“Being must be felt. It can’t be thought.” ― Eckhart Tolle

Like you and everyone else of course, when it comes down to essential facts, I have my parents to thank for my existence. Following on through with my countdown ‘Ramble’ project, I end (for now) this shared journey. These words complete a poetic arc for yours truly, and looking ahead, I am aiming to write and produce new works you will find to be flat-out fascinating.

At this point in my life, I have grown to love the act of writing a poem. It’s most sacred to me… and I tend to place so much value in words written during sustained periods of deep concerted thought that often just Being is less satisfying than it is to read and write poetry, with an open mind that’s ready, willing and able to learn, think and create. My passions for fine art, music, cinema, photography, design, and even architecture relate to my love for writing poems… but they are different, too, since poems rely on word-forms alone, which must speak out from otherwise blank pages. Where a few words can fill a space and fundamentally alter experiences, I am all-in and extremely interested. To me, that is art at a very exciting level of creation and possibility.

It really makes me feel good to finish Ramble, and to share its final stanzas with you below. The project has been counting down to these very seconds for over nine years… beginning with longish entries and following with shorter and shorter ones. As you will see, I am proud to present number 4, dedicated to my Dad, number 3 for my Mom, and number 2 for my exquisite wife.

The very last part is the single line that has intrigued me to no end throughout the life of this project. From the very beginning, I have wondered what I would write as the simple last line of my self-focused creative writing project, which by the way, I have written during an amazingly prolific and pivotal span as a bona fide grownup.

Can you understand why I will not be publishing Ramble #1 here on this blog? I do have a first draft of it, but I intend to continue rewriting it for the rest of my days. For now, it’s tucked away, awaiting fate and most likely, my further attempts at perfection. For holding it out, I sincerely beg your pardon, and invite you to savor these other short polished gemstones below, reflecting — along with the other latest Rambles — what I hold dearest. It has been a real honor to write and share this adventure with you. I like to imagine that you will have learned something worth knowing by taking up these tales with me, so I’ll continue doing so, if you don’t mind. If you do have any feedback to share, please don’t be a stranger.

Ramble
By Roger Darnell

March 24, 2011: #4

My beloved father has always been my
supercharged intellectual model for myself
as business success, personality, and
family provider. The stuff of legend, JKD.

 

September 28, 2011: #3

Perfect mother, you are my good fortune.
As you’ve led, I’ve followed to happiness.
Dream on and live in joy one most loved!

 

September 28, 2011: #2

Beth: For all that you are, I am endlessly
in awe and in love; and I’ll always be.

…

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)

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

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.

…

A good number of great people have expressed at least some appreciation for my writing over the years. Since long ago, many believers have expressed confidence in these abilities, and I feel that their belief is essential to who I am. When I think about what’s to come for me as a writer and artist, I’m inspired by the idea of honoring each of those individuals, and all others interested in my words. Gratefully, I’ll carry on.

In the summer of 1995, I joined the production crew of the primetime NBC television series “seaQuest” at Universal Studios Florida, and began an adventure I’ll never forget, helping produce 13 episodes with a Who’s Who of spectacular production and entertainment industry talents. We were in Orlando, making headlines in all the top national trades well before the first episode of “SeaQuest 2032″ hit the airwaves featuring Michael Ironside, Roy Scheider, Michael York and scores of other hot and rising Hollywood stars.

Autographed by Jonathan Brandis.

I earned my job from the prolific television producer and director Steve Beers, by committing to handling script distribution and revisions for all the producers and writers, just as I’d done for him and the other producers on “Fortune Hunter” the previous year. That show for Fox had made a big splash and also involved serious heavy hitters, but seaQuest was a phenomenon… a massive franchise for NBC, Amblin Television, Universal Television and all the other industry all-stars involved.

Michael Ironside, Renaissance man.

Engaged as the one and only “assisant to the producers, Florida” for production during the series’ third season, I interfaced directly with every person listed in each of these hour-long episodes, and many others at the networks, post-production companies, area film commissions, attractions, restaurants, golf resorts and beyond. Along with Mr. Beers, executive producers Patrick Hasburgh and Clifton Campbell were my top bosses, and Michael Ironside also joined them in taking me under their wings. Suddenly, Beth and I were part of the bona fide entertainment industry. During the weeks of September, October and November, our show made waves across America and beyond, and when we learned that seaQuest would not be renewed, along with legions of others, the full cast and crew united in our grief. We wrapped that December and went our separate ways. Most of those people I have not seen nor heard from for 15 years, but I have had some colorful exchanges with a few, including recently crossing paths with Anson Williams of Happy Days fame, who masterfully directed three seaQuest episodes that season.

Michael DeLuise... a very nice guy.

During the seaQuest production, I was normally on-the-run as a subservient worker bee handling my varied chores. My industriousness caught Ironside’s attention right away, and he enlisted me on a few of his personal missions. A fellow writer, he quickly sensed my aspirations, and in him, I found an extraordinary role model, and a good friend. Patrick also afforded me a ton of unforgettable experiences, and by shooting straight with me and being my hero, he truly inspired me. Everywhere I turned during the seaQuest experience, something new and unbelievable happened… like having a conversation with Dom DeLuise, who shook my hand after meeting me and made a lovely scene for me:

“Roger Darnell. Roger Darnell! What a great name!“

In contrast, my progression as a poet during the same era was completely forgettable. The Summer 1995 issue of 24-7 Artzine carried my poem “John Wayne Dies Again” accompanied by an odd and striking illustration of a tied-up, skeletal cowboy being tormented by a nude female specter. As I continued my correspondence with the editor, he never was able to spell my name right.

Although my other exchanges with literary editors led nowhere, I still found inspiration in my growing gallery of experiences and wrote some memorable poetry. Before seaQuest was canceled, I also seized the chance to write a spec episode, in the hope that it might get produced in the fourth season. My script was read and discussed at length, and Ironside offered to work with me on it if season four came to pass. As you can imagine, following my investments of so much effort and hope, the show’s demise crushed me.

In early November I learned I had maybe a month left on the show, so as the weeks rolled along, I started searching for projects, and putting out word that I’d soon be available. Here’s something I wrote late in the evening of November 15.

The year to follow was highlighted by a lot of fun freelance production and writing adventures, along with much more devotion to personal screenwriting projects and creative writing submissions. In the early days of 1997, I put the finishing touches on my sixth feature film screenplay, adding it to my shelf of unpublished manuscripts beside my spec seaQuest episode, two poetry collections, and a growing volume of short dramatic scripts, stories and journals.

On the set of "From the Earth to the Moon.

Lightning struck for me again that February when producer extraordinaire John Melfi hired me to serve as script coordinator during production of HBO’s historic, award-winning miniseries “From the Earth to the Moon.” To my shock and delight, when I was shown to my office in Bungalow 3 at the Disney-MGM Studios, it was the exact same office I’d left back on my birthday in 1992 after working on “Flipper.”

Mission Control.

My second tour of duty in that tiny room remains one of the most awesome highlights of my life. The illustrious writer-producer-director Graham Yost came to be a close friend and mentor then, and I also met and collaborated with Tom Hanks, Ron Howard, Lili Zanuck, Frank Marshall, Jon Turteltaub, David Frankel, Sally Field, Jonathan Mostow, Tony To, NASA astronauts Dave Scott and Buzz Aldrin, many of the world’s finest actors, and countless other remarkable and sterling human beings, on a momentous, once-in-a-lifetime project.

1998: Los Angelenos.

Beth and I had ridden enough waves by then to recognize HBO’s project as a tsunami-sized opportunity, and at the end of 1997, we packed up and moved to Los Angeles, with great expectations. January 1, 1998, was the first day of our westward relocation, and three and a half years later, we were “expecting” a baby girl, and we celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary with some other family members on a ski trip to Lake Tahoe. Soon thereafter, we packed up again and moved back East, this time, to the mountains of North Carolina. Within two months, we became parents, finally realizing who we’d been missing: Amelia, Riley, and many other family members and friends.

Before we moved to California, at a film industry party in Orlando, I ran into a friend named Tom Oakes who described what happens when a person moves to LA like so: “Whatever it is that you do, you realize that, and you go where they hire those people, and it’s like you get a ticket with a number on it. Eventually your number’s called, and then you either go to the top or you get shot out and you have to start all over again.”

I never forgot Tom’s scenario as I plugged away in LA hoping that my number would soon be called. Month after month I wondered, would my opportunity come as a screenwriter, a writer’s assistant, a producer, a poet, a director? No indeed; as a marketer and public relations executive, I was eventually able to land a job (after five excruciating months), and then begin to flourish. From there, my career progressed back to the point where in May of 2000, I launched The Darnell Works Agency as my private consultancy. Beth and I were really having a blast, living a lifestyle that was all us, and growing together as grown-ups very nicely. Although we weren’t rich by LA standards, we were conscious of our great fortune. One evening as we walked in the hills of our “Shermancino” neighborhood, we envisioned raising the children we were hoping for alongside cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents in Boone. Then we put the wheels in motion and relocated lock, stock and barrel to a place we had only visited on vacation, joining many others in Beth’s family as residents. Amelia’s birthday in August is an annual reminder of our tenure here; she turns ten on Monday.

Across each of these various phases and settings, writing has helped me to achieve focus, define my personal balance and pursue it. I wrote some more screenplays over the years, and put some effort into the idea of launching my career as a filmmaker… all of which only left a little room for poetry. My experience on seaQuest led me to feel that I could become successful as a screenwriter if I could just find the right project at the right time, and give it my best shot. While I had done okay as a video scriptwriter in Orlando and I did land agency representation during our time in Hollywood, despite my best efforts, I received no screenplay bites, nor screenwriting offers. When we left, I just decided to keep looking for the right opportunities, knowing I would need to write scripts on spec for anything I wanted to pursue. Meanwhile, I put my primary focus on being truly great as a business partner to my clients, and as a husband and father.

There have been a few interesting screen project developments over the recent years, including some that may yet play out dramatically before I’m through. Of course, the poet has continued toiling away in the margins of my busy, happy, relatively well balanced existence, so there is still more to share in this series.

For a year and a half after Amelia was born, I wrestled at night with a poetic tribute to her arrival. Up to that point, I think poetry had been something different to me; facing the weight of writing an ode to our miraculous first child, I finally signed-off on the epic wordplay I am proud to share with you below. I hope you enjoy it.

2001.

Happy birthday to you my wonderful little girl, and to your mother, I say, thank you for making the life of my dreams a reality each and every day: As your husband, I am truly blessed.

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

Out of necessity, the lion’s share of my summer 1994 professional effort was dedicated to fulfilling what I had clearly identified as my primary objective: “Get the check.” When my poem finally appeared in the October issue of Midwest Poetry Review, it had no real impact in my world, financially or otherwise. I fully intended to keep submitting what I considered to be my best writing to literary magazines and contests, but I had to focus my endeavors more productively to help Beth pay our rent and fund our expeditions as tourists and nature-lovers.

In those days, I was growing in capabilities and reputation as a screen and script writer, a trade media journalist, a film, TV and video production pro, and a sort of marketing and high-tech whiz kid. On July 5, I received a big break: I was hired by BBK Productions to work as the writers’ assistant on their pilot for an hour-long dramatic series for Columbia TriStar. One good thing led to the next; the series was picked-up by then-fledgling Fox network, and throughout that fall, I worked with an amazing crew as 13 episodes of “Fortune Hunter” came to life, featuring rising star Mark Frankel and a stunning list of Hollywood talents. This previously posted poem was written that August.

When “Fortune Hunter” ended, I picked up other contract work, like writing news releases related to the production and post-production industries, writing a feature story for a national trade magazine, and handling script revisions for more TV productions.

On those days not timed on others’ clocks, I worked on things like my own business and marketing plans, and pursuing options on literary properties of personal interest. On nights when Beth turned in early, I read, wrote and searched my soul, ultimately finding that my desire to see my creative writing in literary publications still burned brightly. With 1994 winding down, I mailed polished packages to The Atlanta Review, Sounds of the Street, Hellas, Literal Latte, Pebbles, Poetry Motel, Stone Shoes, Good Housekeeping, The Southern Review and The Paris Review, and a few manuscript contests I hoped to win.

The new year soon pulled me back into financial distress and the frenzy of Orlando’s freelance marketplace. Chasing the dollar, I had excellent company, and terrific good fortune in running mates. Then and now, few in Central Florida have been as successful as independent producer and director of photography Randy Baker, who took me under his wing as a collaborator and showed me what is possible with diligence, hard work, perseverance and charm. Between the freelance production activities Randy offered and the writing-related contracts mentioned above (many of which involved him integrally), I achieved some financial stability even without having a full-time job.

Reaching that new plateau, I reassessed the sum total of my professional achievements with the goal of focusing-in properly… and happily, I began to pinpoint some opportunities. This is from a strategic marketing plan I put together in February, 1995.

“Since every professional needs to maximize their internal and external communications and their existing inventory of rights, a specialist in industry marketing who can create strategic communications tools quickly is extremely valuable.”

Also: “A crucial aspect of future success is increased recognition through legitimate literary channels.”

With growing senses of my unique value propositions and my marketing imperatives, I continued pursuing what came my way while reaching for more whenever possible. Looking back, it’s plain to see that most of my extracurricular efforts missed their primary marks, as the rejection slips steadily arrived in the mail each week, constantly reminding me of my lack of merit and unimportance as a writer, from the perspectives of so many editors and literary gatekeepers.

Fortunately, I had some other heavy hitters in my corner. If you have followed along in my narrative, you’ve seen how important my brother has always been in my life, and how my own being has often taken a backseat to his, from my point of view. That may sound convoluted, but if you have read Wordsworth in Part 7 of this series, I expect you will understand my meaning.

On March 3, I received this fax transmittal from Scott.

Scott Darnell letter, March 3, 1995.

Without a doubt, receiving this feedback gave me a giant swell of pride and confidence. Later that month, I received a letter from a dear friend of my mother named Gay Henderson. After Scott’s diving accident in 1991, Mom had gotten us all involved with a support group for spinal injured individuals and their families in Orlando. It was an eye- and mind-opening experience to say the least, meeting young men and women who had suffered spinal injuries but moved back into life so normally that it was very reassuring. Dr. John Ross-Duggan was one of the inspirational wheelchair-bound individuals we met there. Gay was John’s mother, and after meeting her through the support group, she and my mom had formed a solid friendship. Through wonderful long, typewritten letters that Mom often shared with me, Gay dazzled us with scenarios right out of the movies like “84 Charing Cross Road” and “Out of Africa.” I only wish we’d had the chance to get to know her and her husband Allyn better; sadly, Gay passed away in August, 1996.

Gay Henderson letter, March 23, 1995.

The above fax from my brother and Gay’s letter remain among the greatest achievements I’ve earned through writing. Together, they provided some magic which, along with my experiences, has worked to transform my thinking on the subject of literary fame over time. Through the words of Scott and Gay, I saw that my writing had already connected me very deeply and profoundly with my brother, my mother, and one of the wisest and most wonderful people I had met in the world.

Also, I was already very aware of having built those connections without “publication,” and Gay’s encouragement led to a great deal more outreach on my part over the years aimed at getting “Wordsworth” into print. It did generate several warm responses from respected editors… but it has been brought to the public only through this project you’re reading, courtesy of yours truly. By publishing it here, I’ve honored Gay’s request, and that’s just one of many reasons I’m very proud to honor this poet’s arc. Through this self-chosen adventure I set out on long ago, with support from my wife and many other friends and family members, I have found my talents and my career. Along the way, I’ve also earned the respect and admiration of many great people… some of whom I know are real fans of my writing.

Cheers!

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

I’ve always been a sincere fan of my mother Lila Darnell’s direct, powerful and stylized creative writing. Through my high school and college educations, exchanges with many other colorful and smart friends and family members, and lifelong exposure to magazines, radio and cable TV broadcasts, I developed a pretty strong sense for good poetry, and where that odd form of writing fits into the world. In my early 20s, I was introduced to the works of Charles Bukowski, who appeared to me as a 360-degree representation of the life of a successful poet… and who wrote books I loved instantly, due to them being so human, approachable, funny, well written and good. My friend Hardy Edwards introduced me to Bukowski’s books, and he later made a short film based on his work. That project put me in direct contact with the writer and his publisher, agent and friend, John Martin. For a couple of years, I sustained irregular contact with both gentlemen, and oddly, in my day-to-day dealings, I was often thinking of my next letter to Hank.

Meanwhile, the parting days of 1993 had me thinking about my own writing in new ways, under these and other influences. As mentioned previously, Tom Tilford at Midwest Poetry Review (MPR) had recently opened his door to me, and I wanted to write something truly great, and go for the win. I wrote this on December 27.

Ever since meeting in Alice Wright’s Advanced Placement English class during our senior year of high school, my friend Jay Lerew has shared and stoked my enthusiasm for great literature. He remains the only person I know who can recite long passages of A. E. Housman poems, including but certainly not limited to “Terence, This is Stupid Stuff.” This common appreciation for fine writing brought us together often over the years to laugh, drink coffee, and share prized literary gems. From 1988 to 1990, my last years at college, Jay and I were roommates. Together we amassed vast book collections, with many acquisitions made for the sole purpose of impressing each other and our friends. Between us, I’d say we completed a decent pass of classic and contemporary literature. When Hardy introduced Bukowski to me, Jay and several more friends also got hooked right away.

After writing the poem above, I don’t recall how quickly I sent it off to Tom at MPR, but I’m pretty sure it was only a matter of hours. But even before doing that, I showed it to Jay. To me, his response is an excellent testament to his friendship, although I also like to attribute it to his great taste in literature: He asked me for a signed copy, and told me he intended to frame it and hang it on his wall.

My wish is for you to have such friends as this!

In March, 1994, Hardy sent me the news reporting on Bukowski’s death. I wrote the poem below in June. The November issue of MPR carried “Ethereal Stones,” representing a personal triumph for yours truly. God bless you Tom Tilford… and that goes for you, too, Mr. Bukowski, Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Darnells, Mrs. Wright, Mr. Lerew, and Mr. Edwards. I thank you all — and many others — from the bottom of my heart for all the inspiration.

Written June 24, 1994.

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

Photos from a spectacular April.

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

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