Words and Wisdom

The power of spoken word is unnatural. 

My love of spoken word and written works brings up a common question that I can never find the answer to .

Which is more powerful: The man with the pen who writes the words that move others hearts or the man who can transform those words into something tangible, be it music, spoken word or what have you.

They both have their strengths.

Words turned into sounds is the biggest benefit to the  stubborn or unwilling reader. People who claim not to have time to read the words can have it flow into their minds another way. This is usually more opportunistic since the written work can be remade into a melody or a theatre act or a television show to reach a broader audience. Basically, sound an visual gets points for broader appeal.

However, when something is written out, as the reader you have the opportunity to experience the situation however you feel. It can be something as little as pronouncing a name different or placing yourself in the story. Each reader becomes their own author.

There will probably never be a solid answer. What i the point of art if no one can hear it? But what are they hearing if no one is creating the art?

-Peace

Self-Evaluation: The Interactive Blogger

When you think of a blogger, the first naive thought that comes to your mind may be an extreme. What first came to me was some sort of nerd who gets paid by the hour to sit in his house, probably unwashed, and input information into the computer. For a better image, picture Sandra Bullock from The Net to get a better idea.

Well this image is the FIRST thing to go when someone actually begins blogging or purposely learns about what a blogger does all day. So here are the basics-very condensed.

A- Blogging is usually a movement of love on the writer's part. They are not making big bucks right off the bat unless they start with a major company or have a sweet job. In the end, you need to be able to afford to do a minimum of 3-5 hours of research and then spend another hour or so preparing what you put up fluffed with plenty of related photos and links.

B- Everything I said about Sandra Bullock being a blogger is wrong for one simple reason: you NEED to have a life to be a blogger. No in betweens. Basically, even with the reach of the web, you can only sit on your but at home and read about something before viewers can tell that you haven't actually experienced what you're writing about. Why would I post feedback to what you're writing if every time it is clear you can only relate about as much as me, the commenter, and that is through a computer screen. Whomp Whomp.

So, unless you're lazy. you may have taken a quick scroll down to see if I measure up to the criteria I just laid out. Eh, partially. Everything is written by me and I have experienced them. But I wrote this post hoping it would inspire something in me to be a bit more interactive myself. MAKE something happen.

Any ideas?

The Skin I'm In.

So, a recent trip to the beauty salon provided me with more than the last year's worth of "The Game" reruns and Columbia gossip; I've got a new look. And, as always, with that new look come a few other "looks."

I experiment with my hair often so I'm used to it: arched eyebrows, eyeball exchanges and even rude comments. That doesnt bother me so much, I usually return the stare or laugh it off because I'm starting to get too old to hold grudges. 

Though I've adapted to the outside world, what IS starting to get under my  skin are my own thoughts.

Before I even stepped out of the chair I said to my stylist, " This is ghetto."  My stylist assured me it wasn't and in fact I've gotten positive feedback on it since I left the shop. My point, however, is that I'm not only my biggest critic, but I'm my biggest hypocrite also. I am the first one to point out that someone else is being an "ist" or practicing some sort of ism or stereotype association, but it took that moment in the chair to acknowledge that I place myself into a category before anyone else can have the chance.

As much as I preach acceptance, maybe I need to retire from the pulpit and go sit in the pews for a while.

Church

The Simple Life

Just about everything shuts down over spring break in Columbia, Mo.

I'm just going with the flow!!! 

So, the following is an excerpt from my screenplay...enjoy ( or tell me why you hate it). See ya next week!

INT. DINER-EVENING

ANDREW BEAL, a chubby man with blond stubble and a ragged hairline, sits alone at the corner table. His ragged t-shirt sports the local football team and his unfashionable jeans don’t set him apart from the usual 6 p.m. dinner crowd that usually meanders into Joe’s on a Thursday night.  He avoids eye contact and conversation, only looking up as the young waitress comes to refill his drink.  

WAITRESS

Hello sir. Bonnie left but I can help you out if you’re ready for your check. Oh! Well hey And.uh, Pasto—

ANDREW

(Interrupting)

Its okay kid. I dropped the title a while ago. You look familiar though, who are yaw again? Was it Laurelle?

LAURELLE

Yes! You used to talk to my father a lot, deacon bass. You know he still preaches every Wednesday night. You’re welcome to come by this week if you have the ti—

ANDREW

(Cutting her off again, turning back to his food)

No disrespect Hun, your dad was a good preacher and an even better man. But I didn’t forget the location of the church. Don’t expect to see me there any time soon.

Laurelle drops the check, awkwardly picking up the empty dishes as she scurries off back to the kitchen.

Andrew swallows the last bits of a tuna sandwich, and grabs his jacket before dropping a meager tip on the table.

-EXT. DINER-

ANDREW shuffles towards the intersecting street corner, whistling an old rock tune.  They are familiar steps towards Euclid Street.  He passes through a steep, winding neighborhood, noticing the same grey-blue house on the corner that’s needed a paint job for as long as he can remember. He continues on, passing houses in various states of repair. As he cuts through a nearby intersection, a large green van with “HEARN’S MOVING MEN” painted on the side speeds by, the back door slightly open. A small brown box drops out into the middle of the street.

He stops whistling abruptly, bending over to pick up the box. He recognizes the address, its Judah’s house. Andrew’s mind is flooded with images of the home, of the crooked stairs that lead to the falling porch. He remembers the sound of the rusty screen door that always told of a visitor before they could announce themselves.

The van continues forward, the driver blasting his music, unaware of Andrew's cursing and gestures.

ANDREW

(Standing in the middle of the road)

I guess the old man was right about the dream, ha. Yeah that’s the name, “Clarke”. Welcome to Kirkville kid.

A horn hunks loudly in the background.

DRIVER

Move the hell out of the road you nut!

Andrew looks up, waving his arm as he passes in front of the car to the other street.

DRIVER

(After seeing Andrew’s face)

Oh man, I’m sorry pastor. I—

ANDREW

Yeah don’t worry about it kid. Why don’t you skedaddle while you’re still ahead eh?

The driver pulls off. Andrew runs his hands through his wind blown hair and heads across the street toward Judah’s home.

He finally reaches the front yard and steps around several old lawn decorations, only to stumble up the steps after tripping over a stump in the ground. He knocks on the door a few times to make himself known before turning the front door knob. The door gives enough for him to step his head inside.

A Day in the Life

Nothing is more filling than the last bite of food, but only if eaten while in the check-out line. 

Most customers would agree. The flavors are enhanced if the ill-gotten goods are downed at 1 a.m. and the culprit is intoxicated. Next, sticky-fingers makes their way to the sub shop line to order their food, running into those pesky things called shelves. If you’re a customer, you might find this annoying, as a cashier I see pure entertainment. They continue, cursing out people and objects in the way, just so they can slur their turkey on wheat order--extra mayo.

 

They make it out of line, already biting into their unpaid for food, only to stumble a few more steps as they grab some chips and finally a soda to wash it all down. The scenario is routine by now, the shoppers just don’t know they are a part of the production.

 

 Half of a sandwich, salty fingers and a soda later, the culprit reaches the register. This is the moment of truth. We can all laugh off out right theft if the person has their card handy, ready to quickly swipe their debt away.  When they don’t it usually goes along these lines” Oh My Go*, I forgot my card!” Entertainment: meet long F*cking night. This is promptly followed by

a-Looking through every crevice of a purse ( or outfit). 

b-Asking a friend for cash or... 

c-Outright flirting (flashing) for free food.

All before the digital clock strikes 2 a.m. on a thirsty Thursday. 

Oh the joy 

Sometimes Worrying Helps

There is a problem in my community and it took a 45 minute lecture and a random Youtube video for me to figure out that the problem might be me.

Recent chain of events summarized, earlier this week I received a lecture from a visiting editor of my home city’s magazine The Pitch. After the usual “What You Should and Shouldn’t Do as a Journalist” introduction, she got to the point of her visit: a special piece the magazine had produced to highlight the increasing murders in Kansas City, Mo in 2009. It outlines an image of some kind, usually a google map and a brief summary of how the person(s) were killed. Though her focus was more on the comments from readers and how major an online blog can be for a publication, her answer to a question was actually the most important thing I “learned” that day. When asked if this had been done or could be done in larger cities she off-handly replied probably not and that luckily our city has just enough homicides to do this project.
Worse than her tactless answer was my initial mental response: I wasn’t the least bit surprised by her statement.
I’m not going to rail her for her comments, again no shock. What did surprise me was to what level I could see myself thinking the same thing. Among applications and rejection e-mails and as I make journalism less of an academic path and my actual life process, I can honestly say the line has begun to blur as to where my loyalties lie: to the story or to the victim? Sometimes I have to wonder, how much do I actually care? Am I the problem?
The only bright side: at least I’m asking myself these questions.
Shit.

Rambles

Been a while since I flexed my fingers on the keyboard.

Besides stating the obvious, I fell like its time for an update.

I've seen plenty of things to do or not to do in the club, on a date, at work, etc. Bloggers are always giving the readers a list of things, usually commical, that will put them in the cool club. Looking at these lists, I'm surely entertaining but the more I laughed at some of the examples the more I started to think "hmmmm, change a few minor details and that could be me."



HA!! Here I am laughing at other people and the sickening realization that someone might have been picturing me when they read it. But a thought that usually follows "oh well".

Im not the most care free person, I'm probably pretty anal retentive, but sometimes I just sit and laugh about things that at the time seemed so embarassing that they would end my world.

Just random ramblings....

BE at Peace!!!