This is me taking the high road.

This is me being the bigger person.

At 5 AM this morning, these are the thoughts that are running through my head.  After spending the day catching up on much needed sleep, destressing after the events of the past days and weeks and months, finally ending up at the bar and feeling very much at home, one small email kicked my brain back into high gear.  So I crawled into bed at 2 AM, read a few chapters of the current book (Chuck Palahniuk’s Survivor, which I’m hoping will be like Choke and sucker-punch me with greatness and inspiration in the last fifteen pages), and turned out the light by 2:30, an astonishingly early goodnight for me.

Or so I thought, because it was around 3 AM when I realized that I was not asleep, nor would I be anytime soon.

This is me being accepting.

This is me watching the universe unfold as it should.

This is me not really knowing what to say in reply.

Because, honestly, the more I think about everything that has transpired in the course of the past week or ten days, I’m just ready to put all this behind me.  There’s a certain fog of absolute insanity that coats all of this in its fine, ashy mist, and feeling that approach just makes me weary.

There are three sides to every story, you know: yours, mine, and the truth.  As I read that email last night, I was reminded again of what sorts of distance can separate the three.

People believe what they want to believe; sadly, people are often encouraged to believe distortions and illusions by those around them, for whatever reasons. Rarely do people stop and try to see how the same story appears from a different point of view, much less objectively.  And I won’t claim that I am capable of seeing things with absolute clarity; far from it, in fact. But I try.

This is me trying to sort things out.

This is me separating the wheat from the chaff.

I can see the things in the email that are undeniable; there are things that I am accused of that are, unfortunately, true.  At least to enough of an extent that bringing them up — even as pointedly as said accusations were made, under the guise of getting things of the chest — is valid and warranted.  Although, again, some people really need to work on presentation.

Interestingly, though, some of these accusations are immediately followed with statements that smack of such amazing delusion or lack of self-awareness that it’s a little frightening. And I can’t help but wonder, even now, nearly twelve hours later, if that’s an astounding lack of self-perception, or if it’s something that has to be said in order to preserve the good guy status quo?

This is me airing my dirty laundry in public.

This is me finding my own sense of closure.

There are people who will read this and think that it’s filled with my classic vague tone, and go on to read other, more interesting and less self-involved things on the web.  There are a few people who will read this and know exactly what I’m talking about, and this will probably piss them off a little.

This is me not really giving a shit.

There are a lot of people that can figure out (without a whole lot of energy) what this is about.  Birmingham is a small, small, getting smaller everyday sort of place, and the blogging community is even smaller. This is the reason that I’m not naming names (though, as noted by Sarah Silverman among many others, if you fall into the life of a comedian, you’re probably gonna end up being turned into a joke; ditto writers).

Yeah, I could have said a lot of this in the email response that I typed — a four or five sentence email that took an agonizing twenty minutes to write (in comparison, this little bit of detritus went from brain to screen in about fifteen, not counting typo correction time).  But like I said, I had decided that this chapter is closed and finished as of the moment that I hit send on that email. Things are what they are, and the only thing that an angry email, no matter how valid, would accomplish is making me feel better through making someone else feel small.

And, I figure, why do that?  It changes nothing, and besides: I should have known better from minute one.

This is me hopefully learning a lesson, finally.

This is me looking forward.

This is a period.

The new best word ever:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMWxaF4zlqk]

In other news, I’m still waiting to hear a valid argument to support the utterly insane amount of money that a supposed majority wants to spent to either build a fence between us and Mexico or send a $100 check to every American, owner or not.

Other than, “It’s an election year, and what better way to get re-elected than buy votes?”

Though honestly, the first politician to outright admit that that’s the best reason he could come up with for supporting the bill, and that was good enough for him — that guy gets my vote, for being honest, if nothing else.

I am, for the most part, a terrible person to be related to.

My siblings can back this up, more than my parents would. I’m sure part of that is that unconditional love that people have for their spawn, but there’s also a really simple explanation: my parents live in town, about ten minutes drive from me, and my brother and sisters live at scattered points across the country.

I’m actually terrible at long distance relationships of any kind. Jonas is the only person I’ve ever successfully stayed in touch with for any length of time, and we go through pregnancy-length periods without talking over the years. I’m just lucky that he’s gay and can’t resist my handsome features and promises that one day, if he’s persistant, I’ll think about “experimenting.”

Kidding, as far as you know.

I feel bad, though, about the way things turned out. Not so much with Mandy, or with James, though I’d certainly love it if we were all closer, or if I could afford to go visit them both more often. With Kate, though, it’s another story.

I don’t blame myself, or her, for the distance between us. I’m fifteen years older than her, and had moved out of the house by the time she turned two, so there was immdiate space between us on two levels right there. And from then on, it never really got any better; I’m terrible with kids between the ages of post-cute-baby and old enough to drive, which put her in my peripheral zone throughout most of her life. It was only really in the past few years that we’ve gotten close at all — and now that we’re at a point where we can start to relate, she’s across the country (hopefully, for her sake, never to return — I keep reminding her it’s easier to leave home if you do it young and stay gone) at art school.

There was — and probably remains — some resentment on her part about the distance between us. I know (it’s not hard to see) that she and James and she and Mandy are much closer. More like what I imagine that siblings normally are, even cross-country. And the funny, slightly ironic thing there is that she and I are a lot alike — moreso, I think, at the core, than any of the rest of us four. Mandy and I are closer in age and have more history, and James and I have more in common, I think, but deep down, underneath it all, Kate and I are the matching bookends on the shelf full of kids.

I worry about her, for precisely this reason. James and Mandy have always, in almost all areas, learned their lessons more quickly than me (James’ history with women is almost identical to mine, so he loses some points there — dude, if you’re reading this, Rawlins is the one you don’t want to let get away, I think!). And I haven’t seen Kate be as stubborn as me in her approach to not succeeding the first go-round, but I sense a kindred obstinance. A stupidity in our refusal to accept what’s possible and not, if you will.

She’s a good kid, though. All three of my siblings are, in fact. I suspect at this point, we’ve probably called the same city home for the last time, the four of us, some time ago. And I’m terrible at showing it, at keeping up, at letting them know I’m alive and asking how they are, but I still think about them a lot.

Look, kids! Madness awaits! I can only imagine that Tori Spelling was chosen because she, too, can inspire madness with a single sighting.

That’s mean. But reasonably true.

via Warren Ellis

Socially Awkward: Child often complains of “butterflies” in their stomach.
Mentally Deficient: Child often complains of termites in their wrists.

More…  HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CHILD IS SOCIALLY AWKWARD OR MENTALLY DEFICIENT

Is it just me, or is there something sublimely humorous about a promise made to always be open and honest?  Is it meta?  Irony?  A double whammy in disguise?

A promise like that, there’s no point even getting it in writing, signed in blood mixed with the ashes of a loved one.  Actions speak louder than words — which is pretty funny, because open honesty is all about words.  As many of them as you need to get from Point A to Point B, in fact.

You look for reasons, for closure, for anything at all to grab onto .  And it’s at that point that you suddenly realize that you’ve been reaching down, trying to pull someone up that had no interest in being brought out of the waves.  They’re not drowning — they’re just waving, oblivious to the deep water they’re in.  Now you’re tired, from struggling to help them, and the only reason things seem temporarily better is that you’re on the same level, for a split second; not because you’re making headway at pulling them onto dry land, but because you’re about to find out if it’s true that you never forget how to swim.

This is the joy of being left in the dark: you get to create your own stories, fill in the blanks however you wish, let your theories run wild.

I find that I’m not angry, or even really hurt.  I think I’ve put my faith in other people too much over the years to even be shocked to find that something like this has happened. Again. You spend your life doing the things that you want done to you, and that you were raised to believe were the right, good, Christian things to do: helping others when you can, whether materially or emotionally.  Being nice to the point of harming yourself.  Work hard.  Give until it hurts.  And then you wake up and find that yet another person has mistaken your kindness for weakness.

And maybe the two are hand in hand, lovers entwined forever.

The more I show the way I feel the less I find you give a damn
The more I get to know the less find that I understand
Innocent, the time we spent, forgot to mention we’re good friends
You thought it was the start of something beautiful? Well think again.
– Porcupine Tree, The Start of Something Beautiful

I’m not so cynical (which is to say, I’m quite possibly naive enough not) to think that I’ve given and given and eventually felt taken from by people who are malicious or have hurtful intent.  I do think that there’s a serious imbalance in how much thought is given to the appropriate response to a good deed.  If someone — if a friend, more to the point — extends his or her credit rating to you, to help you out of a bad spot, you should go out of your way every single time to repay that loan, or at the least, take the initiative in explaining that the money will be late.  If someone loans you clothing, especially if they’re not in a position to replace that clothing any more than you are, get it back to them.  Ever.  If not sooner.

When you don’t do these things, when you take for granted the generosity and kindness of your fellow man, on any level, you burn the edges a little bit.  And eventually the edges are now at what used to be the middle, and there’s not much left to put aflame.  Eventually all that’s left of that large heart is ash, and that’s one less person in the world who is willing to give and do good for others.

Not that I am planning on being anything different than what I’ve always been — the cynical optimist, the crunchy bitter shell with the marshmallowy sweet innards.  The people that will come after all you that have come before and walked so carelessly don’t necessarily deserve to pay for your mistakes.  And surely, sadly, they will, a little bit — that desire to trust everyone until they give you a reason not to gets weaker with every reason, and the walls build themselves up inside of you even when you think you’ve taken a break from masonry.

But maybe they will get a little something more, too; a more rewarding unconditional trust when they show you what they tell you, when the song of their actions makes the words redundant and unnecessary.

While sitting in the back rows of the Samford University theater (I could look up the actual name of the building, but let’s just say that it’s a Baptist building in which dancing sometimes takes place), watching the Alabama Ballet perform Giselle, I was struck by both a sudden need for a cigarette, and the amazing parallels between the ballet and my life today.

Both are beautiful at times (mostly when you least expect it), boring other times, and really painful when you’ve stayed still too long and your hip audibly pops.

Neither one makes a whole lot of sense, even if the background music is familiar.  Unfortunately, there is no program for my life, so I don’t get any clarification on that one.

Both are filled with a long line of beautiful women.  And out of both batches, there are only a few whose names and faces remain in my memory for more than about 24 hours.

I don’t dress up for the ballet, either.

I’m a big proponent of following your instinct. Reason and logic is a wonderful thing, but we’re outlived as a species by a billion others who have no concept of living like a Vulcan (and most of us laugh at the idea of living that far on the edge). The lizard underbrain survives inside our gray matter for a reason.

And yet, I find myself lately ignoring my gut. More of my usual second-guessing myself, I suppose. I’m telling myself that the things that I fear are paranoia, insane whisperings from the voices in my head, or perhaps just memories of another similar but different time rising to the surface.

There’s such a fine line between paranoia and gullibility, isn’t there? On one hand, they’re always out to get you, and people point and laugh. On the other, you’re a blind man; how did you not see this coming? And they point and laugh.

I’m not so concerned about the people pointing and laughing part, as I am the voices in my head finding more ammunition for their volleyball games.

What is it Ben has on his page? “There’s always a siren singing you to every shipwreck.” Something like that. And your gut, underneath, knows it’s a trap, but damn, that’s a beautiful voice that makes you feel so good inside…

God bless Neely, who takes the smallest moments to make me smile.

There’s a mini-film festival at Workplay tonight, the SHOUT! festival put on by Sidewalk.  It’s the first of what I presume will be an annual event, a film focusing on gay and lesbian films.  I’m venue managing the theater, which means that, just like I do every year at Sidewalk, I’ll get to see a mass of films in a row, without being able to pick and choose.

It’s a good exercise for me, to watch a list of films that someone else has picked out.  It guarantees me some sort of variety, and keeps me from going after the things that I know I like, exposing me to some things that I might normally pass on.

This train of thought was originally supposed to directly follow my post on writing at the beginning of the week.  It stems from a Sunday night conversation that Garth and I had about Cronenberg, Eli Roth, Tarantino, and lots of other filmmakers (including myself, and the mass of indie writer/directors you see at Sidewalk and SHOUT! and whatnot).

My argument about films has always been that they are, ultimately, nothing if they don’t have a strong foundation: a story, to be specific. Not to say that I don’t find merit in “artistic” or “experimental” films… Actually, that’s my way of defending the writers, who tend to be looked at as an unintentional part of the film process (if they’re seen at all — quick, name five non-directing writers…).  And I still hold, to some extent, that that is true: without a strong story, and a strong script (well constructed, with good dialogue), your movie will fall to pieces.

But there’s the telling aspect, too — to prolong the architecture analogy, the blueprints and design and engineering of the idea are key, but shoddy construction of even the best plan will end with disaster.  And this is where filmmaking becomes tricky, because you’ve got a thousand places of building where everything can go right or wrong: acting, cinematography, sound design, set, art direction, effects, editing.

So it’s not just writing.  I’ll look at it as a two-stage process (although, the experienced short film director in me wants to split it into even more pieces than that).  Story versus telling.

All the media of entertainment are set up like this, really.  Books, movies, TV shows, documentaries, music… You’ve got the creations and the performances.  The really gifted are those that can do both; those are the ones I’m jealous of.  I’m not just speaking of directors who can also write (frankly, I’m not sure how many of those I actually believe exist: I would say Rodriguez, probably; Tarantino, to be fair, although I despise his writing after True Romance; the Wachowski brothers, maybe, if only for the first of the Matrix trilogy); though the list of those who claim to do both is long (especially on the festival circuit), very few good writers can actually direct, and one in a trillion directors actually has a story worth telling.

Yeah, I said it.  And I’m the first to admit that I’m not meant to direct, and my storytelling tools in the film world are not so hot, but goddamn, all you talented filmmakers out there?  Find a fucking writer to work with you, okay? You’re really not very good, no matter what your friends who want to be on film tell you.

Stephen King is a great example for me to use here.  He’s one of the most amazing storytellers in literature — reading his books is, to me, what sitting around a campfire listening to a master of the craft would be if you captured it on paper.  And for the most part, he’s had some amazing story ideas upon which to display his craft: The Stand, IT, and his Dark Tower series are all Shining examples (sorry).  But there was a spot in the late 90s when the story ideas seemed to run a little dry, and for a few books, it felt like he was rehashing old tricks.

There are plenty of musicians, too, who are tremendous performers, masters of the telling aspect, but whose songwriting skills lack … well, they just suck.  Yeah.  And there are great songwriters who can’t perform, too.  Great actors that have no story to tell, but can channel and bring someone else’s tale to life like no one’s business.  There are even writers who have nothing to say but the best telling voices you could ever imagine, and people with stories that would melt your brain but lack the words.

And this all comes back to me, of course.  Do I have something to say?  I have, before, sure, and I will again, I’d bet.  I don’t know if I’ll ever have something that will change the world, as much as I would like to hope otherwise.  I don’t know anymore if I’m destined for anymore greatness than I’ve already tasted (for which I am grateful, mind you).  I’ve got my own voice, most of the time; it’s not as resonant as Chuck Pahlaniuk or Warren Ellis, or as comforting as King’s, but it’s mine, and it’s reasonably unique.  I’m certainly not a filmmaker, much as I might like to be; I can participate in storytelling when music is involved, but only as part of a team.  And in each of those areas, I’ve had some stories that, even looking back, I think are worth telling, with a creative edge and a meaning underneath.

Ultimately, the quality of both my voice and the stories it tells — no matter what form it takes — are up to others to decide.  I just hope that more people learn to recognize the distinction between the voice and the story, and swallow their pride enough to find someone who compliments their strengths and weaknesses; I think there are a lot of brilliant voices who go unheard because they have nothing to say, and a lot of amazing stories that never get told because the medium doesn’t open itself up to the creator.

And I hope that someday, I can find a good director to film my stuff.  And an artist to collaborate with on a few shorts I’ve got in mind for a graphic novel…

But most of all, I hope that those people who I have chosen to surround myself with, and who have chosen to stay in my life, will be honest with me when my voice starts to go, or when what I’m saying isn’t worth hearing.  Ultimately, it’s up to me to decide when to stop — I write largely to help myself, after all — but I don’t ever want to be the guy who rails and rants about his own very nature without having a clue that he’s doing so.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net