There are chef who say that if you want to bring out the sweetness in a dish, add not more sugar but a pinch of salt.
Everything beautiful and joyous and funny has a whisper of sadness to it.
Last night the small theater company I'm part of held an event, "Soup &." We served homemade soup and four local theater artists we had commissioned performed short, original pieces.
And it was great. People showed up on a rainy Monday night. The soup was tasty, and the performances were delightfully unexpected. It wasn't a precious, sipping broth and listening to quiet reflection while you sat knitting kind of evening. It had an edge. It had quirk. It had surprise.
The night was the two things I love most about live theater: intimate and idiosyncratic. And therein lies the tragedy. They are the twin "i"'s that doom excellent theater, economically at least. Forty people in a room, nobody more that fifteen feet from a the stage, it's a lovely experience, but can't really pay anybody's rent. And, as far as the other "i" (idiosyncrasy), people say they want new, fresh, innovative work. But most don't really. Truly odd stuff will always be niche.
Last night gave me a tingle, a frission, a charge. But it also reminded me that -- at least for now -- I'm not in a place where I'm free to be Bohemian.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Who's your daddy
"I have of late, but wherefor I know not, lost all my mirth."
While, in the balance Shakespeare has given me more tedium than joy, there are lines and passages I adore. Like the one above. It's a perfect way to describe a funk.
I had been thinking last week that it has been ages since I had laughed so hard that tears had come to my eyes.
But, then, a few days ago, it happened. I was scootching Pullo over on the couch and he yelped in pain.(Like a little girly puppy) Jeff looked over at me like I'd been putting out cigarettes on the dog's haunches. "You have to be careful!"
"I didn't do anything," I pleaded. "I hardly touched him!"
Jeff look over at Pullo. "Poor old guy! Maybe we should --"
Every once in a while, Jeff gets these classic hare brained (hair brained?) ideas that can catch me off guard.
"Yes, Honey? What should we do?"
"Well, I can get some hospital sheets. The two of us could move him like nurses move patients."
This is when I lost it. Tears, gasps for breath, red faced laughter.
This dog is already a little prince. And now Jeff is suggesting we make him a -- a what? Mahraja? The Dali Lama? (Hmm, the Doggy Lama, now there's a nick name!)
But, and there is always a but, isn't there?
The yelping turned out not to be an isolated incident. He's twisted or sprained some muscle or joint. Pullo not Jeff. And curiously he won't tell us in plain English what's wrong.
And of course, we've done the one thing you're not supposed to do: We've rewarded these cries of pain. If he whimpers we immediately rush to comfort him. Teaching him that whining is the way to get your Dads to drop everything and pet you gently. (Is this classic conditioning? Or the other kind? And who exactly is being conditioned here? Paging Dr. Skinnner.)
And, although we haven't gotten the hospital sheets out yet, I did use boxes and mats to build a little staircase up to our bed.
One bright spot. If the afterlife is run by dogs, Jeff and I will be sitting pretty for eternity.
While, in the balance Shakespeare has given me more tedium than joy, there are lines and passages I adore. Like the one above. It's a perfect way to describe a funk.
I had been thinking last week that it has been ages since I had laughed so hard that tears had come to my eyes.
But, then, a few days ago, it happened. I was scootching Pullo over on the couch and he yelped in pain.(Like a little girly puppy) Jeff looked over at me like I'd been putting out cigarettes on the dog's haunches. "You have to be careful!"
"I didn't do anything," I pleaded. "I hardly touched him!"
Jeff look over at Pullo. "Poor old guy! Maybe we should --"
Every once in a while, Jeff gets these classic hare brained (hair brained?) ideas that can catch me off guard.
"Yes, Honey? What should we do?"
"Well, I can get some hospital sheets. The two of us could move him like nurses move patients."
This is when I lost it. Tears, gasps for breath, red faced laughter.
This dog is already a little prince. And now Jeff is suggesting we make him a -- a what? Mahraja? The Dali Lama? (Hmm, the Doggy Lama, now there's a nick name!)
But, and there is always a but, isn't there?
The yelping turned out not to be an isolated incident. He's twisted or sprained some muscle or joint. Pullo not Jeff. And curiously he won't tell us in plain English what's wrong.
And of course, we've done the one thing you're not supposed to do: We've rewarded these cries of pain. If he whimpers we immediately rush to comfort him. Teaching him that whining is the way to get your Dads to drop everything and pet you gently. (Is this classic conditioning? Or the other kind? And who exactly is being conditioned here? Paging Dr. Skinnner.)
And, although we haven't gotten the hospital sheets out yet, I did use boxes and mats to build a little staircase up to our bed.
One bright spot. If the afterlife is run by dogs, Jeff and I will be sitting pretty for eternity.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Shalt not Covet
Sometimes I get envious of other people's art form. I just finished Lorrie Moore's book "Gate at the Stairs.' It's good. I love novels. I'm usually in the middle of one. I don't understand people who say things like, "Oh, yeah, I read a novel last year. Or was it the year before?" I'm jealous of the novelist's expanse and structure and the respect they get and the book tours they love to complain about and the fact that someone can stumble across their work at the bottom of an old trunk and be captivated.
I am not a novelist. I've taken a couple stabs at it. It's just not who I am. I get lost in the size of it. I like to be able to look at a whole work in front of me, map out a play on one big piece of paper and look at the entirety of it. A novel's too big to do that. I'm all about economy and distillation. Oh, and I'm too anxious and disbelieving of the future to be a novelist. To spend a year, year and a half working on something that might not work. That's a lot of faith. I can write and produce a couple of plays plus a half dozen short pieces in that time. If some of them don't work, oh well, move on to the next. And I think I'm too introverted. If I were a novelist, I'd give into the introversion, I'd give up on people all together. My hair and fingernails would grow long and I would become unfit for human company. Theater forces me to work with others to get stuff done. Oh, and you know another big advantage to play writing? I get to see my audience as they experience my work. And a writer reading an expert of his/her book ain't the same thing.
The other art form I get jealous of, for different reasons, is solo performance. Not because I think it's a superior form of theater, but because it's a much better economic model. If a writer/performer keeps the tech simple and does some good marketing, they can make some money. Not huge amounts, but often enough to live on. They can be completely portable. Always ready to pack a show in a bag and fly off to a festival half way across the world. They don't have to worry about anyone flaking out on them. Don't have to split the door. But, like I know I'm not a novelist, I also know I'm not a performer.
It's funny. Painting, sculpture, music, they're great. But I never have days when I really yearn to be a composer or visual artist. For me, it's always gonna be words. And those words aren't gonna be a novel, and it's not gonna be me saying those words. I think it's the sheer proximity of the other means of expression that can make me wistful on good days, tormented on bad.
But, as the great philosopher and man of the sea, Popeye, once said, "I yam what I yam."
I am not a novelist. I've taken a couple stabs at it. It's just not who I am. I get lost in the size of it. I like to be able to look at a whole work in front of me, map out a play on one big piece of paper and look at the entirety of it. A novel's too big to do that. I'm all about economy and distillation. Oh, and I'm too anxious and disbelieving of the future to be a novelist. To spend a year, year and a half working on something that might not work. That's a lot of faith. I can write and produce a couple of plays plus a half dozen short pieces in that time. If some of them don't work, oh well, move on to the next. And I think I'm too introverted. If I were a novelist, I'd give into the introversion, I'd give up on people all together. My hair and fingernails would grow long and I would become unfit for human company. Theater forces me to work with others to get stuff done. Oh, and you know another big advantage to play writing? I get to see my audience as they experience my work. And a writer reading an expert of his/her book ain't the same thing.
The other art form I get jealous of, for different reasons, is solo performance. Not because I think it's a superior form of theater, but because it's a much better economic model. If a writer/performer keeps the tech simple and does some good marketing, they can make some money. Not huge amounts, but often enough to live on. They can be completely portable. Always ready to pack a show in a bag and fly off to a festival half way across the world. They don't have to worry about anyone flaking out on them. Don't have to split the door. But, like I know I'm not a novelist, I also know I'm not a performer.
It's funny. Painting, sculpture, music, they're great. But I never have days when I really yearn to be a composer or visual artist. For me, it's always gonna be words. And those words aren't gonna be a novel, and it's not gonna be me saying those words. I think it's the sheer proximity of the other means of expression that can make me wistful on good days, tormented on bad.
But, as the great philosopher and man of the sea, Popeye, once said, "I yam what I yam."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Goethe
For years I have been joking that I am quite ready for my Faustian deal.
In my mind it was a TV show. A sort of a cross between "Facts of Life" and "Home Improvement." Or, maybe it was writing the book for a musical based on "Bridget Jones' Diary."
But I am seeing sings now that it will be shabbier and most likely march under the banner "New Media." (Which is a term that does nothing for me. In fact it reminds me of those lazy art curator labels, "mixed media" which can mean anything from "A variety of metals and polyvynl" to "A bunch of crap glued together.")
I've had a handful of meetings and email exchanges in the last week about different vague projects. All of which I could do quite well (with hands tied behind my back.) None of which excite me.
Now, I am someone who tends to tell short, economical tales. But these ventures seem beyond short. They seem fragmented, designed for an audience that is always and forever a moment away from checking out the ball scores or a new kitten video or an Ashton Krutcher twitter.
I guess I got old. "User Generated" and "Interactive Content" just seem like code for "Writing isn't really that important."
The other difference between this and "The Facts of Home Improvement as told to Bridget Jones" is that the new business models and revenue streams are experimental at best, elusive at worse.
But there is an anxious urgency, because there are stories told about people who got in on the ground floor of a ridiculous idea and are now having lunch with the likes of Richie Rich and Scrooge McDuck.
There is a feeling that if you say "no" to the wrong project, you will not only live to regret it, but that in the future you will be used as a text book example of a short sighted fool. (Probably in economics texts books, or more likely, interactive educational economics websites.)
Why is it that with so many new things coming at us all the time, it still feels like end days?
And Yeah, when Mephistopheles comes a' knockin' with my Faustian deal, my response will be: "Yes! Yes, sir! Of course! Please! Thank you!
That's the thing about the devil, he's patient. He's willing to wait until the market is right and there are bargains to be had.
In my mind it was a TV show. A sort of a cross between "Facts of Life" and "Home Improvement." Or, maybe it was writing the book for a musical based on "Bridget Jones' Diary."
But I am seeing sings now that it will be shabbier and most likely march under the banner "New Media." (Which is a term that does nothing for me. In fact it reminds me of those lazy art curator labels, "mixed media" which can mean anything from "A variety of metals and polyvynl" to "A bunch of crap glued together.")
I've had a handful of meetings and email exchanges in the last week about different vague projects. All of which I could do quite well (with hands tied behind my back.) None of which excite me.
Now, I am someone who tends to tell short, economical tales. But these ventures seem beyond short. They seem fragmented, designed for an audience that is always and forever a moment away from checking out the ball scores or a new kitten video or an Ashton Krutcher twitter.
I guess I got old. "User Generated" and "Interactive Content" just seem like code for "Writing isn't really that important."
The other difference between this and "The Facts of Home Improvement as told to Bridget Jones" is that the new business models and revenue streams are experimental at best, elusive at worse.
But there is an anxious urgency, because there are stories told about people who got in on the ground floor of a ridiculous idea and are now having lunch with the likes of Richie Rich and Scrooge McDuck.
There is a feeling that if you say "no" to the wrong project, you will not only live to regret it, but that in the future you will be used as a text book example of a short sighted fool. (Probably in economics texts books, or more likely, interactive educational economics websites.)
Why is it that with so many new things coming at us all the time, it still feels like end days?
And Yeah, when Mephistopheles comes a' knockin' with my Faustian deal, my response will be: "Yes! Yes, sir! Of course! Please! Thank you!
That's the thing about the devil, he's patient. He's willing to wait until the market is right and there are bargains to be had.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Just a little Monday Moring navel gazing
I was twenty four when I moved to Seattle. I didn't have much. A job in a movie theater and a small apartment. My roommate wasn't moving up for a couple months. That summer I read, "Lolita" and "Great Expectations" and "One Hundred Years of Solitude."
Now books longer than 400 pages intimidate me, like they are asking too much of me.
There is a lot about being young that I don't miss. Lots of uncertainty,insecurity, false steps. None of that has gone away, but I have a better handle on things. I know that rough patches come and go. I've picked up some tricks along the road.
Oh, but the time to read big books. To sink into a project, like sinking in warm mud up to your neck. To think about some little thing for hours. To dwell with an idea for weeks at a time.
On the surface, this seems a ridiculous thing for me to get weepy eyed about. What do I have to complain about? It sure looks like I have plenty of time and space. But here's the thing: a free hour squeezed between two commitments is not the same as a free hour sitting between two other free hours. And four hours added up over the day isn't four hours straight. It's hard to explain why being in a crowded coffee shop is being alone in a way that just being in another room in the apartment is not, even when the door is closed.
Sometimes it's easier to be creative while you're doing a data entry job than it is to sit unoccupied physically, but worrying.
When I was twenty-one I hitchhiked around Australia for two months with only what I had on my back. Once in college I had so few belongings I was able to move from one house to another on foot.
Here is where I must stop and scold myself. Today I long to be so unencumbered. But back then, all I wished for was more. Not, of course, more tangible stuff, but the stuff of life: accomplishments, attachments, experiences. Never dreaming that those treasures would sometimes feel like a burden.
I don't really want to live in a small white room with only a bed and a chair. And I know that a rhythmic, mindless task is soothing for about a week and a half before it becomes oppressive. And I know that a time with no messages to return and no deadlines to meet soon becomes purposeless. And a world where you're not concerned about others, thinking about others, caring for others gets lonely.
But nostalgia has it's own warped logic.
A logic I'm going to have to shake if I'm going to move forward. To find some balance and some peace. Some midway point between not enough and too much.
I can do this.
Now books longer than 400 pages intimidate me, like they are asking too much of me.
There is a lot about being young that I don't miss. Lots of uncertainty,insecurity, false steps. None of that has gone away, but I have a better handle on things. I know that rough patches come and go. I've picked up some tricks along the road.
Oh, but the time to read big books. To sink into a project, like sinking in warm mud up to your neck. To think about some little thing for hours. To dwell with an idea for weeks at a time.
On the surface, this seems a ridiculous thing for me to get weepy eyed about. What do I have to complain about? It sure looks like I have plenty of time and space. But here's the thing: a free hour squeezed between two commitments is not the same as a free hour sitting between two other free hours. And four hours added up over the day isn't four hours straight. It's hard to explain why being in a crowded coffee shop is being alone in a way that just being in another room in the apartment is not, even when the door is closed.
Sometimes it's easier to be creative while you're doing a data entry job than it is to sit unoccupied physically, but worrying.
When I was twenty-one I hitchhiked around Australia for two months with only what I had on my back. Once in college I had so few belongings I was able to move from one house to another on foot.
Here is where I must stop and scold myself. Today I long to be so unencumbered. But back then, all I wished for was more. Not, of course, more tangible stuff, but the stuff of life: accomplishments, attachments, experiences. Never dreaming that those treasures would sometimes feel like a burden.
I don't really want to live in a small white room with only a bed and a chair. And I know that a rhythmic, mindless task is soothing for about a week and a half before it becomes oppressive. And I know that a time with no messages to return and no deadlines to meet soon becomes purposeless. And a world where you're not concerned about others, thinking about others, caring for others gets lonely.
But nostalgia has it's own warped logic.
A logic I'm going to have to shake if I'm going to move forward. To find some balance and some peace. Some midway point between not enough and too much.
I can do this.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Here Comes Spring!
I know the whole "Spring Awakening" thing is a bit of a cliche, but by golly, this time of year really does rouse me. (What a great word, rouse!)
Sometimes however, one does not wake dressed in a diaphanous white gown running through a meadow, chasing butterflies and kissing daffodils.
Sometimes you open you eyes to find that while you were hibernating, person or persons unknown threw a giant college-style party in your house. Everywhere you look there are red plastic keg cups and bottles with cigarette butts in 'em and empty bags of Doritos and stains and the smell of bong water. (Hmm, everywhere you look there is the smell of bong water? Iffy) That "extra hour of daylight" does nothing but illuminate the mess. And you know that before you can frolic in a meadow, you have to --
PULLO: Excuse me.
ME: Pullo, I'm right in middle of a metaphor here.
PULLO: Oh.
ME: What did you mean, saying "Oh" like that?
PULLO: Like what?
ME: That was an eye rolling "oh" if I ever heard one.
PULLO: *sigh* OK.Sometimes, your metaphors are a little...
ME: A little what?
PULLO: Well, kind of Life-Coachy, Lady of the canyonish, Watered down spiritual, Dr. Philly, Artist's Way-esque, Chicken Soup, Footprints in the Sandy...I don't know, hard to put my paw on.
ME: Fine, I'll just --
PULLO: Dial it back?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Put away the dream catcher?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Write more about talking animals?
ME: Well, there's no shutting you up, is there?
PULLO: Nope.
ME: Where was I?
PULLO: Something about Spring?
ME: Spring, Right. Happy Equinox everyone.
Sometimes however, one does not wake dressed in a diaphanous white gown running through a meadow, chasing butterflies and kissing daffodils.
Sometimes you open you eyes to find that while you were hibernating, person or persons unknown threw a giant college-style party in your house. Everywhere you look there are red plastic keg cups and bottles with cigarette butts in 'em and empty bags of Doritos and stains and the smell of bong water. (Hmm, everywhere you look there is the smell of bong water? Iffy) That "extra hour of daylight" does nothing but illuminate the mess. And you know that before you can frolic in a meadow, you have to --
PULLO: Excuse me.
ME: Pullo, I'm right in middle of a metaphor here.
PULLO: Oh.
ME: What did you mean, saying "Oh" like that?
PULLO: Like what?
ME: That was an eye rolling "oh" if I ever heard one.
PULLO: *sigh* OK.Sometimes, your metaphors are a little...
ME: A little what?
PULLO: Well, kind of Life-Coachy, Lady of the canyonish, Watered down spiritual, Dr. Philly, Artist's Way-esque, Chicken Soup, Footprints in the Sandy...I don't know, hard to put my paw on.
ME: Fine, I'll just --
PULLO: Dial it back?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Put away the dream catcher?
ME: Yes.
PULLO: Write more about talking animals?
ME: Well, there's no shutting you up, is there?
PULLO: Nope.
ME: Where was I?
PULLO: Something about Spring?
ME: Spring, Right. Happy Equinox everyone.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Things Shrouded
Our sad eyed rescue dog has this weird habit. After we get home from a walk and take off his leash, he stands there and looks at me expectantly. Expecting what I don't know. Clearly at some point in the many homes he's been in, there was some end of the walk command or ritual or treat. This is a mystery that will never be solved. I will never be able to give him release.
Now, I thought about making some grand metaphor about expectations, and the feeling of needing permission that will never be granted. But it's St. Patrick's Day, so fuck it. Instead, Pullo and I are staging "Waiting For Godot." I got us a couple of colorful matching hobo outfits and fashioned a bare tree out of a lamp and we went to town.
We started out with just using our American accents (Pullo's is a little bit Bayou, him being born in New Orleans.) But soon switched to Irish. We were having a grand time of it until I realized we had left Beckett far behind. Pullo was lost in the Lucky Charms commercial and I was shilling for Irish Spring. Something like this:
Pullo: Godot, he's worth the wait, him being all Magically Delicious.
Me: Aye, he's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Pullo: Ya stupid feck, that's not Irish Spring, it's Secret Deodorant. Irish Spring is "I like it toooo."
And then I thought, I've got him where I want him. He's talking, I can ask him about that post walk look of longing.
But he just sighs as if to say, "A dog's gotta keep some mystery."
Later today, we'll be re-enacting the Potato Famine.
Now, I thought about making some grand metaphor about expectations, and the feeling of needing permission that will never be granted. But it's St. Patrick's Day, so fuck it. Instead, Pullo and I are staging "Waiting For Godot." I got us a couple of colorful matching hobo outfits and fashioned a bare tree out of a lamp and we went to town.
We started out with just using our American accents (Pullo's is a little bit Bayou, him being born in New Orleans.) But soon switched to Irish. We were having a grand time of it until I realized we had left Beckett far behind. Pullo was lost in the Lucky Charms commercial and I was shilling for Irish Spring. Something like this:
Pullo: Godot, he's worth the wait, him being all Magically Delicious.
Me: Aye, he's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Pullo: Ya stupid feck, that's not Irish Spring, it's Secret Deodorant. Irish Spring is "I like it toooo."
And then I thought, I've got him where I want him. He's talking, I can ask him about that post walk look of longing.
But he just sighs as if to say, "A dog's gotta keep some mystery."
Later today, we'll be re-enacting the Potato Famine.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Oh, life
*Sigh*
Ok, look: the one thing, the only thing, the very last thing I had going for me was that by and large, most people did not think I was an asshole.
I can kiss that goodbye.
How do these things happen? I mean, there was a time when if you'd told me that casual, private conversations of mine would end up in the newspaper, I'd have told you you were crazy. Not anymore.
OK, not a conversation, an email. And not really the newspaper, the Slog. But really, I did not mean for it all to go public. And it's all my own stupid, sloppy fault. If I was going to vent, it shouldn't have been to Paul Mullin.
And maybe I am the asshole. But you know, sometimes you get a little tired of being offered the crumbs and the chance to lick the gravy stains off the table and having to smile and say thank you.
I will wear the scarlet "U" for Ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, who given a reading at the Rep and still had the gall to complain.
Ok, look: the one thing, the only thing, the very last thing I had going for me was that by and large, most people did not think I was an asshole.
I can kiss that goodbye.
How do these things happen? I mean, there was a time when if you'd told me that casual, private conversations of mine would end up in the newspaper, I'd have told you you were crazy. Not anymore.
OK, not a conversation, an email. And not really the newspaper, the Slog. But really, I did not mean for it all to go public. And it's all my own stupid, sloppy fault. If I was going to vent, it shouldn't have been to Paul Mullin.
And maybe I am the asshole. But you know, sometimes you get a little tired of being offered the crumbs and the chance to lick the gravy stains off the table and having to smile and say thank you.
I will wear the scarlet "U" for Ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, who given a reading at the Rep and still had the gall to complain.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Keeping Busy
Ah, nothing like a little contact with the outside world. Just what the doctor ordered. Finished a 4Culture grant and submitted it. I've got a reading tonight at the Rep. Helping to organized Printer's Devil's Soup & night (which goes up in a couple weeks.) Had a rehearsal on Sunday for the piece Keira and Evan will be touring next summer. I'm feeling a little like a writer today!
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sense and Nonsense
I gotta say, I do love me a no-nonsense woman. (Possibly because i was raised by a much-nonsense mother.) And apparently my husband Jeff loves 'em too. Recently his guide and guru has become the goddess of practicality herself, Suze Orman.
Jeff got a copy of one of her books at a thrift store. On her advice he checked his FICO. You gotta understand, for Jeff, owning a home is a big dream. He's been Jonesing for it for a while. I'm more like: "Oh, sure. A house would be nice. Can you pass me a bagel?"
Turns out Jeff's FICO is pretty good. Good enough that home ownership is no longer a distant taunting mirage floating in the clouds, but a real possibility here on the Earth.
Which is kind of scary for me. I've seen how the whole house buying process has driven rational folks crazy. And we are not rational folks.
Also frightening is that whole idea of being anchored down. Which is nuts because I'm not exactly on the verge of grabbing a hobo-stick and tramping off across the wide open spaces of this world, singing the hiking song, hitching a ride with whoever will stop. (Although I did do that twenty five years ago.)
But most terrifying is the difference that lies between "Must have house" and "Yeah, why not."
When worked into a frenzy, when the bug bites him, Jeff will even say things like, "I'll live in a tool shed!" "I'll live in a trailer!" Which hurts my feelings because, I will not live in a trailer, and he knows this. Hobo stick before mobile home.
I'm bracing myself for months of no-win situations. ( Me: "Honey, it's OK, we didn't get this house, we'll get another one." Him: "You never wanted a house to begin with!! You're denying my dream!!)
I'm perfectly happy making compromises. I'm sure it will be small. I'm sure it will be further out than I like. (But please, not Burien.) It will be fine.
OK, here's the other thing I'm dreading. The activity that give me the most joy in life is writing and producing shows. Lately, I've been feeling like that's been pushed down on the list of priorities. Like maybe, when I wasn't looking it drifted down to #2, or #2 1/2. And I fear that house hunting and all the hoops to jump through and forms to fill out and the worrying and fretting and uncertain days will push writing down the list. I wish I were one of those people who could compartmentalize. But I'm not. If I'm waiting for a phone call or wondering how we're going to get all the furniture out of the apartment or stewing in vague financial anxiety, I can't really delve into writing. Which makes me feel selfish and childish and indulgent.
I wish there was a fast forward button on life I could hit and zip through this next bit.
Oh! Or better yet, I wish the process could be accomplished in montage. Quick shot of us talking to a friendly banker. A humorous shot of us surrounded by a ridiculous mountain of paper work. Twenty super quick shots of different houses (Mansions, houseboats, teepees.) Then you'd see us pulling a "For Sale" sign out of the ground in front of our cute little bungalow. And a final image of us eating take out food by candlelight surrounded by unpacked boxes.
Deep Breath. Think about the last shot. Find the strength.
Jeff got a copy of one of her books at a thrift store. On her advice he checked his FICO. You gotta understand, for Jeff, owning a home is a big dream. He's been Jonesing for it for a while. I'm more like: "Oh, sure. A house would be nice. Can you pass me a bagel?"
Turns out Jeff's FICO is pretty good. Good enough that home ownership is no longer a distant taunting mirage floating in the clouds, but a real possibility here on the Earth.
Which is kind of scary for me. I've seen how the whole house buying process has driven rational folks crazy. And we are not rational folks.
Also frightening is that whole idea of being anchored down. Which is nuts because I'm not exactly on the verge of grabbing a hobo-stick and tramping off across the wide open spaces of this world, singing the hiking song, hitching a ride with whoever will stop. (Although I did do that twenty five years ago.)
But most terrifying is the difference that lies between "Must have house" and "Yeah, why not."
When worked into a frenzy, when the bug bites him, Jeff will even say things like, "I'll live in a tool shed!" "I'll live in a trailer!" Which hurts my feelings because, I will not live in a trailer, and he knows this. Hobo stick before mobile home.
I'm bracing myself for months of no-win situations. ( Me: "Honey, it's OK, we didn't get this house, we'll get another one." Him: "You never wanted a house to begin with!! You're denying my dream!!)
I'm perfectly happy making compromises. I'm sure it will be small. I'm sure it will be further out than I like. (But please, not Burien.) It will be fine.
OK, here's the other thing I'm dreading. The activity that give me the most joy in life is writing and producing shows. Lately, I've been feeling like that's been pushed down on the list of priorities. Like maybe, when I wasn't looking it drifted down to #2, or #2 1/2. And I fear that house hunting and all the hoops to jump through and forms to fill out and the worrying and fretting and uncertain days will push writing down the list. I wish I were one of those people who could compartmentalize. But I'm not. If I'm waiting for a phone call or wondering how we're going to get all the furniture out of the apartment or stewing in vague financial anxiety, I can't really delve into writing. Which makes me feel selfish and childish and indulgent.
I wish there was a fast forward button on life I could hit and zip through this next bit.
Oh! Or better yet, I wish the process could be accomplished in montage. Quick shot of us talking to a friendly banker. A humorous shot of us surrounded by a ridiculous mountain of paper work. Twenty super quick shots of different houses (Mansions, houseboats, teepees.) Then you'd see us pulling a "For Sale" sign out of the ground in front of our cute little bungalow. And a final image of us eating take out food by candlelight surrounded by unpacked boxes.
Deep Breath. Think about the last shot. Find the strength.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Song in my head
Today the song in my head is "Oh Mr. Sellack" by the Roches.
(Lyrics:
http://www.lyrics007.com/The%20Roches%20Lyrics/Mr.%20Sellack%20Lyrics.html )
I was yearning today to have a little temp job. Maybe answering phones or some light data entry. An office in back with a window and a modest view.
Yes, yes, I remember when that was my life and it wasn't the idyllic existence I make it out to be today.
But, that's what makes the filter of nostalgia so lovely. And, yes, I know that when I'm dreaming of being a temp again, it's time to straighten up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Still, let me just have this one morning.
(Lyrics:
http://www.lyrics007.com/The%20Roches%20Lyrics/Mr.%20Sellack%20Lyrics.html )
I was yearning today to have a little temp job. Maybe answering phones or some light data entry. An office in back with a window and a modest view.
Yes, yes, I remember when that was my life and it wasn't the idyllic existence I make it out to be today.
But, that's what makes the filter of nostalgia so lovely. And, yes, I know that when I'm dreaming of being a temp again, it's time to straighten up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Still, let me just have this one morning.
Nothing grand
I'm feeling a little distracted today. Like, wander from room to room distracted. So I'll probably just offer some mini-posts. Stray thoughts.
Jeff and I were watching TV last night when from outta the blue I turned to him and said, "I read in the paper today about this guy who tried to kill his dog with a hammer."
Jeff look at me in horror and said, "Why did you tell me that!"
"Um...because I read it in the paper?"
"Well, maybe it's time to stop reading the paper. I'm going to have nightmares tonight."
Why do we do that. Why do we feel a need to blurt out terrible stuff?
Jeff and I were watching TV last night when from outta the blue I turned to him and said, "I read in the paper today about this guy who tried to kill his dog with a hammer."
Jeff look at me in horror and said, "Why did you tell me that!"
"Um...because I read it in the paper?"
"Well, maybe it's time to stop reading the paper. I'm going to have nightmares tonight."
Why do we do that. Why do we feel a need to blurt out terrible stuff?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Day After
Wee Birthday hangover. Not from booze but from the day itself.
Need to find some motivation!
Need to find some motivation!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
46
Today's birthday set off a chorus of voices in my head, ranging from the stupified panic ("Good god! Look at the size of that number! Forty freaking six!!")to the excited embracing ("I've earned those years, look out world!") to the folksy ("Like a fine wine, not getting older, but better!") to the philosophical ("Every measurement of time is arbitrary, hell, every measurement of anything is arbitrary.") to the comforting ("When you're 86, you'll look back at this time as being in your prime") to the downright weird (" 46 is the number of chromosomes humans have, 46 is the the atomic number of Palladium, 46 is your birth year backwards!")
To steady the rocking boat, I tried a little exercise. I challenged myself to list one memory for every year of life. The rule was I had to be sure that I could tie a memory to a specific year. A lot of memories are kind of loosey-goosey, they could reasonably be within a two/three year window. (That trip to the Grand Canyon with the grandparents could be anytime from '74 through '76.) Those uncertainties wouldn't cut it. Here's what I found: I gave myself a grace period for the first three years. I have plenty of memory fragments, but can't nail down exact years. The first for sure memory that I can link to a year is 1968 which is when my brother Leif was born. (My parents were hustling us off to Mr and Mrs Buttler's house on the way to the hospital, I lingered by the car chatting with my mother about the moon.)
I had some trouble with 1978, the middle of the junior high years. Plenty of memories, but the chronology is tricky. 1986 is likewise a little hazy and the only anchor I have is the space shuttle Challenger disaster, but somehow that feels like cheating. 1987 didn't feel 100 % right either. And, I had to really, really think about 1993.
Then, curiously, it got really easy at 2000. Partly because it was more recent. But also because that's when I started to produce shows like clockwork and because I've had Jeff around since 2002 and there are joint activities to cement the date.
To my surprise and delight, making this compendium of years has left me calm and ready for the next 46 years.
To steady the rocking boat, I tried a little exercise. I challenged myself to list one memory for every year of life. The rule was I had to be sure that I could tie a memory to a specific year. A lot of memories are kind of loosey-goosey, they could reasonably be within a two/three year window. (That trip to the Grand Canyon with the grandparents could be anytime from '74 through '76.) Those uncertainties wouldn't cut it. Here's what I found: I gave myself a grace period for the first three years. I have plenty of memory fragments, but can't nail down exact years. The first for sure memory that I can link to a year is 1968 which is when my brother Leif was born. (My parents were hustling us off to Mr and Mrs Buttler's house on the way to the hospital, I lingered by the car chatting with my mother about the moon.)
I had some trouble with 1978, the middle of the junior high years. Plenty of memories, but the chronology is tricky. 1986 is likewise a little hazy and the only anchor I have is the space shuttle Challenger disaster, but somehow that feels like cheating. 1987 didn't feel 100 % right either. And, I had to really, really think about 1993.
Then, curiously, it got really easy at 2000. Partly because it was more recent. But also because that's when I started to produce shows like clockwork and because I've had Jeff around since 2002 and there are joint activities to cement the date.
To my surprise and delight, making this compendium of years has left me calm and ready for the next 46 years.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Rabit, rabit
When I was a kid, I loved the month of March. Exuberantly. The very flipping of the calendar page was exciting. The air changed color. Ordinary objects buzzed with promise. This year, i aim to recapture that irrational love of our third month.
March is chock full of good stuff: The beginning of Spring. The ides of March (when we got rid of that awful Julius Cesar). A heckuva lot more sunlight. Oh, and yes, my birthday.
Let's not forget that March (along with May) is also a verb. An active verb at that.
So, just for today: no introspection, no self-doubt, no whacking myself on the back with birch branches.
Today we celebrate March.
March is chock full of good stuff: The beginning of Spring. The ides of March (when we got rid of that awful Julius Cesar). A heckuva lot more sunlight. Oh, and yes, my birthday.
Let's not forget that March (along with May) is also a verb. An active verb at that.
So, just for today: no introspection, no self-doubt, no whacking myself on the back with birch branches.
Today we celebrate March.
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