The Clock

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Artwork by Devonne Amos

All things rot. It's the nature of the beast, or the wretched animal that squeals in the early morning as the bones desperately attempt to justify their existence. It's a slow burn, a realization that gradually wraps its arm around you like a date pretending to stretch, only to flirt with the idea that you will no longer hold on to your youth - a greeting card to bid a fond farewell to the body you once had, once preserved and cared for.

This was hardly me. There was a time when I owned a somewhat decent shape but never once a frame that was carved from wood - maybe hard play dough at best. But as I've grown older, I've slowly come to terms with the reality of aging, the kind of twin shadow that accompanies each and every one of us, hiding in plain sight from everyone but the people around you - the ones who notice. You can see each other's, but not always your own. Then the day comes when you strain your back trying to put on a fucking shirt, or worse, sitting on the toilet.

It's a tough pill to swallow, and like a child, you embrace the lie that it's too big and foolishly try to spit it out. But it's forced upon you, the only other option being to wake up and occasionally oil the machine. Either you're at the controls yourself, or sitting in the green room while past lovers, a shitty job, and lost friendships influence the path you take. These experiences can write the story for you, or stand aside as you rise, watching as you take control and pierce them all with the very pen by which each chapter in your life is forged. Nevertheless, age is there. It never cowers. It comes for you every single day, until the day it no longer needs to. I've been thinking about this a lot recently. The one blinding realization that parenthood bestows upon you is that in all likelihood, and hopefully so, your children will outlive you.

Every day, I look at my two boys and wonder what they will grow up to be but more importantly, will I live to see it? This question lingers as I reach to grab a toy or a book to read to them and feel the bolts in my joints slightly begin to crack. When you're young, you seem to have an infinite amount of energy. Each passing year, as your focus shifts and priorities change, you start to see those years collect dust piles behind you, becoming a catalogue you occasionally glance through, old headlines that highlight the pride you once had in yourself, but almost now no longer exists. This may seem like a sad sap point of view but this is what it's come to. But this is not where it will end. There is a light in the distance, a reason to move. It's the two lives that grow before me every day, the descendants and dependents with whom I share my life. My family.

This is what I think about when I sit in a chair too long and my legs begin to hurt, or when I take my dog for long walks that tire me more easily than normal. It's gotten me to reevaluate my approach to life, my approach to discipline and the creative aspirations for which I aim. As my son Joseph braves his scans over the next few years, I ponder this. I don't see the difficult year during which he underwent his treatments as having belonged to my wife and I. The difficult year was his. He didn't have a choice. By some twisted fucking game of spin the bottle, he was selected to endure this. I have a choice, though. A choice to take care of myself, to alter my habits, to try harder.

I've befriended the excuses long enough. I write more than ever now but I don't exercise or eat well. And this needs to change. It's as if I'm brandishing some sort of universal mark, a badge of mortality that only becomes more apparent as I get older, like a tattoo of a face, a symbol or some quote written in a language I've never spoken that stretches as the years fall and the skin shouts of a battle that wages within us all, between the people we once were and the people we've become. Both versions will arrive at the end sooner or later. I suppose it's how gracefully we get there that matters.

As They Were

In January of this year, when the news broke of David Bowie's passing, at that moment, it felt as if no other musician in the world existed. Every corner you turned, headline you read, Facebook profile picture you saw, a tribute of some kind was being made. The catalogue of music the man left behind was astounding, the foundation on which his songs were created well beyond what some could fully comprehend, and in a way, are still unable to. There was a sophistication about Bowie's music that was far from ordinary, an approach that blurred the lines between art and sexuality. He was a man of many faces, and one. On April 21st, as my son and I were preparing to leave for the Giants game in San Francisco, it was reported by multiple news stations, social media outlets and emoji-ridden text messages from family and friends that Prince had died of unknown causes.

He was 57 years old and died at his recording studio in Minnesota. I was floored. Here were two of the most influential and iconic musical artists of our time lost in a span of months. It didn't seem real, or even possible. It felt out of place, like a deleted scene in a movie you realize after watching it, has no place in the order of things. Well, maybe not like that. But shocking, nonetheless. The impact on the music world was what everyone was talking about. Comforting as it was to see so many people pay tribute to them, what you were still left with in the end is how your own life is altered, and the lives you know their music touched so deeply, memories certain songs instantly propel to the surface, both heartache and victory afoot. You may not know every song. I sure as hell don't. But the ones I'm fond of are etched deep into experiences from my past and present. 

Music has that power. Those who know me well know I've had a love affair with music for quite some time. So when we lose an artist such as David Bowie, Prince, or for me in particular, Elliott Smith, it leaves a permanent mark, a scar you continually expose whenever you listen to one of their albums, or do something to which one of their songs became a soundtrack. I won't pretend to harbor expert knowledge of either musician's body of work. There are songs I'll admit I've probably never even heard. But it's their legacy that speaks the most to people, regardless of the collection of said catalogue one owns.

When I hear Bowie's China Girl or Prince's Purple Rain, I'm reminded of moments that were made special due to those very songs. I was young when Purple Rain was released and remember being kicked out of my parents' living room during Prince and Apollonia's sex scene. I was forced to listen to the music from the hallway and that's what stuck. I was a ten year old boy sitting in a darkened corridor as the glare from the television provided my only source of light, listening to this angelic voice sing about falling grapefruit juice. I had no idea what Purple Rain was. I just knew I wanted to hear about it constantly. Bowie's music became equally significant.

When friends would ask me who I thought the world's greatest band or musician was, I would always feel compelled to say The Beatles. Not because of their music, mind you, which of course is brilliant, but more so due to the entire genres of music they inspired, a category of which David Bowie is easily a part. I was in my twenties when I first heard Ziggy Stardust for the first time. From there, my collection of his music grew, songs I couldn't get out of my head, from Aladdin Sane's Saturday Night to Hunky Dory's Changes, Stardust's Five Years to the title track of Heroes. The list of songs is unending though to some need only be comprised of a select few.

This is how these artists have connected with people, their stories wired directly into the consciousness of millions. Everybody has had sex to a Prince song at one point in their life. Even if that's not true now, it will be someday. In an industry that on some levels has skinned originality alive, these were two of the most versatile and integrity driven talents. And now they're gone. On the day David Bowie's death was reported, musician and writer Carrie Brownstein wrote via her twitter account:

                   "It feels like we lost something elemental, as if an entire color is gone."

I knew exactly what she meant. One could argue that the landscape of popular music today has been reduced to a hue no longer rich with ingenuity. Original voices haven't disappeared completely. I just long for the screams of the silent innovators, and will forever miss the two that were taken from us far too early. The holes on our old bedroom walls where the tacks once held the posters of our favorite bands act like constellations of our past. Even filled, they still echo the nights we would lay on our beds, headphones on, and escape. David Bowie and Prince, among others, were the forces that took us there. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

Obvious Oblivion

I plummet down the steps, every jagged move guided by anxiety and a sharp pain in my back that slowly begins to resemble excitement. I hesitate to welcome what follows, what's waiting for me at the bottom. The ocean deceives me as it stretches across my entire field of view, its plastic fangs the result of decades of human activity that have only further contributed to the accumulated waste floating sporadically along the shore, an ever growing wart above nature's once glowing smile. As I finalize my descent, tiny grains of sand scorch the bottom of my feet, the sun's maddening embrace already hours in. I melt into the beach with every clumsy step I take. I look for comfort from my friends, two in particular who have joined me on this terrifying journey into the unknown. I am seventeen years old, and have just dropped acid for the first time. 

Where I would normally be sitting among my classmates, I am perched atop a rock facing the Santa Cruz shoreline. The water looks unhurried, the waves moving almost intermittently, a stop motion effect at the hand of God, or the pretty young woman who took our money this morning. The ghosts of my English class scatter about as I walk through visions like sheets hanging to dry of what my day would've been like if I had acted more responsibly. But this is high school, and unfortunately for me, responsibilities are far from the forefront of my priorities. I ask my friends how they feel, how the world around them is behaving. I get only violent bursts of laughter and some "holy shits", a reaction I understand perfectly. Two other friends, a couple, are there merely to enjoy a day of hooky at the beach while being endlessly entertained by the three assholes undergoing the effects of a highly dangerous drug, though one that appears to be loads of fun.  

As the high begins to peel my scalp further back, I notice my friend Gabe entering the ocean and dragging what looks to be a small but chubby shark. I realize later it's a boogie board. He rides the waves in, sound reduced to the hum of the sea and his girlfriend, a gorgeous young creature that my raw and perverted mind can barely register as human, cheers him on. 'What the fuck is happening?' I ask myself. My other two friends join in on the chants when I see Gabe disappear, engulfed in a blanket of foam. He rises after what feels like a decade and greets us with a newly shaped upper lip, compliments of the undertow pulling him face first into a rock. His girlfriend runs to him like a soldier returning from war and caresses his face.

I survey the platypus-like beak of my buddy and feel the anger burn through my veins. I turn to my enemy, the ocean, and prepare my revenge. It's only moments later that I find myself charging the water, punching wildly at the waves as I scream 'FUCK YOU!' at the top of my lungs. I am convinced very few people have ever looked this ridiculous. And it is only the beginning.

Research Abounds

Shortly after graduating from High School, a period known to some as the waiting room of adulthood, there were moments occasionally dipped in a substance of some kind. I'd like to say it was with nothing too heavy, but relative terms like that only exist to make you feel better about the choices you make. Broad scales for small minds, a willful imbalance of self-perception. As marijuana was of significant importance to some of the friends I hung around, and girls I wanted to see naked, steering toward it came naturally. The first time I tried it was different than some of the stories I had been told. I felt nothing. Whether it was product or user error, I walked away unsatisfied. And considering the first ever drug I experimented with was acid, marijuana had a lot to live up to. 

My friends seemed to get a kick out of it so I was eager to experience it for myself. I was mocked if it looked like I was doing it wrong, my novice ranking a source of comedy for some. I inhaled, awaiting a rush that never came. Until it did.  Aside from the onslaught of mass paranoia with which marijuana would eventually befall me, it did have its memorable moments. Where LSD inspired a more sensory high, a good bag of weed created a more phycological one. Whether I was sitting in the backseat of my friend Josh's Camaro spacing out to Dr. Dre's The Chronic while cruising down El Camino Real, or standing in the middle of a living room staring down the barrel of a four foot bong, it became a source of worry and discomfort for me. There was laughter, mind you. Quite a bit of it.

But down in the trenches of my brain, it was apparent that this was not going to be a love affair I would aim to keep. Whenever I smoked, I would feel completely out of my body, which I suppose is the whole point, though one a little too jagged for me. I was surprised at how perfectly functional so many of my friends appeared to be, whereas I would turn into a total fucking moron whenever I was high. The following rules were established as a result:

1. Never get high in the daytime.

2. Never get high around a lot of people, especially during large parties (Less than five is okay)

3. Never get high and talk to women and die before you have sex with one.

4. And finally, whatever you do, never get high again.

All of the above were broken with less than desirable results.

A Signal In The Grass

One memory I have was from a road trip I took years later with my friends Matt and Troy on our way to Lake Tahoe. With a storm on the forecast, we practiced our best judgment and, instead of taking a well equipped truck, decided to take my 1993 Ford Escort, a car that would often give the impression that it ran solely on AAA batteries. On the way, somewhere along Interstate 5, my buddy Matt decided to whip out some sort of weird, motorized pipe designed to enhance the strength of the user's hit. I drove while he activated it in the backseat of my car, an act, despite its close proximity, I could hear but not actually see. I watched as the mood of the weather drastically began to change, followed by the mushroom cloud of smoke that ejected from my friend's throat. After hacking himself inside out, Matt handed the pipe to my friend Troy. 

The process was repeated until the pipe was finally passed to me. I weighed the possibilities. 'What harm could it do?' The answer was obvious but I raised the pipe to my lips and proceeded to take one of the fattest fucking hits of my life, all while trying to steer us safely to our destination. My lungs were set ablaze and the lining of my throat felt like shrapnel of dead tissue had been flung like a pinball inside my mouth. As that became my one and only hit, I continued to drive us along Highway 50, now entering Placerville, CA. Floating along the road, paranoia immediately began to take hold. I slowed to a crawl at a green light, and sat there as the engine purred while various cars pulled around us, spouting obscenities at the asshole behind the wheel.

"Fucking go!" Troy shouted. Startled, but barely grasping the moment, I accelerated gently and began to move the car forward, unaware of the curve in the lane up ahead. It didn't dawn on me that I had ended up in the parking lot of a liquor store and had somehow found my way to the rear of the building, stopping in what only mildly resembled a space. They both had had enough at that point and rightfully demanded that I surrender all driving duties for the rest of the evening. "Get the fuck out of the seat, Marc" was heard multiple times. I don't even know how I managed to move from one seat to another, let alone landing in the backseat of my own car. As Matt and Troy went inside the liquor store for snacks, I stayed in my seat, awaiting the dragon's breath I was convinced was destined to destroy my evening. 

With a new captain at the helm, we returned to our regularly scheduled programming. A slave now to the navigational prowess of my friend, the outside world became an arena of unpredictability. Snow began to fall, appearing like tiny stars in the blackness, dots of white hurling at the windshield as if Matt had somehow activated the Ford Escort's secret hyperdrive feature. 'Dude, slow down' I demanded. Matt assured me that he was driving the speed limit and for all I knew, he was. But it felt like at any given moment, we would skid out of control at the heels of the Hill Valley Courthouse. After a few more attempts to get Matt, anyone, to acknowledge my pleas, I noticed an odd shape squirming in the distance. Had we been moving at the speed of light which I initially concluded we were, this thing would've escaped my view entirely. But it was there, peeking out of the darkness, coming dangerously into focus.

When awareness finally hit, I couldn't believe what I was looking at. In a historic union of man and beast, a man and a werewolf were walking side by side on the shoulder of Highway 50. 'What the fuck is that!?' I yelped helplessly. "You're fucking trippin, Marc!" Troy snapped in anger. I wanted nothing more than to believe him. I wanted it to be a delusion, to know that this was all happening because of a simple error in judgement. But when Matt stopped mid-sentence to review the scene more carefully, bug-eyed and curious, I receded into a ball in the back seat of my car and squealed inside my stoned and altered head 'Oh shit, they see it too!' The world was ending, but not of nuclear war, global warming, or famine, but of a creature popular in American folklore and movies. And even if it turned out to be a woman walking her Labrador Retriever, which it did, it was still terrifying.

Lessons In Freefall

As I turned 18, house parties would become a regular lab for experimentation. My friends and I tested the waters frequently, only to aggravate the waves that came. More trips down the hallucinogenic highway were taken, one that even left me questioning the meaning of life as a female companion and I stood at the top of a slide while two men we didn't know watched eerily below. Contrary to what some have experienced, I never had a "bad trip" on acid. Even when others around me seemed to be in turmoil, it created a wall that would almost pose as a shield that I could occasionally poke through, but be able to take refuge behind when needed. This was all in my head, I'm sure. But I was always surprised by how enjoyable the experience was, considering how low I felt at that particular stage in my life.

I had feared that my current state of mind would somehow cause my bullshit to metastasize and ruin my high, or worse, someone else's. But it never did. One night at a friend's house, a few of us decided to drop a hit of acid each before watching Pink Floyd's The Wall, an act permanently stored in the global archives of obvious cliches. One of my earliest childhood buddies, not one to partake in this sort of activity, was among us, and having recently gone through a bad break up, was there primarily to rid himself of the mental anguish, if just for one evening. But it became apparent to him early on that the barrier between he and the evening's drug-taking coalition was too much for him to bear. He said his goodbyes and made his way out the door. Against my better, somewhat sober judgement, I followed him. 

I knew the climb would be nearing its peak, but I didn't want him to be alone. I thought, if anything, we could just bullshit in the car for a while, trip for a bit, and return at the tail end of the fun. But as we were turning the corner, under the spotlight of horrible fucking luck, we saw his ex-girlfriend crossing the street, her tiny hand sealed in the embrace of another man. Distraught, my friend sped off in a fiery rage, taking my high as hostage. We raced down the expressway, the streetlights above contorting into streaks of irradiated brilliance. His sobs were only a harsh reminder that anything at this point was a potential threat. As tough as he was, my buddy wasn't prepared for this. As he shared his thoughts with me on love and the current state of his ex-girlfriend's betrayal, swerving violently around fellow motorists, the drug's affect became impenetrable.

He offered multiple times to take me back to the house in an attempt to salvage what was left of my high. But I declined. It was one of the strangest circumstances I had ever experienced with a friend, but one I knew I was not willing to change. We sat in his car in front of his parents' house and bullshitted, laughed even. As The Smiths' Louder Than Bombs muttered from the speakers, there were tears, proclamations of suicide, and passing cars that stretched like taffy before me, alterations of light and sound that promised no understanding of reality, and no end. But it was worth it. We advanced a bridge that only hours earlier seemed destined to burn. With geography an ally, I was able to walk the five houses down the street to get to my own. Balance slowly returned. But most importantly, my friend was still here.

And The Wall Comes Down

As these experiences further solidified their influence, different avenues were explored. Powders entered the mix shortly into my early twenties, though only briefly. When I reflect on the logic used to justify some of the choices I made, it almost always revolved around a friendship, be it platonic, or other. Sometimes I did it just to fit in, to replace the piece in a group that had been temporarily vacated, or severed. Sliding a hollowed out pen or rolled up dollar bill along the crease on a sheet of foil wasn't something I did to try to be cool. These were moments shared with people that were important to me, in which things like music, relationships, parents, religion, and goals would command the topics of conversations we would have. They're not moments I'm particularly proud of, or ones I know I'll ever repeat, but they're experiences that served a purpose in my life, no matter how stupid or careless, and even helped to foster a creative impulse on which I would eventually rely. 

That's not to say that I believe only drugs can offer a gateway to creativity. There have been many people throughout history who have created wonders without the crutch or assistance of drugs. But it did, at least for me, influence a different interpretation of ideas I had at the time. And it's those very ideas that inspire me to write today. It's been 7 years since I last experimented with anything other than alcohol. This took place on a camping trip to Cherry Lake, a spot in the Stanislaus National Forest that my friends and I would visit each summer. It happened as these things often do with someone getting the bright idea to bring a bag of mushrooms to the woods because why not? Curiosity drags a fingernail across your skin and you ask yourself, "would it be so bad?" I turn to my wife, and in addition to her blessing, ask that she keep our dog Lenny from turning into a dragon and swallowing me whole.

This was one of the few times I had ever tried mushrooms and with it being so long since its debut, felt the anxiety surging through me. Even though I was operating far outside my comfort zone, I was huddled under the warmth of nature with some of my closest friends. The typical swell of laughter began, spurned from anything remotely funny. Colors bled from the night sky and simple noises became a language all their own. As the night began to dwindle, a buddy and I, two of the last remaining, entered a discussion about the Star Wars prequels, more specifically the end of Revenge of the Sith when Darth Vader's suit is finally revealed. I had always hated that goddamn scene, and felt, due to the current alteration of reality, that there was no time like the present to offer my own thoughts on what should've been.

As any of you who have seen Revenge of the Sith are aware, Obi-Wan defeats Anakin Skywalker during their duel on Mustafar, critically injuring him and pretty much leaving his former padawan to die. Skywalker is eventually found by his master, Darth Sidious (Emperor Palpatine) and taken away. In an attempt to harness the power of the recently appointed Darth Vader, a suit is designed to keep the young apprentice functioning. Tragically, that's where the interesting part ends. Darth Vader, still charred and horribly dismembered, is basically rebuilt and stuffed like a sausage into his suit, a moment we've been anticipating the entire movie but are not asked in any way to give a shit about. This lazy reveal infuriated me in the theater. It seemed rushed and unrewarding. I felt the character deserved better, deserved this:

In The Empire Strikes Back, after Luke escapes the wampa attack, he falls victim to an impending snow storm. Maimed and disoriented, he lay there as his friend Han Solo finds him, and very cleverly saves his life, albeit at the loss of a poor tauntaun. Back at the Rebel Base, Luke is submerged in some sort of cylindrical tank filled with bacta, a liquid used to accelerate the healing process (I had to look it up). In ROTS, rather than immediately jumping into Anakin’s new suit, I imagined him watching curiously from the confines of a similar tank as the suit itself is prepared. Through the glass, he watches the construction of his new limbs, the mechanical details in which he will be kept alive, witnessing the final stages of his transformation to the dark side. This is what I would have wanted to see, and it was a vision that came to me during a mushroom-induced episode in the woods.

As the spate of memories surfaced during the writing of this blog, I started to think about the day these stories will be shared with my sons. My wife and I know they are going to tread their own paths at times, making some decisions without the benefit of parental support. I did these things because I was curious of the result, of the effect. I don't pretend to be an authority on the subject. I've never suffered an addiction to drugs, regardless of addictive tendencies I may have experienced with certain things in my life. But it's never been to the point where I felt a problem was near, nor to my recollection, has anyone close to me. 

I am aware that drug addiction is a powerful and life-damaging issue with which many people in the world struggle, and I would hate to think that this in any way belittles the pain so many families have befallen. As with my others, this blog is mainly designed as a way for me to share personal stories, a sort of tearing at old wounds for the sake of creativity. There is no condoning of the above shared. There is only what is shared, and what will continue to be.

The Changes: Part 2

Normalcy is a funny thing. Think of every room you've ever been in and questioned at some point your very reason for being there. Everything feels as it should, dust laid to rest in all the right places. As the hours of the day wither, you come to realize just how typical and familiar it all feels, and comfortable because of it. Whether it's your job, conversations you have, or the every day things you do, the knife of routine gets embedded so deeply that you lose the power to distinguish the handle from the blade, leading to the arrival of a new reality you involuntarily accept, though anticipate nonetheless.

On November 4th 2015, my son Joseph underwent his final chemotherapy treatment. Occasional breaks and work meetings aside, every Wednesday for 48 weeks was spent at the Bass Center at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital in Palo Alto. On the mound of each week, time would drop like an anchor, only one designed to inspire motion, to steer away from something unthinkable though what began to feel surprisingly ordinary. Following our son's first post-treatment scans, it felt like we were reintroduced to the world, one reality left behind as another stood by to welcome us. And like wild animals released from captivity, we were unsure of what to expect.

The days would usually start like any other. My sons and I would wake up around 7:00 a.m., sometimes 8:00 if I pushed it. I would feed them breakfast and put on an episode of Sesame Street (always the go to). While they ate, I would check the news, Facebook, and before the film’s release, watch the trailers for The Force Awakens repeatedly. After dropping Sammy off at my wife's parents' house, Joseph and I would make the trek to Palo Alto through a seemingly time sucking portal. In the room, Joseph would sit in his stroller as Finding Nemo or Toy Story played on the small television, while his insides were doused with medicine. Despite his young age, he would usually remain still, almost unabashed, and take it with little to no issue. He created bonds with the nurses, one in particular, Gailene, whom he would damn near rip himself from his stroller to hug.

He was known as the "easy one" among the staff due to his calm and playful demeanor. Whether they were accessing the port in his chest for labs, or preparing to administer the chemo itself, he always seemed happy to be there. He would watch his movie, deliver a smile to anyone who entered the room, walk around a bit (when he learned to walk) and we would leave. This was our routine. And it was one I couldn't help but think I would be sad to depart as we prepared for a new chapter in our lives. This was a moment shared between my son and I. And we shared it every week. I became the figure he sought when he felt scared or emotional, the parental brick, although out of shape, he could lean on. He was too young to understand what was happening to him and why we made these weekly trips. For all he knew, this was a totally awesome theme park that traded lines for waiting rooms, rides for movies, comfort for health.

When his last treatment day arrived, the emotions I had always expected to surface were almost non-existent. I was flooded with relief but felt barricaded by the idea that I would somehow miss this place, these people. I would no longer be required to make the drive each week, or have to subject one of my days off to these appointments, hindering plans that would normally include our then three-year-old, Sammy. The routine was slowly coming to an end. And I wasn't prepared for it. I liked spending this time with my son. I may never understand it. It feels almost demented now. Normalcy is what it eventually introduced, and as curious as it sounds, was strangely comforting. No illusions are had, mind you. I know my outlook would be very different had this turned out another way, had he not responded so well to the treatments or was diagnosed with a more severe form of cancer. I don't give a shit about luck because I'm not convinced that that played any kind of role in our situation. We survived the year, as did he, and that was good enough for us.

The following collection of images were taken on his last day. My wife Josephine made posters to honor the event and the staff of the Bass Center made a cake for him which was ushered in by a team of nurses who sang an end-of-therapy song to him. The gesture was heartwarming and is something my wife and I will never forget. This entire year has been comprised of moments I felt not only strengthened our marriage but my own understanding of the concept of family values and what it means to be a father. These ideas were never lost on me but having to witness my son go through what he did is something I hope I'll never have to relive, though in some weird way, am glad I did. We were there for our son and aided him throughout this entire ordeal. The pages haven't been ripped out of the story. They were bookmarked, memories on which we'll reflect when faced with hurdles we are sure to see in the future, with anything, with life. It's not a manual. It's simply a notebook of experiences.

Last Treatment

Not to be bothered, our son Joseph calmly watches Toy Story 3 while receiving his final injection.

Last Treatment

My wife Josephine made posters to commemorate the day.

Farewell From The Staff

The nurses of the Bass Center at Lucile Packard made a cake for our son which they delivered in song.

The Walk

Joseph parades down a Bass Center hallway following his final chemotherapy treatment. November 4th, 2015.

As I write this, I am overcome by the amount of support we've received from our family and friends, the unspoken words having been just as meaningful. It's not easy to ask a parent how their sick child is coping. I understand this completely. Fortunately for us, the answer was always positive. The images to which I was preview of some of the patients in the waiting room will stay with me for good. There are struggles out there that I can't even pretend to fathom. I wouldn't want to. But I know our membership in that particular group has yet to expire. That's a fear that remains current. Dormant, but very much alive. Over the next few years, Joseph will need to be brought in for quarterly scans to review his condition and ensure there isn't a group of cells hiding behind a wall, in a trashcan, or under a lamp shade somewhere in his body. We hope we've seen the last of it. In Part 1 of this blog, I wrote of a shadow I knew would always be with us. It doesn't matter though. Because so will our son.

Fangs

Screenwriting is troubling. It always has been for me. It has slaughtered entire evenings and spread their ashes deep into the early hours of the morning. It has made me irritable at times while feeding my stubbornness to no end. There is no justification for this. Other than my wife and a few friends, barely anybody in the "industry" has read anything I've written. The fault is mine and mine alone, a tattoo I carved into my own arm only to continuously oppose, as time went on, the ink's overall design and meaning. I've been writing screenplays for years and in that time have only sent a handful to producers who for a brief moment showed what kind of resembled interest. I've been rejected by agencies who refuse to accept unsolicited material, a widely known policy, or simply received no response at all. And this is how it should be.

I'm not promoting my brand here effectively, I know, and for any would be director reading this, I can't imagine it would inspire a great amount of confidence in the product at hand. But that's where it starts, confidence tucked away, waiting to be exhumed by that one great idea and nurtured nightly by vehemence and a little bit of madness. But for what? That's one of the many struggles screenwriters face, especially unestablished ones such as myself. We're often writing for a reward that has yet to manifest itself. We see the castle but not the bridge. And before we can begin, we have to face the desolate landscape known as the blank page, where guts are spilled on the coffee table and scabs picked at by the red pens of loved ones. This shouldn't suggest that the ideas aren't there. They just take time.

What follows are the first two pages of a screenplay I've been developing. It's comprised of years of wrong approaches, structure experimentation, the occasional idol rip-off and an absurd amount of frustration, all leading to countless hours of rewriting, where the fog of doubt can turn your ideas into mush. When you rewrite a screenplay, you create the wounds yourself. You rip the bandages away, review the progress just to pry them open all over again. But even with the stress that naturally comes, it can be enormously fulfilling. When you complete something you feel you've inserted so much of yourself into, you can't help but crown the process with a certain level of pride, all the while arousing your fear that it's really all for nothing. The screenplay that these two pages precede have bounced me back and forth within that very place.

This is a screenplay that has seen many changes in its lifetime, although changes I felt were necessary. But it's an original work, not one based on a novel or comic. With today's focus seemingly targeted at franchises, reboots, and sequels, it frightens me to think that the hunt for original material is slowly being laid to rest. Some recent releases based on original concepts which sadly resulted in lackluster performances at the box office have led some to believe that the oil the Hollywood machine runs on now only appears to flow through the veins of the typical blockbuster, leaving the smaller ideas out in the cold. The meat of the cash cow is certainly warranted, but the bones that provide the foundation are what, artistically speaking, can often appear brittle when profit begins to outweighs content.

I'm still a firm believer that smaller films need to exist, and can be largely successful on their own. Quentin Tarantino's widely revered Pulp Fiction, a huge influence for me, was budgeted at just over $8 million and reportedly took in over $200 million worldwide, an astonishing number. Many other smaller films followed suit with similar successes. Those were ideas that were worth the tightrope, and still are. I'm just not sure how many people share that same belief in today's industry. The optimist in me still has trust in that idea, that there are agents, directors, and even actors that still aim to take risks on unknown writers.

Some nights, if I fall victim to a bout of writer's block, I imagine punching the screen in a fit of rage, watching as the shards of glass slowly turn into small serrated teeth that bite down on my hands if I try to quit. But these moments I feel are what define an artist, no matter what the medium. It's a struggle I will always cherish. I don't know if a screenplay I've written will ever get sold or, better yet, committed to screen; I just know that it's a passion that doesn't seem to harbor a desire to go anywhere just yet, except on a computer screen at 2am while my wife and kids are asleep, where violence, romance and comedy can try to bleed from the same heart.