word-architecture

[word-architecture]

About the Person Who is Me

And… yeah… I’m crazy but can pretend really, really well I’m not. Sort of what I feel about everybody. (Except for the people who can’t pretend they’re not crazy. You know who you are. Actually, never mind, you probably don’t.)

Anyway, here’s some stuff I’ve done to help me feign sanity:

Wrote and directed the play, “Women Are Crazy Because Men Are A**holes” that has played over four years in Los Angeles and Chicago and just made its Off Broadway premiere at the historic Cherry Lane Theatre. Los Angeles Times said: “Seldom have I been a part of a more enthusiastic and vocal audience. Brad T Gottfred’s play about young couples stumbling through the minefield of codependency taps a universal nerve.”

Wrote, directed, and executive produced the feature film “The Movie Hero” which played at over 20 film festivals worldwide, winning numerous awards including First Prize at the Rhode Island Film Festival and the Audience Award at the Austin Film Festival.

My first play, “Marry, F**K, Or Kill” was called “a guilty pleasure for veterans of the single life” by the Los Angeles Times. It went on to an Off Broadway premiere in the fall of 2011.

First web series “Sex and Love Conspire to Destroy the World” was released by MyDamnChannel in 2013.

My first-ish novel, “Forever for a Year”, was released in July 2015 by Macmillan/Holt.

[word-architecture]

The Boy Who Cried Love

There once was a writer boy who could not write

so instead he went on internet dates every night.

Each eve he hoped would bring true love bliss

yet instead fell deeper into casual sex abyss

But then on a Wednesday he met a girl named Carrie

that looked and acted just like someone he’d marry

So he raced home to show her to family and friends,

declaring this was his soul mate to the very ends.

Mom, dad, and sisters, too, all welcomed his new crush

despite their concerns over the mad rush.

Until writer boy told them the next week on a call

that Carrie was not his one true mate after all.

His mother mentioned it might be better next time

to not cry love until sure it was sublime

Yet a day after meeting the beautiful Pauline

he brought her home to declare her his new queen

Again, the family put aside their growing doubt

to embrace a new woman of suspicious tout

Just as everyone came to accept Pauline as the ‘one’

writer boy declared their romance over and done

Family and friends were left burned and annoyed,

faith in writer boy’s amorous declarations destroyed.

Ashamed, writer boy promised not one more love leap

so when he met Jackie her feet he did not sweep.

Instead they became friends over movies and tea,

talking and laughing but no kissing from he to she

Despite their bodies’ platonic stance, 

their eyes demanded they give love a chance.

Into each other’s world they flew,

their minds fighting what their hearts knew.

With no heed to his past, writer boy brought Jackie home,

excited to share his authentic romantic tome

But mom, dad, and sisters, too, would not open their arms,

sure Jackie was just another victim to writer boy’s charms.

Dropped cold by his family and friends, Jackie grew scared,

telling writer boy his torrid past left her unprepared.

She asked for space and time to think things out,

just what writer boy told Carrie and Pauline when he had doubt.

Alone, his heart in two, writer boy’s dreams of romance undone,

he wondered why the boy who cried love was left with none.

[word-architecture]

My Father's Path

When my father was my age,

He left the safety of town

And entered a thick forest.

With no path cleared before him,

He cut, dug, and paved one for himself.

It was hard work.

It was good work.

  His created path led to a hill.

From it, he had a clear view of the lake.

On this hill, he built a home.

On this hill, I was raised into a man.

A man very much like him.

  When I was grown, he said to me,

"You can build a house next to mine on the hill -

so you do not have to clear a new path to town."

  It was a very generous offer.

I would not have to cut, dig, or pave.

I could just enjoy the view of the lake.

  "Thank you, Dad," I said,

"but when I was a child I saw another hill

on the other side of the lake that I would like to build my home on."

  "Is there a paved path to this hill?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"So you will have to cut, dig, and pave one yourself?"

"Yes," I said.

"But the forest is thick. And dangerous."

"I'll be okay, Dad."

"But why would you want to leave the safety of this hill

to cut, dig, and pave your own path on the other side of the lake?"

  "Because I am a man," I said, "a man very much like you."

[word-architecture]

Letter of Loneliness

I have offered you poems and stories,

exposed my loss, my longing.

Part of me has only wanted

a cry from you,

"I have the solution!

I can make it all right!"

Acceptance finally weighed in:

your cry will not come,

you will not make it all right.

You will not take it away.

  But before I drift into memory,

the problem of my existence asks to be heard:

  I feel loneliness.

  Yes, now.

But also, with friends in New York.

With family in Chicago.

And but for a few scattered days,

and a blissful week in December,

with you.

  Kissing, talking, sleeping, loving, being:

I feel loneliness.

I do not blame you.

No woman has been able to heal me.

But I expect one to.

(Thus, my confusion with our love.)

It is unfair, I know,

my loneliness is bred

from demons and dreams

beyond anyone's control.

It is what drives me to speak

in words and worlds.

It seats me in an empty room to write,

to write of loneliness,

trapping me further into loneliness.

(Ha! what a vicious/comical/tragic cycle!)

  Having now explained my pain:

should one day you find yourself in a crowded room;

buzz, beer, boys a-flow;

and the answer to my emptiness,

strikes your heart:

(and, of course, if your heart is still struck with me)

then I beg you for a chance

to hear your inspiration.

This loneliness may be stained in my soul,

my heart a lost cause for true love,

but your effort would bring relief,

however brief,

and a burst of warmth against the cold.

  If this day never comes,

but another kind of day does;

a day when you understand

the loneliness that plagues me

as only a fellow prisoner could,

then call my name,

and we shall be

alone

together.

[word-architecture]

If I Die...

If I die from a particular great disease

I will fight to the end, this is my creed.

If I die in a random airplane crash,

I promise I was singing up till the blast.

If I die because of my own drivin',

Something, I tell you, must have been hidin'.

  If I die from someone else's mistake,

I forgive them and please do not ache.

  If I die in a certain cold-blooded murder,

Remember his pain and my happiness further.

  If I die by slipping in the tub,

God wanted a joke so he gave me a nub.

  If I die by taking my own life,

It's a conspiracy, not a chance on the dice.

  If I die from just plain old age,

Wow! Considering I'm just twenty today.

  If I die in my lover's arms,

Please never forget my wonderful charms.

  If I die after my child is born,

I fear this the most, I have sworn.

  If I die of a nice old heart-attack,

I probably tried too hard at givin' life a crack.

  If I die from some drunk driver,

Death will only make my ego higher.

  If I die a hero, please don't cry,

This is how I wanted to say good-bye.

  And If I happen to die in the very next sentence,

I hope my ideas and beliefs reach far beyond my fences.

[word-architecture]

Regret

Occasionally when I believe

I have grown tired of

turning the pages in

the notebook of my life

I will find a quiet beach

and watch the wave's wind

blow through my pages without

any effort from my soul

and only then do I realize  that those pages

will remain empty forever.

[word-architecture]

The Violets on the Hill

The violets on the hill call:

The violets are on the hill.

Nobody answers.

The violets on the hill then wonder

Are we violets on the hill if nobody listens?

And this is why nobody answers.

[word-architecture]

My Golden Apple

Somewhere along my path,

            I saw an apple tree.

Everybody eventually does.

  But atop this tree was a golden apple.

            My golden apple.

And the reason I knew it was mine was because it called,

            it called for me.

            It begged me to release it from it's perch.

But it was so high.

            So high atop that tree.

I jumped, I scratched, I climbed.

            But there was no way I was going to reach that apple.

My apple. My golden apple.

  So I decided I would come back another day,

            when I could jump higher and climb better.

            Then my apple would be mine to hold.

  As I turned away, a rustle in the bushes turned me back.

            Back to staring at the apple tree and a man I didn't want to recognize.

I asked him what he wanted.

He said he wanted to help.

            Help me get my apple, help me get my golden apple.

  The way this man smiled, the way this man walked,

            ways I didn't want to see in myself.

I said no thank you to his offer and turned back away.

              But then he said think,

think of all the golden acts you could do with your golden apple in hand.

            So I turned back around once again,

                        again staring at the tree and the dark voice of a man.

  Imagine yourself, this man said to me, imagine yourself being free.

            That golden apple you want so true is your key to tomorrow

                        and your desire for all that you can do.

I listened, not wanting to understand, but I'm afraid I understood quite well.

            This questionable man with his unquestionable offer saw my doubt,

                        so he said if you can't think of you, think of her,

imagine what you can give her with that golden apple in hand.

  I did.

I imagined me warming her with my apple's rays,

                        feeding her with my apple's body,

                        and giving her meaning with my apple's core.

My vision was set and my sight was golden,

            I needed that apple just as I had always needed it,

                        but now, now I knew I could get it.

  My partner, standing in the shade of the tree, knew I had decided.

            So he said we now must dig,

            dig for the dark want of an undying need.

Under the tree, under our feet, and under the dirt we pulled out our tool.

            A ladder, dirty and old from the times of temptation.

  Doubt swam back into my soul.

            And the stormy voice said just one more thing,

                        one climb up one evil ladder in exchange for

                                    a lifetime of light with your golden apple.

I closed my eyes. He whispered remember,

                                                remember all you can do for her.

  So I climbed that ladder, climbed to the top of the tree.

            The closer I got, the easier I moved.

I could smell my apple, I could taste every bite of my golden apple.

              And then I touched it, felt it in my hand,

                        felt it in the place I knew it belonged.

            I started to descend.

            With each step downward, my apple frowned.

            My apple wanted me to hold her,

                                    but never to betray myself.

  When I reached the bottom, my partner was gone, and I stood alone.

            Alone with my apple.

  But it was golden no more.

It was as old, as dirty, and as evil as the ladder I used to reach it.

  And now I cannot help her.

My apple will warm her with rain,

            feed her with poison

                        and give her the only meaning my apple now knows.

  And now I cannot help myself.

Because that apple is now a part of me.

            And that apple is rotten.