The Duster - Final Edit

Went through and streamlined this piece and cut a bunch of it down.

I wanted to write a small scale detective piece, and although it is tonally redundant, I feel like I accomplished what I set out to do.

Let me know your thoughts! Enjoy!

The Duster

NOW THAT I'M OLDER

A film I made in closing Act One of my life.

As we know, to transition from beginning to middle, one must embark on an adventure. The heroic journey exists inside us all. It's often not very grand or heroic to those outside of ourselves, but to leave home in search of our dreams is a fundamental experience in the Western world.

Act Two has been pretty fucking great so far.

It's the longest and the toughest.

I can't wait.

NOW THAT I'M OLDER: My Tribute to Denver

Open Letter to the Red Hot Chili Peppers

A short piece for anyone who's grown out of their favorite music.

This is as close to blogging as I'll ever get. Enjoy.

08.31.11

2:23pm-2:49pm

I don't want to listen to it.

I don't want to ruin all those wonderful memories.

Those formulating moments. Those little flashes of life you can still almost feel when you sit down and really think about them. Moments when you were still a kid.

Moments when your life was simple.

Even now I can vividly remember driving home on C470 after a game of drop-in hockey at one in the morning long before I could be out for any other reason at one in the morning, windows down, screaming along best I could with “Don't Forget Me.”

I didn't care about anything else in that moment.

I was happy.

Really. Fucking. Happy.

That sticks.

That feeling.

I don't want to soil those memories.

I don't want to view my past through the lens of my present.

I don't want to listen to it.

Somewhere in my brain, there's a little collection of neurons that fire whenever I listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I don't have much say in it.

I loved their music so much. Still do, in a way.

Bob Marley said music should hit.

But, of course, when it hits it causes no pain.

Your music doesn't hit me anymore.

And that causes me pain.

Your music has been such an integral part of my life.

You have been such an integral part of my life.

I have so many stories and memories that you contributed to.

You were a soundtrack.

If any greater force is watching me, they had to listen to a lot of your work.

I hope they liked it.

I know I really did.

I know I don't anymore.

At least not as much.

You guys aren't bad.

Just...dated.

Don't get me wrong.

Your music touched me. Greatly.

I will cling to your greatest work for the rest of my life.

But I can't promise it won't gather dust in-between listens.

Get stuffed in a shoebox somewhere.

Put on an external hard drive.

I'm sad to say it, but like so many first young loves, I'm ready to move on.

Unless, you grab my attention again.

Unless today's new single, all cued up on my only Firefox tab, shows me something different.

Makes me believe again.

And if I do, I will apologize for doubting you.

I will pull my foot out of my mouth.

I will eat my crow through a double-wide smile.

But I don't think that's going to happen.

With all the media we're exposed to on a constant basis, I think we viewers and consumers of content have a pretty good idea when something's past it's prime.

The signs are all there.

I'm concerned.

But you have been through this in the past.

You've continued to evolve and expand your style.

I hope you can do it one more time.

John Frusciante is an amazing man. Amazing artist. Amazing thinker. Amazing writer. Amazing visionary.

Better guitar player.

I will miss everything he brought to your music.

I fear he was the most interesting voice in your art.

His singing was really good too.

I await his next work with anticipation.

I await yours with anxiety.

And that's what these next moments are all about.

Nothing lasts forever.

The past is just that.

I hope I can still love you.

My ears and mind are open.

But that's always a relative proposition.

I am going to listen to you with purpose.

I am giving you my full and complete attention.

I hope it is not for the last time.

This could be a very sad moment for me.

Or it could be fine.

Nobody knows.

The fun of art is living through its history.

I don't want to listen to it.

I am pushing play.

THE DUSTER

I just finished a short-fiction detective piece that I consider to be my best work to date.

Enjoy.

The Duster (PDF)

Sex and Story: The Genesis of Narrative Structure

I have a theory.

It is, at least in my mind, a rather elementary observation. And yet, I've never personally heard it repeated by anyone. Never read it in a book or heard about it on television. A google search on the topic returns zero relevant results. And so, I decided to write this article, so that perhaps this theory can be tried and tested.

The theory is this:

Story structure is derived from sex.

To explain:

Across all cultures, throughout the entirety of recorded history, mankind has produced and consumed stories on a level that cannot be measured. From essential epics such as The Aeneid or The Divine Comedy to an oral account of that one time you lost your car keys, humans have always had an affinity for a good story.

While the content of these countless stories is as varied and unique as one could imagine, their structure is quite comparable.

Beginning. Middle. End. A story without one of those three elements feels inherently incomplete and unfulfilling.

Beginning: We are introduced to the world of the story. Middle: Rising action comes out of dramatic conflict. End: The conflict reaches a conclusion and resolution.

This structure is not a Western concept. Nor is it a modern concept. It can be found in all cultures, in all periods of time.

So then, where did such a thing come from? What was its motivation? Our model of storytelling is not a naturally occurring phenomenon. It didn't exist before we invented and coined it. It took bright human minds to examine our existence and interpret patterns and concepts and apply them to storytelling.

These observations came from different humans in different corners of the world, and yet their result is nearly identical. Stories tend to build tension towards a conclusion and then release that tension. I believe this comes from a basic human experience: sex.

Sex is a main cornerstone of our existence. It is understood by every culture. It dictates large portions of our behavior and cognitive processes. It is a universally occurring aspect of the human condition. Fundamentally, the experience of sex is akin to the structure of a story.

Initially, there is a period of arousal. Interest is invoked and fascination is instigated.

Then, there is a period of intercourse. Sensations are heightened and the encounter builds towards a finale.

Finally, there is a climax that represents the peak of all that has happened before it.

 

And after really good sex, there is a moment of rest and reflection after the climax. After orgasm, the body resets. We need a moment to relax before we are ready for another round.

The same can be said for stories.

I believe this inherent path from arousal to intercourse to climax is identical to that of beginning to middle to end. I further believe that our understanding of story comes from a similar understanding of sex. We build, we peak, we relax.  

Perhaps one could argue that the inescapable cycle of birth, life, and death could be the catalyst for such a structure. However, this model is far more abstract and imprecise. No other metaphor for story and climax is as pertinent and universal as the comparison to sex. And since sex predates our existence as storytellers, I believe it is a natural conclusion that the structure of our stories is inherently sexual.

God Help Me, I'm Blogging.

I tried. I really, really tried.

In the first season of Californication, there is a moment between a down-and-out writer and his agent desperately trying to get him back on course. The agent has received an offer that involves the writer blogging for a magazine.

“They want you to ‘blog’ for them.” As the agent relays this information, he places his hand over his mouth, and stretches the vowels on the word ‘blog.’ It's a feeble attempt to mask the ugliness of the offer. 

Bloooogggg.

A dirty word. My thoughts exactly. I hate blogs. I don’t read any blogs. I find them to be narcissistic and dim witted.

I don't I expect this one to be much different.

I held out as long as I could. It’s a digital world and I’m just trying to get my work and my words out there. A thousand apologies for clogging up the internet with more nonsense.

I’m sure the internet will get over it.