Faking - updated draft of original song and a meditation on Delusion

Hey.

I did some more polish over the months on my original song "Faking", and you can check it out below.  I'll post lyrics, too. 

Here's the inspiration behind the song.

Playing this song today made me think about a topic I've been racking my brains about these past few weeks: delusion.  Mainly, how we humans cling to delusion and blanket ourselves in its downy, lush embrace in order to stay alive and sane. We delude ourselves into thinking we will never die, that we are indeed special and unique and glorious and that we have worth.  Delusion whispers to us, tells us that we will find that love, that career, those bold, striking moments which will make our future biographers wet with desire.

I'm an actor.  Poems and songs and writing is just other random fluff I do.  But it's all centered around acting. Constant, unflagging delusion which leads me to open up in front of people.

But why?

Who should care?

There are millions of people who have done it and do it and do it far better than I.

I guess it's because I really don't have anything left.  I'm not gonna be rich.  I'm not going to have kids.  I'm not skilled in any other field which can help out this broken, mottled world.   I will most likely not find love.

So, it's me and this delusion.  That writing words down, singing them, playing other people will produce some benefit for me , for whomever looks at them.

First Verse
When the money's run out
and the day grows still
sleep sickness masking your sorrow
got a jealous heart, it's a bitter pill
in search of strength you can borrow

Chorus
but hey, what am I   - a dreamer who's been faking
someday this world's gonna love me
gonna sing along to the song I've been making
til then I'll sing to the wall.

Second Verse
When the riots start
and the blood fills the ether
doesn't make much sense to give up
take a proper job, sell insurance
pretend that you never wanted anything other than this
because your pension's gone, love's commodity shattered
streets are filled with the dead who've been torn up and battered
there was anytime at all when the fight truly mattered
it was now
(please speak)

Chorus

First verse again, and chorus.

Syllables - first draft of new song

Hey.

Been cleaning house a lot lately, music-in-my-head-wise.

Songs I started to write decades ago, but was never confident enough to finish 'em.

This song's title was based on one of the first  plays I wrote in college:  Syllables.  Language has always fascinated me.  Its ability to cloud reason, trigger deep, primordial responses.   I'm a bit of a drunk walrus with words, and I like tweaking them around.  It's why I do what I do.

Lyrics:

To the untrained eye
you think that I'm broken, on my knees
lacking intuition
barely listening
Better hold on tight
you're never gonna know the blow
that knocks you down
fills your mouth with copper
that's what I'm talkin' bout.

Chorus
And all I've known
are syllables you press upon me
more sound than sense
those syllables you press upon me

2nd Verse
For a moment, weakness
your body looks good and ripe
I won't give in , though
damn your beauty
masking hate
I'm such a fool to know you
oh, release me from torment
what other wretch could love you
tell me truthfully

what other wretch could love you
tell me truthfully

Chorus

Bridge
And it's coming out of the woodwork
your admission all your words were noise, fickle poise
'Stead of  "sorry" , you laugh, such a rude quirk
Any one could see I loathe you, love you
Leave me

3rd Verse
This bitter game
this heart of mine
this bond's been broken
what have I done
an errant choice
this pain, awoken
and you don't stop the grieving if the grieving is hard
don't stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's true
stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's left of you
and you don't stop the grieving if the grieving is hard
don't stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's true
stop the grieving if the grieving is all that's left of you

Chorus

Cold Missouri Waters - cover of James Keelaghan song

Hey.

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a huge sucker for folk music. 
One, because I'm an incredibly mediocre guitarist, and quite a few folk songs are grounded in pretty simple chords.
Two, because they're wonderful ways to immortalize a story, a person.  And my voice has always been best suited for a quiet, somber song.

When I first heard this song, it unraveled to me to its core.  Such a perfect depiction of loss, survivor's regret. And, it's based on a true event: 

The Mann Gulch Fire

I made Jenn play it over and over again for an hour and a half, and each time, I kept weeping.  Sure, I was a bit of a wreck at the time, but there was just something so remarkable about how the song was constructed.  I wanted to get into my blood, find a way to make something half as creative and raw as this. 

The narrator of the song is Wagner Dodge.  He died five years after the fire from Hodgkin's  Disease. 

Ride the Ferry - new song

It's been over a half an hour since I recorded this, and my hands are still shaking.

This is good, guys.  I think it's the best thing I've ever done.  Special thanks to Carole for spurring the conversation which led me to joking about riding the ferry to find that special someone.

It's full of glorious stereotypes, but it's also full of that Jara sass and love.  I know I normally self-promote these brazenly with no sense of shame or purpose, but do me a favor.  Forward this like crazy.  I really like it, and I think other people will, too.  Post comments, shout it to the winds!

Here are the lyrics:

Chorus
I'm gonna ride the ferry to find my love
I'm certain this'll be the time she'll find me
I know I'm strange wearing fate like a worn-out glove
But nothing else will ever bring me liberty
This moment, wind whipping waves along the ferry
May bring my love, the one, the one I'll marry

First Verse
Oh, Manhattan women never want to talk to me
Cuz my clothes aren't pressed, I don't invest in the ticker-tape game
I'm just a fool in jest
Oh, and women down in Brooklyn think I'm rigid and lame
I still eat meat, not a tattoo to my name
 - don't smoke cloves -
Never liked the taste

Chorus

Second Verse
Oh, Bronx ladies, you've got it going on
But with a heavy heart, not smart enough to ease your pain
You need a stronger man
Oh, and women from Queens, there's something in your genes
You're always running from work to play - next Saturday for coffee -
Come what may?
You've got a tightrope class!

Chorus

Bridge
And I've tried my luck
With girls from New Jersey
But getting them to Old New York's
Like moving to Tumbucku
And I've pined for girls
Down in Boston, California.
(what good is pining, see?
Just play the lottery
You'll win more)

Third Verse
I know I'm not a treasure, not a Mr. Right
My qualities are slight
I might have lost the human race
But I still run, I still have fun
And if Staten Island doesn't bring romance
And if my heart never wins this game of chance
I'll take a breath
Until my death
I'll grin
And then I'll do it again

Chorus

Succulent - original song

suc·cu·lent  

adj.

1. Full of juice or sap; juicy.

2. Botany Having thick, fleshy, water-storing leaves or stems.

3. Highly interesting or enjoyable; delectable: a succulent bit of gossip.

n. Botany

A succulent plant, such as a sedum or cactus.

---

 Hey.


Thanks to Michael Irish for playing the jazz chord featured in this song.  I've been living with this song and no way to make it sound like a brooding dirge until I heard him play an E maj7 one day during rehearsal.  Just goofing around.  And it all clicked.  There was such a primal beauty and savage overtone there which made all the lyrics I've been storing around for years finally come to life.


The song started swimming around my skull in 2008, which was a strange year.  There was a least a dozen or so of my friends either cheating on or being cheated on by their spouses or boyfriend/girlfriends. 

And I didn't understand it.  I've never been tempted to cheat.  Hell, let's face it.  I'm not a pretty face.  Nothing to look at.  Any good, panty-dropping qualities I may possess are buried deep, deep down under a host of other flaws.  Hence, temptation has never found its way to me.

But I've always wondered what it's like to be that person.  To have temptation in front of you.  To be found desirable and to forsake what you currently have in order to chase that pleasure. 

So, this song's told from the point of view of someone making that choice.  In order to cope with a world they don't understand or enjoy.

Here are the lyrics:

Another morning, by your side
As long as you are still and sleeping
there's a chance for peace we're keeping
-shower, leave -
Another grim parade.
Cars pressed together, headed -
Quotidian rituals we've dreaded
But we muster on
We never try to dream

Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so right
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Another message
I've sent to voice mail
The only crime that you've committed
is the fact that you've admitted
that you know me too well
Another mouth to feed
Leaving work for my appointment
Futility masking disappointment
Smile til it hurts...
I'm gonna have a son.


Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so right
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Another lobby
Another hotel key
Another pseudonym, cuz I'm hiding
Oh, yes, another woman in the bed I'm riding -
- shower, leave -
Another promise, that I won't keep
Someday, we'll run away and we'll be married
(the truth is like a secret long ago I've buried
which I can't speak...
I really don't know how)

Don't I deserve just a little bit of fun
I'm nowhere close to living
the way I wanted to
This world is breathing its last breath
and pleasure's the only currency that's as good as gold
(truth be told)
But I love you madly
I'll make you feel so cheap
Someday
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie, yeah
This succulent lie
This succulent lie

Greg's Story - original song

Today is Greg Cohen's birthday.  I owe a lot of my artistic spirit and cultivation to him.  Without him, my twenties would have collapsed into a self-pitying mess.

Greg and I met while working together at the Queen Mary in 2001.  He cast me in a production at the Long Beach Playhouse, and 10 plays and 10 years together, we've become fast friends.

Greg's still one of the few people I know whom I aspire to be when I grow up.  He's managed to pull off the impossible trick of being grounded as a adult while remaining eccentric, creative, and kind. 

Claustrophobic - first draft

Well, in case the hurricane claims me (or shuts down power for a while), here's one more song.

Inspired by a late night on the F train, where it felt like a bullet train.

Song - cover of the Fleetwoods "Mr. Blue"

Hey.

I turn 33 this August 31st.  Nothing really special about that year or my birthday nowadays. 
But when I was younger, I was a die-hard romantic (I still am, I just hide it better).  From the age of six, I harbored this seven year crush on Lori Walker.  Short, dark brown curls and two distinctive dimples framed her cheeks.  Brown, luscious eyes which rendered me helpless.

And every birthday, there was a part of me that wanted that one ineffable gift: to be loved.  To find that girl who saw past all my flaws who would share their company with me.

And when I was nine, I remember hearing this song on a collection of 50's music tapes my parents stuck in the car when we traveled on vacations to Idaho or Oregon.  From the moment I heard it, I don't know why, but I really, really became enamored with it.  It's such a clean, gentle, sad, wistful song.  Self-pitying and pathetic and yet, the chords make it ear candy.

For years, my mom would play the song on tape for me on my birthday.  And I'd just feel oddly hopeful.  Maybe this birthday would bring me love.  And if not, may it give me the attention and spirit and talent to write what I feel so it's half as good as this song.

Here's a cover of me singing it.  I'm playing a homeless busker for a show, and none of the stuff on these pages is period enough.  Enjoy!

It's the end of the world. So live...

I think I've discovered the root of my unhappiness.

I've been convinced for almost twenty years that the world was going to end. Not on some biblical sense. I just figured that the old political systems would fall apart, man would be cruel unto man. The bombs would drop. All the current trappings of the world- a house, a spouse, children, a desired career - would be meaningless.

And I'd been living as if the world was already dead. Why hustle for any of those symbols when the whole system's hollow and broken. But, since I've been hard wired to want success, love, praise, acceptance, not having them affected me on some fundamental level.

Is the world as we know it, as we've fetishized it, over? Without a doubt. But not even trying to offer oneself the love and care one needs will just make you miserable. Love, dammit. Make music and play.

Anthem Part Two - updated version of song

Hi.

Here's the newest version of my my new york city anthem.

The longer I'm here, the more I've become aware how I've been scraping by for so damn long. 

Living on limited means, limited self-care, limited affection.  I'm tired and lonely and I don't know how to break through towards vitality in anything.  Healthier emotional life.  New and deeper relationships. An artistic career in something, anything.

So I sing to myself.  I write little songs in an effort to keep this will alive.  I'm working on a production of MACBETH which opens the 21st of July, and it's gonna be a wonderful show.  It's really kicking my ass.
I don't know if I'll ever be meant for human consumption again, relationship-wise.  But that's ok.  There's plenty of work to be done...

The Pirate Song

So, every so often you come across a larger-than-life individual.  Someone you admire for their unflagging enthusiasm and spirit. Someone who's had their share of scrapes and obstacles in their time, but who always summons the courage for one more joke, one more smile.

And that's Christopher Kueberth.  My friend.

I wrote this song when we were roommates.  I had begged and begged him to audition for a production of Twelfth Night.  Because he's a fabulous fucking actor who never does any theatre anymore.  Finally, he relented, and went on to do some pretty amazing work.  

I discovered they were looking for musicians who could sing, and wanted them to come in playing something, Chris already had a song I had written about him, but it's a very gloomy one, dealing with his love life and such drama.   "Damn it, Jones", he said, "write me another song".

And the idea came from there.  In two days before auditions, I wrote what you hear below, and played it.  Got the part of Feste, and had a ball.

You'll notice some actual quality in the video. Somebody discovered Windows Movie Maker.....

Letter to Simon

Dear Simon,

This is going to sound creepy.  I used to write letters to you in my journal.  With no intention to send them.

Like this one.

But I also used to write letters to e.e. cummings the same way , too. To Leo Buscaglia and Leonardo Da Vinci.    A way to get stuff off my chest and lock it away.  Write someone whom you admire and ask them for help.

I've been sitting on this letter for about a month now.  Because I wish to hell my first thought when I heard the news wasn't this:

Not again.  Damn it.  Damn it to fucking hell.

I'm 32.  And I've known too many suicides, buried too many suicides or called the paramedics at the last fucking second too many times in order to save people from taking their life. Watched them helpless and fragile in the emergency room, hour after hour.  Watched them hold it together in the observation ward during a 72 hour stay.  Packed their bags.  Walked home and saw those goddamn plastic sensors left by the EMT all over the ground.  Cleaned the house.  Try to do normal people things, like eat at a restaurant.  But everything takes too long.  Four hours in a restaurant, sobbing and eating barbeque.

And I'm nowhere as strong as I thought those people were. As I thought you were.

And each time someone I know kills themselves, I ask myself:  When is it gonna be me.  When is the reality of my incompetence and weakness, my pursuit of a ideal nowhere in sight, my complete and utter isolation going to sink inside my heart.

Someday I feel the only I'm still alive because my debts.  I owe too much to kill myself.

 - credit cards
- student loans

There's no way I'm going to let anyone deal with those messes before I go.

And even beyond money, I owe my parents.  I owe them the hair on my head and the blood in my veins and the teeth in my mouth. I owe the music in my throat and the poetry in my bones.   My life isn't enough to make up how much I owe them for how much they've lost to have me.  And then, to have a defective, sickly child who gave them hell for years, who made them scared and frightened and convinced I was an autistic, unstable beast.

Look, I don't blame you for doing what you did, Simon.  I just miss you.  I never really knew you - you went  out of your way to create the ineffable persona that was Simon.  Your real name isn't even Simon.   You were a fantastic actor, and I loved working with you in Scotland.   I remember the flight home, the horrible timing of the break up between you and and the other actress in Edinburgh Airport.  We'd been up all night reveling at the Three Sisters bar, and between me patching up someone's glass-ridden leg, and just having worked our asses off two months for theatre , we were all pretty frayed.  But, even as your ex was screaming at you at the check-in counter, you put on your sunglasses, and you smiled.  This odd, distant smile that put you a million ways away.

I hope you're happier there, brother.  I hope you're at peace.

Song - I Don't Know What Love Is

This song, like your life, is a glorious mess.

Wrote the first half in December 2000.  Young, ignorant of love and responsibility.

Wrote the last part in December 2010.  One eye looking towards New York and the future.  A decade of experience with the small and unceasing lessons love gives.

You say you don't know what love is now because love, by its nature, is a mystery.  How it emerges from nothingness, how it is nurtured.  How one-sided and crouched and clandestine the darker parts of it can be.

One lesson that sticks:  Love is saying you love someone and for them to know just exactly what level of significance that word espouses. 

Jumping the Shark - song

Here's a song you wrote late last year.  Played it at your going away show of songs, poetry, and stories.


Called "Jumping the Shark".

Faking - new song

Growing up, your father used to use a phrase.

Whether it was being called upon to build a Halloween robot costume for you out of a glue barrel and some pipes, or driving to some unknown location, or creating a computer program out of thin air, he relished in "faking it".  To him, that meant running headlong into the project, and hoping that the kinetic energy caused in doing so would create success.

It's a thrilling process, when it works.  Turning off the censor and just running like mad into the challenge. 

Look. Let's not bullshit here.  You're scared.

Terrified, even. 

You've been crying in the shower more often these past few days.  You're barely making enough money to live, let alone prepare for the creative life you want in this new city.  You don't feel attractive or skilled or even competent at the moment. 

And yet, you hear your father's voice, reminding you that despite these limitations, you have to fucking get up each day and create something.

You just do.

Thanks, Dad.

So, here's a new song, riffing on that very spirit.  Here's to all my sweet friends who are struggling in this cruel and ineffable world.  Here's to those who continue to act, to sing, to write, to remain true.

Love you all, and miss you!

 

Pretty

Here's a NSFW song.  In a weird, weird sort of way, one of the most romantic things you've written.

Originally, it was for a short comic film you wrote.  Hope ya like it.

Anthem

One of the sweetest creatures you know, Carole Taylor, wrote about the importance of having a favorite spot in New York.

A sanctuary.  Where one can return to recharge.  To resurrect hope in yourself and return to your labors with continued vigor.

And you completely agree. 

But you've lived in some pretty terrible situations.  And over time, your favorite place, your corner of comfort, wasn't found in a location, but an anthem.

Sure, you've been making up odd songs for decades.  Long before you could actually sing.  Or play guitar.

But these songs, these anthems have kept you focused.   Torn you away from the self-destructive habits idle worry and fractured self-esteem can produce.

So, here's one you wrote this month.  While you waited, lying on the cold wooden floor for your mangled and muddied boxes to arrive.  While you slept feverishly and lost track of day and night.

While you rode the subway , you sang this song,   Breaking the cardinal rule, you stared into the eyes of those quiet, forlorn women, and you sang.  You sang because you wanted to cheer yourself.  You sang because you still believe, on some grand, fundamental level, that you will one day be loved if you sing the right song perfectly to the right person.   You sang because song-making is one of the last objects you control.  A method of  communication have mastered with time and care.

Here it is:  Let's call it " On the Island"

Video's upside down.  Either push play and do a headstand, or close your eyes. 

End of February - What Have You Learned?

Month 1's almost done.

And you're hungry.  You're impatient.  You've learned quite a bit, and still feel so ignorant, so bewildered.

What you've learned:

1) You have no real clue how to start the acting career you want -  Where are the places for non-union people to work in this city?  How does today's actor become union?   Everyone says one needs to hustle; but with whom and where? 

2)New Yorkers must love drinking sodas with straws -  because every place offers them to you when you eat.  And you don't like the sensation.  The carbonation hugs the thin membrane of the plastic straw and all you taste is the heat of your breath and this treacly outpouring of syrup.  Cavities be damned, you're not using the straws.

3)You have not been dealing with grief and isolation well - Humans are magnificently stupid beasts.  If you're required to focus on sacrifice and working long, arduous hours in order to raise cash to uproot your life, you can shelve how wretched you feel about losing so much over the past year and a half.  How lonely you've become. 
        You saw this happen before when you first moved back to LA.  Racking up thousands of dollars in debt with no job and a cockroach-laden studio apartment with gnarled, thick, brown shag carpeting.  Misery pressing your throat.  Sleeping erratic, desperate hours in an effort to hide from yourself.  Your unwanted self. 

And here, in a month's time, you've witnessed those old habits creeping up.  The sleeping sickness.  The frantic checking and rechecking of Ok Cupid.  Crying over fucking Air Supply songs, for godsakes.  It's pathetic and the only remedy for it to pass is time. 

Thanks to Winnie, to Michael, to Carole for making this first month filled with adventures! 

Who the Hell are You?

What changes you?

Your education?  Your life experience?  Your own home-grown sadness?

And still, all that can be dashed away when you realize just how humble you are..

Spent Saturday in the East Village with some old friends from college, from old theatre companies.  Enjoying the vegan scene, catching up on their minor successes.  They're passionate and awkward and wonderful - just like you. 

And then you head over to the Bryant Park Hotel for a friend's birthday party.    As you're waiting, you grow increasingly aware how little you belong in this space.  Everyone looks so complete, so polished and fashionable and confident and sexually apt.

And then there's you.

Wearing a cardboard belt that's falling apart and a t-shirt hidden inside a cheap sport coat and trench.  Hair matted and slovenly.  Stocky and sporting jeans you've rolled up two inches on each leg because they decidedly don't make fat pants with a waist that starts at the crotch.

And it's times like this where you're not the glorious creative spirit. You're just a fat, poor, brown kid from Modesto, watching the rich people live.

So you leave.  Call to apologize.  And your excuse seems so flimsy,  But it's a raw , ineffable trigger. 

You have arrived ( Serial Killer Interior Decoration Tips)

Here you are.

2789 miles east.  Boxes unpacked.  Laundry washed.  And you know you're finally home because you cooked your first meal.  Haven't cooked in ages.

Sure, it's Kraft macaroni and hamburger, but that simple act of tossing food onto a hot surface and letting the scent waft over the kitchen opens a kindness within you, makes you smile for the first time in a long while.

You have arrived.  And you've got a lot of work to do.

Your brother took one look at your furnishings and remarked, " It looks like a serial killer lives here".  He has a point.

REASONS WHY YOUR APARTMENT MIGHT BE THE RESIDENCE OF A SERIAL KILLER

1)Cardboard littered on the floor (why? to cover up blood, of course)

2) Heaps of items on the floor (books, clothes, etc)

3) The attractive sight of garbage bags instead of curtains duct-taped to the windows.

 4) The ineffable sounds of banging (and possibly wailing?) coming from the heating vent.

5)The fact that the police knocked on your door this week to ask you questions (sure , it was about the previous tenant, but then, one doesn't know how the previous tenant "vanished")

6) One impossibly modern and sterile section of the room which sticks out like the Amish at a skin head rally:

7) Cardboard used as furniture (see above photo)

So, you need to take step to strip away this impromptu serial killer interior decoration. Curtains need to be purchased, bookshelves and sock drawers too.  There are pictures to hang up and essential oils to burn and a tv stand to purchase.  If anyone feels generous and wants to donate some scratch to this poor miserable sod, the paypal link's on the main page.

Again, lots of work to do....