junk

 you covered me in junk

and said it was a gift

the junk so very heavy

I felt my insides shift

junk was piled so high on me

to move would make it shake

so I lied and closed my eyes

and felt my own heart break

couldn't even see the junk

since I was underneath it

but still you kept on shoveling

in junky little pieces

I asked for you to stop

in fact I started screaming

because I felt the junk collapse

guess you were off or dreaming

of what I'll probably never know

I hoped for a solution

but you had no plan to save me

just your own delusion

I whispered from the bottom

won't you ever pull me out?

but of course you didn't hear me--

too much junk was in my mouth

you said it was for me

but I don't think that's true

because I never asked for junk--

the junk was all for you

you covered me in junk

then you said it was a gift

you covered me in junk

what an awful, rotten grift

At the Mermaid Shop

Got my highlights from JJ, my guy down the street, on Sunday. While I'm under the heat, he usually schedules in a short haircut. I couldn't hear in the fishbowl, but I observed, the guy got up urgently at one point and ran out of the shop. I looked over at JJ what happened? LOST HIS WALLET, JJ yelled over the air blasts to my head. I put bleach on my head every two months. This has gotta be something people in the future think is stupid. Anyway, JJ checked my foils, led me to the wash bowl. I love getting my hair washed in the wash bowl. I used to dread it, it hurt my neck. But JJ puts a soft towel down. He also designed the place, with dreamsicle walls and a blue fountain and puffy seafoam clouds. Partial list of things JJ has told me about over the past four years, when I first went blonde: leaving Armenia, wishing his kids weren't always on their phones but having nothing else for them to do, how he met his wife, his uncle who might haunt him, how our current president is a liar, how nice the new taco stand is, Easter traditions, preferring travel by boat.

Last appointment, two gals tentatively poked in. Does anyone here do curly hair? a gal asked. I said, Well JJ is great! He went to get something. This place makes me feel like a mermaid, I told the gals. One made an appointment. JJ came back smiling. Thank you, sweetheart, he said, because I don't have an instagram. It was the day of the Super Bowl and we talked about how we must not care since we were both there. He said, But what I should really do is say how important you are as a client, that I missed the Super Bowl for you. I laughed. As I was leaving with my new 'do all puffed up from the blowdryer, the next guy walked in. A beefcake. I turned around and said, loudly, Thank you so much for making time to see me, JJ! I know you really wanted to watch the game! The new client said, Oh wow thanks man! JJ winked at me, I winked back.

As JJ scrubbed my head Sunday he said, Oh I hope he finds his wallet. I agreed. Then the guy walked back in, holding said wallet high. We cheered. JJ said we'd been praying for him, er, hoping for him, he amended. JJ is very careful. He's a small business owner after all. Anyway, I hadn't realized, the very middle of the client's hair had already been buzzed. He was running around town looking like literal Bozo searching for the wallet. We all had a good chuckle. As I settled in for my blow dry, I noticed the guy staring at his reflection. Might be your next look! I joked. He said, It's just...my dad is bald down the middle. I look so much like him right now.

the enchanted tea party picnic

"It's almost time for the enchanted tea party picnic."

I keep staring at that line, the only one I've written for this commercial due Monday. I think about all the little princesses in the pipe cleaner woods. I wonder if they are happy with the narratives I've written for them over the past year. This is my sixth commercial for the mega corp (mega corps). I don't choose the storylines, just the words the gals get to say about said stories. Honestly, not even. There comes a point in the process when the lead producer seems to tweak every single line in the five-page script. We start each kick off with her threatening we cannot go over length again. I turn in something short every time, and without fail, she adds two pages of bits and jokes, which her boss ends up telling me to cut. The system is perfect as you can tell.

But it's almost time for the enchanted tea party picnic.

I'm a little worried I might be cruising for a mental breakdown. I've been trying to slow down to avoid the crash. But the slower I go the further behind I fall, and there's so much to do right now. Like I have to finish moving my savings to a credit union and organize my taxes and get my scrapbooks done in case I have to move quickly, or maybe I shouldn't bother with the scrapbooks after I left most of them to burn while evacuating. Maybe I shouldn't bother with any of it. What's going to matter this time next year?

I'm going to remember the afternoons I closed my computer and sat outside. Or maybe I won't. Maybe what I'll long for will be this, posted up in a coffee shop with a heavy-cream iced coffee, writing a commercial, the radio playing "Nonsense." I had to jump the oc-tave.

I can't remember for sure, but I think I'm forgetting something important. Oh! Is it the enchanted tea party picnic? Seems to get closer and closer every year. Haven't even baked my cupcakes yet. We spent thirty minutes on the Zoom last week deciding which pastry would unlock the princess's magical outfit-changing powers. The beignets make more sense dramaturgically but the pretzel has a little clip, so it can attach to a doll's actual hand.

I wake up at 1 on the sofa. I wake up at 4 and stumble to the kitchen to eat fruitsnacks and take another hot shower. I took four hot showers yesterday. I wake up again at 7:30, another theatre producer texted at 4:45 AM. She says call when I get this. She asks how I am from a cab and I say I'm okay besides...she talks over me I DON'T THINK ABOUT IT anyway I met with a friend who might be interested in the play... Good news falls so flat now! There is nothing I believe will actually happen! Although I hope some of it will!?

How does a person stay sane with nothing to look forward to? I don't trust the single concert ticket I have for October. I don't trust the images on my mobile device since AI. I don't trust what to eat since there is plastic in our brains, I don't trust what I can say since reddit users are now being banned for typing the name L****, I don't trust my insurance that went up or our building manager who just painted the stairwells puke green without asking, I don't trust you, and I don't trust me. I've been hearing about the enchanted tea party picnic though, might stop by.

ten days of march

taught AB the HOT TO GO dance, which we then did in the living room before sunset, she expressed concern about the G like I don't know which way to go, either way I say, either way everyone gets the idea

laughed aloud reading M___'s play with an iced mocha at the grassy knoll Sunday morning, discussed it in the dive bar over mozzarella sticks in the afternoon -- extra ranch, what she struggles with is my biggest strength, she keeps saying ohmygod this is so helpful you have no idea, but I do have an idea because what she can do is be hilarious without trying or even knowing what it means, and what I do is obsess about what everything means, I show her all the themes she's already written and which patterns could be heightened to highlight what, it's all already there I keep repeating, what do you really think I keep asking, it has a shape she says as we scootch sideways from the semi-circle booth

dancing to "Maroon" in the movie theatre bathroom before seeing Mickey17, like the old days

great s'more bar with S on a Tuesday morning, I typically use social mornings to co-write with friends, always be writing, always be producing -- maybe I'd be less of a crone if I just had a fun coffee once in a while my god

free trip to Disneyland from J -- started with Indiana Jones ended with the cold ferris wheel, in the middle there was a jalapeño stuffed pretzel, Pirates, the Lamplighter patio, the orange mist of Soarin', and I took a Mickey rice krispie home with me (in one of the bright blue bags with the castle on it)

five current bites for my play: a young LA indie producer for this summer she met me wearing a little work outfit and a professional persona I was so preoccupied with the rain I forgot my whole purse at home and had to venmo her for brussel sprouts, workshop in DC at a regional theatre next fall, add a high-powered manager for an NYC world premiere question mark when, two college kids at a local university, small collective of 20somethings who do work in an ugly corporate room

climate theatre project approved by major activist group, will pursue without funding

Puhg buys my coffee on International Women's Day, a kids' quesadilla after a 7-hour non-stop writing session

mega corporation has offered me a new commercial contract

my horoscope said "bookstores" and then I had just about 45 minutes to kill, so I walked to the bookstore -- my books have sold out twice, I creep on the restock

Puhg's aunt is going to die this time, staying on chemo until the graduation party for her youngest grandchild -- thinking about it every few steps

Sweet Potato got some carrot slices last night, she was in a mood -- one night she was a little goofball, hiding in my hoodie hood for quite some time

can't wrap my head around how fast it's happening, how a student protester was detained illegally, how I post one Instagram story about it, get a notification the app is now using facial recognition in relation to my account

LA and I do music improv at the cutest little show in town, three friends come which is just so sweet and unheard of for 8 PM on a Wednesday, we open with this song about marshmallows happily enjoying the marshmallow world (where everything is made of marshmallows) until they realize they eat marshmallows and they are marshmallows (!), their cheery little tune becomes darker and deadlier until they vow to just not think about it! The hard part of two-prov is not getting a few little minutes on the sidelines to think of initiations for the next scene, I want to bring cannibals back into the finale but never have enough time to sort out the thoughts...Donner party, snow...marshmallows... LA starts a finale about a dog show, so that's what we do and it's fine -- the next day, on a walk, it all snaps into place -- the finale should have been us in a snowstorm after a plane crash, we realize we must eat our friends but we tell one another we're not cannibals, we're just marshmallows in the marshmallow world...

queer writers' group anniversary coffee. I made hasty purple construction paper membership cards. Group name est. 2019, a little quip on the back and a shiny heart sticker. Lan calls me right as I pull into my parking spot, says he's thinking of getting his laminated, he asks if I'm available to read something -- sure I say (I'm not) I ask what he's looking for, in terms of feedback, that's what I'm hoping you can tell me about he says the shape he says

how dare you say its romantic leaving me safe and stranded

What if there's only one spaceship off Earth?

And there's only one seat?

I know you'll want me to go,

but I think it should be you.

Sweet Ratty

Last Friday I was on a walk and saw a rat, squirming in a driveway. Their two front legs were curled up, so the critter could only roll about. I called Puhg for back-up, told him to bring a bucket. As I waited a woman and her dog walked past, I hopped out in front of them, said there was a sick creature, and maybe they should go around, so the dog didn't eat them. The woman thanked me, and, from a distance peered on. She said she actually used to volunteer for a wildlife org and they would probably not accept the little guy. I googled around in case, but there's not much for rats. There are some resources for dogs cats and birds but rats are rats. I kneeled down to speak with my new friend.

A man approached, also with a dog. I hopped out again, told him there was a sick mouse, and to maybe go around-- He yelled at me, "OKAY? WELL ARE YOU GONNA HELP IT OR TAKE A PICTURE?" I said, "I have someone coming--" This man jerked his dog forward and muttered loudly, "FUCK OFF." I knelt to my friend again. Puhg arrived and confirmed, this rat is really really sick. We decided not to let it get picked off or squished, to transfer the buddy into the bucket, and carry them somewhere green, at least.

I ran and got some seeds and cut up an apple into chewable pieces. We found a line of short bushes by a patch of grass and let Ratty roll out of the bucket there. They rolled right under cover, which was nice to see, but they were too out of it/immobile to eat anything. They rolled away, away, away. Until we didn't know where they were. Puhg said they probably ate poison. I said a prayer and organized a small collection of leaves, Puhg stuck a stick in the ground. Here was a rat.

The next morning on my walk I went to see what I could see. I had to walk through the garden beds, around the back. But finally, I did find Ratty. Dead. Chubby tummy up, adorable ears still perked. They had rolled out of the bushes and into a horrible concrete block. Passed away alone, with their head on cold manmade stone. It's not fair, and it's not okay with me.

I Love It Here

Slept for 10 hours! Popped out of bed like a slice of toast hopped into a Midnights work-out followed by Olivia Rodrigo and even Post-Malone I had so much energy. Puhg headed out for his neighborhood walk in his orange cap. I sang in the shower to Red on shuffle. Sweet Potato woke up! We sat in the cream chair together. I read while she sniffed. Eventually I give her a slice of apple, me a plate of vegan bacon, and head to the coffee shop. I love getting there before 8:30, before any crowds. Puhg and I plot out the day, whether or not we'll see his cousin. We won't but they talk on the phone, near the bagel truck. I write out my Weekly Action Plan as I have every week for the past five years. The secret to my madness. We do our little puzzle and dream about the ocean. Several dogs have a conference on the sidewalk. I read a section of my wild woman book then tap away at revisions of an essay. I send it off to Gos, to see if it's anything. I have vegan buffalo wings with carrots and then we head to G______ to order new glasses. We went to the optometrist last week. It was Feb 10 but felt like Valentines sitting in the tiny office together. The frames I chose are bigger. I like them, but these are the kind of changes I always dread. We zip home in our grey bug, listening to the 80s station. walk down to the grassy knoll at the bottom of the park. I read more and journal about students I remember and eat apple slices in the sun. I listen to "Call It What You Want" and stare off at the skyline. An activist has left me a voice note about a project. I text Puhg asking if he wants candy for the movie later, he says why not. I walk the few blocks to the grocery store and pick up Sour Straws for me, Reese Sticks for him, Girl Scouts are outside. I buy a few boxes. The gals tell me they're hoping for a trip to Catalina Island this year. I smile crossing the hot parking lot, chatter at Puhg once I'm home. Now I'm in the bedroom watching Glow and writing this.

Doing an Experiment

 Text me when you get this.

A Nice Day in Hell

Felt like a morning for the Olivia Rodrigo work-out. Puhg was gone, up and out early for a meeting. I didn't need my laptop, so I walked a bit further, to the very hip coffee shop where there's usually a line out the door and barely ever room to sit. Because it was only 8:45 I didn't have to wait for my cream top coffee and croissant. I asked for a paper cup, but the barista said they have a strict no substitutions policy. Then she added she was pretty sure the plastic is compostable. There was one little corner to squeeze in so I did. I sat there for three hours, my neighbors being a guy in orange flip flops who never looked up from his phone, a business man with a tiny curly pet-able dog, two aspiring actors, three girlfriends--one whose house burned down. A lot of people's houses and places have burned down. It's bizarre to overhear multiple conversations per day about it. How the insurance company won't pay for that vintage wardrobe or where the kids are going to go to school now or if anyone else is thinking about renting a place in Joshua Tree for the next six months because the air might be giving us all cancer.

One of my corporate producers approved the new episodes with heart emojis. I confirmed lunch with my friend whose house burned down for next Tuesday. He's moving to the east coast Wednesday. I wrote one of my writers' groups I have to step out. I say it's because I am overwhelmed with work, which is true, but it's more true that I am overwhelmed with other people's misguided goals about our work. The Hollywood racetrack has quietly become a hamster wheel, and I don't like watching people hop on. I've been in the room when powerful people lose their deals, know how many execs are getting fired and fleeing into random careers, usually real estate. 

A new fire pops up, near our family friend's home. AP texts me back, this week sucks. I write that other producer back who kind of wastes my time. A friend reaches out saying she gets what I mean, about how I don't make five-year plans, on principle. I set a meeting with the exec who found a comic for me to adapt. Finally I can scootch back, cross my legs like apple sauce, and get lost in the first feature draft I wrote with AB. I carefully read, surprising myself with laughter, forgetting jokes we ourselves made up. I jot all my notes carefully in a pink notebook.

I munch some vegan wings and carrots and head over to AB's house--reminding Puhg to please call me repeatedly if I don't pick up the first time. AB and I gab in her basement and then talk through everything we'd like to change about our script. We're almost exactly aligned, which is amazing. Her husband tells us congrats and her stylist's assistant shows up with a suitcase of outfits for the festival. AB tries the suit and corset combo, which looks stunning, but she thinks the pants might be too loose. I gesture to my yoga pants, two sizes too big and mutter I'm the worst person to ask. Nevertheless, the three of us squint at AB's crotch, deciding if the word "saggy" need apply. We wrap around 4:30, and I listen to "The Archer" on the pink drive home. The fire has gotten much worse.

I was going to write some emails but don't have any energy left it seems. I read a little of Prep in bed. We think about walking to the theatre for a movie, but it's sold out. I trot to the health food store for Puhg's favorite soda and a candy instead. We can do movie night at home. We fall asleep halfway through Y Tu Mama Tambien. At 11:30 or so we get up from the couch and bring Sweet Potato out. She doesn't run around. She sits on her feet and listens, like a little watch ham. There's another new fire, closer to us, but blowing in the other direction. At 3 AM I wake up to check, still no evac warnings.

I'm Grateful for What I Got

This isn't how I would have preferred my life to go I guess. Can't help but thinking of that Lord of the Rings quote where Frodo is like, ah nuts I wish this hadn't happened in my lifetime! And Gandalf is like, my bro same! But that's what everyone always wishes! What else am I to do when faced with the glaring realities of climate collapse?

I still have hope. I believe in solutions I can't fathom dreamed up by brains I haven't heard of created in labs I don't know about. Sounds like a fairytale, doesn't it? Once upon a time, in a far off land, there was a scientist in a tower. She had long blonde hair and needed funding from at least once benevolent billionaire to save the world. One would trot to her window and call up, "Scientist, scientist, let down your hair to me!" She did as asked, letting this lady claw up her scalp every day. But by the end of some time, they'd created something in that bizarre cylinder. Gossip spread to the townsfolk, probably via Gloop, the quirky little guy who brought fresh vegetables to the tower. So the townspeople started coming by too, eventually getting into the habit of making a human pyramid so the scientist could get the bob she always wanted.

I've been talking about silver lining because it's what most unaffected people want to talk to me about. They may think it's making me feel better, but I think it's making them feel better. Though I believe in silver linings. I also believe in the dark gray clouds. One particular cloud has been hovering over me this week, since November really. It's not bad. It's not good either. The cloud calmly reasons, "You've had a really nice life."

The cloud warns that the end could be near. It wouldn't be fair, but maybe I've lived more in these 36 years than others get to in 80. I've squeezed so much into every month and week and day. I've been all the places I wanted to go, experienced all the love I longed for, built a wonderful life of silliness and coziness and adventure with my partner, made art I am incredibly proud of, been blessed with hundreds of beautiful, funny friends and thousands of special acquaintances. I've experienced and explored my special and complicated family. I've put myself in the position to be rejected and ashamed over and over and lived. I've put myself in the position to be seen and beloved and lived. I won a blue bead award at my summer camp when I was 11 and 14. I was a state champion in high school and spoke at all three of my graduations. I wrote my favorite play in 2022. Taylor Swift pointed at me while she sang my favorite song. Last week I gently told a teenage boy he shouldn't joking use the world "cripple" in an elevator at at Embassy Suites. I've taught hundreds of people how to write jokes and five-paragraph essays. I've collaborated with most of my favorite artists, which seems nearly impossible but somehow true. Children have streamed my progressive feminist jokes millions and millions of times. I've watched countless sunsets and many sunrises. I've melted into millions of artistic pieces--the movie Clueless and paintings by Caillebotte and concerts by Something Corporate. I did improv on a cruise ship and under a Taco Bell and wrote theatre in the woods and in airplane lounges. I built fires and made scrapbooks and arranged cheese boards. I've cried until I couldn't breathe and laughed the same. I've told almost everyone how I feel. I gave them the opportunity to tell me. Sometimes they didn't take it. Mostly they did. I'm grateful for what I got.

Cap, just because. 2021.

Don't Let the Days Go By Glycerine

It's the time of year when the sun wakes me and I'm not too cold to stay in bed and not too hot to wrestle out. I close one eye and use the other to look into Puhg's. I decide, urgently, I need to go to a matinee at the movies today. I book the 1 PM Nosferatu in the huge theatre with recliners. I do the Espresso dance work-out and time my shower to be ten minutes flat. I feel determined to make it to the cafe before 8:40, so I can have a few choice minutes with my honey. I fold my vegan bacon slices into quarters so I can eat them in single bites. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. I decide on my black joggers and pink thrifted Scream crewneck. I wear the t-shirt I wore to bed, honestly.

I make it down the street by 8:32. The jolliest barista is in a mask and got a cool haircut. I have too much oat milk and Puhg has too little, so I do some extraction shots with my straw, like a surgeon. We talk about people's odd need to defend systems that don't even serve them and spaghetti vs. waffles. I read two sections of Women Who Run with the Wolves, about the mystical meaning of dolls and naiveté, then jot a list of my favorite art of 2024. I look through my notes from my first play read-through. No one has read a word of this thing yet, and I'm getting nervous. It is boring? I wonder, then, later, no it's it's not boring...it's too cringe to share to even find out if it's boring. I rewrite the notes in better handwriting, with more structure. I outline which scenes I think need reordering and which can be hacked or collapsed. I have to cut about 50 minutes, if not 60! I've never overwritten to this degree! I try to sign a contract for a conglomerate. They forgot to do some paperwork months ago. Two hours after I say I'll review the documents and send them back, they ping me, saying they'd really like the signatures now. I think about all the responses I want to fire off: well I don't actually work for you right now shall I bill you for an hour or two for the rush delivery I have my own life I have other jobs you've actually never ever asked me a single question about myself your folly is not my emergency chill out we live on a rock in space on which everything is controlled by a fake paper currency with no real value. But instead I walk home, open my laptop, sign the documents, and write, "Here you go!"

My friend asked me to note his screenplay. I've read five of his projects. He's worked with me so long that my rate has more than tripled since we met. I still discount him, which isn't great business, but sometimes other things matter more. The first act was hilarious, two and three could use shaping. I type up my findings while fielding all the Coffee Pings. Coffee Pings are so cute and validating and a tiresome never-ending Hollywood boulder to roll. One of my Conglomerate Producers is tapping me for a different comedy project and wants breakfast Thursday. The social outreach gal from the activism group wants to Zoom about my play. The college director checks in about the Saturday reading start time, yes 7 is great and I'm bringing a new scene I exclaim. My old college professor pitches an idea for a guest lecture. The most whimsical playwright I know texts thank you for my contributions to her writers' group yesterday: "smart thoughtful kind meeting everyone where they’re at - just so good." She wrote this incredible piece about a haggard woman who runs a grant program for a sociopath and I laughed my butt off reading it. Another bite from an LA director about a regional theatre producer I should know, I say I'll follow up. Grief asks if I can attend a game night with executives next week and Buckle says we're overdue for face time so I open my calendar and volley 16th afternoon in WeHo and Roll: "Want to get a coffee sometime soon? I would like to sit in your glow for a bit :-) " A trickle of gals RSVPing yes for our next gab sesh. Different Conglomerate says their client is two months late on my notes, but go ahead and bill for the commercial now. That random $300 gig money gets wired. I get overwhelmed and text Gos about how horrified I am that we've been witnessing/normalizing a genocide for over a year! I'm sorry but it makes me completely break-down once a week or so! I'm seeing dead children every day! Intentionally dead children! With bullet wounds in their heads! How are we just walking around listening to pop music and eating pretzel bites!

Thirty minutes later I'm in the AMC parking lot blasting "Karma" and pre-ordering cinnamon pretzel bites. I smuggle in my own can of Diet Cherry Coke. Everyone flipping loved this film, and it just didn't hold me. That's fine, I'm glad I went. Three other people were in there. I clapped for Nicole Kidman alone. I reemerged like a vampire from her crypt at golden hour. I walked along the busy street to the promenade, fully basking in the California winter. Got a falafel bowl. The owner was scooping hummus today. I trotted around remembering being a teen at the mall. When I got back to my car I decided to do another lap, then another. The line was long at In N Out, two girls drink Frappuccinos, I pass an unhoused woman with hair over her face one way and again on the way back. Notably, she has a new Target bag.

I decide not to play music and take the long way home, through the park, by the old zoo. It's a gorgeous windows-down winding drive. The runners are out and the kind of cars who don't rush to be the first to zip through an intersection. I'm very proud of how I timed it all. The darkness, just creeping up on the skyline as I pull into my apartment gate. Puhg came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. We thought about if things we do are responses to or reflections of our stimuli. He went on a walk, so I wrote this. Felt like listening to Glycerine by Bush.

We live in a wheel where everyone steals / but when we rise it's like strawberry fields.