We Certainly Don't Sleep On Sunday Nights, That's For Sure...

But hardly something new. Actually, It's been like this for some time, some kind of energizing thing surging. And, I get up at 5 on Mondays to teach, so the coming alarm does little to settle mind.

Last Sunday, we talked about the idea of One Sunday, of all that can change from Sunday to Sunday, of all that can come in a single week of this life. Maybe it suits me to step aside every once in a while, find something along the lines of a bigger picture...so the minutes don't just bleed into the hours into the days into the weeks, months, years...so I can see that things are moving, that the branches are sprouting leaves -- perhaps barbed, that could take blood if you let them - but on the other side, a side so soft and welcome, you could rest your head for sleep. At my very best, I find myself to be that sensational yin/yang that can only be seen with a stop, a breath...

Last Sunday, I think it's safe to say I was in a world of shit -- world of shit. Today, tonight...the footing is strong. My legs and mind are rocks, ready to drive and honor and conquer. One Sunday -- all that can come...all that can return.

And wouldn't you know or so soon I must've forgotten -- with strength comes humor, lightness of being. And let me be the first to say welcome fucking back.

...

So I was walking home from Melrose a couple days ago. I had passed Crescent Heights and was eyeing my Kings Road ahead when this Gypsy leapt from the entrance of a store I had never seen - as if it had sprung up overnight. I told her I didn't know there were gypsies in Los Angeles. She seemed offended and of course I felt bad for offending her. Because of this, I accepted her invitation to come inside and browse the store - which she claimed to be hers. For moments, the thought flashed in my mind - telepathy perhaps - my laying in a bathtub full of ice, my partially vital organs lifted and cut from my pale body. But I wasn't telepathic, only paranoid...so naturally, calm found me.

She closed the blinds, the door as I entered, as if to exactly control the light, to control my perception of everything inside that store. While she was doing it, I must admit, I was mesmerized. Astounded. It's only in hindsight that we can begin to find manipulation in the most mundane of actions. After all, she was a saleswoman - and a fucking gypsy. I should have known.

Inside, the store really was incredible. She had a magnificent collection of antique stained glass, hand carved gargoyles, potions, old baseball cards, pinball machines -- even a fucking replica of the game that turned a boy into Tom Hanks in Big. Honestly this place was amazing. And not just amazing, but LA amazing - the kind that'll cut through the most cynical asshole you'll find. It cut right through me -- not that I'm a cynical asshole.

And the Gypsy just sat back and watched me, watched as I wandered. Every now and again I would look up, thinking I might need permission to touch certain objects in the store - objects I thought to be precious beyond comprehension. And they may very well have been. She would simply nod and smile, willing me to do anything my heart desired, almost pleading with her eyes...go on, go on. Enjoy.

I had lost an hour in my wanderings, transported, missing appointments...when I pulled a curtain and moved into a back room. At this, the Gypsy leapt to her feet, either eager to stop or to explain...

There was a young and beautiful girl sitting over a smoldering cauldron. The Gypsy proudly introduced me to her daughter, Jolee, and spoke of her uncanny ability -- that of potion making. Potion making I said. The Gypsy answered potion making as if the response alone was fully sufficient. And Jolee smiled and it made me smile back, just putting eyes on this young girl. Her youth. Her innocence.

I remained that day until they closed and thanked them for their hospitality, welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them I would return the next day - that I would be making purchases! Many purchases! They both nodded, and Jolee promised that upon my return, she would have something special for me, something beyond comprehension. Incredible, she said. I was dazzled. I set off for home, barely able to contain myself. I mean, think about the possibilities -- a store like this? And not just in my town but in my neighborhood? Amazing. Fucking amazing. Fucking amazing!

That night was like falling asleep on Christmas Eve as a child. I couldn't. There was something so magical about this shop - I was in awe of it. Couldn't wait, couldn't wait, couldn't wait to return...

They didn't open until 5:15, she said, and said that they closed before 6, so I cleared my schedule and made sure I was there at exactly 5:15. Jolee was there to peek her head through the glass door. She unhinged the first lock, the second, the third. Three locks? Believe me, at this point, it only fed my excitement, which was already at near fatal levels. Jolee told me that her mother was feeling ill, that I couldn't come inside, but that she had made a promise and that if there was one thing in the world she believed, it was that promises were to always be kept. She told me to reach out my hand and close my eyes. I did. When I felt something fall into my grasp, she whispered, "open them." I looked into my palm, saw this tiny little vial - like a department store perfume sampler. I looked to Jolee but she was already speaking...

"It's my newest potion. My greatest work yet. Mommy doesn't like it, but Mommy doesn't know. Mommy is sick."
"What's it called?"
"Drahma."
"Drahma? You mean drama?"
"No! No!! No!!!"
"Okay. I'm sorry. What's it do? How do I use it?"
"What's your name again?"
"Burn. You can call me Burn. People do"
"You're not very smart, are you, Burn?"
"I...don't know. Wait, are you serious? Can you just tell me how it works?"

Then, in what seemed to occur in the same instant, Jolee rolled her eyes, stormed inside, slammed the door, closed the blinds and cut the lights. And I was left standing outside, vial in my hand...

"Wait. Are you serious?"

Nothing. I walked home. I was put off, maybe quite a bit less than I should have been. Truth was, fascination still had Me.i was distracted by this Drahma in my hand, the Drahma this girl had created. It was my fascination, utterly and totally.

I got home and set the vial on my glass table, unsure what my first move would be. I paced and pondered, tried to let my mind explore the entire realm of possibility that was now settling in this vial that stood before me.

Slowly, I approached, decided I would put it through a series of sensory tests. I unscrewed the cap, slowly lifted the vial to my nose, letting its vapors flood over and into me. Immediately, I gagged and choked, dry heaving after a smell that could only, only be described as shit vomit orgy on steroids. It was awful. Just awful, easily the worst thing I had ever smelled in my life. Immediately, I put the cap back on, sat, settled, pondered again...

I tried tasting it...quickly vomited.
I tried rubbing it on my skin...broke out in hives.
I tried snorting it...blacked out.
I tried free-basing it...didn't have the right lighter.
I tried giving it to my neighbor...she tried to kick me in the dick.

I went to bed that night thinking nothing but what the fucks. None of this made any sense. Why the hell was Jolee making this Drahma? And why was she giving it to me? What the hell good could this manufactured Drahma do for anyone? I had to know.

So I returned the next day, 5:15 to be precise. I brought what was left of the Drahma and began knocking on the door. At first, I was delicate, but soon, I needed answers. I wanted to give the Drahma back, more than anything. When I realized this, my knocks grew loud and commanding. That's when she came, the Gypsy woman. She opened the door and peeked her head outside, asked me what I was doing knocking so loud. I reminded her who I was, that I had just been in a couple days prior, that I had a magnificent time, a magical time. I told her that I returned yesterday to see her, but that Jolee wouldn't let me inside. I showed her the vial of Drahma when her eyes flashed...

"Drahma? My word. She promised."
"What? What's my word? What's wrong?"
"The last town -- we ran -- we had to run -- she, Jolee, her gifts -- the curse..."
"I don't understand. Please, just tell me what you're talking about? Why is Jolee making Drahma?"
"No one knows. No one. Only Jolee. You can't come back here. Please. Just leave us alone."

The Gypsy woman closed the door in my face, locked every bolt in that door. I slowly backed away, turned, mind-spinning, trying to let it go, this chance encounter with a gypsy woman and her mysterious daughter on Melrose. When I turned the corner onto Kings Road, a screeching voice brought me to a halt, stopped me in my tracks...

"Burn, Burn! Wait!!!"

It was Jolee. She was running after me, frantic -- something in her hand. When she reached me, I kneeled.

"Burn. I have it! I have more for you. And it's better, stronger."
"What, Jolee, Drahma?"
"Of course, Burn. Isn't that what you came for? Isn't that what you want?"
"...I...I don't know what I came for Jolee, but...I don't want your Drahma."
"Just take it Burn. Take my Drahma. I've been working so hard on it."
"But I took it yesterday. And it's awful, everything about it. I don't know why you're making it-"
"No, no Burn. This is different. This is better. You must take it."
"I don't think I want it, Jolee. Can't you give it to someone else?"
"No. I chose you. I've made all this Drahma just for you! Just add water, Burn. Water."

And with that, she placed it in my hand, kissed my cheek and ran back inside. I put the Drahma in my pocket and walked home, distrusting of this beautiful and sweet little girl. I was ashamed -- ashamed until I got home. A fool for curiosity, I placed the vial beneath my dripping faucet and let the water hit. That instant, a plume of vapor burst from the tiny vial and shot into my eyes. I went blind. My cheeks went numb. My ears failed -- I couldn't hear a thing. All I could feel - a stream of tears pouring off the tip of my chin, as if whatever dam holds crying had broke. It was the single oddest and most frightening experience I had ever been through. I felt my way through the apartment and crawled into bed, remained there until I fell asleep. In the morning, when I woke, everything had gone back to normal. Everything but that fucking smell. And of course it was worse than ever, but at that point, once I could see again, everything was an afterthought.

I took a shower and got dressed, collected what was left of Jolee's Drahma and set out, on foot, to the Gypsy's store on Melrose. When I got there, the windows were boarded...

The building had been condemned or something of the sort. But I knew they were there. I knew they were inside, squatting, figuring their next move. My mind started racing...back to the day I first walked into the store. The magnificence, the fucking magnificence of this place. It made me smile, thinking back...trying my best to see past the cruel and cold barriers that were now stretching across what was once such a welcoming storefront.

I pulled a letter from my jacket pocket, a letter I had prepared before I had left my apartment. I unfolded it and began to read...

"I'm sorry we came to here. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I walked past this shop that first day and I was a fool. And I thought of you guys and me being this great partnership. I thought we would be such great friends. I mean, you had the coolest shit. I totally dug your shit. I know that this was your shop and that I was just a guest in that shop, and that I would always have to deal with whatever you dealt me..."

But then I stopped, suddenly uninspired by the words I had so recently written - words from the heart, soft - because I believed they were words they weren't capable of understanding -- that there was a tenderness in them they couldn't spot - that given a chance, they would walk all over my vulnerability and mistake it for acquired strength. And I didn't want to give that to them. I couldn't. So I ripped up the letter and looked through the only sliver of exposed window that remained. And I swore I saw eyes...

"I know you're in there. You're fucking gypsies, you obviously know the ins and outs of LA's squatting laws - though, I doubt that qualifies in a commercial zone. I don't really know who you are or what you're doing. I really only knew you for one fine day and I guess I'm here now to speak my peace, because...I guess because I care, because I can see through the boards on the front of your building and windows and...gutters? And there's beauty in there, there is. But you have got to stop making Drahma. Can't you see, what it's doing? Can't you see what it'll do? Sure, it's exciting to create and you think creation is a gift worth giving, but when you give it out, all it causes is pain in other people. And you're trading excitement for pain and it isn't right and it isn't fair. Not for you, not for them. You have to see this. I came here to make peace. And...I know that you're in there...I can see cauldron smoke coming out the hole in the roof - which really isn't safe and probably means you're doing exactly what I wish you weren't. But I guess that's neither here nor there anymore, for me. I'm standing here now -- to make this right or to say goodbye or to...and you're just going to leave me here, standing -- while all these assholes walk by, wondering why I'm talking to a building on the corner of Melrose and Kings...and you're going to do me like that? Really? Really? Shame..."

...

I was out at a bar on Friday night. Could have been Wednesday. These two girls came up to me -- happens often because I don't often chase and women sense these things, usually get very forward because I'm forward and they think I'm gaming them when that's really just me and they try to game back but really just end up fighting and failing to keep pace. Disinterest feeds power, and that's why I'm powerful - because unless you find me in rare pursuit, that's exactly and all I am.

It means that when someone tries to pick me up so that I pick them up when I'm out and minding my own shit, they had better at least be an LA 8. Superficiality is fair game on a pick up, no doubt about it. Anything below 8 gets 28 seconds before I scoot off with poor excuse.

So anyway, these girls were alright. The talker was a 7+1 for charisma. Her friend was a low level 8. They were fine...

Now, these conversations all tend to lead to one of the girls asking what kind of guy I am - usually the one who wants me to take her home and show her what's what. On this night, that's what the 8 was after. I could tell she had probably just been through a breakup, something that did her vicious and when I walked in, she thought me to be her cure -- a fresh and sweet faced Adonis (don't be put off, I self-deem this often). She thought I would do her no wrong on this night - and she'd wake up in the morning and feel safe and comfortable and exercised and she'd start to think of the next step - what it might be with this new boy...

And of course I know this - all of this or at least something in the realm of it to be true. And when I weigh things out and decide I don't want a mess, I start in with something that sounds like. "Look, I'm not that good. I would be tonight. Great. Probably the best you've had - but after that..."

And of course she smiles, thinks this is my pick up, only wants it more but by that point, I've had enough...

"No. Look, I have a coldness in me. And I can tell. I look at you and you're something. And I'm sure if we left here and went wherever we went, we'd do some things and certainly have a story to tell. But I know when I see it - my type - and you don't look like you inspire fiction."

Of course, she didn't understand this, maybe thought I was crazy and maybe that was the point. And so she returned to her girlfriend and likely told her I was a fag, because she was mistakenly hurt, because what guy wouldn't take her home.

And I returned to the company I made appointment to meet, and we had another drink or two, and I said my goodbyes. On the way out, I saw her posted up by the door, warmed again by the drinks she must have had - eyes with hopes that my drinks had done the same. I passed her with a smile, soft, all-heart...

"I'm sorry, you couldn't handle me. Don't feel bad, I can barely handle myself."

Oh, So Classic...

Honestly, I Have to Wonder What They Think of Me...

I just sent an e-mail to Team Winburn (my management), because I've been working all morning. Went something and only like...

"Got it. Fucking got it. Fucking got it. We battle soon..."

And I can't stop howling and pacing and moving. And I have so much fight in me, I have to get out. I have to find Sunset Plaza Drive and charge up her until I either faint or turn faint of heart.

So much. Found me again or I found it. Either way, how could I care.

This is the moment.

Nick and Norah...

Last night, I caught something close to the midnight show. And let me start by saying a few things. Like that I love Michael Cera, and that Kat Dennings was refreshing. And that this movie also uses pop-in cameos by cast members of SNL that I DVR and watch every week because I'm a huge, steaming fan of the show. Andy Samberg and Seth Meyers. And that it has all this great music throughout and it's like all these components are there to make this sweet little movie about two kids chasing music and falling in love in New York. And then...it just fucking sucks. It's like someone forgot they were making a movie - like the movie was just a vehicle for the music - and I don't, DO NOT walk out of movies. This one brought me closer than any I ever remember.

If you've seen it and want to battle me on this one, don't. The gum? Seriously? How did that shit make it out of a first draft? Despicable, like blowing a cannonball through the hull of an already sinking ship.

I absolutely wanted to love Nick and Norah. Going in, I thought it would be exactly my style - before I found out it wasn't. But the kicker came towards the end, when Michael Cera was driving his Yugo, alone, through the streets of New York - and Modest Mouse came on...Little Motel. And I thought to myself...you didn't earn that -- didn't even come close. I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back.

Found It...

And if you looked closely, you could have seen me thrashing in that green river, flailing arms and legs in water way deeper than you would have ever guessed.

The seams split today. It's been too much, too much weight and I've been pacing through it all, talking my way through it and fighting the good fight. Today, I found bottom and everything above me was endless and impossible. Everything...

Weight of work I can no longer stand, of new work that gives me a pedestal and microphone and asks me to lead and please and sit under a spotlight when all I want to do is hide, weight of a girl I care about and foolishly got messy with, weight of a script and its need of a fix and the calls and the waiting and the expectations -- enough to snap backs. If I've been evading or escaping up until this point, today it overpowered and powered through and when it came, all I could do was stop, find a spot on my thankfully recently vaccummed carpets and let it happen...

Drawing on limited but sufficient experience, I've found it's best to let these things happen from the ground looking up, eyes on a white, calming ceiling. My ceiling also has bumps, ridges -- kind of giving it this soothing illusion of comfort and warmth. Very nice. It's best to keep the body unrestricted - so make sure to steer clear of furniture and obstruction. If you're a thrasher and/or a twister and/or a writher, always, always remember to protect your knees, shins and elbows at all times. Also, everything should be done in the nude or somewhere in the vicinity of - so important if you want to shape the experience into a motif, say, like...rebirth. Sometimes a ceiling fan can help -- simply pick a blade and follow the revolutions. That's what I did today. In other instances, music can be a good choice, a strong choice for the collection phase of what could only be described as a breakdown.

And that's where I was today, right around 11 in the AM. Pretty amazing shit.

Last night, I picked up and hour of sleep before heading off to teach a spin class before re-breaking ground on K&V. And all the work today was inventory, checking in, standing still, not moving not moving not moving, and intentions and motivations. And every bit of it is breaking and re-setting bones and it hurts and it cripples...

But I'm keeping my promise, just like the raw fucking tattoo on my wrist asks of me. Sure as hell kept it today. Sure as hell. Bloody fucking suffering.

But I made it through. Because I push. And in my experience, that's also how these things work, like shedding skin or going through an acid bath. An out with the old kind of thing, and usually there's a pot of gold on the other end. I'm not there yet, not quite -- but I certainly am at the moment listening to and fucking rocking Pat Benetar on these headphones. No doubt about it.

...

So you know that scene in Magnolia where the frogs stop falling from the sky and all of the terrible and heavy shit that's been happening kind of comes to a stop? And then the sun comes out? Wait, let me see if I can find it...okay, it's not anywhere, fuck it. That's what the back end of this is like if you go through it right...right being that you let go of your composure, you let it slip away knowing that maybe, just maybe...it might come back.

So I went back out into the world with a bag of fuck-itz in my pocket. I powered through K&V's shit, ready now to feel progress again. I went across town and picked up a new job, probably and maybe easily the most coveted in town for someone in my business. After that, I drove across town to the old job, marched my 30 star cards (received over a period of time for guest love) and I said I'll take my 300 dollars and oh, by the way, here's my 2 weeks notice, in my hyper-spastic handwriting with a P.S - "I'll miss this place -- apologies this is written by hand, someday I might grow up."

...

I crossed my manager on the way out - and let me make something clear...the place was the poison, not the people...so there will be sting in walking away, not lingering, but still...

So I pulled him aside to tell him I was gonna be shorting him, that I was leaving, that I needed a shake up, that it would be more money and less hours, that it was kind of a no brainer. He got it. And it was smiles and handshakes and threatening punches to the face and abdomen when he kind of shifted things with this forewarning of sincerity before stopping, asking...why are you so tortured?

All I could do was stutter. And I think I smiled, and laughed through it, dodging the question because I didn't even know how to begin to answer it, or if I even understood...

But I was driving home around 6, and letting the day soak through as the sun was drifting down and the question kept echoing in my head. And I just let it echo, didn't bother to cut it off with an answer or even a response, and for the next 20 minutes it was my constant and occupying thought. I didn't care, and the possibility of its truth wasn't unsettling, but comforting - like laying on my carpet, staring into the ceiling - a nice and pretty bow on top of this ripping and awe bleeding Monday.

One Sunday...

I was thinking about this sometime last night. Sometime as I was either on Mullholland or picking up Grand Lux or watching the second song The Killers played on SNL over and over and over - burning a hole in my DVR.

Something about the speed of the world, and the fact that I feel like I'm living for weeks or months at a time in a matter of days. It made me want to brand it on my arm or heart or cheek, this idea - One Sunday.

Because I was sitting with so much, and with the world to pull through this week, and then the week after that, and after that - and I started thinking to myself that the world changes, rises and falls from Sunday to Sunday. And between every Sunday, there's a lifetime. And I have no control, nothing to do but live and push, avoid naps and apathy and allow myself to feel it all because I already know I fucking do.

I just wish I knew the name of the song. Just wish it could play in this hat I call headphones.

DDL...

Los Angeles Equestrian Center...

Where this special horse named Illinois...

Tossed this very experienced and stellar rider girl/apparent gang enthusiast/helmet enthusiast/hydration enthusiast and fucked up her chin, on her birthday...

And I got to feed it carrots in Burbank...

And it's beautiful, and it felt far and smelled like shit - beautiful shit. Only the right type of person can get that. And it reminded me of the country in South Africa, maybe because I'm reaching but maybe because it really did. Like a child with his cone of ice cream on this Friday morning...

You Know, Like That Green Day Song...

There's been a lot of movement lately, in life...on many fronts. And at some point, when August was fading, I remember bracing, readying myself that September was going to be rough...but that once I made it through to the other side, all that would await: bright lights and a new and majestic life. And a few days ago, the above song crept into my playlist and it started banging my head and it kind of made me smile - thinking back to what I was thinking, labeling a month as this villain, training myself to think of it as a battle. Funny, behavior in hindsight.

I've been working hard on a script that is going to change my life. I completely believe that. And last week, I finished it, and I had in my hands a story about two kids in love, and it's raw and it moves and it crushes. I believe all that. And on Tuesday night, I had a meeting with Team Burn to talk about the direction we were going to take it in. We talked about the process of sending out a spec - that you get it in the best possible shape it can be in, you get everyone on board in the company (in my case, a management company), and usually on a Tuesday, you circle the wagons and send it out to everyone around town. And then you wait. And the thought of it put a fire in me. And we started talking about the small things we had to do to get it there -- the character work that we needed to do before it would be ready. Then we started talking about other things - scripts, ideas, writers who had recently caught fire and the scripts they wrote, the scripts they broke with -- everything that had been moving lately around town.

Then we started talking about our expectations of ourselves and of each other. We talked about our expectations of the scripts we want to take out to town - our names big and bold on the front. And we came to a couple conclusions about our kids, Kim and Val. We knew that the story was good, and that it works and works well...it does. And we knew the writing was there. But this moment hit and we couldn't avoid it...there's room. It can be better. It can be bigger. It can be bolder. It can blow the fucking doors off this town. And the only thing standing in the way of it being better is the work, is the grind and the shit and the piss. And running from all that is coward. And running from all that isn't how I'm wired. Lucky and/or fucky for me - it seems Team Burn's gonna hold me to it.

He left and left notes and I chewed through it all. And all day yesterday, all day, I felt like I was going to throw up...all day. It was amazing, all these feelings and ideas burning and tumbling through one another. Like everything was coming to life and dying all at the same time. Because I realized that October is going to be just like September. And November is going to be just like October. And down the line when this sells and my life does change, 2009 is going to be just like 2008 and nothing is going to change. And I'm okay with that. Because looking back, September was pretty fucking raw...but pretty fucking sensational. I've never made strides like this, ever. I've never grown like this, ever. And I can be happy pretending to be miserable for the rest of my life. So anyway...

I'm sitting at home yesterday, honestly fucked out of my mind and I get this phone call. It was from a production company that works in the 10-20 million range. And they roll out with Warner Bros. and Universal and Fox. And this girl says that she read Kim and Val and that she loved them and that it was the kind of film they might be interested in -- maybe with a little less violence and a little development - and she said her boss already had it and was going to read it on her flight to London or sometime after she got there. And I said that was great and amazing and that I was flattered and through the roof -- but that it is still evolving and that me and Team Burn were going to take it under the knife again - that it will be ready soon, and to be patient. And she was cool with that, said that when I was ready, they'll be ready for it. Hard move...but the right move.

I just can't cut the corner on this one. I just can't do it - unable to allow self. And I made a promise with Team Burn that we will never settle for anything less than the best we can possibly be. And he made a promise back. We're going big, eyes set on the biggest of big boys...in the biggest of big boy towns.

And so away we go...once again and forever 'til we find that screen.

Wolf Parade...

Anyone who has the stones to even put down an 11 minute song, and then release it, and then absolutely at least blow my mind deserves chronicle. Everything here is exquisite...

1925-2008...

Friday Night 9:45-11:00...

Dear Kim & Val...

I apologize, it's been a while since we checked in. Or, since I've checked in. See, I've been busy. I've been working -- sweat, blood, tears to bring the two of you to life. I've been fighting, every day, nearly a thought a minute, doing everything I can to help you find immortality. You've taken my sleep, my calm, my rational thought and replaced it with fury and invincibility and hope. You've made my mind and heart unstable. To that, I give profound thanks. Every day, you get inside me, save me, occupy me...and to that, I give profound thanks. All I can offer in return -- a promise to not let you down, to not stop until you're on that screen, until your story pours out onto the world. That I promise.

Since we met, you've been my obsession. And I hope that's not weird, me coming out and saying so. I believe in and value honesty above all things and can't help but think our rapport is strong enough to handle any truth.

Recently, as you know, I sent your story, in progress, out to the first line of gatekeepers in charge of making possible everything we envision. And they loved you. They're fascinated by you. And now there's a team working to give you due perfection. We're working together to bring you to life - not one inch short of what you deserve. And with this team behind me behind you, you will be unstoppable. And you'll find life. And your story will take over the world. And you'll never die...

But patience now. Much work ahead. Soon, we begin.

All love,

Burn

Fascination...

A few days ago, I was standing by the pool at work, mind clenching, face numb - something like that after a long day of work and being at work was this terrible drag, something pulling on me something awful.

And I was holding this pen behind my back, in my right hand. This metal pen and I bent it until it snapped and it echoed through the courtyard. I looked to my finger and it was torn open, nothing too awful, but not too pretty. And it was bleeding, and I'm looking at it now and the Neosporin I'm now pouring on and into it because it's starting to hurt and I think it's going to have to get amputated because the pain is pretty deep and I keep on envisioning myself with 9 fingers -- a right hand without a thumb and I think that would look pretty cool. Pretty cool.

And I look to my body and I'm looking for scars - worry a day will come when I feel there should be more - that I've been cheated or that I've cheated myself. Then I laugh. Just because they can't be seen...

I remind self - I'm doing a fine job, a good job - that the line is falling, and I toe it as it falls. And I'm mistaking happiness for madness, because there's so much of one or the other at any given moment and it's a lot, asking someone to deal with either or both, everything all at the same time. I just breathe.

Because I'm still learning to be capable -- of handling -- of managing these assets of mind. On nights like this, in the past, I'd head out and grab a drink, let it spiral into something special. And by special, I mean the opposite of. But that's where I'm headed tonight - out to see what's what. I feel alright, like I'm headed somewhere, away from destruction and this is the new path, tonight, for a while...to see what's what...

Show me a faraway land. Show me a faraway land. Show me a faraway land.

Kings of Leon...

Oh, Kids...

I woke up today the same way I've woken every day for the past 2 weeks. I eat, settle and greet the kids -- Kim and Val -- for a span of time ranging anywhere from 5-9 hours. And I slam and destroy and bend words and feelings, trying to make something so flimsy into something so concrete - something that'll fetch me my 5-6 figures - something that officially ends playtime and begins, well...playtime.

I'm abstract when I'm working, at least when I'm in deep. I have nothing left at the end of the day. Things get simple, things are simply simplified. And the harder I work the harder I have to work to blow it all out, to fit it in a box and dispose of it somewhere outside of my person. Today, after a brutal but all affirming day of script work, before going to the gym, I ran up Sunset Plaza Drive with my buddy Will. Last March, we somewhat ran the LA marathon together and have made this something of a weekly appointment - to climb the steep and winding hill until we reach the top, above the smog, above the cars, above this wonderfully poisoned city . It's metaphorical to say the least. Between breaths, we talk shit and of ideas that fetch far. And when we get to the top, we check the clock at Ice Cube's house, slap hands and decide the pace of decent -- all depending on how much time we have before the real workout starts.

I left the gym sometime after 7 tonight, overdone as usual, but lighter. My motor skills and skills of mind had long ago departed. When I'm in work, I lose my gift of communication. The vocal webs I usually sling with such skill and savvy hang limp like Durban's whiskdic. People think I'm on drugs. I'm actually not. It's all good...because I'm on pace. I'm at the exact spot I want to be. And this progression is my vigor, and I'm moving into something of a rare form, only wanting to be composed of three things -- moving towards a day where I am all and only three things...Muscle, Brain, Heart. That's all, all I have a tolerance left to carry.

Hangin' Wit J...

Somewhere In The Night...

I'm on a new kick, back to Knights of Cydonia - and it's pounding me, somewhere in my guts, because I listen to everything too loud, because I want it to explode my head. And it's pulling back memories -- of seeing the Muse boys play live and feeling something so profound, so big, so charging.

I'm berserk. Last night, lightning struck, something coming into me, changing me with a no discussion declaration -- that the things that have brought me happiness will no longer serve - that the things making me content will no longer suffice. I felt in an instant I would never get back the person I had so recently been. And I can't point to exactly what caused it. I got back from dinner sometime around midnight and couldn't sit still. I paced and analyzed and fantasized and spoke to myself in such abundance that I had to stop, find a mirror, tell myself I was speaking to myself in such abundance - because calling it out makes it okay. And I couldn't settle. I couldn't right my mind and didn't want to -- it was involuntarily righting itself.

There's something big afoot here - something that's bigger than anything I've ever been. I can feel it. And the thought of it stretches, and the thought of it is the aim of my every search, and the thought of it transforms the world I know - teaches me to cope with revelation.

Because this, THIS has to be bigger than everything in this life. And I feel like life has to suffer for it to flourish - because nothing gives me glory like it - and I'm okay with that - I feel like I'm going to have to be okay with that - and I'm never going to apologize for it. This is a state of evolution. When I don't know how to handle these things, I simply sit back and let them handle me.

In Dreams and Welcome Back...

I woke up yesterday with this great gift. Usually on Sundays, I wake up with an apocalyptic mind. Yesterday was different.

I was sleeping when I got the phone call. When I answered, I was still sleeping, if you follow. Someone was yelling on the other end, so angry at me - my actions, my lacking responsibility. The voice told me to come to the hospital and fast.

When I arrived, there was this line of people waiting for me, eyes like razors as I made my approach. And they were judging, hostile. I felt awful, not so much as for what I'd done, but for what I would have to live with. When I got to the room and turned inside, I found this girl, and she was holding a baby. I recognized her straight away - a girl from my past. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Durbs, you woulda been so proud - a mag girl on many occasions. I remembered a distant feeling, lusting after this...her and her face and her body like possibly no other I had known. But when we spoke, I'd float away. We went to dinner, maybe a movie a long time ago and I remember this numbing feeling crawling over my body and mind, so un-held. I remember taking her to bed, knowing I wanted to but shouldn't. And I remember that being that, knowing it was going to turn out exactly like that.

Everyone in the room started in on me, yelling and screaming, evidently pissed that I had slept through the birth of my child. I looked at the mother and she was indifferent, soul-less, like they or I or everything had sucked it from her. They were yelling and screaming and I felt like I was dead or wanted to be.

I woke up a few minutes after 8 and didn't move, let it settle that what happened in my sleep wasn't my reality. I considered the possibility that laying in bed not being a father was my dream, that the alternate reality was in fact, mine.

It wasn't. It isn't. I was okay.

...

It's Monday. I woke today before 7 to start back in on my two darling, deviant lovers. I woke up with some shit in my guts, still some remnants of the recent girl, one held in distantly higher esteem. The fact that she's still here is marveling and maddening. I want to go to the bathroom and puke her out, all of her - be clean again - for moments. But then comes back my thirst for self destruct, something inside me and all it wants to do is embrace the shit, teach me how to love it like I would my would-be bastard child.

Good things, I'm in. Promise.

...

This room is dark and long and would echo if you let it. These headphones swallow my head. This instrument beneath my hands makes me strong. My heart is bleeding. This feeling feels like home. I'm home. Now I eat the world.

Bonnie & Clyde...

Butch & Sundance...

I spent the day at the WGA library, glued, leafing through William Goldman's 190 some page Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. I was reading it for style...how he handled the stick up robberies of the old days and how to send two brilliantly drawn characters to their death and into cinema immortality. The day was awe-inspiring. I mean, Goldman goes so far beyond brilliant that it's like he's all ease. His pen just glides. Fiction, screenplays, whatever. Read Princess Bride and tell me otherwise.

And this...oh, this...

Clarence & Alabama...

"Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that and I could cut it and I could sell it a little bit at a time and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. I'm not a drug dealer. And I don't want to be a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers; worry about gettin' busted all the time. Just meetin' you here today scares the shit out of me and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie producer. I like you and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get a million for it. But you can. So I'll sell it to you for a couple a' hundred thousand. You go make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world." QT

4:38 destroys me...

Romeo & Juliet...

This weekend, I met with a gentleman who is going to manage me and career. We're on the same path - two young bucks, foaming at the mouth, eyes with aim on world domination. He took a liking to Kim and Val, embraced its strength, its weaknesses that I was too weak to see and we tore through it with a plan -- go back to work, spit it out in a couple of months when its undeniable, let it alter our paths in life. And I feel there's a weight been carried away. I got a corner man.

The process for this week is simple. Read a script, watch the film. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Last night was Boondock Saints. This was today's:

Dear Durban...

Sound advice, chap. (In case you aren't wise to the exploits of my friend, John Durban, kindly play catch up link right).

Let's stick to themes here. You quote me, I quote you. It keeps going through my head, you, knowing some girl just touched me up, explaining the ways and woes of love. I want to play a game. Since your readers suffered the luxury of playing out my shit at home, let's turn a table, call the name of my game, "Consider the Source."

This is you in love. I know. I've been there...

"She took me into her mouth. I think it was the taller one, but I had lost track. By now they were both on their knees, double team revival. Nothing was happening. Nothing. Not a movement. I didn't know what it was. I tried to explain. I said things like whisky and blow and weed and that mystery yellow pill I dropped on Marnixstraat and fucking blue balls and double fucking two Japanese school girls and the combination of everything but they didn't speak a lot of English."

And that's what I always admire about you, John, your invested heart. You lay it out there. You delve, and deep. The authority by which you speak is warranted and staggering. I've found that only those in possession of a hyper-ripe moral compass can expect to dish beliefs by which I pay even a momentary mind. So let's put you to the test. Speed round, shall we Durbs?

"I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in and old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die."

Nice.

"Prague is good for two things -- hookers and cocaine."

Excellent.

"There's a very distinct sound that happens when you clear out a man's teeth with a rusted hammer, like breaking through an egg shell -- soft, delicate, yet there's enough fortitude there to actually give the metal of the hammer a slight ring."

Sensational.

"Let her go. You'll be fine. You'll always be fine. You're the fucking Burn, man. The fucking Burn."

Thanks, D.

Ouch...

27...

Kinda feels like...

But not because I'm getting older. In my desired profession, I've found at this point that my age has only hindered me. Every year, every day, my pen grows mightier. Barring a breakdown, which is quite reasonable, in my golden years, I'll be so good, no one will even be able to understand a word I'm saying. I can't decide yet if that's what I want.

But birthdays are strange. I feel like every year, I get duped into getting people together, which actually makes me wildly uncomfortable. I don't like the idea of assembly anywhere even in the proximity of the realm of my behalf. I like to hide in corners, listen, maneuver, plot. I need to always have an out - find comfort in such things. Tonight, I'll find no such comfort. There will be no escape. The thought of it right now unsteadies me.

I feel like all day, my phone has been ringing, vibrating so often it almost got me off. And out of the woodwork - all these well wishes and rsvp's and I wonder what the hell I'm getting myself into every time this happens. And seeing the names pop up one after the other, and the cards and the blessings and these people I haven't seen in so long -- I'm such a cock but I'm not I just...tuck away. I don't keep up and I stopped apologizing for it. It's not that I don't care it's just that I...don't care.

So tonight. Good times, of course...always - because it's in my blood, above all else, and to them I'll always revert...

So it begins with the second drop in "Juno." Fuck me. Fuck you. Tokyo Police Club, who woulda thought...

Thursday Evening...

A couple days ago, I was watching Scorsese's "Shine a Light." It's a Rolling Stones docu that was shot mostly at NYC's Beacon Theater in 2006. It was cool, absolutely blows my mind that they're still around, blows my mind all they've made...

Between songs, there were these cuts to their days of youth, interviews they would give - Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Ronnie Wood. And there was something to it - seeing them, for me, maybe for the first time in their youth - classy punks, collected, composed. I have such admiration.

There was this clip where Keith was going on and on - distant and flying - after he and Mick had been released from jail on some sort of narcotic possession charge. The interviewer was digging at him, trying to evoke a gunslinger's response about the system and their imprisonment and all he could say, spacing and direct, "Well... maybe we'll get a song out of it."

...

I've got ache. All I can hope for is that it's dying -- not ripped raw. Right now though, it's lingering and I don't know which way it's gonna tip - still too fresh to call...

I had lunch with this girl today. She's something. She's --

I've loved two girls in my life -- told two girls that I had love for them. One I dated for years -- some great, many crushing. I look back and think we almost killed each other. She broke my first heart - never again had one like it. The other and I lived together in Cape Town...among other places. We dated for sub 1 year, saw the world's rare stretches, thought we died together in the Zambezi, may very well be forever etched into each other. For an overly dramatic 26 (27 in minutes) year old romantic, I can't help but think that's sparse. Between the in-between moments and relationships of my life, to find anything but a momentary spark has been so rare. Sometimes, friends think I'm gay. Often, I turn down "guilt-free" female fucks. In fact, I scoffed at two last night -- beautiful, and great, and interesting...

Just not for me. Nothing ever enough...

Then came a third girl. We saw each other for 6 weeks. After a month, when we were lying in bed, I told her I loved her. She smiled, gripped me tight, said something back but I didn't hear, couldn't hear, refused to hear. And I can't explain it, my style that's nothing if it isn't Kamikaze. And she was beautiful. Some kinda rare beautiful thing that's no longer mine. And it better be fucking okay that that stings because it does. Then or now, I could never wrap my head around her. I never wanted to, will never want to. Some things are there just to exist. She was like that.

We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye. She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it. I opened the gate and had to stop. I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me. It was my Conquer, coming back, rushing through me, trained to not let a moment of weakness or hurt find me. And all it could say, push, push, push, we don't have time for this - there's too much, too much, too much. I can't help but listen. I want to listen. I have no choice. This is what I do. This is my life.

We compromised, Conquer and I, and I was allowed the time it took to get from the gate to the back door, through the hallway and into my apartment : : :

The smile came first and I had to dismiss it - too crippling. Then the eyes, that curl in her cheek, her stare -- always burning -- thinking back to how I'd reach my hand out in the middle of the night to find hers and she'd find me back. I remember giving up on sleep, never being tired, feeling my body crumbling inside, sick and addicted to the adrenaline of this she. I remember the world disappearing -- inside her -- I can't. Too much. It was too much then, it's too much now. We were so on and so wrong. I don't know how I expected myself to deal with any such things. So off and so right. This great competence I praise in myself often fails.

Sitting here now, I can't help but go against the grain. I can't help this. Tonight I'll sleep. Tomorrow, maybe all of this will be gone, though it certainly won't. It'll disappear in the stages I gave. Problem now - I was in deep. This girl took breath like Beckett's hammer curve. She was electric like watching Bellamy play God on stage. She crushed like that scene in Neverending Story when Artax loses his battle with the Nothing and fucking gives up and fucking drowns, just fucking drowns right there in the Swamp of fucking Sadness and it doesn't matter that he comes back in the end to ride the fucking plains, who fucking gives up in the Swamp of Sadness? This girl will always be...so good. Make no mistake. Sensational.

And she listened when I commented on the pleasantries of her down comforter, took note of my jealousies. And she saw the holes in my work socks, listened to my rant, my endless rants - one of them something along the lines of fuck work fuck them they can suck my balls before they even try to fire me do you think I will ever buy new socks for those...

Now there's a beautiful white down comforter on my bed. On top of the comforter, 5 pairs of black socks- this poetic juxtaposition...so pretty it gives me hurt. They were for my birthday...are still for my birthday, I suppose.

It's not an easy thing to do -- to let it go, when you want to fight for something you can't fight for - when there's still something screaming and you have to put it to bed, tuck it in and smother it with a pillow -- and you have to watch it kick and scream and fight for air, yelling through the pillow, this is wrong! this is wrong! this is wrong!

...

But I rationalize. I cut losses so that at the end of the day, I can try and sleep and live with the choices and paths I take. And I boil it down. I find comfort in simplicity. So this is it, all I'm trying to do, in this life...come up with a few good songs, maybe someday have enough to spin an album -- something that makes me happy, content. I have so many about growth and adventure and danger and they're great, they are...it's just...

I feel like this girl pulled 2-3 songs out of me. 2-3 songs that at any given moment could have cured all that ails and ailed. Now that she's gone, they're gone. They're lost. And I'll never know. I'm worried a night will come and the thought won't let me sleep, maybe for weeks. Maybe I worry too much.

I keep telling myself, all I keep telling myself, over and over -- respect it, love it, cherish it.

Because this is my song.

This is what I do.

Thursday Afternoon...

Elevator Music...

7.4 and they turn and they turn...

Cahuenga to Beverly Glen and instantly and in stretches it smells like cum, something in the trees. I start my climb and the higher I get the more I need. I bleed my ears as my sound bangs the canyons, back and fourth a thousand times until it dissipates and dies. It follows me like a stream through the turns, above the lights as I tear the flesh from my wheel, from my throat, wishing it would never end, burning -- a heap that just got its match. Sunday. Again. Always. Eyes ripped in the mirror. Red. And behind them, invasion, conquering, and I've already turned from sleep, stuck, and my tires sing and in my mind I yearn for coast. The only one I know. And I want it back, need it back -- something in me begging again, where's my coast, where's my coast...relentless and chasing...where'd it go, where'd you go. Don't you forget. Get it back. Get it back. Run.

Stay Hot, Cuba...

The Olympics can be a trying time. Athletes devote everything, mentally, physically for a taste to compete at such an epic level, to call themselves Olympians. It's a badge I'm certain they wear on their hearts until the day they die.

And if things don't happen to go their way, like, say in the bronze medal match of taekwondo, they can always pull this...

I just wouldn't recommend it.

Likely What Started It All...

Everyone Could Use An LA Monday...

I woke up at 10 today, a solid 10 hours of sleep after putting together a string of 4,6,3,6,4. The culprits, well... some of the usual suspects, some new ones. Certainly still Kim and Val. There's a new old one called Billy Bambino that's contributed. Then there's the Olympics and my spending 5 hours a night glued and weeping...

Trying to devise plots to propose Shawn Johnson to be my honorary little sister. Because she's sensational...that stare. I also believe her to be raised by wolves.

Let me take a breath, pause, cause what's comin' here ain't petty...

Two days ago, I told a girl...something. I said something to her. Four letter word. And it was easy. And I don't know how it happened. And I can't even begin to address the trouble in such things.

...

So today, my LA Monday:

I sped through chapters of Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, packaged it up, sent it back to the Netflix home base with Waterhorse: Legend of the Deep because I haven't used my fucking account in over a month and could no longer handle the feeling of stale films to exist in my abode.

I ran through the bank, picked up three rolls of quarters for laundry, made a cash deposit into a savings account I've not so subtlety titled, "Brazil."

I washed the filth from my car...usually a metaphor for something bigger.

I skimmed The Pillowman after reading The Lieutenant of Inishmore after forming a fascination for Martin McDonagh after falling for In Bruges last week after falling for it months ago.

Laundry.

I ate Oreos with a glass of milk, remembered what childhood felt like.

I shopped online.

I sketched out a tattoo, plotted.

I made a new spin playlist because I now teach the fanatically fit at Equinox and because the feeling of 80 constant and judgmental eyes is a powerful and refreshing thing to suffer.

I wrote a blog.

...

I'll go to work. I'll endure and endure and endure and endure.

I'll say goodbye and see someone off.

I'll come home, close my door, click the lock and stand there, listening to the pumping air conditioner and the silence of my apartment. I'll close my eyes and not move, circling, thinking of leaving thinking of staying. I'll make a phone call. I'll sit, stand, sit, stand. I'll pace. 125 minutes will pass. I'll calm down, decide to trap myself, to keep myself there...here. I'll wonder what's coming, hoping for the best, prepping for the worst. I'll fight myself, set my alarm for 5:56 and the next thing I know, I'm there...red lights blazing from that clock. Blazing, blazing, blazing. It screams at me. Sometimes, I scream back.

Mattress Man...

Norwood Blues...

A package just arrived at my door, ringing doorbell, startling me something awful. Listed on the box was a return address to Richard Pildes of Chicago -- to some, an arbitrary name, but to me: Deuce, Deuce Dog, Captain Insanity. He was a man I came to know in the Fall of my junior year in high school.

Pildes was a baseball coach like none I'd ever known. He was passionate, persistent, headstrong, steady and righteously insane. He was a man of small stature, certainly, but had this bite - so subtle and affecting, he'd invade sleep. I loved him. He has also likely won 52 thousand games in his coaching career.

A couple months ago, cleaning my apartment, I stumbled into a wave of personal nostalgia - box of old pictures. I came across this photo...


1999 Norwood Blues. It was right after we had lost the NABF national championship to an outfit called the Bill Hood Broncos out of somewhere in the vicinity of Baton Rouge. I think we finished that year 54-7. Wins were foggy, losses I remember. 7 losses. The last one was tough...something in the air - those boys on the other side of the diamond played the game of their lives and I'm not just saying that 'cause we went down. They had a full ride LSU hurler/draftee on the hill that had been saved for us, somehow, 6 games deep into the World Series. He could shove, and a southpaw. They had a monster first inning and won the game something like 10-4. We took second place.

Inside this package...two T-shirts and a hat, all bearing logos I so revered in my back half years of high school. It smiled me something wide. I still so revere them. I was a Norwood Blue.

Summer baseball is supposed to be a time when you kick back, enjoy the dog days with the boys around town - play against other town's boys around town. It's about regional pride, a "our town is better than your town" kinda thing. I'm sure at some point, things were like that around Chicago. Pildes crushed that, treated the Chicago metro area as his own personal grab bag. In the Fall, calls would go out to his objects of desire. He'd recruit and assemble, steal each town's best player, build this arsenal that would go on tour when schools let their fools out. Truth was, most towns didn't have a player good enough. We were a force...

Every legion team we played circled their schedule. Most wouldn't come near us. The teams that did would save their best pitcher for the occasion. We'd win 18-2. When traffic was bad or when we were shorthanded and our pitchers had to hit, we'd win 11-2. We'd pimp home runs. Our fastballs were scorching. If towns were villages and we were raiders, the children would have been killed, the women raped and the homes burned. That's just how we rolled. And the swagger...oh, the swagger. In a sense, something about it all almost felt sadistic. We were evil but run with absolute class. It was the time of my athletic life.

In my 15 or so years of playing, I was never on a roster like the '99 Blues. Everyone went on to play college ball - most to major college programs. A handful were drafted. Two are playing in the Olympics** right now. But it wasn't just that. We had brilliant minds, a valedictorian - Ivy leaguers and professor's sons -- we had guys who puked at the first sight of a book. Such a ripe blend.

Oh nostalgia...fuck off but come and find me any time. Any time.

My Old Friend Walt...

These last few days have been blurry. I flamed through 5 new drafts of Kim and Val - cut 20 pages. Two weeks ago and today, I could have defended every word when it was 126 pages. Today, it's 106...and it's better, tighter. Sometimes, it all feels so fickle.

The process behind this is taking a little longer than my initial expectation, which was overnight...but it's getting there. A consultant recently sent me an e-mail, a note about the Disney Fellowship. They employ up to 4 writers per year, pay them an annual salary to work on the lot and come up with original material. I had flirted with something like this in the past at Disney, just a few notches above. I thought, why not try again? Hell, I have a gem in my back pocket, right?

So I started thinking, breaking it all down. Kimberly and Valentine in the house that Walt built. Let's see...

The word fuck or a variation of appears 19 times.
There's a scene involving rape.
Someone bites off someone else's ear.
Someone cuts off someone else's hand.
Sex is had or implied in 4 scenes.
A dead body is mounted against the grill of an SUV.
Guns and/or drugs appear in...too many scenes to count.
There's a miscarriage.
The word cunt is used twice.
Many die...quite violently.

Sometimes I stop...think about the phrase "setting up for success," wonder my competence for such things. Or care.

Gary Oldman...

My Watch...

I lost it. Don't know where it is. Seems to have escaped. All I know is this sinking and it's growing, building me mad.

Where do I begin? Trouble is, I only had it for a short period of time, quite brief in the grand scheme of things...but it looked right, felt right. I'd put it on and felt like it made me something else, something I wasn't before. Lifting. Yes, a fucking watch...if you can believe. These things happen all the time, mostly when we're not looking.

It was beautiful. It was my destruction. Wherever it is now, it certainly still is both, making it difficult, coping, thinking it's out there but not here...somewhere but not known.

The face...like none I'd seen. Exquisite, piercing. Sharp and slicing...smooth. It was crafted, absolutely, somewhere for sure. I imagined the little cranks and wheels, the internal tapestry by which it functioned. I tried. I tried. The thought of it alone -- mesmerizing. Every day, I would turn to give it a thousand glances, admire the way it wrapped my wrist. Tight or delicate, sensational always.

All I want is it. Back. Wrapped. Here. Home. Lost.

Like A Warm Fall Blanket...

Earthquake...

I was laying in bed at 11:42 in the AM - whenever it hit. In bed because I had slept minutes last night before gymming at 6 in the AM. Needed two hours. FYI - I don't sleep into the middle of the day. Not in this life.

My mirrors started to sway, the entire building was shaking. It felt pretty serious, hit something around 5.8, and froze me for literally 15 seconds - a long bastard. I was waiting for the ceiling to crack, thinking I should get into the middle of a doorway or something, cover my head or kidneys...protect the vitals, you know. I was waiting for something big and exciting and dramatic to happen, found myself wishing it was the beginning of "the one." Though, it wasn't.

It's funny though - listening to the news in the background, caller after caller ringing in, telling their experiences in "the field." Everyone explaining shaking and swaying and shattering, something to shake up our days and lives - our regularly scheduled programming interrupted.

We're all such fucking monkeys.

Two assholes walk into a Seattle candy shop, another one takes their picture...

First Word...

It's into the third week since I carefully introduced Kim and Val. All this fucking waiting making me nutso. Yesterday, I got word from a producer quite wired in the game. Not one of the first two, but still the first real word. I was expecting him to take it for a run, take it to his people for a run and so on and so on.

Didn't get it. Missed. Overshot.

I heard things like they're too in love, that it never stops, too intense the whole way through, never a moment for a breather.

I respect his opinion, and hate, hate defensive writers, but I quickly found myself un-listening. I tuned out, thinking how could you miss this, how could you let this go over your head, how could you miss this...

...

Lately, I've been losing sleep. Not that I've been sleeping all that much in the past 6 months, but still. And I can tell you what it is... or who -- Nikkorela...

She started showing up 2 weeks ago or something like it. Maybe in a dream, maybe not. Truth is, I still can't tell if she's real or imaginary. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the possibility that she's an invention of the mind, here to save me from void. She recently came to me in my sleep to speak of an ancient tale -- a master sculptor and his student, because I think she thought I needed it...

It was at the height of the Roman Empire, Luido was living in a province 200 miles south of Rome. He had at one time been stationed in the golden city, there to serve as personal sculptor to the Emperor himself. In his stay, he had witnessed the birth, the coming and going of the most gifted artists and visionaries that had ever lived.

When old age crept into him and the pace of the city grew too scathing, he decided to leave Rome and settle in a distant land, far removed. One day, walking the fields, he came across a young boy, Oederon, as if he were placed before Luido by the Gods themselves...he was sculpting the vinyards, olive fields, distant landscapes with a hand so steady, an eye so agile, it brought tears to Luido's eyes.

Luido took him on as his apprentice, though it was evident early on that the pupil's skill far surpassed that of his master.

Word began to spread through the hills and valleys, all the way to the golden city -- whispers of a boy with a hand that was guided by the gods. The Emperor summoned him at once. And so, Luido and Oederon traveled to Rome. The Emperor welcomed them, thanked them, declared that he was to hire a master sculptor to document the days of their empire, to immortalize his legacy. It was to be the most prestigous title an Emperor had bestowed upon an artist.

Luido had known since that first day that no man could stand against Oederon's talents...not even Rome's master sculptors. When the Emperor saw Luido in the audience, he summoned him forward. A recognition, for Luido had served as Rome's master sculptor when this current Emperor was just a boy. The Emperor spoke with an echo that rang through the royal courtyard...

"Great Luido, master servant of the Roman empire, you stand before us now with this fabled young boy. Word has traveled far of his divine talents. Of this boy named Oederon. I ask you now to speak in his favor, as his master. Tell me he is everything I have heard and there will be no trial. He will live here, amongst us until the day he no longer chooses, until he no longer sees it fit to document our travails. Speak your certainty and all this will be over."

Luido looked into Oederon's hungry eyes, certain, then looked back to the Emperor...

"I am not certain."

Oederon was sent off to complete his great trial, a sculpture that was to enter him into the forefront of Roman lore. But Oederon had lost his will. He felt betrayed by his master Luido. He was uncertain, weak. When the day had passed and the Emperor's royal advisors came to judge Oederon's work, he was nowhere to be found. He had left, alone, to wander distant lands.

Many years later, as Luido was on his deathbed, Oederon came to see his old master. Luido smiled, welcomed him, told him to sit. Oederon kissed Luido's forehead, spoke of his travels, the search of his destiny. The years had been difficult on both of them. Oederon's skin had hardened and stretched, a leathery glow. The color in his eyes had emptied. Luido's mind had grown forgetful, his thoughts had run senile. Oederon said goodbye, took Luido's hand, walked to the door when he turned back...

"Master, I have to know something. That day in Rome, when the Emperor asked for your blessing of me. He asked of my gifted hand. I never understood. All those days in the fields, all those days we had spent in the fields...if you didn't believe-

My son, I believed. The great Jupiter was alive in you.

Then why? Why? Why didn't you say so? Why did you leave me like that, why did you abandon me like that. It was my destiny, and you took it away from me. Why didn't you tell the Emperor?

Because my son, if it was your destiny, you wouldn't have listened to a word I said...you would have seized it for yourself."

Two assholes walk into a Seattle bar, another one takes their picture...

Sigur Ros, Durban...

I'm sitting here listening to the new Sigur Ros. Very good. I was kicking around the web, to the song "Ara batur" when I checked Durban's site. Something about the timing of the song, so right and wrong. So terrible and beautiful. Kinda crushing but life. Fucking life. Fucking life.

This is Durban's post:

Something In Her Way.

I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared. This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer. Don't know her last name, didn't think to care. All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me. It ripped through me. All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. I was electric. For 2 weeks, we paired. In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave. She was electric.

I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high. I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her. I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road. I think she was egging me on. She wanted me to do it. I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.

We stopped. We had smashed into a cliff. Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands. Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked. The car was fucked. We fucked. Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear. She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed.

When I woke, she was gone. No note. All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her. Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip. I would kill her. I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us. I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go. To tell her I'm never going to let go.

But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.

-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --

"Durban. I love you man. Know that before everything. I'm sorry. Jenny's dead, found her this morning. It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left. I'm sorry. We all miss you. Come back soon. I'm so sorry."

...

I shot back through my pictures, my records of travel, certain I had something of the two of them. I remembered her. How could I forget. All I found was this, from Pompeii, likely just before Amalfi, fitting...

Even Then...

Simon Pegg and Nick Frost...

I'm trying to define the term "star struck," since in this town, it's a fascinating phenomena. It's happened to me a couple times, though the exact names, I'm too lazy to fetch. Yesterday, it happened again and made me wonder...

There were already a couple "names" in the restaurant when I came to work -- Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart. Mr. Harrelson has been around forever, from White Men Can't Jump to Indecent Proposal to Natural Born Killers to Semi-Pro, he's heavily accomplished. Kristen Stewart has been good from Panic Room and Into The Wild. Her new movie Twilight is supposed to be pretty cool, possibly a franchise. I hit their table with a smile and went about my business, nothing to it. It's not to say I didn't care, I did. I respect their success, but I respect it in the same manner I would respect a stock broker who can spin millions when the rest of the world eats lunch...nothing about me was struck.

Then the Shaun Of The Dead boys strolled in...



Without thinking, my face washed to giddy. We traded smiles and heys and I had to fight myself to not saddle up on Nick Frost's back. I was totally star struck and only after realized why. If you haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or Hot Fuzz, I can say that you're deeply missing out. These are totally original and brilliant movies...heartfelt and hilarious, and I'm guessing are the product of a few friends sitting around, writing a script about what they love and what inspires them, then having the time of their lives going off and shooting it...



Maybe because they represent the ideal...either or any way, it's gonna take composure when that table comes.

Coldplay 7/15/08, The Forum, Inglewood CA...

I must admit, expectations fell somewhere short of stellar. I had earlier seen Muse play The Forum in beautiful Inglewood, California and left thinking the place had sapped their invincibility. When I heard Coldplay was coming to town, and that they were coming to the Forum, I grunted, knew I had little choice but to make the purchase. They're certainly on my list and I'd never seen them live.

I don't know how to lead into this, so I'm just gonna go...

The show was painfully good. Honestly, I think in spots, I ached because of it. Chris Martin is obnoxous and arrogant and amazing. The moment the lights went down, I couldn't fight away this feeling, going over and over in my mind that this was going to be a night I envy for the rest of my life. They were absolutely fucking brilliant. Absolutely. Every song reminded me of the titans they are. All I can think of now, all I know is this yearning to go back and live it again. They crushed the stage, played maybe 13 songs before pulling a rabbit...

Mr. Martin thanked the audience and took off running for what seemed to be an encore tease. But the band followed him through the crowd and up into section 8, to a stage that was really more like a wooden desk, where they hunched together, started in again.

This is what it looked like from my seats in section 7, not far off...



If you fancy the band called Coldplay, I'll tell you few words could fairly paint the scene I'm explaining. In light of such things, allow my progression. See, because I must now speak of my company. Because failure to do so would go against everything I believe in...

I was with this girl, this lovely and totally scary thing. High praise. The band started in on a tame form of "Yellow." Believe, believe it was so good I sunk into the floor. In that moment, I speak with certainty, my moment was as good as anyone's around the world. These things I know. I remember turning to her saying something like come here before the first kiss. I remember pulling back, smiling, moving my eyes back to the band and saying something like my legs are shaking. I remember not knowing which culprit was the cause of my ailment, the band or the girl. I remember being alright with that.

Oh, my night. What a motherfucking night. What a motherfucking night. All I wanna do is listen to "Lovers in Japan" over and over. I can't stop, already missing this, every drop of it.

Sam Rockwell...

Since I'm still waiting on reads, while there's some down time, we're going to play a game. It's called "Fit This..."

Crouched behind a car and fighting to crack a tin pillbox, MARSHAL, evil Jesus in slum-chic, 37. The right sleeve of his bright white suit is saturated in blood.

In pain and fighting, he finally cracks the pillbox, viciously snorts a red powder. His eyes turn frenzied as he coughs.

He stands from cover. An antique 1800’s American Old West Marshal badge gleams from his lapel in the morning sun.



"You know what it means? The name. Bloodlines. History is fascinating, isn’t it? Please, I beg you indulge me. Mine is Marshal. It’s a throwback, homage to the Old West. It means I’m a lawman -- in the purest of forms. Long before droves and divisions of law enforcement polluted the justice system of this our great country. You know what I do with my little gang here?"

And just for good measure...

Headed For Something Special...

I'm more than a little concerned. See, I've sort of hit the point. Mind you, we're now going to talk about something relevant and concrete, my life and career. Quite a refreshing change, or perhaps not.

I've been working on this latest tale, Kimberly and Valentine for about 5 months now. There's a fairly detailed history of its process on these very pages, but to give a quick catch up, I shot through a 92 page version, gave it out for two pairs of eyes to read 14 weeks or so ago. Today, it comes in at 126...14 weeks to add what only looks to be a total of 34 pages. But that's how it works. Because 34 pages change every word, every tone, much work had to be done to get it right here, exactly where I want it to be.

So now it's done. Finished on this end. When it gets picked up and goes into development, it's going to be shaped again, but until that point, there's nothing I can do to it, nothing I should. It says exactly what I want it to say and I don't think I've ever been happier, never been more hopeful or excited about the possibilities of tomorrow, or two hours from now...two minutes. It's brilliant. I don't feel like it's my work anymore. Something schizophrenic has happened, as if I've completely removed myself from it, able to talk it up like I were a fan, a crazy and rabid fan toting someone else's work.

Which brings me to the title of this post, the thing that really scorches me about this whole process. This weekend, maybe next, a handful of people are going to take it home with them. They're going to read it, say holy shit in their minds, make a call, line up their cards so that it becomes a weekend read for execs of the major studios around town. Several of them are going to jump on it, say something like this is great, that the youth will really gravitate, that it could be a very defining for a generation. They'll say it's timely and commercial and sensational and different. They'll make offers on a Monday. It'll sell and I'll sit back for 5 minutes and say something like shit, took long enough.

But that's not even the exciting part. The exciting part is the possibility that I am totally wrong. There certainly is a 10 percent chance or greater that it's none of that. There's a possibility that no one wants to see a movie about two scorching hot, star crossed criminal lovers. There's a chance I have no idea how to weave words. And the thought of it all excites me nearly as much as success. Because after all I've been through, after all I've labored and suffered over, if Kimberly and Valentine fall flat on their faces, I'm likely headed for a breakdown of epic proportions.

And I imagine myself wandering through South America, befriending guerrilla warlords or heading back to Africa to live in the Eastern villages. Out of touch, out of sight. Brilliant. And the thought of it lights me up. And the thought of it make me feel alive.

Let The Games Begin...

"Hypothetical" - Title of my reach out - sent to a Lit Department partner at a major management company who offered a look but is a virgin to my work...history-less.

XXXX,

So what if I've got a script that isn't just good but great...something with a new voice, timely, raw, sweet, disarming...

The kind of movie that creeps in as a June release and plays all summer.

That can be done cheap, with a 1 sheet that would lend beauty to billboards and define everyone involved, the kind of movie to launch two pretty young things into stardom.

The sort that in 15 years, shows up on AMC, because that's what it'll be...as a rescue for when the world comes home, searching channels, when all they want to do is watch something great for 2 hours and remember those feelings -- "The first time I saw this..."

What if...aside from all this love I have for myself, what if I'm right? What should I do, hypothetically speaking...if you have a minute. All I have are forgotten hip-pockets and no one's seen this...

Sincerely,

Reilly Winburn

John Durban...

So a year and change ago, I was sitting on the lawn beneath the Eiffel Tower, waiting for the lights to ignite. I had just arrived in Paris and was about to embark on 4 months of travel. I think I was reading "Fear and Loathing," had an open bottle of Bordeaux, a roll of Camembert and some fresh bread and this guy came stumbling towards me.

I say stumbling because I choose my words carefully, because he did seem to be stumbling...not from some form of intoxicant but rather a perma punch-drunk. In my mind, impressions gather quickly.

He sat down next to me, rather uncomfortably close, began to speak in a drawl that was English, but not exactly mine. I remember listening, watching as he took a pull of my wine without asking. He ripped off a hunk of my bread, used it to tear through my cheese until it was gone.

We watched as the Eiffel sparkled. At some point, he reached across himself to offer a hand. "John. Durban. John Durban." He said it exactly like that, breaking up words exactly like that. Immediately, I thought there was something wrong with him. There totally was. Still, something in his tone...too endearing to ignore.

He said he was working in London, was in Paris to meet some girl but it all went to shit. We got very drunk that night. At some point, we shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

Later, we made appointments to meet in Berlin, Amsterdam and Barcelona. All failed. When we met again, we met in Monaco. We hit the casino, got drunk...at some point shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

...

Tonight, I get an e-mail titled "John Durban." He does this with all of his e-mails, titling them with his name...as if to signal warning of his impending approach.

"You arrogant fucker. What's up I'm tired of reading your shit, tired of your not listening to anything I say so now you're gonna. Started a blog in honor of your limpness(you). Gonna show you how it's done. Tough shoes to follow - following a guy who changes his last name so "I'll be the only one. Reilly Winburn." You're such a bitch. Link me fucker. I'll link you."

...

So here's your link, Jonny. Top, to the right. May they jump at their own risk.

And So It Goes...

Pushing Daisies...