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Discussions about confidence on the way to Burbank airport
with Guff. Cowsk saves me a seat on the plane. She tells me she’s happy it’s me
doing this, here. That is my deep maze in life, to be a person who you are
happy is the one here. Landscapes are fake, all fake. I’m literally forever
grateful for my nook in LA, but there’s relief when I see my hotel room with
the pool view and white bedsheets. An oh when I see a shopping center walkable
to the Marriot with Trader Joe’s and Target neon signs. Can't help it. I buy caramel ice cream
from the former and watch Win a Date with Tad Hamilton in bed. I plan to write
but fall asleep instead.
We film on a big ol’ hill for three days. I have a lot more
respect for action movies, outdoorsy movies, winter flicks. At the end of Monday I find a tick in my bag. I am barely useful. There are minimal alts. Mostly
stunts. I like tromping up and down though, even if planning bathroom trips is
more difficult. This week I am distracted. In general I wrote maybe an hour, I
don’t read, time sucks through screens and it’s tomorrow. I hate this feeling.
Grateful I spot it so quickly. I had started to count down—partially to see
Puhg, also because my job responsibilities are reaching mid-hour glass. I
remind myself of a bunkmate from camp who took great joy in crossing off little
campfire doodles over her bed as each day ended even though to my knowledge she
was having a wonderful time.
Tuesday I spot a huge snake beneath AP’s chair. In the voice
I learned to evacuate people from a cruise ship with I say, “Okay, everyone is going
to get up and leave now.” Everyone jets out of the tent, but I stay, my eye on
the slithery thing until the wrangler can grab it. AP mimics my manic yet
peaceful tone for the rest of the afternoon. Cowsk takes me out to ravioli
bread pudding dinner! She had an experienced woman help her out back in the day
too. She tells me to do the same. I will. We wear blazers, say the things we
hope. She has changed my life. And as with most people who change our lives,
she’ll never fully understand to what extent. I call a Lyft and there are
strobe lights and a microphone inside. The driver sees I am alone and says,
“It’s just a fun thing, don’t feel pressured,” but I’ve already cued up Miley
Cyrus. I sing my heart out, tell Grief & Cowsk over morning crosswords.
AP asks to see the video and passes my phone around v vill. I snatch it back
when it gets to MS. He asks if we can put it on the big screen.
Small existential crisis because making movies seems stupid.
Everything is an emergency, I say, and
Cowsk says exactly. It’s so much time, so much effort, so many people and for
what? I can’t stop scrolling through news about refugees. I could do something
good for me but instead I have a slice of cake and an ice cream sandwich and
then pizza as I get in the van. I watch a TV show everyone seems to love,
grouch that it’s boring, eat potato chips until I feel foggy and pass out. I
text Puhg. I’m reminded this is every job. This is a symptom. Just be good, art
matters. I journal about what this story will mean for women out there and am
mostly restored. The six stunt ladies are all friends and never get to work
together because movies rarely have more than one (maybe two) female jumps,
tucks, rolls. I could be any block. I’m not going to get over it tonight.
The dang thing is almost done but I feel like I have actual
co-workers now. The winery is very pretty. I had time to send a few emails, but
I couldn’t. Not today. Again, distracted. I work very hard to not eat junk and my
reward is an Iron Chef Japanese restaurant at night with costumers and a makeup
man. We dance so hard we are exiled to a private room. Our server asks us to
leave out the back, but she is kidding. I love her. I think about loving
strangers. MT has explained this to me numerous times. I look for evidence. My
birthday is mid-may but dang if we don’t get cheesecake with candles in it. I
bought too much cold brew and one of the girls says she couldn’t
possibly take it from me. But I don't want it! I insist. Demand and supply.
Friday I run four miles and take a cab to the Michelin Star
Napa God’s hut. I buy every pastry I’m interested in and sit in the floral
garden chewing them. Banoffee cream puff: my favorite. We shoot in a small town.
Crowds pack the streets with phones out for blurry pics of RD saying one line.
A woman stands directly behind me taking photos for half an hour of AP’s back.
It’s jarring. I understand, but now I get it. Grief helps me pick out a floppy
sun hat, we split a puzzle book. We are next to each other twelve hours every
day. I am already sad to split. I get so attached to people informationally. I
like knowing what my third row-mate had for dinner, what time she went to bed,
if she made any phone calls. I hold out for real dinner and end up printing revisions
through it. Two people give me false directions and I almost cry I am so
hungry. I find my Thai box and wolf it with gals + MR + AG. Happy happy tofu am
I. I've experienced it my whole life--I'll never be me here, and then I am me here. There’s free ice cream with Pubble and the cones are made with
cardamom. Storefronts, cool breeze, wet street. Like Wisconsin when I was a
kid. I had a dream about our script super helping me in my personal life. It's just too much of my subconscious to handle. I tell Grief, who tells AP, who tells everyone at the oyster bar, and when I'm getting my headset on for a reset, I hear all the actors laughing about it.
Buy sunscreen & yogurt, do weights in the gym. Take a
sketchy bus with stare-ers and chatters and ooglers. (Uber back.) Vineyards
unreal, pour some candy in an old train. Wish I could buy books like I used to.
My mudbath is divine. I plop in and actually do feel poison shifting out. Hot
sludge. I’d stay much longer if I could. A tub of orange salts, steam. Then I am wrapped
in a cool towel and left to lie. I swim in the hot springs outside watching a
mom filter a photo of her son while he screams, “PLEASE PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN
MOMMA!” Lots of boozed up ladies. They put their hands against a waterfall and
call it the “getting arrested.” I arrive at Oprah’s favorite things bakery with
ten minutes to spare, pack my knapsack with treats (more later, more later).
One of my favorite meals of, I dunno, ever with sweet potato fries and thick
kale salad and chocolate malt. I’m beyond happy. I’m blissed out. What did I do
to deserve this evening walk on the riverfront and a shuttle home with flashing
lights and full control of the radio. I stay up too late but finally unpack my
bags and make a to-do list. Eat an Oprah's favorite things English muffin. Distractions are over. I left them in the bottom of
the muck.
