Roger Darnell: On & Up » Home Movies

Arc of the Poet, Part 7: Home Stretch

Roger D. — Sat, 09 Apr 2011 11:00:54 +0000

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.

Wordsworth
by Roger Darnell.

I can only sit in this chair beside this window right now and contemplate the form my body’s taken. How do I love thee? As the foggy numb day meanders through the moist panes; as the bird-shape stirs effortlessly outside. I’ve been paralyzed for two years now. I love thee as the guy inside a window, hidden from your awareness.

My paralysis is really the last thing I ever try to think about, which explains why I’m dwelling on it now.

One second of television is all it takes. In that fast flash I am put in my place — pitted in my sensational existence. It’s a shell often heavier than I can carry. It’s a bear trap clamped onto my ass — even my soul! For two years I’ve thought about how to get out of it. Today I realize that maybe I never will — or, at least, that I’m currently powerless against it, and this field of vision has not so far illuminated many suitable prospects.

If you’re an adventurer, imagine with me any one second of television. Focus in on one taut muscle, or one well-trimmed mustache. Journey one slow, moveable olfactory feast along exquisite, lightly sweet neck-silk… one horse-drawn ride across the spraying surf….

Please let me clarify something: I’m not bitter, I’m just writing. I don’t want to make you suffer, I simply must grab what light I can find around the world — your light, for example — with my summoned strength. If even as vaguely as a distant wind caressing your cheek, inside I need to feel I have something to share. And, for me to have any chance of really touching you, you have to understand.

I’m just putting this here in case you’re interested, because I’ve been a hell of a guy, all in all, and I’m still here! I can still sweep you off your feet. After all, you are talking to a star athlete and the pride of a good family. I deserve your attention.

God, I’m still here. Joseph Conrad wrote that we live as we dream: alone. Outside my room, in the halls, on the streets, in each of my parents’ homes, in a few bars, in a couple of offices, there are people that help, and I wouldn’t want them to take this wrong, but I am alone. You are alone. Occasionally we’re together; always we’re alone. These words offer hope, just as my brain still races despite the frozen sea south of the neckline.

I used to dive, as in off of a diving-board. Not professionally or anything. You should’ve seen me! From this watery reflection arise my most profound memories. Swimming around with my cousins with our masks and snorkels, picking up pennies from the bottom of a pool. In those blue underwater mental filings, I age in mask and snorkel. Beaten up in many surfs off many beaches, I once and finally addressed fear and stroked out bravely beyond the waves. I found something unbelievable out there. I can see it now: blue, purple, red, green…. On coral formations you can discover it for yourself. You’re part of the food chain. It’s very humbling and it’s real.

I had given up on ever finding a buried treasure, but on a reef, I clearly realized my place, weighed my capabilities and bet everything on my ability to survive. It worked. Some treasure, huh? It’s yours.

Outer space? It’s an ocean that includes each of us. I’ve learned all about it. Outer space offers me a TV sticking out of a wall, up where I can see it from my bed, my planter, my wheat field. This, for the time being, is me. This and the people that walk through that door, shining or scuffing, as the case may be, the slick linoleum.

This shall not last. I will walk again. Denial? Really, between friends, what do you know about it? Do you realize that you’re part of the food chain, friend? Well, I do. Tears run down my window, as the day heats up outside. I’ll be here, ignoring the endless fingers in my face.

Please, in all your activities, be careful. It doesn’t really take much to find yourself inside this glass. The world has millions of false trails. Listen inside yourself for your pulse — it’s certainly there — sounding an unmistakable alarm which tells you, no matter where you are, your life’s only beginning.

Keep reading. Breeze toward something new now. Meanwhile, rest assured that the words I’ve poured you here can be better trusted than most you’ll find. Your life is in your hands; proceed with caution.

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

Arc of the Poet, Part 6: Serious Dreams

Roger D. — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 07:05:53 +0000

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.

Black and White

Words can’t make the stillness…
the windswept rooftop where our love
doth lie.

Our nap on that day, long ago,
gave me so much,
it took my words
away.

There’s nothing to say,
play,
pray;

it’s all inside.

Everyone knows without me telling:

I love you.

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

August 18, 2010: Riley, Six and a Half

Roger D. — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 03:10:08 +0000

“Ramble” is a writing project I began in 2002 challenging myself to write simply, counting down from 73 lines to one, where each line has 38 characters or less. There are five entries left to write after tonight, when I finally set down these lines for Riley, which I’ve been thinking about for quite some time, knowing that I wanted to write one for him before he turned seven. Here you are my son, written at the start of your first grade school year, with a note to remind you that you are already a great person to your father. In the truest sense of the word, I think you are awesome.

Ramble #6: Riley, Six and a Half
by Roger Darnell

Riley has been for six and a half years,
and he is amazing, as it’s widely known.
A great and true friend, little brother,
cousin, grandson, nephew and son, we are
all cast in his rollicking adventure.
Wishes: Happy days, and smooth sailing.

Ramble
January 17, 2008: #17
January 18, 2008: #16
February 1, 2009: #10
April 27, 2009: #9
October 3, 2009: #8
May 9, 2010: #7
August 18, 2010: #6
Arc of the Poet, Part 14: Ramblings (#5)
Arc of the Poet, Part 15: Being (#4-#2)

Dec. 24, 2009: Winter family get-together

Roger D. — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 17:58:13 +0000

May 23, 1992: Hoot Owl Holler, Episode 1

Roger D. — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 17:40:00 +0000

I’m really thankful to a bunch of my cousins for sharing their Facebook memories and pictures of Granny Bea and her home in Greenville, Illinois, out in a place that I think my Uncle Roy dubbed “Hoot Owl Holler.” Thinking about how welcoming Granny Bea always was to everyone, I wanted to use the footage that Bart Ridings shot back on our wedding day, May 23, 1992, (also, his daughter KayeLee’s birthday), pictures provided by Bart, Daniel Ridings and others, and do a little homage to the classic TV sitcom “Cheers.”
Dedicated to the Ridings family, and Urban and Bea’s warm home, where everyone was always welcome, and smiles and laughs were usually in great abundance.