http://www.tedsamore.com/voice daily 0.75 2015-12-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449210759226-1QOPB6FT9K9FLASJXC2M/5people.jpg VOICE https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449210804028-4YSY4WQ57QHVUHQ3WYLG/peregrino.jpg VOICE https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1450394806641-MMVMXJDA12FNCG1VSO77/achristmascarol.jpg VOICE http://www.tedsamore.com/writing daily 0.75 2024-02-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1509659240046-G251JJT1NACIN8GNYXPQ/Griff+infant_crop.jpg WRITING The day of my son's birth, I held in my hands an angel with boundless possibilities. I felt the promise of a profound calling without a hint of dread. We had eighteen years to perform spells on each other. In two days I will deliver the same boy, my only child, to his freshman year in college. During the summer-long empty nest countdown, I'd kept an even bearing. Now packing his things, I felt peevish. My wife, Susan, and son, Griffith, laid out things in the house while I jammed the bulk of his material world into our SUV. Starting with the roof carrier, I put in bundles of soft items. A month earlier an inexpressible sadness had infiltrated my psyche. Alone in the driveway, it consumed me. A terminus was at hand and I was buckling. This was the official commencement of my son's independence and adulthood—something you surely see coming but are still unprepared for, defenseless. After filling the roof carrier, I moved to the trunk. First in, a mini-fridge—standard fare, I'm told, but in my opinion, unnecessary. Next was Griff's most prized possession: his desktop computer. He'd custom built it from scratch according to his specs, no one else's. The project took him weeks and the result was big pride for us all. I placed soft material around the PC to protect it against jostling. In the early years, after putting Griff to bed, I often asked myself, "Did this dear boy have a wondrous day? Did he take in all he could? Was I present?" I don't think I ever answered no and watching him grow, I'm pretty sure he agreed. With his teen years my long run of satisfaction clotted as many bedtime reflections were not sweet. He'd had a bruising day or I'd shone a tin ear or lost my temper. What came back to me was chilly resentment. I finished the first layer of stuff in the trunk with boxes of books. Essential was Griff's collection of Dungeons and Dragons handbooks. He added some science fiction, young adult satire, and reference books for math and science. Also in the stack was the "library starter kit" I'd given him which included a dictionary, a book of poetry, and novels that shook my early college life to the core. From our repository of sporting goods, Griff wanted two things: a frisbee and a fox-tail throwing toy. The frisbee had been with me for almost 30 years. The fox-tail was a birthday gift we gave him long ago. Is there an indulgence more joyous and deserving than your child's birthday? We heralded each of Griff's with themed parties and gifts that thrilled because our choices were spot on. For his sixth, we gave him the only pet he'd ever ask for—a tarantula. We were shocked to learn later that the spider was female and might live twenty years. We joked that he'd be taking her to college though we couldn't imagine Griff or the tarantula that far on. Jadis is now twelve and she'll stay behind. I remembered how, the day after his birthdays, an inner voice would pipe up, "He's five. I have thirteen years left." When Griff turned nine, it got more serious. "I'm halfway there. Thank goodness there's still another half to go." Now that he's eighteen, so ends the most crucial part of my one shot at parenting. With every relationship I've known, reciprocity at some point played a part. Being father to this boy, reciprocity never crossed my mind. His happiness, his self awareness and confidence, his friendships, and finding his best fit in any environment—to me these goals were self-evident and supreme. Griff's departure makes a vestige of these devotional tools. The lickety-split feedback loop we'd honed would sputter from disuse. What of the things I'd tried to represent? Giving, listening, empathy, fidelity, rational thinking, righting mistakes. He was the only one who paid scrupulous attention. I would lose his judgment and its remedial clout. I would be less motivated to take on the steady stream of quotidian concerns. He compelled me to care and stiffened my backbone against anything or anyone that pinched his freedom or well being. It is possible that for the past three years Griff had tried to ease the transition for me. In some manner his blooming adolescent appetites had schooled me in the pulling away. He'd already decoupled. But on the eve of our separation, I felt the pain of a sudden excision. The SUV still had room for more compact and flexible things. I put in PC peripherals, perishables, bike gear, shoes, and clothing including Griff's first tailored suit. By 6:00 p.m. we were 95% packed. We unwound with a home cooked meal and watched an hour or so of video that Griff shot on his summer trip to Spain. Then, as per routine, we went to bed. I stayed up a little later to sit on the porch, assess the day's labor, and have a short cry. I woke at 7:00 a.m. Our target departure was in an hour and a half and the only things left to throw in were three overnight bags and a bicycle on the hitch. Griff was up and moving before I was. "Dad, I'm nearly done with my backpack. Tell me what's next." A call from his room without me having to wake him? Volunteering to help? I needed a minute to muffle the urge to cry and went to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice. Our home was oddly still. My eyes filled to bursting. Our sunny trio (his label for our family) would no longer be conjoined under one roof. Facing us on the passage to whatever is next was not a bridge but an iceberg. I found Susan in the living room with her back to me. Without a word I turned her around, pulled her to a tight hug, and wept into her shoulder. She reacted as if I'd broken something. "What's the matter? Are you okay?" she asked. "It's over," I said, twice. Instantly she understood my upset but wanted no part of it. There were the practicalities of making a dorm room habitable. "He'll only be five hours away," she said. "We'll still see him every few weeks. He may not even like this college and we'll have to do something else..." I stopped listening and collected myself once more. This time it held. By 8:45 a.m. everything was stowed. Like puzzle pieces we dropped into our car's seats. The assembly gave me a provisional composure despite not having a clue what was ahead. This would be our first journey in which only two returned. We drove away, as if it were the start of another family vacation. Ted Samore ©2021 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1707330641041-EY4993DMYZUOX0VBM22Q/White%2BAlbum.jpg WRITING When the 50th Anniversary edition of The White Album arrives, it will be my seventh or eighth copy. Why get another? Because Giles Martin ran this re-mix and there's no one with better tools and better acuity for Beatles music. I remember buying the original vinyl version as a sophomore in high school in Iowa. I was shopping for something else at Belles Hess, a sort of K-Mart, when I spied a freestanding cardboard display absent any word or icon. It held two rows of white LPs. Up close I discovered two small embossed words, low and off center. “The BEATLES” It was as unremarkable as the stamp of an inch on a ruler but it made my brain pop. What the blank? Below and smaller was a gray six-digit number that looked like a misplaced cataloging ID. I followed many bands back then but was devout only with the Beatles. They were like brothers in absentia. With each release my commitment deepened despite friends hopping off at the Magical Mystery Tour. That I was clueless about what the Beatles had been doing wasn't my fault. There was no ubiquitous multi-level marketing, no internet share-steal-gossip, no FM rock radio, no Rolling Stone magazine. The White Album arrived out of the blue without so much as a single for us transistor radio users. The album had two discs but no song list. I prayed it wasn't a greatest hits collection - a sure knell for a band's exhausted creativity. I took the chance and bought it. I played it at home for my four natural brothers but stopped because they weren't paying close enough attention. So, I took the portable hi-fi with its fold down turntable to the basement for private listening. (Hearing an album's first play while stoned was still a year or two off.) On previous releases, each Beatle had been gradually staking claims to his own turf. On The White Album each was up to defending his turf. Here the writers' POVs were distinctly evident. I was unprepared for the jumps in mood and arrangement. The music moved from disjointed to intimate to brutish. I thought the Beatles were saying, we will rend you of sweetness but from the remnants, we'll make something purer, more vital. The first listen both hooked and disquieted me. Never had I heard beauty and beast dwell together so starkly and comfortably. Soon the outside world had its say. Paul-is-dead clues were deciphered and concocted. Authorship and players were misattributed. The splintering of the four was inescapable. In the next year there came Manson's depravities and a miracle of reconciliation, Abbey Road. Then the Beatles disbanded. Curiosities followed. Lennon resorted to primal screams. Starr became a vaudevillian. Harrison ceded his mantle to Jeff Lynne, an imposter. McCartney sentenced himself to playing in an average Beatles cover band. There were two other occurrences as yet overlooked by historians. In the first, I was fired from a disc jockey job for playing "Martha My Dear." In the second, my college thesis's soundtrack included my only film use of a Beatles' song (still the best cinematic appropriation of "Mother Nature's Son"). I've listened to a ton of music in the fifty years since The White Album's release and it's never been displaced from the top five of my desert-island list. More than any Beatles' work, I've returned to it to receive and perceive more. It's been an important companion to me, as a teenager and as a father. "Good Night" is an example. From first hearing to this day, tears can well when I think of all the song's associations. It was one of many lullabies I sang to my baby boy. Tellingly, it was the only one that he, in his prelinguistic state, chose to hum with me. Every loving parent knows that ushering his child into safe sleep is a tender moment. Lennon, that caustic Teddy Boy, gave me an instrument for just that. And he gave my son a gracious portal to his dreams. The song, like the rest on The White Album, is an achievement in timelessness. Ted Samore ©2020 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449201620862-RVTOP2N6Z6DFA7JPEU92/it_matters.jpg WRITING Intro (:45) Narrator: In a perfect world, there is no Buckner International... Pix: Night, interior, bedroom, 5 year old girl reading. POV CU of an open, beautifully illustrated book. As she reads, the girl whispers the words on the page. (loud noise from something thrown) Her book drops. Cut to MS girl curling under blanket. (man and woman screaming. "I didn't want the damn kid...you did!...") Cut to WS from behind bed toward the door, barely open. Her bedroom is a mess. (racket escalates) Narr: 19 out of 100 kids grow up in abusive or broken homes. It's not their fault. Some never escape. Pix: WS continues. Girl runs to the door. She closes it, image goes black. (racket fades to silence) Principal 1- Stephanie. A 32 year old photographer in her studio. (3:00) PIX: Day, interior. CU of giggling child as seen through a still camera's viewfinder. MS Stephanie's leans from behind camera. Subsequent shots establish the location and how Stephanie sets a cheery mood for her subject. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: Photographing kids is always such fun. Cute just comes naturally. All I do is set the tone. I adore them because they're so innocent and trusting. You pray that someday they find what makes them special. But you never know, do you... PIX: Day, exterior, suburban. WS lock-off of 4 year old girl standing alone, silently looking at the camera, with Buckner facade deep in the background. Dissolve, add 2 children per VO cue. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: My beginnings were what you'd call broken. When I was around 4 years old, I was placed in a Buckner home, along with my brother and sister. My mother put us there. She knew she couldn't raise us... PIX: Night, exterior, urban. Street where streetwalkers frequent. POV inside a moving car as it drives slowly. Through the window we see shadows, ladies of the night, awaiting business. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: My mother was a drug addict and maybe a prostitute. Her childhood was a mess, too, so I don't really blame her... PIX: Night, exterior, prison. WS dolly back from outside barbed wire fences. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: I don't have any memories of my father from when I was little. See, he was in prison back then. PIX: Night, interior, home living room. MS from side of unidentifiable man with laptop computer. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: No one told me that...I found out later he was into child porn... PIX: Series, interior & exterior. Camera roams, close to the action. No wide shots. CU and MS of kids receiving grownups' attention while they play, socialize, make stuff. Faces of adults and children are seen in 1/4 profile or from behind. They respond to each other and to guidance. ECUs of gestures. Nothing effusive or exaggerated. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: For the next 4 or 5 years, Buckner gave us what no one else who would, or could... My brother wasn't much of a talker...still isn't...but they never gave up. PIX: Day, exterior. WS lock-off echoes the earlier scene with kids in front of Buckner. Stephanie and 2 siblings, now aged 7-11, are standing and looking at camera. One by one, they're taken away, e.g., in a car or holding a grownup's hand. Dissolves keep the environment static. (nat sound in bg) Stephanie: Eventually, of course, we all left Buckner. My sister was adopted. I went to back live with my mother. My brother...moved back in with Dad... More... Ted Samore ©2015   https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449203564887-03NXFY3EP7LC5S867169/image-asset.jpeg WRITING It’s gone 2:00 in the afternoon and despite three hours of driving, it feels like we haven't moved. One reason is the desert plateau is spectacularly unchanging. A second reason is traffic. "They should all stay home, along with their mullahs," are the first words spoken in twenty minutes. They're from our driver, Khalil Afkhami, a respected architect in Tehran and the leader of our three-person expedition to film a dozen historic Persian gardens. "At this rate, we won't reach Tehran until well past tea." None of us realized, when we left Kashan this morning, that today's the 20th anniversary of Ayatollah Khomeini’s death. The two-lanes on the northbound side of the highway are choked with vehicles carrying Muslims to Iran’s grandest mausoleum, just south of Tehran, that commemorates the Republic's first Supreme Leader. The mourners are packed into rickety buses and boxy, four-door sedans, none of which has air conditioning or reflects any advances in automotive engineering since the Revolution in 1979. Our pace averages 35 mph. Many families, numbering two to five persons, ride on the handlebars, gas tanks, seats and fenders of single-cylinder motorcycles which, running at open throttle, strain along the road’s disintegrating shoulder at half the speed of other traffic. The women on the motorcycles seem unconcerned that their chadors furiously flap close to wheels and chains. Fortunately, the air conditioning in Khalil's Peugeot works fine. I couldn't feel safer as he's been like a brother to me since I arrived on my maiden visit to Iran. Khalil did the pre-production groundwork by listening to my goals, arranging a two-week itinerary to distant gardens, and obtaining the sanctions for me to film them. We are returning from the first location shoot. I slouch in the front passenger seat, absorbed by the monotony out the side window. In the back seat, also from Tehran, is my guide and historian, Dr. Laleh Noorani, a landscape architect and university professor. We have all lapsed into the torpor brought on by the mid-afternoon haze and the drone of the automobile. The temperature outside is 114 degrees. I’ve never encountered such fiercely dry heat. My sinuses are nearly swollen shut and breathing through my mouth is such a strain that I sound like a respirator. Yesterday's ten hours in the leeching sun may have vaporized half of my body's 60% water component. No wonder the faces of many Iranians look drawn, caved in. Complicating matters is the delirium I feel in my third day of hosting diarrheal drainage. My two companions, on the other hand, are in good spirits. They pass the time commenting derisively, in Farsi and English, about the poor pilgrims we can’t seem to overtake. For the professional classes, life was better under the Shah's rule before the Revolution deposed him. Only fools would honor either Khomeini’s death or his legacy of a repressive theocracy and moribund economy. Over the privileged, the imperatives of Islam hold less sway. We pass the outskirts of Qom, Iran's educational center for the mullahs or Islamic clerics. Blonde brick buildings and walls are in shambles. Construction debris and human refuse border the foundations. It is impossible to tell if the structures are in the midst of assembly or disintegration. When the final crumbling facade wipes past my view, a stunning vista of the Dast-e Kavir desert to the east is revealed. Past the parched scrabble of the low, softly sloped hills that rise and fall near the highway, the desert flattens without a break for the next 575 miles before reaching a mountain range. The next town is beyond that. 600 plus miles of blinding blankness without a scrap of vegetation. The food chain climbs no higher than the pores on the surface of gravel and outcrops. I think, This is what is meant by "godforsaken land." “Look,” Laleh exclaims, “Isn’t that beautiful?” She points to a sliver of white near the horizon, a crack in the desert’s ocher color. “It’s the salt bed of what was once a lake.” I’ll suck anything that doesn’t move is the promise from forces below and above. I'm the only one to respond. “Very nice.” Torpor returns. Later, I don’t know how much, I turn forward. Approaching us on either side less than a mile ahead, are two bluffs, 60 or 70 feet high - the divided halves of a hill situated transversely in the path of the highway that cuts through it. The bluff on the left is bare but the bluff on the right is topped by the silhouetted remains of a tree. There isn’t much left - a trunk and the stumps of a few branches. Maybe burnt by a storm, I think. The assessment is quickly erased by a more alert thought: There are no trees out here. When we get closer to the hills, the frozen shape at the edge of the bluff resembles a human figure on a pedestal - perhaps a statue of a martyred war hero, the sort of memorial common in Iran. We're nearly upon it before I squint in disbelief. Neither judgment is correct. The statue is alive. A man is perched on the back of a donkey. He faces the traffic below and a hard head wind which wraps the loose black fabric of his long-sleeved shirt and pants tightly to the front of his body. He's slender, bearded and barefoot. In spite of the wind, he maintains a balanced composure with hands at his sides. The donkey, equally rigid, is strapped with burlap saddlebags loaded with something bulbous, maybe fruit or vegetables. The man fixes his gaze just over the roofs of passing traffic. The figures and expressions of man and beast are the same - impassive and unflinching. Although acts of asceticism are often public, my friends have never seen anything like this. Khalil says something to Laleh in Farsi that makes them both laugh. Long after we drive past the bluffs, I stare out the back window and over the line of vehicles. With one exception, all of us are channeled in an unending caravan of overheated mourners on a strand of pavement in a sea of salt and grit. One man registers his opposition. He will move no further. A strip of clothing flaps madly along his spine, like the tattered sail of a lost galley. 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Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449193869624-4ZV2YY192R45WWQ3THCW/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO NBA stars drop 3-point bombs on opponents. Theatrical release for the Dallas Mavericks. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449193785042-COP0EZD0ADK14YP6XMAE/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO A couple dresses for a black tie event then discovers it isn't formal. Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194295812-0H1G7Z2DAQPXGB1FDU6G/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO Who knows what may come from a selfless gesture? Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194462944-P7ZR150HGUVLLTUPHOM5/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO Honchos of the Wild West don't welcome just any rookie. Season ticket promotion for the Dallas Mavericks. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194674647-AWJJJQOE5UQ7ZI1N6DYY/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO A documentary of my journey to Patagonia. 17 days in Chile was a dream fulfilled, but not the one imagined. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194328001-X5ZA2V3PAHB0X9HDXI8K/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO When tornadoes ripped through Oklahoma City, safe shelters were scarce. Especially for pet owners. Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194780228-BMUKNNG7HVV9U8ACBQ3O/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO A privileged look at the finest crystal making. For its Museum Collection, Baccarat uncovered historic designs then recreated them. The craftspeople achieved unequaled precision and purity. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194371616-PMKP1DF5MW8BECZCD5HZ/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO If you're locked in a fitting room, don't panic, keep shopping. Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194808889-J3UJYVEOPYW17F4ZIOVM/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO Turnbull & Asser are bespoke tailors of English shirts and ties. Have been for 130 years. Customers include Prince Charles, James Bond and Indiana Jones. A portrait of the design, creation and culture of made-to-measure clothing. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194394738-6PU767XMVJGNZLSFD0R3/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO A Valentine's gift for a lady's husband was to be a surprise but there was a snag in delivery. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1450390333336-Y4EFI28I9ZV2QETCA3SA/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO In an emergency, it's easy to forget where precious things are hidden. Based on real events. For Macy's. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194758072-IWJHB2SYU3GP41W56338/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO Highlights from a pilot for a documentary series on the international history of garden design. Persian gardens in Iran are centuries old and are rarely filmed. Self produced. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/56369cfee4b088f9f336122f/1449194872639-Q8CUSB02G1DRCKYO8O6O/image-asset.jpeg VIDEO Once threatened by drainage, wetlands are returning to rural America. This documentary gets up-close with 5 farmers, their reasons and hopes, who restored or preserved wetlands on their land. 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