Thoughts about BWitched

Stomping our feet in Peppermint's bedroom. She had cream carpet with a hoard of Polly Pockets just right of the door.

Making up the Easter baskets for the family. I played the single over and over on my Hello Kitty boombox while doing circles with jelly beans around the kitchen table.

I sang one of the songs for the 5th grade talent show--not well I don't think--but I did wear my favorite khakis with the stripe down the side. It was before endless karaoke tracks, so the singer was just also singing through the loudspeaker. Oof.

They lasted longer on Radio Disney than I did. I've wikipedied them and found, one, they were older than I thought they were. Teen sensations were usually, you know, teens, but these ladies were 20 - 27 at their peak. Two, they were dropped from their label mid third album. I guess they weren't in a heyday of their sophomore album, but still seems heartless, no? I hope they all got piles of cash and didn't have to worry too much for the rest of their days.

I remember the CD I had--orange swirls. I adored track 6 even though still, even today, I don't fully understand what it's about.

Once in college I started playing one of the songs for laughs and my roommate was like "Wait! I loved this song!" And then suddenly the very moody poet next door who never even said "hi" in the hallways appeared, singing.

I think it's just so cool these girls made their cultural goofy noise into pop. Like, they had a jig on their otherwise Britney-esque collection. It was their legacy, and it's a very good one.

Hindsight

Ohmygod I am so proud of myself. I journaled about what I've accomplished this year and I was shocked to find it was so much more than I thought. A timelapse of my 2020 would be sad. It's mostly me, in lumpy clothes, shuffling from one room to the other room. Sometimes computer in front of me, sometimes holding a mason jar of coffee, sometimes watching an HBO drama, sometimes sun streaming in, sometimes gloomy. But probably because from the outside everything looks so similar, this recluse life has offered me more than I remembered.

In the personal I evaluated my relationship to self. I started therapy again and have graduated from four personal development attachment style online courses. I am so much more in touch with who I am and while I have several more snowy roads to trod, me a year ago would probably not even be able to follow the conversations I have with me. So much has been unearthed and dusted off and set in a display case. I made big overhauls to my belief systems. It happened little by little and then all at once. I learned and made baby steps at voicing boundaries. I let myself grow closer to those I trust and try to release the tension around those I don't. It's a work in progress, which is better than "in development." I really believe just staying safe and healthy this year is a feat alone. I did both by sticking strong to CDC guidelines and, while tempted, I stuck to my isolated life. This took and gave. I have never been more alone, but in the alone is the only way I was able to get so deep into myself. I am grateful I didn't take the bait. I was introspective or made my own fun. Puhg and I went on a few isolated vacations--a cabin in the woods, an airbnb in the desert, the beach. These trips would have seemed so underwhelming before. Cooking and devoid of culture, but they were wonderful breaths of non-trafficked air. My body feels healthier. Eating more at home, at appropriate times, more walks in nature, more HIIT, more light weights, baths. None of this was planned, I'm just more calm. I adopted a hamster, who is my little light.

Career-wise I felt just barely afloat these entire twelve months, but I've never been more secure financially and maybe having so many just-misses is a proof of opportunity, not the alternative. I remember I ate off one Almost for a year in 2017. Now they come and go every week. I'm tired of rolling out the welcome mat. It's made me both bitter and discerning. My hope is the latter dissipates and leaves the wisdom behind. I distanced myself from a professional who wasn't right, I accepted being distanced from another. I put myself out there and did feel stupid for it, but if you never try, you never know. Meanwhile there were some legitimate wins. I sold a musical, and while I'm not in love with it, I learned a ton from the process, and I am immensely proud of myself for closing the deal sans lawyers. I wrote segments for a big awards show. I had three essays published. I wrote a new pilot, play, and feature. All three extremely me. I wrote other things I didn't like as much that fizzled out. I am now staffed in a writers' room. It's not what I expected nor does it fit the exact image I meant when I wrote "staff" on my vision board, but it happened and I do like it. I gave feedback to a bunch of folks, including a couple I'd thought were out of my league. I dramaturged a musical that never opened.

In the hybrid personal/career I took a class about my artist sense and while I was first a real skeptical little pill have stayed sane with the lessons learned. I don't ever remember how I used to function. I also finished six Masterclasses. That's a lot, I just now realize. I organized my bedroom bookshelf and purged boatloads from under the bed. I learned to slow down. I wrote something and planned ahead for months of revisions, I hired an expensive professional to guide me and was as delicate as possible. I became an active member of three writers' groups. I care less about what people think. I talk about myself with more respect. I had some helpful meetings that might pan out and might now. My mind is open to what a dream can be. And let's not sleep on January and February. I did some joyful, challenging improv shows, the last on March 8th one of my favorites of all time. I made a quick $200 on a digital sketch. I explored options, which, perhaps, didn't seemingly give me much, but it was information nonetheless. I managed to see at least a dozen plays and kept myself curious about the field.

In the citizen sense I contacted 1000 voters by phone and lit drops for the general election. I wrote more postcards and letters than I can count. I attended a distanced protested for BLM every weekday evening in June. I kept on my journey for I donated more money than ever to people in need and tried to be generous whenever possible. I read for more than pleasure and signed petitions and called my representatives. I often felt scared before these activities, but I did them anyway. I kept walking toward sustainability and away from capitalism.

I think I've even forgotten a bunch of things. Maybe little ones like scrapbooking ten pages or getting everyone's Christmas presents squared away early or making good on self-promises to get down to the pool at least once a week or going weeks without social media. Or big ones that will rise up from the water some years from now.

I Know This Much Is True

 Finished the mini-series yesterday. Took eight months to watch six episodes because they are so heavy and so sad, but not so much I didn't want to find out what all happened. What a tightrope walk, to know when it was a good idea to engage. At times watching this man's pain gave me a lift of gratitude. Compared to his well of anger and sadness, I suddenly floated. Other times I was right down there with him, a child smashing things just because, or insisting on painting a house despite swollen wounds. "Look how terrible the world is," the images told me. "You thought things were looking up, but not for Mark Ruffalo."

By the end, when there has been even more trauma, it is still the end of a piece of art. And so there is brighter light and lighter sound and some movement toward something better. But then I wonder how Mark Ruffalo really did it. Was it somehow a let go of grief? Was it a let go in general? Is this just how it always is? You simply decide. I will think about this story for a long time.

Nine Months Catch-22 feat. Drake

 The thing is every day that passes the more people die or get extremely ill, the more people I know whose lives are affected and sometimes destroyed. I keep finding new backdrops to punch through. I thought I was as deep in the anxiety pool as I could go, but another false bottom shows me otherwise. "What's WRONG with me?" I bemoan, freelancing from inside the one bedroom apartment in a lockdown last friend I saw was two months ago, last family 9. It's like this diary I read of a woman who was kidnapped and lived with her abuser for years before she escaped. "I should be happy" she wrote. NOT TO EQUATE MY LIFE WITH HERS. Obvi. Good gravy. I'm essentially in a palace of privilege writing from the kitchen table, palm trees waving out the window.

So the thing is these days keep passing and I have insane thoughts at times, "like is this the last year of society as we know it?" Then I'm like, "Haha, no everything will be normal one day" and then I'm like "Hm climate change though." So, essentially, there's more YOLO inside of me than ever before. But also I am still inside following all the rules. The very crisis that's making me believe life is short and meant to be lived is keeping me from living my dumb life!

The Old Mill

 The Old Mill in the middle of the desert. It was further from the parking lot that it seemed. Two miles round trip didn't account for the getting lost and the getting lost a second time. There was a broken down old car decaying. Felt like the end of the road. Beyond only mountains. Walked a little further. A large man was walking toward me. Was he a mirage? He wore a bright white mask. I asked, "Is the old mill further?" He seemed tired. "Yeah, it's just under that ridge." He pointed. I followed his finger down. There was nothing there. A woman appeared, huffing and puffing behind him. She grumpily futzed with a medical mask in her pocket trying to get it on before I passed. She was so worked up she broke it, announced so, and held it over her face. Lots going on there.

Kept walking and walking. When we arrived at the park the ranger eyed our shorts and said she hoped we had warmer clothes. We had sweatshirts. It was so quiet and chilly. Now, unplanned hours later, the sun was getting hot and we were out of water. Suddenly the mill. It appeared only once we were there.

I loved it immediately. Blue and tin, a broken track. I longer to touch the wooden side, but it was behind a fence. A small room with a mysterious window. I stared into it. Who used to stare out? Alone and clear.

Why was it so beautiful to me? I was in a natural wonder and my favorite part was the heap of garbage. It was people's livelihoods and it didn't work out. Maybe my whole self electrifies because either they hated it and became free. Or they put all their hopes in the world in that shack and it broke their hearts, but something else happened. Was it a mirage?

The rivers run, but soon run dry. / We need new dreams tonight.

The Battle of Who Could Care Less

"Congratulations," he told me. "For what?" I asked. He told me it was an honor to join NHS. It wasn't (to me). Like, everyone who applied got in. I mean, sure, you have to have a 3.5 GPA and commit to community service or whatever, but I really didn't care. I actually didn't even want to join. It felt like some weird fake pat on the back club. The point? Unclear. I was leery of what we were "supposed" to do to get into college. The things I really cared about didn't seem to be relevant, and I resented that. The SAT was supposed to be a great equalizer, but the rich kids all took a Saturday class.

I could have dropped it, but I felt spicy. He never congratulated me on anything. Truly nothing. We went to speech tournaments almost every weekend where I went on stage and got trophies and usually only the freshmen marveled. I worked very hard, but I did it alone in my bedroom. I stopped having nerves after my first round of junior year. I came in cool and did my thing and left with hardware. I was cast as the lead in the school play. I narrowly got an A in physics. But he didn't even shrug. It didn't bother me. I accepted that any and all high school achievements were fake. He was punk-ish, so naturally, he would too. But then he said congrats on the stupidest extra curricular activity known to teen. And I just knew, knew, so suddenly and surely it was because he was in it. I wasn't graceful.

"It's interested you told me congratulations for that. Because you don't tell me congrats for anything else." A shadow of disgust before he shrugged and went to his desk. A couple rows from mine. A few weeks later, I, still trying to make good on my philosophy that none of it mattered was talking to a friend. "I guess I don't really care I got a Nationals spot. I already accepted my place at the state drama program." He turned around, from within a separate conversation, feet or miles away, just to say, "Liar." Now I shrugged.

But I did end up skipping the drama program for Nationals. My coach told me either choice was a good choice, but people who do really well usually go twice. The decision makes no sense to me now, and I don't think it did then either. I've always liked theatre more than standing around doing monologues in classrooms. I wanted to badly to go to that program. There'd been a write-up about me winning the invite in the local paper. My friend Jimbo cut it out and gave it to me and everything. I don't remember the day I called and said I wasn't coming. Or why.

Dancing in the Streets

Yesterday my neighborhood erupted in an all-day party. It was torture it happened this way, but the payoff was so sweet. I woke up so early yesterday, in a sad mood. The heaviness of all these days weighed on all of us. But I was also heavy for other reasons. This has been a record year in self-exploration for me. Every month could be one hundred years. I remember adults saying of their teens and twenties--"I didn't know who I was." And I would also respect that but think to myself, "That's so strange. I know exactly who I am." I wasn't wrong exactly. I just didn't know why I was, and now I think I do--or at least I know I am finding out.

So I woke up early. Before 6. Rain on the forecast, I decided to run immediately. Been going without headphones for the past few months. Trying truly to imagine and clear my head. The pitter pat began. It felt right and not too intolerable. I finished my route as the real droplets started falling.

Since it was still early I decided on a rare bath. I lit a candle and tried my new celebrity stress relief fizz. In the quiet, in the dark, I tried to do the exercises my therapist encouraged me to do. I sat in a hot little ball, hugging my knees. Willing foreign thoughts out. I had just stepped out and toweled off when I heard Puhg knock at the door. I opened it and I couldn't read his face. He just asked if I had looked at my phone, which I hadn't. But I knew. All I had to do was ask, "Did it happen?" And he said yes. We ran to the living room, turned on CNN. My student from Chicago had texted, "yayyyy!" It was 8:33. I ran to the balcony and screamed 'IT'S OVER!" A woman across the street was also out in her pajamas yelling in joy. I just screamed and screamed and screamed as though being exorcised. Neighbors all came onto their balconies to do the same. I walked out the front door to the interior foyer of our building and yelped, "GOODBYE DONALD TRUMP!" Apartments erupted in cheers and applause. Puhg started pacing around not knowing what to do with this adrenaline. He said he wished he had a sign. He started desperately taping together printer paper. I brought him 2019's vision board. He flipped it over and wrote "YOU'RE FIRED" on it. I was in a sweatshirt and pj shorts. We ran outside and starting jumping. People slowly joined. Cars honked and honked and honked. So many windows down blasting FYDT. My favorite was seeing this girl I know from the building standing quietly with her arms crossed, just sort of taking it in. But twenty minutes later she was cheering, then screaming. A woman was driving by, screeched into an open street spot, got out, surveyed the scene, kinda clapped a little bit. About an hour later I saw her skipping around with a Harris sign she inexplicably found. We brought down a bottle of champagne and popped it in the street. My favorite reality show host picked up the cork and took a photo with it. Someone brought out a boombox. A car pulled into the gas station across the street and people danced on their rooftops. I briefly entered the party zone, which was the true best. I stayed for one Beyonce song before deciding even though everyone was religiously masked and no one was touching, it was still a pandemic.

We were wiped by 1 PM. We picked up a tuna melt for Puhg down the street. We passed one of the hobbits having coffee. I ordered two Impossible Whoppers from Burger King and we watched that new Rashida Jones movie on Apple. The noise outside didn't stop. The crowd sang "Since U Been Gone." At 6 we watched the president-elect speak COHERENTLY to our country. He did not mention the stain in the office, and I like that. I laid in bed watching TikToks for I don't know how long. Played with the hamster. Went to bed early on the first cold night of the season under a new comforter.

Maybe It Just Looks Different

When I was in third grade my life's dream was impossible. It's very confusing to hear, "You can be anything you want to be when you grow up!" and also, "7 is too old to become a gymnast." This feeling has haunted me for most of my life. Too late, too late. I don't know where the spirit came from. I'd like it to go. I believe what people tell me, and many people have told me I am too late. A director I loved explained wherever women are at 26 are where they stay. He was regretful about it, like, it's sad but true, toots. He thought he was lighting my fire. He thought I was 22. I was 27.

I don't think I would have traded it for the fall musical or my beloved speech team, but I wanted to play JV soccer in high school.. But everyone else had been on rec center leagues. I don't have "I'll show you" in my blood. I never have. Senior year I wrote a paper about how jealous I was of M Night Shymalan who so clearly knew what he wanted from life so his dad paid for him to go to NYU film school to do it.

But behind and ahead aren't real, I know. I see people lap me and sit the next one out. I underestimate someone who blows past me. It's not a track at all, actually.

So in third grade it was kind of hard to come to terms with this whole, "you're washed up even though you just found out about it" thing. I liked to play the first track of my George Winston CD and do a floor routine in the living room. I could do a cartwheel at least.

I let the dream float away. I did a local play or I became obsessed with Limited Too body spray. I read mystery chapter books. But what I didn't know is the dream never left me, it just put on a new outfit. It chucked what I didn't care about--the Olympics, muscles--and left what I liked--moving, with feeling, to music. So years and years later I fell in love with step class. And I performed weekly with my improvised musical cast. And we even had all these sell-out shows at the biggest theatre festival in the world where, yes, we were known to do a dance break or eight. I know for sure, high on a big number, I've done my share of leaps and tumbles. So maybe it just looks different.

If You Left It Up to Me

The weirdest part is this was always how it was going to be. I had plots and plans for these past months in February, but now they seem like clouds. Not laughable, not sad. Translucent and cold. I am mad beyond words at what my government did and continues to do to its people, my neighbors. I am made and awake. I thought I was awake before. Then I woke up and dreamt of being awake. So for the people who are really and truly struggling and dying, I would wish for a time machine. I can't think of a worse way to go, alone, kissing loved ones goodbye over FaceTime. It breaks my heart.

But for me, I don't know how else to say, I am grateful it is happening. I am blessed to be more radical, to have been trapped in a corner of reading what is the universe literature, to have written the scariest play I've ever written and shed more relationships I don't need. Blessed by how many times I've swam this summer (even yesterday). Blessed to question how often I didn't eat at home. Blessed to be with Puhg a kajillion minutes a day. To have tried new things--like the swam boats at Echo Park and site-specific theatre on a hiking trail. To have been in forest cabin and a on the balcony of a beach inn.

I mourn our trip to Japan. I fear I'll never do the work I want to do again. Maybe my weekly theatre closed. History collapsed. It happened faster than I would have thought I could handle, but I did handle it, so that must mean something.

Weeks to lose my mind and weeks to sleep too much. Writing horror feature for no one and phone calls to anyone. There's this pervasive idea that we've lost all this time and experience, but I feel like I've experienced more in most days than ever before because it's just us in here--me and my soft squishy brain. Fewer distractions than ever, I haven't always been happy, but it does feel right.

Santa

Something beautiful is the ocean. It is too big to be beautiful, too powerful. Too free. It is ocean. There is no real way to describe it if you're there, 20-40 feet from the beach, about to touch the buoy. The sound is quiet but only because itself is so deafening. It's so everything you forget you're in it. The mountains. Those can't be. Hard and rocky when all you're doing is floating. And you wonder how many people walk into this very slosh hoping to never walk out, maybe with weights attached, and at the last minute they realize they could have just come here every day instead of the places they hated.

The salt will sting but it's also a seasoning. It smells like fresh and tastes like life. I ran into it after a two miler. I felt it wiped me clean. All I had was my droopy underpants and a striped sports bra. That was plenty. A reminder that holding clothes all dirty and sandy, shoving your shoes under your armpit is acceptable. Walk back across the street barefoot and grimy but better than before.

Admit It

 In 2008 I asked my friend why he was voting for John McCain. He said he believed it was important to end wars we start. I was like, "Yeah, what would an end to war in Iraq look like to you?" He said he didn't know. Then he said he didn't want to talk about it anymore. I said, "I'm genuinely trying to understand. You care a lot about this. I don't see how this war will end in a successful way. What do you know that I don't?" He said, "It's my opinion." I said, "But what is your opinion?" He said, "It's just my opinion." We sat next to each other a few tense moments while waiting for a few other friends to meet us in the dining hall. In hindsight, I know he didn't actually know much about that election, but his parents were/are adamant Republicans, so he assumed theirs was the superior worldview. Maybe he would have sounded a little ignorant if he'd said, "Look, I don't know much about John McCain, but my parents love him, so I'm going to assume they're right." But that type of honesty would have been so refreshing. I also think it would have opened both of us up to a frank conversation about what we know or what we don't know. It's not like I was some political genius.

As a vegetarian I don't love when people say, "I know eating meat is wrong, but I can't stop because xyz" but I understand it. Because who doesn't have their faults. However, I DESPISE when people say, "Eating meat isn't actually bad." Even when met with evidence or unable to provide their own. Just admit that you're wrong. Or at least that you don't know. I admit I'm wrong all the dumb time. It can be embarrassing, but it's also consistently not as bad as I think it will be. People aren't usually that mad at you for not knowing something. Often you can even get a pretty reliable pass for being trash. Sometimes I'm really hard on myself about not acting in total alignment with my understanding. And sometimes, through honesty with myself, I find grace. And betterment. Maybe you're not selfish. Maybe you acted selfishly.

This week a friend betrayed me. She wasn't trying to hurt me personally, but she did. I thought we were in this together. We aren't. I was transported to a beach several years ago. A very different situation but one that felt the same. My friend had lied to me and then belligerently insisted she didn't. I shut down. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say anything. Then, out of what felt like nowhere she started sobbing, telling me she knew she left me alone and she was sorry. It was so strange. To be gaslit and then vindicated in less than 24 hours. The whiplash was an earthquake. Even after the truth had been uncovered the plates had shifted. It would never be the same.

Mal

A good thing to know is that I'm not mean. Sometimes I'm about to share something with Puhg and preface it with, "Can I share a troll thought?" Code for, "Here comes something judgey or perhaps cynical." But never a mean thought. Most of the time I'm sharing said thorn because I want to know why it cuts me so deeply. Why do I care what some other dumb dumb does anyway?

At a former job this person gave a coworker and me a lot of grief. I suggested to my coworker we have a candid meeting, the three of us, and discuss her attitude. My coworker said she shouldn't. She was afraid of what she would say. I was like, "Why don't we plan what to say?" And she was like, "Right, but she'll say something I won't like and I'll say something really inappropriate." I heard her, but I couldn't relate. Still can't. She even told me a story about how she blew up at her roommate once. Screaming over a collection of small issues. She described it like a weird exorcism. I don't think that's ever happened to me. I've been mad and I've been sharp, but I've never just said things.

Or my friend Lav explaining that in the midst of arguing with her boyfriend she will deliver low blows. Harsh bullets, secretly stored away. The opinions may or may not even be true. It's no big deal to her. "Oh I said xyz because I was mad even though it's actually abc." Huh?

I think I could make something up that would really dig into a person's insecurities? I've seen it done on teen girl shows for sure. In political dramas. I have been brutally honest. Even though I didn't mean to be. But it was never malicious. Do I get points for this?

Lucy The

Is everybody special? Lo was irritated with the guy she dated this winter because he thought he was so unique. A 30 year-old white dude who loves movies. When you put it that way of course he's not different from a billion other former film majors in America. But probably in his little Midwestern town he stood out. I remember my friend Fletch went to a Christian college in Missouri and she was known as that "indie artsy girl" because she had "Wes Anderson movies" in her interests on Facebook. In her annoyance with this troubled soul of a man, Lo asked me "Do you think you are normal or weird?" And it felt like a trick because for the context of our discussion it's clear she was saying, "Everyone thinks they're weird when they are actually quite normal." But the honest truth is I do think I am weird. I figure there are more players in the NBA than working writers in Hollywood? I am an adult woman with a hamster? I just bought a non-ironic Hello Kitty face mask? And these are just three surface level examples. I dare not even begin spelunking into the depths of my (I think) weird brain. Doesn't seem normal to me?

I don't think there's anything wrong with being normal, and I don't really wish to not be it. I would like to be normal in more than two dozen ways.

How often should we expect to feel special? I think if you don't feel special sometimes you die. I really do. The magnitude of the specialness differs per person per day, you know? Sometimes you can ride a week off some itty bitty kindness. I bounced for a couple hours after my local barista made my cold brew before the sidewalk hoards' lattes. Like who is she? That mysterious girl in sweat shorts getting her order like Megan Markle? Or maybe it's just having a birthday--even if no one knows it's your birthday. Or maybe it's winning a huge award or getting a great compliment or posting a viral tweet.

Do we top out at feeling special? There are celebs who need far less special than others because they are secure and cozy in their bungalows. Or maybe they just osmosis the special in and don't need to think about it. There are also esteemed heroes who need oceans of special, I'm sure, as they've become numb to the daily joys we plebs have to get by on.

How much is enough? I'm wondering.

church folks had a fish fry, mustard, hot sauce

Saturday. I woke up concerned. The insomnia has been killing me. I think it persists because it knows I have no good argument against it. Nevertheless I did two tough workouts back to back. I felt good after, chemically for certain. It's too hot in LA, but our new AC hides it. Puhg lifted weights on the balcony and came in drenched in sweat. He suggested we go down to the pool for a morning swim. Clear blue water and blazing sun. I felt refreshed and like my head was my head.

I spent most of Friday revising a play to send to a colleague. I sat down at the table with an oat milk coffee and gave it a final once over before attaching the email. I was tired and deserved kettle korn. I ate two bowls while watching the Merrily We Roll Along doc, which I, not surprisingly LOVED. That's a good afternoon.

And then it was time to lay down and play Animal Crossing for the first time in a month. All my fake fruit trees were ready for harvest, and I found an acorn in the forest. I muted the sound to listen to the Invisible Brain podcast about preconceived notions. Also for the first time in a month (much more?) I got dressed up. I wore my leopard unitard and put on some makeup. Puhg and I went to a drive-in concert. It was free for customer service reasons, including a generous menu comp. We danced and danced because although the temperatures were high, the sun was low. Fitz and the Tantrums isn't a band I would have chosen to see, but in some way that made it even more fun. I legitimately forget they sang Moneygrabber, so it was like a surprise right in the middle of all these songs I maybe had heard once. Plus the hits. Obviously the hits. The family in front of our blocked off space brought a tent for their kids to poop in. We scuttled inside our cool car while the manager made them disassemble it and chuck the bag of feces into their trunk.

I got a gigantic lemonade in a souvenir cup and jumped around sloshing it over the asphalt. Puhg got a beer and, being deal-lovers, we ordered exactly three soft pretzels with jalepeno cheese to meet our coupon amount. The bandleader asked us all the scream on three because this has been the most stressful year of our lives. There were two songs in the encore and we clapped, honked, cheered heartily for both. I kept thinking I caught the moon out of the corner of my eye, but it was a Shell sign in the distance. Right as we were about to pull away the real moon made her debut--just as bright yellow as the mistaken moon.

The long drive home was a comfort. A time to reflect and share and laugh. We stopped for Taco Bell and I ate it while watching an episode of 90 Day Fiance.

Mipso

I hate you for not thinking it through. For not planning. For assuming you were doing me a favor when I never asked for one. The favors you do in your head. Still! Even still.

The greatest thing we can do is love ourselves. People excuse personal selfishness beyond selfishness by batting around the old "put your mask on first" metaphor. But conveniently the whole "plane should be crashing before it comes to that" bit is forgotten. The self-care movement has become a fountain of excuses to spend exorbitant amounts of money or disrespect the environment. I see full relationships that exist to affirm one another they deserve to do whatever they want. But you shouldn't have a workout buddy who gobbles up every excuse you chuck at them.

Nevertheless, self love is more than booking stupid frivolous vacations that look good on Insta and feel bad on the soul. A person who is so in love with themself doesn't have as hard of a time abstaining from evils in treats' clothing. A self-loved person isn't so empty they're tempted all day every day. A person who loves themself wouldn't need revenge or greed. I mean, there goes war and poverty.

And I know I have a long way to go when it comes to how I see myself, but I am certainly still angry you don't even know you're further behind than I am. That you're not even on the path. And yet you demand to run all over mine, to mess up my campsite, to set up tents I didn't want. You built a fire pit where there was once a clearing.

The thing about people is they change when they walk away.

Henry Ford

 Are we even here to make progress? It's been so syringed into me that Progress is Good I have never questioned it. Maybe we don't need progress. Progress of what? For who? Why?

Work smart, not hard. Should I keep calling my trash congressman? Part of me thinks it's human and True to never stop saying the right thing to power. But if the power never listens, should I instead conserve that energy for something more beautiful? Even if it's not progressive or "important"? If it's just a journal entry or lining a cheese plate with raspberries just so?

When I canvassed this past February for Elizabeth Warren and a local candidate, we we taught if anyone comes to the door and doesn't agree with you, just say thanks and leave. You may want to inform or educate but it's likely not going to work, so just move on. We ourselves, the canvassers with clip boards, are finite resources not be be squandered.

Last week I spoke with any angry Republican on the phone for twelve minutes while banking for my hopeful Democratic rep in Illinois. I gave the brief platform speech and he was immediately peppery. So full of confusion and victimization his voice was trembling. All these corrupt democrats! He started grouching. He didn't actually have anything against the platform I described. He also didn't specifically ask to be taken off the list or even say that he wouldn't vote for my person, so I asked him some follow-ups. What issues were his concerns? I could be a resource. He parroted back a handful of disjointed Fox News sound bytes. None of them were finished ideas or logical. Most importantly, none of them had anything to do with the district's Congressional race. Truly none. He asked things like "Does she think police officers should not be allowed to stop fights?!" "Does she think Chicago should get a playground!?" I mean. Sir. I was very calm and briefly summarized my candidate's viewpoint, reiterated these are more philosophical and local issues, and added a piece of her platform he might like. About defunding billionaires and adding more sustainability options to our farmlands. He raged on democrats who are funded by corporations and I gave him the data about the Republican running--how he is funded by hundreds of thousands of oil dollars. Twelve minutes later this man said he may vote for a democrat for the first time in his life. This makes me feel good. But I'll never know how he actually votes. Or, to be honest, if he actually votes. It could have been a waste of time.

But that returns me to my first question. What is a waste of time anyway? Maybe it's just about cleaning souls. Including my own.

Puhg and I were driving by a huge maskless picnic the other day. "I've decided not to think about them." He said. "They're so self-centered. And then when I think about them, I am just adding to that, thinking about them even more." It made sense to me. I'm trying to do it too. But it's hard when a free-faced runner is barreling toward me on the sidewalk, huffing like mad, and I have to all but dive into a rose bush to avoid their spittle. I posted on social media in May what am I supposed to do with all the hate I feel for people, specifically our leaders, specifically the orange? Malt reached out. We don't talk much. He said, "I think we're not supposed to think about him." His answer felt comforting to me. And also a little squishy. To ignore feels wrong. Feels apathetic. But maybe only if I ignore and sit in a floatie. Maybe if I ignore and make art and walk the neighborhood hanging fliers for a new City Council candidate and pick up fresh local pies that's okay. Or even good.

Dreams Are Painful

 Been watching Encore on Disney+ again. There's always at least one kid in every high school musical who wants to go to Broadway. Sometimes they go and fail, sometimes they don't go at all, sometimes they think they're still going to go with truly no plan or plot to do so. Dreams are dreams I guess.

There is pain in those teen dreams. Big, unnamable pain. To watch the touring production of a show from a balcony and think "I could do that and I want to do that but I have no idea how to do that and part of me knows I never will and that world will always be, exactly as I see it now, another world." There were other people who watched from the same adolescent cheap seats and thought, "I can't wait to do that!" With abandon. And maybe they did or maybe they became barbers. (According to Encore, at least.) Or maybe they got really close and are inching closer, but there are still always going to be people, usually unintentionally ignorant, who don't understand how incredible being so close is.

I knew that pain and absorbed it and decided to be small because that's what seemed realistic. I met with an advisor for ______ and said I was interested in the theatre conservatory, which was supposedly TOP NOTCH. The advisor, without knowing anything about me besides the fact that I went to public school in St. Louis and had no summer stock credits or New York workshops under my belt, told me I wouldn't get in. And I believed that stranger. Why wouldn't I? She had an official polo on.

The good news is I don't like acting that much. I did then, but I think this turn in tide was inevitable, so I am grateful I wasn't in the deep end, potentially in mountains of debt, trying to make that adjustment. Instead I stayed in the kiddie pool, wading for what would be suitable for an average person like me and gradually walked forward until one day my toes didn't touch.

And now I am full-out swimming, which can be exciting, but brings a whole new level of pain. Pain that couldn't have been considered at 17. Pain of almost getting a dream job and not and then seeing billboards for that dream job everywhere. And then asking yourself if you're going to masochistically watch the dream job or ignore it at let the dream die. There's a whole THIRD level of pain to GET said dream job and fight inside of it about what should happen there and maybe you don't win and you have to be part of a thing you end up not even loving the way you thought you would. Or worse yet, you get the dream job, you fight for your voice in it, you win, you share the dream job with the world, and they DESPISE IT. I mean! Dreams are painful!

Fifth Grade, Listening to OAR

"I'm in fifth grade" I said to Puhg. We had turned down a quiet street in the neighborhood. It feels suburban even though traffic is behind the houses and the observatory is under the moon. It's so hot in LA, which made me cranky last summer. But this summer we have a new AC unit. Now the August mug feels right. I had my own body at 11. The playgrounds become equipment when they used to be castles. In three more years they'd be hangouts, places to lounge around and gossip. I remember when three of us were draped across the slides behind my old elementary school and someone brought up how N_____ S_______ had jumped up and down at a graduation party and exposed her tummy which was surprisingly soft and pudgy. We'd all honed in on the exact same moment, our collective hive brains humming, "But I thought she exercised." But in fifth grade there was only regular and fat.

I didn't know what middle school would look like and I never thought about it. I had signed up for four weeks of summer camp, but I didn't guess what would happen there. The future existed but I hadn't begun to consider it. In 6th grade when I went to the pool I looked at the lifeguards and wondered if I worked with them who would be my friend and if I would man snack bar or the deep end. I drew myself in a sketch pad holding one of the official red inner tubes. I had a nose ring. I don't know where that image came from, but it came to be, what, ten years later?

The future has been better and worse than expected. What sounds good on paper can be excruciating and what sounds terrible can be pretty good. And awareness can make it all the worse or better.

But so this feeling is here now, I notice. It certainly helps that in the evening we ate raspberry blue gummies, watched Last Action Hero, and ordered pizza. If that isn't 90s vibes. Nevermind the gummies were organic and the pizza vegan (delivered via application) and the movie digitally rented from a super conglomerate streamed straight to our Apple TV. Nevertheless. It was night and there were no plans for morning or forever for that matter. I couldn't hope if I tried. Swam in the afternoon and I'll do it again today.

Everyone Is Doing Their Best

 That's what my therapist says. It upsets me. Because it doesn't seem like it. I guess strangely it's easier for me to believe some of the worst people (The Cheeto) are doing their best. They are ignorant, broken, and have probably never been happy in their life. They don't even know how to be better. But people around me do know. People I am close to. They know, and still. I mute friends rapidly these days. People going to restaurants and having parties and taking vacations in a pandemic. They don't shoulder most of the blame, of course, that's our government. But I think they shoulder some. I watched The Reader last night.

I don't think I'm always doing The Best, but maybe that is My Best. Certainly I've been on the cusp of a better choice and still chosen unwisely, less selflessly. I have. It was short and it was quick. I guess I refuse to believe in a world where selfishness is honored. There is acceptance if I want to go on. But isn't acceptance anti-activist? And if everyone is doing their best and we are meant to accept that, haven't we proven there is no free will? The cosmos aligned to get you right here after all. How is that your fault, or anyone's? Even a serial killer has a burst brain set up by a trillion pinballed atoms throughout history. Am I to believe I was born on a roller coaster, strapped in with only two choices--flail or sit?

Cherry

Made a pan of brownies Sunday night. We conveniently had a new tub of Extreme Moose Tracks in the freezer too. Once I realized I also had a pint of heavy whipping cream there was no turning back from a full-on sundae. I spent a solid minute staring at the jar of maraschinos I keep on hand for Shirley Temples. In my bowl, two pipin' hot brownies, two scoops of quality frozen dairy product, topped with fresh cream. "Put the cherry on top," I told myself. I didn't feel like eating a cherry though. "Just throw it away later if you don't want to eat it. Complete it," I told myself. But why waste something, anything, just to be "right"? And "right" is clearly far too strong a word. Best? Not even. I wasn't even planning on taking a photo. Should we be picture perfect for no reason? Is a picture reason to be perfect in the first place? Ate the sundae plain. Putting a cherry in my seltzer tonight though.

Chips Ahoy!

We eat so much at home and we hate our plates. They're ugly. They're heavy and have loud fruit patterns on the edges. They make every meal look off-kilter, manic. They were appreciated when we moved into our Chicago apartment with nothing. They were free, leftover from my grandmother. They served their purpose. The other morning, I went on Craigslist to find a new set. I found this ADORABLE little collection of creepy plates. Dessert plates with teeth and rats on them. I sent it to Puhg. He agreed they were cute but way too small. I mean, they are. And my grandmother's dessert plates are a different story. We love those. He said, "You could fit, like, ONE Chips Ahoy on there." His distain made me laugh. I laughed and laughed. Why was that so funny? Specific I guess. We don't even eat Chips Ahoy. We're a dough tub household with Girl Scout cookies rising.

I closed my phone. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water before my run. Puhg went onto the balcony to lift weights. Then he started knocking on the glass. He motioned "Come. Look!" I went outside to see right in front of our building a GIANT Chips Ahoy truck. Isn't that weird, he asked. I nodded. Then I laughed again. Like what even is all this. We had never seen such a truck before, will likely never see it again.

Nothing Is Fair

How often have I learned and still it stings. And everything is supremely more unfair for those who learned it early, does it sting more or less?

Eating Better

I lost four pounds in January and February. I simply told myself, "Maybe just one dessert a day." I didn't even always follow that rule, but it helped me not eat, like, a tray of cookies for dinner. So, four pounds.

Since quarantine began I've lost another ten pounds. There's not really a reason? I'm not going to coffee shops every day sitting down with croissants, but I am in my own kitchen cooking up some veggie bacon and plating a couple Rice Krispie Treats or scones or even, this week, leftover tea snacks. I walk every day, but I did before. Maybe what people say about stress linked to your body is accurate and not driving around LA for meetings, squishing my calendar full of networking events, etc. has calmed my system.

There's also something to having money. I was looking at notes from grad school the other day. I found some jottings I'd taken during a panel a Shakespeare. I remember arriving in my fat backpack, my brain exploding out of my own skull because I saw a full spread of appetizers. I quickly parked it at a corner and started wolfing down cheese cubes faster than I could chew them. I wrapped up two black and white cookies in napkins and slipped them in my pocket. Someone brought me a box of donuts and I ate eight in one sitting. Kale worked at Starbucks and would sneak a bag of pastries out to us at comedy rehearsal instead of trashing them (as is company policy).  I'd eat muffins on muffins and pound cake slices and brownies because I never afforded myself the fancy (oof) treats at Starbucks. It felt so important to seize the danish.

My birthday was last week and I had many treats sent to me. I didn't eat a lot of them. I couldn't, and I didn't want to. There's half a cake in the fridge. I almost had some from breakfast today, but then I had a sandwich because that's what I was actually hungry for. Eight years ago, maybe even two years ago, I would have eaten through that whole feast in 48 hours. I feel so much more settled now that I have just a little more financial stability. Honestly, I still don't have a lot! But enough to not fill with panic about eating two slices of free quiche at a community brunch. When you're not scared of having nothing, you have the ability to take what you need.

Celebration Day

The day I turned another year older this year was a great one. I woke up early, no real reason, around 6 AM. The texts streamed in throughout the morning. I ran two miles listening to all my favorite songs. Usually too much of a good thing, but appropriately indulgent Tuesday. I try to do the dishes between sprints and shower. I considered not doing them. Because of the occasion. But then I decided I really didn't mind.

I took a morning bath with my Lush Unicorn Horn bomb. The water was pink and glittery, tons of bubbles. I lit a peony candle and closed my eyes for a while. I made an oat milk coffee and ate a four peanut butter pretzels, answered emailed diligently and poked at one of my writing outlines. Business as usual is much easier with period dings about how I am important for now.

Lo's bag of tea treats arrived, Puhg picked up a cake, donuts from Kale. We donned masks and picked up my favorite salad. I ate it and watched TV. I forget what now. I did my hair and even added a dash of makeup. I had bought a brand new pink dress. In March I bought super fancy front row seats to a play for this day and this outfit was designed to match. We drove a bit outside LA where Yosh & Coors & Lex & JD live. The four of them came out in masks, dropped a tub of rice krispie treats in the driveway, wiped down in front of us. We chatted from far away, unable to see any recognizable face. After twenty minutes back on the road.

At home I looked through my photos and decided what to post on my Instagram while watching a livestream of the cast of WC. AP mentioned me and how I saved her from a snake two years ago. I posted a photo of me wearing a mask near my apartment's closed pool. More than usual it seemed people were around to send me a little attention. Puhg and I walked. I journaled about the year, I logged into my virtual therapy. I looked nice but didn't mention why. I talked about the mysteries I can't solve myself. I wonder if next year I will know more or just be in more peace.

I emerged from the bedroom very hungry and made a fancy cheese plate. I played half an hour of Animal Crossing. My fictional neighbors threw me a surprise party. Puhg was zonked. It's been literal months since we had more than one plan for a day. I opened the gifts that had been stacking in the foyer. We cut the cake, and he promptly fell asleep. I stayed up a bit reading a guy from one of my writing group's pitch materials. I wrote his feedback and sent it in to him just before midnight.

maybe shake a tambourine or when I sing, you sing harmonies

It's my birthday. Twenty songs that defined my year. Last year's here. 

Rumor - Lee Brice

Put Attention on Me - Alana Johnston

She's Kerosene - The Interrupters

I'm a Good Person - CEG soundtrack

If I Had Words - Babe soundtrack

Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill

I Remember You - Skid Row

Big Mouth - The Muffs

Mele Kaliki Maka - Elvis

I Think I'm OKAY - Machine Gun Kelly

The Man - Taylor Swift

Totally F*cked - Spring Awakening soundtrack

Old Town Road - Lil Nas

Despacito - Beibs

Pretty Girl - Maggie Lindeman

A Strange Loop - A Strange Loop soundtrack

First - Cold War Kids

Twin Size Mattress - The Front Bottoms

Ridin' Solo - Jason Derulo

Chap Stick, and Chapped Lips, and Things Like Chemistry - Relient K

Many of these were important driving + radio jams, some of them were significant to the movie I worked on or the set of that movie. I would play the Spring Awakening on my walk from the flat to the theatre every night in Edinburgh. It pushed out all my anger and anxiety and got me in the mood to sing and dance my little buns off. So many good memories of showing my badge, skipping backstage, getting my button-up from the intern who ironed laundry, and kicking on my show shoes. A spritz of refresher post-show. I first heard at least two of these from TikTok. One of these I put on repeat while I wrote my new pilot. Some Hawaii memories. Specifically it's cute that I'll always associate a country song with the island because the uke performer outside our balcony played it every day. The Jason Derulo I inexplicably listen to a lot these days, alone on walks, alone writing, less alone when you call it "solo."

Is Special

What is the hole in the heart where you need to feel special do we all need to feel special or just some of us do I believe I am special and get mad for people not treating me like I am or do I fear I am not and get mad when that is confirmed with actions? When someone is shouting at a waiter or a ticket-taker or a valet for special treatment is it because they think they have earned it or just because they wish for it so badly they think they can muscle it to be so? Is the cloud of special or unspecial like the ghosts in The Conjuring II who are attached to the girls making it moot to move because the spirits will simply tag along? There are some people who just get the special treatment (from home goods department store clerks and teachers and fancy restaurant hosts). Are they truly special? Or do they believe they are in such a golden way it becomes true? A lot of it is looks, a thing I used to wonder and now have simply seen too many times not to be true. Even the children I counseled at summer camp all held doors for the prettiest girl in the room. Or do we all take turns being special? Even for social royalty, they can't always be on a cloud. I read an anonymous post last year from a 40something man who has a table at a farmers' market, says he is mean and short changes the attractive young women out of spite because he's single and they'd never date him. Is it actually all about cynicism of others versus fantasy of others? My therapist says nothing is personal, but it seems that way, doesn't it?

Acid Rain

"Isn't it strange we have to try to be ourselves?" Puhg asked. What a paradox.

Is it because we are nothing but a sum of our actions, and if you believe no day but today, only the potential the actions we are on the cusp of taking? Or, if you're really being particular, only the canoe you're in at this moment?

So it takes tons of start-up energy to get the machine whirring, to ask, "What is it I even am before I act?" And then, whoa, what if you want to change? On one hand, if you're just in this canoe, changing is very very simple and everyone selling self-help books is a fraud because you just dip your paddle and swing another direction. But on the other hand maybe your canoe has been lashed with wild straw, tight and lean, with little ability to change or you only have one map or you aren't on a wide river but a dripping little creak, bottom touching rock.

Last night I dreamt I stole someone's DNA. It was a comedian I admire. He was laying on a hotel bed, and I took a sample of his mucas. It was bright green in the petri dish. Someone else was there, drunk, trying to play a board game. The city was dark and lit in navy glow, there were talks of acid rain. Not the fake (?) 90s kind, like the government was wondering if they should blast us all with a cloud of hallucinogenics once a month to take the edge off things. My platform was maybe have rain rooms, where people could go if they wanted the acid. I kept the green sludge in my pocket. I didn't know what I was going to do with it.

The Teen Theatre Program Caper

In fall 2017 I interviewed to be a program teacher for a small theatre program attached to an arts college.

My MFA focused on theatre for social change and theatre for teens. Then I spent years teaching/workshopping/coaching theatre skills (and coaching teachers how to teach.workshop.coach theatre skills), so pretty much any time I applied for one of these jobs, I didn't have doubts about if I could or should do the job. The theatre industry is, however, flakey, and many times my applications were submitted only to die in a fat stack of emails somewhere. But, sometimes I got an interview, and I was an excellent candidate.

At the end of this lovely autumnal interview, which I had nailed, the lead woman shook my hand and said they'd let me know "either way" next week. Well, a week passed, but I know hiring takes a surprising amount of time. Two weeks passed, three. It was clear I was not getting this job, but I had been promised "either way" so I emailed asking if there was any news, if the hiring was over. I wanted someone to just tell me. No response.

I followed up again two weeks later. No response. I've always wondered. I've always always wondered. I just looked up the email. Thinking about bumping it. One time I hassled someone who owed me money ($75) 14 times over the course of 6 months before I was paid.

Inspo from Relient K

-They are so dumb and cheesy, but they are what they are.
-Their music is very upbeat and fun!
-Their messaging meant a lot to their fans (still does?).
-A couple of their jams leaked out beyond their doofy community to something "bigger."

Things I Still Feel Bad About (Very Partial List)

-Not taking home a few slices of pizza from a bar in 2011. I really don't remember why I didn't just get a to-go box. I think I was full at the time, looking at the pizza, seemed impossible I'd ever eat again.

-Asking in a joking tone in 2009 if a black acquaintance didn't want to stay at the beach too long because he'd get sunburned. He smiled but didn't say anything. I also smiled but didn't say anything. I don't know what he was thinking. My guess was "Was that worth it?" I tried to seem confident, like nothing was wrong, so I probably looked like I was thinking, "I don't like you," but what I was actually thinking was, "That wasn't funny."

-Taking a sharp tone with a friend when she couldn't understand my GPS and we were lost and we had stayed out much later than she said she would at a work function I didn't want to be at--in hindsight I don't know what I didn't want to be there so badly, but I didn't and I did a big old eye roll at her from the driver's seat. 2013.

-Hiding from my sister in a McDonald's Play Place. 1992?

-Not casting a girl in our college improv show because she was too girly. Not having an honest conversation with another who was too uptight. 2007, 2009.

-Telling a very panicked and late woman at the Lakeview red line train station her stop was the other direction. (Realized after she ran off it wasn't, ran after her, couldn't find her.) 2017.

I Kicked a Tree in Anger

I kicked a tree in anger. I've been so mad this week, so on my walk, I kicked a tree. Puhg looked at me incredulously. "Hey!" he said like I was a misbehaved puppy. He was right. As soon as my sneaker hit bark, I felt worse. "What did that tree do to you?" Puhg asked.

I thought about our guide from the Amazon. He showed us the inside of a rubber tree, but slicing it with a machete. Then he covered the wound with dirt and said "thank you." He said trees talk, maybe to everything, but certainly to other trees. I think so. Everyone knows about mushrooms and their telephone lines. I used to love mushrooms growing up. I felt so close to them when I found a stray white bulb in a lawn pocket. In the grocery store, I'd shove my thumb nail into the dead ones in cartons. I liked how it felt. They were corpses, so I figured it was okay. I'd make X's on their skin. Sometimes when I see a mushroom now (small, red in this neighborhood), I say hello. Maybe they've heard of me from an aunt.

I apologized to the tree. I make a habit of not touching anything outside anymore. I open the front door with my butt and keep my hands at my sides. But I touched this tree where I'd hurt it. I said sorry. Then I hugged it. I hugged this tree for ten seconds. I felt it accept my apology.

Some Things We Always

It had rained for four days straight as it usually does in Michigan summer. As a camper I think I liked it. The things that annoyed me about camp--soccer, huffing down the beach stairs--came to a grinding halt. More time for counselors to throw their hands up and let us read during kayaking class. Extra time to snuggle into the cabins, flaps down. Sleeping was the best--we always had waves, now we also had storms. But now I was a head counselor and about to lose my entire mind. The first night was okay--sure, no luau, but there were some indoor games to be played. And then, what the heck, a movie night. And then the less fun games. And then we just didn't know. Every kid was bummed and lethargic. The tiniest ones were cooped. The staff was annoyed. In a desperate play, we announced we were just going to have to put on a show. The saddest last-minute talent show of all time? A little girl complained to me about her point values on her inspection sheet, I frantically tried to get a DVD player to work, an alum from my past showed up unexpectedly and started small talking with me and my coworker. I was extremely rude and left her probably feeling like an idiot for hiking up Messhall Hill in the rain. I remember crying as a friend of mine grumpily said she was not happy about how we were running things and vowing I would never have a job dependent on weather again.

But you can't actually just, like, get out of weather delays for life. I've been in tornados and storms and electricity blackouts and now a pandemic. We live in the natural world, no matter how hard we try to forget it.

45

Since he was elected I try to earnestly avoid watching him or hearing his voice. He makes my blood boil, and the anger is not good for me. But I've been seeing more clips lately, obviously, and it's helping me understand but of course making me irate.

If you were just listening to the cadence of voices he seems to be the only person making sense. The way people ask questions kindly or directly or aggressively and he has the terrible burden of shutting them down--at once the heavy crowned head and the tired victim. He rolls his eyes and repeats the same untrue, canned phrases. I beg we no longer allow him to speak. He has killed people with his Twitter medical advice. But if you are not smart or perhaps if you came from an abusive family where the most wretched person was to be idolized, he looks saintly.

I thought I would never hate him as much as I did on November 9th, and then the floor kept getting lower and lower, and I just can't believe I'm still on this elevator, breaking past the concrete in the basement.

Long Days Feel Short

This happened when I worked on the cruise ship too. The more time I had, the shorter days felt. You'd think the opposite. But it's like some defense mechanism kicks in that keeps me from overexerting fruitlessly. I started that contract with TONS of time, three writing blocks a day, zipping around. By the end, I was still productive, but it was typical to sit at breakfast for two hours with my roommate, to take two-hours walks, like that's normal. One episode of TV would last me four hours because there was the snack layout, the watching, the chatting afterward, the sort of sitting there.

It's midnight, and I nearly did my to-do list today, but not all of it. One item was to write this blog. In an entire day where I had one plan and am basically under house arrest, I didn't have a moment until midnight to write in my dumb blog? The day just slipped by. I don't even really watch TV. I guess I look at Twitter a lot since last week. I read. I have napped more days than not.

I think that's fine. I don't need to be my typical hyper-computer of production. For what? Finish this script for all the overwhelmed and work from homes execs to let it rot in their inbox? This play, I will produce it this year, but let's face it, not before July. If we're lucky. So I am at a strange peace.

I am concerned about people's health, I am concerned about the economy and my industry. I am concerned about riots/uprisings. I am naive to how troubled some areas of the country are. But I am not concerned about myself. I will continue to try to do my little part where I can, but I welcome this cocoon.

On Second Thought

Today at the MOCA I viewed this black and white photo of some art in nature. It was a piece in a room about temporary art--like the glass cube which requires shipment in a plain FedEx box every time it goes to a new museum or the little pile of Baci chocolates on the ground. Basically, some guy sculpted a big neat hallway in a random hillside. He told curators no, do not do any upkeep on the project. The point is to showcase how we are hurting nature. I looked at the photo for a while. Then I kept reading the plaque. In such a professional manner it continued, "After some time the artist changed his mind." Meaning this clown was at first willing to give up his work to the void of ego and environmentalism. And then he probably remembered his mortality and now a picture of his pristine little dirt show is hanging up in one of the fanciest museums in the country.

Soft Shell

Saw two baby shrimp in the aquarium today.
There were so small
and don't know what they are.

Powerless

I was in a six month battle with my insurance company and dentist over who was going to pay my $170 cleaning fee, and the answer is me. It upset me so much, so deeply. I had already worked out, but I went on another run trying desperately to shake the bad feeling. Replaying the condescending receptionist's tone over and over in my head. Toiling over aggressions I could launch at either company. But ultimately the truth is I am Powerless. Left the insurance company, not returning to the dentist. We like to believe we care when a business loses us, but they don't. Corporations want us to feel like they're our family but treat us like strangers. It's 5 PM and I'm still upset. I went to my coffee shop and wrote and had a development meeting and watched the new episodes of Bojack Horseman and texted a couple friends. But this heavy vest of Powerlessness won't leave me be. It also makes me want to cry. It makes me want to yell and cry at once. Perhaps I am mad to be unimportant and sad to be unsafe. Cheated as a rule follower because following rules is supposed to grant us power and it doesn't.

I started an online artists' business class. It is expensive, but the alum list is impressive enough and I was recently rejected enough to try it. Class Two was yesterday. There's a clear split in the class: people who really don't know their focus who will take this year to work hard at Something and people who know their focus and have already been working hard but now have to wait for Something else to happen. I'm always writing, so there's that, but I'm still in Camp Two. I watched an NYC actor practically implode explaining, "How can sit here and make a goal that by this time next year I will have booked two co-star parts when I can't even control when or if I get auditions?" I am in this second camp. The teacher says we only have about 5% control in this industry, which even I think is pessimistic, but, sure kinda. And yes, maybe that actor could write and film a short that gets her more attention. Or maybe she already did and it didn't help. Or maybe she's a bad writer, and it would be so bad her reps would drop her. To her someone saying, "Well you can always do more" is not so empowering. It's depressing. There is freedom to giving into the Powerlessness. It makes the failures or lack of opportunity less personal. You did your best vs. you can always be better.

Bought a New Notebook and Wrote Dreams on the Cover

Februarys have historically been transformative for me. Like I need a month to soak in the new year. At the end of my bath, I reflect.

What happened in 2019:

-Family visited LA multiple times.
-Took an improv class at a famous theatre that I abhorred.
-Promoted from Researcher to Associate Producer to Writer at my old show.
-Featured on TV several times. I never really thought about this or cared or got paid. That is valuable, interesting info.
-Old show was cancelled and the wide world of opportunity doors opened.
-Signed with a manager.
-The wide world of opportunity doors closed many many many times.
-Visited Chicago and Michigan to see friends and family.
-Went to Edinburgh for a month to perform sold-out comedy shows every night at Fringe.
-Wrote two full-length plays (one in June, one in August) and one ten-minute (November).
-Revised an original pilot three times.
-Friends visited.
-Besides the UK tour, did around 20 improv shows.
-Had a bunch of meetings (varying degrees of success).
-Went to a bunch of union events.
-Attended my Association in Chicago.
-Gave paid notes four times.
-Ghostwrote a speech for a big event.
-Had a play produced in Arizona. Workshopped my teeny brains out.
-Had my teeny professional heart broken around a dozen times.
-Began re-outlining a feature.
-Thanksgiving in Phoenix.
-Two staffing meetings.
-One pitch meeting.
-Onset writer for a Netflix feature starring wonderful people, created by wonderful people. Felt artistically fulfilled and challenged.
-Disneyland with my mom.
-Fancy Hawaii trip with Puhg.

Probably more things I've forgotten.

Maybe I Enjoy the Chase

Dizz reminded me I never made my classic "Most Influential Songs of the Year" birthday post. Better late than never. My memory is rusty, but here were my top fourteen hits for posterity.

Young Dumb & Broke - Imagine Dragons
Use Me - Goo Goo Dolls
Confident - Demi Lovato
Me and My Friends - James Vincent McMorrow
Waving Through a Window - Dear Evan Hansen
Shallow - A Star Is Born
Teenage Rockstars - Andrew McMahon
I'd Rather Be Me - Mean Girls
Mean - Taylor Swift
How to Save a Life - The Fray
Written in the Sand - Old Dominion
Ruin My Life - Zara Larsson
I Will Always Love You - Dolly Parton
Space Cowboy - Kacey Musgraves

Some of these helped me live as a ghost in Chicago, some of these helped me feel home in LA. Most of these were crucial to my car singing. They all hold a special lil spot in my heart.

Nobody Asked!

I doctored my friend's play this weekend. He brings such interesting topics to theatre, unusual viewpoints, specific tensions. But he doesn't know to formally write. His characters talk how he talks, which is, like, so hard for some playwrights to master. He's way ahead of most in that regard. It took me around five years to finally write something that sounded like people. But the dang pages are so sloppy. Random spaces and indents and stage directions four-thousand miles long and mixed up characters and grammar, lord, the grammar. Every character "exists stage left." He pays me to clean it all up. We've been doing this for five years. I love to read his work. I would never seek it out, and I would never make it. I don't doubt some is completely lost on me. I also know I have dramaturgical opinions that would benefit the text. But I haven't been asked to share those. So, I don't.

I have a couple cringe memories from past feedback experiences. I connected with this playwright in Chicago when I had first moved, went to a staged reading of her new thing, and then emailed her my thoughts. It was a very very long email, and I didn't mind doling out compliments along with, "I didn't like this part"s. Direct and sincere, but she never asked! Isn't that just something? I sent her a non-consensual email of feedback! We never saw each other again, despite me inviting her to a couple things. I just searched for this email and re-read. Honestly, it was less biting than I remember. What a relief. And she was like, "Thanks so much for all the thoughts!" Was she being sincere and direct? I don't know. I did this at least one other time to a fellow theatre-maker. That email got deleted at some point.

Meanwhile I asked someone to be in a reading of my play once (staged reading in grad school, 2012). I didn't know this guy well, but I had been in readings of his work a few times. I honestly thought his plays blew, but he was an actor and about right for this role, so I asked if he was interested. He responded yes. Then he read the play and changed his mind no, and further more, he wanted to meet with me over coffee to give me feedback. Absolutely not, dude!

OKAY TWIST. You are never going to believe this. Right after I typed that little storylet I searched my email to read exactly what this bozo wrote me and... I totally got everything wrong? Mind you I've considered this guy's rude email for about eight years! Turns OUT, he emailed me he wished he could participate but the rehearsal times didn't work for him! And then he said he'd still love to get coffee and help revise if I want! And I said I couldn't, so he sent me a couple line notes and wished me sincerely well! My brain completely fabricated an entirely different narrative!

So do people remember any criticism, even remotely constructive as an attack? I remember people who have given me some good (soy) beefy notes fondly. Is this why no one ever says they don't like your sample? Because everyone wants to be liked? DOES everyone want to be liked? Nobody asked.