Resistance

So my current feature project for school has an element of frogs...which might be why last night I dreamed of frogs. I was in a pet store or somewhere, and needed to find a good environment for them (I think there were two). One escaped, but I got it back. But then I realized the frog was a fish. Someone was prepping the tank, trying to make the water right, but meanwhile the other fish was in the regular water with chlorine, but not doing so well in it. So I kept holding the fish I had petting it, trying to get it to calm down, waiting for the good water— so I could put it in and save it.

I found excerpts of Gillian Holloway’s dream book that said that fish underwater represent unconscious materials or truths about the self, but if they are in bowls or aquariums it can be that you’ve gotten into a lifestyle that is cutting you off from self expression or things you love…

Frogs can be about transformation in some way--but I couldn't read more because the next page was not online. This is not the first time I have stumbled on this book, so I went on Amazon and ordered a copy.

All of this, I'm sure ties in with how I've been feeling lately--I was anxious and agitated most of yesterday--and there are many reasons that I could site--travel problems, and parking problems, etc...but really they are all about my current mood landing square on whatever circumstances present themselves.

I skipped yoga last night, and skipped homework as well, and instead rebelliously read half a book Alice Munroe short stories...it has been so long since I escaped into language that isn't afraid to use extra words. I wonder if this is related to my subconscious fish problems.

I have always loved my laptop and considered it my friend, but of late I find myself repulsed by the thought of opening it--more the repulsion is toward all the things I'm obligated to write. the feature most of all I find myself dreading to look upon.

The other day in workshop, I am ashamed to admit how immature I was, reacting to people's comments with facial expressions and even the occasional outburst. I've always prided myself on accepting criticism with composure, but composure seems to have fled out the door lately. I think I went in with such hopes that the class would help me refine the story I thought I had blocked in, but then the interpretation of the characters' basic elements deviated so fundamentally, that the discussion felt like a brainstorm for an entirely different plot. This is hardly the first time that has happened in a workshop either, but for some reason I find myself more frustrated. I have to turn a re-draft in tomorrow and have yet to open the document, so intense is my resistance to revisit the whole scenario.

There is a problem, but is it my external environment, or the internal walls I am putting up?

Bored.

I'm attempting to write a romantic comedy treatment, and I'm already bored. I think I'm bored. It's possible that I am, as my old teacher Bob Butler used to say "averting my eyes" due to the fact that what I'm writing could be so emotionally impactful. So my brain is tricking me, saying, "you know, sifting through the junkmail in your Hotmail account sounds more interesting than this." Or maybe my brain is just worn out from trying to make something that is boring seem interesting.

Must...write.

Three days have gone by without working on my screen projects, and now I am stuggling mightily to begin.

The day is dawning cold and rainy, so I am with my laptop in bed, because shivering is not conducive to writing.

Should one's job be this hard?

Does struggle add any kind of worth or meaning to endeavor?

Does it really not get any easier?

If I believed that would I be able to continue?

Prayer for the Morning After

One of the first weekends this semester I haven’t been totally slammed with deadlines—a combination of both my writing classes having a “polish week” on the outlines of our projects (one is a screenplay, the other a spec script for a TV sitcom), and the holiday three day weekend—no classes Monday for President’s Day.

I took yesterday off, and ran errands, watched recorded Battlestar Galactica and 30 Rock. I also spent some time on the internet researching literary journals, as it is far past time to do a new round of submissions. I was disappointed, however, to realize that almost all the non-fiction centered contests has postmark deadlines of February 15. I didn’t have time to put together cover letters and copies of everything before the post office closed, and although today is the actual deadline, it is a Sunday. Some of the journals had taken this into account, and extended to the 16th, probably not aware that this would also be a post office holiday. Oh well. It’s a good reminder to go get paper and toner and to try to at least find time to monitor deadlines.

In the evening went to a “Goddess Evening” hosted by some people in the Wedenesday writers’ group I rarely get to attend because of classes. We did some chanting meditations and made prayer sticks, and ate potluck. There was talk of henna tattoos, but we never quite got around to it.

Our host explained that a prayer stick is a Native American practice. We made ours by writing manifestations, or prayers, on slips of paper, then attaching these to sticks. Then we wrapped the sticks, bottom to top, with yarn, ribbon, beads, etc. At the top of the stick is a feather, which is to take your prayer up to the gods. Because it was Valentines Day, and most of the attendees are currently single, the theme of the evening, was to attract the positive persons into our lives. But since I am lucky in this arena, I could dedicate my paryer stick to another purpose.

When doing things like prayers, manifestations, etc, most people seem to have no troubles, envisioning concrete things to manifest—the right guy, a job offer, etc. I have difficulties in this area. I started doing more things like affirmations and manifestations when I had cancer, and it was quite easy then, to choose to direct my energies toward not having a life threatening illness. Out of habit, this tends to be my default, but then I also consider other things: Because on a day to day basis, so much of my emotions and energy are directed toward writing and an eventual career doing that, shouldn’t my psychic energy get behind that? And then we’re quite poor, maybe I should try to manifest a little prosperity? But then that seems a bit shallow—obviously world peace is the thing to pray for. And just because I’m in a relatively stable relationship, I shouldn’t just take that for granted, should I? So my manifestation last night, as is common, was a fence-rider’s combo of “Health, Wealth, Wisdom, Peace and Love”

And then, as I was wrapping the paper, I thought of one of those concrete things I had hoped for earlier in the day. On the back of my paper I added, “Publication,” hoping this could also apply to selling a screenplay. (Of course, I should have manifested “finishing a screenplay” first.

And then, as I was starting my second color of yarn, I thought of something else. I wrote “baby,” on a second piece of paper, and attached it as well.

Sundance, the daily rundown-Thursday

Careful what you ask for...this one is long and unedited--and just the first day!

Thursday, Jan 15

7:30 pm Raced to the airport after class. After not eating for most of the day, I stopped to order a veggie burrito from one of the airport restaurants. I’m used to burritos figuring it would be something easy to take on the plane if needed. It was taking a while, so I ran to my gate to make sure they hadn’t started boarding yet. If we were, I was going to have to leave my $8 burrito behind. The attendant told me it would be another ten minutes, before boarding, so I joyously ran back and waited for my number to be called. Instead of being wrapped in paper or foil, they handed me a fancy black plastic box with the transparent lid through which I could see shredded lettuce and guacamole on the side, requiring a fork. I raced back to my gate and sat down with my food. I bit into my burrito. Rice and sautéed vegetables. Vegetables like broccoli, carrots and zuchini. No cheese, no beans, no salsa. Just rice and vegetables. Whatever, I like rice and vegetables. I plowed into it and finished in record time. I was so relieved not to be hungry I didn’t care that I was slightly sick from eating so fast. I would have eaten at a more civilized pace, however, had I known that in the next minute, the attendant would announce that our flight had been delayed for an hour.
So I had time to sit, entertain my fantasies about Sundance After a number of years in the peripheries of the movie industry in Los Angeles, I don’t really think about celebrity sightings or making impromptu film deals over the drinks table, but I was hoping for a couple of things:
1) To see some good films—despite the fact that my online ticket purchases had garnered only programs of collections of shorts, my brother-in-law had briefed me on strategies for completing my dance-card via the waitlist: The first showing of the day (around 8:30 or 9 am), at one of the bigger theatres is a good bet, and then target the documentaries, since more people will try to go to the high profile feature films.
2) To get to know my fellow USC students. Apparently, there were about fifty of us from several different departments. The organizers mentioned how last years trip included late nights in the hot tub and a mimosa breakfast where everyone got to hang out. So it was going to be a good opportunity to “network” with our fellow students. This sounded great to me, although I can work a party on occasion, in general I consider yelling at people over loud music while holding an icy drink to be just that—work. But interacting with people while doing some activity, like working, playing a game, or cooking dinner, is probably my favorite way to bond.
So, after all the drama and pre-trip anxiety, I was ready to get on the plane and embrace the experience.

2:00am
Reached the airport around 11pm and met up with my classmate R and two other guys from our group, A and B, who were sharing the cab to our lodgings. As I waited for my luggage, I learned they were from the business school at USC. Somehow, when we boarded the cab, the guys ended up in the back seat, while I sat up front with the taxi driver, who was originally from Somalia. the front and back seat ended up having mostly separate conversations for the hour-long drive. I felt divided, wanting to be polite to the driver, but wishing I could listen and get to know my new friends in the back seat. Had the networking begun? Was I missing it?
Toward the end of our journey we consulted the room assignments. It looked as if the guys were in room 7, while I was with some women in room 8. We drove in the gates of the Bear Hollow condominiums and discovered it was more than just some ski-condos, it was entire subdivision. We drove up, down, and around for the better part of ten minutes before finding the correct address. As we stepped out of the car, it hit home how very cold it is up on a mountain in winter. The main offices had closed at 8pm, but we’d been told the first people to check in would leave us keys. so with rolling bags in tow, we started to look for rooms 1 through 8. The first building had numbers like 3505. We wheeled over a bridge to another building. The numbers were similarly high. We split up, a couple of us heading fifty yards in one direction a couple in the other. My ears were hurting in the wind so I pulled my hat from my carry on. We knocked on some doors with college age people, but they didn’t know our party. After fifteen or twenty minutes of wandering, we passed a couple heading out and they pointed us to an apartment building where they though the student organizer, D, was staying. Looking in the window we recognized him and a few other students. We knocked and were let in.
Ahh, warm!
Where were our rooms? we asked. D pulled out some keys with assorted numbers like 4508, 3216, 5410 and explained that the room assignment numbers had just been placeholders for these other numbers. Our group was spread across four large buildings. Okay, fine, we said—so if we were in 7 and 8, what rooms were those?
He didn’t know. Nor did he have the list he had sent with the groups of housemates, so I gave him mine. We should call the other people in our groups, he suggested, see if they had checked in yet, and if so, what room they had been given. Did he have a contact list of numbers? No.
Some other people came in to complain because they had arrived to find people already having taken all the beds. Apparently, at least one person had sold their slot to two people instead of one, and another had told a friend he could come and stay on the floor, but he’d ended up with a bed. Then D mentioned that he’d sold some slots to people even after the deadline to help with the expenses.
More wandering people arrived, including a couple of women, and after much discussion, we were given some keys. Our apartment, after we found it, was really nice—a great dining room table, and large kitchen, comfortable beds. We found the main bedroom had already been take by one of the women who had written at the last minute to tell us her boyfriend would also be sharing our flat, and the other queen room had been claimed by a woman who was out, K. Two bunk beds in the third room remained. Already with three of us, we were one shot. So the two girls who knew each other decided to share the other queen bed, while I took one of the single bunks. We moved K’s belongings in with me and left a note for her—hopefully she wouldn’t mind too much. Another girl was arriving the next day, but we’d have to deal with that then.
And finally, I was under covers, ready to sleep.

When did Romantic Comedy stop being funny?

I could be doing better in some of my writing classes right now. I'm desperately trying to "crack" a story (like an egg, to get to the good stuff inside) for a screenplay right now, but unfortunately, the deadlines for the screenplay are coming fast and furious, so I'm trying to figure it out as I go--and if I can't figure it out fast enough, I have to fake it--but believe me, I'm not fooling anyone.

Thus I have an additional "do-over" deadline this Friday evening before launching into whatever is expected for next week.

If I finish even an hour early, maybe I'll post to this blog.