The year was 1991.... a young fledgling rock star from Seattle was in pain. A lot of pain. Rigorous touring was not to blame. Soon the young musician realized something was wrong. Very wrong. His wife, that he'd had memories of but never actually met was missing from his life. From that time period in general. Trapped in 2012, she awaits a way back. A way back to change the future... a future that turns into a place with no Kurt Cobain.

A murder plot that turns into the most famous suicide in history, this site is dedicated to the small story of the husband who left a billion clues for the wife who figured them out.

Now her goal is to avenge her husband's death by pinning the murderer's with their crime...

Meanwhile she pours herself into her journal, awaiting the day she is finally reunited with her husband in time.

Letters to Kurt...

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

My heart hurts.

Dear Kurt,

Nepotism makes my skin crawl. I despise anyone and anything who has achieved unwarranted success based on even the slightest connection to someone else. Why? Because it is U N F A I R. But then, if life was fair... you would still be with us and child molesters would all drop dead right? Yeah.

Maybe I am just destined to be without career, without relationships without... anything. Maybe that's just the way things are? Maybe some people were never meant to be loved.... appreciated... respected. Maybe I'm just a great big pile of shit, and once I accept that... life will be nice and dandy. Eh?

Fuck it all.



Saturday, July 24, 2010

A night at the Chateau Marmont...

Dear Kurt,

I ventured out in Hollywood tonight, catching a couple live bands at a local bar on Sunset and as I was eating a bite of my burrito I caught a glimpse of a familiar looking building that I've written more than a couple scenes for a few of my screenplays within its walls.

I'm unaware of how often you spent your time on the L.A. scene but I do remember a particular story where you were discussing with a group of people, just months before your own death... you spoke tragically of the passing of an astoundingly sweet and talented individual -- River Phoenix.

I've studied this topic extensively. I've written and I've written scene after scene for this lost boy's story, and I just couldn't find the spirit of it. But tonight, as I glanced up at this eery, somewhat haunted hotel known as the Chateau Marmont... I could not draw my eye from it.

So much history, so much life -- so much death -- had taken place between its walls. Namely the story of young River. His life almost took several tragic turns within the walls of the room he holed himself up in before the Viper Room finally did the trick. I was thinking again and again what it would be like to go back in time, and capture that very moment -- the moment I could grab him by the hands and save him. Just save him.

Just save him.

Such history. Such sadness. Why him??

Why you?

Such sadness.

Goodnight, Peace and Love.


Thursday, July 22, 2010

My God people are fuck nuts.

Dear Kurt,

There are so many idiots in the world that it astounds me. People are selfish, greedy, shallow jerks. It never ceases to amaze me how many people throw away a perfectly good friendship if they can't have sex.

In short. I hate everyone. The end.

Saturday I will be granted another chance to harrass a long standing harrassee (band) with my script. Wish me luck.

Words have failed me. Today sucked. Much bullshit. Peace out.

Justice Seeker.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Heading home in Kennedy.

Dear Kurt,

A few days ago I put the finishing touches on my most meaningful project and sent it off (via request!) To the largest agency in all of film.

And if dreams really do come true, I pray to you above that the gods are on my side with this one.

Peace, yes.
Empathy, definitely.
Love, absolutely.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Dear Kurt,

I'm often eaten alive by bitterness. Today was no different. I had a few moments of peace as I sat at the Santa Monica pier with a good friend, watching the seagulls fly above the Pacific, while listening to serene covers of my favorite songs from a street musician.

Then as we debated over our meals at Johnny Rocket's.... we came to the conclusion that we will also be taking on the tourists of Santa Monica with a list of our own covers -- him on keyboard, me on vocals. One of the songs on my list of ten? All Apologies. A slow, piano version. Very inspiring.

I will be flying across the country again tomorrow. And I didn't expect it... but I must make a little money some how, and I will count the seconds until I am back home.

Peace, Love, Empathy.


Sunday, July 11, 2010

Ten dollar tickets?? I'll play for two minutes....

Dear Kurt,

Last night I dreamt I made out with John Frusciante. Then I woke up and realized he is no dream. Tonight I dreamt I was in another plane crash. Why?

I love how popular musicians today believe that they have the right to cover your music. As if they even have half the soul in their entire body that you contained in your little pinky finger. Call that metaphor a cliche, but it's true.

There are two types of people trying to make it in music and film. Only two.

The ones who know nothing about struggle... Who just fell into their success...

And the ones who work their live long asses off to succeed... And rarely do because their (we're) too busy working our live long asses off making ends meet to put the full effort into our passion.

So the ones who end up succeeding most are spoiled with their success, too busy taking it for granted rather than appreciating it... And lacking the soul it truly takes to... Hurt. And suffer. Because they know no pain.

I don't know if I will ever escape my resentment towards the ones who live their dreams with no struggle. The politically correct society we live in today tells us that we, as "good" people, are to be pleasant towards another's accomplishments. But that's complete and utter bullshit.

If there is a single person who can honestly sit back when another achieves what they long to achieve with an honest "congratulations, I'm happy for you. Better you than me!" Than we are living in a warped world.

We are all human. And is our duty to ourselves as human-beings to put ourselves first. In everything. Even our happiness. It's our liberty as Americans. -- "And the pursuit of happiness...." Was that ingrained in our pledge because we reserved the right to be happy for our neighbor's successes?? No. Our own.

I have no more guilt. No more guilt for wanting to achieve a level of success and happiness that suits me, for me... and me alone. Fuck everybody. This is my goddamn life, and I want to live it the way I feel is my way. And when I die, I will know that I did everything in my power to find my own personal "pursuit of happiness...." because when you're busy living for everyone else's happiness... well... nothing matters when your life ends but what you put in it -- for you.

And the world goes on. So no more guilt. Every person has a damn right to be selfish. I'm finally understanding that. Writing the types of scripts I've written I have, essentially, trained myself to be overly thoughtful towards others, to empathize with these characters that I'm creating. But I'm not a saint. And I'm done trying to cater to this desire I have to convey strong, moral messages. Done.

Fuck the messages. And Fuck everyone. Especially the assholes who live on their high-horses covering your songs. They don't deserve to be the shit on the bottom of your converse sneakers.

Peace... Love.... Empathy.

You know the rest.

"If I fail, If I succeed, atleast I've lived as I believe."

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Just a echo.

Dear Kurt,

Later today I will be attending the show that I spoke of in a previous post. My goal is to hand a business card in person to... the musician who inspired my favorite script. I have no idea if he truly knows my name and of my script, but I hope the transfer of my card into his hands finds itself successful.

I was reading another writer's blog tonight, and an entry about loglines caught my attention. I decided to elaborate and finalize my logline for "Going Inside" and it follows this post.

Tonight I will be putting on a cute pair of jeans, a sweet shirt and a funky hat in hopes that my whole life will one day be a little more satisfying than just settling for admiring glances from passer-bys.


A young guitar prodigy finds himself helming his favorite band by seventeen, but his love for music is soon challenged when his love for heroin forces him into the deep, dark depths of his very soul. Can he find his way back or will his addiction erase his passion for song and destroy his talent forever?

(true story ;-)

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Bats aren't just for baseball...

Dear Kurt,

I once took a baseball bat to one of my screenplays. The struggles of going about sharing your creative work with uninterested strangers can take a toll. Not only on your heart and soul, but also on your own opinion of your work.

You not only begin to resent the whole concept of what it takes to achieve success and the people who have the power to get your work seen... but you begin to resent your own passion too. This was the cause of my angry bat-wielding rant that, literally, tore my script into a million pieces.

In a way, it was symbolic. All the pain I've been consumed with has stemmed from this undying love to be appreciated, like anyone who creates -- whether it be music, paintings, film, stories, poems, novels or interesting lamp work -- seeking approval. I couldn't rightfully take a baseball bat to the heads of all the "heads" who ignore my emails and messages again and again.

So, the only way to relieve myself of the anger and frustration... was to take it out on my work. After all, if it weren't for it, I'd be a normal, happy, sane person living a normal, happy, sane life free of constant disappointment. If I were to end it (which I never would) but if I were to... I'd probably, literally, stab myself in the heart... because it's what has caused me a lifetime of pain.

But if my films ever do become a reality, and the surprising popularity of them manages to be larger and trendier than I desire... I would probably have a similar attitude as you did over your mega-hit "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You actually refused to play it at several shows due to your distaste in its sole success.

It was painfully obvious that one of the main reasons you wanted out of the mainstream grunge world was when you realized that all of your fans, essentially, were made up of your least favorite macho male. I mean, how could you rightfully continue performing for these people when you would go home every night and write in your journal about how you despised and felt threatened by the exact people who were filling your shows thirty rows deep?

That would have made any sane person cringe. I feel for you, Kurt. But it wasn't enough to cause you to put a gun to your head. You were handling it, and you were planning a life change. You did everything right in cutting out the things that weren't working for you. It was the others... who were doing everything wrong.

Your spirit lives on. As does your music.

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Fireworks and Freedom.

Dear Kurt,

It is exactly thirty minutes until the beginning of July 4th 2010, Pacific time, and this marks the month anniversary of my first entry.

Isn't it amazing how millions of lives end evey day and that same day... millions of lives go on living. Tomorrow night, as we stare up at the bright colors in the sky signifying what it means to be a part of the USA, people will be dying. Some by the hands of another... some by their own.

I once cried many tears during a particularly sappy fireworks display in New Orleans over the Mississippi. The reason?? The fireworks were accompanied by a loudspeaker blaring patriotic songs such as "Proud to be an American." Such a beautiful song. I would have liked to see Nirvana cover it. Just kidding.
Land of the free. Home of the brave? Justice is free. But at what price?

On that note, I will be thinking of all the amazing people lost with each colorful explosion. Yours will be the brightest.

Peace... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Los Angeles Nights

Dear Kurt,

I've never felt more alone than when I was living in Atlanta. I once wrote this poem entitled, "Atlanta Nights." Where, if your note actually was a suicide note, this poem would have put it to shame. It was full of anguish -- like I was.

Moving to Atlanta was one of many cities in my life that were a fortunate accident. I suppose the term "moving" doesn't even fit. I actually evacuated to Atlanta and was displaced there for several months following the storm known as Hurricane Katrina that nearly wiped away the most unique city in the country, New Orleans.

I had been living in New Orleans for only ten months when two of the biggest hurricane seasons of all time decided to grace the town. My move to New Orleans was no accident. It has always been my favorite city to visit, my favorite city to read about... my favorite city to write about. Yes, my move there was thoroughly planned, and the only place that could win me over, for the short period of time that it did, and take my mind from L.A.

We drove through the night, non-stop in our U-Haul, taking us eighteen hours to clear the state of Texas alone. I thought I would find the happiness there being surrounded by the Southern charm and cobblestone streets... hoping these features and more would distract me from my love.... from my heart. It didn't for long.

And the festivities of Mardi Gras soon faded along with my smile.

I tried this technique with San Francisco as well. A streetcar named Desire was not all it seemed. And I moved on to the next address, the next empty street.

The first time I flew into Boston I thought I was finally home. I made more personal connections there than any state and city I've graced, but never the less, I still felt out of place. And I decided to trade six months of winter for nine months of summer and hit the Miami beaches with all the enthusiasm of a retiree.

One DUI, two thousand stolen dollars and one stolen bike later... and the clouds came in once again.

I seemed to have lived in most major cities in this country already, so I figured, why not give the largest one a shot, and I headed up to New York City. I had a cousin there which made it seem as though I weren't completely on my own so it felt familiar enough. But still.... I was wandering around. Lost.

The truth remains, like your death.... no matter which way you cut it, someone else is responsible.

And no matter which way I cut it... L.A. is the only place I've ever lived where I've felt.... found.

My flight departs at eight thirty am.

Peace, Love, Empathy.

Justice Seeker.