New Poem - Dinosaur

Hey.

Here's a new (for non-Patreon-types)  poem.

You can join in on the daily mischief - just click on www.patreon.com/jara and sign up!

DINOSAUR 

Dig tool's 

Blunt plastic at both ends. 

Takes precision. You can't just 

Jab into the slab. 

I coax my nephew: Tap Gently. 

Like you're knocking on a door, 

Some secret code.

He digs. I brush. Fervently,each sweep 

Scraping past the silt of what is known 

To find the fossils buried within. 

We're Making Progress 

Dr. Seibert, 

I murmur. He squints a smile, 

Takes both the dig tool and brush, 

Sets upon the yielding earth. 

I read from the kit's glossy activity 

Guide: Fossils Can Determine 

Many Clues About Dinosaurs, But Not All - 

Dr. Seibert pauses, 

Cocks his head 

In apprehension: 

Really? 

Sure, I say. For example, 

Color. There's no evidence of 

What hue a Triceratops actually was - 

So We Can Make 'Em Whatever We Want, he grins, 

Taps, Taps, and Grins. 

Yes. 

Very little dinosaurs become fossils. 

Time's a thief, 

And It takes extraordinary preservation, 

Little water, 

And - 

                                                                       His hands strike the surface of a shiny, 

                                                                       Jewel-like Tooth, 

                                                                                              embedded in the clay. 

                                                                        Yawning up in greeting. 

And I wonder, 

Will this memory 

Be an artifact 

Subsumed, decomposed? 

A story is a fossil where the bones 

Have been replaced

With questions 

New Poem - Misanthrope

Hey.

Here's a new (new to non-Patreon folk) poem.  Based on a true story.

To get daily, weird, wonderful stuff for pennies, just become a patron today!

MISANTHROPE

About

twenty-six days

before he died

in a suburb

in Idaho,

my grandfather

grew convinced

the neighborhood children

could sniff his senescence

and he took

to sleeping

with a loaded

Colt 45

under his pillow

My taciturn grandmother,

still daily

and for hours

(until her fatal emphysema)

composing her feathery hair,

finally hid

the handgun,

but expired

before sharing the location

So there

we were,

Growing up quickly.

Screening every parcel of

a pre-fab dwelling

(with a toddler inside)

Hoping first to disable

that final

fuck you

Gestured

by a man

whose field of fucks

had grown fallow for decades.

More skeleton and whisky

and cigarette smoke

than heart.

New Poem - Exodus

Hey.

Here's another new (for non-Patreon folk)  poem.

EXODUS

And with
the ground behind us,
trodden underfoot
by our congress

and when
the salted earth we
stained, mottles
and catches wind

We have,
without tears, without elegy,
without the
pale historian's scrawl,


Eaten our
dead.   We are ambulatory.
We march,
yearning for - what?

Not home.
Perhaps a gentle cove
Where children
Cannot spy ghosts.

New Poem - Friendship

Hey.

Taking a momentary break from KING OF THE HOBOS prep/freakouts (opening this Thursday!  Playing for three weekends/11 shows!  www.kingofthehobos.bpt.me

Here's a Patreon poem.

FRIENDSHIP


Two days.  That's all we had.
Abducting him.
Sat him down across a second-hand computer.
Made it plain:  You're not leaving
This apartment, seeing the seasons,
until the work's warm, stapled, and delivered.
Until you graduate.


Joe and me, we slept,
we slept in shifts.  Kept him awake
with coffee, with brainstorming paragraphs,
with friendly fire from burp guns.
Seemed
impossible:  Kueberth put off
six term papers and now,
the clock was bleeding dry.


By the fifth paper's
end, and the last
frappicuno,
Kueberth wouldn't stop shaking.
He was a grasshopper on a
saucepan.    Suffering just so because
he knew how damn close
success was.  Shuttered his muscles.
Closed his eyes, headed for the bathroom, locked
the door.


It was then that I knew that sometimes
you have to drag those you love
into victory's barbed wire.
With what tools and nonsense
this stubborn beast of time provides.


With my father's
creative mischief,
I picked open
the lock.   Found him
sitting, sobbing.  Leaning next
to the unused radiator.


And, out of some
perfect madness,
I began to speak
in a gruff, patchy brusque.
For twelve minutes we spoke,
metal and man.  Called myself
Thermidor (the heater's name),
Teased and cajoled Kueberth
to get those fingers
moving.


That he did.
Haven't done many selfless acts
in this time.
But seeing him take that
stage,
sneaking pictures several thousand
miles away of him,
a wide-grinning wife, a baby girl,
I'll keep those moments.   When I
put my wretched self
to use.

Poem - CD

Hey.

Here's a poem I wrote for Patreon about my oldest nephew (who turned five this month).
I think he's pretty darn cool.

CD

There's an allosaurus
Neck deep and ravenous
Inside a hapless stegosaurus
When he slams shut the book,
Wheels to face me,
and whispers:
I've just released a new song.
He wants to be
a gardener
a singer
and a paleontologist.
All three careers tasked
With the ministration
Of patience, digging deeper,
And solitude.
I clap my hands, gesture to the
Theatre of the living room.
He grins, a bit too tightly,
Spins in another dervish,
(as if shaking himself braver)
Ambles to the center.
A beat, he oversips a breath,
He sighs and with that exhalation
Every bone wresting him upright
Surrenders.
Puddle of nerves crawling towards me.
We tickle one another,
And as we play, I wish I could tell my nephew:
Fear does not weaken us; it simply
Develops a deeper appreciation
For song.
For, before I had a voice,
Before I trusted that what came forth in sound
Was useful,
I'd hold concerts in pillows.  I'd sing
Quietly to push tears back inside my sockets.
With breath finely tuned I'd attend each sore
And aching bone.
We sing to keep living.
There is no rhythm, no explicit coda, no familiar chord in
Our frightening seconds.
We sing for ourselves, a constant performance,
Pulsing like the veins
In a newborn's skull:
Here.

Here.
Here.
Here.

Here.

TFLN Poem - Dating, Defenestration

Hey.

Here's a new (new to non-Patreon types) poem. Another www.textsfromlastnight.com one. For daily, curated Jara weirdness, you can jump on board for as little as a buck a month - just click HERE !


(801): The last person that asked me out got pushed down an escalator.

Change your tone, Brandon.

None of this whispered questioning

about "desire" while we're at a goddamn birthday party.

It's public.

We are eating –

I mean, there's cake –

Sinful portions of dark chocolate.

And you're towering over me like some

sad, half-starved goat.

If you keep talking,

I will finish my slice,

blot the crumbs with a napkin,

and kick the fucking breath out of you.

Just one good blow.

Not even at full strength.


Ah. Now your eyes, those dark,

overbounding, arresting eyes - they meet me. You demur,

Nod an apology, cross to the couch.


Seven minutes later, you're a ghost.

Make some quick goodbyes to the host,

hug the birthday girl,

smile sadly.

(when you smile, you always smile sadly)

Step into the rain.


Out beyond reason, I text you.

Tell you I'm sorry. That it just wasn't

proper. The time, place. You're agreeable

and burbling apologies yourself.


What I'll never, never say:
there was a window,

months ago,

when I was sick with fever

and you were a novel sound

giving me life.

Dreams - I had such foolish dreams

of what we could have been,

our muddy time.


Yet somehow, I found the strength

to rise from bed,

lift up the sash,

hit that unforgiving, solitary ground,

once more running.

There's work to be done.

Limited time.

Concessions must be made.

Orange County - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

In between all the worrying about hobo stuff and just making it through August in general, I ended up knocking out a draft of a song about my old stomping grounds.  I explained more about it to the Patreon folk.  Join for as little as a buck a month, and get all kinds of bits and baubles!

lyrics

first verse

in the year before i left
i lived alone
just on the border
letting dust collect
no self respect
an emotional hoarder
i was
calcified
drought from the
tears i
cried
good friends i
pushed
aside
when love is gone
and youre
three hundred pounds
and all is aching
you just hold tight
dream every night
the plans youre making
for if they
did not land
end up
upon this island
i would have died
by my
own hand

chorus
every weekday id drive into
orange county
the culture of the office park
a bounty
upon my head
the seasons a bleached white
bone
had my fill of the pleasant folk
orange county
germinates
firm handshakes
and a static grin
their keepsakes
its heaven if youve got yours
if you dont
get gone

second verse
in the year before i left
i sold or gave away possession
head down
working sixty hours a week
walling off all the wild depression
didnt self reflect
sever and disconnect
just made some money
to leave this town
when love is gone
and youre the serving class
who wrestles dishes
tends strangers daily
fakes a grin and grants their wishes
heeds
each couples call
brings counsel
feeds them all
meanwhile youre starving
your heart
you grind

chorus

bridge
just dont give
up
mark it all
down
youre older you
find
that the hell preaches
wisdom
just dont give
up
keep making
time
the works gonna
save you
deep breath
keep your
word true

chorus
every weekday id drive into
orange county
the culture of the office park
a bounty
upon my head
the seasons a bleached white
theyre a bleached white
bone
had my fill of the pleasant folk
orange county
germinates
firm handshakes
and a static grin
their keepsakes
its heaven if youve got yours
if you dont
get gone

if you dont 

get gone

guess i best 

get gone

New Poem - Family

Hey.

Here's another new (again - new for non-Patreon folk) poem.  You should really hop on this gravy train!  10 bucks a month gets you your own monthly poem, one buck a month gets you DAILY curated stuff I make...  GO!

This poem's a snapshot of my childhood.  Poor as we were, we had some great summers sometimes.
This was one of them.  I've written before about how games shaped our family.  Here's a brief window into that devotion.

FAMILY

Three children sleeping across a Monopoly set.

A note squats on Free Parking, impatiently scrawled with a magic marker:

Weenie's Turn. Dozing without blankets.

A thick sheen of sweat coating their syrupy cheeks.

Discarded Slurpee cups, a Little Caesar's

Pizza box, A radio (won in an costume contest), still lightly playing, set to

"Kara's Love Line". And, as these siblings dream,

A caller (Charlene) with a catch in her midnight speaking voice

Dedicates

A song to her husband

(Rafael) serving overseas in Japan.

Kara, the sensual DJ, hums to life. She soothes,

Each word caresses the evening air. A little pause, and Heatwave's

"Always and Forever" cradles the sleeping trio.

There, until morning, these children remain.

Stuffed with romance and sugar and paper money.

Poem - Now

Hey.

Here's a new (new to non-Patreon folk) poem.  If you sign up NOW and become a patron for as little as a buck a month, you get all kinds of daily stuff...and SOMETHING SECRET AND AWESOME will be announced August 1st to you first!

NOW

The web of flesh

between my thumb

and index finger

is a reset button. I pinch

and press it when overwhelmed by

the hazards of memory, the persistence

and manufacture of future time .

There's pain. Kind which slams shut the book of distant daydream.

A second passes. No poems are written.

No elegies of the past held.

Every fiber on my skin yearns for a signal.

Unprotected, eager, accepting each new force

without coveting.

New Poem - Reverie

Hey.

Here's a new poem (well, new to those who aren't patrons on Patreon - and if you aren't - DO IT! Super cheap.  Starts at a buck a month, and I send you personalized, curated things I make daily.

REVERIE

You. You are clad in a slip 

of storm-shadow. Afternoon 

daydreams on a spartan bed. 

Until the moment you rise

and feel the sudden weight upon your brow, 

You maintain that magic circle, 

Feed the mewling, frightened worms 

with stories of her, 

The love-that-is-to-be. 

A soft, time-worn hand cradles in the thin light 

an imagined waist. An unused pillow 

is simulacra for her nape. There is no face. 

No combination of sage syllables 

forming a clear name. 

No sign. You listen for a voice, and hear the low and present hum 

of the living city. 

Two clues keep the spell electric; 

She secrets the faint, gentle scent of chocolate, 

and bears a warm, crackling embrace. 

She presses you hard, and every hair, 

every scent, every mark on your skin 

is measured.

New Poem - Tenacity

Hey.

Here's a poem I wrote recently.  Patreon folk got to see it first.  (guys, it's sooooo cheap and easy to join, become a patron, and get all kinds of perks and curated stuff.  At this point, I just pity you for not being part of the cool kids club)


TENACITY

if 

there's blood, 

let me be 

manzanita, 

sanded slick and smooth by covert growth. 

Let it slake away. 

Keep my diet mean and temperate. 

Find me shining in an unswept grove 

like a crimson-orange bone, 

clutching the memory 

of three month's 

water sip. Breathe, 

I breathe in full, quiet 

comfort. And, should your feet betray you, 

lop me from the branch.  I'll support your wary, 

shuffling 

                gait 

til neither air nor water can further move us 

New Poem - Wine

Hey.

Here's a look at a new poem.  Patreon donors got to see it first.  For a chance to see daily, curated content that I make, and to be a part of an artistic, delightful community, click here to become a patron today!  You can do for as little as buck a month.  Ten bucks a month or more gets you a personalized monthly poem like this one!

WINE

 It was....twelve? 

Fourteen years ago? 

The past is microfiched, stretched into 

Quick, rolling sheets. 

First day of a new year. 

Circuit knocked out power in the boiler room. 

Lowest level of the ship. 

Elevator to breaker, just two hundred feet. 

Pitch with limpid decay. 

Flashlight, a useless prop. Crawling on my knees, 

And as I felt for the railing, heard the vessel gently moan as she rose and fell, 

I was stabbed. 

With no noise, I screamed. 

And, though this was a tomb of rust

and make-believe, though I had led thousands of strangers

to this altar of fear 

and cackled inwardly as they cried, 

For that moment, I was horribly, tenderly alone. Only I could flip the switch, 

A thimble of blood lapped out of my thumb, 

cast a shadow on the predator, 

Wine. Two glasses. Party guests from the night prior 

Went exploring without a map. As the old year sought its requiem, 

these two strangers spent the evening 

between the sprawling husks of rusted, slightly leaking plates. 

And now, no more. 

Hand throbbing, I pressed 

towards the bow. Foot by precarious foot, 

Testing the darkness. I had counted these steps, 

once,

fifty-four. Sighted, I'd been known to race them

and terrify a crowd in under six seconds. 

Not here. An hour lapsed 

until I finally stood up 

opened the box 

flipped the switch 

and roused the beast awake. 

I smiled, sadly. My hands reeked of dried 

merlot and iron. Another year 

with the same old ghosts. 

The Mandrake - Original Song about Mental Health

Hey.

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month.

As someone who's had a pretty rough go with this for as long as I can remember, I think it's important that people talk about it with one another, just like you would with any other physical illness.

Think I've finally stumbled onto a song which best describes what it's like for me.  I'd love for you to view it, to share it with others who intuit this illness in their lives.

lyrics

when youre born
youre given land
yours to till
inside your heart
do what you will
birds of paradise
or a hedgerow maze
or something stoic if youll pardon
like a rake and a taciturn zen garden
but the earth is
vulnerable
through sun and shade
try as you might youre
helpless
by the crop laid

chorus
you never knew
you never thought
youd find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
beyond reproach
beyond compare
the mandrake
of old
despair
you never knew
you never thought
youd find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
beyond reproach
beyond compare
the mandrake
of old
despair

second verse
oh
ive tried
its an unyielding root
such a tenacious brute
and people come
they stop and stare
their temper
unconcealed
they chide me
tidy up your goddamn field
other lots
oh my
theyre so serene
or is my camera lens
just lined with
vasoline

chorus
you never knew
you never thought
youd find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
beyond reproach
beyond compare
the mandrake
of old
despair
you never knew
you never thought
youd find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
beyond reproach
beyond compare
the mandrake
of old
despair

bridge
sometimes chemicals
they kill the leaves
those horrid thieves of joys
yet deep within
the husk remains
it stains
the poisons it deploys
how noxious smelling
is the air
wish i had some strength
inside
and the tools to turn this
tide
even knowing ill have
died
when i hear that mandrakes
upturned roots start
screaming

third verse
still
youre
here
and im here
lets have a lunch
outside
lie down together
hide
on clover beds
so soft and green
sing me a
whaling song
and tell me just how your own
gardens wrong
and well laugh
tumble into our skin
our pupils shutter
wide
well finally blend
in

chorus
we never knew
we never thought
wed find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
can we reproach
can we repair
the mandrake
of old
despair
we never knew
we never thought
wed find
another weed
a little seed
this kind
can we reproach
can we repair
the mandrake
of old
despair

outro
its just the life
im working with
the life im working with
the life im working
with
its just the life
im working with
the life im working with
the life im working
with
tale could have ended
half a dozen different ways
how the hell
did i live this long
join me and sing along
never had much respite
from a decades old malaise
how the hell did i live this long
join me and sing along
sickness grows in silence
i broke it wide open
shivering violence
how did i live this long
join me and sing along
and if your gardens reckless
youre hungry for mercy
fear that youre feckless
reach out
youre a hand
im a glove
i love
that youve lived this long
find help
join me and sing along
ohhhhhhhh
its just the life
im working with
the life im working with
the life im working
with

(additional scatting and cheerful nonsense)

Hobos, Tramps, and Bums - Newest Song for KOTH

Hey.

Here's the last new song for the show.  One Gilly sings to distinguish between hobos, tramps, and bums.

Can't wait to put it up again and see what you think!


lyrics

hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

well
a trampll beg
and a bumll steal
but a hobos steady
like a wagon wheel
pick the crop
carry slop
take whatever meal
be it steak
be it ole wind pudding

oh those
hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

well a tramp

hell be sleeping

through the break of day

and a bumll

pick a scrap 

if you look her way

but a hobo keeps working

till his fingers fray

he keeps busy

his heart aint dizzy

hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

bridge

well a tramp

he aint but loaf and wander

and a bum

she drinks and wanders

a hobo works

and wanders

if you cant suss out the difference

well i guess youre pretty dumb

those hobos

tramps and bums

one more time

well a tramp

he aint but loaf and wander

and a bum

she drinks and wanders

a hobo works

and wanders

if you cant suss out the difference

well i guess youre pretty dumb

those hobos

tramps and bums

hobos

tramps

and bums

Smokey -First Draft of New Song for KOTH

Hey.

Slowly but surely working on an updated version of KING OF THE HOBOS.

Here's the first new song. Gonna be the second song in the show.  Gilly sings it as an ode to his new love, a red six-string cigar box guitar named Smokey.


lyrics

every heart got a song to sing
every object got a whisper o time
found the box what a shiny thing
on the tracks bout a mile
from the saint louis line

she was fire red hot
and i couldnt let go
later that night
caught a country show
strum by a fella
named les paul
and it came clear
and i understood
got me to thinking
found some wires and wood
now id have a girl
at my beck and call
id call her

chorus
smokey
gentle like the
mother
i never had
unassuming
smokey
simply speak your chorus
and ill be glad
all the friends ive known
now dust and bone
and my empty little guts
like a sack o stone
yet merrily ill play
oh smokey
were whats left today

second verse
every heart got a song to sing
if you dont whats the goddamn reason
you rise
sing it soft for a nick o courage
loud
kick the devil right square in his eyes

well ive sang each days
when my arms were sore
only rhythm was my sleeping snore
waking off the weight
from another night
fore i sang for anybody else
you see
these little ditties they were meant for me
now i got a girl
feels so good and right
i call her...

chorus

bridge
if i breathe
and i just start moving
smokey heals me and keeps me fine
hear her speak while my fingers sliver
feel them bleed as our souls entwine
if you cant be handsome be useful
its what james always said to inspire
hell i aint one for smarts or manners
smokey and me were a house afire
if i breathe
and i just start moving
smokey heals me and keeps me fine
hear her speak while my fingers sliver
feel them bleed as our souls entwine
if you cant be handsome be useful
its what james always said to inspire
hell i aint one for smarts or manners

smokey and me 

were a house

were a house 

were a house afire

third verse

every heart got a song to sing

listen close

hear the sound

its the kindness you weep

add some words from the book o suffering

put them together

its a fortune youll keep

she was fire red hot
and i couldnt let go
later that night
caught a country show
strum by a fella
named les paul
and it came clear
and i understood
got me to thinking
found some wires and wood
now id have a girl
at my beck and call
id call her

chorus

every heart got a song to sing

every object 

got a whisper o time

Patreon - the what, the why, and how to support Jara

Hey.

For over two weeks now, I've hosted an artist account on Patreon.  Patreon's like Kickstarter, but ongoing and monthly.  You can donate as little as a buck a month to support artists and receive special content and exclusive content before others do.

In these 14 days alone, I've posted:

Behind the scenes production photos
Diary Entries
Alternate tracks of previously recorded original songs
New poems
Little-known songs I've written
Sneak peek at scripts and excerpts of plays I've written
Easy, direct access to my You Tube song and poetry videos.

The site allows you to comment, provide feedback, post your own artwork, and share things together as a community,

So, why am I doing this?

Sure, it's a way to encourage more creative daily interaction.  But the heart of it is that I'm paralyzed with fear because my day job has issued some pretty tight fiscal cuts.  Got my first check after the changes last Friday and spent hours balancing my checkbook and making up a budget based on my monthly expenses.  And it's way worse than I thought. Due to my day job, due to increased medical expenses this year, and due to a lack of paid acting work so far this year, I'm short about $830 a month.

Yeah.

And this is with me living a pathetically spartan life.  Spending an average of 15 bucks a day on food.

So, I'm scared.

I'm hustling to find more acting work, part-time work. I've established this Patreon account.

www.patreon.com/jara

Don't know how long the center can hold.  Not sure what else I can strip away or do without.  Doing all I can to avoid more debt.

Realistically, I need to make $1000 more a month before taxes to break even, and $1500 more a month before taxes to actually start making inroads into my acting career.  But how?

Trophies - poem

Hey.

Here's a new poem.  Donors to my new Patreon account got to see it a week ago. I'll explain tomorrow more about the Patreon situation, and how it's a more updated, more communal version of ODES AND NONSENSE.

Used to find it 

Garish, 

Shivering myself warm in some dusty winter lodge, 

Gazing upon a prostrate 

Bear skin rug. 

Glass eyes wide and blinkless, shining glimpses of the crackling fireplace. 

Seemed wasteful. 

Beyond the logistics of recreational murder. 

Creating and hunting a monster Is a rich person’s game. 

One needs professionals. 

The most patient, effective 

Tools to tear out flesh. 

One must isolate that still-beating 

Note of empathy, muffle it into a cold, tuneless void. 

One must suffer to make the silent, shockwave sounds of greater suffering. 

Some years ago, Through savings and death and inheritance, 

Through the compound interest of dissatisfaction, I found my own quarry. 

Chose my hunting party. 

Slouched uneasily in the orthodontics chair. 

And, with a minimal gloss of anesthetic, 

Had a front row seat to the death of that beast. 

His gnarled and yellowed fangs, wrestled brutely 

From their bleeding stumps. And yes, 

Though it was and remains 

More waking terror-torture than  I’ve ever known 

I demanded those nine teeth be surrendered to me. 

In a paper envelope, creased with a thin stamp of blood. 

But what marks me apart from other hunters is this: 

They’re not displayed. 

No pride or pompous pleasure fills 

A room with this torment, this work. 

They’re tossed in an unused closet, along with 

Old, handwritten love letters and mementos 

From mentors long dead from cancer.

Four Years In the Blood

Hey.

So, I'm in a diner. Torn seat cushions. Greek football on the radio. On my second cup of coffee.
And I realize, for the first time since I've moved here, the start of a new year hasn't been punctuated by frantic, creative desperation.

2011 - Get here. Push through the snowstorm. Rebuild. Find new artistic work at all costs.You have lost everything.  Get moving.
2012 - Prove yourself. Do summer stock auditions and as many shows as you can.
2013 - Take a risk. Pull out that solo script you've been scared to do for a decade -edit, submit, produce and perform GHOST ON A STICK.
2014 - Join SAG-AFTRA. Realize that you haven't dealt with death and loss and a corrupt sense of self. Go back to therapy. Do meds.  Make a brand new solo show and hustle that as hard as possible.

And now? 

There's uncertainty. Not in a troubling way.  But in an open, inviting approach. Maybe a solo show will take off this year.  Maybe more poetry will follow.  Maybe love will chime in my bones. Maybe work in TV and film will begin.  It's an exciting future.

So, let's get to the heart of why I jot these down each year. Mark the notch of time. Ego? A bit. More importantly, it's to remind me that it's never done alone. Every inch of what's been accomplished is the result of countless people (only a handful of which are personally thanked today) who have shaped me and kindly supported my odes and nonsense.

Here's what's been done, what I'd like to do this upcoming year, and my thanks....

WHAT I'VE DONE

Produced and performed KING OF THE HOBOS  -   Guys, this is the quite possibly the best thing I've ever done. A one man hobo musical set in the Great Depression.  All the current music is available online to stream for FREE (or, if you want to download it, you may purchase)  Plans are in motion to edit the show to an hour and twenty minutes, do another workshop this year, and then pitch it for an long term Off-Broadway run.  I owe Abigail Taylor-Sansom so much for finding the heart of the piece and continually pushing me as an artist with this work. 

Wrote four new songs -  Apart from new songs for the hobo musical, I also wrote some individual new music as well.  Some much more refined work than the past.  Songs about mental recovery, loving in New York City, and bracing for uncertain, hopeful change.

Came back to poetry - after a break, I found myself stumbling back into poem-making.  Re-released my book of poems, RAMSHACKLE, and did a reading of it in NYC as well.  Started two new poem cycles - The Divorced Dad Poems and Texts From Last Night Poems.   All in all, wrote FORTY poems this year.  Here are some of the best.

Jumped into fun theatre projects - another launch of PAGEANT PRINCESS, a daunting, intense affair doing all three HENRY VI plays in rep with Hamlet Isn't Dead, and a production of Vicki Mooney's play BROKEN HEARTLAND.

Wrote the start of a new play (THE MUSEUM OF BROKEN RELATIONSHIPS) in a glass fishbowl - such a wonderful, weird experience. Every word you type displayed to the world for the two hours you crunch. Making something brand new out of nothing, for the first time, in front of strangers. Being completely fearless. 

Finished the first draft of THIS GREAT MORTALITY - my play cycle about the Black Plague and a loose factual account of how it affected Avignon, France in 1348.

Lost 67 pounds - Started 2014 at 300 pounds. With diet, exercise, and meds, I've knocked it down to 233. No longer pre-diabetic. 

Wrapped a short comic film with Abigail, Rocky, and Megan Jeannette Smith.  - it's always a treat to collaborate with these sweet, talented beasts.  And Conor Stratton's camera work was top notch.  Can't wait to see the final product!

WHAT I'VE LEARNED 

 - A diet of expectation is appropriate and healthy.  I've come to say this at least twice a day. It's on a card at eye level by my desk. 

 - Always leave a party when you start to feel sad.
 
- Before you were making things in an effort to earn glory or fame or wealth or any money at all, before you were making things to garner potential status or affection, or prestige, you were making them for yourself. As a quiet, invisible child, alone. Start there. Remember that. 


GOALS


Here's where I get unconventional this year.  I'm not getting specific. I'm gonna focus on three spheres of human quality, and with each undertaking I do, I'll ask myself:  how does this improve or limit me in these three areas?

I want to use this year to further deepen and improve in the following three tenets:


SELF-LOVE
SELF-CARE
SELF-RESPECT

And now, let's define them.


Self-love - Internal maintenance and growth.  Mental health. Physical health (eyewear, dental work)  Time given to rest and to goof off and to create. Consistent examination of negative thought patterns and limiting behaviors.


Self-care - external maintenance and growth.  Apartment upkeep. Clothes.  Food,  Walking. More engagement with friends. 


Self-respect - Appreciation of abilities and esteem. Taking professional stock in myself. Being prudent with time on external projects.  Accepting compliments and praise whole-heartedly. Being open to receiving love.



 Thanks to the following people:
mi mama   
Jelina Seibert and Dave Seibert  
Jeric Jones and Stephanie Girard 
Bekki Doster 
Mark Kinch
Megan Jeannette Smith
Emily Travis
All those who helped produce KING OF THE HOBOS

Tess Suchoff
Bobby Lux  

Patti Cox
Mike Valloney

Katrina Lenk

Shannon Algeo

Jen Ponton

Sarah Baskin

Sarah Dacey Charles

Meredyth Kenney
Everett Goldner

Alan Corcoran

Sigi Gradwohl

Michael Geffner

 Robin Rightmyer

David Andrew Laws
Kristen Penner
Lorelei Mackenzie  
Abigail Taylor-Sansom
Rockford Sansom

Dianna Tucker Baritot

Adam Baritot 

Malini McDonald

Vicki Mooney

Tony White
Vicki Oceguera  
Tod Engle