The Prick Story and Other Anecdotes

Sound Bites

I decided this morning I would do sound bite observations to see how the short form works. I'll try to stay positive but can't tell yet what will come out.

I'm having trouble dealing with time right now, especially with the mid part of the day. I'm trying to understand time, how it works and how it affects different people. Once I get to work, time seems to fly by. I've watched the documentary where Albert Einstein talks about time, but I still can't really understand it. (Maybe I'm obsessed with these things because I'm so mentally challenged by physics).

I had another run in with a police officer, who yelled at me for steering into a lane he was closing. The problem was he had all the cones near his vehicle but had not placed the cones yet to block off the lanes. I pulled into the lane, he came running over to me and started chastising me for not reading his mind. What I said to him next was incomprehensible, even to me, (who said it!) I told him he was being a 'prick'. I don't think I've ever called anyone a prick in my life, for that matter, I've probably said the word only a few times. You know how you get to the end of a sentence in a heated exchange and a word comes out that you wish you could immediately take back? Well, it happened. He said, "Did you just call me a prick?" I said, "Well, you are being a prick." And he stood there, mouth agape, and said, "I can't believe you just called me a prick!" I said, "Are you going to arrest me for calling you a prick?" He said, "Quit saying that word!" After almost backing into a car behind me, I maneuvered my truck into the next lane and took off. He said, "You have a nice day, too!" I said, "You too, you prick!" Now, mind you, I would not have said it if this guy was not being really rude and talking to me like I was a six year old, but I guess no one deserves to be called a prick. After I had left the scene of the 'prick' exchange, I felt guilty and thought I should go back and apologize, but my common sense told me that it would come to no good end, and that I would get arrested. (You know, that argument that ensues when you try to apologize for something you really are not so sorry about?) Yup, I drove on.

The irony to this last story is today I'm going to the court-house to watch a jury selection for a job I just got coaching an attorney on his opening and closing statements in a re-trial of a death row inmate whose conviction was overturned. I can't tell you anymore than that, (maybe later) but I can tell you that already this is summing up to be a great little job. And, today, I'll get to meet the inmate who has been on death row for eleven years. I got the job through singing at the hotel. When I can write more about it, I will. I can tell you, that it is again, a great irony in my life right now. (Not just because of the 'prick' story, although I hope I don't see the prick…)

For the last several months, (thanks to Josh Roundy) I've been thinking about starting a shirt company, (truth) but only snap western shirts of both blue collar, (Bohemian Cowboy label) and high end shirts (King Shurtz) and in my head its just crazy enough to work! I can never find the western shirts I want to wear, and it would be fun to interview designers and get it off the ground. I've pitched it to several people who love the idea. I think its also the magic of wearing Alfred Jepson's snap westerns that he gave me after the fire in Utah. (Having the last name of 'Shurtz' gives me an edge on my competitors, or, at least I think).

I got asked a couple of days ago if I wanted to be on a fire crew and fight fires up in the North country. I thought, "I've never fought fires before, and maybe God is giving me a chance to fight the still remaining trauma of exploding in my own fire." It seems like I've done everything else, maybe I need to fight a few fires. He said he would call me when there was a good fire going. I said, "Okay." (Maybe he'll call, maybe he won't. He said he's having trouble finding people. Hmmm, maybe that is a clue.)

On Songs:

I love nights when I'm singing and I can hit any note I want to. (Usually when the air has just the right moisture). Some woman told me I sounded exactly like Neil Young when I sing his songs. Maybe I'm just a mimic and not a real singer at all. I love to sing Summer Wind by Frank Sinatra. It has to be one of the most lyrically perfect songs about summer love ever written. (Although summer love has been difficult to navigate for the last couple of years). I also think Sunday Morning Comin' Down is a lyrically perfect song.

I love to sing Mr Bojangles but I have a little trepidation singing it when there are African Americans in the audience. To me, it reads just a tad racist. Sorry, Jerry Jeff.

I also love to sing Wild Horses, except while I'm playing the guitar, I can't do that thing that Mick Jagger does with his hands.

I'm trying to ad more upbeat songs to my song list, but its tough. A drunk guy said he would be at the Hotel for awhile and wanted me to learn Turn the Page, so I did. I sang it for him last night, he tipped me two dollars.

Some drunk lady from Canada told me she wanted to slit her wrists after hearing me play my songs but she said, "That's a good thing." I learned The Boxer for her. She tipped me one dollar.

Everyone knows the songs of Johnny Cash, even people from China. One even danced. However, I still don't get Ring of Fire, except I know it's about love. I used it for my song about the eclipse the other night. Then I understood it.

A lady asked the manager why I was singing a song about Best Western motels when I was playing at an Embassy Suites Hotel. When he asked me, I said, "Because Embassy Suites Hotel is hard to put in a song, but Best Western works." He said, "Okay."

I sang, 'The Silver Tongued Devil' one night and another drunk lady said she didn't want to hear gospel songs… It was pretty funny, God is never mentioned, only the devil. (I guess that could be construed as a gospel song).

The high dollar tips, (usually twenty dollars) always come from the people you never expect. They are the quiet ones. And, that's okay.

I've been learning scales, something I never did. (I never had lessons). And like Albert Einstein's theory of relativity, music is mentally challenging for me, even though for some intuitive reason, I know how to play it. I love song lyrics, and I learn by ear. But, I want to understand what I am doing, so, I play the scales, (even though I don't really understand what I'm doing there either), but I know it will come like a spring rain eventually. There is usually two or three times a year when I can feel myself jumping a level, and it is a good feeling.

I learned Moon River, its another beautiful song. Its kind of like my song, Out Stealing Horses, only on a river instead of on the border of Mexico.

On Facebook Posts:

Sometimes I'm just amazed at the things that people are thinking and doing.

Sometimes the stories about babies and the endless photos are a little much for me. I like a photo once in a while, but the play by play is a little too much. Stop it.

I admit I've been infatuated by a particular person, and the things they post. Especially when every post is somehow beautiful.

I'm always wondering whether the friends that appear at the top of your friends list are the ones that are reading you the most, or if they just get stuck up there. I'm glad though, that I don't know.

I'm convinced that Facebook has saved lives. Every once in awhile, someone will come unglued on Facebook and I think, they are either drunk, high, or suicidal. The suicides I wander into, but I stay away from the drunks, you can't reason with drunk people. I always tell my brother, don't drink and Facebook.

I love the music that several people post. I've probably listened to more music on facebook than anywhere else. (I'm still trying to stop listening to CD's and get an ipod).

I love the photos that people post. I'm the kind of guy who just met you and the first thing I want to do is look at all your old photo albums. Is that creepy? (Maybe it's my Mormon blood, but I love how families are tied together. I know my family tree for eight generations).

The only time I've had to delete friends are the ones who are pushing tea party politics. It's unbelievable what people really believe. I always keep in mind that Galileo was almost burned at the stake for his scientific convictions. Yes, Virgina, the earth does revolve around the sun.

On Health:

The last week I've been thinking about working on my health. That sounds funny. I've worked out, tried to eat healthy, walked or ran, all of my life until the last couple of years. Its amazing how quickly ones health spirals down the drain.

So, the other day, a friend of mine suggested starting with juicing. Call it timing, but suddenly this appealed to me. The type A personality and addictive nature I've always had is telling me that I can't do things in moderation, so I might as well go all out. I'll start juicing…tomorrow.

I did stop eating read meat, and although I'm not going all vegetarian, I have to admit, I feel better. Processed sugar is next. Kurt told me that I have to eat all the colors of the rainbow every day. I said, "I don't even know what colors are in the freaking rainbow."  I don't think I can do the rainbow eating spectrum.

I swam yesterday. I like stretching my body in the pool. I did used to take yoga, but maybe it's also the redneck blood I have in my back, yoga made me sick and made me cry. (One time, my buddy Kent, who is a yoga master, did a physical yoga session with me, and I broke out in tears. Then we laughed so hard we couldn't do it anymore. Yoga makes me cry.) I didn't mind the crying, maybe it’s the man in me, but I wanted to know what I was crying about. I didn't know.

I like hiking, but, as I always told my students, "Its always easier to climb the mountain than it is to get there." Since my truck is running on borrowed time, I can't really go climb mountains.

Kurt, I did eat some strawberries this morning. One color of the rainbow down. Is red even in the rainbow? See, I don't know.

Hodge Podge:

I'm fascinated with the Civil War and World War II. To the point of obsession. I sometimes think that I fought in both wars in another incarnation.

I love to dream, even a good nightmare. The other night I was getting shot at by some people I know. Don't worry, I wasn't harmed, I was dreaming.

I watched an old documentary about James Dean the other night. It was produced by Robert Altman, (must have been very early in his career), and it was haunting. Such an awful ending to a great talent. Did you know he wanted to be a writer? I didn't know that. I noticed he looked better in black and white than in color. He was made for black and white. The still photography of him is extraordinary.

I'm excited to go to jury selection today. I'm not in the line-up, I'm watching the selection of the attorney I'm going to coach. The man who is getting re-tried has been on death row for eleven years. I'll get to meet the defense team and the defendant.

My dog is the best dog, EVER! I've had several people say to me recently, "If you ever want to get rid of that dog, let me know first…"  Get rid of? Are you kidding? I'd have them get rid of you first. My dog perks her ears up every time I speak as if she is trying hard to understand me, and sometimes she does! I'm forever amazed. (Although she's shedding now). In the mornings, when I let her out, I come out and find her sitting in the chair I sit in when I go in the back yard. And, I really do think she has a people complex. When I practice guitar, she lies down and goes to sleep. Get rid of??? She is my child! We take care of each other! I would never give her away. She's brilliant. Honor roll student. The pick of the litter. The queen of my heart.

Although I write lots, I still have no concept of the word, to. I read about the difference between to and too, but I still don't get it. I guess everyone has their issues. I wish someone would explain it to me in a way that I can understand it. We moved a lot, I missed the 'to' 'too' session. Although I have no trouble with the Spanish 'tu'.

I wish I could find my June Carter. She doesn't have to sing but she has to love music, theatre, and at least appreciate writing and know what it is. Long walks on the beach. Cooking. Adventure. Traveling through monsoons. Must love the things of the heart rather than temporal things. Must love to two step. Smart and funny would also help. Some day, she will be there, sitting in the audience…

That's all for today. Jeez, this was pretty fun writing this way, but I do like the long form thought a little better. For some reason, digging in deep is essential to my well being, as long as I don't cry 'too' much. See, I know that 'too' can't be right.

Peace and Infatuation.

Song Stories

In the new phase I'm going through of not caring so much about what people may think of me or what I choose to do, I'm finding some liberation in the notion, as if now I don't have to work so hard at keeping up some sort of front that projects who I really am. In the end, the front itself is as fickle as the audience, the front only acts as a shield to keep one from possibly getting hurt. In placing my new attitude into action, I'm finding my thoughts contrary to my expectations, examining values such as loyalty, truthfulness, and the nature of hope. Yesterday, I read the poem, The Genius of the Crowd by Bukowski, which was a smattering of truths and contradictions, pessimistic and hopeful at the same time. My thought was how little effort it takes me now to read a poem, that I relish in what might be contained there, feeling victorious in the notion to read and glean meaning from a poem is now a habit that has taken years to develop, but a habit that is difficult in ascertaining, like fishing on a hot day when the fish are not biting, but developing the patience to wait until the evening comes, when the fish will rise to the surface and ponder the movement of a fly.

Last night was a great night at The Embassy Suites. Although the first hour was hot, (and I'm outside) when the air has just enough moisture, I feel like I can sing anything and hit any note that I want to, and songs that I've been memorizing at night are coming into the set list one at a time. Since seventy-five percent of my song list are sad songs, I've been trying to learn some more up-beat songs, (If you can call The Boxer an upbeat song). After Levon Helm died I learned, The Weight, which is a strange song, but on the inside of it, a really fun song to sing. I always wondered what the song was about, so I researched the story. The first line, "I pulled into Nazareth, I was feelin' about half past dead…" is not about the place where Jesus was born, rather it’s a town in Pennsylvania where the C.F. Martin guitar company resides. The story is about a traveler, (presumably a musician) who makes the pilgrimage to the famous factory and encounters some very strange people in the town. (I love the stories behind songs!)

When there is song I want to learn, recently, I have to memorize the music and the lyrics without playing it. If I play during the day, my fingers won't last the night. I try not to listen too many times to the song, (mostly on Utube) so that when I cover it, I can do it my own way. After I learn it my own way, I go back to the song to see how far off my cover is, or if the lyrics are right. I usually try the new songs out during the first hour of the session, before there are to many people. Last night was one of those nights where one large table all sang the chorus with me to 'Hotel California', which is always fun when people have just enough alcohol to get them singing. On the other hand, I had a night last week where the party was more than a little drunk, and so the singing was a little obnoxious. Still, as long as no one is throwing punches or beer bottles, it works great. If I have a party of people at this stage, (where they are having fun and singing) I will throw in one of my own songs without saying, "This is my song," so that I get a truthful reaction to the song. It’s the best gage of knowing what you have in a song, truthful audience reaction. 

I've also been paying attention to song requests, and most of the time, even though I might not know the requested song, I usually know either something else by the artist, or something that closely correlates. I was told last night that the general manager really likes what I am doing, and they may be willing to buy a PA system that I can just keep there. Apparently, I'm also getting lots of great comments by the hotel guests in the service questionnaire, so that is boding well for the little gig that is turning into entertainment. Fifty percent of the time, I am playing ambient music for people drinking, talking, and dining, but there is the magic hour (its usually the last hour) where I can stretch out, talk some about the songs and give more of a concert. This is also the hour where most of the tips come, so I always save some Cat Stevens, Neil Young, and Johnny Cash for this hour. I have had more twenty-dollar tips from Folsom Prison Blues than any other song! It doesn't matter the age or nationality of the audience, everyone knows Folsom Prison Blues. I think Johnny Cash hit upon a song that everyone somehow identifies with, the notion that at one time, everyone has the thought of "What would it be like if I were in prison?" Everyone becomes a tough guy or gal when that song is played. I think it’s a lot like going to a Clint Eastwood or Jason Stratham movie, when the movie is over, everyone comes out swaggering, as though they have become Dirty Harry or The Transporter.

The greatest thing about a hotel gig is that most people are there and out of the element of regular life. Either they are on vacation, at a conference, or a smattering of other reasons, but most of them are in a good mood. That really helps the music work. Working a hotel also makes you feel like you are out of town or on tour, and I love the bustle of a big hotel—people moving, taxis coming and going, room service carts going up and down elevators, the splashing of the swimming pool, the extra large hotel kitchen filled with chattering cooks and servers, and the wonderful scenario of playing music for the guests as the sun drops behind me into the west.

The Kitchen Table

"The observation of atoms has very little to do with gazing at stars…" – Me

(Okay, I've been reading Proust and Kafka again, read at your own risk)

The mind continues to clear, the heat continues to rise, and time continues to persist. As summer arrives, I find myself grappling with the hours between going to work and where I sit at this kitchen table. I'm wanting to be somewhere else, anywhere, but unable to manifest a departure. So I will write. I'm contemplating a new life, but then I've done that a thousand times before, as I'm sure many do each and every day. The life, however, that I imagine doesn't really exist, nor do I really want the things that I casually dream about. I was explaining to a friend who was going through a particular bad time that when I married at twenty-one, I imagined the life that I saw other children growing up aspiring too, and in spite of the humble nature of my prospects, I was able to marry someone from a good home and family, perhaps to manifest this life I dreamed about in observation. However, reality fools us all! I found myself between clean sheets in a real bed, rather than on a couch or on a mattress on the floor, wrapped in a bedroll or a sleeping bag. The starched sheets were uncomfortable to me, and I found myself staring at baskets and paintings on the wall, quietly suggesting that I had found the reality of the home that I was looking for, horrified at its prospects! 

The subject is not an indictment of how I grew up, for there was freedom there, perhaps even too much freedom, rather it is an observation of how years of conditioning react to the fantasy of the imagination. And yet we continue, imagining the life that has somehow escaped us, the dreams that collapsed in the face of this reality, continuing to plot the perfect place, with the perfect weather, our bodies feeling in tune with the world. As time persists, the bodies we once imagined sparkling with invincibility begins the demise, sometimes subtle, and sometimes, in glaring levels. The dreams change in our spirits so as not to defeat us too deeply, and we gradually begin to realize that the perfect place does not exist. Now, that may sound glaringly pessimistic, but I submit it is rather the contrary, for it gets at a deeper truth, that perhaps so many of us choose to live in a fantasy laced world, rather than face the inevitable march to the stars. We can either ponder atoms, or ponder stars, or stay in the gentle surface between, of how society conditions us, full of dreams and aspirations, staking our claim on each level of a life, however, never really stopping to examine what it even means.

Or perhaps, it is just the condition of each person's perception. I remember as a young teenager being so enthusiastic about such simple things, to the point of trying to ignore the realities of each scenario. I remember the constant quest to get to the Salt River here in the desert, running around procuring inner tubes for the voyage down the rapid filled waters, filled with the excitement of the adventure. My mind would persistently go over the magic of the journey downstream. Alas, however, I was bound by my observations, the garbage-strewn banks, the alternating turn of the brutal sun and the pounding cold of rain. The miles and miles of humanity, strapped together with inner tubes, bleeding red sun burnt bodies, drunk and ready to fight, jumping off cliffs to early demise. Don't misunderstand, the adventure was still intact, it was just a different adventure than my mind would at first imagine. And, I am not subjecting us all to the wretched nature of these kinds of observation, I am only speaking for myself, and the truth that I observed.

When I was just a third grader, I would find myself observing the emotional fluctuations of my teacher. While she was teaching us syllables, I was wondering what had happened to her the day before that changed the nature of her teaching. Do third graders observe their teachers in this manner? When she grabbed my arm roughly one day for no apparent reason, I forgave her, and thought that there must be some tragedy in her life that rendered her unfair treatment of me. Or perhaps, when she looked at me in the eye, she became enraged because I had somehow found her out. I kept these thoughts to myself, and in fact, attempted to expunge myself of this habit of speculation. What were the equations that she was attempting to solve?

That was my fascination with art and theatre. The equations. The keen observation of human nature as it related to reality and imagination. I was interested in stories, but I was more interested in changing the dimension of realities. And, I didn't want to just talk about these equations, I wanted them to exist within the plays. I am happy to say that I believe they do, and no one knows the constant hours I spent inside them, some of the math I was consciously aware of, but some I was not. There was a beauty in this exploration, and it was obvious to me why I sought refuge in the theatre in the first place, because I seemed to easily find out the false dimensions of religion and dogma, that these beliefs plied easily on the weaknesses of human nature and the search for answers. In art, there are answers too, but they are only perceptible to those who really venture there with the notion of finding some great reality of truth. Perhaps, however, art is like the many ways we search for answers too, only perhaps, we can individually control the experiment. I believed, (and occasionally still do) that art and theatre can change the perception of the spirit in the same way a good alter call can, but it is rare, in the same way that true spiritual epiphany at the foot of an evangelist is as well. The beauty of a great play is the rendering of a great truth in the span of two hours, and the notion that a great connection has been made between an audience and the artists who have altered their own perception of reality in a true conviction of the work.

Like many artists, since I have spent the majority of my life as one, I have to believe that what my perceptions are have been contained within my plays. Earlier, I took a very modest road, (or perhaps another dimension of self delusion), that perhaps they are just the scribblings of a madman, or perhaps the observations of someone who was keeping self-destruction at bay. As I go back now and study what I have written, as I have grown older and hopefully wiser, I am satisfied with the work, although I am always changing a number here or there to make the communication either smoother, simpler, or more complex. However, as time persists, and the inevitable journey back to the stars becomes closer, the temptation to return to the splitting of atoms becomes more desperate. I persist in sending off the plays, still believing with some reservation that someone will be able to do the math of these plays and find the necessary conviction to bring them into a three dimensional rendering.

The odd and perhaps ironic notion of Under the Desert (my first full play) is that it is a beautiful play but not my best, and I have to believe that if it is done in the right circumstance, the others will follow. I have to believe that, once again hopeful, once again knocking persistently on the door of destiny. In all that I have said in these words previously, seeing one of these plays is the only satisfaction I can fully receive in the elusive quest as an artist, (except in the quietus of working on them at some kitchen table) and its also why, at this time in my life, I am unwilling to listen to the criticism of those who have not spent the time and effort checking and re-checking the equations. Although I believe the plays will stand on their own, (even after I am gone) I also believe that while an artist lives, both must be studied to have a full understanding of what is there. It's fine to want to dissect the atoms, however, for now, I'm still gazing at stars too…

Am I mad? Am I arrogant? Why should I care about either of these things? For it is I who am living this life, and most of the time in utter obscurity, unless I take the action myself, yes, finally, I'm coming upon a period where I'm uncaring about what others think about me. I fought for this diligently, and perhaps subconsciously, but now, I'm so poor in spirit that there is nothing but creation to hold onto me, and deliver my dreams in small two hour packages. I have become my own courier, but then again, aren't we all? 

'Walking to the Crossroads'

I woke up this morning and for the first time in weeks I felt I should write—for whatever reason, I suppose it will come out in the ensuing words.

Once again, someone in Los Angeles asked me to write some copy about my play, Under the Desert, to stimulate a production that is supposed to go up there in mid-July. This is not an indictment of this production, but I have endured more of my share of disappointments in regards to production, so I still hold out some reservations. However, I think the writing that I found in its regard is worth posting, and I don't even know when I wrote it, but I do know that I was trying to wrap my mind around why I had written the play in the first place. Here is some of it.

Under the Desert, a starting point.

Expressionism: An artistic movement that flourished in Germany between 1905 and 1925 whose adherents sought to represent feelings and moods rather than objective reality, often distorting color and form. 2. A literary movement of the early 20^th century, especially in the theatre, that represented external reality in a highly stylized and subjective manner, attempting to convey a psychological or spiritual reality rather than a record of actual events.

I just re-read Under the Desert again, in an attempt to explain the play in my terms that might help you understand its foundation and its form. The above definition is really helpful, as during the time I was writing the play I was simultaneously studying all forms of painting, especially expressionism, it adheres so well to theatre, heightened emotions, heightened understanding, heightened senses, etc. However, I was not intellectually conscious that I was writing in this form at the time, but in retrospect, I was radically influenced by the form, and was fusing my own personal experiences using what I had learned. As for the personal experiences, I was going through a period, coming out of a radical Christian conversion experience, and trying to make sense of what had happened to me, using psychology, sociology, and science to explain the intensity of my original conversion. William James's classic book, 'The Varieties of Religious Experience' was a book I was reading and studying at the time, for I was not convinced that the 'religion' that I was studying at the time was the only 'true' religion, rather I was coming to the conclusion that Christianity was only one form of faith, and that being contrary to what I was being told by my teachers. (One day, they asked me not to come back, because I was stirring up the congregation!) Although theatre was not a new experience for me, (my mother was a playwright and I had been in many plays and readings growing up) I went back into it with a new fervor, primarily because it was such a vocal and visual form of expression, and because it embraced any idea, whether it be religion, philosophy, science, and knowledge and experience of any kind. This was transformative for me, and I sought to spend as many hours inside of a theatre as I could, which now is probably well over twenty thousand hours.

Every play that a playwright gets to, in my belief is an attempt to get at something the writer is experiencing, and to make the full experience readable or accessible to an audience, for they are also bringing their own experience to the medium. Under the Desert uses many forms of language and experience to do just that, nursery rhymes, dreams, imagination, human experience, metaphor, love, and most importantly, human connection by way of relationship to enhance the experience, finding common ground no matter how complex or simple it may be.

Under the Desert attempts to skirt the fine line of manipulation in procuring relationship, as well as using the power of a certain kind of 'religious experience' and psychic knowledge to draw conclusions from the reaction of human interaction, thus finding a super-bonding power in a very short period of time, thus expressionism. (The paintings of Vincent Van Gogh are the most accessible forms of expressionism.)

On a very basic level, the relationship between Tom and Ellie happens very quickly and completely in a short period of time, but the relationship is a complete one, and seeks to adhere a very complicated connection using simple language, both in the conscious mind and more importantly, striking the subconscious mind with an onslaught of both questions we ask all of our lives, beginning with childhood. Is there God? What happens when we die? How do we know if God exists? What is love? Can we achieve that which we dream? How far and wide can our dreams be?

One other element I attempted in the play was to also ask the question: What constitutes a true religious experience? Do the players of religious experience have to be sane for it to be legitimate? Is a schizophrenic who hears the voice of God a legitimate form of faith based experience? What makes a prophet? (One great example of this is the Old Testament prophet Daniel, who saw visions from God and wrote them down, but had also fasted for ten days before he saw these visions. Was he experiencing hallucinations?)

Most of these questions that I ask are not really relevant in terms of the theatrical experience of the play, except that I believe that any great work of art must have a well thought out foundation, even if it is the subconscious mind doing the thinking or processing. On one level, Under the Desert is a not so simple story of a semi-stalker seeking out the girl/woman he loved when he was a child, (an arrested development situation) and the very real idea (to him) that when he enters the café, he better have something to offer her, (just like we do in life) only what he offers her is not the security of how and why he makes a living, but he offers her the answers to life's most difficult questions. He uses the fusion of her café in the desert to his artistic studio in the desert. (The power of art to seduce), to lure her and show her what he's created. He uses the very real facts of her life, and a sort of psychic connection that he makes of both these facts and where she is now. In short, he is a likeable and brilliant revelator, but also mentally ill… can she save him? Can he save her? Can they build a store in the middle of the desert together, (as Dali said some time in the future there will be museums in the desert) Can the sun and the moon understand each other's gravitational pull?

Okay, now you've probably read this and are thinking…is this guy nuts? No, in fact, I believe that Under the Desert's comparison is not unlike a mathematician who creates equations when their mind is most active, (late twenties and early thirties) and attempts to solve them for the rest of his life. Under the Desert in many ways is a perfect play in understanding the connection between men and women when it comes to what really constitutes a real connection between the two, and it is also the foundational play of all my work, the difference is that this play has ALL of my concurrent themes running within it, instead of the one or two that I later started working with. In other words, it attempts to find the one equation that solves the question of the 'whole universe' instead of 'how gravity works'. Its what makes it interesting, but also speculative, for I still don't know if the question is really answered, but it comes close...

A word about the play

Under the Desert was first produced as a workshop production in 1993 at Playwright's Theatre. It was subsequently developed and produced later in 'The Edge Project' in 1998. Five years later, it was produced at Metro Arts Exit Theatre.

Raymond says, "Under the Desert is a work in progress, and will be long after I'm gone. It's that one play that comes out of my crate at least three times a year for a look and a re-write. I wrote the play when I was thirty, but had to live twenty more before I could start to understand what I had written, and still, there is much of it that is a mystery. At the time, I was consuming all things Carl Jung, theology, existentialism, and expressionistic painting and writing. It's a special play to me because its genesis came in a creative burst that lasted for months. My conflicts with existence, psychology, and the meaning of art are in full concert here, but mostly, I just love these characters and their struggle…"

Under the Desert

By Raymond King Shurtz

(Synopsis)

Tom enters a café in the southwestern desert after being sequestered for six weeks in the desert painting petroglyphs on the walls of caves and walls. He is met by Ellie, the waitress of the café, who offers him water and conversation. Tom is weak but somewhat manic, and proceeds to explains that he has seen God during his pilgrimage. He tries to get Ellie to take the journey back out in the desert with him. Although Ellie is slightly paranoid about Tom's demeanor and his 'revelations', there is something familiar in several things that he says. However, after suspecting that Tom has been inside of her apartment ala stalker, she tells him to leave or she will call the police. Tom offers her a gift which changes her mind.

Tom and Ellie make the all night trek back to Tom's cave where they continue on with their revealing of each others' interior, ala, nursery rhymes, memories, and hospital visits. Tom reveals to her he has been a mental patient, which escalates both Ellie's fear of him and the prospect of meeting God. Finally, through a series of pseudo prophet psychology, Tom leads her to reveal who she really is, claiming that this is what she has been looking for, what she has been praying for, what she has been dreaming about. As the sun finally rises, Ellie and Tom break into another dimension of reality, childhood, and the collective knowledge of who each really are, both past and present.

Under the Desert is an attempt to fuse the subtle difference between religion, mental illness, and love, with elements of poetic language, symbols, and the collective memory of childhood.

(End)

It is interesting to note, (at least for me) that the quest for finding some equation that defines the universe is clearly expounded upon, in a play no less, and that when I wrote this commentary I wasn't thinking about the speed of light or light years, (6 trillion miles) or the quest of scientists to find that one equation that does define the universe, rather I was trying to define in a play a great puzzle. The puzzle was not how fast the universe was expanding, or the eleventh dimension of string theory, it was an attempt to cover and define the complexity of human relationships from childhood to death, further, it was an attempt at defining the nature of spiritual experience, which I am still seeking. This year it seems, rather than defining life in a relationship, (I have really none even on the horizon) it seems I've been trying to find God in an expanding universe. As I search for this creator in a universe with billions of stars and the ensuing quest of scientists to find other 'earth like' planets, I find myself going back and forth on the matter, struggling to make some meaning of life, (perhaps to seriously write again) or at least find some excellence at what I do.

"Retreat and be excellent." (From the movie, The Tao of Steve) seems to be a phrase that is continually running through my mind, as a lightly intrusive obsession that I have no control over. What does excellence mean? I have no recourse as I choose to move forward, choosing life over death, and once again, coming to a crossroad. A crossroad does not define itself in a day, however, sometimes a crossroad is a long walk to get to the place where the other road comes into visibility, and the walking of it becomes hard and meaningless. Sometimes, all you can do is keep walking.

Yesterday, after talking to my mother for awhile on the phone, (and a couple of times in the days before) she took the conversation and wrote an analysis that was so accurate of the condition of my life that I couldn't help but shed some tears. God? Prophecy? Psychoanalysis? How she did this, I do not know, but I do know that there are words and direction all around me, that my mind grasps but my spirit fails to be able to take in the food. Perhaps the walk to the crossroads is in a very lush part of the road. (I think in image of the movie about Johnny Cash, walking the endless road to the bus station to start his stint in the service). I also think of Robert Johnson, and going to the crossroads to sell his soul for guitar prowess. I have no intention of selling my soul when I reach that crossroad, but the land beside me seems to be covered in fields of the spring planting, but the other road is still some distance away. Can I make it? Can I keep walking?

"Retreat and be excellent, and keep walking…" So I keep walking, and I keep talking to the few people that have stuck around me.  I keep talking to the unexpected people who have somehow managed to help me survive in spite of the ignorance of what I have been going through for these many months and years. I never had the idea that most of my family would fall away. It has taken me many months to accept this, that the people you think are most important to you really have no interest in your welfare, especially if you are damaged or find yourself at a point of weakness. I say this now without bitterness, without rancor, it is human nature and the ignorance of being able to simulate the notion that some people must live on the edge to keep creation fresh. As life goes on, there is a finite thinking in human nature that defines a behavior that must be adhered to in order to wind up a life in comfort. Why should I seek comfort? Life has never been that comfortable to me although I have moments of respite. I recognize that I can seek enough comfort in my spirit to keep walking, but now that I am older am I supposed to 'act my age' and be like them? I simply cannot do it, and sorry, I won't. I NEVER have. I look around me at the people I used to create with, and recognize the bitter end of the creative spirit, that they have become like the people they chose to separate from to create art. I'm not advocating that they not do this, I'm only advocating for myself that I cannot live a life seeking the comfort of place and home. I am often tempted, but thankfully, the place and home that I came from had very little comfort, and so I am conditioned to survive and create. The question I have to ask, however, is the nature of finding the edge. Old habits die hard, and for survival, it is necessary to find the edge without self-destruction. Preserving the mind for simulating the edge of creation is essential, especially as one ages, for the mind becomes duller and unresponsive, like an older piece of fine machinery that has worked hardily for many years. Can it be overhauled and run again like a 68' Camaro? We'll see. As the fog clears up in my brain, (after months) I am beginning to understand what the overhaul process entails, and it is doable. It is possible to squeeze out that last act of former glory, to soar again, to find the edge all over again from a different perspective. It is possible to get the Camaro back in running shape, but for now, I keep walking.

I recognize that in this writing I am not defining what I am doing to complete this task, rather it is what I am thinking. For now, still retreating and working at a form of creative mastery is the order of the day. Although there is the constant spark of a theatrical epiphany, I keep playing music to pay the few bills that I can, and keep playing scales that I failed to learn early in my musical education. The rhythm that I also struggled with is coming to me, and the song directory is becoming fairly immense. Like many things here in Phoenix, the ceiling of where one can go is fairly low, but high enough to keep working and playing, so that's what I do. I'm playing three hours a day, seven days a week, and it is having an effect on what is coming out. Next week, instead of the cash payments I've been receiving, I'll actually go on the payroll, (Embassy Suites) and start receiving a paycheck like everyone else. I've really enjoyed playing a hotel, (five nights a week there) and have become like any of the employees, but the one who plays the music. So, I continue to walk to the crossroads, guitar in hand, and instead of the barren landscape of endless fallow fields, I can see some plants beginning to break through the fields where I'm walking. At night, I look up at the stars above me and am beginning to be able to call them by name, even though they are many light years away.

'A Dark Matter Easter Story'

Easter. I woke up this morning thinking of all the ghosts of Easter's past. Easter is one of those strange holidays for me now, I think because my thinking has continued to evolve and maintain the idea of a perfectly structured universe, while pondering the inferior structure of the struggle we call humanity. (A beautiful paradox!) For years now, after first reading the biography of Albert Einstein, I've tried to coach my math challenged brain to understand the physics of the universe, and am little by little learning what I can, often having to repeat documentaries and pour over facts in books and information I can find on the internet. For the third time, the other night, (pre-Easter preparation), I watched the PBS 'American Experience' documentary on Albert Einstein, and am getting closer and closer to understanding the general theory of relativity. For most of my life, I've searched for the spirit of God in many things, in many places, as well as in books, churches, and other human beings.

In my twenties, I had what I would call a born again experience. After several near death encounters, it made sense for me to turn over my life to a benevolent God who was much bigger and in more control than I certainly was, this leading to eight or nine years of fairly devout study of the bible and all things Jehovah. I even enrolled in a Baptist college for several semesters, taking Greek, Old and New Testament Survey, Old Testament Poetry, and Harmony of the Gospels, to name just a few. I was also a preacher chaser, taking in any evangelist or guest speaker that happened to be in town. I especially loved the Pentecostal tent preachers, who would sweat, wave towels over their heads and pretend to run in mid-air. Arthur Blessed, (known as The Sunset Strip Preacher) once came to Phoenix and stayed for six weeks, starting a downtown revival that had me ready to carry my cross across all seven continents as he had done. At one point, I was sure I had been called to preach the gospel, going as far as working as a street evangelist for Teen Challenge, setting up PA systems in the housing projects downtown and bearing my testimony for anyone who would listen. But, it was not to be. Being a veracious reader, I slowly but surely read my way through the other side of the theology I was reaping from my experiences and studies, (thanks a lot Karl Marx and Will Durant!) ending up a forlorn backslidden Christian, to the dismay and disappointment of all my Christian brothers and sisters. I have often wondered what would have happened if I had turned away from my intellect and continued to mine the faith of the supernatural, but alas, I finally could not hold up the cross of singularity in such a big world, and no one was more disappointed than I, when I had to put down the cross that was much to heavy for me to carry. The paradox of this backslidden state is the notion that mining Christianity was too hard for me to do, that backsliding back into the easy existence of heathenism was merely a lack of discipline, I can assure you, it was not. I had to work very hard at keeping my secular faith and reasoning directed out of being the Christian I longed to be, and for years had to fight the guilt that was instilled in me during that period. (I believe that the smoking gun of Christianity is guilt.)

The analogy I've always used to explain this is the dilemma of the drunk or addict. For I have heard it said, "How easy it must be for him to lose himself in drink and drug, and not have to face the drudgery of the common man like the rest of us do." I assert that being a drunk or addict is one of the most difficult jobs or occupations that one could ever choose, (or not choose at all) for it is a relentless job, ceaseless in its pursuit, unyielding, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for those who have made it a full time occupation. Sick, tired, and cunningly unmerciful are those who get hired to do this job. I won't even get started on the nasty disposition of the boss, supervisor or the pay scale. When I see the reality show, World's Worst Jobs, I've often thought that they should showcase the job of a drunk, for it is certainly one of the world's worst jobs. And this I know, for I've been hired for the job several times myself, only to quit when it became too difficult. (Sigh). (I've also been fired several times.)

So, now I feel I'm standing on the threshold of understanding the great discoveries of science, an existentialist who believes in God, or a Creator, but am inclined to focus my logic on the laws and physics of the universe that does not give me the option to break its rules with supernatural interloping, for in the wonder of this universe, there seems to be no earthly, (or heavenly) reason for the need to break these rules, (the realities of the universe are miraculous enough). I was brought up as a child primarily in the LDS church, and I remember even as a small child it was very difficult for me to adjust to the stories of angels visiting so often, and especially God the Father, Jesus the son, and The Holy Ghost, all visiting the Prophet Joseph Smith at the same time. For me, it was even a greater stretch of the imagination than Rumplestiltskin or Cinderella, and it seemed that each story I would hear in church would trump the last, until fairy tales and church ideology were one and the same to me.

Every few years I take another stab at understanding the church of my tribe, but always get caught napping early when the missionaries begin the doctrine of the several celestial kingdoms, (synonymous with the sun, the moon, and the stars). Now, for those in my family who may be secretly (or openly) reading my writings that are LDS, I do want you to know that my intent is not to shake your faith, (being presumptuous) and I really wish I could believe in The Book of Mormon the way that you do, but alas, I cannot, and short of a supernatural visitation from the three personages of the trinity, you will have to just love me in spite of my lacking. For like you, I have prayed many times, (as it asks in The Pearl of Great Price) to reveal the truth of the gospel in The Book of Mormon, (gospel being the good news) but for some reason, the truth of it is never revealed to me. However, for your sakes, I will keep trying to understand why the shackles remain upon my eyes. However, I can tell you that slowly, the gospel of physics is beginning to take hold of my addled brain, and believe me when I tell you as these truths are revealed to me, it is just as exciting as when I first had the revelation that Christ died for me as a twenty year old heathen. (I do believe devoutly that the laying down of a life for another is profoundly powerful, and is the apex of human morality).

As I begin to understand that space, time, and gravity is the cornerstone of my existence, and that distance, the age of all things in the universe, and red shifts can be measured, there is a comfort pondering these concepts as I lay me down to sleep. In fact, I remember as a young Christian just having found God, how urgently I felt the need to share my experience with anyone who might be near me, and believe me, I did. The saddest part of that time was that my Mormon family would not except my revelation, for it was discovered outside of the ward, and outside of the LDS church, and it is indeed, family, a discovery that can be made in ALL faiths pertaining to the great precepts of love conquering death.

The only rancor I still hold, however, is what was done to my father when at an advanced and fragile state, once more entered the church of his tribe. Instead of letting him discover the sweet and soulful interaction of the social connection that he longed for, a Mormon bishop told him what he must do to win back his salvation. He left immediately afterwards and never returned again. But he did return to the universe, and to the desert dust, and the stardust that made him. Oh, you say, this was an isolated incident made on the part of the ignorance of one man, but I promise you, it is collective malfeasance, for I have experienced it myself. This is not say that I do not love the people of the church, for they are indeed, my people, just accept the idea that I must live out here, and that in my humble and unrighteous life, I have also somehow been able to find love for those who many would deem unlovable. Am I better than you? Surely I am not, for there were none worthy, not even one.

I suppose today, that my subconscious mind has been pondering Easter, and its always good to write and study what does come out, for this tells me that there is still a river running in my soul, and that my faith has not stopped at the notion that my salvation will only come through the good works of the faith of my fathers, for good works are done each and every day by those who simply love humanity and want to somehow do their part to alleviate suffering. I am however, some how moved to strive to understand a universe that perpetuates a perfect order of things that are made of matter, as well as things that are not. The not being dark matter, or dark energy, which makes up ninety-five percent of the universe. The vernacular of the church would perhaps imply that dark matter may just be the devil? Contrarily, as I try to wrap my mind around the concept of dark energy, it occurred to me the other day that this may indeed be the creator himself, and that the light moves through him and around him. From the beginning of time, there have always been humans who have sought to find the truth in thinking another way around the box, and in doing so have discovered, that the universe is indeed expanding, and faster than the speed of light, try to wrap your mind around that angel… (there is so much more to say here, but not tonight, Easter was over an hour ago, and I've probably said too much already.) Goodnight. "Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for his friend."

A side note: Every time I tell my dog, Baby that "I love her," she blinks her eyes, EVERY TIME. It is a miraculous thing, I tell you, and in fact, defies the laws of physics. So, do you see my painstaking dilemma? I believe that animals know all the answers, but they keep them close to the fur, letting us know just enough to keep us searching...

'Nobody Said It Was Easy...'

"Nobody said it was easy…" I went to bed thinking about the phrase in Chris Martin's song, The Scientist. In the context of the song, he's talking about a relationship, but the phrase, can be applied to most things in life. And sometimes, it's not easy. Yesterday was a very hard day. I was uneasy and filled with anxiety. But like so many days, weeks, and years in my life, the landscape I've lived upon is one of extremes. I didn't intentionally set out in life to live an extreme life, it just happened. When I say extreme, I don’t mean that I'm a NASCAR driver, I mean that it's obvious to me, (and probably everyone around me unless I'm being extremely self absorbed) that my life has been full of peaks and valleys. Where I am from in Southern Utah, you can go from 6,000 feet to 11,000 feet in fifteen minutes, and back the other way down the road, you can be at 2,000 feet in twenty. And it is an extreme landscape, filled with sandstone canyons, beautiful orange and blue vistas, and in the higher elevations, black and brittle lava rock. The beautiful high desert landscape there is probably one of my favorite places. There are days and nights when I have been there— that, the air, the sand, the desert life, the slot canyons, are so raw and pristine that it hurts. As though the beauty is somehow penetrating my skin and eroding me away from the inside. Yes, that is extreme, but there are lots of people out there who may feel things a little differently, may feel pain differently, may be overly empathetic or maudlin about any situation, and may just react to it all very differently.

My day started yesterday morning watching a lecture, Why We Believe in Gods by Andy Thomsen, a scientist and a psychologist, (a lethal combination) and immediately upon hearing the lecture, I went into an existential crisis. My point here is that first, there are probably not millions of people listening to a lecture like this at 7am in the morning, and secondly, most people, (if they were watching this lecture) would have a mechanism in their brains that have a filter to find some reason to give it balance. I sometimes find that I have no balance at all, and suck it all in as though it is the last thing I will ever hear and it could be the key to unlocking the great universal questions. Without going into the complete lecture, the basic premise of it was that the human brain is conditioned to use religion as a mechanism for survival, which in itself doesn't seem so bad, except the science of it left me reduced to that black awful state of eternal nothingness when we die. I hate that place! Its like the Woody Allen movie, (I think Radio Days) Where the teacher is talking to the parents about their child's unwillingness to do his homework, because he says, "The universe is expanding, what's the point?"

I went and saw Kris Kristofferson Friday night. And, the music was great, but what I was struck with was the weariness in his body and his voice, and I kept thinking, "He's running out of time…" And then that leads me to the same existential conclusion in myself, that I'm running out of time. I was cognizant of the music, but I was more cognizant of his feelings…and, as I said, the weariness of life. Earlier that day, I had an audition playing at a bar, and as I was dressing to go, I thought, "Good God, my body hurts, my hands hurt, I'm blurry and jaded, and I am going into some bar to play for two hours…" I want to point out that my thoughts on the matter could appear to be very self-absorbed, but to me they are more of a point of introspection, that I have to survive and find ways to do it. It was just a plain weary weekend, and of course, I couldn't stop shuffling my feet to move onto the next thing. I understand the cycles of life notion, that many people choose to evolve it and live it in levels that sort of fleshes it out in hopes of collecting things for the long haul. For whatever reason, I've never been able to do that, I've never been able to say, "When I'm fifty, I'll get this, and I'll have this, and I'll enjoy my family, etc." I've just never been able to do that. It's not that I am not goal oriented. My goals, however, also run to extremes. I've often talked about the notion of delusions of grandeur here in my writing, and the ever present desire to simply believe so many of them, and in doing so, get very close to achieving a certain aspect of them. And so my body often hurts, like all my trucks and little things that I have not lost at the end of about ten or so years, I've driven them so hard they look like hell but they somehow keep going. I still play the guitar I bought in 1984, and it has a string that buzzes and the fret board has worn down to an extreme place, still, it sounds like no other guitar, and sometime when I'm playing it, I will get that feeling as if it’s the only 'thing' that really knows who I am. Again, the extreme introspection, and the guitar will have the feeling of being alive at that moment, in my hands, and leveling out notes in the dry desert air. I suppose I'll have to be content with these things that I notice. My guitar could use a good overhaul, but alas, neither one of us can afford any kind of overhaul at all. So, all we can do it put on new strings and play them in such a way that makes a certain kind of music, and perhaps, something that is a hybrid that doesn't exist anywhere in the world at that particular moment. Can we live for these things? These moments? I think so, but I'm sure that in the end, we need a little more to keep us living and moving forward. My body is full of pain right now, my brain and my soul are in a similar place, and yet every once and a while, the culmination of all of it kicks out a note that is pure, but extreme, like a singular siren, in the middle of the night in New York City. Wow. The writing is tough today, but some of it is done. Now the shuffle to other things…

'Never Stop Thinking About the Ocean'

Strange traveling dreams last night. I was running down an unfamiliar street, trying to get to the ocean. I ran inside a strange boutique with all kinds of antiques. I ask the woman who worked there how I could get to the ocean. She laughed and showed me a secret passage way that went deep down into the building. There were no stairs to get down, and she laughed again, and then she told me to stay a moment. We sat down on an old velvet covered couch and she held my hand and looked directly into my eyes. A theatre troupe showed up, but they were hostile that I was sitting there, so I left, walking up the unfamiliar streets, (but not unpleasant ones). I suddenly remembered I had forgotten my guitar, but as I turned back, the shop was gone, she was gone—the whole damned street had changed as only dreams can alter in a split-second.

It's interesting now, when I have a dream, (now that I am paying attention) that some of them are clear directives, and some of them are only meant to be enjoyed and remembered for the symbolism and odd architecture. The one thing that stood out was how good it felt when the woman held my hand. Perhaps this is an image of things to come? I'm not really sure, but it sure felt comfortable in that moment, until the theatre company came in and didn't want me there. (Theatre can be a hostile place or the best place). I suppose the ocean is symbolic for where I really want to be, but the journey is fraught with passageways that lead nowhere but down, and the antiques are memories of the past, I suppose, (I'm finding meaning as I meander along). There was panic when I left my guitar, but when I turned to retrieve it, everything had changed. Perhaps it’s the thought of losing the only thing of value that I have, the one thing with intrinsic meaning.

Yesterday afternoon, I was showing someone the value of the book, On the Road, (I had seen a trailer of the film coming out) and was going through each one of the characters and talking about them. It's amazing how much I remember about the book. I suppose that is the power of art and especially for me, the written word, it can have such a profound effect on the reader at a specific time in life. I've mentioned before that my mother could always give me the right book at the right time. I read On the Road when I was probably sixteen, and fortunately or not, it sent me reeling into some pretty wild symmetry. I could definitely tell you some road stories with 'the boys' of Escalante and elsewhere, who were living a hundred miles an hour, fueled by whiskey, speed, and anything we could get our hands on. And like On the Road, so many of those boys are dead and dying. I keep wondering why I'm alive. That fact is probably owned by the willingness to create something out of the ashes of excess and raucous living, and there were always attempts to quell the tiger that ran to the jungle. I suppose my family has lost memory of the struggle I have dealt with all of my life. I don't think they look at the works of Jackson Pollock, Francis Bacon, de Kooning, Jack Kerouac, Anne Sexton, or Tennessee Williams very often. I do because I identify closely with these artists. Although I identify readily with the self-destructive parts, I also identify with the will to live in each one of them despite the issues that pursued them. It isn't self-destruction that fuels art, rather, it’s the will to live and create in spite of it. It’s the will to put it on canvas or on paper to better understand it and get it out. I believe much of the penchant for self destructive behavior is in the sub-conscious, and the only way to understand it is to stand it up in front of you like a mirror, so you can come face to face with it.

When I go back and look at Jackson Pollock's paintings, I can see all of his attempts to arrest the demons, in between one episodic drunk after another. He was always trying to get to the ocean as well, and his journey was fraught with the traps and foibles that a drunk will encounter. But there are the magical places in between where he was able to paint with such force and clarity, yes, clarity. There is many a drunk and addict who can see this clarity in his work. When he finally saw the ocean, he couldn't handle the wide expanse of possibility, and at last, he failed in success the same way he ultimately failed in obscurity. But he left something that is still alive on the canvas, I believe that. de Kooning made his black and white paintings because that was the only paint he could afford (black) during the drunk and often raucous years. Later, he painted into his Alzheimer's disease, and no one could figure out whether it was genius too. But I'll tell you something, when my father had Alzheimer's, he couldn't remember what happened a minute ago, but when he sang he never forgot a lyric, EVER! I marveled at that genius!

Saturday night, after playing at the restaurant, I came home and saw on my Facebook news line that an actor that I once knew, (not very well) had committed suicide at forty-seven years old. I had an anxiety attack, perhaps the dark subconscious springing up within me at the understanding of such despair that one could take his own life. I understand that feeling. Most days, I fight it with an optimistic scan of the future, or like many a writer, I write it out of me. There are many times I have the image of thirty some odd plays, stacked up on a kitchen table, the remnants of me after I am gone. It is not a pleasant thought, but it is a real one. I can live with the idea of obscurity, (with brief brushes of notoriety), what is hard for me is coming face to face with the fact that my work does have symmetry and form. But like some of my forebears, it has the symmetry that is perhaps difficult to understand within the life of someone who has not sought to escape demons. I was discussing this fact with someone, (I will keep his name out of it) that the problem with the self-destructive desire to create art, is that not many are actually getting the work done. It isn't that the self-destruction is not authentic, it's just that the work or the pursuit of it is not there. As a result, many a young artist-in-training are dying at alarming rates, (mostly overdoses of prescription medications). Note to young artists who have the gene: Fight the demons, but DO the work, it will keep you alive!

I can live with the idea that for most people, the work is not something they would pursue, but like a friend of mine who is as disciplined of an artist as I've ever known, (but constantly fighting poverty) at this point in our lives, what would we do? He is the one writer that I know who has kept away from the self-destructive nature of drink and drug, but that doesn't mean he isn't always trying to keep his demons at bay. We live with our choices, and all we asked is that there is an understanding between us.

Lastly, Kerouc's quote, (that I've read a dozen times posted by young artists) “…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…” When you are quoting this, remember that Kerouac died a horrible alcoholic death, an esophagal hemorage, (bled out from the inside) and I love Kerouac's writing, (the earlier work) as much as you do, but keep in mind that self-destruction and its penchant for taking you in as dramatic ways as you might be living, is a much harder on the road than at least, fighting the fight to stay alive and clean, (don't worry, if you've lived long enough, you will have plenty to write or paint about,) but you can't live long enough if you burn too long like a roman candle. Just keep that in mind, and in fact, dying in your sleep on an overdose of oxycontin is a coward's way out, instead, live, and fight the good fight. And for God's sake, don't push the envelope of self destruction if it is not in you, thank your lucky stars that you can escape it, let me tell you, it’s a hellish way to live and work.

I'm sorry I got a little preachy, but hell, I'm just telling you what I already know, and perhaps this morning, I miss my students, who loved to hear about Jackson Pollock or Francis Bacon in the morning hour of class, and who had the capacity to think about it for the rest of the day. Now, too think about the ocean, and what I'll do when I get there. Maybe I'll do what Ellie wanted to do if she made it there, (from my play Under the Desert) "I'd take a six pack of crème soda and some salt water taffy and sit, drinkin' and thinkin' about the ocean…"