Observations, Act I

As written, produced, played by little-known writer:
Harvey Kalmenson (da scribe)

Time: Early morning 5:00 am
Date: Probably summer, 1962.
Place: Not on a farm or ranch, unfortunately.

VO Actor: Da Scribe

Direction: Stream of consciousness, with a small degree of wonderment.

Is there anything ever really etched in stone…
Which may or may not remain that way?
I would bet my money on…
Is what I have to say
Well maybe
Certain things…
Skin peeling…
Writing a book…
(And, oh yeah)
BEING able to say:
WHATEVER I want to,
(Cowardly) putting qualms out of sight,
Before any reader can get their grimy hands on it to make changes!
According to them
Making everything right

Alternate observations & beginnings—
The same day, fighting with his thoughts for an alternative script…

Direction: While looking in a mirror while shaving.

Writing a book for most people can be a tedious undertaking. “Marching as to war…” It’s always been that way. The thought process or the actual transference of thought to paper has always been easy for me to accomplish. Showing what you’ve written to strangers is another story— it takes courage, stupidity, reckless abandonment, or an unbridled ego.
Truth be told, I’ve never considered it a real accomplishment. I don’t happen to feel that any God-given gift should ever be considered a personal accomplishment. However, considering what I have as God-given does qualify me as an ego possessor of some ilk.
I love people with a near great sense of humor, and extremely thick skin, when I happen to be in the area. Personally, I make it a point not to speak for anyone of my deceptive ilk; not that I’ve doubted the world has ever had one other than da harv.

Don’t you just hate the word: undertaking? There’s such finality built into it. About fifty years ago, when I was world-renowned for my lack of knowledge and general life perceptions, I took little notice of words that I recognized as having any degree of finality. Finality is far too final for a young guy out there trying to explain to himself: how the world works.
It has become an interesting phenomenon observing my personal changes during the last fifty years. My most substantial growth came at a time when I had just come through substantial mental pain. What I did was learn how to play through it. At the beginning of my career (time as so many experienced before me), I was a constant bystander. I was on the outside trying to figure out how the hell I could get in.
The harder I tried, the more distant my goals seemed to be. I share this only as an example of what living with pain was like for me. I wanted it, acceptance, so much that at times the pain of wanting was on the verge of becoming debilitating. Occasional industry work fed my soul and kept my desire burning.
Beginning a career in show business and simultaneously becoming a newlywed isn’t a question of pain tolerance. It is more likely a display of insanity. If that mix doesn’t supply enough pressure for you, add a couple of kids to your recipe. At that moment in my life, I was married and the father of two young daughters.
The jobs still weren’t happening frequently enough for me to claim that show business was how I earned a living. As a matter of fact, I was about to turn thirty years old, and it was still necessary for me to hold down two plus jobs while my then-wife also contributed by teaching dance classes for little kids. We were all working, but as far as I was concerned, my work was love-less. It was, in a word, work. Like many of us, not passion, not desire, nothing more than cold, hard survival.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *