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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. |
| I am easily amused, yet I have done very little on my own lately to encourage the giggler-within. Last night I got a strong dose of glee. Trust me, it is a much better thing when I find joy in my own excursions. Otherwise, you might just encounter a Waffle Man. Just trust me, relying on a friend or family member to point out the excitement around the corner can end up...well, embarassing. But, this is leading me off track if I relate the story of The Waffle Man, right now, so you'll just have to prompt me another day if you're curious. An adventure of my own making, that what I was in for. The night out was only one part of a birthday gift I had solicited from my dad months in advance - tickets to the Hollywood Bowl. NOTE TO SELF: I need to apply my negotiating tact to career advancement since I've found it works in the much tougher area of wish fulfillment. Just laid the idea out there: I deserved to attend a part of this season at the Hollywood Bowl. Despite having been born and raised in the L.A. area, I'd never been to a performance there. Dad made it happen. I'll be saying this many times: Thanks, Dad! I kept applauding myself for choosing a birthday present which encompassed two of my fondest pleasures: music and movies, and two driving motivations: history and celebrity. Plus, I was going back onto the wonderful Julia Cameron plan from The Artist's Way by having a whole set of "artist's dates" now at my disposal. Technically, those do not need to be costly, overly planned-out affairs, either. It helps to have something like this occassionally, however, when you are the mother/writer/bread-winner/negotiator and all of the above all at the same time on most days. "Crazymakers" the norm at every station. Read her books if you're curious. I did have misgivings by midday, eventhough I'd been looking forward to this first performance for months. I was going alone. I leave my family every weeknight to support us while my husband chips away at earning a degree. It can be a struggle to justify more time away - even when I need it desperately. Really simple living stretches you, but it also feels quite unfair at times. School or a DVD from the library has to be my husband's reTREAT just like some nights at work when I'm filling the lulls with reviewing or entries are sometimes my reTREAT. The children have the same struggle when they get the opportunities to retreat for a week to Grandma's, or board a bus for a sponsored field trip. The leaving part is both exciting and anxious, but the routine is just as easily welcome to each when they return. So I said it already, this trip to the Hollywood Bowl was my first. I had to add that statement to most conversations with people I met that night too. "This is my first time here!" Wisely and foolishly I got myself on the road four hours before performance time. You never know anymore how many layers of security, freeway boneheadedness, or other types of ignorance will affect a trip - even a short drive through or just past downtown. Encountering traffic in L.A. that has you in a brain-numbing holding pattern can scar you for life. This particular Saturday, I encountered almost no traffic on the route I took. I ended up with plenty of time to dispose of in my own fashion. That giddiness from exploring a new place can be a little overpowering for me. I mentally remind myself that I'm just a little too jazzed for walking through the parking lot. But, hey, I'm in Hollywood, in an especially historic, architecturally profound, downright historic place, part of me notes definitively. I approach the box office plaza, almost bypassing the museum. "Three hours to showtime," I note, "I wonder if the museum is open?" (Internal Composure has its own irritated voice: "You already checked that on the website, Bozo. You know it is!") "Yes, but, I may want to eat first, find out where my seat is first...." ("Snacks in your hip bag; money only if you really need to spend above that. And you already viewed the shot from your seat on that internet site. That museum is the mission objective for this hour, Soldier!") I'm not talking back to perfectly good logic like that. This was when I knew I could start laughing at myself. Once I figured out that I'm on a balcony level above the museum's main entrance, I located the elevator and walk right in to the Hollywood Bowl museum. Stereo headphone stations and DVD players were part of the modern components to an exhibit based on letters written by many decades worth of patrons in the cozy gallery. I added a note of gratitude into a open guest book. Upstairs I awkwardly played the musical forms that are installed there, designed for children to understand the types of instruments in an orchestra. And when I say awkwardly, I do not mean I was embarassed, they were angled and foreshortened for the small fries. Now I've gone on and on in this description and haven't even gotten you the reader to my ultimate enjoyment of the spectacularly entertaining performances. My reference by titling the entry, "Mr. Celophane," is due to the great surprise of seeing Joel Grey perform that number from the musical, Chicago, as well as several from what he is best remembered for: Cabaret. This wasn't on my ticket - "The Roaring Twenties, John Mauceri conducts the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra," that's all I knew. Now I've checked the next Saturday performance I'm going to - and how exciting, Natalie Cole will be performing that night. Again, I say Thank You, Daddy...I do not want to sound the least bit ungrateful by not even knowing what treasure is in my posession. I guess it has been a while since I last looked at the tickets. I was crafty, and turned in the earliest ticket for the series so that my husband could spend the night with me for the John William's concert Labor Day weekend. This one is the concert I was fixated on when I decided I wanted to have tickets to go to the Hollywood Bowl in the first place. By then, I'll feel like an old pro with three visits to this most famous American amphitheatre under the stars. |
| Ominous. I've been e-mailed that I haven't updated my blog in 1 day, 17 hours and some odd minutes. Didn't know Big Brother had my number on that one. Well, I had a feeling.... I had the urge at least twice today to log on, which was quickly counteracted by the guilt of being "a no-face mother." This is my own terminology, and damned if it doesn't sound like a nasty cuss phrase if you say it right. You see, my children will find me at my computer and demand attention. The little one generally shouts, "Look at this mommy!" I've come to expect the aftermath of cartwheeling into a chair, or a fishing contest result for the largest booger, or her brother's newest favorite stack of whatchamathinks being quietly and deliberately bent or demolished. If I don't look, "I know nothing." Most of the time that's how I'd like it to be. But I really do not want my children to get used to mommy having no-face. First of all, I have a work schedule that's flip-flopped from most people. Graveyard every weekday - including Friday into Saturday morning. Depending on the brightness outside and my direction in bed, I may opt for covers over the head completely. I also have a heavy-duty sleeping mask which gets onto the level of sensory-deprivation. Sometimes this schedule works to my advantage. I do try to be on the computer at a time before either of the kids are awake. Oh, except my almost teen son thinks it's great fun to sneak up on me; say his first "Hello, Mama" of the day, and if I haven't heard his approach, see how violently I jump outta my skin! I actually think my worst level of ignore the problem and "it" will go away happens when we are all in the family room together. My computer faces my husband's - so I haven't become a "no-face wife." Yet. The TV and PS2 doubling as DVD player creates the T-intersection to our work stations. But my guilt surfaces more easily when I realize no one is paying attention to any one else. Saturday, I was making the extra effort to share time with my daughter. We worked together on a doll entry for the County Fair. I told her today was a good day to get her doll started. It's an all-rag doll we learned to make from a saavy RenFaire merchant. My daughter was very proud of the hand-held sized one she made the opening weekend of the RenFaire. That, however, was in April, so that doll has probably reverted back to a pile of rags in my daughter's closet much like Frosty the Snowman becomes a puddle when the temp is no longer hanging out below 32 degrees. She's a darn good designer for her age. She can't tie her own shoes yet, but she's a consultant in-training to fashion divas everywhere. The first modification she wanted to make was to have the doll be "her size." We're talkin' rags here, so I had no problem with that. She also wanted her to have shoes. Never mind that the idea we were basing her new doll on did not have legs. The rags are draped and tied to form layer upon layer of skirt only. I suggested that some of the rag ends could be stuffed into an old knit pair of baby booties we found while digging through the linen closet. She wanted to use a pair of tennis shoes that had been hers, which we also came across in our foraging. She relented easily when I found the knit socks. She reasoned that I might need the shoes for another baby! I reminded her of the steps to construct the doll and she did the work. We only had one time out for each of us. A small issue over knot-tying capability. But she was basically done fairly quickly after that. Then my daughter had a hard time putting her maid away - who wouldn't want to play with the friend you just made. And how often do you get to hand-pick a friend's outfit from your "old rags?" |
| One thing I should be clear on - the reference to Alzheimer's in my Blog Intro relates to ME. My Dad and Mom both barely qualify for the "senior menu...." Regardless, it's my own mental slack acquired from 3 years of graveyard shift work and, I believe, natural childbirth. I have several stories in me from the year my Grandfather lived at our place. At 88 years old, he has both a couple endearing qualities and several levels of Dementia, OCD and Alzheimer's. It's amazing how independent and risk-taking he could be while he was staying in his own room at our house. His preference to return to the city which he'd gotten to know for 2 years prior (and the same city where my mom and sister live) was fine with me when the fat hit the fire. I actually faced up to the most interesting perspective: my mom and I too, will slowly slide to ages when his obsessive compulsive mannerisms and Alzheimer forgetfulness is our own. I've never caught my mom cleaning trash and resorting it for extra "green" points to the mental scorecard - but I admit to it (only sometimes). It's a good view, a wise view, to see something like that so far in advance. I don't know if I can prepare, beyond being happy to know I'm a nut just like everybody else on my family tree. |
I said I need prompts...well, making this journal my WDC blog is a cheat, really. I stumbled across the sub-community of bloggers here over the weekend. I studied and snooped to crack the puzzle of whose desktop pic belonged to specific community members, and in the process read numerous blog entries. Nada  's was one. I made a quick observation/review of her blog. Her whole busy life seemed documented there. But, "yikes" she responded pleasantly that she'd drop into my port and see MY BLOG.I'm not a "virgin" to blogging. I already have one outside of WDC started and then randomly abandoned. That randomness seems to be the hallmark of my creative spurts. I don't mind talking about myself usually. I do recognize that I have quiet periods however. Sometimes too quiet. The title for this whole blog has a connection in relation to that silence. That's a story unto itself. |
 Not yet complete Across our plains, the lupin and the bright star, Chickory and lazy, young corn grass sway. Within them lie the Spirit. I see the praise in stalks that reach high, for the sacrifices of Rain and her watchful brother, Wind. We hear the story at grandfather's knee, so we can remember that Rain's heavy tears come from a life pressed with hard, unending work. Yet her giving comes like a song. Are you not rocked to sleep by her rhythm? And should her brother come along to rush her to her next task, do not be afraid when the cover to your door or the window flaps ripple harshly. He is strong along the ground in the open prairie, and in his dominion, the sky, but his power cannot enter the hearts of the Plains people. Brother Wind only has power over the heart of his little sister, Rain. Hear the story now how it came to be so. |
| What is this flag flying at the top of Cubby Hole Hill? Benny Bowtie is at the top of the hill next to the flag. My, what fine clothes he wears. He is a fancy, fuzzy bear. The flag is green like the deep, soft grass of the hills and the hollows. Benny has a velvet vest. The vest is a deep green color, both fuzzy and soft. In gold and green thread, a little flag is sewn on the front of his vest. Benny Bowtie is the green flag bearer of Cubby Hole Hill. Now there is a new flag flying at the top of Cubby Hole Hill. Bertie Bowtie is at the top of the hill next to the flag. Bertie places her flag next to Benny's spot on the hill. Benny smiles. Bertie is Benny's little sister. She is a smart, bright-eyed bear. The flag is yellow like the bright sun, shining over the hills and shadowing the hollows. Bertie wears a tiny tutu. The tutu's tufts bounce as she skips down the hill. The silken yellow colored dance clothes are for fun and play. In a box at the door of the Bowtie bears' home, Bertie picks out a gold and yellow crown. Then Bertie skips back up to the hill top. Bertie Bowtie takes her place again as the yellow flag bearer of Cubby Hole Hill. Soon the fun begins! One last flag is held up at the top of Cubby Hole Hill. Boris Bowtie is the strongest looking bear at the top of Cubby Hole Hill. His red top hat matches the third flag. He is dressed in his pajamas still. Bertie and Benny laugh a little because their big brother has gotten out of bed late! The red flag is the most important one for their game with the friendly bunny's from the hollow. The hills and the hollows make a perfect spot for a game of 'Stop n' Go. Boris yawns. Boris Bowtie is the red flag bearer of Cubby Hole Hill. |
| In process I was glad to have a young man gently situate himself next to me on Bus 1131 - especially on that day. Even when he didn't take note of me, and almost instantly closed his eyes for a light doze, that fact did not bother me. It meant I was no longer exposed to the aisle of this bus. For a few minutes, I felt comfortable enough to stare out the window, onto the street. But, then curiosity got the better of me. I wondered what kind of steel this one had. I never had seen him on my bus before. I figured I had to make an evaluation of how good a defender he might be, if the need arose on this day. The rider was a long, lean man with his arms folded over his casual Friday Old Navy turtleneck. He had a full halo of chestnut hair, and I was sure he was single. You see, experience has shown me that he'd have less hair altogether if he was married more than a single month. His business pants matched the color of his hair, and they were straight-on neat. He might be a bachelor, but no housekeeping slouch. If he'd had a suit jacket on, I might have not known that his arms were finely muscled. It looked like he spent a regular amount of time lifting weights. It was a somewhat derailed evaluation, due to his good looks, but "good for him," I thought. So, from a on-looker's perspective alone, he had something to offer. The fact that he had definition in his hands and arms gave the imagination a platform, and the brain could remark, "There's something here to spend an extra minute admiring." This was the type of detail the uninitiated would overlook - but having a seat partner that might draw the attention of the Bagala'dgnash that roamed the aisle at midday, just could be a saving grace. I felt this fixation I was entertaining over the beauty of those arms was an important clue to his being here by my side today. The light-dappled strength of those arms distinguished him. His tallness, otherwise, would draw the eyes up and up with nothing but straight up and down features, like a modern glass skyscraper. Instead, I felt like I was barricaded behind the doors of a trustworthy Art Deco, like the ol' Empire State. |
| In process Simple Simon gave up his dream of being a pieman when some jerk in a black shirt told him he was a hack pie eater with no table manners. Steal a kiss, plead guilty to the misdomeaner skirt-lifting, get life...without parole. Rumplestilskein should never have gone after the farmer's daughter; Rapunzel was ready-made sweat-shop labor (Ya know, Heat rises, Tall tower, No summer bob for the lank of hair she had to haul around, Sheesh!) |
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