And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.
- Hamlet. Act 1. Scene 1. (Shakespeare)

I never read Shakespeare. At least I never read them all. I read Julius Caesar a couple times. And Romeo & Juliet. But there’s this stack of stuff I’ve been meaning to read. The stack’s pretty tall.

Among my possessions stored in various places is a collection of hardbound booklets, one for every play Shakespeare wrote. The Collection was released between 1902-1906. I inherited them from my mama’s mama.

Once upon a few hours ago I tried to fall asleep at 8pm. Tired, weary, I drifted off within seconds. Left deep within, I dreamt of Hamlet. Fascinating because I never read the story nor have seen a movie about it. I just remember he went mad with vengeance over the murder of his father.

Vengeance. I’ve been forced to deal with the thought a little more.

A friend told me I was still bitter. I went to argue but then I realized she was right, but not for what she was arguing.

I dreamt of Hamlet, not with the time period clothing – which I couldn’t recall – or for any particular scene in the play – for which I haven’t yet found myself in position to recall. But I worked through the books of blues story line, reconsidering choices as a means of vengeance. The second verse to my dream started off with a praxis of whether or not there are “fixed” and “relative” moments in time (thank you, David Tennant & Russell T. Davies). Then the vengeance and paired moments started to duel in my head til I woke up 22 minutes later to an epiphany.

the Doctor vs. the Captain

Sitting straight up and giddy, these elements poured over the baseline to my books of blues, shading in the dark corners and filling in the gaps. Those books finally have the deeper questions, and the touch of soul I was looking for…Which means my editor’s gonna have to be on hold…well, no, he can edit what’s there. They need a cleansing.

But my thirst to know more about Hamlet got me to roll out of bed. I started to see if I could find a copy then it dawned on me – David Tennant spent 2008 playing Hamlet for the Royal Shakespeare Company – w/ Patrick Stewart. (Thank you, PBS.)

Here’s a clip of Tennant doing Hamlet’s Soliloquy for the RSC:

And as I went to go get the book out of storage I remembered: my booklet of Hamlet was next on my list to read. It’s sitting on my stack of books. Wow, this year has flown by.

Though the pieces are starting to fit together during the time

A little more than kin, and less than kind.
-Hamlet. ACT I Scene 2.

(photo credits: 1) niiceshout & 2) Hytok and others. both via Flickr)

I can be vengeful. That doesn’t seem to dissipate with age. I wonder if it’s because I am writing the Book of Blues prequel and I share this trait with the main character. Without doubt I question whether my personal growth is frozen in this moment until the moment is written. Either way, the only thing I have to keep at arms length is my career. Luckily it’s still enough to harness my instincts.

It’s because of the friends involved.

Last week another 12 friends of mine were forced to take the next step in their career. Even though it was seen coming a long time ago, to watch them endure agony was enough to enrage me. Because up to that moment, they had a choice.

Nothing is scarier than when a choice is taken from you.

And because of the acts in last week’s play, and the way it played out, I stayed away.

Sometimes you have to go off-Radar.

Last night I was sipping iced tea in a back room club at the pub downtown when I read on my iPhone something Tat said – yes – on Facebook. It stopped me in my tracks:

The thing about making a name for yourself by trying to take down someone else’s name, is that it becomes your legacy. Who wants to be remembered as that hateful bitter little person?

At first I was pissed. He just left and wasn’t happy about the discussions involving his career. He was holding it in. I thought this was his way of letting it out.

So I replied:

The old man with all the toys.

He quickly wrote back:

Why you gotta call me that LOL

Yeah, it might have been a signpost to me, but he was hitting a deeper wound. He didn’t know it. I couldn’t blame him. And after I realized that I laughed.

Sometimes when your guard is always up, you have a tendency to take aim on even the rabbits that cross your path.

There’s a fine line between Vengeance and Revenge. If a child spends his whole summer playing chess against his master before finally winning on the last day, is he a champion, or he obsessive? Should he not learn his opponents strategies? His/her openings, middle games, preffered situations to offer exchanges, and when they choose to bluff with a gambit? Not to mention the end game.

Does the ever student become the master? Every child becomes his father in some form or another. But the fine line between completion and transformation has always scared me.

Maybe it depends on intention, pending culture.

Maybe it depends on who’s the drawer.

Maybe it depends on the pencil.

Maybe.

But for my last batch of friends force to soldier on, I offer my warm prayer and a soft salutation.

And remember, when you have soldiered on, it’ll take your body about 6 weeks to adjust to the reduced level of stress. It did for me.

Speaking of soldiering on…

Speaking of Stress reducers, I met new friends tonight. Met them via my lawyer. We’re scheduling to do a little R&R up along the lake. I need it.

1. Vacation
2. “Research”

REMEMBER: If you’re gonna remember Gonzo, dabble in a little fear and loathing in a playland, you HAVE to have your lawyer with you!

No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own. He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master. - Hunter S. Thompson

(photo credits:  1.  Rogelaf & 2. Menno Ophelia via Flickr)

There wasn’t a part of my morning that wasn’t bombarded by a part of my professional life. The bombs came through email, out from twitter, along from Facebook, and standing along my my desk – all in multiple forms.

The phone even rang. That’s never good.

I had to cajole, negotiate, insist, persist, pistol whip, pray-for-rain, and hope-for-the-best but in the end it all trickled into a quiet evening in an alley cafe within the heart of town.

I started to write though, no, not on paper. The book of blues prequel is starting to shape up in my head. It’s playing like a three minute song. And though I often shun 3-minute audio retail, the fact it’s as quick and as fluid as it is surprises me. Frightens me. How delightful.

The iPad I’m testing was sitting in my car across the street. I couldn’t tell you what didn’t posses me to pick it up, bring it back over and start writing with it. The evening was too beautiful to waste an opportune moment.

Then again, the evening was too beautiful to waste staring at a screen.

My buddy Lacy wrote on Facebook today about the idea writing a book about how people who don’t sleep in on Saturdays are going to be more successful. Somehow the string parlayed into the idea where the work would instead be a chronicled adventure of life in Broad Ripple between 3am and 6am on the weekends. Tales from the BR, or something. We’d have to take a camera, or few, gonzo up a few notes and look at the wreckage after we wake up later that afternoon – cause that’s when it’ll all hurt the most (the song is still in my head).

I’ve never understood how people could write in such beautiful environments. I sit there, trying to soak it all in till I’m satiated and saturated, but I never get my fill of such moments. I usually can only write about such times when I’m in a confined space, dreaming of those beautiful moments. Only then can I  write accordingly.

Am I the only one who does that?

PS – Lacy, I’m ready when you are. That sounds like way to much fun.

(photo credit:  June 1777 via Flickr)

remembering the upside of working near the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore - thanks to blogging

Just like how the Gutenberg Press helped bring reading to the masses, so has blogging been able to give anyone w/ access to the internet a medium to allow their writings to be seen.

For better or otherwise.

I use blogging to allow my head to dance around a thought.

Take yesterday for example.

This weekend has been a weekend of writing, though I have put very little to paper. Not all writing is done on paper. In fact, very little is done on paper.

In this case, the little writing I did was on this blog post. I was blotting the other major influence to my web presence – Otis Redding’s (Sittin’ on the) Dock of the Bay.

In a couple weeks, I’ll start working once again on my Book of Blues Prequel. And because of the thought that went into last night’s post, as well as the memories revived as a result of the thinkings, the beginning of my book of blues prequel will take on a different shape and feel in the beginning.

Less country, more soul.

And because of it, I figured out a way to put yet another scene along the water. And I can ease my way out into the valet parking lot and show how change sucks. And is killer on the knees.

Yes, it’ll make sense in time.

Do you use blogging to help your writings?

(photo credit:  Rexp2 via Flickr)

I had a good talk with my editor during lunch. Between bites of albino Velveeta heartbun tamales I pointed out to him that he’s become more than an editor to Books of Blues.

He’s become part of the story.

First off that means that I’ll have to share a higher percentage of profits of the 13 books I’ll, err, we’ll sell. But that also means he’s going to be sharing his thoughts on, “How to Publish a Book of Blues. Hopefully.”

Before this site involved social commentary, social media, music reviews, and research, it was – and is – an unfettered look into what it will take to finish and publish the damned things. I can’t do that alone anymore. It’ll only be right if you here his struggles as well. Not only regarding how many red pens a bottles of gin he’ll have to go through to shape my babblings, but the strugles we go through just to be able to find a few minutes of lucidity with which to work.

I’m scared sh****** as to how candid it will be, but if it helps us keep focused and at the same time show others how similar our struggles our to their own, then it’ll be worth it.

I’ll just have to remember not to take the criticism in the present tense.

I hope you end up liking it.

I”m not gifted. I’m not talented. Not today. Probably not tomorrow.

Then again, I could be wrong.

The family’s been around due to the MLK holiday. The normal peace and quiet didn’t enter into my day until late.

I feel a little less in control on those days.

But as I bantered back in forth between the running book of blues dialogues in my head while my sister and I watched Book of Eli, I started to wonder if I was simply overwhelmed by all the projects I’ve bombarded my plate with.

And I realized that I stopped feeling lethargic when I got in the car and got on the highway.

So I came to this conclusion:  I’m one of those people that doesn’t get moving til I feel the day moving forward.

And once I get perspective on my day, I get a proper view of my projects and what I’m able to do on them that day.

And the day gets a little better.

Now if I can only get them going sooner…

Anybody else have little tricks that help them start their day?

(photo credit:  Jammy via Flickr)

I’m on Southwest Flight 138 in Fort Myers, headed for Chicago w a stop in St Louis. And my judgment is skewed, subjected to my bittersweetness of leaving oldold man Finn, my love for my second home – Ft. Myers, Margaritaville – and claustrophobic barriers being pummeled by an unusual selection of self-centered passangers not wanting to share seats. my need to escape this eerie chi is only magnified my feeling that this flight is ominous.

I hope my senses are off.

luckily 1) I got the aisle and 2) the nicest person in the cabin is now sitting next to me. He’s a boy, not much older than 12. Already lost in his book, he seems to share my need to simply get this flight moving. he doesn’t hold the same angered expressions the elders in the front held.

time to shut this down. don’t need the iPhone wordpress app to be the predestined reason for my fears.

Ever since oldold man Finn woke up sick after our gulf-to-ocean-and-back road trip, I’ve been consumed by the question:  “Legacy or Longevity?”

In a couple hours, I’m going to go back into Book of Blues. I’m finally in uncharted territories. I know where’s it’s going. I know how it’s gonna end.

But I don’t know how to answer the Legacy / Longevity question.

I started thinking of how music heroes. I often think of Sam Cooke. Like Otis and Marvin, Sam’s flame extinguished while burning bright. My lifeline is closing in on his length. So long as I can stay away from women of the night near LA hotels, I might live a little longer.

Will it be worth it?

By this time, Sam Cooke helped bridge racial gaps in music. Several crossover hits, support for the civil rights music, and a smile that shown through the darkest of nights, Sam Cooke was a magical artisty whose Soulful craft as continued to transcend the generations.

I’ve written a book of blues that could be two books of blues – pending, and have started a prequel. And i’ll work on it once the season premiere of Chuck is over.

I’ll probably live to see tomorrow if the Southwest Florida deep freeze of 2010 doesn’t get the best of Fort Myers, Margaritaville.

I have the longevity, he has the legacy.

Who do you think has had the better life?

(photo credit:  African Goddess 02 via Flickr)

So I was falling asleep on the couch after dinner Saturday night as oldold man Finn watched The Lawrence Welk Show. An uncommon occurrence indeed. Somewhere ’round the end of “Huckabee” I woke up with a tune in my head.

I thought the tune was played on The Lawrence Welk Show, but then I remembered the show’s theme was Disney and that I couldn’t have fallen asleep faster to the alluring sounds of The Mickey Mouse Club Mambo.

What the hell?…

The tune in my head wouldn’t have fit the pattern. Merle Haggard would have set the set of the show on fire if his outlaw gem was in the same show as the Mickey Mouse Club Mambo.

No one could steer him right, but Mama Tried, Mama Tried…

If you check the playlist above, you’ll find some great renditions of the definitive outlaw song:

• Merle Haggard’s (studio cut)
• Johnny Cash
• Grateful Dead at Woodstock
• Everly Brothers on the Smothers Brothers Variety Show (What the F*CK?)
• David Allen Coe (and if that ain’t country, you can kiss his a**)
• Willie, Merle, and Toby

Road Tested

The oldold man & I tested out several of this classic as we headed back from the Ocean on our road trip.“Mama Tried” became our unofficial theme song of our road trip.

Yeah, I’m finding Grateful Dead covers he’ll hum along too. His repressed outlaw is coming out.

The more I research for Book of Blues Prequel and the farther along I go in Plan B, the more I can’t escape the bond between Country & Western Outlaws and Blues leaders. I didn’t place “Mama Tried” in the Book of Blues – nearly a shame but for the fact I can put it in the Prequel, and perhaps the Blues Book Sequel. I think I know how I’d do it to.

But getting back to that Saturday night, as I hummed the chorus:

It dawned on me where I heard the song…

As I was in an out of consciousness before The Lawrence Welk Show, oldold man Finn was watching the Time Life Gold Age of Country infomercial.

F-in’ infomercials. Will I ever escape them?

It only shows that inspiration can come from damned places.

Speaking of oldold man Finn

He made it out to the Florida Gulf Coast University men’s basketball game just fine last night. And he still made his bike ride, too. The old man is still leaving footprints.

And I’m breathing easier.

(photo credit: J.W. Doran [and MERLE!] via Flickr)

I woke up today still jazzed that oldold man Finn and I actually decided to roadtrip from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic Ocean and back. How many times does that get to happen?

I woke up today ready to write about the mushroom clouds of smoke and the apocalyptic haze we drove through as the sugar cane fields burned around us.

But as I woke up today I found oldold man Finn passed out on his La-Z-Boy. He had an upset stomach and said he went to bed with a bit of a chill. He talked with a bit of a drawl…

“You’re speech has me concerned.”

“You’re speech has always had me concerned.”

And after a couple yawns his cadence retruned.

After another nap he had more of a pep in his step. He thinks he’s going to go biking since it’s finally nice weather (~ 72 degrees) and that we’re still going to dinner and the Florida Gulf Coast University game tonight.

“Where are our seats tonight?”

“In the gym.”

But I couldn’t help but be concerned.

When do you tell the oldold man to ease up? Or do you?

Is it better to wear yourself out doing something you love or better to hold back and live to fight another day?

This is actually the initial question I explore on my Book of Blues Prequel. The repercussions of the situation are reverberated throughout the Prequel, Book of Blues and, eventually, the Sequel.

It was life imitating art imitating life.

I felt like I was living two nightmares and I didn’t know if I was creating the chaos. But that’s probably me giving myself too much credit. Either way, I need to realize I couldn’t think objectively at that point.

I still don’t know the answer. And that concerns me.

And in the end, I don’t know whether or not it was a good thing. Maybe it’s good to push a little if it brings the memories along with it. Maybe I’m selfish, concerned about tomorrow and making sure he’s a part of it.

Maybe life isn’t about longevity so much as it is about the footprint you leave behind.

Even if you wake up in the morning feeling a little closer to death.

Either way, I’m the one that’ll have to deal with the tomorrows.

What Do You Guys Think?