Sketch a Blue Box

Tap, tap. That’s the first two taps of the keyboard. When I write I always hit return twice to make space between the document title bar and the first line I’m typing. I’m not completely sure why I do this because I always go back and delete the empty lines when I’m finished. It might be because I want a little visual space there. It might be because it’s knuckle cracking or finger stretching. It’s getting ready to sketch by winding the wrists with a pencil in hand. Hear the crackle of the old joints? My wrists need WD-40. “He said ‘Oil can.’” “Oil can what?” “Oil can? Oh! Here it is. Where do you want to be oiled first?”

My rusty fingers tippety-tapping away are not the problem. My overused index fingers can two-finger type like a thirteen year old texts. My thumbs are involved a bit, but any time I try to coax my other fingers into the game the play breaks up. I may as well stick my fingers into my brain and mash it all up like I’m preparing a meatloaf. I can’t type as fast as my creative brain moves, but if I did what I write might be even more incoherent.

An artist doesn’t always know what they’ll draw. I’m not talking about assigned artwork. We do that with specific parameters in mind. A writer might be doing the same thing. With an assignment there’s a framework of ideas that limits where to go. “Write an article about a blue box.” The writer looks into their experiences with blue boxes or Blue Box, the movie and talks about how a blue box affects the world. Or they talk about how Blue Box was much better than Green Box. The whole Box genre is taking over geometry, and we need more angular influence in the entertainment industry.

“When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space.”

When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space. That’s where I want to be. That’s where i find myself when I sit down to write. For me the empty page is an inviting space that calls out. It’s asking to be defined or put into focus. It’s asking for words. The blank page used to ask for a picture, but that’s not what I see anymore. I either never reached my potential as a visual artist or I lost my vision somewhere along the way.

My mind used to think in pictures. I had ideas in my head, and I found a fleeting image that represented that idea. That was what I put on paper. One still image from the whirlwind in my head. It’s like one of those cash grab booths. You’re standing in a chamber, and paper money is flying around you. A one hundred dollar bill whips past your eyes, and by the time your hand reaches that space it’s grabbing a dollar bill or a coupon for half off an oil change. You’re overwhelmed, and can’t grab what you want so you grab what you can. It’s too random. Satisfaction is elusive and you’re convince by the host that you’ve won something when you step out with twenty three bucks. There was a potential to come out with a thousand, but you’re supposed to feel good that you managed to get something.

That’s how I feel about my own experience with visual art. I make a living at it, but it’s just not fulfilling anymore. I’m not sure it’s been fulfilling since I was a kid. I was the artist growing up. I was lucky enough to have that nurtured, but what if it was the wrong talent to support. I found expression through praise, but maybe the praise was premature. I distinctly remember being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. On all those occasions I said, among other things, “an artist.” All, but one, actually. I said the things we were expected to say, or what I thought we were expected to say: “Fireman, policeman, astronaut, veterinarian, artist.” “You’re definitely an artist,” they would say.

One day, I saw a story in Cricket Magazine. The cover image was a Trojan Horse drawn as a giant cricket in black in. The detail had me in awe. I could almost draw it from memory, but what really stood out to me was the credit on one of the stories. Who it was escapes me, but the artist also wrote the accompanying story. That’s what I want to be: An author/illustrator. I didn’t know then that I was making a compromise for all the adults in my life who thought I needed to be told I was going to be an artist. I don’t fault them. I was saying I wanted to be an author, but they didn’t hear it. I didn’t hear it either. Because I just didn’t have the experience of life and understanding and appreciation for story-telling.

I had ideas. I had vague stories. I had thoughts, and the way I expressed them was with pictures. So I drew and drew to get all the pictures out. It was impossible. All the pictures were flying around my face, and I couldn’t possibly step out of the chamber and show them all to the world.

Is that my excuse for not trying to be a better artist? I don’t think so. I don’t lose myself in that process. The sketch, to me, is futile. I much prefer to look at the art of others. Artists can make some of the most inspiring images. And what do these images do to me? They make me want to write.

The above process has come out in snippets of conversation here and there. It may have even already come out in a bit of writing. But this is a sketch. My proverbial pencil made a circle on a blank page, and the lines got darker. A picture began to come into view, and I began to add details. This exercise, for me, is extremely satisfying. I’ve found who I am. I’ve learned to sketch again. If you’ve ever had the creative itch you know how important that is.

I won’t bother proof-reading this. Maybe later I’ll read it again and cringe at the sound of it. The flow will be clunky. The words will be wrong and the thoughts will be redundant. The sentence structure will be lanky and loose. I don’t care. I woke up, and sketched some words because my muse wants me to be in shape for whatever is happening next. The And is Near.

Dreams (Season 1: Episode 1: #dreams)

As I was lying in bed after waking up at 4:15 AM I wondered what I would write about. I drew a blank. I had no thought that had woken me. I suppose these are the mornings I should rise to work on my novel. Instead I rolled over and fell asleep again. I woke from a dream some time after 6:00 AM. I was driving. In most dream dictionaries they say driving in a dream means you feel as though you are making progress in your waking life. It’s usually a good thing if you are traveling. Interpretations can vary depending on the vehicle and destination. I was observing a gorgeous sky. It was a brilliant orange with a golden halo that extended well into the blue overhead. My wife was with me in my Mini Cooper. We looked through he sunroof to see how far it went above us. The sun itself was obscured by tall pine trees so we continued to drive. As we rounded the bend passing the trees we could see more. The edge of center was white hot the way the sun looks at noon. We realized it was slowly moving. It was rising, not setting. It was the light that was rising, but not the source of light. The sky boiled into the blue, rippling the way the end of a highway looks in the heat of the day. Black began to frame the explosion of light in the shape of an ellipse, and a trunk of hot black pressed the mass higher into the sky. We realized we were looking at a mushroom cloud, and it was close.

I’ve dreamt of seeing nuclear explosions before; but I’ve never been that close, and I’ve never been driving toward it. I always wish I could have seen the rest considering the relative safety of it all being a dream. I often tell people dreams and nightmares are my favorite source of entertainment. You get to exist in a reality of no consequence, and you can do whatever you want. Sometimes I wonder if lucid dreaming is a self induced morality test. When I was younger I believed that you wouldn’t do anything in a dream you wouldn’t do in real life, but I no longer believe that. I thought it was a way you could judge your own character until I understood the concept of lucid dreaming. Dreams have the potential to be free, personalized Choose Your Own Adventure scenarios.

Waking up can be very disappointing. It’s not that I want to be incinerated in a nuclear inferno, but if, given the chance to understand that whatever is happening has frayed logic, you can find yourself realizing you’re in a dream. Even if you don’t become lucid in the dream who wants the television to go black just before the dramatic conclusion?

Sometimes I find myself wishing I could remain in a dream world forever, and just forget about life. Then I feel guilty, like I’m taking life for granted or not appreciating it enough. I don’t wish my body could be in a coma so I can exist solely in a dream state. I don’t wish I’m in the Matrix while my physical body is harvested for its energy. But then I get pseudo-philosophical, and wonder if either of these things is already happening.

Am I existing in countless worlds? Did I witness the end of one via the nuclear explosion dream? It’s fun to postulate that idea until I remember I also once dreamt I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi when we were attacked by Bigfoot. Bigfoot threw me through a window (in the middle of the woods), and I burst into flame. As a skeleton I battled the hairy beast, and my camping friend disappeared. What’s the most unbelievable part of that dream? I think it’s the part where I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi. So, no, dreams aren’t another reality or a series of other realities. There’s speculative science that explains what dreams are, but I’m more interested in the entertainment value.

Most people would consider witnessing a nuclear explosion to be a nightmare. Maybe I’m jaded. The visuals in my imagination can be and are far worse than seeing something brilliant and awesome moments before my imminent demise. That almost sounds like a religious experience compared to some of the other scenarios my unconscious mind has conjured. Dreaming is one of my favorite things to do. I just wish I didn’t have to be asleep while doing it.

In Defense of ‘Live, Love, Laugh”

I tried starting the first sentence here four times, and deleted each of them after the first few words, not liking the sound or second-guessing my structure. Who wants to start a monologue/post/essay (how do I describe this anyway?) with a sentence that’s going to get the grammar police on scene before the point is made? My muse is here to remind me that what I’m writing about is judgement, and it comes in all forms. If we’re honest with ourselves we are all hypocritical (first time in the history of the universe I spelled that word right on the first try) on occasion. We judge, but we hate being judged. I judge. You judge. We all judge. For ice cream with fudge?

In the past few days there was an obscure coincidence that kept popping up in my social media feeds. It was on Facebook mostly. Side themes that are happening on Twitter and Instagram don’t always match. I’m not talking about the topic of the day, which is usually political. Sometimes it’s celebrity bashing, deserved or undeserved. Sometimes it’s a famous death. There’s a topic that falls into the feeds that occur over and over. You either scroll past or comment on a select few, the people or pages you interact with most.

Sometimes the recurring topic is more subtle. Some idea shows up twice, and you think, “Gee that’s funny,” though I never actually say, “Gee,” and I rarely say the rest out loud. I’ll just curl my lips down in my best unintentional Robert Di Nero expression, and I keep scrolling without much thought. Then a little further along I’ll see that someone has posted a status update, and it covers the same obscure topic. The words may as well have been copied and pasted. I rationalize that they saw the same posts I saw, and they were triggered or inspired to say the same thing. Then I see it again. Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?

To be certain, I doubt I’d hang the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” on a plaque, or as a wood cut-out, or using individual decorative letters in my house; but it’s not because I think people who do this are inferior decorators. Heck, the prominent art in my kitchen is two linoleum or wood block prints of King Kong and Godzilla, made by an artist called AttackPeter (Peter Santa-Maria). I’m not the one to come to for interior decorating advice. I may sneer or cringe when I see a Hummel figurine in someone’s living room, but who am I to begrudge someone’s Home Goods or Michael’s design choice?

“Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?”

I just looked up the word ‘begrudge’ to be sure I was using the best word. I’m probably not using the best word. I think we’ve been using that word wrong all along. “Envy (someone) the possession or enjoyment of (something): she begrudged Martin his affluence.” If it’s based in envy maybe all the judgements are about wishing you’d thought of it first, but now that it’s a trend you’re too cool to hang “Live, Love, Laugh” in your house.

Maybe it’s because you don’t subscribe to living, loving and laughing. Maybe it’s because the whole notion of putting the idea into words and having it on a wall usually reserved for landscapes or portraits of roosters is too cheesy. Who cares? What difference should it make to anyone how someone might choose to decorate? Sometimes people need Wayfair, or Kirkland’s or the Target home section to inspire them. Whether your living room and kitchen sport high art or CBGB’s memorabilia you have surrounded yourself with that which you love, hopefully.

We aren’t all masters of visual expression. A little inspiration goes a long way. I’ve been tempted to hang words of positivity in my house, but since I will typically go against the grain by the time I notice a trend I believe I’m too late to make an individual statement, and I move on. My wife and I have friends who hung the word “Noms” made from tin letters in their kitchen. When I saw it for the first time I was mad at myself for not having thought of it. I refuse to be a copy cat. I’m creative enough to have my own ideas. However, if I saw another mutual friend put up the word “Noms.” in their kitchen I wouldn’t judge them. If anything I’d think, “Damn, they liked that and they did the same thing. Now it’s a trend. I could have gotten in before it was a trend.”

There was a time I’d be among the judges. I’d roll my eyes at the cliches. Home is where the heart is. A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams. Reach for the moon… If you miss at least you’ll be among the stars. Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery and today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present. Honestly I still roll my eyes a bit. Fashionable philosophy is always going to be a thing though. Commercial convictions and average adages are will always be among us. Look at me. I’m a writer who dared to play with alliteration. Sue me. Ha! Another cliche.

If you’re judging “Live, Love, Laugh” signs and the people who hang them you’re missing the message altogether. Live the way you want to, but don’t fault someone else for living the way they want to unless they are hurting someone. Love what you love. Allow others to love what they love. Don’t weaponize your assessment of what someone else loves. Laugh at it if you need to, but if you’re laughing with your elbow in someone’s side to get approval for your laughter your just laughing wrong.

It’s Bedtime, The Brain.

I’m staring at a white screen *[see asterisk at the end], doing my damnedest to remember the words. I wrote this entire post in my sleep. More accurately, I wrote this entire post in a panic while trying to sleep between 4:00AM and 4:58AM. I was sure I was just waking up to roll over. It’s still dark. The Brain says to wake up. The Body says to go back to sleep (The Brain jiggles The Body, “Hey, wake up!”). This is all over the place for an opening paragraph. The punctuation is terrible and confusing, and the content is nothing like what I’d intended. This is not what I wrote in my head during my panic attack in bed at 4:00AM. I’m still mid-panic-attack. That may explain it.

Breathing a little more calmly. My legs aren’t twitching. My brain is focusing. All the triggers are still there, but my brain now has direct control of my fingers. Let me try that again. The evil villain known as The Brain has implemented the use of his diabolical hypnotic powers to control the feebleminded simpleton known as The Body. Oh, those two. They’re at it again.

There are a thousand reasons for my mind to be racing and only one reason I should be asleep. I’m tired. There, that’s it. That’s the Body’s entire argument. The defense rests (uh, really? No it doesn’t). The Brain wins again. “You win this time, The Brain, but I’ll stop you with diphenhydramine next time!” Drugs are not the answer, kids. I have allergies, and a postnasal drip that has been waking me up. Diphenhydramine is Benadryl. Note: I spelled diphenhydramine correctly in one try, but had to look up Benadryl because those nasty red dots appeared beneath my first attempt indicating I’d spelled it wrong. I guess the prefix bene is not being used here.

It couldn’t have been the pseudoephedrine (got that one right on the first try too). That was a 4-6 hour pill I took twenty hours ago. That helps dry my sinuses during this month of mucus and drip. I’m not making methamphetamine (weird that I didn’t have to look that one up either, but I will find myself going nuts trying to spell words like calendar). It couldn’t have been the two large cups of Cuban espresso I had yesterday. Both were before noon.

“You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!”

The Brain is like a dog or cat. He’s standing at the back door, turning to look at you or whining. “You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!” You let The Brain outside. He gets three feet off the patio, and he’s at the door again, nose and lips streaking the glass of the door.

The Brain insisted The Body jump out of bed. “What for?” asks The Body? “I was asleep.” It could be that I’ve been bombarded with freelance work this week. It could be that I have a writing assignment I’ve been putting off. It could be that I have to design and deliver a sell sheet for my toy manufacturer today (left field for anyone who doesn’t know me. I’ll probably write about this aspect of my life at some point). It could be that my father is in ICU, and the prognosis is not good. I’ve been avoiding writing about that because this is a new blog, and I’m pretty sure I want to keep it light. Writing it is an exercise that keeps me focused *[see asterisk at the end], and I’m trying to focus more on positivity because I have so much displaced anger bouncing around in my skull. I think it’s mostly from not expressing myself enough. There’s a lot in the world that should legitimately make one angry, but Doctor Anger should not have control of The Brain. The Brain has too much power. If Doctor Anger controlled The Brain’s fortress it might spell disaster.

I think I’m done with this post. It’s not focused, but it’s here, and it’s out of my head. One less thing to panic about. Something to note is that The Body gives me a telltale sign when I’m on to an idea that’s exciting. Whenever I’m in an abandoned house (happens more often than you might think) or in a place that’s screaming ideas at me I feel like I have to poop. Well, I don’t just feel like that. The sensation actually arises because ideas fill me up so fully the only way to make room is to empty my bowels.

*[This is how far I got before having to poop. Twice, apparently, before 6:00AM. Maybe that’s why The Brain was waking The Body].

The panic Attack is over. I’m going back to bed. Proof-read Schmoof-read.

A Daddy Long Legs is Watching You

Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start. If I want to write every day I can’t be angry with myself if I miss a day. I didn’t miss a day. This is day two and I’ve already lost two pounds! My diet is going great! Wait, no, I’m not on a diet, but I should be. See, it’s like anything; going to the gym, eating healthier, brushing your teeth. When you do it often enough it can become habit. It’s a part of you.

Thinking along the above lines people often say they do their best thinking on the pot, in the shower, or while they’re brushing their teeth. Is it because the bathroom is a magical place? Hmm, maybe it is. I could be wrong about this, but my theory on why you do your best thinking while you are soaping up the crack of your butt is not because you don’t want to think about it, but because it’s rote to you. There’s something about doing the things we do all the time that makes them feel almost involuntary, like breathing. Your heart is beating right now, but you’re not thinking about it. Your body is doing that for you, giving your brain time to think about predators that might be lurking while you groom.

Since we know, unconsciously, that there are no predators aside from the errant daddy long legs on the ceiling (he’s a pervert, but he won’t eat you… unless you’re already dead); we get to just think. It wouldn’t work in the wild though. If you’re under a waterfall rinsing your genitals (hey, they need washing!), I promise you, you are only thinking about three things: 1. Dang, this is cold! 2. Can anyone see me? 3. Is there a mountain lion lurking behind that tree? Oh, sorry, fourth you’re thinking, “Dang! This. Is. Cold!” But after that we get to thinking.

If you’re not in the habit of bathing under a waterfall (you know who you are) you’re probably grooming with nary a thought. Well, to be honest, there is that one nose hair that keeps coming back, full length, every day (just, how, though?).

All of the above is a tangent. That’s why I’m absolutely positive that the blog title I chose is perfect for me. “The And is Near…”, to me is about a few things: the idea that I’ve reached a conjunction (that sounds pretty gross)… I’ve reached a junction. I’ve determined that I will write, and I will. The “And” is the next part of the sentence (I don’t think of my life on Earth as a sentence. Though it feels that way sometimes, Earth is not a prison; but then again I can’t leave). The “And” is a follow through. The rest is self-explanatory, I hope.

Yesterday, after walking the dogs I was feeling proud that I liked my first blog post, and ideas were pouring in. Walking the dogs can be like those other mechanical things we do that give is time to think, and come up with ideas. Can be. My dogs don’t always give me time to think about anything other than, “Why haven’t they pooped yet?”

The topics are there. Keep a list if you have to. Or just wing it, and begin. There’s no shortage of ideas. In fact, this post became about… well, what was this about anyway? I was intending to write about dinner last night. So the next paragraph is going to be an exercise in me keeping it succinct.

*Black sesame seeds are useful in cooking. They can be used to hide all sorts of imperfections and stuff you may have accidentally dropped in.*

My wife and I take turns making dinner. Last night was her turn. She was working late, and I was finished early, so I started making an Asian style meal with the chicken breasts she asked me to defrost. As I was finishing she walked in the door with Vietnamese takeout. She quipped, “Is this Dinner of the Maji?” It was. Now, it’s no one’s turn to make lunch or dinner for the rest of the week.

I think I could have made that a lot more interesting and funny if I’d held it for one more day, and dedicated it to its own post, but I’m not going to squirrel my ideas anymore. So, let us take a moment to mourn the short life of that anecdote. Alas, we loved our dinner and leftovers, and we loved how it inspired me to write about it. We honor you for your sustenance, and thank you for being a part of our lives. You were an inspiration.

That’s it. I’m not allowed to worry about what I’ll write about anymore. I wrote the words, “Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start,” and the rest just happened. Stream of consciousness can be a helpful way to move things along. Remember to flush. And so, it happens, nature calls. I’m going to do some thinking.