Friday, September 08, 2006


This is my first blog, ever...

There are an infinite amount of thoughts and ideas, feelings and passions rolling around in my head, and I've never been able to get them down on paper. Why, you ask? I know it has a lot to do with my hatred of pen & paper. I tend to squeeze the pen between my finger and thumb as if my life depended on it, and that just makes my hands cramp. Plus, I could never write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. I end up losing my train of thought. But thanks to the wonder of the internets, (read: backspace is your friend), I've become quite the typist. So, the time for me to start organizing my thoughts is long overdue. Besides, I've always found the best way to figure out the unknown is to just jump the hell out there in the heart of it, and figure it out.

I want to write... I NEED to write... These thoughts and ideas in my head just won't go away... They SCREAM for the gift of life, but I don't know how to write. There's so much creativity in my head, and without learning how to channel it, it feels like I'm trying to pick up mashed potatoes with a fishing net.

Or at least I didn't know how to write. This is going a lot more smoothly than I ever imagined.

I'm an actor. I've finished my first feature film back in June, '06, and I don't know where to go from here. I have no shortage of ideas for all sorts of projects be it for network TV, HBO, short films, etc. But I don't know where to begin. I don't have the money to go to school. I already owe a small fortune in student loans, so selling my ass into hock for a second time isn't really an option...

I hate the need for money.

It's like... I close my eyes, and I see what my life is supposed to be, and I'm nowhere near where I should be. There are consequences for the sacrifices you make in the name of family, but that's another blog entry all together.

My brother has a parrot named Stevie. He's an African Grey, and quite the character, I must say. I love him, but just like every other pet I've ever had, he's retarded (That's what makes animals interesting enough to keep as pets). Anyway, I look at him and how he flies to where ever he wants to go whenever he wants to go there, and then I realize that most birds have their wings clipped... I feel like that... like my wings are clipped because I don't see a proper path for me to follow. I mean, I know what I want, I just don't know how to get there. I woke up one morning, whenever it was, and I'd finally owned up to what I really want. I've spent my life ignoring my own dreams and aspirations, and I can tell you one thing. It's a fucking mistake. I'm 31, and have nothing to show for it, but resentment. I feel I'm in that cage with him sometimes, and I know if I could just learn how to channel this, I'd be on a bullet train to success. I just don't know what to do.

And what is my definition of success? Well it's not a mansion, villa in Italy (fuck the French), a warehouse full of cars, and a string of poloponies I can tell you. I'm not a materialistic person in any stretch of the imagination. Success, for me, is being able to come and go as I please without a care in the world. As long as I have enough to provide for myself and whomever I'm with, I'll be happy. But I digress...

At night I dream... most nights, anyway... and I could easily make short films from a large portion of them. There is such of shortage of originality in what passes for entertainment these days... People need to think for themselves.

During the day, I daydream of working on the sets of my own productions. Not fantasies, mind you, but real, attainable goals. I have no doubts about my talent or abilities. My quandry is one of opportunities. It reminds me of that old commercial from the 80's for a trade school (Devry, or Lincoln Tech, most likely) with the Indian man, Hindu, who preaches about finding a decent job. "To find a good job, you must have enough experience, but to attain experience, one must have a good job". It's good for a smirk and a chuckle, but then again, truth is stranger than fiction.

I've read in Backstage (a must have publication for any actor of any caliber) that fears of never working again are quite common among actors. As sinical as I am, this actually comforts me. I've been in seclusion for too long. Between problems in my past, and September 11th, I've become something that isn't me. I've compromised myself like a cliche'd author crumbles up so much bad ideas and tosses them into a wire basket. Truth be known, it disgusts me. Not in a "wallowing in self pity" sort of way... nay nay... quite the contrary. That's how I've felt for the past few years... that wallowing is the swamp from which I'm emerging. This disgust I feel is anchored in truth, but as subjective as truth is, it is, after all, MY truth. I find the truth to be liberating, and what's more, it makes people uncomfortable, which I find hysterical for reasons I don't think the average person will ever understand. They say the truth shall set you free. This is gospel.

But I ramble...

It's time for a change. This blog is proof of a better tomorrow.


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