Today, I failed to be a man again. In the triumphant windswept nights of cities without street signs, a roguish soul finds solace in the only thing he knows to be wrong. Late nights of sleeping press those obligations where someone finds themselves face-to-face with someone they've never met but lived with their entire life. Occasionally. And then comes the time when bar-back tumblers smash to the floor at our feet, and for lack of something we don't acknowledge they exist. Or any recognition, momentarily, of the event.  There is comfort in knowing insanity when it spits into the air and rattles a chain link fence you've fit to brand yourself in it's sturdiness. Envy ensues and then the recognition that all who have it known, don't know anything but the shell of a person who they vaguely remember begging in shopping marts for bubble gum sticks. It's hell, my friend; hell. The day when the door opens and you look out to the most recognizable and cultured landscape of heaven, only to think of how much gas is in the tank of your friend's car; thankful the entire time for having been allowed to borrow the tread of their tires. It's the end of justice for oneself, when you say martyrdom is a myth and that all we can find are souvenirs from smoky New Jersey trattorias, memorialized as good when they were actually quite the same as those unintentional roof top night stompings. Yes, we find a plan but too often the dreams we never had catch up with us and then find the moment we've been waiting for and then release ourselves to momentary gladness, just before they close our eyes.

Providence - not in Rhode Island

Several wise beings have stated, when a man feels the imposition to stray from his convictions he should practice them at once. For years I have felt a desire to write about the abruptness and observations of my day-in, day-out. But, out of sheer exhaustion (I like to claim), or laziness (that which is more true) I have been inconsistent at writing.

Without being too introspective, the last few months have been a time of transition without the time to acknowledge that my life is now on a completely different path than when I first stepped foot on London street, those 2.5 years ago. Or perhaps, it's the same route but has taken that eminent transitional turn that was meant. Work at the Center has continued to progress, although the romantic period is long over and working the first nine-to-five, albeit 6:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., has been rough considering the freedom granted by the years prior.

My heart is constantly in flux, transitioning from my standard rigid coldness, to a more inclusive and understanding perspective now being around those who society would claim as the most broken. I wish I had an answer to what seems to be an unanswerable problem, much of the time, but the reality of a system so dysfunctional in its focus and allocation of resources is destined to serve many, but brutally and tragically leave out even more. And, those are the folks I'm getting to know each day. Those who walk away their lives on streets paved with fame many ventured to Hollywood in search of, only to be turned down and unhealthily treated toward insanity.

"...comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable."

Amidst the new confusion, and the community a few friends and I are hoping to establish, absolute concern with social justice and the whirlwind of emotion has lead to complete and utter exhaustion. There are ways to balance a passion; new-found desire and the willingness to listen to the whispers of God, but I have failed to this point.

A few months ago, in the midst of feeling way too comfortable and unchallenged I prayed without replete for 'affliction'. Like clockwork, and in the spirit of truth it was as if God was waiting for me to ask for that very thing - and when I did, he provided. What comes from being humbled is never grand in the moment, or the months to follow (I've found) but it does help one to grow is always a righteous desire to grow closer to He who humbled himself far more than we'll ever be able to realize.

I am thankful for my new position in a community, where i actually feel a part of a 'community' and even amid the exhaustion that I'm constantly afraid has hurt those around me who I simply haven't had energy to love as much as I wish I was able, I am humbled and praising Our Lord evermore for the opportunities he grants, and the prayers he answers even when we're feeling way less sufficient than we ever thought possible.

Day 2

This morning the night's excitement rung in my temple, just a bit, but I had no notion or dismay at what the day entailed - only, that i didn't have coffee in hand from the moment of consciousness.

Sleep's a funny thing; a necessary absurdity of life. Recently discovering in San Francisco a project instituted by a German Catholic priest; The Gubbio Project stunned me unexpectedly one May morning. The idea to purport that idea to the streets, and a church, in Hollywood instantly became a fascination. The need in Hollywood is greater than most other places in this United States, and I have constantly felt a pull to be more incarnate of the things I see to be as truth in charity. 

Arriving early to the Center, I pumped the coffee from the pre-made carafe, and then took my usual place (after two days, comfort is often found in minor routine, I've found) and awaited the arrival of the rest to discuss expectations for the day, and review of all things yesterday.

The warm morning left most a bit lethargic, and late to arrive but once into Morning Mindset the conversation steered from "what we are grateful for" to "why saying sorry is bull shit"... and a few points in between. I have been constantly amazed at the absurdity of dialogue with certain friends I've made, to the flip-side where in a group setting a person can be absolutely functional and insightful. As the Noon hour approached, a new friend of mine; dark-skinned, wearing a dollar-store cowboy hat, and eyes to piece amid a perfect 3-day beard, progressed in a monologue of unforeseen surrealistic diction. A-sexual he claimed to be, and having 9 children of which he'd all killed, he'd live a life as a Mexican - no - a true Mexican, and the sun being so hot had burnt deep into his skin making him appear to be African-American, of which we had all confused with 'real Mexicans'.

No brown-bag sandwiches today, but plenty of JNB cards to give out, I sat about observing the nature of the facility I know I am growing attached two, and of which I feel was destined for me and my foreseeable future. Building Czar, entitled, the next few weeks will be dedicated to figuring out how better to utilize the present facility, with the present staff and resources, while pulling in ideas from outside and freshness. The flexibility and off-the-cuff nature of a place undefined, in a lot of ways, is exciting and troubling at the same time. Destined to dream big things in the spirit of Charity, my burning desire to help my new friends discover how much they could use Jesus in their lives is in the forefront of my mind.

Asked what he was grateful for today, one man - hat covering much of his face, and dirt seeped into his bag, pants and arms folded on his chest - he said: "I'm grateful for nothing." "Being out of this shit is all I want right now." 

And because of the attitude and pain of my friend, I will come to work each day hoping that something we can do will help to change his mind.

The Center

How do I sum up four years of experiences that were at times so overwhelming, and so enlightening I feel humbled and sorrowful more people couldn't have experienced?

Today, I officially made my iPhone a second priority, didn't answer emails as they came in, and most-assuredly didn't make my way back from Midland, Texas with a car needing three tires and a deep clean to the floorboards. Today, I started a new job.

Digesting my time with MATS (Ministry Auto and Truck Service ... as I told folks more than 75 times on the phone) and how to comprehend all its significance will take time. But, if I were to sum up the 10s of thousands of miles driven, the people met through late night sales calls and in parking lot vehicle swaps, it would be with the word, adventure. When a high school friend told me his brother in law owned and ran a car business from my hometown, where they bought and sold vehicles throughout the US and had amateur drivers do the driving, I didn't waste a minute. My boss (now former, weirdly enough) called me right back and asked: do you want to fly to Houston tomorrow and drive back a truck?

Ecstatic for meaning, and adventure, I of course said yes; made the trip, and now sit reflecting of the hundreds of flights, and bus trips taken; the chilled fingers jumping dead cars in Dartmouth, Mass January mornings, and the heavy sobbing in rural Nebraska when all I had to face was myself, and He who I came to know more and more.

Moving to California wasn't popular, but seemed doable enough to make happen. So, in June, 2011, I packed up a SOLD 2006 Toyota Corolla and drove West, emotionless as I left and unsure if this was the right idea. Right off the bat, I remember Los Angeles having a new vibrancy, yet caustic dullness to it I never expected. I got involved with Young Life in September, and blessed with uncertainty began pitching MATS to people throughout Southern California over coffee and bagels. Meeting wonderful people, centering my week in the Church, and selling cars became my world.

Last week, coupled with the knowledge that things had hit a mild-stagnancy and with an offer to move to Indiana into a role similar to what I left in 2011, decisions had to be made and for a few days I was certain to make my life in California a silent and occasional reflection of a reality that became blurred.

But, luckily my plans did not trump what was presented. And now, today I started a new job working at the Center at Blessed Sacrament Church. The last two weeks have been miraculous in what has been presented, and taken away; further evidence to the sovereignty of a God who, ultimately, loves and takes away. I am excited, and energized to define what I now live and to be an opportunity to socialize I have missed these past few years, to engage in the lives of those who don't seek pity but friendship, and to finally reciprocate the Love God has given in allowing me to fail, while still nurturing, and ultimately keeping me in L.A. a little longer.

A Whipped Plane

A whipped plane, plain to see with the windows up, but down, to be downed by the splendor encompassed only with this type of vastness.

Sitting for hours, silence not for naught but traversing efforts toward closeness to the bringer of Peace. The only.

Dreams are heavy, and comforting when the roads journey takes more tolls and toiling on our souls. We disregard for a while the sipped perfection from whence we came, glamoured for justice to who we became.

Trivial matters none the less, uncovered near Hermit's nest. Blessed to bless, fessed to confess.

A priest to stare, iconic to share a truth-unfair to the tune of the wind in our softened hair.

"As a child I spoke like a child, felt as a child does, but now that I'm older I fear that all's not lost." Once a brain, now to complain of a surrounding so deafened, and dream-less. I take it back; for when dreams strive in equal relation to Justice, the days of golden mussels, and embraced lovingness from our soul's longing will reap.

To be.

nuestra diddy

A morning awakes to pounding temples - reminder of the night's lack - telling oneself: it's always the last time. Cold sweat, outstretched mornings turn to afternoons; cutting quick from morning to afternoon time is seamless, and seem-less. Coffee shop jolts off-set by meaningless conversations; carnival fears, planned trips Western Europe, hidden cigarettes, and forced dreams on paper. Perhaps other cities drone on in the day, pass slowly by night, but no city drags with the lethargic daily hangover of the Ciudad de Los Angeles. A time was born when they'd sit around, in like sleeves and reasonable arms, applauding the environment, characterizing it as a place to be, but never to stay. Rare a dream, born in the age of gilded faces, left unfulfilled. A dollar's worth bought a dollar's share - not so anymore, with the feint of the devil's snare, became a grim to bear. Hours spent, isolated from truth, and the witness to change gritted its teeth, passive to action but paned to normalcy. And then, we wind awake, slumberous in the mid-day, non-invasive sun. Caustic-carelessness straps our shoes to the boardwalk where so many, and so few die in silence, without care for no one even knew we were there.

It seems we spend all our lives trying to figure out what it is we should be doing with our lives. Recently, after years of worrying, and sometimes considering (but mostly worrying), I gave up in that whole nonsense. Telling myself I should just enjoy where things are, and take each day-to-day. And, wouldn't you know it? Not 24 hours later I've two people, maybe three, asking me what i am going to do with my life?! If there's one theme running deep in our lives, it's irony in what we do to what we think we're going to do, what we want in what we end up wanting, and so on.

The truth is, after discnering the clothe or the aisle for some time now, the answer to what we should do is often in our self recognition of where find ourselves. It's more than often the opposite of that which we wish. If we are alone, it's the touch of another for which we long. But when we have it, we know it's squander and distruth that comes.

So, today when you're in your most intimate moment of the day...washing dishes, walking here or there, or maybe praying; ask yourself: what is it that I'm trying to wish myself out of but is my reality and stronghold of comfort? Piece that to what you love, and you may have what you were meant to be.

And you know what St. Catherin of Siena said (whose feast is Monday!):

"Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire..." 

Western/Melrose

And then, we're just sitting at a stop light and a little dog wanders joyfully, tail-wagging, too close to the yellow-light-running-black Corolla. The driver never even noticing what was to happen.

I do like dogs, but I reserve attachment to them as any animal. Truth teaches us to be kind to all living things, sufficing our needs only when we must and never denying justice even to the birds of the air, or fish of the sea. I have had many animals through my short life; salamanders when I was 10, Holly the crazy sheltie, frogs, toads, fish, a squirrel I trapped in a box, and about 347 hamsters I'll never forget. I love animals; they're enjoyable and I miss Bella the crazy, floppy-eared, red doberman my parents now call their own.

But the other day I realized I hadn't felt that pit of sadness in a long time reached only at loss, subjectively witnessed and unexpected. One of my YL kiddos and I were doubling back, sitting at Western/Melrose; a very busy, E. Hollywood intersection where it's almost impossible to turn left, anytime of the day, or night. And then comes this little dog, and in a flash I thought in my heart: 'oh, no'. And then it happened. The car running the light much the same as I do, and as everyone does, didn't see the little dog and neither did the dog see that car.

Hours later; after eating, hanging out and flamingo-ing as part of YL tradition on a Thursday night, I drove back to that intersection, still subtly stunned at what had happend three hours earlier. When it had happened a quaint dark-haired girl ran out into the intersection picked up the dog, and carried it over to a green bus-waiting bench at the corner. My light was green, so I turned left at that moment. But this time, parking the car, I walked in suspense and sadness at what I would still find lying on the bench, and sure enough as I did there was the little dog. Dead. And still lying where that poor girl probably laid and wept for the loss she had witnessed. So I stood puzzled at what would be the right thing to do - knowing well, as apparently no one else did, that leaving this little lifeless creature on a bench through the night was an injustice. So, bringing from the car a black garbage bag - providentially stuffed in the car - along with a towel, I carefully wrapped up the dog. Onlookers walked by, and one gentleman said: 'thanks'.

Puzzled at what to do next, I leaned against the car on Western peering down at the black bag containing the lifeless dog for what seemed hours. My phone buzzed and seemed uncontrollable and annoying, as the angst I felt was tragic and cutting. Eventually, I prayed a bit asking God to deliver some semblance of an idea as to what He would like me to do now for this creature belonging to no one, but Him. Googling, I finally deduced that I didn't think it possible to bury the dog anywhere, I wasn't going to throw him in a dumpster, which would have been worse than simply leaving him on the bench. After loading him up, pressing the junk from the rear of the car to the front, I took off to Caehuenga Animal Hospital. I reached in my backpack for a piece of paper, and discovered first a blank THANK YOU card. I wrote a small note, much without thinking, to describe what had happened, and how I came to see what I saw; noting I thought they (at the hospital) would know better about what to do than I. It was now 11:15 p.m., and I had friends texting me to go to a bar with them not 5 blocks away, I realized later. Instead, I unloaded the sad creature, now wrapped in a Target towel, and a black garbage bag; placing him feet from the door, and lying the card and his collar - I had risked to recover in the traffic of the same intersection - on the bag. Praying for Grace upon the life of this dog, the people his life had affected, the girl who pulled him from the street and for peace, I blessed the little thing and then drove home.

I need to do a better job of writing down some of what enters my little head, but it's hard when most fleets so fast I can't catch it even with a long-armed butterfly net.

Recently, I spent some time in New York City. Heard of it? At the Catholic Worker house, on E 1st Street, where I made many friends, and lived a minimal life-style for about 10 days...albeit including night caps at Stillwater, a local watering-hole frequented by Oklahoma State University graduates.

The experience was subjectively overwhelming, as I spent time with homeless (which i love), ate three meals a day (rare, but wonderful for me), and spent time at Union Square dressed as an inmate while silently protesting the holding of those at Guantanamo.

To which this thought inspired me to write that I'm at a loss for the reason behind Gitmo, and the continuing denial of justice for even those who may be enemy combatants. I don't think this government can deny rights of even the most evil of those, with the worst intentions and then guarantee that any other human's rights are not at risk, as well.

However, I began writing because a close friend of mine is a CWer and was just arrested today, charged with obstruction of a government building. Which means standing where the local, or federal government doesn't want to you stand while conveying a subtel message they don't want you to read. The arrest was expected, and that's where I am stuck. I'm confused at whether I would take part in this sort of 'action' but I am not confused upon my feeling of whether I agree with being arrested, just to be arrested. Much like the Gospel message is unflawed in its Truth, I believe the message of non-violence and the peaceful acknowledgement as such is without flaw, as well. But the hearts of men are flawed, and if those hearts are even close to holding my concern, while shuffling to propagate any message then they shouldn't be on the sleeves, let alone body's of those protesting.

Peace at our earth's end

Prophetic things need be written, when by the spirit of truth they abound in our souls, thrusting us to action. For when a soul is near its climax, whilst embattled to and in the body, the upcoming basking in glorious Truth extends itself in such a way so the soul can't help but shriek with anticipation. Nearing the end, and the narrow gate of which we've navigated toward, refection becomes commonplace and only the most intimate of friends sense the sudden worldly-peace; the now-defined plunge into eternity.

In tune to my God and our Lord's will, a soul slowly recognizes not only the simplicities over-looked, but the very will - and end - of the worldly struggle. Life is but a tarnished mirror; few scratch into the reflective nature, revealing truth, and even more struggle without illumination to enter room of our beloved.

For now until eternity, whichever comes first, we believe ourselves chained to reflecting on the prospective past. For nothing is more unjust than assuming to one's worry of things un-kept, or unfinished. The praise of our own Lord in sacrificing himself frees us from our human bondage - what a impenetrable grace! Words, mere human inventions, do no justice to the Infinity that is our God in every sense. By His very lowering of Divinity to reach our define-ity, we are saved. All the most-masterful works of art, and use of our most-beloved creations do nothing to reflect this wondrous blessing.

So, at a time when a soul must encroach into a world wherein there is ultimate justice; a world unfit for even the most-saintly of humans, what more can be done than to assume the role of a slave, and beg for mercy-unceasing.

Rants to my mom

Last night, you may or may not have seen my sorrow-laden rambles on the Facebook in response to another silent (yet roaring) cataclysm to the status of fundamental freedom in these divided-United States of America.

If you didn't, here they are, following the news of President Barack Obama's re-election:

We're all excited, now. But why? Is it because we've elected a great reformer? Or, an accomplished fellow who represents the good in what has made this country great? Or, a (sic) someone who is set to further the embrace of concrete relativism?

and:

Like most days, today I joined a cluster of supporters of life to pray this early afternoon in support of the lives of innocents, whose are ended without a fighting chance. And like other days I grieved over the reality that those condoning the supporters of such grave injustice are my friends. There has to be a way to convey that some issues carry more weight than others, and even precede all other issues. There has to be a way.

Last night, for whatever reason, something broke in me. And although my passion for standing for the innocents has increased, a true thud to the reality of ignorance in this country - and world - hit home. And hard.

Tonight, as I drove home I got on my hypothetical soap box again, on the phone with the one who cares most for me; the one who decided I was worth letting live after I was miraculously created. My mother in all her qualities has the patience of, well, my mother. No one in the history of this world has more patience, I will contend. She even has enough to listen to me at least once per week during this election cycle, rant upon the issues at the fundamental core to all the problems in this country. A bold statement indeed, to which I don't attach a puny 'I believe' - a caricature of assumption rather than true adherence to one's acknowledgment of real belief.

My declaration tonight started with my aggravation at the lack of persistent desire for good in this country. And, true good. Along with my confusion for how people I call friends, and even family-members can live without having an anxious step to do something.

"If you can't get a job then go out and volunteer somewhere!" I said. In my spirited and mostly-aggravated assault on my ear piece - and my mom's eardrum - I cease to be as charitable as would be ideal. But, come on!

I couldn't fight it long though as I changed paths. The conversation turned to the election, and the sheer assault on religious freedom and adherence of supporters of this president in their blatant disregard of this right. I asked my mom: "why did people first start coming in communities across the Atlantic?" She paused and I answered: "It was for religious freedom, away from the oppressive corruption-laden governments of Europe and Great Britain, who didn't allow free practice of religion." They came to the 'new world' we'll call it - though i hate that nomer - so they could worship as they desired. Then I asked, "what's the first line of the first amendment to the constitution say?"

It says : "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..."

The most fundamental element to the freedom of our government is the allowance for free exercise of our religion. The reason the first groups of people came to the U.S. was for this right. And so therefore, those writing up the Constitution must have thought it pretty important to make it so declaring at the beginning.

How is it today, when the President of the United States, proclaiming to adhere to the Constitution can so blatantly deny this fundamental right? If you're not paying attention, you should be. Because, while you were sleeping or falling in love with his charism or the obsession to his wife's fashion sense, the man is trampling on the very right(s) this country was founded upon. The HHS mandate will go into effect next year, and when it does it will require Catholic institutions to provide contraception, and even calls for allowance of more money to fund abortions. A clear dissent from the teachings of the faith - and Truth itself - and a clear slap in the face to freedom of religion, and the founding fathers for that matter.

What really gets me going, I told her, is that there are christians everywhere who support contraception and even worse, abortion, and in so-doing support this president's assault on their fellow believers they claim as brothers and sisters in Christ. It's unreal the ignorance and blatant disregard for structure, morality, and justice - all of which were what made this country so great - and, so free.

Needing to blog more

Recently, I took over a former obligation, making it again a current obligation. So, you could say a lot hasn't changed, but it has at the same time. As many of you know, I sell cars, lease cars, clean cars, and do about all you can imagine with cars, save for fixing cars. In order to streamline business, and give me more purchasing requests, i.e. more money - I was given back the throne of 'lease master' and told to be on my way. While this all sounds vague and ambiguous, I have been basically entrusted to respond to potential customers, answer their questions, and equip them with all the necessary knowledge they would need in order to lease a car with MATS. And then sell it to them. During this process I get a chance to write hundreds of emails with thousands of characters each, many similar, but no two the same. You're now thinking; what does this have to do with anything? Well, in fact it has a lot do with with my writing this ramble. It gives me a chance to write, albeit about logistics and compact sedan models, or even the occasional suggestion to pick up in Winston-Salem, rather than Morganton, N.C. And write, I do. Therefore, i feel the call to do it again. And do it, I shall.

+nathan

Homeboy

"Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire." - St. Catherine of Siena

Homeboy Industries, started by Fr. Gregory Boyle in 1988 is an outreach, service-centered non-profit, set up to help gang members get their life on track. Homeboy, now alongside Homegirl Cafe which serves the Homeboy signature baked goods, assists in legal counsel, education (GED classes), career placement, tatto removal, and jobs. Boyle's mission, and the history of Homeboy has been outlined in his New York Times best-selling book "Tattoos on the Heart".

I had heard about Homeboy and Fr. 'G', as the 'homies' call him throughout his book, and in real life, but it wasn't until the kiddos at Camino Nuevo High school were approved, and assigned to read 'Tattoos', that i discovered how much of a fan I am.

There are missions that work, and those that don't. The common theme amongst those that do NOT is they fail at embracing what they do well, and end up taking on a 'greater' mission to do more than they can take on. This is only natural, as altruistic people and groups tend to want to give and give and give, without reasonable expectations of capacities. Homeboy started small, and grew naturally through - what I believe to be - the Holy Spirit, which is so evident at the facility, and in its growth. If you haven't clicked on the Homeboy link, you should and take note, no matter your convictions, or beliefs. The place simply works, albeit a bit of chaos and many struggles along the way. Helping hundreds of gang members get their life on track, is becoming more and more natural for Homeboy, as several have gone off to college, graduated, and started families; leaving the streets and gang-life behind. Truly amazing.

The reason I am so taken by Homeboy, Fr. G and the homies, is that Fr. Boyle has embraced God's will, alongside his own vision to do exactly what he was 'meant' to do; setting the world on fire in the process. We should seek the same in our lives, and never underestimate the power of compassion for those who we fear, or assume wouldn't help us in return.

a quick, rediscovered passion

Today, while at the second of my two jobs, 5th of my 7 activities (volunteer, or otherwise) I discovered I had not really dug into Shakespeare, for a long time. And when I did, it was similar to the process before plunging in a cold pool; toes outstretched to unsuccessfully gauge the temperature, before shuttering at the acknowledgment and uncertainty before ultimately hesitating...and then the final leap.

Once in, and treading the words and over-complicated sentences began to establish familiarity. As I talked through one line, then a second...and then an entire passage, I began to realize that I couldn't only do it, and well, but I enjoyed it!

The Tragedy of Othello, the second of Shakespeare's legendary tragedies is the avenue for this newfound, or perhaps; rediscovery into the words of the 17th century master. I've constantly discovered that truth is often found through narrative, rather than by hypothetical discussion or consideration. For years I've bought Shakespeare's work in paperback, commentaries about the plays, and generally held it in high esteem, even from my love of the movie "Renaissance Man," which I watched a lot as a kid.

So, I guess I love Shakespeare and always have. Heck, I even visited his birthplace, where he lived in London, the Globe and his grave in Stratford-upon-Avon, during my time in England. Therefore, it makes sense I should discover, or rediscover a love in the halls of a high school, where I have come to pursue that which I should have long ago.

After all, "to thine own self be true..."

Garbage on full display without the canister

ahem.

The last few weeks have been a gem to behold, as I've been driven out of slumber and into a state where now all i really want to do is write. And although much of the penmanship fashioned with keystrokes has been in direct contrast to true creativity, I have been writing. Not purported to reason or justice, just simply things to behold - enough to keep someone insane, sane; at least for the time being.

Tonight was a cornerstone, not only in my perpetual - and I'm almost sure - eternal lonliness, but in my recognition of the things that make a Woody Allen film great. Without reservation Mr. Allen for years has not made movies for the likes of Hollywood junkies, or teenage adrenaline 7-11 slurpy junkies. No. He has made movies he has wanted to make. And you can't fault anyone more than everyone else in Hollywood who doesn't do the same thing. I for years have wanted to watch only what I want to watch, and why should a creator be any different? With the amassed collection of revenue generating filth being poured out onto Hollywood Blvd, at least someone has the audacity to stand on his own two feet to not only write, but direct several films that he's wanted to make.

His most recent film, and the one which has inspired me to jot down this blabbering mess of text, To Rome with Love was just that; a love letter to the beautiful city. Recently I took part, alone as always, to watch the documentary on Woody Allen, his quirks, his other talents - which includes playing a jazz clarinet - and a cinescope of all his work, which until recently I hadn't put in order. Therein was mentioned tha much of Mr. Allen's talent had been spent in the only city he knew - the only city that really mattered to him - the only city that truly beckons those with creative-neurotic minds, yet spits them out into New Jersey before even getting through the Lincoln Tunnel. New York, is where all of Allen's best films take place, yet as he has entered the twilight of probably his life and career - both of which go hand in hand, I'm sure - he is reaching out to cities like Paris (2011) and Rome, in his most recent film, to bid them adeu in the spirit of his filmaking style. Contingent on quirky perceptions of the cities - to which I've always identified - and unabashed, yet attractive, insecure main characters, 'Midnight in Paris' and 'Rome' have both created what Allen has always wanted to create - a film, for those who adore his style and wit, but most importantly for himself.

Three things appeared to be in the crowd of themes so representative of Mr. Allen, and the films I've grown up with and into; first, his tired jokes keep rolling yet give rise to the beginning of the end. 

Second; perhaps love is best served on screen, or on a stage through the passions, characters and scharades of the human narrative - backdrop set in some of the most beautiful places this world offers. 

And third; bums are always in conflict.

Hopefully more later - I have to get up early to give rides to some of the slurpy slurpers, otherwise known as high school students. I was never one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjecIllOEio

Painful the day you find nothing to fill your time; no drinking or inhumane, to fill your time - save the pain. Given the days of peace, the longings are gone when they no longer confine us to beds, built late nights after meaningless work, and shielded by reruns instead of appreciation. Fou (under my mind)

Chainlink. It's cold, and I'm warm and you're dead in your mind. Dumb, more likely. But I'm stuck and smitten.

Texas is bald. The nights of driving late through New Mexico ignoring the stars to reach a lover-unnapreciative are over. This is the piece we realize that the pretension of others is worthless, and in order to live in peace as we are to be, giving up their cyber-concerns isn't as hard as it seems to be. 

Just realize that peace in the unjust mind of others is impossible.

Today; a blur.

Yesterday, as far away as peace at play

Seven and careless

thoughtless to teach and preach

without saying a word.

Natured Constrictions

I hate that I always start filling in forums and questionnaires with: 'I'.

Catching myself again, I realize I don't want to be passive in my intention to sell myself or my potential for contribution to an outlet, but MAN do I focus wholly on myself the great-portion of the day.

(and suddenly, a silent desire to type on a pigeon-excrement-covered table in MacArthur park - stop searching for spelling of 'MacArthur')

This morning I awoke and did what the priest vehemently proposed last night at mass following the novena, to which I stumbled upon late - stepping high over the lap of a veil-faced elderly to enter the pew. No one ever scoots to the middle; they always expect you to step over them. Some people, knelt in prayer, are seemingly so peaceful that disturbing them seems to be a crime. I just want to bottle up their gracious-peace and bathe in it, in the glory of sparkle-covered rained clouds, letting no drips hit the ground.

So yeah, I knelt this morning and offered what good and bad would come of the day to God - and tried desperately to make a point not to do this for me but for others. Following my 30 second finger-combing session in the bathroom mirror, to the sound of the absurdly-loud bathroom fan, I put on a dirty shirt, same jeans, same shoes; socks, I was already wearing and tip-toed out onto the front porch. There I found darkness at 6:35 a.m.

Cafecito Organica sounded better than McDonalds coffee, a substance foreign to me this week after my roommate passively ordered the retirement of my beloved, yet leaky, Bunn. The adventure to the airport was of Grace and coherence; clarity of desires unfulfilled and longings of which I've been dying to bask. We said our good byes, again at an airport terminal and I watched as she escaped from my view, and a LAX patrol beeped at me to carry-on.

So I don't know what's going on. I know that yesterday I was a mess of emotion and paralyzed defeat, and agony of unending self-doubt. The thoughts that bind, aren't of the lack to substance of other's talents. They are of my limitless potential, which I can't seem to tap into because of my own fears and lack of ability to focus.

I'm trying to grow up, so I don't have to keep watching someone I love disappear into terminals or escape into bus stations without my confidence to leave a car in long-term parking.

I'm trying hard to see the cluelessness in my lack of action. And I'm trying desperately to put everything, including everyone before 'I'.

Whimsick

moments in time where pejorative poo-poos potent the primacy of the pulpit.

Disparaging days dissuade devout deviance drowning dreams of dastard do-gooders.

For years I've wondered what is next, when next is dependent on the state of being here now. Do what you wish, but be sure to be here for the moments what do.

Structure is required of some populations; I'll refrain from claiming I'm not. Not in any span of time do a writer's flock coincide with an artist's intent.

For years I've dreamt of walking deep into the woods, to return only with Ultimate truths. Recently I've begun to wonder through my wander; "am I in the vastness of the woods, eyes closed and shoes buckled?"

The ship-master's quarters neatly abated of wrongdoing whence by the hands be unrecognized heroes of our time. From the master's chamber to the rotten floorboards of servants, cleansed to view reality; captain's keep, undying quickly defaulted toward eternal sleep.

i have to do more to take the life less serious, serious less given to life more through what do have i?

When the time comes to sit down and type, I often wonder: "what am I to write?" However, in my states of confusion or my daily-drift into periods of flatlined intent, I find the answer but never get it down in time.

As a creative mind speaks, so the swans flock to the park.

And then the time comes when words are to be transcribed, yet there are no pens and not even chalk scraps to write on sidewalks or nails to carve into our skin. Chances fleet like the California sun's warmth in late afternoon, and we're powerless but within our control. As the opportunities for quandary arise, so do the persistant-glooms appear giving us nothing but bounties of limitless produce.

Factories are torn down and orchards take their place. Foundries by rivers and cheers by gasps.