From There to Here.

Mark sits on a snow lift, a snowboard strapped to his left foot. A girl he doesn't know, and who is wrapped up in enough gear to barely make out her features, sits next to him. She wears skis. They've been on the lift for about 30 seconds when Mark decides to stop hiding behind taking in the view and say something.

"Hi. I'm Mark," he says through a smile.

The girl turns to him, pushes her scarf away from her mouth with her mittens, and replies:

"Hi Mark. I'm Sarah."

"Nice to meet you, Sarah. Are you from around here?"

"Oh. No. I'm from Michigan. I'm here with my family for the weekend... Are you?"

"Nope. I live in Los Angeles. But, I'm from Chicago. I came out with some friends for the weekend. We're spread out all over the country."

"That's fun."

"Yeah."

Mark looks around. Sarah pushes snow off her ski using her pole.

skiers and boarders swoosh bye underneath. The village behind them seems like a scale model. The mountain in front an almost attainable goal.

Mark looks at her skis, he speaks...

"All my friends ski. I'm the only snowboarder."

"That's cool."

"Yeah, I thought I'd give it a try and I've fallen in love with it."

"I never tried it before."

"You really should. When you get the chance."

"I don't know. I think I'll stick with my skis."

The end of the line can be seen. Seven chairs ahead of them, a first time skier is nervous about getting off the chair. She clumsily stands off the lift. She falls, dragging down the person with her. They stop the lift.

Mark and Sarah sway in the cold. Above glistening snow covered grounds. Pine trees dot the landscape. Mountains and blue skies span forever.

Mark asks, "Are you staying nearby?"

Sarah answers:

"The Grizzly Bear Lodge. It's nice."

"My friends and I are renting a cabin. If you'd like to meet up later..."

"Oh. Thanks. I don't think I can. My family..."

Mark switches gears, "Oh. No worries. That's cool."

Sarah smiles and pulls her scarf over her mouth. The lift begins to move. Mark looks down on the people below. He readies himself to exit the lift. Their chair reaches the end. They push off. Mark heads left. Sarah heads right.

This Place is a Prison.

Every day I feel more confined to this body I was born into. I'd like to think I could fly, if only I was taught earlier enough. I am no more enlightened than any person on this planet. I too am chained by my ideas, perceptions, and lack of awareness. My own leaps of faith and moments of clarity become flooded by anger, or supreme pleasure. These are my emotions. They stand tall, weilding large batons, always keeping me in place, for fear that I'd escape.

As I sat in my wooden desk, with carved confessions of love in the lower left hand corner, I listened. Wide Eyed. And receptive to the input that would orientate myself to the space around me. My teachers were, and are, varied: Parents, Nannies, School, The Big Screen, TV, Books, Magazines, Friends, Loved Ones, Strangers passing on the street...

Nature is endless. Boundless. Without walls. Human beings build walls. We take the large expanse of never ending opportunities and imagination, and we carve it into understandable pieces. We put up walls. Walls between each other. Walls to keep out harm. Walls to make us feel safe. Never understanding that we'll never feel truly safe. We are fragile. And we will die.

I write to explore the blank page in front of me. Is it possible that my stumbling, clumsy, ill-coordinated foot work can lead me to something worth while?

A continuous effort is the process of deleting the notions of success, beauty, importance, and worth which was taught to me through these teachers. I am in a constant cycle of unlearning.

A Difference 'tween Film & Theater Directing.

An actor on the stage must believe in the moment. There are human beings in the audience who can feel the difference between truth & lies.

On the screen, an uninformed look, if honest in its appearance, can pass any lie detector test.

Caroline

It was minutes before midnight. There was a breeze in the night air. It swept passed Caroline as she spied through her neighbors living room window. Through the glass and red curtains, Caroline gazed upon an older man. The man sat, carefully lifting a tea cup to his wrinkled lips.

Caroline edged herself closer to the window. Pushing passed thorny bushes, she slipped and fell. She landed on the hard grass. She froze.

Inside, the older man looked up from a delicate sip. He hesitated, set the ceramic cup on the side table, and rose slowly. He puttered across the living room. Finally, he reached the window and pressed his cold hands upon the glass. It was too dark to make much of anything out of the shapes on the outside. He squinted. He peeled his palms away from the window, smudges left in their wake. He drew in a breath. It was harder these days. He appreciated every taste of air he could. The man turned, already anticipating the rest of his before bed tea.

Caroline wasn't aware, but she was not the only one watching others. Someone was watching Caroline. Someone was watching as she tried her best to remain perfectly still. Her face scraped by thorns. A small trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Someone was watching as the Old Man hobbled back to his chair, and Caroline counted the seconds until it was smart to get up. To get the hell out of there.