Perspective

I sometimes find myself wondering if one's perception of sound is altered on a dark staircase. I'm the last one asleep in my house, and I must be careful when ascending from the Batcave not to wake anyone. So, while ascending the second necessary staircase, it seemed to me that I was completely silent. However, having been awake many times in bed and having heard family members carefully climb the same stairs, I know that it is near impossible to do so without noise. Perhaps when I believe I've silently stepped on a stair, I've actually caused the wood to buckle under the pressure and release it (audibly) somewhere else...
In fact, it seems our perception of many things is altered on a nocturnal staircase. Time seems to move infinitely slower as a result of anticipation, sight is almost completely nullified, and memory gets all funky. I mean seriously, do you ever really remember walking up your home stairs, even in daylight?
Nocturnal staircases are like lunges. They never seem to end, but at the same time when they end the memory can't be retreived. While you're doing them you have this strange feeling that you're going nowhere, and yet the end is imminent. In this way, nocturnal staircases are a bit like summer vacation. Now two weeks into my vacation, I can't believe how quickly the two weeks have passed. Indeed, all of Februaury break (all 4 days) seems to have lasted longer in my mind than these past two weeks. At the same time, the end of summer seems an eternity away, but just like my lunges, I know it will end before I know it. Hopefully it'll be good enough that I can retrieve the memories.
So how do I make them memorable? Well, I feel that I need to achieve. I've now been struggling with this play thing for a while, and all of my pitches just don't even seem to sell myself. I seem to have become obsessed with the idea of picking a fixed location and running an entire play in the confines of that space with just a few characters (the hotel idea {i'll bring it back eventually}, "Prom", "Apartment"). Now I'm thinking: What makes good writing? Inspiration. Write what you know. And what do I know? Three guys, sitting around over a vacation, bored in a basement (Not usually bored, but it happens). So how's this for writing what I know: "Back Porch". Three guys, bored on a hot, slow day over summer vacation, sitting around on one of the boy's back porch, which faces out toward the heart of the neighborhood. Throughout the course of the day, these three make idle conversation which sometimes turns heated, get deep into talks about feelings, and interact with characters in the neighborhood. These characters would not be seen, as the stage would be set up as just the back of the house with the porch facing the audience, so that when the actors adressed people on the street, they would essentially adress spots in the audience. At our most cooky points (and some less cooky, even), I believe the real-life friend triangle this is based off could be quite amusing to a detatched party. In this way, it would be a comedy, and I hope would capture the feeling that comes with friendship, the feeling that sometimes we don't need to do anything exciting together to appreciate each other.
Eh, it's something. Then, of course, there's the accomplishment of music. Unbeknownst to many, I have a real and truly strong desire to someday be very masterful in music. It's been said before, and I feel that music is such a strong way to reach people, not necessarily to always get a message through, but to let them draw their own conclusions. Even now, I'm listening to my recently rediscovered, beloved James Taylor collection, and for no apparent reason, I can't seem to switch away from his rendition of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" which iTunes has selected for me, even though it is the morning of June 14th. In some ways I think summer is one of the best times to listen to Christmas music. Whereas in the winter, the same old jingles are force-fed to us to the point where we just want to drown them with our bare hands, in the summer we can really take them as they come, and almost get a completely objective perspective of our yuletide memories. And what I see is good, I think.
But to be able to create music is such a mystery to me, at this point such a seemingly unreachable aspiration. I don't always mean the reflective kind of music that gets you nostalgic and teary-eyed, but also the kind of music that just tells you to rock until you fucking can't, tells you throw 'em up and punch some fists. It must be such an awesome feeling to know that your music got thousands of those fists in the air, or that its laid back punk rock feel got someone to detatch themself from the world and their problems for three minutes and thirty-nine seconds and just think "I'll deal with all that next commercial break."

-OSK

July thunder, something's undercover
Something's lost, something aint right
You slide by me in the cool air of night
Drive by in my car for you
Look me in the eyes, that's what I can believe