One artist's opinion on The Old Navy Artist Shirt

Let me start with this, I don't have a problem with Old Navy's shirt that has "artist" crossed out in the phrase "young aspiring artist". I don't. At all.

Full disclosure, I used to work for Old Navy for a couple years in recent past. Used to. Past tense. And I left on great terms. And no one at GAP Inc. asked me to write this or has offered to compensate me. I'm writing this because I see so many tweets and posts from proponents of the performing arts (including great arts organizations) bashing the "derogatory"...wait for it...ARTWORK on this individual piece of clothing.

That being said...why do I even have an opinion on this?

I've been a supporter of the arts for much longer than Old Navy has even been around. I've often had to defend the importance of the arts, in general, and in my life, personal and professional. I grew up playing the violin, singing in choir, acting in plays, and generally being a mascot in my everyday life, not just in high school. I love the performing arts, and I always will.

And this is what I thought when I saw the image...

"Oh, 'artist' is highlighted with paint (an artistic medium) and the young artist has chosen their vocation."

Ok, maybe I don't sound that eloquent in my head, but that's the general attitude of it. I did not see it as a bashing of the arts because I see art in every profession. Writing, teaching, building...Presidenting...

There is art in every single one of us. Yes, if we pigeonhole the term "art" in regards to visual and performing arts, then yes, through that lens I can totally understand where you can take this graphic designer's work of ART and INTERPRET it offensively.

For example...a carpenter. Master Builder (#LegoMovie), wood burner, whittler, whatever. These are artists. They have a craft in their skill set. They have a canvas: the wood. They have tools: chisels, saws, hammers. They have an audience: the consumer.

A teacher. They have their stories to tell: lessons. They have their audience: students. They have their stage: the classroom

An author or playwright. This one is more straightforward. They have a story to tell: the essay, book, or script. They have the tools: their minds, keyboards, typewriters, notepads, napkins, whatever. And they have their audience: you.

A president. The story: leading. The tools: their education and background, their eyes and ears, their staff. The audience: the citizens.

A chef. The story: presenting a course, or a meal through several courses. The tools: utensils, cookware, stove, oven. The audience: you, your mouth, your tastebuds.

You want a "less creative" profession? Well maybe that's the real issue...you aren't seeing the creativity in the profession. 

Let's take a position that is considered an administrative/management position (if the example of President didn't do it for you).

Human Resources Manager.

The story: leading a company through regulations and generally making sure the company doesn't get in trouble. Hiring and disciplining employees. Sharing information about benefits, the company, and the team.

The tools: hiring practices, training material, company history.

The audience: current and new employees.

How about another one?

Accountant.

The story: organizing, preparing, and presenting the state of the organization for better or for worse.

The tools: numbers, reports, profit & loss statements, computers, adding machines, printers.

The audience: auditors, board members, the IRS.

Or even going back to one of the professions listed on the shirt itself...

Astronaut.

The story: gathering data about a world where very few actually know about.

The tools: this list is just as expansive as the space they travel in. Oxygen tanks, computers, rockets, space suits, helmets...

The audience: The World. Literally. The home space station.

So yeah, you want to say there's no art in those professions?

Why should a graphic designer be stoned for putting forth something they felt proud of? Why should a company who generally presents positive messages on their clothing all of a sudden change their attitude?

Why can't you explain to your children, coworkers, and team members that there is art in everything and that WE are all artists. Similar to when parents write letters to celebrities and companies about their "insensitive" material...why can't we have the discussions in our own homes and why are trying to make for-profit businesses change what they're doing to make money when we can educate each other.

The issue is not the opinion of art in this one, singular piece of clothing. It's the attitude towards art and artists that has been hammered into our collective consciousness.

We are all artists. We are all musicians. We are all painters, storytellers, writers, and actors. 

Have you ever worked in retail? Food service? Customer service? You have acting experience.

Have you ever cut the grass, trimmed a hedge, or done someone's make up? You're an artist.

Do you ever communicate through spoken, written, or sign language? You're a storyteller.

I know that I may receive some backlash from my fine/performing arts colleagues, but that's ok. I'm telling my story now, as it came up, in the way that I know best...writing.

I am an artist. Not because I've lived in and around the performing arts. Not because I have a degree in Theatre. Not because I work at a theatre company. But because I choose to appreciate art in as much as I can, and THAT is why I don't have a problem with "the shirt."

p.s. What if the screenprint was messed up and the artist's intention was for "aspiring" to be crossed out so that it read "Young Artist"?

PBDC Day 8/31: In the Corner

Initial thought: REM. That's me in the corner/That's me in the spot/Light/Losing my religion

The theatre-related response: In my own little corner/In my own little chair -Cinderella

The chick-flick loving side's response: "No one puts Baby in the corner." Also see, "I carried a watermelon?"

The "How Can I Tie My Whole Day Together" response:

Our first snow was back in early November. It's now the second Saturday in March, and we were still getting new snow this morning. I got some new shoes last month (Day 21/28: Tiny) and this morning was the first time I cursed them. But it really wasn't their fault. They're great shoes, and I love em, but they aren't impervious to wintry effects on the ground. There has probably been snow on the ground on approximately 97% of the days in the last four months. Thinking today was no different, I walk outside like I do every day I go to work, and my first step outside on the snowy ground, my sweet kicks are suddenly at chest level and I'm on my ass. Ok, it's winter. I get it. So I get up, look around, and brush the fresh powder of my ass. I take my next step and I've got a panoramic view of the sunrise sky and have an impromptu trust fall exercise with the Earth, and the Earth was definitely there for me. After the first fall, I was glad no one was around, but after the second, I wished someone was there to enjoy the show. Luckily, I know how to just take a fall to avoid any injury by trying to catch myself.

I carefully made it to my car and made it to work safely, assuring myself and my bruised pride that, although I had a couple of spills to "start" my day, they were merely an opportunity to hurdle some minor adversities and not an early indication of a rough day ahead. Once at work, I discovered the printer had once again taken a day off, and I was faced with hand writing a few forms/tables that are templates which are filled in each morning for the work day. With a couple of other curve balls that I'll leave out, I'll just say that as the morning developed (and the pain started setting in from the two spills)...

I began to feel like I was painted into a corner.

But the day turned out alright, and my decision to look at each individual hurdle as just that, an individual hurdle, helped me keep my spirits up and my smile genuine throughout the day.

Back at home, still without a photo I could relate to the prompt, I kept my eyes open in the apartment for something I could artistically interpret for today's subject.

And so...today's official response.

Behind my Long Beach State jacket, against the wall on the left is a blue case. Smaller than a guitar, but small enough to wear on your back. There are actually two straps on the back to wear them on your back, but at this angle you can't see them.

It's my violin case. Same one I've had since high school. Yes, high school, that thing I graduated from last millennium back in 1999. If you didn't know, I can play the violin, but honestly, I've barely played in the last few years.  I played in a couple shows I was in in college, but other than that, it would just come with me from apartment to apartment without seeing the sun that much.

To put things in perspective, my wife has never heard me play. Well, she's heard me fiddle around once when we were working on a community production together in 2011, but she hasn't heard me really buckle down and play. I mean really play. Like close my eyes and read the music that's burned into my mind while I walk around and sway like a hula girl on a dashboard of a dusty El Camino across gravelly roads of New Mexico.

I keep it for the same reason I keep the plays I mentioned in this month's Day 1: Yellow.

I do intend to start playing again, but part of me wants to keep this very violin in case a sweet child o' mine wants to play the violin. I like envisioning sentimental future situations like that.

Maybe writing about it is the just what I needed for myself to brush the dust off the case and let the old girl get some fresh air. I actually think about that a lot. Not playing my violin, but about how me writing this blog is just as much for all of you as it is for me. That I've now typed it all out and shared a thought for all to see where I can look back to it, or you could hold me to it in the future. I've seen some folks share blogs like that. Sharing their bucket lists and 30B430 lists so that we can enjoy the journey together, and really just to say it aloud to the world to make it more real instead of just having it float around in your head, hidden from everyone.

That's really the main reason I did NaNoWriMo last year. Because I needed something, someone to get me to tell the story that's been in my head for years. And since then I've been able to just let it flow and write it out.

I'm anything but painted into a corner, my friends. I'm just getting started.

PBDC Day 2/31: Something Borrowed

New tenants moved into the apartment across the hall from us. Haven't officially met them, and with the group of folks that were helping them move, I couldn't tell who the new tenants were and who was just helping. And with the anticipation of meeting the new neighbors, a peculiarly-phrased question arose in my mind.

"Could I borrow a cup of sugar?"

My answer would have to be, "No."

I was more often faced with a similar request outside bars, or in smoking areas on base or on campus, "Could I borrow a cigarette?"

To which, I would still reply, "No. But you can have one."

American English is my primary language, and I feel that I am an above-average wordsmith in the company that I keep. That being said, there are numerous occasions in which certain uses of common words make me cringe. The aforementioned request for a sweetener leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Most people I know wouldn't bat an eye, but today it's about semantics.

What does "borrow" mean to you? For most people, myself included, it would mean using something that belongs to someone else with the intention of returning it. According to Merriam-Webster online, an auxiliary definition of "borrow" is

"To take and use up (something) with the promise to give back something of equal value"

Meaning, technically, "borrowing" a cup of sugar, or a cigarette, or any other consumable, is not incorrect phrasing.

But really, before you read that secondary definition, did you ever use the word "borrow" with that definition in mind?

I didn't think so. In any case, here's my photo for the day:

Last month's Day 3 post, Metal, shared a little story about my first apartment in Long Beach, and this month's Day 2 post is about my current apartment. Most folks would use the term "renting" in regards to living spaces, but renting is really just borrowing with a monetary exchange included.

Borrowing this place is a great idea for now because we don't have any kids or pets, and we don't know how long we'll be living here. There's a lot to consider when it comes to moving: jobs, weather, schools, timing, family, friends, the list is monstrous. But as of right now (with the exception of winter spanning across five months), we're right where we need to be.

We'll give it back eventually, but for now, it's home.

PBDC Day 1/31: Yellow

Why stop at the end of February, right? The Photo and Blog a Day Challenge continues...

Into the fifth consecutive month of snow-covered Michiana, spring colors like yellow are rarely spotted.  However, looking for something yellow today revealed several moving subjects that some were too fast to capture in a photograph. But the following stationary subject caught my eye among its friends.

Behind a stack of Shakespeare plays, in the company of John Patrick Shanley, Neil LaBute, and several others lies the text for a novel, Matthew Quick's The Silver Linings Playbook. Truth be told, this book, like a few others that were adapted for the big screen, I did not purchase until after I saw the movie. Sure, there are plenty of buffs and purists that swear on reading the books before seeing the film version, but I haven't lost any enjoyment either way. I just really, really connected with the story, so I bought the book on a whim on day at Target and read it shortly after. It was the first time a book moved me to tears like reading a play script could.

Spotting the yellow spine among the plays, with the box the Nook came in peering in from the corner of the photo, I had to reflect for a moment of why I still have so many books in print. Approximately 90% of the books I have on the shelf are theatre-related. Mostly plays, but there are also a few monologue books, and several texts on voice work, directing, and writing. But the question remains, "Why do I still have so many scripts?"

It isn't (primarily) because I'm sentimental, because I definitely am. And I know it isn't just me being a hoarder, because I can walk through my apartment without tripping over boxes or fearing piles collapsing on top of me. As many times as I've moved in the last few years, it has been quite a feat that so much has traveled with me. Moving is the best way to really decide what you want or need to take with you. So what really keeps me from donating them?

Because I'm not counting theatre out from my future.

I have a full-time job that I love at Old Navy. I've read handful of novels in the last year. I've seen one play in the last thirteen months, and read even fewer. But that doesn't mean I'm done with acting, directing, or reviewing.

The time just isn't right.

I went into some detail about my (relatively) long history with the theatre in the post from February's Day 27: In Love With, and although my moving out of southern California took me away from every single company and artist (save my wife) I had worked/networked with over a three-year period, I refuse to believe that my time with theatre has passed.

Writing a 50,000+ word foundation for my first novel last November for NaNoWriMo 2013 was a huge victory for me, but as many great successes do, it opens up a few more goals. "Winning" is defined as hitting the goal of 50,000 words before midnight on the evening of November 30th, and several other sparks were lit with that NaNo win.

• Writing a companion novel from another perspective.
• Take a subplot and develop that into a novel.
• Finish the novel, edit it, and pitch it for publishing.

And the one that carries the point I started a few lines up:

• Writing the story of of Juliet's Window as a play.

Reading novels has been a great experience in the last year, especially after spending so much time enveloped in theaters, reading scripts, developing prompt books, essentially all things theatrical. But to take this story I want to tell and mold it into a structure that I've spent years dreaming about, thinking in, and breathing seems like a beautiful next step.

In my Dramatic Theory class with Dr. Maria Viera at CSULB (California State University, Long Beach for those unfamiliar, or The Beach, or LBSU, or LB State) we had an assignment to take any book on an approved reading list and write a chapter (or chapters) as a scene for the stage. I took a portion of Chuck Palahniuk's Choke and had a blast bringing Victor to a live audience in my mind.

Having spent so many hours reading play scripts, breathing in dialogue, and picking apart stage directions, writing a book as a play would be a wonderful challenge to synthesize my newest love (writing) with a life-long passion (theatre) to create a piece of art for the world.

In this same class, Dr. Viera shared with us a view of Antonin Artaud from his text The Theatre and its Double, "No more masterpieces".

It's easy to understand through observing our films and musicals of today. So many films are now based on books, musicals are based on movies, television shows are based on books, movies, or musicals. The stories aren't new, they're just being told in new formats. There are simple structures that stories can be categorized in: star-crossed lovers, hero avenges death of loved one, coming of age, you know them. If you need a few examples check this article out about undercover Shakespeare in modern films.

That being said, the challenge in writing something "new" has been identified: everyone knows the story, I just have to make the journey interesting enough for the audience to follow along and empathize with the central character.

If/when I succeed, perhaps I'll request that jacket art incorporates a yellow spine so that it can stick out among the other books on the shelf.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 28/28: Up

I love seeing the sun rise. As I ready myself for March, having the long winter we've been experiencing here in Indiana, seeing the sun, even for just a few minutes is a sign of warmth to come. The sun coming up symbolizes so many things: new beginnings, a reminder of how the world operates in cycles, you've been at the strip club too long, the list goes on.

Typically, I view the sunrise in a positive light, accepting it as day greeting me with warmth, illumination, and a brand new start. Lately, because of the clouds, there have been plenty of mornings where the sunrise has been blocked from view, but I know it's still there.

I also enjoy a nice sunset. This next picture I captured just over a month ago as I leaving work. Enjoying a break in the clouds as the sun shared some warmth in the frigid Indiana air, I felt a sense of relief with the vision of an oasis of seasons warmer.

Whenever I look up at the sky, even at night when I see if I can find my favorite constellation, Orion, I take a couple of deep breaths and think for a few moments to bask in the concept of how large our world and universe really is. And most times, I smile about it because the perspective helps me refocus myself and realize that there are things I can directly affect and things I cannot.

Perspective is a wonderful thing, and as I got home today after work I paused for second to capture my view when I walk into our building.

Just a simple set of stairs, leading up to our second floor apartment. Here are the same stairs after completing the journey up one flight.

The latter of the two stairs photos I like more, and I think it's because of the red front door, appealing to the eye, inviting me to adventures of the day. But the first photo, the one looking up, it literally lifts me off the ground to a place where my wife and I call home. 

And when I think about that, us living on the second floor of our building, it shows me that where we live is literally separated from the ground we walk, drive, work, and spend most of our days. When we are home, we are somewhat isolated and above much of what goes on (but not in a condescending, "we're above you" in regards to social class manner). I mean that in regards to safety and security. As I take the stairs up to The Farm (as we like to call it), I am granted a physical indication that what happens at home is completely separate from any stressors in the outside world. Together, at home, we can rise above all the garbage and negativity and hate to create a safe place for ourselves where we alone can forge our identity as a married couple.

Perspective really is everything. How you look at things in your everyday life can truly alter how you view your own life. From a new pair of shoes (Day 21: Tiny), to pocket-sized tokens (Day 15: In My Hand), or even the music you allow yourself to be swallowed by (Day 12: Can't Go Without), these last 28 days, 28 photos, and 28 blogs have become a journey in finding my voice.

I absolutely love being able to find positivity, motivation, and encouragement in things that are shared by everyone, things that I am surrounded by every day. And furthermore, I am so thankful that I am able to share this message and these stories with anyone that feels curious enough to peer inside my soul for a blog post here and there.

But what I love the most about writing is that, as my friend Angela and I like to put it, as writers, we are gods of our literary worlds. When a writer shares their imagination on paper, or a screen, or a couple of napkins, or on the walls of a subway station, they bring you on a journey that you had no idea was even there before you saw it.

And the most accessible example of how creative writers can be is at the top of this blog, because both of the pictures I shared are of sunsets. But if you take a picture of a sunrise or sunset and show it to someone who has no perspective of the environment in which the photo resides, they leave it up to you to provide context, either in a caption or a well crafted introduction.

But I really do love sunrises.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 9/28: Under

Today ended what was more than a seven year itch. I got my first tattoo in North Carolina in December of 2002. By Spring of 2005 I had seven tattoos from seven different states. Around St. Patrick's Day in 2006 I got my life-sized, seven piece constellation in northern California. And before I knew it, the buzz of a needle gun was just a memory.

Moving to Indiana provided many new opportunities, and today highlights the reopening of a challenge I started for myself back in 2003. Tattoos from as many different states as possible.

First there was this photo. The last known photo of my naked left forearm/inner wrist.

This is the last picture and final account of what will be...wait for it...under my new tattoo. But  it isn't my official entry for the day. The following photo is:

I went under the needle tonight. Almost two hours ago. For the first time since March of 2006. Almost eight years since my last tattoo

Thanks to a coworker's suggestion, I was put in contact with an artist/shop in Niles, Michigan. So, shout out to Lambo at Paparazzi Tattoos for knockin the dust off of my collection and throwin down some new ink for me! I can now cross Michigan off the list of states I've been inked in. And I'm definitely going back for more.

Don't be deceived, that isn't a look of pain on my face. It's an expression of, "I'm not gonna lie. I love this. And I miss it." I must admit, I was a bit anxious having gone so long without a tattoo, so I was unsure about how my pain level would fare.

For those of you who have considered tattoos but have not  taken the dive yet, I won't lie, they do hurt--you're getting stabbed thousands of times--but, at least for me, with the wonderful hum of the tattoo gun, it becomes more tickling/annoying than painful.

For the first time in my (now) 15 tattoos, I was live tweeting a couple of Instagram posts because I felt compelled to share my tatventure, aside from the day's blog.

And before I knew it, Lambo's light hand was done with my newest piece in the collection. I present to you, The ghoti fish.

Inspired by Craig Fleming, a professor from CSULB, whose Writing for the Theatre course inspired me to start writing again, I chose to bring the ghoti fish (pronounced "fish fish") to life for all to see.

If you've had the pleasure of Craig's inspiration, wisdom, and passion, this may look familiar to you. If not, and you'd like to figure out how it says "fish," then go ahead, I'll give you a moment to roll that around...

[insert commercial break here]

As many of you know (or can tell) I love writing. And this past November I participated in (and won) NaNoWriMo 2013 (sidenote: I'm wearing my NaNo 2013 Winner tee in the above pictures.) I take pride in my work, and have been accused of taking my job too seriously.

I love to have fun, and this new piece will help remind me to not take things so seriously all the time. Especially when it comes to words, which I thoroughly enjoy wielding with confidence.

And so, the explanation of how GHOTI is pronounced "fish."

GH--as in words like "tough" or "rough" provides the "phh" sound.
O--as in "women" sounds like a short vowel "i" or "ih."
TI--as in "action" and "direction," provides the "sh" sound.

Strung together...go ahead and sound it out if you haven't already...

phh--ih--sh.

FISH.

Ghoti fish. Fish fish. Nailed it.

I love words. I love stories. And the more I learn about English as a language, the more complex it becomes. But maybe that's part of what I love about it so much.

Don't let it stress you out there, because taking it too seriously will drag you down. How far down? Really far...under.

I'll be here all month, folks.

Thanks again, Lambo and Paparazzi Tattoos!

A response to Adora Bull's Paul Walker article on MWD

The following post is in response to reading the article from Modern Woman Digest by Adora Bull, "Top Five Reasons Why I'm Glad Paul Walker is Dead".

I, like many others, accept and enjoy satirical posts from The Onion and Cracked.com. I don't consider myself to be an expert on really anything, but I sure as hell haven't heard of Modern Woman Digest to be a satire-posting site.

That being said, I'm utterly stunned at this post that was written to be published with whom I'm assuming to be loyal readers, knowing there would be a massive influx of new ones. Granted, there is a disclaimer from MWD at the end of the article, and there was a link to a follow up article regarding the author's moving into protective custody, but damn, this is some really messed up stuff.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who's going to take a sick day because someone whom I'm never met has passed in a wreck that some may say was deserved. But what I will stand for is respecting the dead and perceiving them as a friend or family of someone else who is grieving. Someone who caused me no harm, regardless of what happens in his private life. (So yeah, feel free to comment and “take a side” about his 23 year old girlfriend who he had been with since she was 16, I’ve read those articles too.)

Also, I see posts like this and it makes me hurt for the community of journalists, storytellers, and writers that aren’t out for shock value and hit counts. Writers like these get their posts shared, and I wholly acknowledge that my furthering the process is only aiding the intended result, but I’m not doing it without adding my commentary, obviously.

Yes, the comments within the article’s post are there, and many of them are commonplace to any opinionated article, but seriously though…

This is probably one of the most disrespectful posts I’ve ever read.

I don’t think I’ve read anything else by Adora Bull, and maybe I will, just to see how far off the deep end she’s gone with this one, but part of me hopes that the majority of her posts are as grossly inhumane and disrespectful as this one.

Full knowing you may never read this post, my sincerest apologies for the article that this is in response to, family and friends of Paul Walker.

My First Throwback Thursday Blog

Typically, the hashtag #tbt would live in my Twitter and Instagram feeds, but I'm spinning it a little differently this week.

As some of you may now, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo 2013. If you don't know what that means (or Google it before reading further) it's National Novel Writing Month, and it's an annual online event that I'm partaking in for the first time this year.

Normally, I hear about it well into November, but when I caught wind of it in the Twittersphere mid-October, I knew I had to sign up. I had no idea what I was going to write about, I just knew that I did.

So, I've been cranking away at the keyboard most nights, and by the time my birthday and Turkey weekend rolls around, I should have what resembles a 50,000 novel.

But going back, for Throwback Thursday, I'm sharing an old essay. One from 2006, the first time I took Freshman English in college. Yes, I said the first time, because I took it again to receive credit for it so that I could transfer to a university. The first time I took Freshman English, I earned a solid "D" grade.

Yup. Me. Who loves writing, editing, and storytelling, nearly failed Freshman English at a community college. And now I'll be sharing with you an essay I wrote for that class.

Tonight, I give you, (unedited)...

Marlon Deleon

English 122-2000

Mckenzie

February 1, 2006

Mrs. Potato Head

Not too long ago, not so far away was a town by the name of Walnut Grove, affectionately, “The Grove.” The Grove is not so different from your average city. There were schools, paved roads, traffic lights, shopping malls, supermarkets, and the like. The McElroys were a young successful couple residing in the heart of this town. They weren’t millionaires, but they were in good standing, and quite comfortable in their five-bedroom, ranch style home. Julian is a lawyer, and is on his way to becoming head of the firm he works at. He has a commanding look about him, some compare him to Denzel Washington, only taller, standing at 6’4.” Nothing about his Black-Irish form would hurt a fly, he’s a big teddy bear. Mariela is his lovely wife, born to a kind Irish-Mexican couple not too far away. With curly red hair and crystal blue eyes, her father’s Irish genes are inarguable, but she is built like her mother, five and a half feet tall, built like a gentle mother hen, arms open to welcome you into her embrace. She is the senior underwriter at her branch of the national insurance company she works for, and her iron-clad work ethic has her on a path for promotional greatness. They are proud parents of twin boys, Jamal and Seamus, and they undoubtedly take after their father. They are only five years old, but are almost at Julian’s waistline. These two boys are one and the same, as they redefine the connection that identical twins often have, communicating almost through telepathy. This tag-team of fast growing McElroys has their pee-wee football team in stitches, and all the parents talk of them becoming superstars of the WFL, the World Football League. This family of four is as happy as happy can be, without a care in the world. However, this is all about to change.

Mariela and Julian are expecting their third child, and to add to the excitement of having another McElroy enter the world, they have decided to leave the gender of this new addition a surprise. The day approaches quickly, and tonight, as they are all having dinner in their quaint little home, Mariela speaks up,

“Now listen here boys, your father and I don’t know if you’re going to have a little sister or a little brother...”

“I want a brother!” exclaims Jamal.

“I want a sister! Jamal smells!” adds young Seamus.

“But, no matter what, you two are the older siblings, and you will always protect the baby, however old you are, wherever you may be.”

The boys reply in unison, “Yes, mother, we will always look out for the baby.”

Julian leans over Mariela in the hospital, holding her hand, helping her focus on breathing techniques they learned in class together. After a while, the doctor stands up beaming, and says to the panting parents, “It’s a girl!” The nurse brings the crying bundle to the parents, and looks down at the baby and up at the parents, a puzzled look on his face. Mariela looks at the little girl, and then up at Julian, noticing the look of shock in his face is similar to the look on her own.

“Those are the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen on a baby,” Julian utters, “and they’re really far apart. What color are they?” His wife simply stares at the child, and they exchange glances again, seemingly disappointed. Composing himself, he says, “she’s still our daughter, and we will love her no matter how she looks.”

Later on that evening, Seamus and Jamal are ushered in to the recovery room and they come up to their mother on opposite sides of her bed, sizing up their newborn sister.

“She has green eyes,” notices Seamus.

“No stupid, she has brown eyes,” Jamal states victoriously.

Their tired mother looks up at them both and sets them straight, “He’s not stupid, you’re both right. Her left eye is green and her right is brown.”

“No matter what color they are, they’re still huge,” mutters Julian, chin still in his chest, as if he cannot bear to look at his new daughter.

Almost on cue, the twins yell, “They are huge! Freak!”

“Stop that! Both of you. Remember what we talked about at dinner that night?”

“Yes, mother. We’re sorry. What’s her name?”

“Your father hasn’t brought up any names at all, but I’m fond of Daisy.”

“Like the duck?” inquires young Seamus as he starts quacking at the baby. “Daisy the little duckling.”

“Yeah, the little ugly duckling,” snaps Jamal.

Julian picks his head up in disgust, “You boys stop that right now. Daisy’s your sister and you will always look out for her. Got it?”

“Yeah we will,” they say together.

The boys never spoke of their sister at school, or at football, or anywhere else for that matter, because whenever anyone did ask them about the baby, someone would ask what color her eyes were. And when they would answer, that one was green and the other brown, the response they got was never good. “That’s weird,” was the popular response amongst the other schoolchildren.

As the days went by, more and more people would talk of her mismatched eyes, and the boys could do nothing but defend themselves and their little sister. It didn’t stop there, sad to say. Young Daisy McElroy was destined to be different, and grew herself a full head of blonde hair. Not dirty blonde, nor strawberry blonde, but bright, bleached, platinum blonde hair, like no one has ever seen. Her parents were so shocked as this came about, and were utterly disgusted with it. They covered her in little caps and pulled them down low so that her humongous eyes were hidden from ridicule.

Daisy grew up, but she was often quiet, playing in a corner, or far off in the schoolyard, apart from the other children. She had no friends, and being her older brothers were on the road to athletic stardom, everyone knew the McElroy ugly duckling, since they always walked to and from school together. The other schoolchildren gave her nicknames, ridiculing her hair or her eyes, sometimes even both. Some would call her “flashlight” because her head was so bright, others, “Mrs. Potato Head,” inferring that her she was thrown together like a little toy. One green eye, one brown eye, ultra-blonde hair, all painted on a skinny, lanky, olive-tanned body.

Throughout gradeschool, Daisy tried to find her niche, soccer, softball, painting, band, all in vain. Her mother suggested acting, but the soft-spoken, almost mute, Daisy would never think of getting up in front of hundreds of people at a time. She was deathly afraid of crowds, and would barely speak loud enough for waitresses to hear on the rare occasion the family would go out, since they didn’t enjoy the attention of gawkers. High school came about and these young boys and girls were becoming adults. Jamal and Seamus had graduated high school and had both received full football scholarships to La Salle University, six hours south of Walnut Grove.

And so, Daisy was alone, a freshman, ready to start high school, what her brothers called, “the best years of their lives.” As we all know, at this point in our lives, we start to change, physically, emotionally, and everything is a blur. Little boys and girls don’t have “cooties” anymore, and all of a sudden, “popularity” becomes a four-letter word. Daisy was still quiet, and still possessed her “Mrs. Potato Head” look, but the boys started to notice her more, because she was developing into quite the beautiful young lady. Almost as tall as her father at the end of her sophomore year, she was turning heads left and right, and she started to talk more, being more guys were approaching her.

One weekend towards the end of the summer she went for a run down at the beach. Shorts and a sports top were all that clung to her olive colored body, blonde hair in a tight pony tail, sunglasses protecting her captivating eyes from the midday sun. She noticed a large group of students in the distance, and as she approached she discovered they were all from La Salle University, the same school her brothers were attending. As she ran closer, their conversations started to fade, and the guys turned to see this attractive young lady running down the beach. They called for her to stop, and as she slowed to talk to them, she removed her sunglasses.

“Wait a minute, you’re the McElroy twins’ sister, right?” one of the boys inquired, the others in silence, still in awe of the amazing sight in front of them.

“My name’s Daisy, and yes, they are my brothers,” she said, almost insulted.

One of the other college boys piped in, “I knew it!” After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, that same stunned student said, “What happened to you?”

“I got older and grew up, like we all do. I’m still the same person,” and with that she was off.

A yell came from the crowd, “Wait up! There’s a party tonight at the golf course club uptown. It’s my sister’s birthday, you should come.” She thought nothing of it and continued down the beach.

Later that night she was driving around town and noticed a large traffic flow going uptown. Intrigued, she followed, and ended up at that same party that she was half-way invited to. As she walked in, there were greetings from every direction. Word had quickly spread that Daisy McElroy might possibly arrive, and there were high school students and alumni spread about the club. It was a birthday party, and everyone was having a grand time, but it came time to sing “Happy Birthday.” The crowd was eventually hushed, and they all started to sing. After the first “Happy birthday to you,” almost everyone stopped singing. Almost. As soon as Daisy opened her mouth to sing, those around her noticed her amazingly soulful voice, more powerful than anyone could ever imagine coming out of her soft-spoken self. Daisy sang with her eyes closed, and didn’t notice everyone staring at her until she was done singing, as she slowly reopened her eyes to look at everyone else.

“Daisy...that was...amazing,” said a young girl next to her, and the entire club burst into wild applause. 

“I had no idea you could sing like that.”

“Neither did I,” she said shakily. “I usually only sing in my car, and in the shower, but I’ve been having such a good time here, that I just let it all out.”

As junior year started, she changed her schedule, auditioned and was welcomed into the concert choir and the locally known traveling performance group that the choir teacher also taught. She finally found her niche, and went on to become an infamous singer/songwriter and a model, performing all over the globe. She was never called Daisy the ugly duckling ever again.

True Story

Telling a lie is different from withholding the truth. Sometimes, the latter is worse. Occasionally, lying is acceptable. For example, if you’re throwing a surprise birthday party, and the soon-to-be celebrant inquires of such events, it is best to keep the cat in the bag. In other instances, it may be acceptable if it’s the lesser of the two evils, e.g., if an individual confronts an ex-significant other with certain questions, the interrogated party may choose to respond with the less painful answer, albeit dishonest.

If acting is “living truthfully under imaginary circumstances” (Meisner) then how does writing match up? Granted, non-fiction writing is just that, non-fiction. Factual. Real. Actual events told from whatever the perspective. Fiction? According to Merriam Webster Online Dictionary, “fiction” is defined as “something invented by the imagination…” In that case, any event that is not experienced firsthand is fiction to some degree.

This could really go on for hours…

In any case, any story told could be considered fiction or non-fiction.

Come, gather, hear me out before you walk away unimpressed.

If I told you a story about a little boy who had daydreams of being a hero for a girl he had a crush on in grade school, would you consider that fact or fiction? Depending on the context, and the way the story was told, it’s debatable.

Story time.

In the fourth grade there was a girl named Amanda. I had a huge crush on her, and for whatever reason, I envisioned catastrophic events descending upon our classroom, bad guys breaching the walls, guns a blazin’, and my tiny little (maybe) 60 pound frame darting across the room to take a bullet for her. In my wounded state, she would cradle me in her arms, screaming bloody murder, but still gentle in her gaze when she looked upon me in my last moments, confessing to me that her long-hidden love for me would never die…

Fact or fiction?

I guess it’s up to me to tell you either way, or neither, allowing you, the reader, to decide for yourself based on my credibility and/or storytelling prowess.

If Meisner’s definition of acting is “the ability to live truthfully under imaginary circumstances,” then my definition of writing is “the ability to truthfully tell a story under circumstances determined by the author.”

Whether I’m recounting actual events or “creating” a plotline utilizing “imaginary” characters, my telling of the story is truthful—I’m actually telling it. How am I telling it? Through whatever structure I (may or may not) determine ahead of time, based on how the story will be conveyed—live to an audience whose reaction I can regard, or recorded/written as a blog such as this.

I intend on writing a book of some sorts before I die. Perhaps it will simply be a collection of stories, or maybe it will actually be one continuous story about my life. Those I have spoken to about this possess mixed opinions about certain things, i.e., the usage of real names, but in the grand scheme of things, aside from those that know me within the first degree and know the (TBD) stories, the majority of (hopeful) readers won’t know anything about me, where I’m from, who I knew, or if these stories are…wait for it…real, or (for the sake of the argument) non-fiction.

Everything anyone can say can be absolutely real, but is it true? That’s a different story (pun intended). I might not always tell true stories, but I can vow that each and every one of them will be real. I’m really writing them, and I’m really sharing them. In the case that I’m sharing someone else’s words, I’ll be sure to properly credit the, because although I may sometimes lie, I’m far from a fraud.

One more story...

In the winter of 2001 I started a journey in a place I had never been My eyes had been opened, my mind was blown, and my heart was never the same. I occasionally thank the girl that changed my life, and sometimes I blame her for my timeline in becoming a man, but that doesn’t change the fact that I will always attribute a large part of this process to her. Recently, I talked to this woman (because she did grow up) and she congratulated me on my developments, unfortunately, I could not wish her the same.

Sometimes I still daydream of being a hero for her: taking a bullet, pushing her out of the way of a speeding motorcade, or stopping her from impending doom. Occasionally, I am stopped in my tracks by a glance from someone that thanks me for what I have done. These gazes do not belong to her, nor will they ever. She will not thank me for saving her life, nor will I be able to save hers. Whichever the case may be, I will always strive to be a hero in her eyes.

True story.

Or is it?

new beginning

I love newness (if that is even a word). With the leap into the iPhone community I now have the luxury of being able to blog with ease. Much has happened in the little time that has passed in 2011, and much of it is reason for celebration.

That's it for now. I just wanted to draw first blood and get the writing veins pumping again.

We shall talk soon, blog world.

Much love,

Marlon.

"update" (term used loosely)

so i've been wanting to blog for a while, but everything has ramped up to warp speed. here are some of the milestone/benchmarks/highlights/lowlights:

I now write for the Long Beach Acting Examiner

I caved and signed up for Twitter to support my Acting Examiner column

I started training to be a radio host at KBEACH radio to st

art a weekly theatre talk show

I start training to be a House Manager at Long Beach Playhouse this week

I'm an Assistant Directing Intern with Long Beach Shakespeare

I'm a temp (potentially permanent) at the CSULB Bookstore

The last surviving grandparent in my family passed away last month.

Corn, The Language Archive, and being Filipino (they link together, really)

My older brother got married.

My younger sister caught the bouquet at said marriage.

It's been eleven years since I swore

in at MEPS Oakland to fly out to Naval RTC (Recruit Training Command, aka bootcamp)-July 29.

That's all for now.