I spent all day today on set in Cranford, New Jersey.
But that’s not where my story starts.
Where my story starts is a few days ago, near the beginning of this week, when Pete, whose name I mention on this blog for the last time, requested that I keep his name out of it.
It was understandable, though originally I didn’t understand. As might be apparent from my blog, I’m kind of an introspective and slightly alienated type of guy or at least “I play one on TV”.
Where I thought I was making fun of my own ignorance and foolishness for not knowing that Pete might not be good at Karaoke, Pete saw me talk about his private life and matters in a way that was very public. I understood when he phrased it like this, but it didn’t occur to me perhaps because if I no such similar qualms.
If I get along with this blog well–and you as well, reader–it’s probably because I have in my nature spinning my life into stories or spectacle, sharing my experience or thoughts openly, indeed, sometimes too openly.
But as Pete told me, in Pete’s extremely earnest, but earnestly-endearing way, he’s a private person and he wants our friendship to be something cool with us and not to devolve to “fodder for the blog”.
I suppose this is fair, though I suppose I wouldn’t like to think of my blog as needing “fodder”.
Anyway, I respect Pete and as I told him, I only mentioned his name as I’ll try only to mention people by their direct names here in honorific terms, or as they relate to me directly. When I talk about someone by name, for me that’s doing the highest honor to them I can, often, since I’ve spun them a character in my world.
Still, my world is a small place and unlike Earth, you can stop it and get off.
Getting back/forward, today I was on set in Cranford, New Jersey. When I heard the shoot was in “New York and some in New Jersey”, my heart must have skipped a beat and only heard “New York”, for I was relatively unprepared for winding up in Cranford, New Jersey, dealing with the Cranford, New Jersey police department or enjoying Cranford’s biting zero-degree fahrenheit-wind-chilled-parks.
I wasn’t prepared, but it wasn’t the worst. Friend of mine Andrew Roehm came on set, when I called him begging at 10pm the night before and with his SoCal exuberance, including numerous mentions of “bros” and “skanks”, he brought a welcome air of refreshing unbelonging to Cranford.
What I also wasn’t prepared for was an early morning text message: “U are a jerk”.
Now, there are many reasons one might consier me a jerk. Perhaps it’s because I slept in and missed a shoot day somewhere (unlikely), perhaps it’s because I was in a bad pseudo-relationship with you I just ended by email (a couple people), perhaps I said something uncomplimentary or unwanted or even misconstrued which then reached your ears and caused you to writhe or seethe in anger. This last possibility is the most likely; as I mentioned, I have a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at, pretty much, all times.
But it turned out that most of it was because this was a girl who found herself being the subject of one or more of the entries of my blog, offended that a young man such as myself who she considered a “friend” might consider her a “not gf”.
The crass man in me, the writer, would say that it is precisely this lack of understanding of such a thing that defines the said situation in which her and I respectively find ourselves. But the human in me, the non-character, looked soberly at what I had wrought and saw needlessness in it.
After my last question of reciprocity in this blog, wherein an eighth-grade not-sweetheart found herself on my blog and deigned to comment (but not to add me on Facebook, oh woe and triteness), now I find myself with echoes or ripples; reactions to my blog that in turn color what I write here as they are my real world.
When this young lady, who I did… who I do feel very–something–towards, told me it was because of my blog I was a jerk, I realized that in my hubris I had denied a friend a worker for his shoot and myself some awkward but feasible social situations; I had screwed with more than the two of us. Even if this is not the way I might have wanted it to end, it would have ended, but still, am I losing relationships due to my blog or myself? Is there a line between the expression of self and the self, itself?
I’m not a psych major nor am I a philosophy one.
I”ll have to let it go.
I went about the rest of my day freezing outside in Cranford, New Jersey. It got colder as it got later and it got harder to type on my iPhone, my weapon of choice on set. It was distracting at least, till I could return home here.
Till I could write about it all.
Once again, I might rally against the world.
Is it so wrong to exalt the characters, the people you love in writing; to make them characters in your own world, treated with the respect with which you see them?
Now that I’ve seen women treated cruelly returning nonetheless in endlessly mind-boggling fashion, why does writing on how you love someone make for an unforgiveable crime, when so much bodily and otherwise can be so readily tossed aside?
It makes me back to those days of giving out poems to the girls I liked. It makes me thing the power of writing; that it can be endlessly misinterpreted.
Perhaps that’s why bad actions of a physical nature are so forgiveable; since the bad is already there so obvious, you strain to see what good there might be in it.
Anyway, like I said, I’m not psych major or philosophy major. Nor am I a writing major, even.
“Don’t mix business and pleasure, kids.” I told the youngsters on my set today. “I wrote how I loved a girl on my blog and she quit from my friend’s set.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good reason to not do that.” One commented.
“Yeah. Doesn’t that just means you shouldn’t tell girls you like them on your blog?” Another commented.
Silence. And then I was here.