The Hot Air Artist by Roger Hayman
LOVE BASKET by Silas Ola-Abayomi
I WANT… by Maurice Williams Sr.
Winter Afternoon by Carlo Danese
Egypt’s Shifting Sands by Helen Whitten
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
Performed by Elizabeth Rose Morriss
******
Producer: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Director: Kierston Drier
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editor: Kimberly Villarruel
Camera Op: Mary Cox
The middle path is the hardest road for a man to walk with grace
I’ve spent my life in a cold dark cell or else, well, lost in space
My heart full of peace, harmony, love, greeting each one with a smile
Or hanging out down on Hooligan Street with O.J., Erik and Lyle
People would say as I traveled their way, “There goes John; he’s sober and
chaste.”
Or else they would point as I lit up my joint and say, “There goes John; what a
waste.”
A fit vegetarian, healthy of frame, living on sunlight and seeds
Or making my way down to Tom’s Number 5 to score a cheeseburger with
speed
Then back in A.A., at least for a day, with a promise never to swerve
Or down a dark alley, syringe in my arm, determined to fry that last nerve
It’s a struggle, my friends, to live a moderate life when your personality leans
to extremes
Some said it was youth but to tell you the truth, I think that it’s mostly my
genes
Nevertheless moderation’s my goal; my resolve is unsurpassed
(Hope springs eternal in the heart of a man who refuses to learn from his past)
Still this is my row, though it’s a hard one to hoe, and I frequently feel God’s
wrath
When I come to that three-tined fork in the road, I’ll head for the middle path
After the wind is gone, only the memories of it are left wandering adrift the surface, like one cast away in the middle of the sea hoping to be found.
If only I could hear the sound of it once again and embrace it, as it caresses my face making me feel complete; then complete I will be, and no longer should I have to yearn for your touch or seek you where you may be. Yes, the gift is given as a breath; a breath of fresh air filling up the emptiness left within, as my spirit clings to the thought of seeing you once more, feeling you once more, loving you once more, breathing you once more.
Drowning. I try to stay above the waters but my body fails me with out you present my dear love. The sun continues to sing it’s song and rejoices each morning, but the days pass me by, as if it were only a brief shutting and opening of the eyes, and the night quickly becomes my day, holding me captive.
Someone come and rescue me from these treacherous waves, beating against my flesh in a violent attempt to take away my very last breath; the only breath that I have left, the breath of your breath.
There it goes, fleeing from me, wandering in the wind like a kite without string. But an existing hole renders it flightless, bringing it back to the land, where it’s pieces are recovered and put together carefully.
Oh, how I wish I could soar with you between those soft and lofty clouds, flying along the four winds with those who see us, but us not them, spreading both of my arms as wings and giving in to you with out any control of my own.
Oh, how I seek that day, where I wake up to your voice, as you speak whatever words that fill the air around me; words of wisdom, teaching, and the gentleness of love. Nothing satisfies my being than the thought of this and more.
Kindness comes back, luring me to follow it, saying: “No more do you have to hate yourself”, it tells me. I turn my one ear to hear clearly these words, nourishing the want in me to listen.
My heart aches from the pains unwanted and I try to sedate it with more pain, as if it were a remedy. But it slowly disappears as the years flee along with tears, dried up in a deserted past.
Years of my youth were many, and restless nights even more, and as they moved forward in numbers, the rest that I longed for and left behind has caught up with me, reminding me that the happening that has happened is gone, just as
the wind that came and went, leaving only the breeze to listen to.
Mend a broken heart and it will heal over time, but time has no patience or recollection of itself. It only leaves a trail of clues pointing to what it was before it left.
On a day when no one was listening, the winds blew past and whispered a calming sound; a sound of peace and restfulness. It entered and exited with such glory that only those meant to hear it, heard. A goodbye without saying it, so that those who were listening knew of the farewell.
Mother, how could I ever know what you were going through, how could I know what you were thinking, how could I feel all the pain that you endured in your last days, what were your thoughts knowing that you had to leave us behind, how
could I blame myself for your departure, how can I see you again? As this past is left behind us, I am reminded each day of your wind that resides in me, and I will breathe it till my last breath, until our winds cross again.
Written by Michael Gonzalez
Cati and Mike Gonzalez
Independent Filmmakers info@catiandmikegonzalezfilms.com