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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. |
Soundtrack of my Life Late November or early December I found out that the Broadway musical written by Sting several years ago was coming in January to Los Angeles. I first invested in the album back when iTunes was still in existence. In anticipation of seeing it, I dug out my iPod to listen to some of my favorite acts. Although it is the title track of the album, conversely in the staging of the play, The Last Ship takes place just before intermission after many other rousing songs. It evokes Biblical reference with a bit of a twist, and that was how Sting's album originally captured my delight...in the unexpected twists. I had long been a fan of his marvelous lyrics, intelligent and sometimes biting with humor or just pure romance. This whole album has much to enjoy, and this song should have its lyrics at hand. He can make literary references like no other singer-songwriter I know (Eventhough I am sure Kris Kristofferson is as well-read). Also find one who can use the word, austere, both properly and in a song lyric as he does. Lyrics: It's all there in the gospels, the Magdalene girl Comes to pay her respects, but her mind is awhirl. When she finds the tomb empty, the stone had been rolled, Not a sign of a corpse in the dark and the cold. When she reaches the door, sees an unholy sight, There's this solitary figure in a halo of light. He just carries on floating past Calvary Hill, In an almighty hurry, aye but she might catch him still. "Tell me where are ye going Lord, and why in such haste?" "Now don't hinder me woman, I've no time to waste! For they're launching a boat on the morrow at noon, And I have to be there before daybreak. Oh I canna be missing, the lads'll expect me, Why else would the good Lord himself resurrect me? For nothing will stop me, I have to prevail, Through the teeth of this tempest, in the mouth of a gale, May the angels protect me if all else should fail, When the last ship sails." Oh the roar of the chains and the cracking of timbers, The noise at the end of the world in your ears, As a mountain of steel makes its way to the sea, And the last ship sails. It's a strange kind of beauty, It's cold and austere, And whatever it was that ye've done to be here, It's the sum of yer hopes yer despairs and yer fears, When the last ship sails. Well the first to arrive saw these signs in the east, Like that strange moving finger at Balthazar's Feast, Where they asked the advice of some wandering priest, And the sad ghosts of men whom they'd thought long deceased, And whatever got said, they'd be counted at least, When the last ship sails. Oh the roar of the chains and the cracking of timbers, The noise at the end of the world in your ears, As a mountain of steel makes its way to the sea, And the last ship sails. And whatever you'd promised, whatever you've done, And whatever the station in life you've become. In the name of the Father, in the name of the Son, And whatever the weave of this life that you've spun, On the Earth or in Heaven or under the Sun, When the last ship sails. Source: LyricFind Songwriters: Gordon Sumner The Last Ship lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC  |
Soundtrack of my Life I'll go on the opposite side of the spectrum now...Access to Netflix and Disney + causes some unique choices. No, I don't mean Die Hard as Christmas movie...but in December, I recall poking around in the new playground of Disney + and watching the gaming episode of World Accoding to Jeff Goldblum, in which Jeff joins a pair of sound editors in creating sounds related to play in Wonka's World of Candy (an app game)-- this made me nostalgic for the Willy Wonka and the Chocolte Factory movie of the Seventies. And my favorite part? The performance by Gene Wilder of the song, Pure Imagination. This was also re-established in the collective social memory due to his rendition being the background song to a current ad campaign for Adobe Creative (cloud computing) Advertisers have used the song in a PSA on Alzheimers as well, I'm thinking there's alot of sentimental adverting agency personnel of a certain age...I should know. Performed by Mr. Willy Wonka (Gene Wilder) Songwriter(s): Leslie Bricusse; Anthony Newley Label: Paramount (1971) |
Soundtrack of my Life Normally rated for Everyone, but the lyrics in the video contains some language What can I do to reignite my writing -- Today would be the first day in a couple decades, honestly, when I have entertained writing a script. I give inspirational credit to the Oscars telecast (and all the truly great cinema that I watched in 2019). When I pulled together the seed of my script idea this morning, my first thought was, "I need to document this in my blog....That will get me to start on it seriously." But then, (probably as an avoidance tactic) I found myself neither in this Blog nor the Word document I opened at the beginning of the day. And in my Newsfeed...where I found something new to both distract and steer away from writing, but stir my creative curating -- The Soundtrack of Your Life Challenge So, Day One seems serendipitous -- Eminem's Lose Yourself is my newly rediscovered pick. My re-introduction to this marvel of lyrics and even its beat came in one of those car trips when everyone in the car has to agree. Although I will admit it takes my youngest sometimes pushing, "You have to hear this song!" followed immediately by it being piped through the car speakers via HDMI connection, regardless of my interest. Here is also where I have to confess that I would have otherwise never given a thought to Eminem, since rap was not my scene. The Oscar performance from Sunday, (which happened 17 years after the song was awarded the 2002 Best Song in a Motion Picture Oscar for 8 Mile ), is perhaps the better watch, but I am recognizing the actual song and all it says. Songwriters: Jeffrey Irwin Bass / Marshall B Mathers / Luis Edgardo Resto Lose Yourself lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd. |
| Trying to write again; at least journal. I had a whole day to myself yesterday, and I did end it with a bit of reflective writing. I had to take to pen and journal, as the apartment still just feels so uncomfortable to me. I have no sitting space. I have no computer place. Because my flexibility is even less than I used to have, sitting on the futon (as bed) feels more like the place I am stuck than the escape of a writing desk. That small entry made last night was mere recording of my enjoying a familiar movie, Kate & Leopold. I had forgotten a little bit in it where it refers to Breakfast at Tiffany's. Would be interesting to make a list of movies that reference older movies as a thematic/plot device. And so, I sit here now at a desktop computer, before my commute home, writing about making a list. Wow, fabulous stuff. I sure know how to make the writer's life just shine as I document. I am writing, or trying to write again regularly, to become invested again in my writing projects. I let myself be discouraged by my knowledge that I do not zip out content as quickly as others are capable of. Although, built within that complaint to no one but myself is a stalling tactic, a way of not doing anything instead of something. That perfectionist in me that still can dominate my use of time. Death around me has been a depressive catalyst, yet also a motivator -- I really would like to be discovered and remembered, but unless I have some finished books, articles or art in the world before I pass from it, my legacy does not seem likely. Even Leonardo daVinci had completed work as well as the beloved notebooks of all his scattered genius. |
| I don't know that I am protecting anything more by placing it here, rather than on Facebook, but since I remember FB terms originally stating that ANYTHING POSTED BELONGS TO THEM, I at least feel better in my own blog space. This is a bit of an exercise, a promise I made to myself and my therapist today. This particular Monday is my dad's birthday. He died this year in August, and besides my sister's birthday plus Thanksgiving (some years they are the same), his birthday will be the first date that I thought might have more to it in relation to coping with grief. It's not like we usually made a fuss. A pie is the preferred special item that comes to mind. Since I lived closest to him -- it was easy to be the perpetrator of the spoiling. And of course a card, although I have a spotty history even with my most beloved friends and family members actually accomplishing my intent. So, marking this day, since it has not been touched by tears over missing him, I am leaning into where this emotional divide might be crossed. I came across a photo that my Dad held in his FB pictures. A post of mine for almost exactly 3 years ago. I sent him some postcard poetry, and I took a snapshot of it. This allowed me today to reread what I had written to him. Today I feel like I should rewrite it. But I like these lines: You remain the young father of a drag-slap and yappity-yap…. Where our feet have passed – dear father – means less than what our ears still do. I am thinking the rest of it is crap, but this is a nugget, and I want to retitle it too, and preferably finish it before the end of the year. The title instead of, "Journey of a thousand soles" would be transformed to, "Listen to the journey of a thousand and two soles" He was thrifty enough, I could imagine he has only had one pair of shoes (resoled) and I, the drag-slap cripple has squandered a thousand shoes over my lifetime. This in and of it self makes me a bit sad. Still, I have written just this, and it does not compare to the tears I did shed today thinking of the high school students returning to Saugus in California today. How I am much more attached to the past than the present. I cannot avoid my own present, but I guess for now I will still avoid the tears for the more personal tragedies of this year. |
| My movie-going Summer-Fall using both Fandango VIP+ and AMC A-list A-list let's you see up to 3 movies per week Fri-Thu, and I appear to have averaged about 3 per month Avengers: Endgame (2019) with the family Tolkien by myself Yesterday (2019) by myself Godzilla: King of the Monsters (2019) my spouse and I Yesterday (2019) with my youngest Avengers: Endgame (2019) my spouse and I Once Upon a Time in Hollywood by myself Fast & Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw youngest and the two of us The Peanut Butter Falcon sent my mom and my youngest' while my spouse and I watched Angel Has Fallen in IMAX Downton Abbey (2019) by myself The Peanut Butter Falcon by myself Abominable (2019) youngest, a friend and the two of us Gemini Man: The IMAX 2D Experience spouse and I The Current War: Director's Cut by myself Harriet (2019) by myself Midway (2019) spouse and I Ford V Ferrari spouse and I The Good Liar by myself A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood spouse and I Last Christmas (2019) by myself Maleficent (2) my son and I Knives Out |
| Listening to album, The Last Ship, created five or more years ago by Sting (Gordon Sumner)'s semi-autobiographical musical tale. I bought tickets to see the production coming to L.A. in January 2020. So, there's a line in one of his songs within it, which states: Love is the saber, Love is the shield. Only because of this past week, that line of poetry, immediately connects in my mind to my high school yearbook, which is perennially titled, The Sword & Shield. It doesn't matter that a few decades have rolled by since I walked its quad and classrooms. A terribly young student made my alma mater a killing field last Thursday. I have not lived there for a long time, but I know plenty who stay in that valley for its perceived safety and family-friendliness. It took me by surprise, to realize a day or two later, where I was focused on all the details of that day, and even felt I was being annoying to co-workers stating several times in shock, "that is my school," "I went to that school," "Saugus was my home." Other people were not in that same headspace -- a day or two later other people do not know I went there, are freshly receiving the information, and it is clear they can say they are sorry, but not really care. |
| I know what I used to love about school...all levels of school...there was challenge, and the opportunity to share, speak, write or draw without too big a fear of lasting judgment. The best unknown when you are young is that this process is occurring. THAT IS THE BEAUTY OF GETTING OLD and looking back: reviewing one's actions, pleasures, successes and failures. I got triggered by something I read today -- starting with the Letters to the Editor, and then back to the original Opinion piece -- an article in the paper I work for about a Hanford, CA woman, allegedly a habitual meth user, being charged with murder by the D.A. due to the stillbirth of her latest child, a son. It didn't happen until I began writing a compassionate response that I even knew myself, my past self that was fiery and opinionated in college, one that was informed by many courses and discussions in Women's Studies. This is the article :https://www.latimes.com/opinion/story/2019-11-17/baby-born-dead-meth-make-a-murderer} And this is my comment left in support of and after the hardened, negative responses to the Editorial Board's view. Now there are additional published responses rejecting the Editorial Board's opinion here, on top of the comments listed. I read the Board's main point as the slippery slope of interpreting the law to the detriment of women, when that was not why "fetus" was added to the law. No one has addressed the general disregard of her healthcare providers (did she have any?), nor the full disregard of Ms. Becker's sexual partner(s). This charge of murder seems like a call for a stoning. Does no one see that skew and the injustice? The 21st Century is much darker than has been imagined -- particularly for women. I cannot fathom how anyone of either sex could leap to the charge of murder without deep questioning and clear-eyed viewing of this punitive bias She is so very young, and seemingly not in a location nor circumstance that empowers her whatsoever. May she have many step to her defense. |
| I just watched the video recording of the 40th Annual Media Access Awards. It has been professionally produced like other Hollywood award shows over the last 4-5 years or so. I was a paid office worker involved with that group in 1990. Then it was groundbreaking for us to have the Casting Society of America and Variety and Hollywood Reporter involved. Now, to their credit, they have all the unions involved. It has been a good year for inclusion. It is such an odd realization that I do not always remember people's names. I have historically been better than my spouse at recalling folk's names, but now, even for the life stories I tell... there begins to be slight drop outs in information. I recall that on the first day of my job with the Media Access Office, I negotiated/accepted a donation from someone of note. And yet, I no longer am sure who it was a spoke to on the phone that day. If I had the financial books to look back on, I could confirm it. My stab in the dark tells me: Loreen Arbus. I have a near-photographic memory, but it too is not perfect. I can see Loreen Arbus' name printed on a standard blue bank check -- so is that a weird thing to remember? of this not remembering, I guess it is frustrating, because I do clearly remember receiving a $200 dollar check the next year from Cindy Costner (Kevin Costner's wife at the time. See, I can remember the amount, and I know it is correct.Yvonne was new as the Office Manager in that Wells Forgo property on Ventura Blvd., Encino. |
| Life sometimes just pushes you along in its current. And sometimes you are the road trip driver. Sometimes the passenger. As the passenger, you might see some interesting things that the driver does not get the luxury to consider. Right now, I feel like I have found the perfect hollowed out curvature to a massively large rock; one that with a few more millennia could be a cave opening. Despite realizing there is no hiding in this proto cave, I hold here for further instruction, or for a rise in the tide. Anticipating flow, but wanting to already be in the cave. |
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