Post-season, I picked hard October blackberries
that a scoffing older man predicted would be sour.
Pushing I pushed, urgent and deep inside the bush, I heldholding aside a branch prickly vine like a lover's leg
to pick reach the sweet, long-neglected interior clusters.
Until impatient with the pace,
and hectored by the thorns, I grabbed
indiscriminate handfuls, sacrificing sweetness
for a fuller basket, tart green bites for my breakfast flakes,
green bitter berries that also bite back. oblivious(?)
oOnly too late, typing at a desk in the South, I grieve at the loss of
for to the choicest, tender few dropping that fell through my grasp,
to bounce possibly tender, bouncing onto the mossy soil on the spingy moss.ground.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
More Before and After Poems
Worst Love Poem Ever
We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...
But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.
Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.
And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.
But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.
Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?
_______________________________
Confession of Faith
Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.
But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.
Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.
Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,
glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.
Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.
Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.
Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.
And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
We blasphemed with our bodies, two boys
play-acting epic love scenes inspired by the Bible:
Jonathan and David, Jesus and His beloved John.
My favorites were Ruth and Naomi. Whither thou goest...
But I shall abide by things that I know how to hold onto:
like the certainty of outrage, the moral stamina to write
the worst love poem ever, to say "fuck you" while smiling,
but all my ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
Write a poem for me instead. Tell me something sideways again.
Hint at need in the oblique manner that you and I communicate.
Write my fate in the margins, leaving volumes unsaid
in the white spaces between the lines.
Or perhaps we have a longer story yet to tell, an epic.
Something we cannot compress into a lyric poem.
And the original:
Untitled
We've been sloppy with our bodies,
boys playing scandalous games inspired
by the Bible,:
Jonathan and David,
Ruth and Naomi,
Jesus and hHis beloved,
John. My favorites were Ruth and Naomi.
Whither thou goest.
But me, I should stick with abide by things
I know how to hold onto:
the certainty of outrage,
the moral stamina to write the worst
love poem ever, to say “fuck you”
with a smile on my face. Damn!
The craziness of the flesh!
It stops me. So beautiful. I mark it.
Alright, you have my attention.
Tell me something sideways again, hint at need
in the oblique ways that you and I communicate.
Or wWrite my fate in the margins,
leaving volumes unsaid between the lines.
It's August in New Orleans,
a hard time to write a love poem. anyway
when all mMy ink pens keep exploding from the heat.
But our story epic
cannot end, not here.
No cinematic walk-offs, please.
(Yes, I am listening to myself.)
We have a longer story yet to tell,
something I can't compress into a poem.
And wWhy would I try?Awhy would I try?
_______________________________
Confession of Faith
Purple-black crows have pecked these bones,
these carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of the shore.
But this poem is merely metaphor.
Imaginative reasoning, at best. At worst,
a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile of quartz.
Suggestive accident of Nature?
Or the ghost of another soul
who has hovered here before?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws out an invitation: Crossover the ocean
to a farther, unseen shore.
Metaphor upon metaphor!
And too great a leap of faith.
Onto a tenuous surface of sunflakes,
glimmers on water that offer
no sure foundation? I am Christ-like
only in my reluctance.
Nearby from a descending hill, where a drain pipe
juts, I hear singing, an unexpected polyphonic
chorus of monks intoning Om.
Shifting timbres, layers of wind echoing through
an open pipe, a kind of Genius rising
then fading to a whispered mantra, Om.
Kneeling down, I reposition
an oyster shell to its best advantage,
reflective side up.
And the original:
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
And a Short One
I honed this haiku-like short poem while walking the woods of Washington state, daily for 2 weeks. A year later, the words are very much like the original, but with key changes in where lines return, a changed or repositioned word here or there.
Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.
Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Madrona
Yearning, twisting Madrona tree
peels back his crimson foreskin, exposing
the raw desire of the Earth
and a sleek skin of green beneath.
Here is the original version:
Madrona
Twisting, yearning Madrona peels
back his own red foreskin, exposing
the raw need of the Earth and a sleek
skin of green beneath.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Poem's Progress
I began this poem around my 40th birthday, 2 years ago, while visiting Seattle. The imagery and theme of this poem, Crossover, come from that area, that mind-set.
Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?
My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.
This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.
I've included the first version below it for comparison.
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.
Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.
Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.
We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.
We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path
we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.
The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.
________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.
Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.
Since I began, I've also been studying prosody, the structure of poetry. In particular, trying to answer the question: Why structure?
My own answer: Because a poem has a structure whether we intend it or not. To ignore structure is to ignore half the tools in our kit. Structure, well-done, is a pleasure of the poem, especially when it serves the purpose of meaning.
This later version of the poem is an attempt at more formal structure, with special attention to line-endings and stanza endings. Also, line lengths that support the "mood" of each of the poem's 3 sections.
I've included the first version below it for comparison.
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
mad infatuations, or need weighing heavily
upon the iron horizon.
Without desire pulling up coastal pine
by the roots, unquenchable desire
discarding tree trunks like flotsam to the shore,
constructing a haphazard barricade of driftwood
that fog washes over.
Yet through dense fog,
our ferryboat bravely
navigates the chain
of channel islands,
green quartz emerging
then receding, jagged-
edged in the fog.
We can see no stars
or sun to guide us.
Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain?
Whose permission
do we need
to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
at the brevity of the journey, we disembark
safely at the terminal.
We trace our fingers over contours of
the relief map, and apprehend in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path
we have traveled. What guidance do the stars
and sun provide? Stars are wishes and dreams
achieved through possibility.
The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers--food
for the next voyage.
________________________________________________
Crossover
by Frederick Mead
It takes a heretical, decisive step
to become a man, to crossover water
without caveats, insecurities, failed courage,
our need weighing heavily on the iron horizon,
or mad infatuations. Without desire
pulling up coastal pine by the roots,
unquenchable desire discarding trunks
like flotsam to the shore, constructing a barricade
of driftwood, which only fog can wash over.
Yet through this dense fog, our ferryboat
bravely navigates the chain
of San Juan islands, green quartz
emerging then receding, jagged-edged
in the fog. We can see no stars or sun
to guide us. Is it heresy to trust
an unseen Captain? Whose permission do we
need to take command?
Breathless on the farther shore, surprised
by the brevity of the journey, we disembark safely
at the terminal. We trace a finger over contours
of the relief map, apprehending in retrospect
the winding, circuitous path we have traveled.
What guidance do the stars and sun provide?
Stars are wishes and dreams achieved
through possibility. The sun? Merely an egg yolk
melting through our fingers. Food for the next voyage.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Why Do Beaches Inspire Poets?
This is a second attempt at the previous poem that I began in Port Townsend, WA during my creative residency there. Lately I've been studying structure in poetry, that is, prosody. Alfred Korn, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver. And I've been reading poetry with an eye to stanza and listening to poetry with an ear for rhythm.
I discovered that this Port Townsend poem breaks nicely into tercets, with an occasional enjambment that works for me. More work to do, but this is where I am now:
Why Do Beaches Inspire Poets?
Purple-black crows peck at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of teh shore.
But this is merely metaphor.
At best, imaginative reasoning.
At worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile
of rose quartz. An accident of nature?
Or just another ghost of abstract human thought
left behind to mark the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a suddent sunbridge throws
an invitation. Crossover the ocean to a farther
unseen shore. But this also metaphor.
And too great a leap of faith, onto
a tenuous layer of sunlakes? Glimmers on a
watery surface, golden ephemera?
They offer no sure foundation.
No human has ever walked on water.
Where a drain pipe juts from a
descending hill I hear singing,
an unexpected polyphonic chorus
of monks intoning OM.
Shifting, layered timbres of wind
echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
whispering, and then silence
as if to tell me
Time does not start here.
Why do beaches inspire poets?
Kneeling down, I reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
I discovered that this Port Townsend poem breaks nicely into tercets, with an occasional enjambment that works for me. More work to do, but this is where I am now:
Why Do Beaches Inspire Poets?
Purple-black crows peck at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the persistent apetite of teh shore.
But this is merely metaphor.
At best, imaginative reasoning.
At worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, a bullwhip
of sea carrot lassoes back around
itself, encircling an unlikely pile
of rose quartz. An accident of nature?
Or just another ghost of abstract human thought
left behind to mark the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a suddent sunbridge throws
an invitation. Crossover the ocean to a farther
unseen shore. But this also metaphor.
And too great a leap of faith, onto
a tenuous layer of sunlakes? Glimmers on a
watery surface, golden ephemera?
They offer no sure foundation.
No human has ever walked on water.
Where a drain pipe juts from a
descending hill I hear singing,
an unexpected polyphonic chorus
of monks intoning OM.
Shifting, layered timbres of wind
echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
whispering, and then silence
as if to tell me
Time does not start here.
Why do beaches inspire poets?
Kneeling down, I reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Port Townsend Poem
This is a new poem I began during my creative residency last Fall in Port Townsend, WA. Think I'm ready to craft it into something, or at least try. Check back often for progress!
original impulse
deletion
new text
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
original impulse
deletion
new text
Why dDo bBeaches iInspire pPoets?
Can I see only p Purple-black crows pecking at bones,
at carcasses of coastal pine polished white
by the shore's persistent appetite of the shore.?.
But this is only the opening metaphor, of course.
Imaginative reasoning, at best.
Or Aat worst, a newsflash from the interior.
Farther up the beach, I find a bullwhip of sea carrot
lassoeds back around itself, encircling
an unlikely pile a pyramid
of rose quartz. A An unlikely
miracle of nature? Or merely the yet
another ghost
of human thought
hovering in the landscape?
Clouds dart, and a sudden sunbridge
throws offers an invitation to crossover the ocean
to explore a farther, unseen shore.
But that is tT Is that alsoT But that is too great a leap
of faith?. AOnto a tenuous layer of sunflakes?
Glimmersings on a watery surface, golden ephemera
that offer no sure foundation?
Only more metaphor?.
No human ever walks on water.
Where a drainage pipe juts
from a descending hill
I hear singing, an unexpected
polyphonic chorus of
monks intoning OM, shifting, layered timbres
of wind echoing through an open pipe,
a kind of Genius that fades
to a whisper and then silence, almost telling me:
Time does not start here.
Kneeling down, Awed Inspired, nonetheless, I kneel down
I to reposition a clam shell
to its best advantage.
Friday, April 3, 2009
How Battlestar Galactica Should Have Ended, by Frederick Mead
With humanity reduced to only 39,000 refugees--a barely sufficient gene pool to ensure survival of our species--a new solution is required. Constant war upon ourselves and with our Cylon creations prove that neither species, human nor Cylon, can overcome our inherent limitations. We are doomed to mutual annihilation. Humanity barely exists. Cylon regeneration is destroyed. At this critical juncture, intervention is required. This intervention comes from the future.
.jpg)
Seraph "Ship of Light" from the original 1978 series.
SERAPHS
The pursuit of Cylon technology is a pursuit for perfection, in a word, God. Cylons understand this better than humans. However, neither species alone can achieve perfection. Only by combining human and machine can physical endurance, unlimited memory-capacity, and instantaneous recall coexist with compassion, curiosity, and creativity.
In the future, a new, blended species, Seraphs, will be capable of both procreation of the species and reincarnation of consciousness. Eventually, Seraphs will even learn to network their minds into a single, unified consciousness akin to God.
PROPHECY
Future Seraphs will develop Cylon projection technology to its peak--using nutrino particles to transmit images and to stimulate experiences in other minds. Because nutrinos are unaffected by electromagnetism, these particles can be projected backwards in time.
Using Cylon projection, Seraphs sent nutrino messages back in time to the original Lords of Cobol, who interpreted these messages as prophecies from their tribal gods, and thus humans developed a polytheistic religion. Similar messages were sent to Cylons, but their positronic nets were able to perceive the unity of Seraph consciousness, and therefore Cylons developed a monotheistic religion. President Roslyn and other characters also received these "prophecies" from future Seraphs.
WHAT IS THAT FRAKKIN SONG?
The intent of the Seraphs is to bring humanity and Cylons together, at the fulcrum point in history when survival of both species is at greatest risk. The song that numerous characters hear is a complex message from the Seraphs that serves multiple purposes, but most importantly to provide the key to combining the species. What looks like ordinary musical notes on sheet music, when lifted off the page and shown in 3 dimensions, is actually Seraph DNA, highlighting genetic markers necessary for a combined species.
This is why Gaius Baltar, humanity's greatest geneticist, "will write the last chapter of humanity." He will understand the message. As an act of contrition, Gaius begins the work of unifiying the species. He uses himself and Caprica 6 in his early experiments, and thus, those 2 become archetypes for future Seraph models. This is the reason another Caprica appears in his mind. She is a highly-focused Seraph projection sent back in time to guide him.
THE FINAL 5
Just as President Roslyn was chosen to lead humanity, the Final 5 were chosen to lead the Cylons. They are like Moses leading the children of Israel through the desert to the Promised Land. Seraphs selected the Final 5 from the 13th colony, the only colony to develop a pure Cylon civilization. Ordinary Centurion models would be insufficient for genetic combination with humans. Only the Final 5 and the 7 models they created are evolved enough for this combination.
On Earth a thousand years prior, guided by Seraph messages, Ellen Tigh experienced the "intuitive leap" necessary to rediscovery Cylon regeneration, which proves to be a bargaining chip for peace, but is also a fundamental technology for genetic combination to work.
WHAT IS KARA THRACE?
Kara Thrace is an ordinary human who received prophetic messages from the Seraphs as a child. Her father also received messages in the form of a song that he taught her. Kara is called the "harbinger of death" because she leads Galactica to a dead world, and to the death of their faith in Earth. This is a necessary death. Earth is not the final destination for humanity, but instead serves as an object lesson of our destruction.
Hera will still be alive far into the future, by downloading her consciousness into Seraph bodies. She will provide future Seraph generations with detailed information about Galactica, its time, and its heroes.
.jpg)
Seraph "Ship of Light" from the original 1978 series.SERAPHS
The pursuit of Cylon technology is a pursuit for perfection, in a word, God. Cylons understand this better than humans. However, neither species alone can achieve perfection. Only by combining human and machine can physical endurance, unlimited memory-capacity, and instantaneous recall coexist with compassion, curiosity, and creativity.
In the future, a new, blended species, Seraphs, will be capable of both procreation of the species and reincarnation of consciousness. Eventually, Seraphs will even learn to network their minds into a single, unified consciousness akin to God.
PROPHECY
Future Seraphs will develop Cylon projection technology to its peak--using nutrino particles to transmit images and to stimulate experiences in other minds. Because nutrinos are unaffected by electromagnetism, these particles can be projected backwards in time.
Using Cylon projection, Seraphs sent nutrino messages back in time to the original Lords of Cobol, who interpreted these messages as prophecies from their tribal gods, and thus humans developed a polytheistic religion. Similar messages were sent to Cylons, but their positronic nets were able to perceive the unity of Seraph consciousness, and therefore Cylons developed a monotheistic religion. President Roslyn and other characters also received these "prophecies" from future Seraphs.
WHAT IS THAT FRAKKIN SONG?
The intent of the Seraphs is to bring humanity and Cylons together, at the fulcrum point in history when survival of both species is at greatest risk. The song that numerous characters hear is a complex message from the Seraphs that serves multiple purposes, but most importantly to provide the key to combining the species. What looks like ordinary musical notes on sheet music, when lifted off the page and shown in 3 dimensions, is actually Seraph DNA, highlighting genetic markers necessary for a combined species.
This is why Gaius Baltar, humanity's greatest geneticist, "will write the last chapter of humanity." He will understand the message. As an act of contrition, Gaius begins the work of unifiying the species. He uses himself and Caprica 6 in his early experiments, and thus, those 2 become archetypes for future Seraph models. This is the reason another Caprica appears in his mind. She is a highly-focused Seraph projection sent back in time to guide him.
THE FINAL 5
Just as President Roslyn was chosen to lead humanity, the Final 5 were chosen to lead the Cylons. They are like Moses leading the children of Israel through the desert to the Promised Land. Seraphs selected the Final 5 from the 13th colony, the only colony to develop a pure Cylon civilization. Ordinary Centurion models would be insufficient for genetic combination with humans. Only the Final 5 and the 7 models they created are evolved enough for this combination.
On Earth a thousand years prior, guided by Seraph messages, Ellen Tigh experienced the "intuitive leap" necessary to rediscovery Cylon regeneration, which proves to be a bargaining chip for peace, but is also a fundamental technology for genetic combination to work.
WHAT IS KARA THRACE?
Kara Thrace is an ordinary human who received prophetic messages from the Seraphs as a child. Her father also received messages in the form of a song that he taught her. Kara is called the "harbinger of death" because she leads Galactica to a dead world, and to the death of their faith in Earth. This is a necessary death. Earth is not the final destination for humanity, but instead serves as an object lesson of our destruction.
Kara arrived on Earth by traveling through what appears to be a collapsing supernova, but is actually highly-sophisticated Seraph technology--a complex, self-executing program that stimulates subatomic particles, initiating a chain of reactions that results in a stable singularity. The singularity functions as both a gateway to Earth and an enormous turbine, with the energetic potential to perform the most advanced Seraph miracle of all--the imitation of life. Kara Thrace dies on Earth as a result of her hazardous journey. The Kara Thrace who returns to Galactica is a living copy. When she passed thru the singularity, the Seraph program duplicated Kara in such detail that her copy is essentially the same woman, who can complete her mission.
Kara arrived on Earth by traveling through a quantum singularity. She dies on Earth. The Kara Thrace who returns to Galactica is the same woman, but from a different timeline. When she passed thru the singularity, the timelines shattered, and a Kara from an alternate timeline entered ours.
WHAT IS HERA?
The daughter of a Cylon and a human, Hera is evidence that genetic combination is possible. She is a template. Because Hera wrote down the song, Gaius Baltar will use her DNA samples to confirm his hunch about Seraph DNA.
Kara arrived on Earth by traveling through a quantum singularity. She dies on Earth. The Kara Thrace who returns to Galactica is the same woman, but from a different timeline. When she passed thru the singularity, the timelines shattered, and a Kara from an alternate timeline entered ours.
WHAT IS HERA?
The daughter of a Cylon and a human, Hera is evidence that genetic combination is possible. She is a template. Because Hera wrote down the song, Gaius Baltar will use her DNA samples to confirm his hunch about Seraph DNA.
Hera will still be alive far into the future, by downloading her consciousness into Seraph bodies. She will provide future Seraph generations with detailed information about Galactica, its time, and its heroes.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Return of BUTCH
At the Big Easy Theatre Awards tonight, I am nominated in the category "Best Actor in a Comedy" for the one-man show Out Comes Butch. If you missed the original 7-week run last year, you have another chance to witness the madness.
"Insanely involving. When you're not laughing, you're watching with your mouth agape." David Cuthbert, Times-Picayune
"A whale of a performance!" Al Shea, WYES TV
I'm putting up 2 nights only at the Marigny Theatre, in a couple weeks:
7pm Fri/Sat April 10/11
$10
504 452 5515 for info
Marigny Theatre
corner of St Claude and Marigny
http://marignytheatre.org/
"If you haven't seen it, do so...a knock-out audience winner with an astonishing performance by Frederick Mead." Patrick Shannon, Ambush Magazine
"Insanely involving. When you're not laughing, you're watching with your mouth agape." David Cuthbert, Times-Picayune
"A whale of a performance!" Al Shea, WYES TV
I'm putting up 2 nights only at the Marigny Theatre, in a couple weeks:
7pm Fri/Sat April 10/11
$10
504 452 5515 for info
Marigny Theatre
corner of St Claude and Marigny
http://marignytheatre.org/
"If you haven't seen it, do so...a knock-out audience winner with an astonishing performance by Frederick Mead." Patrick Shannon, Ambush Magazine
Saturday, March 21, 2009
JERKER Delayed
I'll take the time it takes to properly present a work of art. Some projects require more effort to come together. Some cakes need to bake longer in the oven. Some directors need more time to cast.
Schedule has dogged me constantly with Jerker. One minute, I'd have an actor interested, then the discussion would break down over schedule. Time and again. I talked to every male actor I could, but the closer we got to Opening Night, actors became committed to other projects, and the door snapped shut. Also, I felt I was going farther and farther afield from the types that I really wanted, considering men with some-but-not-all of the attributes I need, solely for the sake of putting up the show. Of course, everyone I talked to was a quality actor, but not always exactly the types I wanted. In a nutshell: a Bear and a Twink who can act.
I'll get Jerker up soon, likely early June, but this first attempt is not a waste. Along the way, I talked with New Orleans theater heavies, "names" who took me very seriously. Deeply-experienced, award-winning directors who were willing to be directed by ME, for the pittance I could afford to pay, if not for those pesky schedule conflicts. I reached out to knowledgeable resources in the theater community and found encouragement, great advice, and referrals. And a lot of good will. After only 2 1/2 years of doing theater in New Orleans, it's nice to feel accepted as part of a vigorous, creative community. Especially to have been nominated for a theater award along the way.
So I feel optimistic about Jerker. In the meantime, I'd like to put up a reprise of Out Comes Butch. This is the one-man show for which I was recently nominated for a Big Easy Theatre Award, in the category "Best Actor in a Comedy". At the awards gala next week, I hope there will be sufficient curiosity about Butch that I'll be able to promote it easily. "We're doing a reprise in a couple weeks. 3 shows only. Don't miss it." Lots of details to work out (like the rights). But we have this great opportunity right now to fill a gap and keep things on good terms with the venue. And to sell a show that I personally enjoy doing.
Schedule has dogged me constantly with Jerker. One minute, I'd have an actor interested, then the discussion would break down over schedule. Time and again. I talked to every male actor I could, but the closer we got to Opening Night, actors became committed to other projects, and the door snapped shut. Also, I felt I was going farther and farther afield from the types that I really wanted, considering men with some-but-not-all of the attributes I need, solely for the sake of putting up the show. Of course, everyone I talked to was a quality actor, but not always exactly the types I wanted. In a nutshell: a Bear and a Twink who can act.
I'll get Jerker up soon, likely early June, but this first attempt is not a waste. Along the way, I talked with New Orleans theater heavies, "names" who took me very seriously. Deeply-experienced, award-winning directors who were willing to be directed by ME, for the pittance I could afford to pay, if not for those pesky schedule conflicts. I reached out to knowledgeable resources in the theater community and found encouragement, great advice, and referrals. And a lot of good will. After only 2 1/2 years of doing theater in New Orleans, it's nice to feel accepted as part of a vigorous, creative community. Especially to have been nominated for a theater award along the way.
So I feel optimistic about Jerker. In the meantime, I'd like to put up a reprise of Out Comes Butch. This is the one-man show for which I was recently nominated for a Big Easy Theatre Award, in the category "Best Actor in a Comedy". At the awards gala next week, I hope there will be sufficient curiosity about Butch that I'll be able to promote it easily. "We're doing a reprise in a couple weeks. 3 shows only. Don't miss it." Lots of details to work out (like the rights). But we have this great opportunity right now to fill a gap and keep things on good terms with the venue. And to sell a show that I personally enjoy doing.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
JERKER
I'm directing a New Orleans production of the play Jerker, by San Francisco playwright Robert Chesley. Jerker is the third San Francisco work I've 
helped to premier in New Orleans. Set in the Castro in 1985, Jerker concerns 2 lonely men terrified by "the gay cancer" who develop a significant connection via phone sex. It's a naughty, nasty play with redeeming social value. Baptists will picket.
I saw a 20th anniversary production of Jerker on videotape when I lived in San Francisco. For me personally, the play helped to lift a dark cloud from my head, the same dark cloud that hovers over the heads of the 2 characters in Jerker. I also responded to the emotional charge of the play, ignited by the sexual language.
Casting is my challenge now. I had 2 remarkable, weighty actors in the hopper, but for various reasons, mostly scheduling, they are not available, although both love the script. Not only am I looking for certain types, both with acting chops, but also for chemistry between the pair. Fortunately, it's only 2 roles. Or maybe unfortunately. Ah well, it's my current challenge and my joy.
Found the right venue for this show and signed the contract this week. As soon as I secure the cast we start promoting. Got a couple months lead-up time until Opening Night, so we can build momentum. April 8-25.
helped to premier in New Orleans. Set in the Castro in 1985, Jerker concerns 2 lonely men terrified by "the gay cancer" who develop a significant connection via phone sex. It's a naughty, nasty play with redeeming social value. Baptists will picket.I saw a 20th anniversary production of Jerker on videotape when I lived in San Francisco. For me personally, the play helped to lift a dark cloud from my head, the same dark cloud that hovers over the heads of the 2 characters in Jerker. I also responded to the emotional charge of the play, ignited by the sexual language.
Casting is my challenge now. I had 2 remarkable, weighty actors in the hopper, but for various reasons, mostly scheduling, they are not available, although both love the script. Not only am I looking for certain types, both with acting chops, but also for chemistry between the pair. Fortunately, it's only 2 roles. Or maybe unfortunately. Ah well, it's my current challenge and my joy.
Found the right venue for this show and signed the contract this week. As soon as I secure the cast we start promoting. Got a couple months lead-up time until Opening Night, so we can build momentum. April 8-25.
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