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.

Feathers in the Wind

In the old country in a tiny village there was a Gossip. Was the baker fighting with his wife? Was the Blacksmith's daughter expecting? The stable boy was riding too quickly again. Whether it was true or untrue did not matter to the Gossip. She didn't know why she spilled (or spun) so many secrets. She didn't even know she loved doing it. She just did it as a natural function like blinking. The townsfolk were frustrated by Gossip's tattles and fibs. Their grievances eventually reached the local philosopher. The LP lived in a humble shack on the highest hilltop. After the egg human delivered a basket to LP one day, LP asked her to send for Gossip. "Tell her to bring a down pillow," LP added. The egg human did as she was told. The following morning Gossip arrived at LP's shack holding a fancy down pillow from Crate & Barrel. LP took the pillow, smothered Gossip to death, kicked her body off the hilltop, and that night slept with more comfortable bedding.

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).

Kavanaugh Hearings

I am so full of emotions I don't even know where to begin. I am grateful I work in a mostly female office and we could watch and yell at the TV. I felt truly scared by Lindsey Graham. This is who we have governing us? This angry, powerful toddler? How dare you ask if the probably assaulter has gone through hell. His life is not ruined. At the end of this he will be in charge of my life or be filthy rich and underemployed. I do not feel sorry for you.

My brain does not compute this level of lying. He must have forgotten? There is an alternate reality? I believe Dr. Ford. Why would she lie? Have I lied before? Have I been confused before? He is so sure. I was raised to think people are good, so when people lie so confidently I start to believe them too. A girl I went to summer camp with was a kleptomaniac. There was proof on proof of everything she stole. Our counselors had us sit in a circle with her. I still don't know why--hoping for confession? Hoping for forgiveness? She lied and lied and cried and lied and I said, "Okay, I believe you. I am sorry. I believe you." There's no way she didn't do it. I just didn't understand how she could be so strongly dishonest. I could never. I don't understand.

I don't care you got into Yale and have good grades. I don't care you have friends who are girls. You'll notice your victim didn't need to spend an hour reading letter from people saying she is honest. Because that's nuts. She is honest because it didn't occur to her she wasn't. I hope your lies eat you from the inside like mold. You couldn't stop yourself from lying even to admit you watched Ford's testimony. It came so easy to you. You want to control my body. You lifted weights and had difficult football camps. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

I asked my co-worker, "What would you do if you were him and it was true?" She said kill herself. I say I'd step down. If it weren't true, if it might be true, if I don't remember I'd step down. This is bigger than you. The country doesn't revolve around you. You are lucky to have been considered now can we please have someone Good? It's not fair. You would know that if you hadn't been given every privilege in the book. Sometimes you don't get the job for a reason you can't control. Sometimes you don't get the job for the best reason there has ever been.

I try to organize my new bookshelf but I lay down and read all the women coming forward with their stories. It is disgusting we have to band together to share our traumas to make some people believe there was a possibility Ford experienced hers. A writer shares her rape on Instagram in the morning and smiles coming in an hour later. It's our job to make you know we are okay. I don't want to be seen as overdramatic or too gloomy. I cry on the bed and when I finally come up for air I say, "I'd be down for a Purge."

Moved

On moving morning I woke up for reasons unknown when it was still dark. I shuffled on my Birks and went to the rooftop pool. Dawn swimmers with flipping in their caps and I sat with nothing in a slated deck chair watching the sun come up one last time.

It feels both more real and not to be living in a new city because we drove. It took four hours longer to pack the van than anticipated. Pillows and sugar containers being flung into the trash. A homeless man walked by and asked if we needed help. I kept shrugging. We’re almost done. Puhg paid him ten bucks to bring our mattress down. I sat on the curb in my sports bra. Cried during the final walkthrough. “This was perfect for us,” we repeated, and then we just had to get out. Pie in Joliet. It didn’t seem so bad. An envelope labeled “snack emergency.” The drive to St. Louis soundtracked by my high school mix cds. I never thought they’d come back, but here they are in a Hello Kitty case. Mom and I stayed up until 2 talking over fake chicken.

In Oklahoma City we had a cold room and blue lemonade. I ran two fast miles in the gym before a hip biscuit joint. I try to imagine living there, and all the places we pass. It is a coping mechanism to know if one city falls apart there’s a whole country to choose from. But I don’t think I like football enough. Although I bet there are lots of people who don’t like football enough, and they may need more friends who also don’t like football enough. The marsh gives way to dust, and soon it’s Albuquerque. I feel right in the desert. It’s in my bones and always has been. We have sopapillas and a pretty city light view.

The AC busts, and we try frantically to get it fixed in Payson, but everything is shut or full. We stand outside for an hour with a mechanic. I buy a stress cherry donut. The windows are down and the seats are hot. Salad with family merged into pizookie with my girls. We don’t even talk about anything important, but I sneak in the front door flying high from the memories and ice cream. The latter wakes me up at 5:30, and it’s just as well. I give myself a sloppy wet top knot and pack ice cubes. We make a break for it, and although it’s loud on the highway, it’s okay until about three hours from LA. The traffic is stopped and the sun beats in, and I feel insane. I haven’t eaten. There’s nothing to eat. I almost give up two miles from the final destination. Head on the steering wheel. And then do we rest? Oh no. We unpack and unpack, a dozen trips up and down back and forth. And when it’s all scattered everywhere I find a towel and shower and we walk a block and eat overpriced delicious tuna sandwiches. My first dinner in Chicago four years ago was a Butterfinger from Walgreens, so I get one from the Albertson’s and eat it in bed, asleep by 9 PM.

I didn’t know my last full day would be my last full day. Puhg says people are obsessed with cinematic endings, and that’s never how it is. He's probably right. He didn’t care where we had dinner, didn’t know his last time at the gym would be, in fact, his last time at the gym. I shook and hemmed, took in a final walk to my coffee shop, felt blessed by the sparkles on the lake. The sun was setting in the empty living room. We sat on the floor and watch the sky hot pink to grey.

Last Saturday in Chicago

I always bring a book, but Saturday I didn’t bring a book. I would rush from one show to another, I knew. My last performances in Chicago. The two theatres I fell in love with decade+ ago. Dal asked me to arrive early to i_. So we could talk. Before I go. I arrived five minutes late after shoveling kale and sesame oil into a biodegradable box across the street. The bar was quiet. The show was pushed two hours earlier for a festival, light house, some staples of the ensemble missing.

I didn’t do a big thing. I texted four people actually. I am not afraid of leaving people as much as my study carrel in the library and my coffee shop with the sunny patio and sugar-free cookie dough syrup.

The first show was good. Not as good as two weeks ago with the booming sold-out laughs. It’s easy for me now. I don’t warm-up, and I don’t question everything I did while passing Philly’s Best at midnight on my walk home from the train. But also this time is a different kind of good, the kind you don’t need validation to hold. An audience member asked what his partner should do to quit having nightmares. I started singing to myself about my sleep mask, and every time I got into “bed” (sitting on a chair holding a fake comforter next to Dal) I’d remember I had to feed my bat or something. I finally turned out the light and confided in Dal I was scared. He reassured me, so I asked him to take off his clown makeup. Lights.

The show was only 1:15. I hadn’t known we weren’t doing two full acts. I had an hour to kill. Cast cleared out. I wandered outside and asked a stranger to take a photo of me. No book. For once no book. I decided to forego my usual Saturday Uber and walk to SC. The evening was perfectly pink and humid. I could feel my curls loosening. I listened to Wilco. That teeny pilgrimage both heavy with August and light with leaving. “Burn down the missions”: lyrics I’ve decided I now understand. I bought the last walk-up ticket for Puhg.

Show Two. It was a new girl’s first go—something right, something cycled. The ensemble sang a warm-up about me. Our title was “Grease-y” so I got to be an updated Sandy. Flood initiated a drag race drag race. We go together.

Back at i_, I saw just the fewest sweet friends, and I was very happy. Gor said, “You were right about everything,” and Kram told me I was the girl he would miss. Roma was babysitting, so when it was time to go home she met me at Philly’s Best, but they were understaffed and not making fries. We went to the dumb ol’ corner for crinkle cut ones instead.

Skeletons

Been going through family photos, all the family photos, because my mom asked me to a year ago. They've been in the corner of the living room, behind the couch. A stupid coffee table. Now I'm moving, so I started scanning last week. I finished a couple days ago. So here. They're all digital so everyone can have them. But after staring at dozens of shots of the same baby in the same outfit and hundreds of now divorced newlyweds and many grainy shots of cars or strangers, I think I'd be good with a handful. And seeing one's whole life and one's family's whole life in snaps and snaps, back bent as I hunched over, something roared up inside of me. It claws. I shut the rubber tubs. I can't wait until they are gone.

Two weeks ago while I was visiting my dad I hunted for my old Gameboy. Found it under my twin bed, still working. I popped in the one game I never beat, Zelda (barely touched it, was too hard for ten year old me). I've been playing about an hour a day since. Usually after I run an errand or I am tired of talking to people. I have half the instruments for the Wind Fish. Today I got to the Catfish Dungeon and I couldn't for the life of me kill this jumping skeleton. I finally caved and read the cheat for it online. I needed to use bombs, not just my sword. Once I beat it, it ran away. I knew I'd meet it again, later, probably stronger and faster. Then I did, but it was the exact same. Just had to do it twice.

In my initial Nintendo search I was reminded of just how much stuff I had amassed at Dad's. Around 20 boxes in the basement. Some full of camp stuff, others Chicago debris, personal junk, clothes out of style, and, a few heaps of college stuff, last touched on my graduation day. Books on books about theatre. I had thought I'd keep them for when I got a bigger place with more shelf space, but I hope I never have more shelf space, not for what I can forget about for years. I sweat through my middle school basketball shirt and ripped my fading blue shorts on a tack. A van-load of very full, very big bins to Goodwill. I emptied them carefully into a cart while the employee upturned and dumped. There's something that hurts seeing it go. But it hurts to more, a dull distant ache, to know it was all there, under the front door, under the earth. Four left. Two of letters and photos. I need more than a day to sort those. And two of old t-shirts in case one day I want to make a quilt.