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.

Christmas Tree Farm

I never realize how intensely LA has taken over my brain until I leave for long enough.

The Midwest is such a jovial schlubby little hamlet. I love how people rib each other about everything. On Christmas Eve Eve I approach one of Puhg's uncles. He's in a recliner in the middle of the room, children bouncing all around, cookies being consumed at lightening speed. I ask him, "Do you know where our suitcases ended up?" He says, "Yes," and then pauses for a long time--before a mischievous little grin creeps across his face! The next morning I feel guilty I don't want the cheesy potatoes and ditch everyone for a fancy latte. I sip it, trotting through the suburban forest.

All I want for Christmas is to have dinner at my favorite high school pizza spot. My sister and mom indulge my request. The meal is not overrated, a teenage dream, and probably $30 for the three of us! We go to the fancy grocery to buy "snacks" to watch the filmed Waitress musical. Pookie sneaks an entire cake into the theatre. There are walks to the river and gingerbread folk to decorate, living room couches piled with wrapping junk and old ornaments to tap. A Santa garland from my childhood on the banister going up the stairs.

In farmland my dad always knows someone. In the grocery store parking lot, at the coffee shop where I toil over my final deadline of 2023, at the lodge, near the fireplace. I sit there journaling about my next play, into the night, wool socks on.Two ladies with crooked teeth greet me at the resale shop on main street. (Or, "a" main street.) They ask where I'm from and then frown. "I would not like living in a big city!" they assure me. People aren't shy about their preconceived notions where French names are butchered. We sit in the bakery, we sit at Cracker Barrel, we sit at Baskin Robbins, we sit at lunch I think at the very same table we had to evacuate during a tornado in 2017. The winter is more than mild but I have to wear my gloves.

On Christmas Eve there are coolers on the porch and only dips with meat and all eight adult siblings peer into the Fannie May box, detectives on the hunt for caramel. God help who gets the lemon creme. The teen girls always find me. One a class president who shows me her collection of homemade cards, the other a crackly drama queen who tells me about torturing the boy she likes. She has 18K TikTok followers for making Hunger Games edits.

The bathroom is marble and the fireplace is fake. We walk around the Macy's windows. No bustle at all, just pods of unhoused families. The plane is full, and everyone working at the airport is miserable.

Buzzing About Tuesday

So many surprises Tuesday. Rushed out to Starbucks in the morning, for example, and ran into this girl M______. We did an improv show together almost exactly a year ago and followed each other on Instagram. She's always doing such artsy things, like indie shoots in Panama. We congratulated each other on our years and then she whispered low, "I am so sick of my survival job though." She still has to nanny. Despite being an esteemed writer. I recently found out Alexander Payne sold a script after grad school (unproduced, I think) for 60K and lived on that for four years. No disrespect to Alexander. I do enjoy his work.

I had a Zoom with Toy Conglomerate to kick of my 17th series. My survival job--but I do enjoy the work.

This musician I collaborate with texted me. The video we wrote for A___ M____ needs some exterior shots--am I available? We live in the same neighborhood, so I threw on jean shorts, braided my hair, and dashed out. I zipped by a Chicago improviser at a cafe on the way. "What's up!" I shouted before filming this guy scream emo lyrics on a residential street as I walked backwards--a very poor man's tracking shot. A professional, as soon as we got five takes, he was gone. Delivered the finals by 4 PM.

C____ came over to pick up our vacuum--Puhg doesn't need it anymore. I emerged from my work cave to gossip, then back in, then back out to meet a stranger buying our lamp outside. She handed me a ten and mumbled something about her roommate liking black and white, left in a flurry.

I was fully prepared to record with AP and MR the next day, so I made a pan of toffee. Taylor Swift's movie dropped. I downloaded it at 11, watched THE extended song. The moment she pointed at me in the crowd was in the cut! Forever immortalized!

golden age of something good and right and real

Woke up in a grouchy mood about something that happened yesterday. Someone needling me, my inability to stonewall. I'll stonewall more in 2024, I think, I journal.

Did a 1989 dance workout in the living room, showered with my purple shampoo and a rusty razor, listening to "State of Grace." Had my little veggie bacon, decided on purple yoga pants and my pink sweatshirt, walked to Starbucks. My favorite barista quit and the new one has to ask a couple questions about my order. I sit outside in an egg chair with my holiday drink and text Puhg I need to let it go.

I don't want to be a grouch. I will live fewer than 30-thousand days. Lately I've also been considering how when I let people get to me they absorb so much of my focus and energy. What if people who try to stir me are lonely and need to be important for a brief moment. When I ruminate on it all, I'm only giving them more and more significance in my life. I rip it away.

Focused, I get going on my pitch revisions. I become a machine for an hour, fingers flying on the keys as all my ideas finally exit in a straight line of text. I haven't been able to crack this one for a month. At 10:15 I pack up and rush home to Zoom with AP & co about the newest pod edits. I can tell everyone is tired, but the episodes are in great shape, I think.

At 1 I make my faux chicken broccoli bowl. I know I have to go back to the pitch, but it intimidates me. I watch part of a bootleg video of the Red Tour. I have come to have such high standards of Taylor Swift. She's absolutely magnetic at that concert from 2012, but her dancing is stunted and awkward, she slides up and down notes. It's as though she's been ruthlessly improving for ten years.

Ideally I hope to end my writing at 4 so I can take a walk before my Zoom with S___. But no, I get caught on a few details and finish right at 4:55, attach the doc to my exec before I can second guess. I catch up with my old friend--we're trying to do a call every two months. It's so nice to get a glimpse into her life. At 7 I toss on slacks and my pink collared shirt, run over to Little Doms to meet Lo. We gab for two hours. We don't finish the appetizer bread, so I pick up the loaf and carry it home. Puhg drives her home, and only after she exits the car do I realize I had a note in my phone of topics I forgot address.

I sit on the balcony listening to Folklore, and then I decide to dance to a couple songs since I never did get that walk in. I've realized this year I need to do cardio twice a day to not feel nuts. Around 10:50 I have the leftover bread with goat cheese and a honey crisp apple while Puhg and I watch an episode of Survivor Cambodia. Sweet Potato wakes up and zips all over tarnation.

AWRGFTGAR -- Nov 2, 2023

7:30 balcony journaling

8:00 Taylor Swift dance workout

8:30 getting ready and bothering the ham and chattering around the house

9:30 out the dang door to the swanky coffee shop

10:00 revising my play over a hot cinnamon roll, sending emails of interest

11:00 M____'s office for a meeting with the exec for my new show and a potential showrunner, she is excellent, we ask her to come onboard

12:30 call with Cowsk about the podcast

1:00 home for a broccoli bowl with Puhg on the patio

2:00 rehearsal for B___'s solo show, I sit in the dark corner and take dramaturg notes

4:30 rush home to review notes from the day, shove in a couple emails

5:00 zoom with the EP of our musical comedy movie and discuss who to approach as the lead, laugh at how cruel Hollywood is ("well she has an Oscar, but would she get us buzz?")

6:00 cram crackers and cheese in my mouth

6:20 walk around the neighborhood on the phone with my sister

7:00 rush around closing up and getting dressed

7:30 arrive at the clown theatre to see a puppet musical by a young writer I know--it's so great, I am so happy for her

10:00 Marco Polo Lavender in the car, then scream 1989 all the way home

10:30 greet Puhg and the ham, make vegan buffalo wings with ranch and eat them in bed talking about everything and nothing until I fall asleep just before midnight

cross-legged in the dim light

I have the proof time is not linear. I discovered it it two months ago, that weekend on the windy bluff over Lake Michigan. Sleeping in a bunk next to the camp diva and across from a captain I considered an adult, even though she's only two years older than me, diagonal from a duo I'd never guess would have formed the most lasting friendship, huh.

The worst way to wake up, then and now, is metal clinks and the faint pawing for swimsuits. I couldn't believe I was hearing it in my 30s. "What are you doing?" I groggily begged from under my blanket. "Dipping!" the gung-ho crew cheered. I didn't think we were going to do the old thing--wrap in towels and run down the beach steps and jump in. But turns out people were, and I am people.

I have four or five thousand takeaways from the precious days, but if I had to chose one I might say caring is contagious. Like on Friday night when the evening activity was bombardment and yes, I got dressed in yellow, and yes, I laced up my sneakers, but I did not expect to try. Only when you're split into your ride or die teams and on the courts with aggressive sisters from every generation, what choice do you have? Or like when we had to make up intro chants and council fire. I surveyed all the clumps, every face  serious, every brow furrowed. Every person on the dinky talent show stage giving everything. Anyone invited to the Mafia circle buzzed with glee. No one didn't try.

Re; generations, if I were afforded two takeaways I might say generations of women are just important. They just are. I need to see women older than me having fun. I need to hear women younger than me. I need to be who I am. All of us need each other, by the way.

What else? Canoeing through the silver tube for the last time ever. It makes me want to cry if I think about it too much, so I can't. I forgot my glasses before the talent show. I did as a teen too. My same legs ran from the top of the hill down the wood chip grove to grab them. Singing on the bus. Singing on the deck. Looking out over the long road from the meadow, after we zip lined but before we hid under the evergreens.

Fine! If I were afforded three takeaways, I might also add nothing last forever besides everything you've ever thought about. ____ gives me a petoskey stone, my first, and says her truth. Like the first star did at midnight. Like the most annoying girl did too, what, twenty years ago? And I see you still, when I look out to the manitous from the perch. Like a projector plays you walking by. And if no one else comes to the show,  I'll be an audience of one, until the erosion is too quick to contain and every cabin sinks into the water.

So Hollywood

 I've been desperate to blog lately, but I just don't have the time. Life for these past six months has simply never let up. I feel like I'm constantly sprinting--zooming through outrageous days at a breakneck speed.

There have been so many moments that fluttered around my head as I was slipping to sleep. "I should write today down," I barely conjure as my head crashes into the pillow. I want to set in stone that Friday I got super sweaty at a guild silent disco, sped home for a shower, attended a fancy girl lunch, blazed through work emails, sat in the hamster playpen at night. Or the day I met with a blind advocacy group at 8:30 AM to develop the new Blind B_rbie and zipped to the picket line and ran into friends and decorated cookies for AP's birthday and motored across town for a listening party and made it to heartbreak dinner with my friend getting divorced and walked home eating pizza from the to-go box, singing Reputation on the empty sidewalk. And I still want to write about my camp reunion and I still want to write about Japan and I still want to write about so so many things.

But for this particular post, what I want to write about is the most Hollywood moment. Two weeks ago I went to my friend's bachelorette party. There was drag brunch and a warm patio and activities and dancing and banners. We played a game called "dirty minds." We got a list of clues that could be construed as sexy, but we were supposed to think of an answer that was bland instead. This game was my jam. The group happened to be very industry-heavy. When the host announced I had won an exec across the circle shouted, "That's not fair! She's a writer! She's supposed to be on strike!" The agent chimed in, "Fine, she can win, but I get ten percent of her points." I thumbed over to my actual manager and said, "Actually, she does."

When the morning came, we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf 'cos we lost track of time again.

Her Little Diane Keaton Hat

 There was an 80something woman behind me at this coffee shop. She was drinking an orange juice and wearing a pale blue button-up, circular glasses, and a Diane Keaton hat. I adored the whole image. I love seeing women enjoying themselves alone. "I won't bother her, but when she gets up to leave, I will pay her a compliment," I thought. I started into my B_rbie revisions and got tunnel vision, like I so often do. Just popped my head up for air, and the woman is gone. I'm sending her the message telepathically. I wish I hasn't missed my chance.

Last month I was here writing, morning after the Taylor Swift concert. I was wearing my t-shirt, a proud ambassador for the greatest cultural event of my lifetime. A man, 70s, approached me asking if I went to the concert. I said I did, and he decided to spend several minutes telling me she bought a house in his area on the east coast. Of course I know this. I would wager there's not a single thing that man could say about Taylor Swift I didn't already know. And I felt myself getting angry. Why did he assume he could teach me when I was the one in the literal t-shirt of our subject? He made a jab at her dating history, and I had to ask myself if it was worth spending five more minutes of my life educating a stranger who did not respect me. (Decided, no.) He then wanted to talk about Lizzo's assault allegations, which also bothered me. I said the situation seemed very complicated. He scoffed that she is an abuser. And maybe she is. But my generation is far more comfortable with complexity, and sometimes that's wrongfully considered as ignorance. In actuality, I care so so much. So much more than that man. I care so deeply that these issues rattle me to my core. I spend lots of time sussing through the difficult webs, questioning the narratives and where they're from and who would want them projected and when and why.

I try to see it differently in hindsight. At least that man knows who Lizzo is. Maybe that's what it was all about. Him presenting to me, "I know your world too!"

Last night I had a brand new experience. I went to a friend's comedy show expecting it to be a semi-sparse attendance of pals. But when Puhg and I got to the lobby, we found ourselves in a huge crowd of buzzing 20somethings. Fans, it turns out, of my contemporaries. I was happy to see it and also have never felt more ancient. I'm jealous of how the world treats Gen Z. I felt so hated for my entire post-college decade. The butt of endless jokes and poor and desperately smiling through it all. Don't complain or you'll be made fun of, you'll seem like "bad energy," you may even be let go--you are expendable beyond your wildest dreams. I still feel that way. Millennials are losers with too much debt and too few houses. Be careful!

Butterscotch Popcorn

Sometimes I do know how lucky I am. It's Wednesday, and I have the entire day to work on my newest play. I zoomed with my writers' group earlier. Now I'm at the cafe with two cookies and a caramel sea salt cold brew. A producer just reached out asking if I was interested in a new project. "Sure" I respond now. There's a 10% chance I'll never hear from her again, but it's nice to be asked.

Last night Puhg had the living room, so I got all curled up in bed with a bowl of Jenni's (butterscotch popcorn). I opened my laptop to watch The Other Two. It felt so college and so 30s at the same time. I'd spent the day pounding away at my keyboard, revising and proofing B_rbie episodes for a big deadline. I stirred up gossip in my high school group chat. I had to send difficult emails, but I sent them.

Monday morning I hit the picket line early with a distant Chicago friend. I got a free iced coffee with a blood splatter straw. I fiercely planned two productions and wrote two B_rbie scripts I went so hard I had to powerwalk the 1.2 miles to my favorite Mexican restaurant. A closest friend and I gabbed for hours. I walked home dreaming.

I had no weekend plans, but Puhg and I hit the movies just because. It was so summer sitting on a patio eating falafel and later watching The Haunted Mansion with frosty Coke Zero in the cupholder. Sunday night I walked to the local bookstore, browsed for an hour with Yosh, then he bought me a milkshake.

Saint Tropez

I can't believe you tried to control me! The one thing I know for sure, is I cannot be controlled. Maybe that's why people disappear and unfollow, ghost and side eye with suspicion. Because I am not afraid to be alone.

Lessons In Gjetost

When I was 23 or so my aunt and I visited my sister in St Louis. We didn't have any plans besides definitely going to this adorable little spot The Chocolate Bar. Tax Aunt had been a couple years earlier. She loved it so much. We were all enthused about this plan! But then we left a little late and the drive took a little longer and by the time we got in, we'd have to race to the bar before it closed and we kind of looked haggard and we were spent, so to our dismay, we dashed our only plan.

But my sister rallied. She would make the cheese board of our DREAMS! And what do you know? When the cheese board was presented my aunt gasped at the sight of the gjetost on the plate. The fancy caramelized cheese we all first discovered at the Chocolate Bar! She said, "To be honest, the whole reason I wanted to go...was to eat this cheese." And then my sister said, "I just wanted to be with you both. I didn't care about going at all!" I agreed, neither did I! I just wanted for Tax Aunt to get what she wanted! And for us to have a nice time! And guess what? We did.

Good Enough

Is every problem caused by someone feeling like they are not enough? Oppenheimer was an evil little troll and I hate him. Get a life, I wanted to heckle in the IMAX. Something something if Hitler had just been accepted into art school.

If we focused on building every person's self-esteem would we end famine? Like how a prison education advocate I once met said the number one indicator of at-risk youth going to juvenile detention is if they pass or fail fifth grade math.

It starts with you, I know, I believe. If you don't like greed at the top, don't be greedy at the bottom. If you don't like big callousness, don't be small callous. And so I should feel good enough. Possibly not even just for my sake. But what are you gonna do? Would've, could've, should've.

the author in a theatre bathroom, July 2023

Work Week July 17th 2023

MONDAY: up at 7, journal on the balcony until 7:30, dance workout and shower, picketing by 9, walk the line with ___ & _____ friendly Chicago faces, at 11 hit the diner for waffle and brainstorming for my new play workshop, talk to my sister on the phone, Target for soap and pens, also buy a t-shirt from Hot Topic (lots to unpack) and a small work achievement gift for Puhg. Home by 4, make/eat broccoli and vegan chicken, write an episode of my new B_rbie series, polish two other episodes. Close my laptop at 8. Night walk. Journal. Watch an episode of Platonic with Puhg. Find my friend N____ is in it! Text him he did great. (He did!) Must have eaten something, must have gone to bed.

TUESDAY: up at 6, journaled and read until 7. Dance, shower, walk to Blue Bottle with Puhg by 8. Write B_rbie episode. Zip home for my 11 AM Zoom with a local lit manager. Afterward, feel overwhelmingly angry at the inherent privilege issues in theatre institutions! Lay in bed "languishing" Puhg would say. Text D___, who reassures me my feelings are valid. Polish B_rbie episodes and deliver four well before deadline. Send a flurry of casting texts. Eat egg salad. Start revising new TV sample, decide I don't have it in me. Push to next week. I'm on act five. Almost there. 3 PM, sit on the ground drawing mock-ups of promotional play materials while watching the finale of The Queer Ultimatum. Text Beef about my hot takes. Realize I'm very hungry, eat two scoops of beans with avocado. 7 PM meet Snake in my lilac romper at our local haunt, then the new cute Mex patio. We gossip until the waitress kicks us out at 11. Snake leaves in a cab, on her way back to Australia. I walk home singing Lover out loud.

WEDNESDAY: 7 AM balcony journaling, reading, dance workout, shower. Puhg and I at the little white cafe by 9:30. Watch more casting tapes, get into a low grade (respectful) fight with the director. Force myself to finish two scenes of newest feature. Run into R___ and her fiance. They give me advice on finding a theatre space. Walk home listening to Red (Taylor's Version). 2:30 phone date with D____, our annual catch-up since we were improv teammates. He still performs. 4:30 PM a comp for my next play arrives in the mail, some little thing from 2008. I start reading. 5:30 head to haunt again, meet with a playwright to swap advice, leave feeling inspired enough to get a slab of heath bar cake to swing up the street. 7:30 night in with Puhg.

THURSDAY: 7. Journal. Dance. Shower. Picket by 9, this time with C____ and J__, also from Chicago. Swap grumbles and ideas. See a couple other cuties in passing. At 11 diner for veggie melt, mean to write a scene of my next play but spend the whole hour writing an instagram caption. At noon see three improvisers across the restaurant, join them. One says, "We were just talking about you," but never elaborates.  I think about this for days. We dish until the waitress kicks us out. Home by 1, listen to a rough cut of our next pod series. Laugh a lot, text the talent, make plans. 2 - 3 revise act one of newest feature. 3 - 4 brain doesn't work, need to make a playlist for fun. Email producer and Beef about our short, set creative meeting for August. Egg salad, protein bar. Rethink this poster again. Spend too much energy organizing a bowling double date. Buy play tickets for Monday night. Throw on a dress and scamper downtown to see a musical. Run into D__ and his boyfriend in the lobby. Shirley Temples at intermission. Get home at 11:30 but not tired. Stay up until 1 AM writing in my art notebook, listening to Evermore.

FRIDAY: 6:30 balcony journaling, 7 dance workout, rush to Starbucks for vanilla iced coffee, get on 8 AM Zoom with Cowsk and AP to edit our pod, break at 11:40. Email manager about contract. Furiously review my notes for my 12 o'clock--pitching climate sketches to a new green non-profit. Answer pod texts and emails. 1:30 eat broccoli on the balcony watching Taylor Swift TikToks. 2 PM casting emails, theatre rental inquiries. Paw through my invites for networking coffees, decide on two and start scheduling. Get sad I'm not seeing the B_rbie movie tonight because I have to attend a dinky play reading at a little theatre in a desperate attempt for the artistic director to notice me. Schedule Sunday brunch with G__. 4 PM polish Act One of new screenplay. Write this blog post.

I'm sure I forgot things. I start every morning with four slices of vegan bacon.

Petal

I have to be more patient with myself. For so long all I wanted was to be a WRITER. It's been so long since I felt that stumble over announcing what I do. When I first moved here I switched off between introductions of, "I want to be a" vs. "I am a." I knew I was selling myself short with the first and worried I sounded like a liar with the second. Now it's just the truth. There's nothing else I do.

I recounted a story to Puhg yesterday. It floats around. 2014, I think. Back when I taught an English 101 that ended at night. By the time we let out, the rest of the school would be empty. I'd lurch to the adjunct office and grade papers. The windowless room made the dark hit thicker when I finally caught the train.

My friend GChatted me. She said she was doing fine, but lost. "What's the point? What should I do with my life? I have nothing to care about." I couldn't relate at all. I had no pearls for her. Not one. Because I don't remember a single day before my dreams gripped me by the throat and never let go. Puhg says that makes me lucky. He referenced that episode of The Bear, which is one way to cope.

Is what I make inside or outside of me? I truly do not know. Am I a tree with branches or do I just drop acorns? My favorite tree is the one I'd climb with pink flowers. It worked all year for those couple days of bloom. If I didn't notice fast enough, the lawn was covered in brown petals.

You Out There

Where are you

out there?

I don't think you sit at the table.

I think you delight

in the mundane

and people

you don't know.

How are you

out there?

I worry you're lonely

but I'm probably lonelier

with my playlists and journals

for friends.

Are you

out there?

Now like I don't see?

You remind me of a ghost

but one day

you will be.

And will you miss me

out here?

Do you miss me

out here?

Final Morning in Kyoto, Final Night in Tokyo

Our final morning in Kyoto we went for the fancy hotel buffet. She didn't disappoint. Matcha croissants and yogurt jugs. We were seated next to the Other Americans--loud rich people who all answered phone calls during breakfast. I shuddered thinking about going home. We took an early cab to Fushimi and hiked up the tori gates. At first it felt overwhelming, but the higher we climbed, the thinner the crowd until there was peace. I left yen at the mouth of a fox. They had a message for me, but I didn't know what.

I showered, sat, bathed, sauna'd in the onsen for an hour. It was so calm and intentional, and I was so alone I bowed on my way out. Shoved everything in bags, before trotting out to the mouth of hell. I'd tried to go to the mouth of hell a day or two earlier, but I lingered too long in our room (probably just hungry) and by the time I got outside it was raining. I hustled back up to fetch raincoat, umbrella, etc. and then knew I had only an hour before the temple would close. I sprinted there, got lost, got in, walked around and finally had to desperately ask the ticket counter where the well was. A different temple, I found out. But I'd already paid the entrance fee, so I tromped to a tatami mat room, empty, sat down, and stared at the image of Buddha. Apparently, this temple is one of the first meditation sites on earth. And so I did my best.

Anyway, on this sunny day, I go to the teeny afterlife temple with no problem. I offer coins for dead people and stand at the haunted well. I take a bunch of selfies. I wear the tiny brown shoes and wish I could stay longer. I debate whether or not to buy a prayer plaque, opt not to, then regret it on the walk home--before a huge gust of wind sends floral perfume my way.

I stock up on convenience store snacks for the train, buy a final souvenir for Puhg, and then the bellhops call the cab and we head to the station. I journal the whole way, listening to Japanese Breakfast and sipping my last milk tea.

We arrive at the Ritz Carlton--hilariously the available hotel Puhg could book on points for the night. Before we arrive we think it's probably kind of silly, but once we're in the big room with the incredible view and fancy vanity bathroom, we think differently! I break out my hoard of cheese and crackers and berries. I blast Taylor Swift over the sound system. I wear the robe and slippers. We watch the sun get lower and lower over the biggest city in the world.

We walk to a nearby cabaret. Online it looked so fun and wild, but when we arrive, there are only a few quiet locals sitting in the back. But the show is excellent! An hour of choreography ranging from Fosse to traditional Noh theatre! Spinning stages and elaborate costumes and big drama! I adore it, and when the finale starts I screech, because the entire ensemble trots out in big pink dresses to one of my favorite songs of all time! I feel a burst of connection to the world. This pop ballad from the 80s I first learned at summer camp saying hi two decades later. At the end of the show, the emcee says, "ALICE FROM LOS ANGELES" and I am instructed to get on stage for a photo. Does this happen to all foreign guests? Is it random? We will never know. But I did as I was told and a dancer threw a towel over my lap because (I assume) she thought my dress was too short. As we settled our bill, the actors all walked out and thanked us for coming.

On the way back we spontaneously try a pizza spot with a neon light on. It's actually fantastic, salty puffy crust. In the darkness of night the room view is even more special, and it's even more difficult to go to sleep. I eat my leftovers in bed at midnight.

In this world we're just beginning/

to understand the miracle of living.

Can I Go Where You Go?

Incredibly in love with writing lately. I am working on a new Huge Toy Conglomerate series, which is a fine job. Truly. But also, it's a job. We are in post for the podcast, which is a more than fine job! But also a job! I am grateful and still spend all my time in the google docs and editing software daydreaming about the newest play I am writing, my thriller series, essays--too many to keep track of.

I don't want to do anything else. I want to sit alone for 365 days to get it all out. She says songs arrive to her on a glittery cloud. I admire how even her process is a symbolism of her femme power. It emboldens me to step into mine. And I do.

The thing is happening when I get this way, where I begin seeing people as an obstacle. A maze to wander before I arrive at my treasured working time. But I know I know I have learned I have learned I can't do that. I become grey and insane, feverish and hurt. So I make plans with friends as preventative medicine. I grumble putting on my shoes. Last night I met up with an old friend on a couch-y patio. Within twenty minutes I felt my wire brain start to uncrinkle. This has been a big year for old friends. They mean so much to me, it turns out. Folks who have been there, even if in the nosebleeds, for all the eras. I worried we wouldn't have enough to talk about, but a blinked and realized I was running late for my friend's standup show. I sat alone at the back right high top munching a flatbread and laughing loud and proud. She was incredible! The excitement I felt, watching a shooting star, jetted me all the way home.

I had such a beautiful day Wednesday too. Morning dance, coffee with my writers' group, working diligently, an afternoon picket shift with two gals who clicked. Monday I went to the beach and got good news. Tuesday I saw a different friend's remarkable show at ___, went down the street after with an improv guy from ten years ago. I've felt so lonely most of my artist career. A psychic told me last week, I am meant to do things alone. She is right. We can only be the artists we are.

Iced Coffee, JFK Airport

The wait for Dunkin wrapped around the entire food court at 7:15. But I had time. At the front I asked for a medium iced coffee with cream, in a hot cup. I always ask for iced coffee in a hot cup because paper decomposes and plastic doesn't. Some places (the adorable cafe in Henne's neighborhood where I ate a black and white cookie and millionaire shortbread) don't mind at all. Other people insist what I'm asking is insane. I would classify the cashier at the JFK Dunkin as the latter. I was very aware of the family grumbling behind me, but I couldn't help myself when she held up a plastic cup and said, "No" over and over, I had to say, "Why?" over and over. Finally she pulled someone over to ask, and he was like, "Yeah who cares?" The whole thing was so overdramatic they forgot to charge me, and when I protested they just shuffled me away holding my paper bagel bag and victory cup.

At my gate I sat on a high top while the rest of the Group D mongrels swarmed the door. A couple about my age walked by, and I felt my senses heighten when they stopped a few feet from me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them staring at me. I slyly checked my underwear wasn't sticking out, but beyond that couldn't guess what might be so interesting. I heard the girl mutter, "I'm gonna be my mom" before trotting over. "Excuse me!" she twinkled, "But where is the Dunkin Donuts?" I pointed her back and left. She smiled and went on her way.

Everybody here wanted somethin' more / searchin' for a sound we hadn't heard before.

Open Air

I'm frustrated by how quickly my Japan cloud dissipated into the mist of work. Just a month ago, I felt transformed. I knew I needed to come home and process, move slowly, think deeper. But because of the guild strike and launching into production of a new project the day after I returned, instead I've been in a cloud. It's been incredible and bad for my mental health.

One month ago was the first breath of our trip. We arrived in Gora, a tiny mountain town. I loved Tokyo, but it was a flashy start to our travels. I was also waking up to piles of work emails, which put me in a mood. As our hotel shuttle rounded the windy forest roads, I felt I could finally exhale.

Our room was absolutely adorable, overlooking a bubbling river. A small wooden onsen on the balcony. Puhg laid down, exhausted. Puhg does everything for our travel. Bookings, plannings, mapping, tickets. I wander around like a clueless toddler sniffing for Hello Kitty stickers while he sweats over each ticket counters and exchange rates. I volunteered to find lunch and trotted out into the village, my heart bursting for the place I just met. Hot stones and salmon buildings, vending machines and thin sidewalks. At the local 7-11 I picked up a handroll and ramen for Puhg, peach drinks and eggs for me. I could have a full (boring) conversation with the cashier, and I could tell she was proud of me for trying my best.

With renewed energy, we made our way to an open-air art museum. I was floored! Every exhibit more interesting than the last! Huge sculptures and social movements and staircases to nowwhere and rainbow squares. It felt like spring! My chest reverberated with understanding in the Picasso building, I stood on a large egg, we took a short break in the gift shop and I marveled at how every place to eat in Japan is so unique. Museum cafes are common in America, but they serve Coke and espresso and chips or maybe a fancy granola bar. I was constantly mesmerized by how precious the snacks were. On April 27th, for example, we had the museum's signature maple ginger soda.

I found a fuzzy caterpillar and brought her to the grass, I looked at the sky through stained glass, I didn't want to go home and then didn't want to go home again.

Songs of 34 (chronological order)

Rock Star -- Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson / a real angry driving song + something completely original

Like A Prayer -- Miley Cyrus / pump up for pitching my sit-com

Minimum Wage -- Blake Shelton / post-shower jam of choice

Ms. California -- Beach Bunny / personal crisis fall

Doctor Jones -- Aqua / hot hot summer beats

Viva Las Vegas -- Elvis / inspired by Elvis phase

My Bar -- Priscilla Block / building confidence when no one is watching

Never Let You Go -- Third Eye Blind / loving the ham & letting the ham go

Sympathy -- The Goo Goo Dolls / out in the world on my own

Saints and Sailors -- Dashboard Confessional / an old sad song made new in fun

Look At Me - The Aquabats / fake it til you make it

Mastermind -- Taylor Swift / well absolute perfection

Rodeo -- Aaron Copeland / truly the most!

I'm Good -- David Guetta / working out

Less Happy More Free -- Ben Lapidus / vulnerability

The Sorcerer's Apprentice -- Stokowski / inspo for the newest play

Dammit -- Skatune Network / toiling on a project that was a total waste of time

I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues -- Elton John / inspired by Elton phase

Your Wildest Dreams -- The Moody Blues / big emotions, small dances

Triple 7 -- Japanese Breakfast / Japan

Heaven Is A Place On Earth -- Belinda Carlisle / Japan

Forever & Always -- Taylor Swift / regression but okay

The Archer -- Taylor Swift / create your own

Wish On An Eyelash -- Mallrat / a late but great addition

I made a wish on an eyelash / made a wish on elevens / made a wish on my birthday.

Big & Little

Saturday Puhg and I hiked up toward the Observatory to watch the sunset. An idea I had to shake things up, freshen things up. The lookout was a stupid LA nightmare. There was a TikTokker blasting viral sounds while filming the gorgeous sun, tourists snapping photos and hyping each other up, a lesbian couple making out and blocking the view. Then an ambulance started screaming from the east. Then another from the west. Then a helicopter flew over. By the time the natural wonder ended I was ready to blow up the entire city.

On our walk up I'd seen a fat beetle in the middle of the path. A dog rounded the corner so I put my foot right next to the bug, keeping it safe from paws and licks. The dog passed, Mr. Beetle crawled on. But after the sunset, as we hoofed back down Puhg saw the same type of beetle, but this one was crushed. We sent out a little love to whoever they were, but still the sadness sat. "Now I've gotta move every beetle I see," Puhg muttered.

At home I laid on the bedroom floor and did a meditation. They haven't been working so effectively lately. Popping in my airpods and mentally sailing away used to be a surefire way to reset myself, to worry less, to remember what is important. But for the past couple weeks it's just not working. I try to show up anyway, but Puhg interrupts and pulls me from the void. "We're supposed to be able to see the space station." He'd set an alarm. Apparently we had three minutes.

We trotted to the balcony and peered up. I saw a planet and squinted beyond. "Oh! There it is!" I pointed. There was a very very very faint dot of light far far far away. But when I tried to get Puhg to see, I realized the dot was actually so faded I lost it. A minute in I began to internally pivot. Well, nice to know it's out there. And then Puhg turned around, looked at another portion of the sky--and there it was! Clear as day! A brilliant streak of white zipping by! I immediately teared up. "There are people in there!" Puhg said! We waved to them. "Hi hi hi! We see you!" we shouted. And those people in their station kept going--7000 miles per hour--away away away. They made their way toward our roof. I leaned over the edge as long as I could, until suddenly they were gone.

Thick Toast

"Japanese find great joy in small things," our cab driver explained. He said one might walk up to the mountains, find an herb, and then cook dinner with it. That is great joy. The nature, the simplicity. I nodded, thinking how gathering herbs from the mountains is a common activity in Harvest Moon 64.

We arrived at 5 AM and decided to seize the day, wrangle the jet lag. The train was silent. We had breakfast in the station. Mm the iced latte and toast was three dollars. A stark difference from America. You don't realized how gouged you are until you go somewhere normal. The bread was thick, with a pad of salted butter. A thousand people walked by the window. So the same, most masked, almost no one saying a word.

On our final morning in Tokyo we had breakfast at the same spot. Now older and wiser. There was a mix-up and we accidentally ordered three lattes. I kept saying it was okay, but the barista demanded our credit card. We handed it to her and fifteen minutes later someone came back with it, a return had been made. You just hand over bank cards and leave purse zippers accessible in Japan. You walk down dark alleys and rarely hear loud sounds. When you do, it's never a gun.

I Wish This Were Japan

I can't believe I came back over a week ago. I had the most amazing, magical string of eleven days in my favorite country. A week ago I felt glittery with memories and ideal shifts. Today after an intense work week on the line and in the studio, those feelings have already begun fading. And I don't want to lose any more! So I'm going to dedicate some future question mark amount of blog posts to my experience

The sun crept out after one rainy Kyoto morning. Puhg and I were walking down down the windy brick streets in Gion when we saw a butterfly flitting to a flower. We both stopped and gawked. An older Japanese man paused too. He pointed to the new friend and turned to us, "BUTTERFLY!" he said. And then the critter was gone and we all went on our ways. But it was just so special for some odd reason. "Everybody stops and watches a butterfly," Puhg said.

The Day Began with a Cockroach

The day began with a cockroach. I woke up at 5, stumbled into the bathroom and saw, truly, the biggest cockroach I'd ever seen perched on the shower curtain. And so I had to call out (apologetically) for Puhg to wake up as I kept my eyes fixed on the little guy. After a harrowing chase, Puhg trapped the roach in a wad of paper towel and threw it over the balcony. Then he went back to bed. And I went to the picket line.

Zipped to the studio at sunrise. Grabbed a sign, was assigned a gate, walked back and forth 10-thousand steps with writers I'd never met before until relief came. And the relief was Tira! Hugged my friend I love and never see, jogged to my car thinking I wish I hadn't chatted so long. I'm not gonna have time for coffee. And right then I get a text from AP asking if I'd like Starbucks. I don't want to be a bother but do end up asking if I can have a paper cup instead of plastic. I can't help myself. I blast Taylor Swift all the way to the studio. Once I arrive I change from sweaty pink coveralls and into a dress. We sing "Karma" acapella.

Our trio preps for the day. We record an episode I wrote with such a dream team. They are hilarious. They are hilarious doing my lines! One very sweetly gives me an autograph for Shell and her wife, huge fans. There's a long lag between sessions. The prod co asks if we want to order in for lunch. AP suggests a nice walk. Cowsk, she, and I hit Hollywood. We sit at an open window in the side of salad place and talk about everything but work. It's a chilly day, but a spring day. I sneakily get the check. It's sort of ridiculous because they're them and I'm me, but it's kind of funny and feels right.

The second episode is a complete treat. Four incredibly talented women doing another episode I wrote! I can't believe I am piping in from the mixing room. "That's great TF, but could we try one where you say joke joke joke?" At one point everyone is in tears laughing. I don't even absorb it because I'm so focused on professionalism, but when it's time to validate my parking and steal two Kit Kats from the kitchen, it all floods me. Is this my real life?

I come home to the love of my life, chatter his ear off, post on Instagram, lay in bed, we're watching the Suns. Later I think I'm gonna eat an entire bag of cheese puffs and maybe journal. Or maybe catch up on Succession.

West to East

I wonder how I'll be different. I hope very much but not completely. Lavender turned 35 last year and felt such a way about it. I didn't get it. What's a year or two? I remember when a girl I did improv with in Chicago turned 35. She grouched into the greenroom, "I'm almost forty!" (No, you are not, I thought.) Carrie, mascara running down her face, wails "I'm 35" after no one shows up to her birthday.

It started in fall. I tried to chat with two recent college grads at gymnastics about TV. They straightened up, nodded respectfully at me, like I was an elder. Because I am. I find myself wondering about the next generation, and how I will bend to their vulnerability, when the time comes. On the way home from a screening of Legally Blonde I told Lo about a very old sketch I wrote, way back in Arizona. At 3 AM I couldn't sleep, and I went searching for it online. Wow, I look ten years younger. Because I am. I wore my signature ugly cut-off sweat shorts (during a show!) and was, frankly a very clunky actor. But I felt something so new toward that girl in the video. I felt she was a different person. Not a stranger, more like a student of mine. I nodded my head at the jokes. I wanted to encourage the person who wrote them, these aren't perfect, but they are good! These are fresh! You don't even know how weird you are--but that's not bad! I feel like Matthew McConaughey tried explaining this phenomenon during his Oscars acceptance speech a few years ago and everyone thought he was on drugs.

Something else has been happening too. This odd sensation every day that I wake up. Oh, it's me again. That young comedy writer had woken up 8000 times as herself. And now I've woken up 4000 more times as me. It's like, wow, give me a break, me. I've never gotten to experience a single thing without myself there.

She won't pick up the phone, she'd rather be alone.

The Time Things Take

It's very important to me to have a second draft finished the day before a script is due. No stress, I polish first thing in the morning and send. Last week was simply more chaotic than I planned, heavily influenced by a mystery illness that knocked me out and stole my voice for five days. What can I even do about that? Hence I had only written one of two B*rbie episodes by Thursday. I was eager to spring away Friday, rush to a cafe, pound at my keyboard. I was nervous I wouldn't make the 5 PM deadline. But wouldn't you know it? With a caramel glace on the table and my Puhg across from me, the story flowed easily. I'd also set myself up for success with a clear outline. I've also been writing for these characters for two years. I finished the draft, revised, proofed. Submitted five hours early. Brand loved it.

I just don't believe in myself (in some ways). But maybe it's worked to my benefit. It happened again this week. I had a pitch Tuesday and a (small) list of revisions to make beforehand. I couldn't get to it over the weekend and wrung my hands all Monday morning on a return road trip. Finally Monday afternoon I opened the doc, imagining myself staying up all night. I finished everything in two hours. The pitch went great.

First week of my cruise tour, we had a producer from S____ C___ aboard. At a cast lunch in Mexico I asked him how I could be promoted when I got back to land. MB snapped a chip, Bern flipped his baseball cap. The producer kind of stuttered and vaguely answered there are auditions and lists and whatever. The subject was changed. Later MB told me, as we got into pjs in our tiny underwater tomb, "You just asked. You just asked." I still don't understand why it was so awkward. I didn't know! What was I supposed to do? Never find out?

Been so inspired since I watched Rocketman a few days ago. Lately no matter what I try to do, I end up googling Elton John, reading old interviews.

Don't wish it away / don't look at it like it's forever.

The Puff to Pop Pipeline

Are you mad at me for doing exactly what I am supposed to do? Do you not want me to do exactly what I am supposed to do as some backwards display of loyalty? If you told me to my face, I would understand. But don't make me read your mind. Don't make me fret. I resent a secret threat of fret. I seem mousey now, but I will get bigger. I will puff my chest until it pops. I am not afraid of popping, unlike you.

I Just Love to Write So Much

Writing is simply my favorite thing! I spend so much of my life thinking about other people--analyzing them, learning about them, worrying about them--and wondering what they think of me. Writing is my time to think about what I think about. I feel at peace at my keyboard. I feel heard, by myself.

On runs, as I drive, in the grocery store check-out I can escape into distant plot problems or fresh characters. As long as I'm writing, I have a place to put all my angst and extremism and delight. As long as I am writing, I enjoy my day. In some ways, my love for writing is what's gotten me as far as I am. I fret about my stability constantly, but at least I love what I'm risking it all for. I've gotten my heart broken so many times when projects fall apart or I can't generate interest. But at least I had a good time at the time. On the other hand, if I didn't love the actual act of writing so much, I wouldn't be so annoyed with all the other aspects of the biz.

I've only recently realized some (most?) writers write as a means to be with friends?! No shade to this artistic path! There's nothing wrong with prioritizing connection and fun. Last week, a comedian I simply adore asked me if I wanted to co-write a pilot together. I said no, easily and quickly because I don't see a future for the project. I smell these situations a mile away now. "Wouldn't it be fun to write XYZ together?" No, it wouldn't be fun. Unfortunately I take everything too seriously for it to be fun. We'll have a meeting or two, and I will want to make something excellent, and you will probably lose interest because even the best idea ever is actually quite painstaking to flesh out and then trying to sell whatever it is is an even more obnoxious undertaking. And it will be way more than you bargained for, and you will dip, and I will be mad at you for wasting my time.

I spent four hours in the back of a cafe this morning. I didn't even know it'd been four hours with my oat cappuccino and marzipan croissant. Wasn't I just happy as a clam writing my new movie and yapping with my manager about my two pitches next week. There's a collection of friends I "owe" coffee to. People who want to sit near each other and write. But when you sit near each other and write, the first hour is gabbing and the second hour is sort of distracted work.

An ex-friend wanted to meet up and write all the time. I obliged, but quickly realized she never got anything done. My presence merely gave her peace of mind, like she clocked some hours. Like commiserating counts. But it doesn't count! And even if it did, I don't commiserate with writers who don't like writing! I'm a little cactus that way. This is the hardest job in the world (not counting surgeon, hostage negotiator, middle school science teacher, etc.). Why would you try to get the hardest job in the world and hate it?

So anyway, as I was trotting home today I thought, "I guess I should have invited so and so to write with me today." But truthfully, I just want to be alone. I network because apparently it's important. But in a perfect world I would never have to.

But Ahedonia Still, Yesterday

I woke up early before my alarm, nervous. I've been nervous. There's too much weighing on me, nibbling at me. My taxes, my gums, letters I sent and letters I meant to send.

I read my summery book, wrote in my journal, sipped a favorite tea (caramel shortbread). I did a hiit dance workout, showered while brainstorming for a feature pitch I have next week. I decide I need an iced coffee and bagel with strawberry cream cheese. I text my high school idol, "Dunkin?" She writes back "chocolate glazed if possible plz and thank u." I get a non-fat latte for my best friend in this cursed town. 

I sing along to ska covers on the drive west. I tuck into the upper deck office and write two scripts. I kick around ideas with Cowsk and AP. I'm tasked with writing a song. I begin tinkering. We all get Gwyneth Paltrow's salads and brownies for lunch. I send a couple emails to Giant Toy Conglomerate about my newest revisions. I'm in a fight with Giant Toy Conglomerate for not paying me on time.

I bounce early because I have movie tickets to the newest film in my favorite franchise. I jet home to my partner who I love immensely, shove licorice into my purse, and we meet our friends at the AMC. I get popcorn and root beer. I answer last minute texts from ____ ____'s exec. Another interested producer might attach to our project. The movie is fun. We four stand outside talking about it and life for 90 minutes before it's finally time to move it. I walk to the grocery store for veg bacon, which is on sale. I listen to more ska on the patio and then eat a whole bag of Sun Chips while watching You. I fall asleep easily, imagining waves.

City of Nightmares

It's been almost five unofficial years here. And I LIKE IT OKAY. But I do not love it and fear I never will.

It's March 1st. The last couple weeks of February were challenging, and I had a bad attitude. PP is in town briefly in the midst of her whirlwind tour. Her star is rising, and I couldn't be happier for her. But I'm busy too. We carve out exactly one hour to catch up. I'm too aware of this and dive right into all of my angst. My oat milk cappuccino quivering as I grip the table. I express how dramatic I know I sound, but how distressed I feel! Both are true! Much later she texts me: "And I am sorry you are going through this moment of extremely warranted anger and also I know that there are so many good exciting things coming for you."

Last night Puhg and I bailed on the second half of The Secret Garden. We had great seats, but were so bored. We'd preordered intermission ginger beer so we drank it on the patio clobbering the writing in the drizzle before driving home. "Tomorrow is March!" I announced, "I'll have a good attitude in March and use my moisturizer every day and not be on my phone before ten!"

It's 11:42. I woke up early, journaled, read, haven't been on my phone yet. I did a dance workout, I MOISTURIZED, went to my writers' group. I decided to really put a spring in a my step and do some writing at a cafe. But there was street cleaning where I usually park. And wouldn't you know, after several circles, there simply was no where to park in what seemed like the entire neighborhood. I was determined not to complain, but I also did change my mind--actually my second favorite cafe is where I'm supposed to be. I feel so personally attacked by LA. Like even getting coffee is a reminder there's no room for me here. And what's even worse is while I'm in my feud with this place, she doesn't even know who I am.

So now I'm here. After paying for parking and dodging rude drivers and having too many internal conversations about which unhoused people I should or should not try to pass a dollar to with my special little caramel cold brew and fruit and nut toast I've already wolfed and I am HAVING A GOOD ATTITUDE!