A Writer Under the Influence

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2010-05-20T17:15:00.005-04:00

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Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Judgment Cometh To Ye"

2010-03-14T23:16:00.007-04:00

Judgment Cometh To Ye

A Poem by Jeff Campagna

The eve of judgment cometh, men of men, women of women, all ye be judged in death as ye judged in life.

Two men sit astride in blue,

..One with a cane and one who,

Has a hat that rests atop,

..His homely face which cant' stop,

Spying the cane in the hand,

..Of the man who starts to stand.

In this room which little fits,

..One now stands and one still sits.

The man who stands reflects his past,

..And how long he hath come to last,

In a world where evil and good,

..Are by all men misunderstood.

A fortune made, A child lost,

..Both by his hand, but at what cost?

The same hand which now rests atop,

..His golden cane, his body's prop.

Ay! This man cared little for few,

..And thought he above all ado.

But those for which he did so care,

..He did so with a silence ere,

He could tell them he did so feel,

..Those emotions he did conceal.

For this man wasn't bad straight thru,

..But things good aren't all that accrue.

The hatted man now stands as well,

..And his modest past he dost tell,

With tear in eye and heavy heart,

..He claims to be a man apart.

Nary a fortune did he make,

..Nor a life did he ever take.

Though one life he did throw away,

..And let his own life go astray.

A friend or family he had not,

..But to love himself he forgot.

So idly through life he went

..With self lament, and did resent,

A God who didn't seem to care,

..Or listen to a poor man's prayer.

His life stood between right and wrong,

..To neither camp did he belong.

Like pillars of stone they stood,

..Pondering which of them would,

Be called through judgment's door,

..To see their life's final score.

Both men were in life not wise,

..And thought soon all their lies,

Would be buried in the fine,

..Sand that sprawls deserts of time.

Much to both the men's surprise,

..There was no God in the skies.

Just an office stark and plain,

..With a clerk who did explain;

That religion mattered not,

..And any God should be forgot.

But no man escapes the day,

..When those who judge have their say.

Two men stand before a judge,

..Both overcome by begrudge.

One whose life was up and down,

..One who wore a poor man's crown.

The first pleasure and strife knew,

..And failed not to throw askew.

The second knew depths and thrift,

..And did squander life's true gift.

This the judge did declare;

.."Both of you are now aware,

God is not the judge of you,

..But a board that does review,

In living what you did show,

..And in death where you must go.

Both of you can rest assured,

..The worst of it ye have endured."

written under the influence by

jeff campagna

Reconsidering The Object: AVATAR

2010-03-03T13:19:00.001-05:00

What is a movie? What are they supposed to do and what sort of effect are they meant to have on those who view them? I suppose these are questions whose answers reside in the province of opinion, and so, I mean to have no authority on the subject, instead, I will merely wax poetic.

As I see it, movies are something of a magic show, a cinematic presentation of a feature length magic trick which has no magician but those who constructed the trick before the show began. They are supposed to whisk us away to some foreign local we can't, for the majority, ever hope to visit in this life. They are meant to leave us euphoric and questioning the reality behind the show.

In 1959, theaters saw record crowds lining up for a new William Wyler picture that had been hyped, promoted and marketing without mercy. "Ben Hur" was one of, if not the biggest, movie that had been released and they made no attempt at hiding it. Back in the 50's there were still remnants of 'movie magic' where viewers would be 'wowed' or 'amazed' by what they were witnessing, and although they had no idea how it was happening, or if it was happening, they enjoyed, whooped and hollered, laughed and cried as if the chariot race was kicking up dust for them to choke on forthwith. It was a magic trick and it blew peoples mind's.

Modern audiences, through no fault of their own, have grown desensitized to the power of a movie. If we see space ships sailing across the screens we think nothing of it; just another night at the movies. If we see a man shot and killed on screen do we feel as if a man has really been murdered? No. Imaginations ran wild in the days of old and to go see a picture was an escape, not from their day, but from the world. Today, movies have the same quotient of enchantment as game of lawn bowling. They exist merely to pass the time.

51 years since, the world has been given another 'Ben Hur'. A man had a vision that movies could once again be a magical experience, one where the viewers knew no time or space, no race or religion, they simply watched in awe. We were shown a world that not only was foreign to us, as movies have continued to do through the years, but revealed a world that the audience yearned to visit, and some would have gladly stayed. Animals we had learnt not of, languages our ears had never heard and people we knew not, all fused and fed our dormant, not dead, but dormant imaginations. "Avatar" is not only an achievement, it's a gift.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poem: "I Love U2 Brother"

2010-03-01T23:40:00.000-05:00

"I Love U2 Brother"

An old diddy I wrote back while I was backpacking Europe when I was 20. My brother was, and still is, a huge U2 fan so I wrote this for him. If you know some U2 songs, you may even like this poem.

I have a Brother,

As he has one too.

I shouldn't complain,

But sometimes I still do.

Sometimes our fights,

Are more than I can bear.

We sew it up,

But you can still see the tear.

We are one yet,

So little's the same.

I'm running away,

And he's glad I came.

I seek refuge,

In my dark holes.

Where as my Brother,

Has soul sweet soul.

We've had our ups,

We've had our downs.

But when he calls,

I come around.

And sometimes I miss him,

I don't see him for days.

What I fail to realize is,

Brotherhood moves in mysterious ways.

All in all,

What I'm trying to say,

Is when you're around,

It's a beautiful day.

written under the influence by

jeffc

An Education Backwards

2010-02-26T10:22:00.004-05:00

I will let Sir Ken Robinson due the speaking. All I will say is; I couldn't agree more, Ken!

listening under the influence,

jeffc

Too Many Writers, Too Few Storytellers

2010-02-25T23:00:00.003-05:00

Have you seen HBO's "Temple Grandin" starring Claire Danes? Well, I am not, as you know, fond of critics and their reviews, so this post really isn't about the movie as much as it is about what the movie proved to me.

I believe, though I may not be skilled enough to practice it yet, that all art requires a certain amount of invisibility of the artist. When one listens to music, as they do, they shouldn't be constantly reminded that there is a musician behind the notes. When one reads a book, they should notice the story and not the writer behind it's words. And when one watches a film they should not be shelled with evident camera movements, over acting, one liners and strange production design that could risk taking the viewer out of the story and into the film. After all, a film, or a novel, is simply the telling of a story. A tradition that dates back beyond recorded history, where one person, or many, would stand before their listeners and, simply, tell a story.

I digress. "Temple Grandin", though no big stars grace it's credits and no famous art house director was calling it's shots and no Kaufman was behind it's words, was, I dare say, one of the best film I have ever seen. And I claim this for one reason and one reason only. Yes it had spectacular and poignant acting, yes it was a very technically competent film, but neither of these are the reason I speak of. The reason is the film's unparalleled achievement in, what I think is the most important aspect of a film, the suspension of disbelief. It wasn't about the directing, writing or acting. It was about the story. The visible edge of filmmaking was nowhere to be seen or felt.

If you are having trouble grasping my point, compare my thoughts to say, "Smoking Aces". A wonderful film that I enjoyed very much, but while watching, was constantly reminded of how cool the film actually was. It wasn't about the story, it was about the film.

I know a lot of screenwriters, but not as many storytellers and the spread is ever widening. As an artist there is a desire to show yourself in your work, I know for I am guilty of just this, but perhaps an artist will appear in their work whether they try to or not, and when one tries, they compromise that elusive and sweet suspension of disbelief, the story.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

NOW AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE: PAPERBACK.....

2010-02-19T16:14:00.014-05:00

So, beginning in 2009, I will be publishing an annual paperback series containing the year's worth of poems, blog entries and short stories found here on 'A Writer Under The Influence'.

Plus, I will be adding a few additional entries and pieces in the paperback version that can't be found here online just to egotistically reward those who still actively enjoy the tactile feel of bound paper.

Please help support. (I have removed my profit from the price to lower the book cost, but you purchasing will surely support my will to live)

There are two ways to purchase 'A Writer Under The Influence - Volume #1'

(Click the icon to be whisked away to the purchase page)

Still on the 'Eve of Destruction'

2010-02-12T19:18:00.008-05:00

P.F. Sloan penned "Eve Of Destruction" in 1965 and soon after Barry McGuire laid down a legendary one take recording of it off of a wrinkled cocktail napkin. It would be his only hit song. Poignant, provoking and holding back no punches, it delivered a hard but honest message; our world is messed up and if we don't do anything to fix it, we will destroy it. And, 50 years later, not only have we done nothing to fix it, but it has only gotten worse.

Can humans not change? The Eastern world still explodes, the bullets are still loading, rivers still have bodies floating in them. What fears existed then still exist today. The button still lies in shadow on the finger which wants to push it. The world is still bound to scare a boy. Still we contemplate, still we watch senators corrupt systems and marches fail to have any effect all the while human respect disintegrates. Hate still thrives. We still bury our dead and eat our neighbors and still we hide the traces and say the graces. Can humans not change? If you're not building your castle, you're tearing in down and we are tearing down, brick by brick, the world around us. It's the same old place. There will be no one to save with the world in a grave.

Sometimes, it's promising when things written 50 years ago still apply today; this isn't one of them...

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Perspective is Reality

2010-02-11T10:40:00.009-05:00

I think myself an artist, and, in so doing, hold my head steady, and with a subconscious commitment, thrust it so far up my ass that I no longer know myself different from an unripe melon. Now, I don't mean to say that I have nary a notion of who I believe I am. What I am implying is that who I believe I am can in no way be accurate. As I plummet further and further down into the rabbit hole of shadows, where creating feels realer than living, my own opinion of myself can no longer be trusted. Those around me, my family and peers, have an opinion of me, be it good or not, that could possibly be more precise than that of my own. And in this state of mind, I look to those around me for their perspectives of who I am, because they have better an idea than I.

You see, as an artist, there is a certain self-abandon present in all my decisions. My art is far more important to the world than I am, and because of that, my priorities are reflected accordingly, and when you have been creating art for a number of years, and abandoning ones self in proportion, what can you truly know about yourself beyond the art which you produced? Like the tumbling snow ball or the rippling water, with each passing moment and each decision made, the effect compounds itself in such a way that for the snow ball to become smaller it has to stop and melt, likewise for the water, ripples only cease when the action causing them does so to. So to continue creating art furnishes the continuance of my fading self-awareness.

If one's opinion of me is that I get ahead of myself and fail to finish things which I start; they are probably correct. If someone thinks that I am selfish, caring, responsible or unaccountable for my actions, well, who am I to argue? So you can understand, or hope to at least, the mental state I am in as I continue, in this life, to paint the self portrait of a man I do not know.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part II

2010-02-10T23:41:00.004-05:00

If you have not read "Part I" of this poem, please do now by clicking here. One wouldn't want to digest the entree prior to the appetizer so carefully plated.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTING

Adieu, adieu! to history's winds do we,

Bid farewell to history's sprawling tree.

For a new tree grows now called The Present,

One you'll find was scarce more pleasant,

Than the past our hero was sore victim to,

Nay, this present was but a present to few.

Like a true soldier's faith did he march on,

And still from social circles was withdrawn,

To the point where awkward silence lied,

In every council and tête-à-tête he tried.

For the past had no mercy, nor the future would,

Have such charity for but a boy misunderstood.

Leaving school early he soon became,

Nothing more than a tradesmen of pity and shame,

The seasons of life so soon changed for,

The best of our subject's time spent yore.

For he fell in love for a time first and last,

From which time he forgot his entire past.

His childhood was a memory vague at best,

To recall a fond memory he was pressed.

But when love knocks on one's iron door,

And that fist belongs to one they adore,

One's past becomes nothing but idle fiction,

To be condemned to a novel crucifixion.

And one's future then dost become,

A fountain of dreams that dost flow from,

A spring of imagination so long ago sprung,

When our subject was so innocent and young.

Here an internal conflict did boil and brew,

And there his resentment grew and grew,

For the life for himself he had so actively built,

So the loathing and spirits doused his guilt.

But when he would peer into his true love's eye,

He saw a faith and solace if he were to defy,

Would haunt and linger each and every thought,

That he thought when he should have fought,

Against his disdain and against his fears,

That would up till now rule his years.

On one hand; submission. The other; dreams.

He grew to tolerate a life of extremes.

To the horizon he searched for a way out,

To his dreams, to his wants; he craved route.

The course became clear, the direction ahead,

Was to be one of a path often tread,

By those with minds and bodies strong,

So to this group our subject did not belong.

With his reckless abandon and parent's pride,

Nay! only in his true love could he confide,

That his one true passion was far from trade,

Ay! it was a passion in which most often played,

Those with money and power and idle of both,

Both of which our subject hadn't the growth,

So from a different launching pad must he,

Sculpt the shape of the newfangled tree.

He took a step back and thought once and for all,

That nothing could stop him, storm nor squall.

Now his relationships were on the mend,

With his father, brother, foe and friend.

And his mother continued to show support,

And with his true love did he so cavort.

But as all youths learn when of age they grow,

That there is more to life's ebb and flow,

Like jobs, cars, money earned and spent

No matter where the spender says it went.

The fog of reality crept in more each dawn,

Like the due of fidelity on one's lawn.

This well orchestrated dance did he so view,

But something told him that he knew,

A healthier alternative to the status-quo,

One where creativity could freely flow.

After reading the classics, books upon books,

Of mad scientists and buccaneer crooks,

Our subject took to the pen and to the write,

And in taking to such indulgence ignite,

A second true love that he'd give his all,

So many poems and fictions he did scrawl.

With each poem and each fiction penned,

He would less, and even less, comprehend,

The way the world worked outside his doors,

The riots, the politics, the future and wars.

His writing, his woman. His booze by his side,

This man, still young, tried to in vain divide,

His imagination that was so early sprung,

From the fellow inhabitants he was among.

Part III will soon follow, if you are interested, in my mind's hollow...

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part I

2010-02-08T23:17:00.005-05:00

THE PREFACE

Adieu, Adieu! yon silver night sky,

For 'tis tonight that I dare to ask why,

It is that I only now say a fair hello,

To the man I am and do not know.

A self portrait of sorts must all artists do,

Whether or not they know exactly who,

They are inside when the brush dips in,

The paint of life from wither all begin.

Yet here shall rest a medley of rhymes,

That act as a portrait detailing my crimes,

Against my self for which I do so revel,

While reveling beside me sits the Devil.

For I have little idea of the man I am,

So through this poem I shalt try to exam.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTED

He was born to a Mother and Father proud,

And so a cloud of pride did enshroud,

This outcast, this pariah as he grew,

Into the child who so little knew.

As a boy born of freedom so oft' does,

He had nary a sense what struggle was.

At the year four, his parents so split,

From the vows to which they did commit.

And so this boy would know a broken home.

As a childhood home that was his own.

Too young to know what to make thereof,

This apparent abandonment of true love,

He would float throughout spans of time,

In his imagination so sublime.

His Brother who was his senior two years,

Would so feed off his younger's fears,

In response to the lack of figure Father,

The older would take upon himself the bother,

Of teaching and guiding our poem's subject,

Through youth in hopes of being correct,

When it came to the life he knew nothing of,

Nay, he was but two years in age above,

Our boy, so what could he possibly know,

About the knowledge he tried to bestow.

For now our boy was without two things;

The Brother of Princes. the Father of Kings.

Now to his mother he looked and prayed,

And to her side he loyally stayed.

In this pattern he sailed through youth,

Not knowing the fiction from the truth.

Out of many schools he was wretched,

Due to how his Mother's dollar stretched.

So friends were a pleasure not to be had,

By this child whose thoughts were sad.

When his age into double digits crashed,

His awareness of life left him abashed.

Within a few years a girl showed to the boy,

That after all this still to be had was joy,

From relations with people besides those,

That live with he and that he knows.

T'was a new era for our tortured subject,

That in the part following we will upon reflect.

For the next few years and years beyond,

A new style of life of which he grew fond,

Was that of one he should have known before,

And to make up time he began to explore,

At a pace perhaps some would deem risky,

That involved vodka, gin and whiskey.

Before reaching twenty years of age,

Against the machine he deemed fair to rage,

And so his few friends began to wane,

Leaving him to roam his own domain,

Within a psyche diseased from the start,

That should have taken notes from his heart.

Ay! 'Tis here our child became a man detached,

From his future ahead and his past snatched.

No stranger to lust but one to new love,

He grew fast into a being devoid of,

Social skills that would be needed soon,

In his broken life's quarter life swoon.

Caught in a web of anxiety and hate,

He found it increasingly hard to relate,

To those around him in school and play,

That seemed to effortlessly show and display,

The skills that were needed from one his age,

To preform on the unforgiving adolescent stage.

There wasn't a woman he failed to want,

But all he wanted seemed to flaunt,

The fact that other men clearly waived,

What these women so clearly craved.

After knowing many women abound,

And drinking many spirits around,

He began to wonder what the purpose was,

To this life. A thought he thought because,

Nary an answer had been proposed to he,

Who was never given a guarantee,

That life would give those who longed,

A reason to forgive those who wronged,

He when he was to young and did wonder

If man was held criminal for every blunder.

Through many a phase our man sped through,

And many an experience he did accrue.

Tis time that we bid fair adieu,

To the past we have fallen into.

PART II, coming soon.... if you so care, to follow through...

Poetry: "Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

2010-01-19T10:50:00.009-05:00

This was written over the course of a few hours during which I posed for a photo shoot as an 1800's Absinth endorsing writer and muser. I hammered away on a 1894 Underwood typewriter, which turned out to have a rather steep learning curve when the typist is accustomed to 'delete' buttons and 'edit undo' functions. Never the less, I powered through and managed to hunt and peck out the following stanzas. Now, it must be said, being a lover of authenticity, and a enthusiast of all things spirited, I did, whilst in the middle of the photo shoot, enjoy a glass or more of the traditional one part spirit, two parts water with a burnt sugar cube rendering a cloudy yet potent transport for the green fairy; Absinthe. When I came to the next day this is what I found on the tea stained paper which was wretched out of the cold dead hands of the Underwood at the end of the shoot. (unaltered)

"Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

There goes all my money like dust in the wind,

Up in the air.

Left shoulder down, right shoulder up,

It's just not fair.

A man summons a cab, a singer summons a note,

A skier the snow, the sea captain his boat.

A date summons his train and a child his toy,

A soldier the action and a priest ever joy.

Deserts summon rain as it's crosser his water,

The farmer his crop, the mother her daughter.

The dog companionship, the debater the contrary,

But Alas! The writer, above all, The Green Fairy.

That was a poem you may like it or not,

If you don't, then well join the lot.

Nay, I have never claimed nor have stated,

With a large fan base my thoughts are related.

High numbers aren't the best offer,

Don't believe me? Go ask the golfer.

Tis better to have a devoted few,

Than it is to watch fandom undue.

Ay! For peoples admiration is so soon,

Harkened back to face it's doom.

written under the influence of 'La Fee Verte' by,

jeffc

SPECTACULAR ORACULAR: "The Machine Stops"

2010-01-09T12:35:00.010-05:00

It may be short, but E.M Forester's science fiction tale "The Machine Stops" is no less relevant or, dare I say, clairvoyant. Written in 1909 when there were still more horse drawn carriages on the road than automobiles, Lincoln was still President and the concept of the radio was still a castle in air, the predictive E.M. Forester was taken more for a nut than a visionary. However, over 100 years down the bumpy road of technology, "The Machine Stops" reads more like a modern day cautionary tale than it does a sci-fi classic. Here are a few excerpts from the 1909 text. Read 'em and weep (for the future that is).

"The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well."

(YES, 100 years ago, before a computer had even been discussed or thought about, E.M. was inventing SKYPE in the pages of his novelette)

"And of course she had studied the civilization that had immediately preceded her own - the civilization that had mistaken the functions of the system, and had used it for bringing people to things, instead of for bringing things to people. Those funny old days, when men went for change of air instead of changing the air in their rooms!"

"Few travelled in these days, for, thanks to the advance of science, the earth was exactly alike all over."

"People never touched one another. The custom had become obsolete, owing to the Machine."

"Each infant was examined at birth, and all who promised undue strength were destroyed. Humanitarians may protest, but it would have been no true kindness to let an athlete live; he would never have been happy in that state of life to which the Machine had called him; he would have yearned for trees to climb, rivers to bathe in, meadows and hills against which he might measure his body. Man must be adapted to his surroundings, must he not?"

"It was naked, humanity seemed naked, and all these tubes and buttons and machineries neither came into the world with us, nor will they follow us out, nor do they matter supremely while we are here."

"Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives in the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It has robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralysed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it...and if it could work without us, it would let us die."

"Those who still wanted to know what the earth was like had after all only to listen to some gramophone, or to look into some cinematophone."

"No one confessed the Machine was out of hand. Year by year it was served with increased efficiency and decreased intelligence. The better a man knew his own duties upon it, the less he understood the duties of his neighbour, and in all the world there was not one who understood the monster as a whole."

"It was otherwise with the failure of the sleeping apparatus. That was a more serious stoppage. There came a day when over the whole world the beds, when summoned by their tired owners, failed to appear. It may seem a ludicrous matter, but from it we may date the collapse of humanity."

"But there came a day when, without the slightest warning, without any previous hint of feebleness, the entire communication-system broke down, all over the world, and the world, as they understood it, ended."

'She crawled over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands.'

"Oh, tomorrow - some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow."

"Never," said Kuno, "never. Humanity has learnt its lesson."

Nostradamus; eat your precognitive heart out.

writing, in fear of the machine and under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry: "Dum Vivis Ama"

2010-01-04T22:00:00.004-05:00

"Dum Vivis Ama"
a poem by jeff campagna

Man hath achieved a great many things,
Empires fallen he hath built for kings.
He hath trod the earth and sail'd it's skies,
And his every mistake achieves reprise.

Prithee, Man hath not an angel’s wings,
Nay, he is tied down with material things.
He shalt wax and wane 'till the day he dies,
About his achievements, truths and lies.

Man hath scaled to a great many heights,
Mountains of iron and oceans of lights.
Methinks he got lost upon his quest,
‘Ere he would have found some godly rest.

Man hath wrought a symphony of fights,
While the philosopher thinks and writer writes.
Sure as the wind dost blow west,
There must be an achievement that is best.

My greatest achievement one may guess,
Is some form of material gain or success.
Nay, it's not a thing that can be taken or sold,
Nor can this thing ever grow old.

It is something that if thee possessed,
The meaning of life would be egressed.
Ay! Tis' worth more than fields of gold,
My greatest achievement is the love I hold.

RERUN: My Obsession With Words and the Endless Search for a Muse

2009-12-21T23:50:00.002-05:00

I feel homeless, lost in the haze of empty words. Why must a muse be a woman? I have found love, but with it, didn't come my muse.

Let's start with my biting obsession with words, obviously of the English origin. It's a recent thing. Since I started actually reading to be specific. Until about four, maybe five months ago, I hadn't actually read a piece of fiction, front to back. Hard to believe? It is for me as well. Sure I fought through Bill Shakespear in high school in an out-loud class setting, and before that, even lied through many a book report in elementary school. I would read the first page, and the back cover. Then I would pick a few lucky pages from the middle, and with them, I would formulate the most asinine, but seemingly believable essay. After high school I would read a few self help books, which did little but manufacture a raging inferiority complex. Long after, I would fall into the blind oblivion of creative commitment and the art of story telling. So, I went right to the source. The Novel.

I picked up "Barbary Shore", Norman Mailer's second and relentlessly critically panned novel. I hadn't read "The Naked And The Dead", which separated me from the majority of those who had read Mailer. And thus, I had nothing to compare too. So, as a result of that naivety, I quite enjoyed "Barbary Shore". But, not for reasons one might imagine. In point of fact, I didn't even really comprehend the story, partly due to my limited knowledge of world politics, past and present. But, what I did enjoy were the words. I'll repeat; I enjoyed the words. The way he used words to explain things in such an eloquent, poetic and descriptive fashion. The way he manipulated the English language, as if it didn't own him, he owned it.

Since, I have been through other Mailer books, even read Faulkner and Dostoevsky. And let me tell you, I will never, ever, turn back. At this point, it isn't simply the words of authors that bite at my mind. It's everything. A traffic sign signaling construction, a salon advertising services, a radio personality pitching a new single or even the man behind the counter at the gas bar. Why did they choose the words they did? What drove them to do so? How did those words find themselves in their vocabulary. Do I know these words? Should I know these words? Could I use them better?

Most of the time, when this obsession with vowels and syllables strikes, it's due to, if not Mailer, a film. And not just crazy elusive works of John-Luc Godard or Andy Kaufman. It can be while watching pop like "Definitely Maybe" or "Enchanted". The words they use. It makes me want to use them too. It makes me want to create. I want to have the same fun and the same liberty with the English language that they had. I boil with desire.

And like many artists, I need a consistent vehicle to translate those very desires into works. Or do I? Do I really need a muse? Would Woody Allen survive with Scarlet Johanson? Would Lennon have written the things he did without the presence of Yoko? I have often yearned for a muse and never been given one. Often they are women but such is not the case for myself. I have found the love of my life, she is everything a man could want in this world, but perhaps not everything a writer could want. This has left me searching for a muse. And, in fact, I am infinitely relieved my love is not my muse, because as I migrate further and further down the rabbit hole, she would soon become more a muse than a love.

But, I am left with a sort of disconnect. Every minute of every day I am compelled to write. Not a dream of mine. In fact, I was always a very poor reader and writer, and, in my opinion, still am. I had tutors, special education and even extra curricular 'English-as-a-second-language' courses. But, it's a force I can't ignore, and until it leaves me, I will accept it. The disconnect being, a constant influx of inspiration and content but with no muse to transport it to the fleeting masses. Obsession is the gasoline to which I have no vehicle.

Forgive the grammar and spelling, I am into a few.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "From The Mekong and On"

2009-12-16T23:20:00.007-05:00

"From The Mekong and On"

NOTE* Written over the course of a three month journey through Southeast Asia in the late summer of 2009, primarily while sailing on the slow churning muddy waters of the Mekong Delta.

We are driftwood floating in a never stopping,

inconsiderate river of water translucent

with time and mud.

The water is old, the water is new and no matter

how much we kick and push we remain debris

in a subtle flood.

We float to the surface and we dip down below,

the tide rises, we kick, we push, the river swells

with tears and fears and blood.

The flora, the fauna it all seems plain as I search

around in vain. There I realize, floating in the mud,

she is the flower, pedal, stem and bud.

We swam rivers of time and chased tomorrow

down the current. We built rafts out of promises

and it's sails our of fear.

We laughed sorrow and cried joy and with every

sob the river grew as if we carried a storm in

every tear.

Our world grew and shrunk at the same time,

we lived in mansions of glory and shacks of wine,

year after year after year.

Our love crawled like wild flowers on the wild

sandy plains. Our knowledge the food that fed

those flowers far and near.

Our relationship was a work of art. The world

was our infinite canvas and our love was the

paint.

We got lost in each other and found our way.

Together we walked the path of reward and

not of complaint.

We raced forward and swore we'd never look

back. We ran towards a golden tomorrow, with

every stride our past grew faint.

It was perfect. We were a silent scream.

A freshwater lake of freedom.

A rebellious saint.

written under the influence by

jeffc

Real Men Drive Stick

2009-12-14T15:54:00.003-05:00

'Real men drive stick' - the reader will presume I am making an analogy, and the reader will be correct. But to make more sense of this analogy some base definitions must be agreed upon. For a train that travels on crooked rails can't hope to travel straight.

There are two types of cars as far as your author is concerned; manual and automatic. The reader may interject and say that I should rather state that there are two types of transmissions, but, when buying any car, the very first option you have, right out of the gate, is whether your car will be manually or automatically controlled - so I will maintain my previous expression. Now, of course there are different types of manual transmissions; there are 4-speeds, 5-speeds and 6-speeds, old sliding-gears and new cross-mesh builds - but in all cases, the driver is still in complete control. Likewise - there are different types of automatic transmissions; old constant variable transmissions, triptronic or sensonic, pre-selector, semi's and full automatics - but in all cases, the driver's control is limited as compared to any type of manual transmission.

There are two types of men in this world - those in control and those who are not. If a loved one is insulted or attacked there are men who stand with their tail between their legs and whimper like a whipped terrier and there are men who stand up and fight right back. There are men who battle for all they have and all they want on this take-no-prisoners, fast-spinning shit nugget of a planet and there are men who take whatever they are given and cower in a shadow wishing they had just a little bit more. Remember swagger? That almost undefinable spirit that the Paul Newmans, Steve Mcqueens, Marlon Brandos and Pierre Trudeaus exuded from every pore in the days gone by? Well, those types of men are as endangered as a hawksbill turtle - the only difference is no one seems to notice or care.

Men, stand up for what you believe in and fight for those you love. Respect he who deserves respect and fear he who warrants fear. Command the same respect and instill the same fear yourself. Speak to women with honor and kiss them with your eyes shut. Know how to tie a double-windsor knot and don't be afraid to be overdressed at a bar and underdressed at a ball. Don't shave everyday. Make goals and stand by them. Read. Take all of life's punishments, stand them like a man and give some right back. Wear the same shirt tomorrow. Write a poem. Drink rye straight. Be in control of your life and your car, and know how to drive stick.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

2009-12-07T23:23:00.011-05:00

"Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Not all know what they're scared of,

To know would be absurd.

But those men still do fear the same,

When fear itself says it's name.

Of those men some are kind,

And some men are too rash.

Of those rash all are blind,

And those blind will turn to ash.

For each man loves that thing he fears,

And for it spill the blood of tears.

The soldier loves war and fame,

The priest loves prayer and faith.

Yet each's heart feels the same,

Sure as ninth follows eighth.

And as sure as waves flow to the shore,

These things both would die for.

A man will spill blood and tears,

And not think twice or thrice,

And will not change through the years,

No matter payment's price.

And whether he does pray or not,

Won't the slow wheels of fate stop.

No man loved or ignored

Is safe from such fate as this,

Sometimes sealed with a sword,

And sometimes with true love's kiss.

But both the love and the hate,

Produce the seeds grown by fate.

Sealed are my lips, as with my fate,

As I now feel true love's kiss.

And as my love replaces hate,

There is no sweeter sound then this.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be one day no more.

Some love to dark, some to light,

Some love the person wrong.

But each falls for one that 's right

If they let time sing it's song.

I have fallen and would die for,

Whom it is that I adore.

When love shows it's ancient face,

Be it with a smile or frown,

It's time to forfeit time's ol' chase.

For a pleasure so renowned.

It's face is old, it's face is new,

In all cases, it's face it true.

Love is to be nurtured by all,

But is botched more times that not.

It's for one not to rise, but to fall.

For true love writes it's own plot.

The author to which all must bow,

And the bow by which all must vow.

Love makes hate but not reversed,

Behold the spot of our fruit;

By this hand the world is cursed,

And is rotted to the root.

You can cut the spot off the fruit,

But it won't stop hate's pursuit.

That hate is a wild dog at hunt,

It bounds with strides so wide,

It must be said, soft or blunt,

With shame or with pride,

That hate burns like a flame,

And like the dog, cannot be tamed.

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Even if of this they feel above,

Or digest every second word.

Half the words will serve the cause,

Of avoiding the dog's bloody jaws.

Not one man enjoys full control,

Or can say they have that power.

For when each man hits that pricy toll,

Each man's clock strikes the hour.

And when that hand hits that time,

The bells of fate do so chime.

Those bells did chime aloud for me,

And that toll my path did cross.

And to this day I must agree,

What I paid was not a loss.

If I had to pay more to keep that love,

Of fame and fortune it'd be above.

Love makes fame wilt in awe,

And fortune scour with shame.

Love the perfect picture does draw,

And us the perfect frame.

Hang that art with love and pride,

For all you need, love does provide.

I will also mention how love scorns,

And leaves some men behind.

They must wear that crown of thorns,

Until that bitter kiss dost rewind.

Just like the thorns beget the rose,

When love strikes again no-one knows.

I do not believe in Heaven nor God,

Instead I have faith in man's heart.

I shalt not praise a holy facade,

When what I feel in Love dost impart,

A sense of reason not to doubt,

That 'tis a warmth to live not without.

A mother's love is as strong as steel,

A lover's as tough as stone.

A father's love brings him to kneel,

Before love's golden throne.

All strive to be forever true,

And true love's pleasure they pursue.

A poet loves words, a painter his paint,

The writer his plot, the priest his saint.

A pet loves his master, a runner the track,

A general loves his plans for attack.

For each man loves that thing he fears

And for it will spill blood and tears.

Tears love fear and joy the same,

The way blood loves to be craved.

And like a moth loves his flame,

The helpless loved to be saved.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be soon no more.

If I could share with you one thing,

It would be to follow suit.

Hark! the music of love does ring,

Heed it's savory flute.

Feel it's churn, it's turn, it's mill.

Submit to it's every will.

Love is something to be feared,

And something to be craved.

Love is something to be cheered,

And something to be saved.

Love will seal all men's fate,

When man finds his true soul mate.

written under the influence by jeff campagna

Fellow Scribbler and Good Friend etc....

2009-12-03T10:28:00.007-05:00

His ink-name is J.R. Vassallo but I know him simply as Jon. "The Kingstonians" is his first book and is a collection of short stories dealing with the human condition. I have had the good fortune of reading a few of these gems, but I'm waiting for the book to be delivered to my door step via Amazon.com so I can read it in all its paperback glory.

The nine stories are all easy reads, understated and bereft of any self-indulgent over-writing (for that tripe, you can keep logging into my blog) and are perfect leisure reads that peer deep into the human soul and social landscapes.

Click the image to be whisked away to the literary palace of Amanzon.com and lay down a few shillings to add this debut to your otherwise dusty book shelf.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

A Tale Of Two Possibilities

2009-11-22T18:52:00.014-05:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..."

And so begins one of my favorite staples of classic English literature 'A Tale Of Two Cities', of course referring to the years leading up to the tumultuous French Revolution of 1789. Though it would be too bold for me to even dream of writing a paragraph so simple and yet so effective during the course of my squandered life; the good Charles Dickens has prompted me, nay; has inspired me, with the words aforementioned, with, well, with a singular thought. Applying his description to an all together different concept however very similar, in the machinery of contrast and the presence of two possible outcomes.

Dickens wrote that of the Reign of Terror, which erupted in 1789, seventy years later in 1859 when he could aptly compare the two social and political environments between his native England and that of France. I believe that the same comparison, by context alone, can be applied between Dickens' England and the current global state - some one-hundred and fifty years after 'Two Cities' was authored.

The year is 2009. It is the best of times, it is the worst of times. It is a time of technological enlightenment, it is a time of nuclear warfare, it is the time of political winds of change in the west, it is a time of diseased regime in the east, it is a time of social awareness, it is a time of environmental meltdown, we are at the height of organized religion's reach, we are at the depth of sin, the global village is more accessible than ever, alienation is at an all-time high. My point is, much like Dickens' was, that we are either on the brink of enlightenment or on the eve of destruction.

For every new set of hands that clenches together in prayer another set clenches the warm mag of a machine gun. The popularity and practice of arts is rising as is the popularity and abuse of drugs. The amount of people that believe in war equal those who believe in peace, but very few people, as compared to the past, stand in the middle. We are opening laboratories and creating life and we are opening fire in high schools and taking it - neither of which occurred fifty years ago. It almost seems as if somehow we manage to save ourselves from the crumbling ecosystem around us, we might actually live to see our technological progress usher in a season of hope. The world is so very fucked up and most of it's residents; working and playing and playing and working are in such splendid, self-induced ignorance. Will we still be working and playing and playing and working when the bombs come crashing down? Or when the sky begins to rain fire as it has at least once in the long and winding path of natural history? Will our oxygen one day refuse to come to work and leave us clutching our throats for air. Or will all our diligent working and playing and playing and working create such a dervish that we'll twirl ourselves out of harms way? Could that very same dervish not cause us to spin ourselves into an irreparable downward spiral faster and more vehement that ever before? Will you, or have you ever, taken the time to consider while you are working and playing and playing and working whether you are part of the problem or part of the solution? Where is the line between the two?

Something very monumental lies in the thick fog of time before us, and we cannot see it, nor predict it or even prepare for it - which unfortunately doesn't alter the looming fact that it's still there. That fog will lift and make visible to us the road ahead, however, whether it will be paved with years of peace and awakening or set a blaze with the fiery licks of penance and ruination is a question that even those that say they can indeed answer it; cant.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

RERUN: SPOTLIGHT: Joseph Gordon Levitt

2009-07-29T16:37:00.000-04:00

I met him on the set of Kill Shot. Back then - it was a year or two ago - I was making a futile attempt to, at once, supplement my miniscule revenue stream while learning a thing or two about professional filmmaking. I would do this by enlisting in the shameless and dream crushing army of movie extras. At that time, Joseph Gordon Levitt, to me, was but another actor in the seemingly endless sea of moderate on-screen talent. It wouldn't be for another year or two that I developed a true and fair appreciation for him as an artist and thinker.

At the time I had longish hair. Greasy and intentionally wavy, it hung in the awkward space between the bottom of my ears and the top of my shoulders. Joe also had a similar hair cut as well as similar stubble and body size. Thus I was hired to be his body double. I was to be wrapped in a blanket and uncomfortably tossed into the black-hole that is a Lincoln's trunk by six large assuming mobsters - also extras. My face was unseen much like the rest of my body. Why they didn't use a sack of Idaho potatoes I will never know. It would have been more cost effective. Not only would it not have to eat, it would provide others with food (after it was wrapped of course).

Lunch was served. I ate on the bench across from Joe who was engaged in conversation with his co-star Mickey Rourke. The spread was generous but contained too much seafood - I hate seafood. After lunch I jumped in a crew van heading from the lunch building back to the set. Joe jumped in the same van. We shared minimal conversation. Small talk at best. He was a nice fellow. He was newly single so we humored the idea that he would hook up with Avril Lavinge while we was in town north of the border. I imagined, in more of a casual intimate environment he would be, at the same time, funny, caring, bright and amusing. Arriving at set, he jumped out, as did I. That was that. I would have no further interaction with the Cobra Commander to-be outside of glances back and fourth on set.

Days ago I was at a friends house, actually working on the post production of a music video I am helping out with. Somehow, now a mystery, we drifted into the topic of Joe. My friend, we'll call him Elvis, went on to tell me about a video on YouTube where our man turns the tables on the ol' faithful Paparazzi. I went home, watched it with thorough enjoyment and began to think slightly more in depth about this character that I had such a fleeting exchange with so long ago.

The Paparazzi video, affectionately called "Pictures of Assholes" can be seen here:

Once completed, sealed was my fate to begin the wonderful and vicious time wasting activity that is "Related Video" surfing. After a few views, all of which are included in this blog so you can see for yourself, my unexciting and average opinion of Joe had been replaced by a new one. I saw a very bright light inside Joe. A light i wish I had and hope one day I will have. After "Pictures of Assholes" I saw "HitRECord" and a new side of Joe became as clear as a summer's day.

HitRECord:

Express Your Self:

and the inspiring and haunting "Escargots"

In Joe, I now notice a man who we will see a lot more of, thankfully. A true artist, independent thinker and trail blazer. He exudes a passion and eccentricity that repossess any doubt I may have had that he will, in no uncertain terms, show us the meaning of art and expression in the years to come.

For once the capriciousness that is the modern day actor has led to a fruitful reward. A tree that has many bad apples, which are often times at the forefront of the public eye, has dropped a ripe specimen sure to seep it's nectar into an industry that is facing imminent death.

Keep inspiring Joe, fuck you're cool.
(support him and his posse and visit http://www.HitRECord.org)

writing under the influence,
jeffc

POETRY: "Home Is Where The Art Is"

2009-07-24T16:23:00.002-04:00

"Home Is Where The Art Is"

One's home is a complex notion,

whether one is at home or not.

Can a home follow one's constant motion,

or is it anchored in one spot?

Is a home where the heart is, or,

is a home where one rests their head?

Can one have two homes, three, or more,

or does one's home have to house their bed?

If one lives abroad is their home the world,

or is it the hotel, the suite or plane?

Is it the house from which they long ago hurled,

and, at that point, is one's travels in vain?

Perhaps one lives where they were raised,

but finds more solitude in some him or her.

Is home to them then where their parents praised

or in the arms of the person they prefer?

Is a home where one's majority of time is spent,

if so, is the cell to a prisoner that prisoner's home?

By that calculation, after all the years that went,

Most of our homes would be over a desk or tome.

I look around and see less homes than houses.

If you have the ladder, the former with it does not come.

Just as I do, I see less love than spouses.

As with the houses, one can be bought, the other must become.

It is this irony that causes me to question so.

Is the idea of a home that of a fleeting one?

Excuse my pessimistic manner of speaking though,

From a broken home I do come,

but of a broken family I am no son.

Can one be alone is one's home,

or must one have a crowd?

And do we only ever have one place,

that we can call a home aloud?

I have a family and I have true love,

but for a home I still do look.

When or how or if or what of,

are but answers only found in a book.

So my book I continue to search and write,

and it's page's I slowly fill.

But it's up to me to turn them in spite.

of the emptiness that haunts me still.

written by jeff campagna

Would you let Van Gogh perform your Electrocadriogram?

2009-07-14T21:20:00.016-04:00

I had a medical appointment today-nothing crazy- just an ECG to investigate the hole in my heart still lingering from my childhood. I walked from a nearby plaza to the medical building, as to avoid paid-parking, thus, entering through a different door than usual. It was out front of this door that I saw a sign that shot a jolt of discomfort through my viens and into my murmur-ridden heart. "Credit Valley Medical Arts" it read. I had never before seen the words Medical and Arts used together so proudly and everything about it seemed wrong.

Art, I thought, was something that had no set rules, only guidelines and standards set by those who practiced it in the past. Art, I thought, was something that one could never perfect and always possessed that existential and creative progression. Art, I thought, was something that one could enjoy if they wanted and ignore just the same. Art, I thought, had varying degrees of quality and experience but could never be 'wrong'. It was this set of personal definitions that furnished such discomfort. Medicine should have a very defined set of rules that are clear to all who work within it. Medicine should have a finite point where one is educated enough to practice it. Medicine should be something that can't be ignored and all who need it receive the same care. Medicine should have a large straight in between the banks of right and wrong.

Obviously this got me thinking deeply about 'Art' as I filled out the necessary information on the chipped clipboard in the waiting room (which, by the way, failed to reassure me in my state of concern). In art, to require perfection is to invite paralysis, and, in medicine, to require perfection is par for the course. In art, vision races far ahead of execution and the works we have yet to create almost always seem more real that the works that we have already produced. Whereas in medicine, vision and execution should always be, one would think, in league and sync. And in art, expression and self are such vital and valuable contributors to the work - it is, ultimately about the artist. Medicine is about care and precision and should always be about the patient, not the practician.

So what exactly do they mean by 'Medical Arts'? Perhaps I don't want to know. I have always thought one's 'craft' is the visible edge of one's 'art' and makes it an actual tangible experience.

So maybe this sign would have bared a slightly less worrying message if it read "Credit Valley Medical Craft". At the end of the day, art that deals with ideas is much more interesting than art that deals with technique - a statement where to replace art with medicine would manufacture panic in all those that pass through the hospital's revolving doors.

RERUN: Stream of Brilliance; Shane MacGowan

2009-07-13T23:50:00.000-04:00

Singer/Songwriter Robyn Hitchcock recalled: "I remember going to the Hope and Anchor (a pub where many folk punk acts played in London). The Pogues were all on stage and ready, it was a full house, but they hadn't started yet. Then this character shambled in through the door and shambled downstairs. I thought, 'Jesus, you're not letting that guy in are you?'. Then he walked on stage. That guy was Shane MacGowan."

If there is one thing that close friends know about me it's my unhealthy fascination with self-destructive artists and their aloof behavior, which, parenthetically, I believe contributes greatly to their creative endeavors. While these artists that fascinate me never intend such behavior it is their trend none-the-less, almost as a substratum throughout their entire life. Perhaps the poster-boy for such a character is Irish singer/songwriter Shane MacGowan; best known as the lead singer and songwriter for the prolific and influential Irish Folk/Rock/Punk band The Pogues. As you investigate their music further it will become increasingly clearer that The Pogues are to bands like Flogging Molly what The Beatles are to Coldplay.

I admire Shane. I love his music and what his music has done. I enjoy his personality and the magic that he posses and emits. I also find it interesting when fans love an artist so much more than the artist love's their fans, and for that matter, their music. A tale comes to mind, A Fairy-tale of New York if you will. It was the night of The Pogues sold-out Madison Square Gardens show in New York. Leading up to this, Shane and his band had started to drift apart, driving a wedge in the bands touring success - mainly caused by Shane's abuse of drugs and alcohol. Backstage before the show Shane was nowhere to be found, unless that is, you were putting down Guinness and polishing the bar with your sleeves at a local Irish pub. Shane had no intention of playing that night, as he grew sick of his band and his fans (I am reminded of the modern example of Kurt Cobain and song's like 'In Bloom'). Long story short, fifteen minutes before the show was to commence, a few hard-core Pogues fans, on their way to the arena, spotted Shane stumbling through the streets completely self unaware. He might have been a stray dog. Needless to say, they pulled Shane into their cab and made haste to Madison Square Gardens. The show went on and some lucky fans had a story for to tell their children (what entertainment those children find out of the story is another question. I'll get to that in a bit)

What has really begun to bother me, and is the stimuli for this entry, is the reputation that Shane is falling victim to as videos of him, at his lowest, become more popular on YouTube. Kids and teenagers poke fun at him, joke about his obvious intoxication and look up to him for his ability to consume alcohol, not his ability to write music and change the face of the industry. In fact, in that, they are probably completely unaware. I suppose this is the nature of the beast that is aging celebrity. As the previous generation that appreciated and grew with someone like Shane either dies off or moves on, Shane is still left in the boat that everyone has bailed out of. And as younger generations are ushered in they see a man like Shane for what he seems to be now and not for what he surely was then. It is impossible to recognize the arch and relevance of man when one's perspective is only that of the second half of their life, and not the first. Imagine watching only the second half of "Gladiator".

Hopefully, people who admire and respect Shane MacGowan for who he was and realize that these videos circulating the net are horrible inaccurate representations of who Shane's really was, will start to out-voice the drunkard youth. For a good read, check out a feature MAXIM did on Shane a few issues back. I forget the month, though somehow, I remember Shannon Elizabeth was on the cover;)

writing under the influence,
jeffc

Shane Singing In a Pub In Ireland

Shane's Music Video for "That Woman Got Me Drinking" Starring and Directed by Johnny Depp

Yet Another Great Music Video......

2009-07-07T10:20:00.004-04:00

So Tania turned me on to this wicked video which, at first, feels like some low-quality fan video but packs itself full of mesmerizing surprises.

I don't think I have posted a music video since that wicked-ass Coldplay puppet video, but I must say, "Fuck You" by Lily Allen is the perfect off-the-wall follow -up.

enjoy.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

POETRY: "The Boy With The Glass Eye"

2009-06-25T21:13:00.010-04:00

A poem I wrote this evening inspired by the life and death of Michael Jackson. It may be a cliche and even a bit tacky to write a poem for such an event, but unfortunately it's my only form of expression. When I came home and opened up my facebook home page every single status update, link, post and comment was regarding Jackson and his life, controversy and contribution to modern music and dance - One can't ignore such a widespread effect on mankind, and so, using my only tool; words, I have created somewhat of a narrative poem in tribute.

"The Boy With The Glass Eye"

A boy lived once, with glass in his eye.

A delicate soul rich in force and care.

No one could spy and always wondered why,

The boy refused to share his obvious despair.

Many brothers and sisters he was born into,

and close with them he was.

Though all who had their very own view,

would commonly applause.

The boy with the eye had talent and spry.

and certain magical flare.

He could sing and dance and with ease supply,

all the villagers with a joyful affair.

Though his siblings with him would take the stage,

it was always commanded by him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

on how a bright future could be so grim.

Older the boy grew and more fragile the glass,

and the villagers began to crave,

More singing and dancing which led to, alas,

A life less his own and more of a slave's.

His family stood by and watched the boy cry,

and supported him best they could.

But, when a beast wants to be fed a feast,

there's little account for common good.

So harder he danced and louder he sang,

and the thinner the glass eye got.

For but a boy the bell of manhood rang.

and to cling onto his boyhood he fought.

The boy was now caught up in the middle,

of boyhood ignorance and manhood bliss,

Always would his real dreams play second fiddle,

To the biting paranoia and fear of remiss.

His voice got louder and his feet more swift,

but the villagers began to grow tired,

Of his singing and dancing so he began to drift.

Into a world where to be inspired was not required.

The people of the village started to wonder,

if perhaps there was more to know.

About the boy who was torn asunder

and who had shown them only his show.

Poked and pried and snooped and dug,

the villagers would not give up.

When they found nothing swept under the rug

the villagers would make things up.

Within a short span it came to village vs. man,

and they forgot he could sing and dance.

The stage went empty and a witch hunt began.

He hadn't a chance nor second glance.

He influenced some and changed lives of more,

he became one of a kind.

Passion in his projects he'd always pour,

and love in his art you'd find.

After years of torment and endless critique,

his heart began to grow weak.

A character of mystique had always been meek,

his life began to grow bleak.

One day before taking the stage,

his heart finally failed him.

It was impossible to gage or ever wage,

on how a bright future could have been so grim.

The glass in his eye shattered not,

though it always showed its flaw.

Of a wrong doing he was never caught,

But it's as human to err as it is to awe.

written by jeff campagna

June 25th 2009, 9:04pm

I Wanna Make A Whole Lotta Dirty Back Door F.U.C.K. To Your Disco Stick or How I Grew Old.

2009-06-24T00:05:00.008-04:00

There have been two songs to steam-roll the pop music world recently that caught my ear; one of them being "If You Seen Amy" by Ms. Spears and the other being "Love Game" by Lady Gaga. Now, when I first heard these songs in their entirety and fully noticed their tongue-in-cheek nature I became somewhat irritated. Why you ask? I'm not sure really. There was just something about their innuendoes and sexual aggression that rubbed me the wrong way. (mind the pun). I am, of course referring to Spears' hidden acronym 'All of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy' = 'All of the girls and all of the boys are begging to F.U.C.K. Me' as well as Lady Gaga's constant references to taking rides on men's 'disco sticks'.

('If You Seek Amy' or F.U.C.K Me, Britney Spears)

('Love Game', Lady Gaga)

That's when I really got to thinking about it. The conservative consumer in me was disgusted that these camps had resulted to songs very clearly about sex to sell records. I thought - don't these artists have anything better to sing about or any integrity regarding their content? Why must these people exploit and feed the sexual restlessness and tension of target audiences? Why does modern music have to live and die in the gutter?

Modern music I thought? Are they the only ones guilty of this innuendo riddled music? Well, my fairly comprehensive knowledge of classic rock from the 60's and 70's allowed me to take a few steps back and investigate and, well, what I found surprised me.

Brit and Gaga aren't doing anything new, nor are they any dirtier or provocative than some of my favorite classics. Now, I want to clarify something here (before I become known as they guy who thinks Lady Gaga is as good as Led Zeppelin): I am in NO WAY comparing the musicality, quality or technical skill of classic rock and modern pop - I am simply pointing out the similarities in lyrical and symbolic content.

Have a listen to "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by ACDC, or "Feel Like Making Love" by Bad Company. And if you aren't convinced yet, give "Lemon Song" by Zeppelin a gander (the real meaty parts of this song aren't even Zepp's, it's actually borrowed from an old Arthur McKay blues joint from 1937 called "She Squeezed My Lemon". It has lyrics like "Squeeze me, babe, 'till the juice runs right down my leg...the way you squeeze my lemon-a, I'm gonna fall right outta bed..."

('Lemon Song', Live from Dancing Avocado)

or "Whole Lotta Love" with lyrics like "Way down inside, woman, you need love. Shake for me, girl, I wanna be your back door man..."

('Whole Lotta Love', Live from Knebworth, 79)

So, what I used to love, the so-called 'classics', are okay, but these new tracks with the same level of sexual marketing aren't? Clearly I am just getting old and my ability to keep up with pop culture is fading fast. Soon, any vestiges of the man who was once on the safe side of cool will be washed away leaving a grumpy, old, turn that music down cranky pants. Shoot me now.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Bill's Pronouns

2009-06-19T10:33:00.008-04:00

For those of you that read my blog who are interested in the literary end of things, this link may please you. For those of you that have no interest in novelists, playwrights, poets or the like, I suggest you steer clear, for it may bore you to death.

http://school.discoveryeducation.com/quizzes30/vonbehrenk/SPronouns.html

If you proceed and complete it, come back and leave a comment and let me know how you did. You won't find this in any facebook quiz or chain email....

writing under the influence,

jeffc

POETRY: "Advice Given, Patience Taken"

2009-06-17T00:07:00.011-04:00

"Advice Given, Patience Taken"

People oft' tell me things that I already know;
  like always tell the truth, and you reap just what you sow.
   But they never seem to care too much about my current woe.

Instead they try their very best not to undergo,
  the same position they see me in that effects me so.
   For, to them, I serve the purpose of a cautionary foe.

Once I was told, in matter of fact, bet high and sell low.
  Then when my money disappeared they said go with the flow.
   Both phrases hold the same weight as don't eat yellow snow.

Whether the sun will rise tomorrow or the rooster crow,
  are happenings that are nothing more than nature's status quo.
   So with every small piece of advice does my patience thinner grow.

written by jeff campagna

POETRY: "For A Man Has To Age"

2009-06-14T21:57:00.004-04:00

"For A Man Has To Age"

The summer breeze blows with despair,
  and what often blows back to,
are more stronger gusts with darker musts,
  that lack every bit of fair.

It is these summer days and nights,
  that fill my mind with sorrow.
And they come and go with little flow,
  and leave little lust for tomorrow.

When I was a younger more eager man,
  and my heart was filled with hope.
My days and nights and aft's and fights,
  were also lacking scope.

It was these nights and longer days,
  that made the man I am.
Though none to proud, I say it loud,
  for every and all to exam:

Here I lay, for you to hear me say,
  that I've had very little success.
And though to speak at all seems far to tall,
  to write it out seems best.

When we are young and dream of old,
  we seem to think of light,
All the places and faces that make it hard,
  to ever win a fight.

And when we grow we come to know,
  that wrong indeed were we,
For now we must with a summer's gust,
  commence to beg and plea.

Our grand dreams and lofty schemes,
  begin to give great way,
To what we became and the lofty shame,
  that shadows us every day.

If aware were we, and ready to be,
  something we'd come to hate,
Perhaps with tact and matter of fact,
  we'd have changed the course of fate.

The shadow now rests and follows me best,
  when my mind is weak and frail.
And however I fend or try to comprehend,
  the shadow must always prevail.

So to read this with youth might bare some truth,
  and save your life it may.
For when it's to late, sealed is your fate,
  and help it wont to pray.

written by jeff campagna

Writers I Now Love

2009-06-12T14:24:00.020-04:00

So, it has been eleven or twelve blogless days while I have been traveling around Scotland and Ireland. Sorry to say, I am now back and with a certain refreshed outlook on the literary world and those who reside in it.... or have resided in it more specifically.

There was one thing I really appreciated about Edinburgh and Dublin and that was their loyalty and gratitude towards the writers than were born in their cities and their talents that were born out of them. It was never hard to find a monument, statue, bastille, museum or plaque that had been erected in their names. And for good reason, the class of writers that I am referring to were sick with talent, technical skill, originality, swagger and most of all paved the way for the literary world as we have come to love or hate it today.

Robert Burns

One of the worlds most famous poets, Robert Burns lived in the mid-late 1700's in and around Edinburgh and truly did posses a way with words. He is a pioneer of the romantic movement and his works embody the beauty and elegance of his homeland. He has taught me that true poetry should have a flow and rhythm and not always just appear as a collection of words that may or may not have some remote meaning to their author - something I am guilty of myself.

Sir Walter Scott

Another 1700's writer hailing from the land of Scotts, Walter Scott was the talented, intelligent and ballsy author of classics such as "Waverley", "Ivanhoe" and "Rob Roy"... to name a few. There are many things about Scott that intrigue me, beyond his apparent literary prowess. One is the fact that he wrote the first many of his major works anonymously, even after it was obvious that there would be no issue with claiming the authorship. Apparently, he kept up this facade out of fun, which is just plain cool. Secondly, he has the largest monument in the world ever erected for a writer, you should see this thing, it's like a damn war memorial.

James Joyce

Yes, we all know James Joyce. Or at least we all know of James Joyce. What fascinates me most about Joyce, aside from his great work, is the fact that he seriously disagreed with the literary movement that was happening in the city of Dublin at the time, around 1904. Because this movement seemed so false and unmotivated to him, he went into self-imposed exile first in Zurich, then on to Trieste and Paris. Yet, Dublin still treats him as his own. His works include "Dubliners" a series of short stories, "Ulysses" and "Finnegan's Wake" which took 17 years and is written in an idiosyncratic language making it a hard read.

Oscar Wilde

The most quotable man in the world... Yes, more quotable than the movie "Dumb and Dumber". Wilde pretty much revolutionized the notion of the celebrity. He fast became known outside of artistic circles in Dublin and began writing plays, many of which are still celebrated today. Later in life he was imprisoned for two years on 'gross indecency' charges relating to his homosexual behavior. He had more than enough time to flee the country before his jail time, still he stayed, willing to do his time. Later, after his imprisonment, he would flee to Paris where he could live the life he chose. Can you say Roman Polanski? Anyways, if you want a great example of Wilde's poetic skill read the poem "The Ballad Of Reading Goal" which is one of the only pieces he wrote after his prison sentence.

Brendan Behan

One of the original Bad Boy's of literature, it isn't so much Behan's writing that fascinates me, but why he started writing in the first place. As a young man he was part of the IRA and served lots of prison time because of it. It was in prison that he started writing poetry and published it in the IRA news letters. It is rumored that he began writing pornography to pay the bills once out of prison. His drinking problem worsened throughout his life, and as the fame came at him harder, harder to the drink he went. Notorious for drunken public episodes on television and stage, the people began to love and crave his escapades - a love that would soon diminish and leave Behan as a lonely drunk who could no longer write. "There's no bad publicity except an obituary" - Brendan Behan

writing under the influence of greatness,

jeffc

The Un-United KIngdom

2009-05-30T14:10:00.007-04:00

In a few short hours I will be boarding a plane bound for Scotland. I will spend a few short days in Edinburgh and even fewer in Glasgow. I have never been to Scotland, which is also the birthplace of my Grandfather, but I am confident it will furnish many a great adventure and subsequent tale.

After about a week of haggis, cobblestones, scotch, cathedrals and broken stones of destiny, I will end in Dublin, which I must say is what I look forward to most. I have been a few times before, but my previous visits in no way diminish my current excitement. Perhaps one of the most acclaimed literary epicenters on the planet, I am sure it's rich literary history and abundance of stout and absinthe will supply me with not only heaps of inspiration but plenty of 'Influence' to be under upon my return where I will hopefully channel Joyce and Wilde and create some works worth talking about, or at least blogging about.

And I even have a night booked in a medieval castle (pictured above; Clontarf Castle) which is no doubt haunted by more ghosts than it is occupied by visitors.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "SkyRyder"

2009-05-28T22:53:00.012-04:00

on a firm seat I sit.

and with little faith or wit

i fall to the bottom of the pit.

life can be so pale,

vibrancy will fail.

on this roller coaster I speed

with little that I need

not even a seed

only a weed

far from any creed.

i am a round peg to the world's square hole.

and with every passing moment, passes my soul.

up for me is down.

no one can help, especially those who think they can...

never knowing which turn to take

never knowing which bridge to cross

never knowing which advice to heed

never knowing which alter to respect.

all my turns lead to nowhere

all my bridges lead to burning

all advice leads to doubt

all my alters make up myself

for myself does not exist.

this poem represents the degradation of my spirit.

my spirit bleeds. my mind fades. my art suffers.

i have no art. I taste the whip.

tired and weary, i could sleep through life's shit.

On a firm seat I sit.

written under the influence by

jeff campagna

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Grace"

2009-05-28T22:52:00.005-04:00

random likeness to any other one,

i admit I am but a shadow of a son.

the drum beats deep in my brain,

and I fail all those I maim.

like ice melts, so does my soul.

and like the moon eclipses, my heart is coal.

empty streets and flat meadows,

line the plains of my minds avenues and,

with the slight bend of the left side,

i twist, turn and contort to get a clearer view.

a clearer view of something which does not exist.

it does not happen, nor does it present.

run run run

say, who do you think is behind all this?

a child? spinning his wheels and blowing in the breeze?

likely.

grown ups have only one type of sardonic nature;

the painful type.

i have fallen from a grace which had little grace at all.

written under the influence by

jeff campagna

RERUN: The Decline of The English Language

2009-05-27T09:30:00.003-04:00

Let's all take a moment to admire the severe eroding of what was once such an eloquent and useful language and means of communication. The following are actual comments left on a music video I directed that was posted on YouTube; perhaps the most criminal catalyst for said decline. Others being micro-blogospheres such as Twitter that force one to abbreviate their thoughts into 140 characters or less.

ChampionVideos69

"Yo man this is the best song everTheyre Ukrainian too man even better UKIES FOR LIFE"

xtopher

"...the guys hit, girls hot. sounds awesome, videos hilarious. LOL!~amazing combo.ill take 2. ahha"

whiskeygirl188

"I Loove Thiss Song But I Cant Seem To Download It On Limewire. It WOnt Work?!:["
greeneyesdragonlol"this song suchs haha"

greeneyesdragonlol

"im jk its awesome"

Brunettexcandy
"LOl This SOnnng (L)"

and the 'Piece de Resistance':

gohabsgo152025
"lol id hate if tht band just showed up watch huis lips when theyre playing hes like fuck off"

As I watch the tool which I use to create slowly being widdled down to it's retarded nub like Andy Dufrain's rock hammer of freedom, I think to myself; "WTF. U ppl hav no idea the consequences of ur actions :[ !?!?!"

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry From When I Was Young and Wished I Knew What I Know Now

2009-05-25T10:57:00.004-04:00

In high school I wrote poetry, but nothing that anyone would ever see. Poetry wasn't cool, and I wanted to be cool - so I wrote it, and hid it. Before we got rid of our old Pentium 2 I remember printing all the poems I wrote out, so, just incase any of them were any good, I wouldn't lose them forever. And so all my poems sat lifeless in a stack of white printer paper and as I moved, they moved with me. This morning I found them while looking for a Glycemic Index book for my mother. I sat in my underwear and read them, and starting now, will be publishing some of them right here on my blog - mainly because, whether it's cool or, I just don't give a shit now.

Now I know why people kill themselves... Their sick of life. Sure, you could have told me that, but I feel their pain. I'm tuned to the agony of lack of enjoyment. I had flare, once, and now it's vanished. Where? I don't know really. I'm sure it will be back, it's just a matter of time I guess. People feel like life has nothing left to offer them, they've gotten their fill, their fix. There's nothing more pathetic than a man at the depths of an ether binge. The cool evening breeze keeps me from sliding south. It's life's little idiosyncrasies that keep me sane. Sometimes I feel so sane... it drives me crazy. Ironic I know, but then again sometimes the only reason why I write is to stop the cursor from blinking.

There you have it. Volume 1 of "Poetry From When I Was Young and Wished I Knew What I Know Now". As you can see it lacks even the rudimentary forms of a poetry, it does not rhyme, it hardly makes sense and posses not even a title.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Masterpieces in The 21st Century

2009-05-22T00:44:00.007-04:00

It has been a while since my last post, and for that I apologize, whether you care or not. The past week has been busy with script re-writes, charity screenings, music video post and the oh so taxing selection screenings for the 2009 Mississauga Independent Film Festival which I co-founded.

However, I was shown this amazing video by a very promising local fashion designer, Mark Lacaria (his blog: (www.LuigiSardo.com), and thought it was something to write home about, or in my case, something to write the world about.

It is exactly what it looks like. Stop Motion Graffiti. Which is to say that it's a series of thousands of photographs taken during the spray painting of a continuing surface, constantly having to erase the previous lines, in order to manufacture the effect of animation. Not only is it done with technical flare and precision, but the style and concept of the artwork is original and intriguing. In a time where technology has conquers the classics and urban art has stolen the head turns from cubists and the French Renaissance, I recklessly deem this video A Masterpiece of The 21st Century...

Don't be surprised if you see this concept in a future music video I direct, well, in this case, it would be one I would co-direct - of course sharing the directing credit with the artist.

I'll be back with a proper self-indulgent manic rant in a few days... I promise.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

SPOTLIGHT: Frank Zappa

2009-05-15T10:41:00.004-04:00

Probably, I was eleven, maybe twelve when I was first introduced to the music of Frank Zappa. And make no mistake, it was a very rudimentary, tip-of-the-iceberg sort of relationship at that point. I heard "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama" and thought... 'damn, that's cool'. (I am, in all probability, paraphrasing myself, at eleven, I either would have said 'darn' or 'shit')

On deck for my listening pleasure was "Valley Girl" followed by "Don't Eat That Yellow Snow". And so it went, as I presume it did for most, in sort of a 'listen to these funny rock songs from the 70's' fashion. 'Who is this guy?' I'd ask. 'I dunno. Just some guy who named his kids funny names like Moon Unit' I'd be told.

And so for the next half of my life I went on believing Mr. Zappa was a novelty rock musician from the hippie days of a more liberal and progressive economy. I am sure Zappa fans, then and now, had and have a much more detailed and accurate perspective on Zappa's career and contribution to modern music.

Pioneering the use of recording equipment still in use today, helping to bring experimental music to the forefront of commercial record sales with over 60 albums, writing Jazz, Rock, Electronic and Musique Concrete and becoming a renowned international orchestral composer are just a few of the jenga blocks which make up the prolific and wobbly life of Frank Zappa. Not to mention directing feature films and music videos... A man with unwavering commitment to not only his art and it's conceptual continuity, but the freedom of speech and absurdity of verbal censorship.

Get to know him here:

Zappa in Full Form...

Wicked Ass Interview with a Wicked Ass Theory...

Zappa Chews The Fat Over Freedom Of Speech...

writing under the influence,

jeffc

I'm Not Alone

2009-05-13T15:42:00.005-04:00

So, the following is a post I have come across which shook me to my very core in a profound and inspiring fashion. Written by Bonnie Kozek, a published author, it basically embodies my fears, preoccupations and self-prophecies pertaining to the life of one who lives by the written word. Bonnie also shares my love of words and seems to display the same notions of scripturiency, but perhaps in a more tactful way. Please enjoy her post, I am including the first portion of it, click the link afterwards to view it in it's entirety on her site.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE: WRITERS AND DEPRESSION AND CHOICES CHOSEN
Bonnie Kozek--March 2009

The writer suffers. London, overdose. Woolf, drowning. Mattheissen, leap. Hemingway, gunshot. Plath, gas. Berryman, leap. Inge, carbon monoxide. Sexton, carbon monoxide. Brautigan, gunshot. Levi, leap. Kosinski, overdose. Gray, drowning. Wallace, hanging. Mishima, ritual suicide culminating in assisted beheading. This accounting, even in the extreme, barely skims the surface.

The American psyche has long been acculturated to the idea of the “suffering writer” – the “mad artist” – the connection between creativity and insanity. Moreover, American writers, as referenced in the above abridged list of suicides, have substantially contributed to the incontrovertible nature of this broadly accepted “tradition.” Indeed, beginning with research first conducted in the 1970s, the scientific community has attempted to explain the phenomenon of the “suffering writer.” In her book, Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament, Kay Jamison, professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University, reports that writers are as much as 20 times as likely as other people to suffer depressive illnesses. Why? There appears to be two principal reasons: First, illness brought on by individual biology and/or traumatic experience, and secondly, a predisposition by way of birthright. Couple this with the inherent downsides of the profession — isolation, loneliness, rejection, financial insecurity – and the glamorization of the suffering writer – so prevalent that it has engendered a kind of “suffering competition” – (Upon learning of Plath’s suicide, Sexton is reported to have said covetously, “She took something that was mine! That death was mine!”)— and there you have it: A foregone conclusion.

To View the rest of this article click here

Thanks Bonnie, for making me feel less crazy. With any luck, we'll find out that we're not simply both crazy.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

RERUN: The Basic Craft of Filmmaking

2009-05-12T10:01:00.001-04:00

The following film is a perfect example of exceptional film making. Some of you may have seen this short before, perhaps in the context of the entire BMW series, but I assure you on second viewing, when the construction of the piece is considered, it will take from you a new level of respect. How it can be so short but still so comprehensive and coherent I don't know. How the dialogue and voice over can be so sparse but every character so rich and complex I don't know either. It's at once a love story, an action film (some of which is only implied), an intense drama and, not least, a character study in full form.

The choices in music, sound design, what to show vs. what not to show and over all production design are inspiring. This is film in pure form. I must commend Wong Kar-Wai and Andrew Kevin Walker for a brilliant work.

writing under the influence
jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Pulse, Blue"

2009-05-08T09:52:00.003-04:00

"Pulse, Blue"

Love courses through my red veins.

Envy courses through my green veins.

Sorrow courses through my blue veins.

Fear courses through my black veins.

My veins course with things that seem natural,

but, when they pulse, it feels alien.

The feelings that you give me, when and where,

push the blood through my veins with little regard.

My veins house things of which there are no definitions.

My veins house them, unapologetically.

My veins will pulse until the day my heart stops.

My veins pulse for you.

written under the influence by

jeffc

My Obsession With Words and The Endless Search for a Muse

2009-05-06T18:58:00.007-04:00

I feel homeless, lost in the haze of empty words. Why must a muse be a woman? I have found love, but with it, didn't come my muse.

Forgive the grammar and spelling, I am into a few.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Another Nomination: BlogNet Awards "Best Literary Blog"

2009-05-05T14:39:00.004-04:00

So my self-indulgent ranting has earned A Writer Under The Influence another Blog Award Nomination; this time from The BlogNet Awards for "Best Literary Blog". If you want me to win, you'll have to vote.

BlogNet Awards had this to say about A Writer Under The Influence:

"Jeff Campagna is a writer…a very good writer. He mainly writes screenplays, but has dabbled into poetry and, obviously, blogging. The BlogNet Awards team enjoyed his candor. While he seems to attribute most of his talent to vodka, he does admit that, like any true writer he NEEDS to write about everything, good or bad. He admits it more eloquently than that of course. This blog review doesn’t unearth any great mysteries or teach us to conquer the world. It just tells us about one writer’s life. It tells in a way you’ll want to read more."

Who knew there were so many organizations out there giving out Blogging Awards?

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Imbue On To Me and You"

2009-05-04T20:39:00.006-04:00

Imbue Onto Me and You.

Imbue onto me and you,
The things that you and I must do.
Always consider and pursue,
The dreams that you and I deem true.

Speed bumps we must subdue,
And push, push on through.
For when the moment is in view,
Be certain it does not pass you

For these moments that I preview,
Are all too sparse and all too few.
These moments don't add up in lue,
And make themselves clear they fail to do.

written under the influence by,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "88"

2009-05-04T20:21:00.005-04:00

"88"

In a seated position, straight is my back.
On the board lies 88 keys.
Some in white and fewer in black.

I position my fingers with ease and care.
I let the keys play themselves,
and play a song that is true and bare.

I can feel the chords strike the wire.
I can feel the honesty of the notes,
and every truth that they require.

Keys played for false reason,
Are the one true crime,
and falseness in any season.

A minor fall and a major lift,
I am reminded of my mother,
"The ability of music is but a gift."

Some are bright and fewer are dark
I notice the pattern of the keys,
and on a profound journey I do embark.

There will always be darkness in this life,
but a world can exist,
where darkness is less rife.

written under the influence by,
jeffc

A Camera Born Before Me: My Canon AE-1

2009-04-30T14:07:00.004-04:00

So, I have decided to re-pick up 35mm photography. It's something I used to enjoy considerably, and most likely, was a contributing force to my career switch from making food to making film. I have had other SLR's in the past, all Canon. But the first SLR I got my hands on was my Father's Canon AE-1 from 1975 (pictured here). He used it through a few years of photography studies at McGill before I was even a thought. In fact, at that age, I was more than likely a worry. Later, I would get a brand new Canon SLR (never digital) but, much to my dismay, it never captured like the old AE-1 did. I would end up pawning my new Canon and lenses in order to pay for some post production fees on my film "Six Reasons Why" and, since, photography has been but a memory (still photography that is, since, I have been capturing images at 24 frames per second).

I have picked up the good ol' 1975 Canon AE-1 once again, blew off the dust and cobwebs, and have set out to refamiliarize myself with the antiquated piece of equipment which, hopefully, still snaps unrivaled picture quality and produces a 35mm feel like no other camera I have used since.

Directors nowadays, or at least the younger ones like myself, tend to forget about the technology which paved the way for Hi-Def Video, 4K Red Cameras, P2 Cards and Hard Drives. We loosen our grip on the artistic nature of what we do and it's only when we go back to strips of 35mm film that we get a fair and conscious appreciation for the art itself, instead of simply the process.

writing under the influence, and now snapping under the influence,
jeffc

After and Afterer: Gould and Gaga

2009-04-28T11:09:00.007-04:00

The first video, you may have seen and it may, or may not, have triggered the same surprised reaction as it did for me. The second video I am fairly certain you have not seen, which is something I intend to remedy.

GAGA

So, I thought she was just another campy pop steamroller who'd light up the scene for a spell and, before we knew it, would see her music gone, resting peacefully in the hokey over played concert arena in the sky. But in my most recent archeological YouTube dig I brushed off a not so ancient video of Lady Gaga exhibiting some very real musical chops. She covers 'Viva La Vida' by Coldplay. She rearranges the composition and has some fun with the lyrics on the spot.

Last night, at a dance choreography meeting for my new music video gig, I found out that Lady Gaga was singed first by her label not as a performer, but as a songwriter. When the label couldn't find anyone capable of singing her tracks, they gave her a shot at singing them herself. It begs the question, how talented is the girl? At any rate, she's definitely a lot more talented than the radio stations, ripe male teens humping their Dells and TMZ's give her credit for.

GOULD

So, that was the Afterer, and this is the After. I would say this is the Before, but it's not. Simply because, as you will hear the great Canadian concert pianist explain, he does create new material, he interprets the classics by Mozart and Bach, but, like Lady Gaga, drastically changes the arrangment and, in Gould's words "...turns performance into composition."

If you are not familiar with Glenn Gould, familiarize yourself. He is one of the most exciting, successful and progressive pianists of our time... and he's a Canuck too boot. His off the wall interpretations, abnormally low piano chair, constant humming heard on almost every one of his albums and, not least, his wickedly idiosyncratic and peculiar demeanor make him one cool and talented dude.

In closing, next time you look at a pop star shaking her ass in front of 100,000 people singing about riding a boy's disco stick, take a second to contemplate the possible depth of that character. Their dreams, plans, talents and other things that fly under the radar of larger-than-life pop music. And, if you fail to see the connection between Gould and Gaga, crawl in a dark moldy hole somewhere and never come out, for you lack even the rudiments of progression and open-mindedness.

Bring it.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Not A Review: "L'Ours" ("The Bear")

2009-04-26T01:26:00.011-04:00

First off, this isn't a film for everyone - in fact it's quite a bizarre experience. However, if you haven't seen "L'Ours" (or "The Bear" for all us anglos), you probably should. This evening I watched it, and I don't think I will ever be quite the same.

It's a French film, you may have guessed via the title, and there is little to no dialogue, or narration for that matter, throughout it's entire duration; an artistic decision I have respect and intrigue for, as my tool for story telling is clearly words - which could be my crux. I watched the un-subtitled version, so even when there was sparse conversation between the two villainous poachers, I had absolutely no clue what they were babbling on about, which, by the way, didn't seem to effect the story's comprehension at all.

The film, to boil it down in simplest terms, follows an orphaned bear cub through the B.C. wilderness as he searches for new guardians, escapes (but not always) the poachers and fights to survive (no, this is not animated). What sounds like an amusing and educational movie is actually an emotional journey which will put a severe strain on your inner animal lover and/or human hater.

I am still not sure as to how they managed to capture this crowning achievement of not only nature photography but it's innate story as well. Being shot in '88 adds even more mystery to the mix. The camera angles, lighting, scenarios, conveniences and coherence could furnish the same sort confused mesmerization that one would suffer from while watching "The Hills" on MTV. Is this real? How are they catching this? How much is staged? Is that a man in a bear suit?

In any case, "L'Ours", from the opening scene, locks you into an emotional roller-coaster that makes "Hotel Rwanda" feel like a tacky Van Wilder romp. If you get the chance, check it out.

And remember; this is not a review, I merely watched a bizarre film that I was compelled to share with you, and, in no way intend to critique it.

"The Greatest Thrill Is Not To Kill But To Let Live."

writing under the influence,

jeffc

10,000 Words and Some Missing Vodka

2009-04-24T20:36:00.009-04:00

Well, after a not-so-grueling rewrite on "Roll The Hard Six", we have a script that is much more complex, emotional and well written. Always a weakness of Campagna Brothers writing (and in all probability why we didn't include ANY female roles in "Six Reasons Why"), is the writing of female gender characters. They always seem, after the 1st draft at least, to end up with very little dimension and necessity. We use them merely to move the plot forward, which, admittedly, is a horrible literary and cinematic crutch, and, something we hope to have remedied on our latest love child.

Between that, hitting the 10,000 word mark on a concept novel/series of short stories/who-knows-what-the-hell-it-is, getting a poem into The New Yorker for review and a couple half decent blog posts earning me a "Blog Of The Day" award, it has definitely been a prolific few weeks.

Hopefully I can maintain a certain degree of momentum and, with all luck, pull myself out of this horrible slough where the failure is almost palpable and the vodka bottles don't last long.

I'll have a proper blog post up in a day or two... promise.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Blog Of The Day: WINNER

2009-04-22T23:15:00.005-04:00

So, "A Writer Under The Influence", for what it's worth, has won a "Blog Of The Day" award. As a new blog with no clear direction or message, this is a very special accolade and we here at 'A Writer Under The Influence' (me) are very appreciative of it.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Gone Writing: "Roll The Hard Six"

2009-04-22T13:42:00.006-04:00

For the next 72 hours, I will be locked in a random suburban hotel room rewriting the script for the "Six Reasons Why" follow-up; "Roll The Hard Six" with the film's co-writer/co-director, and my brother of 26 years, Matt.

Hopefully, I will make it out alive, and in a perfect world, so will he.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

RERUN: Contradictory Thoughts on Blogging and the Absence of Inspirational Thinkers

2009-04-21T22:00:00.001-04:00

I have never claimed to be wise nor have I thought myself as an intellectual at any point or junction in my fresh and sheltered life. Both of the above I, one day, strive to be, and perhaps will be in my own perversions, but doubtful in some fashion of reality. In my opinion, and it is simply that, there are two types of people in this world. First, but in no way more important, there are the types of people who, at any given point, feel the constant biting need to express one self. As if an itch routed deep under the skin crawling from one limb to the next, one is compelled to emit their thoughts, their belief systems, their skills and talents to the world, be it listening or not. And Secondly, there are those who do not. The recent advent of Blogging, in the blip that is the Devil's technological conception, a number of people living in category One have packed up and set sail for the new world of online exposure. I have no respect for the Blogger, nor do I posses a disrespect for him either. He merely is.

I sometimes furnish the notion that people who lived and spoke in the public sphere through the 50's,60's and possibly the 70's were more complex, less predictable, characteristically rich and independently thoughtful. They had something to say. Something that, if people listened to, would have a positive effect on reality. However, I am constantly torn. Were they, in fact, more intelligent and observant? Or was that of a different ratio present? Today, are there just so many venues, vehicles, exhibits and showcases for people to display their personalities and world views that it seems a less intelligent, less tasteful human is taking over due to shear volume of douche-bags speaking their mind and being heard? The weight of one's word has been diminished to a mere gram of Warholian fleeting fame. Are there still smart people out there? Are there still interesting characters? Where are the Norman Mailers? Will the Jim Morrisons please stand up. Will the Marshall McLuhans rise above their Global Villages? Where are all the voices that so eloquently, effectively and sometimes accidentally spoke ahead of their times. Who will I speak to my uninterested and eye-rolling kids about 20 years from here? Where are the great minds and independent thinkers of My generation? Who do I have to look up to? Where are my inspirations? They definitely aren't blogging.

It seems exceedingly likely that the days of excitement, invention and exploration have been sucked into the vacuum of counter-progression and met an untimely fate with the giant metaphorical nostalgic garburator and that the days ahead are those of redundancy, interpretation and expectation. Cheaper, less durable tar laid over the bumpy yet still effective road of discovery that led us here.

As I type along to the metronome in my brain and gulp my red wine, which poured out of a cheap, plastic corkless tetra pack, I can say, with the certainty of a time bomb, that there are too few pieces to what is too much puzzle.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Leap And"

2009-04-20T23:24:00.006-04:00

Four pints of Double Vodka + Rockstar later; the newest addition to "A Writer Under The Influence" is born; "Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer". Truly written under the influence, and, at the time, a porthole into my inner workings.

Leap And.

Stand on the edge.

Feel the winds of constant change,

As they bite at you with fear you try to ignore.

Close your eyes.

Feel your body sway sardonically,

The ebb and flow of liberation.

Open your mind.

Widen the corridors of your thoughts,

Allowing heights to be raised and reached.

Inch forward.

It's okay, others do it.

I'll show you. The fall isn't that bad.

The closer you inch to the edge, the more appreciation you gain for it.

Lift a foot.

Like a flower,

Let yourself blow in the breeze.

Commit.

I don't care what anyone says.

I'm gonna love this dream like no other.

Breath deep.

For it may be your last.

Take in what earth has on offer.

Open your heart.

Fall forward.

Leap and the net shall appear.

If the net fails you, like it has others, enjoy the fall; for it's something that not many feel.

Joaquin Phoenix BETA Version

2009-04-20T20:15:00.005-04:00

Free Spirits. Individual Thinkers. Trail Blazers. Cross Pollinators. Crazy Ass Rock Stars. Where have all these people gone? Why is society producing less of them now? Or, perhaps, why is society not letting them, if they are indeed around, voice their opinions?

If one of the more preeminent musicians or singers were to pull this in an interview in todays day in age, they'd be trashed talked all the way from Twitter to TMZ. But, at one point in time, it was accepted. People who seemed to function on some higher plain of thought and spirit were celebrated, not castrated.

Am I wrong for yearning for these days gone by? Am I the only one who thinks things were more interesting and vibrant back then? Maybe I am way off kilter because I wasn't even born yet. In any event, Jim Morrison is one forward thinking, prophetic cool-ass poet, writer and rock star. Listen to his noteworthy thoughts on the performance and how one day it might be a single man on stage standing with a bunch of machines he can manipulate.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Times They Are A Changin'

2009-04-16T23:31:00.012-04:00

press play

I went golfing today. Not something I do very often, in fact, once a season at best. My grandparents had memberships at golf courses when I was younger, much younger, so I am no stranger to a 9-iron. Two friends and I - I know, one short of a foursome - walked into the pro shop of the mid-level Granite Ridge clubhouse to pay our green fees. As I was paying, a short, bearded man surfaced from the back. Upon first glance, he might have been a full grown hobbit sporting a powder blue spandex golf tee. I knew what he was about to say even before he said it.

"Any golf attire today sir?" He quipped with a condescendence he made no clear attempt to disguise. I could only assume he was referring to my casual shoes, neat blue jeans, white v-neck tee and plaid button up shirt. Accessorized of course by a try-hard paper-boy/golf hat and black as night Guess shades.

"Pardon me?" I asked. I wanted to get a clearer listen to his tone.

"Golf attire sir? Do you have any?" He confirmed.

"Yes. I am wearing it." I replied with no apparent offense or defense.

Needless to say, the story goes on, and I did in fact, get out on to the course and hit a generous 103. As always, I was extremely polite to other players and greenskeepers. I was quiet, until needing to yell 'FOUR' which I had to do more than I'd like to admit. I didn't litter, especially any of the excessive amount of beer cans I generated. And, like any respectful golfer, I let faster players play through. I saw other players, older and well dressed men, exhibiting very questionable behavior on the very same course. Littering cigarette butts, yelling to one another and, perhaps the worse sin of all; referring to the refreshment car operator as 'Beer Wench'.

Afterwards, I felt like returning to the Pro Shop and having a wee talk with Bilbo Baggins-in-Spikes. Why must old, stuffy establishments remain old and stuffy even though they can see times changing rapidly around them? Why must people be so caught up in the traditions of more reserved times? Why must older generations always be scared by the generations following them?

And this wasn't the first time I had been treated strangely due to my wardrobe or age; my boyish features adding insult to injury. Even flying back from L.A., via our 3rd world airline Air Canada (where 'comfort costs' with a $3 fee for a blanket or pillow. What's next? Additional fees for oxygen masks in case of emergency?). In any event, I was flying Stand-By - living the dream... I know - for which there is a dress code.

I wore shiny black dress shoes that you may see on a man in Rome. Clean and slim blue jeans with a white dress shirt, black tie and black blazer. Beside me sat a man, a generous 35, also holding a C5 Stand-By ticket; he wore twenty year old moccasins, wrinkled khakis and a faded golf shirt accented by a stain. Who got the preverbal "Sir. We shouldn't be letting you on the plane dressed like that" lecture? Me! Who had to listen to "When flying Stand-By, you are representing the airline sir."? Me again. If I owned an airline, I would rather have a representative like me as opposed to a closet slob in dockers knock offs and shoes that may have seen the civil war of the mid 1880's. People with any amount of power seem to no longer look at those with less power with any sort of individuality or moral wisdom. Others are just part of a mass, and they are either abiding by the rule, or breaking it. No Grey Area.

People. The times are changing. Don't only tolerate it, change with them. I too enjoy a lot of traditional, old fashioned and romantic notions, but when doing so, I don't impede or offend others. Exercise constant moral wisdom based on individual circumstances. If you must judge, judge the sentiments of a man, and not his appearance.

A wise man once said "And the sign said 'Long Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply'. So I tucked my hair up under my hat and I went in to ask him why. He said 'Son, you look like a fine upstanding young man, I think you'll do'. So I took off my hat I said 'Imagine that! Huh. Me working for you!"

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Magic and Rock & Roll

2009-04-14T16:34:00.005-04:00

My favorite band growing up (age 11-16) was The Tragically Hip. And although they still have a special place in my cold shriveled heart, when I entered my formative years in high school I was casually introduced to the music of Led Zeppelin. Now, don't misunderstand me, I had heard plenty of their songs before this, but, what I am referring to is a deep and profound sort of introduction. One that stuck. Since, I have touted Zepp as the greatest band to ever walk the face of planet, or any other planet for that matter.

John Bonham; potentially the world's most skilled percussionist (though Pert runs a very, very close second), Jimmy Page; one of music's more prolific and electrifying guitarists, John Paul Jones; an inspiring musical genuise and, not least, Robert Plant; the single most original and intense vocalists ever - make up what would come to be, and still is, my favorite band.

Without any further introduction, the following is an interview with Robert and John before they blew up in America and is simply magic. Witnessing greatness before the world deemed them to be great is such a privilege that, as much as I rag on it, has been afforded to us via YouTube.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Greatness, or Lack Thereof

2009-04-12T23:07:00.009-04:00

A fairly decent writer once inked "Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon 'em". Any one of these three factors may have sufficed in 1601 when 'Twelfth Night' was assumably written, but now, it seems exceedingly likely that one needs not one of these traits, not two of these traits but all three simultaneously to achieve any level of success and/or immortalization.

I have begun to analyze, perhaps to an unhealthy and virulent degree, my current ineffable feelings of failure, torturous self-doubt and paralyzing second guesses. To analyze or not analyze? Either way my introspective nature is now running without governor. I have deduced, after much contemplation, that what one needs to usher their dreams into reality is a combination of, like Bill said, three things.

One, a dreamer must possess great skill.

Two, a dreamer must possess unshakable determination.

Three, a dreamer must be in league with a cosmic force they know nothing of.

I have come to terms with the fact, like many before me, that there are many, more determined and skilled artists out there who have never given up than ones who are successful, acclaimed and, furthermore, affluent. So there are those who did all they could but were given nothing in return. Why? Because they were overlooked by this intangible cosmic lubricant that afforded others long and sustained careers.

Any success I have had thus far has been but a shiny jewel set in rusted brass. If anyone sees this cosmic force; tell them I am looking for them.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

The Decline of The English Language

2009-04-12T22:14:00.007-04:00

ChampionVideos69

"Yo man this is the best song ever

Theyre Ukrainian too man even better

UKIES FOR LIFE"

xtopher

"...the guys hit, girls hot. sounds awesome, videos hilarious. LOL!~amazing combo.

ill take 2. ahha"

whiskeygirl188

"I Loove Thiss Song But I Cant Seem To Download It On Limewire. It WOnt Work?!:["

greeneyesdragonlol

"this song suchs haha"

greeneyesdragonlol

"im jk its awesome"

and the 'Piece de Resistance':

gohabsgo152025
"lol id hate if tht band just showed up watch huis lips when theyre playing hes like fuck off"

writing under the influence,

jeffc

SHORT STORY

2009-04-12T21:49:00.006-04:00

"Private Hewitt's Pork Belly Stew"

by jeff campagna

Prologue

Up at 6:00 am. Breakfast ready for 7:30 am. Lunch set for 12:00 pm. Dinner ready for 6:00 pm. Prayer at 9:00 pm. Lights out at 10:00 pm. Thus was the redundant routine of Private Hewitt. A man who was where he didn't want to be, though not entirely. Private Hewitt had spent sixteen long sardonic months aboard The N.O.A. Liberty. By now his body had become accustomed to the swelling motion of the sea. Also something he became accustomed to were the far off cries of war, though they did seem to be carried along the choppy water like rolling tumbleweeds in the wind. He would know, he was born and raised in a small town where tumbleweeds outnumbered people. Nevertheless he was far from that town now.

6:00 am

Hewitt couldn't sleep. His thoughts wandered the corridors of his restless mind like a mouse nibbling at the floorboards, keeping you awake. He tried to ignore it, but, just as with the mouse, the harder he tried to ignore it the more persistent it seemed to become. He had waited a long time for this day, and, much to his former disbelief, it was finally upon him. The barracks were silent but even the subtlest of motions, be them human or ship, would bounce off the cold steel walls of the bunk room. It sounded as if everyone was asleep, but the smell of cigarette smoke was a clear indication that the silence misled him. Hewitt hated cigarettes. His internal clock alarmed him. It was time to get up he thought to himself. 6:00 am. And he did not hesitate. He walked the hollow echoing hallways of the ship, past other barracks where soldiers from other platoons either slept, played poker, smoked, fought or masturbated. Up three flights of rusted beaded stairs to the first deck where some squads were already beginning to board the transport boats headed for shore.
"Morning Hewitt" a rough voice shouted.
"Mornin' Remy" Hewitt shouted back. His voice was clearer than it usually was at that time which surprised him. He spoke with a southern drawl like many of the men aboard the Liberty. "Headed out today Ah see?"
Remy spread his arms out with a shrug of approbation. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was to Hewitt. They had become dear friends over the past sixteen months although they both knew that if it weren't for the service, they would not be friends elsewhere. Remy knew Hewitt's backstory but didn't pretend to understand or imagine what it would be like. Remy knew that Hewitt had joined the service not out of sense of duty or patriotism but out of shear and unstoppable revenge.

7:30 am

Hewitt had spent the last hour or so preparing breakfast for some 950 troops. He spent the next two hours preparing something else. He hated cooking but did it with skill. He knew this kitchen too well. He knew the smell that the sinks possessed when they clogged up and precisely where rats would leave their droppings by the dry storage. If blindfolded he could maneuver the area like one of those very same rats through a maze in a university lab. Hewitt had been working in that kitchen long enough to be aware of the slow dulling of the knives, the even slower rusting of the pans from the salt water all around them and even the ever so subtle change in odor since his first day. Not that he ever wanted to remember it again. He came on this boat madder than a juiced bull in a bull fight. He could recall the bright Corporal welcoming him aboard with a false mirth, which made Hewitt's anger that much more obvious and fortified. "Welcome Aboard The Nation Of The America's Liberty" he recounted the line. It still made him cringe.

The eggs came from a tin can roughly the size of a football. "Whole Dried Eggs" they read in big black lettering. Each can was more rusted than the next but a hot breakfast on the ship was better then rations from a soldier's pack while they were in the trenches. See, a soldier realizes very quickly that, once in combat, everything becomes 'relative'. One no longer compares things to their equivalents back home, but instead they only compare things to the worst possible scenario now. "A cold shower on the ship ain't bad compared to not showering for 16 days on land in the shit" they might say. In any event, the eggs were served right on time at 7:30 am with trays of 'bacon', but everyone knew it was Spam sliced and covered in a brown glaze so as to resemble a horrible unreasonable facsimile. In recent years, Spam had become a staple of the military inventory. Meatloaf Without Basic Training some G.I.s would call it. Others would refer to it as Ham That Didn't Pass Its Physical. No matter what name you gave it; it was still Spam, and there was only one positive attribute to it, it was endless.

Once Hewitt had been on the ship for a few weeks, and the lingering anger of his circumstance had subsided, he started to experiment with his newly designated position. Back home, in The South Of The Americas, he lived a pleasant life with his mother and father just outside of town centre. He played baseball and showed quite a lot of promise at it. He drank socially, watched films and made love to a few women, young or old it never seemed to matter to Hewitt. He was 21 and had bedded more women than other men his age. His mother and father loved him equally and he loved them equally back. Every Saturday and Sunday he would work with his father in mechanics shop fixing old bikes and bonding with one another. His mother would make her infamous Smoked Pork Belly Stew. After Hewitt registered with the service, his mother taught him how to make the hearty dish in case he ever got the chance or needed to. Well, Hewitt never needed to, but he sure as all hell got the chance. He got sixteen months worth of chances. "Three fucking chances a day, seven fucking days a week. Plenty of chances" he would always remind himself, losing the humor a little bit more every time, but gaining irony in its place.

12:00 pm

The day grew older and the hunger of the troops still on board grew with it. Hewitt seasoned and poured out the last of the Smoked Pork Belly Stew into buckets. It was a favorite on board, even though everyone knew the closest thing to smoked pork belly on board was Spam. Sometimes, Hewitt would even convince himself that his stew single handedly kept the morale of the ship afloat, despite the fact his morale was always scraping along the bottom of the ocean. Twenty-two moths ago his father was killed. When the 6th World War broke there was a mandatory sign up for trades-people - as they were sparse in those days. Like Hewitt, his father would work on the ships, but as an engine mechanic. As it turned out, the workings of a ship were seldom different than the workings of a bike, principally speaking of course. Twenty-two moths ago Asian artillery sunk the ship his father worked on just off the coast of Sub-Asia, not far from where the N.O.A. Liberty was anchored now. Hewitt had every intention of exacting revenge, or what amount he could, in the name of his father. Though he did not expect to be anchored to the ship itself. Thus, he was where he didn't want to be, though not entirely. After a trivial injury on the military base before deployment, the service, instead of keeping him landed, sent him to war as a line cook for the N.O.A. Liberty.

Hewitt's father would often visit him in dreams but Hewitt would always lie to himself, knowingly, and say they were false apparitions, for his father's message contradicted what Hewitt had sent himself to do. He would see his father dressed in full fatigues set against a backdrop of Asian beach vistas, and see himself against the sharp metal of the ship's kitchen panels.
"War is about duty!" his father would yell. But not in a voice he knew, instead, in a deep contrived sort of voice. One that a Hollywood actor may put on to play a seasoned war hero. "War is about value of one and one's country! Not glory! Not vengeance. The machine of war is so much more complex than the pullings of triggers, Son!" he would continue his speech as machine gun fire would cut the wind's tense howl and giant explosions would erupt behind him. Hewitt's father would flinch from the force and persist in lecture."Duty son! There is more to revenge than revenge itself!"
Hewitt didn't at all believe in The Four Gods, but he knew that if they really did exist, they were right, for the ghost of his father knew of his son's cruel and tragic intentions.

By 2:00 pm Hewitt had left the kitchen and walked back down the barracks floor. With him, he carried a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a dish towel. As he passed the open doors to the mostly empty barracks, he listened for the rare, but because of that, evident snore of a sleeping soldier. By 2:30 pm he was on deck, in full fatigues which had a name that was not his stitched on the breast, looking for the next transport boat to shore. He had never felt anything like the weight of the soldiers pack. The straps cut into his virgin shoulders. He held the rifle, uncomfortable as he had never used one but confident that when the time came he would figure out how. He knew others would see his actions as wrong, but he thought them to be right. For even the devils think they are doing good.
"HEWITT?" Infantry Sergeant Sheenan yelled in question "Is that you?"
"Yes Infantry Sergeant Sir!" Hewitt replied with false confidence, imitating numerous troops he had heard before. There was a pause in the air manufacturing tension. Neither Sergeant Sheenan, nor the other troops on board the transport boat knew what to say.
"What the fuck are you doing on our transport Hewitt?" Sheenan contested. "You're a cook for God's sake! You ain't trained to be in the shit"
"It's jus' somthin' I gotta do Sergeant Sheenan." Hewitt exclaimed. He repeated with a mutter "Somethin' I gotta do is all"
"What in the hells are the boys back on Liberty gonna eat for dinner tonight dip-shit" another soldier interjected offensively.
Hewitt was silent and merely jumped at the soldier with aggression. Other soldiers on board held him back and a small scuffle ensued, rocking the boat.

6:00 pm

By now, Hewitt was crouched in a fox hole near the other troops on the beach. For once, the far cries of battle weren't so far at all. He could feel the heat from the flames which continued to singe the brush. It was almost hard for Hewitt to picture what the tree-line looked like without the additional of fire. The explosions shook the ground beneath him as sand from around his fox hole fell inwards onto his body. He became unsure of his actions. Should he have stayed on the ship? he thought to himself. Should he have even enlisted in the service? he expanded. His internal clock told him is was near dinner time and he briefly thought about the troops still aboard. The sound of machine gun fire got closer and louder creating confusion for Hewitt and instantly ripping his thoughts away from his fellow troops. Were the Sub-Asian troops advancing or were the mechanisms of fear distorting his perception of the sounds he had been hearing all along? He didn't have time to choose. He slowly lifted his head above the fox hole to get a clearer look at his surroundings.

About the same time, back on the N.O.A. Liberty, an order cook wandered into the walk-in fridge in the kitchen to find sixteen 20L buckets, full to the brim, with Smoked Pork Belly Stew. The orderly didn't know anything other than the fact that he had never seen so much of Hewitt's famous stew before. The man did a rough calculation, as anyone in his position would have, as to how many days, and how many weeks that amount of stew could actually feed the population on board. A large amount filled a thick unsteady pot which sat perched upon the stove, simmering.

Plenty went through Hewitt's mind. What exactly the difference was between revenge and duty started the barrage of thoughts. Next through his head was the notion he had not, at least altruistically, thought of his mother. And as he heard a bullet whistle toward his ill-gotten helmet, cutting the wind with an ominous hiss, he understood, with vistas of such omnipotence, the ghost of his father's intimations. The last thing to go through his head was a fiery hot, insignificantly sized bullet from an Sub-Asian machine gun.

9:00 pm

Back at the Hewitt house a lonely mother sits by a fire. She expects the worst yet hopes for the best in a distribution of thought only capable of a loving mother. She prays to The Four Gods for their understanding and guidance. She knows, as the portent tumbleweeds rhythmically bounce past her front door, that something tragic has happened. She begins to cry, something she rarely does, in fact hasn't done since her son's deployment, at the notion of loneliness. The tears run down her face, over her gaunt cheek bones and, after hanging on the line of her jaw, fall onto her knit sweater. The fire she sat before no longer provides the heat is was meant to. The house she sits in no longer provides the shelter it had been built to provide.

10:00 pm

Hewitt lies in the dirt. A ring of blood around his perforated helmet has stopped seeping into the sand. And as fast as the bullet had entered his brain and exited, so did the notion that he had ended his family's blood-line. He was to be the last of the Hewitt men, a thought he wished he had garnished long ago. A thought that may have saved his life.

written under the influence by

jeffc

East Bound & Down

2009-04-08T18:52:00.006-04:00

The title of this blog isn't only the title of a pretty fantastic new HBO show, but, it is also the way to best describe my current emotional and mental climate. Lately, things have been tough. Tougher than usual that is. And don't get me wrong, I am well aware of the tribulations beset on most in these harsh economic times and I don't presume that my problems are half as bad as some out there. But, alas, they are my problems which makes them infinitely worse.

As multiple $1,000,000+ feature film projects fall out from under me and a handful or two music videos follow suit, it has become all to clear that I was merely stumbling across such a rickety suspension bridge in my career. Something that one would assume was sturdy, and would keep, would end up doing just the opposite. And the water down below, as I hurl down in the direction of it, starts to appear as if it has run dry and a rocky unwelcoming riverbed waits for me with an irritating sort of patience.

As long as I can remember I have had two raging personalities battling within my every thought and action. For lack of more descriptive names, lets call them Optimism and Pessimism. Optimism has always been smiling, at some junctions wider than others. But Pessimism is what has so aggressively mutated. What was once a mild-mannered devil perched upon my shoulder is now, with regret, an unstable daemon of depression vying for dominance as it drags Optimism further and further down the rabbit hole.

Who will win? I used to think I knew. Is it possible that I have severe entitlement issues? Probable. Am I perhaps becoming to selfish? Most definitely. They say that the night is darkest before the dawn. Well, that doesn't help someone who may not survive the fucking night now does it?

What I do know is that, like a battery slowly growing ineffective over time, my life has become a series of too many efforts met with too few triumphs.

writing under the influence,
jeffc

The Greatest Puppet Show on Earth!

2009-04-02T16:55:00.004-04:00

I am going to make this nice and brief. Coldplay, although at a less breathtaking junction in their career, has released potentially the greatest music video I have ever seen. There are great videos from the 70's, a few from the 80's (even if the music made you want to bear claw your eyes out), some interesting shit in the 90's (nothing comes to mind though) and few between here and there. However, this "Life In Technicolor" video, in my unprofessional opinion, is an instant classic.

I hope to one day create something this fucking great... enjoy.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

SHORT STORY

2009-04-01T16:39:00.007-04:00

"The Day The Old Man Knocked"

by jeff campagna

I.
It was mid-summer. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen and I remember, for as many years as I could, my family had been poor without even a savings account to fill up. My father was a farmer. And whether he was a miserable one, or one that mother nature just chose to spite, I doubt I will ever find out. My mother was a kind soul, still is for that matter, and would take up many a part-time occupation in order to pay the odd bill which needed paying. But, as my father wouldn't care to admit without a few shots of booze, her full-time job was keeping him on this side of sanity. My younger brother was born three years after me but had died early in life, from what is still a heart wrenching mystery. As you may have guessed, we lived on a farm and it was modest and always smelled of the outside, no matter how tight we shut our windows. The walls were thin and in the middle of summer, as it was then, I could strain to hear the sounds of insects congregating by our front porch light. The house was surrounded by fields, some corn and some wheat - all large enough to get lost in if not careful. This summer was supposed to be a good crop, but as of then, mid-summer, it wasn't looking that way. I can remember a time when we would have meat for dinner and sometimes even some custard for dessert, probably I was five or six. Now it's more breads, oats and stews, almost all of which made from potatoes. How my mother would concoct as many different items out of potatoes I shall one day hope to find out. I would sometimes ponder, as we sat around our quiet creaking dinner table, what if my mother had more indulgent ingredients to work with, would she would create meals fit for kings and queens - the God's even. During the summers I would take up the clarinet, as it was my mother's favorite instrument. My father couldn't stand the sound of it. When I would begin to play he'd storm out, onto the porch and hit rocks into the field with a small wooden log he lathed into a bat. I knew though, from time to time he would let it show, that he still contained a certain pride that I set my mind on something. Since my brother's passing my family had stopped going to Sunday Service at The Sanctuarium. I was raised inside the faith but my family would let it slip away. I had always found theology of great interest. I had heard of many other belief systems in other far off countries, though they could have all been made up, I would never know. Much of the world was speculation in those early years. All I knew for certain, and even then it wasn't guaranteed, was that we had Four Gods over us. Two of which were Good and Powerful and the other two were Evil and equally as Powerful but all Four, be them Good or Evil, were to be equally respected. There was Reenol who was the Good of the Two Creators, the other being the Evil one; Qwansii. They were to always be at war, not only with each other, but within us as well. They created us, when, it is not written, to be different levels of Good and Evil. No one man or woman was the same amount of the combination. They, like other Theologies I hear, gave us Ultimate Freedom. That Freedom they bestowed on us would lead to a ramped over population of the Nine Worlds they held. With over population came religious sectioning and defecting which bred non-believers which, in turn, lead to a false sense of land ownership then ultimately leading to wars over territory and mass eliminations. As we believe entirely in reincarnation, the mass eliminations, occurring many centuries ago up until now, led to an over abundance of rising souls thus putting a strain on the cosmic economy. At that point Reenol and Qwansii were in need of aid to properly process the dead, thus creating, sub-rosa, Two more divine beings, one of Good and one of Evil, Thust and Bruginar respectively. Needless to say we were a society of fundamentalists and we were to live by the rules laid out in front of us by the Four Gods. It was the elder's contention that the virulent powers of The Two Evils, or so they were deemed, was and always would be perfectly balanced by the profound virtues of The Two Lights. This is the substratum which I was raised on, until Keb's death of course, and was taught not to question it. When Keb passed it wasn't as though I was to stop believing, it was more that I was to stop practicing. And so I would only practice at night, before sleep, in my room where I once slept with Keb. His open crib was across from my bed, lying on either would be analogous of lying on the dirt path between the fields, but I'm am sure his body would have adapted as mine did long ago. I would pray to The Four Gods whilst kneeling on his open crib. I wouldn't dare pray for things as trivial as good crops, grades or karma, no! I would reason with them, question their logic and trains of thought. Not in a vengeful way but in a curious one. I knew, even at a young age, to pray out of greed was to pull at the arms of your parents constantly begging and bothering.

II.
There was a knock on the door, which was odd for lunch time - or any time for that matter. We were so out of the way that not even mail was delivered to our house. You could go two or three weeks without even seeing another man, woman or child. No sounds other than nature. The land was bereft of any life outside of the faun and flora created by The Four Gods. Never-the-less, the knocking persisted. I remember trying to recall the last time I had heard the sound and I failed to produce a memory. We sat at the creaky dinner table over bowls of luke-warm stew. It was the most we had ever looked up at each other from the bowls during our austere meal time, but, no matter how long we looked at each other, or how long we considered the seldom nature of what was upon us, the knocking would persist but never grow louder or more eager. I can so vividly recount how awkwardly my father placed his spoon down once he decided that he would answer the knocking. It was as if he had never, in his long and tiresome life, put his utensil down before actually finishing a meal. But alas, the spoon went down and my father got up and to the front door he walked. His footsteps were slow but rhythmic. The feeling of foreign tension was ineffable and almost profound in retrospect. I heard the door open and a raspy voice, strange to me, forced out an introduction. "G'day Sir" it said "I have lost my way and am in need of food and shelter. If I wouldn't be imposing you think I cou-". My father was quick to cut him off "Where did you come from old man?". At this point I knew only three things for sure; one, it was a man, two, he was old and three, my father had never seen him before. "Came from the rail station" the old man answered "Walked down the main road when my train got in at nine this morn. Seems the main road has nothing main about it" he went on to explain. My mother and I sat at the table, both of us pretending we weren't eavesdropping. She would continue to slurp her stew, but quieter than usual is how I knew. I could almost hear my father thinking, pondering as to the nature of this old man's existence and why our house he chose to knock on. "You have nowhere else to go?" my father quipped. "No Sir. I'm not from these lands." the old man said with a kind tone. My father opened the door wider, which was obvious from it's rusty cry. The old man's footsteps were subtle and sounded barefoot which fell victim to the loud sound of my father's boots, however I could tell both sets were headed for the dining room. Before I knew it, the old man was standing before me, my father by his side. He was a sight, one I will not soon forget. He stood a foot or two shorter than my father, and was at least half as thin in the frame, but still, he emitted a large and powerful ora. "This here is my son Hoss and his mother Deirdre" my father introduced. "It's a joy to meet you both" the old man returned. "And what's your name old man?" my father questioned. "Oh, that's not important. I will be out of your hair long before my name is ever needed for anything. I am fine with being called Old Man" the old man assured. My mother motioned for the Old Man to have a seat at the table, where Keb's seat would have been had he graduated from his high chair. "I'm sorry Old Man but we have only warm oat stew and dandelions to eat." warned my father. Though he didn't say it, the Old Man didn't mind as he dug right in from the pot in the middle of the table. He ate with conviction and would rarely look up, but, when he did, his altruistic smile would say the pardons he did not. The next hour, or so it seemed, was silent but not empty. After lunch we made our way to the family room for tea. Tea, however, was simply hot water and the left over weeds from lunch, but, still, it was nice for we had company. My father would give the Old Man a set of his clothes to replace the tattered rags he wore and the man would shamelessly change into them before us. As the sun set the conversation persisted. My parents and the Old Man spoke of many things. Hardships, farming, religion, the Townsfolk and Keb were among the graced topics. Just about the time I could hear the buzz of the insects hovering around our front porch light my mother got the notion that it would be nice if I played my clarinet for the Old Man. I could see the idea on her face minutes before she mentioned it. And so, when she finally did, I didn't argue for I knew I wouldn't win. I fetched my woodwind from beneath my bed and played for the Old Man. Though I was out of tune and time in nearly every song I attempted the Old Man seemed to enjoy every note. Interestingly enough, for the first time since I began practicing the instrument, my father remained seated in the living room and almost seemed to find enjoyment in my playing which I found in enjoyment in in return. I forget how long I played but I do remember my fingers cramping as they had never done before. Eventually the old man, I speculate from an exhausting journey, fell asleep in the very chair he sat in. My father would often fall asleep in that same chair after smoking a short cigar or having the odd shot of whiskey, so I could comprehend it's welcoming comfort. My mother and father thought it time for bed, seeing as the guest had preempted us, so we made our way to our rooms for the night.

III.
To this day I remember the prayer I recited that night. "Dear Four. I know that it is said that you operate in mysterious ways too complex and profound for us mortals to comprehend. But, it is my wish, my desire to one day have a better understanding of the duties which stand before you every day, every year, every century. I find comfort in the fact that Keb's physical death was one of necessity and The Two Evils deemed it important, for reasons I will never know. I do know, almost for certain, that there were actual reasons though. Why you have sent this Old Man to us I don't know. Why you would let a man so lacking of mental capacity and physical ability to wander the plains I don't know either. What I do know is, that between The Two Lights and The Two Evils, there is reason and sense enough to avoid nihilistic actions and keep in line with the original concept. And for that, but not only that, I thank you."

IIII.
I arose first the next morning, as was not usual. I opened my door for I presumed that my parents were still sleeping, and crept down the narrow crowding hallway towards the main rooms. I had expected to feel a presence as I approached the main room, as I knew the Old Man fell asleep on the chair. As I neared, a presence I felt but not one that I had anticipated. What the differences were at the time I couldn't remember. As I turned the corner, where the paint had begun peeling off the walls a few years ago, I saw no man on the chair, but, nor was the chair empty either. Perched upon it was a leather sac, one that I had not seen the man come in with. I crept slowly towards the foreign sac, careful not to step on the planks which I knew let out loud creaks. I got to the chair and looked down into the open satchel to find what I had least expected, even with the already stated strangeness of the situation. It was shocking and something that I had never seen the likes of. I slowly crept backwards, all the way back down the narrow crowding hallway to my parents bedroom door. I knocked. I could hear them muster about shortly before my mother pulled the door open just as I was about to knock once more. "What is it?" she rasped. "The Old Man has gone and left something in his place." I countered. My parents followed me to the chair where the Old Man once slept. The sac was still there, and I remember hoping that what I saw inside of it was as well. My father was the first to get to the chair and look down into the bag. His hands reached in and I could hear the clinging and clanging of it's contents. The morning light came in through the window, in a rectangular fashion, and shone a light into the sack, reflecting a warm golden glow of my fathers hard leathered face. I recall him looking back at my mother, who must have had a view of it's contents, with an expression I had never seen, but, judging from my mother's reaction to it, she had a long long time ago. They both smiled as my father cupped his hands together and removed a collection of the contents. The sound of gold coins hitting the worn wooden planks of our farmhouse will be forever ingrained in my memory, as much of that night and subsequent day have been.

IIIII.
There was a knock at the door. Again, we looked at one another in confusion, but this time with a whole different set of underlying experience so newly learned. My father once again walked to the door and opened it, this time revealing Bishop Withers from The Sanctuarium, someone we had not seen in years for reasons stated already. From the look on Bishop Wither's face, his visit was as confusing to him and as it was to us. He would go on to explain that he was sent a cosmic message from the powers of Good and Evil that rewards had been bestowed upon us from the likes of Reenol who had taken human form to test our charity and Ultimate Good Will. As I heard the words leave his mouth I was hit with the most obvious recollection of all; as filthy, unkempt and inhumane as the Old Man was he didn't possess the repulsive odor that one would expect a man in his state to emit. In fact, with the exception of his appearance he was the most pleasant of men. There is little I know outside of what I have told. The notion that The Four existed is something I knew and didn't speculate. The notion that One of The Four would one day visit us is one I speculated but didn't know until that day.

written under the influence by

jeffc

The Basic Craft of Filmmaking

2009-03-30T10:08:00.007-04:00

writing under the influence
jeffc

Away Writing

2009-03-25T00:04:00.002-04:00

Just a heads up - because I like to post daily - that I will be away for a few days writing. Empty cabin in the middle of nowhere, no internet, no people, no animals (that need walking). Just my macbook and a bottle of cheap Alberta Rye.

In the meantime, visit here.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Two Things I Care Deeply About: Africa and Ricky Gervais.

2009-03-24T16:03:00.006-04:00

On a less serious note. It was a few months ago when I came across a trouvaille of sorts; I began watching Ricky Gervais stand-up, then I got a hold of both seasons of BBC's "Extras". After that I made it my goal to watch both seasons of the infamous "Office"(UK) as well. With a recent hollywood role in "Ghost Town", Ricky has solidified himself as a real ocean-crossing superstar. (but I saw him first)

In the following videos, he showcases not only comedic brilliance but his tendency to not take himself to seriously, which is a trait I wholly admire in starts of his caliber. As I ramp up to shoot an african-aid music video in sub-sahara Africa myself, I have taken a certain interest in other uncommon attempts at world issue. There are plenty of people that 'take a piss' out of those who try to do their part to help less privileged and/or at risk nations. Of course, the only real solution to Africa's issues is not foreign aid; medicine, schools or toys, but, actually, wealth building via entrepreneurship and infrastructure training. But, at risk of sounding cliche, every little bit helps.

You'll also catch a few cameos from a couple more 'other-side-of-the-roaders' putting in thier two pence.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

The Absurdity of the "Film By" Credit

2009-03-23T01:26:00.024-04:00

"Lost (Acoustic)" by Coldplay is having it's way with my iTunes as I type. I have wanted to write about this for a short while, as it's something that, as a screenwriter, I feel very strongly about. There's no doubt that the screenwriter is the most abused role in the film industry - except for that of the person who scoops up horse shit in between takes (but, alas, I have been there too). The screenwriter's job, and direct lack of acknowledgment, is analogous of the modern music producer; often the 'creator' of the content yet never the final deliverer. The screenwriter is the composer of the music as the director is the conductor of the orchestra. I don't mean to intimate that the director's role is less meaningful or artistic, I simply wish that the 'creator' of the actual piece would get the appreciation that he or she so obviously deserves.

I am, of course, speaking of films that don't share a writer and director. There are certain filmmakers that, though I still don't agree with, are more tolerable when snatching such a credit as "A Film By" or "A ________ Film". Such directors may be Quentin Tarantino, Charley Chaplin, Clint Eastwood or even Christopher Nolan; who have all shared multiple credits on multiple films, be them in the disciplines of direction, writing, acting, or score composing. No, this rant - some may call it that - is directed at those directors, famous or not, who worked for the 'director credit' and so traditionally take the "Film By" credit as well; as if they were entitled to it. An unwritten rule.

Is it really A Film By Them? Or is it an immense collaborative effort? A collaboration of cinematographers, actors, producers, grips, gaffers etc... not forgetting the inventor of the material, the writer. (More and more writers these days are optioning novels, books, short stories or real life occurrences, thus loosing some points for originality, but we won't get into that now. For I to am guilty with my recent bio-pic script "Allenbury". It's no coincidence that the "Best Adapted Screenplay" category at the Oscars held such viewed films as "Curious Case of Benjamin Button", "Doubt", "Frost/Nixon". "The Reader" and "Slumdog Millionaire" while Best ORIGINAL Screenplay housed the less prolific "Frozen River", "Happy Go Lucky", "In Bruges", "Milk" and "Wall-e" ["Milk" of course built upon a preexisting character).

Don't misunderstand. I am not saying that the writer should get the "Film By" credit all to themselves because they mindfully birthed the content. What I am saying is that the credit should all together be abolished and the glory thereof should be shared. "The Wrestler" stands as a shining example. As I sat in a dark, ghetto theater and the house lights dimmed, the credit "A Film By Darren Aronofsky" appeared on screen. I thought to myself "Hmmm. I thought Mickey Rourke was the big thing about this movie?". I watched the movie, in awe, of it's genuineness, complexity and depth. But it occurred to me rapidly that Darren, as much as I admire him for this work on 'Requiem' and such, had very little to do with that magic that jumped off the screen, beyond my over-priced popcorn, and into my willing mind. It was the words, the performance, the style of shooting that I connected with effortlessly. And yes, Darren had a huge part of that creation and I would never deny him that, but did he really, truly, deserve the entire film?

Call me a whiny screenwriter if you will. Truth be told, I have not even enough credit to complain from experience, only from philosophy. In my latest screenplay deal, when optioned, I had it written into my contract that "Any director that any and all production companies, studios or motion picture facilities now known of hereafter invented throughout the universe, contract on to the picture in the event of purchase, development and production shall not receive “A Film By” nor “A [Directors Name] Film” credit at any point during the film’s running time, marketing, distribution or design."

Long live the writer.

Long live the inventor.

Long live the composer.

Long live originality of the written word.

writing (severely) under the influence,
jeffc

Stream of Brilliance: Shane MacGowan

2009-03-20T15:22:00.011-04:00

Lil' Wayne rockz out!

2009-03-19T11:17:00.015-04:00

So here is the latest reason why, I believe, Lil' Wayne rocks...literally: his new Single and Music Video for "Prom Queen".

It was directed by Dave Meyers, whose birthday party I went to in LA. Dave also directed, in his directorial debut, "The Hitcher". He's a bit of a door-knob which is reflected in the aforementioned feature film - but he directs one hell of a music video. Look at the back up band playing for Lil' in the video; if it looks like KORN it's because it is.

"Excuse me, you're sitting on my Genius"

2009-03-18T17:35:00.009-04:00

I am still not sure to what extent I adhere to Elizabeth Gilbert's creative belief system but this video is surely worth a watch. Inspiring and eye opening this clip of the "Eat, Pray, Love" author's views on creative genius will definitely leave you scratching your noggin.

And don't fret, despite the video player's choice of thumbnails, the video is not, in fact, about nipple tweaking.