Away

I’m on the road this month.

Well, not exactly on the road — it just sounds cool to say it like that. The reality is that I’m away from home. I’m working on a movie in Birmingham, which is a little over three hours up the interstate from Mobile. That’s not very far, I’ll admit, but a month away from home is still a month no matter how far you go, whether it’s 250 miles or 2,500.

For as little as I leave town, Birmingham might as well be on the moon.

I always love the idea of travel, of being away a while and seeing the world. But somehow I always find it hard to just pick up and go, to forsake the burrow I’ve made with all its warmth and seclusion, the shadows that dance in the corners of your eyes, the creaks of the floorboards and the cracks in the attic; my writing desk, my reading chair; the furry little creatures who rely on me for Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and whom I rely on in return... I love my home and my life there.

But right now I’m away again.

Oh, I’ve planned multiple trips in the past, even spent money with the expectation that I’d be making good use of it, only to come up with some excuse as to why I can’t go, or at the very least shouldn’t. It’s not hodophobia. It’s not travel aversion. It’s just plain old fashioned travel anxiety — and that’s hard to admit while living in a society that prizes wanderlust over literally every sense of security.

I often joke that I’m a recluse, but I’m not. I’m just a homebody at the core of things; a severe lover of my personal space; a desperate seeker of alone time. A few months ago I spent some time in Boston, and funny enough, it didn’t kill me. On the contrary I think it livened me up some, gave me the satisfactory of having new experiences I’d been looking forward to for a long time only couldn’t afford, whether monetarily or mentally. It was beautiful. It reminded me that I can go anywhere and do anything I want, and that in itself was liberating.

And right now I’m away again.

I’ve always had this love-hate relationship with being home. Admittedly, it’s more love than hate, but there are times when I feel imprisoned by it. I rely on it to keep me safe and secluded. I need it to provide peace and quiet. It’s where I learn to cook new things, where I dream and pray and research and develop new stories to a painstaking degree of detail. It’s where I write those stories, where I edit movies, where I read books and make all the plans that feed my purpose and eventually lead to fulfillment.

Besides, home is where all the best ghost stories come from.

My home is my sanctuary, my escape from the world, but it’s also my crutch. So when travel beckons I do my damnedest to harken and obey the call. I do my best to seize upon the opportunities made available by this freelance life I’ve chosen—and so far it hasn’t disappointed.

So right now I’m away again, and I will be here until it’s time to return home.

Best,

CBM

Cobblestones

I leave for Boston in two days.

I’ve wanted to visit this particular city for a long time now—right about eight years or so. It’s always held a certain light in the distance to me, as if it’s the epitome of discovery, the lighthouse of our nation. I’m sure that idea has a lot to do with it being such an old, historic place (and maybe a little unfortunate bit of Augustana lyrics).

For one reason or another, I’ve been drawn to the place. The early colonial settlements. The nearby Salem Witch Trials. The cobblestone—if there actually is cobblestone there. It’s the center of a region that smells of gunpowder smoke. It’s fog rolling in from the docks. It’s lantern light, ale, and people on horseback.

One of the novels I wrote in college features a modern character who has such a strange blood illness that he has to travel to Massachusetts to visit a once-celebrated hematologist. The now-insane blood specialist used to work in Boston, but after the failures of a few of his more unorthodox experiments, he was estranged from the community and forced to move back to his hometown in Salem.

Another story I once developed has to do with a ghost boy who roams the streets of old Boston and spends a lot of time around a historic cemetery now called Copp’s Hill.

They’re both still in the works. The problem with these stories is that I never got a chance to actually visit these places. But now I do.

I went through a really bad breakup when I was twenty-two. It had been a long-standing sort of relationship, the kind you think will be forever because it lasted five or six years, so you do everything you can to keep the body on life support long after the soul is gone, whatever it takes to keep the corpse reanimated; severe co-dependency at it’s finest.

But when that was over, the only thing I wanted to do was go to Boston. I wanted to pack up my things, make the drive, and make it work. No job, no bed, no plan, just go and survive as if it were my own version of a rite of passage into manhood. It wouldn’t exactly be surviving the wilderness, no, but still, cities are nothing but concrete jungles full of animals of the most dangerous nature. I would’ve lived in my truck if I had to—anything to escape where I was and prove myself to myself, to keep alive the idea that I was still good and self-sufficient enough to keep living.

What did I expect to find? At worst, nothing. At best, what, myself?

I’ll never know, because I never went. I almost did a couple times, but life found ways to keep that from happening. I guess I just wasn’t ready, but now I am. Because the stars have finally aligned and everything is working out. I don’t know what I expect from this trip now—certainly none of the things I was hoping for six years ago. I’ve already escaped where I was, even if it was only mentally and emotionally. I am good enough. I am self-sufficient enough. I know now that I do deserve to be alive.

I have nothing to find there but a good time, and nothing to take away from the experience but memories, photos, and maybe a couple souvenirs. Maybe this is a lot of what growing up is all about: confidence in self, contentment in circumstances, etc., etc…

Cobblestones. Each of these, cobblestones.

There’s no need to run because there’s nothing to run to, and nothing to run from. You can’t find yourself out there, because you aren’t out there. You’re right here, and so am I.

No, I reckon I don’t expect much else but to enjoy myself, and honestly I wouldn’t want to travel in any other way.

Best,

CBM

Sherri

Her name is Sherri. With an ‘I.’

I’d made my way down the side of the road with a 30 gallon trash bag and the pickup tool from the flea market I’d purchased just that morning. I had my earbuds in, listening to Last Podcast on the Left, zoning out under the scorching blaze of a June midday sun. I couldn’t hear much else but rumbling engines, thick tires treading on black asphalt, and random honks as people either waved to say “Thank you” or “Get the hell out of the way.”

A shrill note came over the noise, and I noticed a woman standing in her driveway. She wore a forest green dress that reminded me of a pillowcase, and had a dandelion ball of curly salt-and-pepper hair. Both her arms were raised and swirling around to grab my attention. A smile spread across her face as I pulled out my earbuds.

“Hello!” she said. “Hey, I’m sorry I’m standing here yelling at you. I’ve been trying to get your attention. You know, there’s a certain frequency or pitch that’s supposed to sneak its way in past other sounds. Have you heard about that?”

I told her I had and she waved me forward, so I approached her. I left behind a few pieces of trash in the weeds and made a mental note to snag them after I spoke with her, before moving on.

“I’m Sherri,” she said, sticking out her hand—I shook it, wondering if I should’ve warned her how sweaty I was. “That’s with an ‘I.’ Sherri with an ‘I.’ That’s how I always introduce myself.”

I gave her my name, nice to meet her. Then Sherri With An I proceeded to apologize for the state of her yard. She tried to keep the trash cleaned up, she said, but as I could see—and I definitely could—her yard was in an incredibly dramatic state of disarray.

I know her yard well. It’s the only one on the road I’ve truly taken notice of, and I make it a point to glance at it every time I cross over the train tracks and drive up the hill to my street. Not to be mean, but ever since I moved to the area over three years ago, Sherri With An I’s yard has been what you might call an eyesore. Picture the original Jumanji, and that still wouldn’t do it justice. The yard is totally overgrown with tall grass up to my waist and weeds that reach far over my own head—every square inch of it, save the strip of flattened grass just off the road where a number of walkers and joggers have forced a path.

Only once in my three-plus years on this road have I seen the yard cleared away, and that was at least two years ago. On the afternoon I met Sherri With An I the yard was back in full-force, attempting to conceal her house from the wandering eyes of the world again. I’ve wondered for years what kind of people lived there, hoping they were kind but assuming not.

See, we have it ingrained in our heads from an early age that dirty, unorganized things are bad things, and if those things are bad that means dirty, unorganized people are bad. Of course I know now that isn’t true but I’m still guilty of thinking all rundown houses have monsters locked in their attics, and that sometimes they get out at night.

But that day, standing in the yard I’d nearly idolized in my own fantasy, Sherri With An I told me the city was supposed to take care of it. “I’ve been calling and telling them for months my property needs to be cleared, and they always say they’re gonna come, but they just don’t.”

Her van was parked in the driveway thirty feet from us, and a fallen oak limb was propped up against it. A rope had been looped over the tree and tied around the limb to keep it from perpetually crushing the van. She said she hadn’t been able to drive anywhere for months, so it was lucky she could walk to the Dollar General from her house when she needed something.

A man once stopped by to ask her about the limb, she said. He offered to cut it for her, take care of the problem, so they exchanged contacts. He would come back the next day, he told her, and she believed he was the answer to her prayers. But he didn’t come back the next day. In fact, that had been weeks ago, and she still hadn’t heard from him.

Sherri With An I asked where I lived—up the road, down the street, in the white house with the red brick chimney. She asked what I do for a living—a writer working full time in the film industry.

She has a friend who pursued film in Hollywood years ago, and one time when Sherri With An I was much younger she went to visit her. Her friend had to work a lot, so she spent most of her time there on her own. She ended up getting a ticket to see Johnny Carson where she hit it off with a fellow audience member—unfortunately she didn’t give me his name. But she said she couldn’t believe how much they had in common. They were both tourists, both drove SUVs, both liked the same kind of music—that sort of thing.

When he realized she didn’t have much to do in town, he invited her to tour Universal Studios with him the following day. Oh, she was just so excited to be treated so special by such a nice man in Hollywood. She didn’t say whether or not he was handsome or charming, but I get the feeling he was a little bit of that and more.

She dressed in the best thing she packed—a little yellow sundress and some matching slippers. “The water is so soft out there, my hair was just perfect that day.” She looked so sharp that people were slowing down in traffic to get a good look at her, trying to see if she was somebody famous. “I’d spent my whole time there looking for celebrities, and then suddenly everybody was looking back at me like I was somebody. Really somebody. That’s how good I looked. I felt like a movie star.”

Her movie friend has since left Hollywood for the television stations of Atlanta, but they haven’t spoken in a few years despite how much closer they live now. Nothing happened, she said, they just grew apart. Just life. That’s how it goes.

Then she told me a movie was almost made in her house. Jett Williams grew up there, she said. “You oughta look up Hank Williams’s illegitimate daughter.” So I did. Her actual name is Antha Belle Jett, and I don’t know if she grew up in the house now occupied by Sherri With An I, but I do know she believes it’s true with every fiber of her being. Someone told her a long time ago that they wanted to make a movie about Jett’s life, and that Sherri With An I would make a lot of money if they decided to film in her house—a potential payday she still hopes for.

At that point a car pulled into her driveway, and the woman in the passenger seat gave a house key to Sherri With An I. They talked for probably twenty minutes about things I was trying not to hear—meanwhile, I snagged those few pieces of trash I’d initially left behind and awkwardly stared at my phone like the millennial I am. I considered waving goodbye to Sherri With An I, but decided that would be rude since she was in the middle of telling me a story.

When they finally drove off she told me they were liars and cheats. That’s when I learned a good bit about her family history—mostly things to do with her siblings trying to sell their parents’ old house without her permission and for far less than it was worth. She stepped in and stopped the sale from going through, and the buyer tried to sue her for neglecting to honor the contract. Something like that. But she said she had enough paperwork on her side to win the case.

Allegedly the woman dropping off the key was the buyer who tried to sue her, but I thought it odd considering how pleasant they were to each other. “That woman lied in front of a judge. Her husband is a preacher, and I’m sure he’s a God-fearing man, but he don’t know what kinda woman he’s married to.”

She picked back up where she left off, assuring me that she has Antha Belle Jett’s autobiography in the house. Apparently there’s a picture in that book of Jett as a kid playing in the yard in front of what she swears is the same front porch as hers, with the same metal decor and all. “You never know, one day you might be making a movie inside my house just right here.”

We soon said our goodbyes, nice to meet you, will be seeing you again soon. She went back inside her house, the house where Jett Williams grew up, the house where they want to make a movie one day. I walked on through the yard the city won’t take care of, past a van she can’t drive because of the fallen oak limb. I moved forward with picking up trash down by the railroad tracks and said a simple prayer for her.

I wish the nice man in Hollywood had a name. I wish she and her friend hadn’t grown apart. I want her to live in the house where Hank Williams’ illegitimate daughter grew up, and one day I hope they pay her a lot of money to shoot a movie there. I hope she wears sundresses and has perfect hair and always feels like everybody is looking at her like she’s somebody, really somebody. Because she is somebody, isn’t she? Yes, despite her overgrown yard and fallen limbs, she is so very somebody, and I want so many good things for her it hurts.

Not a week later I drove home after a long day away from it, and I found myself behind a van. It crossed the train tracks and quickly pulled into a driveway. I’d never seen a vehicle make a turn so suddenly after the tracks, and I wondered if Sherri With An I was having another key dropped off, another lawsuit, another dead parent. I rolled by slowly, ogling the situation, hoping this visitor wouldn’t bring her anymore troubles.

The van parked in the driveway and I saw that it was Sherri’s. That’s Sherri with a ‘I.’ The limb was no longer persecuting it, and she could drive again at last. Then I noticed the yard had been cut back a little off the road. It wasn’t completely cleared, but it was a start.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I drove on home with a grin on my face, because it looked like she finally got a couple of her prayers answered, after all.

Best,

CBM

Pluviophile

It’s storming as I write this.

The windows of my wood-paneled study are sprayed with trickling droplets, giving the room the cozy illusion of early winter haze. The water continuously drips from my roof in full, unsatisfied icicles. The distant trees and houses are grayed out beyond the sheets of falling water, separating me from every elsewhere.

(Elsewhere—now, there’s an idea.)

I am alone in this house of rain. Well, alone with the cats.

If you talk to me long enough I’ll eventually tell you rain is my favorite thing on the planet. Sure, there are lots of other things I enjoy too, like coffee, sleep, pretty girls, good music, smooth whiskey; but there’s just something about the falling of drops of water that speaks to me on the deepest level of my being.

Not the sink faucet, or even an awe-inspiring waterfall—none of that business. What I mean is the hose sprinkler in the yard, or the spray from a shower head. Anything, I reckon, that could form a rainbow. Drops falling. Millions of drops of water, all falling at once. I can’t tell you what that is or where it comes from, all I know is it’s a feeling I’ve never been able to accurately describe.

I used to say I would never write about rain. To me it’s the equivalent of trying to write about loss itself, whether it’s through love or death, that hollow emptiness that feels like it could never be filled with anything substantial enough to make a difference. To write about rain would ultimately lead me down a path of disappointment and heartache, because I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. It’s too much. I would fail.

But today I feel a little braver.

The feeling rain gives me is sweet like newfound love, but it’s also a deep yearning, like long lust. Sure, I can sit and watch a crackling fire with the best of them, but I don’t know too many people who would sit and watch the rain like I do. It could never rain for long enough, if you ask me.

When I was a kid that wasn’t the case. I used to have the most wretched fear of storms. I’d hear thunder and see those black clouds forming in the distance, and I’d be sick to my stomach for hours. Couldn’t tell you why. It’s not like I’d ever gone through a bad storm in my whole life, even with growing up on the Gulf Coast, a notable ditch in Hurricane Alley. The closest I’d come to experiencing destructive weather was watching big blockbuster movies like Twister.

The storms we experienced when I was young were so unimpressive my mom used to calm me down by telling me tales of storms past, which usually consisted of about two-and-a-half acres of pine trees twisted up like fifty giant Twizzlers, and Hurricane Frederick relocating her back porch to the front yard.

Nope, I’m completely storm-trauma free, but I was still scared silly at the thought of a bad one. But then, just like that, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Out of nowhere. Instead of turning my stomach to knots, my heart would swell and I’d feel deep in my gut that particular longing that came with the surging of winds and sharp cracks of thunder.

I’d found a muse.

Something in me changed, and I grew up, or I grew up and something changed. Either way, I’m glad it happened. Because I’ve managed to find peace amidst chaos and at the same time learn a valuable lesson: storms can be beautiful if you let them be.

I have the distinct pleasure of living in the rainiest city in the country, but that really only applies to the amount of rainfall per year, not the consistency of precipitation—that award goes to Seattle. But either way you want to look at it, I could always stand to see a little more rainfall.

More rain means more growth, more lush vegetation and ripe fruit. More puddles to splash in. More cups of coffee, more stories read or written by the window. Even those big, scary storms that make you feel like you won’t make it out on the other side. Even those, because even the bad ones are okay in the end. They pass just like all the others. I promise.

Oh, love, don’t ever forget that all storms pass. Your trees might be twisted. Your back porch might be in the front yard. But the storm is over now, and the birds are beginning to sing again. The air is still humid, but the sun is back out, and you’re going to be just fine.

We both will be just fine.

Best,

CBM

Glue

I’ve heard it said you can make anyone like you just by asking questions about them.

The idea is that people are generally egotistic and love talking about themselves. They’ll go on and on about what they do for a living and what kind of cereal they prefer while watching their favorite show, and how much their cat Ramen loves ramen, and it’s funny how it just worked out that way, isn’t it?

Hah—yeah, man, your cat’s a riot.

In my experience that isn’t always true—I’ve usually found talking about myself to be very difficult. I’m not saying I don’t often lean into self-deprecating anecdotes ... especially when drinking … No, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t do that.

I just often make the mistake of thinking there isn’t much here worth talking about. I freeze up in social situations, and I don’t know what else to say. Conversation lulls awkwardly. I sip that drink and sigh and say something like, “Yep, yep, yep…”

I don’t have a deep catalogue of memes and YouTube videos at the ready to show my friends for hours, mostly because I don’t spend that much time on the internet. I’m a little better in groups, sure, but one-on-one conversation is just tough.

You can imagine how great I am on first dates.

I’m guilty of preferring the life right in front of me, but that isn’t always fun. People like to laugh. They like to be entertained. We all have a world of humor and distraction at our fingertips, and we’ll spend hours at at time getting lost in these digital little boxes.

Me, I’d rather watch the rain fall and listen to the chirping of the tree frogs hidden up in the pines. I’d rather notice there’s a new crack in the plaster ceiling of my 1950’s cottage home and turn the constant popping, creaking sounds of the settling into attic ghosts. I’d rather read books—real books with real glue and real pages that I can turn only after I’ve licked my finger.

Don’t get me wrong, I grew up on hours of television and video games, and I still spend a lot of my time enjoying those things today. I enjoy my family and friends. I love to travel, and explore city rooftops at night, and spend over twelve grueling hours a day trying to make movies. I’m all about the adventure.

It’s just that the older I get the more I appreciate the slower aspects of life. Increasingly, I need times when I can really settle my mind and think my thoughts that pop and creak because you better believe this house is full of ghosts.

But if all you do is watch the grass grow, what’s with the blog, huh, Christian?

That part is simple. I’m writing to prove to myself that I have plenty worth talking about; to learn to stop hating certain character traits of mine, even if they are less-than-desirable at parties; to accept that I’m just as much of a worthy human being as anyone else. I’m writing to connect myself with myself, and myself with others, so that if we ever happen to cross paths we might just have a few things to talk about.

And if I can achieve all that just by writing, maybe you can find the same acceptance through reading. Because I believe you’re just as worthy of the things you do, and enjoy, and appreciate as anyone else on this planet.

We are suffering from a severe lack of social glue that binds together our societal book, but I’ll lick my finger and turn that page and do my best to remind you that you matter.

You matter. You matter. You matter.

Let’s matter together.

Best,

CBM

Busy

I’ve had a busy year.

In the last twelve months I’ve worked on six feature films. Six.

Days on set are at least twelve hours long, and the most time off I had between projects was nine days. Every job I took came with a steep learning curve I thought might break me in the grip of its g-force, followed by a thousand learning experiences when it didn’t.

I got to work with so many wonderful people, some famous, some not, and I learned how to do things I’d never imagined before. I observed and was taught by a lot of people whom I respect and admire intensely.

Good people. Gracious people. Some of the hardest working folks I’ve ever witnessed.

I got to work on movies, dammit. Something I’d only dreamt of since I can remember. Sure, the hope was vague and uneducated as a kid, but it was always there in one form or another.

Fifth Grade End-Of-The-Year Poll: What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

At first I wrote A Family Man, knowing it wasn’t an occupation but still a genuine hope. (And I thought it would impress my teacher—I was very much a Ralphie Parker.) But then, once I realized our answers would all be read out loud for our classmates to guess who said what, I got embarrassed and told Mrs. Huett I needed to, um, change my answer because I, uh, changed my mind. So I thought real good about what I wanted to do for work…

My final answer? Actor.

As the church folks say, I’ve been blessed beyond measure. About a month ago I wrapped a Spike Lee Production in Montgomery, where I lived for six weeks. Before that I worked a Scott Free Production in Fairhope.

This last year has come with almost too many challenges, all of which have taught me, helped me grow, and given me more confidence than I’ve ever known before. I feel really good about myself these days. Sincerely. I mean, last September I got to quit my day job… That’s literally what they tell you not to do. But I did, and it worked out.

I’ve gotten the chance to endure numerous situations where I thought I wouldn’t succeed, and yet succeeded. I’ve gotten to walk along the precipice of failure and keep my balance. I’ve looked Self-Doubt in the face and stared Fear in the eye, and said to those bastards, “You don’t get to win anymore.”

And I hope life pushes you in similar ways, because to me that’s the best kind of busy.

Best,

CBM

Plans

When I was younger I put myself in a box.

It was the kind of box that makes you feel like you have to be a certain type of person, or live a certain way, or do certain things. I was always so focused on myself and what I could or couldn’t do that eventually I grew into what you might call a selfish person. Rightfully so. Anytime somebody did something that didn’t fall in line with those ideals, I decided they couldn’t be in my box with me.

Sometimes they cared. Usually they didn’t.

The older I get the more I think about the kinds of words I want to say to people, the sorts of ideas and energies I want to put out into the world. Maybe it’s grasping at straws, a sort of existential desperation to hear an echo and feel less alone on this increasingly warm and polluted rock, but it gives me a sort of solace to think somebody out there feels the effects of the ripples I set into motion.

Small talk with the cashier. Cleaning trash off the street. Being kind to someone who is rude.

It puts my mind at ease. And these days—leaving my twenties behind and ultimately the last few sweet drops of my youth—an easy mind ain’t something to spit on.

They say thirty is the new twenty. Okay. But I had big plans for my twenties. See, I was supposed to be one of the most successful young authors of the day by twenty-three. I’d be married and have a kid on the way by twenty-five, twenty-seven at the latest. Well now I’m twenty-eight and I’m staring down thirty like it’s the barrel of Elmer Fudd’s rifle.

I’m not married. I don’t have any kids. I’ve written a lot, buddy, you better believe it, but I’m not even close to being a successful young author. Young—hah. I keep thinking about how I’m older than Stephen King was when he was first published. (Yeah, yeah, comparing yourself to the King is creative suicide, I know.) But my time is still coming—maybe in my thirties.

“Thirty is the new twenty.” We hear it. Sure, yeah, we get it. But is that supposed to make us feel better?

They also say the greatest lie the devil ever told us was that we have time. Well, we sure bought that one, didn’t we?

“You have time,” people love to say. “Thirty is the new twenty. You’re still young. You have so much time.”

Alright, we have so much time. Great. Let’s eat it for breakfast.

But do I? How much?

I reckon one of the greatest lies I told myself at twenty was that I had plenty of time. And now thirty is trying to sneak in quiet like a family late to church—we all notice.

So here I am, writing you, making little ripples. No, I’ve decided it’s not desperation—I’m desperate in different ways. This is urgency. This is eagerness and excitement. This is both selfless and selfish passionate love. It’s communication. Understanding. Energy. And it doesn’t matter when you oil the gears and get them turning—all that matters is that you do … when you have the time.

I have big plans for my thirties, a couple years left of my twenties. I guess that ole devil was right, in a way. I do have time. I have it now. And as always, I’m going to make the most of it.

Joke’s on him.

Because when I was younger I put myself in a box, and now that I’m older I realize that the fantasies and ideals of my youth aren’t what was best for me. Most of it I don’t even think about anymore.

Maybe aging ain’t so bad. Because eventually we all have to outgrow the boxes of our youths, don’t we? Maybe, just maybe, everything is going according to plan, after all.

Best,

CBM