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  

Time I Whisper - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

I feel like I'm either close to shutting down or to the start of career-defining work.

Not sure what.

Winter and depression and doubt can muddy that diagnosis.

But I'm here.  I'm clicking quietly away.


Got a new song.  For me. For anyone wondering out there if it's their moment to eke out a sense of purpose, to be known.  To be bold, and compassionate, and sharing. To prosper. Even be loved.

Here we go.


lyrics

first verse

ive given up on suffering

chant
is it my time i whisper
is it my time i whisper

tucking in for winter
ill see you spring

chant

prechorus one
see me lay down
beg the night my soul to keep
know
ive never earned love good as sleep
head crooked
watch the silence fill the room
year spent chasing urequiteds sweet perfume

chorus
legs
if you gotta run
talent
if its hard won
signal
like a flare gun
lets make it binding
make a promise to finding
what were worth
dearth of motivation
moldy conversation
leaden deprivation
am i unwinding
is the madness still grinding
me

verse two
im getting smaller
take less space
chant
staring out the subway
and i see my fathers face
chant

prechorus two
see me talk less
every word its a thought grenade
you wont catch me turning round
seeing what ive made
blood
the lost traveller
my guide
ill course
ill scribble on
this little wick of pride

chorus

instrumental

verse three
ive buried loss
so calm collect
chant
still mouthing syllables
in a manner circumspect
chant

prechorus three
see my debts paid
by my spartan living style
im just a monk serving nothing but my own guile
write
and i summon in the air
a little nonsense
no one seems to care

chorus

New player on ODES AND NONSENSE - King of the Hobos Cast Soundtrack -

Hey.

There's a cool new player on the website.  You can stream and listen to all of my original songs written for my one man hobo musical: KING OF THE HOBOS .

Heck, if you'd like to keep some of it for your very own, each track's available at Bandcamp for a buck each, and the whole album's as cheap as 7 dollars.  Go to it!

To stay updated on new information about this show, "Like" our Facebook page!

 - Jara

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Pardons a Cockroach

A Divorced Dad Pardons a Cockroach

He’s home.

Counted couples on the train chugging

Home.

From the newly-minted lovers to the

Barely patient partners pressed together,

Silent.  Like a wall of night. Looking outward.

Teeth gritted, bobbing with the rails.

He can’t help but feel like he’s being humored,

Cosmically. The scuffed, metal doors open, a bucket seat becomes

Available.   These couples spy his infirmity. He is

Their cautionary tale.

Home.

And all his burden lifts:

Clothes scuttle. He creeps to

The bathroom, faces his

Toothpaste-accented reflection.

Then, from the corner of the shower tile,

Almost from out of sight,

A thin, brown roach hugs the wall.

He sighs.  Leans close, whispers to the creature:

Tonight, I wish you peace.  Come tomorrow,

We’ll war again.   He taps off the lights,

Leaves him to his gestures.

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Plucks Out a Nose Hair

Hey.

Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem.

A Divorced Dad Plucks Out a Nose Hair

An hour, maybe two,

Since the alarm slightly coughed.

But he’s not moving.   A to-do list

Sits folded on a desk, some ten feet way.

And thin-crept dream pours into dream:

A face of a childhood love with their mouth torn and missing,

Then, struggling to move his possessions out of a casually crumbling house.

With one final effort,

He guides the loom which shapes the scenes.

But it’s still wrong.   Still wrong.  A freckled, curvy

Sculptor enters. She smells like cinnamon.  They make

Love, unhurried and sure.  With an awareness of the frail and the glory.

And then she dies. So soon. She’s stricken with cancer,

And the dream flashes to a dimly lit bed,

Then the footnote of darkness.

And he’s awake. 

A chorus of sobs.  

Not ready to start.  

A widower of fantasy.

As a reflex,

He reaches with his right thumb and index finger,

Finds a nostril,

And pulls.  Hard.  Sharp.  No time to reflect or stop.

A crack of sensate shivers echo,

And a long, twisted, black hair is collected.

He smiles. Breathes again, ragged but alert.  All is reset.

He lifts the covers.  He finds his feet.

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Howls At the Moon

Hey,

Here's this week's Divorced Dad poem. 

A Divorced Dad Howls at the Moon

The moon,

She’s a bone-white eardrum

Stretched bare across a littered sky.

A confessor,

A bolt of crinkled paper suspended in quiet,

A discontinued firemen’s net  -

 Scuttled by the grave of time.

He’s in the backyard,

Stripped to the waist.

Sober.   The weekend toys

Lodged neatly in plastic tubs.

Feeling the downy grass on his bare toes.

It’s one am.   And yet, he can’t stop living this day.

There’s more action to be made.  Exaltations,

Dream-seeding, corners to clean.

There’s an itch. An implacable itch,

He fills his lungs with twilight air,

Deeply, and then,

In stark surprise of himself,

He barks.  A feral, joyous, cry.

Moon-bound.   He, he is saying:

Hear me, you lunar mistress.

I am living. I, I  am slowly getting fine.