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.

Señores (Man Flower)

Today rose quite like any other: darkness before dawn. The forecast said and was confirmed as I hopped out onto the asphalt driveway – fog laid low to the earth where above was an open sky of stars against a deepening space. The air was wet – so when I rode, it coated my eye lashes.

As I blinked, cool drops of water washed my skin and gathered with the mist around my cheeks that streamed down my face. There was a quiet this Saturday morning when, on the east bank, no cars passed by or could be heard on either side and through the barrier of precipitation. Noise was muffled. I was speaking out loud, but hushed to savor the silence.

When civil light broke to an illuminated dawn, the sun came up afterwards. Through the layers of atmosphere, I saw a waterfall of orange light roll over the coverage of clouds that weakened as the day continued in stretch.

Throughout the morning, before noon, the sun got brighter as its globe was outlined against the cloth of white that broke way to pools of blue. By twelve, the day was in full glory and the temperature rose to a late fifties. By then until my shift was up (2:30), I wore just a short sleeve and threw water bottles to my cohorts.

The prize of all: I was favored two concept ideas to write screenplays for that I have gotten started on. This marks the end of a work week as I turn toward a new one where I will hear back about my position in produce or not, as well write, read, and discover the section of life ahead. Other than that, I'm still in love with my ex-girls.

Califlores (California Flowers)

At work, the sun had come degrees from rising when it illuminated black to a lighter dark blue. Then, I saw a sky full of gray clouds that stretched from west at the mountains to the eastern tree line. This section of morning until sunrise casts a dynamic spectacle of light that colors the atmosphere.

On this particular morning, I saw a sliver of radiant orange light stream from north to south above the tree line. Just above where the sun hinged it was fiery that stretched out to an Easter pink and danced blossoms into the fogged distance. As the minutes went by, the shades shifted as an active light show carried a flood of color like a purple blanket to the western clouds above the coastal foothills.

My coworker was at the pump, starting a transaction, and I called out to him: "Bonez!" I went around to where he was standing and pointed out west. Hanging in the sky was a reddened rainbow that streamed down from the sky against the violet colored background. He was breathless and so the morning rose. 

It didn't last. It never does. As soon that the sun rises, the entire sky becomes a shade of yellow that gleams shadows, harsh light, or a variant luminescence of overcast skies. By then, we are busy enough on the concrete pad of work to stay busy and pass time with the beauty of people and the spectrum in them. 

With great salutations, you amaze me. I am thankful for a new day that has come to a close as I prepare to post this and send off to slumber. The best part of today was being interviewed for the produce position at the Fred Meyer store in Corvallis that will prepare me for a position at a Kroger company for work in Hollywood, California. Yeah. I miss New Orleans.

Chase What You Kill

This morning, at five, I rode my bicycle in the wet air through farmland on the east bank of the Willamette River toward it. Throughout the ride, I coordinated my thoughts and arranged sentences that impressed me and was drenched in the open silence that washed me. Pebbles shot out from under the pressure of my tires as I rolled over asphalt past quivers in the brush from small animals. The ride from my home to the river is a mile and it ascends a bridge that crosses into the town of Corvallis. 

It never slept, but the river raged north in heavy currents that depend on the rainfall. Thank God, it's been a moderate winter without snow, much rain, and the temperature has stayed at an average of forty-five. With a job outside, the thanks given increases with the length of my shift. Other times, and is in most cases before work, I stay indoors to write, read (I'm reading Django Unchained – the screenplay), wake up, or wind down. I digress. The river is impressive. I look to it and talk: sometimes about how I miss seeing it in the morning sunrise opposed to the darkened outline with a glaze from the warm pools shed from dim streetlights around us.

If I start my descent from the bridge peak when the southbound streetlight below turns yellow, I can gain speed through five blocks to Fifth Street which I take a right on toward the bike path. By then, I am closer to Ninth Street (where my job is) and head north for its cross street location. At this hour, no one is on the path that winds through woods with me – just the occasional car that passes on the roadway nearby. Even then, I am left alone. 

My job starts hours before most others do and I am off work when people's after-lunch-crash comes on. I spend eight hours catering to hundreds of separate personalities that I need the strength of God to work through. Otherwise, I get aggressive about how people treat me with baggage they take from uncomfortable experiences they ever had with fuel attendants elsewhere. Here, I could be more meek, as the opportunity for God to move through me is profound when that light of Him in me shines,

Altogether, I wanted to practice writing and share about my daily routine. My shift ends when high school does and I am in bed by 6:30. I take that time in between to write (I'm writing a feature film right now), read, and wind down before bed. That's about it. I'm very passionate about cinema and zealous to improve my talent. Yesterday, I called a mentor from film school, and he asked if I was in Los Angeles yet. I want to be.   

Midnight Momentz Reinventing Love

At the four way intersection on a foot slope to a mountain range that touched territory of two states, I stood at the distance we have gone in either direction on many occasions, thinking to myself, "What will mean most to us?" Will the open air of a frosted morning in silence outweigh your drive to make noise in gleam headlights past open windows at midnight? 

In the gentle of December, we found a foothold on the roadside of asphalt without a shoulder, but found a place to keep on with the scattering of remainders leftover from cracks across the expanse of terrain down from a faraway peak. The ascent rose on the inside to conquer what I spent a lifetime laying groundwork for.

When you got on the bus, your first step from ground level peered down the double sided aisles that reached back to where your friends were. From the front seat, I noticed you. With the most hope of intention, I'd bring a cultivated passion for you to the classroom of our history lesson before lunch hour that same day. After school, it took months later, but you invited me over in a desolate time when on both sides your mind changed – or mine did. 

It took a year after, this rapid succession of adolescent motivation found desolation left isolated in the months leading up to meeting you. Without a hesitation, but sensation, I felt with eyes closed through troubled times to find you in waiting out the dark hallways of light that we'd hate further on – or I would.

From the pummel of gross rubble, the ground broke open in moments from nights left alone. With a display in a rotation through my left brain to right placement, I lay awake in wait of a second occasion. From the overlook of a crumbling ridge, I could see valleys carved open by broken hearts in ice castles, the wind gallops in passes from each direction until what matters breaks down and crackles.

Dedicated to Yesterday

From the low porch, I jumped off the steps and onto the concrete sidewalk where roots from trees exposed cracks and jagged slabs. Ahead of me, in a red windbreaker clothed tight around him, was my good friend – a young fellow raking leaves. 

The valley of Oregon in the winter sees deep fog or snow storms, short days and wet leaves fastened close to where they fell from. His arms dug the rake head against the thin grass and swept in long strokes to gather a thick line of the dark leaves. We met eyes while he stood up straight to shake away the full amount of leaves stuck in the rake's teeth – he did this often enough that it obtained a rhythm with the strokes and developed muscle memory from the afternoon.

It was sunset. The light of day had fallen west by southwest behind the coastal hills and illuminated an Easter colored sky spread out around the darkened silhouette of a building across the road. My good friend and I stood and spoke about our lives for some time. Dinner was soon and I planned to join with him there, so I headed away but stopped back when he asked about my book. 

"It is well," I embarked. "I plan to use it as fundraiser for my transition back to Hollywood. Otherwise, I plan to make it a movie before I release it as a book."

My honesty gave way to a crowded silence. My young fellow exclaimed the need of creators and our need as humans to learn and read, I respected him more at that moment. The conversation was done – I had taken away knowledge. With my farewell, I told him that I would make a new blog post because he inspired me, then came the token with excitement from this fellow's lips:    

"Quote me: 'Readers are leaders.'"

  

           Without him, I smiled and hopped along to the house where I hoped we would meet again. I so much hoped that it wasn't a concern of mine to see him, but apart of the plan. That night, I never saw him again, and I now hope the best that he come alive wherever he is. The sun set even more that night and gave way to starlight. The stars twinkled from their distance and look nice where they were.