I’ve actually written a lot about what went on in my life in recent years. Instead of a novel, I wrote posts on Facebook and Linkedin. Some of them were heated and angry because I cannot praise evils put upon me and others. Wish I could have spoken more about the good things I was a part of, but then I’d be telling too much of my involvement with Hollywood. Can’t tell people what I contributed; may have done it through others and they are known for the things involved. I was a ghost creative, to be certain. But my human body took a pounding to participate. It was a journey that began in my childhood without a contract.
From Linkedin and Facebook today:
Testifying. Giving testimony to my life. What happened. Why am I and who I am now.
I helped others use my name(s) in L.A. and elsewhere. I didn’t see another option when I was so damaged decades ago.
In the Christian religion, it looks like I carried a cross for many years, sometimes people put flowers on my head instead of thorns.
I’m supposed to be released now. No longer carrying a cross and wearing thorns. But my body is fatigued and still injured. Probably will be the rest of my life.
(working title) I’m writing this story live. If I don’t snoopers may try to sell it before I publish it. Stand by… (copied from Linkedin after I finished as is for now)
After working hard for years, an old man is retired and alone. He knows he is near his end, or he thinks so. Gives away his expensive things to friends and family and has his little money to live on and enjoy his final days in peace.
He has just enough to get by, but things are getting more expensive. He doesn’t want to burden people he cared about in life. Just wants to fade away.
After losing his small apartment home and walking out, leaving everything there he takes to the streets. He has a terminal illness and knows his life is closing down.
One day he notices the young birds visiting him. Older ones watching them and him. Laying on his cardboard he gets up and goes to a store and with his last cash buys bird seed. He sits at the park and gives and gives… it last for days and he makes lots of friends with the birds and he lives in that nice park for a while with them.
The day comes and he is out. He sits and watches some birds come to visit, give him looks, peck around and leave again. Some come and fight each other at his feet and next to him on the bench.
Sadly he gets up, and slowly walks away. Birds chase after him.. scurrying at his feet… landing on his shoulders… on his head… flying by… some talking… some yelling… he just keeps walking slowly… no where to really go. His breathing isn’t well…
…his head is getting foggy.. he is not sure if he is walking or not. He feels very tired… and slowly loses consciousness. The birds land on his body, now just fallen on the path. He hears them, it sounds like music and confusion… they peck at his hair, his face, his jacket, his shoes, and stand and fight on him. Doesn’t matter their color, or size, or origin. Just birds.
Are you a bird? Do beautiful feathers stop you from pecking at people? Are you all in gray? Do you feel, special?
Joggers… come up quick and birds fly off… some fly and fly and fly… others hop out of the way still watching and looking for bird seed, which.. some may have dropped.
What does this story mean to you? What human would you be in this story if you wrote yourself in? Are you proud of the birds? Would you want to be one?
What are the joggers thinking of as they see this dead old man on a path? Take his wallet? Chase the birds away? Run off and pretend they didn’t see him?
There are many meanings in this story. Some people feel old and out of bird seed, even not near their own natural death. They feel like they already gave up a lot already.
If the old man got up, and walked back to an expensive apartment with all kinds of marble and gold. Had he still spent “all his seeds” for “the birds”? What if he had only bought ONE BAG in life and spent it all. Are the birds still “owed”? Is he responsible if the birds called more to his neighborhood?