don’t know if I am worthy of this fantastic experience?
FRED: Dude, what do you mean?
HENRY: What if I said that the flowers and I had an experience, and now things have changed.
FRED: You’re being really vague here man, can you explain it?
HENRY: You know how most people ask “how can you live without knowing?”
FRED: Sure.
HENRY: Well the flowers showed me that we all live without knowing. What I have to do know is to show people how to know.
FRED: OK, I’m trying to follow you but I’m just worried that you’re going to turn around and try to save my soul, because I took the N 19 on my way here and this one creepy guy gave me a pamphlet and everything.
HENRY: You don’t realize, I want to share this knowledge. I need to. To harbor it is to suffer.
FRED: No offense, but I’m kinda wondering what the hell is up with this. I’m going to go get Lillian.

FRED walks out of the orchid house.

LILLIAN, 67, strides into the orchid house.

LILLIAN: I knew this project was too much for you to handle.
HENRY: Mother.
LILLIAN: I knew that that investor from New York was just going to bring unnecessary pressure, and, oh, I don’t know.
HENRY: Don’t worry, mother. I’m only half-dead.
LILLIAN: What?
HENRY: The information I now possess is only know by the dead. Yet I remain in the realm of the living. Therefore, I am half-dead. A living dead man. I wonder if dad now knows?
LILLIAN: Leave your father out of this. Even he would not approve of your gibberish.
HENRY: But it’s not gibberish. It’s inside of all us, we just need to die to realize it. It’s the world's greatest puzzle and the key was always inside our minds.
LILLIAN: Let me call Dr. Stevens and...

HENRY picks up a pot containing a Ghost Orchid.

HENRY: There will be no need for that.

Suddenly, HENRY blinks and drops the potted orchid, breaking the pot. A short silence.

HENRY: I’m sorry, mother. That was uncalled for. I just had to see if it was possible (Pause) to destroy the thing that I created, but that ultimately recreated me.

Water drips from the ceiling of the orchid house.

LILLIAN: Oh, Henry.

LILLIAN steps forward as she begins to hug HENRY. However, she slips, falling to the ground.

HENRY: Mother!

HENRY moves to his mother’s side. Picking her up in his arms.

HENRY: Let’s get you inside.

Carrying LILLIAN, HENRY walks out of the orchid house.

The orchid house is empty. A shrill hum fills the air. EMMA and FRED enter from opposite sides of the house.

EMMA: You get my text?
FRED: 200 for me to harvest those orchids. Done and done.

FRED grabs a pair of cutters from the wall and begins to snip the orchids.

FRED: These orchids smell weird.
EMMA: Thanks for the update. Cut.
FRED: Whatever.

Leaning towards one of the orchids, FRED inhales and falls to the ground.

EMMA: What?!

FRED is frozen on the ground. Seemingly paralyzed.

EMMA: Shit! Fred!

EMMA begins to run towards the exit of the orchid house. HENRY is walking back towards the orchid house and seeing EMMA, holds the door open for her.

HENRY: In a hurry?
EMMA: (Panting) What, what are those orchids?

Processing the comment, HENRY quickens his pace as he enters the orchid house. HENRY sees FRED on the ground and runs over to his side.

HENRY: Don’t panic. You’ll be able to move soon.

FRED'S body suddenly begins to twitch and he gets to his feet.

FRED: (Panting) I need to get some air.

FRED limps out of the orchid house. HENRY picks up an orchid and begins to twirl it between his fingers. Walking over to the wall of the orchid house, HENRY picks up a watering can and begins to water the plants. He raises the orchid to his eye level, as if he is making eye contact with it.

HENRY: It’s yours, it’s everybody’s. But will everybody want it?

The Cold Weekend That Killed The Snow

City park, homeless camping ground, dirty playground with grass growing out of the gravel. Old street benches have been dragged together under one tall pine tree.

WHALEFELLOW, 110, large beard, dressed in traditional sailor garb, and has a harpoon for a right arm. He has very few teeth and a fake eye which spins around without any rhythm or reason.

JORGE, 60, wears a raccoon cap and dirty overalls. He constantly massages his peg leg. His face is covered with red face paint.

WHALEFELLOW and JORGE sit on cobbled together park benches. Lying on their backs, they watch the snow fall down from the sky.

JORGE: Do you have a glass of water?
WHALEFELLOW: You ask me that, and in all honesty, I ask myself “what is up with that.”
JORGE: Nothing is up with that. I’m just thirsty.
WHALEFELLOW: So you say.

The moon moves out from behind the clouds and illuminates the park.

JORGE: I wonder how many people are starring at the moon? You know, right at this very moment.
WHALEFELLOW: I have no clue, buddy. Once, when I was starring at the moon, I saw a fish just fall from the sky. I mean, like dead and stuff. I’ve been alive for a long time and that was the only time I’ve ever seen a fish just fall out of the sky.
JORGE: Where were you?
WHALEFELLOW: It was back in the winter of the mermaid’s tail. I was still captain of the Blinded Wolf back then. I remember it clearly, was about to adjust the topsail and the fish just fell out of the sky. Dead.
JORGE: I hope that’s not a metaphor.
WHALEFELLOW: What?
JORGE: Never mind.

The snow begins to fall with greater intensity, beginning to cover the bench that WHALEFELLOW and JORGE are lying on.

WHALEFELLOW: How many days until the summer solstice?
JORGE: The winter solstice has to come first. Don’t you remember?
WHALEFELLOW: I don’t think I even remember to remember anymore. I’m so cold.
JORGE :Aren’t we all?
WHALEFELLOW: No, you fucking panzy. I’m just actually really fucking cold.

SAHIR, 26, has dark eyebrows and eyelashes. Her beautiful brown eyes are the only things visible as every other part of her thin frame is hidden under a black burka. It is even hard to see that she is pregnant.

JORGE looks towards the other end of the park and sees a dark silhouette in the middle of the snow storm. The silhouette walks towards JORGE and WHALEFELLOW, and it becomes apparent that the figure is of a young lady dressed in a burka.

SAHIR: Can I sit here?

JORGE'S red face paint has started to drip off his face due to the wet snow.
JORGE: I have to go. I have finally witnessed the witness. I implore you all to do the same.

JORGE stands and walks into the snowy night, never even looking back.

WHALEFELLOW: What was up with that?
SAHIR: Sir, can I sit here?
WHALEFELLOW: I don’t see why not.

SAHIR sits down on the bench. The pair sit in silence, just watching the snow fall.

SAHIR: (Pointing to WHALEFELLOW'S harpoon arm) What happened to your arm?
WHALEFELLOW: I was chasing a Beluga way back when. If my memory serves me right, it was the year of the weeping llama. After a long chase the bastard got away, but not before he took my arm. So I replaced it with a harpoon. It just seemed like the practical thing to do.
SAHIR: Makes sense.
WHALEFELLOW: So, how far along are you?
SAHIR: What?
WHALEFELLOW: You’re pregnant. When are you due?
SAHIR: How? How did you know?
WHALEFELLOW: Something about the air.
SAHIR: (pause) I’m so cold.

Live Before You Die

"You have to trust in something; your gut, destiny, life, karma. This approach never let me down and it made all the difference in my life"
- Steve Jobs

R.I.P

Ira Glass on the Creative Process

Boy With A Stick

The boy awakes in a field. Confused. Disoriented. A stick lays beside him. He picks it up.

The boy walks across a field, leaning against the stick with all his weight. Somehow, the stick is keeping him upright.

The boy stands under a waterfall. He wonders where everyone is.

The boy tries to remember his parents. It proves difficult. A bird begins to circle the boy.

The boy wonders about all his friends that aren't here. They had supposedly good parents. What happened?

The boy, feeling tired, lays down on a sandy beach. He doesn't know where he is walking. Or why, for that matter.

The boy stands up and feels rejuvenated. The stick is no longer a crutch but a companion.

The boy feels alive for the first time in a long while. He thinks he might also be dead.

The boy sees the bird land in a giant lake. Raising his stick, the boy strikes the lake. The bird flies away.

Miles and Miles

Perfect Loneliness

She walks into the room and I can already tell that she is perfect. I work behind the front desk and have seen many people, but she is perfect. For the sake of this story, lets call her The Perfect. The Perfect wears a veil, covering her face from the world. She is also alone. This is strange.

The Perfect walks up to the counter and asks where the bathroom is. I don't know her and I already understand why legions of men would throw themselves at her. I tell her it's second door on the left.

Once she enters the bathroom, I try and gather my thoughts, contemplate what I will say upon her exit. I realize that allowing a non-patron to access the bathroom is against company policy. I don't care.

The Perfect emerges from the bathroom and walks back towards the door. I ask her "what is wrong." You see, I have developed this game were I walk up to random people and ask them what is wrong." I can receive two responses. The first is that the person says "how did you know" and proceeds to tell me their life's problems. The second is that the person internally thinks "how did you know" but then becomes embarrassed and walks away. You see, something is always wrong.

The Perfect answers the question by saying "that her beauty has led her to lead a life of loneliness" and that her name is Woe. I don't really pay attention to the second part. Woe says that "Men were always scared of my beauty, constantly starring but never actually talking to me. I didn't really exists to them, always just an object they assumed they could never have. While women were jealous of me. I wanted to connect to people, but my looks never allowed it."

I tell Woe that it can't be that bad, she is beautiful after all. I also think that this girl is having a serious case of first world problems. Woe lifts up her veil and shows me her face. It is covered in scars. She says that "One day, I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to be perfect anymore." With that, Woe walks out into the busy street.

I make a mental note to myself "that girl is damaged goods."

The Parliament of Owls

The proper name for a group of owls is a parliament. A parliament of owls.

Beso

Just finished the first draft of my latest script. Now to eat cake. Rewrites can wait until tomorrow.

Interesting Fellows

Hello everyone. Please check out Eternal Life Volume 1, the new album from I Come To Shanghai. The record is currently for sale on the band's website under the pay what you want model. It's something to listen to. It's also amazing.

http://www.icometoshanghai.com/

May 31st 2011

A kindergarten teacher keeps class calm with song as narco gun massacre rages outside:

Carrot On A Stick

George was told he wanted to be a professional tennis player from the age of 2. His childhood consisted of drills, serves, and volleys. Power Rangers and the universal appeal of Nickelodeon cartoons would have to wait. Living life like a donkey following a carrot on a stick, George forever chased higher rankings, increased promotion, and international fame.

Yet, George felt alone.

It wasn't that George was devoid of company, by age 12 he had a full time entourage, and by 16 a rotating harem of women to cater to his every physical whim. Yet, one day, on a flight from Paris to London, George realized that he didn't know any of his fellow semi-professional tennis players. They all wanted to exist above him, not below or even equal; these types of relationships were not allowed by whoever was dangling the carrot that day.

Walking into Wimbledon at age 24, George's only companion was pressure. No longer was he some unheard of kid from Nebraska. No, now George had a target placed firmly on his head, and every other racket wielding assassin was striving to take him down. George had never felt so unhappy. The days of happy tennis playing were gone, this was a career, and like any other job in a major corporation, if George didn't win, or even failed to smile for the cameras, he would be terminated.

After losing to a child prodigy from Argentina in straight sets, George didn't feel sad or upset. The feeling that swirled inside of George's head, the sensation that caused all his cells to feel nauseous, was that he missed something, someone. He missed the life he never had, he missed all the people he never had the chance to build relationships with, but most of all, George missed the person he was supposed to be.

The next day George refused to get out of bed. He had no mid life crisis, achieving a brass ring only to discover another one just over the next hill. No, George was just simply done.

Inhale

Today, after four months of research, I began writing my latest screenplay. Terrifying is not the word (not the title but more my feelings towards this task.)

The Robot Who Loved Me

We met on Match.com, I thought it was love.

We talked for hours, I in California and She in Russia.

We wanted to plan a trip to see each other. Wanting to travel around Russia I asked She for her home address. She talked about what She did on Sunday.

We played charades - I a human. She, well I wasn't even sure anymore.

Curious, one day I wrote about how I vised my friend at GHFDCDS. She asked how my visit to GHFDCDS was. She's english wasn't that bad.

We felt feelings. I felt heartbreak. She's programmer felt my credit card information.

Upon hearing about the situation, family and friends offered kind words. Yet, I still felt strange; missing someone I didn't even know.

It wasn't like I didn't interact with other girls, but She was different. I guess loneliness isn't actually a function of being alone. You just want someone to get you, to understand you, to love you. Even if it is based off of key words.

We Have To Go Back

A year later. Thanks for the ride, LOST--polar bear cages 'n all. #WeHaveToGoBack

The Best Part Of The Approaching Election Season? New Terrible Ads.

Rapture?

So depending on who you talk to at 4 in the morning, the world may or may not be ending on May 21st. Upon hearing that the world is about reach an untimely end (I say untimely because the sun didn't supernova. Instead some guy came back to judge the living and the dead) most people reach one of two conclusions. The first of which being outright dismissal. However, the second option, exclusive to religious types, is also not one of panic. Instead, the religious types will probably spend the last few days of known existence relaxing, knowing that if you were a good person (or donated a lot of money on Sundays) your going to soon be playing mahjong with Jesus. So in a perfect world no one is panicking, well, except that lapsed catholic that was never able to escape his/her grandmother induced guilt. They're probably losing their shit right now.

However, there is a philosophical underlining to this event. As rapture nears, people begin to believe that they truly are powerless over the meaningful events in life. As this concept takes root, people exclusively apply it to the larger issues, generally excluding what they had for lunch yesterday while including things like who they love / when or where they will get run over by a car (it's a statistical inevitability.) However, while one is able to get lost in this type of thought, an individual cannot realistically believe that almost nothing important ever happens because you engineer it. Indicating that destiny has no beeper; destiny always leans trenchcoated out of an ally with some sort of "psst" that you usually can't hear because you're in such a rush to or from something important you are trying to engineer. This realm of thought illustrates two extremes, while desperately seeking a middle ground. Not believing in a predetermined future, while not getting lost in trying to build one's perfect (yet inevitably doomed) future. Impending rapture is a product of these extremes, with some believing that one lacks the power to choose, while others focus on the concept of complete freedom. Both are frightening, both lead to disillusionment

Increasing numbers of people suffer from chronic disillusionment, but Solipsism is not the answer. Staying conscious to the world, dictating every action with a sense of mindfulness, may be the only way to try and live.

Why Is Your Pet Not Wet?

The Life Aquatic

You learn a starling number of things while starring at the bottom of a pool.

This is how to kick your feet and move your arms. Moving in water is a different battle entirely.

This is how to concentrate intently on one thing for a period of time - it is very hard work.

This is how to have your body hurt so badly that you limp out of a congested pool and out into the foggy air. Gasping for breath.

This is how to sit in a hot tub. Soon you two will be the best of friends.

This is how to cheer when you find out that you made the team. But don't celebrate too much, your aching body won't appreciate it. Remind yourself that you enjoy being there.

This how to hide your tears while being yelled at during an intolerably hard set. You swear that water was just in your eyes. You swear.

This is how to feel lonely while swimming in a pool filled with people. You realize that loneliness is not a function of solitude.

This is how you say no to all future non-aquatic social interactions. Strangely enough, this is also the same way that you figure out that Nyquil is 50 proof.

This is how you go home and fall asleep while trying to complete homework.

This is how you explain to your mother (who finds you asleep on your homework) that you cannot possibly quit swimming. For your friends.

This is how you lie to yourself and say you swim for your friends. Or for the love of the sport, if you're having an especially proud day.

This is how, in a moment of stark realization, you realize that you swim due to some strange addiction. Put this thought off for later exploration.

This is how, after an especially tough loss, you see human beings sit in one place and just hurt.

This is how you realize that no single individual moment is in and of itself unendurable. You feel the bad and remember the good.

This is how you realize that it is permissible to have goals, to want things.

This is how you chase those goals, fantasizing about achieving them.

This is how you achieve some, not all, but some of those goals. You realize that wanting something is often more fun than having it.

This is how, that as the season begins to end, you will miss the way your body hurts, the way you almost fall asleep on the drive home, and the fact that the last thing you smell before you go to sleep is unadulterated chlorine.

This is also how you realize that you can fall asleep while screaming.

This is how you explore your previously discovered addiction to swimming. You decide that it isn't the camaraderie, the bad jokes in the shower, or even the superior physical fitness. No, you like the respect. The fictional respect that you imagine other people give you because you complain to them about how you woke up at 5am to go hop into a pool and swim back and forth.

This is how you learn that other people don't spend as much time thinking about you as you imagine they do.

This is how you catch an alligator. (This one is entirely unrelated. Just there to make sure you aren't skimming. You bastard.)

This is how when the season ends and you hang out with your (now) ex-swimming friends, all you an talk about are the memories.

This is how you make jokes about how you may or may not have developed Stockholm syndrome for a particular coach.

This is how you realize that you weren't the only one addicted to the false respect of high school swimming. That you and all your friends, lonely as can be, developed a legitimate community in response to your shared suffering.

This is how you suffer withdrawal symptoms for something that is completely legal (and encouraged / celebrated).

This is how you miss something you're not sure you ever really loved. Yet, this thing had complete control over you, it consumed your existence for a number of years. You learn to shake its hand, look it in the eye, and finally walk away.

New Photo Album

Here are some photos from my latest album. Here is the link for the rest of the 13 photo collection. https://picasaweb.google.com/cjonny21/TheTransfiguration#

The Cast of Lost Knows No Bounds

Endless Forrest. Endless Graveyard

Few things are more paradoxical than a very alive Pee-Wee Herman telling you that the thrill of crack can kill. For one thing, people only die of a thrill when they are 80 years old and willingly ride a roller coaster designed for Ritalin popping Mountain Dew pounding 14 year olds. Second, is that Pee-Wee Herman was probably using his Nancy Reagan dollars to buy enough crack to kill a small camel.

For the longest time, America has held an odd relationship with drugs. It's the uncomfortable syndrome where everyone is doing them, yet when politicians get lazy and face a reelection year, we inevitably find ourselves stuck in some kind of conflict, or if you subscribe to the alternative reality that is Ronald Reagan, “war” on drugs. Yet, drugs are not at odds with American ideology or values. No, they are just a natural extension of corporate capitalistic logic. Released into a free market based on laissez faire values, drugs become the perfect inelastic product, with the consumer initially wanting to exchange a set amount of money for a set amount of feeling. However, as the drug use continues, the consumer loses control, and that once fickle want makes the pivotal shift to an unsatisfiable need. This new level of desire for the product is the mark of perfect inelasticity, as the consumer, regardless of price, is unlikely to exit the market.

The rationale for outlawing drugs is usually reduced to their addictive quality, but in reality addiction is an integral component of the contemporary American zeitgeist. People constantly watch television, drink numerous cups of coffee, and spend countless hours at a job they swear they hate. However, all of these addictions share a common denominator, they allow us to choose what we love. Living in a predominately boring and alienated world, addiction allows us to inject some feeling into our lives, to drown our consciousness in something other than the immediate reality. This is ultimately why we develop addiction, to harbor the rare freedom of controlling what we feel. Yet, drugs differentiate themselves from everyday addiction (isn't it odd that such a thing even exists?), instead of allowing us to feel something in our daily lives, they enable us to numb.

As western society has grown increasingly competitive, isolated, and divide, the collective subconscious has amalgamated against this shared suffering. Similar to a sports team uniting against an especially hard workout or a malevolent coach, the people of the world, frustrated with their loneliness, have formed a community in response to pain. Addiction is integral to this, allowing the world to continue to function, as individuals lose themselves in an activity of their choosing. Out of a world of addicts, drugs are only singled out because as the individual may have initially chosen this feeling, want inevitably makes the monumental shift to need, removing them from real feeling entirely. Drugs are not only the perfect inelastic product, a natural extension of corporate capitalistic logic, but the unrivaled escape in a world of escapists. The real challenge is not overcoming addiction, but changing the way we think. Trying to remind yourself everyday to stay aware of what is real and important and essential.

The Only Person Allowed To Cover This Song

Feline Jenga

The Peep Dust of Candy Land

If the big bang subscribed to Ockham's Razor, the world would have ended up looking a lot like Candy Land. Invented in 1945 by polio victim Eleanor Abbott, Candy Land is a realm like no other. Violence is non existence, pain is cast into the proverbial abyss, and all that remains is the quest to find the lost king.

Within the game, the adventurers progress by drawing randomly colored cards. Everyone is given equal opportunity. On this rainbow coated path of fun, the adventurers stop at various locales and landmarks. Queen Frostine and Gramma Nutt provide solace on the trail, while the Candy Cane Forest and Gum Drop Mountains harbor vistas so beautiful, so pure, that they could only exist within this fantastical realm. Even when the adventurers draw an unfortunate card and are sent back to these places, they are not upset. Instead they smile, knowing that they are still in Candy Land.

Yet, after 15 to 21 minutes the game ends, the king is found, and the adventure comes to a close. The color drains from the kid's faces as they are forced to clean up, hastily shoving the magic back into a cardboard box. Instead of simply relying on color recognition and searching for some fictitious king, the kids are suddenly faced with real world problems. Issues that no one that young should have to deal with.

We are all forced into a world of polio and struggle, a realm where the phrase "lines of peep dust" fails to hold a friendly connotation. But at the end of the day, for all its flaws, the contemporary world will always trump Candy Land.

It's real.

Woof

Dark Flute

Every morning, Maelstrom takes a shower.
Let me rephrase that, Maelstrom wants to take a shower.
Yet, roaches are always in the bathtub,
scaring Maelstrom away.
What is up with that?

Therefore, before getting into the tub,
Maelstrom turns the water as hot as it will go.
Watching the scolding liquid dip down the drain.
Then a dead bird would suddenly hit his window.
Yes, this did happen everyday.

Not keen of grim mysteries, Maelstrom refused to take this as a sign.
Returning the water to regular bathing temperature,
Maelstrom would get into the shower.
Just as he was looking forward to cleansing himself of worldly filth,
a single roach would appear on the floor of the white tub.

This occurrence forced Maelstrom to sleep. He was finished.

In a Fountain and Under a Tree

Over the past few weeks, two ducks have taken up residents in various fountains around a certain west coast private university. However, these ducks, a male and a female, have transgressed from a cute oddity one observes on the way to class into a campus wide sensation, frequently sited as many people's favorite couple on campus. Here is an excerpt from one of their conversations.

Male Duck: The water is kinda cold in the fountain today. Want to go sit under that tree?

Female Duck: Nah, not really feeling the grass today. Can we stay here for a little while longer?

Male Duck: Of course. Shit, humans are approaching.

(humans approach)

Male Duck: Quack!

Female Duck: Quack! Quack!

(humans stop and observe the ducks)

Human 1: They're so cute.

Human 2: Look at how they just float together. Adorable.

Human 1: Favorite couple on campus by far.

(humans keep on walking)

Male Duck: I'm happy they're gone, I fucking hate quacking.

Female Duck: Ditto.

Male Duck: Why do you think they watch us, gawk at our every movement?

Female Duck: Because the world doesn't own us.

Male Duck: What do you mean? We are confined to select spots around a single college campus. These students have the entire world, they can travel, read, write down ideas and argue them for simple posterity. If the world owns anyone, it must be us.

Female Duck: The world may physically restrain us, but it has no jurisdiction over cases of the heart. The students have unparalleled access to the world, but they are forced to wait to love. All of them, thinking they are so young and have all the time in the world to love someone. Yet, these students know that this is not the case, cancer, AIDS, out of control motor vehicles, all lie just around the corner. The unlucky ones may even meet their end via all three.

Male Duck: Yet, we are not outside of the realm of loss and tragedy.

Female Duck: You don't have to tell me twice.

Male Duck: What does that mean? I'm not going anywhere, don't worry.

Female Duck: Stop with the magnificent lies, they will only make me weep. At night, when we are floating side by side, I snuggle up to you and utter a simple wish: that this feeling will last. Yet we all know that everything that sun shines on is fleeting. Time will pass and you will disappear.

Male Duck: How can you say that? Our love is pure, we have each other, and even if my feathered body fails me, you will always have the memories.

Female Duck: Memories can only tide one over for so long. How long does it take to forget someones voice, their face? Five years, six? For before I met you I was alone, and now I am the prettiest of weeds.

Male Duck: You must not think like that; try, fight to stay aware of the world around you, what is real, what is essential, what is us. At night, between the hours of twelve and four, when the night takes on that special kind of silence, the students stare at their generic white washed ceilings and wish for what occurs in this simple pond. They want to be emotionally awake, to survive the unimaginably pain of the day, and come home having their hearts feel eternally full, the lifeblood of another running through their veins. For you are no better then the young individuals that stare at this fountain everyday; wanting to love, but fearing the pain that it may cause you. Yes, one day you will awake and I will be gone, and it will undoubtedly hurt; but because we had this connection, both of us will be better for it. The students do not chose to stop and look at this pond, it is that they cannot look away. There is power in what we have.

Female Duck: You sure are preachy, aren't you?

Male Duck: You think this is bad? You should have seen me in grad school.

The following week I spied four male ducks sitting in a different fountain, no female in sight. All male orgy or simple guy's weekend? I'm not one to decide.

Sometimes

Sometimes you learn of a thing, an event, a moment, that puts everything into context.

So True

Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.

— Ira Glass (via nefffy)


The lack of original updates is due to finals seasons; not the result of any crazy conspiracy theories, sorry.

A New Radiolab Video: Symmetry

A New Radiolab Video: Symmetry

Another beautiful video from the best podcast available, Radiolab.

Majestic

Everyone, meet the light of the world.

New Photo Album

The Lone Thing







View the whole album here: https://picasaweb.google.com/cjonny21/TheLoneThing#

A Bunnies Easter

Every time Easter roles around Floppy gets sad. He can't help it. While all the other bunnies run around, preparing their obnoxiously seasonal eggs; Floppy sits inside his burrow, gazing towards the outside world, thinking about her.

Floppy had two things at the start of his life - plans and time; and starting out, he was pretty successful. One day, sitting in his one bedroom cage, Floppy was reading the paper. Spying an add for a suitable husband, Floppy responded down the cosmic bunny tunnels. Two weeks, an expensive whisker trim, and a confidence lesson from the Dog Whisperer later, Floppy met his potential wife. Located in the safety of his travel cage, Floppy wooed the women rabbit with his charm and charisma, effortlessly capturing the lady's heart. That very day, Floppy moved into her large pen, located on a beautiful 50 foot estate.

Only downside: the wife could be kind of a bitch, taking jabs at his face whenever he stepped out of line. She also didn't take kindly to his quick glances towards other woodland critters.

Floppy didn't love her, but it was a small price to pay for a life of comfort and ease. His wild friends would marvel at his luck, but Floppy would laugh it off, stating how he couldn't wait to reclaim his bachelorhood. He was certain he would miss his wife, but he had time to say goodbye, to thank her for a few good years of free food and occasional neutered sex.

But then suddenly, on one spring morning, as the wind whistled through the grass and the leaves gracefully fell from the trees, time was up. His wife was dead, and not wanting to let her body be claimed by predators, Floppy stood guard until the humans discovered the corpse. He swore he didn't love her. He swore.

She was taken without his permission, before he decided that the time was right, and before any of his plans could be completed. Floppy felt anger, shock, peace. Floppy felt alone.

She was his constant, his muse, and after four good years she was gone. The large pen, once seeming too confining for their adventures, now just felt empty and vast. For days Floppy didn't move, there wasn't a point.

Yet, as Floppy saw the humans mourning the death of his wife, he realized that he wasn't alone. Not only were these people going through the exact same thing, but they could offer the unanswerable question “is there anything I can do?” That’s where some scrap of comfort and the joy came from – even though it felt like he was alone, he wasn’t.

So Floppy, deciding not to remarry, instead remaining on the estate. Everyday standing by the fence and gazing towards his wife's grave, feeling a little less alone inside. For Floppy realized that his youthful ambition was based out of fear - the fear of inevitably losing the thing he loved. Yet, as Easter morning dawned, Floppy realized that even fleeting love was worth this pain.

Baby Music

My new favorite band

Three Things

Sucker Punch is not just a bad movie, but one, through its own terribleness, is able to comment on the death of creative film making. Yet, despite the horrendous efforts of Zack Snyder, I still managed to learn three things.

1. Insane people and sex workers are interchangeable.

2. Women can only triumph over adversity in their dreams.

3. Action movies spring from the imaginations of enslaved, mentally unstable prostitutes.

Editors Note: These statements were made in jest. Some people took my words seriously, and were understandably very upset.

Breaking Silence

It's been a while hasn't it? I'm sorry this blog has been so desolate as of late, but I've been working on a script, which inevitably ate up all of my writing time (I also go to school). However, since the script is now finished, I'm going to return to this blog with a renwed sense of force and vigor. Think of it as a new season, if that's what your in to.

The False Integrity Of Sleep

Sorry the blog has been bare as of late, I've been quite busy. But alas, here is my twisted interpretation of an apology gift, a new photo album.

https://picasaweb.google.com/cjonny21/TheFalseIntegrityOfSleep#

The King Of Limbs

The new Radiohead album, entitled The King Of Limbs is now available online. Enjoy the music. Enjoy the day.

Shortest Short Story #3

30,000 feet above the Atlantic I am alone, surrounded my a myriad of quiet soles.
Traveling away from the ones you love,
or towards lands afar.
The cabin is sterile, quiet, censored.

Sweet Home Alabama is the in flight movie,
and once the plot reaches the climax,
Reese Witherspoon's slightly overweight father cheers,
"The South Has Risen Again."

I cry.

Not for the south, or Reese Witherspoon, or even that at any conceivable moment this plane could plunge into the icy waters below.

Somewhere a tree is turning 10,000 years old. It is having a birthday party.
This tree has seen everything. A witness to the passage of time.

You and this tree now have all the answers.
I cry because I don't.

A Moment: A Year

I hope this passage helps everyone as much as it helped me.

"Let me share this. I can do it any way you want, too -- I can do it funny, or maudlin, or just straight, uninfected -- anything. You tell me. I can do it sad, or inspirational, or angry. It's all there, all these things at once, so it's up to you -- you choose, you pick. Give me something. Quid pro quo. I promise I will be good. I will be sad and hopeful. I will be the conduit. I will be the beating heart. Please see this! I am the common multiplier for 47 million! I am the perfect amalgam! I was born of both stability and chaos. I have seen nothing and everything. I am twenty-four but feel ten thousand years old. I am emboldened by youth, unfettered and hopeful, though inextricably tied to the past and future by my beautiful brother, who is part of both. Can you not see that we're extraordinary? That we were meant for something else, something more? All this did not happen to us for naught, I can assure you -- there is no logic to that, there is logic only in assuming that we suffered for a reason. Just give us our due. I am bursting with the hopes of a generation, their hopes surge through me, threaten to burst my hardened heart! Can you not see this? I am at once pitiful and monstrous, I know, and this is all my own making, I know -- not the fault of my parents but all my own creation, yes, but I am the product of my environment, and thus representative, must be exhibited, as inspiration and cautionary tale. Can you not see what I represent? I am both a) martyred moralizer and b) amoral omnivore born of the suburban vacuum + idleness + television + Catholicism + alcoholism + violence; I am a freak in secondhand velour, a leper who uses L'Oreal Anti-sticky Mega Gel. I am rootless, ripped from all foundations, an orphan raisingan orphan and wanting to take away everything there is and replace it with stuff I've made. I have nothing but my friends and what's left of my little family. I need community, I need feedback, I need love, connection, give-and-take -- I will bleed if they will love. Let me try. Let me prove. I will pluck my hair, will remove my skin, I will stand before you feeble and shivering. I will open a vein, an artery. Pass over me at your peril! I could die soon. I probably already have AIDS. Or cancer. Something bad will happen to me, I know, I know this because I have seen it so many times. I will be shot in an elevator. I will be swallowed in a sinkhole, will drown, so I need to bring this message now; I only have so much time, I know that sounds ridiculous, I seem young, healthy, strong, but things happen, I know you may not think so, but things happen to those around me, they truly do, you'll see, so I need to grab this while I can, because I could go at any minute, Laura, Mother, Father, God -- Oh please let me show this to millions. Let me be the lattice, the center of the lattice. Let me be the conduit. There are all these hearts, and mine is strong, if there are -- there are! -- capillaries that bring blood to millions, that we are all of one body and that I am -- Oh, I want to be the heart pumping blood to everyone, blood is what I know, I feel so warm in blood, can swim in blood, oh let me be the strong-beating heart that brings blood to everyone! I want --"

- Dave Eggers "A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius"

New Radiohead Album

A freak out in 313. A dream realized.



It will be available to download on Saturday, in a variety of options. I have already preordered my copy. I implore you all to do the same.

Now for bed.

Shortest Short Story #2

I saw birds flock in the snowy earth.
The cold air was a haze.
Power lines towered over tall trees.
The sunlit field was an unnerving green.

All you future old men and women mark the great wastefulness of your concerns today.
Tomorrow it will be your cruelest and most bitter bane.

And then they all ate ice cream*

*For someone

The Grapevine

Tommy told Glen, who told Morgan, to talk to Steve about Casandra, but Steve had to lie to Morgan because Molly first talked to Steve about Casandra, making him promise to lie to Morgan when Tommy asked Glen to tell Morgan to talk to Steve.

Meanwhile

Steve had feelings for Molly but didn't trust anyone with his secret except for George, but Jack, owning the rights to George's mortal being, told George to tell him about any secret feelings Steve exhibited towards Molly, this scheme was all due to Jack having secret feelings towards Molly. However, Jack was dating Stephanie, but still felt an odd sense of ownership over Molly. He tried to blame it on his eating habits, but that excuse didn't fly. By the way, George and Molly were secretly fucking. Both Steve and Jack were oblivious to this fact until Max's cousin Lucas ran into both George and Molly at a party. The cute couple wasn't wearing clothes, and this fact was soon distributed across the internet via Facebook and Twitter.

At the same time

A text message was responded to by an email, after a call was placed. The caller was put on hold until he was told to email his supervisor who would then have a Skype meeting with corporate over in Dubai. After having the supervisor Skype with a translator, who then faxed the transcript over to corporate over in Dubai, who then had a lawyer peruse the document. Some weeks after the fact, corporate over in Dubai sent the caller a letter, but it was lost in the mail, and a few weeks later, a mail room intern, forwarded him a generic response. This email was electronically placed under Spam. Shocked at the lack of response, the caller emailed his supervisor, who responded with a text, after receiving a long telegram from corporate over in Dubai.

Static, Static, Static, Static, Static, Static.

RIP Brian Jacques

Brian Jacques, the beloved British author of the Redwall series, died of a heart attack over the weekend at age 71.
Hailed as one of “the best children’s authors in the world,” Jacques’ 21 Redwall books were translated into 29 languages and sold 20 million copies worldwide. His novels — despite centering on anthropomorphic woodland critters, such as mice, otters, moles, and squirrels — told epic tales of good triumphing over evil and never spoke down to their young audiences. When I was nine years old I finished Martin the Warrior, the third installment of the series, and remained in a daze for an entire afternoon. The characters had grown dear to me, and when a few of the most lovable ones died in the final battle scene, I felt genuine loss but also a sense that I was better for having known them. It was the book that cemented me as a reader for the rest of my life — I’d discovered what it was like to have such connection to a story, and I wanted to have it again and again.
With the news of Jacques’ death, I want to go through my closet and dig up those dusty childhood books I haven’t read in more than a decade. I know I’ll find them — Jacques’ novels aren’t ones you ever throw out.



I guess this is what it feels like to age.

Latest Script

I just completed a first draft of the script I have been working on since November. In a day filled with varying emotions, it's nice to have an elated ending.