Editing My Short Film

This has been an interesting few months. I suffer from bipolar disorder so I’ve had episodes where I’m depressed as hell followed by times where I feel like I can climb the Eiffel Tower naked. During my “up” periods I’ve been fairly productive, so I can’t complain. Besides writing the occasional poem, I’ve been writing the script for my short film, “Major Nobody,” as well as shooting principal photography around town. I’m pretty much done with the photography so now I’m in the editing phase. I’m using the latest version of Adobe Premiere. I’ve used it in the past so the learning curve wasn’t all that difficult, just had to consult a few online self-help manuals here and there to help me optimize it for my laptop.

I’ve also started working with my recording equipment after a long hiatus. Again, there’s a bit of a learning curve because I’m using Cubase 9. The last time I recorded with Cubase was about six or seven years ago and it was with Cubase 5 so you can imagine how much more complex Cubase 9 is. Still, I have some new toys from IK Multimedia to work with – MODO Drum and MODO Bass, both excellent plugins. I also have some guitars coming in from China in a few months which should bring my collection of axes up to 8, maybe 9 if I spring for a Rickenbacker 4001 Walnut. All in all, I’m not complaining.

“You Don’t Have My Permission.”

I was down at the PT bus terminal this afternoon shooting footage for my short film, “Maj. Nobody.” A woman drove up, took my picture, and said, “Hey, what are you doing?” “I’m making a movie,” I replied. “You don’t have my permission,” she said. “Huh?” “You don’t have my permission to put me in your movie,” she explained. “Oh,” I told her, “I was taking pictures of the garbage can. You’re not in the movie.” “Oh, okay,” she said, then drove off.

Rude, right? Reminds me of that night when I was minding my own business sleeping in my car in the empty parking lot of a church in Ballard when a woman came knocking on the glass and said, “You can’t sleep here.” Of course, I turned that incident into a book, so many I can use the line “You Don’t Have My Permission” somewhere in my film, maybe even change the name of the flick to that. Stay tuned.

My Bike Riding Challenge

When I was in my teens, I used to make whole bikes out of found bicycle parts. The result was always Frankenstein-like and was a source of amusement for my neighbors which called it a truck. Nevertheless, it was my bike, my handmade treasure, and a way to escape my neighborhood, albeit briefly. In that sense, it became important for my well being.

Later, during my early 30’s, I found myself bike riding again. And, like before, it wasn’t really for pleasure or exercise. When I lived in Westchester County, NY, I rode my bike, two days, to Woodstock, then a few months later, again to Kingston, NY. Both trips netted be about 200 miles on my “truck.” Yes, it was tiring, but clocking in back then at 165 lbs, I couldn’t really complain.

I’m still the same height today, but now I weigh 220 lbs and bike riding is an absolute chore. I bought a Mongoose dual suspension 29er about two weeks ago and only average about 3 miles/day. My need to escape doesn’t exist anymore as I’m finally settled in an okay place. Some of the tenants here drive me nuts and I try my best to avoid them, but still, my living situation could be worse. I could be back to being homeless.

My reason for riding these days, then, is not about seeking greener pastures, but slimming this fat gut I’ve acquired over the years. I’m diabetic now so it behooves me to lose as much weight as possible. My doctor said I’d make her a happy camper if I dropped 15 pounds or so. If my living arrangement truly drove me bananas, then losing the weight would be a walk in the park. Now, surrounded by the comforts of home (computer, flat screen TV, guitars, a keyboard, a roof over my head, a working refrigerator, etc.), I’m downright lazy. Still, I’ll give my exercise regimen a shot. What do I have to lose except this bulging gut?

I Have A New Book Coming Out In A Few Days.

For the past five years or so, I’ve released at least one book per year. Last year’s release was Obey the Darkness: Horror Stories. This was back in February, if I recall correctly. Anyway, since then, I haven’t put out any new books at all. I’ve been writing poems furiously since February of this year, and getting some published at various magazines, but I had no books planned for this year. A few days ago, I decided to go ahead and create a release for 2019. The book, a relatively short one at 35 pages, is called Welcome to Flowerville: Poetry from San Juan Commons. It contains 19 poems I’d written years ago, heavily edited and modernized, of course, as well as photographs of flowers I’d taken from around this adult residence I live in. Even though the general theme of the poems do have something to do with flowers, the book is not actually about that. The flowers were used to inject color, figuratively and literally, to the poems which, themselves, deal with heavier subject matter like loss, betrayal, death, you know, the fun stuff. Lately, my poetry has the ghost of Anne Sexton watching over them. Despite her personal flaws, I do like her work and they are an inspiration for this collection. I guess I’m glad I still have the strength and wherewithal to write and release books. When it comes out maybe I’ll treat myself to a nice lunch from one of the local eateries.

A Little Poetic Bragging

Hi, all. Just a little update. It’s the end of June and, so far, I’ve written about 310 poems since the middle of February, 46 of which have been accepted for publishing in various magazines. For some reason, I’m having bad luck getting the few haikus I’ve written published. I guess that isn’t my forte. Oh, well. You can’t win ’em all.

In other news, just yesterday, I was interviewed by Chris from the local paper, the Port Townsend Leader. He said his article should appear this coming Wednesday or the Wednesday two weeks from now. Pretty cool.

Is Poetry Important? Well, It’s Saved My Life.

There once was a fairly popular jazz singer from New York named Susannah McCorkle. She recorded quite a few albums, performed all over the place, and had a steady gig at the Algonguin Hotel at 59 W. 44th St. in Manhattan. (Yes, I’ve stayed there before. Gorgeous private wet bar in my room). But, you know how it is with businesses – out with the old, in with the new. As the Algonquin started hiring new, younger vocalists, the writing was on the wall – Susannah was about to go the way of the dodo bird.

Susannah had been a singer, and primarily just a singer, since she discovered Billie Holiday. She was in her early 20’s at the time. Dedicating her life to interpretation of the classics, she gained a bit of notoriety. All of that came crashing down when the management of Algonquin told her, when she was around 54 years old, to clear out her locker. A breast cancer survivor, and plagued for years by depression, she did what a lot of folks did with no other foreseeable source of income – take a flying leap out of their window. In her case, it was the 18th floor of her flat at 41 West 86th St. (Side note: I used to live at 313 West 81st St., eight blocks from her place).

Which brings us to poetry. There are all types of it: traditional, free verse, haiku, rhyming, ghazal, experimental, prose, etc. It’s almost endless. When you’ve lived for a fairly long time, believe me, the amount of stories you can tell is endless. And that’s what I’m finding out. As I’ve said in earlier posts, I started writing poems in earnest in the middle of February of this year, and so far, I’ve written about 220 poems. That’s quite a lot of stories, and I don’t even feel like I’m done.

Which brings us back to Susannah McCorkle. If I could could back in time, I’d tell her these things:

  1. Homelessness is not the end of the world. It’s just a temporary setback that, in time, will pass.
  2. Write poems about your life, your experiences, your loves and hates, but keep that ink flowing as if your life depended on it, because it does.
  3. Forget the naysayers who say you don’t have the gift of Shakespeare, Whitman, or Longfellow. Forge your own path. Let them keep up with you. In that sense, you’ve won. And congratulations from me.