rain walk

I sat outside of the Starbucks at tenth and Locust; downtown Des Moines. A thunderstorm had been fluxing in and out of consciousness, the thunder, like an alarming awakening, repeatedly through the night.

My ride never showed.

It wasnt a feeling of abandonement that swept over me, but of opportunity. I'm sure he's alright, but do you really want to call your sister, your brother, your friends, to come bail you out of an easily solved problem.

I finished my tenth froo froo coffee for the evening at work, an empty stomach filled with glass after glass of water, followed by pourings of espresso, sugar, and milks of various origins... cow or not., into my tired body.

I have yet to mention the events of the previous weeks.

No need to. It's obvious. I haven't been writing here.

I stood, making my way acrossed wet pavement, a 1/2 inch of water or more with every step. Man, I wish I hadn't packed all these notebooks in this old courdory bag. Oh well, only 19 blocks.

The American in me said, oh. that's so fucking far. Call for a ride, use your cell phone line to hook someone to pay attention, to pick up the poor girl in the rain. Walking. Alone.

The human in me said. Go for it. How often do you get a chance to walk home from work, in a thunderstorm, on a thursday night.

Needless to say, I counted the blocks, smelled the rain and the rich earth, listened to the splashes of cars tires in puddles. Pondered existence. Moments of caffeinated clarity.

This week. November. November isn't so far away, I think.

A man yells out the passenger window... "HEY IS THAT HOW YOU WASH YOUR HAIR, YOU HIPPIE!?!"

My hair is about three feet long it seems. Heavy. So fucking heavy and hot in the summer humidity. Healing red spots cover my scalp as my hair roots grow used to the doll-dreadlocks that pull my skull taught.

Ukweli's hair.

Ukweli would probably walk in the rain. Girl probably doesn't own a cell phone. Or a telephone for that matter. She probably works nights. At a shelter or somewhere with people. Ukweli loves people.

November. November isn't so far, I think.

November rained on me tonight... The truth that my cinematographer, the lovely and precious, attitude-free G Thomas, admitted to me over a split ciabatta fried egg and niman ranch ham sandwich the other morning.

I'm not free until then. How's the script?

Almost done.

Almost done, I repeat, starring at my let-down of a fruit cup.

November. We'll be ready then. And the nature will reflect the story.

November in Iowa. Desolate, dying. Preparing the upper Earth for Death and Rebirth.

Raining. Like today. Almost snowflakes, minerals unformed by almost cold enough clouds.

This hair won't last. This moment won't last, but we keep treading onward into the barely lit tunnel, which is leading me somewhere. Taking me to my dream.

Manifest. Is that all I talk of in this Blog?

Is anyone ever reading?

I suppose this is record to this experience. Something for me to download and save for my future. Someone's, at least.

I'm soaked.

adversity meets confirmations

This has been a long road.

And we're hardly half way there.

The long bouts of writer's cramp (not "block"... I've got writer's diarrhea if anything...)waiting... waiting for character's to claim their voice in my mind, for the re-"vision" of a scene, bringing a whole new conotation to the word...

Re framing, in my mind, something that has yet to be in front of my eyes.

But I can see it.

I can see every moment of it. Not just the film, but the rehearsals, the smells of the food, the passion, tension, a scratchy throat from voicing concerns and needs and desires for the result.

Flick. This dream. Relentless in my heart.

The closer and closer we (as in my self, the script, The Miss Nicole, the actors, the crew) are getting to the goal time of production, we are all pushed away, by our personal lives.

I see colition between the reality and the written characters involved... I know the drama in my own world, the illness, setbacks, finances, families, emotions, hardships that not only I endure, but what appears to be everyone involved in the project.

I take my part one day at a time, needing to make money to support myself, and waiting for those urges to splooge (yes, I did say "splooge") out another 20-30 pages in a night, including revisions.

Flick has extended itself into a story, not just a concept.

Characters, feelings, emotions, passion, choice, sacrifice and ultimately, free will..

Stay tuned.

The saga continues, as the world turns, the stars align, and I itch this pound of hair attached to my skull.