the state of the onion

(it is all about layers, isn't it?)

it's been a strangely lonely week, despite the film team and the magnolias. it's bad enough that luna's absence is like a lost limb, but x is away on a week long shoot and with the gas crisis and work/play schedule, there is no way for visiting. the loneliness doesn't come from their absence though - i am at least proud to say that - but from what rushes into their absence. it's either the unadulterated* all of me or all the people who've wanted a piece of me for a while and haven't been able to get at it for my preoccupation with my own life (and of course, the magnolias). the all of me i can handle - though it is harder without luna than i could have ever dreamed. the loss of my eyes and ears and fuzzy beautiful shield wall has been devastating. people treat you differently when you are always with a dog and when she protects your home, especially if she is fierce and wolfy. as crazy as i go when i'm alone, it's the kind of crazy i'm used to and i feel that the things that surface are things i need to look at and feel and think about, no matter how hard and scary and ugly they can be sometimes. ignoring or burying these things is like - and please pardon and be warned - gross metaphor (or is it simile... it's simile, i think :) ahead: it's like getting a cut and letting the surface heal before the interior is clean. i won't illuminate further, i'm sure you get the gist. and that is exactly what it's like. when i begin to go off the edge into the blue or the black or the red, i just have to trust myself and follow the rabbit, even if he looks like frank**, or else the rabbit will haunt my sleep and sap the energy from my waking hours, and when i'm tired, it's all rabbits, all the time. !$% that. the point is, i don't so much mind my own company, even when things are rabbity. who was it what said 'loneliness is other people'? no, wait, it was 'hell', wasn't it? and it was sartre. maybe hell was loneliness to old jean paul. the problem is, when you are striving so desperately to be connected to others, it hurts. bad, all the time, non-stop - all of it (sometimes even the good can pull as hard on the soul as the bad). and what makes a person feel more lonely than holding in and taking in and soaking in all pain all the time? not much.
i am not complaining - i CAN'T. this is my choice. i decided to look at the world this way and let out my mental and emotional real estate in this manner. but here - and to my few close friends who can and will sometimes take on the loneliness of me - is the place where i can offer my pain, like christians do to their gods, like hindus do to the river, and pray that it doesn't add greatly to anyone elses'.or even that, in some way, it might lighten someone elses' load somehow. things are hard right now. (i mean in the world in general and specifically in the world around me. things are fairly calm in my own quarters, partially because i have consciously locked down and minimized as much as i can.) maybe not much more so than usual - there are always deaths, fears, losses, tragedies big and little - but they do seem to really glare in the light of economic hardship and major national tragedy. and of course, with new acquaintance comes new emotion, new pain to absorb, and new things to learn and consider about my own situation. it's a little sad to me that loneliness equals other people. maybe that's the next thing i need to work on.

right now i have my hands full with surviving as far as the job and transportation issues go, and thriving as far as my artly selfishness goes. i tell myself that i am supporting the theater, helping keep that particular beloved art alive here in this little town and encouraging others. i know i've been selling tickets, and i have done a lot of direct fundraising too. but the real deal is that my soul wants and needs to do this dangerous, exciting, exasperating thing. even though i believe i am helping the community, and that makes it something i can logistically and realistically justify, it's just that i need it. i need to explore this aspect of myself and my personalit(ies), i need to open and close certain chapters of my life, some which have been dog-eared since before i can remember.
i've got enough work lined up to get me through november at this point, and i have to pray that things keep coming. i have hopefully set enough wheels in motion that this won't be an issue. whatever happens, i won't let it be. chris is also getting good work right now and making solid inroads to more. i have made some headway in getting rid of material things, and the universe has been helping with that. i had a call today that solves the problem of one very large and very valuable (yet useless to me) possession and will very likely allow me to install a pantry, which i feel has become a necessity. i'm looking forward to tackling the MAJOR 'stuff evacuation' beginning in november. i am hoping that habitat for humanity, salvation army and other needful places will be happy to have it, and i suppose i'll yard-sale or give away the fun-stuff to friends.
it's time to go be magnolias - which, by the way, has REALLY begun to be fun. for all the addition of new heartache and joy to my saturated heart, these girls also know how to let you lean a little. they freely offer chances for some se--saturation, bless their hearts. :) they are good listeners and good people and they make me feel special, which is treat indeed, coming from such very special people. even with the lonely, and the blue, black and red, i am a lucky girl in so many ways. that's my self-sermon for today. what's yours?

-s


*this is DEFINITELY a 'triple intender' where i am concerned.
**my dear husband loves donnie darko. *sigh*

Currently reading : Monstrous Regiment By Terry Pratchett Release

“Freedom is something relative, very relative. To me, freedom is the feeling you have inside of being able to say what you want to say, but having somebody consider your opinion. Because maybe you’re free to say or yell whatever you want but who acknowledges you? Who implements what you’re saying if it needs to be done? So where is your freedom? Sometimes freedom has it’s limitations.”

- Dr. Aleida Guevara (daughter of Che) in an interview with Michael Moore.

My conscience has been hammering at me harder, everyday. Guilt is eating me up like cancer. I can’t justify not doing as much as I can about the problems I see around me anymore. There is no drug that can remove my conscience, there is no chemotherapy for guilt, there is only one cure and that is to do as much as I can until I make a difference or die trying. I’ve talked and written about it and worried about it and prayed about it and in my own way I’ve worked hard to make a difference, but it just hasn’t been enough to allow me to feel right with myself. I’ve had several ‘messages from the universe’ lately pointing me in this direction, and I feel called (drawn, pulled, pushed, dragged, you name it) to answer and give what I have, and all of it, not just some. I’m going to have to begin slowly because of the everyday responsibilities that I have undertaken (and also to teach myself to do this properly and responsibly) but I should be free of most of those by the fall, and there is still a lot I can do in the ‘quiet spaces’ in between until then. I also know that I can’t abandon Chris and my responsibility to him, but we’ve discussed this and he has agreed to help me find a way. I have decided to leave my life and my stuff and find a way to give myself actively and completely to making a change in the world. I know I have a hard battle ahead of me, and a lot of enemies and allies to confront. One of the greatest enemies is my own nature, not only my comfort-loving and sentimental soft self, but also my harsh judgmental nature. It’s not going to be easy, but I have to do something toward turning this battlefield into arable land. I know I have a lot of hard rows to hoe, but I always have, so I guess it’s just time to rotate the crops.
I spent 30 years living a bad balance. Between giving so much of myself to others that it hurt me, and being desperately selfish (and that hurt me sometimes too) - both without consciousness. I was just surviving and trying to be myself. Then I spent the last 10 years being both consciously self-serving and consciously generous and helpful and that has been good in many ways, and I’m grateful that I was able to give myself and others that gift, but it’s just not enough to keep the dragons sleeping. Maybe now they need to be awakened and fed and used for heat and flight and firepower. I just know for sure that I can’t go on this way anymore, and this seems to be the only reasonable answer. I’ve been so angry and hurt over all the wrong I see around me, all the beautiful things that are being destroyed, all the greed and selfishness in our CorporateGovernmentChurch and in the people who support it, all the innocent people being hurt by fear and greed and ignorance. I know there is more that I can give and do and I can’t live with myself or anyone else anymore if I don’t do it.
Starting tomorrow, I will begin giving away my material possessions and I hope to be rid of 90% of it by the new year. Starting Monday, I will find more ways to give of myself freely to whomever needs me - probably starting at our local domestic abuse shelter, Steps to Hope. There are other places I want to focus my energy and attentions as well, and I will begin researching and brainstorming ways to make that happen. I have so much in me, there are so many things I can do and give, and I honestly feel that wasting it on myself and others who already have so much is wrong. I need to be inspiring those people to do more too. And if my genetics hold true to their ‘map‘, I may not have more than another decade or two on this planet, and I’ll be damned if I live it out feeling like I do now.

“Sick of the waiting and praying and hoping
Sick of the cold whispered dreams and not knowing
Sick of the strength that it takes to keep going
Sick as I'm losing this fight and it's showing
Sick of the fear and sick of the cold
Sick 'cause it's worse for the weak and the old
With two broken legs I'm climbing this hill
Sick of deciding who gets what in my will
Sick 'cause I'm stuck on the wrong side of town
And sick 'cause I'm pulling but still sinking down
And sick 'cause I can't turn this whole thing around
And sick 'cause I'm too weak to hunt somebody down
Sick 'cause this hammering litany of sins
Is banging and burning I can't stand the din
Sick 'cause the darkness keeps seeping on in
Sick to be leaving my family and friends
Unforgivable but true
I'm alone without you.”

- “Alone Without You”, the Night Watchman

if you believe in it, please pray for me. if you don’t, then help me or find a way to help others. actually, that would beat prayers hands down, no matter what you believe, but I do think prayers and positive thoughts help too. I won’t say no to any kindness or support, because I’m sure I’m going to need it.
much love,
-s

I wrote this in my new journal on my birthday:

Wish

every word a poem,
every letter as beautiful as a star,
to dance unfettered
and evaporate when no one is looking,
soak every bruise,
sate every hunger,
be the cool fingertips on every burning brow,
a kiss goodnight,
a superhero,
a helping hand,
each color,
each flavor,
enveloping white light.

No surprise that the swing has swung back to Apocalyptica. It’s my basic default setting really. It would be pretty easy to blame the upcoming 40th b’day for part of this stress, and maybe in some ways, deep down, it is. But I’ve done the ‘how-do-i-feel-about-this’ self check: stared in the mirror, considered it for hours – where I’ve been, what I’ve done, possible regrets and the realistic future, and overall, I feel pretty good about where I am at this age, especially with all considered. This is more like the cyclical depression that seems to be as much a part of my daily ups and downs as my blood sugar level. Part of it is environmental. I have been reading some depressing news, and once the world gets it’s foot in my emotional door, I can’t seem to keep it from just coming right on in. China’s water problems, the general malaise of western youth, the social isolation problems in Japan, the ‘random’ horrible violence everywhere, the list is endless… every country, every individual needs something, some help, some strength, some forgiveness, some love, some money, some clean air…
I’ve distanced myself from some perceived responsibilities lately – I don’t want to be near my phone, and that makes work stuff harder. Thank god for email. I think part of that is connected to my birthday. Rewind a few blogs back to how connecting to my past affects me. Half of me wishes people would call, half of me feels guilt, regret and sorrow over who I haven’t called, who won’t call, who can’t call, or the fact that I really don’t care about any of it as much as I should. Even the responsibility stuff. In a way, I wonder if I am rebelling against having to be responsible at all. Duh. Of course that’s part of it. How kind of all of you not to say anything. I also feel bad about recent social inelegances. I try to be good and also be myself, but sometimes I’m just not able to balance all the elements. I’m so hard on myself when I commit these transgressions and they increase my fear of social interaction for a time. I owe apologies to people and that makes me feel like dying, or like never leaving the house again. It’s not that I have to apologize, that is easy and I wish that it was all it took to make it better, because I can freely offer sincere apologies when I’ve done wrong. The hard part is knowing that I did something worth apologizing for and living with that. The transgressions don’t dissolve once I’ve admitted my wrong and asked forgiveness. I’m never even sure if people really understand that that’s what we’re all saying when we say ‘I’m sorry’. I just know that my guilt and self-loathing never leave once I’ve !@#$ed up and it stacks up. By now, with 40 years of grand, loud, ridiculous and often hurtful transgressions under my belt, the load of shame and guilt has gotten pretty weighty. I feel as bad about the items I stole from the grocery store when I was 5 as I do about the faux pas I committed last week, and everything in between. I am grateful for the friends who don’t remind me of the trespasses I’ve made in the past, little, big and hugely awful, but I know that I never forget them, and I assume that they don’t.
A big part of it is also this entirely selfish whim (which I am scheduled to feel at least a little bit bad about later, I’m sure) that overcomes me every year near my birthday (not to mention at least once or twice a week in the in between times) to allow myself to revel in self-serving decadence by NOT answering my phone and blowing off my million responsibilities* and making up for all the bad birthdays and all the bad weeks in between for years and years - a double decades’ worth, at least. This year, being a hallmark, I am allowing myself extra slack, and I am prepared to deal with the fallout from it, come what may. I have committed to three big responsibilities that I cannot avoid, and I will not fail in those endeavors, but everything else can go hang. Phlbt.
So that’s where I am now. Muddling. Hoping. Skating. Juggling. Hating. Moping. Skwooching. Coping. There are definitely worse places to be.
-s

*to some extent. I have to say that even at my worst, like when lu was dying, I still manage to take care of some things. Sometimes that’s all that keeps me going.

The Island of Bubba Moreau?

Normally, the news depresses, frightens and worries me to no end, but I surf it nonetheless, to stay in tune and to gauge the worlds' internal and external temperature as best I can. Sometimes I run across news stories that make me happy and give me hope, and other times I find stories that simply assure me that things are pretty much as I suspect them to be. This morning, the headlines handed me one of those - with added 'brouhaha'*
The Yahoo News header actually read: "DNA test results dispute Bigfoot brouhaha"
The sub-header reads: "Bigfoot claim a bust - DNA tests from the alleged body of a Bigfoot" and then there's a photo of these two guys, and then it says: Opossum involved"...
OPOSSUM INVOLVED! like the 'possum helped them scheme it up - if so, it was probably the smartest of the three… today is clearly my jackpot golden ticket news day.
"Also present were Matthew Whitton and Rick Dyer, the two who say they discovered the Bigfoot corpse while hiking in the woods of northern Georgia. They also are co-owners of a company that offers Bigfoot merchandise." [NO?! REALLY?!?! What a coincidence!]
"Despite the dubious photo and the commercial interests of the alleged discoverers, the Bigfoot claim drew interest from Australia to Europe and even The New York Times." If you have a chance, open the article and check out the photo of the business partner of these two WunderKind. I think I saw his picture in the dictionary next to "shifty".

Besides, everybody knows that BigFoot lives in Saluda, NC.
-s

*Terry Pratchett fans and people who think like Terry and his fans will understand why seeing this word in the headlines thrilled me so deeply.
Currently reading : The Truth By Terry Pratchett

psychotic microwaves, treasure hunting and general bagelosity


it’s been an odd day. we’ve been having bad drought conditions for sometime now, but last night it rained all night, it rained all morning, drizzled most of the afternoon and by about teatime has cleared up to a beautiful, cool damp mountain afternoon.
this morning, as jules and I coffeed and caught up on the latest average, everyday weirdness, she got up to get more coffee and as she began to cross the kitchen she made a shocked face and then just stood and stared at the microwave. I asked what it was, then looked, and from my vantage I could only see the letters ‘Chi’ on the readout. I assumed it was ‘chicken’. Julie remained frozen so I got up to look. The microwave had somehow automatically reset itself to … properly cook someone under 12? These photos are undoctored in any way. Jules swears the technology has gone evil. I think things have gone all ‘19’ again, x probably blames the matrix - or doesn’t care.
speaking of x, he was there for the next bit of weirdness. he’d come up the mountain to drop off supplies (oo that sounds so primitive) and take a coffee break from edit-hell. I was sitting on the deck under the umbrella and he was sitting in the open window next to the computer under the eave, facing me and chatting. at one point, he shifted backward and when he put his hand on the casement to steady himself, and my eyes followed his hand. the MagPirate in me immediately noticed the glint of gold. I looked inside the casement housing and there was a beautiful 10k gold antique dinner ring, set with diamonds. the window is usually closed because there’s no screen there, but the rain was so nice and no bugs, so I opened it while I worked this morning. who knows how long it’s been there. it’d be nice to return someone’s treasure to them. not real piratey maybe*, but it keeps me employed and in good favor with the ladies.
these are the beasts, sans koi and cat. cat is elusive and goldfish are expensive to shoot.
don’t ask me about the beasts. let’s just say… I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, I feel loved and appreciated, and I miss George.
spotty dog, red collar, cute black ear is Annie. she’s a complete love, her brother is teddy - he’s the reddish chow who looks like a bear. I think he’s my favorite, as far as personality and mannerisms go. he’s both laid back and down for whatever. the other two are visitors here too. their mom is staying while she looks for a place of her own. the little brown dog with the white muzzle is dear, dear chester. he’s a sweet little old man. you couldn’t not love this dog if you met him. and then, there’s bagel.
*sigh*
that tan-spotted, blue-collared white blur is el senor bagel. he could very easily be the cutest do on the planet. he’s a young puppy who has some pretty major abuse issues and he’s a very sweet and mild holy terror. he’s a handful, but when he looks up at you with his huge pale green eyes and skwooches up against you like melty butter, you could forgive him anything. thank goodness.
I’m hoping that the day continues in the same vein. I’m due for a little reality surfing.
-s



*unless you’re a gentleman pirate like me.

Blessed and Safe - Now.

I started a new gig today, house and pet-sitting for some old (almost as long as I’ve been in the Carolinas) friends. They have a beautiful home in Saluda, close to town and yet with a lovely wooded yard surrounding. Lucky me, I get to be here for almost 3 weeks. I am sitting in a bright corner of the kitchen, near the windows overlooking their deck. It’s a cool, crisp morning. There’s a fluffy white cat curled up in a wicker chair outside, there’s a sweet Dalmatian sleeping on a rug by my feet. The other dogs are napping and playing in other parts of the house (I can hear ‘Bagel’ softly squeaking his stuffed pheasant in the hall). Cicadas and birds are singing in the huge trees around the house, and I can hear the town waking and working in the distance. I always find new pieces of myself - or perhaps old, lost ones - when I’m staying in strange places. There’s a part of me that would be very happy staying in a new place every night. I like being able to explore who I am without my stuff, who I can be surrounded by new spaces, and let’s face it, I like variety in all things. Being in a new place is even more open and adventurous than playing a role on stage, because this is private (until now :) and all me, all mine. There’s also the joy of getting to spend time with and care for those little mookie puppy/kitty*-heads. Of course it makes me miss my girl, but it also brings me closer to her, and I love the job of trying to keep people’s pets from feeling sad while their folks are gone away. I know that for a well-loved creature, there’s nothing like your real ‘parents’, but I love trying to be a good substitute in the meanwhile, and I feel very honored to be asked. Getting paid for all of this is nice too. Yay, me!

I always feel inspired in new places, and for some reason, I feel safer than in the familiar. That’s probably not too hard to figure out. It’s almost as if it’s harder to be bruised and battered by the past in a new place. Mental tabula rasa always leaves room for the ghosts to sweep in, but physical tabula rasa always makes me feel new and hopeful. Maybe part of that is that my mind is occupied with new surroundings and responsibilities or possible adventures. The past becomes a pale shadow, the future becomes bright with possibility. I think I need to explore this line of thinking more. That can be my first assignment for this week. (See how you all and ‘Dear Blob**’ affect me? Thank you!)
I had intended to share stories today, but I think I will follow the spirit of my thoughts so far and let the past be pale today. Instead, I will enjoy the present, ponder the future, work on my ‘assignment’ a little, and make the most of this clean slate.
Besides, I have lines to learn and puppies to pet.
much love,
-s


*I also get my fair share of birds, fish, and kids. I’ve even had to tarantula-sit before. It was easier than the kids, although I still sometimes have nightmares about. The tarantula-sitting, not the kids… though there HAVE been a few…
**I call blogging ‘blobbing’ - it seems a more appropriate term. And I definitely think of this as my diary. It’s the most faithfully I’ve ever 'journalled' unless it was assigned to me.

Road Rage

[I started writing the following journal entry before I got the delirious-making news about the play. I’m glad to have such a clear-cut way to illustrate – to anyone, but primarily to myself – how my moods swing and why; what pushes the pendulum and some more insight into why it swings the way it does; maybe even why sometimes it’s a counterweight and others it’s a wrecking ball…]

Here’s another thing that weighs heavy on me - the immense anger. Sometimes it’s directed at the specific criminal, sometimes all the people like them, sometimes almost the whole world* - but usually at a select few thousand. I try not to think about it too hard. There are a lot of emotional trailer parks out there in the world, and if I let myself think too long about every possible and probable suffering kid out there it makes me feel utterly hopeless. I have to keep my bearings and look out for the ones around me – as far around me as I can realistically reach. I’m surprised at how far that seems to be - all the while, biting on the anger that’s as natural, real and present as the scars. The scars don’t even really hurt anymore, they’re mostly numb, but the memories, the reminders, the hard cold facts are pretty… instigative. I hate the times when I wonder if I DESERVE to be angry… in fact, I can’t think of many things that can push me over the edge of anger into burning white-hot fury than finding myself wondering if I have the right to feel angry. !@#$ that. I have a few friends and relatives with serious anger issues, worse than my own, in more ways than one. They never make me feel as if my anger (or really, reasons for feeling angry) is insignificant or shallow. Instead, they just make me feel as if someone understands what it’s like to be at that point of the compass. And sometimes they let me attempt to distract them, which often improves my own mood, if not theirs.:(

The shame comes when I do bad things to burn off anger, things that are either bad for my body or soul. I try to balance these things out and keep them to a minimum, but it’s hard. The worst is when I take it out on Chris. Other people have the automatic protection and courtesy provided by my almost phobic reaction to embarrassment. To me, acting like a ‘fishwife’ (griping, bitching, harping, haranguing, etc.) in public is one of the MOST embarrassing things. No one – not even Chris – gets worse than a sharp and serious, but no matter how serious, still CALM (and hopefully un-embarrassing to BOTH of us) dressing down from me in public, even for the worst of crimes. HOWEVER – the privacy of one’s own home is where one lets their hair down, and the one place where I refuse to bottle up ANYTHING. Like I’ve said before, poor Chris. He sees me with my hair down a lot.

I’m beginning to really think about this whole relationship between me and my brain and this keyboard and you. Yesterday while I was doing chores, I kept thinking about what I was writing here about feeling so pent up and frustrated about all the worlds’ problems and my own puny ones too, and what it does to me and WHY I need to share this; then my mind shifted to yesterday’s blog and there was no question as to why I would want or need to share good, happy news. Ah, revelation!

I admit, there’s a part of me that always feels guilty sharing good news too (Will this depress people who aren’t having good news right now? Will people think I am bragging? How noticeable is it that my moods change drastically, day-to-day, hour-to-hour? Does anyone care? Do I deserve this goodness? Will I fail? Etc.! YUCK! :). But there is that part of me again, the one who remembers when the news was NOT good, was never good, and who now says: You do your part to help shoulder the burden, you try to keep on top of things and be aware of others, you try make the world a better place. You work hard for your bon-bons, why should you not enjoy them? One of my bon-bons is the allowance and assistance that comes from writing and reading and hearing from you and thinking and reading and writing some more. It allows me to see the shape of my life more objectively, more realistically. What a gift! I also really thought about (during my sink-thinking) why I have fallen in so love with theater.

Most of it is obvious. I’m a freakishly skilled creative person who is compelled to both stay busy and volunteer. In my opinion, every theater has to have at least 5 of these to stay alive. I have a flair for the dramatic, love to play dress up and specialize in special effects, props, set design, costume design, makeup and hair. I can sing and dance if I have to, and I have good timing, physically and comedy-wise. I can write fairly realistic dialogue, I am a good character actor, I learn lines pretty quickly, I take direction well, and I am a decent (if too specific and cheesy) director. I’m also trained to teach stage combat and specialize in wench-fighting. And I loved and did ALL of this before I ever auditioned for my first play. I just didn’t know what I was training for those first 30 years.

Then there’s the Freudian side of it. (I especially like it when the sink-thinking takes this kind of direction. It’s helpful to me. It’s like tightening a rope when you’re sailing in hard wind…). You all know my general past. Here I am, presenting myself to be chosen for my skill, talent, beauty, height, accent, attitude, wardrobe, whatever… then, IF chosen to have to live up to that role, and all those expectations. Why would you do that to yourself? Those of you who do it know why. Because if you can do it, and if you get chosen and if you pull it off, you get so much love and appreciation and respect for doing something that you and everybody else knows is not easy and making it look easy and enjoying it all the while. it feels so good. The only thing that’s better than that in that whole arena is the joy of helping others (and with a cast of 40 or more, that is a lot of joy!) get that same exact feeling. Woohoo! Volunteer for your local little theater! Audition at least once! Paint bellies in South Pacific! Treat yourself to a helping of Fantasy-filled Freudian Fabulousness. It’s good for the soul, it’s good for the community.

Ok, almost enough. Just one more thing.
I’d like to thank Mr. Henry Rollins for the third time. We found a copy of the 2nd season of his IFC show on dvd at a coooooool-ass yard sale (FOR A BUCK!) and have been enjoying it immensely. I know some of you don’t like him, and all of you are sick of hearing how much I do and the original reason why, but he has affected my personal motivation for almost 25 years now, and in a good way. God knows I’ve needed it from every possible quarter. His spoken word stuff is brave and silly and smart and raw and filled with real emotion. He writes a lot and he seems to need to as well. He clearly needs to share and a lot of people clearly agree that he has something to say and he does it in an entertaining way. He is fierce and feisty (and also dead!@#$sexy in my humble opinion***) and he has worked hard to earn his soapbox. His rantings and kudos and sarcastic, funny opinions on his show make me feel so good. He reminds me a lot of George Carlin in his opinions and ideals, a cross between George Carlin and Danzig. (Moosh. The man of my dreams. :) All this schoolgirlishness and fun aside****, his writing and ranting and speaking up and digging in have been part of the encouragement for me to write and to speak up. Just like y'all. Thank you.

-s

*very seldom do I get mad at babies or animals for anything.
***not that that really matters, but it is nice when it’s part of the deal, is it not?
****though I’m very glad I can still feel this way about things and people. I’d die without my passions and crushes. Carpe Vini Diesel!

Steel Magnolias auditions were held on Monday and Tuesday night.This is one of those plays I've always thought I'd love to do. It's very southern, very funny, intelligent and open-mindedly philosophical, it has moments of real - but for some, hidden - every day life, it has magic and huge tragedy, and yet some of the funniest lines in any play ever.
Until the last decade, I had fantasized about doing theater but never made it happen. And only in the last five years did I really begin to realize that I was good enough at it that people might want me as more than a volunteer* - meaning they might choose me, from among others, to play certain parts.When I realized this, I began to think 'Who would I like to play, if I could?' Three roles immediately came to mind, ones that I've admired and closet-coveted since I found out the scripts were originally stage productions.
First, without a doubt, Rosencrantz from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Y'all know how i feel about Gary Oldman. I'd pitch 10 Rocks, 2 Vin Diesels and a Johnny Depp off the deck to keep Mr. O on board in a heartbeat. To me,as an actor, he is like a canvas, a painter, the paint, a model, the brushes and the light, all in one tiny little, fairly funny-looking (as the actor species go) package. I adore him. I think he is a character actor too, but I believe his spectrum is very broad and subtle, and includes every possible character. And the moment I met Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and Stoppard (and i met them all at the same time) was love at first sight. We joked then and still about those of us in the cast who get the play and those to whom it made no sense. I got it the way Rosencrantz got it, to the heart - to the spine, and that's why I fell in love with him, without Gary Oldman, without Tom Stoppard (sort of), just with him and his perceptions and passions and fears. Oh. I just assumed I would never have a chance to play that role - especially with Hamilton. :)
Nurse Ratched is my 2. For one thing, this is just one of the best plays/stories/films ever. It's brilliant and it's beautiful and, like 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern...' (believe it or not, Elvin), it SPEAKS to me. It has particular meaning to my personal experience that helps me cope with mine and others' daily existence. Nurse Ratched is a completely different kind of character than any of the others I've played (and of course i like the idea of a challenge!), but I kinda' understand her. I work with a part of myself that is like her every day, and I've worked closely with others who operate the way she does. I think in a way that this role for me would be like playing with fire, but then I think about our friend Jesse who is a fire-spinner, and how he handles his medium, and how beautiful and confident he is, even handling this dangerous thing at 60 mph(?). I feel pretty comfortable with this kind of fire. The fear is that it is SO different from other characters I've played and I won't be able to pull it off and assume/project that much control. I know that is a definite possibility, and I am prepared (and even prepared to be relieved!) if someone more adept gets that role. It's key to the play and I definitely don't want to be responsible for making that role be the flat part of the show (it also doesn't hurt that it's been hinted that if i don't get cast, i get to help with music and stage design, and that would make me happy indeed :) ! It's a lasting classic show - there will be other chances, and I'll be ready for sure by then. :)
The third role I've always - ok, i'll say it - coveted - is an easy one to guess. That of Ms. Truvy Jones, beauty expert and neighborhood peacemaker and philosopher in Steel Magnolias. As a kid, I loved all those Glamour Girls. Dolly Parton, Cher (Truvy mentions Cher in the script! :), Farrah, 'Ginger', even Zsa Zsa and Charo... thankfully, I could list a million. There, it's out. I said it. :) Somehow I feel that this doesn't come as much of a surprise revelation, but a part of me is a little embarassed and ashamed to admit that I like something so commercial and pointless and ... foofy. :) but i do. Pink sparkly feather boas (even though they make me sneeze), frivolous, expensive makeup (i feel guilty usually about wearing any at all), time spent doing hair for no one but the mirror. I'm guilty. But the fact is that I MIGHT find an excuse to do any of this once a month, maybe. i buy makeup once every year or two (lip gloss doesn't count), and, with the exception of shows and theater related events and dragon cons, I haven't 'fixed' my hair in 5 years. I want to believe that there's a little Truvy in all of us, that we all feel a little fabulous (at least!), no matter what; that we can help each other feel a little fabulous (at the very least!), that laughter through tears is one of the best emotions and that looking good is at least a good place to start trying to feel good. Let me say here and now that most of you are doing an excellent job. (Sam, you really need to get new pajamas.)
Love,'Truvy'.

*some shows, no matter who shows up or how good/bad/funny-lookin' they are, they get cast.
i love this kind of theater because EVERYbody gets their chance to shine, and they always do.

Currently reading : Steel Magnolias(DPS Acting Edition) By Robert Harling

One of the main problems I have is trying to balance the juxtaposition of then and now. Some of the things that happened were so grim that they are difficult to bury, keep occupied/tame/ in the closet or whatever, so I have to deal with them often, sometimes every day, sometimes all day. The other big problem is that they were such everyday occurrences, the creation of these skeletons, that everything reminds me of them. I’ve always seen things symbolically, and then I learned in therapy to make connections from things that happen now to things that happened then (especially things that triggered panic attacks), so that I could at least identify them and at least – if not completely control them*, not let them completely control me. I do pretty well at that most of the time I think. A lot of the time, I actually enjoy the mental/emotional/social mathematics that I have to keep up with to function. It only gets really bad when I get too close to home, geographically or otherwise. I have a busy, interesting, active helpful life for the most part. I try to keep my public troubles small and still be pretty honest. That’s important to me. I wish I were better at it and not so hard on those who are worse. It’s hard to maintain that inner self and outer self, that past that has scarred me as noticeably as a knife or a sharp rock. I always feel so hurt when people refer to me (or others) as broken, and several people have, but I know a big part of my hurt is that I know it’s true. I never had a seconds’ chance to be whole or normal. It was not in my stars. I know that it was in my stars to be many OTHER things, and so many of them good and satisfying and exciting. But I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to feel these things and not have this brutalized little girl watching it all and consulting the committee before allowing herself to feel the goodness. Instead of being able to first snoopy-dance around and feel the revelation to have to ask ‘have I earned this? Will I fail?’ and of course, feeling immediately sickeningly guilty in the next second for feeling so good when so many others have nothing, or the horrors that are worse than nothing, and those things and voices and opinions whir inside my head constantly as I proceed. I worry very much that we are all like this and feel frighteningly un-paranoid in my concern. It seems to me that we’re all like this. What else can I do to help? I want to help other broken people find and use their pieces. For me, the saving grace is that the original little girl, if never whole, at least had some fairly practical pieces. One of those being a kid who knew deep down that one day she could get to a place where she could look back and say ‘this is what I wanted, needed and deserved when I was 8 and my conscience feels UTTERLY ok with counting my own inner 8 year-old amongst the other kids (ages 0 – 104)I give a huge chunk of my life to! ’ and then grabbing my god-damned snoopy dance while I can, guilt-be-damned.
One of the reasons I think I identify with robots is that the amount of effort I have to put out to achieve anything, much less all that I do, is kind of sick, in my opinion. I know that. I see that. People often comment on it in nice ways, and I tell them the truth: that if I didn’t do all of this, I’d go nuts. I try to make it sound like a joke. Those of you who know me have seen this before - especially poor SDB and Chris. When I crash, I crash as hard as I worked. It’s ugly, and I try to keep it as brief as possible. And there’s the cold fact that machinery wears out. However, the up-side of it is that it is the only sure-fire therapy for me. It is truly occupational therapy. It also satisfies me in other extremely necessary ways. It gets me appreciation, sometimes even respect and admiration, and a lot of the time, it helps pay the bills. I blog in the in-between places, and treasure my mail at the lowest points. People generally forgive me and treat me well when I crash. Then as soon as I’m up again, I keep going. It’s worth it all for the snoopy dances. The part of me that needs to explain and be forgiven is comforted by helping others’ get their great pumpkin waltz on. I won’t be dissatisfied if I die from the effort of trying to stay sane, be useful and enjoy life, or if I never do anything more than that with my life.
It may not be a perfect – or even a great system, but I’m still here. And despite the whispering, clamoring and clawing of the memories***, and the fact that the crash times come harder and faster – and last longer these days, there are still the ‘beyond snoopy dance’ moments. The rarest moments when the clouds break or the rain FINALLY falls or you reach a gentle state of peace and comfort, and for maybe one second (or less, but thank god(ess[es) they SEEM longer – and are easily recalled…) the past is quiet, the future is blind possibility and you are just here and feeling sun or rain.
I was gifted with one of those ‘letting myself feel good’ moments yesterday. There was sad news in my e this week, some of the saddest kind, the death of a friend who I’d just seen and hugged last weekend. When I opened the next letter someone had sent the following email. I will post it anonymously to cover their ‘might-be-embarassed’ factor (which I DEEPLY and sympathetically respect) and yet share and thank them publicly. Great thoughts, great writing, FANTASTIC timing, fantastic friend. May you all at least one such friend in your lives and may I sometimes be one of them.
___
email from “chaucer”:
i wanted to do something "nice" for the world today -- and now it's 2am TOMORROW...so i thought "maybe sam will take this late-night-value-meal-stab-at-niceness."

so here's to you right now. at this moment, you are the one i'm trying to hug back.

you are my rushmore. no, it's more than that, it's deeper than that. you're my my solar eclipse, and also that deeply grey, rainy sky in mid-september. you're the wind against my west-bound train when i'm restless and lonely. you're the white paper bird on my shoulder, the oxygen which permeates the dense emerald forests of west virginia, the pulse of the atlantic as it beats tirelessly against the rocky coasts of maine. you ARE my rushmore, but you're also my dry gloves in february after the tips of my fingers turn pink. you're my morphine, my dream 45' collection, my hypnosis. you're the best beaten-up paperback novel i ever read, the most eerie melody ever played on a harp, you're the lennon, the mccartney, AND the harrison to my ringo. you're the ghost that sweeps through my house some nights, bringing both chills and company when I'm up late drinking coffee and watching slasher marathons on the television. when i need sunshine, you beam yellow and white and golden bursts that dance around my face and draw me to the sky. you are an original, elusive, unpredictable and multi-faceted spirit which can be neither tamed nor understood, a very strange bird indeed, but one which, were someone able to keep, would provide unmeasurable happiness (chris feels this at times, i'll bet) and "childlike wonder..." no, the ordinary birds can only dream of lives of such spectacle. you are sam.

*tips hat*
___

Happy birfday to me! *snif! siggghhhh!** Thank you so much. Friends like you make me want to TRY to be this person.
-s


*it seems to me that we all know that you can’t control ANYthing, not one single thing really.

**Rogers’ grandma.

***ugh, that made me think of the boxes in the attic in ‘The Hunger’!

Once more, I feel compelled to write. Urge, compulsion, dire, desperate need. I don’t understand it, but my shrink seemed to. She encouraged me to write and I did and it helped.

I always have written and/or drawn to “self-therapize”, but I wrote hidden, disguised, and symbolic things for the first 25 years or so… my family was always finding hidden drawings and stories (usually illustrated) that were all thinly veiled metaphors for whatever was hurting me at the time. My mother once “jokingly complained” about the ‘pornographic’ drawings – drawings of people having sex - she found in my attic room at my grandma’s house. I wanted so badly, in the midst of my hurt, humiliation and trying to handle such rude exposure gracefully and lightly, to say out loud to all her family “Maybe it’s because you forced me to witness your own sexual acts so often.” But I didn’t. Right after my youngest brother was born, my father found an illustrated story about a girl who throws away her beloved older doll after she gets a shiny new one. It was stuffed behind his bed. He asked me if it was about feeling replaced in his affection by my little brother – and it was – but I lied and said no and he left it at that.

I suppose I’ve always needed an ear, a considering mind – an audience – to get the full effect of the therapy. I need a response, or just to know that someone got a glimpse of what I was feeling. What I AM feeling. Writing/drawing just for me helps too, and I do lots of that as well. I leave myself little notes and words of encouragement or reminder. Sometimes they are as brutal and surprising as the things I left for my parents to find. Sometimes I find things that I have no memory of penning. Chris has now lived with me long enough to see this happen. He has watched me sit and draw or write (or both) and then put it away somewhere and not remember – even the next day – that I did it. He finds them and shows them to me. It usually takes years for me to find them again, and I have no memory. They just seem like pieces by someone else. Those things/times are fortunately rare, but I write enough for myself that I do remember. There are dozens of notebooks and journals and drawings and sketchbooks – even just scraps of paper, in some cases, filled with my desperate attempts to make sense of myself and this life. Lately, I’ve been trying to keep track of my dreams and how they affect my mood each day. There is a definite clear connection between what I dream about and how I feel, and my subconscious is (luckily) as un-subtle as my conscious. My dream ‘symbology’ is boringly, comfortingly basic and clear, and it makes it very easy for me to see what my subconscious is trying to tell me I need to deal with. I wouldn’t have this simple but truly life-saving tool though, if I didn’t make a point to write it down. The dreams would slip away eventually, or even if I did remember them, I have a hard time seeing the clear facts and symbolic connections unless I take the time to write out and rationally consider my thoughts, feelings and ideas about them.

The fact is that without this outlet, I would go completely insane. I’ve been to the edge of it, maybe even dipped my feet in the water a time or two. All things considered, I’ve probably taken an outright long swim on occasion – but I’ve always written and drawn, even in the midst of it. The worst times, I probably stopped trying and gave into whatever complete soporific was available to me. I’ve tried many, and I have my favorites (believe it or not, books, movies and long tv series are the top three in the top five) , but nothing soothes – and helps make sense of – the madness like telling the story. Somehow sharing the story helps keep it honest and real. It’s easy to lie to yourself, but almost impossible to lie to others – especially witnesses.
I keep trying to explain to myself and others why I need to talk about it. I keep apologizing for it. And in the midst of these explanations and apologies I try to tell the stories, little by little, piece by piece, but that same old familiar fear steps smoothly in, every time, slick as oil sick and 10,000 times harder to wash off. The same thing that made me say no to my father that day; the same thing that made me play off my mothers’ cruelty and shame and be diplomatic and laissez faire about my own ‘transgression’.

I don’t care what the people who did this to me think. There’s even a part of me that wants to hurt them – if course. I do worry about how the other innocents in my stories will be affected, but I trust myself to guard them well enough. I even try to do that to some extent with the criminals, just to keep things simple. My real fear is much closer to home, and so huge that I can’t even make sense of it, and it’s hard to say out loud. It’s that big ‘why’. Privately, I know it’s because I NEED to, for many reasons, other than just compulsion, but that is strong. Publicly, it’s “Why?!” and the guilt of needing to share this, and the fear of no one giving a damn… of being nothing more than a whining nuisance… of not focusing ALL my time and power on others – and herein lies the rub. If I hold it all in, if I don’t tell the story and get the response, then I become useless – worse than useless, a burden - and all that mega-watt battery power that I burn and turn (often, consistently, joyfully usually and with much gusto) on others goes dead black fast.

Is that enough of a reason? It certainly is for me.

Ok, so I'm a tree-hugger. THIS beauty is an actual baobab - the oldest in Miami. This is also the spring when I was in 'The Little Prince', so I needed this hug.

trying harder to be less angsty.
the weather certainly helps, and gardening. some things have changed – i have found a better way to cope with missing luna, work has me busier than ever and i’ve committed to a major theater job. i’ve been getting to spend more time mentally and in person with hannah, who so inspires and encourages me, and less with the down-spiral downlookers. some things haven’t changed. i’m still me – hurt, angry, crazy – i’ve just reset to coping a little better, thank goddess. i am still having some tough times and blow-out moments. poor x coached me through one a few days ago. he sat on the potty and listened while i crouched at the bottom of the shower and roared and sobbed and whispered through a list of histories. it actually helped a lot.
i think this was brought on by the arrival of my neurologists' appointment (lawyer appointed - thanks to Mr. Perkins, of B.A.D.D. who HIT ME with his fancy !#$% motorcycle) - later that day. i’d rescheduled it THREE times, and finally could not again. i’ve only seen a neurologist once before and that appointment put me straight into therapy and eventually into an institution. so those memories were fresh – which means the memories that PUT me there were too. i try hard to get chris to understand the scope, and he rides the wave well. i know he’s listening, he’s hearing. it helps.

i put a few things together that i never had before – some of ‘why they did these things’, but mostly ‘why i do these things’ kinda stuff. i also, still carrying the echoes of grief with me on the way to work, was inspired to write a poem about a beloved and respected woman in our community. i wrote is as a comfort to myself but of course it makes me happy to think of how she felt when she found it on the seat of her car. she told me that she cried - twice* - and that she and her family/coworkers enjoyed the mystery of guessing who’d left it. those are some of the good things.

some of the bad things are: having a rational enough moment to realize the scope of your own stuff. i definitely have problems that i was not being consciously aware of. i’m not sure how to cope with them, but i’m very grateful to be aware. the condition that eventually hospitalized me had a similar symptom, a complete overall lack of awareness of the problem. luckily as soon as someone points it out, a minute awareness comes and then you go a different KIND of crazy trying to accept it, sort it all out, make sense of it,

DEAL with it – but that’s a start. (at least it’s something different, right?) what i’m realizing now is that this new awareness removes a great deal of one’s now intrinsic coping skills, and though they teach you basics for replacing these coping skills in programs like the TSP and places like River Oaks, they probably expect that you will stay in therapy and continue to see a professional – at least periodically – for the rest of your life. my fear of the medical/legal/governmental system have always kept me away from doctors in only the most dire of emergencies – cut and bleeding badly, pneumonia, severe appendicitis, blacking out mid-conversation, inability to work, or talking to myself with my hands like puppets and unable to ride in a car. yeah. serious things. i have honestly tried to seek counseling since i came here and due to having no insurance, my options were not only limited but ridiculous. it’s pretty much been me, self-prescribing shower-bottom time, various cravings for stimulants (coffee, chocolate, boyfriends...) and depressants (red wine, bad movies, boyfriends...), luna, work and art-therapy, this blog (thank goddess for blog!) - and just grinning and !#$%^& bearing sometimes.
now, there’s also Dr. X. he does a pretty good job too. especially with the coffee, chocolate, bad movie and boyfriend stuff.
sometimes i can’t help but thinking that i need some more serious professional help – just for new ideas, even. but ‘es o si que es’ i guess** - it is what it is.
the only thing i know to do is think about it, read about it, write about it, talk about it, and hope that some illumination surfaces from that jumble. it often does, and thank goddess, ‘cause it’s all i got.

i will share a little sample of my therapy*** with you, this is the poem i wrote for abe’s mom. my ONE semi-sentimental, accidental semi-concession to recognizing mother’s day. she’s worth it.

EarthMother’s Day

I passed your place today –

and to me, it will always be your place –

Van Morrison was assuring me

as I swung slowly through the curve and up

that if I meet them halfway with love, peace and persuasion

that I could expect them to rise to the occasion...

I was thinking on peace and withstanding,

remembering the times when I’ve wrapped my arms around trees

to borrow their strength

and thought that to rest my head against your golden shoulder

would give me the same feeling.

I saw you then, working in the shade,

working the earth,

moving yourself the way you move the world around you,

with love, with thought, with joy, with determination, with sweat.

You have earned your crown of wheat and flowers,

your circle of free-thinking worshipers,

your place among the constellations.

For Debi

[and the goddesses we are all blessed to know and be]

05/20/08

i wish you all inspiration, understanding, overview. 'post secret' helps too.
xo
-s

*ott called this poem hippie shit. he's gonna LOVE the public admission/proof of tree-hugging. !#$% poseur. he's full-blooded, OLD skool hippie and he KNOWS it! :) the recipient of this ode was his mother, my sometimes boss, former landlord (for the gallery) and good friend.

**’ s – o – c – k – s ‘ huh huh huh. this was a joke my mother used to make – i don’t know if it is grammatically correct, but i still always thought it was funny.

*** ’ter’py ‘– see the documentary ‘Home Movie’ – please. it is NOT a bad movie! it is DEFINITLEY ‘ter’py’.

yesterday morning, as i was leaving the house for what seemed like the millionth time* in the last few days, and i guess because i knew i'd be gone most of the day, and then for two days straight (keeping friends' kids so they can mother's day/anniversary party), i automatically thought about lu, as if she were still here, and was going to be missing us. everytime i left the house, even if it was for 10 minutes or 5 days, i would say "You be good and I'll be back - but I'll be back whether you're good or not." of course the realization followed and i felt freshly heartbroken all over again, but then something spoke in my heart, a quiet little thought that now this is what Lu is saying to me.
it's a good thing that i thought to add that 'whether you're good or not' clause, because i am having a pretty hard time with being good. i'm ashamed of myself in a way, i definitely do not approve of this kind of thinking and feeling, but at the same time, i'm amazed that it's taken this long to come to this kind of focused blue-flame fury. what's odd to me is not how much anger is there - i mean c'mon, you guys read my diary - or even how much i've managed to keep it in check over the years (despite what x says :), but what it has taken to bring me to this point.
i've done a fair job all along of realizing what a selfish bastard i am, and how easy it would be for me to slide deeply and permanently into hate-machine mode... most of the people in the world, including the nice ones and myself are more than willing to prove to you that giving a damn or trying to be good, do good, share good is pointless and will not earn you any brownie points in any quarter. the facts are, there are no actual brownie points to be had, really. the best one can expect is the safe and limited loyalty and kindness of the people around you (which is what you earn for being good - though lots of people who are not good get this, and lots who are don't...)
and one's own self-respect for maintaining some personal honor in the face of this knowledge.
but lately i've been sorely tried and tested, and i've given myself this one gift. for one week or so a year - and this is that time - i will give in to my selfishness and anger and allow myself to say what i think and feel, and most imortantly, not hate myself for allowing myself this, or give a flying !#$% what anybody thinks about me acting this way. i work hard enough to be perky and positive and give people what they want, or at least what i can - even when i don't want to, the rest of the time. it's become habit, and i'm ok with that. i really do feel like it's my job** and just like with any job, you don't HAVE to like your boss, you don't HAVE to like your co-workers, but you do HAVE to be nice to everyone - especially your customers ("Hello, human race, what can I do for you today?") to get your !#$% paycheck.
so i suppose this is my vacation. and if i need more than two weeks, i'll take personal days and sick leave and anyone who doesn't like it can jog on.
i'm still being nicer than i care too, for a lot of reasons. personal honor doesn't sleep. despite my disgust, i still don't feel like stirring up the pot and making things worse than they are. sometimes i can't help it. i told an elderly woman on main street yesterday that she was rude for taking the parking space i was waiting for. a few days ago i treated myself to telling a much hated neighbor (luckily, the only one) exactly what i thought of him. if only i could either stay away from people or really say exactly what i feel... but that ain't happenin'. SO. i figure i just do my best to maintain the general status quo, work hard, keep myself busy*** and keep processing as i go.
i have to say one of those things we HATE to hear our parents say: "we'll just have to wait and see."

- not as much love - 'sorry.
-s

*i was going to the first planning/design meeting for the TLT summer shows. they've asked me to design a 'swing' set that will work for both The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe (grammar school-aged kids) and Cats (middle -high-school) - i'm also designing the full set for TL,TW&TW - as well as getting to design the make-up AND costumes!!! the 8-year old in me is in the throes of ecstasy! i can't WAIT to get out my pencils and crayons and cardboard and glue!!!

**i feel like it's everyone's job, but unfortunately i'm not the boss, so i can't tell anyone what to do. i can only try to set a good example and work hard enough to make up for some of the other slackasses.

***i was really glad when i figured all of this out. i used to just overbook myself like crazy this time of the year, work myself to exhaustion day after day dor weeks at a time andgo around feeling completely miserable and angry without knowing precisely why... "though i had my suspicions."

Mooshy, sad, pissed-off stuff.

My 'jog on' wore off.

A friend wrote to tell me that she noticed that I was hiding, and that she wanted to let me know she was thinking of me. I thought I would just write back and say 'thank you', but as it often happens when i get letters or lines beneath my fingertips, the truth comes out. The following is the main body of the reply i sent her. i thought it might be smart to share this with anyone who cares about me. thank you.

"the anniversary of dad's death is today, robbie's next week, and lovely, wonderful mothers' day always falls in between. i have decided as of today to boycott mother's day, except as a financial windfall, from now on.
and no amount of pretending otherwise in public and to family and friends is going to take away the fact that my own child is dead, and freshly, and i have to deal with that as the public - and my family and friends - see fit. that is harder and hurts more than anyone (except maybe chris) knows. because she was a dog, i am not allowed the same grief, it seems [another friend] said something to me on friday night that really, finally drove that point home. i carry it as best i know how and find that my love and compassion for the rest of the world has dimmed as a result. i try even harder, in an attempt to morally contradict my selfish anger, to be good and polite and helpful and understanding, and turn a little more into steel every day.
i still cry for Luna every day. every step i take, i look for her out of the corner of my eye. if i am coming home i still think 'I'll get to see Luna in a minute!", and that breaks me down to the ground every time. in the house, i still sometimes habitually ask chris where she is like i did when i couldn't see her and she'd gone quiet. there is a hole in the world where she was. i don't know how else to put it, but i miss her more than i've ever missed any human. i loved and trusted her more too. she was such a natural part of me, and of my life, that i had no idea how much i depended on her until she was gone. even just dealing with the grief of that realization is a plateful... but that is life isn't it? all of that is/was to be expected, and i know i'll cope with it just like i have with everything else. the hard part is trying to pretend like things are still the same with the people around me, or that things even ok in any way. trying to pretend like i'm fine because it very much seems that this is what people expect of me. trying to gracefully understand and deal with people's insensitivity about it, trying to remember every *!#$%&* day why i do that, knowing for sure, underneath it all that it's not really worth it - but it's my job. my heart has changed like metal in fire, and not for the good. i understand my own mother now better than i ever thought i could. i can only hope that i am looking at it from the opposite side of the mirror. i suppose only time will tell."
...

lots of scary things swimming under the surface. i tend to forget how phosphorescent my anger can burn. i do my best to contain the fire, but that's bad in a way too. i have been actively working on taking a more 'zen' perspective, and trying hard to be more kind and accepting, though i definitely feel less so. it seems like the only practical defense.
as for the scary swimmers, thank god i can deal with them here. i can be honest with SOMEone... anyone who cares to listen, in fact. what a blessing. and even if no one is listening, it still makes me feel like i've tried to do something to help myself, even if it's just put a message in a bottle and cast it out on the scary water.
i guess i need to remember that there are good things about phosphorous. it burns even in water, and it puts off a hell of a light.

burning,
-s

BLOG ON!

Believe it or not, this post is a review of one of my new favorite films - "Hot Fuzz". I NEVER write reviews, so that tells you something.

Actually I was originally inspired to come here and write a rant about more mooshy, sad, pissed-off stuff, but just thinking my new catch-phrase and making this nifty visual aide to go with it made me feel better. You should definitely try it sometime.

Now, let's dive into the "Fuzz"...

On the surface, this seems like another goofy spoofy flick. There are millions of them, and most of us hate most of them. However, once in a Blue Moon (or even less often) comes a dumb movie that is so smart it's sexy. Spinal Tap is one of these. Naked Gun is not.

"To describe [Hot Fuzz] as a spoof is unfair - they just corrupt the genre a little and turn up the comedy." - imdb.com

I love intelligent, geeky, goofy comedies. They're one of my three favorite kinds of film - costume things and over-the-top action are the others. With Hot Fuzz, I can't lose. It's sharply funny, inspirational, sarcastic, ironic, beautifully British, a loving homage to its' genres, and it contains one of the rarest and most wonderful things in the entire film industry: normal looking (real, not buff plastic perfection) and yet compelling, memorable, admirable ( not to mention sexy, cool, tough, weird, smart - you name it) leading men*.
Yippee!

The premise is pretty basic, but since the style of the film is hardcore over the top spoofing of cop/action films, the gloves
- and the cuffs - are off, as far as the jokes are concerned. Remember, these are the same guys who did Shaun of the Dead.
Like that weird-ass Wes Andersen crew, the Wachowskis, the Cohens and the Pythons, it seems I am almost guaranteed to enjoy anything they do, because they do what I like, they do it with love, and without holding back.

The story is a good little mystery with just enough plot twists and turns. The spoof-factor guarantees lots of great action scene parodies, and lots of horrible, suspicious characters (and that gives us a chance to see some of our favorite british actors** - including Bill Nighy***!). For the same reason, there are catch phrases that will stick with you, but unlike the usual tough-guy one-liners you come to expect from cop-flicks, you're left with gems like the one X and I have whole-heartedly adopted:
"Pphlbt! Jog on!"
There are also some truly shocking special effects, obviously done by the 'Shawn' team as well, and though there are less total gross-out moments - remember this is an action/cop thriller/murder mystery - the few that they have included pack an impressive "crunch".
*shudder*

Oh yeah, it's good!

When you watch it, watch it with a friend. Like the Monty Python stuff, you'll need someone to share the jokes with later...
besides your peace lily, that is.

"AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! pow!pow!pow!pow!"
-s

*Philip Seymour Hoffman, William H. Macy, Jeff Goldblum, Gary Oldman, Steve Buscemi, Jet Li, Gerard Depardieu, Bill Nighy, Bruce Mufuhn Willis, yo...
**Not to mention an EasterEgg-like Cate Blanchett cameo...
***Isn't he dead sexy in tentacles?!

I am just a cowboy...


despite the smiley, sparkly happy-cheeky trying to be good me, i can never forget the razors' edge, the hanging thread – the huddled masses struggling to be quiet inside me.

sitting outside on my porch for a few minutes, a bright sunny spring day that almost seems unreal. i've been poring through my entire photo collection, culling, organizing and throwing away multiple kitchen garbage bags full of envelopes, photos, negatives* and the past is on me like a rabid monkey right now.

the exterior world looks like an old photograph of another place, and only the blackbirds bitching in the tops of the trees remind me that this is in fact my reality. part of me feels good, seeing old beloved faces again, but there are photos of my father, very sick... there are photos of Lu from all the months of her whole life. Lu in the snow, at the beach, asleep in the back of my car, curled up with kitten George, brawling with kitten George... there are pictures of Cat who crossed the bridge in 2000 – Luna's first cat. :) there are pictures of Robbie, and friends who i barely even remember... there are pictures of me that i barely even remember, and not because i was inebriated, but because i wasn't actually there. a part of me was, my face, my hands, my body, some section of my brain; but my soul, my whole self was in deep hiding, for many years of my life. bits of me took turns pretending to be all of me, all the time, and i'm not sure that a million photographs and two lifetimes worth of work could put me back together again, much less all the kings' horses and men...

one of the replicant** traits that hit home with me especially was the collecting of their precious photos. those photographs, worth risking their lives for, made their nonexistent pasts real. obviously, if there are pictures of something, it happened, yes? and i bet everyone has experienced the feeling of seeing a photo and realizing that you had forgotten that moment completely – but the photo brings instant recall, even down to smells and sounds...

a lot of my past is that way, more of a story to me than a memory. so much that surrounds each moment remembered – and each photo – is a morass of misery, depression, fear and true insanity. this multiplicity, this memory distance, this is the face of that illness. the good side is that seeing these pictures reminds me of how far i've pulled and dragged myself (not to mention how far i've been pulled, dragged and toted by others...) but that's also the bad side too. every to has a from, and despite even the most galactic distance of some memories, they never completely disappear.

luckily there are only a few pictures of my childhood, before i got a camera of my own. the few that i have, i treasure. most were taken by people that i loved and trusted (aunt sue, charlyn...) in some of the few places where i had happy times (grandmas' and aunt sues') but there are some that are hard to see, because of the ghosts in our eyes, or because we remember the days surrounding that particular photograph. school pictures and studio pictures are the worst. my brother can't stand to look at them at all.

i think that one of the ways we manage is by making the past into a story, one in which we are ultimately the heroes, and then living a life on our own as adults that is like a story too. A grand adventure story, with lots of exciting, interesting and odd characters and strange but compelling plot twists and turns. A story in which we ultimately prove that we are the heroes.

i know i must seem to think that i am the center of the universe... actually, i suppose that is true, i do. but i only believe that i am the center of mine. i assume and hope that each person is the center of their own universe, and that they feel the same way. i know that i am only the star of the sam show, and i bring everything i can to that 'show'. i also assume that i am a player or extra in everyone else's plot, and that i have a duty to do my best in their script. i am certainly delighted with the characters that people my own, heroes, villains, extras, all***. it may be wrong to think of life this way, but for the life of me, i can't think why. i never, ever forget the blackbirds, the poor people of myanmar and the gulf coast and next door. it is those things that remind me most of my duty, of the part i play in my own life and the lives of others. it is because of the razor's edge and the hanging thread that i must sparkle, and the show must go on.

thank you all for the great scripts and roles. (the soundtrack is awesome, too :)
much love,

-s

* my conscience hurts me for this. i wish i could recycle all of them – and i have chosen many for that purpose – but there are several reasons why i can't. i also comfort myself knowing that this is a once-in-a-lifetime disposal, like that of a car. this is my first and last time to have to do this chore.

**"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."

***a toast to you, inspiring-Bright, squeertike, leaf-flight! *clink!*

wow.

i've said a lot of stuff here, but rarely a simple wow. i've earned one now though.

Mark was my only actual high school boyfriend. I had crushes and ridiculously chaste flings (read: slightly more intense crushes) but Mark and I were officially, publicly a couple. I wore his class ring. My dad let us GO OUT together*. He's funny and smart and he knows something about girls, and we had some good friends and so we had some fun times. He was patient and nice, as I remember (although very sharp-witted and sarcastic as HELL - which also suited me fine, as y'all well know) but he was older and ready to try to grow up, and I was not ... still AM not. So, there were bumps in the road, and as soon as we slowed down, I threw open the metaphorical car door and leaped out at the crossroads (as is per usual pour moi!).
I still haven't learned how to handle endings well.

Luckily Mark was more grown up than me, because after a few scenes that would cause other people to get restraining orders against each other - and a few years, he looked me up and offered a peace treaty. Our personal NATO of friends/exes/family were also still in the picture, so things were fairly delicate, and so despite the peace-making, we really never had a chance to become friends again.

I think I remember the last time I saw him. That was many years ago, close to 20 (!!!), another strange moment in a strange life.
I've thought about him and our friends many times over the years, and just a day or two ago, I opened the guest book on my page, and there was this unexpected but very welcome hello:

"Sam,
I always knew you had a special gift. While working out of town I heard one of our team members mention Sam's Day Off. My mind started to work overtime thinking and it is true. I hope to hear from you soon.
Mark"

Didn't I tell you he knew something about girls? :) Starting with a compliment like that is guaranteed to make even a leo woman that is ME think kind thoughts about someone. :) But then to also let me know that a stranger somewhere was talking about my page?!?! THEN be kind and/or brave enough to say hi after all these years because he thought, when he heard that, "I wonder if that could be Sam?!" I feel almost famous!!! Thanks Mark. :)


I've probably said this before here, maybe even last post, who the hell knows anymore? ;) I like the convenience of the internet for work, but I don't trust it. If it fails, your work will suffer. BUT I love the communication ability. It's amazing. I've moved a lot. I've been to a lot of schools and known a lot of people. I've had a bizarre life slam full of bizarre (and mostly wonderful) people, and yet I have a tendency to reset to lone wolf, if allowed. As long as I've been surfing and graffitizing** the web, I've only ever searched for two or three people. An artist from MS that I admire named Brian LeBlanc and my mother are the only ones I remember. In a way I feel that I should not bother people with whom I share a slice of the past. I assume that if they want to talk to me they will, if they do, I try not to miss them, yet do not dishonor them by forgetting them. If they contact me, then I always write back.
Sometimes this turns into friendship. (I even have one single true internet friend whom I have never met. Hi James!) Sometimes we talk a few times and then both get busy with actual (as opposed to virtual) life and lose track. However it happens, I assume it is meant to be and add it's data to the experiment. :)
Just recently, the 3Sisters of the Web returned to me another couple of friends who I assumed I would never see again. Last year, I regained two of the sweetest people I've ever known, and a college friend who is still a part of me. In fact, a few of those have found me over the years. It's why I check my email almost every day. I've only had two bad internet re-connection incidents, and one was with my mother, and the other was a stepmother. Go fig. :)

The love I need, I collect in bits and pieces.
The world around me shifts, ebbs, and flows.
I must remember:
I cannot struggle against the shape of life,
I must give in to it and become a part of it,
Let it carry me, never let me fall.
I must trust my nature,
Know that I am ready for whatever is next
Without having to be conscious of it,
And give all of myself to this life.


Wow. Thank you.
-s



*Dad made us double-date forever. On our first - doubles "tennis" date at NATO HQ - I had to be in by 7 pm! Best date: Stray Cats at the Biloxi Coliseum. Thank you AGAIN, Mark! :)
**the automatic spelling correction for this word is "graffiti zing".

am i really such an easy stereotype?

most of you have probably either read or heard of “the hipster handbook”
i’ve not read it all, because some punk@$ weenie ganked our copy*, but i felt fairly certain that i couldn’t really be narrowed down to any one category. then the same guy published “food court druids, cherohonkees and other creatures unique to the republic” and i got a little nervous, but still, i know me well enough to that that i am fairly unique and balanced blend of american geek, so no real sweat... UNTIL...
i read in the info about another book (that i think is really just a joke, currently - a’la Nazi She-Wolves of the SS – but hopefully will really be published some day – a’la Nazi She-Wolves of the SS ) called “Cyborgs, Libertarians and People Who Like Vin Diesel”**. as i said, i don’t think this book actually exists yet***, but i am expecting to be interviewed any day now.

thinks (i meant ‘things’ but i think this was freudian slip, not typo) are zipping along here on the edge of the record.
i still cry for missing luna every day. the weather and being outside so much more makes it very hard to carry the weight of the grief. she is always at the edge of my vision (in the car – especially in the truck – too.). it’s as if there is a hole in the world where she is supposed to be. i don’t know if i’ll ever get over that. i kind of hope i don’t. it’s almost as if she’s still here. i can’t touch her, but the memory of her sun warm fur and her smell is still as real as rain. i know her face so well, her look of ‘i adore you – now, let’s GO!’ is as readily available to me as closing my eyes. we’ve started working on the yard and i run across her little depressions where she liked to nap and hide from the sun – under the azalea by the front steps, under the bed of my truck, beside the carport wall, and out by the hammock, and i break down from the realization of how much she meant to me. i comfort myself with remembering all our good times and trying not to think too much about how unsafe i feel now, and with realizing how strong i really am, how strong i can be, how much i can take.

work is crazy for both of us. chris was able to quit his part-time job and go to work for himself full time. that’s a big leap, and he is rightfully proud.
i just took another part-time job, but it’s also a research study out of unc-ch, and similar to the work i’ve been doing, so still senior oriented, health related, and specific to walking, so i love it. it’s not as safety-related as the WWDS project, though it is much more health-issue specific, and i am not the manager of this project (i am the local project mgr. for WWDS) so it doesn’t conflict heavily with my other work, and can almost be done simultaneously in many cases because it deals with a lot of the same people, places and organizations. the hectic part is that we are getting busier on the WWDS project (as well as everything else we do) because the weather is nice, and starting a new project is always hectic. i’m babysitting tonight and tomorrow night, and walking a 5 mile walkathon for AMM tomorrow morning. *whee*

today i’m off to the gallery - and yes, i’m slacking and going in late, but that’s ok, because i do believe (AND DON’T PRINT THIS YET!) we will be closing our doors by the end of the month. it sounds sad, and i went through a few weeks of feeling like a failure, and then the relief sunk in, and i am just glad. our art will not go away, other galleries and shops all seem delighted to have our artists and our art, and We (HRM ME) will no longer have the stress, strain and responsibility of managing the business end of a co-op. AUGH! managing artists (or really anything other than one’s self) has about the same effect on one’s art that having kids seems to have on one’s sex life. i don't KNOW... i’m just saying.

i’m looking forward to sinking back into my own work and seeing what i can really do. my strength is not good, i may needhelp bending wire and doing other big construct, but i’ve had offers of help. other sculptors do it. :) look at chihuly’s studio!

we’ve also decided to go another round in the 48 hour film project. we’re going back to basics, and chris said i have complete carte blanche with the script. FREAKFEST! no more ms. nice guy. this will be the year of the blood cannon!!!

poor chris is working the steeplechase this weekend, on behalf of his clients at white oak. please pray for him. ;) who knows, maybe he’ll win the !@#$ HAT contest.

the upside of all this hard weekend work is that we’re continuing the Spring Theatah Fest
which began with rocking ‘the fantasticks’, crested with seeing Spamalot TWICE last weekend –

yes, our friend Jimm who does lights (and almost everything else) for TLT – called on Sunday afternoon to say he had a pair of tickets for that evening, last night of the show, and couldn’t go, could we stand it again?!?!? so i took my redneck-ass binoculars, threw on jeans and a nice sweater, and we made it to the theater with THREE minutes to spare. we had better seats AND it was better than the first time. we got to see some improv, and i was able to check out the special effects up close and personal! and this time, we went to waffle house afterward. :) *woot!*

- and the cherry on the sundae: this sunday we are going to the matinee of Les Liasons Dangereuse at BRCC, and the nightcap will be a viewing of the new Jet Li/Jackie Chan period action piece (yes, sam-porn... oh, if only Donnie Yen were in it too...)

our friend (and one of our leading ladies in last years’ 48 hour film project) Natalie Broadway (that’s her real name) is playing BRCC’s ‘madame de muertil’, one of my library “kids”, Cody Hehner, is playing ‘le chevalier de danceny’ and another saluda gallery girl, Jade Burnett, is playing ‘madame de tourvel’. they have won awards for their costuming, not to mention Natalie’s 48-hour best actress award. the whole department is rich with impressive talent, from all sides. AND tickets are less than a MOVIE. we can’t lose. i’m almost as excited about this as i was about Spamalot! (sorry BRCC, you only come in second because i don’t get a swim and free breakfast after the show! ;)

in the spaces between there are other things i HAVE to do. i have to call sandy. i have to spend a day with rosalie. i have to wind up the gallery... and speaking of, i have to go to work.

thank y’all for caring enough to care about any of this. i think those of you who regularly read know that i come here to remind myself and to get confirmation that ‘see, life isn’t all bad...you can feel something other than hurt sometimes.’. i have to fight and work real hard and stay real busy to remember that. it makes me a selfish person, and it keeps me on the edge of the record, but it’s necessary. those of you who know this and love me and support me just the same are the lagniappe of life. y’all are that little bit extra. there’s survival and coping and getting by, and then there’s the smiles and laughs and kind words and psychic pats on the back from you all, that’s what keeps me going and makes being strong not seem like such a bad thing sometimes.

much love (and more hyperlinks)

-s

*ultimately, i’m sure that it’s karma.

**i don’t care what any of you think or say, i love him. :)

***the site says it’s sold out, but neither google no amazon show any kind of listing for it, other than as a quote in the original site.