It is impossible to write a captivating fairytale when forever cast as the scurrilous villain.     From the constriction of that perspective, the script inevitably shifts into blandness.  The story gets muddied beyond what could ever be considered reasonable.  Or inspiring.  And that fatal miscalculation breeds a lasting contempt for not being free to tell an honest story.    Mediocrity reigns supreme on a stage built to never offend.  Sterility has somehow become the baseline for accepted artistic integrity and the swing of that cultural pendulum causes a cookie-cutter motion sickness of repetition, leaving us grasping for an elusive artistic anchorage.   Always pandering to the lowest denominator.  Always dumbing down the sharp edges of controversy because uncomfortable voices are no longer welcome in a society …

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I will never be called to the river. I will never be washed clean. Sorry, Preacher Man.  There is just no saving my soul. Some sins simply defy absolution.  Some mistakes linger irreparably in their durable definitions.  And some regrets rage and fester, like an undiagnosed cancer storming unchecked through the soft tissues of an untimely surrender. The wrongs I have committed far outweigh the rights; the karmic balance remains stubbornly shifted forever in favor against me.  And I have neither justification, nor diligence, against what is ultimately coming due. There is no defending the indefensible position- therein lies only exhausting madness.  There is no justifying the indiscreet indiscretions- therein lies only more lies.  There is no forgiving the unforgivable- therein lies the undeniable tragedy of …

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