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.

LA: Six Don't Mix

Out of all the incredible people in the world, I have already met the best ones. There is a bitterness I never want to know. I sit with three of my first improv students over Vietnamese. One calls me Momedy. Being a teacher is the best. I email my Chicago students pump-ups about finals. I wish I could be there. I really really do.

When we switch locations, no one waits for me while I’m printing. I’m rushed across town in a van to deliver the pages hot into AG and TF’s hands. I had zoomed as fast as possible, but who knows what it looks like. The bar is smoky. It reminds me of haunted houses. We go late, and I am cranky. Sitting in a closed down deli watching a monitor. My brain isn’t working enough to be productive. I eat too many noodles and still open a candy when I get home. AP introduces me to TF. I text Puhg a billion messages. He sends me love.

Zumba, bang trim, unclear times. I see how people, no matter who they are, can feel self-conscious or negative. Is everyone? My experience is too limited. The evening is easy-going. AP orders me to find her a funny video of Melania avoiding Trump. We talk a lot about Nic Cage. No matter where you are, there are days like this, where we’re happy to be doing the work. The camera man steps on my foot and must stay there until the shot is over. It’s really okay. I can’t stop snacking after work. This week has been brutal on my guts. My leggings are snug.

Early in Malibu. Have a pier oatmeal and write up notes for Turk’s pilot. The ocean is gorg, the surf’s up, but I feel the best because I’m replotting his story arcs. Later, when he texts me, “OMG these are the best notes I’ve gotten” I feel settled. I close out my solo time with an ice cream sandwich. The winery canyon is gorgeous. Unreal. Sit on a slope thinking about guilty Bill Cosby. It’s cold, and I forgot my coat. MS notices. I feel guilty taking up his brain space. There’s a lot of goofing with Grief. We’re perched in a teeny crook and pass back and forth into the actor cottage to keep warm. There’s a moment I have to trot down for a question. The scene looks just as it does in monitors—glowing and wine. Cowsk asks me to text her when I get home. The roads are winding, we wrap at 2. The sunset was purple.

I let myself move slowly. My insides are ugly. Kath and I have pastries and walk around the rich houses. I have a salad for dinner and write in the house café I almost feel will be a Place. I’m proud that I know how not to be awkward when I am new somewhere. I do my first LA BWC at a big fat theatre. I do alright, but it’s the first pancake. East Side Fury. Diablo is outside waiting. She’s too enthusiastic with the rest of the cast and we walk a mile to an ice cream shop. It is VERY GOOD. Notably so. There are no closed doors when I’m with my people. A Jar’s birthday in a speak-easy. The bouncer shows us a video on our way out. We don’t stay very long and end up laughing hysterically in the parking lot. It reminds me of when I had to say goodbye to Puhg the night I moved to Chicago. Seen.

In love with the main drag—super sunshine. Oatmeal date smoothie. I get a wax & massage for half the Chicago price. A lime juice fruit cart. I’m supposed to be packing, but I want to soak it up a little longer even though a scrub cat calls me for a long time. Diablo and I had jumped up and down about our love for Brit Marling, so she comes over with her DVD case. We eat candy on candy and watch her work. We’ve now seen it all. Are they all the same? If it’s true each writer writes the same story over and over, what are ours?