After joining in the November 6, 2011, demonstration against the Keystone XL (KXL) Pipeline in Washington, D.C., we have been celebrating good news for the past two days. Courtesy of Professor Harvard Ayers, Ph.D., co-author of “Arctic Gardens: Voices from an Abundant Land,” it’s my pleasure to share the following news about KXL.

“A landmark decision was made yesterday by Mr. Obama — HE PUT OFF ANY DECISION ON THE KEYSTONE XL TAR SANDS PIPELINE FOR 12-18 MONTHS, probably killing this horrible project for ever. The incredible forces lobbying him to approve it LOST!!! There had been huge threats from the boosters of this project. But in the end, our President came through for common sense and for the average person. Mainly, the questionable environmental study — by a company closely attached to TransCanada, the project pipeline company — commissioned by the State Department was the reason for this decision. Questions about Climate Change potential as well as inevitable spills of this pipe-corroding, toxic tar sands oil were two of the major considerations. Does this great victory have larger implications for concerns with the environment, climate, etc.? Yes!! No matter how much money they plow into lobbying for a terrible idea, there can be sanity in the end. Cooler heads prevailed.”

Professor Ayers also shared a request from The Sierra Club asking us all to send a thank you message to President Obama for putting the brakes on the Keystone XL oil pipeline. Here’s where to find the template for sending that message if you share our appreciation: http://bit.ly/ThankBO

Cheers friends!

Keystone XL Pipeline Demonstration on November 6, 2011.

Growing up, I had two wonderful grandmothers: Beatrice Travis-Ridings or “Granny Bea,” who passed away just a few months before Amelia was born in 2001… and Eileen Darnell-Houser or “Grandma Bam,” who left us in 2009. Back in 2010, I wrote about Granny Bea, and this post on Grandma Bam is long overdue.

My life has been keeping me very busy lately. Outside of my daily activities focused on taking excellent care of my family and clients, free time has been extremely scarce. This week, my father celebrated his 70th birthday — and with my stepmom, their 36th wedding anniversary — while my big bro arrived at birthday number 48. As I thought about things I could do in their honor, I remembered the video interview I did with Grandma Bam back in 2004, and decided to share some of its contents with them and our other friends and familymembers on Facebook.

UCF professor Tom Morgan told my class about a video interview he had shot of his parents before they passed away, while also encouraging us to interview special people in our own lives while we could. I took his advice and interviewed Granny Bea at her home in 1989 with a borrowed camcorder, but sadly, I still can’t find that 8mm videotape.

I interviewed Grandma Bam near the Thanksgiving holiday in 2004, while Beth entertained our children and visited with Grandpa Doe, our stepgrandfather. Since Grandma passed away more than two years ago, I’ve missed her a lot; she was always there and ready to laugh and carry on, even on sad occasions. Also, her love for me, my wife and my kids was always abundantly clear.

Beneath her joviality and lightheartedness, Grandma’s inner strength was forged through too many horrific hardships and difficulties she faced in her 91 years. In our conversation, she touched a bit on one of those, while mainly expressing her positive spin I so admire, and sharing her beautiful laughter and wisdom.

If anyone is interested in receiving a set of the 31 questions I organized for this interview, please let me know by commenting or sending a direct message.

For Grandma’s kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews, copies of the full interview are available. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy the video above which allows you to experience her famous laugh, and some of her philosophy, yourself… and the photos that show how much she loved our family and treasured the times we spent together.

Going mostly on instinct, I limited each line to 38 characters, wrote the first entry 73 lines long, and planned to make each subsequent verse one line shorter. If all went as hoped, I figured the final line would be something significant, even if most of the others might be forgettable.

Leaping ahead to the present, Ramble has been somewhat miraculous to me; as you might expect, it changed dramatically over time… and so have I. For the first, longest verses, I vented in detail about momentous developments, including some of the bigger political and global issues of those days. Progressively, I grew more and more daunted in facing the need to communicate things of real importance concisely. For anyone arriving at a crossroads in life with ability and time to write, I encourage a similar writing challenge. If you don’t have years and years to devote, begin with a five-line poem, then count down four, three, two and one: In my experience, it’s a productive approach at focusing oneself.

This website did not exist when I started writing Ramble, but it features all the most recent entries. Since writing number 17 in early 2008 and publishing it here the next day, I’ve written seven others that I’ve instantly published. One year ago, I wrote and added #6 in honor of my son Riley.

Hoping your interest runs deeper, I’m proud to share a few of my favorite rambles. They span from the project’s earliest days through until now, almost; #5 was written this past March. Below, all make their debut. The very next chapter of Arc of the Poet will end this tale, while also seeing Ramble through to its finale. I appreciate your interest immensely, and hope you will stay tuned, keep in touch, and enjoy everything life has to offer.

Ramble
by Roger Darnell

2002: #70

Darnells, 2002.

Our first home in Boone, 2002.

Spring break, 2003.

So, on a weekend, what exactly is it
that’s keeping me away from tackling
one of these longer-form projects of
personal origination? Not exactly an
easy question to answer, but I do
realize that the key to “jumping” when
I get the opportunity depends upon me
getting through this. My first
reaction is to think about these other
standing items: the next novel from
my step father-in-law; the electronic
books and developments underway for my
father-in-law; the screenplay project
which is certainly a priority at the
moment; and after that, my sort of
aimless, hard to pin-down hesitation
in knowing exactly which project to
“jump” into. If I get that far, there
is certainly one project I think of,
but knowing that I need to be making
daily progress with these other
initiatives — plus of course finding
my third client and landing them –
it’s a very sticky cobweb I have to
spin my way through to actually begin
contemplating launching my efforts.
It’s easier to pick up a book, do
some straightening in my office, write
my mom or my brother an email, or go
and see what it is that Amelia and her
mother are up to. The ability to
actually focus on that creative work,
to make it absolutely phenomenal, is
a goal I am passionate about for good
reasons: if I pursue it, I want it to
be great, to succeed where my other
completed creative pursuits have not.
I can remember reading about A.E.
Housmann, coming to see that after he
wrote A Shropshire Lad, he essentially
retired from writing poetry. His
powerful words, written before he
reached 25, I believe, touched me very
deeply when I was young, and I was
pretty determined to follow-through on
my poetic pursuits; seeing an end to
the achievements of someone I sought
to emulate at such an early age, I was
troubled as I considered my future.
I’ve always thought about writing
like my favorite authors, and making
movies like my favorite filmmakers,
and I can see that failing to achieve
something close in any of these areas
would be a significant disappointment
in my life. So, if I’m to live the
life I’ve aspired to for so long, I
need to create every aspect of those
successes that are so far immaterial.
I’m extremely grateful for the dreams
which drive me on; having them is a
gift… and the more readily I can see
them, the better my chances at keeping
the fire of determination alive within
me. Continuing on at the pace that my
wife and I are enjoying, we’ll pay off
two homes, live a great life and raise
two children with much love and joy;
hallelujah! By seizing any chances to
write I can put more icing on my cake.

…

2003: #67

Indian Campground.

I am writing from a place that has
evolved since the beginning of this
project, but it’s the place that we
envisioned prior to relocating here,
and I have attained it more than once
over these past two years. It is a
place of harmony… where I can enjoy
our beautiful forest surroundings, the
peace of trickling waterfalls and the
dazzling brilliance of sunlight sifted
through treetops and reflected from
flat eddies in the creek’s shimmering
waters. Even the buzzing of insects
is a joy to behold here, because they
are brilliantly contrasted with those
sounds from locales we have occupied
in the past. I can immerse in this
splendor of nature because my wife and
my daughter are also enjoying harmony
today… out at the library or perhaps
playing at a park… and our son grows
contentedly inside his mother’s womb,
slowly but surely becoming. All along
the journey that has brought us here,
this place has existed, but often it
lies beyond our grasp. Even during
times of peace, some unexplainable
phenomena occupy our energies to the
extent that we pre-conceive some of
the difficulties we might face, or we
puzzle over challenges on the outer
peripheries of our lives. These past
few nights, my wife has dreamt of the
most horrible situations with our
daughter… and as I laid sleepless
but exhausted in bed last night, I too
was visited with torturous visions…
as if imagining a benign scrape on our
daughter’s elbow isn’t horrifying in
itself. Such thoughts prompt me, on a
morning like this one, to gaze at my
daughter with such profound love… to
realize the limitation of the security
I can offer as she, too, continues to
become. And the blessing that is most
evident is this place, and all that it
means to us in our hearts and minds.
For here, aside from the riches nature
surrounds us with, we are also wealthy
in loving family and the overflowing
fruits of nurturing, wholesome values.
Beauty, fine arts, fun, adventure,
bonds of love, community and self-
identity are giving our child a unique
and solid perspective in the world,
and she, together with her cousins,
will shepherd our little boy all the
days of his childhood, until he grows
with them into a full human being.
These children, invested with the very
best we have to offer, in a place that
seems as though it will always hold
its magic on its very surface… a
a simple empire that knows, respects
and admires them… have every chance
of becoming great. These virtues
kindle my thoughts on this summer day.

…

December 2003: #61

Walk with Amelia.

Recalling the occasion of the father
returning home to his two-year-old
daughter, after an absence of some
five days, a flood of heartwarming
emotions is the first overwhelming
sensation that seizes the stage in the
retelling. It’s a feeling that stays
strong through the end, just as well.
First, though, it’s also important to
note the quality of their communiques
during the trip; many very funny
Flash email cards from Hallmark made
the journey through the Internet to
reach from Boone to Hollywood, and
they were quite touching and
sentimental. “Miss Kiss” is one that
remains embedded in Amelia’s mind,
about the time when her Daddy was in
California, when each was very sad.
Well, the phone conversations also
ran to new lengths and nuances…
giving both a chance to express
the love both had become so adept at
expressing through touch. Just as
is the case for anyone, the voice
on the phone can be a source for
painful feelings of things missing,
like sight and touch. This was the
most poignant instant yet in the
daughter’s perception of “missing
Daddy,” and the Daddy’s, too. So,
by the time the date arose and the
daddy closed in on his return home,
anticipation was extraordinarily
high. He arrived, and he looked in
at his sleeping daughter in her
bedroom, and he and his beloved wife
seized the moment to lay down, rest
and catch-up together. Somehow, the
now-accustomed lonesomeness for each
other had added a new dimension,
which seemed to capture most of the
gravity in itself: their daughter.
The parents were joyful and focused
on ending the pain of parting that
they’d all suffered together, each
in their individual way. So, as
soon as an acceptable amount of nap
time had transpired, the father
climbed into bed with the little one,
and upon her waking up, he met the
sweetest words he could never even
imagine: in her whisper, she told
him, “I missed you.” One little hand
on each of his cheeks, her smile said
the pain was gone, and he kissed her,
until he had to bury his face against
her chest and give in to the utter
sobs — quiet, happy ones — that rose
to the surface of his emotions. She
heard Daddy laugh, “Happy tears Baby!”

…

November 12, 2005: #34

Riley and Daddy, Oct. 29, 2005.

So, let’s discuss this ‘writer’ in more detail.
Fastidious, he’ll have to be for sure, to make
progress in creating something brilliant
enough to ford his fate to any new height.
First things first, though, as he knows.
There’s a story to be told. It must be
crafted superbly. Its language must be
inviting, captivating… calculating. Spot on.
That’s what’s missing – the ability to step
into the zone, where the mind can focus
completely on artistically rendering a tale
with depth, heart, soul, and stirrings of
ancient orders for living human spirits.
My goodness… it’s no wonder I’ve decided
in the past to build up to this. It’s quite the
pedestal I’ve parked my expectations on.
Whatever writing I take on, there are
rewards to be had, but creating content
I can own is what I’m driven to accomplish.
That seems something profound to savor.
So, there’s a story to be crafted, as
described. Making headway on that will
be a respectable challenge in and of itself.
Organizationally, strategically, I’m proud
to say that I’m starting to gain traction.
And I’ve done my share of long-form
writing projects in the past. If I’m lucky,
my future will have more big projects than
are now in my past. And all will get made.

…

February 1, 2006: #32

Camp Merriewoode, Sept. 9, 2006.

Riley, Amelia, and unknown doggie, Sept. 9, 2006.

Daddy and Riley, Sept. 9, 2006.

Amelia, Riley and Mommy, Sept. 9, 2003.

Relating to my children is becoming more
and more important to me. When I hold
either of them, I realize how very much
I love them. The physical connections
between us remind me that I have made
a person, who is now growing up. As
they fare in the world, so do I, in every
sense of the word. The life that spread
itself over 36 years is now off the charts,
quite literally. Our mental range is now
restricted to the swift currents of the past
53 months, since the responsibility that
came home with our first baby settled in.
The dedication required to fulfill parental
obligations is exactly what my wife and I
were set to provide, at that point in life.
We took a risk, struggled at first, and then
hit a stride like we never thought possible.
By the time we get through our next CPA
meeting, I expect to have a distinct plan
in hand for our financial future, including
early retirement, at least by a couple years.
The routine is rewarding us with security,
and it makes me very enthusiastic about
the world my children live in. And yet, the
days of our lives bring us grief, despair,
disaster, destruction… and cancer. These
Darnell children, so important and special,
how much security can I truly offer them?
My apprehension can never be fully offset,
but when we hold each other and know
that all is well, today, we are living large.

…

March 13, 2007: #24

Darnell family, Nov. 25, 2006.

An attempted ode on the beginning of life.
These days, the agenda involves sorting
powers of attorneys, wills for life and death,
guardians for children in the event both
parents die, separate trustees of the estate,
and of course backups for those named as
heirs to each station, plus their backups.
I have seen ends of lives – they’re not pretty.
No one ever seems prepared. But in time,
looking back, it sort of looks like each was,
as the last of their waves eventually receded.
Even the pyramids will return to sand in time!
My little insurance gift, or my little empire
of feats, finances and – pardon the popular
British expression – fuck-all (as it will no
doubt all turn out to be), may not amount
to a hill of beans in the record books, but
I hope it will be a real blessing to my family.
They are the joy and devotion of my life, and
the best times I’ve passed here have been
the spans I’ve spent in warm happiness,
laughter, and even attending life’s sorrows,
with them. Life offers more joy, with Roger
or not, with you or not, as it will always be.

…

December 8, 2007: #20

Riley on a walk with Daddy, May 26, 2007.

Riley and Amelia Darnell, May 12, 2007.

Amelia and Mommy, May 12, 2007.

Claire, Amelia and Riley, Aug. 28, 2007.

A journey. A commitment. An idea.
An inspiration.
An experiment. A reward. A victory.
A therapy. A relief. A confession.
An approach. A monument. A cry.
A lament. An admission. An outreach.
A shame. An act. A gesture. A display.
An indiscretion. A performance.
An elixir. An epiphany. An enigma.
A catalyst. A catharsis. A transformation.
To discover. To dedicate. To evolve.
To relish.
To learn. To reach. To will.
To fathom. To expect. To purge.
To try. To excel. To blossom.
To listen. To understand. To accept.
To observe. To absolve. To interpret.
To relate. To channel.
To absorb. To celebrate. To comprehend.

…

November 29, 2008: #11

Uncle Scott and Amelia, Nov. 27, 2008.

Pa, Riley and Aunt Susan, Nov. 27, 2008.

tonight I watched the pieces fall into place
the words used to describe my own values
either to someone else or myself, either in
reality or some hoped-for future, all these
observations and ruminations on the most
important building ingredients I weigh
were united and elegantly whirled together
as my life’s journey-to-date was laid bare,
and what I saw was that it added me all up
as this guy on the planet who has lived.
And from now on, I can add new material.

…

March 24, 2011: #5

Roger and Beth, April 26, 2011.

Tonight, I am very thankful to be a son,
a grandson, a brother, a nephew,
a cousin, a friend, a husband, and a dad.
Also, I’m grateful that my kids have much
to be thankful for, and they both know it.

…

Photos from a spectacular April.

Even before I had done any real research or taken my first steps into the legitimate literary world, the intellect, attitudes and ideas I gained through my parents and early life experiences gave me an expansive sense of entitlement. A specific delusion I suffered from was believing that the first time my work was read by any sound judge of a literary competition, my name would be affixed to the prize and I’d be on my way to fame. By the midway point of 1993, however, my steady outreach to editors covering poetry and short fiction had only resulted in a growing collection of rejection slips. Most of them were just generic slips of paper, photocopied and stuck into the required SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) without a second’s thought… but others were from manuscript competitions where I had little choice but to accept that my work had actually been read and deemed unworthy.

As mentioned in last week’s entry for this series, I was thankful for having ventured into the area of nonfiction trade journals covering the film and television industry, and to have started hitting those marks. It was extremely satisfying seeing my byline in magazines that often had considerably larger circulations than any of the literary publications I was sending work to… and getting paid for those articles worked wonders for my professional reputation, confidence and self-esteem.

Several of the trade stories I authored also featured my original photographs. They weren’t anything great, but through those experiences I learned the importance of having good images to accompany any project I wanted to see into print. My education at UCF and in the Air Force gave me some serious instruction in photography, and on my own, I kept trying to improve those skills, along with my writing. I was especially proud of a series of snaps captured in Chicago back in 1990, and as I diligently continued researching literary journals and reaching out with new poetry and creative writings, I also made some attempts at placing my photos within those types of publications.

In June of ’93, I was again invited back to UCF, this time at the invitation of beloved gentleman faculty member Keith Fowles, who asked me to speak to senior students in his Radio/TV and Society class. Having gained a more solid foothold in my career aspirations since my visit earlier that year, optimism took center stage: I assured everyone that there was certainly room for them in the industry, while encouraging them to set their goals, but then to be sure to revisit them often, considering the likelihood of change over time. Keith was very complimentary and appreciative, saying he felt it was a message his students needed to hear. That was a proud day.

Soon thereafter, with big help from my dad and step-mom, Beth and I bought our first home. Located in the charming downtown area of Orlando near Kaley Street, it was over 40 years old and offered less than 800 square feet of living space, but to us and our cat Maggie, it was a castle. Also, it featured a nice big lot, and four of the world’s most beautiful and immense Live Oak trees.

With momentum favoring us, and my career affording some gratifying accolades, it’s hard to describe exactly how I felt when I received the following correspondence in response to a poetry submission. When it came to magazine editors and established literary figures, I had received no feedback on my creative writing, and other than having my work accepted and put into print, that’s what I wanted most. The two pages of glib poets’ instructions I received from Naomi Long Madgett hit me like a spiritual beat-down I could not ignore. As you can see below (click each image to see it full-size), my response came from my heart, and it reflects some regrettable immaturity. What I admire about it is the rising self-assurance and composure I was beginning to find in aiming for the high road.

"Memo" from Naomi Long Madgett.

Some Observations and Advice on the Writing of Poetry

Letter to Naomi Long Madgett.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being

Nearly a year after our spectacular wedding, May of 1993 found me, Beth and pretty much everyone else in our family continuously thinking about my brother, his daily perseverance in recovering from his July ’91 diving accident, and his successful return to a more normal lifestyle. By then, he and his girlfriend had their own place, on my dad and step-mom’s farm and within earshot of their home. From every angle, Scott was making us all very proud, and showing the kind of resounding inner strength we all hope to have when faced with unimaginable adversity.

At one point right after the accident, my mom wondered aloud if we would ever be happy again. Illinois has always provided a powerful attraction for me around my birthday in May, and I was especially thankful while driving there on May 6, 1993, that I was feeling real joy. You can find a poem I wrote back in 1988 about those annual treks to my native homeland here.

The reputation of my mom’s mom — known as Granny Bea or Aunt Bea to most, Mrs. Ridings to everyone else — reached far and wide from the beautiful spot she and my grandfather had settled in long before. Called Terrapin Ridge and located near Greenville, the rural area feels a lot more like their own ancestral Tennessee homeland than Illinois. Until she passed away in 2001, those woods surrounding their home were enchanted by Granny Bea’s warmth, charm and grace. Even now, when we return to the area, we are pulled that direction… but it was different when she was there awaiting us in her legendary kitchen: friends and family-members all made bee-lines there every chance we got, and nothing could deter us from those visits.

Scott and I were also very tight with my dad’s mom, whom he had dubbed “Bam” at an early age. She also was always very happy to see and feed us, and we both loved her dearly. She had remarried and moved to nearby Keyesport, and helping get Scott there and to Granny Bea’s place were at the top of my May ’93 trip’s agenda. It took a lot of hands, and the usual oversized dose of determination from Scott, but those experiences came together colorfully, and they meant a lot to each of us, and to many others who weren’t there but who heard about our visits through various grapevines.

After making that journey where I spent so much time with my bro, and then returning home, I was ready to face even my most ambitious challenges with renewed energy. I reviewed and polished all my creative writing, and after systematically assessing my media targets and their preferences in cross-reference with my stockpile, I printed lots of papers out and sent them flying to the four corners of the world, and all points in between. My inner artist also attempted to creatively channel my brother in the following experimental essay. It appears here for the first time, even though I began sending it to literary media outlets almost as soon as it was finished.

My life, I cannot love you better.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being

Coming into 1992, I was living a dream: working in development for Ivan Tors Entertainment at the Disney-MGM Studios, and hopeful that the screenplay I was writing for their lead feature project would launch my career as a screenwriter. But on May 5, the day I turned 26, I was laid off and asked to clean out my office in Bungalow 3 and turn in my backlot pass. Though it was a serious setback, I landed in decent shape, mainly because Beth was in my life. Later that month, together with legions of family members and friends, we experienced a glorious wedding amid the cornfields and Spring-time Illinois countryside, surrounded by love.

That era is one I look back on with a lot of pride… and disappointment; I really had high hopes of landing a major role in the movie business, and by that February, the path to success appeared right before my eyes. I thought I was well on my way.

Through my boss at Tors, I quickly came into contact with leaders at every major talent agency, countless successful independent and studio filmmakers, the best actors and craftspeople, and even Roy Disney, Dick Cook and Jeffrey Katzenberg. Along with writing a first pass on the “Flipper: The Movie” screenplay (where the story was not at all of my choosing) that was photocopied and sent off everywhere so fast it made my head spin, I also wrote and produced a marketing presentation that was screened and applauded by the aforementioned Disney royalty.

Meanwhile, over the course of eight months on the studio backlot, my colleagues and I were constantly on display to the streaming tourists who beheld us from trams, and through giant panel windows looking into soundstages, production offices, and post-production facilities. In the snapshots and home movies of too many tourists to count, we were the stars living the dream life, there among the Mickey Mouse topiaries, props and set pieces. That kingdom was proclaimed to be Hollywood East, and being inside was empowering.

That February, I was invited out to UCF to talk to a group of film students, and I gave them an earful, mixing encouragement with the type of canned pessimism you just can’t escape in “the industry.” Among many wise words, I shared these from industry author and luminary Raul da Silva:

“Filmmaking is one of the most difficult industries in the world to break into. It may offer great rewards, both spiritually and financially, but the Hollywood story aside, the real business (and the one that offers the most openings) is film as communication, not entertainment…. At last count, over one thousand schools, colleges, and universities offered some kind of film, video or audiovisual curriculum. Unfortunately, when it comes job time, most candidates lack the two most essential qualifications for communications filmmaking: the ability to write a script and a solid business and marketing background.”

I also have a letter I wrote to my brother at that time, where I spilled out my excitement over the fact that renowned director, producer, cinematographer and screenwriter Peter Hyams was at that time reviewing my draft of the Flipper screenplay, along with my detailed research notes. Sadly, over the following weeks, deals failed to materialize… and as new investors gained control of the project’s rights, my clear path vanished. In 1996, “Flipper” got made, starring Paul Hogan and Elijah Wood, and credited to many others.

Cut loose that May, Beth and I sailed into planning our wedding, and almost 19 years later, it is still a vivid and cherished memory for us and our loved ones. After our week-long honeymoon in a cabin in North Georgia, we came back home, picked up the pieces, and set out again. While scoring paychecks through staff and freelance jobs in the industry over the next year, I remained very serious about my literary aspirations. Some of the marketing experience I gained at Ivan Tors and through freelance writing gigs gave me a new angle. I wrote a story that appeared in Videography magazine, and soon began pursuing assignments with other industry trades. Encouraged by my success with nonfiction writing submissions, I renewed efforts to submit various poetry collections into contests, while also writing short and feature-length dramatic screenplays, and even more commercials, PSAs and scripts for marketing videos. Also, I continued to correspond with different literary agents, trying to gain representation, and getting some positive feedback along the way.

In the previous entry for this series, I mentioned receiving a letter from Charles Bukowski. My friend Hardy Edwards had asked me to write a screenplay treating certain Bukowski poems, and then, to try to get it cleared for promotional use. My early diplomatic efforts generated the briefest of missives: “Let this serve as notice that you are not within your rights,” signed by Bukowski himself. We did eventually get his permission to submit Hardy’s finished short film into a local festival, but earning the scorn of an artist I so admired was yet another humbling experience from 1992.

Through it all and into 1993, my life at home with Beth continued to be wonderfully rewarding. With her by my side, I kept dreaming big. While I wasn’t yet able to give her the security she deserved, I worked hard, and expressed my devotion using all the energy and artistry I could muster. In May of 1993, that involved some writing combined with my amateur filmmaking skills, using original photographs, a Super 8 movie shot back in 1990, a borrowed 8mm camcorder, and an audio cassette deck. The result appears at the top, touched up to make it a bit more presentable. It’s quite personal, but we’re all friends here. I hope you enjoy the video above for “Play.” Here are the words.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being

Part 2 of that series recounts the unforeseen drama of June 29.

Brothers, 1986.

The (Bumper Crop) story is about an older man who awakens from a dream that shines a new light on a long-held misconception which had affected him deeply throughout his life. Finally understanding that he was not responsible for his brother’s accident long ago, his awakening represents a new lease on life. On Saturday, June 29, 1991, a really great group of people came together at a little, vacant, roadside gas station in Sanford, Florida, to begin shooting the film. Little did I know that, later that day, while we were trying to get our shots, my own brother would suffer his own life-changing accident, after diving into a lake in our hometown of Greenville, Illinois. It was about 1:30 AM on Sunday when my mother called with the news which led from one thing to the next, and in those hours, I didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance to talk to Scott, my one and only brother, again. By Monday, I was at the hospital and hearing the dark forecast — never walk again, life hanging on by a thread…. Happily, my big brother survived all that, and though he doesn’t walk, he stands above most people I know as an amazingly resourceful, industrious, upbeat person who, among many other things, is a pillar of my family and the town of Greenville. On July 1 of 1991, though, I had a rough night trying to sleep in a hospital waiting room. I had Spalding Gray’s “Swimming to Cambodia” to read, and for my therapy, I wrote this poem…

I invite you to follow the link above to read “John Wayne Dies Again,” which I wrote that night as an attempt to pacify my thoughts in the midst of so much sadness, fear and frustration. Scott’s girlfriend Rachel, my parents and many other close family members were there, also suffering through those first nights, trying to comfort Scott and each other, as various doctors, specialists and nurses delivered updates that were anything but reassuring. But in the main bout, Scott’s body and mind were fighting for life, and we all tried to help in whatever small ways we could, hoping for a miracle.

Those days and nights in the hospital taught me a lot about my family, many close friends, my girlfriend, my brother, and my coping abilities. Moving forward, I lost most of my appetite for pretend medical or crime dramas, like TV’s “E.R.” Somehow, feeling the pain of real, life-threatening hardship for my bro made me despise television’s imaginary tragedies. In other aftermath, some hard emotions I experienced at that time with my father made me vow to protect myself better in the future.

Salad days, 1992.

In the meantime, Scott moved through all the steps of stabilization and rehab in various St. Louis area hospitals, with constant help and support from Rachel, back-up from my dad and step-mom, and semi-regular visits by my mom, who lived in Florida like us. Everything was hard on Scott, but through his unbelievable strength, perseverance and determination, he rocked onward, encouraging each of us to carry on with our own lives… and freeing us to do so.

For a long time after “John Wayne Dies Again,” I did not write much poetry… but I did read a lot. Just around that time, my friend Hardy Edwards introduced me to the writing of Charles Bukowski. I began reading all the Buk books I could get my hands on, and his constant references to other fine writers led my literary and musical interests in exciting and fun new directions. Bless you for making it this far in my bard’s tale, please accept my deepest thanks. You are among a few people of whom I am very proud. Knowing me as you do by now, I hope the following much-shortened version of a great lesson from Mr. Bukowski will delight you as well. Of all the wonderful, powerful artists I encountered by age 24, Buk made me realize how very much I had to learn, all while putting a smile on my face, which remains even now. I soon came to love this most unusual man, and even received a letter from him one day.

The freedom I enjoyed immediately after earning two bachelors degrees and completing my six-year Air Force Reserve commitment was wonderfully liberating, and my girlfriend Beth and I pressed ahead into our whirlwind adventures. My tiny backyard garage apartment in downtown Orlando became her home, too, over time, as we grew together. Meanwhile, facing our college debts, we both dedicated ourselves to earning paychecks.

Beth also earned her communications degree at the end of 1990, and by that time, she was already a well seasoned bartender at the Bennigans in Casselberry, which is still very popular. Right after graduating, she landed an apartment industry job in sales and management. That opportunity and others to follow were solid and stable, if sometimes stressful… but she jumped right in and thrived.

For me, the career path was much more erratic and hard to trace. In essence, I persevered in trying to open doors and earn the credits necessary to do the type of work I wanted to do (any skilled, challenging work in the film and television industry, with a preference for research, writing and production), while clocking all the $10 hours I could book as an experienced clerical or audiovisual freelancer.

During a final college course, one professor told us all that as soon as we graduated, we’d be ready for entry-level jobs. At the time, the thought that everything I was going through to graduate was just a prerequisite for something “entry level” felt like being punched in the face. I felt strongly, and probably expressed my thoughts out loud: “What are you talking about? I don’t need a college degree to get an entry-level job!”

Maybe I was technically right about that, but my first months after graduation proved that the types of more senior jobs I felt qualified for were beyond my reach. While trying to hold out for some interesting work on a film production or somehow shape-up a worthwhile solitary or joint effort project through my resourcefulness, I did send out quite a few resumes and cover letters to apply for full-time jobs. I recall that one was for a communications position for Florida’s State Parks… which would have been fun if an offer had come through. None did.

As a backup, I put another plan into action. Coming into 1991, I had prepared a few polished submissions from my original poetry for writing contests. My hope — and also my expectation — was that the “Just” manuscript would win a major contest. When the correspondence arrived with icy reports featuring others’ names as winners, I was crushed, humiliated, and left to seriously consider: How did I not win?

All things considered, those days were challenging in a lot of ways. Usually I was racing back and forth across Orlando’s byways in pursuit of work, then landing at odd times at home on Meridale Avenue, where Beth and I would reconnect, get recharged, and then head off again in separate directions. In the quiet moments, I would ponder my next literary moves, and try to assess all the ways my artistic efforts, diligence, preparation, practice and polish fell short. Of course, looking through that microscope, I was really examining every facet of my life and trying to figure out what to do next to lead myself in the right direction.

Although I felt my career was going nowhere fast at that time, Beth and I held our own, and in the process, we enjoyed so many simple things together that not achieving instant literary fame became more acceptable. To my great fortune, she was always perfectly okay with me for who I was, and of course, it also helped a ton that her dad was constantly reminding me that “life is good” (even before it was on t-shirts), and cautioning me, “Don’t forget to stop to smell the flowers!” Like my own mother, he was always very encouraging to me, and Beth’s mom, step-dad, brothers, sisters, and all her friends also joined the growing support group that gave me a lot of self-respect to build on. Their positive examples and feedback trained me to begin appreciating everything life has to offer, while I kept my sites set on the entertainment industry, and continued to aim high.

Over the next few years, I became something of a fixture at Orlando’s downtown library, while studying and collecting the works of great classical and contemporary writers and artists in my spare time, and writing. Through research, I learned I needed to get better if I wanted my poetry to appear in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and other high-profile targets I identified.

While originally my literary aspirations were driven by dreams of fame and fortune, my mom made a very important point with the following not-so-subtle newspaper clipping. As the editors at the New York Times Book Review “Noted With Pleasure,” writing poetry is not really a viable money-making proposition. It was a great lesson for sure, but as you’ll see, it took awhile for it to sink into my head.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being

Like all kids of the late 1960s, I was exposed early and often to Dr. Seuss, and those fantastic rhymes of his really made deep impressions on me. But there were other rhymes my older brother and I were exposed to, which had accompanied my mother’s upbringing in a rural setting in Southern Illinois, at the hands of her Tennessee-born parents. From early ages, we heard this favorite time and again, inspiring our many adventures in the woods, and framing them in our minds.

My mom also performed a special version of Humpty Dumpty, where we’d sit on her knees until she’d get to the “fall,” when she’d (gently) let us tumble to the ground, and finish the rhyme with a smiling flourish, and a big tickle.

For me and Scott, our early years involved a lot of moving. Although we nearly always returned to Greenville, within a matter of months, we were off to somewhere else, as our industrious dad continued pursuing new career opportunities.

Whenever Dad was around, our family seemed to do pretty well together. We had many adventures, usually involving boats and the water. Unfortunately, his career always seemed to keep him away from home, and eventually, Mom realized she just wasn’t happy. Looking back, Mom often seemed to be writing during those evenings, using a typewriter she brought home. After her own father passed away, her marital commitment to our dad dissolved. Her administrative skills were soon sharp enough to put her back to work on her own. I was eight and Scott was 10 when we learned about divorce firsthand… and in those days that followed, living in Central Florida, my mother refashioned herself.

It’s very easy to color those days with our main activities: school, baseball, long summers, and Scott moving back and forth between our parents. However, when I think about my mom during those times, I think of her searching inwardly, and writing these poems that represented her actual means for coping with life. She had written many poems during the early days of child rearing — “Scott, Age Three” and “Roger, Age Three” were ones we casually cherished, loving our starring roles within our mother’s clever verses. The poems of those years following the divorce were something else; she didn’t share those. Rather, they were her secret scrolls of hard-earned wisdom, apparently just meant for private study.

By the time I turned 13, I started having some original ideas about poetry, writing, personal values and my self. Here’s one of my first poems. I don’t recall exactly when I wrote it, but I know it was before my 13th birthday, and after watching a Western film that set me off.

Based on this introduction, I’m seeing that poetry arose within me as a means for connecting meaningfully with my mother, and demonstrating my writing abilities to her… and in that, I was using it to deal with life. I know she was the first person to see that poem, most others I have written since, and even this entry online. As I progressed on through high school and began shaping my own adult life, poetry helped me put things in perspective, and grow. The feedback I received meant a great deal to me, and eventually I came to feel that I could become famous, and accomplish all my lofty personal ambitions, through poetry.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being