Passion Kindled

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Hope. It begins as a small feeling. Perhaps set off by an act of kindness from a stranger, to a stranger or just a glance from someone that shows they peeked out of their own inhibited, closed world in which they go about their day all day every day to peek into yours. To wonder, to ask, to share or laugh.

The feeling begins increasing, being kept alive by forces unseen. At some point it overtakes your body, up to the very tips of your ears, causing you to become so overtaken by whatever it is that you simply cannot contain it. It must be written, be smiled, be felt.

It vibrated throughout the core, the essence of your very being. It is happiness perhaps, at times pure, unbridled motivation.

A sense of I can. I must. I am. That is hope. That is the future.

The work of a lifetime to never lose that capability. To be able to hope and to yearn for the better of humanity, of your dreams, of a peaceful time.

It connects you to your emotions, and is a wonderful place to be in on set or before meeting an agent or casting director.

Passion kindled knows no bounds. <

Mile High Reflections

I’m sitting on the plane on my way to my first ever screening of a film I’ve been in. We were accepted to a festival in LA, and I’m half way through my flight.

My seat mate is a gentleman who works as a camera operator for the networks, mostly filming sports events, and, as someone who travels often, is well known to the plane staff and was kind and able enough to have the flight attendant bring me a few rounds of bourbon.

Martin Scorsese’s Hugo was just playing on the overhead screen as part of the in flight entertainment program on American Airlines. Although a slow moving film, it is one that tells the story of every filmmaker, actor or other sort of artist and was a rather apropos film to see at this moment.

It is a story of dreams, of something from nothing, of the true joy of acting and film. Aside from simply accurately portraying real life in a grittier way as movies are wont to do, it describes-no, it paints, the picture of a far more intricate process. See, film, when it was discovered was a novelty. More, it was magic. It was nothing more than a more complex and expressive card trick. Card tricks don’t talk, they simply entertain. Movies however, they can tell stories.

Ah, the wonder! A dragon chases a group of warriors! A rocket shoots the moon, who’s surface is likened into a mans face!

When the movie ended I glanced over at the laptop of someone a few rows in front of me, who with the in flight wifi was watching a modern TV show. The contrast is stark.

Although I’m generally far more into movies and TV that portray modern life, or at least life in some sort if realistic way, Hugo seems to have brought out a new side of the art to the forefront. It made prominent the idea of imagination, of classic cinema, of the romance which drew most of us into the business in the first place.

Listening to some old rap, Biggie etc., although not in the spirit of a movie set in France, and it’s reflecting upon my mood of appreciation for classic cinema and art. Notice Marylyn Monroe. Marlin Brando. The Greats. They didn’t simply act. They weren’t in their own heads. They were alive, they were vibrant, buzzing with a charismatic invisible force at every glistening moment they spent on stage or screen, dancing, acting, singing and entertaining an audience of mesmerized people.

It also reminded me of something I think about mostly every waking moment, which I suppose may sound a bit trite.

I will succeed.

I always know that, believe that, feel that, and know it has to be. You see, I don’t have a plan B.

Well, technically I do. I’m a capable individual and can take care of myself. But I don’t want a plan B. Because there can’t be one. As our wonderful character Papa George, the brilliant filmmaker told us, “the world is a machine and we’re all just a piece. We need to be here and have a purpose.”

I think we each know where ours is, and I most certainly feel mine.

Hello, Would You Like to Fuck?

I came to an interesting realization tonight. It makes me part narcissist, part misogynist, part delusional perhaps, yet mostly self aware and truthful.

I’d just seen a movie with a girl I’ve been fucking for a few weeks. Post movie we’d fucked, once, for about 40 minutes. I decided I didn’t want to stay over, so excused myself saying I wanted my own bed that night. She wished me luck battling the subway system, and I kissed her good night as I headed out.

Walking onto the eerily empty 3am subway platform I noticed a girl, solid 7.5, sitting on the bench. She smiled. I sat down at the opposite end, and minding my own business wrote down a quick thought in my moleskin I had with me from an earlier class.

“What’r you writing?”

I looked up to see her talking to me, and we proceeded to make small conversation as we rode the train.

“I get off next stop, I’d love to hang out sometime, we should keep on touch”, I said.

“Sure,” she responded, “what’s your number? Last name?” After exchanging information I bid her good night as I got off the train, and it hit me.

I’m good.

Now, not the kinda good that walks into a bar and every girl wants to jump me. But the kinda good that I know as soon as I begin talking to a girl, that if she agrees to exchange information, I pretty much know that we will have sex if I want to. Barring a last minute flake on her part, or an unusual girl who clarifies on the second date that she wants something serious or is a devout Mormon, I’m pretty much vag deep without pulling down my pants.

I’m aware this sounds sick, and I’m not on the prowl like I was a few short months ago. It’s just that it’s a powerful realization to come to, that I can pretty much make sure sex happens when I want it. If I want to get laid, I can, and easily.

Dear Cunt, I’m Going To Clear Your Plate

Dear Guest,

Classes. Something basic, yet complicated in its definition is what we deal with on a day to day, moment to moment basis in many an aspect of our existence.

One goes to a bar. He spies a beautiful woman, yet shies away from approaching her either for fear of rejectment or acknowledgement of his own inadequacies.

Or what he thinks are his own inadequacies.

In reality, what’s happening is he perceives himself to be a part of a specific group of people; a people that is unable to mix, mingle or be a part of any aspect of the subject of his adoration, interest or focus.

The fear of rejection is but a by product of the inner workings of his mind. Because he believes himself to be but a cog in the current events of his community, his surroundings and that of the general society, as opposed to an active, contributing part of a vibrant, successful and kind circle of supporters, he therefore lacks the self confidence to simply say hello to a beautiful woman.

Nail an audition.

Introduce himself to the CEO and prove himself to be worthy of that 150k a year salary.

You see, the moment one looks at life like an opportunity to prove, rather than explore and be stimulated by his surroundings, as Harold Guskin speaks of so eloquently about the actor’s audition process, he’s indeed simply a cog, a piece in the puzzle, as opposed to an advisor to the king.

The difference between the two, while very much a reality, began not as an issue of capability, but of inner self worth. The cog decided he must simply turn, move the wheel that moves the other wheel, while the advisor realized he was smarter than the king, and can better make the cog work.

Being in one class or another may be defined by the world at large. Working class Рblue collar and white collar, millionaire, billionaire, immigrant. Personally I very much am aware of the difference between various peoples in society. Mexicans clean the tables in the pizza shop, models from Ukraine sell you jewelry and promote Vodka brands,  blacks steal that same jewelry, blonde bimbos find millionaire husbands and host charity events, get plastic surgery and send their bratty children to prep schools, and Jews control most of the above.

But I’m also aware that what I just mentioned is but a stereotype, a mere perception of the races, a division of the classes partly judged by the vocal minority of its disruptive, beautiful, or dumb individuals, and partially judged BY those individuals.

We’re all people. I may be serving you, I may have made your martini (you wanted it dry, shaken not stirred) but I sure as hell don’t feel like the image that comes to mind regarding servers, bartenders, housemaids or however else society deems it appropriate I view myself.

You may regard me with a certain air of superiority, intelligence or raw disdain.

Just know that I don’t care.

And if I did, I’d pity you.

Sincerely,
Your server

Art or Acting?

I never really understood what being an artist meant. You see, I always had an intensity about me interpreted differently by different people. Some said I was OCD. Some said I cared. Art was looked at as something acquired, like the appreciation for beer, fine wine or foi gras. Interestingly enough, I set out to write a piece on the fluctuations of my mood regarding myself wanting to date seriously or be more of a free bird.

Which proves my point.

Creativity, being artistically inclined, is something one is born with. It’s borne of a frenetic impatience with the slow, methodic, plodding slightly boring – if melodramatic – pace of the doldrums of everyday existence. It isn’t a skill that can be acquired. Sure, anyone can learn to be a decent actor, painter, chef.

But an artist? That comes along with a responsibility. To oneself. To fulfill that incessant, pounding, hollow, painful, yet terrifiyingly thrilling sense of adventure. Need for adventure, for the expression which comes so spontaneously to those of us privileged enough to call ourselves artists.

It’s a natural, instinctual ability and need for expression. That expression finds its way out through various mediums. Some through painting, others through music and yet others through acting. Actors identify as “troubled souls” simply because we’re more in touch with the soul. We’re all troubled.

As usual, this piece wasn’t written, rather it splurged out while riding the NYC subway. Which again, goes to further my point.

Bringing myself back to my original thoughts I intended I write about. Girls. After dating one, I swear to not be back in a relationship. I say it’s impossible to be happy in one for someone like myself. Yet at times I’ll realize that’s untrue.

Stay tuned.

Art, Women, Wine and Life

We only live once. As a child, learning is what we must do. As we get older, a hunger for knowledge festers, grows, and develops until we must absorb what our mind desires. Beyond the basics of math, phonetics, basic science and other skills to be able to go about our day to day activities there exists a whole realm of topics that beacon the intellect of minds the world over.

Art. Who was Picasso? What’s his signature? His trademark? What drove him? To delve into his psyche, and the psyche of other greats is to understand the generations preceding us, to comprehend their brilliance, their take on events current to their existence. It reveals their shortcomings, their simplicity, their vision and their hopes.

Wines. The study of which I’m not adept at. The differentiation between a more full, more ’round’ wine and a lesser, more simple, but equally tasteful, may evade my taste buds, but admitting and acknowledging there’s much I do not grasp about different vintages is in and of itself a step in the right direction.

Women. I find many women I go out with, intelligent as they may be are lacking a certain class, a sophistication of what I believe a true woman should have. I’m sure many women feel the same about men. Peter Pan Syndrome is widespread. Facebook is a disease. A real man should have a working knowledge of the world, and a thorough understanding of what that knowledge should consist of is, in an of itself a prerequisite to joining the society cloaked in mystery that is the true alpha male.

Knowing how to do things, how to survive Рand in turn to live Рnot necessarily in a post apocalyptic wilderness, but in the urban chaos in which we dwell, is a skill many are lacking. Social etiquette, and more importantly when to abandon it completely is a matter of perception, of class and sophistication. Not to mention utter necessity for anyone wishing to rise above the masses, escape the endless, mindless race of humanity and live.

Simply looking to enjoy oneself is insufficient to satisfy the ever-hungering human mind. Craving a new understanding, becoming a wealth of information, if not for oneself is imperative for one’s own intellectual and artistic integrity and curiosity.

Guys Like Us Are the Most Honest Men Around

I came far in the past year in my own game. Went from a fuck or 2 a year, to what should be shaping up to 3 girls a month. Alot of my friends, even those who encouraged me to “get out there more, fuck around some more” now think I’m crazy. Especially those in relationships.

Whenever I develop feelings for a girl, almost immediately I develop feelings of being constricted and locked down. So that’s how I know I’m not “ready for a relationship” – as if it’s something to aspire to – and that’s how I am (slowly) learning to avoid feelings in the 1st place.

They call us perv’s. Perverts? US??? We’re just the most honest men on the planet really. Most guys settle down, because they are doing exactly that. SETTLING. DOWN. Settling for less, because they’re too cowardly to admit that all they want is pussy, or too scared to go out and get it.

“Until you’ve experienced love you’re just an immature guy in your 20’s running around chasing women”, they say. Yes Mr. Relationship, let’s talk again after the bitch who’s “loyal” cheats on you. Besides, who chases women? That’s where they go all wrong. As Roosh always says “Don’t put the pussy on the Pedestal.” I think I’ll take a naked poster of Mila Kunis, write that phrase across her tits and hang it above my bed. It’s where I’ll continue to mark my notches.

Fucking one girl may make you feel loved and wanted. Fucking many girls will make you feel like a man who can fend for himself.

Sure, we have to lie sometimes about our intentions to get the fuck, keep her around etc. But at least we aren’t lying to ourselves, and aren’t dishonest to women about the very thing they need. They do need to feel loved and wanted, and little do they know the men they’re with secretly just want more pussy, and they’re the easy way out of having to chase it. Even when the guy in a relationship is an Alpha male, and she is super hot, chances are he’s with her ONLY because of the pussy, not because he’s in love or anything like that. But in that case, being in a relationship is perhaps to be commended.

Bottom line, we may lie, but at least we are true to ourselves. Happy hunting.

PS: In the name of full disclosure, I don’t know if Mila’s ever posed naked. For a camera that is.