The Interviewer Un-labels Family

Interviewer: Your concept of family doesn't necessarily fall into the same definition as to what's printed in a dictionary. The term "Family" gets lost. I picked up on that really early. Before being set free as a teen. It sits inside hardened caverns without having to face the essence of its existence. Family is the explanation. "I can't do what I want because someone doesn't approve." Or... "I'd never do that because it would take me away from." Life with all its character faces enjoys sticking out its Murf shaped head then whispering, "You could've been." Hearts and emotions are easily sold. Dreams don't grow. Stagnant is the demand to move up and outward away from five or six generations of nothingness. We're fat with laziness and blame bosses, jobs, friends and lovers for our shortcomings. But hardly if ever family! I love my parents and siblings! But to sit on top of their shoulder's the failure of my success is totally unfair to them. I hear every excuse from every walk and pay scale, "Our reasons for living in a shack made of straw and mud has to be the fault of outsiders and family." How dare we think that way! I've been accused of selling out so many times that the Going Out of Business sign company knows me by my first name. The reality of it is simple: If I hadn't given life a swift swirl...would my family look at me as a could've of been? Interviewer: What does that mean selling out? Some see it as turning your back or walking away from the foundation that kept you warm in the middle of winter. I make it clear, "I'm always here." Just because we aren't hoisting beer and wine to our lips during a late Saturday afternoon in the backyard doesn't qualify as a family quitter. The hardest thing about life isn't making the decision to seek your own rooting system but trying to figure out how to slow this stuff down. It felt like a lifetime to hit graduation and only 30.2 seconds to reach fifty one in years. Interviewer: When is it time to go back home? To the green green grass. Where all those songs from the 1970's were written about. No morning passes that I don't pick up the smart phone to see if someone in the family has left a message. The moment the decision to stop chasing dreams becomes the new found reality...is the "Goodbye" life requires when rebooting the booty away from those friends that have become closer and more understanding than family. I don't have a problem being with family. I just wish that being part of a family was a little more like a game of neighborhood baseball. All the players line up on one side of the street and you get to pick who you want.

The Interviewer Questions Compliments

Interviewer: You play hard ball when the attempt to give you a compliment is offered. Instead of accepting the gesture; your choice is to shove it away without thinking about what's been said. Compliments have become this generations backstage pass to getting more. It rips the feeling of guilt from their reasons of demand. Compliment first. Then follow it with, "Oh by the way." It's my choice to see through the compliment. I instantly butt in, "What do you need?" The compliment that terminates best moods is, "You are so good at what you do." The reply, "Good isn't where I want to be. I vow to be great." Pastor Steven Furtick said it best, "Stop living life through other people's compliments. When you know the way of God. You will know his will. I was having a brilliant day before hearing what you thought of me." The very moment the Compliment-er steps through the thick clouds I instantly look toward the corner of the studio. There sits God! Eating a freshly opened can of roasted peanuts, "Hmmm sorry they did that to ya. Wipe the mud off your face and get back in the race." Interviewer: Yet you toss out compliments like Elvis Presley purchasing gifts for family and friends. Why do you expect people to accept your gesture? I don't follow the compliment with, "But there's a change or I now need this?" The essence of quality constructive criticism requires one simple rule: Breaking down a foundation only works if you're willing to help rebuild the several floors of readjustment. The quality of your voice could very easily be exactly on target but the volume or rhythm totally off. Through parroting the producer. The vocal acting delivery can be met if what's being offered is the effort of what the producer is trying to reach. I've had way too many bosses and studio producers use higher vocal volumes in trying to explain their efforts without ever demonstrating the correct pitch volume and tone. It's been: Compliment. Then: Do it my way or play on a different stage. Interviewer: You're telling me that you don't use compliments to gain access? That's cheating on the heart. No different than having a love affair.

The Interviewer: Introduction

Nearly my entire process. Child to adult. From Aunts and Uncles to co-workers and business relationships. I'm often accused of being conceited. Stuck on myself. An ego driven maniac. Yet not one person. Not even my Mother. Those tossing out the accusations like candy at a Thanksgiving parade have stood next to me while getting dressed in the morning. Watched as I wash my hands after a held back finally let go long ass pee. Or studied martial arts which requires students to blend into the visions the reflected path beaming back from the mirror. Conceit. Ego. Endless eye connection with a mirror. I've never had it. The outside description of my inner self feels no need to lock lids and share conversation. My mirror. A writing instrument. If I could change it. I would've done it in the second grade! It's the invisible growth that pops out of your skull at awkward hours. Usually 1:15 am to whenever the body gives out some eighteen hours later. It took me until 1994. A trip to Montana to take note. My body, mind and soul were being followed. By an out control desire to write. I had always written. Not just pages of poetry and song lyrics. Books! The second grade and beyond! Tablet after tablet stuffed into bent up, beaten to hell cardboard boxes shoved into the attic because I feared having this disease. I didn't know how people would accept me. The more I wrote. The easier it was for me to hide. I became the actor! I played out the roles the writing instrument danced into existence. Only to learn...it seemed my actions, reactions and vividly wild imagination had earned a name: Conceited. Ego Maniac. You've got the wrong face. That image doesn't belong to me. I find no time to dine in the arms of such energy stealing abilities. But...my writing instrument is a different story. I call him. Her. It... The Interviewer. No matter the day. Night. Impossibility. Victory or tiring bull crap journey forced into play by robbers of this gift to write. The Interviewer has the balls to step up to my page. Demand. Command and Deliver every cartoon character swimming through my eyes to fall freely about the world and land on his page. The bastard! The View From The Writing Instrument. The Interviewer will scrape from the surface of any soul the wisdom of a hundred years. Place it in a jar and let it cook under a southern sun some 100 degrees or more. Then open its lid. Sniff its present. Laugh out loud. Burp. Suck down a second lung full of shamelessness. Then whisper, "Grow a pair." The Interviewer. The View From The Writing Instrument. What I write. Come from darkness. My purpose in life is to locate light.