SHORT STORY

"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

Stream of Brilliance: Shane MacGowan

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

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

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.

The Rise Of 'Gimmick Filmmaking'

I have always loved and appreciated magic. Not in the supernatural 'rabbit and that hat' context but in a much more visceral meaning. Let me explain. I am, to some degree, in the movie business. I enjoy my time there because of the romantic notions of the creative artist. The tortured individual whose purpose is creating forms of entertainment, sometimes at the risk of himself. I believe that a true artist is a complex and tormented one. After all, where is the artist who doesn't not have such profound disputes within? This creative ebb and flow produces the magic that I speak of. This magic permeated through the golden age of the screen. The Paul Newmans, Bob Evans, Stanley Kubricks and Dustin Hoffmans not only possessed a magic but celebrated it along with the general public. It wasn't about the 'story' of how the film came to be. It wasn't about the URL. It wasn't about the EPK. It was about, simply, the film itself and it's profound nature. The piece, not the process was to be noted. Times have changed, though not entirely, yet...

With the birth of 'Indie Filmmaking' came it's tough but clever child 'Guerilla Filmmaking'. I have nothing against 'Guerilla Filmmaking', except for perhaps, it's whining underachieving offspring, the grandchild of 'Indie Filmmaking': 'Gimmick Filmmaking'. 'Guerilla Filmmaking' allowed me to be where I am today, whatever that may mean. I even implemented tactics that would evolve quickly into the system of "Gimmick Filmmaking'. I too am guilty. My feelings of pride and shame are mixed.

As access to money and budgets diminish at alarming rates so does the class and credibility of the worlds Indie Filmmaker despite their anti-money mentality. The present retarded elephant in everyones room, be him still functioning, is the economy which is the IV that the film world is hooked up to - and hooked on. With each passing day, it gets harder and harder to get your film made. Yes, technology has allowed every one and their sister to make a film and call themselves a filmmaker but at what price? I use three examples, and in no way mean to insult or belittle the people behind the examples and their achievements. I hope, truly, that they succeed in their careers in the film world. However, the means in which they are going about it embody precisely the slow retardation of the nature of Indie Film and the possible extinction of the cinematic 'magic'.

My Million Dollar Movie
I have had countless conversations about this project with people inside and outside of the film world. If you haven't heard, the idea is to get $10 off persons of the general public in exchange for a 'producer credit' on the film and a piece of memorabilia. I can imagine the very long list of producers in the ending credit scroll almost having a counter-productive effect. The idea, while clever - I admit, has one innate flaw. As I mentioned, I have had countless discussions about this endeavor and have yet to find out what the film is actually about. Now given I could dig deeper and inquire into the actual narrative and genre of the film, but the fact that the project itself hit my radar long before I could even be exposed to what the film itself was, I believe, kills that 'magic'.

How Many Days
Filmmaker Gavin Booth is on a mission. Whether it's to make a film or not, I'm not exactly sure. I spoke with him on the phone once, and he was a very nice fellow. We spoke of some potential collaborations that would never be. With a few shorts under his belt, and I believe a feature that is unreleased, he is trying to make his mark in the beast that is the film world. A long while after we spoke, his new endeavor would surface. It's ambitious and also clever and entertaining to say the least. The website that will eventually take the form of a documentary I would speculate, is of Gavin's quest to meet and greet the filmmakers that molded his style and serve as role models for him. I gather this venture is to make contacts, build a network and ultimately provide a level of exposure necessary to get that coveted first major feature film off the ground. Again, clever and resourceful. But again, where is the film 'magic'? Where is the film? Where is the surreal screenplay that every producer wants to produce and every actor wants to perform?

The Purchase Brothers
I can relate. Brother filmmaking team trying to get noticed. Been there. Still there. And these guys have shot their way out with sniper-like aim. A few years of producing short, shaky-cam action films and spec commercials provided them with the know how to take on something with more stature, more relevance and most importantly more inherent fan-base. They made a short film piece based on the wickedly popular "Half Life" video game. Duplicating the costumes, effects, sounds, imagery, perspectives and tone of the actual video game they succeeded in creating a very impressive live action version. But where is the originality? Where is the magic? After posting it on YouTube the interpretation would collect more than 2 million views in the first two or three weeks. No small feat. But, with immense numbers of people typing 'Half Life' into the search bar in Youtube every day, it's no surprise they had this level of viewership. Once Hollywood caught wind of this spectacle, they were hot on it for one reason and one reason only; these kids can generate 2,000,000+ hits but we, the All Good and All Powerful Omnipotent monster that is Hollywood, can't generate $2,000,000 at the box office. "The Purchase Brothers know something we don't" I picture the stiff suits contemplating in their frosted glass boardroom. I look forward to seeing what comes of this over-night phenom. Will they choke on Tinsel-Town sized budgets, will their visible lack of creativity be an achilles heel? Or will they step up? In any event, I still fail to see the artistic magic.

I congratulate the above artists on their achievements thus far, and the success they will surely receive. They are all fellow Canadians, and for that reason and reasons beyond, I am in their corner. But they do, in my humble and perverse opinion, lack the movie magic that I already miss. It has become more about the "How are we going to do it-" then "What and Why are we doing it-". And I repeat, I am guilty of such crimes as well. I paraded around Toronto International Film Festival with a shirt that read "I HAVE A FILM FOR SALE" and not only sold the film because of them, but got an Entertainment Tonight Exclusive as well. I benefited from the very tactics which are starting to erode my faith in the future of long-form cinematic entertainment. I had won and therefore lost.

I mean no offense, I am merely making my point. I look forward to seeing these projects and fighting the good fight together. We all dream together and hope to be the exception to the rule. But, as I grow I realize that we must dream to be the exception but plan to be the rule..

writing under the influence,
jeffc

SPOTLIGHT: Joseph Gordon Levitt

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

Topics to Come

Some things I would like to ramble on about in my 'write as if no one is reading' style...

• The Rapid Decline of Indie Film and the Fatal Virus that is Gimmick Filmmaking
  
• Joseph Gordon Levitt
  
• Creative Genius
  
• The Internet Critic and his Infinite Self-Unawareness
  
• The Absurdity of the "Film By" credit

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Contradictory Thoughts on Blogging and the Absence of Inspirational Thinkers...

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