This Resolution

I never make New Year's Resolutions, especially on Christmas Eve...
However upon much reflection and many a struggle, and the innate desire to finish this novel, I have come to the dark realization that I must continue writing. 
A Sailor and an Inn, first a storm of words thrown together in anguish and hurt, transformed into a poem and now the makings of a novel, has been laundering over me these past months that I've been intentionally avoiding it. 
So why am I writing this post? Basically it is a Self Resolution that I will stop procrastinating this novel. When I was writing it, I found myself back in that dark chamber, with no way out, an aura of desperation mixed with the perfect amount of depression. I produced great work, but it scared me. I felt myself close off from all emotion, all people and work. I didn't care to do anything but write. And though that sounds like the perfect writing situation, it took a tole on my mental health, bringing me back to the darkness. 
But then I realized that is exactly the situation writers go through on a daily basis, putting themselves into the very environment in which they are creating, so as to experience their mind for themselves.
So I encourage you, fellow writers, do not let this keep you from writing. It is a dark experience, but ultimately it will open your eyes to see the realness of this world. You will come out of it, and with this coming you will have a new piece of work, one which you personally have lived. 
I realize this just came off really dark, and I am not trying to make it seem that way, simply I just want to say that emotions should not keep you from writing. The words build up and flood your head, whether you recognize your work or not, it is in your head creating chaos. And it is your responsibility to your mental sanity to push through and write the damn words down.

Phantom of the Opera

One of my good friends recently mentioned reading Phantom of the Opera by Leroux. I was astonished and yet somewhat embarrassed to learn that there was a book, for my only knowledge and original love of the story had been obtained from Broadway's musical.
Never had it occurred to me that this love story did, indeed, occur in the realm of our universe instead  of some extent of one's mind.
While reading, I was astonished to see how much of the story had been left out and/or changed in the musical. Frankly, it left me a little dissapointed. I consider myself one of those "originalies", believing that the original of any story is an original for a reason, especially when it comes from nonfiction.
So for the first half of the book I was loving the viewpoint of Raoul- the whole love-type story now making a bit more sense. I felt like the musical (and I am aware there are numerous versions of this renounced story) focused mainly on Christine, who played an important role but not necessarily the only important role. In my opinion, the main viewpoint should have been split almost evenly between Christine, Raoul, and Eric (the Phantom).
And don't get me wrong, I still am a huge fan of the musical, but even in the book I crave more information about Eric. And though Leroux gathered as much information as humanely possible, my favorite parts of the book were the excerpts from the Persian's journal about the Phantom's history (yet another thing not included in the musical- which I realize would have been awkwardly placed if it had).
My reasons for writing about this is that 1) I am still amazed at the lack of knowledge that the book even exists (I am including myself in this), and 2) I was planning an animated film of the Phantom of the Opera, and am overly excited to have found the "real" version.
I feel as if the play does not focus as much on Eric's humanity as it does on his "sexy" existence, the essence of a mysterious and powerful being who possesses the power of musical genius. Reading about him in the book, my mind has imagined him some type of psychopath, having no empathy for the human race. Dealing with several people of this unfortunate position in my personal life, I know that he truly is not one due to his undying love for Christine and his innate need to be loved, repeatedly shown throughout the story.
As I begin writing this animated film, I find myself drawing more of my focus on Eric and Raoul. However, I am realizing that this story may be too dark for the younger audience, those who generally watch animated movies these days, and I am finding myself having to censor it down a bit without taking away from the reality of the situation.
What do you think? Do I stick to my "originalee" nature or do I censor down a story that reveals the truth of desire within humanity? And do you think I should split the main viewpoints between Christine, Raoul, and Eric? Or just focus on one or two? Please leave your comments below!

Here

One does not simply come to be.

 People we meet, people we leave.

 Where we stay, with whom we stay. 

These are the things 

that come to be.

 Me?

 I sit here, 

in a tree, 

looking to see who comes to me. 

Up here, 

down there,

there is no difference anywhere.

We are here. 

We are the same. 

Nothing up here.

Nothing down there. 

Rockabilly Outline finished!

After much stress and trying to even decide if the idea is worth it, I finally finished the outline and soon will write the script and create an animation schedule. However, I still am working on the first draft of Conchello,  a task proving more difficult as my writer's block continues to rage on. 

www.bvbinfo.com

another update

I finally finished the Mother of Pearl outline, and have been struggling to find a main conflict/storyline for Rockabilly, but I think I finally found it. 

But if you guys have any ideas for conflict ideas for an animated film about a girl moving to Southern California in 1954 before her last year of highschool, Please comment below!

http://sadmanstongue.com/

Weekly Update

Lately I have been feeling like I have too many projects going, both with my writing and animation, so I decided to do an old fashioned hand-drawn calendar to help me plan out when I am going to get everything done. I'm pretty stoked, just looking at it gives me a sense of accomplishment. 

As far as Conchello goes, I now have the first two and the last two chapters written, which is unusual for me, but hey, however I can get it done I will. 

The Stamp Collector

    Almost every time I walk into Radina's for a morning coffee, this man is always sitting at the same table, nearly the same outfit every time. A khaki adventurist hat with a bleak mustard shirt, underneath a native american print woven vest with grey pants and black hiking boots. He always has the same walking stick,  glasses, and a short pony tail to accompany his white yet thick beard and mustache.
   This elder man always intrigues me, for he always seems both happy and passionate about life. Like the creeper I am, I have started to listen in on his conversations, whom he always has with someone new. So far I have been blessed to hear the passion and awe in his voice as he shares his stamp hobby with anyone who will listen, showing them catalogs and telling them specific stories of the stamps he is most proud of.
   He reminds me of America itself. Yes, I do mean the essence of this great nation. Being able to take your books and hobbies every morning wherever you go, and having the freedom and love of something to be able to talk about it with random strangers, somehow getting them excited about learning something entirely new. I am still waiting for the right time to approach this man, and I hope to strike up a conversation of my own. For some reason he just makes me incredibly happy whenever I see him. I don't know whether it's because he reminds me a the midwestern grandfather figure or because of his impeccable passion for the life he lives. Either way, I feel blessed to be able to see him so regularly, and can't wait for the chance to get to know him.

Conchello Update

After a personal and emotional situation, I finally received inspiration to go back to Conchello, a novel I started but lost do to my hard-drive crashing. I had the entire beginning of the novel, it was utterly beautiful, but lost it all, and now I have learned the valuable lesson to store everything online. Since that incident, I have been putting off this story out of laziness, but finally was inspired to write the beginning of the last chapter of the book.      I apologize for the foul language, but I can ensure you it is put there for a reason, it will make sense when you read the entire novel. But for now, consider this an excerpt, and unedited section of a novel. Please, tear it up, let me know what should be changed, or how you like it. Comment on it below:)                            (also, I used a lot of commas, kind of an experiment I guess. Do you think it makes the text more confusing/annoying?)

 

  Loyalty. Bloody loyalty. The dictionary defines loyalty as  a “faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc.;an example or instance of faithfulness, adherence, or the like”. Fealty, devotion, constancy, an allegiance, all synonyms of this messed up, nonsense word. I was so bloody fucking loyal.

    And yet again I am left to rot in this bloody hell hole of an earthly essence, alone, just as the striped hyena that dwells in the foothills of Afghani.

How could that insensitive bitch leave me? Her scent has been drowned in the crumbling pine green walls laced throughout the halls. From end to fucking end, that legend of a whore will forever haunt, forever taunt that entire wretched structure of a whore house. I have been nothing but good, nothing but kind. I gave everything for her, for those tits that nourished me as a wee boy. I fucked her fucking friends simply to make her proud, to prove to her she raised a man.

I was a man for Laini. I gave everything for her, just as I did for mother, just as mum told me too. Never once have I been graced with a true friend, never once has anyone stayed. They always leave, the pack will always turn. Born an outcast, I will forever be. She made me that way, that whore mother made me who I am. And now I am turning into that bloody cunt. It is an inevitability, and now, even she, my own fucking mother, she abandons me. That’s two women, in three days.

My dick is all Laini wanted. No, what am I saying, she doesn’t want me, not my dick. She only wants my hand, my bloody substitution of a mouth. It was never me, just my provisions. I was that bloody fool, the only one to show my true selflessness, to show any sort of fucking compassion. She, that true, genuine whore, she made me care, made me fucking care, only to fake it back once she sees it all.

She can’t handle me, my horridness, the brutality of an outsider. I am not one of them, nor will I ever be one of these monstrous beings I resemble, these horrid creatures they call human.

Anna Lee Waldo's Sacajawea

I found this book at a used book store and got it fir 85 cents, 6 books in 1 for less then a dollar. 

I was originally drawn to this find simply because the subject of the matter, my father's great great great grandmother. And everyone knows the infamous story of Lewis and Clark and their Indian guide, however finishing the first book, I continue to be amazed at the details Waldo is able to provide, an I was not aware of how Sacajawea was a slave and traded around so often, and its interesting to see the similarities between the  Native American legends and that of Christianity. I am also amazed at just how sexual the culture was, just something i never thought about.

Anyway, this reading is apart of my research for my animated film:Sacagewea: The Making of a Woman. 

I highly recommend this read to anyone who is interested in history, or simply the life of a native american slave. Let me know what you guys think!

Yes Officer

 

Yes Officer, my dog is trained.

No Officer, she does not bite.

 

Yes Officer, she is good.

No Officer, she is eight.

 

Yes Officer, I run her off leash.

No Officer, she does not leave me.

 

Yes Officer, he approached us.

No Officer, she does not have rabies.

 

Yes Officer, I am straight.

No Officer, she loves me dearly.

 

Yes Officer, I was running.

No Officer, I did not touch him.

 

Yes Officer, he has a gun.

No Officer, I do not love him.

 

Yes Officer, he approached me.

Yes Officer, he touched me.

Yes Officer, I screamed.

Officer, my dog is dead, can I help you?

      A lone wolf. That's who I am; it's what I am.

 

 People,

They come and they go,

 Never to be heard again

But to be seen at a distance,

Fearing the tearing of flesh from these canines.

 

 Compassion,

Loyalty,

The destruction of self.

 

 Packs, 

Inevitably they desert me,

 When will I learn?

 

The end result is the same,

Left fending for myself;

Exploring life as it truly is.

 

At what point can a simple canine comprehend this truth?

When do the joys of a mutt's heart give over to reality?

   

One day,

One glorious day,

This wolf will run with a pack of hyenas,

Claiming one with the outcasts.

 

Nothing but love to give,

 For once to be fully accepted for what it is I really am.

image:
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Hyena-84213076