The Best Birthday Party Ever

If the title of this entry sounds like that of a children's book, that's because today unfolded like one, cake and all.

My birthday was, of course, Friday. And even though the Family Guy rerun at 3:30 AM on Friday was funny, something about sitting alone on a couch typing about being alone on a couch didn't have the same magic as being surrounded by 40 of your closest friends and family who, gathered around a cake made for 70 people, stood shoulder to shoulder in order to form a wind-shield to keep the candles lit. I think it is something about the little ritual, the gathering, the lighting of the candles, the chanting of thanks and warm thoughts for one person, that on every birthday since I was 19 I've felt like I was in a movie. Because, really, where else but in a movie does one get to look around and see the cast of characters that form your whole world?

This was the biggest party ever held for me, and I only say it like that because of how, if you had invited the 8-year-old Martin to the party, he would never have believed that that many people would assemble for him. Birthdays were always intimate, immediate-family affairs. I never had or wanted the gaggle of friends that you see in movie birthdays - the kids running around with hats, the parents beleaguered as they run from one event to the next. The couple of times other boys came over, they felt to me like intruders. I remember one boy, for my 7th birthday party, guessed all of my gifts before I opened them. If he hadn't been so damn right about all of them it wouldn't have been so bad, but the kid had, for whatever reason, chose to use his powers for evil and so that was that until my 18th birthday. X-nay on the other-kids-ay. And I know Jessie won't believe me, but I seriously did not have any friends to invite until I was 14, and by that point I was still annoyed at Mr. Guessy Pants.

Which is why this evening, as I stood over my vast cake (courtesy of my sister Anna), the words "Happy 25th Birthday, Martin! And Happy Graduation!" scrawled across it in red icing between thick, colorful icing balloons, the twinkle of 25 candles dancing on its frosted surface, I looked around at my friends and family and knew that the wish I would make had already come true. My wish was standing around me, keeping out the wind.

I couldn't blow out all the candles, by the way. Up until this point my cakes have been circular objects with massive candle concentration, whereas this cake was like blowing across a frosted tundra. My breath, heaved out of my mighty chest, curled and licked across the dotted surface, but seriously who can blow out 25 candles spread out over 8 cubic feet of cake? And would you want to read the blog of someone containing that much wind? I think not.

We had copious amounts of food. My family may be a lot of things, but at least we know how to cook for a party. Jessie's mum made fruit salad and hot chicken salad (if there were a list of the Seven Wonders of Food, "hot chicken salad" would be like number 3 or number 4); Mom made burgers that Dad grilled to perfection; Jane brought yummy seven-layer dip; Anna brought the cake and massive quantities of drink; Aunt Sue brought her world-altering potato salad; Aunt Doris brought a vegetable medley, Grandma brought her chocolate-chip cookies... it was like wandering into that part of your head that remembers all of the good food you used to eat when you were a kid and then all of a sudden it was real, right there, and needing to be consumed by you right away.

I was worried about having enough things for people to do, but, as always, people are more adept at entertaining themselves and each other than I give them credit. I used to lament how I had friends who couldn't hang out with one another - I only saw one person at a time, avoiding the nigh cataclysmic chemical reactions that occurred between my friends and each other. Tonight, though, was the complete and utter negation of that Martin Theory. People hummed around, telling stories, introducing themselves, laughing. Mat is particularly gifted at this, the kind of comfortable in himself that people, my family and friends included, instantly like and appreciate. Bryan came too, rather bravely I thought, and had no problems mixing right in with people he didn't know, tossing around the Frisbee, talking music with those who would listen. Dodgeballs were brandished when Dave showed up, and we knew it was only a matter of time before some highly-entertaining physical activity would break out (the wrong-armed, stationary-foot game of dodgeball proved insanely amusing, and to Dave's credit he still managed to get me out...) Chris, to my constant delight, is the coolest 30-something that ever something'd thirty. And Dave Turka came all the way from Philadelphia with his girlfriend, managing, within minutes, to rescue the day not once but twice with his super-human climbing abilities. The only thing that could have made the evening better would have been Mark showing up. It's weird the times that you think to miss people. It's never when you expect.

This all stands in stark contrast to last night. Last night I went to Mat's at 1 AM, distraught. I said, "Mat, you are looking at a man on the verge of losing everything he has built above himself." I told him of my debt, of my fight with Jessie, of my fears about DC and the uncertainty surrounding the next days and weeks and years. I pointed to the sky and told of how, in one terrifying moment, I saw starlight on the glass panes in the tower I've built above myself, shaking in the storm winds, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before all that quivering glass came shattering down.

And that all may well be true. My seven-figure debt is an enormous burden. I don't have a job yet. I'm not in school. There are no guarantees in relationships. But what tonight made me realize, what perhaps Mat was wise enough to let me find out on my own, was that it was not what was above me I should be worrying about, but what was below me that I should be grateful for. The glass may shatter and fall, but it will fall onto sturdy stone, sink into butter-cream icing, be lit by candles and sung to by pillars, and then consumed, happily, by the loving ground on which I gratefully stand.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Because of you it was an awesome, wonderful, sunny day.

Your,
Martin

A Quarter Century of Martin

“The wide world is all about you; you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.”

In 2.5 hours, I turn 25. As in years. Holy freaking mother of crap I am going to be 1/4 of a century old! Frankly, to deal with it, I am pretending it is happening to someone else. It's like, "Oh wow, that person is 25. I wish I had a sandwich." Me being 25 just doesn't, you know, sound right. Sandwiches, however, do.

And then, as Tolkien points out, it's not like I can fence out the fact that I'm getting older. No, I've got to embrace it, make it mine. I mean, it's happening with or without my consent, so it's more a matter of accepting reality than creating it, but there will be a moment, prolly in the next few days, where I look in the mirror and become okay with being an adult.

I remember, when I used to sell pianos at Trombino Piano, the owner, Mr. Trombino, came to visit me one day. It was very awkward - here was a self-made man, late into his seventies and more tan than God (if he were tan) who had sold accordions out of the back of his car until he'd built a million-plus business, and there I was, the itinerant me who had sold maybe one of two pianos in 7 months and owed Mr. Trombino roughly $3,000 in commission. Needless to say, we talked briefly. It was summer. My 20th birthday was approaching. He asked me, "How old are you?"

"I'll be 20 in a couple weeks."

"20. Time to grow up, son."

Then he left, and his words have haunted me. Time to grow up. Their vagueness keeps them dangerous.

The closest Emily and I ever came to a fight in our brief time together was over fajitas. I had been reading "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus," and as I sat there spooning guacamole onto warm bread, enlightening her about the heteronormative pages of that little pearl of a book, the fur on her neck stood up, as though a lightning cloud were hovering above, and she said, "If you were any other person, I would have written you off already."

She said later, on the steps of Jeffrey's apartment, that she could see how much I was struggling, as though my manhood was something I was seeking outside myself instead of as an organic progression of me. And as I thought about her words, I realized how that applied to so many challenges in my life, how I was constantly looking outside myself for answers. I just feel like I'm sometimes the least-qualified person to answer my questions. You can't solve a problem with the same mind that created it. When it comes to being an adult, the only image I can see is myself, kneeling before a dais with faceless men in black robes, and wordlessly they lower a heavy metal mantle onto my shoulders. It's like I'm waiting for a moment to transform me magically into 'Man Martin.' And, frankly, it's scary.

I'm in Alexandria tonight. Jess and I managed, by some feat of willpower as yet unequaled in our collective lifetime, to get my television into our apartment. You know whenever you see people carrying a body in a movie? Well, my TV weighs 175lbs, and I could not lift that. We ended up pushing it up the steps screen-side down, and aside from a big crack in the top casing, it's no worse for the wear. Jess wanted to celebrate my birthday today, and we had the most amazing evening.

We live in Old Town Alexandria, which is this amazing, European-styled hamlet town full of restaurants and little shops. There is a restaurant we saw called "Bilbo Baggins," and one of the tag-lines on the windows of the yellow building reads: "Quality Food is Our Hobbit."

Jessie has this amazing ability to hear something once and then make it come true. She knows that it's one of my dreams to go to France again, and so for my birthday she looked up and made reservations at one of the best French restaurants in DC, La-Bergerie. We got there around 5:45, and were the only ones in the restaurant for like an hour. As such, we got amazing service. They pulled the table out so we could sit down behind it, and then they slid it back. We ate in innumerable courses. There was this old Frenchman (who looked strangely like Mr. Trombino) who took our orders, and then yelled at all the other servers in French to work harder. There were more employees than customers, so Jess and I laughed in nervous silence for a bit, counting the chandeliers and watching the little lumiere in the center of the table. We couldn't stay quiet, though, when the food started coming: warm bread, AMAZING baked onion soup, Caesar Salad made table-side with an egg-yolk and anchovies, and for dinner Dover sole with butter and lemon sliced so thin it melted in your mouth, one taste after the other, a kaleidoscope. I loved it. Loved loved LOVED it. Food should be an event. For dessert we had chocolate souffle, and upon tasting it Jess said, "It tastes like womb!" Which is probably the best description of it you'll ever hear. Chocolate womb. Mmmm.

Afterwards, we caught the wonderful "Stardust" at the local movie palace. I loved the movie! Very cute, and with a real sense of wonder. It made me want to come home and start writing the scene I dreamt 11 years ago with the wizard and the fires...

There is so much to say. I recorded my debut CD on Tuesday and Wednesday - I'll have to tell you all about it :)

Happy birthday, me. May your fences be wisely set.

-martin

Body Issues Ow Ow

Ow.

Jesus monkeytit ballfockers. Ow. Every part of me hurts. I feel like Emeril went 'Bam!' on the balls of my feet and now all they need is some olive oil and a little garlic powder and they are ready, tender, and delicious. And red. And purple. And achy, like the rest of me. My hands have that perma-red thing going on - you know how they get when you press them against the leather in a car for 20 minutes before you've lost all feeling in your paws? Yeah. Like that. And my back, obviously having wised up to the fact that I need it more than the rest of me, has gone on strike. It's like, "Oh, you want to stand up? Want to lie down? Pretty hard without ME, huh buddy? Yeah! You like that!"

I digress. Jess and I moved the majority of our stuff down to Alexandria today, and by "moved" I mean "hauled" and by "today" I mean "oh my God it took all fucking day." Having loaded the 16' Budget Truck-From-Hell (I mean really, you couldn't even afford a tape player? a TAPE player? bah), we headed down the PA Turnpike at a stunning 55 mph, careening past trees and slow gophers with aplomb.

It was then, of course, that my body decides to throw me a loop. Or rather, a poop.

I have a long and storied history of getting "the shits" at inopportune times: hotels with no air-conditioning, airplanes over Spain, hostels in Spain, etc... (Did you know that fruit in Spain is actually rather gross, especially when you are hallucinating from the Norwalk Virus?). It's like any time I want to leave my comfort zone, my body has to flush out (I'm punny!) the memory of the old place and absorb a new one. It's still bothering me now, bubbling and gurgling like witches brew, doubling my toil AND my trouble.

It was especially inconvenient when I went to lift the heavy objects. I think I, in association with my netherpurses, redefined the meaning of "self-control."

Just to give you a sense of how much stuff Jessie and I moved (inlcluding her stuff which we picked up in the Springs):

8 small boxes
6 medium boxes
5 large boxes
22 trash bags full of things that SHOULD have been in boxes
6 mattresses
5 chairs
1 piano keyboard
2 headboards
1 futon
2 end tables
1 coffee table
(almost) 1 175lb television
etc... writhing in pain... etc...

Also, there was an 18-step climb to the apartment, and we couldn't park the truck directly outside because, oh right, it was rush hour in Washington, DC, and, oh wait, we don't have keys to get in and then, uh, we drop the TV on Jessie's finger and have to run to CVS at midnight for Bactine and, uh, there is no shower curtain...

So. I am going to bed. Right now. And when I wake up, I will re-evaluate this whole situation with a little more "wow" and not so much "ow."

Yours (what's left of me),
Martin

Fruits and Vegetables

For my father, every problem in the world can be solved with fruit and vegetables. Feeling low? Here's an apple. Nervous about school? Broccoli with lemon. Dinner at his apartment was like a cooking show for my soul, and every dinner had three constant elements: applesauce, broccoli, and sauerkraut.

Sauerkraut is one of those mysterious foods that appears when you need it and at no other time. Got a hot dog in your hand? Chances are there is sauerkraut within 10 feet of you. Are you inside a festival tent? Chance of Sauerkraut is like 97%. I didn't even know you could buy sauerkraut. I used to think that, like pierogies, the food was constructed in some kind of arcane, ethnic process that grandparents only whispered to each other. But, apparently, you can buy sauerkraut in a jar. Then you can heat it in a bowl, put it next to the broccoli and the applesauce, and within 20 minutes you will have at least solved the one problem you went into dinner with, namely the munchies.

I've been thinking a lot about health care. This is probably because I don't have any. My fabulous coverage through Pitt expired on July 14, and ever since all I can do is picture myself as that guy in SiCKO who has to choose which one of his fingers to have reattached: the one for $60,000, or the one for $5,000.

I don't do well with politics. By my nature I am someone who tries to create harmony, happiness, and though politics at its best is in the pursuit of harmony, all it really seems like now is one big obstreperous mess. The system, which was designed as self-correcting, had some of its balancing protocols removed in the search for more authority, and now We The People have forgotten that, wait a minute, these shmucks work for us, and we've always wanted to say, "You're fired!"

In the same way that supporting Bush has become something of a lead weight in polite conversation, I hope that the debate over health care, and the people standing in the way of a solution, lose similar face in the public consciousness. It doesn't sound that radical to say, "You know what? I think these kids deserve to grow up healthy. I don't mind spending a few dollars for that." Any of us, any decent person wants to see those around them healthy, if for nothing other than our own sanity. I don't know about you, but I find sick people obnoxious. I know I'm a pain in the butt when I don't feel well, and if you don't have your health, well, you don't have much of anything.

So. Go see SiCKO. Take friends. It is eye-opening. And even though it's only one side of the story, it's not like Moore is telling you anything you don't know in your gut, and it's a side of the story whose time has come to tell. That creeping feeling in your gut is not going to get better.

In the meantime, I'm going to find some individual coverage. Hopefully they don't find out about my pre-existing broccoli allergy. I guess there are some problems in the world even a spritz of lemon can't fix.

-m

Chicken-Fried Thunderstorms

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,
Almost unreal, yet, it's too soon to feel yet.
Close to my soul, and yet so far away.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.
Is that a song there, and do I belong there?
I've never been there, but I know the way.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Come and go with me, it's more fun to share,
We'll both be completely at home in midair.
We're flyin', not walkin', on featherless wings.
We can hold onto love like invisible strings.
There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.
I'm going to go back there someday.
I'm going to go back there someday.

Got back from Texas on Wednesday night. The airport was quiet - it was around 1 AM, and the bleary-eyed travelers shuffled in relative silence through the muted grays of the airport. The flight from Hobby, split into two two-hour chunks around Atlanta, had passed quickly. J.K. Rowling's gift for spellbinding kept me entranced for all but the few minutes spent gnoshing on biscuits and cran-apple juice, and the time passed quickly under her able fingers.

Unlike last time, I didn't return from Texas with a fresh layer of skin exposed to the air. Last time, well, I came back a different person. Raw. Vulnerable. Acting out. There were no trips to Galveston this time, no tearful expressions of frustration, no drinking binges. Cigarettes smoked were counted with single digits, not by the pack, and though there were a couple heads banged against a railing, it was short, fleeting, something we needed to work out of our system before we could just be.

It was just, well, good. The whole time. And it got better as it went along, became more real, more tangible, harder to leave.

It's hard to write about Jeffrey and Emily without being unbearably corny. My actual feelings would more closely resemble Hallmark cards, and so in the interest of your sanity, dear Reader, I will spare you the mushy stuff. You wouldn't believe me anyway.

My trip to Texas started on the previous Friday. I went to Dallas to visit Brian Holland, one of the world's greatest piano players, and proceeded to have three of the coolest days in recorded history. Brian is 35, but our age difference felt more like one year as opposed to eleven, and we spent the first night I was there munching on Boneless Buffalo Wings at Chili's (what can be considered the "Theme Food" of the trip - I must have consumed something like 25 of them over the course of the week) and playing pool. I know! Pool! And he and his roommate were really good, and I nearly beat both of them. I came within one shot both times.

Apparently I am a shark. I think it explains a lot.

Saturday was spent at the piano. I don't think I've laughed harder in my life than with Brian on Saturday. We were just really, really good at cracking each other up. After watching "Airplane" on his massive HDTV (I'd never seen the movie! "You just want me to have an abortion..." omg HILARIOUS) we surfed YouTube for three hours, watching videos of piano god Dick Hyman and making stupid, hysterical jokes about his name. I mean come on. Dick. Hyman. It writes itself. We merely chiseled. Smoothed out the buttocks. The joke was already in the stone.

Sunday was spent at the piano, too. It was kind of like being in the room with Hemingway and watching him write, only without the self-loathing and more uses of the word "said." I am a decent piano player. Brian is a god. Just hearing him play would have been worth the trip. The fact that I left with ideas and music and the drive to get better, not to mention with a new friend, was really icing on what proved to be a fabulous slice of cake. Can't wait to see him again.

He dropped me at Dallas-Love Field, and I caught a plane down to Houston. Jeffrey and Emily were waiting for me down at baggage claim, and I felt like a little kid at how excited I was to be seeing them again. I took measured steps so as not to belie the fact that I wanted to run. The past six months blurred and melted, and there they were, together, watching little bags go around the carousel. Emily saw me first and came running, and within minutes we were riding in Jeffrey's car, Rowdy the Audi, thoroughly hugged out.

The next couple of days were a delight. If I could turn that sentence into a cake, it would weigh 400 pounds. I got to see Vicky again after a far-too-brief introduction seven years ago. I think we've set a land-record for number of meaningful words exchanged between people who only met for three hours. And I finally got to meet her partner Dan, about whom I heard wonderful things, all of which he lived up to. Dan has a room in their house that would melt just about any Star Wars fan. I seriously tried to swear fealty when I saw the Stormtrooper with the shield and the lightsaber. Omigod.

You're probably wondering, "That's all? That's all he's going to write?" You see, last time I was there, I came back needing to put all of my experience into words. I needed to have it out in front of me where I could my paws in it, move it around, hold it up under different light. This time, though, I want to hold the moments close, keep them warm and safe. Some of it just doesn't make sense when you put it on the page, and that's okay. It's safe with me. Suffice it to say, the "Muppet Movie" is one of the most beautiful, true films ever made. Life is a movie. Make your own ending.

Can't wait to go back. In every sense of those five-and-a-half words, I. Cannot. Wait.

So many new adventures coming. Much, much to tell, dear Reader. We will watch a thunderstorm pass overhead, admire its swirling blackness, and know that it's alright not to go inside the house.

Until then, I remain,
Your Martin

The Last Night

Hi.

This is a love-letter to a staircase.

I think the word "ache" is entirely insufficient to describe just how sore my body is at the moment. It is 4:40 AM, and I'm lying on Scott's couch in my apartment, my eyes surveying a living room that, just 12 hours before, was filled to the brim with boxes, lamps, and bags. My stuff. All of it. I spent two days packing it all up, prancing around (yes, I prance - deal with it) with my Swiffer duster singing a song to myself:

Throw it away, Martin,
Throw it away.
Throw it away, Martin,
Don't you let it stay!
We don't need it,
Must concede it,
throw it away, Martin,
throw it away.

Goddamn Mary Poppins was right.

The best part about these past two days was finding that, A) There exists enough cardboard in the world to contain all of my stuff and, B)I don't need half of the stuff I own. I realized that the vast majority of my things could spontaneously combust and, while I would be disappointed, I wouldn't shatter. I wouldn't crumble. Looking at my piles of boxes, my computers, my bed, I realized that the things I value are flesh and blood, people and their transient creations- thoughts, feelings, dreams. That is what is precious. Irreplaceable. Unique. I know how much we loved the Hoenig green apple plates, but Honey, it was time.

So, apparently this couch has quite a history. It was in Mark and Scott's apartment long before it journeyed up the steps to 5725. Legend tells of all the dirty sex that has been had upon it: men with men, women with women, men with men with women. I think this apartment is the last ceiling this old couch is going to have over it. I don't think there's enough Febreeze in the world to defunkify this couch and its sagging face. I've never slept on it, myself. That pleasure was reserved for guests, at which point I had the good sense to lay down sheets and pillows. Six-sense told me that direct contact with these cushions could lead to something sinister.

This is my last night at 5725 Phillips. Well, last night as a tenant anyways. I leave for Texas on Friday afternoon, and I've got all of Thursday to clean up, put away the fest remaining things, say my goodbye to my front steps.

To say that this year was anything less than revelatory would be to short-change it. I can say without reservation that this was the best year of my life. The reasons are multitudinous. I know. I know. Just enjoy the word. But in all those syllables are a thousand good conversations with Mat, a thousand surprises from Jess, a thousand laughs with Scott and Bryan and Dave and Nate. Porous as I remain, I have never felt so thoroughly congealed. There is solid footing here. I can feel it under my toes, like summer grass, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I would be lying if I said that any part of me is anxious to leave. The opposite is true. Well, okay, I do not love my bathroom or kitchen. They are sort of gross. But, people-wise, it is out of love and loyalty only that I leave right when things are getting interesting. Luke wandered in tonight and, seeing the apartment in its current state, said, "Seems like you were just getting settled in." And I was. By God, I was getting settled in. I was getting comfortable. And now, as I sit on this stained and defiled sofa, I feel like I've just watched a fantastic trailer for a movie that I'll never get to see. It is very easy to write sad words about leaving this place. There is a lot to leave.

And yet, a new, fantastic adventure awaits just around the corner. Jess and I are looking to move to Washington, D.C., at the end of August. Together. As in, sharing the same space in the same state for more than seven days. About this I am very excited. We've been together 6 years. I feel like we've earned the right to buy a couch together, make our own dirty, dirty history upon it, you know? Doesn't seem right to be sad when I have so many nice people around.

So, I've decided that instead of being sad, I am going to work hard at keeping what was built here strong and beautiful. And I will come back to climb the steps, no doubt. I will sit upon them and watch the tomatoes grow, the cats wander, the cars park. And part of me will always be at home here, happily young.

yours,
Martin

Things I'm Excited About

1. Piano lesson with Brian Holland
2. Seeing Emily and Jeffrey
3. Going tubing
4. Not having to say goodbye to Jessie ever again
5. The new laptop
6. The new Spitzfire.com
7. Golf
8. Mark coming home
9. Massive party at the end of the summer
10. Unstoppable Dodgeball season
11. Vegetable garden outside my apt.
12. Making the ragtime CD with Bryan Wright
13. Invading YouTube

Mwahahahaha....

Dammit

Why can't things ever just be, you know, good?

In my more patient moments, I understand that the dichotomy of the universe extends to all things, and that lightness and darkness constitute two sides of the same mortal coin.

In this particular moment, however, I am just annoyed.

Now, my life is not as bad as some. My friend Bill comes to mind, who listed off about three or four mega-depressing things that hit him in the span of a couple days: a memory slip at a big audition in front of his old piano teacher, marital crap, a $165 parking ticket, rejection, plague, pestilence, etc... But when bad things happen to you, you being you and only capable of being you, measure those bad things against the other things you experience, so regardless of how many bad things you've been through you're only ever really relating them to the good things that are going on in your life.

I've begun to question my competence as a relationship partner. Jessie and I seem to be on two different levels of existence, both saying the same things but the wet goo that is air and distance and time garbles the words so we end up shouting just to get a message across. It's like trying to talk underwater sometimes, and its only when we can put our arms around one another that we get any real sense of connection, can feel the real and palpable love that is between us.

This polio project, which is exciting and challenging and time-consuming, presents a difficult question. My job now is to assemble a trailer that will knock the socks off of potential donors and champions. If we get funding (six figures worth), then not only does my compensation go up significantly but I'm a shoe-in for staying on the project until its completion. That would also mean, however, that I would have a strong tie to Pittsburgh for another year, and so it would be difficult to make the move that Jessie and I are planning to Chicago or Washington, D.C.

Why not stay in Pittsburgh, you ask? Lemmetellyahsomething.

I love Pittsburgh. It is a great city. The best thing about the polio story is that it showcases my awesome city. I love its rivers. I love its skyline. I love its people and its roadways. I love its story and its problems. I love my steps outside my apartment. I especially love my friends, dodgeball, my family. But, that's the problem with Pittsburgh. When you're born here, they implant little teeny tiny tractor beams that keep you connected to this place no matter where you go. It's like the Shire and its little rivers. And if you don't leave, if you never leave, then you will NEVER leave. You might as well start that family, add that new garage door, and pick your plot, 'cause you is gonna die here.

Now. That is not bad. This is a great place to live. Seriously great. Lot of character. Way too many stories that need to be told and not enough people to tell them.

But Jessie and I have only ever really lived here, and if we stay, we're under the influence of her parents, of my parents, of our friends and our old habits. What we've never really had, not in six years, was a chance to share a space, share the sunrise and sunset, share the mundane things like dishes or laundry or shopping for towels. And even when we did live in the same place, Jess lived at her parents and I lived at my mom's. It wasn't exactly a verdant paradise of relationship bliss, let me tell you, especially when you're trying to not get arrested for making out in the back of a car.

So now I'm presented with this very interesting set of waves that my little Life's boat has to navigate. Somehow I have to make all these oblong puzzle pieces which are dearer to me than anything fit together. They don't have to make a pretty picture, they just have to hold together if the cat walks on the puzzle. It's asking a lot, but everything depends on my being able to do it.

You see, once you get to know me (and you do quite a bit, if you read this thing), you realize that my laissez-faire approach to things is actually a calculated, deliberate defense mechanism against the very stress I'm feeling right now. I can't make everybody happy all the time, but at the end of my life I have to answer to two people, one of whom is incorporeal and the other one is God.

I don't want to look back and go, "If only..."

m

...On The Wall

Damn it has gotten cold at night in Pittsburgh. I'm buried under my comforter (well, okay, a comforter that is itself buried inside a very manly (very) denim duvet (pronounced "doo-vay" and not "dove-it"), trying to stay warm. We've closed all the windows, turned off all the faucets, fired up the potbelly. They say the toes are the first to go.

Anyways. Where was I.

Ah! First, let me point out that this is the only time in CB's history that I've ever actually provided a continuation of a previous post in which I promised a continuation. Every time the words "Part I" appeared, thou knewest that thee would never see Parteth II... eth. But now, that's all about to change.

Get ready for...

PART II

Actually, in re-reading my last post, there isn't much to continue on about. I'm spending the majority of the next two weeks working on the second draft of the trailer, stopping only briefly over the weekend for a trip to Rochester to visit my mentor and friend, Tony Caramia. Most everything I am as a pianist I owe to him - there are pre-Tony recordings and post-Tony recordings, and it's *amazing* how much better the latter are - and his recordings of Billy Mayerl, whom I love, have shaped my soundscape for nearly 10 years. Do your ears a favor and listen to his recording of "Get Happy" on his Eastman page. You will not regret it. The highest compliment someone ever paid me was that my playing sounded like his, and I would have written it off except it was his wife that said it! Haha. They are great friends, and they love me and my parents. I think they're as excited to see my mom as they are me, which is frankly how it should be. I hope I have enough music prepared.

Actually, this month is CRAZY when it comes to ragtime. The next three weekends are chock-full of ragtime goodness. Memorial Day weekend I'm competing with some friends in the World Old Time Piano Playing Championship at the Hotel Pere-Marquette in Peoria, Illinois, and then I'm off to the Scott Joplin International Ragtime Festival in Sedalia, MO. I got the hugest buzz the other day when I checked the Joplin Festival site and saw my name and picture in the list of featured performers. I consider it a real honor to be featured amongst the other people there - these people are HUGELY talented and I rock out to their CDs all the time. Check it out here (scroll down to Spitznagel to see me!).

I admit I'm actually really nervous for all these gigs. I set the bar pretty high for myself this year, and I'm working hard to try and learn new material for this year's festival. I've got another Billy Mayerl or two, a Latin piece by Hal Isbitz, and I'm trying to get "Space Shuffle" in shape in time, a ridiculously hard piece that is amazing.

So, that's going to be fun. Jessie has offered to lend me her laptop so I can keep track of, you know, the world when I'm traveling all over creation. I'm going to take my camera and my camcorder - maybe I can do a Captain's (travel)Log(ue).

Gots to get up early. Take care.

m

Mirror Mirror

Damn it has gotten warm at night in Pittsburgh. I just lie sprawled out, no heavy comforter keeping away the cold, no chill air to cool the blood. Now it's just balls-out allergies and heat, wipe the snot somewhere, take a Benadryl, and sweat. Well okay, maybe not all at one time, but there are moments, damn you. Moments.

Aside from the transforming world, I am doing the best I've been doing since I started doing anything at all.

I am now officially a professional Avid editor. The polio movie brought me onto the project, and my task for the next three weeks is to deliver a trailer so sparkling that no one with change in their pocket will be able to watch it and not throw money at us. Aside from the creative challenge, the miracle is that I'm getting paid, generously so, which is unbelievably satisfying because I earned this opportunity. I worked my tail off in class, and I delivered on my promise of a development trailer.

A little backstory to make the mountain peak seem higher:

When I was a freshman at Pitt back in, lord help us, 2003, I took a screenwriting class. It was a graduate-level course, and looking back now, and on how poorly I did, I understand just how out of my league I actually was. That said, I found the class amazing. My professor, Carl Kurlander, seemed like some kind of demi-god, having come from the land of Hollywood and with real credits under his belt. He dissected stories and pitches for stories like a chef flays carrots, and he had people in tears, myself included, in the war of ideas that was the class.

He encouraged us above all to tell personal stories. I remember proposing a biography of Scott Joplin. Surely, I thought, Joplin's life would make for good drama: chance encounters, lost loves, tortured genius. Carl obliterated the idea, saying it was much too difficult for a first screenplay and that I needed to find a more personal angle. I agonized over what to do - then, as now, I had a lot of trouble with conflict, with raising the stakes. I am, by nature, a peacemaker, and in writing I find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to do bad things to good characters. A lot of my stories, without outside expectations, would be like oil paintings, detailing out all the colors and shapes of a singular moment, unconcerned with the stirring clouds to the east. As a person I avoid conflict, and as a writer I do, too. That's why, when I went to shit a couple months ago, I was actually delighted to have so much conflict to write about (and, frankly, the blog has been missing some antagonism, don't you think?). It made for much better, easier writing. The conflict drew out and supported the language.

After agonizing over it for some time, I developed an idea about a young boy who, estranged from his divorced parents and picked on at school, finds a haven in his love of Scott Joplin's music. It was called "Solace," named after one of Joplin's best pieces, and I wrote the first ten pages of it for Carl. He told me it had real promise - that if I didn't write it, he would, and he'd make a lot of money.

I realized, though, that I couldn't write it; that it was actually my story, and I wasn't mature enough to talk about that yet. It's impossible to write fiction when you haven't figured out the truth yet, if that makes any sense. Until you know what something is in your own heart, it's hard, if not impossible, to take it to the page. Fiction requires distance and detachment just as much as it requires connection, and I wasn't mature enough to do it.

So, instead of turning in 30 pages of "Solace" and getting an 'A,' I turned in the first script for "Hunt for the Holocron."

I got a C-minus.

Fascinated, I signed up for another class with Carl. Here was someone who didn't like my writing, who didn't like me or the things that I created, and it was precisely because of this that I felt compelled to be around him, compelled to subject more and more of my creative self to him. The second class I took was introductory Fiction writing. I finally wrote something there that had real, genuine pathos, the only problem being that the conflict, at the end, was haphazard, even kind of disturbing and out-of-place. I did a little better in the class.

B-minus.

So imagine Carl's surprise, as we sat in the offices of WQED the other day, to be offering me, Martin, a job working on an important documentary. It was the greatest comeback in life's history as far as I'm concerned, and it only happened because I made a promise and kept it. I worked my tail off for free to show Carl that I was serious, that I was competent, that I was dedicated. It's one of those things for which you'd find a cliche like "If I had a nickel for every time..." or the like, you would use it here.

(to be continued...)

Little Rivers

Hi.

Not much to say tonight. I'm sitting in the dark, listening to the night sounds outside my bedroom window. Cricket. Cricket. Freight train. Cricket. Scott is chatting with his girl in the next room. I can't make out any of the words through the wall - you know the "Sims" game and how they speak in like a weird, muffled, syllabic language? Sorta sounds like that, interspersed with laughter. I can tell her laugh is from New York. He seems happy.

I've only got another three months here. I can't believe nine months has gone by so fast. For awhile I was letting myself get overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the changes, sinking rather than swimming. I think I just wanted to know where the bottom of the pool was, you know? Now I'm floating, if not swimming, though it seems like those pesky personal projects keep after you until you resolve them. I know I've got a couple loose ends still. I've been sick for nearly three weeks, coughing and the like. I haven't quite gotten up the will to go to the doctor (always an expensive, annoying proposition) but if it keeps up I will have to. At the very least its been a great excuse not to smoke. My pack of Marlboro sits half-smoked on my piano, and has been that way for six weeks. I was amazed that after only two weeks of doing it, I would find myself thinking about smoking, wishing I had one in my mouth. Two weeks. Imagine the people who keep it up.

Things have been good. I am at WQED nearly every day now, working on something or another. Soon I will get paid for the work (or will have to stop doing it). Right now its gratis as I ingratiate myself with the people there. I got this amazing tour today of an Avid Unity system, and it was rather mind-blowing - 16 500GB hard drives networked over fiber-optic cables, delivering 1080i HD to the Avid system. It was beautiful. And surprisingly comprehensible, I might add. I knew what everything was, even the fancy stuff, and I could look at the timeline and know what was going on. I even picked up a couple tricks which I can't wait to try out on my own. HFTH can only benefit from the experience.

I'm working at Apple from 1-7 tomorrow. In the morning Mat and I are working with our dodgeball teammate Julie on planting a garden on Mt. Washington. I don't really do volunteer work like, well, ever, and now I'm plotting to wake up in 5.5 hours to plant flowers to which I am allergic instead of the sweet, tender embrace of sleep which I yearn for like the gods seek virgins. Not that I'm bitter or anything! What can I say, I am selfish about my sleep. I'm sure it'll go great. It will be good to have my hands in the earth.

Does my life sound incredibly boring? I can't decide whether it's at its most exciting or whether it is the caboose on someone else's streamliner. But the things I have, I enjoy - the people I have, I enjoy more. I'm glad it works out like that. I look around at all my stuff (of which I have a LOT) and go, Wow, this is no way cheers me up when I'm bummed out. I've even avoided buying much stuff at the Apple Store, which is hard because man those iPods are slick and I could always use another computer... Money is tight, and after a bit of a panic the other week, I leveled out and got serious about finding work. Not that I'm exactly ready to cut out my soul and leave it on the doorstep of some corporation, nor will I ever be, but I definitely feel motivated to find another job that's going to add some money!

A big shout out to the Doubleshot peeps, who compete for honor and eternal glory in San Francisco!!

Take care. Tend to your little rivers.

Martin

Walking in Circles

Holy God I've graduated from the University of Pittsburgh.

What are you standing there for? Jesus, get me a drink or something!

Wrote my last paper ever tonight. I would offer you choice phrases from it but that would be ridiculous. Suffice it to say the topic was post-modernism, and if that isn't enough to turn you off from wanting to read it you should go into academia where self-negating theoretical approaches to things are bandied about like acorns amongst drunken squirrels.

That said, I think I had some pretty brilliant things to say, but that comes as no surprise to you, dear Reader, does it?

Ahh. I've been so motivated to write on the blog recently. It's certainly not because I've had more time to write. I find that the more time I have to do things, the fewer things get done. My productivity is inversely proportional to the amount of time I have to be productive. Mum says that the things we do expand to the time allotted them, and so if you're doing nothing, well, nothing is all that you'll do all the time. I should make a list of wise things people tell me. It would be long and worthy, and worth rereading.

So does quoting my mom change your perception of me? Does calling her "mum" instead of "Mom" make any difference? I bet you it did. I bet you you just read that and said, "Why is he quoting his mom? He must live at home and play with himself all the time."

How have you been? I heard about the thing. I'm sorry, I... I didn't know. They'll be able to sew it back on. I'm sure of it. You did the right thing.

So in addition to walking around in circles, wondering where the heck I am supposed to go next, I've been working on a couple of projects. I've got a couple of really neat things in the works (I know, I know, "checks in the mail," but things are actually happening). I'm the lead editor on "The Pittsburgh Polio Story," currently working on the development trailer. My dear friend Dr. Sheahan out at Mother of Sorrows School has me doing something akin to a development trailer for her school, and that will air on local cable here in June. It'll be the first project that I'll have shot, edited, and scored myself. I'm proud of how it's turning out so far. The polio thing should be done within the year, and we're hoping for national distribution. At the very least it'll air on WQED here in Pittsburgh, though I think the story is worthy of everyone.

Still working at Apple. I would write more about it but, um, they fire you if you talk about your job, especially on the internet. Actually I might get fired just for telling you they fire people.

And of course, work continues on HFTH. Mark is coming home in a few weeks and we're gonna bust out some more ADR. It's time consuming but awesome, and he's great at it. Just need to finish out Dan and Jenn and we're good to go on that front. I'm slowly getting a second-wind here, about to besiege the internet with requests for effects help.

I don't feel very pithy tonight. I know how you like it pithy. Like I said, I'm walking around in circles. I picked a bad time to quit sniffing glue. Mm... sweet glue clarity.


Martin

Buying the War

"The only security of all is in a free press. The force of public opinion cannot be resisted when permitted freely to be expressed. The agitation it produces must be submitted to. It is necessary, to keep the waters pure." --Thomas Jefferson to Lafayette, 1823. ME 15:491

Just watched Bill Moyers' latest, which you can watch by clicking here. It's a great watch, well-made, and it's got me really thinking about just how fragile our nation is.

The video examines how the Washington press-corps, in the lead-up to the Iraq war, failed in their most important responsibility: finding, and communicating, the truth. It wasn't clear to me just how absolutely critical the press is in maintaining our freedom, in enabling us to make informed decisions. Imagine if it were like China or Russia or another one of these fucked up places, and all our news was state-run. How could you ever make an informed decision? You only have the word of these people to go on. If they fail, democracy fails.

It seems almost quaint now to hear Bush and his people make the case for the war, almost embarrassing to see how they made constant connections to 9/11. It's like making a video of yourself at age 16 in which you declare all the things you take as absolutes about life and love and then watching it twenty years later, realizing the stunning amount of ignorance in which you lived. It would be comical if people weren't still dying for it, weren't still giving their lives towards the effort.

I remember once, in the lead-up to the war, I posted something on a forum in defense of Michael Moore. Moore had just delivered his "fictitious war" speech at the Oscars, something for which history will remember him, in my opinion, as a minor hero of free-speech, and within minutes someone posted about how I was a "typical liberal" who would rather have Saddam Hussein in power and how much I hated America. It's funny, I still kinda get pissed just thinking about it, and I think it is because, even then, I knew I was being policed, being branded a minor-traitor just because I called people on their blatant character-assassination. It scared me how powerful this person's vitriol was, how palpable his anger was, and it's little comfort knowing just how wrong he was, just how embarrassed I would be if I were him, to have put my heart into some knowledge only to be shown repeatedly by the last four years just how wrong I was, and how tragic my certainty had proven.

Now, am I sad that Hussein is out of power? Nope. Dude was a douchebag, a whorehound of Hell, and he deserved a dog's death. He deserved death long before we gave it to him.

But we were lied to. I was lied to. My mom was lied to. I know some of you might still have some faith left in Bush, even some faith in this war, and I guess it's hard for me to communicate how much I wanted to like Bush, how much I wanted to believe that it was a righteous war. Is it bad to confess how exciting it was to see the green footage of Baghdad in those early days, the way our bombs lit up the night sky, to feel the might of America throb and pulse and pound, a beating heart spilling blood and destruction in the name of justice?

But you were lied to. The fear that we all had after 9/11, the righteous anger, the trembling fury that shook in our fists as we saw the buildings collapse, all of that was taken, twisted, manipulated and deformed into a misguided fervor. Like an abused child, we all thought we were doing the right thing, that what we were doing wasn't hurting anyone, and now I just feel dirty. Tainted. I'm mad that my generation inherits a world that went from "Tout les Americains" to "Freedom Fries" in the span of a year. I'm mad that our credibility in the world is shot. (I'm also mad at people like Richard Gere, who astound me by being horrible, horrible ambassadors... I mean really, Dick, what the fuck. This kind of thing would make us uncomfortable in America, let alone freaking India).

Anyways. I haven't gotten political on this blog for one reason only, and that is that politics divide people. My whole point here is to connect, to brighten your day, to share my stories in the hope that you find the strength to share your own. I am just so sad about this whole Iraq situation. I don't know how long it will take to undo the damage done. I remember reading once in an editorial that perhaps the only way to win in Iraq was to lose (or feign-death, for the WoW peeps who read this). You know, take a fall and let the little guy feel like he's won. America leaving could be great motivation for Iraqis to feel good about themselves.

Anti-American? Nope. I want to win, goddammit, and if winning the freedom of these frigging people halfway across the globe means sucking up some of our pride, consolidating our armies, refortifying, and strengthening up for the next battle, then so be it (how awesome is Risk? seriously, people, sometimes you have to let the Middle East go in order to pwn Africa).

I hope you're well. Watch the Moyers thing. Some guy on YouTube called him an "aging Marxist," and I've found that the people who get labeled are usually the ones with something interesting to say. Also, the internet makes me fear for the future of humanity, YouTube comments in particular. Sheesh.

always,
m

Whatever You Are Doing

Stop.

Look at this.



I have been staring at this image for 10 minutes, and now I know why. It looks like a woman. No, I am not crazy, look at the pale pinks, the vibrant reds, the bluish veins. Look at that little swirl to the left. It's a woman. This could just as easily be a well-lit close-up of you. Millions of light years away, an image 50 light years across, just one tiny corner of one tiny corner, is a womb as pink and perfect, giving birth to new stars brighter than our own Sun.

It's from Hubble. The Carina nebula. Meant to celebrate the telescope's 17th year.

Does anyone else take incredible comfort in the fact that we are made of star stuff? Looking at this picture it makes perfect sense to me why women are soft, supple, swirling. The picture is pretty, sure, but it is depicting horrific violence, an incredible maelstrom of creation and destruction, bits and pieces of existence hurling into one another, creating new starlight. Birth isn't painful or chaotic as a punishment. It's just what creation is, two faces of the creative force, light and dark each perfectly balanced. Stars grow, live, nova, die, implode unto dust, and out of that dust swirls new stars. Mix some of that same dust together, add a little water, and you get a new you. Is it possible to look at this picture and not be overtaken by your inner philosopher? Can a human being look at this and not see himself in the collisions, not see his woman in the pink and blue tendrils?

Okay the answer is probably yes, so resist the urge to be a smart ass and comment as such. I'm just saying. Stop and look. You are not puny in comparison to this image. You are enormous. You are as big as the sky.


-m

Sex, Drugs, and Ragtime

Omg this is the sexiest blog title I've had in months.

Hi! It's been awhile. I can honestly say I've been busy, putting on a ragtime concert with Bryan, working on the polio documentary, finishing up school forever and ever amen, working for Apple... I've been off Paxil for well over a month, having quit cold-turkey after realizing that crap was one of the reasons I was smoking and drinking like a fiend, and so now the only drugs I'm on are for a nasty cold that I caught. I am definitely a medicine-head at the moment, however, so if my prose seems kind of flighty you'll know why.

How have you been? God, we never get to talk anymore. I always feel like there's more to say than I've said. Where to begin.

Sex

Yes, sex. It's been good. I have a great sex life and I'm delighted by it.

Drugs

Already covered. Off of them. I think I smoked half a cigarette three weeks ago and was horribly disappointed with how gross it was.

Ragtime

Ah-HA! Yes! My ragtime life has sprung awake with the lilies. On April 13, Bryan and I put on a ragtime concert at the First Unitarian Church. I wish I had some of the footage to show you - I think I'm going to YouTube some of it, but suffice it to say that we got not one but TWO standing ovations, and it was a delightful return to performing for me. I was so nervous to start out that I completely forgot the first notes of Joplin's "Elite Syncopations" - I had spent the whole day nervous about that evening, and I think screwing up, and surviving, was the best thing I could have done for my confidence. Because after that, I mean, what can happen? You've already screwed up. Worst fear realized, and the audience is still sitting there. Time to move on.

So, I've been good. Playing a lot of piano, working a lot in Avid. My inner life has been interesting recently. As I wander deeper into myself, I'm constantly surprised by the variety of things in my inner-forest: twisted vines, great scars covered by flowers in bloom, strip mines with baby grass peeking through pebbles, streams, smooth stones, lilacs. Jessie's grandfather gave me a beautiful analogy once. He is 90, and so most of his friends have passed on, and he was describing the sadness of it as though they were "great trees who had grown skyward and then suddenly collapsed." I've been thinking a lot about death recently, especially considering the events at Virginia Tech (more on that in a minute), and I'm reminded of when I was in Houston and Emily read my palm. She ran her finger along my life line and said, "Well, mine is longer than yours. Yours is pretty short, actually." And I've wondered, not idly, if she's right, if my life is indeed going to be short. I don't know. I look at the faces of the slain VA Tech students and they look a lot like my classmates, a lot like me. I bet they had the same question when they looked at their palms, wondering how long their life was going to be, what dreams were yet to come. Are the lives of others on our palms as well?

Regarding the Virginia Tech thing, I just don't know what to do with it. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose your child like that, at that point in life, when you're just getting to enjoy them as a person, a real person. That's how my mom talks about my Uncle Mark, who was killed in a car crash 30 years ago at the age of 21. The sadness was that he was just becoming interesting, you know? Just finding his own two feet. And I don't know if it's tasteless or not, but I think of Lord of the Rings every time I hear of seemingly random violence, think of Theoden donning his mantle of war and all the while wondering, "What can men do against such reckless hate?" The question rings out in my head, wholly unsatisfied with Aragorn's answer, and I feel like it is the question for our times how we as good people respond to those who perform vicious, evil acts.

My first question after I heard the news was, "Where is your God?" The second question was, "How is it right for one person to have the capability of ending thirty lives?" And then I realized that the two questions were connected, both dealing with responsibility, with cause, with reason, and I knew in that instant what I know about my own darkness, and that is it comes from a place beyond reason, beyond motive and purpose and cause. Every person has a well inside of them, a well that, at its bottom, is sludgy and dank, and if its dug too deep or there's not enough water, evil, dangerous things can seep through and bubble upwards.

Friends are the water. Love is the water. And if you aren't filled up, then you can draw some crazy things from the bottom of yourself.

Anyways, I'm waxing. But it does have me thinking about life and about death, about what I'm leaving to the world and whether I'm in danger of dying with my music still inside me. I wish I could spend less time being afraid of not accomplishing enough and more time actually accomplishing, but that seems a silly wish seeing as I'm the only one who can grant it (Disney moment!).

Alright, I'm heading to bed. So little to say, so much time. Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.

yours
Martin

Serve You Glory On A Silver Platter

I am nervous about tomorrow.

Well, technically, I am nervous about today. I'm waking up in a paltry four hours, donning a very convincing tablecloth, and portraying Dregr Jarrat again for the first time in two years.

I wish it was the performance alone that I worried about. But it's really the incredible time-crunch we're under to finish what we began, where we began it.

Three-and-a-half years ago, at the soundstage at Pittsburgh Filmmakers, we filmed the Dregr scenes for "Star Wars: Hunt for the Holocron." It was our first shoot. We we so excited we did 12 takes of the first shot, a medium-shot that started with me in the background, walking to the foreground, and cutting Luke into two pieces with my lightsaber. Tomorrow, as we build the set and rehearse the lines, we are preparing to film completely new Dregr scenes to replaces those old ones, new scenes written with all the knowledge about the movie and myself gathered since. And even still, they pose an incredible challenge. They are nexus points, exposition scenes with ties to all the other characters, and as such are very delicate. Add to that the fact that we have only 6 hours with the actress playing opposite of me, and you have a very intense, high-stakes situation.

Jeffrey is here, and I am delighted. He flew up from Houston after work, and he flies back early in the evening on Sunday. We watched the rough-cut, the rough assembly of scenes from the movie, and it was an amazingly revealing experience. I learned a couple of things. They may seem simple, or obvious, but they are genuine surprises to me:

1) The movie will mostly make sense. Nothing insanely random happens.
2) The movie is much, much smaller than I thought it was. It really is just the story of a couple of characters and what happens to them over the course of two days.
3) We actually do need to hear, from Dregr, why he wants the holocron, and why E'Din fights him for it.
4) Despite a couple rough patches, including but not limited to pacing and writing, there are some genuinely exciting moments that feel like Star Wars.

After watching the rough-cut I turned to Jeffrey and asked, "Is it worth finishing?"

He looked at me for a moment and then, choosing his words carefully, said, "Yes. Absolutely. That's not the question at all."

And I felt a little better. He had never watched the whole thing end-to-end, and for him, it was a sign of hope, a sign that maybe there was a movie at the end of all this, a movie worth making and worth watching. It seems a little silly to me now, all this hullabaloo over a little Star Wars tale, like I've picked up a painting I did as a child and traced its lines with my fingers, remembering old strokes and the earnestness with which I made them. Sure, the movie won't be perfect. It might not even be good. But it will be complete, and I will have steered it through, and people will enjoy watching it.

If I can do that, make one person's life better for an hour, then I will have accomplished something truly Good.

Here's hoping.

M

Erect in Defiance of God's Will

Current time: 3:17 AM. Estimated time until iRooster crows: 5 hours, 43 minutes. Wake-up Track for iRooster: Theme from "Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan." Number of hours scheduled for work tomorrow: 5.

Planning to party all night with friends getting while getting crunked off your ass?

Priceless.

/cliche

How've you been? Good, good. How's that thing that you were stressing over? See, I told you it would all work out.

Life is bigger than a lot of this little crap we get stuck in. I know that. In my mind I know that. I know it like I know an equation, like I know a date. I don't, however, know it like I know a piano. Like I know an image. I can talk about it but I can't feel it, explain it but can't explore it. The phrase "forest for the trees" is so beautiful and I wish I had made it up because I would use it all the time. It's as though, because we only have eyes on one side of our head, we are both spiritually and biologically incapable of seeing all sides of reality, all sides of a situation.

How is it that in the span of five minutes you can go from exalted to excrement? I seriously have been all over the place the past, well, okay fine the past two months but I'm mostly thinking about the past two weeks. On the one hand I haven't felt this creatively virile since 2003. On the other hand I feel like an absolute shmuck who can't even wake up early enough to shave his face before work. Both are true, and yet they seem contradictory. How can you be productive at some things and a total lame-o (wow I wish I had a thesaurus) at other things? "Sure I'll write that beautiful independent short film about two 20-somethings at a crossroads in their relationship, storyboard it and shoot it in black and white and submit it to a film festival," versus, "Jesus, fuck, what time is it ohgodi'mlateagain." It is like some neurotic Odd Couple occupies the same studio apartment that is my brain and fight over the toilet seat being left up. Sure they love each other, but you can't possibly sustain such anarchy, such utter dichotomy in one individual.

I've been thinking a lot about this idea of a non-dual transcendent, a place beyond up and down, right and left, i.e. zooming out the camera far enough to see that east is in fact west and vice versa. If it exists, it is where God is. I wonder why the human brain creates the illusion of separation, of division from oneself, if created by He that is both hard and soft. Why the game? Why can't we see this place for what it is?

I wonder precisely because I feel a division inside myself, a distance from myself. Mark came home for the past couple of days, in from NY to attend a number of business meetings, and he invited me to come hear a motivational speaker. The speaker was an ex-NFL player whose nickname had been "Meat," and the fact that I remember most of what the guy said is a testament to the simple, straightforward wisdom this clod mustered for an hour and a half. He said, "Everyone has a little devil on his shoulder, a doubting Mini-Me who sits there and, cranky as hell, constantly tells you bad news about yourself. To fight 'im, you have got feed your inner giant, feed your inner dreamer. You have got to find that part of yourself that knows you deserve better."

Now, I mean, this is great advice. I love it. Simple, straightforward, correct (the original concept of "the satan" was as adversary. Satan, in Judaic texts, used to work for God, testing the resolve of his followers, and was only later associated with a force apart from God). But the part about "inner dreamer" was what really hit me the hardest, because I am a dreamer. "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams," to quote Willy Wonka. That is me. To a fault. Or was me before I came up against my limitations, my handicaps, my vulnerabilities, all of the which the real world is elucidating faster than I can make excuses. My inner Slugworth is delighted watch the gumdrops crash, watch as I flail and flutter and try to make sense out of the jumble, watch and snicker as I wake up late, accomplish little, and then think about how much I am not doing and how fast my life is going.

It is a pity party, people. Hope you brought sad streamers and wet firecrackers.

Anyways, it's between that voice, the one that kicks the oompa-loompa in the gnads when it gets angry, and the dreamer, the music maker, the guy with the boat and the creepy chicken beheadings playing behind him, that I dwell. And Wonka destroys as much as he creates, corrupts as much as he consoles. He's a whirlwind, a force of nature, loved and feared, loving and fearful. Man I love words. And that is how I feel. Disappointing. Anointing. Disillusioning. Envisioning.

Okay, point being is that I'm struggling to feel like a consistent person and it's driving me nuts. Moving on.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. I think it's pretty cool that being "Irish" can belong to everyone, at least a little bit. Drink some green beer! I'll talk to you.

Your
Martin

The Beating Heart of God

Jessie's favorite saying is "your mom." It's the swiss-army knife of her vocabulary, applicable in, well, just about every situation, and it is lodged in my brain.

"How was your day?"
"Your mom."

"What are you up to?"
"Your mom."

"The house is on fire!"
"Your mom."

I'm sitting next to her now, her body warm against mine, her breath rhythmic in sleep. She is a such a pretty girl. I like going to sleep after her, because seeing her plaintive, peaceful visage nearly ensures me happy dreams.

It's my spring break, and between shifts at Apple I decided to loop down to Berkeley Springs on my way to and from Philadelphia. It's a short trip, but I wanted to see Dave and Steph, both to finalize some movie business as well as just hang out. Apparently they live pretty close to one another now, so I'm hoping that ensures that I'll see them both. It's hard for me to keep asking people for help with the movie - sometimes I feel like a wholly incompetent leader, and so when I feel like people have lost their faith in me, it's a blow, not completely unexpected, but still a disappointment. I have an amazing, patient crew, and I think we're at the end of the time where I can realistically expect them to stick around. We have one more shoot coming up though, on the weekend of March 24, and this will be the last one, the last push, the last time. Old faces and new will be there, and I think we will be partying like hell when it's over. I'm to the point where I want to be able to watch and enjoy the movie. It deserves that chance.

I listened to something that changed my life today. Julia Sweeney (remember her from SNL?) has a one-woman show called "Letting Go of God," and it was so bittersweet, so honest, so forthright and thought-out and tragically funny, that it's easily one of my new favorite vessels of ideas. I hope everyone gets a chance to pick up the CD and take a listen. I will certainly be picking up a couple copies and giving them away.

Years ago, Mat and I had a conversation at an Eat'n Park where, for twenty minutes, the beauty and wonder of the universe was glimpsed over grilled stickies. It was right in that time when we were just rekindling our friendship over long talks about writing and the screenplay for the movie, and inevitably we always seemed to, in the course of talking about stories, end up talking about things like the meaning of life and its purpose.

Anyways, for these twenty minutes the muses smiled, and like a cool wind peace and wonder fell upon our table and we became genuinely, truly alright with the great big question marks. The Big Why. The Big Why Not. We realized that whether or not there is a God, this place, this existence is equally miraculous either way. If I am merely an assemblage of carbon atoms, then the fact that carbon atoms can combine to form consciousness is an amazing, mind-blowing instantiation, regardless of whether it evolved or was designed. What is the real difference between God existing and not existing? He is one way of talking about the things that happen to us, but maybe he's not the only way.

The fact that anything exists seems intensely peculiar to me. Why something and not nothing? What created the elemental forces like gravity and magnetism? Who or what lit the wick for the Big Bang? Whether some deity dreamed it up or... or... I don't know, I don't even have the language to try and describe the alternative, the fact that it and we and this are all here is truly, truly stunning. Special. Unique. Gorgeous. You should SEE the stars in Berkeley Springs. For the first time tonight, I could see that the Pleaides are really the beating heart of Taurus, the thicket of starts at which Orion is aiming. Those stars might not be connected at all, might have no idea they are related in the minds of the little Earth people, and yet there they are, existing, shining regardless (I want to type "irregardless" because it is a much better word but, alas, it's not actually a word), and like the beating heart of God they are timeless in their ever-changing states.

Anyways, I'm getting philosophical. I'm sorry. The warmth of Jessie's body gets me all confident, like I could look up at the night sky and feel at home amidst the constellations, the great dragons and warriors and lobsters and virgins, big as half the sky and still infinitely small in the whole of the universe.

Find some stars and look and listen. Let me know what you hear.

Your
Martin

God Broke My Finger With A Dodgeball

Yup. A dodgeball, people, thrown with a nasty locked-curve. My pinky, too. Poor little guy. He has five weeks to heal, or else I will be giving the world's first one-handed ragtime concert on April 13.

And regardless of what the Blogger spell-check thingy says, dodgeball is one word, one sport, one dream. Ye have not lived lest ye has dodgeballed. I could break ten fingers and I would still play every week. I'd wear oven mitts and catch like a seal catches penguins: with extreme prejudice.

Hi!

I've been good. Very good, actually, which is why I haven't been getting drunk and writing to you about how mean the moon is. Manic-depressive Martin is good fun for about a week, and then it just gets really, really old. It was scary for a time, though; I felt like I couldn't write anything good unless I was drunk. This post may be proving me right, but I'd rather have less to talk about and a thinner waistline than more to say and be Chubs Magee for the rest of my life. My little foray into self-destruction actually gained me six pounds. Leave it to me to find a way to take up smoking and GAIN weight.

So, I stopped smoking. And drinking. Mostly. The rule of thumb has been: Doing one makes you do another, so cut it out, shmuck. Which has worked pretty well, though the sea is unpredictable and storms brew quickly. So far, so good.

I had to realize that there was nothing interesting about being self-destructive. I think a lot of people, myself heartily included, confuse "tortured but brilliant" with "lonely and overcompensating." It's easy to be fascinated by conflicted people; they're like going to see a movie about mobsters. It's a relatively safe way to experience something dangerous. Because, really, we are all capable of picking up a gun and firing it, but those that actually kill people? Wow, man. What kinds of other crazy shit are they capable of? What are they going to do next?

Anyways, so I've been good. Working at Apple. Trying to get a movie shoot together for the weekend of March 24. I started a new screenplay. I'm developing a documentary on young Pittsburghers. Making a CD. Preparing for the concert. Finishing applications to grad school.
Jessie said to me tonight, "Wow. You're actually busy," which was very liberating to hear. Busy is progress. Busy is good.

I hope you're well. Haven't heard from you in awhile. Hope you're staying busy, too.

your
martin