Jeremy's Broken Moment

Jeremy sits on the edge of his bed with a loaded gun in his hand. He stares at the floor molding in front of him, neither focused on it or focused on the gun that rests in his peripheral foreground. He cannot focus on a single object because his mind wanders on the dark light that surrounds him. There is no distinct point of concentration in his mind. Only waves of terror, pain, and decision. This is the end.
He places the nozel of the loaded gun into his mouth. His lips can feel the hardness of the gun's metal and hard edges. His teeth clank against the long shaft of the weapon that will kill him. The flat end of the gun scratches the top of his mouth. He can taste the sharp and electric tang of cold steel. He can feel the barrels opening with his tongue.
He pulls the trigger. The trigger is stiff and hard to finally snap, but it does. The entire gun quakes with force and jolt the crashes against his teeth and mouth. His lips wrap tightly around the gun to hold it steady as the bullet makes its was down the barrel. Finally, it escapes.
At first, Jeremy cannot feel the bullet in his mouth. The bullet flies in dead air, only hitting the falling saliva that protrude Jeremy's glands. But as the bullet moves freely, it finds the back of Jeremy's throat. It shreds through the first thin layer of membraned esophagus, twisting and turning through layer after layer. Then, once it has penetrated the flesh, it finds bone. All the nerve endings have been singed to feel extraordinary pain followed by nothing. The blood is evaporated by the heat of the moving vessel. A vessel of death.
The bullet enters Jeremy's soft, pink, and electromagnetic brain. Moving through like a wrecking ball, the bullet destroys the communication between each synapse. His mental conversation falls flat. The topic is lost. But the bullet is not done. It still proceeds to escape the caverns of Jeremy's brain, breaking through cellular membrane, fluids, blood, water, and bone. The bone crumbles in the presence of the bullet, becoming dust in its wake.
The last level is the skin. It cannot contain the force of the bullet, nor will it try. Rather, it opens up for the bullet to find it's freedom in the open air before it.
Jeremy dies. The bullet lives on.

Death of the Frog

To croak or not to crock? That is the question that boggles the lives of the amphibious. Lift your head into the sky and with your last breath, inflate your neck to the heavens.

This was for love. No, this was for the royalty. No, this was for the love of royalty. This was to immortalize my journey. To journalize my story. To tell the tale of how I climbed mountains in a bound. How once a tad pole became a rule of lily pads. How pond via pond, I changed an entire nation and brought it to its knees.

Give me your hands. Let me feel your fingers across my swollen body. Feel each bump of my courage. Stare into the blackness of my eyes and they loose they memories. My spirt yet is not so lost. I will live on in your heart.

So kiss my lips. Taste my weakened tongue one last time. Listen as I whisper my passing. See me blossom into a prince.

Blank Pages

Ready?
I haven't written anything in a while because I simply haven't. I don't mind that I haven't. But it doesn't mean that I haven't wanted to. Before, when I wasn't writing anything, I would just stare at a black screen. Then I stopped doing that and just stared at my computer from across the room. When I stopped doing that, I would just stare at the floor. And so on and so forth until I was staring at my stare. Then I started going to youporn instead.
I have a friend who keeps asking me to write a short film or commercial or something for him to direct. I just think, but I have youporn now. Why would I want to go back and stare at the black page again.
The worst thing about writing is reading you own work again. I equate it with staring at the toilet after I've taken a mean shit. I know what I ate, Why do I need to see it now that it came out of my ass. I know what I wrote. Why subject myself to its stench.
Writing can be good for you though. You get to express your feeling about issues in the world or in your life. You get to talk to an open sea of "readers". You get to spellcheck. You can tell a story.
Shit fuck dick horse shit fuck dick. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? Try reading it out loud. No really, try it. You see? I wrote it, you read it, I read it.
This is the hard part now. I am tired, I am writing. it's been so long since I've written. I don't know how to end this. Like it needs an ending. Does writing need anything? Do I need writing?
I think about it for the next time I write something.

I am...

This was an old post, but I am re-posting it. That was how I felt. I think we all feel that way sometimes.
Bless...

My name is Alexander. I am lost. I am nothing. I am not.
You know me as I am, but what I am you do not know. I choose not to show all my colors because I do not know what shade they are. I am drooling on my own sleeve and no one seems to care. I am shouting for help, a lifeboat to carry me from my insecurities and fear and no one seems to notice. I am not invisible. I am not being rational. I am better that I am. I cannot see this.
You know me better that I know my self. I choose this self-pity as a form of expression so that I can discover what makes me so sad. I am not sad. I am happy. I am asking my self to be. I am trying really hard right now to know who I am. I am a writer because I am writing this. I am writing a new screenplay. I am writing my life on the canvas of space and time. I am riding the wave of development. I am not a high school football star. I am a film maker. I am thinking of the next film I want to make. I am always thinking of films I want to make. I am always telling myself that everyone is thinking of the next movie they want to make. I am afraid they want to make my next movie.
You may want to make a movie. I choose to question my ability of weather or not I can. I am full of questions. I am weak. I am strong. I am venting. I am cooking. I am cleaning.
You are hear to listen. I choose to tell you. I am an actor. I am able to take on characters as if I am them. I am a good guy. I am a bad guy. I am a Vietnam Vet. I am a schoolteacher from Alabama. I am a Mexican gang leader of the Vigilantly Vatos. I am a dangerous government weapon. I am gay living in Alaska. I am Cain. I am able. I am looking for a movie to act in right now.
You love me. I choose to love and not fight. I am in love. I am loving it. I am loving. I am going to listen to a love. I am going to listen to a rap song. I am green. I am raw. I am going to cry now. I am laughing. I am on Facebook. I am an astronaut. I am looking at a sliver of the moon and dreaming of walking there. I am sharing a glass of red wine with fine friends. I am sick. I am feeling better now Thanks.
You might be board now. I am board now.
My name is Alexander. I am somewhere new. I am many things. I am.

It doesn't happen over night...or does it?

One star goes out and falls to the burning ground of reality. Death is inevitable and chooses when to take you. Unfortunately, sometimes you go face down and naked. Such was the fate of a man I admired as an actor. To me, Mr. Ledger could brave the scrutiny and judgement too many actors allow to cripple their careers. But he did not let review stop him from making his next move, even to play a character many of us thought had been mastered, the Joker.
I have not seen the new Batman film, but my senses and previews tell me, it will be a wild ride, and Mr. Ledger's performance will be one for the books. But not the old dusty books of Hollywoods Golden Age, a new book that we are writing today. A "to-be" book that is, at this moment in time, only a zine. In this zine of class acts for the 21st century are the men and women we watch today, and some we have yet to discover, who makes our souls move about as our bodies seem to sit in a chair. After the film or episode, we say, "Wow, that guy's a good actor," or, "She was amazing." It is as simple as that and means so much.
Mr. Ledger was a good actor, and damn good actor. Watch his movies and you'll see why. He could express a persons internal conflict through the flicker of his eye and the twitch of his mouth. His uncanny pain seen of his character Ennis in "Brokeback Mountain" proved that love stories are not for the weak hearted, but must be takes with a rational comprehension of the human complexity that is love, for a woman or a man. Again in "I'm Not There." And finally to fill in the shoes of the Joker could be a disappointment, but would not change his bravery for doing it.
I appreciated his work for the characters he took on. As an actor, I am attracted to portraying, to enveloping the same type of characters. I find it interesting to express the complexity and multiplicity of peoples. And I am saddened that he will not do it again. He was obviously a complex person himself.
Over night, like that, a talent is gone. Though I never met the man, I likes what he could do. I was impressed. So I will hold with me the impression the young actor left for me and everyone on the screen, and use it to better my development as an actor.
His death in real life leaves me with this, Take Care. To all actors, industry workers, and Earthlings, take care. Don't let the multiple layers of you self suffocate you. Roll over, get up, and take on the restless night, and the next day.

Memories Through Windows

A grey world, shaded in blue. My head poking out from under the green. I am scared of the semi dark. I see in the light, knowing that the light cannot see what is in the dark. My mom tells me to imagine the light surrounding me. Safe now. The light is not the same all over. It changes or stands individually but protective. The light proves me strong, composed most powerful the structures of the world. I am new, young, filled with misunderstandings attempting but never been understood. In truth, I lay on bed of darkness, retaining what goes on forever. What keeps me afloat are images of sliced cool cucumbers in the salad my mom made for us at dinning room dinners. The rice held strong, but fell soft. Warm dim light, a candle illuminating wood, production of the soft bulb underneath an old cheerful lamp shade. We all sit, I don’t remember who was always there but feel comfortable in knowing that I loved them all. Or if in kitchen, feeling of her warm embrace transpired into the food of each bite. I embrace now, but the food is not as good, its production is improving. The way my chair was angled, the way one leg is out and one is under the table that hums with a jolt, legs that danced the yellow linoleum of a golden gate weaved. The heat pots steam glass. It’s been so long since steamed glass. So long since embracing cooking. So long since young days. For granted? Obviously not.