The Pizza Parlor

Trudging into the dingy pizza joint, she saw the writing on the wall, "And that's the way the pizza crumbles."

"Two slices of cheese please."

She sat down, waiting around for a good ten minutes, listening.

Her mind was hazy, as she'd just wasted an hour of her life, shuffling with the collective metal herd on the freeway-- like hideous track marks scarring the California landscape. They keep spiking the vein, and like a fix that'll never be satisfied, they build another, and another and another. Swollen with contempt, they invade like an insidious cobweb.

Checking back in, there was a familiar cadence around her. When she let her mind wander (which it so often does) it sounded like a song. As the echoes and inflections came back to focus, she understood.

"Quieres correr en el pinche parque, despues, guey?"

They went on, talking about the neighborhood.

Pizza in hand finally, she sunk her teeth into a slice, burning the roof of her mouth. The soft, spongy tissue went numb, but the throbbing remained. A dull ache.

The dough was browned around the edges and she had to gnaw through the crust like a stray dog trying to get the marrow out of a bone.

"La delgadita, la negrita...darle otra pieza."

She had recently dyed her hair black. She looked sick.

A young guy from behind the counter walked over and shoved a to go box with two more slices inside and said, "We burned the other two."

She looked up at him and forced and awkward, nervous smile. It's a shame that a nice gesture comes with a price these days.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

Whooping and hollering erupted as the kid walked back to his station. The teasing was incessant.

Clenching her jaw, she broke a sweat.

No one ever knows she can understand. She's a sleeper cell, a halfie as white as a loaf of wonder bread on a shelf at Walmart. Little do the unsuspecting hoards know on either side of the fence is she can slip between two worlds. She's stratified. Alienated by both parts of herself.

She's Colombian and Scotch-Irish. Someone recently said to her, "That's a passionate combination. You're like the FARC meets the IRA."

"Busca su numero! Cual es su nombre?"

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she felt the fissures in the plastic seat pinch her ass viciously.

She got up, smiled, nodded and scuttled out-- the pizza burning her hands through the box.

Things Fall Apart

She lay in bed, sinking into her memory foam thumbprint. Imprint. While her eyes grew heavy and she sedately drifted away, she violently jolted back to conscious reality. The phone rang- vibrating, shaking molars in their sockets. Her head spun, hazy, as she failed to recall her place here.

“Hello?” she asked shakily.

The voice answered, “You sitting down Catherine? It’s your father. He's... he's...”

She felt her knees buckle as she slumped onto the closest piece of furniture.

“Go on.”

The voice narrated a story; a story that as surreal as it sounded, she shook the news off like an inconvenient swarm of horseflies. As much as they flitted around, tearing her skin, sowing seeds of parasitic doubt, she was numb. Nothing. It felt like a fishbowl was on her head, warping her vision like a mirror in s twisted, sick fun-house.

His wife, a woman who was nearly Cathy’s age left for a trip, and upon her return came to realize she was done. Fed up with his dysfunction. He’s a drunk. Always a drunk. Completely dependant on others. He’s blind in one eye and his anxiety robbed him of his sanity and autonomy. He can’t leave the house without falling victim to a crippling attack. Walls closing in, everything going black, chest crushing his lungs. All he does now after losing his mind his intellect is blather on about conspiracy theories and cryptozoology. A far crty from the brilliant, self-taught civil engineer he once was.

His new “project” is making cardboard box “condos” for the homeless. Founding a defacto Hooverville in their backyard.

She’d had enough.

Oh, the tangled webs we weave.

She rang him from the seedy train station.

“Don’t be afraid, Jaime. I’ve fallen. Three times- there’s blood everywhere,” he slurred.

Scared shitless, she called the local police. It’s a sleepy town in the middle of nowhere. They know Roger. Oh, how the know him. This sad man.

They escort her onto the property. Caked in his own filth, teeth rotting out of his skull, matted and mangy. Vodka bottles and pills scatter the floor like confetti while a rat scuttles by- an innocent bystander.

He screamed. He begged. Sloppy, inebriated droll dripped down his face, glistening in the moonlight. He can’t do this again. Not again.

“Hello? You there? Hello?” the voice spoke.

“What? Oh, yea, sorry,” Catherine answered, coming to.

“I love you, Cathy. It’s not your fault. Please don’t blame yourself. We know he’s been gone for years. You haven’t even seen him yourself for what, almost eight?” the voice said.

“Yea, sure. Listen, I gotta go.” She hung up the phone.

Listening to the sound of her breath, her chest rising and falling. Ribs framed her helpless vulnerability. She looked like a house of cards. Her frailty tempted savory miscreants. Like ringing the dinner bell for proverbial jackals to come and indulge in a carnal buffet.

Her heart beat. Consistent. These things were unchanging, for now.

Using what little strength she had left, she lifted herself begrudgingly off the couch; collected her disheveled self and thought… Well, nothing. She thought nothing.

To You

Porcelain; alabaster skin, smooth and flawless with just a hint of a five o’clock shadow. Despite unkempt whiskers littering his face, he remains angelic. Kind, wide hazel-green eyes telling to a softer side.

Luscious latissimus dorsi taper in elegantly to a nipped-in waist; juxtaposed. Wide, supportive shoulders; reinforced by provocative trapezius, like butrices, bulging and solemn. A lean, angular frame.

The framework, oh the bones. Clavicles jut out, tempting the onlooker. When lit just right you could swear they’d tear through the confining, albeit appealing, tempting shroud of skin they try so desperately to conceal themselves in. A square, mandible you could cut with a knife.

Always polished and dapper with just a hint of flamboyance, he commands the room when he debuts. A natural.

What’s more is his shrewd wit. With a tilt of his head and an innocent, dismissive laugh the words uttered from his lips send a chill. Not sure how to react. The dichotomy of his nature.

Forever entranced.

Ephemeral

I miss this.
Flashing cursor,
Patiently waiting,
No constraints.
Only for myself.
My mind- lent to others
No free expression.
A vested agenda in every smile.
Stifling but transitory
As everything is.

Gottfried Helnwein

Kevin Bacon or Ivan Cobenk? You Be the Judge.

Kevin Bacon or Ivan Cobenk? You be the Judge.

17 January 2011

MPC LA, a Technicolor Company, got close with the creatives at Goodby, Silverstein and Partners (SF) for a Q&A on their latest spot "Ivan Cobenk" for Logitech Harmony Revue, directed by Ringan Ledwidge with Smuggler. Mark Gethin performed the telecine on the film, while MPC (LA) handled visual effects.

To read more, please go to www.moving-picture.com

Happy to say, that I had a hand in the copy of this piece that was posted on Technicolor.com's homepage today. I have been having a lot of fun writing and helping in any way I possibly can. Check it out!

"Sex Without Love"

"Sex Without Love"

How do they do it, the ones who make love
 without love? Beautiful as dancers,
 Gliding over each other like ice-skaters
 over the ice, fingers hooked
 inside each other's bodies, faces
 red as steak, wine, wet as the
 children at birth, whose mothers are going to
 give them away. How do they come to the
 come to the come to the God come to the
 still waters, and not love
 the one who came there with them, light
 rising slowly as steam off their joined
 skin? These are the true religious,
 the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
 accept a false Messiah, love the
 priest instead of the God. They do not
 mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
 they are like great runners: they know they are alone
 with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
 the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio
 vascular health--just factors, like the partner
 in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
 single body alone in the universe
 against its own best time.

-- Sharon Olds
"Sex without Love." One of my all-time favorite poems. Never in my life had I read a poem that made me so uncomfortable. I didn't know what it was about at first, but reading it again- I see. The eerie thing is, a lot of the message resonates with my experience.
So many poignant words. "Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters over the ice..." Deceiving imagery. Ice-skating is a beautiful performance of grace. But what comes to mind is not the grace of an ice-skater at face-value, but the blades, cutting into the ice; just like the lovers cut into each other as they glide up and down each others landscape. Viscously slicing, competing to out-show the other. Bodies, not engaged in a tender expression of love, but a grand-standing of showmanship, skill and most of all, tenacity. 
"Fingers hooked into each other's bodies," a couple, not embracing, but literally digging their fingers into each other's bodies. Orifices. Is there any love hooking your fingers inside one's body? Like a fish caught on a hook, struggling for breath as you reel them in, hungrily. 
"Faces red as steak." One of my favorite lines in the poem. Brings vivid imagery to mind. Why compare flushes of passion to steak? Blood. They look at each other and see not only a red face, red as blood-soaked steak, but meat. Preying upon one another. There is no human connection when you look at the other as a literal piece of meat. A dead piece of meat- no longer living, sopping with blood. 
"How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came there with them, light rising slowly as steam off their joined skin?" Love the allusion of the narrator speaking from the point of view of being in the moment of climax. "Come to the come to the come to the GOD..." Sounds like words uttered in the throes of heated passion. But truly, how do these lovers come to the still waters, and not love the person who came with them? Very good question. How is it that people; sentient, emotive beings put themselves in a mental frame of mind to share something so vulnerable with someone they don't love? Someone they may not even like?
Olds mentions how the parters are like runners, feeling the road surface, feeling their heart's beat. Alone. Yet they are entwined in the most carnal of fashions. It's a great comparison. They are exercising- like a runner would, and like a runner, they view their sex as a solitary sport. There are sounds that come to mind, a rhythm when a runner is setting their pace on the pavement. Thud. Thud. Thud. A hypnotic, heart-racing sound to keep the pace going like a metronome- like lovers with or without love in bed. "They do not mistake the lover for their own pleasure." They don't look at the person as a partner, but rather as being integral on their solitary pursuit of pleasure- the fact that they happen to be involved in the process is necessary and just another instrument for their pleasure. "Just factors, like the partner in bed."

"The truth, which is the single body alone in the universe against its own best time." Referencing running again. As in life, we are all trying to beat our personal records. In terms of mortality, this would be to outlive, live as long as possible or avoid death all together. The truth of this whole piece, and most unnerving message I found was that we are alone. Any illusion of partnership, with or without love doesn't change that when you die, there will not be anybody holding your hand afterwards. We are all single bodies, single souls, individuals who are all in the game of survival. In the universe there is no such thing as 'friends' or 'lovers' or 'family' there is just emptiness and solitude. This being the truth, it's every man for himself, everyone "against its best time."

You may have a perfect love. A picturesque family. But are all experiencing your own separate realities. We will never know how anybody sees the world. Perception is so starkly different from person to person.

In a nutshell, Olds is brilliant. The poem still makes me uncomfortable to the point of having existential crises and second guessing all that I hold sacred. Especially the end. Maybe it's because I know it's true to a degree. I just am afraid that if I fully accept this truth that it will be even more difficult for me to connect with people. To have friends. And most of all, TO TRUST. It seems so futile. I love people though. I love romance, my lovely boyfriend who I would never trade for the world. I can't even handle my shit when we are apart. 

Maybe there is a new spin to take away from Olds. If I have the ability to feel so deeply, truly one with a few people, it only seems to indicate that we are not individuals, but all the same. I'm getting new-age on you now, but if we were of the same energy and while on Earth in flesh-form had ego, personality and individuality to keep us occupied with the illusion of structure and boundaries- but after, were rejoined as a large plasmatic, undulating intangible mass, I would be at peace. Not heaven. Not God. Energy can't be created or destroyed, so its just a reorganization. We're like cups of water in glasses. After we pass away we rejoin the ocean again.

I love how this poem pushes me to places I don't always like to explore in my head. It started with carnal, animalistic sex and has now evolved into something much more.

With Love and Dissent,

Jewell

Auditory Lust

I would like nothing more but to be in a dark space, with walls of sound permeating my skull. Abundances of distortion, fuzz, ethereal guitar loops, DRONING and general cacophony are vastly overdue. I just want to be taken to my happy place. Somewhere between my pineal gland and last night's nightmares would be great, thanks!

It has been far too long since I have been to a show that rocks the teeth out of my skull.

I want to feel every cell in my body vibrate.

Continuous chills traveling the landscape of my spine like a CESSNA gliding over the shifting surfaces of a rugged scene.

An oratory experience.

I have been consumed with dredging along in the monotony of everyday life.

I need to escape.

Take me away.

  

¡El Pueblo Unido, Jamás Será Vencido!

"The people united, will never be defeated!"

Tension building like a coil about to spring.
Proverbial spasms riddle collective consciousness.
Something just isn't right.
Nightmares every night,
Waking up drenched in acrid sweat.
With a heavy heart,
Sighing in poignant unison.
Leaders come and gone.
Ephemeral memories of empowerment held in our hands,
Hearts,
Minds,
Voices.
Now it's time to speak.
Si se puede!
She's ready.
Ready to shake us off like a case of bad fleas.
There are those of us who can sing,
Who can feel,
Who know.
Time is of the essence.
Sands slipping between the unforgiving fingers of time.
This isn't a game.
Chilling grip encroaches upon delicate, succulently vascular cavernous lungs.
Bags filled with arbitrary gasses, flesh and blood.
Unsuspecting with each capricious breath.
Chemical exchanges between paper-thin tissues.
Engorged.
Pink with of red and blue tinges- like a ruby or a rose petal,
So perfect you could just...
Tear it up.

Balarama Heller

Technicolor Paints Prismatic Ballet

I started working at Technicolor in their Worldwide Marketing and Branding department as of a couple weeks ago and it has been a great experience so far.

I had the opportunity to help edit, write the blurb and title the front page article on technicolor.com this past week and it just went up yesterday.

It is a piece on Aronofsky's, Black Swan. 

Check it out here!

My team liked my input and has since said that they see me getting my feet wet in copywriting. I don't mind whatsoever. I let my manager know how much of a treat it was for me to have this project given to me and let her know to not hesitate anytime she has any writing or editing project to send my way.

William S. Burroughs was a copywriter before he went on to write his novels, after all :)

The Boxer Rebellion

Given, this news is a bit dated, but in case you didn't know, Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein came to speak at the Grand Salon at CSUN on October 29th.

I covered the event photographically and journalistically, capturing some key points Boxer made. Though the election has since passed, I feel that the issues are still pertinent and we should all give a sigh of relief that California made the choices it did at the ballot box.

The Boxer Rebellion

Boxer greeting audience after rally

Barbara Boxer came to rally the troops October 29th at CSUN's Grand Salon.

Her messages emphasizing relationship building, creating and retaining jobs, fighting for women's rights, and the environment all appeared to strike a chord with everyone at the space. "This election is such a clear choice," Boxer said to those sitting loyally in front of her.

She said she passed legislation the saved 16,000 teacher's jobs without adding a penny to the deficit. All done by trimming tax breaks from companies who ship jobs overseas, she said.

"What is disgraceful about making sure our children have teachers in the classroom? It's not disgraceful. It's critical," Boxer said to the crowd cheering.

Boxer reiterated her position on abortion rights. "I have been a champion for choice my whole life," she said. Prior to Roe v. Wade these women did not have the right to choose. Women's right to their bodies may come under fire if she lost her seat in the Senate, she explained.

The crowd chanted, "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" As she walked to the microphone, she had a sense of energy and confidence.

There was a young man in the crowd proudly donning a shirt with the words, "Repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell."

Fiorina, the Republican opponent was mentioned in the course of her speech. "She supports tax breaks to millionaires and billionaires and shipping jobs overseas," she stated "She wants to drill off our coasts," Boxer said. She said it is not just an environmental issue, but also an issue about jobs. She explained how our ocean supports 400,000 coastal economy jobs. "Those jobs would be lost," she said plainly when discussing the reality of an oil spill like the BP accident happening off the coast of California.

"This election is about the future of America," Boxer stated. The energy of the audience was tangible as Boxer went on, "This isn't about partisanship, it's about the greatest country in the world."

Photo: Jewell

We Ebb and We Flow

My head has been in a strange place lately.

Compartmentalized. Flip a switch and the "work" me comes fully awake and aware. Everything that concerns that cross section of who I am, "work Jewell" is at full attention.

There are other layers; "Domestic Jewell," "Scholar Jewell," "Writer Jewell," "Liaison  Jewell," "Daughter Jewell," "Companion Jewell," and of course "Lover Jewell."

I have been trying to keep these parts of my brain separate. As if they were specimens of my essence undulating in a jar of formaldehyde catalogued away in the recesses of my brain meats.

A smell that feels as if the delicate, thin layers of your sinuses would just wither and crack from the harsh, noxious fumes. 

It's not my sinuses though, you see. It's my collective emotional state of homeostasis. 

It's almost as if you are a manager for internal operations, the book keeper, the human resources person, promotional department, and the CEO all at once. There are always going to be politics at play in the world around us when these are roles taken on by actual tangible individuals, but when we have this kind of hierarchy and bureaucracy in our own minds everyday running the show, it can prove quite difficult to not get any overlap, for better or worse.

To keep it in terms of business. We are all working very hard here at Jewell Inc. to maintain daily operations and we project a more profitable, efficient, yet strenuous quarter in the upcoming fiscal year. Jewell Inc. is a start-up after all, but this project has got a lot of heart- sometimes too much. Don't sell your shares too hastily. This is just the beginning.

With Love and Dissent,

Jewell