One morning I woke up on fire.
Now I am a monk in reverse
burning only after I become free
So committed to a cause that I'd live for it.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Distractions
I find it interesting that the crack team of security people at the Salt Lake Airport held up the line to search my bag to remove the toothpaste I had accidentally stowed in my bag, and while doing so failed to find the 8 inch box cutter that I had also accidentally put in there. NO JOKE! I had been using it to cut up dry wall, and somehow it ended up in my bag. WHAT? What else is getting through?
Friday, November 02, 2007
Return - An old story I wrote
By Jeff Blake - needs some revision
Originally posted in Jeff's writing blog "Writer's Cramp" @ 2:03 AM on 8/2/05
I’ve seen a real smile before. Maybe four times on her lips, and more importantly in her eyes; but just those four times. She fakes an average smile a dozen times a day, with her teeth barely showing, and her eyes wide open.
Something has always been wrong with her face since we’ve been together. A trace of something shameful, and older, but more fragile than wise. She tries to hold this look back, as if she did something stupid that needs hiding. I’ve seen that look on her face, like she reached for her car keys and pricked her finger on that thumbtack she stupidly put in her pocket an hour earlier. She doesn’t want me to know. That look hits her in the face a thousand times more often than she smiles. That’s not the look she was meant to live with Trent.
I say to him “Rachel knows how to smile, Trent.” His young eyes, still sweaty and nervous, can’t make the connection…
They grew up in the Midwest. Her Mom loved her Dad, but he couldn’t match it. She loved him too much to notice the changes gradually taking place inside her son Trent; prematurely in her daughter Rachel. They were growing too fast. Trent had a curiosity that grows quick inside every boy like chutes of ivy. Somewhere the vines grew poisoned, and twisted in his head.
Rachel was rather plain. She rode horses, and wrote stories. They were simple stories, mostly about horses. One day the stories changed.
She didn’t know why he crept into her room and couldn’t let her sleep at night, or why the bed was not big enough for her and for his hands. She didn’t know why she came to hate herself, and her own small body, or why there were no more horse stories.
She is here with me now, sitting on a couch with her hands on me.
“I love you” she says to me.
I want to love her back, but inside, her mind belongs to someone or some thing else. I want to love her free.
Finally she tells me, and I see what’s been a hold of her. It’s both a torture and release. Now I’m holding. I feel trust and memories of pain. I can’t hold her close enough, yet I’m afraid that I’ll crush her. Her Dad doesn’t know. Mom doesn’t know. After a long while she smiles at me; a real one. I give her only my open eyes. She says she is going to be alright. I know that every time she sees him though, it’s like tearing at a wound. Like we share the same nerves, I share the pain now too, like it happened to me. I can’t let it go.
The months have twisted around inside me. She seems happier but a remnant of that old look still remains. Mom calls, and I hear the look in her voice. She’s telling Rachel what Trent is up to, even though he lives in this same town.
That very night, as I check my watch and drive I think about what I heard earlier on the television. It said we are a “culture obsessed with death.” It couldn’t be truer than now. It’s all I can think about,
I don’t think Trent ever knew that I was there. He didn’t see me coming. Why would he expect it after seven years of hiding? He walks into the parking lot, and it is dark. I rush into him like an errant grocery cart. The thin blade makes quite a dent in his shiny façade. It will look like a robbery. He flails his feet at me.
Kick me. Go on kick me Trent. After some time I’m pressed against him and he stops. I hold him now. Then there are my last words to him before his eyes go.
I say to him “Rachel knows how to smile Trent.” His old eyes still sweaty and nervous don’t make the connection…until the last moment before he’s gone.
Originally posted in Jeff's writing blog "Writer's Cramp" @ 2:03 AM on 8/2/05
I’ve seen a real smile before. Maybe four times on her lips, and more importantly in her eyes; but just those four times. She fakes an average smile a dozen times a day, with her teeth barely showing, and her eyes wide open.
Something has always been wrong with her face since we’ve been together. A trace of something shameful, and older, but more fragile than wise. She tries to hold this look back, as if she did something stupid that needs hiding. I’ve seen that look on her face, like she reached for her car keys and pricked her finger on that thumbtack she stupidly put in her pocket an hour earlier. She doesn’t want me to know. That look hits her in the face a thousand times more often than she smiles. That’s not the look she was meant to live with Trent.
I say to him “Rachel knows how to smile, Trent.” His young eyes, still sweaty and nervous, can’t make the connection…
They grew up in the Midwest. Her Mom loved her Dad, but he couldn’t match it. She loved him too much to notice the changes gradually taking place inside her son Trent; prematurely in her daughter Rachel. They were growing too fast. Trent had a curiosity that grows quick inside every boy like chutes of ivy. Somewhere the vines grew poisoned, and twisted in his head.
Rachel was rather plain. She rode horses, and wrote stories. They were simple stories, mostly about horses. One day the stories changed.
She didn’t know why he crept into her room and couldn’t let her sleep at night, or why the bed was not big enough for her and for his hands. She didn’t know why she came to hate herself, and her own small body, or why there were no more horse stories.
She is here with me now, sitting on a couch with her hands on me.
“I love you” she says to me.
I want to love her back, but inside, her mind belongs to someone or some thing else. I want to love her free.
Finally she tells me, and I see what’s been a hold of her. It’s both a torture and release. Now I’m holding. I feel trust and memories of pain. I can’t hold her close enough, yet I’m afraid that I’ll crush her. Her Dad doesn’t know. Mom doesn’t know. After a long while she smiles at me; a real one. I give her only my open eyes. She says she is going to be alright. I know that every time she sees him though, it’s like tearing at a wound. Like we share the same nerves, I share the pain now too, like it happened to me. I can’t let it go.
The months have twisted around inside me. She seems happier but a remnant of that old look still remains. Mom calls, and I hear the look in her voice. She’s telling Rachel what Trent is up to, even though he lives in this same town.
That very night, as I check my watch and drive I think about what I heard earlier on the television. It said we are a “culture obsessed with death.” It couldn’t be truer than now. It’s all I can think about,
I don’t think Trent ever knew that I was there. He didn’t see me coming. Why would he expect it after seven years of hiding? He walks into the parking lot, and it is dark. I rush into him like an errant grocery cart. The thin blade makes quite a dent in his shiny façade. It will look like a robbery. He flails his feet at me.
Kick me. Go on kick me Trent. After some time I’m pressed against him and he stops. I hold him now. Then there are my last words to him before his eyes go.
I say to him “Rachel knows how to smile Trent.” His old eyes still sweaty and nervous don’t make the connection…until the last moment before he’s gone.
Simplify Man!
So I've decided that I had too many blogs. I had three different movie ones, and other random ones. In the interest of making life easier I put all of my old entries, advice column stuff, movie reviews etc into this blog. All movie reviews in the future will also go to this blog. Also my "serious" writing blog, Writer's Cramp will now be a part of my main blog "Deceptive Small Cars". My totally non-serious advice column once called "A Cry for Help" now known as "Fill in the Blake" and featured monthly in Square Magazine can be found on "TheSquareLife.com" and will also be reprinted here each month. Yay for slightly more simplicity!
Entry #1 - 11-2-07
Hey there! Today is the first day of my Blog experiment. Let's see what I have in a month!
New Blogs of Note
My passion is writing. Also my passion is not saying "my passion" anything, because it's pretentious. But anyway, starting November 2nd, I've challenged myself to make a small entry on each of these 4 blogs for 31 days in a row. Check out the results on each of these blogs below.
Deceptive Small Cars - Jeff's essays on life little foibles.
Jeff's Journal - The place where Jeff writes down what's going in his life
(So you don't have to actually talk to him)
Jeff's Journey in Film - A Vlog and Blog about Jeff's experiences in film and TV production.
Ridges, A Novel Online by Callum Raymond (It's a long story...I mean the name thing).
Deceptive Small Cars - Jeff's essays on life little foibles.
Jeff's Journal - The place where Jeff writes down what's going in his life
(So you don't have to actually talk to him)
Jeff's Journey in Film - A Vlog and Blog about Jeff's experiences in film and TV production.
Ridges, A Novel Online by Callum Raymond (It's a long story...I mean the name thing).
Thursday, November 01, 2007
I'm back...
...with a new resolve to blog some spectacular things. Wow...It's bee A YEAR! I kick against the "blogs" because I often feel they make me sound selfish. I will put all that fear of pretense aside however to make this work. I'm more resolved to not shut myself off from the world. Even if no one reads it, it still makes me happy to know as a good friend put it tonight, that "I'm leaving something for my children to read". Expect a new entry in a few minutes and expect a new look in the near future.
This is for you Matt.
-Jeff
This is for you Matt.
-Jeff
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