Saturday, December 31

To: Humans of New York or Nola Beings

Squeezing one more post before the year ends. Be cautioned, I'm not as interesting as other people.

I've always wondered what I would say if I was ever approached by "Humans of New York" or my local "Nola Beings." I think I'd start with all of the things I could've been in life, professional or career wise. Seems like that's what people talk about at this point in my life. "What do you do?" says everyone who I meet or haven't seen in awhile. I could respond by saying what I could be doing. My capability to work in multiple fields are endless, and I'm very confident in that. I could've excelled at being a salesman, mechanic, pharmacist, computer programmer, realtor, banker, etc. I couldn't, however, work in the medical field; hospitals and sick people make me nauseous and pulls my heart strings too much for my liking. I could've been so many other things, but I'm getting older - 27 years old. I know that is not too old, but looking around, it's not too young either. Everyone around me has already started their career, fallen in love, is/almost married, and starting their own family. I'm so far from any of those. I'm not regretting anything I've done or am doing thus far, even though it sounds like it. I start a new job beginning of the year, but I feel like I'm settling. I'm good at what I do and it doesn't frustrated me, so I should be okay with it. I'm not too concerned about where I am in life, thanks to Tap. The thing that runs in my head the most is what I SHOULD be doing or want to be doing - acting. That's a real career choice I'd enjoy. Ever since high school, I wanted to become an actor. My mom would've put me through it, my dad wouldn't have it, and I was afraid of it. Everyone else says it's not plausible in the real world, it's for a selected few. No one really thinks of it as a real career choice, especially considering the fact that I'm Asian and there is already an nondemand for our race. I wouldn't care what other would think, but this is when my age kicks in. I'm not straight out of high school anymore. There are bills to pay and the future to invest in. There isn't much more room to become a struggling actor for God knows how long. I have actor friends who live uncomfortably. Some work minimum wage jobs so they can be flexible in case their break comes through. It's a really rough, whole other lifestyle. I am not primed for that anymore, and I've been granted some luxuries in life that I don't know I could do without. I struggle with the fact of struggling as well. Money isn't really high ranking on the things needed in life, but it is convenient and quintessential. Also, you know how hard it is to find a fiance while declaring that you're an out of work actor. Tick Tick. I've had so many dreams, literally, of being an actor. There are sets and blocking that I've been on during my deep sleep. Maybe I should have majored in film to begin with, just to get my foot in the door. I'd more than likely be starting down the wrong street from an opening door. It hurts you know, not knowing if you're good enough to do the thing you'd love. There are so many repressed emotions from my parents, ex-lovers, and failures that could be characterize as beneficial muses. That's where I'm at, having more and more suffocating dreams of becoming the next Philip Seymour Hoffman. I'm only a few steps form saying, fcuk it all and go into it while crippling my future. Maybe I'll change my mind when they actually approach me. In the mean time, I'm on my way to celebrate the New Year where one of my repressed emotions may be present. Wish me luck, and Happy New Years.

Thursday, December 1


Sometimes, I forget why I watch movies or read anything thought provoking. Sometimes, I analyze literature too literally and movies too technically. The ill-equipped critic in me comes forth and washes out my emotions. That is until something moves me, and I'm sure that is the case with many of us. We live our lives routinely looking for something beyond this world to believe in. Our hearts are broken and all we want is to be loved again. I believe that it has to do less with acceptance than attaining a mutual likeness. There's a type of contentment that ruins our soul's journey. Frankly, I don't know how to reverse our emotional slumps or comfortability, because I've lived there more than anyone should ever. Sometimes, I watch 5 or so movies in the last 2 or 3 days, as I've just done. Sometimes, I stop movie watching for weeks, especially due to those really heavily dramatic, foreign cultured, or mind fcuking cult ones.Whatever the case, they don't have to all have a 90%+ on Rotten Tomatoes or have an Academy nomination to do me in, although preferred. Trust me, I've watched some really bad, cheesy movies and others that make me question the honesty of the Rotten Tomato and IMDB critics. The movie "5 to 7" brought me here today. I won't talk about it much, but I liked it very much, having watched it because the recent death of Anton Yelchin. He has such an easy, welcoming voice, especially through voice-over. I would like to say that the movie needed me as much as I needed that movie, a mutual likeness. It's true that, "As little as you want to write when you're happy, that's now much you have write when you're miserable. Your passions need to go somewhere, and this is the only place left." I fairly certain that the person who wrote the movie was/is partially miserable. I'm not writing this out of misery, as I often do, but out of hope that misery sometimes conceives. My librarian once told me that people believe that the emotions they are feeling have never been felt and couldn't be understood, but there are so many books to be read that mimic their same sentiments. Now that is not verbatim, hence no quotations, but I hope I did her justice because it's everything true. I don't have to find a solution through the medium that I'm reading or watching. I just like to find out that someone else has been in my position and survived long enough to makes something beautiful out of it, SOMETIMES.

Sunday, November 27

R.E.M. - Random Erratic Messages

Do you ever have those dreams where you're running around trying to accomplish something important? It's probably something really, really simple, but somehow seems to be in the realm of impossibility. For example, your moms tell you to take out the trash, and you're sought out to do so. You start your journey to the kitchen and on the way dumpster outside. You've done this choir close to a million times. For some reason you have that uneasy feeling, especially once you see the inexplicably long driveway. It's so long you start to get distracted picking flowers, checking out the hot neighbor, and trying to distinguish the type of automobile that is hastily approaching you. In your dreams, you start to fill your head with things you've been wanting to do. You'd probably end up at a soiree the hot neighbor you were checking out earlier is throwing, who just happened to invite your crush and your ex. Now, you're in this sticky, premeditated situation that gets your heart racing and don't know how you got there. Willingly, up the walkway you go, long but not out of reach, not like before. You look at what you're wearing, is your hair cooperating today, and what's the nature of your breathe. Bam, the neighbor opens the door and behind her are your former and your forthcoming. This is awkward, but not as awkward is them seeing that you have trash bag still in your hand from hours earlier. In walks your anxiety. You want to stay and ditch the trash bag, but know it's the right thing to go back that elongated driveway helplessly. Maybe you'll have time to return to the party before it's over, but time seems ungraspable (made that word up). Now, you're running for your life and everything small seems quick, blurry, and unimportant. You get the dumpster, and who is there? It's none other than your mother, who is so disappointed and livid at this point. You try to plead for forgiveness, and eventually ask her why she was outside at that time a night. She replies that she had just finished taking out the trash that you hadn't earlier. You argue that the trash is still in your possession and as your raise up your arm, no trash bag in sight. Dumbfounding. Now I didn't have this exact dream, but this happens to me quite often. The type of dream when I'm set out to do something, get distracted, find something else to do, remember what I was initially doing, and then come back to it just to find out someone else had already done it. Then, the guilt sets in and by this time you've probably awoken feeling like worthless and unaccomplished. Often. You wake up and wonder if it's one of those dreams has a subliminal meaning in reality. I start to look for clues and correlation to my incompetency. Was that life's actuality? When I woke up today, I knew I was going to write this blog. Does everything before now seem a bit blurry, rushed and unimportant? Maybe. But, I finished this post after writing one just yesterday, and I somewhat feel competent and accomplished. I was just trying to decipher a dream's random erratic message. Maybe the dream was just trash and I've just taken it out by making use of it by writing something that may mean something to someone somewhere. Probably not. Sorry that you have to hear about a make believe dream about taking out the trash filled with frivolity and self-esteem issues. Hey, maybe you have those types of dreams too. Oh, and just for the record, I hate those dreams.

Saturday, November 26

Ode to Woody Allen

Dear Mr. Woody Allen,

I am sure that this will never get to you, but I'm just going to leave it here. Thank you. I just watched my 16th movie directed by you. That doesn't even account for a third of your movies. After going over your filmography, I realize that I haven't even touched anything in the '90's, having watched from one of your most recent, "Irrational Man (2015)," to one of your firsts, "Sleeper (1973)." Although titled "Sleeper," I would call it anything but that. Thank you for consistently putting out more and more movies. Some would say you lost it, but I've enjoyed every single one. If you were to ever let critics get to you, which I'm sure you haven't, you wouldn't have put out "Midnight in Paris". That is were I found you and my affinity towards you in 2011. That is how I found "Manhattan," then "Annie Hall,' and then, "Hannah and Her Sisters." If you were to calculate, I would have watched over 2 movies per year for the past 6 years. That makes you my most watched director. The mastery within film and uncompromising scripts makes it my viewing experience easy and enjoyable. Your works are ageless, and you are still one of the most sought after director to work with, even after 50 years in the business. In comparison, you would be the Jay-Z of the film business. I could shower you with compliments about how you're the wittiest script writer of our time, but that would just establish your dominance in the same way the statue of you in Spain does. Please keep using Jesse Eisenberg and Emma Stone, and maybe even bring back Diane Lane and yourself. At this rate, I will have had to watch your movies for the next 20 years just to keep up with you. I do tell you this though, that is a feat that I am up for the challenge. Here's to the next decades of your enjoying your movies.

Yours truly,

Travis Tran

Tuesday, October 18

A.M. Delirium

I started writing about 3/4ish A.M. last night. It made more sense at the time I was writing it. Lol. Kind of reminds me of the old me. I'm talking back in 2002-2005 me. My writings were more ambiguous than this, and everything just rhymed oddly. I don't know what this means, but at least I posted something. Maybe, it means a lot. I don't know. It's 3 A.M. again, and I'll just leave it here. 

I've always rooted for the underdog
So I never sang a swan song
Never grew old or gone home
Never grew tired, frowned, or yawned long
If anything ever gone wrong, I fixed it and just gone on
I should have finished this a long time ago
Projected that there's a time to go
Instead I tried to make it look respectable
Shouldn't have attempted to perfect it,
Should have left it and leisurely left with control
I'm not a fighter anymore
The light inside doesn't ignite anymore
I won't walk as far for a folklore, no, not especially yours
Furthermore take it any further anymore
I'm not going to save a lost this time
Not going to say what's given again
Giving up first means I win, I gain
I gave, a long shot a few shots and thought I lose not what's mine
By any means
It's yours now, you cherish it
You carry it around, my hardship
Either burn it with ether or wear it as an embellishment
'Cause I'm already bound with the embarrassment
Of holding on too long
To somethings assumed gone
So I say no more soon, no more moons
no more muse, go on move
There's no more room for a new ruse
Now proved anew that I knew you
A couple bruised 
Sort of
Scored it a lose lose
No sighs or sorrow
less fights and quarrels
best wishes, sayonara,
goodbye tomorrow
I do know what this might mean that
This isn't a good note, this is a footnote
this is a denote on a loose leave

Monday, September 19

Some Things After Me

I believe that we always read or discover things in life when we’re supposed to. There was no mistake; this was all planned. The blogging department has been slow this year. I’ll try to catch up so I can meet this year’s quota.

I imagine that when I die, the sun will explode into 16,778,216 colors touching all parts of the universe, all hearts in the universe
I imagine the cotton candy clouds falling into hands like first autumn leaves
I imaging willows not even weeping because the rain will bow as an ovation of my life
I imagine weighing 21 grams less from my soul's ascension, creating more space on this earth for the redeemers
I imagine my last breath filling that of a newborn as a constellation of stars light up some mother’s eyes, creating a new type of love
I imagine that when I die, the war within everyone also passes so that we can begin to love one another
I imagine you receiving a revelation of the positive angle for your bad predicament
I imagine any remnant of doubt within yourself alongside underlying addiction or illnesses is removed to free up room for inspiration
I imagine guns being replaced with compassion that only shoot out compliments
I imagine exchanges of ethereal feelings much like falling in love, everything we needed
I imagine everyone receiving good news, the ones they’ve been waiting for and the unforeseen
I imagine beautiful, reviving epiphanies
I imagine the abundant flowers, not only daisies, that I push up will reach the heavens, sharing my mother’s roses, lilies, and orchids
I imagine by lessening my carbon footprint, mother nature will breathe easy to house the children playing on Earth
I imagine technology no longer running our lives so that we’re able to practice patience again
I imagine materialism ends and everyone realizes that we were already wealthy
I imagine someone having read that “this username already exist” will think of the kind of person I was or could have been
I imagine that when I die my photos are fossilized, establishing my place here as a “still” in the works
I imagine my last hour will entail the 15 minutes of fame I’ve been waiting for
I imagine my written contribution to this world arouses someone to perfect his or her craft as I’ve failed to do
I imagine my thoughts will be itemized so that extreme couponers can shop ideas
I imagine someone finding my unpublished works and have a publishing company print a posthumous book, ultimately having the proceeds going to the discovery of the cure for cancer
Maybe I'm just imagining things, but I'll never know

Wednesday, July 13

My blog and I

Sometimes I get on here, and I'm like okay, let's push something today. Then after about 30 minutes, those creative juices start to dissipate and those five lines don't seem to cut it anymore. So, I chalk it up as a loss and move on. That'll be put in my draft for a while, depending if I want to move on it, rework it and insert into a larger piece, or just discard it in disgust. I had to put this speech into a separate draft just so it doesn't get thrown into the bunch. Sometimes I compartmentalize a batch of shitty things I've written and turn it into a singular piece. Surprisingly, I'll receive a text message saying how good that post was. How?! Then I end up questioning my capacity and/or your credibility. Am I good enough? Who are you to say? What does it matter what you think? I'm writing this as an artful outlet, aren't I? I'm not doing this for appraise; they don't make accolades for being true to yourself. Then, how come I address someone in the reading audience with the little facets only they could recognize. The little details that my attention-seeking personality screams, "Hey, look at me. Look what I can do. What do you think?" I'm just dared to be scrutinized by friends, family, and strangers. But, I'm also trying to be discrete about it. Just like how I'm afraid that someone will randomly click on this link via twitter and find out the type of person my writings allow me to be, but sort of wishing they would. I don't even post on twitter when I publish anymore because my followers have increased. I'm playful in public, bashful about my blog, but brave in my writings. I think that's how it should be to add to the fact that you never really know someone. This is my element of surprise. I can only imagine what would happen if I were to be married for 20 years and my wife were to find this blog. It's not like I'm out here advertising it. Good for her though; welcome to my world. I would hate it if someone came up to me and said, "I didn't know you were a writer," because I'm not. I write, yes. I'm a writer, no. I'm creative, no. I can be creative, yes. Writers are both creative and smart. If there is no adjective I hate being called most is smart. Saying that someone is smart is probably the second highest praise you give a person lead by rich and succeeded by nice, at least in this day in age. Rich, smart, and nice. I only want to be nice. Being "called" smart is such a burden. If you're smart you can't ever stop learning or enjoy anything. You'd have to evaluate and critique everything on an academic level. If you correct someone, they think that you think that you're better than them. If you don't know something, then you're not as smart. And then there's a such thing as being too smart for your own good. I believe that someone smart said, "ignorance is bliss." I don't know why I stayed on smart for so long, I haven't been called that for a long time. Even when I was considered smart in school, I didn't want to be associated with it. I wanted to blend in and not be brought attention to. They all would see how different I am, but not trying to be. That's why I don't do my hair and dress vanilla. I don't need the extra spotlight. I don't need that link to my blogspot account, but secretly I want to have it there. So, you can see another side and maybe even relate, but won't say anything. It's been a weird relationship with this blog over the years. This is how I stay true to myself, by staying true to what I write. That's all any of us can do. I was tempted and am still tempted to discard this whole thing, as I feel like I've visited this before. I won't. For long time readers, this is just another emphasized reiteration, and for first time readers, this will encapsulate my first 100 post so do not read. Just kidding, but really, don't read. That's enough for now. Who knows, maybe this blog will get rid some of the hate and hunger in the world, because God knows there's too much of it. God bless.

Thursday, June 30

What they call it?

For weeks, I've been working on posts. Today, I wrote this in a few hours and decided to post it. It's just an exercise of rhyming words that normally wouldn't. It only works with my heavy accent and drunken stammer; do not try to replicate, because the words may not rhyme. I went from the letter "A" to "T" because, well, my name sort of starts with a "T". Plus, the rest of the alphabets can go fcuk themselves. "I was pretty popular in my day.  Was friends with 25 letters in the alphabet. I don't know why!" - One-Liner Comedian.  

What they call justice, I call it abusive
What they call magnificent, I call it brunette
What they call impossible, I call it conducive
When they call apparent, I call it delusion
What they call hyper, I call it exuberance
What they call foreign, I call it fluent
What they call reckless, I call it gallant
What they call relentless, I call it hellbent
What they call trained, I call it intrinsic
What they call fruitful, I call it juices
What they call strange love, I call it Kubrick
What they call frivolous, I call it lucid
What they call noise, I call it music
What they call fun, I call it nuisance
What they call influence, I call it obtrusive
What they call scary, I call it prudence
What they call complacent, I call it queueing
What they call edited, I call it ruined
What they call muses, I call it stooges
What they call heartbreak, I call it Tuesdays.

Post Script: I can guess the news, and I'm sorry. They should have taken you back, because I would have. They're just going by numbers, as they should, but that doesn't measure your awesomeness. It'll get better. Believe. Faith.

Sunday, May 22

Publish or Perish

What kind of writer am I if I detest writing? If it's torture to me, a painful, shameful occupation. - Stalker (1974)

In My Head

In my head you're a figure skater
angel imitator with angles and arrangements
wearing your sequences
dressed in pretenses 

In my head you're a Greek goddess
you wreak hotness, a hot topic
you speak knowledge
you pique interest in a bright pink dress 

In my head
is a sequestered spot of webs
festering drops of thoughts of you just lying in my bed 

In my head you're an elegant model
echoing a heroine shooting up rivals
unraveling your looks to kill
digging 'em like a fossil 

In my head you're a godsend
A drop-in, a stop and
look for options of toxins
when you're not in 

In my head I'm sending love to ya
ballad in poetry form
something for you to notice me more
notably only been pen pushing for ya 

In my head you're a wide angle close up
35 millimeters of motion
Raw data of movie film
4 quadrants of beautiful
All credits go to you 

In my head you're an archive of mysteries
a myth, a bunch of whispering
with a bunch of class, full of history
while I'm wistfully in disarray 

In my head you're a folklore
A wives' tale, a brass ring
an underdog, a dark horse,
a pasture of mass glass menagerie 

In my head we've never met
you never left, you're still involved
I can attest that I haven't addressed
that in my head I've imagined it all

Sunday, March 27

A Complication for the Ages

There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about blogging. Thinking doesn't always amount to much as you can see with my inactiveness. I've thought about this blog more and more because it is, believe it or not, my 100th blog. Originally, I wanted to do a compilation of blogs, one in each label that you can see on the right hand side of this page. I.e. Brave New Voices. It didn't go THAT well.. However, I did  pull myself together to write another Novella, the last one being in January of 2011. Oh, how the time has flown and how the blogs tallied. 100 blogs down and here's to another 100 more, circa 2031. "Cento Anni" as they would say in The Godfather. Blogging takes a lot out of me, this one especially. I'm going through some things, but everyone is. I hate to complain, unless it's in the form of a blog/novella. So, I hope you enjoy it as much as it took for me to write it. Happy Easter guys. 

Let me start by saying, "I love you." As I sit across from you, all I can think about is how much of a lesser man that I've become. I wasn't always this way. Before, I would have easily came over and spoke to you, never quite the quiet one, you know? This is coming from a man that has let life beat him down. You know how hard it is when a part of me wishes I had a part to give. My heart is apart; my soul has just gone dark as shit. The reserve for romance has been emptied and every ounce of courage I've ever had was followed by a chaser. See, I'm not good for you. There's nothing for me to offer you but my dependence and rhymes with cheap punchlines, and you don't want that.

Undoubtedly, you were my first love. However, since then, I've used a lot of "first." I've experience my first date, first heartbreak, first sexual encounter, first time asking for someone back just to experience another heartbreak, etc. You see where I'm going here? These events take quite a toll on a person. It doesn't help that since I assumed that you were gone for good that I'd figure to replace you with this alcohol addiction. A closet drinker they call me. When my wine bottle is empty, I have enough regrets and disappointments to fill every cellar in the northern hemisphere. I'll sit here dormant, knowing that this is the way I chose to love you.

I grow tiresome of thinking about it, you know, the person I could have been for you, getting caught up in the would have beens. Ever watch a battery powered quartz clock right before it dies, how it jumps back a second? That's my life, pretending to move forward only to look back from time to time. I'm a secondhand of the second hand. Just the other day, I  researched nostalgic depression. That's what my life has amount to, seeking online advice from educated strangers who know nothing of passion and turn people into objectives. I've never liked those people, especially doctors who can remove themselves emotionally to do their job. Maybe I'm just envious. I'm envious of the person I used to be, envious of whom I can't be, and envious of what I can't do, like get up from this chair and approach you like we've met before. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever known. 

I cannot even look you directly in yours eyes anymore. It's my cowardice that prompts this self loathing. I used to give speeches and shit in front of crowds and shit. I did spoken word without remorse about my love life to complete strangers and even others who knew whom I wrote about. For fuck sake, I was stage actor for a brief moment in time. Presently, I'm just spent, not someone you'd be especially proud of. I don't need any more reasons to love you. And just now, you just gave me a look of disappointment, like you wanted me to come closer. See, this is what I get! The moment I want to be ballsy and raise my head to eye level, you deliver a blow to my confidence, but also a sliver of hope.

Not knowing which one it truly is, I start to notice something. It's you. The whole time, it has been you. I've been so stagnant in my frivolous thoughts that I didn't allocate the time to notice the sadness within you. It's that face you give when you've lost all hope. Be it as I am, I still haven't lost all hope. So, your condition is beyond me. How selfish I've been. The time I've just wasted complaining when you haven't. I don't know what happened in your past, but it seems to be eating you from inside and still you we're waiting for me to look up. You were waiting for me to come over; you were awaiting my arrival to begin with. It wasn't a coincidence that I'm here with you. It isn't a random, but more so planned. I'm here for a reason; you're here for a reason. We're here because of a complication, something we both couldn't fix. I'm sorry! I didn't know. I didn't know that you would've accepted anything that I had to offer. I didn't know that I was enough for you and everything for you to be proud of. I didn't know you knew I was hurt and you prayed for me. I didn't know of all the things that you did for me and all the little things I've done independently did if for you. I didn't know that I'll always be yours. I'm sorry, I didn't know! I thought we still had time.Who am I going to see when I'm at the altar at my wedding? Who's going to watch the kids? Whose genes are they going to have? Who's going to keep me believing in God? Whose text messages will I be able to screen shot anymore? Who can I replace you with? Who?! Secretly, I've been preparing for this moment for months now. It's now passing, and I'm about to resort to pleading, screaming and crying about the things that I didn't know. 

In walks a nicely dressed stranger. Someone that you've probably been waiting on. He has better hair, posture, poise, charm and knowledge than I do. He can even remove himself emotionally to do his job and say "Visiting hours are over."  All I can say is, "I love you Mom! I'm sorry Mom! I didn't know!"