RCTID

Thanks for inspiring me, George.

Even before I read his comment, while on a bike ride across the Willamette Valley, I considered what I had written yesterday and I came upon understanding that inspired me to write. The width of this blog will allow me to color more of my taste in rap music.

I wrote four books of poetry in high school. During homeroom in sophomore year, while I was cornered away from kids I went to elementary school with, I would watch videos of a young Tupac Shakur (who died at 25) in high school with rage for life. The classmates away from me were friends of mine in the early 2000’s until I went to private school in 2003. I was away from them four years before I left private school and returned home to New England.

The classmates and I sat over twenty feet apart from each other at computer desks. Their gathering was like a round table while I was locked in to candid videos of my favorite poet, 2Pac.

I won’t shy and say that I started liking rap music with 2Pac because I liked it most by Lil’ Wayne. The point I thought of today on my bike ride that inspired me to tell you more about my love for Lil’ Wayne is the amount of passion he puts into his music. He lives with care for each breath he takes toward vocals.

I just thought of another understanding.

In the shower I thought about how Lil’ Wayne was pushed to break new ground. He signed Drake before Drake rose to the top and went on to carry out his own ideas for entertainment, art, and rap music with a focus on the progression that Lil’ Wayne dug his heels into.

No Ceilings 2 seems like a passion project, like when Wayne first started rapping and his heart bled over each second of song. I feel Wayne’s music. His music is rooted in the south and I especially enjoy the roll bounce that it carries, in the same way I enjoy Curren$y, (but never have I liked Birdman).

These days there is a consideration to Wayne’s content, which encompasses a narrow range of topics with a colorful elaboration to them. I understand why he isn’t respected, but it is his work ethic, longevity, dedication, passion, and entertainment he puts into his work.

As for the sound, if you can listen to Wayne’s music with reverence for his continual part in progressive culture, then you will happen upon gems of sound that Wayne laid into and turned into a jewel of music. I hope, not just with Wayne, I can be a productive part of whatever I lay my hands to.

Thanks again, George

I hope someone reads this

In about 2007 I heard a song on 97.1 FM entitled Want You; I have been a Lil’ Wayne fan ever since.

It was Dwayne Michael Carter’s second portion of the mixtape, No Ceilings that inspired me to write this (It has been weeks since I last put down over 100 meaningful words). A friend of mine in film school told me that once I learned the fundamentals, I could “make a riff out of it.” I hope to live a life like that.

I hope to live a life where I learn the fundamentals and can go on to “make a riff out of it.”

No Ceilings 2 came out at the end of fall, when everyone away from the equator hunkered into a period of sadness as dark clouds and heavy winds ruled the land. When I discovered the album (No Ceilings 2) it had been six years since Wayne dropped No Ceilings.

(I hate this.):

If you defend him and go on to say, “Lil’ Wayne,” you flinch because there is stigma about Lil’ Wayne that attaches him to the expressive structure of rap music—whether goofy and black or angry and white.

I defend him.

Dwayne Michael Carter (Lil’ Wayne) has made thousands of songs, won excessive amounts of awards, and was the sound of my youth from ninth grade to a full-time job at 24 through homelessness and 4,000 miles on the road by bicycle. I was a senior in high school when Lil’ Wayne dropped the first portion of No Ceilings.

I bumped the tracks of No Ceilings as I slow-rode in my first car down a slope out of the mobile home park that my mom lived in.

“No ceilings, *****, good morning!”

It was on those streets that I was stopped by our landlord because my music was too loud and disrupted the old people who lived around us. The No Ceilings album was a mixtape where Wayne had hyper-improved since his days of I Can’t Feel My Face. Both were mixtapes but No Ceilings represented his fame since the feature he had when I first heard him on the radio in 2007 as a part of Lloyd’s single, Want You.

Lil’ Wayne pierces the complacency of genres to inspire mobility in creativity. Lil’ Wayne maximizes the potential of sound and has fun while doing it.

Lil’ Wayne is the best rapper ever.

I hate how stigma has swallowed Lil’ Wayne.

You’re gonna go on to rally and say how smart it is for me to say this about a man who had been buried as a demigod to pop culture. How smart it is that I could find beauty in the destroyed. It is there that I will say that there are many subjects that mean more to me than an analysis of my favorite music that I won’t get to harp on in the brief life we lead to live; although I hope I will in our future.

In conclusion, I am ecstatic to have a new Wayne album that is a prize for fans that enjoy what skills he garners.

Paradisus Amissus

I told a customer at work that I had a dream where one of my many bosses at work (I am a cashier) told me that our chip-reader for credit cards was working. There was a celebration in the dream that was parallel to how I would feel in real life. Our chip readers haven’t started to work yet; we have the hardware, just not the software.

This post comes from the encouragement and bright inspiration from a lady friend of mine who I use to work with (abCly). In my life, I romanticize the past with so much zeal I could make worthwhile projects from thousands of past moments. This woman—who I will keep nameless—but who deserves full recognition, is an epic poem of my life reflection.

I told the customer about my dream and he joked off that my dream was a bad one (because people think what I do sucks and any dream that relates to what I do is near a nightmare). I pleaded to differ. I have had nightmares that made me wake up because I couldn’t stay in them any longer, and when I woke up, I couldn’t go back to sleep; that is the worst, but actual.

For the sake of the unnamed inspiration that I am writing this for, I will go into the worst of my nightmares. I had a relationship in high school that I don’t mean to credit anymore than it deserves but will paint the full emotion of what I pang from in the dark hours of an early morning after I awake from the nightmare.

She and I were closer than I give myself credit in competence to construct, though I take responsibility for our relational decay, there was a silver lining that I may feel wed to for time to come. (I brag in that for the art to come). I dream about the girl sometimes, and only as it was in the best of our relationship. The scenes I dream up soften my heart to pillowcase tears in the morning (that happened once or twice). One of the times I could extract a thousand words for Clover that arc’d my main character in a way I was desperate to conjure.

In a conclusion fit for the sole audience I wrote this for, I wanted to accentuate the strokes that illustrate a fleeting part of us (as is most of us) to come upon once more before we forgot any longer. I have nightmares that inspire me and in all things I have still found life and can boast on that accord in short. Without a neat conclusion, I decorate your imagination to know I care for your heart and hope to have a further place in your life.

With love.

Over the Saddle

In Corvallis I had a regiment schedule that I had to complete in order to sustain. I know I had debt to pay back and a role to play in community. I hadn’t begun to pay back my thousands of dollars in debt and I had been off the grid of community—at least for long stints—while on the road for the nine months that I was. Needless to say, I was messy with my attempts to do either. The debt was easier because I could work and apply money to those loans while I watched them dissipate. Community on the other hand took a concise effort.

Other than flagship tough times, I found the most heart-breaking incident of settling down to be my lack of time in the wild or what was on the road. When I came to Corvallis I had just finished up a bicycle tour over 4,000 miles through four states where every day was new adventure. To land down in community was fine. I wanted that; but when I arrived there was so much complacency and a short window of time during my work week that I had to take trips or go on adventures.

There was my Portland Vacation that just took me back in ways that my spirit needed. There were also my trips to Scott’s house, floats on the river, hikes, or the similar that kicked me into gear. There was one event that shattered my patterns. I had a friend from work named Grant “G-Money, Geezy” Scauvignon who I met when we both worked together in the produce department.

When I first met him I said,  “You remind me of Ulysses S. Grant (because of his beard).”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s on the $50 bill.”

I loaded up my cart with a few items to stock in the department and puttered around when he came out with valiant stride with six times as many items than me and he seemed to be carrying a fleet with him wherever he went. He had zing, stride, swagger, maturity, and was an impressive young man to be 22. He had already worked for our company six years.

He was a fermentation science major at Oregon State University and drank a lot. He walked me down the beer aisle and pointed out craft brews. In his free time he drank craft but was known as well to enjoy PBR or Hamm’s. When I became a cashier I would go visit Grant on my breaks or lunches to just hang out with him. I had ideas for us to hang out: river floats, but he didn’t want to get in the mercury-tainted water.

He texted me on one of our free days from work and I proposed over text that we go on a bicycle ride. We both had nice bikes. His was made of carbon fiber. My fork was made off carbon fiber. He was down and confessed when we met up that he thought we would ride to some sweet bar that I knew about. No; but kind of.

When I waited for him to meet up with me outside of my favorite coffee shop—Tried & True—I browsed online for popular bike routes in Corvallis. The list of them had their respective mile count. I looked for some with double digits. That was an exertion of mine and I figure for most of humanity—the heart to attempt the irregular. I wouldn’t go on a lengthy bike ride on my own or wouldn’t go for a hike on my own. I cherished the bond that people have with one another that can accomplish the unusual.

He showed up and we walked our bicycles up to one another. The first thing he said was that he didn’t want to go far and was already sore from both his own six mile ride into town as well because he had just walked his grandparents around campus. That blew some wind on a new flame of mine, but didn’t extinguish it. I told him I had a route picked out that was 24 miles. He gasped and joked that “No way” we would do that. He was just too tired. I said that I had a shorter one in mind, about four miles that would take us up a hill and down a fun descent.

I didn’t find out until we were 900 feet up a mountain that he had a one speed bike with no brakes. As we rode through downtown for the lighter route he shouted up to me with profanity, “[Fudge it], let’s take the long trip.” I had to accept that new wind to heighten my flame as I then saw the route as daunting. That complacent outlook collapsed as we took off for the hills.

Our route went up to a popular part of the area called Lewisburg Saddle. The bike route took us to the northwestern outskirts of town that began a steep ascent right when you crossed a perimeter road of the city. We had a steep ascent through switchbacks and a forest of old-growth for up to 1,000 feet. It was a gorgeous ride up with thickets of wood that took me back to road life in so many ways. I had 27 gears and led Grant all the way. I didn’t want to discourage him early on so I stayed far enough ahead where he had to keep going. I stayed on my bike until just about 100 feet from the summit. He had gotten off just before me—200 feet below the summit. He hated to have to get off his bike. It was a blow to his pride.

I thought at times he would turn back so I waited until I saw him around the bend and then would push on. I hadn’t worked out in a while, save a few runs here and there. My body yearned for the type of exercise that a tumultuous trip like that would need out of me. I was happy to push myself that far.

At the Lewisburg Saddle we got off our bikes and wandered around a bit. There were two hiking paths that spread off on either side of the road that we didn’t hike but thought to. We were very exhausted and had another 17 miles to go. I was told later on that there were old-growth firs off to the right side of the road but there was tape up because of tree harvesting. Cars were parked up to where people would hike to the left and into the thicker forest. It was up top that I learned he had no brakes.

What he had was a peddle system that was connected to his tires rotation. If he wanted to go slow he would have to peddle slow—difficult on such a steep ascent. We took off and I pulled over a few hundred feet down because I held on the brakes which could get too hot. I waited while my tires and brakes cooled. Grant came down behind me, “Don’t let me ruin the fun for you Caleb.”

On my next time down I flew like a car through the rest of forest and opened out to fields that stretched out in the valley. The sun was in full burst, a light wind cooled us, the view was American, and we both rode at top speeds by ourselves. We were at the reward of our efforts from this trip and in life altogether. We cruised in valiancy like we were made to and agreed that that section was our favorite.

At a crossroads we rode our bicycles in circles to escape a grip of hornets that hovered near us. We didn’t know which direction to go. I hadn’t had any water all trip. We had ten miles left to go. We decided on a direction and pressed to a rural highway with an adequate shoulder that was littered with traffic and just like that we left our prize where it may dwell for another. I kept an eye peered and turned us off at a convenient store where I got 44 ounces of lemonade for 99 cents. I drank half of it in the shade with Grant while he sipped a cherry-flavored Gatorade.

We had eight miles left and both decided to go to Block 15—a brewery and restaurant in downtown Corvallis. The final stretch was just a familiar press to the brewery where we locked up our bikes and got a table together upstairs. We split nachos and both got a couple pints of craft brews. We shared the conversations we had always wanted to go in depth on and continued the brotherhood I saw would thrive through his last school year in Corvallis before the workforce.

For those who read Fog on Fire:

For those who read Fog on Fire:

I was with one of my best friends in Corvallis in 2015; pretty much the best friend. He had just finished reading Fog on Fire. I lit up inside because someone completed a body of my work. I got to gauge him for honest responses that he had. Later on I referenced a basketball championship game to him that I was in and after I described it he mentioned how he saw the clip used as the b-roll footage for CCW—an episodic of mine.

That afternoon I went on to complete another episode of the show that I had put off with a drive of purpose. I sat and was reflective about the time I had while on the road. I thought about separate clips from the journey and it made me euphoric with sensory overload. I thought it would be fun to travel back there, at least with a depiction of it in words. (I’m going to write if for me and for the people that read my book because anyone else wouldn’t gather the feeling):

It was dinnertime in Bodega Bay—a coast town north of San Francisco. The town is mystical like the feeling you get when you watch The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. The fog hovered in its own light storm above the ocean. The town was formed around the broken earth that the ocean had consumed over time.

The day started along a ridge the Coast Highway scooted around. Marilyn and I had slept over at a Church building, attended, and were on our hitchhike journey north to Gleneden Beach. I missed the Oregon Coast beach house, its comfort, the rest, peace, laughter, solitude, and the like. It was Amma who had mothered me into comfort for more a month. It was to fill a void that would be filled later.

At dinnertime we walked out of town along parks with beach access. It was the end of summer. The sun stayed bright but fell to a more orange hue over time. Families packed their dinners out and ate while their young men played football and new fathers got their toddler’s toes wet.

I burnt the summer day away on the beaches playing football, walking the shore, and stacking rocks in a cove of them. The mass embankment of beachgoers gawked over Marilyn. She rode the top of my backpack with stature and was at peace along the ocean.

I kept her tied to my backpack on the ground while I carried large rocks up over boulders and built a stack of them to silhouette when the sun lowered. When I finished my display or was worn out first, I went up to the parking lot and waited around for someone to approach Marilyn and I so that I could get us a ride further up the highway.

No one approached.

There were two young men about my age on the highway in street clothes that looked like trouble because they looked they had left the city that day and were too fresh for vagabond experiences to maintain self-control in the trials ahead.

I waited for them to pass and continued my trek up. I came to know a place in mind that was at peace with my circumstance and grew okay with the walk. Just as I did that, a rental car slowed ahead of me and pulled into dirt off the shoulder. I don’t mean to be lofty but the coincidence of becoming content and an answer coming in one beat after is rare. The driver kept the engine running and lowered the window. Inside was a European couple. The wife was driving and wondered if I wanted a ride.

They both got out and helped me load my pack into the trunk. Just when we all went to the back I looked toward the fields at east and saw the two young roadies on a boulder. I probably mouthed an apology and got in with Marilyn. The couple must’ve been sent to me. As the sun set a fiery orange as a blanket on the sky, a European-Daft-Punk-influence of music set the mood, and we all were on our way north into the night.

Bodega Bay, CA — Fort Bragg, CA (109 miles, three hours)

Cats on sidewalks

My favorite things about New Hampshire became my favorite things about New England. Most people on the west coast would say they went to the east coast before, “like Florida”—which is not what I had in mind. I never had a desire to go to Florida, other than after I watched Scarface; then again I never had a desire to leave the Sugar River Valley.

There is common disarray about the Willamette River: that it has mercury in it or that it isn’t safe to either be in or taste. The Sugar River ran through Claremont during the Industrial Period when a gross range of chemicals were dumped to who knows where the dumpees figured it would end up—Surely not Corvallis in 2015.

I didn’t know how conservative I was until I came to the northwest where the liberal line is beyond what I knew existed; and I digress. The Sugar River Valley encompasses Claremont and stretches out in all directions. If they just haven’t visited Florida before, then they passed through New England or even New Hampshire. In NH, they mention a town I knew of on a map that I may have known someone has visited themselves but I never had any need to go to.

My favorite things about New Hampshire are the geology, terroir, 12A (blue highway along the Connecticut River, old friends, fond memories, and seasonal nostalgia. Those are all powerful things to me. I also want to take an empty notepad to Dartmouth College and write a fictional story about the most real things I ever knew.

My favorite of them all would be what a father and child a couple seats over got me thinking about. The father said he had a place picked out for them to go fishing at. The kid turned to him and there was silence or maybe an exchange that I didn’t see. I thought that if I was the kid I would enjoy if my dad told me a story to go with it that would take the stage from just going fishing.

I guess I miss my childhood time in New Hampshire.

Two Times for you

"you,"

The sun fell behind thick clouds, and before I saw that I was sure that God was going to cover the sun up for a while and freak us all out—Why not?

That may not happen but it will be darker for a bit. Everyone in Corvallis first smelled it, noticed the darker sky at midday, and asked each other what happened. I think some people took that opportunity to express their political views, like last year when a field in town caught fire and the news wanted you to know that the kids were smoking weed. (This was at a time when marijuana shops were moving into town).

My coworker told me that "an idiot was mowing his lawn in the middle of the day and his muffler caught (what seems like) the land on fire."

The smell is like the smell of something that shouldn't be on fire—oily, woody, and nasty. It has been like that for almost twelve hours and I smell it while the sky goes dark. On a high note, I got to see my good friend's mom at work today, which also was an even higher note—being inside with easier air to breathe. 

I don't work tomorrow. I am going to chill. Altogether, it's been an interesting past couple of years. 

There is a girl I think is cute who went single some days ago. The attractive tension between each other was beyond obvious. She already found a rebound that she admitted was just that and I think she was rebounding on more than just that one person while we interacted. I related to her that I had a hard enough time not pursuing every girl who shows attraction to me. I was being cryptic and concise at the same time. 

(Sugar River Valley) 

I still miss the little things of the past and compete enough about the future while forgetting the present moment. (This is not a cryptic conclusion to all that I just said—just an observation).

One Time for The City

"The City" is The City*

My coworker got the first fruits of my expressions in a range of questions. He then learned that I was writing a book and he wondered if I was going to write him into it (since I had been asking him about his life). I had a story to tell before I had even become homeless and then I went on to live on the road which was followed by a book that gave me many things to talk about in a time that was new for me to walk through. Needless to say: I slipped around a little bit.

People annoyed me,

I had a hard time with myself (understatement),

I just came to know how much more I needed to mature.

So in light of my coworker who thought I was going to exploit him, I want to still write about my current life and gain trust from those close to me that they will be safe when I do it. 

I hung out with a gang of friends tonight that I see once a week and who I never spend time with outside of that. It was great. They invited me to chill and I didn't want to at first but then ended up peddling to see them after work. I got to rotate parts of my existence that I don't normally see move.

I would say that was a major benefit of time. I want to go off on other tangents to expand in my ability but want to save that for when I'm fresh in the morning.

*Claremont probably

Beyond FOG

I thought about the title before I had the body of this entry. Mason would condemn me for that since I think he is certain that the title comes from the body of work. I kind of agree in the same way that I kind of believe either it will rain or the clouds will break in the middle of a summer day. 

The reason I gave it this title was because I wanted to write about something that went beyond what Fog on Fire became. I have a hard enough time deciding whether or not I should capitalize the "o" in Fog On Fire. That last way of it looks sturdier but “on” is a preposition and I would rather be technical than visual. Once I learn the rules I believe that I will go on to be both, but for now I want to find the balance of technical and visual—and that can be messy.

I wake up at this time of year with a window open by my bed and a fan at the other side to funnel what use to be very hot air. As the summer ends, the air has become colder and comes with a scent that takes me back to my tent when I was on the road. The reason that this entry goes beyond Fog On Fire is because it is an expression and example of life that didn’t take the stage in FOG which was more of a captain’s log.

I rode my bicycle into town this morning under the overcast sky past a group of horses in their field. I looked over and let out a “NAaayy.” Sometimes they look over in either confusion, laughter, or one of many reactions. When I was on the road and traveled alone past the many fields, forests, and small towns, I would make their animal noise toward them:

“Moooooo!”

“BaAaAaa!” etc.

I really miss the day to day life on the road now that I’m swamped in a schedule and the normality of community. 

Nomadic For Once

The most popular thoughts on my mind right now are the future, life from on the road and the sporadics of my daily life that stimulate me. Coming upon the second year anniversary of me being in Corvallis, the smells of summer in fall, and a third reason to make the comma make sense flutter past as examples but the pull comes in waves that vary in power. 

My dad's father committed suicide; my own father left when I was eight; I hadn't stayed in a community for a length of time beyond two years since a decade prior. There is a habit of mine as a nomad that pulls against my everyday life. It's hard but not more than what we all experience in separate ways. I am sensitive to that. It would be eccentric of me to conclude that any of us suffer or celebrate in a way that is new under the sun. 

My mentor asked if I thought about writing on hip hop. I have a hard enough time deciding if there is a dash between those three-letter words. I know what sets a fire under me and will learn in my writing, if for the first time, as you get to read through. My love for hip hop (There, I decided not to muddy my paragraphs with unnecessary dashes) began when I first followed Lil' Wayne in 2006 or '07. He had just got a radio hit on the hip hop radio station (97.1) as a feature with Lloyd entitled Want You. His flow wasn't safe. He took music somewhere that the hip hop genre had tasted but wasn't mature enough to steward. (Altogether I don't believe Lil' Wayne perfected the transition but he led the direction.)

Drake came behind and led his own generation in the sound. I don't want to be silly and try to define what is special about either of their sounds but I know that they are special with their sounds. There was a documentary made by QD3 Entertainment called The Carter that followed Lil' Wayne around the time that he released one of the most talented albums in hip hop history. At first Wayne had given his support for the project but withdrew that support before it was released. The producers met Wayne at his stage character and used his participation in that to reveal the intelligence of an artist with work ethic. Whether or not you like him now, Wayne put in the hours of work that not many people ever get close to. Whoever you create (or stand for), that ability in genius requires outstanding effort. Everyone doesn't need to love you but they will know what effort you put in. I loved The Carter because it pulled off the mask of a pop culture icon and exposed the interior of his self.

The sun is setting a golden light against the earth, it's a cool evening (fall is coming), and I reflect upon life on the road that I wish I could go back to. I wish I could dissertate something fluffy to sign off with but I don't have anything that way to say. I'm happy I was lit up enough to digest a little of what my mind has processed through. A lot of my life may need a paper journal but I'm tired of the solitude and will mature through that too. 

"All is well that ends well,"

Air in My Tire

“Where you going Say Bay?”

“Just putting air in my tires. Do you need any air in your tires?”

         

“I little bit, but I got hundre-I got a hundred and fifteen pounds per square inch. That little pump won’t do it for me."

Just then, a good friend: one who wore not a windbreaker or a weather resistant material – but one who wore just a short sleeve near eight at night in the midst of winter – came by and opened the front door. I asked him, “Do you have any wise words?”

He repeated the question aloud to himself and told me, “Spend life making memories, not regrets.”

Up to the honesty that is, I spent the hour before on a couch in the warm-lit room of my good friend. He came to Corvallis when I did: one and a half years ago. He will graduate in spring weeks and will be onto life outside of school. We sat and discussed, relaxed and gathered. I told him about my own pursuit for what I want and how it compares to dialing back in the process to be a variable for the equations of life that roll around me all the time.

I can be that multiple to make an impact, the salt: light of the city on a hill. I have been to the end of myself a few times before and was never impressed by it. Rather, my own glory melts in comparison to the increase of life around me in my sacrifice. In the night, full of thoughts that wander, I am happy where God has brought me. Eternity is far from over, but this is a good start.

Letter for Those I Love

“Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.”

   – Ecclesiastes 2:11

If not honest, I would be internal with a matter that should, for the sake of progressive intellect (save relevance), be brought to light. I am uncertain. The above verse from Scripture was written in context to a passage titled, The Futility of Pleasures. My concerns have not to do with pleasures, but what I claim are my options with the youth of life.

Many of my cohorts – good friends of a college town – are in transition at the end of this term from studies into a career path. Since I have been settled in town, those processes have always encouraged me to learn and acclaim with intellect when around them in pace, conversation, or other societal conversations. My matter is this: if at all it is my decision whether to uproot once more and pursue a career that God has prepared me for (if I believe He has), then what to make of the depths of wealth I note with family in Christ? It is all rather large for my thought patterns and so I have lifted those questions (and more) to God with (desired) expectancy that I will hear in time. I don’t mean to confuse those nearest me with questions I have watered, but it is only practical to express those with honesty.

The matter at hand is not as urgent in this season, but it should be noted with power that God has given me talents apart from comfortable norms and know Him enough that He calls out for missions that otherwise would be achieved (whether we want apart of it or not), so I protect that stance. This message is preface for a romantic letter of address to those person I love that I would hate to lose if and when I move to Hollywood for the attack on those opportunities that I, since childhood, knew that God hoped me for.

Campus Harvest

I would read my bible every morning. Otherwise, I would pray – talk, rather – to God. I would work, eat, sleep, and dream. This was my pattern for months at a time, sewn together by a desire for more of God. I believed, yet failed to accomplish, time apart for God was necessary. What I didn't expect, but had found out, was that Campus Harvest fit that mold. It wasn't the secret place alone with God, but it was intentional time that I blocked out just for Him. It was a frame of time that I went into with expectancy and for specific areas to be spoken into. Within that: I was forthright to open up all of myself and lay myself at His feet to shape for His glory. Going forward from the weekend, I was empowered to start anew and move with vigor toward the path He had for me to walk.

In specific, I went in to hear from Him about whether to move to Los Angeles in pursuit of the passion he laid on my heart since youth (art) or stay where He placed me in Corvallis. My pastor there at the conference spoke one side of that decision in terms of where actual value laid. I agree: what's more important than where I go in place of duty is who I do it wit. That purpose and those people trump the accomplishment.

When Babylon wanted to make its name great, God dispersed them (Genesis 11) because nothing would be impossible for them to accomplish. Out of the scattered people, he chose a random man named Abraham and told him that He would make his name great. As children of God, our identity is secured to start with; there is no need for a pursuit of vanity. On the other side, I heard from a respected teacher that God has given us all special areas that we are to lay our most into for God. I feel most alive when I create and know that collaboration is an environment that can be garnered for God to have glory. In the end, I believe God would have all His own at the forefront in many career fields. 

           

I know that many of my brothers and sisters as Christians wonder whether what voice they hear is theirs or God’s. Here are some notes I gathered from the conference to help:

·         Since God is personal, He can speak to us through revelation (dreams), a growing realization that comes through fruit (I am most alive when I am creative), and recognition (God can use people to confirm what I am already feeling).

·         God initiates an idea and humans confirm or humans initiate and God confirms.

Altogether, I had a great time and look forward to penning my journey through a new book I am writing about my time in Corvallis and through the descent to Los Angeles.

From Now On

“Where you going Say Bay?”

“Just putting air in my tires. Do you need any air in your tires?”

“A little bit, but I got hundre-I got a hundred and fifteen pounds per square inch. That little pump won’t do it for me.”

Just then, a good friend: one who wore not a windbreaker or a weather resistant material – but one who wore just a short sleeve near eight at night in the midst of winter – came by and opened the front door. I asked him, 

“Do you have any wise words?”

He repeated the question aloud to himself and told me:

“Spend life making memories, not regrets.”

Aside from the honesty that is, I spent the hour before on a couch in the warm-lit room of my good friend. He came to Corvallis when I did: one and a half years ago. He will graduate in thirteen weeks and so will be onto life outside of school. We sat and discussed, relaxed and gathered. I told him about my own pursuit for what I want and how it compares to dialing back in the process to be a variable for the equations of life that roll around me all the time. I can be that multiple to make an impact, the salt: light of the city on a hill. I have been to the end of myself a few times before and was never impressed by it; rather, my own glory melts in comparison to the increase of life around me by my sacrifice. In the night, full of thoughts that wander, I am happy here.

Three days out, I let this post sit still on my desktop. I had spent three days at four hours a day finishing a script and hated that feeling of having to write. Right now, I’m writing the sequel to a book about my bicycle trip (Fog on Fire – coming June 21^st). It’s fun, yes, but I’m not too glued to writing and it feels good. Rather, I have spent the past few weeks in pursuit of the switch end that cinema is: imagery.

As such, I am allowed to edify subjects within a frame and sculpt an image with light and shadow. I love it. What is better than the end result is the time I get to spend in collaboration with the people that sit for me and creating together is a wonderful process. When they are new friends, we are both just as nervous as the other and learn to trust while going through that event. It has been a wild ride: my time in Corvallis, and I am thankful for the length of it

 

West Coast

Out of high school, I went to Hollywood, became homeless, and lived on the road by bicycle from Southern California to Oregon, Idaho, Spokane, Seattle, and south along the coast to San Francisco before my bike broke and I hitchhiked to Newport, Oregon and came into Corvallis. Now, I'm here and have been for a year and a half. What it seemed to be – my time in Corvallis – was for communal restoration and the improvement through each other by God. It was a wild ride and will continue to be through what's left until September (two year reunion of being here) when I take to the coast with my cat Marilyn and ride south to Hollywood where I will pursue a career in cinema.

I spent the most of this morning reading the blog of a woman cyclist that I met on the coast of Oregon and rode with for a couple days before we split ways from each other. Beyond that nostalgia are memories coupled with spring coming on and the scents that take me to places I had been on the road. When the scent of flowers blooms in the heat of spring and life around heats up: I simmer with adventure for the coastal trip I had. Walking through a thick of pines is the reminder of golden light pools scattered on coniferous trees around my campsite in past. 

In my writing, I feel like Meriwether Lewis. Sometimes I lose interest and would pursue creativity in other ways. That's fine. Being unproductive is worst of all. In preparation by forethought: I excite over maps, savings, bikes, dreams, and the freedom my spirit needs in venture. Being in community for this while was what part of me needed, but my spirit desires a journey of its own just the same.  

Bring the Sunrise

“There are some mysterious elements at work.”
‘How do you perceive the mysterious elements?’
“That’s up for you to decide. Because what I perceive may be different than what you perceive.”
‘Well, what do you perceive?’
“You know, I haven’t quite figured it out, yet. Some would say Jesus.”

Through the east bank roadway to town, the open skies and fields held an air that chipped through my thin jacket and long sleeve. My torso temperature warmed but my thighs, from air through my jeans, stayed cool as I climbed the bridge over the Willamette River that was constant: slow, but proven powerful from risen sediment below the surface.

It was matte: the color of day raised orange at the horizon through trees and lifted to sea green as a spectrum of blue went to black at west where stars twinkled. As it rose, sun light seemed to erupt through the atmosphere as a tropical orange spread out around the sphere of sight. As the colors came to, the objects before them deepened to silhouettes that crystallized as dark shadows with distance like space beyond our galaxy. Cars passed below in series of red and headlight yellow colors under illuminated canopies of white  and warm street lights to work.

When the sun had near risen (7:39), the most of sky above held a light blue with the horizon line as its border of light orange held at east and violet at west. It was noticeable: the sun rose more north toward spring. The orb of it was visible through the low fog and rose in a fiery flicker. At the east, the coast range illuminated in a thick coat of purple color with the space between the trees as a dark space that patterned the rolling hills.

Age is But a Number & Even McLarens Need Gasoline

"With that, I'd say: don't lose it. That characteristic is applicable in all contexts."

Night:

While I rode home over a narrow wooden bridge that gets rolled over with eastbound traffic out of Corvallis, I stopped above the Willamette River while it flowed north for the Columbia River. Over to the west, at a southern angle of winter, I saw the last coat of light decorate the sky with thin colors in the red tint category. When I pulled over along the walking path, I saw a spread of Easter pink that stretched due south to northwest by north. At where the sun dropped, the colors changed in a boil to royal purple and so stretched but thinner as the set went further.

At my one year review for my job at the fuel center in Corvallis, my manager and I discussed what trajectory has launched since we opened last February. I told him where I forecast it heading and he addressed issues I had at work. One in particular had to do with my desire to call people out whom I work with and have no authority over.

 "I at least try and they aren't even trying. It's like you hold yourself to a standard and want to do the same with others."

In whatever I do, I hope to be salt and seek an increase for the best that can be attained in whatever circumstance. I understand that a great deal of trust in God needs to be there, as well a tactical outreach for me to have when I approach different people to know them so to ensure that a positive outcome endures. Altogether, my time at the Corvallis Fred Meyer fuel center has been a worthwhile pursuit. It was cool to be there as a leader to setup its roots for a long stance of world class customer service. Furthermore, I look forward to my efforts as an associate in whatever I take on.

Morning:

The first light: anything brighter than shear darkness has occurred earlier since the solstice. On this morning, it began minutes before seven. It started as a blue expanse (like an ocean) that revealed clouds (as floes) with variant shades of gray within. Beyond, from the heights to horizon: the surroundings became outlined with shadow and misted with fog that seemed to roll forward from the distance. In the sky were silent lights of stars that were brighter than the others to see the new day rise.

Between seven and eight, the sun rose in orange layers between clouded strips of deep purple (near gray). Fog sat above a meadow to the east and gave distance to the tree line with a haze that deepened. For a moment, clouds above were orange against a blue sky. Consider the sunrise: how it billowed over clouds that shone sharp light at top and overtook the innocence of morning glory with stricken vibrancy that set the tone for a summer day in winter.

GENESIS

"Yeah, right: who you'll be in twenty years – who I'll be in twenty years – all has something to do with how we respond today."

It’s been a few days since a display of it all has occurred: the desire, action, afterthought, and now – the collective analysis of my passion for cinema. Since fall of 2014, I have been writing every day. Before then, including that year, I had written at how I felt – now it is a priority. As of thus far, I have completed the following: a rough draft of the screenplay about my bicycle trip from LA to Seattle when I was homeless, the book about my bicycle trip (Fog On Fire [Release Date: June 21]), a rough draft of a novella, an essay on cinema (Seventh Art [see last blog post]), a short screenplay for that novella I mentioned, a feature film screenplay, and am now working on the cleaner draft of that screenplay about my bicycle trip.

All this goes to say that my focus has honed in on a relative skill that my heart has been stirred for (relative because I want to be a director). After I had completed that short screenplay for a novella I wrote, I was looking for a new project to endeav upon. I had just made the transition from reading books and writing books to reading scripts and writing scripts. I would like to focus on that feature film screenplay I last completed. The concept was given to me by my manager at the fuel center who majored in English and has a wife who directs the theater. I was so rambunctious about the concept that I went home from work on Saturday and started to write. I wrote all through Sunday and was finished after noon on Monday. Less than 48 hours after I had begun: I had written a feature film – a rushed one at that.

My afterthought of it all goes to address how much work I put into something that, at the time, did not need so much put into it (maybe it did). I learned a lot about my ability in a constraint of time, as well about the requirements that such a task requires. In that time, I found a lot of my waking hours dedicated to the project – which put aside a lot of other restful things I could have been doing. With what I know now of the process, I hope to spread that same zeal out for long periods of time (given I remain before deadlines) to make the most of writing slots and reflections in between as the story grows. 

Seventh Art

SEVENTH ART
by Caleb C. Werntz

To Miss Zimmerman, Miss Hardin, and Doctor Bolus – you inspired me.

In ninth grade, I wrote my first screenplay about a man who had multiple personalities. When I finished writing, I burned it outside of my basement. After high school, I enrolled in an Associate of the Science of Film at The Los Angeles Film School in Hollywood, California. After a good start, I directed my attention from cinema into smoking weed, dropped out, became homeless, and took a 4,000 mile bicycle trip through the northwest before I landed back on my feet in Oregon. This essay is a reflection of the craft that aims to forecast the direction that cinema is headed through the topics of theory, story, and placement.

What separates the emotion you have with a picture from everyday is life is safety. Emotion in real life is interpersonal where we are a variable to interact while a picture happens within itself (1). As we watch a movie, notion is suspended to leave room for the presentation to express itself (2). Since many works of art depict life in a different way, we are safe to observe them without giving judgment. When we open up to a film, we host an internal process since the viewing leaves no room for outside dialogue. Given we can absorb a production’s entirety, we have allowed ourselves time to exercise an internal function as well observe the processes of other people who gathered to create that began with the text.

With the screenplay, a writer is taught to put down what can be captured by sight and sound. With cinema and its relevant montage of artistic strength, the ability to communicate is broad. “The time of resurgence of a cinema newly independent of a novel and theater will return. But it then may be because novels will be written directly onto film. (3)” As a writer who originated with the screenplay, I find great freedom with rewrites that open a formula of variables for the entire production to work through. In contrast to an adaptation, there is not a matter of cutting to size, but rather a full utilization of space created within the parameters of movie length. The way movies are made and consumed has changed and the writers are standing in the middle (4). In the earliest years of cinema at the studio level, writers were contracted and their work never was what they envisioned it to become. Of all that movies are – as art or high budgets – the constant is story. We may see a change in format and platforms, but stories will not cease (4): the future of cinema depends on the effort of writers.   

The consistency maintained when a movie is shot, edited, exported, and uploaded now has the ability to remain through internet streaming and eye of a viewer. Studios hope for money, so the first fruits of an affordable online network of quality movies will be led by a combination of a studio picture and the ensemble foundation of quality productions that seek to have a platform established. Through the ability to host libraries online, the medium of cinema will find a new home on platforms that are a direct pathway into the homes of an audience.

            My conclusion on cinema is for its purpose, content, and future yet to be held. Motion pictures are an artistic medium that continues to flourish. As digital capabilities allow for independence, the writers will lead the transfer of duties from studios to passionate filmmakers, first through a body of text. Whereas in a century we saw the remarkable arc of internal material go from the static art to its radiance of motion, I expect the same growth in the form of consistent display from capture to edit, host, and view from equipment of the same quality with focus on the host platform and accessibility from personal devices. Cinema is a young art form that matures with radiance and is at the cusp of a transition to accessibility.    

REFERENCES

1. Wiley, Norbert. "Emotion and Film Theory." Studies in Symbolic Interaction (11): 169-87. Emerald Insight. Web. 13 Dec. 2014.
2. "The Phenomenological Reduction." Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. N.p., n.d. Web.
3. Bazin, André. "What Is Cinema?" (n.d.): n. pag. Film Adaptation. City University of New York, 1 Aug. 2012. Web. 16 Dec. 2014.
4. Migdol, Robin. "Screenwriting in the Digital Age." Diss. USC, 2013. Abstract. (n.d.): n. pag. Dissertations and Theses. Web. 20 Dec. 2014.