Is the past that haunts our dreams and memories, or are they gone, like shadows without light? We look away from the pain we caused to ourselves and others and yet continue to punish ourselves for it. As if the torture was not enough. But those little darlings remain the same. Tiny darlings we call our own with a sudden sense of pride. And are we worthy of the love we once called our own. Those little stings that never go away. Out of the darkness, into the light without thought or reason. We are healed by that ever lasting pain.
And now we follow the dream that never was. But not to fret, it is in the forefront of our emotional core, of who we are. And that sorrow defines us as much as the joy and exhilaration of falling in love.
So they walk hand in hand, as lovers do. For each would perish without the other.
Tears of joy trickle down your face just like those when your heart is broken and the road seems to have end.
to be continued...
Monday, July 20, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Sound Off Hollywood…. returns
"It is not a comeback, it is a return!" Norma Desmond, Sunset Boulevard.
Years ago, when rock still reigned, was a little 'zine aptly named Sound Off Hollywood. It was the brainchild of myself and one of the most beautiful, dearest and precious person I have ever known. We covered the local music scene on Sunset Blvd. It was fun, inventive and a little dangerous. Its purpose was based on passion, the love for music. Of course, a lot of that passion was fueled by draft beers and what ever drink was offered. But that was part of the fun, the mystique and times.
Yes, it was popular. Although, prints were somewhat limited, I can boast that copies reached the east coast, Europe and even Russia.
Alas, all good things do come to an end.
Or rather, a sabbatical.
Years can seem to run away from you. Time is both a notorious lover and a cruel master. What was so immediate and utterly brilliant became but a memory. Then distant. Then nostalgic.
But the beauty was still there. Like Pompey, buried for centuries, then discovered in all its regal, spectacular and immaculate beauty.
Awakened from a new perspective, with the pain and sorrows of yesterdays's regret and broken promises. Anew, it wakes to a bold and focused design.
Now, the focus is not of music. It is a voice of the creative arts, whether they may be.
So true it is that distance makes the heart grow fond. That that glorious part of me has been missing from this writer's life for far too long.
And this voice has grown bolder, stronger, more assertive. I had to go underground for some time. To reflect. Even Napoleon's army regrouped when necessary.
It was also a chance for redemption.
Mine.
That said, I shall give these pages more words and images. Just like before. Blessed is technology that makes this so much easier, so more accessible.
Rise from the ashes Sound Off Hollywood. Reborn like a Phoenix.
Only this ain't Harry Potter. This is rock & roll.
As always…
Years ago, when rock still reigned, was a little 'zine aptly named Sound Off Hollywood. It was the brainchild of myself and one of the most beautiful, dearest and precious person I have ever known. We covered the local music scene on Sunset Blvd. It was fun, inventive and a little dangerous. Its purpose was based on passion, the love for music. Of course, a lot of that passion was fueled by draft beers and what ever drink was offered. But that was part of the fun, the mystique and times.
Yes, it was popular. Although, prints were somewhat limited, I can boast that copies reached the east coast, Europe and even Russia.
Alas, all good things do come to an end.
Or rather, a sabbatical.
Years can seem to run away from you. Time is both a notorious lover and a cruel master. What was so immediate and utterly brilliant became but a memory. Then distant. Then nostalgic.
But the beauty was still there. Like Pompey, buried for centuries, then discovered in all its regal, spectacular and immaculate beauty.
Awakened from a new perspective, with the pain and sorrows of yesterdays's regret and broken promises. Anew, it wakes to a bold and focused design.
Now, the focus is not of music. It is a voice of the creative arts, whether they may be.
So true it is that distance makes the heart grow fond. That that glorious part of me has been missing from this writer's life for far too long.
And this voice has grown bolder, stronger, more assertive. I had to go underground for some time. To reflect. Even Napoleon's army regrouped when necessary.
It was also a chance for redemption.
Mine.
That said, I shall give these pages more words and images. Just like before. Blessed is technology that makes this so much easier, so more accessible.
Rise from the ashes Sound Off Hollywood. Reborn like a Phoenix.
Only this ain't Harry Potter. This is rock & roll.
As always…
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Review for The Halfwits’ Last Hurrah
It is a well-known tenant that drama is easy, and comedy is
hard. Nothing could be further from the truth. But what is so miraculous of
comedy is the effortlessness of the performers that makes us laugh. Laughter is
a particular trait, one that cannot be easily analyzed, but we call all agree
that it is one our best, and in some ways, most noble aspects.
The Halfwit’s Last Hurrah by Four Clowns is a mixture of
satire, slapstick, sight gags, and acrobatics. All performed with the same kind
of grace one would expect from a ballet, only this is exceedingly hysterical.
It is truly comedic. And I dare to say homage to Ernie Kovacs, as the
production has a slight edge and irreverence, yet still contains tight
structure. Not a moment is wasted; the pacing accelerates like a hyperactive roller
coaster.
Give the production team of Jeremy Aluma and Sara Waugh
credit for assembling an engaging and talented cast. Know that each actor
deserves kudos for an electrifying performance. I predict great things for
them. Director David Anthony Anis allows a collaboration of staged theatrics
and natural charisma to dominate the show without it flying into chaos. There
is bizarre genius of the script by Jamie Franta and Don Colliver. It is a
series of acts that cumulates to a great reward.
Currently playing at Hollywood Fringe Festival
1076 Lilian Way LA, CA 90038
get tickets: fourclowns.org
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL THEATRE!
Thursday, May 14, 2015
In Maddy We Trust
I know idea she could be such a tyrant. That the blood lust existed within her. Incapable of carnage and pain. But I under estimated her. Didn't think the maternal extinct would kick-in. But it did, and with a vengeance that shocked even me. And I have seen the most unkind things.
Truthfully, I am proud of her. If there were any moment to fall for a woman, this would be it. To declare my eternal love everlasting. That one particular moment in time. So singular. So perfect. So right and beautiful and now.
I am filled with the living spirit. I feel her perfection, her individuality. She is a person. This woman I have known, but still a stranger until now. And these spared minutes, which seem to linger for years. She is this most incredible woman, this body of flesh and blood. Filled by her generous spirit. Awed by her generosity of courage. Humbled by her intelligence. Her beauty fills me with desire. But not of lust. It is of faith. A kind of faith I have only tasted but a few times.
Yes I love her.
But this I cannot share. It is my little secret. A secret that I will carry to the grave. And for me, that is a very long time. Immortality has its rewards and disadvantages.
I tear a piece of my heart for her. My soul torn sunder. And in this fleeting moment that she will surely forget soon enough is enough to swear my allegiance to and for her.
Eternity smiles brightly through the track lights harnessed on stage without a single actor to illuminate the audience. And yet, a single dancer, my love, dances serenely upon the floor, like a ballet that has been rehearsed for the most spectacular performance of all time, to be seen for my eyes only.
The fire continues to burn. She squeezes my hand. I am there for her. Whatever pain she feels, whatever regret or remorse she can give to me.
After all, I love her.
Truthfully, I am proud of her. If there were any moment to fall for a woman, this would be it. To declare my eternal love everlasting. That one particular moment in time. So singular. So perfect. So right and beautiful and now.
I am filled with the living spirit. I feel her perfection, her individuality. She is a person. This woman I have known, but still a stranger until now. And these spared minutes, which seem to linger for years. She is this most incredible woman, this body of flesh and blood. Filled by her generous spirit. Awed by her generosity of courage. Humbled by her intelligence. Her beauty fills me with desire. But not of lust. It is of faith. A kind of faith I have only tasted but a few times.
Yes I love her.
But this I cannot share. It is my little secret. A secret that I will carry to the grave. And for me, that is a very long time. Immortality has its rewards and disadvantages.
I tear a piece of my heart for her. My soul torn sunder. And in this fleeting moment that she will surely forget soon enough is enough to swear my allegiance to and for her.
Eternity smiles brightly through the track lights harnessed on stage without a single actor to illuminate the audience. And yet, a single dancer, my love, dances serenely upon the floor, like a ballet that has been rehearsed for the most spectacular performance of all time, to be seen for my eyes only.
The fire continues to burn. She squeezes my hand. I am there for her. Whatever pain she feels, whatever regret or remorse she can give to me.
After all, I love her.
Monday, March 9, 2015
To call me a lady, a name is all I desire...
“Parasite!”
“ Unclean!”
“Whore!”
I’ve heard worse. At least that hurl those blasphemies have culture, even taste, though it blanched. At least they are educated. I ignore the rest of their shouts and curses. Their petty words and phrases meant to hurt, but I see no scar. And I feel no pain. Fools.
Though I must admit their devotion is extraordinary. Is my existence such a threat? I pose no danger unless provoked, of course.
Which, unfortunately, happened. It wasn’t my fault. I was defending myself as well as protecting another. A woman. She called me sister.
I was her hero. It was man. The violent, vile sort. He was hurting her. I stopped him- permanently. He shall harm no one forevermore. They should be eviscerating his corpse and let the rats have their way.
The talk is that my methods were unprecedented and grievous, so-called professional grew faint at the sight. Blood is blood and does not attempt to conceal its purpose. They said there was a frightful amount pooled where his corpse lie. Alas, it did not run, like a wild current onto the street, into the sewers where it belongs. But I digress.
Hunted am I, a wanderer, summoned by hunger and thirst to satiate this body’s function. But food I cannot taste and water does not soothe me. Am I cursed? Or is this the way of many, yet know it not.
I confess to you, dear reader. Be not harsh of judgment. Think of me as once fallen, now risen, of identity that escapes me.
posted to the Akashic Records
from the Bride
“ Unclean!”
“Whore!”
I’ve heard worse. At least that hurl those blasphemies have culture, even taste, though it blanched. At least they are educated. I ignore the rest of their shouts and curses. Their petty words and phrases meant to hurt, but I see no scar. And I feel no pain. Fools.
Though I must admit their devotion is extraordinary. Is my existence such a threat? I pose no danger unless provoked, of course.
Which, unfortunately, happened. It wasn’t my fault. I was defending myself as well as protecting another. A woman. She called me sister.
I was her hero. It was man. The violent, vile sort. He was hurting her. I stopped him- permanently. He shall harm no one forevermore. They should be eviscerating his corpse and let the rats have their way.
The talk is that my methods were unprecedented and grievous, so-called professional grew faint at the sight. Blood is blood and does not attempt to conceal its purpose. They said there was a frightful amount pooled where his corpse lie. Alas, it did not run, like a wild current onto the street, into the sewers where it belongs. But I digress.
Hunted am I, a wanderer, summoned by hunger and thirst to satiate this body’s function. But food I cannot taste and water does not soothe me. Am I cursed? Or is this the way of many, yet know it not.
I confess to you, dear reader. Be not harsh of judgment. Think of me as once fallen, now risen, of identity that escapes me.
posted to the Akashic Records
from the Bride
Saturday, February 21, 2015
The Angels Among Us
Kindness. It is our saving grace. Its practice gives us the chance of salvation and heaven everlasting. Sometime we need prompts, reminders, circumstances, and even a kick in the rear to wake us from our tendency of being of absorbed in our own delusion.
Art, in all its functions and glory, be it song, story, painting, performance, film has shown and given us angelic presence. The feeling of the divine. A form of pure grace, what we may call love.
There are many examples, of which I shall share. Let us say they are my observations, reporting what the senses communicate to me.
It always starts with a feeling.
Of liberation. Of freedom. Of pure potentiality.
Art, in all its functions and glory, be it song, story, painting, performance, film has shown and given us angelic presence. The feeling of the divine. A form of pure grace, what we may call love.
There are many examples, of which I shall share. Let us say they are my observations, reporting what the senses communicate to me.
It always starts with a feeling.
Of liberation. Of freedom. Of pure potentiality.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Old Debts
A jealous regret goes overboard. His rage and anger curse all who bound him to a watery fate. The grave welcomed him with open arms as he was considered the devil's spawn. But he had other designs. Woe to be to whomever unraveled his intentions.
Years drifted by without pause or care. Until...
When he was discovered. The same place, but a little worse for wear. And as for all the warnings, they were long since forgotten. Save for a medallion, of Celtic origin, scripted with the cause and cure.
Driven by gold's fever, it was hastily snatched.
Death to be who unleashes the beast, woe to be the brethren of those who slain him. Be it by line of blood or consent, they will die. And suffer in the same grim way he was so drowned.
Enter the hero, whose continual prayers for redemption may go unchecked, but not unnoticed. He is called to the funeral of his brother, the one who unwittingly unleashed the monster. Our hero, by name of Jake, is, was Chicago's most notorious contract assassin. It has been said neither bullet, blade nor blunt can harm he. Or so goes the legend.
And now he lays to rest his little brother, the last of his clan, save for Madison, his teenage niece. And now Jake, doing the admirable thing, cares for her.
The monster, call him Shannon O'Dowd is exacting is particular brand of revenge. The body count grows. Detective Diana Lancaster has her own particular paranormal talent investigates. She sees beyond what the boys in forensics proclaim and prove.
What are called the Neglected, they prefer abandoned. All heap sob stories onto Diana, who complies with conditioned British resolve and with her own particular brand of sardonic wit.
And then there is Jake. It is not the abandoned who follow him, but rather those who unceremoniously crossed over by Jake's munitions.
Needless to say, he is a fly in some rivals' ointment. To them, Jake has outstayed his welcome, to others, a lasting testament to an old regime.
But Shannon O'Dowd will be not be denied his blood thirst, his form of reckoning. The murders continue, more grisly than before.
The monster is immune to destruction save from the power of faith. The decay of the old gods made provisions that only a man of faith can bring down the cursed. Followed by releasing the fire serpent, a old legend that has been lost in the chronicles of time.
And this begins our series...
Years drifted by without pause or care. Until...
When he was discovered. The same place, but a little worse for wear. And as for all the warnings, they were long since forgotten. Save for a medallion, of Celtic origin, scripted with the cause and cure.
Driven by gold's fever, it was hastily snatched.
Death to be who unleashes the beast, woe to be the brethren of those who slain him. Be it by line of blood or consent, they will die. And suffer in the same grim way he was so drowned.
Enter the hero, whose continual prayers for redemption may go unchecked, but not unnoticed. He is called to the funeral of his brother, the one who unwittingly unleashed the monster. Our hero, by name of Jake, is, was Chicago's most notorious contract assassin. It has been said neither bullet, blade nor blunt can harm he. Or so goes the legend.
And now he lays to rest his little brother, the last of his clan, save for Madison, his teenage niece. And now Jake, doing the admirable thing, cares for her.
The monster, call him Shannon O'Dowd is exacting is particular brand of revenge. The body count grows. Detective Diana Lancaster has her own particular paranormal talent investigates. She sees beyond what the boys in forensics proclaim and prove.
What are called the Neglected, they prefer abandoned. All heap sob stories onto Diana, who complies with conditioned British resolve and with her own particular brand of sardonic wit.
And then there is Jake. It is not the abandoned who follow him, but rather those who unceremoniously crossed over by Jake's munitions.
Needless to say, he is a fly in some rivals' ointment. To them, Jake has outstayed his welcome, to others, a lasting testament to an old regime.
But Shannon O'Dowd will be not be denied his blood thirst, his form of reckoning. The murders continue, more grisly than before.
The monster is immune to destruction save from the power of faith. The decay of the old gods made provisions that only a man of faith can bring down the cursed. Followed by releasing the fire serpent, a old legend that has been lost in the chronicles of time.
And this begins our series...
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