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Blog started in Jan 2005: 1st entries for Write in Every Genre. Then the REAL ME begins |
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It Hurts When I Stop Talking Sometime in Fall of 1998, when a visit from Dad was infrequent, and primarily at the mercy of his 88 Toyota making the 50 mile journey, I was being treated to lunch. The restaurant was my choice, I think. Sisley Italian Kitchen at the Town Center mall was somewhere my dad had not yet tried, so that was my pick. Either I was being treated to the luxury of lunch and adult conversation without my husband and 5 year old son in tow, or that's just how the moment has lodged in my memory. The more I think about it, they probably were there, but enjoying the Italian food too much to bother interrupting. Daddy and his lady friend at the time, Anne, came up together and made a day of it with me and the family. We were eating together and talking about some of my scripts, stories, coverages, poems and other creative attempts that really were not seeing the light of day. I think I'd just finished a group reading of The Artist's Way and was in a terribly frenetic mood over my writing. I think I'd just given them an entire rundown on a speculative Star Trek script. My Dad asked me point blank, “Why don’t you write it?? Anne agreed. It sure sounded like I wanted to write it. Why wasn't I writing seriously? It's what I'd set out to do when earning my college degree in Broadcasting many years earlier. Heck, I should, I agreed non-verbally. “I will.” But, I didn’t. Blogs can be wild, unpredictable storehouses of moments, tangents, creative dervishes, if you will. I'm getting a firmer handle on my creative cycle. My mental compost heap (which is a catch phrase from Natalie Goldman or Julia Cameron - I can't think which, right now) finally seems to be allowing a fairly regular seepage of by-products. That may be a gross analogy, but I give myself credit to categorize my work in raw terms. It proves that I'm not so much the procrastinating perfectionist that I once was. Still, I always seem to need prompts and motivation. Being a self-starter is the next step. My attempt to keep up in the Write in Every Genre Contest at the beginning of the year seemed like a perfect point to launch the blog. |
| Caught a showing of American Graffiti on television last night -- It's one that must look better on a movie theater screen. I have actually never seen it on the big screen. Due to the "last night of Summer" activities, lighting is dim in most scenes. Particularly the amount of car interior shots that are filmed from the vantage of another car -- that's where a television reproduction just doesn't do. I found it interesting that my pre-teen daughter was asking me questions like how old Mackenzie Phillips' character Carol is supposed to be. I did not know. But I told her twelve...her own age. She also thought the result of the gang initiation prank on the cops was hilarious. It's one of those whiplash moments as a parent -- you quietly eye their reaction, and inwardly wonder if polite society will suffer the generation you and your partner have unleashed from your loins upon it. That just goes to show that I have turned out more like the Cindy Williams and Ronny Howard characters that live out their days in the Valley, joining the Moose, than I am Richard Dreyfus' Curt escaping ... writing in Canada. How old will my children be before the irony of American Graffiti's coming of age messages deepen? You see, I am impressed that I could tell my daughter that American Graffiti was written by George Lucas, who grew up in Modesto, and that she could then ask, so which character is him? I can pick out who he was... but I wonder if who he is now is even reflected in this story anymore. (I doubt he had any hand in the almost laughable blocking of cuss words from this broadcast of his film baby, his special effects revisionism coming to mind nonetheless.) Even the cast credits blurred out the character name, Badass #1 -- [Mwahahah!] George Lucas. Over a majority of my life, I was overly influenced by the marketing of himself, naive about idolizing him in his film making. All along, I really knew it was collaboration and remarkable people he brought to his projects. At some point I owned his biography, Skywalking, feel like revisiting that. |
| Well, 10 days away from Facebook has to count for something. I mainly went on to see the photos others were posting after our return from Job's Daughters International State of California annual meeting. |
| I have a seed of an idea. It often receives showers of inspiration from passing clouds, which I see far away, but rarely portend their influence on this idea until long after the storm has passed. I want to encourage the efforts of many people -- but particularly men. Some times I doubt that I want to do this, or that anyone will take me seriously. But then I will share in one's feelings of depression. Or I will hear of a vibrant and active man taking his own life. Some how I want to become a better person through whatever connection I can make. But can I actually put myself in a place of guidance? Just because I am open-minded (sometimes only by force of will) does any group want my wisdom? I am inspired today as I look over the mission statement for a workshop site: awomanstruth.com But I find myself wanting to rewrite it for men. The Truth -- See it and hear it from yourself now To listen and open a safe space for men, where he recognizes his most active and self-assured self. To seek his own truth first and be rewarded in the sharing that allows for acknowledgment of his authentic living. To forge a path and willingly gather companions to strengthen in purpose. |
| An act that has brought fame to their name as long as I have been alive. I was first aware only of their ultra popular music dominating the American scene from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. And not just for a summer; there probably wasn't a time during the period of 1977-79 on the radio, in print media or TV without them present. And it was the first time I was aware, really aware within myself, that there was an incredible energy to longing. Perhaps ten is too young to have a deep physical attraction, but let's be honest, everything in the media in the later Seventies was sexually charged. (OK, maybe not The Waltons, but even Kermit the Frog was having a relationship with a diva pig dressed in satin and sporting alternately, Farrah Faucet, Bo Derrick, or Donna Summer hair.) But I wasn't focusing on the female idols of the Seventies. I don't remember what restaurant my parents and I could possibly have been in, but there was a huge framed drawing of the Bee Gees on the wall and it was selling for something close to $100. It might have been $50 or $60 actually, even that would have been a huge sum for the time, and especially outside the norm for my parents' usual budgeting.Money and value wasn't the point. The whole thing was dark sepia line drawing printed on a creme stock. The triad of the singers faces was slightly larger than life-size as the foreground, and there was also a smaller background grouping of them in performance. My dad still worked in printing at that time, so maybe he saw something in the quality of it. Otherwise, I am not sure how I convinced him nor my mother to spend so much. Maybe they had just gotten a tax refund and felt flush I felt very lucky to have successfully expressed my absolute need for this artwork. It dominated a wall across from my bed when I occupied half the dining room rather than continue sharing space in my sister's nursery. Barry Gibb had the look that I found the most attractive, even though I knew he was the older brother. There was something dazzling about their youngest brother too, yet his presence flamed across the sky too briefly. That was then. I now much more admire the whole body of their combined accomplishments. Before last month, I had not realized that Robin's twin, Maurice Gibb had died in 2003 at the age of 53. And I was happy little less than a month ago when Robin came out of a coma to the delight of his gathered family bracing for the worst. But tonight, he has slipped the bonds. There is much music and loveliness left. I wish his soul well. |
| Saw the wildly popular film adaptation of Suzanne Collin's The Hunger Games last night. Having seen it before ever reading the books of her series, my main impression is that the story comes across as quite diluted from what I expect her written volumes must explore. Watching a story with any hint of depth to it is always good for me as a writer. I can be full of questions or ambivalent about it that evening, but by the next morning, it is like rain that has seeped down beneath the surface, and my writing muscles are as loosened as the soil, and anything I have growing in my mind is partly feed. It is violent. And given the main premise sets twenty-four 12 to 18 year-olds battling for survival in an annual death match, you endure scenes over half the movie in which children are in peril. Any drama with those elements have always been difficult for me to watch. I can easily say that from Prim Everdeen's first shriek, I was disturbed. That doesn't keep me from analyzing it in hindsight. The main thing I walked away with was a curious comparison. A social commentary to research. The Hunger Games is what passes muster today for sparking young minds, and which Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz books did over a hundred years ago. The main difference being a crucial one, what passes now for innocence and also for evil. Not my intent, but an ironic jest comes from thinking of it: Where these two sets of fiction coincide, I think The Wizard of Oz was one of those first epics for children that did not look at innocence and evil in black and white terms, it allowed for the grey areas (and the Technicolor areas) to seep in to the discourse. And talk about evil -- who is your enemy? In The Hunger Games, your whole country is the evil neighbor that wants to kick your dog. When you travel to the seat of power, whether by bullet train or by tornado, that perception of evil is transported too. When you get to the capitol, you are bathed and groomed like some muddy stray terrier. Those medical technicians searching for Katniss' lice, were they not silently singing, "Snip, snip here, snip, snip there..?" The tapestry of a fictional story and its characters are built from threads of experience and truth. Of course Gale Hawthorne could mouth the opening line from the video presented during the District 12 reaping, it speaks to the way we actually ask youth to be molded and indoctrinated by the history of forefathers. "Happy Hunger Games" is repeated about as many times as Jerry Lewis ever uttered the word, "Give" on a telethon, and of course it comes across as irritating. Could such a place ever exist? Living, but under the shadow that -- the odds are -- you won't live the life you dream of. The twelve year-old I know has to weigh along with the rest of us if KONY 2012 is a reality to battle, or is that grey evil we won't be discussing at length at the dinner table. The twelve year-old I know doesn't know how to be liked, is fiercely independent, speaks her mind without manners, and despite the warning, may not come out unchanged by the manipulators of the Games. The twelve year-old I know would trust, much like Dorothy or Katniss, would be compassionate like them, and would travel the Hero's Journey to its completion. The hard question: why aren't we writing the stories of the real twelve year-olds? |
| Good Friday; it is still dark out and only my monitor illuminates the keyboard. You can imagine me going at letter-by-letter typing pace. I-t s-e-e-m-s s-o u-s-e-l-e-s-s t-y-p-i-n-g a-t- t-h-i-s p-a-c-e. It is like this because I am staring at my keyboard. And this is because I never loosened up enough over making mistakes that I never built up the confidence to truly touch type. The underlying reasons for avoiding the joys and purpose in my life are trivial. Today they should die and become like dust. I have strength that confounds some people. I notice and appreciate certain things. I keep going even when it hurts. I can get really excited about an idea or about some action that will take place, and then I can withdraw -- silent, alone and still happy, thoughtful, working it out. What I am noticing right now is that the birds are already up and singing. How people have lost perspective with nature. If daylight savings time were not in effect, it would be a quarter to five in the morning. And part of me is amazed that birds are awake singing, but a wiser part of me knows it has always been so. Birds do not follow modern convention. And being drawn to the family of birds, all the variety in their species...it is not romantic of me; not because they fly, but because they know. I have triumphed over my small objection to the morning cold and tempered my hero worship for the snooze button on my alarm. I wrote for twenty minutes. I can do more now that i have arisen. Best line from Tin Man (2007) "You know you really should do something about that BITTER cynicism of yours Cain." |
| I scroll down the entire length of my Media player library -- surely small in comparison to some; made up only of album tracks I actually own -- find there's an album or two I haven't listened to in a while. I click on Styx Greatest Hits. I think I'm going to get the first track: Lady (from 1995), but the highlighted track is actually, Show Me The Way, and it starts to play. I'm pleased as I wouldn't have sought it out specifically, but I like it. I think the program is going to play me the whole Styx album, track by track, but the next song that plays is from a different album -- a favorite album -- Jami Lula. But he is covering Dylan's, Make You Feel My Love. Amazing. Followed up by Eagles', Hotel California. Then Sting, Something the Boy Said. I mean, sure it's my music library, but when random gives you a great streak of the unexpected, without a clunker among 'em. That's splendid! Best line from Tin Man (2007) "You know you really should do something about that BITTER cynicism of yours Cain." |
| Always had a love of cinematic fare. No, I'm not talking about the popcorn and Red Vines. I realize, first it was the scores that captured my attention. Back in the Seventies and Eighties, the only way to enjoy a portion of the movie experience at home was to purchase and play the soundtrack album. Star Wars, Chariots of Fire, Top Gun...I know I'm not the only desperate one who did this before the public sale of video tapes. It was difficult to purchase some soundtracks, despite it being big business. The music for Blade Runner was one of those I had a hard time tracking down at the time. I'm not even sure what I was reliving as I played that cassette tape of the mostly Vangelis music. I might have just been savoring my growing independence in selecting how to be entertained. Harrison Ford in a Los Angeles dystopia from the mind of Ridley Scott. Used to be one of my favorite movies, notably, for being the only movie that I lied about my age to get into. Seeing the equally violent, R-rated, Excalibur the year before with my dad, clinched the decision to see this one on my own. My first, best step into real science fiction (Star Wars was space opera, an episode of The Young and the Restless compared to this movie!). It was only last year that I read the original Philip K. Dick story that the film, Blade Runner, came from. Now, I prefer what he wrote to what they created for the screen. Although I'm not sure I could have appreciated it when I was fifteen. And now I can look out my window from work and see the Bradbury Building. A nice loop of appreciation. Best line from Tin Man (2007) "You know you really should do something about that BITTER cynicism of yours Cain." |
| I am grateful to my rabbi. I have not been brought up in the Jewish faith, but I prefer the honor of calling her by the same name Jesus was called by his followers, Rabbi. She is a true teacher. She prepares us for the message of other teachers in her absence. She has called on us all to identify our strongest values and to use them, meditate upon them, act from them. At my church, I have watched our beloved minister developing herself through contact with a mentor. I wonder how many people can say that about their spiritual center's leader? I am in awe of my own perceptiveness to the growth I see in her and the impact it has.This exposure to one whom she respects, inspires me. She learns in a blend of retreat and sacred connection, and certainly spends much time on her own deep work after the fact. What I relish for myself is experiencing something of the same widening circle of others she connects with. For, I know, she exponentially grows in Truth from the connections she makes in her journeys. I have been a hesitant creature for a lifetime, except for those moments when I connect joyously, and love someone instantly. My marriage is sprouted from such a moment. So are all my adventurous friendships. Friendships with people that I cling to obsessively, but would back away from as quickly if breathing room was required to maintain the purity of the connection. It sounds like I am saying I want more friends, but I do not think there is any difficulty in attracting people to me. It always returns to an idea of connection. I am pouring something of myself into others. Am I allowing others the same avenue to pour something of themselves into me? I'm seeking, seeking...am I stopping long enough to receive the offered drink of divine water? Much of the time, people admire that I carry myself in a determined way, and with a smile. I know it is something that satisfies, but I also see how smiles and pat answers in greeting are worn as a mask. My smile can simply cloak what I feel like revealing. For a while now, I have noticed an anxious recognition, like I am starving. If this is my heart suffering, and any well of joy I have remaining runs dry, then what am I pouring out? Do I really need to try harder? Do you dig deeper to revitalize your existing well, or do you sink into the earth for a new well? God, use my beauty -- that divine depth of what I am to express -- Help me to express my values in all that I do. Jami Lula sings to me right in this moment..."emancipate the divine of my soul!" This I know, I only realize God operating through me where Love and Passion are involved. For me it is completely transient if I am not passionate about it. So far, these, under the umbrella of Love and Passion are the ones for me: Compassion Appreciation Justice And the paths that I wear by walking with these values translate into these actions: Compassion - Healing Appreciation - Grateful discovery with perspective Justice - Discerning what is right Oh God, I hear. Let others know, but others will not decide for you. What do I do with who I am? I cannot sleep while still on the mountaintop. There's no turning back now. I look for the words to release this to action. The first word there? Express. Yes |
| I have long been a fan of Cameron's The Artist's Way, and I started off this year reading it dutifully in small snatches of morning time. This morning, due to it and little nudges in daily life, I saw through to something. I am in mourning. I am mourning the loss of childhood as it relates to me. It is not just MY childhood I'm wrapped up in. In fact, my realization did not come until I moved from thinking I needed support in mourning my own children's childhoods being left behind in the expansion into newer roles, responsibilities and questions. Then, I thought about my own transitions, and questioned how much or little had I really given up my innocence and been willing to see the world in all its diversity, or been willing to move into a more expanded idea of the world. I'm not stunted. I assuredly have made leaps in logic beyond a child and delved spiritual depths further than many lost adult minds. However, I have also very much clung to childhood as some kind of anchor. A very encrusted, relic of an anchor. Last year, I had to free myself from volunteer commitments that drained and consistently overextended me. One thing I stepped away from formally, yet felt expected to continue doing because few others would, was watching after any and all children that arrived weekly at my church. I really stopped making an effort teaching two years ago. When I had overt and solid reasoning for resigning control over the children's services, it took more than a year before leaders took any overt action to transition this role. And I still showed up, but that's about all I did. I began to see very quickly that I was angry still. That no one really wanted to create a program to take these children to their own spiritual field. It always felt instead like we'd be happy to leave them out in a field. (Left to their own devices, I'm sure their divinity would still find profound pleasure, but not the point really...). ...running late will readdress later. |
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