Oh eff it...Happy Holidays...

12.26.10
San Francisco

I'm always in my head and as such had plenty of time to reflect, especially about the holiday season...I have so much to be thankful for this year and for the first time, I truly believe that the new year is going to be better than ever.

On December 23rd, I rode the rails back in time to my often haunting past, yet this time with more confidence and virtually no anxiety to be felt at all. I almost began to feel anxious due to the lack of anxiety but calmed myself reminding my brain that I was leaving for warmth and good company instead of leaving out of fear or a desire for an escape.

I chatted it up with the conductor for most of the ride as if he was an old friend and gazed out at rolling and now green hills as well as a turbulent coastline...a storm was said to be on its way.

I felt zen.

O...and the other surprise to me was the amount of love I felt once in the town that haunts me so...it was confusing to me but I let it envelope me,

Strange...it...
Didn't feel like ghosts anymore.

I heard stories of healing, of growth and ones about falling.
Multiple stories about the big “C” and really?
At this age?
Poopy diapers, first steps, questions about when I,
Nathan,
Might decide to “grow up”
But I didn't care and enjoyed the pure act of observation without judgement.

I did lose my favorite sunglasses though

I slept like a baby, I smelled cinnamon and sometimes rosemary,
I found treasures from years ago and devoured them.
I hugged and I was hugged back.
I felt lonely even though I wasn't alone but deduct from this emotion that this is natural.
I read, more than I have read since the last time that I can remember.
I stared at the wall.
I did manly-man things.
I longed.
I played games with an almost four year old.
I thought of an old friend who is restrained.
I had food coma and when I arose, I preceded to inflict the same trauma upon my body once again
I never learn.
I researched information about Kwanzaa and I liked it
I hummed Bing Crosby tunes and some pop ones as well.
I told Sissy that she was beautiful and she really is.
Harrison Towne and I spoke about uneasy feelings and love and hate and
Connections after connection after construction of a new and better
Life.
Ginsberg spoke to me while I slept and I asked him to show me the way but there was
No Answer.
I was told that I needed a haircut at least sixteen times but have never been known to do what I am told.
I found out that Murkami wrote about my life in 1969 and as a tribute, I sang
“Here Comes the Sun”

Do, do, doo doooo

I feel...I feel...I feel content

A year ago, my home was a bench...and now today I am alive...
Whilst I don't care much for holidays or celebrating anything for that matter...today I will make an exception.

I am home.

Dive Into...

Neon sign nestled between high class coffee and
High class hookers or masseuse or whatever it is that's best to
Tell your friends is your
Beacon.
Jimmy fought Irish Joe and Johnny got punched in the head,
And Tommy suffered from a fractured shoulder at one time but doesn't
remember.

51 years ago I used to drink here...there was a redhead before but she's
Dead now. I feel more regret now than passion and I can taste
Copper.
I wish life was still and calm and peaceful, like that of a Boddhisatva,
But alas...warm fire, warm memories...how I hate them so, they make my skin feel like
Black.
When at sunrise and when the windows are closed to keep out the cold, all I hear
Is destruction after destruction after distraction and it all smells like
Piss.

Rinse and repeat.

I haven't seen Jimmy in awhile and wonder if he is okay. “Who? Presidio Jimmy or Pepsi Jimmy?”
“I don't know,” I say...”Jimmy” as I can't remember who is whom and which is which. “Jimmy, you know, Jimmy...sauza and lime Jimmy...drove a taxi for De Soto Jimmy.”

“He got into another fight over a woman...one of them Koreans...sent him to General for a week.”
I didn't bother to inquire whether he was okay or would be okay because soon he would be a memory like a dollar bill stuck to the wall of a dive bar with a signature or a brassiere nailed to the top of another to commemorate debauchery and drunkenness.

I ordered a shot and paid ten dollars to the thieves.

A few weeks later I saw Jimmy at the laundry mat, he was on the wagon with his head stitched up and his clothes wrinkled like that of a lazy teenager who's mother would no longer wash his clothes. His eyes were wide, clear and I wouldn't have normally recognized him, however, I was in a
Haze.

I pretended that I didn't know him and left in haste.

Life went by and weeks later I saw him again behind that pestering neon sign...

51 years ago I used to drink here...there was a redhead before but she's
Dead now. I feel more regret now than passion and I can taste
Copper.

The time change
Has me worried that I
Didn't vote correctly in this
Election
I forgot to see who had won and who had lost so I deduct from this that it doesn't really matter too much to me.

Opinions are commonplace
And everyone has one
But...did I feel any different
Or feel my life affected in a negative or positive way the next day?
I forgot.

Regret and mistakes I've made
haunt me
and I repeat
I miss the color purple

I want what I cannot and will not ever have.
Saphron shades of textiles bring me comfort
But shades of green remind me that there is no
meeting of the minds and
this

is all that this can ever be.
Like a child I am told not to touch even
though I have no intention of doing so
I somewhat know my place regardless.

Regret and mistakes I've made
haunt me
and I repeat
I miss the color purple

Twenty-three year old dreams
and letters will be stuffed in a box
for you or someone, god, I hope someone will

read

so that they might know
even if it doesn't tug at heart strings or
some other cliche that was written before
and some times randomness is order and

Things that aren't completely understood or
that hurt
have explanation

Regret and mistakes I've made
haunt me
and I repeat
I miss the color purple

Taking the Time

It has been awhile since I have last entered anything here and sent it out into the universe or cyberspace for that matter. But I needed a break to re-evaluate my life and whether or not this path that I have been on was really the right thing to do. I'll admit it, I was beginning to have my doubts.

I wasn't feeling inspired any longer and I was only feeling the toll that this lifestyle of not having much was impacting my body and my soul. For the most part I was happy though, just not sure if this writing path was going to actually lead to any road that I would be content to travel further. Luckily, however, with the strength of a few close friends who also call themselves writers, helped me through this temporary funk that I was in.

With a new sense of purpose, I began to think about stories that I had written partially before and revisited them, looking for more inspiration in hopes of completing them. I even looked at going back into the travel writing business and while it didn't pay much, at least it was writing and I could feel confident in calling myself a writer again.

Meanwhile, I had been hanging windows for a glass and sash shop in North Beach to try and make ends meet while the writing gigs slowly trickled in. I actually surprised myself at how much I liked the physical work that I was doing and all that I was learning. For any of my close friends, they know that I am pretty much useless when it comes to being handy or knowing which tools to use for a project at any given moment. However, to those same friends, I know that they would be proud to see me hanging out of a sixth floor window in downtown San Francisco, precariously trying to re-sash a window that most likely hadn't been touched since the 1920's. I'm actually getting pretty damn good at it.

...feeling pretty good about the work one day and comfortable about my writing and my new, "if it comes, it comes" mentality...I finally got a break.

On a Saturday morning, I walked across the street to get my usual cup of coffee before heading down to the park to watch the ball game with a friend. Luckily, I ran into a neighbor friend who is also a graphic designer and he came running towards me frantically as he had been trying to get a hold of me for a few weeks but didn't have my number. Long story short...he needed some writing done for a client and he needed it done fast. Without hesitation, I said yes and have been writing for him ever since. It hasn't been easy and I was surprised at some of the complications that would arise when working with a large client, and of course I have made my share of mistakes as well...but I am learning a lot...and most importantly finally getting paid enough to do this work.

So with that, my ambitions as a writer have been restored....I will do my best to keep more current here from now on as things progress....Cheers.

VALUE = VOICE @ The Box Factory San Francisco

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting *Bernadette*, a musician and artist who has dedicated her life to creating...not just creating for the sake of doing so, but to spark conversation and to invoke a sense of duty and purpose in her work. Whether it be sculpture-new genre, painting or sound, she is constantly developing her work while collaborating with other like-minded artists and designers to promote social awareness and change.

*Bernadette* is also the founder of The Box Factory, an amazing live-in studio/workspace/gallery/concert venue right in the heart of the Mission Distric of San Francisco. This place is special and there is nothing else like it in the SFC...it's a must see for those in the City who are not only "in-the-know," but for those who wish to see work from passionate people who care.

So here's the deal...for all of you who live in or near the City...I want to formally invite you to The Box Factory's next gallery opening for two reasons...1) because I would love to see you there and 2)because it is going to be amazing. And this next one is going to be big!

Here's the info:

VALUE = VOICE
Opening Night Reception
WHEN: Saturday, July 24th, 2010 (7:00PM - 11:00PM)
WHERE: THE BOX FACTORY
865 Florida Street #1,
San Francisco, CA 94110.

Presented by: The National Organization of Women (NOW); The Box Factory; and Visionary Artist Management

Curated by Dr. Wendy Clupper, President of Visionary Artist Management

“Value = Voice,” three women’s embodied perspectives of the eco/socio free fall of the 2008-10 “Recession”/Depression. In this playfully edgy, three-woman, post-post-modern show, we are examining themes of value & risk, and throwaway objects & people. Each woman’s art works relate to their embodied experience of the socio-economic free-fall; the Recession/Depression. As we share our individual voices (exploring unemployment, housing, and isolation) through female lenses and symbols of domesticity (implied body, sex, food, etc.) a chorus forms. Choosing our own materials we are using both found objects (rusty metal and broken glass), and things which are precious (a lock of hair, personal photos, and rubies). We invite the public to share in this exploration of private and public issues and join in the conversation as we examine the concepts of value, risk & opening ourselves, and create our own sense of value through our art.

Please come and check this amazing opening event/reception out and I hope to see you all there!

Adlevo Media Launched!

Finally...I'm getting it together and have started my own writing business! For communication purposes, I have created a Facebook Fan Page so please visit here for more information, services and summer specials! If you know of anyone who has writing needs from web copy, brochures, print, press releases or anything creative in general...please pass this info on!

Portfolio to come soon.

Thanks in advance!

Just Nathan.

Open

For whomever reads this...

I'm open. Sometimes for good and sometimes for naught...and sometimes my openness is my detriment but I don't really care...I can't hide forever and nor do I want to. I'm waiting for greatness, to write the next great American novel, screenplay, television show, fuck...I might be interested in writing the next great American toothpaste commercial as long as it helps me keep the lights on. As long as I am not stuck in a cubical hell-hole of an office where I have to pretend that I am someone I am not, cover my tattoos, cover my mouth when I wish to swear, and pretend that I care about what my colleauges did on the weekend, then I will be just fine.

It's clear to me that what I am doing these days and what I have been up to in the last few years have caused some eyebrows to be raised and for that I am happy. It's good to mix things up a bit and keep people wondering. But for the most part, I am still open.

Walking down my street, Post Street in San Francisco, I stopped by the used book store and bought a copy of Jack London's 1936 edition of Martin Eden, arguablly his most autobiagraphical novel (It was only 3 bucks)...and stopped at the first page...meditated on it and tried to commit it to memory.

"Let me live out my years in the heat of blood!
Let me lie drunken with the dreamer's wine!
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dust a vacant shrine!"

After reading this, I read more about Mr. London...he died at about the same age as my hero Kerouac (47) and I wondered if I would have the same fate. I sure hope not but if I could tell my stories and still have a roof over my head, even a moon lit roof of sorts, then I would die happy. Oh...and bread, cheese and a huge jug of wine would be nice as well. I still dream.

My married friends are jealous of me because of freedom and I am jealous of them because of their lack of such a thing. But, having said that...I know that they are not built for this kind of life as much as they say that they are envious. I slept on the streets of San Francisco for a few nights and wandered around for days staying in hotels when I could afford it and on friend's couches when they offered. At the time it wasn't fun but looking back now, it was simple and I was actually happy not knowing where I would go next.

I didn't really realize how unhappy I was though, until I had my first shower in this dingy hotel on Market Street...the Aida Hotel. I didn't care how dirty it was at the time because this anomoly would actually replenish me and make me feel like a whole person again. I had to cut away my shoes from my feet and throw them away...the shirts that I was wearing as well as they were so soiled and crusty that they would be of no use to me again. The good thing was that I was alive and for that I was greatful. The warm water was enough to revitalize.

Now...in the present moment as I am always and only living in the present moment (often to my detriment as well) I find myself observing, consistently and constantly watching life...

From time to time I walk the streets of San Francisco with my good friend Harrison Towne, high as kites on marijuana butter, admiring old buildings, missing baseball games at the park because the people and the sights are just too interesting to miss, running around the Mission and the Castro and trying to do anything and everything that our corporate friends with real jobs and families cannot do. We feel like kings in these moments...kings of San Francisco and the world for that matter. And...there is nothing better than having a slice of pie from a San Francisco, wannabe, New York style pizza joint while wandering with no intended destination in mind. We would even sit cross-legged on steps in Union Square, smoking cigs, sipping luke warm coffee and pretend throw found objects at tourists as we shout at them...telling them that we are better than them! We never say it outloud though, and we never actually throw anything...but Harrison Towne and I both know and think the same thing from time to time without actually speaking. We're just that 'money'...that's all.

So for the time being I am going to travel this path because I can't think of anything else that I would rather do. I don't want to own a car, a house (fuck mortgages), a chia pet or anything resembling a pet, and shit...I'm often ashamed that I even own and I-pod but I gotta have tunes so we'll let that one slide.

I'm flowing with the wind and wherever that takes me...This is me and more openness to follow as I continue to find myself on this journey.

Oh...and I know that you don't care Mom...but sorry for saying fuck so many times.

Fuck...I said it again...

Angels

"...Wait, let me take that back. There was one time..."

I stole my friends motorcycle when he was drunk, passed out on the floor, pieces of throw-up stuck to his lips. It was late and they drive on the left side of the road over there so I was a bit out of place and out of my element. That and I didn't have a license nor did I really know how to ride a motorbike. Conceptually, I had a good idea about how to do so but had never actually made an attempt to try it before that night. There's a first time for everything though and because I was tired, I figured that I could make it happen. I wanted my bed and to sleep and I didn't think about my friend at all...I was a horrible friend and I was wreckless.

The bike started up just fine, just one turn of the key that I had taken from his front pocket while he slept and I was off. Luckily, the house that we were at was in a small, quiet, suburban Japanese neighborhood and I was the only one on the road. This gave me the freedom to practice a bit with the throtle and brakes to make sure that I didn't kill myself. The ominous, Japanese rabbit moon above also provided enough extra light so I didn't feel scared.

Needless to say, I ended up crashing his bike anyway and landed in a ditch on the side of the road. Crossing the bridge on the left side of the road to head back in the direction of my apartment proved to be more difficult than I had thought and the lights from an on coming car spooked me. There weren't many European-Americans in the hood where I lived and I was certain that if I was spotted, I would be pulled over and arrested only to spend the rest of my existence in a Japanese prison. I had heard horror stories about foreigners in the jails there and never wanted to see what they were like from first hand experience.

I was okay though but the bike was not. The owner, my friend was bigger than me, he was a sumo wrestler and I was afraid of what he might do to me when he found out. I always thought he looked funny riding that little bike with the basket mounted on the front but I never told him so. He was a sweet guy but could crush me with his pinky if he was so inclined. I did my best to stay on his good side, but now, with his broken motorbike in my possesion, I wasn't so sure that I would be able to stay in the clear with him.

As I stared at his bike on the ground, my hands on my head, I wondered what I would tell him. I wasn't wearing a helmut either, but I was a badass like that. When I had finally composed myself and had stood the bike back up, confident that I would be able to make the rest of the ride home in one piece and had recovered from the shock of the crash, my cell phone rang. It was him, Miyata Michio the sumo wrestler.

He woke up and realized that I had left him and that his bike was gone. He didn't sound mad, a little sleepy and drunk but all that he really wanted was for me to come back and give him a ride back to our building. I inspected the bike for any damage and couldn't see any. Slowly this time, I started the bike, got back and on and drove 22 kilometers per hour down the road in the opposite direction of our appartment to go get him. I crossed the nearest bridge again, accross the Nigawa River where I would back-track to the house where the wrestler lay.

He was waiting for me outsited when I arrived, luckily looking more sleepy and drunk than angry. When I came to a complete stop, he and all of his 300 pounds of sinewy muscle, "bear hugged" me and plopped onto the bak of the bike behind me. "Be careful, aight," he said in drunken Japanglish, his version of hip-hop slang and Japanese. We were quite the sight going down the road, skinny white boy driving with the large Japanese man attached to him like glue and still moving no more than 25 kilometers per hour.

We got to the apartment building but this time, before I could bring the bike to a complete stop, Miyata Michio the wrestler jumped off the back and ran into the building without me. I parked his ride in his space and let myself into the front doors only to find my friend passed out on the couch in the first floor lobby. I let out a long sigh hoping that he would hear me and wake up and then walked up the three flights of stairs to my room and went to sleep. I was trying not to think about what he might say to me the next morning when he would take the bike downtown to his weekly sumo practice.

Without me telling him what I had done, he found out himself when he rode it the next day. The wheel was bent and the whole thing rode funny. He told me of the problem but never accused me of anything, he just asked me for the 20,000 yen it would take to fix it. I never said that I was sorry, never admitted that I had crashed his bike and didn't have to...he knew. I just handed him the two bills and we left it at that.

...
The Hell's Angel laughed when I told him this. "I knew it!" he said. "It was a Honda right?" I knodded my head in agreement and he slapped me on the shoulder and laughed again and then paused. "So you support us?" he said after that. Confused, I answered with an affirmative though I didn't quite understand the question. "Red, white, and blue," he said. "So you support us," he said again but as a statement this time.

"Sure." I didn't know what else to say to him. Then he unbuttoned his shirt with difficulty, one button at a time. While I thought that this was somewhat natural in a place like San Francisco, I was still caught off guard. Once his shirt was open, he revealed to me a barb wire tattoo around his neck and another one on his shoulder with angels wings. Then he pointed to my shirt, which I had forgotten about. I was wearing a black shirt with wings on them as well. "You's got wings on 'em too," he said now touching my chest with his index finger. "Why, yes I do!" I exclaimed.

"It's good to have badasses like you with us," he said more seriously this time. He also took a hug swig of beer from a paper bag that he was holding and the liquid trickled down his chin. Shit yeah...I was a badass. I rode a Honda scouter with a basket on the front into a ditch one time...and even in a foreign country for chrissake!

The semi-toothless old man put his shirt back on and punched me in the shoulder again, only it was more painful for me this time. "Hell's Angeles broddah man!" He said and then he was gone. I guess that was my in...down with the Angels...I'm a badass...he said so...for real tho.

Outside- In

From an early age, I realized that I never felt truly comfortable in my own skin. Skin not necessarily being the opperative word in this case, however. There was nothing in particular about my physical skin that I was ashamed of or hated though. In fact, that was one of my physical attributes about myself that I liked the most and I thanked the Italian side of my family for blessing me with such nice, olive skin.

It was more about what lay beneath my perfect olive skin that perpelexed me the most. I didn't feel normal. At least not like my family did or the school yard children that I played with as a young boy might have felt. I desparately wanted to fit in and while no matter how hard I tried, I never felt like I could or did. My poor parents who worked tirelessly to provide for us would make sacrifices of their own so that I could have the lastest and coolest, I might add, Starter brand Detroit Pistons jackent and pin-stripped White Sox jearsey to help me fit in. While these things made me feel cooler in the moment, I knew that the feelings would be short lived.

On one occasion I accompanied my father to Candlestick Park with a brand new shiny, gold 49ers Jacket to watch a football game and I was feeling proud. We had even left my at the time annoying younger brother at home and I was feeling strangely special that day. Feelings of superiority and confidence, rare feelings for me even at that age soon dissapated when a young fan above our section at the game decided to spit a mixture of saliva and mustard from above. In slow motion I watched as the unsanitary and smelly loogie dropped down and landed on the shoulder of my new shiny jacket. It was a cold day in San Francisco and I didn't want to take it off even tough it was soiled and no longer cool.

My father didn't know what to do or say and while I expected him to do something, run upstairs and kick the guy's ass, swear at him, spit on him back in retaliation, I knew that he couldn't and wouldn't. Without saying much other than that he was sorry, he took a corner of a napkin left over from our previously devoured hotdogs and dunked it in my soda. He proceeded to wipe the yellow stain from my shoulder as best as he could without making the problem worse as Coca Cola was not the most idealcleaning solvant. "I'm sorry son," he said when he had done the best that he could.

My fathers gesture was genuine and came from a place of love, however, I still felt rejected by this stranger and by his actions, further prving to me that I was different and thus worthy of such an assault. I think that my father felt the same way as I did but didn't know how to articulate it. He is a quiet man, a man of few words but he is introspective and contemplative, something that I think that I am proud to admit that I inherited as well.

As I grew older and navigated my way through a small intermediate school and an only slightly larger high school, I continued to search for myself, find out where I belonged and as such, find a group of friends who I deamed cool and who would give me acceptance. I changed my hair style, the clothes that I wore, joined sports teams, a choir, and eventually tried to start my own rock band.

I couldn't play any intrusents, however, my incesant banging on the back seat of our family car finally moved my parents to buy me a drum set and sign me up for proper lessons. It would be the beginning of my future successful career as a musician and I knew this, even at the ripe 'ole age of 10.

I banged on the skins for awhile like a pro until I got bored with the lessons. I never liked being told what to do and the required practice assignments were no fun at all. At the time, I thought that I was a rebel for playing the drums in the first place, the loudest accustic instrument of them all. But now, I felt that I was being more of a rebel by ignoring my instructer and giving the whole lot up all together. Besides...I secretely knew that my parents would be happy that they would no longer have to pay for the lessons and that it would be much quieter around the house without me "practicing." I decided to try my hand at baseball instead.

I only made it through two seasons and played every position on the field before I decided to quit that as well. The coaches couldn't figure out where I fit in either. I left so many bruises on my opponants bodies that I had lost count when coach gave me a chance as a pitcher. I told him that it wasn't a good idea ut he insisted. "Ya gotta be good at something, right kid?" I wasn't. I hated making the other boys and sometimes girls cry when I beamed them with the ball, but it wasn't my fault really. They were suach bigger targets than the small invisible box above home plate. I had duely warned the coach beforehand so in my small mind, I was self attoned and gave that up too. I couldn't even watch the sport again until much later in my life when I was confident that the wounds that I had caused had been properly healed.

There was though, one magical day during an otherwise monotonous summer vacation that I will never forget. My other "uncool" friend Jesse and I were debating about whether Bo Jackson was a better baseball player as opposed to football player when we discovered a beat up and unstrung guitar in his garage. Awstruck by its existene, we quickly forgot about our sports debate and ran to find his father, the rightful owner, to see if he could give us any insight regarding the history of this musical instruments past.

When Jesse's dad saw what we were holding, he smiled and we had both noticed a hint of a tear in his eyes, something that father's weren't supposed to do we assumed. "Ya found 'ole Bessie did ya?" He said and reached his hand out so that he could hold it himself. He eyed it for what seemed like awhile, as if she were an old, long, lost friend from his past and I could tell that he had missed her.

Without saying anything, Jesse's father took 'ole Bessie and went back out to the garage where we had found her and began to rumage through old boxes and empty peanutbutter jars filled with nuts and bolts until he found what he was looking for. With a silly grin on his face, one even larger than from before, he presented us with a fresh but dusty unopened package of nylon strings. "I found 'em," He said feeling proud.

That was when Jesse and I would become rockstars. At least that's what we thouht when we say the beat up guitar fully strung and functional.

Years later, Jesse actually became a rockstar and moved from Los Angeles to Nashville to start his career as a musician. I stayed behind with my "new to me" beat up guitar, strumming to myself when no one was looking, hoping thta I would find my stardom in some form as well.

I still have that same guitar and a new one as well, and even though they are both locked away in a storage unit on South Van Ness Avenue, I think about them often. One thing that I did learn though was that I really didn't want to be a rockstar anyway. With all of the pressure and the fans...I would have had so many fans...it would just be too much for me. But one feeling that hasn't left me all of these years is my desire to fit in...and yes...I still want to be famous.

Dean

So who am I supposed to ask about the symbiotic and metamorphazizing probabilaty of the so-called soul?

I looked to you Mr. Dean Moriarty,

Traverser of dreams, and of moonlight, of wit, and borrowerd cigi-boos.

The warmth of wine, calming

Passed around in circles of old friends

And through ghosts of the past, haunting me unwillingly.

Your only conclusion and the only thing that you know is that we are certain to grow old...you schmuck.

While I know in my mind and through the whispers heard in the wind that you are correct

I refuse to accept this as the only truth about the life and the no-soul.

I'm amazed at how fluid life can be...there are no constants and nothing is certain. Other than what Jack so eloquently describes as the certainty of "nobody know[ing] what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old." This consistent constant while seemingly pessimistic is quite the opposite if one looks more closely at its inherent meaning.

Life is not for naught, it's just simply short and it is our duty to make sure that we, we humans do what is best for community. Even the word or the concept of community seems foreign once we include politics, religion, spirituality and stubbornness into the equation. What happened to the commonality of shared genes and the idea that god created all as one...as equals?

When did manifest destiny and capitalism become so prevalent while at the same time these same shared values, Darwinian values at best, hope to oppress those that cannot while the "can haves" can?

Darwinian...an ideology hated by most who sit on the right side of the road, however, loved when it comes to rights of people and the possible or maybe even probable origins of existence on the left.

Last Sunday morning I couldn't sleep...so I stayed awake and watched the sun come up over the coast...and while I couldn't really see the coast I knew that the sun was rising from the East and would eventually set in the West. The streets of San Francisco were barren for the most part and I walked up Polk Street to Pine and found my way to a park where I sat and contemplated the reasons for why I couldn't afford health care and why I didn't make more money or enough money to buy a nice sports car or a condo in the Marina. Darwinian I thought...

I wasn't strong enough...that must be the reason. Survival of the fittest I thought.

That guy with the hot car driving by me as I sat there in the park must have things figured out more or better than I could ever have imagined. That other woman, with the dog...a dog so cute that it could be on the cover of magazines...she must have things figured out as well...and while I hated dogs, she must've known something that I hadn't yet had the opportunity to learn myself.

Down the hill, church bells rang and they echoed throughout the hills of the city and I am sure that I would have heard them as well, even if I was still sleeping in my bed at home...but this time...it was different and I walked down the hill away from the park...

I entered alone into an old building, one that had been there since it was resurrected after the earthquake of 1906 and walked up dusty stairs into a hall and found my place in the back where no one could find me. The smell of incense was heavy but familiar and forgiving and while I don't remember much after that initial moment of entry into this spiritual place, I felt at peace.

I prayed for my friends with cancer, with heartache, and for those like myself who haven't yet found their way but were so close and were on the right path whether they knew it or not. And when I got home...I lit some incense hoping that the scent, the smoke reaches you to let you know that I am there as well and will be there always.

Lost and Found

There was a second when I felt like you weren't there
and just when I became scared you appeared.
Behind the half moon in the sky out in the mountains
where the marine layer finally dissipated, I saw you.

As a constant, you assured me that you had never left...
but I just wasn't looking hard enough.
Daily mundane tasks seem to overcome passion
and sometimes life, but that doesn't mean that you have to die.

Last night there was knocking on the wall,
four simple knocks that let me know that there was
someone there and while initially frightening,
the experience was comforting as well because I now understood existence.

And in the next day, I stood on the platform
with no one there but my thoughts and the crow that had once visited
me before without warning,
and I learned about patience.

The view from the station is something that I would write about
and I could quite honestly sit there on that wooden bench
forever if it meant that I would gain more
wisdom if I did.

For better or for worse we grow old and the only
thing that we can be assured of is our purple turned gray,
a shade of red and blue not less perfect but faded a bit
and still beautiful nonetheless.

And like this bench on the beach created out of muck,
sprouts a lotus more spectacular than it's upbringing;
so unsuspecting it is.
Matriarchal and judicious.

However, with comfort comes complacency and normalcy
and with what I thought once was lost and unobtainable
I have realized that I have found
myself and that you are there with me as well.

To Whom it May Concern:

To Whom it May Concern:

I just wanted to let you know that I am doing well...just fine in fact as I traverse this crazy planet looking for nothing in particular. I'm really quite content...honestly, I am.

Birds other than pigeons sang to me for the first time in a long time today and while they audibly seemed strange to me at first they made me smile. The City has a certain smell to it and when winter and cold transforms into spring and warmth,
I noticed it and knew that you would as well. It's amazing isn't it?

This letter to you is long overdue and for that I am truly sorry. I have often been told that I say the word 'sorry' too much but that is all that I can come up with at this time. It seems that I am sorry for saying sorry.

Inevitably, the fog rolls in and I can imagine myself at the place where Tamalpais peacefully watches over existence and for some reason, she knows more than I will ever be able to fathom. Through the small gate that leads to the Headlands I become anxious with the idea that on the other side I might understand...but alas...the Pacific and her wide angles only lead me to one point...the point of no understanding and the vastness of uncertainty.

Uncertainty.

Black sands, coarse grains, drift wood, stagnant foliage, shells, nature...nature...nature...

There is an order in which I do not comprehend but will worship it as there is nothing else that I can do...I pray.

Anyway...I hope that this letter albeit somewhat strange, finds you healthy and well. You are in my heart and my thoughts. Best wishes to you my friend.

-Signed,

Nathan.

Tathagata

दुक्ख

Reminiscent cold, nostalgic...uncomfortable
limbs on an old bodhi tree with translucent frozen stalactites
also hanging from a
youthful home.
The puddles that they formed when no one was looking
were my favorite
crept unsuspectingly in the day light
transformed again in the
night.
Innocently unsuspecting of becoming
metamorphosis and
fearful
of the outcome.
I'm scared of reality and
tired of my fear of feeling
However, in the place way beyond Tathagata
transcends existence and it's where
we meet.
Goddess is called boo boo
and while it's cold it's familiar and comfortable.
If I wasn't dreaming of tracks and rails
a point on a map
what else would I live for?
A hint in the wind maybe?
Slithery rocks with moss only on the North side might point
the way.
But until then
I will
swelter the cherubs of dukkha
and meet you in that place where the sun parts from the clouds.

दुक्ख

No Writing This Time

I just wanted to share a portrait that one of my old students drew of me...she's amazing and only in the beginning of her first year of college. Thanks Michelle!

Moment

There is a moment in time...a perfect moment in time when the sun peeks perfectly from behind the clouds and gives warmth for several perfect seconds. I have learned to live for these minuscule perfect seconds.

When the wind is blowing so quickly that the sun only makes a quick appearance before retreating beneath the clouds once again it's pure magic...I live for this perfect moment.

Like a madman...in these perfect seconds, I stare at the sky and let the warmth of the sun envelope me and embrace me because I know that the sun...the sun will never let me down...she will never leave me.

And in this perfect moment...today...in this moment a crow visited me...it had been years since I had last seen him. "Hello old friend," I said to him. He responded by screeching but I knew that he had understood...for it was he that was visiting me and not I visiting him.

The crow nodded his head up and down in an almost violent motion as he stood atop of the building in front of me...820 Post Street. I told him that I was impressed that he had found me since I hadn't sent anyone a forwarding address. I didn't want anyone to find me yet he did.

When he knew that I was okay...my grandfather who was just like me...is just like me nodded one last time and then flew away. "I understand" I heard the crow say as he flew off towards the sun and behind the clouds once again. Eyes watery beneath sunglasses made my vision blurry and the sun too bright doubled as if it had a twin.

Thanks for visiting me old friend...I'm glad that you can see me now.

Ashes to Ashes

Cigarette smoke lingering in your hair
detested by most but comforting to you,
you are strange like that.
You wore the color purple that day,
the day that you confessed and that same day
you...cried.

The marine layer was coming in and I warned you,
better get some cover...it's coming your way.
Even though the skies were blue,
you knew that it was coming and that just over the
horizon, near you, that you could see it coming too.
I...cried.

You told me that you now liked the color
green, more than
purple but were conflicted...
you wore green on your fingernails and
Purple on your toes.
You...smiled.

You walk in your head,
you're always in your head aren't you?
she asked.
I imagine that you are and that's what I like
about you but, despite that...
I...became serious.

You have to let me go she said.
I'm not ready I said,
this has all happened so suddenly but,
it's not my choice,
I'll honor you.
I...prayed.

The heavens began to rain and
I tried to catch the drops with my tongue
as if it were snowflakes like we, you and I used
to do when we were young
I...reminisced.

Shaking myself and
alone
for the first time or at least that's how it
felt to me in that moment
I closed my eyes and I met you again in a whisper.
Come to me...
I...dreamed.

El Duderino

Today I wanted to share something by a dear friend of mine...this is his poem.

"Jewels of the Russian Revolution"

Faberge would've been proud: this
top-heavy peanut
infused with spiraling lines of tiny gems
twisting towards the base
in rows that never touch.

A passer-by might notice
Christmas lights splayed in the branches.

Drivers would see
barricades of blinking lights
keeping the crash scene safe.

But to the prying eyes of the patient,
garbed in the loose gown of drafty hallways,
inhaling the hiss of disinfectant anterooms
it was his portrait in black and white:
the silver print of his prostate.

The surgeon had loaded
sixteen separate syringes
with seventy-four seeds
of irradiated birdshot, blasting
intricacies via catheter
just behind the scrotum.

And this image,
the size of a postage stamp,
glued to a pathology report
for Blue Cross
would've piqued both Nicolas and Alexandra
by its shimmering glory
to keep the Bolsheviks at arm's length
for one more moment in time.

-Phil Lumsden

I Had to Post This

The mother of one of my old writing kids posted this on my Facebook page and I hope that she doesn't mind that I share this but it really meant a lot to me (And by the way...her son is going to be so famous one day).

For those who have read about my story...you will understand why it means so much to me.

"...I just happened to remember you but when you were sleeping on benches...I thought what a fool ... with talent..."

I simply love this and had no idea people were actually reading this babble that I write here...I feel happy and blessed...

-Signed,

Ever The Fool.

P.S. And proud of it.

Revelations

It's humbling to admit that I have learned quite a bit about myself and about others in the last 48 hours or so. Don't worry...all that I have learned has been good...more than good.

I have learned that despite differences and difficulties that there is an amazing human capacity to simply love regardless of any experience the universe brings to us. Just when I needed to hear words of love and encouragement...the universe provided it in the most unexpected and most perfect ways. A simple phone call...a letter from a friend...and thanks to my friend Sophie a simple statement: "You're The Nate...we all love you."

I can't remember the last time in my life that I have felt more love or loved more than this moment right now. As mentioned above, I have learned a lot in the last two days and I have more importantly felt more emotions than I can honestly count...happiness, sadness, nostalgia, joy, schoolgirl like giddiness, jealousy, freedom, melancholy, uncertainty, love, love, and more love, and well...the list goes on but you get the point...

All of it has been good...healthy and cleansing. I'm happy and sad all at the same time and I think this middle path, this dichotomy between both emotions is perfectly and imperfectly just fine with me.

But with all of that said, the human condition still puzzles me. Not in a bad way where I furrow my brow trying to contemplate the universe or my belly button for that matter...but in a way that is exponentially more exciting and more fulfilling each day that I am blessed to walk this crazy planet. This concept confuses me, however, I better not ask too many questions and just let things be. Sure there are down times and times where I wish there was no such thing as war, conflict, pain and suffering, discrimination, poverty, and mayonnaise. I hate that vile white substance more than almost anything. It should really be outlawed but that's another battle best saved for another time.

So there it is...I am completely in love with the folks that are in my life and in a roundabout way wanted to thank them...and obviously...because you are reading this...thank YOU.

-Signed,

Uncle Nate.

I have to admit, I have been neglecting my updates recently and for that I apologize. I needed to take a break for a few weeks to take some time for myself and to regroup. However, having said that...I was thankful to hear from folks that they were surprised that I have not done an update in some time and were anxious to hear what has been going on. Some have even asked if I am still sleeping on park benches and bumming around town, which I am happy to say that I am that no longer or at least not yet for the time being.

The City still speaks to me and breathes life into me...her intoxicating smells and sounds invigorate me. The cold air and the wind chills me to the bone on a regular basis but even that is comforting and inspiring. Art is everywhere...even on the streets or the bus or from a snippet of stolen conversation...crumpled up newspaper clippings from the Guardian or the Weekly or even the Chronicle which I save in little piles on my floor for future reference. Small things...cheap scented candles, classical tunes by the George Winston of my past, a book I've read over and over again and continue to read slowly nonetheless...an ironed shirt and a super burrito with everything on it...all of these things inspire me.

My short departure is mostly due to some personal things that I have been dealing with but more importantly due to my next adventure that I have embarked on. Cacao Films has indicated an interest in a screenplay that I had started several years ago and never finished. Since then, my absence has been necessary to focus on completing this project so that it can go into post-development and continue to move forward.

I have moved past my first novel for the time being as it has been sent to an editor friend for revising which has been great for me since I can now focus on this film. I hope to have more information to share soon but until then...my story is hush-hush.

Thank you to all who have been helping me along the way to realize my potential and who I am intended to be. (Phil and Julie, Carissa, Eric, and Erin)

Loving Kindness,

Nathan.

Published in Oakland!

Click Here!

Meditative Prayer

I tried to sleep tonight...I even made sure that I went to bed at a reasonable hour. Sleep is my drug especially when I don't want to think or feel anything at all. But alas, tonight...while I slept for a few hours...I awoke abruptly at 5:38 AM and was completely wide awake. This is not something that is like me as I can sleep through an entire day without anyone noticing that I have done so.

Awake...I carefully opened my front door, locked it behind me and walked downtown towards the financial district where I stopped and got a coffee...something that I hadn't done in a long time. I walked in the dark amongst folks rushing to work...they all had purpose, somewhere to be, something to do, someone to meet...but they didn't know...they didn't know what my dear friend was about to go through. I couldn't blame them for not knowing or caring because their lives would go on and if they really knew...they would give their condolences and then move on with their lives.

I on the other hand...couldn't sleep and that was why I was there...roaming the streets of San Francisco at this god awful hour. I picked up my phone and called her and was glad that I was able to catch her in the car...her mother and sister were in the front seat looking for parking at the UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento. She was crying. I would be too and I couldn't blame her. I couldn't even console her and wouldn't even try to attempt to as I didn't and wouldn't ever know what it feels like to be in her situation.

As I type this...now after 6:30 in the morning...after I had the chance to get a coffee and pick up the latest SF Weekly...after I have found myself safely in my home...she is checking in with doctors and signing her final paperwork. I have wondered time and time again...why her and not me? She has led a healthy life and I have not. It should really be me there in her place. However, that is not the hand that I have been dealt and unfortunately...in less than one hour...Kayle will be losing a part of her body permanently and there is nothing that anyone can do about it. Any glimpse of hope in the last two years has ended and it has all come down to this.

She has gone through some miraculous changes and has had amazing adventures since first diagnosed. I can tell that she is no longer the person that she once was and has instead transformed into something amazing. It's only the beginning now for her new life and I am so happy to be one of the many people that will be able to witness it first hand.

While she may be losing a huge part of her being...her body...her soul with this mastectomy...I am confident that something good is going to come of this. For those of you that know her, she is afraid and who shouldn't be? I would be. You would be. After more than a year of writing for Kayle...telling her story and sharing her wishes...I am somewhat beside myself. Is this it? Is this what was to happen all along?

Her doctors are but human as well...and for what has been discovered in science...it seems that this is it for the time being. I only hope that her doctors...the oncologists, reconstructive surgeons, and most definitely the mentors and psychologists will be able to help her heal mentally and physically in no time at all.

Now, only 30 minutes away before she has to endure this painful and life-altering procedure...I will stay awake and meditate...send positive energy...and pray for a speedy recovery.

For Kayle...know that you are loved by so many. Kick some ass Cowgirl!

I Think That It's Almost Finished

After almost two years of writing and work...I think that my first book is almost finished and ready to go to the editors. For those of you that know me this has been a long and emotional process so I am glad that I am finally feeling like the end is near. Or maybe this is just the beginning I am not quite sure. Thank you to those that have contributed portions to this and to those that have read pieces and have given me insight. I hope that this finally gets into the hands of readers in the next six months or so. Now...time to nap and then get started on the next project!

So What's Next?

I received a phone call the other day from my new filmmaker friend that I had written about previously. I was excited to hear about her new projects and what would be next for her. I hoped that I would be able to get some insider information. However, while we did talk about what things she would be working on next...she was more interested in discussing what I would be doing next. I was stumped actually. I knew what I wanted to do but for some reason I have been having a difficult time figuring out how to get "there" in the last month or so. I asked her...how the heck do I do this? How do I make this work? Her response was something so simple and something in which I have been meditating on for the last couple of days.

"All you have to do is just show up," she said.

It sounds so easy, but when one has so many ideas in their head...so many projects that they want to work on it's often difficult to figure out where to start. Just show up huh? That's the least thing that anyone can do when tackling a new creative endeavor so this is what I am going to do. Just show up. Knowing that I just need to show up everyday and work harder and stronger than I have ever worked before is comfort enough.

So what's next for me I ask myself? ...I know that I need to just show up but now show up for what?

How about this...

Finish up that pesky first book that is almost done...it's so close and get it to the editors so that it can finally get published.

Set aside second book for the time being to focus on the first project.

Dust off the first ten pages of a screenplay that I started awhile back and revisit that story...pitch it to my new filmmaker friend. :)

Continue to write freelance articles to make some more dough. Post more ads online...and send out more writing samples to potential buyers.

Whew...I think that this will keep me busy enough for the time being...so now I'll just have to show up. I don't think that I want to miss out on this appointment...

Words to Live By

Thanks for sharing this with me Eric:

"Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan 'Press On' has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race." - Calvin Coolidge

The Young and the Restless

It's quiet here in this neighborhood...there are also a lot more trees here than my previous location which is nice. There are less bums but more trannies...more hipsters than hippies...more boutiques than liquor stores and yet I am finding it more and more difficult to find anything interesting here. Maybe I find some sort of comfort in the comforts of castaways, those that are down on their luck, or just regular guys as the man in front of me at the market put it as he mumbled to himself. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't dream to live on the 24th floor of the penthouse I can see from my window down Post Street. It just seems so far away.

I heard a man yelling at no one in particular today. He was screaming to someone and demanding that whomever was listening, "live each day to the fullest." I know that this is cliche and trust me...I am getting pretty tired of hearing self-help motivational, pseudo spiritual speak. Especially when I have been struggling so much to stay afloat these last few months. I don't mean to be snarky or ungrateful with this sentiment...I guess that I am just tired and things aren't moving as quickly as I had hoped that they would for my writing career. But as cliche and tiresome this man was who was yelling on the streets, it was enough to remind me that I am still on the right path and that I can do more and still do better.

{Pep Talk to Myself}

Do more...do better...wake up at a reasonable hour...go to a coffee shop that you have never visited before...talk to strangers...eat more vegetables...Make more time for reading for pleasure...go to strange parts of the city just to observe...stop sleeping so much when you don't need to...visit those art galleries with the crazy sculptures that you have admired through the window...think about what adventures lie ahead of you and be excited for them...dream...and don't worry so much about being cliche...you're money...you're so money and you don't even know it...

Lemonade

It seems like creative juices are flowing everywhere lately by people who have been recently laid off from their jobs...more interestingly though, is the fact that so many of these same people have opted not to follow the norm. I came across this short film (only 35 mins. in length) where laid off advertising professionals talk about being fired as the best thing that has ever happened to them. They have also followed some pretty crazy and inspiring dreams as well.

Watch the film here:

A Dreamers Dreams Come True

Tonight I had the opportunity to experience something that I have never experienced before...I was able to see first hand all of the excitement, blood, sweat and tears that it takes to create something beautiful and see it come to life. Even better, I was able to see it on the big screen.

There is a little known screening room on The Embarcadero here in San Francisco that is used for filmmakers, large and small, well known and not so well known to give first glimpses into what has often taken years to create so that they can share it with the world...or at least a small select group of people before the films are submitted to various film festivals for review. I walked to this nondescript location without a sign or an address even on the building with anticipation to see someone's baby...someone's creative joy...well...someone's entire being scrutinized on the silver screen. My name was on the guest list and I was excited...I felt important, even if just for a moment.

I spoke with the filmmaker, lead actor, editor, and director on the telephone a mere week before the screening and was impressed with her story and how similar hers was to mine...at least in philosophy. She spoke passionately about her work and why she needed to make this film...a film that told her story and one that I would later learn was to essentially incorporate her younger and unfortunately deceased brother's story into the dialogue. In a fictional conversation in the film, filmmaker Carissa Weir sums up what it means to live in the moment and to live life to the fullest. We only have one life..."this life is temporary" says one of the characters and it was clear that everyone in the audience was moved by this sentiment.

While the film was only 20 or so minutes in length, what was said and more importantly, what wasn't said was enough to invoke a sense of purpose that each and every member of the audience could understand. There was almost a feeling of envy by what Weir had accomplished because we all felt a connection but hadn't had the opportunity to be as vulnerable as to share it on screen like she had...or maybe it was just me because I identified with her story...I'm not sure.

I left the screening room feeling inspired...I received a special gift bag that was created for those who attended...There was a very cool T-Shirt with the name of the movie title on the front (Two Weeks From Monday) and the word "Crew" on the back. I'll wear it proudly and actually believe that I am now part of the crew...at least I would like to think that I am. Fear not...that's what I have learned tonight...continue to follow your dreams even if it hurts at times...and stay true to what is your purpose.

Thank you Carissa Weir for following your dreams and making a very inspirational film. I hope that you win many awards at the festivals and can't wait to see your next short and feature film.

...A Fan.

Watch the trailer at: http://www.cacaofilms.com/TWFMtrailer.html

Ode to My Past

I have fond memories of my friends and I in college sitting in the dorm lounge, listening to the latest music and eating junk food. 2 Pac had just passed away so that's all that we really listened to...in tribute so to speak...a creative young guy with huge aspirations just like the rest of us but happened to die too young. All of us nodded our heads in solidarity with the words...just as if we were all serious about living and dying in LA. We didn't have to say a word to each other whether we agreed with the lyrics or not...it didn't matter where each and every one of us came from...it didn't matter if I was white...my brother next to me Mexican...the brother next to him Hmong...Filipino...Indian...Black...Chomoro...Vietnamese...Burmese...It didn't matter.

Years later...far apart...just once in awhile we hear something as simple as the music that once caused us to do silly things and remember...that time when it was so foggy that we couldn't see more than a few feet in front of our faces but we still played basketball nonetheless...we were all drunk off of bud ice because that was the strongest that we could get someone older to buy for us...remember? We had Hong Kong Deli in our bellies because they had that special...fried chicken...remember? We went there when Kaofu died...remember? I couldn't go back there after that though...it hurt too much.

We rode in the funeral procession with that fucked up orange sticker in the window...we never even went up close to his body...remember? We just stood back and watched his parents wail and we never said a word. We left and each of us went our own separate ways without saying anything but we didn't have to...we all knew what each other was thinking and feeling.

Remember that party that we had in the dining hall? The one where all of the gangs showed up and and we had to keep the peace. Remember that? Remember that huge wad of cash that you and I had in our pockets and stored in our dorm room just in case we might get jumped? Remember that huge bag of weed they gave us as payment which none of us smoked because we didn't like the taste?

Remember that time when we all said goodbye? We all pulled our cars into the lot and each of us blasted our music as loud as we could. Mine was a little funky though because we could never get the wiring right...but you guys didn't care. I remember that. I remember that well...

Out of Many You Have One People

Out of Many, You Have One People

By Nathan Falstreau

Oakland filmmaker pushes through tragedy to release first short film Two Weeks From Monday

Societal norms and expectations are so familiar it is easy to forget what it feels like to dream. Even more important, it takes someone with some serious vision and guts to actually follow those dreams. For filmmaker Carissa Weir, this is exactly what she has done.

An immigrant originally from Jamaica who now calls Oakland her home, Weir has experienced more than most in her life; and through her struggles has realized the most important thing for her and for her soul is to tell a story through film. In 2006, she cashed everything in and founded her own production company, Cacao Films, with the help of a bank loan and savings.

Where it all Began

Like many, after high school Weir worked several unsatisfying jobs to make ends meet. She even enrolled in a local community college and completed general education requirements, but as a person with many interests had difficulty finding what she intended to do with the rest of her life. Her breaking point came at age 25 while working two jobs in the business world. Weir claims, “I knew that I needed to do something else but I didn’t know what it was. Something just wasn’t right.”

A Call to Act

After talking to one of her mentors about her situation, he began to ask her to remember what she liked to do most as a child. Weir recalled enjoying acting in her younger years. After being persuaded by her friend to look into theater companies, she eventually found her home at the American Conservatory Theater (A.C.T) “This is where I discovered myself,” Weir states. “I used to never even laugh out loud in public before. Then I took a clowning class and was surprised at how much I had changed as a person through acting.” Through A.C.T. she received screen work on several major films, including Sweet November, the Matrix, and Twisted. More importantly, she found that she learned the most just from being on the set. “I absorbed everything that I could while on set. I watched the producers, the directors, the actors, everything, so that I could understand the process,” says Weir. Her business background and passion for the entire world of art was a perfect fit for the production side of the film industry.

Tragedy Strikes

Her dream of acting and making films came to a halt with the death of her younger brother from complications due to Muscular Dystrophy (MD). “His diagnosis was unexpected and the disease spread through his body quickly,” Weir remembers. “My mother is a single mother and has never driven a car so I was responsible for taking him to his appointments and much of his general care. It was tough. I had to put my dreams on hold indefinitely at that point.” It wasn’t long before it was clear that her brother was dying. He passed at age 13.

The death of her brother was the final breaking point for Weir, she realized that she needed to get back on track and follow her dreams. “I had something to say,” She states. “I bought a laptop and just said to myself, I am going to do this.” In December of 2006, Cacao Films was incorporated.

Pushing beyond Fears

Weir talks about society and humanity in her work and most interestingly incorporates the concept of fear in very subtle ways. “Some people battle with what traditional society wants but I have noticed creative people battle with the fear that they won’t make it trying to follow their dreams and cling to what traditional society expects of them.” Her first short film, Two Weeks From Monday explores this very topic.

Two Weeks From Monday Debuts

On January 16, 2010 Weir hosted a screening of her first project, Two Weeks from Monday, at the Delancey Screening Room in San Francisco. This film was inspired by her brother’s death from MD. This event was also a fundraiser for the MD Association. While the film was only 20 in length, the powerful message invoked a sense of purpose. Weir sums up what it means to live in the moment and to the fullest. “Life is temporary. Time is sacred. Having a choice is a gift," says one of the lead characters.

I left the screening room feeling inspired. The room was buzzing with a sense of admiration by what Weir had accomplished; as many of us let dreams and ideas lie dormant. All of the attendees received a T-shirt with the name of the movie title on the front and the word “Crew” on the back. I will proudly wear this shirt, believing I am now part of the crew of doers and not just dreamers.

When asked about her audience, Weir states, “I write my films so that they can be appreciated by any audience regardless of ethnicity, age, or creed. In Jamaica, there is a code of arms that states, ‘Out of Many, You Have One People.’ That’s what I want people to remember when viewing my films.

Look for Two Weeks From Monday at various film festivals around the country.

Art of Life

The weather finally changed, it felt like winter even though it came a little late this year. The brick buildings as seen from the inside out, littered with wires attaching themselves precariously like vines, amongst splashes of color, hangers, t-shirts, socks, pajamas, second and third floor, dangling.

It was art of life, survival, unintended space used to capacity for lack of anywhere else to go. Outside in, inside out, cappuccinos and cigars, tattered, yellow pages and garlic, stale beer, the smell of bleach, inside out.

Grey skies ne’er seemed less depressing, comforting, art of life, gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe, snapping pictures by my overweight neighbor with the loud shirt, he was welcome here too.

Outside in, flashing neon signs on Broadway Street, Columbus Avenue no more, Cuban Jazz on Grant and Green, girls, girls, girls, they were all welcome here too.

Red, white and green, climbing up the poles, bells ringing not in the distance but right here, up close, and loud, calling someone, anyone outside in but I’d rather stay inside out I thought. It might be safer out here on the streets rather than on the steps to the steeple or the ones that led to the park.

Rust colored facades were also part of the staple steeple, foggy light still creeping in through the cracks.

I was the king of San Francisco and these were my subjects. All were welcome here, outside in, inside out, so is the art of life.

...

Photo by Navid Baraty of San Francisco

Geary Street

I stood inside, looking out of the fast food, bulletproof glass window out onto Geary Street at the theatre,
Comedy, Geary, Tragedy it said and I laughed and cried at the thought of both, silently.

Cup in hand, just behind the front door, was a request and I didn’t want to help him fulfill it even though I could.
It seemed it was not real and just a façade, oh the times, they are a-changing.

It’s that time of year, they said, even though the phrase had recently been banned from the Queen’s English
But I didn’t know this Queen as there hadn’t been a Queen of San Francisco since I could remember.

Modern signs, neon, begging, street sleeping, cupa, cupa, cupa, can you please just buy me a hamburger? 64 more cents and I can get the super burrito
50 more cents so that I can get drunk, can you help me?

Show playing across the street didn’t matter as most passed it by unnoticing, the Euro is strong and as long as it was, the City would thrive,
I’ll close my eyes and go back there, as I wasn’t born of this time.

Biscuits and Blues, forgotten by most but still part of the story, 3119 Filmore not gone but forgotten as well, still standing but selling rugs,
The reading at the 6th was something of the past.

Ghosts of culture past, lingering, blistering, beckoning, but not becoming of what the picture postcards,
Depicted of the streets of a City no more.

Protest through creativity is now taken to the streets and I truly wonder, which is the most effective, pop, pop, pop, it’s normal, quasi-radical
Same, karaoke, supermarket poster, I’ll sign your petition with indifference.

At least it was something, I forgot what it was that I was fighting for, passion, peace, peas, instant pleasure, go home to your wife, they are
Waiting there for you to do something, anything

Shirt and tie, not wrong just easy to get too involved, rush, rush to wherever you are going, you have bills to pay
Why else would I get up this early?

Eyes closed, I’ll walk home, it’s familiar and routine will follow, I just hope that I remember in the morning
What is right and where I am from, nay, what I have become

Rest easy I am sure, all is well, Ben and Jerry’s is on the corner at Ashbury and if you go up Haight
You will find retail, retail, resale, I’ll sleep easy even though it’s all gone

Sepia vision goggles is how I would like to view the existence of time travel and that corner where I’ll sleep
Just suits me, I’ll be fine.

I’ll live through picture perfect, picture present, presents under the tree and all is well,
Summer comes and a new tribe descends on the City

Looking for the same, days that have been lost under a vale of curiosity or normalcy,
Fishbowl, picture taking, it doesn’t matter, it thrives.

Tweet

I don't tweet...but if I tweeted...this would be my tweet. However mine is much much longer than the mere 140 characters that twitter allows.

"Slept way too long today...it was dark when I woke up. Ate at McDonald's because it's all that I can afford. Checked my email, nothing but spam. Walked up and down Sutter Street in both directions not sure where I should be going. Got a call from Eric. Called Eric back. Went to Eunice's apartment to watch the football game and bitch about life. Overstayed my welcome at Eunice's. Went to get a slice. Ate my pesto slice while standing up. Thought about where to go next. Couldn't figure it out so I walked in circles on the corner of Hyde and Post. Started to look and feel crazy so I stopped. Walked to the Outsider and said hi to Mina but she was drunk so I left. Smoked a cig. Watched a trailer for a film that I was asked to review. Wrote a little but not enough. Set my alarm for noon the next day. Made a reminder to call the filmmaker in the morning. Wished I had an iron so that I could look presentable. Watched an attractive woman receive a parking ticket for 53 bucks. Noticed that there weren't many pigeons in the neighborhood. Listened to a defunct Los Angeles radio station that I use to love online. Decided to go to Sacramento tomorrow to crash a concert and party. Eunice said she'll drive. Lit a candle and burned some sage. Noticed that I don't have any clean underwear. Wished that I could dance hip hop. Reminded myself that I wanted to start jogging. Listened to Bob Dylan. Saw stars outside for the first time in a long time. Decided to call it a night."

To Write or Not to Write

Calling myself a writer has honestly been a difficult challenge for me. When I worked in academia it wasn't difficult to rattle off my title and shove my business card engraved with the word "Director" on it to interested parties. It didn't matter if they really understood what my job at the time really entailed, it only mattered that I had the title and with that they assumed that I had large amounts of money and that it carried some kind of importance. Sure, for the most part I called the shots in the office and did as I pleased, however, I was never truly happy and never really had any true power. Now when people ask what I do and I tell them that I am a writer there is the inevitable question about what books I have published and where they can find them... not that they are really interested in reading them but only that I might say Amazon or Barnes and Nobles instead to give credibility or notoriety to my response.

So here is the rub: I have written a book and have been working on a second and even a third but at this time...there are no buyers. Does that make me less of a writer because I am not quite there yet or do I forge on? I'll answer my own question with an affirmative answer. Yes. The problem with being a writer is that we absorb so much information, see so many things, want to write and document so many things that it is often difficult to know where to begin.

I'm jealous of my friends who write for a living full time as reporters and journalists and in turn, they are jealous of me for the freedom that I have to do so as I please without anyone else to answer to. It seems that we are all jealous of each other but nothing is entirely perfect in either scenario. I have though, heard the words of Buddhist monks who claim to have nothing yet have complete happiness. I wonder where this happiness comes from and they tell me that it is because they have complete freedom. No bills, no family other than what they would call humanity, no car, no mortgage, no creditors, no temptations, no addictions - nothing. Nothing. No self.

While I feel that I do not have much either - I still have something. I have purpose. I have no explanations. I have no regret. If I am called to write then I will write and hope that I have at least resonated with one person, just one. With that I will be satisfied.

With Metta and Peace on this cold San Francisco evening.

Nathan.

Street Sheet

Well...it's a new year and there is a lot to look forward to for all of us. I have neglected to make a new post in the last few days not because I have nothing to say or that I don't have enough time to write. Rather, I thought that I would take this small amount of time, 48 hours or so to really reflect on this new year and what it means to me and to those around me. Plus, I was starting to feel the pressure of having to write something insightful each day, much like a lesson that Doogie Howser would have a revelation about after each 42 minute episode on television back in the day.

I have been walking the streets of the neighborhood and have truly felt the same appreciation for this city that I have always felt in the past...but maybe...my love for the grit and the grime, the smell of kim chee, old Chinese grandmas carrying way too many pink plastic bags for them to handle, ambulance sirens at alarmingly loud decibels, and people simply hanging out in the street for a lack of a better place to go has gotten the best of me. I simply love it here.

While walking tonight, I felt the urge to give a dude on the street a dollar in exchange for a paper...but not just any paper I might add...I gave the suggested donation of a buck for an 8 page weekly paper celebrating its 20th anniversary in San Francisco entitled, "Street Sheet." I don't know why I have never taken the chance to pick one of these up in the last three years that I have lived here. I have certainly seen them all over town and while I would like to consider myself a writer, why wouldn't I have wanted to check this periodical out?

I was happy that I did finally ask for a copy and read it...truly read it. While I only spent a few nights out on the streets of San Francisco, I still consider myself somewhat of a transient and felt that I might have some kind of connection to the publication. I was surprised to find out that the paper was not only created to help end homelessness in the City, but also to be a service to those that are down and out and need information and resources to help them get back on their feet again. What a cool idea this was I thought. The issue that I picked up had poetry from guys on the street, an exclusive interview with Bob Dylan about a Christmas album that he had created where all proceeds go to the homeless, as well as information about shelters and where people could go when they had no where else to.

For anyone who has lived in or visited a place like San Francisco, it is easy to ignore those folks who are living on the streets. However, the sad part is that many of these people haven't made the choice to do so...life is just rough sometimes and often leads you with no other place to go. I was surprised at how easy it was for me to find myself in similar situations and that in itself is scary. Forget politics, economics, and religion because there is no one person or entity or even concept to really blame for this kind of problem. Have compassion instead, have joy, have faith in something and do only good things towards your fellow man.

I would like to reprint a poem that was in my first copy of the Street Sheet and hopefully, the Coalition on Homelessness won't mind that I do so.

GHETTO WISHES

Living in my perimeter
Among the crooks and sinisters
You'll need more than a Sunday minister
More funds than the Government needs to administer
My ghetto wishes - My ghetto wishes
Just scattered dreams and superstitions
While I'm living under drastic conditions
Battling opposition during daily transitions
I'm caught up in this misery of my childhood memories
Thinking back from a seed only wishing to grow
Coming to the womb as an embryo
Nine months later just another Negro
Looking to break the chains that confine me to the ghetto
My ghetto wishes - My ghetto wishes
Just shattered dreams and superstitions
Searching for my daily bread
Is my only religion
My ghetto wishes - My ghetto wishes
Just shattered dreams and superstitions
Praying on my knees, trying to avoid convictions
Lawd, it's hell for a criminal
On the down-low, subliminal
Just like Malcolm, I'm looking out the window...

Vincent V-Dubb Williams.