Archive for the Uncategorized Category

I Shall Be Released

Posted in Dream, Life, Love, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2013 by Patrick Roe

I have a hard time believing that all of the events I’m about to describe happened in one night. I feel ten years older today.

It’s been a couple hours since waking now, so the dream is becoming fuzzier. The first thing I remember is driving near some railroad tracks at night. After passing a bridge, I saw a dark structure with a courtyard. In the dream I remember thinking that I needed money so I went down into the courtyard, and low and behold they had items of extreme value, the likes of which I can’t describe without sounding ridiculous. When I attempted to take some of these items, I just remember that the building lit up with alarms that broke the silence of the night, the red lights illuminated the courtyard, and in the words of Hunter S. Thompson, I knew I was fucked.

I remember being hauled off to the prison, in the back of the police car, feeling the weight of lost freedom. They booked me and threw me in a cell. It was a two person cell, but there was no other person. Just me, and my thoughts. And it stayed that way. I don’t remember going to meals, except just once. I don’t remember the exact blueprint of the prison, I just remember laying on my back. Realizing that I couldn’t talk to anybody when I wanted to, I couldn’t go outside when I wanted to, I couldn’t do anything except lay on my back and think. And that’s what I did, and it felt like weeks within the dream.

Then I got out, but it was only for my court date. I saw my mom for the first time. She was so happy to see me, and so sad about my situation, but for some reason I got the feeling that she understood why I had done what I did. I remember the car ride to the courthouse, I remember having a feeling that it wasn’t real and I’d have my freedom back quickly. However the dream was so real, I knew that wasn’t the case. I don’t even remember the day in court, I just remember that since they had caught me red handed there was no real need for a long trial. I was going to prison, plain and simple.

Then I went back to my cell, and there was somebody else there, but we didn’t talk. I remember going through the motions, figuring out the routine, and always spending time laying on my back staring up at nothing in particular. Thinking. Through the magic of the dream, I endured years of this. Until finally the day came, and I was free once again.

For those of you who have read my previous posts, you will know that my grandfather recently passed away and it’s had a gigantic impact on my life. Well last night he appeared in my dream, picking me up from prison. As we drove, I noticed the roads began to look more European. Past readers of mine will also remember that I have a girlfriend, who lives in France while I live in L.A. for now. Well last night, Papa drove me from prison to my house and there she was. I was so happy she was still there for me, so happy to have my freedom back, and through the roof excited about the life that lay in store for me.

I share this dream with you, reader, because it was beautiful and eye opening in a way that mere words could never convey. I’m still working out the symbolism and meaning, but for now one fact is clear: I feel like I’m in a prison, and Papa showed me there’s a way out.


The Heart Doctor

Posted in Love, Poetry, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , on June 24, 2013 by Patrick Roe


Doctor if you could help me

That would be great

I’m running late

Leaving soon to France

Look at the date!

I’m putting things in order

There’s things to mend

But my heart, it isn’t right

It’s hard to pretend

It’s riddled with holes

It feels like swiss cheese

I didn’t ask for love

But when it came I said, “More please!”

I keep right on taking

To fuel the addiction

I drink as prescribed

To fight the affliction

But there’s nothing to take

To dull the pain

No articles to read

No friends to explain

What happens to the heart

When you experience trauma?

It’s hard, it’s real

I’m not causing drama

I’m flat lining doc

Should I call my mama?

I can feel it now

The beats are spaced further

Please doc, run some tests

Is it a heart murmur?

The Doctor:

We’ve found the trouble

Let me show you the scans

You should have come sooner

Please sit, don’t stand

This is your heart

And this is your heart on love

See the discoloration

The inflammation above

Take a pill for the swelling

This one for the cravings

Inject this to numb

Snort this til’ you’re dumb

If it should stop

Use these for electric pop

We’ll keep your heart racing

But never tip top

You may stumble, don’t worry

We won’t let you drop

We’ll keep the ticker beating

Even after you’re dead

Using stilts and rigs

We’ll prop up your head

The trouble with the heart

It wants to feel

We can put a stop to that

It’s no big deal

You think you have problems

Soon it won’t feel real

Check out these charts

And our prices, they’re a steal!

Perceive Those Things Which Cannot Be Seen

Posted in Inspiration, Life, Thoughts, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2013 by Patrick Roe

If someone asks you to think back 10 years ago, chances are you don’t remember a random day. You probably don’t even remember one day in its entirety. A more likely reaction is that a barrage of little memories from 10 years ago will begin to project across the personal theater section of your brain. The first time you met a good friend, a great restaurant, a sexual encounter, a moment of realization, or a moment you’d rather forget. Much like movies, our lives are a series of highlighted moments and we are the editors. We live for so long, but in the end it feels so fleeting because we only remember those fractions of time where we felt truly alive. The less you felt alive, the more fleeting it must feel.

There is a seed of a thought growing in my mind. Forever I have bought into the idea that life, this series of highlighted moments, was the be-all and end-all. Now I feel like life might be the smallest piece, and heaven might be something else entirely. Life is so contradictory, and carries so many individual, intertwined meanings. I just read a news article about a 16 year old girl who died trying to save her 6 year old brother from an icy river in South Dakota. Yes it is tragic, but to say that their young lives were lived only to bring tragedy is an injustice to their souls. They didn’t get 80, 60, or even 40 years; they only had 24 years of combined life but somehow that was enough for them, it had to be enough because it’s all they got. They were hardly old enough to even have lives to look back on.  What did life mean for them? What does life mean now to those who have lost them? Life and death are shared only because we must all experience them, but none of us will experience them the same way.

I didn’t intend for this post to take such a morbid turn, but for most people someone they know passing on is the only time until their own death that they feel face to face with eternity. Its one of those few moments where we all must ask ourselves the most basic cosmic questions and decide how we will attempt to answer them (or not answer them).

People don’t die to make us sad, and they don’t die too soon. Everyone lives and dies for their own purposes. Its all so secular that this life must be only a single step on a staircase to so much more.

“Perceive those things which cannot be seen.”


The Laughing Heart

Posted in Inspiration, Poetry, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 18, 2013 by Patrick Roe

Bukowski. What words to describe you that have not already been used? You fill my cup. You help me drain it. You are dying proof that words are immortal. You’ve done more from your grave than a vast majority do in life, and in life you were the perfect blend of comedy, tragedy, and redemption.

I drink at one of your old haunts from time to time. Someday I hope my picture is below yours behind the bar. Maybe I’m a bastard for saying so.

Look at me, talking to a dead man through a computer screen. It might seem crazy at first, but sometimes there’s more life in words than flesh.


your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Everyone Is Fighting A Battle

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on February 17, 2013 by Patrick Roe

Life is hard, so get your kicks when it’s good. I don’t have kids yet, nor will I for some time, but when I do that is the first thing I will teach them. When they’re old enough, I’ll also teach them that the universe works in mysterious ways and that it has one twisted sense of humor. The sooner you start learning the same humor, the sooner life will start to make more sense. I’m down here in the trenches of civilized American life and sometimes it feels like all I see is pain.

I’ve had a lot on my mind this past week. The brother of one of my best friends was shot down in cold blood, his funeral was today ( I was not able to attend, although I wish with all my heart that I was able to. I didn’t know him as well as I know his family, but I know them all well enough to understand that they didn’t deserve this. Life gets easier when you die, but it gets harder for all the ones you leave behind. He was a father, and his daughter is too young to grow up with any memory of him. His wife was ready to divorce him, and now I’m sure she’d do most anything to bring him back. He’s in the ground for eternity as of this morning, and may God shepherd him to a peaceful existence in the ether.

My girlfriend lost her grandfather this week. I met her other grandpa during my short stay in France, and sadly I was not able to meet the one who just passed. I will never have that chance now, and this fact saddens me deeply. He also left behind a hell of a family, and a long time from now when I journey past the horizon I’ll make sure to thank him for it. He was one of her favorite family members, and there for her in times of extreme emotional hardship. He lived to see the amazing person she’s become, I just wish he would have lasted long enough to see her become the success she is destined to be. Things aren’t going as well as she would hope lately, and his passing is just one more brick in the oven of sorrow. Why any maker of mine would choose to separate me from her at a time like this I may never know. But I curse it, and send her my heart every day in hopes that it helps even a little.

Life is tough, and you got to be tough with it or else cower under it. It’s a heavy burden we’re born into as intelligent beings, made aware of so many things only to control so little.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” -Plato

Mission and Resolution: Freedom

Posted in Inspiration, Mission, New Year, Passion, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 23, 2013 by Patrick Roe

Someone asked me recently what my New Years resolution was. At first I said that I didn’t have one. What is the use of saying you are going to jog every morning, go to the gym 4 days a week, cut out all forms of sugar, if you are just going to give it up 3 weeks in? But then I realized that New Years resolutions don’t have to be some contrived piece of pseudo-inspiration that you only tell people in hopes that their opinion of you goes up a few notches. It can be something practical, something that really touches your soul and speaks to your greater mission in life. I realized that I had already thought of my resolution, and it was the same as the mission statement for my life/career: I want to write myself to freedom.

As an American, I join the citizens of many nations worldwide who consider themselves “free”. So you might be asking yourself, ‘Isn’t he already free?’ I first realized how much we have in common with prisoners when I fell in love with a French girl, only to realize that the only way she could stay in America is if we got married ASAP. We didn’t do it, and not because we don’t love each other enough, nor because we don’t plan on getting married someday (because we certainly do). It was just the idea that we were being forced into it. I would think one of the basic freedoms in life, and one of the qualifiers of being “free”, would be the freedom to be with the person you love. The way the government sees it is you have that liberty as long as you accomplish it through the means they have decided on. In other words, our freedom is on their terms, not ours. How many other freedoms do we think we have that really have strings attached?

Needless to say, this is a frustrating notion. However there is a light at the end of the tunnel; you can achieve that true level of freedom. We see it every day with famous actors, writers, directors, musicians, etc. You might brush that off as ‘sure, because they have money’, and you’d only be half right. The truth is that power is the currency of the free world that can separate you from all the people living restricted lives. Some may say that “money is power”, but I would tell those people to look at politicians, members of the CIA, FBI, and other government bodies, news correspondants, college professors, etc. All of which (with a few exceptions) do not have ungodly wealth, but have significantly more freedom to live how and where they want to than all of us down here gathering pollen for the beehive. How have they done this? All they have done is pick a path that they knew would ultimately lead them to a specific goal, and they stuck to it.

Jack London once said that he had great resentment for the upper  class. Since he wasn’t born with any form of spoon in his mouth, he made it his mission to infiltrate the world of the wealthy through the only thing he was good at: writing. And guess what? It worked. Not only is he one of the most highly regarded Western authors, he actually achieved success within his lifetime. To him it was one great big joke that he rose to their ranks with nothing but words. It is in his footsteps that I follow. I have committed myself to writing every day in some shape or form. I started by picking up poetry again, for my own enjoyment. I started this blog. I am putting pen to paper on a new novel (the first few pages of which are on a post below). And most of all, I am approaching my screenplays and teleplays with with a reinvigorated sense of passion and persistence.

In 2013 I am going to write my own freedom.

Lovers On Two Planets

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on January 20, 2013 by Patrick Roe

The following is the first few pages of the new novel I’m working on, the working title of which is the same as the title of this post. It’s a noir crime drama set in modern times, but in the style of the detective novels from the 40’s and 50’s. I’ll share more excerpts when the mood strikes me, or if you guys request it.  Feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below. Enjoy.

Lovers On Two Planets

By: Patrick Roe


My heart was pregnant the same way Europe is pregnant with history. It was my first European vacation since the engagement, and my first ever if anybody was counting. We had taken a day excursion to Spain, there was a painter I liked who used to live there and I thought it might be fascinating to go dig up his corpse.

I had a camera around my neck, and a ridiculous bright blue scarf to protect myself from the cold. I thought I looked like a tourist, but even the tourists didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I was taking pictures like a fool, and a fool I was. A fool in love.

“Take one of me by those blue doors!” She said excitedly. I did as I was told because my fiance was meant to be photographed. Her name was, and I suppose still is, Marian Swanikov. She was soft and glowing, brown hair raining down upon her petite frame like a summer squall in Hawaii. She looked like a starlet from the golden age of cinema.

“I thought you were European. If I would have known I was just marrying another tourist I would have settled on an American.”

“Go ahead. But you know, and I know, that American girls don’t know what I know.” She said it with a smile that could have killed half of Napoleon’s army.

I began to scoot back. The damn fixed lens on the camera wasn’t giving me the framing I needed, and since I felt like fucking Ansel Adams that day, I decided to scoot back and give myself the award winning shot. I had failed to remember that nobody in Spain believes in hand rails.

Over the bluff I went, and straight into the drink. If I was a luckier man I would have fallen to the left and killed myself on the rocks to save myself the shame. But instead she came to make sure I hadn’t left her the life insurance money, and we shared a good laugh about it.

We decided to get something to eat while the camera was drying out on the restaurant’s back patio. We talked some, but about nothing important. The kind of light, bubbly talk lovers use on vacations. Mostly I just watched the way she moved. The way her honey colored eyes perused over the menu, the way her teeth nibbled her bottom lip as she tried to decide between the paella and the curry chicken. If she noticed me looking at her this way it was all over, I had to be stealthy. Starlets enjoy a glance, not a gawk.

Later on that night I was having a cigarette leaning out of our hotel window, deep in thought. Something had occurred to me for the first time. Something curious, unimportant, but strange.

“Whatchya thinking about baby?” How she could read my mind I’ll never know.

“It’s stupid.”

“I still want to know.”

“Well… I just realized that I’ll never get to be an astronaut.”

She laughed at me. She often laughed at me for the places my mind would wander. Through the giggles she said, “What are you talking about?”

“Well it was always my childhood dream to be an astronaut. I’ve gone on my entire life holding that dream in my back pocket. My mind occasionally wanders to it and I think about how cool it will be when I finally get to become an astronaut. Tonight I realized for the first time that that ship has sailed. I’ve already missed my window of opportunity.”

“I’ve heard about paid flights to outer space. I think by 2020 it’s going to be as common as flying across the Atlantic,” she said, with her French accent that turns “think” into “sink”. The cuteness of it all pulled me right out of my ruined astronaut dreams. “Is that so?” I flicked the cigarette butt out of the window, and made my way over to the bed where she was laying, “People who take AA flights to the moon aren’t astronauts, their just tourists. I don’t want to be a tourist.”

“So if you can’t be one of the first, you don’t want to be one at all?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“Well you aren’t the first to be with me. Does it bother you being a tourist on this planet?” She said it with that same smile. There goes the other half of Napoleon’s army.

I said something else, but the only time it isn’t cliche is in the ears of lovers, so I’ll spare everyone the misery. What I will tell you is that we made love. The type lovers have on vacation; the timeless type that connects you with every bygone era that has ever graced the pages of this planet’s Earthen book.

We did it once, and then we did it again just in case.


The time came for us to depart. They were doing an extra security check before we could board the flight; they had a Middle Eastern employee calling out the names, as if to reassure us that this wasn’t some sort of racial profiling.

While we were waiting for our names to be called I decided to go grab us a snack from one of the airport food stands. Some Texan woman in front of me butchered the word “Bonjour” before proceeding with her order. It occurred to me that this could be a sign. The extra security check, the extra time to change our minds. We didn’t have to leave. As long as you’re not on that plane backing away from the gate there’s nobody stopping you.

I stared at the menu as I thought about the French countryside and how I’ve never seen skies in that shade of blue. The ancient Roman aqueduct in Montpellier, the golden statues above the Paris Opera House, the breathtaking cathedral in a little town that no God fearing American has ever even heard of.

I thought the food stand clerk said,“Thinking about leaving sir?” Turns out what all she really said was,“What are you thinking about having sir?”

Before I could answer her they called my name over the loudspeaker, “TERRANCE CROI, PLEASE COME UP TO THE FRONT DESK. TERRANCE CROI.”

They always pronounce it wrong. I decided to have a word with them about it.

“It’s Croi, it rhymes with boy.”

“Sounds Middle Eastern in origin.”

He eyed me suspiciously, as if my mother had committed a crime for giving up her maiden name, “Actually it’s Celtic for… Look, I’m having thoughts of ditching this flight for good but if I do that then I’ll lose a lot of money, my job, and my girlfriend will be mad at me so if we can just get this thing moving before I change my mind I would really appreciate it.”

I realized immediately that I had made a mistake. He submitted me to a security check. Luckily the next guy had the sense to give me a pat on the back and send me on my way. He must have sensed my urge to escape.

I’d be lying if I said it was easy to say goodbye. Every atom in my body was telling me to stay, and that’s all I wanted to do. I got stuck with the one French girl with an itch for America. She couldn’t wait to be back in L.A., and I couldn’t wait to convince her otherwise. Either way, we boarded when they called our group. Little did I know, getting on that plane wasn’t just a bad idea. It would end up being the single worst mistake I ever made in my life.


The flight itself wasn’t a complete disaster, especially if you compare it to to Hurricane Katrina. As it turns out I got the one bum seat without a tray table. Those bastards wouldn’t serve me food unless I moved seats. After a lot of bad noise, we agreed that as long as they served me the food while I was sitting in the other seat I was no longer an insurance liability. I told them thanks a lot, and to be sure and have somebody notify me when they die so I can attend the funeral.

Somewhere in between the animated movie with the talking animals and the 300th incarnation of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Marian had some sort of vision. If I didn’t love her so much for her visions, I probably would have hated her for them.



“I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think you forgot something?”

“No, it’s not that kind of bad feeling.”

Now I was starting to get worried. It took some courage to build up to the next question, but it had to be asked. “Is it about the marriage?”

I cringed as the words left my lips, like they were coated in bile and would have been better left in my stomach. Luckily her face lightened and my heart began to unclench.

“Of course not. That’s the only thing I’m sure of these days.”

“So you feel this way, but there’s nothing you can think of as to what’s causing it?”


“Well then I wouldn’t worry about it. Anxiety is just a defense mechanism left over from the cavemen. When they actually had saber tooth tigers and wolves the size of VW Beetles to worry about. Sometimes when everything is going good, it gets triggered just in case. By instinct. You know what I mean?”

She smiled, “No, but somehow hearing you ramble on makes me feel better about it.”

She grabbed my hand, rested her head on my shoulder and that was the end of that. Or so I thought, until I realized that I was feeling the same thing she was feeling. Staring at my broken tray table, I couldn’t help but feeling like I was ignoring the signs. She was right, something was wrong, and we were about to find out the hard way.