In Development--Sunday for writers, actors and directors

If you find yourself in, or can get yourself to Yarmouth on Cape Cod tomorrow and are into the whole creative process of writing and putting the product on film, you might want to check out In Development.

I got the word from Jenn Pierce who now lives in Sandwich but a few years back directed me in To Kill a Mockingbird out with the Wellesley Players. Jenn is a spirited, thoughtful, creative individual--here's her blog--and the second day of the workshop is open to the public, so it might be worth checking out what Jenn and her merry band of film making pranksters come up with.

Performance artist/filmmaker/painter--is there more?--Micheal Ornstein is part of this creative endeavor, and while I've never met him--hopefully some day I'd like to write about him--I get the sense that whatever he puts his mind and hand to comes out worth noting.

Here's the info from In Development's FaceBook page:

In celebration of Cape Cod's vibrant film, writing and acting scene, a group of writers, actors and directors have come together to form In Development! The group's inaugural workshop will feature actors working closely with directors on first-time readings of original film scripts by Cape-based writers. The workshop's second day is open to anyone interested in a glimpse behind the scenes, into the guts of how writers, directors and actors come together to develop projects. The audience will be encouraged to ask questions and participate in various ways. Refreshments will be served. The event is free with a $5 suggested donation for the Sunday matinee to help defray expenses.

Anyone interested in participating should contact Guy Taylor at A.S Films International, a sponsor of the event, at (508) 776-3283 or email director.asfilms@gmail.com

Cape Cod & Islands Refelctions by Christopher Seufert

Cape Cod is a state of mind. You cross the bridges and you're not only in a different place geographically, you're also someplace inside your head. I don't have a single bad memory from Cape Cod. Isn't that extraordinary?

From Joel Meyerowitz to the weekend snapshooter, I don't think it would possible to take a bad photograph there.



Publisher: Schiffer Publishing, Ltd.
Author: Christopher Seufert
Format: Hardcover, 128pp
ISBN-13: 9780764334054
ISBN: 0764334050

Synopsis: Over 200 color photos provide a unique perspective on life in and around Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Enjoy colorful tours of Provincetown, Nantucket, Orleans, Martha's Vineyard, Brewster, Eastham, Chatham, Harwich, Falmouth, Sandwich, Dennis, and Barnstable; beaches of Cape Cod National Seashore, Dionis, Nauset, Red River, Lighthouse, and Outer Beach; wildlife refuges, regional wildlife, harbors, lighthouses, lobster shacks, architectural gems, and much more.

Biography: Christopher Seufert is a photographer based in Cape Cod. This is his fifth book.

Get it here.

The wharf rat writes

These are the selected writings of Craig Moodie, a.k.a. the wharf rat. He writes about sailing, the kind I like to read about. I'm not interested in the scene in Newport. I'm more interested in gunk-holing and the desire to see what's just over the horizon, and then just keep going.

He has a new book out--Seaborn.

He has a bunch of other books, all about the sea. You can learn about them here.


And here's the old wharf rat, himself. Craig and I worked together a long time ago. Many lives ago. Something that always struck me about him was how growing up on Cape Cod and working for a while on the few rusty fishing boats that still go out of the Cape affected him. It's a place he's never really left, but in a way that it seems as if he's still looking for something there. Like a ghost continues to haunt. Unsettled. Troubled. Disturbed, as in, his sleep was disturbed.

I remember one night we drove down to the Cape from our homes in MetroWest to fish the canal, which is a really dreadful thing to do, but we had dreadful jobs at the time and so standing in all that bilge water didn't seem to matter much. We ended up not catching a thing, probably not even getting a nibble, the only shivers on our poles came from dragging our lures across the bottom. It must have been Scusset Beach where we ended up driving to finish the beer we had. And the reason I remember that night was because Craig skipped a rock across the lapping oily water at the earth's edge and the sea's beginning, and it hit green, and green, and green again. I'd never seen the fluorescence before. I'm sure I stood there slack-jawed for a while. You can't forget seeing something like that for the first time.

First Encounter Beach, Cape Cod

A bottle of wine, a baguette, ripe cheese. Apples. In a knapsack. A spread from Sri Lanka. A guitar. A dog. A man. A woman.

High tide went to slack to low.

The wind came up.

We got back in the truck and took the long way home.

Old Silver Beach, Cape Cod

Out off the causeway the water was so clear, right down to the weed beds.

Nestled in the rocks, the sun tightening the skin on our faces, and just off a can's bell started tolling. A Cape Cod moment. People travel miles to see what we see when we look out our back door. In that moment, there is nothing but peace. No anger, fear, no worries, not even love. It's just the moment.

A bum's life for me

What a difference a few degrees -- or 25 or so -- in temperature and an extra hour of light can make. It's supposed to get up into the high fifties today and we just kicked into daylight savings time this past weekend. It will be nice to just go out and sit on a park bench today at noon and people watch.

Winter -- cold -- is for hibernation. For hunkering down and just surviving. It's no coincidence that the Greeks were able to form an advanced civilization. It was their weather that allowed it. With less time needed to just survive, they had time to develop mathematics, philosophy, architecture, and theater.

Sunday on the Cape. Sue had the sliders wide open to let the day in and stale winter air out. The dogs were running in and out, playing. Tater was as rambunctious and mischievous as ever. Zoe as shy. Bob was acting like a puppy again. I couldn't resist, it was almost like an instinct to grab the guitar and just play. Now I know what the birds feel on a day like that.

On Old Silver Beach we were sitting among the rocks talking and listening to the gentle water. Bob, per the classic behavior of an Australian Shepherd, lay a number of feet off where he could keep a good eye on us and lookout for anyone coming. He had found a chunk of ice --it probably has some sea rime on it -- and was eating it like a Popsicle.

For all my life I've been harped at that I should do this or that. That I'm so smart, so talented, so this, so that. But you know what? What I really want to do? What I really want to be? A beach bum. I couldn't think of a better life, living by the water, a stack of good books, a guitar, some beer. The first and last thing you see in your day is the ocean.

At least I wouldn't be hurting anyone.

The shirt off my back

It gives new meaning to the phrase, he’d give you the shirt off his back.

I’d never pay 50 bucks for a shirt, but that’s what I found myself facing as I went out to look for some new ones. Now, you have to remember that the last shirt I bought was for one dollar at a church thrift shop on Cape Cod. And I got that one for 50 percent off; it was originally marked two dollars. It’s a nice shirt. I wear it to work all the time.

Shirts, at least the ones you would be caught dead in, start around fifty bucks. And I needed more because most of my shirts spend most of their time in a pile on the floor of my closet because I never have to time to either a) take them to the cleaners; (or if I actually get them to the cleaners) b) pick them up. I leave for work before the cleaners open and return after they close. My weekends? I get so sick of people telling me weekends are for getting ready for the next week. Get an effing life, people.

So, you can imagine how happy I was last night when Sue showed up with three shirts that she bought for $6.97 at the Gap. Two of them I really liked; the third was a plaid that we both agreed would have made me look like Opie Taylor. And here’s the real kicker: They originally sold for $49.00. Then they were marked down to $24.99. Then $12.99 to finally the $6.97 Sue paid.

I know what you’re thinking. They must be pretty nasty-looking shirts if no one wanted them. But no, they’re good-lookin’ fifty-dollar shirts. That’s more than you could say about a lot of hookers.

And no, I’m not giving you one off my back, either.

Two commuting stories

It was one of those mornings. No matter that I gave myself plenty of time to get ready, I was still racing around because I simply am horrible at time management. An extra cup of coffee, a little something to eat, take the dog out, spend a little time with Sue before we both got shot out of the cannon called daily life. When I was tearing across the orchard I noticed the clock in the truck said 7:45 which means it really was 7:40, and I was trying to make the 8:00 train. I did make it in time to board the train waiting on the platform in Framingham. I found a seat, pulled out my book, then reached into my back pocket for my wallet where I keep my train pass. The little plastic card wasn't in my wallet. I knew where it was: it was in the pocket of the shirt I wore yesterday, which was lying on the floor of my closet where I threw it when I got home. To top it off, the fare is $6.25, and all I had was a five and a one. I looked at my watch and realized I didn’t have time to get off the train and go to the bank. I didn’t know what else to do, so I looked for a conductor and threw myself at his mercy. I explained the situation, telling him all I had was the six bucks. He mumbled for me to take a seat. When he came to collect tickets and I handed him the six dollars I had, he said, "I thought you said you had a pass," and I said I did but not on me. “Just make sure you have it tomorrow,” he said, and moved on. I settled back with American Fuji, feeling a little less pressured thanks to the sympathy of the conductor, who could actually have made my life pretty miserable at that point.

While this was going on, Sue was having her own little commute from hell. After the conductor told me to sit down, I called Sue to see if she was still at the apartment and could check to make sure the pass actually was in my shirt pocket. At $210.00 a month, the pass is something that I like to know I won’t have to replace. She, however, was on Summer Street, stuck behind a man driving a car with the trunk filled with boxes and going, according to Sue’s speedometer, 12 mph. Sue had to be in court in Barnstable on Cape Cod at 9:30, an hour and a half away, and this guy seemed hell-bent on making sure she wasn’t going to make it. We’ve all driven behind a joker like this. We’re in a hurry, life’s pressures are encroaching, and the person we’re following is aware of that fact and passive/aggressively controls the situation and the people around them by impeding them. Yeah, maybe Sue was driving a little close to his bumper, but who wouldn’t at 12 mph? And, as a line of cars grew and crept along behind this guy, instead of pulling over and letting people pass by, he hit his brakes and drove even slower.

It’s not about you and your low self-esteem, mister. It isn’t about you having to cry out to the world, “I’m a human being, too, damnit, and I want to be noticed.” It’s about you being a controlling jerk and selfish to other’s lives around you. Get over yourself.

Two people having a tough time getting to work. In the first case, someone had the power to make someone's life just a little easier, and chose to do that. In the second, someone took the selfish choice.

Running with Scissors

Alice says that you need more than tea at the end of a day. With a horse-laugh and a wink, and a feathering adjustment to some internal throttle to rest her wings, she then says with a grin that splits her face as wide as an open book that what you need is Scotch.

Alice is the bantam book-loving head of the bookstore at the Centerville Public Library on Cape Cod. At 76, Alice runs the couple of rooms down in the basement of the library with equal parts efficiency and unrestrained enthusiasm, keeping the till in a Glenfiddich tin on the little desk by the door. Blatant promotion, she calls it. At 76, she has stopped time as if on a page of one of the books she sorts. In her twenties she could have been a WAVE or a WAC, though WAC would have been the more fitting profession for Alice. She recalls a time when real living required a certain extra something from a person, whether that something was humor or tenderness or style and grace or a kind of bravery that could, if one wasn’t careful, lead to remorse and regret.

Books in the library bookstore are all donated, and hardbacks are sold for one dollar while paperbacks are fifty cents. Sue introduced me to Alice. Sue loves books and I love books, too. The thing is, we don’t have a lot of money for books. The thing is, Sue and I don’t have a lot of money period. So Sue and I go through the bookstore with a budget of say five dollars, totally up our choices, ruthlessly culling our pick. Wait, I have a copy of The Idiot, you can read mine, and look, the pages of this collection of Conrad’s short stories are printed in columns to save paper, should we get it? We do this while Alice yells across the way, wondering if we’ve read this or that. That day, The Idiot still made the cut, while Conrad’s gimmickry was left on the shelf.

She told us about Running with Scissors, the crazy, twisted memoir by Augusten Burroughs. It chronicles Burrough’s growing up gay with a bi-polar mother and living with her psychiatrist’s family to whom he was handed off while his mother’s life disintegrated. It is graphic and at times definitely X-rated. It is, in a word, hilarious and it took a different kind of bravery to write it. It wasn't written with the kind of bravery from Alice's time. It's the kind of bravery we have today, laced with irony and humor, a naked bravery devoid of compassion. Alice was mystified that a patron thought that it was depressing and couldn’t finish it. “What planet do you live on, lady?” she wondered.