And overall, not a bad week.
The short film script of my short story "My Panda" adapted by Paul, was named second runner up in the CAPE digital shorts contest. Prize: $100 and a mentor. The mentor is the cool part.
As a balance, my first rejection arrived (from Shenandoah) for an essay I recently submitted. Rejection is of course not the preferred outcome, but the comfort comes from the fact that it is evidence that I actually printed a dozen copies and wrote a dozen cover letters and put them in envelopes, and put those envelopes in the mail. Yea, me.
The other night I went to hear a writer speak at the Writer's Guild, and met a guy who knows a guy who runs a meditation session on Sundays. I've been looking for a place to go periodically, to encourage my own practice, which suffers without present reminders, so that seems like a nice piece of serendipity. The other thing is that I've wanted it to be nearby... a little shallow, but like with yoga and acupuncture, I'm kind of over things that are de-stressors, but involve so much traffic and logistics that they become stressors. So this one is NOT nearby, but it seems very close to Paul's parents house, and when his mom is in town, we often try to visit her on Sundays, so this might be a nice convergence. The man has a website with talks that you can stream, and I listened to the first one today as I folded laundry and was quite pleased. Just the recorded talk recalled to me the mindset that I have had in the past about finding time each day to "sit." And so I did so today. That's a little like winning a prize. too.
And tonight at poker, I didn't lose. In fact, Paul came in 4th and I came in third, 10% and 15% of the total pot respectively, so we made a profit of $60 over our buy-ins, so that was very cool, although in the scheme of all combined poker nights, we are still down by $60. However, I would never have thought that far back, Paul calculated that.
Oh, AND my new laptop arrived. It is very nice. It has glowing keys so that I can wake up in the middle of the night and type something that occurs to me, and it has a battery life that is insanely longer than my old laptop's battery. I went to two industry panels this morning and didn't even have to sit in the back by the outlets.
And, you know, I live in a nice place, in a nice neighborhood, and I get enough to eat. I have friends, and Netflix, and family. I'm quite privileged in many ways. And I have the opportunity in my life to try to make things better for others. I'm a pretty lucky girl, and I'm thankful. I don't know where that came from, just how I was feeling all the sudden.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Processing
Paul and I have discussed it, and come to the conclusion that with the fast-approaching birthday, we're going to stop our fertility related activities...not ALL of them, but the extracurricular ones. The monthly blood tests and ultrasounds, weekly acupuncture appointments and ceramic pots of Chinese herb teas. To be honest, we've only been doing a half-assed job in recent months anyhow. And I guess by we, I mean me, since I'm the one who needs to make the appointments, get to the appointments, eat the right things, make the right things, drink the right things at the right times.
And I'm feeling, it's just too hard, and too expensive, and I did this once, with the diet and the meditation and the positive thinking, and it was good, but it was a full time job, and I had the time and the money and what else was I going to do in the middle of the Australian Outback anyway, and even with all of that, it was still hard. This time around, I just don't have it in me, I don't have the sense of hope in me that I had then, and I feel like I'm already trying to do something impossible with the whole writing, working in LA thing. I felt alone in my project the first time around, and I feel doubly so now, surrounded by all this aspiration and lifestyle. And impossible things take so much more commitment that impossible things, you can't really pick two. Picking two just means you get torn apart and fail at both. At least that's how I feel right now.
So I told my wonderful but not really affordable acupuncturist that we were giving up, and end up crying, and crying for forty minutes on the table in the darkened room, and crying as I got dressed. And then I went and bought shoes. And now I'm crying while I write this, crying and writing this using the time that of course has been set aside for other things, like my thesis script
But soon it will feel better, I hope, and I'll be back to enjoying my life, which I do, very much, and maybe I won't feel like such a failure on so many counts, and I'll quit blaming myself for never liking baby dolls or Barbies and thus sending the wrong message into the universe at a young age. Soon it will feel like the right kind of acceptance and everything will be easier. Maybe.
And I'm feeling, it's just too hard, and too expensive, and I did this once, with the diet and the meditation and the positive thinking, and it was good, but it was a full time job, and I had the time and the money and what else was I going to do in the middle of the Australian Outback anyway, and even with all of that, it was still hard. This time around, I just don't have it in me, I don't have the sense of hope in me that I had then, and I feel like I'm already trying to do something impossible with the whole writing, working in LA thing. I felt alone in my project the first time around, and I feel doubly so now, surrounded by all this aspiration and lifestyle. And impossible things take so much more commitment that impossible things, you can't really pick two. Picking two just means you get torn apart and fail at both. At least that's how I feel right now.
So I told my wonderful but not really affordable acupuncturist that we were giving up, and end up crying, and crying for forty minutes on the table in the darkened room, and crying as I got dressed. And then I went and bought shoes. And now I'm crying while I write this, crying and writing this using the time that of course has been set aside for other things, like my thesis script
But soon it will feel better, I hope, and I'll be back to enjoying my life, which I do, very much, and maybe I won't feel like such a failure on so many counts, and I'll quit blaming myself for never liking baby dolls or Barbies and thus sending the wrong message into the universe at a young age. Soon it will feel like the right kind of acceptance and everything will be easier. Maybe.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
More Angels
"ABC is close to giving a pilot order to a modern version of the classic 1970s TV actioner "Charlie's Angels."
When I read the opening line in this Variety article,my first instinct was to punch a wall. Like many others, I'm quickly feeling over-saturated by the seemingly constant stream of adaptations of properties that in many cases were pretty cheesy the first time around. The desire to make profits in the easiest way possible by capitalizing on "brand familiarity" of anything with legs long enough to hobble is just so nakedly transparent that it gives me the "icks." At the same time, I get it, I totally sympathize with being risk averse when it comes to money. Still, I yearn for a little heroism sometimes.
But then, I continued to read
"Josh Friedman, who recently adapted the "Terminator" franchise for his Fox series "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles," is onboard to write and exec produce the new "Angels."
and I felt better. Because, although I wasn't a loyal viewer, I thought the Sarah Connor Chronicles was interesting, and I felt bad for the creative team when it got canceled. So I think, maybe there could be something there. Strong female characters maybe? Who have complex lives and/or inner lives? It could be kind of dark and interesting, like the first season of Alias...or, the Sarah Connor chronicles. Who IS Charlie? And do they really know they're working for the good guys?
Also in questionable-gender-politics entertainment news, Dollhouse has been cancelled. Sad, it was getting much better. But maybe some of the dolls can get jobs as angels.
When I read the opening line in this Variety article,my first instinct was to punch a wall. Like many others, I'm quickly feeling over-saturated by the seemingly constant stream of adaptations of properties that in many cases were pretty cheesy the first time around. The desire to make profits in the easiest way possible by capitalizing on "brand familiarity" of anything with legs long enough to hobble is just so nakedly transparent that it gives me the "icks." At the same time, I get it, I totally sympathize with being risk averse when it comes to money. Still, I yearn for a little heroism sometimes.
But then, I continued to read
"Josh Friedman, who recently adapted the "Terminator" franchise for his Fox series "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles," is onboard to write and exec produce the new "Angels."
and I felt better. Because, although I wasn't a loyal viewer, I thought the Sarah Connor Chronicles was interesting, and I felt bad for the creative team when it got canceled. So I think, maybe there could be something there. Strong female characters maybe? Who have complex lives and/or inner lives? It could be kind of dark and interesting, like the first season of Alias...or, the Sarah Connor chronicles. Who IS Charlie? And do they really know they're working for the good guys?
Also in questionable-gender-politics entertainment news, Dollhouse has been cancelled. Sad, it was getting much better. But maybe some of the dolls can get jobs as angels.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Upcoming Farewell
I so desperately love my little 12-inch Mac Powerbook. But I am not posting from it today. As of yesterday, whenever I try to access any internet-related applications, it provokes the spinning ball of death icon, and I am forced to do a hard shut down. I am going to the "Genius Bar" tomorrow to see what can be done, but I know the sad truth is that a lap-top generally has a life-span of two to three years, and I've had this one for about four years. I had it for the length of my first MFA, and the first year of this one... so I guess you could say I learned to write on that computer.
I'd like to think that it is trying to help my writing in other ways, by severely curtailing my internet related activities. But I am not unaware that even isolated spinning ball icons seldom bode well for longevity.
I don't like the shiny-screened laptops I see at the Apple store, with their no click thumb pads. And I also feel guilty thinking about it. I have a tendency to vaguely anthropamorphize inanimate objects, and currently I entertain a paranoia that my laptop, which sits across the room, knows what I am typing here, that it knows I am contemplating its replacement before it is even gone.
I'd like to think that it is trying to help my writing in other ways, by severely curtailing my internet related activities. But I am not unaware that even isolated spinning ball icons seldom bode well for longevity.
I don't like the shiny-screened laptops I see at the Apple store, with their no click thumb pads. And I also feel guilty thinking about it. I have a tendency to vaguely anthropamorphize inanimate objects, and currently I entertain a paranoia that my laptop, which sits across the room, knows what I am typing here, that it knows I am contemplating its replacement before it is even gone.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tightropes
I woke up this morning thinking about how soon after I was first diagnosed with cancer, I went to see a lecture by Buddhist teacher Soygal Rinpoche. He gave us a visualization to work with that was about a Buddha floating over your head, who poured a kind of golden elixir that would enter the top of your head and slowly fill up your entire body, (kind of like a plastic honey bear). He told a story of a woman who was trying to find healing, and so she carried this visualization into her life. When she took a shower she imagined it was the golden elixir that washed over her and healed her, when she breathed the air, it was a golden air that entered her body and healed her. When I was sick, and since then, I have tried to work with idea. When I eat food, I take a mental moment to be thankful “for this food which nourishes and heals me.” It is hard to do sometimes, when I think I am eating poor quality food—which is easy to think, because when I researched about the causality of cancer, so much information about our food is bad news: Pesticides on the plants, antibiotics in the meats, mercury in the fish, toxins in the water etc. So I try to choose the best quality food I can, when I can--organic, healthful, prepared well is optimal. But at the same time, it’s not always convenient or possible and I don’t want to categorize half the world as poisonous to me—even if it is. Because I do believe our thoughts can help or hinder us in a search for balance and health.
It becomes a mental tightrope to have good thoughts and yet not ignore reality completely. This is not unlike living with the likelihood of disease. What is the phrase? Live like you will die tomorrow but plan like you will live forever? If I plan to live forever, of course I should be in school now. I will have forever to reap the enjoyment of writing, and to pay off the loans. If I was to die tomorrow, then I probably should skip it. Part of the enjoyment of a project like grad school comes from the idea of a goal at the end, if I knew I’d never reach that goal, then certainly I would just spend the last day goofing off with family, maybe writing a farewell note to friends—which is the kind of stuff you should do anyway, which of course is what the saying means to begin with. You should not neglect spending time with family, you should tell people what they mean to you. And yet, if you are going to live longer, then your friends will eventually get tired of farewell notes delivered everyday, they would like to plan a camping trip next summer or dinner and a movie next week. In everyday life, we are wired fro the future.
And then, what about the in-between land that the saying conveniently ignores? None of us will live forever, and very few will die tomorrow. Especially in the life of a cancer survivor, one is more often faced with the dilemma of “How do you live like you will die in five years?” Should I set aside worldly considerations, or do I gamble that maybe in that time I might achieve some small portion of what I’d hope to achieve in my life. Many poets and musicians die young, and if they had known, and decided to chuck the whole artistic enterprise because of that, the world would be poorer for it. (Although they might have lived longer after all, because often the art itself seems to be one of the main stressors). But to embrace this ‘cram it all in” philosophy, is like living an accelerated version of what is already our modern day stressful lifestyle.
For me, I guess the pole that I hold on to for balance, as I walk my tightrope, is gratitude. It is easy to be grateful for one day, or for more. One can be equally grateful for frozen pizza covered in salicates, or an eight-dollar, all organic green drink. I can be grateful for the air, even when it’s smoggy, and grateful for my loved ones, even when they’re pissy. This does not make me unaware of the differences between things, it doesn’t remove the obligation to make decisions. It simply changes the emphasis, and in some way that is hard to explain, that changes everything.
It becomes a mental tightrope to have good thoughts and yet not ignore reality completely. This is not unlike living with the likelihood of disease. What is the phrase? Live like you will die tomorrow but plan like you will live forever? If I plan to live forever, of course I should be in school now. I will have forever to reap the enjoyment of writing, and to pay off the loans. If I was to die tomorrow, then I probably should skip it. Part of the enjoyment of a project like grad school comes from the idea of a goal at the end, if I knew I’d never reach that goal, then certainly I would just spend the last day goofing off with family, maybe writing a farewell note to friends—which is the kind of stuff you should do anyway, which of course is what the saying means to begin with. You should not neglect spending time with family, you should tell people what they mean to you. And yet, if you are going to live longer, then your friends will eventually get tired of farewell notes delivered everyday, they would like to plan a camping trip next summer or dinner and a movie next week. In everyday life, we are wired fro the future.
And then, what about the in-between land that the saying conveniently ignores? None of us will live forever, and very few will die tomorrow. Especially in the life of a cancer survivor, one is more often faced with the dilemma of “How do you live like you will die in five years?” Should I set aside worldly considerations, or do I gamble that maybe in that time I might achieve some small portion of what I’d hope to achieve in my life. Many poets and musicians die young, and if they had known, and decided to chuck the whole artistic enterprise because of that, the world would be poorer for it. (Although they might have lived longer after all, because often the art itself seems to be one of the main stressors). But to embrace this ‘cram it all in” philosophy, is like living an accelerated version of what is already our modern day stressful lifestyle.
For me, I guess the pole that I hold on to for balance, as I walk my tightrope, is gratitude. It is easy to be grateful for one day, or for more. One can be equally grateful for frozen pizza covered in salicates, or an eight-dollar, all organic green drink. I can be grateful for the air, even when it’s smoggy, and grateful for my loved ones, even when they’re pissy. This does not make me unaware of the differences between things, it doesn’t remove the obligation to make decisions. It simply changes the emphasis, and in some way that is hard to explain, that changes everything.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Changes...as Evidenced by Sidebar
For the past few years, my sidebar has been populated by people I actually knew in the real world. For a while had even a 'blog circle" of sorts, which was fun. But, time has passed, for various reasons, professional and personal, these folks have either given up blogging or "privatized" their blogs. I still read them, but, sadly, you can't.
So I thought I'd recommend a few folks I have on my RSS feed.
New on my sidebar you can find "Julia Sweeney," "johnaugust.com," and 'Everyday I Write the Book." These are not friends of mine, in cyberspace or in real life. They are just folks who write about things that interest me in ways that interest me. If I could pick a commonality between them, a screenwriter in L.A., a mother of four in Utah, and an actor/writer/performer/mother/cancer experiencer now living in Chicago, it would be that they all have a kind of passionate and diligent interest in the world around them--the things they see, read, experience really engages them. They all do the life things they would be doing anyway, but they take the time to record it, to share their perspectives on it (and John August is also a great instructor and resource.)
I've also had to delete some links in the "Other Things by Me" section. This was a little sad, my little accomplishments faded into the past and disappeared. Our domain rights to Paul Eats has expired, and it seems time to face the fact that I will probably never go back to Australia and write the sequel restaurant guide, so I think we're going to let it lapse and quit paying monthly server fees too. The economy you know. Enough time has now passed the the publisher no longer lists the book, so that too is gone. The documentation of the summer I spent doing dance with disABLED kids in the desert has also disappeared. What's left is three links, and the two that actually link to my writing are things I wrote awhile ago before all this "writing school" business. I so hope that after the investment of years and dollars, that I write better than this now, though on my more insecure days I'm not at all sure this is the case.
So I thought I'd recommend a few folks I have on my RSS feed.
New on my sidebar you can find "Julia Sweeney," "johnaugust.com," and 'Everyday I Write the Book." These are not friends of mine, in cyberspace or in real life. They are just folks who write about things that interest me in ways that interest me. If I could pick a commonality between them, a screenwriter in L.A., a mother of four in Utah, and an actor/writer/performer/mother/cancer experiencer now living in Chicago, it would be that they all have a kind of passionate and diligent interest in the world around them--the things they see, read, experience really engages them. They all do the life things they would be doing anyway, but they take the time to record it, to share their perspectives on it (and John August is also a great instructor and resource.)
I've also had to delete some links in the "Other Things by Me" section. This was a little sad, my little accomplishments faded into the past and disappeared. Our domain rights to Paul Eats has expired, and it seems time to face the fact that I will probably never go back to Australia and write the sequel restaurant guide, so I think we're going to let it lapse and quit paying monthly server fees too. The economy you know. Enough time has now passed the the publisher no longer lists the book, so that too is gone. The documentation of the summer I spent doing dance with disABLED kids in the desert has also disappeared. What's left is three links, and the two that actually link to my writing are things I wrote awhile ago before all this "writing school" business. I so hope that after the investment of years and dollars, that I write better than this now, though on my more insecure days I'm not at all sure this is the case.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Blog Blahs
Today I took a look at my sidebar for the first time in a while, and discovered over half my links are defunct. That's lame. Also noticed that for the year 2009, I have to date 70 posts, which is down from every year since I started this blog...
Either of these things might be telling me something about my life right now, but tonight it's too late to think about it.
Either of these things might be telling me something about my life right now, but tonight it's too late to think about it.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Sexy Food
This morning I was reading a blog and the author was talking about food porn--
"There's all this music and close ups of cutting and fingers wiping off knives, and it's not for any real reason - it's not to show a technique or anything, it's just to get you all hyped up, if y'know what I mean..."
--And I started to think about food porn and also real porn. My impression, from the few people I know who openly talk about their porn-watching habits, is that it seems to actually result in having less "real" sex with others, significant or otherwise (granted my sample pool is limited). However, I just asked Paul, and he gave me an example of someone who has (and displays in his home) a fair amount of porn, AND has a lot of sex. Paul points out that it depends on whether the porn is just a supplement to your lifestyle, or a substitute for a lifestyle.
But what I was really getting to is that I was wondering about food porn and eating habits. I've never read or seen anyone commenting on what food shows do in terms of j our appetites. Do we eat more? or less? do we aspire to eat better food?
I continued to think about this when a friend came over for "TV night" and we watched an old episode of Iron Chef and the most recent Top Chef. I enjoy seeing and hearing about all the pretty food, but it rarely makes me want to run to McDonalds or the nearest French restaurant. But I might be a bad test subject, as, even though I like to eat, I have always had voyeuristic tendencies in the food realm. When I was in hospital in Melbourne and couldn't eat for a week, Paul used to go to restaurants and eat exotic cuisine, then come back and recite menu items and their descriptions. it was oddly comforting, and I don't recall feeling sad I couldn't actually eat the food. Granted, I had a few other things on my mind, like wanting to not die.
And, as with the porn, I just asked Paul how his food network viewing affects him, and he says it does make him want to eat. But he notes that he already had a "food-centric world view." He's definitely someone for whom anything food related would simply be a supplement to an already established lifestyle. He notes that food shows make him want, in particular, better food and different food, that the food he sees has an aspirational quality.
Whereas I look and think "interesting, avocado puree, but you know what, just this plain avocado is pretty darn good."
Does this reveal too much about my attitudes toward sex?
"There's all this music and close ups of cutting and fingers wiping off knives, and it's not for any real reason - it's not to show a technique or anything, it's just to get you all hyped up, if y'know what I mean..."
--And I started to think about food porn and also real porn. My impression, from the few people I know who openly talk about their porn-watching habits, is that it seems to actually result in having less "real" sex with others, significant or otherwise (granted my sample pool is limited). However, I just asked Paul, and he gave me an example of someone who has (and displays in his home) a fair amount of porn, AND has a lot of sex. Paul points out that it depends on whether the porn is just a supplement to your lifestyle, or a substitute for a lifestyle.
But what I was really getting to is that I was wondering about food porn and eating habits. I've never read or seen anyone commenting on what food shows do in terms of j our appetites. Do we eat more? or less? do we aspire to eat better food?
I continued to think about this when a friend came over for "TV night" and we watched an old episode of Iron Chef and the most recent Top Chef. I enjoy seeing and hearing about all the pretty food, but it rarely makes me want to run to McDonalds or the nearest French restaurant. But I might be a bad test subject, as, even though I like to eat, I have always had voyeuristic tendencies in the food realm. When I was in hospital in Melbourne and couldn't eat for a week, Paul used to go to restaurants and eat exotic cuisine, then come back and recite menu items and their descriptions. it was oddly comforting, and I don't recall feeling sad I couldn't actually eat the food. Granted, I had a few other things on my mind, like wanting to not die.
And, as with the porn, I just asked Paul how his food network viewing affects him, and he says it does make him want to eat. But he notes that he already had a "food-centric world view." He's definitely someone for whom anything food related would simply be a supplement to an already established lifestyle. He notes that food shows make him want, in particular, better food and different food, that the food he sees has an aspirational quality.
Whereas I look and think "interesting, avocado puree, but you know what, just this plain avocado is pretty darn good."
Does this reveal too much about my attitudes toward sex?
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Disapproval Flashback
Ran into an old acquaintance today at the gym. She was the producer (I think) on a job where I was a P.A. over a decade ago. She has a kind of merry gleam to her eye that I remembered right away when I saw her, even though I didn’t recall her name. Seeing her I felt a kind of down-to-earth vibe I didn't notice when we met before. Because of this vibe, in the present, it was cool to see her, but at the same time, our chance meeting had another effect on me.
It made me recall a job that I have always felt vaguely ashamed of. I’m not sure “ashamed” is the right word, and I don’t know if I can even articulate exactly why.
I was in awe of the director, who was a “big name,” at least to me. He was the kind of guy who might say anything he was thinking about, and I was not that kind of person, at least with him. I remember myself as being mostly nervous and tongue-tied around him and the other “higher-ups” on the job. They shared this kind of relaxed, boisterous camaraderie that I couldn’t pull off, and I guess, as a P.A. didn't feel it was my place to.
The job involved a lot of driving and fetching. I had then, as I have now, a terrible sense of direction. Looking back I can’t believe I didn't cop to this immediately, but I must have really wanted the job. When I drove him places, he could immediately tell I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but he didn’t have me fired. I don’t recall any specific mistakes in setting up equipment or fetching things, but I recall feeling like I disappointed the folks who hired me, maybe because the real job was just to get along with this guy.
So the net result of all of this is, that after thirteen years, after having produced my own shows, lived in the outback, battled cancer, there is this little—maybe not even little—part of me that still wants to redeem myself for being a crappy P.A. one summer, to explain…what? That I wouldn’t be a crappy P.A. now? I think I might be worse. That I’m a different person? I’d like to believe that in some ways, I am. I'm a little braver, I throw more of myself on the table. And yet, a happenstance interaction like seeing someone at a yoga class brings home the fact maybe I haven't changed as much as I would like to think. I still wrestle with a lot of the same demons. I’m scared of being a failure, I’m scared of writing or doing or saying something and having people who seem to know more than me think that it’s bad. I’m afraid of disapproval.
And I know deep inside myself that my fear is the thing most likely to make something I write or do bad. Sometimes I think I should try to build up my tolerance to disapproval. I should go to parties and pick my nose. I should fart loudly in elevators. If you see me in a restaurant, and I’m brushing my dandruff into someone’s soup—you’ll know what I’m up to. Of course I’m telling you now in the hope that if you know why, you won’t disapprove so much, which defeats the purpose of the exercise.
It made me recall a job that I have always felt vaguely ashamed of. I’m not sure “ashamed” is the right word, and I don’t know if I can even articulate exactly why.
I was in awe of the director, who was a “big name,” at least to me. He was the kind of guy who might say anything he was thinking about, and I was not that kind of person, at least with him. I remember myself as being mostly nervous and tongue-tied around him and the other “higher-ups” on the job. They shared this kind of relaxed, boisterous camaraderie that I couldn’t pull off, and I guess, as a P.A. didn't feel it was my place to.
The job involved a lot of driving and fetching. I had then, as I have now, a terrible sense of direction. Looking back I can’t believe I didn't cop to this immediately, but I must have really wanted the job. When I drove him places, he could immediately tell I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but he didn’t have me fired. I don’t recall any specific mistakes in setting up equipment or fetching things, but I recall feeling like I disappointed the folks who hired me, maybe because the real job was just to get along with this guy.
So the net result of all of this is, that after thirteen years, after having produced my own shows, lived in the outback, battled cancer, there is this little—maybe not even little—part of me that still wants to redeem myself for being a crappy P.A. one summer, to explain…what? That I wouldn’t be a crappy P.A. now? I think I might be worse. That I’m a different person? I’d like to believe that in some ways, I am. I'm a little braver, I throw more of myself on the table. And yet, a happenstance interaction like seeing someone at a yoga class brings home the fact maybe I haven't changed as much as I would like to think. I still wrestle with a lot of the same demons. I’m scared of being a failure, I’m scared of writing or doing or saying something and having people who seem to know more than me think that it’s bad. I’m afraid of disapproval.
And I know deep inside myself that my fear is the thing most likely to make something I write or do bad. Sometimes I think I should try to build up my tolerance to disapproval. I should go to parties and pick my nose. I should fart loudly in elevators. If you see me in a restaurant, and I’m brushing my dandruff into someone’s soup—you’ll know what I’m up to. Of course I’m telling you now in the hope that if you know why, you won’t disapprove so much, which defeats the purpose of the exercise.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Two Things That Kind of Weird Me Out
1) Most of the time I don't think much about it, but then sometimes it just strikes me as crazy that I bleed on a monthly basis. The whole idea of "monthly" and cycles and ovulation etc makes a lot of sense on paper, but then, sometimes I just look down and think "fuck, I'm bleeding."
2) It's also weird how my body, when it's cold, cannot gauge temperature with any accuracy at all. Like if my feet are very cold, then the water in the tub feels extremely hot, so then I turn on the cold water and put my foot under that and it still feels warm. And then my hands aren't much better. If you are in a situation where you are very cold, I assume hot water is best to bring up your temperature, and that it won't really burn your skin like it feels like it is because it's not really that hot. But then, if you are cold enough, couldn't someone trick you into getting into scalding water? You'd have to assume it wasn't that hot, because you can't trust your senses. I hope no one ever tries to kill me by tricking me into climbing into a vat of near-boiling water.
2) It's also weird how my body, when it's cold, cannot gauge temperature with any accuracy at all. Like if my feet are very cold, then the water in the tub feels extremely hot, so then I turn on the cold water and put my foot under that and it still feels warm. And then my hands aren't much better. If you are in a situation where you are very cold, I assume hot water is best to bring up your temperature, and that it won't really burn your skin like it feels like it is because it's not really that hot. But then, if you are cold enough, couldn't someone trick you into getting into scalding water? You'd have to assume it wasn't that hot, because you can't trust your senses. I hope no one ever tries to kill me by tricking me into climbing into a vat of near-boiling water.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Alone in the House
Today was a good day. I was up around 8am. On to real writing work (not emails or facebook) by 8:30, and managed to forge through six or so relatively focused hours of work by 3:30. Then I went outside while the sun was still out, which I failed to do yesterday. Tonight I took myself to see Bright Starat the nearby movie theatre, the Regency on Beverly and Fairfas, which I had not been to since the first time I lived in L.A. The theatre is 79 years old, and has a leaky roof, so is perhaps not the best choice for a rainy evening, but this evening was clear and balmy, and so it was a fine choice, and several bucks cheaper than the other options.
After the movie, I decided to try the "Open Late" Benito's taco shop across the way. I ordered the veggie burrito, because I often order that at Mexican restaurants, and so is the best standard gauge. Verdict on this particular one is that it tasted almost like a slightly better and four times large seven-layer burrito at Taco Bell. But I have feeling veggie burritos are not their forte, and someday (not soon) may try their taquitos or special tamales.
It is interesting to observe the things I do when I am alone. Paul is in Atlanta visiting a friend. My first night on my own, I relished having control over the large screen computer, and allowed myself to watch Friday Night Lights from 7pm to 2am. On Sunday, I paid for my excesses with a late start on the writing, and the task of writing in a light romantic comedy tone, with FNL characters talking in my brain. It did not come easy, and I was far from happy with the results. I did not finish my assignments or leave the house until after dark. I was walking to the Subway at almost 8pm when I realized I had been due at my sister's house for dinner an hour and a half before. So bad writing and bad food combined to sour my spirits a little, although I did watch The Jazz Singer, a Netflix movie that had been holding up the queue for a month.
And then, today, a nice return to moderation.
But almost all of my choices, from the fish and chips shop on Friday night, to a trip to Manhattan Beach and 9 hours of TV on Saturday, to hours of writing the last couple days, are choices I would have much less likely made with Paul. I enjoy living with my husband, and I miss him when he is gone. But it is interesting to see the person that I revert to being when I am on my own for a period of time.
After the movie, I decided to try the "Open Late" Benito's taco shop across the way. I ordered the veggie burrito, because I often order that at Mexican restaurants, and so is the best standard gauge. Verdict on this particular one is that it tasted almost like a slightly better and four times large seven-layer burrito at Taco Bell. But I have feeling veggie burritos are not their forte, and someday (not soon) may try their taquitos or special tamales.
It is interesting to observe the things I do when I am alone. Paul is in Atlanta visiting a friend. My first night on my own, I relished having control over the large screen computer, and allowed myself to watch Friday Night Lights from 7pm to 2am. On Sunday, I paid for my excesses with a late start on the writing, and the task of writing in a light romantic comedy tone, with FNL characters talking in my brain. It did not come easy, and I was far from happy with the results. I did not finish my assignments or leave the house until after dark. I was walking to the Subway at almost 8pm when I realized I had been due at my sister's house for dinner an hour and a half before. So bad writing and bad food combined to sour my spirits a little, although I did watch The Jazz Singer, a Netflix movie that had been holding up the queue for a month.
And then, today, a nice return to moderation.
But almost all of my choices, from the fish and chips shop on Friday night, to a trip to Manhattan Beach and 9 hours of TV on Saturday, to hours of writing the last couple days, are choices I would have much less likely made with Paul. I enjoy living with my husband, and I miss him when he is gone. But it is interesting to see the person that I revert to being when I am on my own for a period of time.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Two New Things That Irritate Me
1) When people pronounce "jargon" like "jar gone" with the emphasis on the back half. Is this actually the correct pronunciation and I've just not known? It sounds pretentious.
2) When people in public restrooms use the paper seat covers on the toilet and then leave them there. This is basically saying, "I cannot abide to have my ass touch where you've put your ass. But I don't mind you having to touch - with your hands - the paper where I've put my ass."
2) When people in public restrooms use the paper seat covers on the toilet and then leave them there. This is basically saying, "I cannot abide to have my ass touch where you've put your ass. But I don't mind you having to touch - with your hands - the paper where I've put my ass."
Friday, October 09, 2009
Things That Keep Me Away from My Blog
1) Other writing. Or is it guilt about other writing? Largely, I feel that if I am at my computer, I should be working on one of the several scripts with December deadlines.
Yesterday, I signed my first official writing contract, and it was SCARY. It's for a woman who's in the producing program at our school, and their thesis is comprised of developing or procuring a feature length script and packaging it for shopping around. I don't know how much I've mentioned before, but she has optioned a novel by a Vietnamese author, which is being adapted by myself and and another woman, T. Right now, the bulk of the burden falls on T to produce pages from our outline (since they can both read the novel, which has not been translated, and I can't.) But sometime in mid-November, the first draft will arrive on my desk, and I'll have just under a month to do revising and rewriting. The first falls in the category of not that bad, but, as I am finding out right now in my "rewrite" class, a solid rewrite can be almost as involved as the first write.
So, anyway, often I WANT to blog, but feel I NEED to write.
2)Subject matter. I have certain things that been weighing on my mind, but I haven't wanted to infringe on the privacy of others...always an issue with a blog, and one that makes me occasionally consider the "private blog"--one of the blogs I read with regularity has recently gone private--or the "live-journal" where you also basically have a subscriber only readership. But as I have said before, if this blog is my own little "witness to the world," and I assume that my own issues are ones that others can relate to...what am I trying to say here?...that, although often I am just venting or talking about my own life, I am also an example of someone trying to grapple with underlying dilemmas...For instance, my reports about my writing work also touch on "bigger" issues of living with insecurity and vulnerability and the challenges of trying to live a creative life and a balanced life and a good life and how to commit to the path one has chosen and live with the fact that one isn't devoting equal time to family or friends or saving starving or abused children or protesting for political freedoms and equality, or simply that having committed, one might still just suck...And of course it's about me striving to be successful and feel worthwhile in my life...but I think that's got some universality too, right?
So, on the one hand, if I'm really talking about these things, I shouldn't need to have a privacy shield in order to name the names of people who piss me off on that journey...on the other hand...there is a lot to be said for specificity in writing. A specific situation involving specific people is always more interesting and affecting that abstract discussions about abstract notions. And there is also the journal component to this blog. When I'm old and break my hip for the first time, I may want to lie in bed and re-read these posts...and I imagine I'll be frustrated if I look at some vague, disguised post, and wonder "What the fuck was I talking about?"
But, for the moment, and if I don't have time to blog, I certainly don't have time to shop for and develop a whole new publishing scheme. So here's less than perfectly framed example of what's been on my mind.
I've recently had to make a decision in a friendship to tell a friend something awkward, in the family of things about people that drive everyone crazy, but no one wants to tell them. Like when someone apologizes constantly, has a vocal tic (like saying "you know" so much you want to stab them in the eye) or wears far too much perfume. These kind of situations are really difficult for me, because the habit has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of person underneath, and yet it creates a circumstance where the person is treated differently and they don't even realize that some people are avoiding them, or keeping a distance socially for this reason.
But you (I) don't want to say anything for fear that a) the person might be mortally offended, and/or you will feel like a rude asshole, and/or they might not have the ability or desire to fix the situation, and then you've just made them feel bad for no good result.
And you (I) wonder if anyone has ever said anything to the person before, because obviously people do complain when the person isn't there. In general I have come the conclusion that they haven't. And won't. We really, really, avoid these kinds of conflicts as much as possible. Maybe not everyone. But I , and the people I know, do. Is it because I know so many writers and academics? Is it because I know so many white-like, middle-class people?
I want more "rude" people in my life. More people who, if I am doing something annoying, will say, "When you say the word actually, it drives me bonkers. It drives everyone bonkers, and if you want, as a friend, every time you do it, I could just slap you upside the head until you get over it."
I'm digressing--but it pertains, so I'll say that that last example is from my own life. I had a work situation several years ago, where, for a couple of months I shared a one room office with three other women. Much of my job, as a coordinator, was arranging things over the phone. Apparently, I'd acquired the habit of saying "actually" a lot. I didn't realize it until one of the women was traveling and asked me to download something from her inbox, and I happened to see an email to another co-worker in the office, discussing that fact in a kind of mean-spirited way. I've no doubt that there were other issues as well, but this particular one could have been resolved quicker if people had chosen to be rude but kind, instead of "polite" but mean. And perhaps from that we might have had an entirely different dynamic in the office for the months we were together, which frankly, were somewhat miserable ones for me in terms of work. Fortunately, the reaction I received there did not extend to my outside life, or other jobs that I had before or after...Of course, after, I purged "actually" from my speech patterns with a vengeance, which I think was an improvement, and so, despite the way I found out, I have always been weirdly grateful to the women who wrote the email for that.
So, to wrap up the anonymous story that began this whole chain of thought, after some deliberation and feet-dragging, I composed an email to my friend with unspecified habit (this could be point 3 of why I haven't taken time to blog, because such emails are slow and tortuous to compose), then gritted my teeth and sent it.
The result is that the person was very graceful and dignified in their response, and thankful and seemed intent on remedying the habit. I have not seen them in person since the exchange, but we have plans very soon, so I am waiting to see if improvements have been made, and if so, I have very high hopes that it might change this person's relationships with the lots of people. I'm really hoping the friendship grows stronger from this point.
And if I had to make the same choice again...it would be just as difficult! It's difficult in every instance with every person.
3) I had more items for this list, but fear I have come to the end of my blog time, and the outside limits of what a blog length should be...so I will say goodbye for today, to my loyal readers, and to the random passerby who will someday find this post by googling "too much perfume."
Yesterday, I signed my first official writing contract, and it was SCARY. It's for a woman who's in the producing program at our school, and their thesis is comprised of developing or procuring a feature length script and packaging it for shopping around. I don't know how much I've mentioned before, but she has optioned a novel by a Vietnamese author, which is being adapted by myself and and another woman, T. Right now, the bulk of the burden falls on T to produce pages from our outline (since they can both read the novel, which has not been translated, and I can't.) But sometime in mid-November, the first draft will arrive on my desk, and I'll have just under a month to do revising and rewriting. The first falls in the category of not that bad, but, as I am finding out right now in my "rewrite" class, a solid rewrite can be almost as involved as the first write.
So, anyway, often I WANT to blog, but feel I NEED to write.
2)Subject matter. I have certain things that been weighing on my mind, but I haven't wanted to infringe on the privacy of others...always an issue with a blog, and one that makes me occasionally consider the "private blog"--one of the blogs I read with regularity has recently gone private--or the "live-journal" where you also basically have a subscriber only readership. But as I have said before, if this blog is my own little "witness to the world," and I assume that my own issues are ones that others can relate to...what am I trying to say here?...that, although often I am just venting or talking about my own life, I am also an example of someone trying to grapple with underlying dilemmas...For instance, my reports about my writing work also touch on "bigger" issues of living with insecurity and vulnerability and the challenges of trying to live a creative life and a balanced life and a good life and how to commit to the path one has chosen and live with the fact that one isn't devoting equal time to family or friends or saving starving or abused children or protesting for political freedoms and equality, or simply that having committed, one might still just suck...And of course it's about me striving to be successful and feel worthwhile in my life...but I think that's got some universality too, right?
So, on the one hand, if I'm really talking about these things, I shouldn't need to have a privacy shield in order to name the names of people who piss me off on that journey...on the other hand...there is a lot to be said for specificity in writing. A specific situation involving specific people is always more interesting and affecting that abstract discussions about abstract notions. And there is also the journal component to this blog. When I'm old and break my hip for the first time, I may want to lie in bed and re-read these posts...and I imagine I'll be frustrated if I look at some vague, disguised post, and wonder "What the fuck was I talking about?"
But, for the moment, and if I don't have time to blog, I certainly don't have time to shop for and develop a whole new publishing scheme. So here's less than perfectly framed example of what's been on my mind.
I've recently had to make a decision in a friendship to tell a friend something awkward, in the family of things about people that drive everyone crazy, but no one wants to tell them. Like when someone apologizes constantly, has a vocal tic (like saying "you know" so much you want to stab them in the eye) or wears far too much perfume. These kind of situations are really difficult for me, because the habit has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of person underneath, and yet it creates a circumstance where the person is treated differently and they don't even realize that some people are avoiding them, or keeping a distance socially for this reason.
But you (I) don't want to say anything for fear that a) the person might be mortally offended, and/or you will feel like a rude asshole, and/or they might not have the ability or desire to fix the situation, and then you've just made them feel bad for no good result.
And you (I) wonder if anyone has ever said anything to the person before, because obviously people do complain when the person isn't there. In general I have come the conclusion that they haven't. And won't. We really, really, avoid these kinds of conflicts as much as possible. Maybe not everyone. But I , and the people I know, do. Is it because I know so many writers and academics? Is it because I know so many white-like, middle-class people?
I want more "rude" people in my life. More people who, if I am doing something annoying, will say, "When you say the word actually, it drives me bonkers. It drives everyone bonkers, and if you want, as a friend, every time you do it, I could just slap you upside the head until you get over it."
I'm digressing--but it pertains, so I'll say that that last example is from my own life. I had a work situation several years ago, where, for a couple of months I shared a one room office with three other women. Much of my job, as a coordinator, was arranging things over the phone. Apparently, I'd acquired the habit of saying "actually" a lot. I didn't realize it until one of the women was traveling and asked me to download something from her inbox, and I happened to see an email to another co-worker in the office, discussing that fact in a kind of mean-spirited way. I've no doubt that there were other issues as well, but this particular one could have been resolved quicker if people had chosen to be rude but kind, instead of "polite" but mean. And perhaps from that we might have had an entirely different dynamic in the office for the months we were together, which frankly, were somewhat miserable ones for me in terms of work. Fortunately, the reaction I received there did not extend to my outside life, or other jobs that I had before or after...Of course, after, I purged "actually" from my speech patterns with a vengeance, which I think was an improvement, and so, despite the way I found out, I have always been weirdly grateful to the women who wrote the email for that.
So, to wrap up the anonymous story that began this whole chain of thought, after some deliberation and feet-dragging, I composed an email to my friend with unspecified habit (this could be point 3 of why I haven't taken time to blog, because such emails are slow and tortuous to compose), then gritted my teeth and sent it.
The result is that the person was very graceful and dignified in their response, and thankful and seemed intent on remedying the habit. I have not seen them in person since the exchange, but we have plans very soon, so I am waiting to see if improvements have been made, and if so, I have very high hopes that it might change this person's relationships with the lots of people. I'm really hoping the friendship grows stronger from this point.
And if I had to make the same choice again...it would be just as difficult! It's difficult in every instance with every person.
3) I had more items for this list, but fear I have come to the end of my blog time, and the outside limits of what a blog length should be...so I will say goodbye for today, to my loyal readers, and to the random passerby who will someday find this post by googling "too much perfume."
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Awake at 6 AM
Not because I have to be. But since I am, I should be writing...things other that this blog. But I'm not. I'm fretting. I'm worrying.
A few days ago--since no real companies seemed willing to come repair the air conditioner that my ambulance chasing handyman left in disrepair for less than the cost of a new air conditioner--I found a guy on Craigslist. He answered his phone, he didn't immediately turn down the job. When I emailed him with details he replied to the email with an estimate and when I set a time he replied to confirm...
All seemed good until I arrived at the address, and he didn't. Ever. I called, and the Sprint customer I was trying to reach didn't answer. I looked up the original add and it had been removed by owner.
I looked more closely at the damage caused by errant drill, and the more I look, the more I realized that even if I get someone to come, they aren't going to be able to solder at that angle. We're going to have to pull it out of the wall...Basically I can see that at the end of all the things I try, I'm probably going to have to buy a new air conditioner and have it installed, conservatively, $500.
And there's our car that's been in the shop all week. Transmission: $2000.
And there's our other car that needs a new radiator. If Paul's brother finds one refurbished and does the labor himself: $500.
No one paying rent on our extra room: $500. A month. I feel the least bad about that, as we've been able to help out various friends and acquaintances, which is a pleasure to do, and in the down time, we enjoy the larger apartment quite a bit, but eventually, we're going to have to downgrade.
How to fix all this? Make more money. My answer used to be "Move to Costa Rica where I don't need much money," but student loan obligations will now follow me to my plan B. How to make more money? Write like hell and sell something.
But I find it hard to write when I'm worried about finding a solution to the *&^ air conditioner.
A few days ago--since no real companies seemed willing to come repair the air conditioner that my ambulance chasing handyman left in disrepair for less than the cost of a new air conditioner--I found a guy on Craigslist. He answered his phone, he didn't immediately turn down the job. When I emailed him with details he replied to the email with an estimate and when I set a time he replied to confirm...
All seemed good until I arrived at the address, and he didn't. Ever. I called, and the Sprint customer I was trying to reach didn't answer. I looked up the original add and it had been removed by owner.
I looked more closely at the damage caused by errant drill, and the more I look, the more I realized that even if I get someone to come, they aren't going to be able to solder at that angle. We're going to have to pull it out of the wall...Basically I can see that at the end of all the things I try, I'm probably going to have to buy a new air conditioner and have it installed, conservatively, $500.
And there's our car that's been in the shop all week. Transmission: $2000.
And there's our other car that needs a new radiator. If Paul's brother finds one refurbished and does the labor himself: $500.
No one paying rent on our extra room: $500. A month. I feel the least bad about that, as we've been able to help out various friends and acquaintances, which is a pleasure to do, and in the down time, we enjoy the larger apartment quite a bit, but eventually, we're going to have to downgrade.
How to fix all this? Make more money. My answer used to be "Move to Costa Rica where I don't need much money," but student loan obligations will now follow me to my plan B. How to make more money? Write like hell and sell something.
But I find it hard to write when I'm worried about finding a solution to the *&^ air conditioner.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I Think Maybe it's Because We're in L.A....
*The billboards suddenly know what day it is. They say "Glee...TONIGHT," then change to say "House...TOMORROW." It's a good idea, I like to watch Glee, but I don't remember what night it's on. Fortunately Paul does, and he sets our Tivo like device to record. But if he didn't, it is quite possible that I would be an excellent advertising target for this kind of timed information. It's better to say "TONIGHT" than, "Thursdays at 8" because truthfully, by the time I'm coming home from school or work, I'm no longer thinking about what day it is. But still, the fact that the billboard IS thinking about it--is kind of creepy.
*My handyman's career aspiration and hobby is crime scene photography. Like paparazzi for crime scenes. He tells me this in his rapid-fire, maybe-I'm-on-coke way as I help him load his van that has a ladder on top and tools inside--along with two video camera's he's just added so he can take video as well as stills.
"Like that police shoot out last year, on Fairfax and Olympic? Remember, they shut down the intersection practically all day? I have probably a hundred pictures, of the bodies, of the detectives bagging evidence..."
"I zip around the scene on my roller blades, that's like my thing, my signature. The cops don't like me much, because I get lots of shots of them, but they can't stop me. It's all legal."
"I've been doing it for five years now. I'm sitting on about 50 thousand photographs. But I haven't sold any yet. I keep sending them to the L.A. Times, but nothing yet. I got lots of pictures of that fire on Pico the other day though, my friend who's an attorney said, if it goes to court, someone's gonna want to buy those pictures. I said,'Well, they're for sale.'"
I look at him, his Wolverine-style salt and pepper hair and total enthusiasm for this subject matter...
"You figure one of these days, something's going to hit."
...and think about what people think about this pushing-forty chick with no job, ever-growing loans and the idea that someday she's going to sell some piece of writing that is going to make it all work out.
*My handyman's career aspiration and hobby is crime scene photography. Like paparazzi for crime scenes. He tells me this in his rapid-fire, maybe-I'm-on-coke way as I help him load his van that has a ladder on top and tools inside--along with two video camera's he's just added so he can take video as well as stills.
"Like that police shoot out last year, on Fairfax and Olympic? Remember, they shut down the intersection practically all day? I have probably a hundred pictures, of the bodies, of the detectives bagging evidence..."
"I zip around the scene on my roller blades, that's like my thing, my signature. The cops don't like me much, because I get lots of shots of them, but they can't stop me. It's all legal."
"I've been doing it for five years now. I'm sitting on about 50 thousand photographs. But I haven't sold any yet. I keep sending them to the L.A. Times, but nothing yet. I got lots of pictures of that fire on Pico the other day though, my friend who's an attorney said, if it goes to court, someone's gonna want to buy those pictures. I said,'Well, they're for sale.'"
I look at him, his Wolverine-style salt and pepper hair and total enthusiasm for this subject matter...
"You figure one of these days, something's going to hit."
...and think about what people think about this pushing-forty chick with no job, ever-growing loans and the idea that someday she's going to sell some piece of writing that is going to make it all work out.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Starting Line-Up: 2
AND, on a final starting line-up note:
Here is my Fantasy Football line-up for this week:
QB Tom Brady of the New England Patriots
WR Terrell Owens, Buffalo Bills
WR Anthony Gonzalez, Indiana Colts
RB LaDainian Tomlinson, San Diego Chargers
RB Ryan Grant, Green Bay Packers,
TE, Jason Witten, Dallas Cowboys
RB Cedric Benson, Cincinnati Bengals
Defense--Minnesota Vikings
What have I learned from my fantasy football experience so far? Well, the names of all the teams above above, except for the Indianopolis Colts and the Dallas Cowboys. What those little initials mean (QB, quarterback; WR, wide receiver; RB running back; TE, tight-end). Do I know what they do on the field yet? No...but baby steps.
Also I examined a schedule today and think I also figured out that when people say they are going to watch "the game" on a Saturday, it is college football, and noticed that there are TONS of pro-games on Sundays. I used to believe that guys could watch football all day on Sundays because football games were excruciatingly long, like Cricket. But from the schedule I deduce they must be watching a few different games.
Also, I've been reminded of how easy it is, once you really do it, to just obscure an entire portion of the world from your reality. Like I rarely open the sports section of a newspaper, I don't notice sports stories (except maybe Tennis) on my news pages, and because I never list sports as an interest on anything, or search for sports-related information, all the weird advertisements that pop up on gmail or facebook never pertain to sports.
I had fun today just looking at my starting line-up and clicking on the links to see their pictures, where they went to college, how they've been injured etc...It makes them seem like real people. Cool.
Because I was on a sports page to do all this today, I saw something I normally would not have--which was a little op-ed about Michael Jordan's induction into the Hall of Fame, and how his speech was kind of petty and bitter...and it implied that people who knew him would have expected that, because it's pretty much his personality. Which was sad and interesting, and something I had never heard before, probably since I haven't really followed basketball since 1995. But, Michael Jordan is one of the few sports heroes I feel a connection to, because I lived in Chicago from 1992-1995, the years that encompassed the Chicago Bulls "Threepeat" and even I watched the basketball games, because 1) My boyfriend was a sports fan, and 2) coming from Indiana, I did kind of understand basketball, and 3) because it was SO pervasive...and fun. Everyone, including me, wanted to "Be like Mike." He seemed so fresh and friendly and hardworking, and amazing and happy.
Then, toward the end of that time, I worked as the production coordinator on a series of car commercials that featured celebrities, and for a day or two we had Michael Jordan on the set. And I can't remember much. He certainly didn't diva-out or throw anything. but there was something about a couple things he said, maybe the way he treated some of the guys on the crew...All I remember, is that in the course of a day, he lost some of his shine for me, and that I came home and commented that I no longer wanted so much to be like Mike...but still, on the court, and on the Nike and Gatorade commercials, he was such a hero for so many.
I digress. But I guess the point is that it was interesting, that on the first day...ever, of looking at a yahoo sports page, I would see a kind of end to a saga that I actually know "something" about. Kind of like when, after seeing maybe four or five episodes of Dawson's Creek in my lifetime, I turned on the TV one afternoon, and they were playing the final episode. And just from those episodes over the years, I had gleaned just enough to be interested in seeing if Joey would choose Dawson, or that other guy who's now on Fringe.
Here is my Fantasy Football line-up for this week:
QB Tom Brady of the New England Patriots
WR Terrell Owens, Buffalo Bills
WR Anthony Gonzalez, Indiana Colts
RB LaDainian Tomlinson, San Diego Chargers
RB Ryan Grant, Green Bay Packers,
TE, Jason Witten, Dallas Cowboys
RB Cedric Benson, Cincinnati Bengals
Defense--Minnesota Vikings
What have I learned from my fantasy football experience so far? Well, the names of all the teams above above, except for the Indianopolis Colts and the Dallas Cowboys. What those little initials mean (QB, quarterback; WR, wide receiver; RB running back; TE, tight-end). Do I know what they do on the field yet? No...but baby steps.
Also I examined a schedule today and think I also figured out that when people say they are going to watch "the game" on a Saturday, it is college football, and noticed that there are TONS of pro-games on Sundays. I used to believe that guys could watch football all day on Sundays because football games were excruciatingly long, like Cricket. But from the schedule I deduce they must be watching a few different games.
Also, I've been reminded of how easy it is, once you really do it, to just obscure an entire portion of the world from your reality. Like I rarely open the sports section of a newspaper, I don't notice sports stories (except maybe Tennis) on my news pages, and because I never list sports as an interest on anything, or search for sports-related information, all the weird advertisements that pop up on gmail or facebook never pertain to sports.
I had fun today just looking at my starting line-up and clicking on the links to see their pictures, where they went to college, how they've been injured etc...It makes them seem like real people. Cool.
Because I was on a sports page to do all this today, I saw something I normally would not have--which was a little op-ed about Michael Jordan's induction into the Hall of Fame, and how his speech was kind of petty and bitter...and it implied that people who knew him would have expected that, because it's pretty much his personality. Which was sad and interesting, and something I had never heard before, probably since I haven't really followed basketball since 1995. But, Michael Jordan is one of the few sports heroes I feel a connection to, because I lived in Chicago from 1992-1995, the years that encompassed the Chicago Bulls "Threepeat" and even I watched the basketball games, because 1) My boyfriend was a sports fan, and 2) coming from Indiana, I did kind of understand basketball, and 3) because it was SO pervasive...and fun. Everyone, including me, wanted to "Be like Mike." He seemed so fresh and friendly and hardworking, and amazing and happy.
Then, toward the end of that time, I worked as the production coordinator on a series of car commercials that featured celebrities, and for a day or two we had Michael Jordan on the set. And I can't remember much. He certainly didn't diva-out or throw anything. but there was something about a couple things he said, maybe the way he treated some of the guys on the crew...All I remember, is that in the course of a day, he lost some of his shine for me, and that I came home and commented that I no longer wanted so much to be like Mike...but still, on the court, and on the Nike and Gatorade commercials, he was such a hero for so many.
I digress. But I guess the point is that it was interesting, that on the first day...ever, of looking at a yahoo sports page, I would see a kind of end to a saga that I actually know "something" about. Kind of like when, after seeing maybe four or five episodes of Dawson's Creek in my lifetime, I turned on the TV one afternoon, and they were playing the final episode. And just from those episodes over the years, I had gleaned just enough to be interested in seeing if Joey would choose Dawson, or that other guy who's now on Fringe.
The Starting Line-Up: 1
It's fall. There's a lot going on, so much so that I probably have no business blogging, but you know what? I like my blog and it's been kind of sucking lately, so maybe I'll just call it part of my starting line up, too...
So here's what I have on deck...Four different screenplays:
One is for my rewrite class. I started it a million years ago, and now I'm supposed to learn how to make it better. It's a high-school romantic comedy--with invisible people. (Just in case you ever see it.) I'm a little bit behind already, so it's good but it makes me a little anxious.
Two is for my thesis class, and will either be a psychological thriller with sci-fi elements (alien babies!) or a comedy having to do with pole-dancing. I have to decide by Monday. It's a somewhat big decision as thesis is the project you work on for an entire year, and your degree is based on it...plus you just want to pick something that won't suck and that will help catalyze your entire career. So this also makes me a little anxious.
Three is the zombie script I mentioned in an earlier post. It's Paul's story, but I am now the official "second writer" on the script. Exciting! I'm a little less anxious, because Paul has a calming effect on me...but still, I have some time issues and I don't want to let him down after hard-bargaining for the position, so...little anxious.
Four is an adaptation of a Vietnamese novel that I will be co-writing with two other women. They both speak Vietnamese and can read the novel...I cannot, but will be working from an outline. It's a kind of ghost-story-slash-psychological thriller. The deadline coincides with the first draft of my thesis. I'm a little anxious about that too.
But...happy. These are all projects that I like and think could be really good. I'm only anxious that they won't. So, happiness and anxiety seem to go hand in hand for me. I remember reading once that sometimes women date scary guys because they would mistake a fear reaction for desire or excitement. Apparently a number of people have problems distinguishing excitement from fear. And since "anxious" for me, seems pretty fear-based, maybe I'm actually excited! Woo-hoo! I'm excited!
But I still am not too fond of excited. Which is why a return to my meditation practice is also on my starting line-up for fall.
So here's what I have on deck...Four different screenplays:
One is for my rewrite class. I started it a million years ago, and now I'm supposed to learn how to make it better. It's a high-school romantic comedy--with invisible people. (Just in case you ever see it.) I'm a little bit behind already, so it's good but it makes me a little anxious.
Two is for my thesis class, and will either be a psychological thriller with sci-fi elements (alien babies!) or a comedy having to do with pole-dancing. I have to decide by Monday. It's a somewhat big decision as thesis is the project you work on for an entire year, and your degree is based on it...plus you just want to pick something that won't suck and that will help catalyze your entire career. So this also makes me a little anxious.
Three is the zombie script I mentioned in an earlier post. It's Paul's story, but I am now the official "second writer" on the script. Exciting! I'm a little less anxious, because Paul has a calming effect on me...but still, I have some time issues and I don't want to let him down after hard-bargaining for the position, so...little anxious.
Four is an adaptation of a Vietnamese novel that I will be co-writing with two other women. They both speak Vietnamese and can read the novel...I cannot, but will be working from an outline. It's a kind of ghost-story-slash-psychological thriller. The deadline coincides with the first draft of my thesis. I'm a little anxious about that too.
But...happy. These are all projects that I like and think could be really good. I'm only anxious that they won't. So, happiness and anxiety seem to go hand in hand for me. I remember reading once that sometimes women date scary guys because they would mistake a fear reaction for desire or excitement. Apparently a number of people have problems distinguishing excitement from fear. And since "anxious" for me, seems pretty fear-based, maybe I'm actually excited! Woo-hoo! I'm excited!
But I still am not too fond of excited. Which is why a return to my meditation practice is also on my starting line-up for fall.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
A Picture of My Father
I'm sitting at the Indianapolis airport early on a Tuesday--on my way home from my Dad's memorial service this past weekend. Much of the time, I am surprised with how okay I am in the wake of his death--perhaps because, in truth, he had become less involved, more removed, in recent years...or not. I don't know anything for sure right now. The night before we left L.A. I started to pack for the weekend, and the thought that when I walked in the door of my childhood home, he wouldn't be there to greet and hug, hit me hard, and a cried for much of the evening.
At the same time, the open house after the memorial service was actually fun. Some good friends came from out of town, as well as family we don't often see. Talk was talked, food was ate, and games were played.
The service itself was really nice. I hope my Dad would have liked it. My sister and her husband sang (my brother on piano), and it was so beautiful. I don't think I have ever heard her sing so well. She also read a remembrance, as did I.
When my father was twelve he lived on a farm, building model airplanes, dreaming of the World War he was missing. He imagined that it would come to him in the form of a B-17 bomber, crashing over the fence into the field where he lay looking up at the clouds.
When I was seven, he taught me the clouds (like my sister before me): Cirrus, cumulus, stratus. When I was twelve we didn’t speak for almost two weeks after I stormed out of a tempestuous piano lesson and said that “I quit!” When I was four we sat together in his arm chair, carefully enlarging, square by gridded square, the pictures in my Planet of the Apes activity book, and pulled the cushions off every piece of furniture and made tunnels and architectural wonders. When I was born, my mother said I was rarely breast fed because she couldn’t wrest me from my father’s arms for long enough to feed me.
When my father was seven years old, his father caught strep throat. Old Doc Baker came to their house with a new medicine that had just come in, called “penicillin.” Our dad stood outside the bedroom door and overheard Doc Baker tell his mother that it “might just do the trick,” but if not, she could expect her husband to be dead within twenty-four hours. In his seventies my father finds himself telling this story, long forgotten, and says he can’t understand why it makes him cry.
When I was six and my sister was four, we had matching rocking chairs and we rocked and rocked as our father played the guitar and sang songs about a fella named Campbell, and the boy from Arkansas who became an auctioneer.
Our father told us, “Be anything you want, but first get a good liberal arts education, and it will serve you for the rest of your life.” And he was right. My father’s undying faith in us inspired and encouraged our career choices in the arts (although we always knew he would also support our decisions if we changed course to pursue other careers in say, real estate or academia. ☺)
Throughout his adult life, our father struggled with life-threatening and challenging illnesses, but he emerged, bout after bout, victoriously alive. He modeled for me the strategies I would need to survive similar hardships. In the course of his illnesses he explored spirituality, nutrition, and alternate modes of healing. By example he taught us to think beyond convention, he showed us that no one, not even a doctor, can predict the future, And he taught us never to underestimate the power of a strong will and a strong mind.
In remembering my father, I have chosen a handful of moments, from a life consisting of an infinity of such moments, knowing that each of you might choose others. To paint the complete picture of a man, even with a thousand moments, I know is a venture destined to fail. But still, I stand here, faced with choosing a final image share.
When our father was twelve, he built model airplanes. The summer before his 80th birthday, he sent packages of un-built models to his sons, to give his grandchildren when the time was right. I can see him, his fingers passing over the dusty cellophane of unopened boxes, pulling them carefully from the shelf, and I know he intends to pass on not just model planes, but the joy of building something with elements of both art and fantasy, the sense of wonderment that he felt in his boyhood and never forgot.
On the farm, real B-17 bombers never crashed over my father’s fence, but he built and drew and painted them all through his life in an attempt to express the awe and admiration he felt. So I, with all love and affection, assemble these words, a small and incomplete picture of my father.
At the same time, the open house after the memorial service was actually fun. Some good friends came from out of town, as well as family we don't often see. Talk was talked, food was ate, and games were played.
The service itself was really nice. I hope my Dad would have liked it. My sister and her husband sang (my brother on piano), and it was so beautiful. I don't think I have ever heard her sing so well. She also read a remembrance, as did I.
When my father was twelve he lived on a farm, building model airplanes, dreaming of the World War he was missing. He imagined that it would come to him in the form of a B-17 bomber, crashing over the fence into the field where he lay looking up at the clouds.
When I was seven, he taught me the clouds (like my sister before me): Cirrus, cumulus, stratus. When I was twelve we didn’t speak for almost two weeks after I stormed out of a tempestuous piano lesson and said that “I quit!” When I was four we sat together in his arm chair, carefully enlarging, square by gridded square, the pictures in my Planet of the Apes activity book, and pulled the cushions off every piece of furniture and made tunnels and architectural wonders. When I was born, my mother said I was rarely breast fed because she couldn’t wrest me from my father’s arms for long enough to feed me.
When my father was seven years old, his father caught strep throat. Old Doc Baker came to their house with a new medicine that had just come in, called “penicillin.” Our dad stood outside the bedroom door and overheard Doc Baker tell his mother that it “might just do the trick,” but if not, she could expect her husband to be dead within twenty-four hours. In his seventies my father finds himself telling this story, long forgotten, and says he can’t understand why it makes him cry.
When I was six and my sister was four, we had matching rocking chairs and we rocked and rocked as our father played the guitar and sang songs about a fella named Campbell, and the boy from Arkansas who became an auctioneer.
Our father told us, “Be anything you want, but first get a good liberal arts education, and it will serve you for the rest of your life.” And he was right. My father’s undying faith in us inspired and encouraged our career choices in the arts (although we always knew he would also support our decisions if we changed course to pursue other careers in say, real estate or academia. ☺)
Throughout his adult life, our father struggled with life-threatening and challenging illnesses, but he emerged, bout after bout, victoriously alive. He modeled for me the strategies I would need to survive similar hardships. In the course of his illnesses he explored spirituality, nutrition, and alternate modes of healing. By example he taught us to think beyond convention, he showed us that no one, not even a doctor, can predict the future, And he taught us never to underestimate the power of a strong will and a strong mind.
In remembering my father, I have chosen a handful of moments, from a life consisting of an infinity of such moments, knowing that each of you might choose others. To paint the complete picture of a man, even with a thousand moments, I know is a venture destined to fail. But still, I stand here, faced with choosing a final image share.
When our father was twelve, he built model airplanes. The summer before his 80th birthday, he sent packages of un-built models to his sons, to give his grandchildren when the time was right. I can see him, his fingers passing over the dusty cellophane of unopened boxes, pulling them carefully from the shelf, and I know he intends to pass on not just model planes, but the joy of building something with elements of both art and fantasy, the sense of wonderment that he felt in his boyhood and never forgot.
On the farm, real B-17 bombers never crashed over my father’s fence, but he built and drew and painted them all through his life in an attempt to express the awe and admiration he felt. So I, with all love and affection, assemble these words, a small and incomplete picture of my father.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Back to the Cave
Yes, the new spelunking school term has arrived. So far I LOVE my teachers and classes...although that tends to be my beginning of term reaction to school. Hopefully it will continue in this vein.
There's been a little drama here and there at the spelunking school, most of which I won't go into, except to mention a funny little pet peeve. We got this really nice new cave last term, much prettier than our old cave. But it turns out that there are all these kind of annoying rules for the new cave, like you can't eat in any of the caverns, or drink anything except water. Now spelunking classes are lengthy--three or four hours. The best/most passionate teachers give five minute breaks, and tend to teach up to the next class. So if you're lucky enough to have a couple of great teachers consecutively--you find yourself going without food or caffeine for seven hours. I came to the cave on Tuesday at around noon. By 5:30, like a criminal, I was desperately trying to palm a piece of string cheese before I toppled over. Fortunately, my spelunking teacher is a rebel. He turned to me and said "You don't have to hide your food." It almost brought tears to my eyes. I hate to be a wimp about it, but, come on. I was registered for a class after that, which would have brought my time-in-foodless-cave up to ten hours--but I dropped it. Adrenaline only gets you so far.
On any film set, morale goes down as meal penalties go up...
This could well be the first semester that I am THRILLED with the level of education I am receiving. But these kinds of rules don't let me forget -- someone out there cares more about their cave than the students inside it.
There's been a little drama here and there at the spelunking school, most of which I won't go into, except to mention a funny little pet peeve. We got this really nice new cave last term, much prettier than our old cave. But it turns out that there are all these kind of annoying rules for the new cave, like you can't eat in any of the caverns, or drink anything except water. Now spelunking classes are lengthy--three or four hours. The best/most passionate teachers give five minute breaks, and tend to teach up to the next class. So if you're lucky enough to have a couple of great teachers consecutively--you find yourself going without food or caffeine for seven hours. I came to the cave on Tuesday at around noon. By 5:30, like a criminal, I was desperately trying to palm a piece of string cheese before I toppled over. Fortunately, my spelunking teacher is a rebel. He turned to me and said "You don't have to hide your food." It almost brought tears to my eyes. I hate to be a wimp about it, but, come on. I was registered for a class after that, which would have brought my time-in-foodless-cave up to ten hours--but I dropped it. Adrenaline only gets you so far.
On any film set, morale goes down as meal penalties go up...
This could well be the first semester that I am THRILLED with the level of education I am receiving. But these kinds of rules don't let me forget -- someone out there cares more about their cave than the students inside it.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Bloodless
So Paul used that fact that he's taking my sister's family to the airport early tomorrow morning to guilt me into leaving a party early. Then, when we got home, he proceeded to screen two episodes of Trueblood! Augh! And of course, since I have no inner resourses or discipline, I had to watch...
On the positive side--that was the last of them (except for new weekly episodes) so maybe now I can have my life back.
On the positive side--that was the last of them (except for new weekly episodes) so maybe now I can have my life back.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
In The News
Michael Vick...He's this football player who was convicted of running a dog-fighting ring. He just got out of jail and was recruited by the Philadelphia Eagles (I think). Some people are incensed by this, others say hey, if he can play ball...
In other news...Since I don't know anything about football, I'm joining my first fantasy football. I know so little, that I've asked my brother-in-law to mentor me so I don't completely annoy the rest of my league...
Health care...lots of talking and arguing about Obama's health plan. On facebook, a few of my friends are up in arms about this editorial written by the CEO of Wholefoods, and are planning not to shop there anymore. Maybe this is one more thing I haven't done enough research yet to understand fully, because when I read it, his ideas seem to make sense, and don't seem so much at odds with the things Obama is saying he wants as well...I'm not planning a boycott yet.
Trueblood...It's not in the mainstream news, but in the "industry" news, it has taken the summer by storm, garnering 11.3 million viewers per episode. And that's not counting people like me, who watch it on questionably legal sites on the internet...Like so many TV shows, Paul has brought this into my life. I have very ambivalent feelings about the show, which I think is probably BAD on so many levels, and it leaves me feeling vaguely oogie and void after watching...like eating too many sugary donuts.
If this post seems kind of superficial and lacking in consideration--it's because I'm writing it while watching Trueblood.
In other news...Since I don't know anything about football, I'm joining my first fantasy football. I know so little, that I've asked my brother-in-law to mentor me so I don't completely annoy the rest of my league...
Health care...lots of talking and arguing about Obama's health plan. On facebook, a few of my friends are up in arms about this editorial written by the CEO of Wholefoods, and are planning not to shop there anymore. Maybe this is one more thing I haven't done enough research yet to understand fully, because when I read it, his ideas seem to make sense, and don't seem so much at odds with the things Obama is saying he wants as well...I'm not planning a boycott yet.
Trueblood...It's not in the mainstream news, but in the "industry" news, it has taken the summer by storm, garnering 11.3 million viewers per episode. And that's not counting people like me, who watch it on questionably legal sites on the internet...Like so many TV shows, Paul has brought this into my life. I have very ambivalent feelings about the show, which I think is probably BAD on so many levels, and it leaves me feeling vaguely oogie and void after watching...like eating too many sugary donuts.
If this post seems kind of superficial and lacking in consideration--it's because I'm writing it while watching Trueblood.
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