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.

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.

The Art of Being Pleasantly Unpleasant

There are many things in daily life which are necessary pleasantries, which are in essence unpleasant and annoying, but mostly tolerable. Sometimes things cross the line. I’m an actor, and as such, all my non-thespian friends love to ask “how’s acting going?” in that tone, THAT tone, and if you’re an actor you recognize and hate that skeptical-disparaging-get-a-real-career-I-can’t-wait-till-you-make-it-so-then-I-could-be-friends-with-a-movie-star tone of voice.

How’s acting. Let’s get a few things clear.

1. You aren’t my friend. If we’re connected on Facebook, yet you proceed to ask me what the name of the show I’m on is…you suck.

2. You don’t think I will ever be successful. Oh, but you will! You’re going to make 80K a year, and have a boring life. You’ll also be thinking on your deathbed of how pathetic your life was, and how you should’ve been anything in life but what you were. You bitter critical old fuck. I’ll be sure to bring flowers to your grave.

3. You hope that when I become successful you will get lots of pussy because you can say you know me. Right? Wrong. At worst you’ll be handing me pussy on a silver platter. At best, they’re fucking you thinking of me inside them.

4. You ask questions such as “How’s acting going?”. I don’t ask you how’s doctoring going, how’s being an accountant or how’s zookeeping going. I ask how’r the wife, the kids, the job, the boring stuff. But then again, what should you ask? I don’t feel like acting’s a job after all, it’s my life. Maybe just stick with how are you? Especially since you don’t really give a shit. Continue reading

Me VS My Laptop

Ok, this isn’t working. You’re not getting this done. You need to prepare, shut off communication for a few hours. Reflect on this role.

Goddamit dude, c’mon do it.

Close this tab..x out Twitter, log off Facebook. No I can’t log off Facebook. Facebook is one of those things, kinda like breathing, ya know? It’s supposed to not stop, it’s good to have it open. Healthy.

Ok dude stfu, close Youtube, there, done.

Close blog, no wait refresh page, check stats. Ok not bad, steadily climbing. Not bad at all man.

Fuck, I’m hungry!

Shit dude, focus.

Ok, write post about what i’m thinking now as I attempt to shut off my computer.


Yes, inspiration strikes, you write. Ok.

Dammit. I hear kids playing.

Turn on Pandora. No. Yes. Prepare the fucking script already, it’s no easy role. No.

Ok, pause writing. BRB.

Good there it is. Shit, too loud, volume down.

Yes I actually just did all that. Fuck what song is this it’s annoying. Change channels. There much better.

Take picture for the blog, it’ll be stupid and boring otherwise. Ok fast.

Shit. Turn off the flash. There. Better angle.

K hurry upload it.

Shit Imagine by John Lennon just came on. I gotta listen to the whole song. Turn that volume back on.