The Bi-Monthly B

How you can tell you're old #472...you say shit like "how is it already (insert unit of time)?

How is it already April 9?  March was like a m**f** whirlwind.  I think.  I already don't even remember it. Basically, I remember yesterday, and to some extent can use that to extrapolate what's been happening for the past month.

Yesterday was April 8. My mom got on a plane and flew back to Indiana.  It's been really nice to have her in town. You also know you're old when your parents are even older so you want to spend as much time with them as you can (without going overboard because that's morbid).  I've been going over to her house about once a week, which might not sound like much, but is roughly twice as often as I see my sister (who lives in town) and six times as often as I see almost any single friend who isn't involved in a writing endeavor.  Mostly I was going on Fridays after work, and we would put together some dinner, talk and watch a movie, or if the kids were staying over maybe play some Monopoly.

Also April 8 is the day Paul and I got married.  In celebration of our anniversary he took yesterday off from work, and I switched up my hours and skipped writing, then, with our free time together, we went to Target, cleaned the house, had some expensive (and good) sushi, then watched TV while wearing teeth-whitening agents (bought at Target).  Yep, that's how we roll. In March I also spent some time with Paul, mostly late at night, or preparing for taxes.  We've both been spending extra time with respective writing partners on projects, which has decreased our available hours, so yesterday, while it might seem mundane, was a treat.

At work, April 8 was the last day of "prospective student open house."  Yay for that. Nothing makes time fly by like event planning without quite enough time, and open house is one of the bigger events--a three-day logistical extravaganza of hosting a dozen or so potential students.  My new co-worker handled almost all of the individual schedules and travel reimbursements and I ordered most of the food and we both tried to work our everyday duties in around the edges.

This year, April 8 fell on a Wednesday, which is generally the night that I go to my directing class, but serendipitously (for the anniversary) this week is community college spring break so class didn't meet. But for much of February and March, I have been leaving work at the stroke of five and taking two trains to class, which is officially scheduled to last from 6pm to 10pm but thankfully always runs shorter. With the 2-train+car commute home it still manages to eat an evening.

And yesterday, April 8 was the last day before today, April 9, which is when my writing partner (Janice) should receive the last of our notes on our script, so that we can spend the weekend revising and hopefully improving our application for the Film Independent Lab which is due on Monday.  I'm trying to mentally gear up for  a marathon writing weekend.  Switching back-and-forth between two scripts for various spring deadlines, there have been a few such weekends lately, and also a couple "vacation" days spent trying reach the finish line with drafts we can feel good about in hand.

And that, I deduce, is where March has gone.

New Sight

My last notable accomplishment of 2014 was to make it to the optometrist before my annual vision benefit ran out.  I have a pair of glasses I wear occasionally, but I thought, since I didn't need new frames, I should get some contact lenses. I was surprised to find out that I have grown about a point more nearsighted in each eye...so I actually probably will need new glasses now--but we were already going down the contact lens road, so that's what I got.

I tried on a few different brands of contact lenses--which I guess were all super-premium, because in the exam room the doctor said they were all the same price, which he wasn't sure of, we could talk about that in the other room, and in the other room, once all discussion was over, the "same price" was appalling and more than a hundred dollars more per 3-month supply than others in the case.  I had liked my experience up until then, as the doctor was very friendly and knowledgeable, but in the "other room" he and his assistant also informed me for the first time that because I was a new patient, they were obligated to do an eye exam, and this was separate from the contact lens fitting--not in terms of occurrence, but in terms of billing. I walked out of the shop $250 lighter despite my coverage, though they pointed out, delightedly, that I had "saved more than I was spending."  Maybe I should have anticipated this when I chose an optometry center with "Beverly Hills" as part of it's name.

That said, having the lenses is kind of amazing.  I guess everyone always notes that the leaves on the trees look so distinct...but it is always something I notice.  Also, street signs!  Driving is a different and more pleasurable experience.

The last time I wore contacts--in my youth, pre-Lasik surgery, I wore rigid lenses...so the soft lens thing is also remarkable.  It's like putting a little curved piece of Saran-wrap on your eye--and once there, it's truly invisible and largely unnoticeable in terms of feel.

A downside is that unlike the last time I had lenses, I am now old--and seeing far away means I have a hard time adjusting to seeing up close.  For some reason, I thought that wouldn't happen to me...because I'm magical I guess...but not so.  I will be needing some reading glasses.  Which the doctor (not a big surprise here) recommends I don't but from the drug store, as that could damage my eyes with long term use. Is this true?

Another downside thus far is that I don't seem to be so good at removing the lenses.  They are so invisible, they are difficult to find, and almost impossible to get hold of with short-nailed fingers (I actually resorted to tweezers tonight to get them out). I usually succeed by getting it to wrinkle up on my eye enough to see so I can pull it out,  where upon I can't help thinking that it looks and feels like a very tiny used condom.

All that said though, seeing without glasses is super-cool.  It crosses my mind that I might even play tennis again someday.

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Elevated Train Platform, December 9, 2014

Almost 9:30 and the sun is shining, the day well on its way to the 75 degree high that has been promised to it. I have my pants legs rolled up for the vitamin D, and this combined with a hat and too many bags results in people looking at me twice--discreetly--before they sit near me.  Until they see clean white of my shirt, notice my shoes aren't too worn, they have to consider that I might be homeless, or I might be crazy.

First one pigeon, then another, lands on the cement platform. Their heads duck and bob as they peck and peck at I don't know what, until I look closer and see the small crumbs glistening in the sun like grains of sand. Tan sand on gray concrete. The pigeons' eyes are orange with round black centers and their feet are a redder shade of orange with black tipped toes. Claws? Their feet are red-orange with black tips.

And then a man comes by, the real thing now: Probably homeless, probably crazy, his mostly-gray  frizzy and his clothes loose and touched by grime.  He comes up one set of stairs and strides the length of the platform yelling,

"You don't see me?
I see you not looking!
Ignore! Ignore!"

Which is maybe not so crazy at all. It happens fast, he walks fast and doesn't look right or left, doesn't look at anyone he might be addressing, doesn't burden anyone with dreaded confrontation. And then he's at the other end of the platform and down the stairs he goes, down to the traffic and the city.

And no one on the platform, standing and on the benches, looks up from their book or iPhone. No one's expression betrays the relief we feel that he's gone.

Not Sick Yet

Not sick yet, but it will be amazing if I'm not by the end of the week. My boss who was sick all last week and today has been working half days.  A still-sick faculty member just handed me a folder full of germ laden receipts she organized and labeled while home sick, and the crazy and / or really drugged out guy in front of me on the train this morning was ranting like a Shakespearean actor and I definitely felt spittle spray land on my hands and phone.  Here's to building up tolerance.

Blah Monday, but...TELEVISION!

In a minute I have to get out of bed.  When I do, I have to mix up the nasty, sea-water-tasting solution I will have to start drinking as soon as I arrive home from work.  I will put it in the fridge to chill, because chilled sea water is more palatable than warm sea water.  Still, dread.  I will be drinking into the wee-hours of the night in preparation for getting up early and going to the hospital for "the procedure." Blah.

On the flip side, if I can get through a minimal number of script pages early on, I will reward myself with... TV!  I still haven't watched the season finale of Extant  or dived into Amazon's Transparent (I did get to see the first two episodes at a screening, so I'm thinking I will like it). That's five hours, so probably more than enough, though I also have many saved episodes of Masters of Sex. That project might have to wait until after Paul's writing deadline on October 10.

By tomorrow at this time I will hopefully already be loopy from anethesia and recovering, planning my first meal...

Related articles

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October Stampedes

Woke this morning to find October bearing down upon me like herd of stampeding horses. "Herd" is not right, though. That's for cattle. It's morning and my brain is losing words, but you get my drift. I mean a large group of stampeding horses. Or other large animals that stampede. October has come really fast, is what I'm saying.

Where did September go? School started. Some folks at school decided to have conferences and parties every other week. There's nothing like a series of events to make the days go fast--the present flashes by while one orders food and reserves hotel rooms for the future.

And in the last week, there have been movies and screenings and plays and an out-of-town guest.
The plays have included Cole Porter's Kiss Me Kate at the Pasadena Playhouse which was impressive but long, and Trip to Bountiful at the Ahmanson Theater which was really lovely and affecting.

The visiting friend was M, from grad school in Tallahassee, who has recently moved back to the states after several years abroad.  On Thursday we did a "Hollywood" thing--went to a pre-screening of The Judge, and saw Robert Downey Jr. and Robert Duvall at the Q and A afterward. I never would have expected Robert Downey off-screen to remind me of my brother-in-law, but so it was.  On Saturday we went on an overnight meditation retreat at Monrovia Canyon Park.  It was meditation-lite, but it was pleasant and the park was beautiful.  We went on a hike the next day.  Monday I took off work and we took the train down town to the Grand Central Market, which is mostly a really big food court with some produce and chile vendors mixed in, and then we spent a couple hours at The Last Bookstore. And in between and during those things we talked a ton and got caught up on each others' lives.

And now it's October first, and the bedroom floor, which I had actually emptied enough to vacuum before M's visit, is an obstacle course of duffel bags, sleeping bags, and hampers full of un-ironed laundry. And of course, with all the recent excitement, I'm behind on screenplay pages.  My goal has been to turn in 10-15 pages a week, and for the last two weeks I've averaged 6-7, and I've also fallen behind on breaking the story in advance--which is kind of like clearing yourself a path to follow so you don't have to swing the machete as you write--so I've got some brush clearing to do in addition to covering ground.

Guess it should all start with a shower...

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Hot on a Sunday

When it's really hot on a Sunday, the coffee shops and the few libraries with Sunday hours are overrun with writers and students escaping their air-conditionless environments.  The Beverly Hills Library is one of those that is open, and I am one of those who has arrived, trolled the back room of tables to find a seat.  I avoid the leg-shakers and those who type like it's a revenge and find myself a nice spot, facing a large arched window with a small sculpture on a wooden plinth in front of it.  The light from the window means I sees the statue only in a kind of silhouette, but it appears to be a representation in bronze of Abraham Lincoln sitting on a bench, with his signature top hat on the bench beside him.  He seems to be resting his weary bones. Could he be worn out from the heat as well?

Outslide the window is a large pine tree, which is unusual for Los Angeles.  I always particularly notice pine trees when I see them here, as they remind me of my home state. Home town. Really the house where I grew up with a large pine outside my bedroom window.

After Life

Someone I know from my place of work died recently.  He'd had an interesting life: He'd served in the military then done well in academia. He married four times and had a number of children. As the person who processed his expense reports, I can say that in very recent years he spent months at a time in England and Italy, and that he ate well--like I imagine Henry the 8th would have dined if he'd had a per diem. His receipts reported spirits with every meal, and things like Shepherds Pie and quail.
For almost a year, the gentleman was ill and seldom visited our offices. The few times he came in, he seemed mostly peeved at his condition, which was revealing itself to be one with finite outcome. Upon his death, it has been his second wife, with the help of two various sons who has emerged to handle his large library, items in his office and the number of bills that he received to his work mailbox. When the mail began to transition and be address to "Executor of the Estate," I called to confirm that this was she. This was when she revealed to me that there was, as of yet, no formal executor--because there was no will!
I found this both surprising, and I guess, not.  On one hand, he had fair warning.  On the other, maybe he figured that after he was gone, it didn't really matter.  Maybe he'd had conversations and things were pretty much worked out in ways one can't see from a distance.
But as the person opening doors, filing paperwork and procuring boxes for family members trying to work their way through the rooms full of books, papers, thoughts and ongoing business that one man accrues in a life, I could only be struck by how little anyone seemed to be prepared for this eventuality. And really, the choice not to make a will, even given a good six month lead time, seems somewhat self-involved and presuming--qualities some might have discerned in him even before his death.
My father had a will, but it has still taken my mother years to go through the myriad of things left behind. She continues to go through things, purging and storing and making decisions largely, I think, so that we--their children--won't have to. Although it is hopefully decade away still, she is putting thought into things so that her possession and affairs will be as easily dealt with as possible.  Basically she is the opposite of presuming when it comes to such matters.
But the other night as I was thinking about this, I thought: What about my end of the bargain? An obituary seems the very least one could do in such a situation, and I realized I wasn't sure what my mother's parents' names were, or even where she was born! Since I was using a Southwest voucher and making an impromptu trip to Indiana, I decided it was time to do for real something I have been promising to do for a couple of years--try to ask the questions that in the future I will wish that I had asked.  And this time, instead of assuming that I could come up with some good questions, I consulted the internet, something like "How to Interview a Family Member," and of course, because it's the internet, found several articles on taking a Family History, here and here and here.  A lot of the questions are similar. I ended up with a double space list of three pages, and after dinner this evening, turned on the recorder, and we had Part I of a very interesting conversation!

Hollywood and Highland, Friday Night

The short Hispanic woman selling blinking plastic light-sticks from a shopping cart offers a collegial fist bump to the guy in the wheel chair selling bunches of roses from his lap, then continues down the block.

A black man, so thin he swims in his all black shirt and trousers, break dances next to an oversize speaker. Popping, locking, giving it his all, beads of sweat on his bald head when he takes off his top hat with sequined, Shamrock-green band.

At the end of the song, no one puts money in his jar. No one buys roses, or light-sticks--not that I see.
But perhaps the night is still young. Maybe at a later hour, there are buyers on Hollywood Boulevard to complement the sellers.

This all takes place on the sidewalk in front of the America Eagle, with its clean glass storefront underneath the sign that exhort in block letters: LIVE YOUR LIFE.

Next to these words, a ten-foot photo of two women, elegant and gaunt, sylphs haunting a cool green forest. Their shoulder blades jut under loose, summer linen, hinting at wings.

The wheelchair guy moves to try a different spot. The black dancer searches his playlist for a better song.

The 217 bus comes and takes me away.

Weekend Exceprts

SATURDAY:  My mother-in-law, in town for the weekend, holds my arm as we stand at the L-shaped buffet at her friend's new Thai noodle shop.  She wears jeans, a floppy tee-shirt and tinted glasses with white rims studded with Swarovski crystals. Her friend, on the other side of the sneeze-guarded trays of food, has on a floor length skirt, and lots of purple.

The food in trays are aren't the familiar dishes listed on the English menu of the restaurant my husband and I usually go to next door. She suggested for me lumpy squares of pumpkin sauteed in spices and I agree.  I point to a curry with basil, chicken and bamboo shoots, and when she looks hesitant, assure her I will like it.

We travel to the short side of the L,  where in one tray balls and cubes of unidentified meats  float in a brown broth, next to another tray of potato-sized slices of  a starchy root that isn't a potato soak in a bright orange bath. What's that? I ask, intrigued, but she doesn't answer, either because she hasn't heard me, or, more likely, because she can't figure out a way to translate it.

"Or that?" I point to cut green stems drifting in what could be a familiar combination of coconut milk and red curry powder. Her friend on the other side of the counter comes over to check on us. "Is it morning glory? "Is it bok choy?"

"Not bok-choy," says the friend.

My mother-in-law, looks seriously at the whole section of offerings and says, "Not for you, I think. These not for you," and steers us toward the register.

SUNDAY: On Sunday mornings I try to counterbalance a week's worth of muscle-stiffening sitting at desks by going to a yoga class that meets at 9:45.  I leave the house at 9:43 and arrive at my class at 9:55--a serious breach of etiquette at some yoga studios, but this is a gym, so nobody cares. When the class lets out at 10:45, if I see my friend Gina, we go the the little snack stand inside the gym and order two fresh juices made of mixed veggies, and drink them at one of the little cafe tables along the wall with a partial view of child care area where toddlers play with colored balls, push wheeled objects, and occasionally shove into each other so that one falls and cries.

When my friend has not come to class, I go straight to my car, usually run some errand, like buying gas for the car or stopping at the grocery store.  At 11:AM the radio announcer introduces the Moth Radio Hour, a collection of real people tell five-to-ten minute stories from their own lives.  This morning I emerge from the Vons in time to hear a woman with a Sarah Silverman voice tell about the birth of her youngest sibling when she was twelve, and being told they did not share a father. "My father always took us to get ice cream to tell us bad news. If you don't want to find out that your grandpa's been diagnosed with cancer, or that your dog has been put to sleep, don't go to Cold Stone Creamery with my dad."

Arriving home with my groceries  I park, but  turn the key in the ignition only enough to kill the engine but not the power, so I can hear the rest of someone's story before I go upstairs to fold laundry and write stories of my own.

2013 Year End Letter

Each December I am caught up by the kind of energy that prevails as academic  semesters end: the euphoric sense that final exams will soon be taken then suddenly I will be floating on an expanse of free time called “winter break.” My plans for this winter break included finishing a script, installing and learning a budgeting program, cleaning the house, watching every movie missed over the course of the year, and writing a year-end letter for family and friends.
It is usually a day or so after Christmas that it dawns on me—as if I didn’t have the same realization the year before—that my actual vacation time is five days, two of which are filled with holiday activities, and that I have yet again overestimated the amount that can be achieved in that time.
But one thing I have been happy to learn from experience is that most things that can’t be done on time can be done late, so, in that spirit, here’s the Seetachitt year-end recap:

If 2012 was a roller coaster, then 2013 was...not. In 2012 the Elantra got totaled, in 2013 the Camry slowly and undramatically diminished in capacity until it was sold on Craigslist. 2012 contained a bout with cancer. 2013 brought merely a benign trickle of late billing and insurance paperwork.  In 2012 Paul’s first feature, Rock Jocks debuted. In 2013 it ran its small theatrical run, showed up on iTunes, then Netflix with little fanfare. My part-time job at USC continued. My script “in development” is still in development.

2013 might be seen as anticlimactic, as a profound relief, or both. It depends on how you feel about that coming to that slow glide at the end of a ride, finally stopping being released from behind the metal safety bar that never feels that safe.

Another thing experience has taught me is that at an amusement park, it’s the time on the ground that ultimately sets the tone for the day—the time hanging out and talking to friends, people watching, taking silly pictures and deciding which snakelike line to stand in next, half anticipating, half dreading that next climb up a daunting-size hill strapped onto a piece of plastic that will hurtle through space at high speeds.

My final judgment is that 2013 was an awesome year. I went camping for the first time in a decade (to the Grand Canyon) and went to my high school reunion back in Indiana. Paul and I visited friends in Denver, and more friends and family in New York. We ate Sunday dinners with family and witnessed our niece and nephew growing bigger and more entertaining by the day. And there was writing--on trips, on the train commuting to work, during lunch breaks and in bed in the mornings and even once in a while at my desk in my office. Creatively, it was a year for a few small projects completed and some bigger ones continuing and started, for meeting people and entering into new working relationships that I am excited to see continue in this year ahead.

Ultimately, it was a year of taking notice and taking breaths, for profound moments of gratitude shaken awake by people, landscapes, food, books, movies, rain, sun, electric blankets, holiday cards—and sometimes by nothing at all.

Paul and I wish you all the best for the upcoming year.
Barrington

When Most of Your Life is a Festival

Know where I am not this weekend? At Sundance. Whenever I open Wordpress to write a post like this one,  I am immediately confronted by a conveyer belt of newsfeeds, many of which are from "trades," like Variety and The Hollywood reporter. I'm drawn to the reviews and descriptions of the movies that are opening at Sundance. Reading them, I have mixed feelings. I went once, a few years ago, and there is something about seeing a film at a festival. There is something about seeing a film at a festival, being in the audience for a film that hasn't been seen anywhere else the moment before a film begins--a feeling of closeness, camaraderie, excitement and hope. A collective feeling of hope that the experience will be good, that the film will be good, that you will discover something together.

But there are lots of other moments too--moments in line, realizing you won't get in.  Moments of being really cold, walking up long hills because the people who booked the shared condominiums refused to tell you how really far away from the festival they were. Feeling isolated and pretty worked over from the "networking" on buses, in theater lobbies and at parties, the where people look past you for more interesting prospects, the knowledge that I was sometimes looking over someone's shoulder too. Not because I have the savvy to recognize anyone important, but because the neediness of the person in front of you can feel like an undertow, and when that happens, you look in every direction for shore.

So, overall, mixed feelings about not being at Sundance this year. Sad to miss it, and NOT sad to be missing it.

The librarian of the Philosophy library upstairs from where I work loves the opera and ballet, and music and movies.  When I ask about his weekend he'll often say, in a still-thick Chicago twang (despite the fact he has lived in Southern California since before I was born), "Barrington, I'll tell ya', I saw a great movie!" Or, "Barrington, I'll tell ya', that orchestra was spectacular!"  When I ask about his upcoming weekend, he usually seems happy with his plans, and equally happy without plans.  This weekend  after Friday night, "I don't have anything going on! I've got two days to just read, and listen to some music.  It's gonna be great!"

And really, what is greater than that? In high school and college, a new CD or two in your hands or a friend's was entertainment for an evening at least.  In my 20s, a movie night with rented videos was a fully-formed activity.
A package of a dozen screeners for the Independent Spirit Awards showed up my mailbox this week, and I have the option to attend nine different screening this weekend. This is in addition to our Netflix, Hulu and cable package.  We have a hundred CDs and iTunes and Spotify...
...and somehow all this feels incidental and interstitial. Everything is a thing that one crams in between other things...

This weekend however, I'm working to pare down the things, and appreciate each one as I'm doing it. Today I cleared the calendar for the afternoon and spent several consecutive hours reading.  Reading is a luxurious experience in itself, one I have enjoyed since I was six.  Granted it's because I need to finish a three-hundred page book of historical non-fiction in time to write a thousand-word book review for Tuesday, but still--

Related post: Review of movie I would be interested in seeing: http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/review/i-origins-sundance-review-672274

Chocolate Hangover

Ohhhh, headache.
We had a party last night.  For much of it, I think I was the picture of moderation in terms of eat and drink--but somehow when the time came to clean up, I lost all sense of proportion in the face of the prospect of incipient scarcity.  As I scooped the chocolate from our loaner chocolate fountain to empty it, I was struck with the realization that "the magical melted chocolate will soon be gone," and threw coated slices of apple, pumpkin bread and mandarin oranges into my mouth with a panicked abandon.  In culling and packing I discovered I had not eaten a single sausage ball, and immediately remedied that fact, I sniffed enticing dregs from bottles of red wine, and discovered the tails ends of people's contributions--gluten-free Nutella rice-krispy treats, home-made sea-salt chocolates and butterscotch chip cookies I hadn't realized my mother had brought.

At a party, the dialogue after a person declares their intention to leave often tends to be the most animated, as one realizes that there are only a few moments  remaining  to establish the connection and intimacy that only hours' worth of leisurely talk could actually provide but feels compelled nevertheless to cram what information and feeling one can into the final passing moments--the conversational equivalent of speeding-eating two dozen chocolate-coated mandarin oranges in five minutes.

Even as I drink my big glass of water, down two Advil and brace myself to go see the remaining carnage out on the patio, I have an overall feeling of satisfaction with the event, although almost all my conversations were like those described above--fast and distracted, conducted as one person was leaving or another was attempting to refill a cheese tray.  The attendance was larger than last year--a sign of success I guess, and I was certainly thrilled to see every person come through the door, but the the cost was that I often did not see people come through the door, and I didn't have the same ability to monitor how people were doing, or provide introductions for the ones who might not know people or be the type to introduce themselves. All a result of the fact that I  want a party to feel warm and welcoming--but also I tend toward the BIG--or as big as my resources allow. I feel responsible for providing a variety and choice of food, of drink, of conversational partners, so I buy and invite accordingly.

And ask accordingly of the people closest to me, my mom spent much of the week, and the five hours leading up to the party, making five kinds of cookies, rolling sausage and spinach-balls, cutting and storing crudites. Paul spent two days moving furniture and stringing lights to create different atmospheres inside and outside our house. Like my niece at six years old nonchalantly mentioning that her birthday party will be princess-themed, with a jumpy castle and face-painting, I announce my expectations, and when I am lucky, people who love me move mountains to make them reality--and I am very lucky.

I also have a lot of cleaning up to do.

I leave you with this short educational video:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnxzDJ2pz_s&w=560&h=315]

MPW Farewell

As a rule, I often downplay naming people and things in my blog posts, thus the program where I take writing classes I tend to refer to, generically, as "the program where I take classes." Today, however, I want to name it: It's a graduate program at USC called the Master of Professional Writing.  I've been taking classes through MPW part-time for two years. I enrolled for a few reasons: because my job offered tuition remission and I'm a big fan of things that are free; because taking classes maintains my student status and thus prevents my mountain of student debt from toppling down on me; and because every semester I saw interesting topics and instructors. I figured I might learn something, and if not, I'd at least be pressured to write. I didn't enroll because I thought I needed an MPW program. With two MFAs from highly respectable schools,  I didn't need the degree, and I didn't need any more friends who were aspiring writers.

That's what I thought.

I thought wrong.

While it would be impossible for every concept to be new, I've been consistently surprised. I've gained skills and knowledge in my MPW classes that five years of MFA classes didn't give me; and though I'd graduated from my screenwriting program with friends and acquaintances in the Los Angeles area, it has been the MPW program that has given me a  community--both a strong student community and an introduction to Los Angeles as a writing (and reading!) community.  I'd come to believe that my screenwriting pursuits were entirely incompatible with a path as a creative writer. Through MPW I have been shown that is not the case, and introduced to a number of role-models who work in multiple genres.  Finally, MPW has reminded me of my appreciation and gratitude for writing and for other writers, which is not a luxury, but a necessity for anyone who plans to persevere in a writing profession.

My current semester at MPW has been the best I have experienced in terms of all of these things.  My classes have been educational and directly applicable to my work; I've felt a real affection respect and compassion for the students I share the classroom with. I've been inspired by my professors and the literature they've introduced to me,  and I've been ever more impressed by the reading and events the sponsored by the program and the efforts its administration makes to give us ties to the larger community of Los Angeles.  Friday night, I attended a student/ faculty reading. Afterwards as I wandered through The Last Bookstore in the company of other students, I was struck by a sense of belonging. This is not to say that I spend lots of time feeling ostracized or alienated, but moments of feeling a real sense of belonging occur seldom enough that I notice them.  And lately, when I have noticed them, it's been during in MPW-related activities: attending readings at bookstores around L.A., volunteering for the department-run journal, participating in professional seminars organized by the faculty on the weekends. Lately, when thinking of the MPW program, I've felt uncharacteristically warm and fuzzy.

Which makes it a little ironic that today I received an email saying that the dean has decided that the MPW Program will no longer accept new students. The current cohort will be the last cohort and the program will be discontinued as of Spring 2016.  So far, no reasons for this have been offered, other than the statement that it was "a business decision."

This will likely not affect my own educational trajectory, but somehow it still changes things-- like learning in your senior year of high school that after you graduate the city is going to burn down the building.  You'll still get to go to school everyday, but when you're done, there won't be anyplace to visit, and all the secrets and advice you might have given your kid brother are no longer pertinent.
It's an odd, sorrowful feeling.

But mostly I feel lucky.  Lucky that I found MPW when I did, and that it has given me so much that I didn't even know I needed.

Too Much Fun

Watched David Sedaris--live! Attended a panel about resistance in the Middle East followed by a DJ. Read slush-pile stories for the Southern California Review. Saw live prose and poetry for my writing program at The Last Bookstore. Homework. Class.  A lecture on "platform building" (that's on social networks, not actual construction).  Homework. Class. Family dinner/game.  Facilitated a Doritos shoot. Watched two movies for research.  Short stories by Alice Munroe and Hemingway.
These are some of the things that have occupied my not-at-work time in the 10 days since returning from New York. In that time I cannot recall arriving home in the evening before 9pm.  I also cannot recall opening the screenplay I've sworn to finish before the end of the year. But it has all been fun.  As you can see from the list, not been dance-party and drinking kind of fun, but all mentally engaging and mostly social. So I'm definitely not complaining.

But it's not a sustainable lifestyle for me on any level, though it's one I phase through periodically--often toward the end of the year, leading to New Year's Resolutions where I pre-block certain days and evenings for solitary writing or downtime, which starts off strong but gradually erodes until I am whirl-winding toward the end of the year again.

This post, by the way, replaces another post I started, titled "A Really Boring Explanation of Why We Can't See Our Bedroom Floor."  It got ix-nayed because it really was boring, but the topic was related to this--how there are comings/ goings, projects/gatherings, but no transition time for doing more than shoving a load of laundry in the washer or keeping the dishes in the sink at bay.  Likewise, on psychological level, I've devoted little time to interior housekeeping, like meditation, journaling, or even writing this blog. While it's enjoyable for awhile to ride a wave of experiences without processing, historically I know these waves crash to shore.

But hopefully not this weekend, because I need to go to a workshop, go to yoga, host some board-games, do all my homework, and hang out with my mom.  So for a little while longer, let the fun continue.

A Really Boring Post About Why We Cannot See the Bedroom Floor

So we went to New York.  We woke really early in the morning to catch a flight that would get me home in time for my Monday evening class.  After the class I was very tired after being up for 18 hours and fell asleep. Then I got up for work, and then I went to my Tuesday night class, and then I was tired again.  And then suddenly it was midnight on Friday and  my luggage was still on the bedroom floor--mostly unpacked, but not so unpacked it could be put away.  On Saturday we prepared for Paul's shoot on Sunday by procuring many things:  boys T-shirts and boys jeans, and some bags of Doritos and a bear suit. And then I thought about things that one sometimes needs on a shoot, and filled a box with scissors and a matte knife and sharpie pens and pencils with erasers and multiple sizes of these special clamps called "grip clips," and assorted kinds of tape and some fishing line and some ribbon.  Some of these we used during the shoot. Some of it was destroyed.  But many things were left, to be returned to the stores where we bought them or the shelves and drawers and the garage where we found them, but it was dark and cold and we were running late for a dinner, so we carried them upstairs in a hurry and left them.  After dinner, it was late  and we were so sleepy. And then it was Monday and there was work and class, and then it was Tuesday...

New York Farewell

Paul and I just spent four delightful days in the city of New York.  We saw friends and family, and old professors, and I even unexpectedly ran into an old friend from Indiana.  We over-ate and over-spent, and in between I stole a few hours here and there to write a little--oh and I found a yoga place to go!

And now it's midnight on Sunday, and it's all over. I have profound Sunday night blues--not least because the alarm on my phone is set for 3:45 AM, because our plane leaves at 6:15 AM.  The entire quality of going to sleep is different when there is the spectre of an alarm at the other end of it.  But also because we live in a world of good-byes and long-distance friendships.

Super Ninja Neck Snap

 
I see my chiropractor on Mondays.
He bounces his fingers along my spine, lightly, barely pausing as he presses
the offending vertebrae, muttering,
“L4, T12 C7, C4, C3, C2,”
He stands behind me, cradles the crown of my head in one hand, my jaw in the other
and twists.
The CRACK resounds, and leaves me shaky.
I think about highly trained assassins and wonder
what the difference is
between the angle of relief and the angle of death.
10 degrees? Less?
I ask my chiropractor, and it turns out
they never discussed this at chiropractor school,
It was assumed there would be no death snaps,
like in hair-cutting school they assume no one will get stabbed in the eye with scissors.
Fair enough.
Still.
That crack is loud.
Subsequent internet research reveals that ending a person with a single swift twist of the neck, is much harder than one might think
from watching Die Hard, multiple episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and that scene in A Long Kiss Goodnight where Geena Davis kills the deer.
According to one website (with no listed outside sources), it takes between 900 and 1500 Newtons to fracture a C2 vertebrae.
According to another website, a Newton—a term of which I have no recollection from high school physics—is the amount of force needed to accelerate one kilogram of mass at a rate of one kilometer per second squared.
Another website—referred to since it’s hard to visualize those words that start with kilo—says a Newton might be compared to the weight of a single quarter-pound hamburger.
Which is also difficult to visualize. 900 quarter-pounders torqueing a neck? Is that 300 McDonald’s paper bags? does three burgers per bag seem reasonable? could four fit? or would  the bags no longer fold securely and spill open as you tried to stack them on the side of someone’s face?
In terms conceptualizing speed and force it might be more helpful to know that most C2 fractures happen as results of car accidents.
My chiropractor is not so speedy or forceful as a car wreck.
My inner wanna-be-poet likes the idea that the difference between life and death is only a few degrees.
But this is not the metaphor for it.
There is also the matter of some 1400 Newtons.

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• Snap, Crackle & Pop (relovertigo.wordpress.com)

In the Weeds With My Friend

"In the weeds," as any chef, or connoisseur of reality cooking show knows, is what cooks say when they are overwhelmed and behind in the kitchen. I'm a little in the weeds right now. I'm coordinating this kind of big event at work that will happen tomorrow. There's audio and video and a website, food and drinks and parking passes for three hundred guests, tight rehearsal schedules, and all the little things one needs to remember--bottled water and reserved signs and tape for the reserved signs and special adaptors for computers. To summarize a bit too late, there is a lot of mental and physical packing to be done...and if you know me, you know packing is one of my least favorite things to do...it causes my friend, anxiety, to come knocking.

The other anxiety provoking thing is that I've got some negotiating and decision-making to do about something I've written. I don't have representation, so sometimes I have to put on that hat, and it's a hat with a stiffer brim than I generally wear. Kind of like a cowboy hat. Sometimes there's some verbal shoot-outs. It's not my favorite thing to do. So, I've been waking  in the mornings to find the anxiety in bed with me.

I will say that of late I have been appreciating my job a lot, for the fact that these kind of anxiety-inducing situations do NOT generally happen much. And in moments like this, caused by circumstances I know will pass, I appreciate it more.

Also, my second class started this week, so there's homework, I've promised to read some scripts--for my writing group and for a friend, and then there are those pesky scripts of my own I need to work on. These obligations are so common as to be only incidental on the anxiety meter, but do add significantly to the "in the weeds" factor. It means that once Friday is over, it will be a full weekend as well.

Weekend Recap

Had a good weekend. Friday night I made my way to the Barnes and Noble in Santa Monica to hear readings by students and faculty of the program where I'm taking classes. I was so impressed by the quality of the work, and kind of in awe that I know so many people making that work.
This happy awe became a little less pure as I wandered through the stacks of the bookstore afterwards. So many books on the shelves that I don't know how to go about choosing. I've rarely met a published book I didn't like, so I guess any of them would have been a good option, but seeing them all together like that was overwhelming. Like making your way through a throng of people after a football game. It becomes hard to see any one of so many as an individual. And then I began to feel ridiculous, thinking of how I spend so much of my life putting words on paper when there are clearly already so many good words on paper crying out to be read. And yet, when I got back to my car I couldn't stop myself from risking my twenty minute allotment of time after paying for my parking ticket to write my impressions of the evening in my little notebook for no audience at all--so maybe we can only be what we are!

Saturday was a writing day, finishing a draft of a script that has been in the works for way too long to send to my writers group.

And today, Paul and I drove to the Big Bear International Film Festival to see a screening of a friend's film. Big Bear is a kind of resort and ski town a couple of hours northeast of Los Angeles. There's a big lake, and it's surrounded by mountains--really beautiful. It was nice to get out of town, and I was delighted that the film, As High as the Sky was well-crafted and emotionally impactful. They took home the audience award as they have at many other festivals. Hopefully they will find distribution soon, so you'll have the opportunity to see it!

Got home in time to watch the penultimate episode of Breaking Bad, and do a few dishes. Finally sent a picture and bio to The Drum to go with my essay when they post it. It took me longer to send that than to record and send the essay itself. I keep planning to take the ultimate author photo, that I will feel no hesitation sending out into the world, but it just hasn't happened yet...that perfect picture is a rare commodity.