Dreams, Prophecies, and Other Tales

In recent months I've been dreaming about my high school in Houston. In each dream, I'm running to a class in a building that's no longer the structure I knew. It's usually dark, and in one sequence, the stairs seem to multiply as I climb, pushing my way through the crowd.

I usually don't put stock in my dreams, as some people believe they can foretell the future, or store our secret inclinations, but I have to wonder why I keep returning to a place that I didn't like very much. The school wasn't bad, just some of my time spent there. It has taken many years later to understand that I felt out of place on the other side of town, not because of the tony neighborhood, but because I wasn't prepared for the racially mixed environment. My world prior to then was predominantly African American with a few Mexican students and five or six Caucasian teachers thrown in for good measure.

What does it mean, if anything, that I keep returning to my first integrated high school? Were there overlooked lessons that escaped me back then that I need to learn now?

I've had dreams that seem as if two or three jigsaw puzzles were tossed into the air and fell on my coffee table for me to decipher. Strangely enough, during tennis grand slams, I've been able to predict if Venus or Serena will make it through to the next round. I fall asleep with them on my mind, and some point during the early morning I open my eyes knowing full well what the online news and Tennis Channel soon confirms.

Is psychic ability real, or the province of snake oil salesmen? Do shows like Psychic Detectives and Medium give false hopes to people out their struggling with decisions, loss of loved ones, or their belief in past lives?

One of my more bizarre dreams involved my younger brother pulling me into his dream when were children to battle a bogeyman. I know it happened, and he knew that I was there. We shared a bedroom, if proximity had anything to do with my stepping inside his nocturnal world. We sat silently at the breakfast table, exchanging looks, sure that we'd committed some awful crime during the night that our momma would punish us for. When she saw us glancing down at our plates and across the table at each other, she called us on it: What did y'all do?

We didn't rat on each other with any such tomfoolery as being able to cross into each other's world during the previous night's slumber. I used to think that Pisceans were sensitive to such things, but Christian belief warns against people who use runes and divination.

What do you think about all this? Should we pay attention to and try to decipher our dreams?

Heroes, Gurus, and False Prophets

Little boys and girls idolize their parents when they're knee-high to a duck, but what happens as they age and realize that their parents are beautifully flawed creatures?

Are we so shaken that we can't rebound from such a startling revelation? Do we become sullen or withdrawn when we realize that momma forgot to bake the cupcakes because she was exhausted from having to work two jobs?

My momma and granny were my earliest heroes and sources of strength. Our family structure was seemingly impenetrable to me as a child. I felt nothing could harm me while they were around.

The saying goes that, "little boys grow up to marry their mother, and little girls grow up to marry their father," because there's comfort in who and what is familiar. I love my momma, and loved my granny, but I don't want to marry a woman who reminds me of either them. Each person is an individual, and should not be viewed as a carbon copy of someone we treasure.

There are many wolves in sheep's clothing in the world. We'd all do well to keep a watchful eye on those we allow into our inner circle and confidence. This isn't the sky is falling, but the world I knew as a child at my granny's apron is truly a thing of the past. My hiccups and boo boos can't be soothed by kiss and hug from momma. I don't mean to sound like an alarmist.

It's easy to shift our focus to a teacher, coach, politician, celebrity, or professional athlete when we want or feel that we need someone to guide or inspire us. But again, they are human, and similar to childhood parental disappointments, they, too, will undoubtedly fail our expectations. What can we do in these situations? It's best not to put all our faith and belief in one person, but learn to disperse our energies among several people, hobbies, and tasks.

I've never followed a pied piper, and don't believe anyone should. When they crash to the earth, as we all do, they won't take us with them. It's not be selfish, but a survival tool.

It's easy to fall under the spell of a charismatic person on a college campus, a con artist on the streets of New York City if you're a recent transplant or tourist, or remain at home too long after high school or college graduation with a Svengali type parental figure.

The disappointment we experience when someone doesn't do what we think they could or should can be overwhelming at times. What does this tell us? Are our lives otherwise incomplete if we're not watching The French Open, the NBA playoffs, or a presidential primary?

There's no need for you to sit around moping, dejected, and unable to move from your armchair with the remote melded into your palm. Get out and live your life! You can bet that your self-appointed heroes, gurus, and false prophets are doing the same.

Introducing LeNora Jaye

I'm pleased to announce that I'm launching a Publicity and Promotion service, Keneritz Media. My first client is the dynamic, Indie Nubian Soul Singer, LeNora Jaye, who will release her first album in July 2008.

Visit her MySpace page and listen to several of the advance tracks, and see if you don't share my opinion that she will soon become a force in the music industry.

She's already an Internet and United Kingdom deejay favorite!

Contact me at publicity@lenorayjaye.com or keneritzmedia@aim.com for media inquiries and booking requests.

Morningside Writers' Group - Seats Available

We have openings in all three current Morningside Groups for writers in the metro New York City area.

Morningside Fiction Group has two seats available for male writers in our biweekly Thursday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

Morningside Screenwriters and Playwrights Group has two seats available for female writers in our biweekly Monday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

Morningside Memoir/Creative Nonfiction Group has two seats available for female writers in our biweekly Wednesday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

We look forward to your applications and writing samples.

Learning Curve - Adventures in Filmmaking

My roommate and I decided to produce, direct, and film our first collaborative feature-length script this past winter after several delays and questions on whether the story would be received by Christian and secular audiences. We felt that the story was original and would stand the test of time, but how would it play in the Bible belt of the South and the cornfields of the Midwest?

The synopsis: Fallen From Grace is the story of a married immigrant's spiritual separation from his Christian beliefs as he navigates the sometimes turbulent terrain of married life, immigration, and life in the metro New York City area as he pursues the sometimes elusive American Dream. Along the way, he meets and interacts with an assortment of characters that tests his emotional and physical resolve as he works a variety of jobs to remain afloat while pursuing his creative dreams and American citizenship.

The script wasn't the problem, not even the scenes calling for tasteful semi-nudity. It was our process. We were first-time filmmakers who'd jumped headlong into producing an independent feature without having attended film school or with completed projects on our resume. We thought it enough that we had faith in God and each other to make the project successful. It didn't happen as we'd thought or planned.

One of the first tests was finding a reputable producer and talented volunteer technical/production crew and passionate, not necessarily religious actors. We were too trusting (re:naïve) when we met a well-meaning older director who took on the role of mentor. What he said at Starbucks made sense, but during the filming of two promotional trailer scenes my roommate and I felt sporadically overwhelmed by chaos on the set.

My friend donated his swanky high-rise apartment on the Upper West Side for two of the three scheduled scenes intended to garner additional producers, investors, and donations. My focus was split between the bedroom where we filmed a sensual massage scenario and what was going on just outside the room. I didn't want to be a mean or intolerant director. I'd had a few of those back in my early days as an actor, but a film set with multiple personalities isn't a place for a Southern schoolmarm. I should have asserted myself and taken control of my set as the director. I had no place being a people pleaser on that set. My roommate shouldn't have allowed others to touch and manipulate his camera. We were too concerned with being nice guys and not offending any of the volunteer crew and actors.

I don't want to seem ungrateful after the fact. This isn't about naming names or assigning blame. I wasn't scarred by anyone or anything during the filming, but we were left dazed and confused when the producer announced via e-mail that she was withdrawing from the project after our second day of shooting at yet another friend's apartment in Brooklyn. We were devastated, just devastated in that stereotypical southern way. I remember staring at the monitor when the e-mail arrived and calling my roommate to stand at my side as we mouthed the words together. What had we done to deserve this? Was God punishing us in some way for airing our dirty laundry? Was the devil to blame for the producer's unexpected withdrawal?

What I know now is that we should've waited until this summer or fall to begin filming after having raised money and perfected the semi-autobiographical script. It was interesting and odd auditioning actors who were to have played us on screen. Reliving our past setbacks, triumphs, and things we said required stiffening our upper and lower lips.

Writing a story based on real people and events that just happened to be you isn't easy. Self-doubt and judgment crept into each successive draft. We constantly revised potentially embarrassing scenes from real life to make them more digestible and realistic, even though some of things we endured were unbelievable.

My roommate felt that there were too many crew members, but my thoughts were that I'd rather have too many people committed to the project, than not enough. One of my biggest mistakes was wearing kid gloves when I should've bared my knuckles. Southern guy moves to the East Coast and tries his hand at directing a feature film. It's not crazy, but I will do things differently when we restart this project.

There are no classes or books that will help on a live set. There are no case studies or mock sessions that will come in handy. Anything and everything should've been committed to memory before the assistant director calls quiet on the set.

Now that we know, we'll move forward with our on-the-set training of defined professional and personal boundaries and lessons learned, and rise again from the ashes like the mythological Phoenix.

Recovering Packrat

It seems that I woke up one day and was knee-deep in boxes, colored folders stacked on top of the file cabinet, and bags of stuff that I don't remember hoarding away. I've repeatedly promised myself that I'd eat my Wheaties, take my Mega Men multi-vitamins, and ruthlessly clean my home office, bedroom, and living room, and I'm just getting around to sorting through the accumulated mess two years later.

I wasn't a packrat (hoarder as it's also known) as a child. I wasn't allowed to be because my mother ran a tight ship. Why then as an adult has my living space fallen into disarray?

Next to the wall is an old three-tier TV cart that I use as a table that's overrun with all sorts of madness (tropical fish food, aquarium supplies, and binders) that needs major dusting. I hope there's nothing alive on the lower self! My tropical fish are outgrowing the tank, but until I clean this mess, there'll be no room for a larger aquarium.

Why did I buy this handcrafted wooden Mexican bench from an online discount site? Was I planning a picnic on my third floor fire escape and forgot to invite guests at the last minute? It's been a storage space for a 20" Dell monitor and duffle bags filled with Xeroxed handouts from my days tutoring ESL and GED in Spanish Harlem.

I'm at the point now that I don't want to be in here, preferring instead to travel to coffee shops or lounges to write longhand or on the laptop. I dare not work through the list of literary hot spots recently featured on Writer's Digest online as an excuse before cleaning up my pigsty. I also think I was embarrassed for recent tearful and apologetic hoarders on Oprah. I pointed, jaw lowered, "Oh my gosh, look at her mess!" And then I turned around and looked at my mess and closed my mouth and sat in solidarity as I stared at junk that filled one of those public storage rooms.

I didn't set out to become a hoarder, and heaven knows if I knew how exhausting sorting through these bags, boxes, and folders would be, I'd have shredded utility bills as soon as I paid them, rather than file them for months on end.

If there any other hoarders out there, I feel your pain, but know that holding onto clothes you can't wear, media or writing magazines, won't do anything for you. Close your eyes and clench your teeth if purging the junk is painful, but just do it.

Back to the trenches. Wish me luck, or better still, come over and help me!

Why Do I Write?

I've sometimes wondered why I write when I could take the easy route and stifle my creativity as so many people do. Since the advent of blogging and online magazines, artists, political pundits, and those with an axe to grind connect and commiserate online. I had initial reservations about creating a blog, and didn't know if I'd be able or wanted to maintain a regular online presence. Who would want to read what I have to say about anything? Are there others out there who feel the same as I do?

I didn't dream of a writing career as a child as others do and have. I thought I'd be a (famous) actor on Broadway, film, and television. And then I met Dr. D. Joeris, my high school junior English teacher. She was a throwback to English teachers of yore, chignon bun, large eyeglasses, and snazzy matching business suit. Prior to her class, my attempt at keeping a journal was limited to a locked diary I hid in a dresser drawer.

In Dr. Joeris's magnet school English class in Houston's tony River Oaks neighborhood, I learned to trust myself on the page, traveling to distant lands, and commuting with things natural and otherwise. She'd post a journal prompt in her perfect teacher cursive on the board, and we'd have to write a few pages. One such entry posited: If you could travel with E.T. outer space, where would you go, and what would you do? I don't remember my response, but that was typical of her offbeat nature. It's years later that I realize she wanted us to be imaginative, and always treasure the child within us.

Looking back on her now, she made a lasting impression on me. I didn't know who Joyce Carol Oates was in high school, but in the time following, made the connection to the similarity in their appearance. Dr. Joeris used a microphone from her desk sometimes because of fragile voice, and referred to as little ones.

Dr. Joeris and I exchanged a few letters after I moved to New York, all of which I still have safe in a letter bound case. I know we had an affinity for each other, extending to her gifting me a subscription to Daily Word. Was she concerned for soul in New York, away from the bible belt of Texas?

I write to create, recreate, or redefine people, places, and experiences from my past and present. I write because Dr. Joeris gifted me a monogrammed silver Cross pen and pencil set (which I lost one of the two on a subway seat, and was agitated months later), and I love the feel of the pen when writing longhand.

I write to record my place in time on earth. I write to communicate with others who share and oppose my views. I write because it is as natural breathing or walking. I write because I can sometimes transport myself back in time to Dr. Joeris's class, as she walked about the room, shaping our sentences, and encouraging each successive paragraph. It's all about the sentences that become paragraphs, and the paragraphs then become pages.