Good Enough

Is every problem caused by someone feeling like they are not enough? Oppenheimer was an evil little troll and I hate him. Get a life, I wanted to heckle in the IMAX. Something something if Hitler had just been accepted into art school.

If we focused on building every person's self-esteem would we end famine? Like how a prison education advocate I once met said the number one indicator of at-risk youth going to juvenile detention is if they pass or fail fifth grade math.

It starts with you, I know, I believe. If you don't like greed at the top, don't be greedy at the bottom. If you don't like big callousness, don't be small callous. And so I should feel good enough. Possibly not even just for my sake. But what are you gonna do? Would've, could've, should've.

the author in a theatre bathroom, July 2023

Work Week July 17th 2023

MONDAY: up at 7, journal on the balcony until 7:30, dance workout and shower, picketing by 9, walk the line with ___ & _____ friendly Chicago faces, at 11 hit the diner for waffle and brainstorming for my new play workshop, talk to my sister on the phone, Target for soap and pens, also buy a t-shirt from Hot Topic (lots to unpack) and a small work achievement gift for Puhg. Home by 4, make/eat broccoli and vegan chicken, write an episode of my new B_rbie series, polish two other episodes. Close my laptop at 8. Night walk. Journal. Watch an episode of Platonic with Puhg. Find my friend N____ is in it! Text him he did great. (He did!) Must have eaten something, must have gone to bed.

TUESDAY: up at 6, journaled and read until 7. Dance, shower, walk to Blue Bottle with Puhg by 8. Write B_rbie episode. Zip home for my 11 AM Zoom with a local lit manager. Afterward, feel overwhelmingly angry at the inherent privilege issues in theatre institutions! Lay in bed "languishing" Puhg would say. Text D___, who reassures me my feelings are valid. Polish B_rbie episodes and deliver four well before deadline. Send a flurry of casting texts. Eat egg salad. Start revising new TV sample, decide I don't have it in me. Push to next week. I'm on act five. Almost there. 3 PM, sit on the ground drawing mock-ups of promotional play materials while watching the finale of The Queer Ultimatum. Text Beef about my hot takes. Realize I'm very hungry, eat two scoops of beans with avocado. 7 PM meet Snake in my lilac romper at our local haunt, then the new cute Mex patio. We gossip until the waitress kicks us out at 11. Snake leaves in a cab, on her way back to Australia. I walk home singing Lover out loud.

WEDNESDAY: 7 AM balcony journaling, reading, dance workout, shower. Puhg and I at the little white cafe by 9:30. Watch more casting tapes, get into a low grade (respectful) fight with the director. Force myself to finish two scenes of newest feature. Run into R___ and her fiance. They give me advice on finding a theatre space. Walk home listening to Red (Taylor's Version). 2:30 phone date with D____, our annual catch-up since we were improv teammates. He still performs. 4:30 PM a comp for my next play arrives in the mail, some little thing from 2008. I start reading. 5:30 head to haunt again, meet with a playwright to swap advice, leave feeling inspired enough to get a slab of heath bar cake to swing up the street. 7:30 night in with Puhg.

THURSDAY: 7. Journal. Dance. Shower. Picket by 9, this time with C____ and J__, also from Chicago. Swap grumbles and ideas. See a couple other cuties in passing. At 11 diner for veggie melt, mean to write a scene of my next play but spend the whole hour writing an instagram caption. At noon see three improvisers across the restaurant, join them. One says, "We were just talking about you," but never elaborates.  I think about this for days. We dish until the waitress kicks us out. Home by 1, listen to a rough cut of our next pod series. Laugh a lot, text the talent, make plans. 2 - 3 revise act one of newest feature. 3 - 4 brain doesn't work, need to make a playlist for fun. Email producer and Beef about our short, set creative meeting for August. Egg salad, protein bar. Rethink this poster again. Spend too much energy organizing a bowling double date. Buy play tickets for Monday night. Throw on a dress and scamper downtown to see a musical. Run into D__ and his boyfriend in the lobby. Shirley Temples at intermission. Get home at 11:30 but not tired. Stay up until 1 AM writing in my art notebook, listening to Evermore.

FRIDAY: 6:30 balcony journaling, 7 dance workout, rush to Starbucks for vanilla iced coffee, get on 8 AM Zoom with Cowsk and AP to edit our pod, break at 11:40. Email manager about contract. Furiously review my notes for my 12 o'clock--pitching climate sketches to a new green non-profit. Answer pod texts and emails. 1:30 eat broccoli on the balcony watching Taylor Swift TikToks. 2 PM casting emails, theatre rental inquiries. Paw through my invites for networking coffees, decide on two and start scheduling. Get sad I'm not seeing the B_rbie movie tonight because I have to attend a dinky play reading at a little theatre in a desperate attempt for the artistic director to notice me. Schedule Sunday brunch with G__. 4 PM polish Act One of new screenplay. Write this blog post.

I'm sure I forgot things. I start every morning with four slices of vegan bacon.

Petal

I have to be more patient with myself. For so long all I wanted was to be a WRITER. It's been so long since I felt that stumble over announcing what I do. When I first moved here I switched off between introductions of, "I want to be a" vs. "I am a." I knew I was selling myself short with the first and worried I sounded like a liar with the second. Now it's just the truth. There's nothing else I do.

I recounted a story to Puhg yesterday. It floats around. 2014, I think. Back when I taught an English 101 that ended at night. By the time we let out, the rest of the school would be empty. I'd lurch to the adjunct office and grade papers. The windowless room made the dark hit thicker when I finally caught the train.

My friend GChatted me. She said she was doing fine, but lost. "What's the point? What should I do with my life? I have nothing to care about." I couldn't relate at all. I had no pearls for her. Not one. Because I don't remember a single day before my dreams gripped me by the throat and never let go. Puhg says that makes me lucky. He referenced that episode of The Bear, which is one way to cope.

Is what I make inside or outside of me? I truly do not know. Am I a tree with branches or do I just drop acorns? My favorite tree is the one I'd climb with pink flowers. It worked all year for those couple days of bloom. If I didn't notice fast enough, the lawn was covered in brown petals.

You Out There

Where are you

out there?

I don't think you sit at the table.

I think you delight

in the mundane

and people

you don't know.

How are you

out there?

I worry you're lonely

but I'm probably lonelier

with my playlists and journals

for friends.

Are you

out there?

Now like I don't see?

You remind me of a ghost

but one day

you will be.

And will you miss me

out here?

Do you miss me

out here?

Final Morning in Kyoto, Final Night in Tokyo

Our final morning in Kyoto we went for the fancy hotel buffet. She didn't disappoint. Matcha croissants and yogurt jugs. We were seated next to the Other Americans--loud rich people who all answered phone calls during breakfast. I shuddered thinking about going home. We took an early cab to Fushimi and hiked up the tori gates. At first it felt overwhelming, but the higher we climbed, the thinner the crowd until there was peace. I left yen at the mouth of a fox. They had a message for me, but I didn't know what.

I showered, sat, bathed, sauna'd in the onsen for an hour. It was so calm and intentional, and I was so alone I bowed on my way out. Shoved everything in bags, before trotting out to the mouth of hell. I'd tried to go to the mouth of hell a day or two earlier, but I lingered too long in our room (probably just hungry) and by the time I got outside it was raining. I hustled back up to fetch raincoat, umbrella, etc. and then knew I had only an hour before the temple would close. I sprinted there, got lost, got in, walked around and finally had to desperately ask the ticket counter where the well was. A different temple, I found out. But I'd already paid the entrance fee, so I tromped to a tatami mat room, empty, sat down, and stared at the image of Buddha. Apparently, this temple is one of the first meditation sites on earth. And so I did my best.

Anyway, on this sunny day, I go to the teeny afterlife temple with no problem. I offer coins for dead people and stand at the haunted well. I take a bunch of selfies. I wear the tiny brown shoes and wish I could stay longer. I debate whether or not to buy a prayer plaque, opt not to, then regret it on the walk home--before a huge gust of wind sends floral perfume my way.

I stock up on convenience store snacks for the train, buy a final souvenir for Puhg, and then the bellhops call the cab and we head to the station. I journal the whole way, listening to Japanese Breakfast and sipping my last milk tea.

We arrive at the Ritz Carlton--hilariously the available hotel Puhg could book on points for the night. Before we arrive we think it's probably kind of silly, but once we're in the big room with the incredible view and fancy vanity bathroom, we think differently! I break out my hoard of cheese and crackers and berries. I blast Taylor Swift over the sound system. I wear the robe and slippers. We watch the sun get lower and lower over the biggest city in the world.

We walk to a nearby cabaret. Online it looked so fun and wild, but when we arrive, there are only a few quiet locals sitting in the back. But the show is excellent! An hour of choreography ranging from Fosse to traditional Noh theatre! Spinning stages and elaborate costumes and big drama! I adore it, and when the finale starts I screech, because the entire ensemble trots out in big pink dresses to one of my favorite songs of all time! I feel a burst of connection to the world. This pop ballad from the 80s I first learned at summer camp saying hi two decades later. At the end of the show, the emcee says, "ALICE FROM LOS ANGELES" and I am instructed to get on stage for a photo. Does this happen to all foreign guests? Is it random? We will never know. But I did as I was told and a dancer threw a towel over my lap because (I assume) she thought my dress was too short. As we settled our bill, the actors all walked out and thanked us for coming.

On the way back we spontaneously try a pizza spot with a neon light on. It's actually fantastic, salty puffy crust. In the darkness of night the room view is even more special, and it's even more difficult to go to sleep. I eat my leftovers in bed at midnight.

In this world we're just beginning/

to understand the miracle of living.

Can I Go Where You Go?

Incredibly in love with writing lately. I am working on a new Huge Toy Conglomerate series, which is a fine job. Truly. But also, it's a job. We are in post for the podcast, which is a more than fine job! But also a job! I am grateful and still spend all my time in the google docs and editing software daydreaming about the newest play I am writing, my thriller series, essays--too many to keep track of.

I don't want to do anything else. I want to sit alone for 365 days to get it all out. She says songs arrive to her on a glittery cloud. I admire how even her process is a symbolism of her femme power. It emboldens me to step into mine. And I do.

The thing is happening when I get this way, where I begin seeing people as an obstacle. A maze to wander before I arrive at my treasured working time. But I know I know I have learned I have learned I can't do that. I become grey and insane, feverish and hurt. So I make plans with friends as preventative medicine. I grumble putting on my shoes. Last night I met up with an old friend on a couch-y patio. Within twenty minutes I felt my wire brain start to uncrinkle. This has been a big year for old friends. They mean so much to me, it turns out. Folks who have been there, even if in the nosebleeds, for all the eras. I worried we wouldn't have enough to talk about, but a blinked and realized I was running late for my friend's standup show. I sat alone at the back right high top munching a flatbread and laughing loud and proud. She was incredible! The excitement I felt, watching a shooting star, jetted me all the way home.

I had such a beautiful day Wednesday too. Morning dance, coffee with my writers' group, working diligently, an afternoon picket shift with two gals who clicked. Monday I went to the beach and got good news. Tuesday I saw a different friend's remarkable show at ___, went down the street after with an improv guy from ten years ago. I've felt so lonely most of my artist career. A psychic told me last week, I am meant to do things alone. She is right. We can only be the artists we are.

Iced Coffee, JFK Airport

The wait for Dunkin wrapped around the entire food court at 7:15. But I had time. At the front I asked for a medium iced coffee with cream, in a hot cup. I always ask for iced coffee in a hot cup because paper decomposes and plastic doesn't. Some places (the adorable cafe in Henne's neighborhood where I ate a black and white cookie and millionaire shortbread) don't mind at all. Other people insist what I'm asking is insane. I would classify the cashier at the JFK Dunkin as the latter. I was very aware of the family grumbling behind me, but I couldn't help myself when she held up a plastic cup and said, "No" over and over, I had to say, "Why?" over and over. Finally she pulled someone over to ask, and he was like, "Yeah who cares?" The whole thing was so overdramatic they forgot to charge me, and when I protested they just shuffled me away holding my paper bagel bag and victory cup.

At my gate I sat on a high top while the rest of the Group D mongrels swarmed the door. A couple about my age walked by, and I felt my senses heighten when they stopped a few feet from me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them staring at me. I slyly checked my underwear wasn't sticking out, but beyond that couldn't guess what might be so interesting. I heard the girl mutter, "I'm gonna be my mom" before trotting over. "Excuse me!" she twinkled, "But where is the Dunkin Donuts?" I pointed her back and left. She smiled and went on her way.

Everybody here wanted somethin' more / searchin' for a sound we hadn't heard before.