A Writer Under the Influence

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2010-05-20T17:15:00.005-04:00

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Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Judgment Cometh To Ye"

2010-03-14T23:16:00.007-04:00

Judgment Cometh To Ye

A Poem by Jeff Campagna

The eve of judgment cometh, men of men, women of women, all ye be judged in death as ye judged in life.

Two men sit astride in blue,

..One with a cane and one who,

Has a hat that rests atop,

..His homely face which cant' stop,

Spying the cane in the hand,

..Of the man who starts to stand.

In this room which little fits,

..One now stands and one still sits.

The man who stands reflects his past,

..And how long he hath come to last,

In a world where evil and good,

..Are by all men misunderstood.

A fortune made, A child lost,

..Both by his hand, but at what cost?

The same hand which now rests atop,

..His golden cane, his body's prop.

Ay! This man cared little for few,

..And thought he above all ado.

But those for which he did so care,

..He did so with a silence ere,

He could tell them he did so feel,

..Those emotions he did conceal.

For this man wasn't bad straight thru,

..But things good aren't all that accrue.

The hatted man now stands as well,

..And his modest past he dost tell,

With tear in eye and heavy heart,

..He claims to be a man apart.

Nary a fortune did he make,

..Nor a life did he ever take.

Though one life he did throw away,

..And let his own life go astray.

A friend or family he had not,

..But to love himself he forgot.

So idly through life he went

..With self lament, and did resent,

A God who didn't seem to care,

..Or listen to a poor man's prayer.

His life stood between right and wrong,

..To neither camp did he belong.

Like pillars of stone they stood,

..Pondering which of them would,

Be called through judgment's door,

..To see their life's final score.

Both men were in life not wise,

..And thought soon all their lies,

Would be buried in the fine,

..Sand that sprawls deserts of time.

Much to both the men's surprise,

..There was no God in the skies.

Just an office stark and plain,

..With a clerk who did explain;

That religion mattered not,

..And any God should be forgot.

But no man escapes the day,

..When those who judge have their say.

Two men stand before a judge,

..Both overcome by begrudge.

One whose life was up and down,

..One who wore a poor man's crown.

The first pleasure and strife knew,

..And failed not to throw askew.

The second knew depths and thrift,

..And did squander life's true gift.

This the judge did declare;

.."Both of you are now aware,

God is not the judge of you,

..But a board that does review,

In living what you did show,

..And in death where you must go.

Both of you can rest assured,

..The worst of it ye have endured."

written under the influence by

jeff campagna

Reconsidering The Object: AVATAR

2010-03-03T13:19:00.001-05:00

What is a movie? What are they supposed to do and what sort of effect are they meant to have on those who view them? I suppose these are questions whose answers reside in the province of opinion, and so, I mean to have no authority on the subject, instead, I will merely wax poetic.

As I see it, movies are something of a magic show, a cinematic presentation of a feature length magic trick which has no magician but those who constructed the trick before the show began. They are supposed to whisk us away to some foreign local we can't, for the majority, ever hope to visit in this life. They are meant to leave us euphoric and questioning the reality behind the show.

In 1959, theaters saw record crowds lining up for a new William Wyler picture that had been hyped, promoted and marketing without mercy. "Ben Hur" was one of, if not the biggest, movie that had been released and they made no attempt at hiding it. Back in the 50's there were still remnants of 'movie magic' where viewers would be 'wowed' or 'amazed' by what they were witnessing, and although they had no idea how it was happening, or if it was happening, they enjoyed, whooped and hollered, laughed and cried as if the chariot race was kicking up dust for them to choke on forthwith. It was a magic trick and it blew peoples mind's.

Modern audiences, through no fault of their own, have grown desensitized to the power of a movie. If we see space ships sailing across the screens we think nothing of it; just another night at the movies. If we see a man shot and killed on screen do we feel as if a man has really been murdered? No. Imaginations ran wild in the days of old and to go see a picture was an escape, not from their day, but from the world. Today, movies have the same quotient of enchantment as game of lawn bowling. They exist merely to pass the time.

51 years since, the world has been given another 'Ben Hur'. A man had a vision that movies could once again be a magical experience, one where the viewers knew no time or space, no race or religion, they simply watched in awe. We were shown a world that not only was foreign to us, as movies have continued to do through the years, but revealed a world that the audience yearned to visit, and some would have gladly stayed. Animals we had learnt not of, languages our ears had never heard and people we knew not, all fused and fed our dormant, not dead, but dormant imaginations. "Avatar" is not only an achievement, it's a gift.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poem: "I Love U2 Brother"

2010-03-01T23:40:00.000-05:00

"I Love U2 Brother"

An old diddy I wrote back while I was backpacking Europe when I was 20. My brother was, and still is, a huge U2 fan so I wrote this for him. If you know some U2 songs, you may even like this poem.

I have a Brother,

As he has one too.

I shouldn't complain,

But sometimes I still do.

Sometimes our fights,

Are more than I can bear.

We sew it up,

But you can still see the tear.

We are one yet,

So little's the same.

I'm running away,

And he's glad I came.

I seek refuge,

In my dark holes.

Where as my Brother,

Has soul sweet soul.

We've had our ups,

We've had our downs.

But when he calls,

I come around.

And sometimes I miss him,

I don't see him for days.

What I fail to realize is,

Brotherhood moves in mysterious ways.

All in all,

What I'm trying to say,

Is when you're around,

It's a beautiful day.

written under the influence by

jeffc

An Education Backwards

2010-02-26T10:22:00.004-05:00

I will let Sir Ken Robinson due the speaking. All I will say is; I couldn't agree more, Ken!

listening under the influence,

jeffc

Too Many Writers, Too Few Storytellers

2010-02-25T23:00:00.003-05:00

Have you seen HBO's "Temple Grandin" starring Claire Danes? Well, I am not, as you know, fond of critics and their reviews, so this post really isn't about the movie as much as it is about what the movie proved to me.

I believe, though I may not be skilled enough to practice it yet, that all art requires a certain amount of invisibility of the artist. When one listens to music, as they do, they shouldn't be constantly reminded that there is a musician behind the notes. When one reads a book, they should notice the story and not the writer behind it's words. And when one watches a film they should not be shelled with evident camera movements, over acting, one liners and strange production design that could risk taking the viewer out of the story and into the film. After all, a film, or a novel, is simply the telling of a story. A tradition that dates back beyond recorded history, where one person, or many, would stand before their listeners and, simply, tell a story.

I digress. "Temple Grandin", though no big stars grace it's credits and no famous art house director was calling it's shots and no Kaufman was behind it's words, was, I dare say, one of the best film I have ever seen. And I claim this for one reason and one reason only. Yes it had spectacular and poignant acting, yes it was a very technically competent film, but neither of these are the reason I speak of. The reason is the film's unparalleled achievement in, what I think is the most important aspect of a film, the suspension of disbelief. It wasn't about the directing, writing or acting. It was about the story. The visible edge of filmmaking was nowhere to be seen or felt.

If you are having trouble grasping my point, compare my thoughts to say, "Smoking Aces". A wonderful film that I enjoyed very much, but while watching, was constantly reminded of how cool the film actually was. It wasn't about the story, it was about the film.

I know a lot of screenwriters, but not as many storytellers and the spread is ever widening. As an artist there is a desire to show yourself in your work, I know for I am guilty of just this, but perhaps an artist will appear in their work whether they try to or not, and when one tries, they compromise that elusive and sweet suspension of disbelief, the story.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

NOW AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE: PAPERBACK.....

2010-02-19T16:14:00.014-05:00

So, beginning in 2009, I will be publishing an annual paperback series containing the year's worth of poems, blog entries and short stories found here on 'A Writer Under The Influence'.

Plus, I will be adding a few additional entries and pieces in the paperback version that can't be found here online just to egotistically reward those who still actively enjoy the tactile feel of bound paper.

Please help support. (I have removed my profit from the price to lower the book cost, but you purchasing will surely support my will to live)

There are two ways to purchase 'A Writer Under The Influence - Volume #1'

(Click the icon to be whisked away to the purchase page)

Still on the 'Eve of Destruction'

2010-02-12T19:18:00.008-05:00

P.F. Sloan penned "Eve Of Destruction" in 1965 and soon after Barry McGuire laid down a legendary one take recording of it off of a wrinkled cocktail napkin. It would be his only hit song. Poignant, provoking and holding back no punches, it delivered a hard but honest message; our world is messed up and if we don't do anything to fix it, we will destroy it. And, 50 years later, not only have we done nothing to fix it, but it has only gotten worse.

Can humans not change? The Eastern world still explodes, the bullets are still loading, rivers still have bodies floating in them. What fears existed then still exist today. The button still lies in shadow on the finger which wants to push it. The world is still bound to scare a boy. Still we contemplate, still we watch senators corrupt systems and marches fail to have any effect all the while human respect disintegrates. Hate still thrives. We still bury our dead and eat our neighbors and still we hide the traces and say the graces. Can humans not change? If you're not building your castle, you're tearing in down and we are tearing down, brick by brick, the world around us. It's the same old place. There will be no one to save with the world in a grave.

Sometimes, it's promising when things written 50 years ago still apply today; this isn't one of them...

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Perspective is Reality

2010-02-11T10:40:00.009-05:00

I think myself an artist, and, in so doing, hold my head steady, and with a subconscious commitment, thrust it so far up my ass that I no longer know myself different from an unripe melon. Now, I don't mean to say that I have nary a notion of who I believe I am. What I am implying is that who I believe I am can in no way be accurate. As I plummet further and further down into the rabbit hole of shadows, where creating feels realer than living, my own opinion of myself can no longer be trusted. Those around me, my family and peers, have an opinion of me, be it good or not, that could possibly be more precise than that of my own. And in this state of mind, I look to those around me for their perspectives of who I am, because they have better an idea than I.

You see, as an artist, there is a certain self-abandon present in all my decisions. My art is far more important to the world than I am, and because of that, my priorities are reflected accordingly, and when you have been creating art for a number of years, and abandoning ones self in proportion, what can you truly know about yourself beyond the art which you produced? Like the tumbling snow ball or the rippling water, with each passing moment and each decision made, the effect compounds itself in such a way that for the snow ball to become smaller it has to stop and melt, likewise for the water, ripples only cease when the action causing them does so to. So to continue creating art furnishes the continuance of my fading self-awareness.

If one's opinion of me is that I get ahead of myself and fail to finish things which I start; they are probably correct. If someone thinks that I am selfish, caring, responsible or unaccountable for my actions, well, who am I to argue? So you can understand, or hope to at least, the mental state I am in as I continue, in this life, to paint the self portrait of a man I do not know.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part II

2010-02-10T23:41:00.004-05:00

If you have not read "Part I" of this poem, please do now by clicking here. One wouldn't want to digest the entree prior to the appetizer so carefully plated.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTING

Adieu, adieu! to history's winds do we,

Bid farewell to history's sprawling tree.

For a new tree grows now called The Present,

One you'll find was scarce more pleasant,

Than the past our hero was sore victim to,

Nay, this present was but a present to few.

Like a true soldier's faith did he march on,

And still from social circles was withdrawn,

To the point where awkward silence lied,

In every council and tête-à-tête he tried.

For the past had no mercy, nor the future would,

Have such charity for but a boy misunderstood.

Leaving school early he soon became,

Nothing more than a tradesmen of pity and shame,

The seasons of life so soon changed for,

The best of our subject's time spent yore.

For he fell in love for a time first and last,

From which time he forgot his entire past.

His childhood was a memory vague at best,

To recall a fond memory he was pressed.

But when love knocks on one's iron door,

And that fist belongs to one they adore,

One's past becomes nothing but idle fiction,

To be condemned to a novel crucifixion.

And one's future then dost become,

A fountain of dreams that dost flow from,

A spring of imagination so long ago sprung,

When our subject was so innocent and young.

Here an internal conflict did boil and brew,

And there his resentment grew and grew,

For the life for himself he had so actively built,

So the loathing and spirits doused his guilt.

But when he would peer into his true love's eye,

He saw a faith and solace if he were to defy,

Would haunt and linger each and every thought,

That he thought when he should have fought,

Against his disdain and against his fears,

That would up till now rule his years.

On one hand; submission. The other; dreams.

He grew to tolerate a life of extremes.

To the horizon he searched for a way out,

To his dreams, to his wants; he craved route.

The course became clear, the direction ahead,

Was to be one of a path often tread,

By those with minds and bodies strong,

So to this group our subject did not belong.

With his reckless abandon and parent's pride,

Nay! only in his true love could he confide,

That his one true passion was far from trade,

Ay! it was a passion in which most often played,

Those with money and power and idle of both,

Both of which our subject hadn't the growth,

So from a different launching pad must he,

Sculpt the shape of the newfangled tree.

He took a step back and thought once and for all,

That nothing could stop him, storm nor squall.

Now his relationships were on the mend,

With his father, brother, foe and friend.

And his mother continued to show support,

And with his true love did he so cavort.

But as all youths learn when of age they grow,

That there is more to life's ebb and flow,

Like jobs, cars, money earned and spent

No matter where the spender says it went.

The fog of reality crept in more each dawn,

Like the due of fidelity on one's lawn.

This well orchestrated dance did he so view,

But something told him that he knew,

A healthier alternative to the status-quo,

One where creativity could freely flow.

After reading the classics, books upon books,

Of mad scientists and buccaneer crooks,

Our subject took to the pen and to the write,

And in taking to such indulgence ignite,

A second true love that he'd give his all,

So many poems and fictions he did scrawl.

With each poem and each fiction penned,

He would less, and even less, comprehend,

The way the world worked outside his doors,

The riots, the politics, the future and wars.

His writing, his woman. His booze by his side,

This man, still young, tried to in vain divide,

His imagination that was so early sprung,

From the fellow inhabitants he was among.

Part III will soon follow, if you are interested, in my mind's hollow...

Self Portrait Of A Man I Do Not Know: Part I

2010-02-08T23:17:00.005-05:00

THE PREFACE

Adieu, Adieu! yon silver night sky,

For 'tis tonight that I dare to ask why,

It is that I only now say a fair hello,

To the man I am and do not know.

A self portrait of sorts must all artists do,

Whether or not they know exactly who,

They are inside when the brush dips in,

The paint of life from wither all begin.

Yet here shall rest a medley of rhymes,

That act as a portrait detailing my crimes,

Against my self for which I do so revel,

While reveling beside me sits the Devil.

For I have little idea of the man I am,

So through this poem I shalt try to exam.

THE PORTRAIT PAINTED

He was born to a Mother and Father proud,

And so a cloud of pride did enshroud,

This outcast, this pariah as he grew,

Into the child who so little knew.

As a boy born of freedom so oft' does,

He had nary a sense what struggle was.

At the year four, his parents so split,

From the vows to which they did commit.

And so this boy would know a broken home.

As a childhood home that was his own.

Too young to know what to make thereof,

This apparent abandonment of true love,

He would float throughout spans of time,

In his imagination so sublime.

His Brother who was his senior two years,

Would so feed off his younger's fears,

In response to the lack of figure Father,

The older would take upon himself the bother,

Of teaching and guiding our poem's subject,

Through youth in hopes of being correct,

When it came to the life he knew nothing of,

Nay, he was but two years in age above,

Our boy, so what could he possibly know,

About the knowledge he tried to bestow.

For now our boy was without two things;

The Brother of Princes. the Father of Kings.

Now to his mother he looked and prayed,

And to her side he loyally stayed.

In this pattern he sailed through youth,

Not knowing the fiction from the truth.

Out of many schools he was wretched,

Due to how his Mother's dollar stretched.

So friends were a pleasure not to be had,

By this child whose thoughts were sad.

When his age into double digits crashed,

His awareness of life left him abashed.

Within a few years a girl showed to the boy,

That after all this still to be had was joy,

From relations with people besides those,

That live with he and that he knows.

T'was a new era for our tortured subject,

That in the part following we will upon reflect.

For the next few years and years beyond,

A new style of life of which he grew fond,

Was that of one he should have known before,

And to make up time he began to explore,

At a pace perhaps some would deem risky,

That involved vodka, gin and whiskey.

Before reaching twenty years of age,

Against the machine he deemed fair to rage,

And so his few friends began to wane,

Leaving him to roam his own domain,

Within a psyche diseased from the start,

That should have taken notes from his heart.

Ay! 'Tis here our child became a man detached,

From his future ahead and his past snatched.

No stranger to lust but one to new love,

He grew fast into a being devoid of,

Social skills that would be needed soon,

In his broken life's quarter life swoon.

Caught in a web of anxiety and hate,

He found it increasingly hard to relate,

To those around him in school and play,

That seemed to effortlessly show and display,

The skills that were needed from one his age,

To preform on the unforgiving adolescent stage.

There wasn't a woman he failed to want,

But all he wanted seemed to flaunt,

The fact that other men clearly waived,

What these women so clearly craved.

After knowing many women abound,

And drinking many spirits around,

He began to wonder what the purpose was,

To this life. A thought he thought because,

Nary an answer had been proposed to he,

Who was never given a guarantee,

That life would give those who longed,

A reason to forgive those who wronged,

He when he was to young and did wonder

If man was held criminal for every blunder.

Through many a phase our man sped through,

And many an experience he did accrue.

Tis time that we bid fair adieu,

To the past we have fallen into.

PART II, coming soon.... if you so care, to follow through...

Poetry: "Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

2010-01-19T10:50:00.009-05:00

This was written over the course of a few hours during which I posed for a photo shoot as an 1800's Absinth endorsing writer and muser. I hammered away on a 1894 Underwood typewriter, which turned out to have a rather steep learning curve when the typist is accustomed to 'delete' buttons and 'edit undo' functions. Never the less, I powered through and managed to hunt and peck out the following stanzas. Now, it must be said, being a lover of authenticity, and a enthusiast of all things spirited, I did, whilst in the middle of the photo shoot, enjoy a glass or more of the traditional one part spirit, two parts water with a burnt sugar cube rendering a cloudy yet potent transport for the green fairy; Absinthe. When I came to the next day this is what I found on the tea stained paper which was wretched out of the cold dead hands of the Underwood at the end of the shoot. (unaltered)

"Never Titled" or "The Sugar Cube"

There goes all my money like dust in the wind,

Up in the air.

Left shoulder down, right shoulder up,

It's just not fair.

A man summons a cab, a singer summons a note,

A skier the snow, the sea captain his boat.

A date summons his train and a child his toy,

A soldier the action and a priest ever joy.

Deserts summon rain as it's crosser his water,

The farmer his crop, the mother her daughter.

The dog companionship, the debater the contrary,

But Alas! The writer, above all, The Green Fairy.

That was a poem you may like it or not,

If you don't, then well join the lot.

Nay, I have never claimed nor have stated,

With a large fan base my thoughts are related.

High numbers aren't the best offer,

Don't believe me? Go ask the golfer.

Tis better to have a devoted few,

Than it is to watch fandom undue.

Ay! For peoples admiration is so soon,

Harkened back to face it's doom.

written under the influence of 'La Fee Verte' by,

jeffc

SPECTACULAR ORACULAR: "The Machine Stops"

2010-01-09T12:35:00.010-05:00

It may be short, but E.M Forester's science fiction tale "The Machine Stops" is no less relevant or, dare I say, clairvoyant. Written in 1909 when there were still more horse drawn carriages on the road than automobiles, Lincoln was still President and the concept of the radio was still a castle in air, the predictive E.M. Forester was taken more for a nut than a visionary. However, over 100 years down the bumpy road of technology, "The Machine Stops" reads more like a modern day cautionary tale than it does a sci-fi classic. Here are a few excerpts from the 1909 text. Read 'em and weep (for the future that is).

"The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well."

(YES, 100 years ago, before a computer had even been discussed or thought about, E.M. was inventing SKYPE in the pages of his novelette)

"And of course she had studied the civilization that had immediately preceded her own - the civilization that had mistaken the functions of the system, and had used it for bringing people to things, instead of for bringing things to people. Those funny old days, when men went for change of air instead of changing the air in their rooms!"

"Few travelled in these days, for, thanks to the advance of science, the earth was exactly alike all over."

"People never touched one another. The custom had become obsolete, owing to the Machine."

"Each infant was examined at birth, and all who promised undue strength were destroyed. Humanitarians may protest, but it would have been no true kindness to let an athlete live; he would never have been happy in that state of life to which the Machine had called him; he would have yearned for trees to climb, rivers to bathe in, meadows and hills against which he might measure his body. Man must be adapted to his surroundings, must he not?"

"It was naked, humanity seemed naked, and all these tubes and buttons and machineries neither came into the world with us, nor will they follow us out, nor do they matter supremely while we are here."

"Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives in the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It has robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralysed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it...and if it could work without us, it would let us die."

"Those who still wanted to know what the earth was like had after all only to listen to some gramophone, or to look into some cinematophone."

"No one confessed the Machine was out of hand. Year by year it was served with increased efficiency and decreased intelligence. The better a man knew his own duties upon it, the less he understood the duties of his neighbour, and in all the world there was not one who understood the monster as a whole."

"It was otherwise with the failure of the sleeping apparatus. That was a more serious stoppage. There came a day when over the whole world the beds, when summoned by their tired owners, failed to appear. It may seem a ludicrous matter, but from it we may date the collapse of humanity."

"But there came a day when, without the slightest warning, without any previous hint of feebleness, the entire communication-system broke down, all over the world, and the world, as they understood it, ended."

'She crawled over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands.'

"Oh, tomorrow - some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow."

"Never," said Kuno, "never. Humanity has learnt its lesson."

Nostradamus; eat your precognitive heart out.

writing, in fear of the machine and under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry: "Dum Vivis Ama"

2010-01-04T22:00:00.004-05:00

"Dum Vivis Ama"
a poem by jeff campagna

Man hath achieved a great many things,
Empires fallen he hath built for kings.
He hath trod the earth and sail'd it's skies,
And his every mistake achieves reprise.

Prithee, Man hath not an angel’s wings,
Nay, he is tied down with material things.
He shalt wax and wane 'till the day he dies,
About his achievements, truths and lies.

Man hath scaled to a great many heights,
Mountains of iron and oceans of lights.
Methinks he got lost upon his quest,
‘Ere he would have found some godly rest.

Man hath wrought a symphony of fights,
While the philosopher thinks and writer writes.
Sure as the wind dost blow west,
There must be an achievement that is best.

My greatest achievement one may guess,
Is some form of material gain or success.
Nay, it's not a thing that can be taken or sold,
Nor can this thing ever grow old.

It is something that if thee possessed,
The meaning of life would be egressed.
Ay! Tis' worth more than fields of gold,
My greatest achievement is the love I hold.

RERUN: My Obsession With Words and the Endless Search for a Muse

2009-12-21T23:50:00.002-05:00

I feel homeless, lost in the haze of empty words. Why must a muse be a woman? I have found love, but with it, didn't come my muse.

Let's start with my biting obsession with words, obviously of the English origin. It's a recent thing. Since I started actually reading to be specific. Until about four, maybe five months ago, I hadn't actually read a piece of fiction, front to back. Hard to believe? It is for me as well. Sure I fought through Bill Shakespear in high school in an out-loud class setting, and before that, even lied through many a book report in elementary school. I would read the first page, and the back cover. Then I would pick a few lucky pages from the middle, and with them, I would formulate the most asinine, but seemingly believable essay. After high school I would read a few self help books, which did little but manufacture a raging inferiority complex. Long after, I would fall into the blind oblivion of creative commitment and the art of story telling. So, I went right to the source. The Novel.

I picked up "Barbary Shore", Norman Mailer's second and relentlessly critically panned novel. I hadn't read "The Naked And The Dead", which separated me from the majority of those who had read Mailer. And thus, I had nothing to compare too. So, as a result of that naivety, I quite enjoyed "Barbary Shore". But, not for reasons one might imagine. In point of fact, I didn't even really comprehend the story, partly due to my limited knowledge of world politics, past and present. But, what I did enjoy were the words. I'll repeat; I enjoyed the words. The way he used words to explain things in such an eloquent, poetic and descriptive fashion. The way he manipulated the English language, as if it didn't own him, he owned it.

Since, I have been through other Mailer books, even read Faulkner and Dostoevsky. And let me tell you, I will never, ever, turn back. At this point, it isn't simply the words of authors that bite at my mind. It's everything. A traffic sign signaling construction, a salon advertising services, a radio personality pitching a new single or even the man behind the counter at the gas bar. Why did they choose the words they did? What drove them to do so? How did those words find themselves in their vocabulary. Do I know these words? Should I know these words? Could I use them better?

Most of the time, when this obsession with vowels and syllables strikes, it's due to, if not Mailer, a film. And not just crazy elusive works of John-Luc Godard or Andy Kaufman. It can be while watching pop like "Definitely Maybe" or "Enchanted". The words they use. It makes me want to use them too. It makes me want to create. I want to have the same fun and the same liberty with the English language that they had. I boil with desire.

And like many artists, I need a consistent vehicle to translate those very desires into works. Or do I? Do I really need a muse? Would Woody Allen survive with Scarlet Johanson? Would Lennon have written the things he did without the presence of Yoko? I have often yearned for a muse and never been given one. Often they are women but such is not the case for myself. I have found the love of my life, she is everything a man could want in this world, but perhaps not everything a writer could want. This has left me searching for a muse. And, in fact, I am infinitely relieved my love is not my muse, because as I migrate further and further down the rabbit hole, she would soon become more a muse than a love.

But, I am left with a sort of disconnect. Every minute of every day I am compelled to write. Not a dream of mine. In fact, I was always a very poor reader and writer, and, in my opinion, still am. I had tutors, special education and even extra curricular 'English-as-a-second-language' courses. But, it's a force I can't ignore, and until it leaves me, I will accept it. The disconnect being, a constant influx of inspiration and content but with no muse to transport it to the fleeting masses. Obsession is the gasoline to which I have no vehicle.

Forgive the grammar and spelling, I am into a few.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "From The Mekong and On"

2009-12-16T23:20:00.007-05:00

"From The Mekong and On"

NOTE* Written over the course of a three month journey through Southeast Asia in the late summer of 2009, primarily while sailing on the slow churning muddy waters of the Mekong Delta.

We are driftwood floating in a never stopping,

inconsiderate river of water translucent

with time and mud.

The water is old, the water is new and no matter

how much we kick and push we remain debris

in a subtle flood.

We float to the surface and we dip down below,

the tide rises, we kick, we push, the river swells

with tears and fears and blood.

The flora, the fauna it all seems plain as I search

around in vain. There I realize, floating in the mud,

she is the flower, pedal, stem and bud.

We swam rivers of time and chased tomorrow

down the current. We built rafts out of promises

and it's sails our of fear.

We laughed sorrow and cried joy and with every

sob the river grew as if we carried a storm in

every tear.

Our world grew and shrunk at the same time,

we lived in mansions of glory and shacks of wine,

year after year after year.

Our love crawled like wild flowers on the wild

sandy plains. Our knowledge the food that fed

those flowers far and near.

Our relationship was a work of art. The world

was our infinite canvas and our love was the

paint.

We got lost in each other and found our way.

Together we walked the path of reward and

not of complaint.

We raced forward and swore we'd never look

back. We ran towards a golden tomorrow, with

every stride our past grew faint.

It was perfect. We were a silent scream.

A freshwater lake of freedom.

A rebellious saint.

written under the influence by

jeffc

Real Men Drive Stick

2009-12-14T15:54:00.003-05:00

'Real men drive stick' - the reader will presume I am making an analogy, and the reader will be correct. But to make more sense of this analogy some base definitions must be agreed upon. For a train that travels on crooked rails can't hope to travel straight.

There are two types of cars as far as your author is concerned; manual and automatic. The reader may interject and say that I should rather state that there are two types of transmissions, but, when buying any car, the very first option you have, right out of the gate, is whether your car will be manually or automatically controlled - so I will maintain my previous expression. Now, of course there are different types of manual transmissions; there are 4-speeds, 5-speeds and 6-speeds, old sliding-gears and new cross-mesh builds - but in all cases, the driver is still in complete control. Likewise - there are different types of automatic transmissions; old constant variable transmissions, triptronic or sensonic, pre-selector, semi's and full automatics - but in all cases, the driver's control is limited as compared to any type of manual transmission.

There are two types of men in this world - those in control and those who are not. If a loved one is insulted or attacked there are men who stand with their tail between their legs and whimper like a whipped terrier and there are men who stand up and fight right back. There are men who battle for all they have and all they want on this take-no-prisoners, fast-spinning shit nugget of a planet and there are men who take whatever they are given and cower in a shadow wishing they had just a little bit more. Remember swagger? That almost undefinable spirit that the Paul Newmans, Steve Mcqueens, Marlon Brandos and Pierre Trudeaus exuded from every pore in the days gone by? Well, those types of men are as endangered as a hawksbill turtle - the only difference is no one seems to notice or care.

Men, stand up for what you believe in and fight for those you love. Respect he who deserves respect and fear he who warrants fear. Command the same respect and instill the same fear yourself. Speak to women with honor and kiss them with your eyes shut. Know how to tie a double-windsor knot and don't be afraid to be overdressed at a bar and underdressed at a ball. Don't shave everyday. Make goals and stand by them. Read. Take all of life's punishments, stand them like a man and give some right back. Wear the same shirt tomorrow. Write a poem. Drink rye straight. Be in control of your life and your car, and know how to drive stick.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

Poetry That Wouldn't Pass a Breathalyzer: "Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

2009-12-07T23:23:00.011-05:00

"Ballad Of A Heart So Full"

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Not all know what they're scared of,

To know would be absurd.

But those men still do fear the same,

When fear itself says it's name.

Of those men some are kind,

And some men are too rash.

Of those rash all are blind,

And those blind will turn to ash.

For each man loves that thing he fears,

And for it spill the blood of tears.

The soldier loves war and fame,

The priest loves prayer and faith.

Yet each's heart feels the same,

Sure as ninth follows eighth.

And as sure as waves flow to the shore,

These things both would die for.

A man will spill blood and tears,

And not think twice or thrice,

And will not change through the years,

No matter payment's price.

And whether he does pray or not,

Won't the slow wheels of fate stop.

No man loved or ignored

Is safe from such fate as this,

Sometimes sealed with a sword,

And sometimes with true love's kiss.

But both the love and the hate,

Produce the seeds grown by fate.

Sealed are my lips, as with my fate,

As I now feel true love's kiss.

And as my love replaces hate,

There is no sweeter sound then this.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be one day no more.

Some love to dark, some to light,

Some love the person wrong.

But each falls for one that 's right

If they let time sing it's song.

I have fallen and would die for,

Whom it is that I adore.

When love shows it's ancient face,

Be it with a smile or frown,

It's time to forfeit time's ol' chase.

For a pleasure so renowned.

It's face is old, it's face is new,

In all cases, it's face it true.

Love is to be nurtured by all,

But is botched more times that not.

It's for one not to rise, but to fall.

For true love writes it's own plot.

The author to which all must bow,

And the bow by which all must vow.

Love makes hate but not reversed,

Behold the spot of our fruit;

By this hand the world is cursed,

And is rotted to the root.

You can cut the spot off the fruit,

But it won't stop hate's pursuit.

That hate is a wild dog at hunt,

It bounds with strides so wide,

It must be said, soft or blunt,

With shame or with pride,

That hate burns like a flame,

And like the dog, cannot be tamed.

Some men fear the thing they love,

By each let this be heard.

Even if of this they feel above,

Or digest every second word.

Half the words will serve the cause,

Of avoiding the dog's bloody jaws.

Not one man enjoys full control,

Or can say they have that power.

For when each man hits that pricy toll,

Each man's clock strikes the hour.

And when that hand hits that time,

The bells of fate do so chime.

Those bells did chime aloud for me,

And that toll my path did cross.

And to this day I must agree,

What I paid was not a loss.

If I had to pay more to keep that love,

Of fame and fortune it'd be above.

Love makes fame wilt in awe,

And fortune scour with shame.

Love the perfect picture does draw,

And us the perfect frame.

Hang that art with love and pride,

For all you need, love does provide.

I will also mention how love scorns,

And leaves some men behind.

They must wear that crown of thorns,

Until that bitter kiss dost rewind.

Just like the thorns beget the rose,

When love strikes again no-one knows.

I do not believe in Heaven nor God,

Instead I have faith in man's heart.

I shalt not praise a holy facade,

When what I feel in Love dost impart,

A sense of reason not to doubt,

That 'tis a warmth to live not without.

A mother's love is as strong as steel,

A lover's as tough as stone.

A father's love brings him to kneel,

Before love's golden throne.

All strive to be forever true,

And true love's pleasure they pursue.

A poet loves words, a painter his paint,

The writer his plot, the priest his saint.

A pet loves his master, a runner the track,

A general loves his plans for attack.

For each man loves that thing he fears

And for it will spill blood and tears.

Tears love fear and joy the same,

The way blood loves to be craved.

And like a moth loves his flame,

The helpless loved to be saved.

For each man fears what they adore,

For fear it will be soon no more.

If I could share with you one thing,

It would be to follow suit.

Hark! the music of love does ring,

Heed it's savory flute.

Feel it's churn, it's turn, it's mill.

Submit to it's every will.

Love is something to be feared,

And something to be craved.

Love is something to be cheered,

And something to be saved.

Love will seal all men's fate,

When man finds his true soul mate.

written under the influence by jeff campagna

Fellow Scribbler and Good Friend etc....

2009-12-03T10:28:00.007-05:00

His ink-name is J.R. Vassallo but I know him simply as Jon. "The Kingstonians" is his first book and is a collection of short stories dealing with the human condition. I have had the good fortune of reading a few of these gems, but I'm waiting for the book to be delivered to my door step via Amazon.com so I can read it in all its paperback glory.

The nine stories are all easy reads, understated and bereft of any self-indulgent over-writing (for that tripe, you can keep logging into my blog) and are perfect leisure reads that peer deep into the human soul and social landscapes.

Click the image to be whisked away to the literary palace of Amanzon.com and lay down a few shillings to add this debut to your otherwise dusty book shelf.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

A Tale Of Two Possibilities

2009-11-22T18:52:00.014-05:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..."

And so begins one of my favorite staples of classic English literature 'A Tale Of Two Cities', of course referring to the years leading up to the tumultuous French Revolution of 1789. Though it would be too bold for me to even dream of writing a paragraph so simple and yet so effective during the course of my squandered life; the good Charles Dickens has prompted me, nay; has inspired me, with the words aforementioned, with, well, with a singular thought. Applying his description to an all together different concept however very similar, in the machinery of contrast and the presence of two possible outcomes.

Dickens wrote that of the Reign of Terror, which erupted in 1789, seventy years later in 1859 when he could aptly compare the two social and political environments between his native England and that of France. I believe that the same comparison, by context alone, can be applied between Dickens' England and the current global state - some one-hundred and fifty years after 'Two Cities' was authored.

The year is 2009. It is the best of times, it is the worst of times. It is a time of technological enlightenment, it is a time of nuclear warfare, it is the time of political winds of change in the west, it is a time of diseased regime in the east, it is a time of social awareness, it is a time of environmental meltdown, we are at the height of organized religion's reach, we are at the depth of sin, the global village is more accessible than ever, alienation is at an all-time high. My point is, much like Dickens' was, that we are either on the brink of enlightenment or on the eve of destruction.

For every new set of hands that clenches together in prayer another set clenches the warm mag of a machine gun. The popularity and practice of arts is rising as is the popularity and abuse of drugs. The amount of people that believe in war equal those who believe in peace, but very few people, as compared to the past, stand in the middle. We are opening laboratories and creating life and we are opening fire in high schools and taking it - neither of which occurred fifty years ago. It almost seems as if somehow we manage to save ourselves from the crumbling ecosystem around us, we might actually live to see our technological progress usher in a season of hope. The world is so very fucked up and most of it's residents; working and playing and playing and working are in such splendid, self-induced ignorance. Will we still be working and playing and playing and working when the bombs come crashing down? Or when the sky begins to rain fire as it has at least once in the long and winding path of natural history? Will our oxygen one day refuse to come to work and leave us clutching our throats for air. Or will all our diligent working and playing and playing and working create such a dervish that we'll twirl ourselves out of harms way? Could that very same dervish not cause us to spin ourselves into an irreparable downward spiral faster and more vehement that ever before? Will you, or have you ever, taken the time to consider while you are working and playing and playing and working whether you are part of the problem or part of the solution? Where is the line between the two?

Something very monumental lies in the thick fog of time before us, and we cannot see it, nor predict it or even prepare for it - which unfortunately doesn't alter the looming fact that it's still there. That fog will lift and make visible to us the road ahead, however, whether it will be paved with years of peace and awakening or set a blaze with the fiery licks of penance and ruination is a question that even those that say they can indeed answer it; cant.

writing under the influence,

jeffc

RERUN: SPOTLIGHT: Joseph Gordon Levitt

2009-07-29T16:37:00.000-04:00

I met him on the set of Kill Shot. Back then - it was a year or two ago - I was making a futile attempt to, at once, supplement my miniscule revenue stream while learning a thing or two about professional filmmaking. I would do this by enlisting in the shameless and dream crushing army of movie extras. At that time, Joseph Gordon Levitt, to me, was but another actor in the seemingly endless sea of moderate on-screen talent. It wouldn't be for another year or two that I developed a true and fair appreciation for him as an artist and thinker.

At the time I had longish hair. Greasy and intentionally wavy, it hung in the awkward space between the bottom of my ears and the top of my shoulders. Joe also had a similar hair cut as well as similar stubble and body size. Thus I was hired to be his body double. I was to be wrapped in a blanket and uncomfortably tossed into the black-hole that is a Lincoln's trunk by six large assuming mobsters - also extras. My face was unseen much like the rest of my body. Why they didn't use a sack of Idaho potatoes I will never know. It would have been more cost effective. Not only would it not have to eat, it would provide others with food (after it was wrapped of course).

Lunch was served. I ate on the bench across from Joe who was engaged in conversation with his co-star Mickey Rourke. The spread was generous but contained too much seafood - I hate seafood. After lunch I jumped in a crew van heading from the lunch building back to the set. Joe jumped in the same van. We shared minimal conversation. Small talk at best. He was a nice fellow. He was newly single so we humored the idea that he would hook up with Avril Lavinge while we was in town north of the border. I imagined, in more of a casual intimate environment he would be, at the same time, funny, caring, bright and amusing. Arriving at set, he jumped out, as did I. That was that. I would have no further interaction with the Cobra Commander to-be outside of glances back and fourth on set.

Days ago I was at a friends house, actually working on the post production of a music video I am helping out with. Somehow, now a mystery, we drifted into the topic of Joe. My friend, we'll call him Elvis, went on to tell me about a video on YouTube where our man turns the tables on the ol' faithful Paparazzi. I went home, watched it with thorough enjoyment and began to think slightly more in depth about this character that I had such a fleeting exchange with so long ago.

The Paparazzi video, affectionately called "Pictures of Assholes" can be seen here:

Once completed, sealed was my fate to begin the wonderful and vicious time wasting activity that is "Related Video" surfing. After a few views, all of which are included in this blog so you can see for yourself, my unexciting and average opinion of Joe had been replaced by a new one. I saw a very bright light inside Joe. A light i wish I had and hope one day I will have. After "Pictures of Assholes" I saw "HitRECord" and a new side of Joe became as clear as a summer's day.

HitRECord:

Express Your Self:

and the inspiring and haunting "Escargots"

In Joe, I now notice a man who we will see a lot more of, thankfully. A true artist, independent thinker and trail blazer. He exudes a passion and eccentricity that repossess any doubt I may have had that he will, in no uncertain terms, show us the meaning of art and expression in the years to come.

For once the capriciousness that is the modern day actor has led to a fruitful reward. A tree that has many bad apples, which are often times at the forefront of the public eye, has dropped a ripe specimen sure to seep it's nectar into an industry that is facing imminent death.

Keep inspiring Joe, fuck you're cool.
(support him and his posse and visit http://www.HitRECord.org)

writing under the influence,
jeffc

POETRY: "Home Is Where The Art Is"

2009-07-24T16:23:00.002-04:00

"Home Is Where The Art Is"

One's home is a complex notion,

whether one is at home or not.

Can a home follow one's constant motion,

or is it anchored in one spot?

Is a home where the heart is, or,

is a home where one rests their head?

Can one have two homes, three, or more,

or does one's home have to house their bed?

If one lives abroad is their home the world,

or is it the hotel, the suite or plane?

Is it the house from which they long ago hurled,

and, at that point, is one's travels in vain?

Perhaps one lives where they were raised,

but finds more solitude in some him or her.

Is home to them then where their parents praised

or in the arms of the person they prefer?

Is a home where one's majority of time is spent,

if so, is the cell to a prisoner that prisoner's home?

By that calculation, after all the years that went,

Most of our homes would be over a desk or tome.

I look around and see less homes than houses.

If you have the ladder, the former with it does not come.

Just as I do, I see less love than spouses.

As with the houses, one can be bought, the other must become.

It is this irony that causes me to question so.

Is the idea of a home that of a fleeting one?

Excuse my pessimistic manner of speaking though,

From a broken home I do come,

but of a broken family I am no son.

Can one be alone is one's home,

or must one have a crowd?

And do we only ever have one place,

that we can call a home aloud?

I have a family and I have true love,

but for a home I still do look.

When or how or if or what of,

are but answers only found in a book.

So my book I continue to search and write,

and it's page's I slowly fill.

But it's up to me to turn them in spite.

of the emptiness that haunts me still.

written by jeff campagna

Would you let Van Gogh perform your Electrocadriogram?

2009-07-14T21:20:00.016-04:00

I had a medical appointment today-nothing crazy- just an ECG to investigate the hole in my heart still lingering from my childhood. I walked from a nearby plaza to the medical building, as to avoid paid-parking, thus, entering through a different door than usual. It was out front of this door that I saw a sign that shot a jolt of discomfort through my viens and into my murmur-ridden heart. "Credit Valley Medical Arts" it read. I had never before seen the words Medical and Arts used together so proudly and everything about it seemed wrong.

Art, I thought, was something that had no set rules, only guidelines and standards set by those who practiced it in the past. Art, I thought, was something that one could never perfect and always possessed that existential and creative progression. Art, I thought, was something that one could enjoy if they wanted and ignore just the same. Art, I thought, had varying degrees of quality and experience but could never be 'wrong'. It was this set of personal definitions that furnished such discomfort. Medicine should have a very defined set of rules that are clear to all who work within it. Medicine should have a finite point where one is educated enough to practice it. Medicine should be something that can't be ignored and all who need it receive the same care. Medicine should have a large straight in between the banks of right and wrong.

Obviously this got me thinking deeply about 'Art' as I filled out the necessary information on the chipped clipboard in the waiting room (which, by the way, failed to reassure me in my state of concern). In art, to require perfection is to invite paralysis, and, in medicine, to require perfection is par for the course. In art, vision races far ahead of execution and the works we have yet to create almost always seem more real that the works that we have already produced. Whereas in medicine, vision and execution should always be, one would think, in league and sync. And in art, expression and self are such vital and valuable contributors to the work - it is, ultimately about the artist. Medicine is about care and precision and should always be about the patient, not the practician.

So what exactly do they mean by 'Medical Arts'? Perhaps I don't want to know. I have always thought one's 'craft' is the visible edge of one's 'art' and makes it an actual tangible experience.

So maybe this sign would have bared a slightly less worrying message if it read "Credit Valley Medical Craft". At the end of the day, art that deals with ideas is much more interesting than art that deals with technique - a statement where to replace art with medicine would manufacture panic in all those that pass through the hospital's revolving doors.

RERUN: Stream of Brilliance; Shane MacGowan

2009-07-13T23:50:00.000-04:00

Singer/Songwriter Robyn Hitchcock recalled: "I remember going to the Hope and Anchor (a pub where many folk punk acts played in London). The Pogues were all on stage and ready, it was a full house, but they hadn't started yet. Then this character shambled in through the door and shambled downstairs. I thought, 'Jesus, you're not letting that guy in are you?'. Then he walked on stage. That guy was Shane MacGowan."

If there is one thing that close friends know about me it's my unhealthy fascination with self-destructive artists and their aloof behavior, which, parenthetically, I believe contributes greatly to their creative endeavors. While these artists that fascinate me never intend such behavior it is their trend none-the-less, almost as a substratum throughout their entire life. Perhaps the poster-boy for such a character is Irish singer/songwriter Shane MacGowan; best known as the lead singer and songwriter for the prolific and influential Irish Folk/Rock/Punk band The Pogues. As you investigate their music further it will become increasingly clearer that The Pogues are to bands like Flogging Molly what The Beatles are to Coldplay.

I admire Shane. I love his music and what his music has done. I enjoy his personality and the magic that he posses and emits. I also find it interesting when fans love an artist so much more than the artist love's their fans, and for that matter, their music. A tale comes to mind, A Fairy-tale of New York if you will. It was the night of The Pogues sold-out Madison Square Gardens show in New York. Leading up to this, Shane and his band had started to drift apart, driving a wedge in the bands touring success - mainly caused by Shane's abuse of drugs and alcohol. Backstage before the show Shane was nowhere to be found, unless that is, you were putting down Guinness and polishing the bar with your sleeves at a local Irish pub. Shane had no intention of playing that night, as he grew sick of his band and his fans (I am reminded of the modern example of Kurt Cobain and song's like 'In Bloom'). Long story short, fifteen minutes before the show was to commence, a few hard-core Pogues fans, on their way to the arena, spotted Shane stumbling through the streets completely self unaware. He might have been a stray dog. Needless to say, they pulled Shane into their cab and made haste to Madison Square Gardens. The show went on and some lucky fans had a story for to tell their children (what entertainment those children find out of the story is another question. I'll get to that in a bit)

What has really begun to bother me, and is the stimuli for this entry, is the reputation that Shane is falling victim to as videos of him, at his lowest, become more popular on YouTube. Kids and teenagers poke fun at him, joke about his obvious intoxication and look up to him for his ability to consume alcohol, not his ability to write music and change the face of the industry. In fact, in that, they are probably completely unaware. I suppose this is the nature of the beast that is aging celebrity. As the previous generation that appreciated and grew with someone like Shane either dies off or moves on, Shane is still left in the boat that everyone has bailed out of. And as younger generations are ushered in they see a man like Shane for what he seems to be now and not for what he surely was then. It is impossible to recognize the arch and relevance of man when one's perspective is only that of the second half of their life, and not the first. Imagine watching only the second half of "Gladiator".

Hopefully, people who admire and respect Shane MacGowan for who he was and realize that these videos circulating the net are horrible inaccurate representations of who Shane's really was, will start to out-voice the drunkard youth. For a good read, check out a feature MAXIM did on Shane a few issues back. I forget the month, though somehow, I remember Shannon Elizabeth was on the cover;)

writing under the influence,
jeffc

Shane Singing In a Pub In Ireland

Shane's Music Video for "That Woman Got Me Drinking" Starring and Directed by Johnny Depp

Yet Another Great Music Video......

2009-07-07T10:20:00.004-04:00

So Tania turned me on to this wicked video which, at first, feels like some low-quality fan video but packs itself full of mesmerizing surprises.

I don't think I have posted a music video since that wicked-ass Coldplay puppet video, but I must say, "Fuck You" by Lily Allen is the perfect off-the-wall follow -up.

enjoy.

writing under the influence,

jeffc