Category Archives: Uncategorized

My Father’s Two Year Trial Separation From Physical Form on this Nutty Rock

June 30th, 2015 my father died.  Or passed on or left his body for a more suitable environment to fit his spiritual well being.   We see people through our own tunnel vision so I can say I saw him in a way no-one else did. Or felt him or an essence or two that may have stayed dormant into the grave. I’m not sure.  What I do know is that he named me after Liberace.  I didn’t ask him until I was 34 and were in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC.  I think I asked him there so I knew I’d get the truth. Not that he would lie. My dad wasn’t eloquent but he laid out how he felt.

‘He was a hell of a piano player.’  Given my yearning to play, and I have been starting to practice again, and the fact that he rarely listened to music, or encouraged it, or talked about it, I have to believe it was part of an essence of his that he took to the grave or he was divinely inspired and named me to kick me in the direction of where to go in life, as an artist. Liberace was a hell of a piano player.

When I first moved to LA in 2013, I had a numerology reading done on my name/birthday.  The reader did a Chaldean reading, a more ancient and mystic type of numerology.  My first name (full name Lee) is 13.  This is, for the waking world, a bad luck number and he didn’t dig it either. He thought I should change my name and gave me a list to ‘improve my vibes.’ One was Lukas. With a k. So I could go around and date seven women like Dr. Detroit and lose count of my mansions and walk around and say ‘Hi, my name is Lukas with a K Barton. My vibes are tasty now, baby.’

I like my name. I like my father named me Lee and not Walter III.  I like 13 because it means death, killing off those parts of your soul that hold you back. No way, no way, Lukas with a K.

So, on Father’s Day, I thank my dad for my name.

Peggy Guggenheim

Come to me,
Peggy Guggenheim
Sponsor me,
Peggy Guggenheim;
span your wealthy, knowing wings
over the brushes and voices that cannot sing
without you.

Maybe you’ve reincarnated as a dolphin,
Peggy Guggenheim
And Jackson Pollock is a sparrow

Well I once was a spider
and now I have eight hungry limbs
right now the the scene’s too dim
without your pulse and push.

So use your higher dolphin intelligence,
Peggy Guggenheim
and send me a human suitor with real humming eyes
Peggy Guggenheim
I’m gasping for art
and I got a symphony of sorts about to start
and before I waltz through that green heart shaped door
with that electric amoeba inside
I wonder if that’s you on the other side.

If you send me this sponsor,
Peggy Guggenheim
I’ll fight to have every Sea World closed down,
Peggy Guggenheim
and every dolphin will be free
and I can fan out like a tree
on acid.

 

Storm Before the Calm

I believe you can always peel away a layer of a cliche and find another truth lumbering beneath it.  Right now it’s a quiet chaos before seeing clearly which I need very very soon.  As I’ve mentioned before I’ve been in this challenging cycle over the last few years, with the weird tragic center-peice of my birth father and his wife/partner.  Other smaller little little asteroids made of barstool gum loaded with morning coffee and other undesirable types of breath have revolved around this one issue and now for the first time in a long time I feel a sense of final emergence, killing a cycle of familiar habits and old hurts that are too much to bear on a budget at times.  It’s articulating all of this as it’s happening that’s my task in life, and a foot’s been taken off one of my creative veins while tussling with whether to move to LA or stay here and fight the fight.  I’m tired of fighting though.  Healing winds of West seem to call and then disappear.  Swirl around the signal is getting stronger but I’m getting closer to the signal when the winds are strongest.   What’s best for the old rustic soul and what serves the world are where I should live next.  One thing for sure, no Friday night bullets.  No garbage swirling on the streets.  I’ve been closed for renovations but grand reopening is coming soon.  New menu and no more pictures of the food,my soul is going upscale.

I watched Behind the Candelabra, the biopic of Liberace starring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as his young (20 something???) lover.  It got raves at Cannes and made me wonder if the French have started to eat too many Freedom Fries or  Triple Bypass burgers dipped in Honey BooBoo sauce. The film I saw was disappointing. Michael Douglas did an admirable job as Liberace and kudos to him for coming back from throat cancer.  What was disappointing was casting of Matt Damon, a 42 year old muscle laden kind of macho man type as what was supposed to be a 20 something gay man with what I imagine as a great capacity for softness and deep intimacy with Liberace.  I did not see that. It’s no knock on Matt Damon; he’s not the type. It’s like casting me as Vin Diesel’s muscly nemesis in one of those Vin Diesel type films. I’m totally wrong.  There were lines in the film where Matt Damon’s character said something like ‘Oh, you’re not after that queen (implying another gay man)’ and maybe it’s me but it sure came across as awkward. He didn’t look totally comfortable saying some of the lines. I could feel it. It was a weird vibe overall and to me, what could have been a deeply intimate complex portrayal between two people trying to love each other instead was something of a made for TV movie.  Compare it with Brokeback Mountain, which is a poignant and beautiful film in my opinion.

And one reviewer stated how bold and daring it was to show them having sex, meaning Matt Damon pounding on top of Michael Douglas. I disagree. I think if the emotional connection between the two were more dynamic, you wouldn’t need to show it. It’s a compensation instead of enhancement.

The whole point to me is how important casting becomes. This was an OK film to me but could have been something more. And also how some films seem to generate raves when they’re not much more than the top of the bell curve.  Maybe our standards are dipping.  We’re too ‘bot’, something. The state of American cinema is….loud. Very loud.

The other trend I notice is watching Star Trek: The Dark Night Rises which I enjoyed.  In the film, four characters: Spock, Kirk, Khan and Admiral Pike, all cried one single tear in various touching scenes. It’s on the rise in film. One tear only with no change in facial expression that glides down the cheek. I don;t know how they do it.  When I cry, my face is twisted and ugly and tears come out of all sorts of orifii and in bunches. I wonder if the actors really have mastered muscle control or Visine is making a million dollars off Star Trek.  If it’s the former, my acting career has hit a snag .

Good night and “bullocks to Don Revie!”

 

Using Dick Cavett’s Brainwaves as Modern Mental Floss

I’m  a nostalgic; I love to watch old TV shows, old commercials, old movies, old Communist scare public service announcements, etc.  one show I enjoy is Dick Cavett’s old interview show. The guests would be there would be there for at least half hour, possibly to plug a project but mostly just engaging in good thick conversation with Mr. Cavett who had a way, in my view, of making people feel grounded, engaged and free to be themselves.  Compared to today when stars are rolled out for five minute interviews, show clips of whatever they’re doing and then shushed off for the next guest, it’s shag orange carpet magic for me.  Everyone’s grounded.  Mature, adult, developed.   Now we’re a little ADD and caffeinated in twenty directions.   Football was even calmer in the 70’s.   I don’t believe in going back to the way things were but there are times when I feel like we’ve lost a bit of something graceful and can bring that back with all of the extra-higher order DNA activating juicy fruit in the air now.  Sometimes it feels technology is outpacing us by a few lengths.

For me, I’m not a Facebook fab. I update my status about once every two months and have an account to stay in touch with friends who use it. I just have trouble with sharing certain parts of my day to day with people who may or may not be my friends. What also happens is that when i’m in one of my several hundred moods, I notice how happy everyone is.  It’s a marvel and when I feel lower than a blues scale I see someone posting ‘on the moon right now auditioning for MacBeth with aliens and winning the Oscar while giving birth to my beautiful twins’ I get more upset at my own life.  It’s been my experience that life is pretty inconsistent and challenging. Path to greatness is littered with invisible jagged boulders ready to tumble;if you catch one, you can turn into something beautiful. It’s hard.  But in a certain mood Facebook makes me feel like shit because it seems that everyone is happy all the time except me. It’s wild.   Then I begin to think that I must be responsible for all major global conflicts and school shootings and I need to apologize to all the heads of state who are probably checking out Michelle Obama’s Twitter account and don’t time for me.

But then I think if they had Facebook for dogs, who are the happiest creatures on Earth, their status updates would read “Happy poop.” “Food eat love belly rub!” “Make  sleep poop ball!!!!! (Smiley face)”.  But even on Facebook for dogs there would be the occasional “My owner poops and I don’t” general upsettedness.  When I read Facebook happy statuses, I get the sense the human species is a happier one than dogs and yet when I look at world conditions, Plus, I know one or two people via friends who I know are miserable people and when I look at their Facebook accounts,  it seems like Buddha’s calling them for advice on joy jumping.  So I’ve come to a conclusion that most people are full of shit.   It’s not a bad thing.   It’s liberating.  I’d say a good 80% of what I see is bullshit. It’s fantastic.  What’s Real anyway is usually invisible and something you scrape your ass or head on for a few moments the way the world’s constructed at the moment.   I have a rule. When I feel tender in the heart region, a little down, or violently artistically pre-explosive, I don’t view social media.  Too full of French Fry expressives and I feel like I’m another species; I thought I was human, as I feel rage,love, hate, despair, envy, a touch of paradise, ecstatic joy, the need to hold a baby, thoughts of killing myself and then flying to Russia afterwards, performing Hamlet, sitting quietly listening to extinct birds, fighting to stay awake, keep the dreams of a 1977 Pontiac Bonneville hubcap alive. I know I’m a little more extremist than most but you know, not really.

I’ve said this before but I prefer Myspace where I could invent mood words (I feel Floisty, that’s my favorite) and invent personae from moment to moment.   I’m going to invent a new social platform called rantwave.com or something;  be yourself and no baby pictures allowed or quotes by Gandhi.  Rant, squeeze, express.

When you reach the end of your wits, the wits will try anything to save themselves.

 

This special news report on gun violence brought to you by Assassin’s Creed IX

I don’t know a lick from a spit when it comes to video games made after 1990 so pardon me if I’m off slightly with my video game reference.  I’ve talked about my feeling on guns before so I won’t rerun it too much but what’s sad is that I have occasion to do it twice within a few months.

I know the battle rages between gun advocates and gun control supporters.  All I know is that the more guns you have per capita per square mile, the more likely someone’s getting shot.  If you’ve ever been in Brooklyn on a 90 degree July day all it takes is a few pieces of words to set off a few pieces of fighting and if everyone had a gun, emergency room business would revive the economy. Maybe that’s the plan, to boost production of prosthetics by constant shootings.

There’s two things that make me wretch: peer pressure and what I call macho swirls.  There’s overlap there and when that crap drifts into arguments for gun control I start to wonder if it’s because someone really is dying inside and they can’t figure out how to push it out except through bullets.  All I know is that getting shot hurts like hell.  As I tell friends, I’ve never heard of someone getting shot and saying’ goddamn! That felt great! Put one in my kneecap!” unless it comes from movies.

I guess I’m old school. If it comes to blows, use your fists or sword fight or kung fu and then get it out of your system and have a beer afterwards and move on with your business. Or have nasty lamp busting sex.  Depending on the setting.  You don’t want someone’s blood on your hands. It sets your soul back a millennia or two.

I have another show in January.  Frankly, I’m tired of my station in life. So now I’m going to do something about it. It’s been a learning life and a reasonable one, one that might be a side character in a period piece novel for about six pages.  I have no interest in that anymore.  There’s something greater and I keep asking myself why I’ve turned down so many opportunities, creatively, romantically. I don’t know. When I’m in the doubt brumble, I think about it.  But I had a dream two nights ago that’s stuck with me emotionally since and reminds me of what waters lay below and ahead in life and how I want to stick a tap in it and distill the power.  I’ve been mourning those choices I didn’t make, mourning time I’ve lost to deep habits in my bones of delay and fear and lack of self-trust and self-knowledge.  So I mourn the time lost. I have to.  Otherwise it’s a lie to move ahead.  Then the boards are cleared.

So, just like The Mayans predicted the world must do after the 21st,  after my birthday on the 29th and then New Year’s, as far as I’m concerned, I’m zero years old.  Look ahead; there’s enough of the past lurking in the future to fill the quota.

Have a happy and safe holiday everyone.

Rumi vs the NYPD

Tonight I accidentally locked myself out of my apartment.  With the kind help of my neighbors, I was able to get back in through my window.  I returned the ladder to the grocery store across the street and in a fit of joy I sprinted, which is legal to my knowledge, across the street to my apartment.  I was three feet from my front door when two cops yell me down and asked me why I was running.

“Joy!” They asked me for ID and I said I had to get into my house to get it. Then they soft frisked me (‘Hail Hitler!’), even though I had the key to get into my own apartment and walked into it. And then I still had to show ID even though they just let me walk into my own apartment.  After all of this Sunday Night Bullshit by New York’s Pubescent Finest, the police department with more acnes and baby fat per square inch of flesh than any other in the country, they said there were reports of a robbery in the area to justify this mild case of the Gestapos.

“Why were you running?” They asked me again.   I thought of Terminator asking “What is thiz theeng you call luuuv?”

“I was happy and I ran. I’m a joyful runner.”  They waddled away. I guess I should give them credit for not racially profiling since I’m a skinny white boy straight out of Charles Dickens novel adaption screen test.

At least they didn’t harass my 17 year old dog this week for instigating another mysterious case of Toddler Urination Sidewalk Slippage, Section 503A violation in the New York Penal Code for Budget Inflation.

Of course, this goes nicely on the mantle with the ticket I got for my motorcycle for not placing a paper ticket ‘inside my windshield on full display’ for parking where there’s one box instead of meters. Given if it’s raining I have nowhere to put  a paper ticket, as I do not have a windshield, or if it’s windy or if car owner decides he or she likes my ticket and simply takes it for their own, I would conclude they should leave my 31cm wide vehicle the hell alone. But not the NYPD. Section 543 violation in the New York Penal Code for Budget Inflation.  I got a $35 ticket and appeal denied.

I was going to write about the impending struggle of choosing among offered lives and how the slimmest margins of choice can make good into great and great into bombastically iconic but the NYPD has caused the need to vent a bit.

For New York’s finest, from Rumi:
“Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free.” 

—–

There is a beacon, slowly unfolding like a box of light that begins to shine in all directions of my life and letting go of the rusted skin that holds the old shell together becomes the challenge that occupies more and more of the quiet hours of the night, ironically when it is most dark, that the shy light comes out to build, to breathe and remind the soul what it really wants, to weave and dance and freely gyrate through the festive entanglement of life. Love marks the scars of impertinence and human suffering with a gentle whisper. “Come on” love says and one by one, the scars turn into ashes and float away and the box of light opens completely and becomes that fragrant beacon that fills the air for you.

Political speeches and the rashes they induce

In getting ready for my show, memorizing and general swimming around the material I need to a distraction so I watched Paul Ryan’s speech at the RNC last night.  I know nothing about this man other than he’s my age.

I don’t generally like political speeches. They affect my glands. And I think they’re usually too generalized and devoid of substance while deferring blame to other parties most of the time when chances are the person talking had a good deal to do with how we got into this fix. After hearing him speak I realized we need a major third party in this country.  One day I’ll start one.   I’ll call it the New Whig Party. I once tried to claim myself as a member of that party on a voter registration card years ago but they ignored it. So I am no party.

As for his speech, all I can say is bullshit is not any less pungent coming out of a Gen X-er like myself than it is someone older.  If he had come out on stage and said, firstly ‘We’re legalziing marijuana and I’m going to start us off’ and pulls out a bag of Cheetohs and some fresh Humboldt County pot, then I’d say ‘yes, America is listening.’  Instead he talked of repealing ObamaCare and getting government out of our lives. Except for women’s uteruses. Then government can interfere like a stalker. That’s always been a head scratcher for me.

This is when it’s great to have a dog. She needs to go out.  I stop now.

Excited for my show…..

Frenemies and money

I’ve just launched a campaign on Rockethub, like Kickstarter a crowdfunding site, for Calendrome Productions (My production company) full length feature Frenemies.  I have 60 days to raise $10k (or much much more).  Below is the link. As I’ve told everyone, even if you give good clean organic green juice vibes, that’s great. Good vibes are important and necessary part of our spiritual diet that FDA and military I am certain will try to regulate at some point. In the meantime, give freely and if you want to give money, that’s great too.

There are perks for giving certain amounts and one is a copy of my novel when it is completed, the same that I’ve posted bits of over the months. I’m eager to finish and would love to tie it in with my other projects…..

The plan is to film in NYC but of course, I am open to other places like….Paris…London…Moscow….International Space Station……couples fighting in  zero g and trying to have sex; that in itself is Kubrickian porn, one might say…
The link to the greatest film about a an arguing couple that hasn’t been made:  http://rkthb.co/8825

Li’l bit O’ Lona

‘Lona looked out the window, waiting for it to turn into a door;  she knew where she was headed; to the other side of the noise; she wanted to take him with her or at least his hair which she could till for hours with her fingers, combing for radiances;  he had a warmth about him that Lona could feel through his strands of hair that seemed to pardon certain memories of hers, like images that sinned and left their stains on her brain;  every time she touched a man’s hair she wanted an omelet;  as eggs became less and less of her diet she wondered if the reason dating had begun to dwindle too was because she was afraid if she slept with someone she would want an omelet;  she thought shaved or bald men might be the solution;  sometimes Lona drifted into what she barely whispered to herself the Land of Playful False Causes, like an omelet affecting her sex life; it seemed madness but then, digging through the soil maybe the same root was shared in and in that underground city of connection was the Universal Cause, or God or a giant squirrel with a leather jacket telling everyone what to do. ‘

A bit from my impending novel(la) Point of  Lona looked out the window, waiting for it to turn into a door;  she knew where she was headed; to the other side of the noise; she wanted to take him with her or at least his hair which she could till for hours with her fingers, combing for radiances;  he had a warmth about him that Lona could feel through his strands of hair that seemed to pardon certain memories of hers, like images that sinned and left their stains on her brain;  every time she touched a man’s hair she wanted an omelet;  as eggs became less and less of her diet she wondered if the reason dating had begun to dwindle too was because she was afraid if she slept with someone she would want an omelet;  she thought shaved or bald men might be the solution;  sometimes Lona drifted into what she barely whispered to herself the Land of Playful False Causes, like an omelet affecting her sex life; it seemed madness but then, digging through the soil maybe the same root was shared in and in that underground city of connection was the Universal Cause, or God or a giant squirrel with a leather jacket telling everyone what to do.

from my impending and inevitable novel Point of Venus.

 

B side Resurrection Sleeper

I was talking with a friend tonight and she asked me about all the screenplays I had written and it got me digging into my old writing and when that happens you find parts of your past still sticking on the page and when that happens, it’s like archeology and my digs usually have a soundtrack.  One of my early scripts involved a song I wanted to use by Edwyn Collins, the ex Orange Juice member who wrote a tune called ‘Keep on Burning.’  And then it made me think of 1995 when he released Gorgeous George and I was living in Iowa sort of peeling through the wreckage of what I call my ‘Screamers’ slick where my soul got turned inside out like the way old vacuum bags used to get cleaned because I had just finished grad school and was on core meltdown a lifetime in the making.

I would listen to his album over and over because when life has been a bit raw there’ s always an album to keep me afloat or tie the wreckage together to float and paddle to safety so I can recharge and rebuild. If you haven’t died a few times in life I think you’re missing out on some great potential tunes.  Listening to the songs again now it still pokes at something a little sore, a little cool and it makes me want to write a better script just to honor this song, I like it, I like his sound and make this latest comb for remaining wreckage on the sea bed floor something I can rock to or dance to or make love to with someone amphibious.

Edwyn Collins “Keep on Burning”

peace and diligence,

Rev 66 Peachnuts