Tag Archives: Arts

The Words

nope.

I was once a writer. I am sure of this fact.

I, unequivocally, believed that beyond “artist”, I AM A WRITER.

Now what?

…because its different now.

And admittedly, the following quote is from a two and a half minute trailer for a movie that I haven’t seen, but that doesn’t make it any less the summation of my entire existence for the past 7 years:

“I’m not who I thought I was… and I’m terrified that I never will be”.  -The Words

Out of context, it seems a bit melodramatic. But here at 23rd Street, we have context for it. In addition, the folks at 23rd Street tend to confuse melodrama for passion.

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Hollywood ASST

So, again, the author here is going crazy posting semi-off-topic things. I am not trying to alienate. But, to be honest, roughly one-third of my time I was tweaked and wined-calm was on a desk of a Hollywood exec. Which, now, that I think about it is not that uncommon in Hollywood. Maybe a bit uncommon for an assistant. But my most mild, ‘controlled’ and last hurrah was on a desk talking to a client of one of three bosses I had at the time on Mid-Wilshire. Lest we not forget the long ago and faraway “…this took a bit more planning” (which incidentally has been updated with a small time and space thing and makes it a total !must-read!). Well, then, there was that interim thing that I had shortly after.

Why am I telling you any of this? Well, it’s possible to carry-on as a functional human being… furthermore, excel at the human being/efficiency stuff while on meth and 2 buck chuck at 8AM in the morning. And long hours, man. You gotta love what you are doing. Tweaked and balanced-down, I was happy as a clam. Also, gregarious-enough and insightful and able to bring it back around to the parts of the business that related to the parts of art in film. And because I’m going to post this video. You see, even though I am once again, in the city that never sleeps, I will always miss my years in the city that never cares. It was quite serendipitous.

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/3265420]

This is a relatively old video, but the folks at 23rd Street love the occasional reminiscing. We promise that we will get back on track with the self-loathing after-drug stuff soon.

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In Other Denial for Convenience’s Sake News…

House had to deal with something major… in the absence of a crutch.

Major.

Important. Absolutely so.

human

No vicodin… but vicodin hasn’t been part of the picture at all. No thought about it at all.

really.

Gone.

Mistakes have been made. And things have gone wrong and things have gone right. He’s fucked things up… and then redeemed himself. or whatever. and then, fucked things up again.

…and, this time, we are made to think that he will not deal. fuck things up again.

but we all hope that he will.

and when he does what he does….

… when he shows up… when he is there….

we accept it. 7 seasons in. not the best narrative. but reassurring…. humanistically?

we wanted him to be there. and he is.

blah blah.. fuckin’ blah.

and House will die with all the great shows that have come and gone.

and it’s not that bad… really. It’s reassuring.

But it’s also become a fuckin’ soap opera. but a well-written one.

so, there it is. I don’t expect anything more.

and then, it fuckin…

rocks. my. world.

vicodin was two seasons ago. gone. not a part of any narrative for 2 entire seasons.

some writer on the show has to be a drug addict.

…or a fuckin’ retarded hypocrite that exploits truth for fiction’s sake.

either way…

I mean, aren’t we all?

That being said, it makes me think about my own life. I don’t deal with anything. Unless, that is… I’m wasted. Or chemically altered in some way. He does it to avoid pain… and I do it because I don’t want to think about stuff that I don’t want to think about. So okay. Fine. I don’t want to address the underlying problem… I don’t want to address certain things. I get it. And nothing will ever be okay until I do. I mean, actually okay.

It will probably destroy me. But, at least I’m treating the symptoms is all that I’m saying here. And in the end, it probably won’t be enough… but hopefully, one day, I will be ready.

 

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Happy?

Why are we happy? (Ted.com)

in so saying, are you happy?

and if not, why?

why do you think that you are not happy?

and, in the end, what is ‘happiness’? Is it a balance that humans must constantly weigh?

I mean, if you give me the correct pill/drug… I am happy. But that doesn’t mean that I am happy. atleast forever… or until tomorrow.

I’m high… high=happy. synthetic or not. but it rarely lasts forever.

What the fuck is happy?

and why would we even want to be “happy”?

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“how much do I owe you?”

“don’t worry about it… just pay me in drugs“.

I would love to regale you with the following little story.

Just around the time this little blog was born, one could describe me as grey… exceedingly grey. The meth was gone, my head a cloud of dead synapses… um… just grey.

But because I am a jack of many trades within my given realm of interest, along-side my job-job… I decided to edit demo reels… for actors. A demo reel or show reel, for those of you who do not know, is basically a visual video resume. It may seem like a no-brainer or an unartistic venture, but the assembling of said reels takes a bit of skill and talent. Because I was drowning in the sea of name-dropping and kissing ass that is Hollywood, I thought why not inject myself with a bit of creativity? (pun intended) I thought ‘who knows actors better than an actor‘. No, you haven’t heard of me. ‘Who knows how to edit better than someone that understands narrative and flow? Someone that has made films’. …still haven’t heard of me. ‘Who would be able to showcase talent in  a visual manner better than a talent manager-ish’.

And so, even in my exceeding haze, I was able to, compile great reels in a casual manner.

What does any of this have to do with dysfunction and/or drugs? So, I’m working very closely with Actor A in order to compile a demo reel. It was alot of work… but I didn’t mind it. It is always, for me atleast, more interesting to have so many great scenes to work with and have to do more work consequently than to try to create something out of nothing (ie, actors with no material that want a reel). I’ll do either, I’m just saying.

Then, Actor A’s reel: done! My first, I would have to say, quality/professional job. It was great shit. And we both new it. And so, we come full circle:

“how much do I owe you?”

At the time, I didn’t even know. Again, grey/barely able to focus on one thing/this whole art and commerce dissident I’ve had forever. And so, “whatever” is what came out of my mouth.

“Whatever” is not what comes out of my mouth now, however.

Now, I, in fact was actually able to focus on more than one thing. Editing and during editing sessions, sort of softly directing conversation… ever so softly.

You see, Actor A and your author, here, have in common certain past experiences, allegedly. My job was to make Mr or Ms A aware of a general vibe of the aforementioned certain past experiences in your author’s experience. Now, “A” is a client, not only of mine now, but of the company for which I work, and though our policy on certain things are much more lax than anywhere that functions at this level… I still had to be careful.

It didn’t start out this way, but the idea slowly began snowballing a bit inside my head. What idea? Um… “…the just pay me in drugs”-idea. What I did have going for me was that “A”, at the time, did sell pot to one of my bosses regularly. This was no secret. Atleast among my boss and I and “A”.

Anyway, done! We were done. Ahhhh!!! Okay, I just had to do it. I had brought it to a nice awareness point… and in a joking manner, I say something to the effect of, “if you can get me some meth, it’s totally free…. ha ha ha ha…” sigh… Then, it was more like, “no, really.”

You must understand that I didn’t quit using meth the second time strictly because I was ‘over-it’…. though I must say that I was…. but because, for one reason or another, I no longer had a dealer. If I hadn’t been ‘over-it’, I would have gone and gotten one. Like I did the time before and the time before that. I believe that I must have had 5 or so different meth dealers in CA in two years. NY was only one, baby!… he still brings a smile to my face. Baby digressions aside, there is a strange sort of mini-high that comes along deciding that you are over meth and just won’t do it really. This strange sort of very very very mini-high lasts all of a few days, at the most. Now, you have to understand that this was just short of a year after “I’m over it”.

grey as hell and no end in sight. A bag of meth would have been nice.

And it was.

to be continued.

I must say that I might be impressed. This post is a throw-back to the beginning… you know, proper posts, when I wrote stories (semi-autobiographical, at that)… rather than stumbling around on the interwebs and re-posting interesting drug links. yeaaaaaayyyyahhhhh!!!

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the jaw jerk

okay, so, to elaborate:

I am undetectably pilfering percoset. unfortunately, the lowest dosage… but fortunately, a dosage at all.

…somehow I notice a speed-like jaw-jerk (actually, more accurately an MDMA repetative punding if you will) a nystagmus of the jaw.

thank you, drive thru.

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Consequences of the Mundane

I had better things to say last year… or rather, two years ago.

Two years ago, this thing was relatively brilliant. Ideas were brimming. I was, of course, coming off of meth in the only days when the town that I was in was silent… the streets empty.

Look at me now.

After conscious, deliberate decision and behaviour to match… after how I time and time again always seem to find myself happiest… after the attempt at “adult”.

Take a look at me now.

It doesn’t matter, one doesn’t need to see me. That is not the point… I carry out adult practices in a relative adult manner.

But was it worth it?

I mean, really?

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pink elephants

save me

save me

okay, so maybe addressing things that haven’t been addressed… in 100 or so, much-reluctant posts about things… about me… on a much-reluctant blog…

might

possibly be

helpful?

…yeah, I can drug-addict one to death. blah, blah fuckin’ blah.

but maybe…

…but maybe

…you know, it’s nothing. Those things that are more mundane. These things that I cannot WIN absolutely. …that I’m not so good at. that others could do with minimal effort and even more minimal care.

…these things that, at one stellar moment, I captured and, in turn, was. And these things that, in a naive thinking of immunity, I thought that I could never be. …but am to this day.

I’m sorry.

I’m really sorry. I thought that I would go there.

These things need to be said. Voiced. That’s what Americans do. They speak. And I’m the most  blue-class working artistic American

and, again, I apologize that I even quote this, but:

from the most capitalistic american novelist that seems to have this need to work and work and work…

(and I’m, maybe 11, at best when I first read):

“The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them —  words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understaning what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

Yes.

I don’t speak about certain things.

…certain major things.

and I did think I could just do it right here. Right now.

But I can’t.

or I wont.

I don’t see them as major, maybe.

Maybe it’s “pride”… whatever that is.

Maybe I don’t comprehend the aforementioned’s stamp on me. Maybe I think it’s ‘whatever’.

… but it’s becoming more and more clear that it’s not “whatever”.

and it’s becoming more and more clear that the pink elephant… will soothe and comfort and save me… but it will never come to the forefront.

…I mean, it’s the pink elephant.

It doesn’t exist.

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Powers of Ten

 

Detail of hanging numerals on a Lincoln penny

freaks me the fuck out

 

And here I thought that I was all about, “The Nines“.

…I mean, which I am.

But…

then, there’s this:

As a genera,l though very flexible, rule, even numbers freak me the fuck out.

They are round. Or rounder… ish. Than numbers are designed by their very function to be?…

To explain-ish:

Numbers are numbers. Cut and dry. Scientific. Angular and speedy. Efficient.

When said numbers take on a sort of continuously graduated silhouette (as many even numbers do) this sort of compartmentalized disconnect between angularity/efficiency and a degree of feral humanity collide in a way that… I’ll say it:

“does not compute”

Yeah, I can’t deal.

And this is the latest and greatest.

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Waiting for the End

KROQ-FM

Image via Wikipedia

So… I like this song.

…I do this alot.

What is this?

Oh, yeah, you, the proverbial audience of one or two or most likely, zero, exist outside of my own thought process. I am so self-absorbed that I frequently ‘forget’ the wall between kiko-thought/conveyance of aforementioned thought (via speech, action or through any other physical manifestation) otherwise known as ‘communication’/reception of thought by 3rd party A (again the proverbial “you”) through 3rd party A’s particular schema of the moment.

words words words.

I believe this is what some people refer to as a stall. eh.

I like this song. I sit on a bucket seat in transit (forward-facing and fancy-free) and randomly hear this song. I’ve never heard this song before. I am on that other coast on an early-ish train to a Wall Street address (where the production company has set up shop) and continue my employment as a denizen of the world… albeit, artistically so.

My contacts stick to my eyes as per the ‘yuse’. I nod and and wake… again, as per the ‘yuse’. Production is killer, man. If I ever needed to remain awake for days at a time… this would be it. And, of course, no needles, no Frank meth… but that is another story.

So… KROQ FM. That west coast place… car culture‘s mecca. I miss it…. the station. I used radio as my version of time. And, at that point, I needed some version of time. Numbers and clocks freaked me out too much. Representations of numbers and clocks via radio-things… it could all work out…

flashforward… I am no longer in the west coast place. I miss the mask of time that I so lackadaisically though stringently relied on. But I can deal with time now… to a degree… I just miss the ‘mask’. I download this spotty shoddy radio “companion”… nobex… or something? and so, in blips that stop then start then flow…

I hear… CLICK>> waiting for the end <<CLICK.

I slowly dig.

really dig. bopping my head….

Then, I realize that it maybe… yes…

is it? can it be…

it totally is… linkin park.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

For all of their avril lavigne candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses, their mundane watery techno-esque-alterna-rock-ish fusion, that stupid little shit chester or whatever his name is… I like the song.

I like it.

Somehow, I’m obsessively listening to it.

…and it may be exactly because of this aforementioned “candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses/mundane crack-whore appeal to the most primal of feel-gooooood head bop shit” that I am.

But fuck it.

And so, the this that I do alot is become pre-obsessed with a song, film, etc. before I actually know what it is.

But now I think it’s a good thing.

I don’t fuckin’ care…

right now… before it becomes anything… before others can put some sort of cultural stamp on it, I’m saying that I like it.

the end.

its the risk that i take… biatch.

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