Rainy Saturday

It would rain on Saturday morning before I moved back to L.A. I’d get up at 5:30 am, catch “Big Blue Marble” at 6, turn off the tube then draw until my mother made breakfast or Superfriends time. Those were the first moments of transcendence that I can recall. It felt explosive and I would be disappointed if it didn’t rain the next Saturday.

The return to the Plastic Desert ruined that for awhile. Climate differences made me find another path. Making movies, flip books and the like fueled me. Then came a little more age which learning piano, then guitar, then composing, etc. became the new fuel. Surviving gang-filled Los Angeles was the next step.

In college, I interned at TriStar and an executive there had one conversation with 18 year old me. He lamented his station though he was pragmatic about the power that his ascension up the suit structure. “I wanted to be a director. If you want to be a director, you have to stay true to it and not get distracted.” He spoke of derailment. He spoke of continually checking paperwork and going on set to watch clusterfucks that he pushed through the system. Fueled by anti-authority rage, I knew that could never happen to me. He’s Jewish; I’m Black. He’s old; I’m young. He’s industry; I’m O.G. subterranean. He’s satisfied; I’m a Blues man with rambling constantly on my mind.

That conversation had convinced me to jump all the way into where I was leaning: Fuck the Hollywood structure. DIY all the way. I was brimming with nuclear energy -aka youth- and the will to chop down mountains with the edge of my hand. I did my underground shit but because of doing more group related underground shit my time was syphoned from doing my own thing. Because of the sycophantic nature of those benefitting from my endeavors, I became more disinterested in my arts. It hadn’t rained on my Saturdays in years.

I had property, a pretty girl, and when it rained my roof leaked. I hated the rain. A roof that big was going to be a sizable undertaking. “I hate the fucking rain.” By then, I still wasn’t Jewish, nor was I fully satisfied but I had been making all of my Scooby Snack money via corporate entertainment. I hated Scooby Doo but I had actually worked on that shit by that time.

So I’m industry? Yeah. Hybrid though. The technology makes all of the things I did ubiquitous. It even subverts the business aspects and floods the channels with hobbyists. In the beginning of this world wide wackiness I had realized that I had begun to favor too many to the exec from TriStar’s warnings. Seeing things in advance forming but having too much weight dug me a deep hole. That roof wasn’t going to pay for itself nor would the pretty girl.

Now it’s all gone but the Blues man remains. 2011 is almost gone. But I’ve been writing songs in still and moving pictures. I’ve been collecting mechanical pencils preparing for the rain. Hellhounds are on my trail and it’s another sunless Saturday. But I will make it rain.

hands of play

Choose playfully

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