My Imaginary Forest

When I wake up, before I remember

my life, sometimes I can pretend

I live in the imaginary forest.

The traffic is rushing water

and from my pillow view

out the sliding glass door

everything is green,

like I live in a treehouse over a brook.

On Sunday I was at the coffee shop when Puhg texted

they cut it down, the bright one,

the one the pair of hummingbirds live in.

As I crossed the street back I saw two men in vests and goggles

and a pile of dust and a mound of dirt.

I asked what happened, they said landscaping.

I said no one told us, they seemed sorry.

I asked if there were more coming down and they pointed to another.

We need it, I said. It’s true, we do. All summer we cook

against that wall.

No one in the building has bedroom AC.

I went upstairs, frantically paced around.

I went on the balcony to watch as they prepared another slaughter.

I opened my email to find the property manager’s contact information,

not fast enough. They were whirring the chainsaws.

I ran down again and pleaded,

who can I talk to? There’s been a mistake.

One guy said, I know, I know. He pointed me to his boss,

down the sidewalk. I rushed over.

I live beside the tree, I told him.

He didn’t need this. Not in the rain. Not on a Sunday.

He said call the building manager, so I did immediately.

He rolled his eyes and said we should just walk over.

So we did. Poor M___, grey haired and tired,

she was spooked to see us.

The guy said I need to talk to someone

about the last tree. M___ called the owner,

explained there is a tenant, upset, tree reasons.

I could hear the owner’s annoyance over the phone,

“I don’t work Sundays,” she said.

M__ said, “Neither do I.”

Neither do I, I wanted to hiss. But you didn’t think about that when you sent a bunch of men and metal to my window at 8 AM, did you!?

M___ gave me a shrug. So I leaned over,

close as I could to the phone, and said—

That tree is not coming down. I am hugging the tree!

The tree guy threw up his hands and walked off.

Owner grumpily said they could do a call tomorrow.

M___ mumbled maybe it would work out.

I huffed back out into the rain. Tree guy approached me.

He said, How about this? We just trim the tree?

Yes! I said. Yes! I made him promise, he laughed and said,

I promise, I promise.

I sat inside at the the balcony door, peeking at the guy up there.

He kept his word, only trimming.

Why didn’t they just trim your friends? I asked her, telepathically.

I made a batch of cookies for the trio in orange vests.

A thank you. But I also left my number

on a Post-It. Maybe they’d tell me

if something bad was going to happen later.

I tried to calm down and have a “rest of the day.”

But the next morning I woke up

and saw the skyline instead of leaves

and cried and cried and cried.

Later, when I was at the cafe, I got a text

from a number I didn’t know.

“Hi Alice. This is Paolo the tree guy. I just wanna thank you for the treats. It was good. You are awesome thank you??”

“Hi Paulo! Thank you so much for helping me save that tree! I love that tree.”

“I can tell you love that tree have a wonderful day”

Hamster Claws

I. Floaters vs. Clawers

I've long had this theory that (working) artists tend to fall into one of two categories: floaters and clawers.

Floaters are naturally talented, typically fun, and well-liked. They seem to sweat inspiration, which is to say, easily, without much thought. They tumble into acclaim because they're so delightful. We all know a floater.

You can guess what clawers do. They find some large rock on the beach, bitterly carry it back to their cave, chisel away for weeks, take opinions, chisel more, take more opinions, go marvel at the floater's most recent sculpture (made hastily, incredibly brilliant), chisel more, sandpaper, sandpaper, sandpaper, then finally present, breathlessly. Half the time swim, half the time sink. It is what it is.

You can guess which I am. I don't mind. Maybe I'll change, but lately I've been bending toward--not total--but a kind of predestination. This is who I am, this is who I have been. I don't always like it, but there must be a reason I continue to be it. I don't believe our "worst qualities" are necessarily "bad." (Trying not to believe in "bad" honestly. What is "bad"?) Our worst qualities are a foil to our best. Maybe it's a package deal. Not that that would be an excuse for...whatever one would need an excuse for.

I'll admit I could loosen up a little. But who does that benefit? Sure, me, probably. ...But also The Oppressor, does it not?! It is certainly not everyone's lot in life to stomp around, but it's got to be someone's. Or how would things change!

II. Cruise Ship Advice

I kept asking the director for my cruise ship gig for advice. I wanted to meet with him privately. I was about to go off, literally to sea, and I wanted assurance I'd be considered for opportunities on land when I returned. Or, if I weren't going to be, I wanted to know why. He kept worming out of the ask, pretending his schedule was full (on a party boat with no cell reception).

Finally, after dinner, with another actor (but I'd take it), I asked, again, for advice. He was frustrated-- there's no promises there's no facts there's no future--but I persisted, I'm sure there is general advice. This man loved to act like the world's leading expert on comedy, and yet had not a single waif of an aphorism!? Which BY THE WAY, is a form of sexism! To express the knowledge needed to get into a male-dominated field is just kind of...understood, not able to be grasped, much too complex to become inviting. I DIDN'T BUY IT! So finally, this director gave me one consideration. He said you'd be surprised how many are so so so close to getting exactly what they want, and then they, for whatever reason, blow it up.

I have considered this "advice" many times in the past eight years. Maybe patience is a virtue. Or maybe it is a self-imposed gate.

III. Sweet Potato's Cage

Sweet Potato is the most determined hamster I've ever known. Tofu was a sweetie. A quiet lump who needed her creature comforts and little else. Cappuccino was "bossy"--she liked to command us with squeaks and pouts, but then she'd become comfortable, the little queen, and fall asleep on my chest for hours.

We've had Sweet Potato since July, and she's just never settled down. If out, she's attempting to jump from the chair to the bookshelf, to dig behind the mattress, to lift up the books on my nightstand with her snoot. No matter how long I let her out, how much I let her explore, it was never enough. On the couch she'd take running leaps off the ottoman, in her playpen she'd pick up the corner with her mouth and shake it, once back in her cage she would gnaw at the bars, climb the walls, chitter ferociously.

Puhg and I would try to explain, "Girl, you've got to stop! This is your life! This is it! You will never destroy metal, but you might destroy your little teeth!" I began to feel immensely guilty. I so wish I could provide this creature a totally satisfying life, but maybe that's not possible. Puhg and I considered what I could learn from Sweet Potato. God, she tries! But in vain! And she doesn't even know it! Everyone else can see it!

...Only then a month ago, Puhg started casually researching other cages. We've considered them before, of course, but our apartment is only so big and no abode is perfect and...long story short we got this massive wooden thing. A critter palace. Sweet Potato adores her new home. So much, in fact, she doesn't want to come out every day. She is busy with her tunnels and sunflower seed collection and wicker corner.

We told her, A for effort, but her situation unfortunately would never change! We, the people, who ultimately changed her situation!

Once upon a time, the planets and the fates

and all the stars aligned

Olivia Rodrigo February 24th

Moments after walking into the area we saw purple blurs all over. In people's hands. We stopped a girl and asked, where did you get that? She pointed to a little snack cart. I want one, I said to Pookie, do you? She shook her head, no, no. And she was right. Because who needs a small purple cup shaped like a butterfly? She agreed to wait in the merch line for t-shirts. We parted ways, but not before Pookie yelped out, desperately, "Wait! I want one too!"

And so twenty-five minutes later I was face to face with a guy who was used to slinging beers at basketball games, who now, inexplicably was explaining to me the cups were sold as vessels for purple glitter lemonade, with or without vodka. I just wanted a Diet Coke and Pookie, an iced tea, which wasn't available. I asked the man if we could get the butterflies filled with Diet Coke and water. He frowned and explained, that would still be $44 dollars. I said that's okay, we just want the dumb little cups. He asked, "What?" So I repeated myself, "We just want the dumb little cups." He nodded, "Got it."

Am I morally opposed to plastic? Yes. Am I morally opposed to overconsumption? Yes. Am I human? Yes.

The singing at the jumping, the stickers on our faces, applied in the bathroom at the pita restaurant we went for dinner, later traded with the cuties in our section. The excitement of a setlist we'd never heard tell of, only guessed at! While taking the train as the sun set. The huge moon that loomed over us, the tiny squeak of the girls behind us. Sisters, possibly. To our right college besties? In front of me a teen boy mouthing quietly to every word.

The way Miss Rodrigo stomps in those boots. A specific knee-high splat splat splat. The rush of realizing there are no men on stage! The bullhorn and the square bed. The screaming into the void in the darkness. I wondered what everyone else was screaming about. I always do. The confetti of purple stars and the warm evening and the okayness of always staying up late. In the morning there were macarons and iced coffees and a particular bush, in bloom, that smelled like pine and flowers at the same time.

Happy Valentines to Puhg

 I woke up deathly ill. Puhg got going right away. He turned on the humidifier and brought we a glass of water, he set up my little nose steamer gadget. I laid in bed, drowning in mucus.  He made me a hot tea. He said he was going for a walk, so I said I'd join. Some fresh air, some sun. We had to walk very slow, but I made it. He went for his usual little coffee at the neighborhood spot. I went to the fancy natural food store to look for anything I'd be able to eat. I got a bachelor loaf of brioche and some organic ginger ale. I remembered it was Valentines. Puhg brought me a bouquet yesterday, and a second for my galpal, whose birthday we missed. It was a pink assortment, and I gave it to her at the Mexican restaurant last night, after Puhg dropped me off for Galentines. I look for a little snack for my guy. I decide on fancy apple fig newtons, but when I get to the register I realize I don't have my wallet. I go outside and get Puhg and have him come in and pay for me. At home I take a scalding hot shower. I make toast and watch an episode of Love on the Spectrum. In the living room. It's so strange to be in the living room during the day. Our house rules, as established in Covid, is that Puhg gets main room until about 8 PM every night, and I get bedroom and/or trot around town. I fall asleep, probably around 9:30 AM. I don't get up until 3. I'm caked in snot and my body is sore. I shower again and ask if Puhg will drive me to Burger King. He had plans to game with his friend in Arizona, but he pushes it so he can take me for fries and an Impossible Whopper I don't finish. Happy Valentines to Puhg.

Walking into the Eras movie, October 14, 2023

Friends

A bug was in the shower. A tiny winged thing. "This isn't safe," I warned them. "Please fly away from here." Luckily they did, but not far enough. Just to the other end of the shower. "No,  no," I clarified. "Out of here altogether." They flew behind the curtain, but after I rinsed my hair, I saw a black dot in the drain.

I used my lotion bar with my foot propped on the tub's edge. An itty bitty spider watched from the wall. I greeted her, it's nice and warm in here for winter, hm?

The hamster wakes and sniffs, loudly. She gets a sunflower seed. The shrimp walk across rocks. One stands still as the shadow from my head shades the tank. I look into the little friend's eyes. I think they look back, but they will never understand. And neither will I.

Saying Less

My resolution is to Say Less. It's been a resolution for the past two years, but this time I need to make it my singular focus. It can't be this simple, but lately it feels like every unpleasant experience I ever have is due to Saying Too Much. Then again, maybe I've had more good than bad come from Saying Too Much.

I'm reminded of teaching an improv class in 2013. One student was such a dork--but such a funny dork! For mid-terms I gave each student a challenge for their scene. The boy with the slow charm had to rush, the girl with all the questions had to make all the choices, and the dork had to play someone confident. He really couldn't do it, but that was funny too! After the exercise he slumped to his seat. "I get it! I have to stop being a dork!" No, no, no I clarified. You'll never not be you, but you can push the boundaries of what you is.

Being authentic and trying to say what I mean has been really important to me since I don't know when. Honesty is sacred, emoting is power, I MUST BE ME! My enneagram four wing never more ruthless than Sunday when I spent at least an hour fretting about what my phone lockscreen would be for the new year.

But a new take on authenticity has finally occurred to me. Maybe my full-throated beliefs are a privilege. The worst briar of the recent past, a person in my life trying to make me feel small. I spent dozens if not hundreds of hours considering how to express the deep and inappropriate discomfort this person has inflicted on me. But no draft was ever right because I don't think there is a draft that this person would fully accept. In the meantime, I wasted so much of my authentic energy on that stupid venture! I could have been writing play that ends capitalism or something!

I used to think saying something, even if no one agrees, at least let the fledgling truth exist somewhere, somehow. And I still think that. But alternatively, I could look for safer nests.

Last winter, I battled a conglomerate who wouldn't pay me on time. I hated how they made me beg for what was mine. My friend Mur suggested I stop explaining myself. You don't have to bare your soul because they're wrong.

two-thousand and twenty-three

I’ll always remember 2023 as an incredibly special year. It’s honestly hard to comprehend how much happened to and for me, how many once in a lifetime experiences were smooshed into the past twelve months. I spent so many days rushing around, peddling my feuds and hunched over my laptop and crying and laughing. But now it is time to slow down and reflect. I probably ate a hundred croissants—what other yardstick does one need.

I’ll start with my art. The two workshops of my new play were far more successful than I could have imagined. I applied for and was rejected from a dozen fellowships. But what came to be was SO much better. And the juice is so much sweeter! I squeezed it myself! I will never forget when those audiences leapt to their feet. The outrageously talented writers and managers and executives who gushed to me on the street, in my email, over cherry Italian sodas. The young actors who made the piece their own, the directors who cared more than was fair. To quote Kelly Clarkson quoting someone else, some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this.

I completed a B_rbie series, wrote another, have just started another. It hurts my brain to consider how much experience and magic the podcast brought into my life. Again, this year was such an embarrassment of creative riches. In another galaxy, my entire personality is those shows. In this galaxy I wake up in Tokyo, half skim an email about being in the New York Times. We’re number one again, we got this icon or that great mind into the studio. I make myself small next to AP and try to remember all the wisdom she casually throws away. She invites me to a fancy dinner and invites me to her girls' party and invites me over to be in her Masterclass, strangely something I wished for when I first bought a membership in 2019. Dramaturged a solo show I so believe in! Went to live comedy when I could! Never regretted it.

I pitched a show I co-created with ____ ____ to HBO and afterward the VP of comedy wrote me a nice email. Then ____ ____ asked me to punch up his newest movie, a serious honor. A showrunner out of my league asked to be in my league. I wrote a new TV sample, just because I had the idea. Wrote a third of my newest play—will finish in 2024. Wrote a third of a new movie—may not finish in 2024. It irritates me that I don’t want to finish this project. I typically finish everything I start. However, I’m trying to listen to the artist inside me when she pitches a fit.

I pitched on a sequel to an iconic movie (project killed). I pitched on IP with a fantastic producer (project stalled). I reflect on options for the show I sold (project died). A thriller killed. A youth podcast rudely offed. Made two TikToks for this fancy company I suppose I believe in. Wrote an essay I couldn’t get published.

My god! I was on strike for six months! I’m changed from it! We won! That was, like, an entire life of bump-ins and middle fingers and free snacks and sunscreen and holes in my shoes.

Acted in two improv TV shows, did maybe three live shows? Was in a pod episode with three heavy-hitters! Barely registered, which is evidence I really don’t have it in me to act anymore.

A new little ham at home! More time on the balcony than ever. Three weddings! Heavens the weddings! At an iconic inn! In bright, clear Denver! The most outrageous parties and pool time in Palm Springs!

My mom visited California. We roamed around getting facials and going to the movies. My dad visited California. We cruised windy highways and dined in the local pizza joint. My aunt visited California, and I drove back from lunch, toward the rolling golden hills, enchanted. I visited the midwest—twice! Lake Michigan and the Beach Bunny concert and deep dish and walks around Evanston and corn fritters and keeping up with the peace bugs. AND THEN everything reset at the summer camp reunion—a whole world! The gals went to Disneyland at Halloween for crying out loud!

I spent Christmas with all the people and summer obsessively searching for Taylor Swift tickets. Managed to pull off getting the literal best seat in the stadium? That concert shook me to my core, is now and forever a part me. That folding chair, a dot in the timeline of culture. “You’ll go to space,” Puhg said of my tiny cameos in the movie. I saw the movie over and over in theaters—with Puhg, with my manager, with strangers, with friends, alone. I went to so many movies in general, sometimes bopping around the mall after. Making good on a resolution to have more fun, I wore down my Six Flags season pass.

Puhg and I went to Japan twice! The first time so wrapped up in the tender spring, the second reflecting on autumn. I grasped for a fortune at the Nara shrine and cheered for it coming true over caramel corn at the Kyoto studio tour. Each day could be unpacked and repacked and unpacked a million times. Thick toasts, prayer tablets, steps, gates, Godzilla, moss, cream puffs, rotating sushi, speak easys, Hello Kitty, rocks, castles, ponds, rainy days, volcano black shells, cab rides, sunrises, ferry rides, fall colors, train nods, soft boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs.

FRIENDS! Had a big fat birthday. New York for theatre and Henne! An Arizona journey for Kiles’ big show and Shell’s almost baby. Two bachelorette parties. Swimming bitter with Buckle, game nights with the other couple, Survivor dens, jolly patios with K___, and a haunted house with SW. Last night, as always, dream boards with Tira. Went on a writing retreat alone but was somehow front row for Find’s set. Now anything is possible.

Ah the tough stuff. You know I have beat my fists against pillows and screeched about how unfair poor health or stupid benefits are. You know I have worried about the distance between things and people who float away. But you know I'm more resilient than I used to be. I do believe terrible things are happening now and in the future. I hope to be wrong, but at least there's nothing smaller to be afraid of.

Diligent work on my handspring. I am landing it, but I wish for something less ugly by this time next year. Oh yeah, and I won that playwriting award for something I wrote on a plane.