Selective

I love a mystical story. A man finds a childhood photo of his wife, and he is in the background on vacation with his grandmother. That kind of thing. Everyone has one. A moment from the past that makes sense of the present. A baby picture of a pop star holding a microphone or a talk show host at age ten reading an Archie. Thirty years later she interviews an actor from Riverdale.

It's fun to think we are our own crystal balls, 8 balls, Ask Zandar balls, but more likely we sift through our endless experiences for the sense. It's a good question I guess. Is there magic, or is it only selective memory? There is something earthy about selective memory too, I know. Even then, way back then, some beating piece of ourselves chose to cling to this moment in a sea of moments as important.

Last week Diablo was talking to me about her amnesia, and I got to wondering, did she remember how we met? And truthfully she didn't. I admire her? Perhaps? How did she know we were close? I wrote a play she was the lead in. In was spring 2014 and she didn't remember it. She even asked if I was mistaken. I showed her the photos. Nothing. She had even commented under some of them on Instagram. No bells rung. When we met up a few months ago in LA we talked all night like old friends do but why did she trust me? We even dove in deep. Maybe her nervous system sent waves up even if her hardware failed.

My memory used to be airtight. It's murkier now. I have been the person random people would text and ask, "Who was that person we met at the party one summer? There were tiki torches?" I would give a library of intel. Today on our walk Shant reminded me of what I said last night at a party we went to. I had forgotten. Names? No. And so what are the support beams now? Who am I, and is there evidence or just a feeling? Or is the feeling the evidence?

I hallucinate in the mornings and don't know if the worry that pings me mid-afternoon was from a dream or from logic that felt like a dream. Have you written an email--not simple send-off--but a long hearty personal email, and then written it again a few days later?

A few weeks ago I couldn't shake this wooden beam. I was 11. I was told I might go on a trip that summer. Possibly to Australia? How, I am not sure. But somewhere I got the idea I might be going to Australia. I went to an acting camp at a local Catholic school instead. In my mind I chose it, but it's more probably there was no trip. I liked the camp. We did musical theatre numbers. My class did "Mame." I did improv for the first time. (I actually only played one game, got out very quickly, and the teacher never picked me again. But I remember watching the "older kids" play a genres game at the final showcase and being very impressed with a girl who could do a jazz radio dj character.) But this counselor (I wish I knew what age) overheard me tell a kid, "I was going to Australia this summer, but then I came here instead." The guy (in my head I'm clocking him at 30) interjected, "You could have gone to Australia, but you came here? That was stupid."

This sticks with me maybe because we have no control of what sticks with us. Or maybe because I felt to betrayed by an adult. After all, he was the one teaching me these skills for this thing that I loved. He was selling something he didn't buy. That's a weird wake-up. Or maybe because I have always feared I will make a wrong choice--typically in reference to theatre/entertainment opportunities. I have missed out on so much of life because of comedy commitments many people would say are stupid. I haven't regretted it. I have made a life from it. We all miss out, is the thing. All of us are missing out. We can't not. But then we have what we have, and if you're even half true to yourself, it's probably good.

But occasionally a choice stings. I'm still cleaning my most recent wound. I have the maturity to know that sad adult summer camp counselor in the suburbs is the stupid one. But I don't have the faith to know it's not completely untrue.

Six Weeks in LA in No Order at All

Glitter: I saw Maria Bamford at 3 PM for free in a tiny theatre with 6 other people. Oat milk lattes. Pink brick walls. Walk to the grocery store. Never need a coat, never get too hot. The pool, even if I have yet to dunk in, seeing it when I walk in and out of the creamsicle complex makes me feel like I’m in 1950s showbiz. Happy new used Prius. Scream in a cemetery—it shaped me and shows me, over and over, the power of women. Shant is here, and we can talk about the city we came from. The Poltergeist haunted house. An email from an idol. The library with the patio, the church with the incredible soloist. Long long honest Frank talks. The sushi house that is our own. The cream colored IKEA reading chair. Yosh and his date and my date. Walk-in closet and scale. A narrow way to kick off our shoes. The club I am in. The very good bosses and excellent co-workers. The shows I do. The ghost of a skinny kid who remembers he was stupid. Puhg bought me the tiniest pumpkin. It lives on my nightstand. How many times have I already laughed?

Gutter: How many times have I already cried? The cutest street is anything but at noon on a Saturday. Too many people. Too small of spaces. I have to sit down on a bench and breathe. Once you are living the dream there are fewer off-roads to run on. The highway can be boring. I made up a whole relationship with my brand-new bubblegum scooter and it died Day Two. I did set up a tiny CSI investigation and get a full refund. They said it couldn’t and wouldn’t be done. It was done. Brett Kavanaugh. I haven’t not thought of him a single day since moving. I want it to go away and I don’t want it to go away. That “did I share too much” feeling. That “do I even know who I am” feeling. THE NEVER ENDING PRESSURE TO BE A SMART WOMAN. The canopy of 2040 used as a punchline but so real, so real. I write this at my desk. Work is over, but I'm waiting for traffic to die down before I make my way to U_B to sing my guts out. We let people escape, I know, which I know is part of healing and getting better, but at the same time at what point should people not be able to escape? When they no longer can? I miss getting on stage and futzing around however I want. I never knew I could until I left, and now I know that's exactly what I could do and did (sometimes).