The ashes of American flags,
Taste like the first few drags,
Of neatly rolled zig-zags.

My Favorite Narcotic

I pinned this flag to my house in Truckee when I began writing my first novel. The flag was new when I pinned it to the cedar siding. For nearly two years I would pass this flag everyday without a thought. I finished the book. I moved back East. I photographed this flag while touring with Mathematicians. We stayed at my old house during our Northern California dates. The flag was still pinned to that cedar siding. It was red, white and blue when I pinned it there.

Why am I a filmmaker? A film festival asked me to answer this question in 250 words. I wrote a one page manifesto, but shortly after finishing that, I experienced a compulsion to tell that story with pictures.

To this film festival, I have submitted Broken Helmets. It is a biographical screenplay telling the story of my friends and I. It is a personal narrative intended to understand what happened during a five year period that I survived. Broken Helmets is a true story. It was the easiest thing I’ve ever written. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever written.

I made this short, because I was reading my manifesto and the moment I began reading it – Missing by Bruce Springsteen started. It wrecked me. I know why I need to make movies. This short is my cinematic manifesto and your introduction to my story. It is a first draft, but you don’t get to ski every line twice – so enough bullkit. Start the movie.

En Memoriam: Nyima Sorenson and Coogan Kelly Wh

I can hear cars and Chopin in Hudson Falls.

Steve plays piano with his window open,
While Buds in cars, go round-a-bout hope’n,
Round-a-about hope’n, round-about hope’n,
To score a little rock with their cat calls,
To all the stray kittens born to grow claws,
Raised on the water between here-n-the falls.

But when Steve plays, I hear cars and Chopin.

I live in a hundred year old building,
It’s a Masonic Temple with rusty gilding,
With a leaky roof and paint done wilting.
Steve lives in a Victorian down the way,
With a window open I can hear him play,
For at least an hour or two every day.

And when he does, passing cars mix with Chopin.

Steve plays piano with a window open wide.
He says, “Music in a box can’t stay inside.
It’s not a thing, not one you can hide.”
He plays classical music over the cars,
And over the heads, of the only two bars,
Serving the water for shooting at stars.

But when Steve plays, I can hear…

I can hear Steve, but when I look down,
All I see are all the uniforms in town,
Riding circles to blue and red sounds;
Listening to the old broken records play:
“Listen up Bud. Wasn’t always this way.
Not since they built that there highway.

I can hear cars and Chopin in Hudson Falls?

My collar might be blue.” Said the man,
“But there’s one thing I do understand,
Lately’s been less cars and more Chopin.
And I ain’t saying it’s a shame or a pity,
But this here towns an All-American City,
And we ain’t too proud to be too pretty.”

Listen.

Can you hear?

There are no engines in Heaven;

So, all those harping clouds can wait,

And tell Saint Peter I’m running late.

My tach is hung on a red seven,

Took a detour – story at eleven,

Had to take a ride through hell,

Before paving to build a motel.

Yes, there are no engines in Heaven;

So, tell the valet I’m running late,

My tach is hung on quarter to eight.

Today’s weather was too gray to ski, but

That didn’t stop Big Deuce or Too Many,

From heading out, to slay a few turns,

While I stayed in, to watch fire burn.

Now, I sit on a peak bearing my name,

And, I wonder–how it is I came,

To be the man, watching others ski,

While writing, in a book called me.

Tomorrow, we will hike out-and-down,

Trekking our way, back into town,

But nevertheless, my heart will remain,

Pinned to the peak, bearing my name.

–Captured by the awe and wonder,

–Of broken helmets catching thunder.

I have to get a job, at least one that offers a W2 with the paycheck.

I have never submitted a resume to a job. I’ve always gotten my work because someone knew me.

I have never worked in hell. There are many names for the hell I speak of: Best Buy, Target, Uno’s Pizzeria, Burger King, Circuit City (Oops. Haha), Staples, Blockbuster, Old Navy, etc… I have never worked for corporate franchise America, never gotten to enjoy two weeks of paid video training to perfect my smile package.

Corporate America is the backbone of the American Dream. Most people will enjoy the fine art of collecting a paycheck from a cookie-cutter business.

I can no longer call myself an American; not until, I have paid tribute to the higher powers; therefore, I will sell my soul to the Devil for the summer.

But wait–will I survive? This incarnation of me will not survive; indeed, I shall emerge from the other end of this long dark halogen tunnel called consumer culture, and I shall emerge… Stronger, better, faster… With renewed faith in the American Dream; once again, my birthright restored, my marginalization marginalized, and the crust of my apple pie toasted to a golden brown.

The hook–my documentary will be called: “Fired From Hell (Because The Economy Sucks And It’s Not My Fault)”. This movie will capture my experiences in Corporate America as I play the role Worst Employee Ever. My goal is to determine what it takes to get fired from seven different hell-jobs. I believe it’s harder to do than people realize and I’ve never been fired from a job, so I’m really missing out on a facet of the typical American experience. Enough! I want my piece of that big apple pie.

There are a few problems, like drug-tests or hair-cuts, but I think these obstacles can be overcome by exploiting the relaxed hiring standards this economy has created; also, the drug-tests are only 50% accurate according to the experts on Myth Busters; therefore, if I need to get fired from seven jobs, I have to take fourteen drug-tests. Now, there must be another stipulation (Limitations yield creativity). It would be too easy getting fired by not showing up for work, or showing up drunk; so, I will go to hell sober. Maybe this isn’t a good idea, but I suppose Morgan Spurlock could survive McDonald’s. Is Best Buy more dangerous than McDevil’s? I’m going to find out. There’s a Kitastrophe brewing.

This summer, I’m getting “Fired From Hell”.

Well, it would make a good story, and maybe I’ll actually do it, but right now–I’m really enjoying this cup of coffee, bowl-pack and my studio. Maybe, I can talk someone else into playing the character, because I’m too lazy.

Art is a word; specifically, a verb (ref: Techne a Greek word meaning the method to produce a work).

Therefore, there is the artisan and her artifact; art is all the glowing, gleaming bullshit that happens in between.

Why do we pursue the Holy Grail of individual expression?

Individual expression is an illusion. We are all part of a universal consciousness. Your duty as an artist is to be a medium; for although individual expression–I am using the common definition as loosely defined by our culture–is an illusion, your voice is unique. No one will wield a brush in quite the same way.

The pursuit of individual expression is a modern phenomena that coincides with the rise of industrial agriculture and cities manufactured by assembly lines; are we not reacting to this? Do we participate in art to convince ourselves that we are not rat racing cattle following a blind shepherd?

There is the artisan and their artifact. Art is all the bullshit that happens between the two.