What's Next?

Sylvia Brock, for the first time in the year and a half since she's known him, is not looking forward to meeting with Edwin Still Davidson. Their meeting is scheduled for lunch at Perry's Cafe, an upscale brunch/dinner kind of place situated between the 1 and Carmel Bay just south of Monterrey. She took a tram up from LA that morning and arrived to Carmel early enough that she was able to walk off some of her tension on the beach. She walked north past Pebble Beach all the way to Stillwater Cove before she realized she could only walk so far before she had to turn back and face her fears. How long could she have expected to put off the inevitable anyways? Was she really even considering keeping on walking all the way north to Oregon and maybe eventually Canada and a name change and a new life or was she just hungry and a little tired and eager to be done with the whole mess? It wasn't like she was giving Edwin a death sentence or anything. But it was definitely troubling news to her that the big-wigs at McCarthy and Sons were growing antsy and impatient with their rising young star. A tiny little condition of the contract Edwin'd been so cautious to sign had stipulated that a second work (in any form and length) would be required no more than four years into the life of said contract. OtRoL was quickly coming up on its fourth anniversary and Edwin was still riding the crested wave of success on a more or less daily basis, leaving Sylvia to conclude that Edwin had written nothing suitable for following in the mammoth wake of OtRoL. She'd known from the very moment she'd read the contract that the stipulation was a ridiculous joke and extremely offensive to any artist with even the minutest shred of self-worth but that also the ridiculously large sum of currency that McCarthy and Sons offered Edwin seemed to more-or-less overshadowed the requirement of a new piece so soon, at least considering the council of Edwin's obviously inept lawyer. Under normal circumstances, Sylvia could understand a publishing firm requiring such a stipulation given that most new authors either had a tremendous back-log or were so enthusiastic about their new-found success that popping out another quick little piece in a few years was not at all unreasonable to expect. But, as Sylvia had come to notice very quickly in her relationship with Edwin, expecting anything was expecting too much. The man was a basketcase wrapped in a nutshell of psychosis. 

 

Sylvia approaches the parking lot where she walked onto the beach approximately three hours prior. She is hungry and tired and beginning to wonder if the meeting should be rescheduled. But her superiors are waiting. There is much at stake here. Sometimes, at night, Sylvia wakes up in a cold sweat in her tiny little studio, thinking about her life thus far; thinking about the place that she has carved out for herself. There are thoughts that she chooses not to entertain for very long. But for their limited residency, these thoughts are powerful enough to insert the gist of their message on Sylvia—she wonders how much of what she is doing is within her control. She wonders—how much of this life is her's? This is all she has ever wanted, this shot at fame and glory. Just a quick glance at her bank statements shows her that she is now a part of the big leagues. But is it really her's to begin with. What is she doing here? Who is she but a representation of something else? There are painful reminders that grab her gut when she is in that euphoric half-sleep that remind her that without the basket-case, she would still be nothing more than a glorified proof-reader at her Godfather's firm, making low five figures and eking out a living in one of the most overpopulated and expensive cities on the planet. It all seems so farcical to her, the idea that her entire career could be based off of the success of someone else. She might role over in her half-sleep and try to find a more comfortable spot in her king size bed, somewhere where the thoughts didn't invade, somewhere where sleep was more important than reflection. And always she would fall back asleep. 

 

The parking lot. Beyond is Perry's and the meeting. Why is she so bothered? Questions, always questions running through her mind. The sound of shore birds and the low thunder of the crashing surf. These things barely make an impact. Her mind is racing and all that exists in the real world is the ground directly in front of her. An old fisherman smiles at her as she walks up the boardwalk towards the parking-lot. He is missing several teeth and there is a bucket in his hand, a pole hanging over his shoulder. She has to force herself to notice these things, to stop and take consideration of what is going on around her in the world. The old man walks out to the ocean and sets down his bucket maybe twenty feet from the water. There are clouds rolling in from the west. Perhaps a storm later today.

 

Sylvia has stopped on the boardwalk leading from the beach to the parking lot. She is gazing at the ocean, her hand gently stroking the gnarly wood of the railing. 

 

She is trying to psych herself out or up or whatever. She is trying to tell herself that none of this really matters. That all that matters is the ebb and flow of the tide, the constant things in the world. 

 

There is a news van parked outside of Perry's. He must be there, waiting for her. Probably fending off would-be admirers to the chagrin of the waitstaff. Part of her is envious. A large part that has fangs. It could be her, in there now. The roles could be reversed. It's stupid to think such things. Pointless even. But she thinks them just the same. Keeps the thoughts hidden away in a deeper part of her mind, below the other things she is ashamed to think of, the things she can't help but entertain because they force themselves on her, through some sort of evolutionary mechanism. She does not want to understand why these thoughts are here. She is afraid of the why. All she knows is that they are there and this is her life that she has made for herself. Success in the face of all odds. Attaching her hook to the nearest shooting star. In this industry, hell—in any industry really—it's all you can do. She is one of the lucky ones. At least she had foresight and enough luck to see what needed to be done. 

 

Oh but if it should all end now. 

 

What's next?

 

The gulls are crying as the fisherman lifts his rod into the air and sails the line into the foaming surf. What will he catch? Are there fish out there, even now swimming about, oblivious to the fate which on this day has befallen them?

 

Sylvia has sand caked on her bear feet. She has carried her shoes between both hands. She sits on a bench at the end of the boardwalk leading from the beach to the parking lot and tries to concentrate on her present state of mind. She does her breath exercises like her psych—therapist—taught her to do in stressful situations. She concentrates on the current state of her being, on the grains of wood nail to boardwalk at her feet. The feel of the cool westerly wind at her left side, with it a hint of icy chill in the air, still too distant to yet comprehend. The gulls overhead and even the traffic buzzing past like a walkie-talkie through a phase shifter out on the 101.

 

There is some deep rising emotion present in her now that she cannot identify. It is as though the tide has shifted and instead of running from it, she is now chasing it into the frothy sea.

 

The shifting cloud cover brings a cold wind Sylvia has not dressed for, so she stands up and trudges across the road to Perry's.

The Monkeys of Silver River

I've been hiking a lot lately. I'd say last week I probably did close to 40 miles through the Lower Hillsborough River Wilderness Preserve, mostly on the Old Fort King Trail and the Dead River Park Trail. 

But that's not what this is about.

Although it is sort of related. I was hiking along the Dead River Park access road, which is really beautiful by the way--fully shaded by a giant oak canopy for like two straight miles--but so there I was--hiking along in the dead heat of the afternoon, lugging along my pack and my sore legs when I spotted a troupe of feral boar in the brush just off the trail

 I've heard some stories about these pigs. They can get really mean. Most of the time, they'll run from you. But, occasionally they get kind of ornery. Sometimes, they'll charge and gore at you with their tusks. It's rare and not usually deadly but--shit. That's kind of scary.

But so I was walking along, watching these pigs run off into the brush, snorting and carrying on like I was some kind of monster coming to get them.

This got me thinking. 

When I tell folks I like to go for REALLY LONG walks through the woods by myself, they usually ask me: aren't you scared?

Honestly, there isn't much to be scared of out there. Pigs could be scary. But I carry a knife and no potential bacon is gonna take me down without a fight. 

There are a few things in Florida which are scary:

 And yes the picture of the Black Widow is intentionally not very realistic. 

Panthers are beautiful animals. I don't know of any attacks on humans but it's still crazy to think about big cats roaming around out there while I'm hiking by myself.

But so I got to thinking, while I was hiking, about a particular place--Silver River State Park 

It's a great place to go for a picnic and a hike. My family always stops in when we're in that part of North Central Florida.

But so I can remember hiking one time through Silver River and we were coming up to the river on the trail and I saw something that I never thought I would see in Florida

 
Take a moment to find it. Yeah. That's a fucking monkey.

Evidently, there is a small population of feral Rhesus Macaques living along the Silver River. And they're thriving.

We were walking up to the river, approaching the dock, and I swear to you, one of the bigger ones jumped up on the railing and just stood there, watching us. It was the creepiest thing I'd ever seen.

But it was also kind of cool. A monkey...in the wild...in Florida.

That was the day I decided to start carrying a knife whenever I go hiking. Not saying this chill little mammal wanted anything to do with that. But it's good knowing I have tools and he doesn't.

There was a rumor in the area that the monkeys had escaped during the filming of a Tarzan movie back in the '30s in the Ocala National Forest.

Evidently there is another rumor that a local tour-boat operator released the monkeys in an effort to make his tour more exciting. 

This is where the story gets interesting. When you watch the Tarzan movie, there are no monkeys in it. That is the whole basis for the tour-boat operator theory--because there were no monkeys in the Tarzan film, the monkeys must have come from the crazed tour-boat operator. 


I don't know which I believe. It seems possible that there were monkeys on the set of the film and that they just never used them (maybe because they *gasp* escaped!). But then again, Florida is famous for bringing out the most industrious of marketers for tourism

 Still...whatever the story behind it...there are monkeys running wild in my home state (not to mention anacondas) 

This is a pretty crazy place we live in when you stop and think about it a for moment


(btw, none of those photos are mine.)
 

Aliens

Dad keeps telling me about how him and mom were almost abducted by aliens a few nights ago. 

Okay, well first of all, I think it's kind of sweet that him and mom have started playing ping-pong every night down at the clubhouse in the 21 and up community they moved to a few years ago after selling the house. It's good for them. They don't socialize--it's easy to see where I got that from. I'm pretty sure neither of them were too excited to move into such a place but Mom was sold when she heard the words "swimming pool." I guess sooner or later, you have to face up to the fact that you're getting older. Life is moving forward, without any abandon.

I keep thinking about the story Dad tells me. 

The neighborhood is in a pretty remote part of Florida, on the east coast, well south of the bright lights of Daytona's beach and New Smyrna's oozing suburbs. North of the Cape and the World's first wildlife refuge. North of Kennedy and Titusville and Melbourne and Orlando. Basically, the backwoods. 

No lights around. Dad says they were walking the dog one night, coming home from a heavy match-up at the clubhouse. They were getting to a part of the road where there is nothing but water on either side. The dog was distracted, pulled off onto the shoulder. Mom noticed a light in the middle of the road--described as a pale yellow light, circular in diameter, directly in the center of the road. 

Dad tells me this light stayed in the center of the road for about eight seconds--just long enough to notice. And then it disappeared. Dad says he then turned around to see if there was anyone around but being as it was around 2 am, the neighborhood, which is usually pretty dead to begin with, was particularly quiet at that hour. He says, with no small degree of uncertainty on his part, that he saw a light in the sky flashing away, like a shooting star, in less that a second. 

I've started taking Valarian Root for my nervousness and it gives me crazy, nearly lucid dreams. 

I had a dream the other night about Dad's story. I dreamed about Mom and Dad getting abducted and disappearing forever. 

I haven't had a dream so vivid since I made the Ouija board and later dreamed about a seance involving demons trying to suck me into the nether world and the aunt who was like a mother to me that cancer devoured a few years back. She was trying to explain something to me. The wind was swirling and right as the demons started lifting my feet off the ground, there she was, calm as can be, telling me something that seemed incredibly important at the time. It could have been the secret to the universe but I forgot it by the time my eyes wrenched open.

I drowned two capsules of valerian with cheap beer about an hour ago. The pages of my bio textbook were swaying like crops in the breeze. I can't even say for certain if I'm really awake right now. All I can think about is how I can't remember any good dreams...only the really vivid nightmares. 

I think that's because my mind knows the good dreams aren't real. They're just a reflection of my desires. It's the bad ones that make me question what is going on up there. Those are the ones that stick around, like a bad taste in the mouth. It's like they're trying to tell me something and all I can think about is wrenching my eyes open. 

Observations

Was sitting at the food court in the Marshall Center today when I noticed a girl, sitting by herself a few tables away. For some reason, I was compelled to create a written sketch. I mean, sure she was pretty and all but that wasn't why. There was a certain sadness to the way she sat there, by herself, simply eating. 

She was building a castle out of the paraphernalia cluttering the table, pretending to busy herself with information on the dessert menu resting between the salt-and-pepper shaker and the napkin holder. She sat alone at a four seater table, comfortably wedged into the crutch of her seat. The chicken sandwich never left her hands and was never placed on the table. She ate slowly, purposefully, but with a hint of remorse and gratitude at the food's ability to distract her troubled mind. When she was done, she carefully folded the meal's packaging into a tight crumble. 

Everyone here busies themselves with conversation or their computer. She alone sits alone and unfettered by distraction, choosing instead to savor the meal exclusively. 

I don't usually stalk people like that/\. Sometimes I'm just struck by the way certain people carry themselves and I can't look away. 

I feel like I need to start doing this exercise more often. 

Finals?...ain't nobody got time for that

This right here is my jam.

The Dark Side

I was in the darker part of youtube today and I stumbled upon something that I hadn't seen in years.

It still makes no sense but it was directed by Renny Harlin and it has the Scorpions, so it's pretty much the GTE (greatest.thing.evar)

I was inspired at the time to make my own chase scene with some friends. Unfortunately, I recorded over the best parts. This misfortune remains one of the great tragedies in my life.

Music is the broom of the system

I have this weird obsession.

I love film music.

Not like musicals. No, actual orchestral soundtracks to motion pictures.

See, when I was a kid I was obsessed with orchestras. The way each one sounded different and unique. I would listen to a different recording of the same piece and try to figure out the differences in arrangement. Yeah, I didn't have a lot of friends during this period of my life.

There was something particularly unique about film scores though that grabbed my attention more so than straight up and up classical (though I do listen to Rachmaninoff whenever I feel overcome by melancholia).

And this one when I feel like taking over the world:

But I digress

Orchestras--

Something about such a large number of musicians playing together and sounding so amazing that just captivates me.

Some of my earliest memories of film are

Danny Elfman's Batman

John Williams Jurassic Park

From there I was hooked. These were exciting movies with awesome soundtracks played by dynamic, huge Hollywood orchestras.

When I was a teenage and most other kids my age were listening to whatever, I was saving my pennies for the Deluxe Limited Edition Star Trek Soundtrack, because well honestly, Jerry Goldsmith was maybe the greatest film composer to ever live (except for maybe John Williams, but it's really close)


Take for example-- Rudy, a movie no one outside of sport fans still remember. But then there was that score by Jerry Goldsmith that just blew the lid off the place--this track alone has been in like twenty movie trailers in the last fifteen years

Of course, Goldsmith's crowning achievement, what he is most remember for is his theme for Star Trek: The Motion Picture

 

And see it's not so much the films that do it for me, though I will admit that there is nothing more likely to bring me to tears than a moving piece of music set to beautiful imagery

(And speaking of differing arrangements, check out the 3 different arrangements used for the film, the version used on the soundtrack, and in the LOTR symphony...cough...nerd)(but hopefully, constant reader, you see my point--the music still retains it's power, despite the differences in performance)

But honestly, it's the music that draws me the most--the power and spontaneity of 100+ musicians working together to make something beautiful. In fact, the film can be shit as long as the music is good

(Actually Cutthroat Island isn't that bad of a movie)

 But so this is all really bombastic stuff. I'm not gonna sit here and try to say that I don't also enjoy the softer, mellow stuff too

I don't know why...I think this kind of music just appeals to me as a story teller...it's so visual, all you have to do is close your eyes and use your imagination and BAMstoryidea.