Through a Shattered Lens

"And . . . action."

I walked out to the center of the stage and smiled directly into camera one.

"My name is Kim," I stated, and then I smiled. "I am the star of a grade B movie. Life. I meant life, not movie. Whatever it is, I am the star here. I am the writer, the director, the producer, camera persons, make-up and wardrobe artists. I'm even the set designer. Well, I didn't entirely make the set. I can't make trees and water and air, or build houses or anything like that, but I was the one who orchestrated it so that these trees, this river and this house would be in the picture. I hold all the positions because, this is my life. I'm in charge here." I smiled again but my smile faded rather quickly. "And I'm doing a lousy job."

I scanned the script again.

"Cut," I yelled from center stage. "Who wrote these lines?"

"I yell cut," said the director who, of course, is me.

"And I did," I replied from center stage, a puzzled expression on my face.

"True, but for the sake of clarity for this little scene, let's refer to me as separate components to avoid confusion."

"Excellent idea. I do have good ideas sometimes," I stated.

"It was my idea," I stated in my role as director.

"Uh-huh. Whatever," I said.

"In your role as Star you mean."

"You're confusing me," I stated.

"Which is why it's important to use the qualifiers in the form of titles to differentiate between the various aspects of me, well you, or us—us in so far as we're acting as if we are not an integrated whole," Director Me said. God, but I sounded wise. She sounded wise. I was confused again.

"Qualifiers? So I sound like I have a multiple personality disorder or something?" I asked.

"Yes, exactly." Director Me stated, relief apparent in her words, in the slope of her shoulders. I stood up straighter. If she was me, and her posture looked that bad, it meant mine did. Whatever name game she wanted to play, there was still the fact that she was me.

"But I don't have MPD, I mean we don't have MPD," I stated defiantly. (Star Me, if you're easily confused which Director Me seems to think you may be.)

"Of course not! It's for the sake of clarity and doesn't mean anything beyond that. Now, let's get back to work." Director Me scowled.

"Wait. I have a solution," I said. "Since I am the star, I don't have to use a qualifier. I get to speak in first person since I am in first person, and the rest of you/me/us can use qualifiers."

"Fine," said Director Me.

"Fine," I replied.

"Good," said Director Me.

"Good," I said.

"Let's just get back to work," said Director Me.

"Fine," said I. I gave me (Director Me--can you tell I find this annoying?) a dirty look but took my place on center stage again.

"So, let's take it from the top then. No wait. That'll take too long. From the line, 'I am doing a lousy job.'" Director Me sat down in her canvas backed chair—the one with 'Director' emblazoned across the back of it.

Another me stepped in front of the camera, electronic clapboard at the ready. And . . .

"I'm doing a little bit of a bad job of it." I, the Star, said my lines into the camera.

"Cut," yelled Writer Me.

"I yell that," Director Me said with exasperation.

"But she isn't reading the lines correctly!" Writer Me sputtered.

"I wrote this?" I asked. "I mean you wrote this."

"Yes it was me," the Writer Me said, stepping out of the shadows, a pen stuck behind her ear as she approached me. "I wrote the lines. You have a problem with that?"

"Have you considered anti-depressants?" I asked, acting like the spoiled little movie star I longed to be. Grade B life or not, I was still a star, and I still demanded the best. "Your script is entirely depressing."

"Actually yes, I have tried antidepressants. But when I was on them, I lost my edge so I had to give them up," Writer me stated. We shared a little grin. Ah yes, I remembered that well. I decided depression was infinitely better, despite how depressing it could get, than being drugged into having nothing more than a part as an extra in my own life. The chance of ending up on the proverbial cutting room floor was high if I'd stuck with being high on antidepressants.

"Am I really messing it up that badly though that I would actually stand here and say 'I'm doing a lousy job'?" I asked. Director Me nodded. So did Writer Me. They nodded profusely in fact. The entire crew was nodding in unison. So was I.

"It's honesty time here, Sweetheart," Writer Me said. She saw the look on my face at being called Sweetheart by . . . Me.

"Well, it's better than bitch isn't it? Or do you want to go back to the days when you called yourself nasty names?" Director Me asked.

I shook my head. No, I didn't want to go back to those days. Now, that was depressing. I found it hard to be good to myself when I was beating myself up verbally all the time.

"All right, all right. I'll read the lines as written," I said, admitting defeat. "That doesn't mean I like them or that I agree with them." I, the Star said it with a little nose-in-the-air head action to make my point.

"Actually, you do believe them at times or they wouldn't have been written that way," Writer Me said through gritted teeth. I was really ticking her off I think.

"Hardly ever though! I really don't think I'm doing that bad a job running this show," I said, sticking out my lower lip and acting like the stuck-up little brat I'd always longed to be.

"Oh, so you mean you like the writing?" Director Me asked slyly. Director Me, I was quickly learning, could be a little sneaky at times. I had no idea where she was going with her line of questioning, but who was I to argue? I wanted to know what she meant.

"No, I don't like the writing," I said. Writer Me glared at me but I pretended not to notice.

"So would you say, you've done a lousy job of writing?" Director Me asked.

"Well, yes but . . . hey. I didn't write them. She did!" I pointed an accusing finger at Writer Me and glared hard at her.

"Isn't she you?" Director Me asked.

"What are you all of a sudden, Psychologist Me?" I asked.

"No, but don't think I won't call her in here." Director Me looked haughty but I wondered if she was bluffing. I'd bluff under the circumstances.

"I have a standing appointment with her, so that won't be necessary," I said matching her haughtiness and seeing it with extreme snootiness. Sometimes, I adored Psychologist Me, but there were times when her constant need to analyze drove me quite nearly insane. I had a feeling she was behind this sudden desire to write my life as a stage scene. Her and Writer. Damn them, I thought. Just damn them all to hell.

Of course, since we're all one person, they knew what I was thinking. We all knew I was berating them, hurting their feelings and ticking them off all at once. But the implication was clear. With all this internal struggling going on, there was only one thing I could say that would sum it all up. I took my place at center stage, the lights were trained on me by Light Women Me, again another me came along with the clapboard, and . . .

"I'm doing a lousy job." I sat down on a stool in the spotlight and sighed. "For being the star of this show, I sure feel like a bit player. Some of my lines are really awesome but then, they don't fit in the scenes properly." I stood up and a Stage Hand Me slipped me a clipboard. I checked off names as I spoke, crossed out others.

"As a casting director my abilities are marginal."

Behind me, people danced through the spotlight. Friends and enemies, family, friends I thought were enemies, enemies I thought were friends, friends disguised as family, and family I knew to be enemies. They were all there. Bosses, teachers, confidants, lovers, cheaters, liars, saints. They danced with such grace. People from my childhood, from my adolescence, my twenties, my thirties. Out of the black . . . into the glare of the spotlight . . . back into the black. With all those people flowing in and out of the spotlight in bright flashes like that, I was really quite in awe. It was hard to believe I did that lousy a job if I could orchestrate the memories of my life in such an artistic and entertaining way. Some of the people I saw made me smile, others made me cry. Others made me angry. They all made me feel.

"Do I mean this?" I asked Director Me. "This part about my casting abilities being marginal? I don't mean that do I?"

"Cut," sighed Director Me, rising from her chair.

"I mean, sure there were some real . . . winners, but all of them? I did a great job casting my son as my son. And didn't I do a great job with my friends? Okay, well, I admit the friend who called me poison on my wedding day may not have been the best choice of friends, but I learned something from that. Even Psychologist Me would agree with that."

"Why can't you just read the lines?" Writer Me asked collapsing into the Director's chair in frustration.

"Because I don't necessarily feel that way anymore."

"You might though," Director Me said.

I wondered if she was being sly again. "Do you mean there'll be days when I doubt I made good decisions? Of course I'll have days like that, but it isn't today. Maybe today isn't a good day to do this scene."

Director Me shook her head. "I give up," she said throwing her hands in the air. "I just . . . give up. You're impossible to direct. You're difficult to work with and you're making me crazy. We may just develop MPD after this fiasco." She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. I frowned. She was making it difficult to quit. Every time she got a little stressed, every time a scene didn't go quite the way she wanted it to, she was ready to puff, puff, puff her troubles away. Writer Me was just as bad for it.

"We've got at least forty, fifty, maybe even sixty years of life left to record here," Writer Me said quietly. "How about . . . if instead of me giving you the words, you give the words to me, and I'll write them down. Instead of trying to script our life, I'll . . . take up short story writing or something."

Director Me and I nodded. That sounded like a good idea.

"You could still keep a journal," I suggested.

"I'd do that anyway. I have a compulsion to record every nuance of this life and I'll be damned if I can figure out why," Writer Me said with a smile. She took a drag off Director Me's cigarette.

"Psychologist Me would say it's to give your life meaning, you know—because of the lousy childhood where we had to struggle to find meaning for our existence."

"Don't do this," Director Me said. "Let's not get into the whole analysis thing right now. Let's just shoot this scene. This is the film we're running on Judgement Day and it ought to be the best we can make it."

"This is a spiritual thing?" I asked.

"Well, sort of. In essence, aren't all things spiritual?" Writer Me asked.

Director Me shook her head. "Writer, you're starting to sound like Philosopher. We're not shooting her scene until tomorrow. She and Spiritual asked if they could do their bits together. For now, let's just get back to work, finish up this scene and wrap."

"I thought you were giving up," I said, trying to hide my giggle but failing.

"I can't. You know I can't. I know I can't. If I don't direct this life, there's no telling where it could end up. You have to admit you definitely lack focus," Director Me said.

"Yes, I do. So you want to get back to work now?" I asked. See? I thought, I can be focused.

Director Me nodded. So did Writer Me.

"I just have one more question," I said.

"Are you surprised?" Director Me said to Writer Me before turning her attention back to me. "What? What's this 'one more question' you need to ask?"

"Do you honestly believe in the whole judgment day thing?" I took the cigarette from the Director and crushed it in a nearby ashtray.

"No, not really," Director Me said with a shrug.

"It's a residual effect from the childhood years I'm sure." Writer Me sounded wise. I really liked her when it came right down to it.

"You know we should schedule a group session with Psychologist Me," I suggested.

"Kim," Director Me said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Focus."

"Okay." I nodded and took center stage. "I get to say what I really want? I don't need to follow the script?"

"No script," Director Me said.

"So what's Writer Me scribbling over there?" I asked.

"I was thinking I might turn this into a short story. Keep talking. I'm enjoying this. It's like a journal entry but . . . different. Oh, I have to write that down too."

"Okay, here we go," Director Me said.

I stood up straight, and began at the whole casting part thing again.

"As a casting director, it would seem there are times when my abilities are marginal at best, but the great thing is, no matter how bad I might have thought somebody was, I probably learned something from them. Like it or not. I learned something from everyone who crossed my path, good or bad."

The spotlight zeroed in on a plain looking twenty-something man. He was cheering over a hockey game. In the background, crowds could be heard cheering and an announcer hollered, "The Calgary Flames have won the Cup!" Twenty-something me joined him in the spotlight and the young man kissed her.

"I cast some wonderful people in my life. Sometimes the Writer in me wrote them out. Sometimes the Director in me cut their scenes and made them seem unimportant. And sometimes . . . I was so intent on the next big scene, I didn't know I was already in one."

The young man looked crest-fallen and backed out of the spotlight, the black all around swallowing him up. The young me in the spotlight danced into the dark in the opposite direction.

"Sometimes, I've given the other actors too much room for improvising and let the scenes get so out of control that I ended up side-lined, side-tracked, side-swept. When I finally see what's going wrong, I yell cut, and my director awakens in a dark corner. And I am left standing alone asking, 'What was my motivation again?'"

The lights came up fully on the stage then, and I sat down on the sofa stage right. I looked fully into the camera.

"It hurts sometimes to hear them say things like, 'why does she get to be the star,' 'she's just selfish,' 'she's making a mess of her life.'" I hung my head, completely oblivious to the Director and the rest of the crew watching me.

"Why me you ask? Because . . . it's my life. If living it the way I think it needs to be lived is selfish, then please . . . call me selfish. If it seems I'm making a mess of it, it's my mess to make. We each get one life. Just one. Go take care of yours, and leave mine to the expert on this one. Me."

Silence ensued for a long time afterward.

"Cut," Director Me said simply.

"How was that?" I asked, tears in my eyes.

"Great," Writer Me said and applauded, tears in her eyes too.

"Not so great actually," Producer Me said. She'd crept in so quietly, none of us saw her arrive. "There's a problem with funding and we may need to shut it down."

"Shut it down? With all the years we've invested in this, and all the years we still have left? You can't shut it down," I cried.

"It's the finances. We've lost a few of our backers, and frankly, without them, there's no future." Producer Me shoved her glasses up on her nose. All drama, I knew. I didn't need glasses and therefore, neither did she. Her news, though, was frightening.

"What are we going to do?" I said, attempting to sit down on the sofa, and missing, falling to the floor. I stayed down there, and leaned against the sofa, my elbows on my knees, my head resting in my hand as I looked up at Producer Me.

"Yep. About like that," the Producer stated. "Flat on your ass."

"What went wrong?" the Director Me asked.

"Our resources are gone. We used them all up, bled them dry. We took advantage of them, bailed on them too often. Cheated them!" Producer Me shook her fist high in the air. "Took the money and ran is what we did!"

"Drama Queen," I said. "You trying to get my role?"

"At this moment, it looks like Producer Me is the Star," Writer Me leaned down and whispered to me. Writer Me could be so funny sometimes. Inappropriately at times, but she lightened things up now and then.

"The point is, this life is being shut down," Producer Me said smugly.

"I shouldn't have job hopped all those years. I should have stuck with college, I should have gotten a degree, I should have gone to Hollywood to be a star like I always dreamed. I should have, I should have, I should have. I should have done everything differently." I sat on the floor and cried.

"This isn't over," Director Me said vehemently. "We have contracts. I mean a contract with the big guy. He promised us a good eighty, ninety years to get this thing done."

"Provided we supplied the necessary resources—the funding, actors we could count on, a story with some entertainment value," Producer Me said. "Sure, if we came through with all that, the studio was ours as long as we needed it. But you fail on your end, and who's in breach of contract then, huh?"

I was getting really annoyed with that smug look on the Producer's face. She reminded me of Critic Me, and Critical Me: sisters who never had a good word to say to any of us.

"So if we're all out of work, aren't you?" I asked.

"I don't know, I don't know," Producer pushed those annoying glasses up on her nose again and began pacing across the set. "Roll film would ya," she called to Cameraperson Me. "And spotlight on me. What we're going to do, is get this thing back in production. But we need to make some changes first."

I found the Producer somewhat confusing. Was she against us or for us? It was hard to tell.

"So what do we need?" the Director Me asked.

"Rewrites for one," the Producer Me stated. "And motivation for the real Drama Queen here, our Star." She gave me a disdainful look as though I alone could undermine everything. "She has absolutely no motivation."

"Okay, we can work on that. Anything else? Writer Me, are you getting this down?"

"Every word," Writer Me lied as she began writing furiously to catch up.

"Retrain the camera crew," Producer Me stated, sweeping her pointed finger around the set.

"What's wrong with the camera crew?" Director Me asked in alarm.

"Don't you mean, what's right? From what I've seen, they are out of control. Out of control! They focus on the most minor things, and ignore the scenes and shots that really matter. But hey—in their defense, that's only half the time."

The camera crew of me visibly relaxed at this pseudo-compliment.

"The other half of the time, the shots are out of focus, and they do all these unnecessary close-ups on bit players so we forget whose life this is!"

"Sometimes, that works," Director Me said. Her defensive edge was completely gone and she sounded as if she would cry. I shook my head. This was why things were going so wrong. No direction, I decided. I was willing to cast the blame everywhere but on me at that moment. Maybe Writer Me wasn't so far off with that line after all. I am doing a lousy job, I said to myself.

They were still arguing about the scenes where other players took center stage.

"I looked at the mother-in-law reel this morning, and you know what I saw?" Producer Me was being far too condescending in my opinion, but without some solid facts to counter with, I just kept my mouth shut.

"I saw," she continued, "that the mother-in-law often took full directorial actions, and at other times, was taking on the Star's role."

"I don't have a mother-in-law anymore, and she's not like that with me . . . anymore! We like each other now," I said. Ha. I had some facts to back me up and a little white lie.

"Well, that may be so but I'm not finished yet." Producer Me pointed her finger at the thick sheaf of papers in her hand. "I say we fire the hairdresser. You need to update that hair! And tell the wardrobe woman to take a look at her motivation before she sews one more stitch. Kim's aging here, she isn't fifteen anymore."

"Hey!" I said. "I've got the body of a fif . . . of a twenty year . . . of a twenty-something . . . I still look good." I crossed my arms and pouted.

"She does still look pretty hot," Director Me said. "But sure, we can tone down her penchant for tight jeans and skimpy tops."

"Either that or get that girl on a treadmill," Producer Me said. It was obvious we weren't crazy about each other, especially when she sneered at me.

"Look at your own ass, bitch," I muttered. "We're the same person. Has she forgotten that?"

She went on with her list, and I had a very strong hunch she was the Critical Me in disguise.

"And just what are you going to be doing all this time while we do all that?" It was probably all her fault I was out of shape anyway. She probably sat around in meetings eating sugared donuts and cheesecake.

"I'm going to get back to finding backers on this project."

"Oh, cause you're so good at it," I said with a roll of my eyes.

"Come here and say that! If you weren't such a little Drama Queen, or if you had just a little bit of self-discipline, we might not be in this mess."

"Oh yeah?" I said, getting up from the floor and right up in her face. We stood so close, I could see myself reflected in her eyes. "Well if you weren't so busy—"

"Stop!" Director Me called, though she wasn't looking at me or Producer Me. "Look over there in the corner, who is that? She looks familiar." All heads turned.

"Of course she looks familiar," I said. "She's us. Me. Whatever."

"You over there, show yourself," Producer Me yelled. As she stepped from the shadows we all drew in our breath at her ethereal beauty. She was . . . perfect.

"Spiritual Me," Writer Me said in awe taking a break from scrawling out our argument.

She smiled and came to us all, filling us all with a calm we'd forgotten we could even feel.

"Forgive yourself," she said in her gentle voice.

We glanced around the room at one another, sheepishness casting a blush on our cheeks. We had gotten a little out of hand.

"I'm so sorry I forgot about you," I said giving her a big hug.

She smiled and then put her hands out to her sides. "It's this. All of this. It can get so overwhelming trying to get it right. It's easy to forget me when life gets busy and confusing. But some part of you remembered or I wouldn't be here now."

When she smiled, she filled the room with peace and warmth.

"You don't have to be perfect," she said taking a seat in the director's chair. We all, including the Producer, the Make-up Woman Me, and all the rest, sat on the floor at her feet. "You don't have to get it all exactly right. You need only do your best, and . . ." she giggled. "At the risk of sounding a little egotistical, and even that's okay sometimes," she admonished, "you need only do your best and don't forget me. I'm always here for you and I can help you find the answers when you need them most."

"We forget about you a lot," Producer Me said sadly, giving way to reverence, "yet it's true that over the years, you always seem to show up just when we need you most and you never judge us for forgetting you. Why? Why do you do it?"

"Because I love you." She smiled that wonderful, kind smile again. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you have a life to live?"

We all hugged her and with misty eyes, hugged one another too, whispering words of forgiveness.

"Places everyone!" Director Me called.

Producer Me picked up her long list, threw it in the garbage and headed towards the door.

"Wait, what are we going to do about funding?" I called out.

Producer Me smiled. "I'll leave that for you to decide, though I think you may want to look a little more closely at Writer Me for that."

Writer Me blushed and smiled.

"So what about you? What will you do?" Director Me asked Producer Me.

"Produce results I guess," she said with a shrug. "Right now, I've got a date with a tread mill."

I had to give her kudos for her grand exit then. Yes, she did me proud. Every bit the Drama Queen I'd become over the years. I wiped away a tear.

"All right, all right everyone. Back to work!" Director Me called. "And . . . action."

"Hi. My name is Kim," I said from my mark on center stage. "I'm in charge of things around here because this is my life. I do a pretty lousy job of it sometimes." I smiled and winked at Spiritual Me. "But you know what? That's okay, cause I know I'm not perfect, and I try to remember to forgive myself. I can also come up with the strangest ideas, and sometimes, I even forgive myself for that."