IN CASE OF SUCCESS

In case of KITTENS

2010-11-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

The Litter

Where is the truth in the day,

this hot one, that suddenly

arrives from the past?

What does it mean that I was

a skinny, golden being then, with

light-filled bones?

My body was so pale and happy

to be lying in a litter

of new kittens.

Their shallow mewing breath.

Their tiny teeth,

blinking.

What house, the crumbling

sun porch?

What year?

I knew the smallness

of myself in the world, then –

Is that it?

Or the neighbor girls in lace

and gingham,

the obvious simplicity of life,

the wreath of time,

the neatly-tied bow of

memory?

Or is it just that I hadn’t met you yet,

and now yours is the life I stand

all my other lives beside?

Or that after bleeding for them in

the years since,

I’ve lost my compassion for cats,

and that’s what kittens grow into?

The mystery.

I am still lying here.

Their softness is still with me,

even now.

In case of TIME

2010-09-12T23:16:00.000-07:00

We filled the house, its caverns

With breath and light and noise.

Its stony silence crumbled

Under the cheerful battering rams

Of our bodies.

Empty floors grew tables,

Books sprouted on shelves,

Beds and bedsprings creaked and bounced

Into being.

We loved that house into life.

And it will remember you,

Remember us,

As our only child,

Standing at our graveside in the rain,

Wind at its windows,

Lights on,

Fans spinning.

In case of VIOLENCE

2010-06-22T12:30:00.000-07:00

Plague

I asked for pain

In the form of a swung fist, begged

For swelling plum and deep peach to crowd around my eye.

I wanted Sunday school, myself

To be eleven, hand shot up and smugly hyper-right

In all I knew. I wanted to throw a baseball

And devil take it, let it land, hit, or smash what it may.

And so, soul and bodily, I hurled it all away.

My cheekbone opened like a rose.

And yes, the years fell back, and stood to watch

But I cracked wide and broke

Against a truth of consequence and cost.

I read: even a plague of frogs is an act of loving grace.

(I will be something better for these bruises on my face.)

In case of A RED DOOR

2010-05-31T14:38:00.000-07:00

It is all true

It is all true --

that thousands of fish have never been named,
that compasses point north,

that pi just goes on and on and on and on and on.

And it is true
that somewhere a man is buying flowers,
and a girl rides the subway, chewing a thumbnail over a book,
sparrows breed to make more sparrows,
and that cries give way to sleep.

It is all --
sea in its vastness
time in its fastness
heart in its fullness
-- true.

It is all true.

And it is true
that when you stand against my kitchen wall,
eyes fixed on a speck or some refracted light,
that you can see
a shimmering
blueprint
of another room,
another house, with
clean windows
a storm cellar,

and a red door,
that you will leave unlocked.

And the sun is a star,
our closest star,
that will not burn out in our lifetimes.

In case of ANYBODY STILL READING

2010-04-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

the city that built the bomb

I remember the fight to keep you --
over gristled grilled cheese, blistered and black,
as thought it had been cooked on the griddle of the street.

You were a man from a mechanized city churning
in the desert --
like the city that built the bomb.

You toiled at a task you didn't understand, snapping and pulling
away from me
between bites of melted gold.

And I
wanted to wrap you in clean white sheets and
wanted to cover your hard metal eyes and
wanted to drown the day in ice, but

hesitated, suspended --
like the city that built the bomb -- by nightmares
of keeping a rattlesnake for a pet,
of waking up in fallout.

In case of ANANDA

2010-03-16T23:15:00.000-07:00

I’m happy.

In fact, my new catchphrase is, “I’m so happy!” Ask anyone. I say it so often; it’s almost embarrassing.

But what I mean is, I’m joyful. Even on bad days, even on the totally shit ones when my head won’t stop pounding and my kids won’t stop screaming and someone’s eating pizza and drinking beer right in front of me (!), I’m still joyful. I feel like I know myself better than I have in years. I feel more alive, more aware, more at peace, and more at home in my own skin than I ever really have.

Because the world is opening up for me. Because I have nothing really, no money or fame, no power or influence, no stakes to claim in the present. I have nothing on the line, nothing to lose, yet I have everything to gain.

I plant my flags in the future. I aim for the horizon. And even as I do this, I know that failure can’t touch me, can’t stain me. Failure is life, it’s a part of life. Fine, so be it.

I am loved. What else do I need?

Bring on the failure! Come, storms! I’m alive; you can’t kill me. I’m alive and the universe cares. I’m loved; I’m invincible.

In her wonderful children’s novel A Swiftly Tilting Planet, Madeline L’Engle writes of a dog called Ananda. The dog comes in a dark hour into the lives of the characters, wagging her tail, resting her head on their knees. One character asks, “What does ‘Ananda’ mean?”

And someone else answers, “It means, ‘that joy in existence without which the universe would be lost.’ ”

Anyway. That may not be an accurate translation of the name Ananda. But that is an accurate description of what I have.

That joy in existence without which the universe would be lost.

And I know, of course I know, that dark hours lie ahead. But this is the joy I want to keep, the joy I want to remember. The joy of being this age, in this time and place, of waking to life and love, teaching and learning. Cooking and reading and serving coffee and grading papers and holding hands and playing music and writing writing writing.

Meeting people I can smile genuinely at, knowing that they are as important in their existence as I am. That they, too, have gold and purple flags planted on future hills, flashing in the sun. Future glory.

I want to give everyone my Ananda. Be Ananda. Look for it. Hunt for it. Grope around in your darkness. Hold your breath and dive for it as for a great pearl.

Let her come to you when you need her, wagging her tail. Let her rest her head on your knee.

Let yourself be loved. So far as I can see, that is happiness.

In case of FADE OUT

2010-01-07T21:44:00.000-08:00

Something I’ve been coming to grips with lately –

Death is unnatural.

Don’t believe anyone who tells you that it is normal, that it is just a part of life. Death is not a part of life. Death does not belong here. Death of any kind – any kind – is wrong. That’s why it feels wrong.

If death was always going to be the end, if we were meant for death, we would not fight it so. We would not hate it as we do, would not thrash and cry out when we lose someone, would not spin in the deep whirlpools of grief. Human beings have a soul, some kind of eternal soul. We were not born to die. We were born to live.

I say this because I have seen so much death – not much physical death; I’ve been fortunate enough to lose only one member of my family and one friend – but I’ve seen a great deal of emotional death over the years. And I’m still fighting it.

I could tell here countless stories.

The end of my relationship with Michael.

The horrible loss that I see in some of my current friends.

The splendor of all of our childhoods, now past.

Everybody has these stories.

And maybe some people, perhaps healthy people, accept deaths like this and they move on. Certainly, I live day-to-day without much active grief. But for whatever reason, lately, I’m not okay with these things. I know they happen, I can’t fix them, they just are. Death just is.

And that's what I've been writing about.

In the last scene of my most recent screenplay, the one I'm working on with Sam, a man is writing a book review. He has just been visited by someone from his former life. This person tells him that the woman he loved, for all intents and puposes, is dead. She's not physcially dead, but she might as well be.

So here's what we wrote.

"Sam crosses to his window. The sun is almost completely gone. He watches it and begins to cry steady, constant tears.

After a moment, another low knock at the door. Faye sticks her head into the office.

With some effort, Sam pulls himself together.

FAYE

I’m sorry -- did you want to --

SAM

Yes. Come in. Let’s finish this.

She comes in and sits at the desk, snapping on the desk lamp.

SAM (CONT’D)

Where was I?

FAYE

The graphic fumbling of the heart --

SAM

-- of the book. Right, right. Of his own book. New paragraph. But the real loss here is ours, as Louden squanders his talent, the promise of his youth, and the delicate brilliance of his entire premise. This book should have been gorgeous. I wanted it to be. But it seems that all the richness of his first novel, all the glow and poignancy which so characterized his writing, is now gone.

Sam pauses. Faye looks up. Sam looks at her, then:

SAM (CONT’D)

New paragraph.

FADE OUT."

And that's how it ends.

But the real loss here is ours. The real loss here is ours.

So go ahead and thrash, world. I will for as long as I can.

In case of WOLVERINE

2009-10-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

I love.

And it’s on nights like these that I love best, and most deeply, and most purely. George Winston’s “Autumn” is spinning languidly on the record player. I have a cup of cinnamon tea. And upstairs, Beth and Justin are talking, loving each other.

Just when I think I’m too hurt or too scared to go on, quiet moments like this come to me and I’m wrapped in a circle of unbroken love – my friends stand strong around me, my family clasps hands in a wider ring around them, and our God binds us all together. Nothing bad can happen to me. I’m safe.

And with that safety comes the beautiful freedom to love back, to give back. You can’t pry yourself open; I’ve tried. The harder you wrench at your seams, the tighter they knit themselves shut. Nothing opens them but love. You do have to try, but you try with love. Not desperation. Not fear.

It’s a weird metaphor, but I feel sometimes like the X-Men. Specifically, I feel like Rogue. I feel like a poison to everyone I want to help, to everyone I try to love. I keep people away; I want to touch them, but touching them will hurt them. Sometimes, I wonder about the creators of X-Men and how they could be so awful to create someone like Rogue. She embodies, in one way, one of our most fundamental fears – that we are our own enemy.

But, in their infinite grace, the X-Men people also created Wolverine. And Wolverine heals. He can heal himself, yes, but he can also heal Rogue.

Wolverine can heal himself and he can heal Rogue.

He can touch her. Does she hurt him? Of course. Inevitably. But he heals.

God has given me dozens of Wolverines over the years. Maybe hundreds. He put the ability to heal inside everyone. Humankind is entirely made of Wolverines and Rogues.

Sometimes we’re more one than the other. That’s our war. But we fight it and so does everyone else. Everyone. We don’t have to fight alone.

And on nights like these, I’ve been touched by a healing hand, not a poisonous one. I’m wrapped in a circle of unbroken love. I’m open. I love back.

I love. And I'm not Rogue, tonight.

In case of ALCHEMY

2009-10-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

At six, my body is a furnace.

I stoke it out of bed and coax up a flame in my eyes.

I send myself faithfully out.

I am the quiet priest of a quiet religion,

Cloaked in flannel and milk white fog.

At seven, I turn the key in the lock, brass to brass.

I fling wide the door,

Opening, open,

Before a morning has been sung hello,

Before a plank has been lifted or a nail driven,

Before a pen has touched a page.

My body is a furnace,

Opening, open.

By eight, I’ve already served bread to the jangling gypsy band,

Tea to the king’s mysterious wife,

Dark cups of blood to the usual ghosts.

I send myself faithfully out.

At noon, the sun is roaring with his golden mouth,

Opening, open.

I am tumbling in a sphere of metal and glass.

I measure ice and potion,

Weigh metallic heaps of dust,

Pour and chop and carry.

I coax up a flame in my eyes.

At three, I am a cog in the clock of time.

I’m pulling coffee from its dark bean fists,

Separating water from earth,

Sorting moons from stars.

More visitors cluster around to watch me work,

To trade their coins for cups.

I am the quiet priest of a quiet religion.

At six, the sailors come whistling in, homebound.

Beggar children stretch out their hands for hunks of cheese.

The king stops by to ask after his wife.

I kiss them all,

And turn them back to the door.

I am tumbling in a sphere of metal and glass.

By nine, I distill the day into night.

I float through the shop like a white moth in a cave.

The lamplighter comes by, singing,

Offering me his arm.

I turn the key in the lock, brass to brass.

I am a cog in the clock of time,

Opening, open.

In case of 2007: The Very End

2009-09-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

They stretched out, stomachs full of warm coffee.

And this, she realized, this was how it would happen. How he would finally drop anchor, cutting those telephone wire lines that connected him to Hannah. Because of this, he would call her tonight and tell her, voice breaking, that he would not be coming back to New York.

She expected this knowledge to come to her with a jolt of vicious joy, but it didn’t. She felt only relief, relief that it would all be over and that he could join himself together again. His continents would drift back together, glaciers cracking, tectonic plates rumbling in reverse, molten lava bubbling back into the earth. This was a prehistoric morning, as he rolled onto one shoulder, sand sugaring half his face. This was Pangea.

“It’s the bluest thing I’ve ever seen.” She said, nodding to the sky.

He smiled, but didn’t reach for her.

A gull squawked nearby. They listened to it and to the thunder of the Pacific and the starting-up morning sounds of the pier.

She noticed a wild-looking man, shirt off, panting as he jogged down the shore.

“Crazy man dead ahead.”

He only smiled again.

The relief began to ebb as he rolled back onto his back. She felt the rush of time come sweeping up through history, yanking landmasses apart at their seams.

He sat up and it was going.

He grabbed his phone, checked the time, said, “We need to move your car.”

And it was gone.

They stood, brushing sand off their bodies, and turned their backs on the Pacific. Their shadows stretched behind them.

And by the time he finally reached for her, she took his hand in full awareness that there was no Pangea. Not for her anyway. His hand, clasping hers tightly to help her over the dunes, was no more than an apology.

In case of 2007: Fall, Exercises

2009-09-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

When I was seven, Jurassic Park was released into the world. Of course we weren’t allowed to watch such things. My sister was nine and even she didn’t see it until two years later. For some reason, though, the stories I’d heard about the movie haunted me. I saw clips, little clips about it on TV. I drew pictures of dinosaurs, and my older cousins terrorized us by hunting us down as raptors.

I don’t know if it was this way for everyone, but that craze seemed to last forever. It was four years later by the time I actually saw it. 1997. We were in the basement. I’d long since gotten a minute-by-minute retelling of the movie from my sister. And, even so, the film surpassed what four years of an overactive imagination could create. I don’t remember if this is true, if I said something about it right then, or if I could pinpoint that moment as being when I decided to make movies. I was already a writer. But Jurassic Park set me to fire.

*****

On Christmas Day – I was probably about 14 – my mother told my grandparents that my sister was a better writer than me. I don’t know if, even then, my dreams of writing had solidified. But I know now that writing has always been so entangled in every part of my soul. It was the way she said it, a slight incline of her head at my own false assertions. I was trying to impress upon my grandparents just how talented Lisa was. But when I said she was better, I didn’t mean it.

My mother meant it. I don’t know if I so much cared about being worse than Lisa – she was older, of course, and she was Lisa. It was just an assessment of me, by my mother, that declared me unfit to pursue my deepest longing.

*****

Three swings, all about a foot from the ground and then one baby swing, dangling by wound up rusted chains. They’re framed in yellow, garish, bright, rectangular. Someone built this playground, but they forgot the grass. Instead they’ve tried to keep the city out with chain-linked fences, drab brick, and dry mulch.

Spider-vein cracks in the greentop suggest earthquakes, past and future. In the inescapable angles of a Los Angeles sunset, towels sway on the clothesline.

No one but me knows this family has a baby. What a thing, what a beautiful chore, to roll up that last swing, raise up the baby so she can fly, suspended, tiny fists waving, all almond eyes and black bean little toes. She can sway, dancing, to the tumble of sirens.

I want that. I want this – four swings, a slide, four walls, and a city to keep at bay. And the breath of a baby in October. And a pumpkin.

I demand that, if I can never have the grass.

In case of 2007: Midnight, August

2009-09-03T11:06:00.000-07:00

I once said that God must be a city built on the shore. I still believe that’s true. He must be cliffs, so strong and solid. He must be a roll of dark mountains, ferny and alive with unseen vegetation, the sound of crickets and the damp smell of fog.

He said a city set on a hill cannot be hidden. I still believe that, too – now more than ever in the murk of this particular Malibu evening. He is light, stronger than neon and fluorescent pollution, the clear ring of a bell against a low urban and suburban buzz.

And the Franciscans must have known, to have so well followed His example. To fortify themselves here, surrounded by the ocean – the blue and thick gray, a vast and melting nebula. At night, it’s not alive, not moving and certainly not audible above the Pacific Coast Highway. It’s inanimate, a dead thing, swirls of anesthetic and comfortless sleep.

This. Here. This is where we make our stand, toes at the edge of this. Not conceding anything but in plain sight, in piercing gold, a hiccup in the droning ocean flatline.

God’s hand will reach down from His city and plunge into the water and fish out buildings and SUVs and great fistfuls of humanity, wrench them, dripping mire, out of the abyss. He will invite them, longingly, with a searchlight beam in high, clear soprano notes, undulating, rapturous. He will speak in his booming voice and it will resonate in the chests of men and they will drag themselves up from the sucking tide and begin the climb to his city.

God is a beacon.

And it's for us to walk along the shore, pointing and saying, "Look, look!"

In case of 2007: Mid-July

2009-08-30T23:04:00.000-07:00

Danny to me in the video store: “Why not get this one?”

I paused, biting my lip.

Danny, YOU could be biting my lip right now, I thought. Let’s go. Let’s tuck ourselves into a closet somewhere and you can kiss me as hard as you want.

But maybe it was something in the neon blue lights or the DVD he was holding. He just raised his eyebrows and waved the movie in my face.

“I don’t want to.” I said. “That one’s lame.”

“It’s funny.”

“Who wants funny?” Yes, I said it. Sarcastic and mean, just like that. But, you know, don’t get me wrong. I was in favor of funniness. I’m a funny girl. Danny was just not getting it.

He sighed and put the boring movie down.

The point was: we were young. Do you know how often you get to be young? We were young and on that particular night, we looked amazing. My hair was down, brushing my shoulders. Danny’s collar was open and I could just see his collarbone, curving beneath his skin. But it wasn’t just about making out, either.

I just wanted Danny to realize that we were young. That it was a night in July and there were crickets chirping out there in the darkness.

He was standing there, holding a romantic comedy, and probably not thinking about it. He was probably thinking about popcorn, probably about work in the morning, and, yes, probably about sex – but only in that brief, idiotic way men typically do.

He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I adored those glasses. They were part of his charm.

Somewhere, someplace, there once were two young people. And they went to the beach on a July night and wrestled in the sand. She rubbed sand in his face and when they tried to kiss they knocked their heads together. And the next morning she woke up with her hair in knots and her shoes soaked in seawater. And then he wrote it or she wrote it or they told a friend of theirs who wrote it. And that’s where Danny’s lame movie came from.

Danny wanted to watch something someone else had lived. And while it might make us feel good for a while, really, it would just get lost in translation. Because probably they didn’t even really knock their heads together when they kissed, but the person who wrote it decided that nobody would believe it if they didn’t knock their heads together. Because the truth would actually seem less realistic than the cute quirkiness of people who can’t kiss right. Good kissing is so done. The time has come for bad kissing and knotted hair and shoes that smell of the sea.

To Danny, it didn’t matter what had happened to these people. It only mattered what the writer wrote and what the two beautiful actors did. To Danny, that was all there was.

And he just stood there, lanky, glasses glinting in the fluorescents. For God’s sake, I know why he wanted that movie! Because he was only halfway on the beach, had only one foot in the closet, only one arm draped (very loosely) around my shoulders.

I wanted to know if Danny and I would ever knock heads. I wanted to do something that would make a good movie later.

But, at the end of the night, Danny and I watched his lame DVD. And, five years later, I wrote something I just made up.

And Danny and his tall blonde wife thought it was great.

In case of 2007: June

2009-08-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

I guess we’re never promised anything. Not even this: the chatter of strangers and the silent bumper car collisions of their spirits. I’m writing a paper, ironically, about the function of religion. The airport is perfect for it, seemingly so ordinary – women staving off old age with too-red lipstick, little girls in Barbie shoes, heavy bags slung over shoulders.

This is the church of travel, the sanctuary of transition, and the harried flight attendant is our priestess. This businessman takes communion in his coffee.

I wonder how many souls are as deeply entrenched in living as I. How many are as determined to consciously breathe and to know the flickering red-yellow-green-go of passing moments? Oh, Creator of the air in which we’re prepared to trespass, send a tremor through space. Send turbulence or déjà vu. Send words to accompany my expansive ache.

This, then, is the function of religion: to explain the boy who wears socks with sandals, the striped ties, the thick blood/glass eyes/brittle marrow of passing bodies, the answer to Eliot’s overwhelming question.

The answer (with as much precision as we’ll ever get this side of a downed 747).

I find myself in love with the most unlikely people.

Oh, painted toes, round glasses, braided hair, and rustling newspaper – know that steel and sky only imitate a deeper motion. Know that it is only love that holds you aloft. Know that we’re never promised anything.

Not even this.

In case of 2007: April and May

2009-08-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

I get the feeling I’ll look back on this and either remember how and not why, or why, but not how.

*****

Circumstantial evidence:

I am wearing a pair of his socks.
The movie is stopped somewhere in the middle.
I have no idea if it’s rainy or sunny.
The fridge is empty.
My earrings have disappeared.
My fingerprints. Everywhere.
The corpse, still warm, in the middle of the living room floor.

Yep. I think there’s enough to convict me.

*****

One line slashed down from his collarbone to his hips and ribs materialized around it. His frame bled and grew, budded into shoulders, deepened into almond colored skin. I watched with fascination as Eric blossomed beneath my gaze. He seemed to me to be a man of clay. Ash and bronze and pyrite.

The earth moved beneath me and beside me on the living room floor. He yawned once, curled himself around my body, and kissed the small of my back.

I ate Cheerios (witnessed his birth.)

In case of 2007: Early January

2009-08-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

He hunches sideways in the chair, long backbone wedged at an awkward angle, arms folded gracefully over the left armrest. I watch; my eyes trace the angular lines of his body, making a mental sketch of this pose in crude slashes of black ink and red lipstick. I will remember him in this instant – the minute threads of tawny hair, the freckle constellations, the feathery eyelash shadows on his cheeks. No one else can have these details; these are visible only from the precise distance between my eyes and his.

From his glance, I realize my locket has fallen open. I snap it shut.

Deep breath.

Like bad actors, we’ve lost our place in this conversation. We fumble with our scripts. The audience grows restless. Coughing. Programs rustle.

“I’m growing a thorn bush,” I begin.

His lips twitch slightly, listening.

“I’m still mad, I mean. At Bobby. I’m mad that I’m not over him. I thought I was. But this thorn bush has been growing. I realized it.”

The eternal theater critics lean forward in their chairs.

“When?”

“He made my sister cry,” I say, plowing ahead with my monologue. “She was visiting and they talked – they were friends, you know, before. I went to bed. She woke me later, crying. She’d just believed in us so much and had never really had a chance to grieve about it. It made me mad. Most of the time I’m like the Queen of Hearts, you know? Paint the roses red. But every now and then, just for the hell of it, I go over and – are those thorns? Shit!”

He smiles. I’m on a roll.

“I don’t know. At first I was mad because he didn’t hurt me worse. He could have been cruel. Maybe that would have made this easier. But even if he had been, I wouldn’t have believed him. I can’t make my heart believe him. Which means that I’m living in this thing that isn’t true. And that pisses me off.”

He absorbs this, then asks, “Do you think you’ll get back together?”

New territory.

I improvise, “Part of me thinks so. But another part of me tells that part to forget it. It won’t happen. I don’t know.”

“You told me that love sometimes dies.”

I look up at him quickly.

“I don’t believe that,” he reassures me. “But you do.”

“Hm.”

Silence. I bask in the glow of his faith. He is suddenly so old to me. He is ancient and I am ancient. And we go on, walking, talking, our ancient hands clasped firmly together. The veil of the other life hangs paralyzingly close. The watchers hold their breath.

But my coffee cup is empty.

We are so young. I let it go. Sand through my hourglass.

A shining, beautiful grain of sand.

In case of 2007

2009-08-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

Today, while I was tidying up my room in anticipation of Jans coming tomorrow (!), I found an old spiral-bound notebook. As most of my notebooks like this one tend to become commonplace books – that is, full of everything from writing to doodles to class notes and phone numbers – I was intrigued to discover that this particular book contains a pretty accurate reading of my entire life from the year 2007.

2007 was an eventful year. It started with an incredible secret fling (as I was rebounding from my breakup with Bobby), moved from there into our mad and manic production of Flutter, took an unexpected twist in my romance with Eric, dipped low into a lovely, languid summer in the Pinery with Jes, then wrapped up with my last hectic semester of college at LAFSC in Hollywood.

Plus, add in there my sweet friendship with Jeremy McDaniel, visits from Tyger and Margie, a whole crammed month at Act One, and the perfect marriage I found in Kevin, Katherine, and Rian.

2007 was maybe the best year ever.

And so, for the next few entries, I’ll be posting some long lost essays and scrawlings I found in the 2007 notebook this morning. I know they won’t mean as much to anybody as they mean to me, but I thought you might like to come with me on this trip to the not-so-distant (but distant enough) past.

Enjoy.

In case of SANDCASTLES

2009-07-19T14:37:00.000-07:00

I think I gave up my search for identity a long time ago.

Let me explain.

From what I remember from Psychology 101, generally speaking, most people form their identities during their teenage years. They actively wonder who they are, what they will become, what their role in the world should be. They collect some ideas, choose some childhood experiences that correspond to and support these ideas, and sort of build an identity foundation with these large granite ideological blocks.

And from then on, it’s all just pebbles, really. Little stones here and there, whatever you can make stick, whatever you assign meaning to, whatever is the same color of granite you have already…that’s what you use to build the rest of your identity. Occasionally, you get some bigger stones – like at major life events – but mostly you build with small rocks from there until the end of your days.

But…

Sometimes I feel like I’m made entirely of small rocks. Where are my cornerstones, my irreplaceable truths? Who am I? What has formed me? What do I believe? I have no idea. I’m like a child in a sandbox that builds something gorgeous one day, then knocks it down and starts over the next.

Gah, stupid metaphors. What am I really saying?

Okay…

I gave up looking for Tricia. I gave it up long ago. I don’t know who or what she is, and – to be perfectly honest – I don’t care.

I suspect that this is abnormal; most people don’t live this way, they walk with both feet on the ground. One step leads to the next, one foot is always in the past, one foot moves ahead into the future.

Me? I jump.

The past is gone, over. It’s nice to look at and watch, to bring out and listen to as a favorite song or movie, and I cherish the people from my past, I do. As for the future, it’s exciting. I can’t wait to find out what’s coming…

But the present is always this detatched, suspended leap.

And I am always a different collection of experiences, the important ones are interchangeable, the sad ones don’t matter, the bright ones have faded. I can have or have not, I don’t care. And if I do care, then I care for today, or for this month, but next month I won’t. I will look back and say, “At that time in my life, I cared deeply.” And that’s as far as it will go with me. Already I will be devoting my attention to something else.

Former versions of myself seem like strangers to me now. I have some things in common with them, but I am not them anymore. And I don’t miss them. I miss very little. I need almost nothing that I don’t have, now, at this present moment. Plus, I don’t remember much. I think the memories might be in me somewhere, but I have to go actively hunting for them in my mind.

The point is…

I let go. I don’t know how not to. I let go of everything and everyone, beautiful or ugly, joyful or painful. Either “Tricia” is buried so deep in me I can’t see her or feel her, or she is always on the surface and shape-shifting too fast for me to know her well.

(And so if you love me, hold on to me. I just don't know how to hold on to you.)

In case of BOB DYLAN

2009-07-12T22:25:00.000-07:00

Well. I’m back. And even I can’t believe all that’s happened in the last couple months. I’m reeling in the shock of it, the joy of it, and the mystery of it all. My life is radically different…and amazing.

Here’s an enumerated list.

Screenplay. I finished my screenplay, the screenplay that kept me away from this blog, on June 22, and I sent it off to Forceful that night. (Still waiting to hear from him, so don’t get excited.) Looking back on that process, though, gives me great pride. I worked my butt off. I wrote daily. I wrote pages and pages and scenes and scenes that wound up in the trash.Sometimes, I would sit and stare at my computer for hours without writing a word. At other times, I would write ten pages in two hours.

To borrow an idea from Madeline L’Engle, I feel more NAMED. I feel like a radio, picking up waves, playing the song of the universe. I feel like I know what I’m supposed to be and do. I feel strong, important, alive. Pages and pages of more thoughts on this later, inevitably.

Good food. Shortly after I quit writing on this blog, I came down with some kind of strange internal disease. After some debate, days of pain, and a trip to a doctor, I decided it was linked to my gallbladder and/or pancreas. Obedient to research on the matter, and at the suggestion of the aforementioned doctor, I cracked down on my diet. No more two cups of coffee a day. No more fattening foods, including chocolate and all forms of refined sugars. No more beef or fowl, and no dairy or eggs, even. Nothing processed. And I became a vegetarian – well, more like a vegan – for two weeks. Not a single slip. The pain wasn’t worth it.

After that, I started working little things back into my diet. Cheese came back. Fowl, so as to get my protein. And by the time my sister’s wedding rolled around, I was doing well enough to eat cake at the reception. The gall bladder/pancreas thing? Pretty much gone now. However, what I found out through the whole thing was that GOOD FOOD MATTERS. Giving up eating shit was like…well, torture, at first. But after a while, I felt so good that I stopped craving the bad stuff. I feel lighter, better, healthier. Plus, cooking is AWESOME. So much fun. And I love knowing what’s in the food I’m eating, you know? Let’s hope this lifestyle change is here to stay.

Michael. Michael came to California on June 23, and then we both went to Ohio on June 25. Getting to see him, here, in my world? Indescribable. So good. SOOOO different than I thought it would be. (In this case, the “good” and the “different” are unrelated, “different” being fundamentally neither positive nor negative.) I just can’t get over it. I’m dating him, and we’re happy, but we can be such strangers to each other at times. It’s been eight months now – going on nine – and how can I learn so much that’s new, really new to me? And the new things are delightful, wonderful, but NEW?!? How can that be?

As Michael say, “It’s like knowing half a person. The half I know, I know very well. But the other half has been so hidden until now.”

In any case, we are learning. And we’re excited to be learning. Onward and upward!

Lisa and Lin’s Wedding. What can I say? It was beautiful. It was incredible. It was just about perfect.

It was also 100% STRAIGHT CRAZY. The days leading up to the wedding were some of the most stressful, busy, manic days of my life. The sheer number of crafts and projects! I can’t even describe it. But was it worth every minute?

Yes. Yes and yes. A thousand times over.

Job. Well, it happened. Oggy let me go.

It was kind of mutual, if you want the truth. He and I discovered months ago that I was wrong for the job. When he hired me back in January, he thought the studio needed someone administrative, managerial. But as it turns out, the studio needs someone sales and business. I’m not that person. I’ve never been that person. And I’ve never claimed to be. So it was only a matter of time before Oggy’s need to pay his bills won out over his love for me. This happened on Tuesday, July 7. Less than a week ago. Incredibly, though, I already have a new job. It’s nothing fancy; it’s at a cool little coffee shop here in Monrovia. It’s part-time. It’s minimum wage. And it won’t fix all my problems. But I’m so happy. In all honesty, Oggy did me a favor.

Plus, now I may even be able to go back to teaching my kids. Can you imagine? Serve coffee to hip locals? Teach my beautiful, inquisitive Asian children? Do you have any idea how fulfilling that would be?!? I should have quit at the studio long ago.

Which brings us up to where I am now. What do you guys think?

That’s right…

The times they are a-changin’!

In case of DESPERATION

2009-05-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

Every November, Jans writes a novel.

She makes me jealous. She inspires me. She shames me. It’s an incredible feat, and one that she has somehow pulled off for the past three or four years or something. 10,000 words in a month. Amazing.

Now, I’ve never read any of these novels. Jans, to the best of my understanding, keeps them under lock and key. So I don’t know much about their quality, except that I’m sure the writing is superb, even if the story lags a bit in places. The writing is the point, anyway. She writes for the sake of writing. Because it is in her. Every November, Jans writes a novel with desperation, as though her life depends on it.

I’m only now beginning to realize that it does.

A few weeks ago, three and a half now, I befriended a man who writes for a living. We’ll call him Forceful. And what Forceful has been teaching me is that a writer who doesn’t write every day, who doesn’t write like her life depends on it, is a sham. A writer who writes casually, as though she has all the time in the world? That, my friends, is not a writer.

So for the past three and a half weeks, I’ve been working on a screenplay. I came up with the idea, developed it, and dove into writing it within a handful of days. It consumes me. The screenplay is all there is. And, in case I ever for a second forget that, there’s Forceful to kick me in the ass and make me go again.

So that’s where I’ve been. I get up, shower, breakfast, work, home, dinner, and WRITE WRITE WRITE, then Michael, then bed. In fact, it seems the only time I have to breathe is lunch.

So I’m sorry that it’s been almost a month since my last blog. I’m sorry for all of you, because I’m being a bad friend. But I need to do this. I need to quit whining and be a writer. I need to write. Forcefully.

I'll be back when it's done.

In case of THE WHITE RABBIT

2009-04-11T20:10:00.000-07:00

Australia is a strange land. It’s nothing like North America. It’s not even anything like Europe. It feels familiar, but foreign. It’s like stepping into another dimension, parallel, but unrelated to this one. It’s just Australia unto Australia. Itself unto itself.

And when I was there, I was like a parallel version of me. Like Alice in Wonderland.

In Australia, I had a new name. Tricia, the way they say it. Michael’s Tricia. I had new friends – a whole group of them – that seemed like they’d just been waiting for me to get there. Strange, romantic, wonderful people. So inclined to like me, to love me. I had new money in my wallet. New streets and towns. New words jangling around in my head.

And there was no adjusting to it! There was no time of “settling in.” I went to sleep on the plane and woke up and then suddenly Michael’s arms were around me. And I was in Australia, deep down the rabbit hole, among mad hatters and march hares.

It just happened. The week just happened, as though it had been happening all along and I'd never really known it.

I moved Michael into a house and we lived -- lived -- there.

We cleaned the old kitchen and hung clothes on the line. I met the neighbors. We ate cold chicken with Dave and Lucinda in the middle of the night. We ate cereal in the morning sun, sitting on the flagstones in the backyard. And we wandered Sydney at night with Simon and Victoria, ducking in and out of pubs, dodging early-autumn rainstorms.

And Michael was there. He was there when I went to sleep and there when I woke up.

And every time I saw him, it was like a miracle. That we were there, and I could reach out and touch him. That we could go buy groceries. Groceries! Shopping was a revelation. Riding the train? An adventure.

And yes, of course, we did things. But we didn’t do anything that wasn’t a part of his life now, a part of my parallel life. A tourist goes somewhere to see something they wouldn’t ordinarily see. I felt like I was seeing things I’ve already been seeing things for months, for years. Because they are familiar to Michael’s eyes.

And because Michael is a part of me.

And because when Alice wakes up, she finds herself on a riverbank, and she tells her sister the dream of Wonderland. But her sister knows that Wonderland is not a dream, not an inaccessible dream anyway, but a lovely dream that lives and breathes and goes on and has a life of its own.

And that’s Australia.

I’m back in California now. But Michael and I have a life of our own. And that life goes on. We carry each other.

And we go on, parallel, Australia, California, Michael and I together like a heartbeat, on and on.

In case of BLOOD TIES

2009-04-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

This is my brother. He is neat.

But tonight, he's asleep in the ICU at the Hospital.

For anyone that doesn’t know, Alex has been going through some pretty scary stuff lately. He developed some weird symptoms about six weeks ago. His torso was strangely numb. It didn’t make sense. He told my dad. My dad was worried, but said nothing.

Then, on a Thursday – two weeks ago from today, exactly – Alex woke up and had trouble moving his legs. My dad took him to the doctor. The doctor drew blood and ordered a CAT scan and an MRI.

It was the first time I’d heard about any of this. And suddenly it really looked like my brother had MS or, worse, that he had a tumor on his spine.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. That was a horrifying weekend.

My brother is 18. He’s the star of the cross-country team. He’s long and angular, built to run. Just like my dad. He’s the lead in the school musical. He has a lovely tenor voice and a beautiful girlfriend. I’m frightfully proud of him.

But with this sudden threat of slowly debilitating diseases and cancer, I’ve started remembering that my brother wasn’t always cool. And it wasn’t just that he was neutrally neither cool nor uncool. He was ACTIVELY UNCOOL. He was a downright GEEK. My brother used to be a natural klutz, socially awkward, incredibly misunderstood.

We used to call him the Master of Disaster. In his childhood, he split his gums open and had to get stitches IN HIS GUMS on two completely different occasions. There’s also a home video in which toddler Alex picks up a kitchen knife and ALMOST falls on it. I mean, every single time you watch it – though you know it all turns out okay – you still want to grab the knife away, or catch him, or something! No, Alex, put the knife DOWN!

Plus, Alex was the kid that EVERYBODY tried to ditch. Like, Lisa and I are going out to do something.

Mom: Take Alex with you.

Me: No way! He’s too little.

Mom: Well, you can’t leave him ALONE.

Me: Watch me!

Lisa: (feeling vaguely guilty) He can play with…Ben…

Though, of course, we always LOVED Alex. But he had trouble fitting in. In fact, for a while it seemed, we were his only friends. We were very imperfect friends. But we were stuck with him. So we made it work.

But then, abruptly, it seemed…Alex grew up.

He did this mostly when I wasn’t looking.

And the second I realized it was happening, that I was in California, and that Alex was coming into his own…

And that I was missing it…

This is my brother. My BROTHER.

Some people AREN’T friends with their siblings. But I never wanted that for us. I wanted – WANT – to be a part of his life.

And I want his life to continue.

Anyway. It turns out that Alex doesn’t have MS. And he doesn’t have cancer. But he does have a mass on his spine – or did, until this morning. The mass is a birth defect. Alex has probably had it his whole life. It’s a cluster of blood vessels that, about six weeks ago, started to rupture and bleed into his spinal column. This is still very bad. It can cause nerve damage and, obviously, a loss of motor skill, etc. And it still requires – required, past tense – spinal surgery. Risky.

But it went smoothly. And tonight, I know, though slumbering in a deep haze of pain and painkillers, Alex will pull through.

If you know him at all, you are lucky.

But my sister and I are the luckiest. We’ve gotten front row seats to watch him, to watch this KID, beat it all. He beat accidents, beat injuries, beat bullies, beat abandonment, beat everybody on his cross-country team, and now…

Now we get to watch him beat potential paralysis and death.

Alex, I love you. Fight, Bud. Fight.

In case of A PERFECT MOMENT

2009-04-07T15:06:00.000-07:00

Although my hopes could not have been higher, I was surprised at just how wonderful Australia was.

A full update to follow. But for now, this.

In case of TERROR

2009-03-20T23:55:00.000-07:00

Tonight I saw, up close, the deep and fearsome solitude of a closed person.

One of my friends, a girl who married young, is unhappy in her marriage. This does not mean her marriage will die. It simply means that her marriage is sick. She and her husband have not yet gone to have this illness professionally diagnosed. But she suspects that it may be quite serious. Only time will tell.

But, anyway, this has thoroughly shaken me. Remember the wedding I went to a while back? The beautiful, romantic, heroic wedding? That changed my views about marriage and weddings in general?

This is her.

And tonight she described her frustrations and resentment and pain to me with a shocking cynicism.

My heart twists away from me, whining.

I have given up on Truth in relationships. There is no way to find out why we do the things we do. Or what it all “means.” Who can begin to know, who can begin to say, what has happened between people? Even if we could write down everything we say out loud, who could write down the things we don’t?

Who can score and tally glances? Who can quantify a touch, a kiss?

We say things that we WANT to be true. I say things that I want to be true. That’s just how it is.

And even if you think you Know in the moment, time will warp your certainty and strip it from you. You will be uncertain the second It is over. You will doubt almost immediately. You will fear, you will wonder, and guess. Five years later you will look back and say It was because of This. Ten years later you will marvel that you were ever so ignorant as to believe That.

You will close.

People open and close.

And even they don’t know when or how or why.

There is no Truth that can be known. Not between human beings. Not between anyone who is flawed, imperfect, insecure, afraid.

Perhaps there is – there will be – Truth. Perhaps the Truth is that whatever MUST happen will happen. But we’ll only know what that is when the movie fades to black and the credits roll. And, in this life, there’s no script to read or way to fast forward.

I cannot tell you how this realization pains me. As Billy Collins says, I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness is deepened. How poignant and amplified the world before me seems.

In a week I will get on a plane and go to Australia. I’m going to see a man there. I think this is a brave thing to do, but it seizes me with terror – with the oldest, most familiar fear I know – the Terror of Being.

The consuming, breathless Terror of Being.

I have pinned my hope to a star.

But since there is no discoverable Truth here, since I am an astronaut, exploring things I can't even begin to understand, and since I know that...I go with hope.

Because my friend DID get married. Because she WAS heroic.

Because, even if there is a death in the future, there once was a life. LIFE in all capitals!

And the alternative is tin and stone and sawdust.

In case of LITTLE GIFTS

2009-03-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, on my way in to work, I noticed a man looking curiously at a bench.

He seemed stumped, perplexed. He looked around several times. Then, when he noticed me staring, he hurried off, dismissing the bench as uninteresting. Uh, I wasn’t looking at that bench. I don’t know what you mean.

When I grew closer, I saw why he was so captivated.

The bench was strewn with books.

Books, perhaps ten, all tattered and well-loved, sitting quietly there. Completely unattended. They might have been patiently waiting for the bus. But it wasn’t a bus stop. It wasn’t anything. It was just a bench. A bench and some books.

And, standing there, I was felt a surge of affection for Monrovia. I love this town. Although I haven’t lived here long, I’m constantly discovering new and beautiful things about it.

The restaurants, cozy, locally owned and incredibly diverse. The cute streets and colorful residents. The street fair every Friday and Family Festivals in the summer. I love getting out of work, inhaling the smell of funnel cakes and barbeque, and lazily beginning my walk home. I love that by the time I get into my room, the ceiling fan is spinning, Beth is home, and the sun is setting out our window.

I run into my neighbors at the bank, at the grocery store, at the little frozen yogurt places. I run into my friends, and my brothers and sisters from church. Sometimes, in the evenings, Justin plays music at Monrovia Coffee Company. And I walk there to see him. Normally, when I get there, the room is already full of people, sipping warm coffees and looking at whatever new artwork is on display. It’s always like they’re waiting for me, somehow.

I mean, I’m sorry to gush like this, but to me Monrovia is the place we all kind of wished we lived. It’s a simple place, full of young people, and interesting people, and history. It’s quiet and lovely, away from the frenzy and paranoia of Los Angeles. It's the kind of town that would have a statue of Mark Twain in front of the public library. It’s the town Upton Sinclair called home, anyway.

So I stood there for another minute, wondering what Monrovia meant by leaving these books here for me to find. I looked around, to see if someone had intentions to come and retrieve these books, but all I saw were a few couples eating breakfast on the curbside café tables in front of The Monrovian. No one paid me any attention at all.

And, well, what would you have done?

I took a book. And no one stopped me. I consider it to be a gift – one of many, many gifts – from Monrovia. My Monrovia.

And it’s called, appropriately enough, “Oh The Glory Of It All.”

In case of A COLD UNIVERSE

2009-03-18T20:12:00.000-07:00

The older I get the more I wonder if life might really be all about sex.

I’m not sure who said that to me first. That life is actually all about sex. I read it somewhere, I think, or heard it in a movie. Anyway, it’s a catchy idea, you’ve gotta admit. Life = sex. It’s got a nice ring to it.

And people certainly do live like that’s true, sometimes. Let’s take one of my co-workers, for example. Which one of these, do you think, is his favorite thing to do?

a) work at the studio

b) crack

c) his girlfriend

Well. Okay, I admit it.

Between B and C, it’s a toss up.

And Oggy? Well, after trying a long distance relationship for a while, he decided it would be better to date someone locally. So that’s who he’s sleeping with now.

Not that he bothered to break up with the long distance girlfriend, mind you.

And meanwhile, all I’m doing day after day is researching photographers as potential clients. And what do you think this research has led me to?

You guessed it. Lots and lots of pictures of mostly naked people.

Which brings me full circle back to: life = sex.

It does, right? It must!

Sigh.

I have lots of ideas about sex. What it is, what it isn’t. What it means, what it doesn’t mean. I’ve built these ideas from books I’ve read and people I’ve talked to and the handful of things I’ve actually witnessed and experienced.

But what I keep coming back to is that sex, boil it down, probably just satisfies that human desire to be in contact with other humans. Even if it’s only physical contact.

And when humans are most open, most intimate, most together…ladies and gentlemen…we call that love.

I’m not naïve enough to believe that sex and love are equitable. But from where I’m standing, they’re born from the same two things. Thing one: the desire not to be alone.

Thing two: the fear that we might be.

And if you have something to believe in, some reason to believe you’re not alone…then life, for you, is not all about sex. At least, it doesn’t have to be.

But if you have nothing to believe in, if you’re a man at the mercy of chaos, a figure alone on a distant star in a cold universe…then you will reach out with every part of you to be touched.

And even those of us that do believe in God need that, too, sometimes.

In case of THE INVISIBLE MAN

2009-03-09T13:56:00.000-07:00

I see things.

And in case you’re about to be all comforting and reassure me that, it’s okay, everyone sees things, let me say right here exactly what I mean. I see things that aren’t there.

This is, I think, what it must mean to be a writer. We’re the kids that played pretend games all the way through elementary school, all the way through fifth or sixth grade, all the way until some Backstreet-Boy-Wanna-Be decided to start pushing us around. And even that wouldn’t have gotten us to stop if it hadn’t awaked our survival instincts. I mean, really. I blame Darwin. Survival was the reason we stopped.

We stopped and we traded our pretend games for, well, secret pretend games.

It sounds funny, but I’m not kidding. It wasn’t that I ever stopped SEEING The Big Dragon. I just stopped POINTING at The Big Dragon.

Thanks a lot, Chuck.

But now I’m starting to wonder if it really is all in my head.

Like, I look around. And there’s all this drama and meaning. There’s all this story everywhere. I can point to anybody and be like “you did this because of that time in your childhood when you ran through the lawn sprinkler. And, what’s more, you’re bound to run through the lawn sprinkler again!” Or whatever. And I can write it that way and it will make perfect sense.

But some days I wonder if I’m just grasping at the air. I wonder if The Big Dragon really exists at all. Or if he ever existed. I used to see him and I ran. But to everybody else…I was just running. I wanted to believe that my running meant something. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe it really didn’t.

And sometimes, when people hurt us, we feel like there’s a reason. Because in our minds, there was a relationship there. There was a promise there. There was trust and love there.

Trust. Love. Intangible things. But they’re the realest things we know.

So when we hurt, we want to believe that it means something!

But maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it really doesn’t.

I’ve spent my life throwing words at this, throwing flour at the Invisible Man. I feel like if I can just powder him from head to foot, give shape and space to him, then I can prove that he is there!

But sometimes the flour just floats, gently, in a horrible yawning silence, to the floor. There’s nothing for it to cling to.

And sometimes there’s no reason to run, anymore.

In case of THE KGB

2009-03-06T12:42:00.000-08:00

My boss is Bulgarian. And 90% of my job is handling him.

When I first met Oggy, he was very off-putting. He shook my hand, very obviously checked me out, and then monosyllabically answered what I thought were incisive, conversation-starting questions.

The second time I met Oggy, he asked me about my boyfriend. I told him my boyfriend lives in Australia. He looked wryly at me and said, “So you don’t have a boyfriend.”

Of course, now I know: that’s just Oggy. He’s incredibly racist, sexist, and wildly inappropriate. He likes to insinuate to clients – clients! – that he and I are sleeping together. He openly hits on every woman we meet. The hotels in Vegas? He says they have too many black people, so he doesn’t like to go there.

He drinks. He throws fits. He can’t keep track of any part of the business and insults his employees. He cusses out telemarketers.

But the really crazy part? I love him.

He’s hilarious and brilliant and colorful. His past – from what I know of it – has been full of great pain. And yet he keeps a sense of humor. As quick-tempered as he is, he’s also quick to forgive. And he’s full of love for his son, his daughter, his new grandson, his on-again-off-again girlfriend, and even his ex-wife. And he would never fire me. Never ever fire me. Only if he couldn’t pay me anymore.

There was one night in Vegas when Oggy and I maybe each had one cocktail too many. So we were striding, laughing uproariously, through the casino in the Golden Nugget. Oggy asked me if I’d seen the tigers in Vegas. Tigers? I said. No.
He held my arm. “They have tigers everywhere here. You should see them, the lions and tigers.”
“And bears?” I said, being witty. “Oh my.”
He didn’t get it. But he did stop the nearest casino attendant. Just a random guy there by the slots. “Where are the bears?” He demanded. “We need to see the Las Vegas bears!”
“Bears?”
“We know you have bears!” Oggy said. “Tell us where they are!”
“Maybe in the zoo?” The guy said doubtfully.
“It is her first time in Vegas.” Oggy explained. “She wants to see the bears.”

But then, before waiting for an answer, Oggy steered me on and off we went.

At the elevators, I said I was going to go up and go to bed. “I’m leaving you,” I said.
“Why?” He whimpered.
“Because I don’t love you anymore.” I said.
He nodded sadly. “Already you don’t love me anymore. Okay. But, please, do not take the children!”

I laughed.

When people don’t remember him, Oggy helps them out by saying, “You remember me. I am tall, blue eyes, blond hair, no accent.” Then they laugh.

Then he says, “No, I am only kidding. This is Ognen Borissov. KGB.”

In case of DOMINO

2009-03-01T20:55:00.001-08:00

I am a wild girl. I claim that. I own it.

I like to drive about 90 miles an hour, the windows down, racing the James Bond music I’m blaring over the roar of the freeway. I wink at people as I blow past them.

I like to wear bright red lipstick, knee high boots, and dark eye makeup. Like James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause, I have a red leather jacket. I’d get a tattoo if I could afford it.

When I argue, I can yell. Really yell.

I love big, cheesy action movies. LOVE THEM. I love watching Keanu Reeves try to deliver a serious line – Point Break, Speed, whenever. I love to see shit blow up. I even love totally unmotivated sex and violence. Why not? What’s not to like? I’m not noble!

I like to run for the sake of running. Not running like, I’m gonna go put on my running shoes and exercise. Not like that. Running like, I’m gonna run like Lola, in my jeans and sneakers, run until I can’t breathe anymore. Run like there's something at stake. I like to climb trees, too. The higher the better.

And if there’s a dangerous river? Give me a raft, a little instruction, and I’m in it. And if there’s a small cavern, full of mud? Give me a headlamp; I’m gonna crawl through. And if there’s an expedition to the end of the world? Sign me up.

And I speak my mind. I tell the truth. I’m not polite. If I have a question, I’ll ask it. If I see the answer to the problem, I’ll tell the person in charge. And if he tells me that it’s not the answer? I’ll tell him he’s wrong.

Show me a locked door to kick down, show me a window to smash open, show me a fight that needs fighting.

I am a wild girl.

Men tell me they’ve never met anyone like me.

But I think the world is full of wild girls. I think the world is full of girls like me that didn’t want – NEVER wanted – to quietly play dolls. And I think that nobody should ask you to, just because you’re female.

I also think nobody should MAKE men like big, cheesy action movies.

I don’t think that the world full of wild girls or weak boys. I think the world is full of people. I think that if you want to drive slow, you should drive slow. If you want to play with dolls, PLEASE, play on.

But if you’re a wild girl? Be a wild girl. And don’t apologize.

Holla back!

In case of A LOVE AFFAIR

2009-02-22T11:07:00.000-08:00

I remember the first time I watched the Academy Awards on television.

We were living in Herndon, VA, and Billy Crystal was hosting that year. I remember his opening monologue, which included a hilarious version of the “Gilligan’s Island” theme. I remember Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, who were young faces then, accepting a screenwriting award for a little movie they’d written and directed and acted in themselves. That was the year Celine Dion sang “My Heart Will Go On.” That was the year Titanic won everything. It was 1998.

And that – those precious hours, right then – that was when I fell madly in love with Oscar.

And I hadn’t even seen Titanic.

First off, though, let’s get this much on the record: I don’t necessarily place an absolute faith in the value of the Academy Awards. I know that sometimes the winners don’t deserve it – not as much as some of the other nominees and not as much, even, as some people who didn’t get nominated. I know that Oscars are political symbols, politically given. So I’m not naïve about that.

And I don’t always like the “celebrity” aspect of the awards either. I almost never watch all that red carpet stuff beforehand, when everybody analyzes each other’s clothes and jewelry and hairstyles.

But what I love, LOVE, is the heart of the matter.

What I love is that whenever I watch the Oscars, I feel like I’m hanging out with a bunch of my old friends. Because these people love movies. And I LOVE MOVIES, TOO! It’s like I finally get see the faces of people – just like me – who want to devote their lives to the silver screen. I know why they do what they do. I know that, deep down, we all know how beautiful and poignant movies have made our lives. And every year that there are more, that there is new beauty and poignancy brought into the world, that year is a year worth celebrating. CELEBRATE CREATION!

So I have now spent over a decade watching the Academy Awards on TV. I have seen Roberto Benigni climb exultantly across the tops of the chairs at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and I have seen Adrien Brody passionately kiss Halle Berry right on the lips. I’ve seen the creation of an award for animation, watched the Awards move permanently into the Kodak Theater, and nervously hung onto my precious Oscars as they barely survived the WGA strike. I’ve even spotted a member of the Secret Society of Seat Sitters!

And last year I got to stand on the stage and look out across that sea of empty chairs and imagine what the theater would look like if they were full.

And tonight I get to watch the whole production for the twelfth amazing year. So Happy Anniversary, Oscar! I hope we stay together for twelve more years.

Heck. I hope we stay together forever.

In case of GROUP THERAPY

2009-02-20T23:57:00.000-08:00

Hi, I’m Tricia. And I’m a wedding addict.

(mumble mumble)

Hi, Tricia.

It has been…four minutes since my last geek out.

(weak applause)

For most of my life, I didn’t care about weddings. They were always the same awful things: stuffy, boring, cheesy. They were copies of copies of copies. Tradition. Formality. They required uncomfortable clothes and uncomfortable conversations with distant relatives.

But then, in September, my sister got engaged. And she started to plan. That’s when I geeked out for the first time. She sent me this link: www.stylemepretty.com. And she told me that she was thinking of getting married in a barn. A barn! Good grief that’s cute, I thought. So I clicked on the link and I saw that weddings could be beautiful. Tradition? Formality? No. Weddings could be classy. Weddings could be THE GREATEST THING EVER.

Since then I’ve been geeking out every day. My sister created this wedding blog of her own (http://writtenbliss.blogspot.com). And now I pretty much live there. She’s got all these pictures of up the adorable little brown paper envelopes she’s going to send her invitations in, and some really wonderful stories about guestbook conversations, and two perfectly GORGEOUS inspiration boards.

Plus, I’m totally IN this wedding. It’s not even that I’m going. I’m the freaking MAID OF HONOR. Which means that I get to stand there next to my beautiful sister in her good-grief-that’s-cute barn and hold a bouquet and everything. And everybody – but everybody – we know and love is going to be there. And since I realized that? I’ve started geeking out at least once an hour.

I’m kind of ashamed to admit it. But I can’t help it! She designed this whole incredible monogram for the invitations and she bought this dress and now she’s sending me links with more amazing wedding blogs, like www.eluckyme.com and www.weddingbee.com, plus a whole host of other links for photography and cakes and decorations. So what am I supposed to do? I’m wedding obsessed! It’s all I want to talk about weddings to everyone! All the time!

And the worst part? I don’t even want to quit. At all.

(shocked murmurs)

That’s right. I’m not going to quit.

I've gotta go geek out.

Excuse me. (leaves the podium)

In case of MENTAL VACATIONS

2009-02-17T20:02:00.000-08:00

Here are two of my favorite places. The first place is one I’ve always known and loved. It’s called – and why not – TriciaLand.

TriciaLand is full of Ferris wheels and carousels and sheep. I’m not sure why there are sheep, but there are. There are SO MANY sheep.

TriciaLand is outdoors, obviously. The terrain is lush and hilly. It’s always daytime and always summer. If I had to place TriciaLand in the physical world, I’d say that it’s in Ohio. It’s sparkly, full of bright colors, and things going in circles. The Ferris wheels and carousels have discovered somehow the secret of perpetual motion. If they play music, they all play the same song. And if you want to ride on one, you have to jump onto it with a flying leap. Same thing getting off.

The sheep are friendly. They’re wonderful companions and they’re never annoying. They’re not cartoon sheep, though. They don’t talk. They don’t make expressions. They’re real, honest-to-goodness, farm-style sheep. And, again, there are SO MANY. And, again, I’m not sure why. But I like them.

Meanwhile, half a world away, there’s another cool place. I just discovered it last night. It’s called Michaelville.

Michaelville, as suggested by the name, is considerably less outdoorsy than TriciaLand. Michaelville is a room – sort of a hang out – with cool chairs everywhere. Prominently featured is a large, glass display case, which is subdivided into compartments of various sizes. In one compartment rests the perfect pair of headphones. In another, the perfect umbrella. Other compartments feature photographs of important people. (And, yes, there’s one of me!)

In Michaelville, there’s an iPod that always plays The Beatles. There’s a TV that alternatively shows The Muppets and Mr. Bean. There’s also an open window through which a cool breeze blows.

But most of all, it’s full of Michaels. Michaels of all shapes and sizes! Michael Jordan hangs out there. Michael Douglas. Michael W. Smith. Michael Mouse (better known to his friends as Mickey). And of course, my favorite of all these men, Michael Pickering. And what do these Michaels do, you ask? Naturally, they hang out together, talk, laugh, and eat tomato and cheese sandwiches.

And, until very recently, these two places have been very far apart. But if you were to visit TriciaLand today, you might hear all the carousels and Ferris wheels playing the same song: “All My Lovin'” by The Beatles.

And if you went to Michaelville right now…chances are you’d bump into a sheep.

In case of OLD TRUNKS

2009-02-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

When Bobby and I broke up, I took back Disneyland.

Disneyland was our thing – one of our many things. And, of course, you know what I mean. Couples (relationships of all types, really) collect distinguishing marks and memories. A date here, a movie there, a song. You keep and horde these things, set them on the shelves of your heart, and revisit them with sacred awe. You polish them. You listen to them. You pull them out and drink of them together. You keep them, like trophies, on the mantle.

But when relationships go wrong, you trash them.

These things – restaurants you ate in, music you love, quirks and passions held dear – they’re suddenly ugly. And those things not made ugly are, at the very least, painful. And so you kill them, smash them up. At the very least…you put them away.

But when Bobby and I broke up, I took back Disneyland.

He couldn’t have it. It was too much fun! It was too precious. No!

So I embarked on a wild fling and took the New Boy there with me. We stood in lines with our arms around each other and had our photo taken on the Mark Twain. We kissed on rides. I wrenched Disneyland, which was fast sinking into the quicksand of my breakup, back up into a safe place in my heart.

But there are things in this world that are lost and gone. Probably forever. I couldn’t save them. Or I didn’t want to save them. Natalie Cole. The Nightmare Before Christmas. That little Italian restaurant in Pasadena. The rock of Gibralter. Glass. Red tide. (These are my memorials.)

And last night, I went back and listened to Michael Buble. And I realized that his music, too, is gone from me. I love Michael Buble! But I don’t have anything else to tie that music to. So it’s gone.

But. Okay.

Here’s the good part.

There are infinite number of things in the world.

There are always more songs, more places to go, more discoveries to make. There are new memories in store. There are new things that we can call ours. Ours!

And I don’t forget the old things…I just put them away. It’s like cleaning out the trunks of your childhood. You have to move all your old toys and books to make way for your new clothes. Your new books. All the NEWNESS that life wants to hand you. Fill up the shelves of your heart again! Put new golden memories upon your mantle!

And even if you have to, at some point, again throw the new things out and again put the new things away…there will be newness. NEW newness! There will be new things even then.

As Oggy always says, “This is how it goes. We are human. If we were robots it would be different, but not as nice.”

Life. Newness. This is how it goes.

In case of MARMEE

2009-02-15T10:02:00.000-08:00

I like to fight.

When I see some injustice, some wrong in the world, I want to fix it. I want to make the people who did it PAY. I want to crush the offenders utterly – by verbally steamrolling them, psychologically tormenting them, or physically beaming them with my American Lit. book.

In my life, I have actually said these words: “I will never forgive him for that.”

And I’ve meant it.

The problem is that I DON’T correct injustices. I often can’t. And so these things, these (perceived) wrongs, build up inside of me. They eat at me like acid. And the perpetrators grow large in my mind, they become monsters, and I will carry a sword against them forever.

I will never – NEVER – forgive him for that.

There’s this scene in Little Women. Amy (Kirsten Dunst) comes home from school one day with her hand bruised. Her teacher has struck her for some petty misbehavior. Her mother, Marmee (Susan Sarandon), is furious. Marmee writes a vicious letter to Amy’s teacher that goes something like this:

“Mr. Davis – If you hit and humiliate a child, the only lesson she will learn is to hit and humiliate.”

Meanwhile, Amy’s sister Jo (Winona Ryder) wants to “beat the tar out of Mr. Davis.”

Marmee sharply reprimands her, “Jo! We must not embrace violence.”

This, by the way, is a scene that unfolds with fair regularity in our apartment between Beth and I.

Because, apparently, we must not embrace violence. That drives me wild, but I think it’s fundamentally true. I think Jesus thought so. So I kinda have to think so. Even though watching Fight Club totally turns me on.

I am not a pacifist. Maybe someday I will be. But there must be a way to do this, to not lie down and take things, to not violently rise up against things with anger and wrath, but to take the middle road of reason and faith. Yes, there are things that cannot – should not – be endured. But our response must be a better one. Must be more mature. Must be born out of a desire to actually fix things. We cannot simply set about bashing perpetrators to correct their wrong-DOING. We must set about correcting their wrong-THINKING.

Later in the movie, Jo sits awake, writing a story. Her sister Beth (Claire Danes) wants to know what will happen next. Jo smiles sadly.

“I don’t know. It’s all madness and gore. Damsels in distress…

Oh, Beth, truly. I don’t know if I could ever be good, like Marmee. I rather crave violence. I wish I could be like Father and go to war. And stand up against the lions of injustice.”

Beth lays her head on Jo’s arm. “And so Marmee does in her own way.”

And so here, in the quiet of this moment, I’m sorry.

To anyone out there I’ve fought. That I’ve hated. That I've privately, in the depths of my imagintion, beamed with my American Lit. book. Tomorrow I’ll want to stand up and fight the lions of injustice again. But tonight? I just don’t. Tonight I’m too tired to fight anymore. Tonight I want to write a thousand letters to the Mr. Davises of the world.

Tonight I want to forgive.

I want to forgive.

In case of STARS

2009-02-02T23:31:00.000-08:00

On January 19, I interviewed for a job at a commercial photography studio here in Monrovia.

The position? Marketing and Operations Coordinator.

And what is that, you ask? Well, it’s a real person’s job. It’s half marketing and half running the studio on a day-to-day basis. It’s something that involves business cards and travel and interactions with other real people. In short, it’s a job for which I wasn’t remotely qualified. I couldn’t imagine why they’d called me in for it and I didn’t feel like I interviewed very well. But, surprisingly, they called me in for a second interview that Friday.

On January 26, they offered me the job. I took it.

And I’ve been running to catch up ever since.

Full-time work means that I can pay my bills. It means food in the cupboard, savings in the bank, student loans dwindling month by month. It means that I can settle into a routine, work during the day, come home, and write on my screenplay, industriously pursuing what I really want to be. It means that I can put “Marketing and Operations Coordinator” on my resume and go from here anywhere that I want.

And if that were all, it would be more than enough.

But, in this case, it also means that I can walk to work. It means that I have the freedom to do my job independently, listening to music, without a hard ass boss breathing down my neck. It means that I can take long lunches in the sunshine as long as I get my work done. It means measurable progress, feeling fulfilled as I watch the company grow, and strategizing for myself a plan to make it grow even further. It means that I get to spend my time with a crazy Bulgarian, a wonderful man that makes me laugh, a man that is thrilled to let me take vacations.

It means I get to go to Australia to see Michael.

Oh, life!

And it’s not perfect; nothing is perfect. Some days will be hard and I’ll come home tired or unhappy or both. And this job won’t make me rich.

But it will sustain me. It’s a gift from God, after EIGHT INTERMINABLE MONTHS of silence, of scrambling around in the dark without coins enough even to buy a cup of coffee. I feel stunned and smitten by this new chapter in my book. I don’t – can’t – understand God’s overflowing blessings, the immeasurable grace that has followed me so long.

When I wake up now in the mornings, I have somewhere to go. I have something to do. I have someone to be.

God help me, I’m seeing stars.

In case of THINGS THAT ARE STILL TRUE

2009-01-23T00:24:00.000-08:00

July.3.2007
For the beauty of the earth

There is so much grace in the world. It’s so funny to me how we are always given enough grace. Always.

I say that it’s funny because I think life is generally comedic. Even when it’s sad, there’s an element of humor, of joy, of promised restoration. Even when you feel so low. Even when you don’t know if a situation will end well. Even then.

I went to a wedding on Friday. Beth described the evening as “romantic,” which just happened to be the perfect adjective. We all stood on the front lawn, bare legs and shoulders, toes eased out of uncomfortable shoes. It was one of those firefly evenings, in spite of California. The suspense of gold champagne in glasses, hovering between mouths and fingertips. The elderly and middle aged (their eternal moments still shining, but stuck in some previous era) gravitated toward the house, sat indoors on the antique furniture, discussed, I don't know. Politics, maybe. Maybe marriage. I’d like to give them credit, knowing they were once us and that someday we’ll be them.

But we were not them on Friday. Almost everyone under the age of thirty draped themselves on the front porch, cotton and silk dresses flowing down from one stair to the next. It was like -- I don't know -- a declaration to the world that we were standing on the brink, the edge, perched and ready for our chance, but still indulgent, enjoying one another while we could. Laughing. The wonder was not then and will not be lost on us, not for years.

Even a wedding, which some might think is the end of being reckless, is heroic, epochal! How could anyone be so brave to love so deeply? How could anyone sit on the steps in the waning sun and laugh when we have lost wallets and keys, minutes and hours, built and burned bridges, inflicted and felt wounds? And some of us have lost friends. And some of us have lost faith. And some of us know that the house we’re sitting on will deteriorate, succumb to entropy, and that so many circumstances are, even now, not kind and not warm and not forgiving. How dare we dance, loop arms around waists, lick chocolate frosting off our fingers?

Why was I sent a quiet friend to sit with me, unjudging, when I have been so wrong? Why was I even allowed to hold the hand of someone I hurt so deeply?

Grace. Only grace.
There is so much grace in the world.

In case of JEOPARDY

2009-01-15T14:25:00.000-08:00

The category is…Trixie’s Albums That Just Don’t Get Old.

For $100:

This 2003 release stunned me with its lyrical complexity and rainy-day mellow sound. The artist, though male, evokes in me memories of the vocal stylings of a certain former roommate.

For $200:

This 2002 soul-influenced rock album is maybe the sexiest collection of songs I’ve ever heard.

For $300:

This 1993 compilation album is a family classic and takes its name from a once-popular geography-based TV game show. Featuring bands such as Urban Blight, The Persuasions, and 3 Brave Woodsmen.

For $400:

There’s nothing not to love about this 2005 solo effort by a female English singer-songwriter. The sound ranges from alternative to electronica and the lyrics are almost dialogue, asking and answering questions.

For $500:

Though not their first album, this 2001 release was my introduction to my probably all-time favorite band. They’re prolific, consistent, and generally have the respect of the public and music snobs alike. The night I heard this album, I knew it was love.

And please. Remember to phrase your answers in the form of a question.

In case of MINNIE DRIVER

2009-01-04T18:23:00.000-08:00

I’m back. Okay.

I’ve wondered often what causes crassness. Why do some people insist upon being crass, upon being vulgar? What inspires profanity? Damn. I’m not sure.

Perhaps the world is a crass place. You have to understand, I’m not talking merely about people saying four letter words. I’m talking about a general disregard for the sacred or the serious. I’m talking about people who make a mockery of intimate things, people who scream out things that should be secret or quiet, people who throw beautiful things in the mud. That’s what crassness is. And I do it, too, sometimes. Perhaps we all do.

Probably there are many different reasons.

But I guess I sorta think that it must be a defense mechanism. Just like everything else. We’re all fucking scared, right? We don’t want to let people in. We’d rather be hard and inaccessible. Nobody wants to be weak. I don’t want people to think I don’t know how to use four letter words so I’m gonna say them, goddamn it. Right? And the world is a scary place – a flawed, imperfect place, a crass place – and if you go around bashing things open, tearing down stained glass windows, and laughing at prayer, then you don’t have to see! You don’t have to know! You don’t have to feel! Stick your fingers in your ears and la la la la I’M NOT LISTENING!

And you can make things funny. It’s funny to swear sometimes. It’s funny to be a little dirty, a little obscene. Nothing wrong with that. I really think so. Sometimes it’s nice to be surprised. But that’s not crassness, I don’t think. Not always.

I watched Good Will Hunting again the other day and again appreciated the writing. That movie is hilarious, really hilarious. And it is incredibly crude in places! Minnie Driver’s joke in the restaurant? Pure genius.

But the worst part about that movie is the scene in the bedroom. Minnie Driver asks Will (Matt Damon) to move to California with her. And he flips out. “That’s a really serious thing you’re saying. That’s really serious.”

She knows, of course, that it’s serious. But she loves him.

And then when he turns her down, when he gets up and gets dressed and tries to run, when they’re screaming at each other and she’s crying, she starts to beg him for the truth. “I need you to tell me you don’t love me,” she demands. “I need to hear you say you don’t love me. And then I won’t call you and I won’t be in your life.”

And for a second you think he won’t say it, he can’t, and then you suddenly know that he can and he will and you begin to hate him for it. And he does. He says it. “I don’t love you.” And he leaves her there.

He looks her right in the face and tells her he doesn't love her.

Crassest thing in the movie. Maybe one of the crudest things I’ve ever seen.

Because it’s not true. Because it’s Will Hunting with his fingers in his ears pretending, pretending that there isn’t something true and beautiful in existence anywhere. Being a coward. A fucking coward.

And that’s most of us, most of the time.

So I don’t care if you swear or talk about sex in public and I don’t even much care much if you have sex in public (just not around kids, okay). But I do care about crassness, real crassness. Don’t be a coward. Don’t say something that’s not true just because you’re scared.

Don’t be that guy. Okay.

In case of THE RENAISSANCE

2008-12-18T22:02:00.000-08:00

So I’m home in Ohio.

I feel wonderful. I’m back with the fam. I’m sleeping in my old bed. It’s goddamn COLD outside. Yeeeeeeesssss.

And as I anxiously await Christmas (and every next conversation with Michael), I find myself sorting through the ghosts that live around here. I have stories. Lord, I have so many stories. But I don’t know how many of them even matter anymore.

There’s this branch of therapy. I was reading about it for a paper once. It’s called “narrative therapy.” Basically, it’s built on the premise that human beings have an innate sense of narrative, of story. Like, try asking someone for his life story sometime. He can’t tell you all of it. So he will select episodes and scenes that he thinks are important. These are the scenes he uses to define who he is. These are the back-stories of the character he plays in his life every day.

And so narrative therapy attempts to reconstruct someone’s life story. The therapist will suggest that the patient select difference episodes and moments from his life, happier moments, or stories with more meaning and order, and use these episodes to construct an untroubled character for him to play.

It’s pretty cool. But boil it down? It’s the art of letting go. It’s the art of starting over. Simple.

Impossible.

But worth a shot.

The more I talk to Michael, the more of my stories that I tell him, the more I want to just scream, “BUT NONE OF THESE THINGS MATTER ANYMORE.” Because honestly? Honestly?

I don’t hurt much these days. I’m not too angry. And I’m really not scared. I’m playing an untroubled character. So somewhere along the way I think I must have decided to begin my period of reconstruction. My renaissance. It’s like I’m not even much interested in my life story any more. There’s nothing in it at all. I would make a terrible TV show.

It’s maybe why I haven’t been blogging much lately.

Hm.

In case of 400 YEARS

2008-12-01T09:21:00.000-08:00

I really love mornings at my apartment.

I usually wake up around 8:30. Not because I have to, mind you, but because I’ve been going to bed so early these days, I simply can’t sleep past 8:30 anymore. And by 8:30, Beth and Jes are already gone. So it’s not like there’s a line for the shower.

But Rachel is usually up. On my favorite mornings, Rachel is already up and sitting at the kitchen table. She’s reading. A steaming mug of coffee sits in front of her. I notice that there’s another inch or so of coffee in the pot.

“Is that for me?” I ask.

“Sure,” she replies.

I pour the coffee for myself and pad out into the living room (aka My Office). Why do I pad, you ask? It’s because I’m wearing my slippers. Of course. I’m also still in my pajamas. Why? Because I can be. Work doesn’t start until the afternoon.

I take a minute to appreciate our beautiful view…

…and then plop down onto the couch (aka My Desk). I set the coffee on the coffee table (FINALLY using that piece of furniture to its exact purpose!), open my laptop, and get to the day. The day is inside the laptop. The day is job hunting, paying bills, e-mailing people, getting e-mails back, watching LOST, and writing writing writing. And if it’s a really good morning, there’s already something in my inbox from Michael waiting for me.

You know, I can bitch and complain about money all I want. I can fret over not making my bills, bemoan the few hours I get at the after school place, and beat my brains out hunting for a job.

But there’s a simple joy in the mornings now. A joy of stillness, of not rushing, of being able to open my eyes up slowly to every new day.

Last night at church we talked about this. About how, just before the New Testament and the birth of Christ, there were 400 years of NOTHINGNESS for the Israelites. 400 years of waiting. 400 years of the profound, empty silence of God. That’s so long to wait for even the simplest word from the Almighty. How many generations lived and died in that silence?

So, yes. I really love mornings at my apartment.

But here's hoping that there's a point to all this waiting. Here's hoping that into the silence of my life here in California...God will finally speak.

In case of INVINCIBILITY

2008-11-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

On November 26, 1992, my mother told me that I was about to turn 6. I burst into tears. (I don’t like growing up. At all.)

There are so many wonderful things about being young. You get to goof off, be irresponsible, be imaginative, be cute. People laugh when you make mistakes and they help you out. Your parents grant you grace. Your friends are young, too. Nobody gets married. Nobody can’t come out to play because they have to work. Nobody has children to take care of.

But I can’t stop growing up any more than I can stop the earth from spinning.

So here’s my salute to youth! 21, you were a great age. I liked being you. Let’s get together and reminisce, shall we? Yes. Let’s share some memories and then we’ll go our separate ways. Okay? Okay.

Let's start with the time I turned you. Remember that? And even though we were under contract, we went out to that pub in Pasadena. But, of course, the bartender wasn’t even going to card me. So I told him that you and I had just gotten together and so he asked to see my ID and checked you out? That was really great. Rian bought me a cider and snapped this photo of Beth and I, this one that is “too cute to be allowed.”

And then there was that cocktail party, which would later be crowned the best party ever, when I felt you because, hello, it was a cocktail party! I thought, I must be 21 because I’m drunk and wearing this super nice dress in a tiny apartment full of other drunk, classy people. I really felt you then.

And right after that I graduated from college!

And remember when we got involved with Derek, who was so much older, but it was okay because you and I were together?

And we directed a high school musical?

Ooo, ooo! And we bought that car in New York, you and I, 21, we flew to Utica and drove back across the state. And then, later, we drove across the country. And if I’d been with any other age, 21, it wouldn’t have been cool. But you were the perfect companion.

I like, too, how you and I have never had any money. You didn’t bring me any money, but I’m okay with that. I was never with you for the money anyway.

Man, I really loved you.

But, you know, you didn’t bring me all joy, either. You and I did have to bury my Grandad together. And we did lose Kevin and Katherine and Rian, even after everything. And we hurt a lot of people. And we didn’t do all the things we planned and so much hoped for.

But you were always there. And you showed yourself in so many ways. With you, 21, I perfected my karaoke technique, drove to Pennsylvania and Virginia, scoffed at people who were getting married, boomeranged to live with my parents, vacationed in Bermuda, got involved in a string of crazy relationships, flew to Orlando all by myself, stayed out late and all night if I wanted to, joined my friends in being concerned for anyone who drank responsibly, moved into an apartment in California, paid bills, took strange jobs, bonded with my brother, and slept on couch after couch after couch. All because of you!

And let’s remember our last night. Wednesday night. When I sat at the computer and watched you leave me, so quietly, minute by minute.

21, we were great together. Thank you; I’ll really miss you.

But this is goodbye.

Goodbye.

In case of SUDDEN, UNEDITED POETRY

2008-11-24T22:57:00.000-08:00

I listen to us as a song

Discovered in my youth and caught, bright

Between the panes of memory.

We’re still here

And there

In symphonic phrases

Hymnal lines tripping to their ends

Lyrics insisting FM radio

And in the smoke of our melody

bluer than blue.

I play our love deliberately.

Watch.

I listen to us as a song

A gentle vinyl spin

Scratched by the sharpest of needles

Around and around

Beginning to end

And then –

Silence.

In case of ROGUE ASSASSINS

2008-11-20T00:43:00.000-08:00

Michael and I made lists of things we can do. Why? Because.

I guess sometimes it helps to know that even if the CIA suddenly decides that you’re a malfunctioning 30 million dollar weapon, you still might stand a chance out there in the world.

And while Michael and I can’t necessarily tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside, we’re not entirely without game.

Here’s what we can do.

Michael Can:

Find his way around a train station
Walk on stilts
Do accents (Australian, English, Scottish, Irish, Yorkshire, and a variety of American)
Navigate the LA public transit system
Sing
Give extemporaneous speeches
Operate a puppet
Sleep in close proximity to loud sounds
Drive stick shift (and on the left side of the road!)
Arrange education, employment, and lodging overseas
Turn up to work on time
Cook (at least 3 complete, well-balanced meals)
Clean a toilet and use a vacuum
Pay bills on time
Stay 4 nights in Vegas without luggage and reacquire lost luggage
Survive surgery
Ride roller coasters

I Can:

Take clothes to the dry cleaners
Navigate airport security
Juggle
Blend in at a Goth club
Drive a jet ski
Diagnose appendicitis
Shoot a gun (9mm, shotgun, and assault rifle)
Read music
Tie knots with my toes
Check in and out of a hotel
Stay calm and follow emergency procedures in an earthquake, car accident, tornado, hurricane, or snowstorm
Throw a punch
Catch fish
Drink 5 beers and walk a straight line
File Taxes
Speak conversational Spanish (as well as minimal Italian and French)

Wait tables

And that isn’t even everything! Move over, Jason Bourne.

In case of A GIANT SHARK

2008-11-18T12:35:00.000-08:00

My parents came to visit a couple weeks ago and I started to talk to them, really talk to them, for the first time in years.

It was hard. I was unkind, I think, because we talked about the truth. The truth of what it was like for us kids growing up. The truth about some family secrets, things that been swept under rugs my entire life, old rifts in my parents marriage that have become exposed in recent years. When I brought up these topics, I was a little angry, and I was a little cruel. I’ve grown tired of the bullshit. And, in the moment, I felt like it was useless to pretend otherwise.

My parents bore it well. They weren’t angry at my disrespect. They bravely answered my questions and treated me like an adult. To tell the truth, I think I simply made them a little sad. Because I was so obsessed with speaking the truth that I forgot something important.

I forgot that my parents are people.

Or, more accurately, I hadn’t fully realized it until I saw all these illusions torn to shreds in my hands. I went on a crusade to rip them apart, imagining this facade as a wall that would require a sledgehammer to destroy. But I found that it was so fragile, thin and frail as a spider web.

There’s this scene in Jaws. This giant shark has already killed two people and Chief Brody feels responsible. He’s the sheriff in this town and people are dying. Children are dying. And he's weak, overmatched, insecure, unprepared to face down this incredible evil. So he’s sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and then he looks over…and there’s his son. Sitting with his little head in his little hands. Imitating his father.

So Brody lowers his hands. And so does he son. Then Brody makes a face. And so does his son. And then Brody says, “Give us a kiss.”

And his son says, “Why?”

And Brody replies, “Because I need it.”

Thanks, Spielberg, for the best picture I’ve ever seen of parenthood and human frailty.

I think every parent must be Chief Brody on some level. They're just people. They're weak, overmatched, insecure, unprepared. And the world a dangerous place, full of incredible evil. For all they know, there's a giant shark out there!

And no one expects children to imitate their parents forever. No one expects you to always just give your parents a kiss and run to bed.

But they do need it.

So even when you grow up and grow tired of the bullshit, that's something to remember.

In case of THE OPEN OCEAN

2008-11-04T12:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve seen a lot of Bobby over the past few days and it’s been great.

I really can’t be more honest than that. It’s great. There’s no lingering pain, no real sorrow, no pangs of guilt or regret when I look into his eyes. There’s only joy. He and I both love what we were and what we are and whatever we’ll become. I think we’re a rare breed of exes.

But I do still ache for the fracturing of relationships in general. Why do hearts have to break? Why do human beings hurt each other? The fact that Bobby and I are good now doesn’t erase all the damage that we’ve sustained over the years. He and I built a boat and it didn’t weather the storm. It broke apart, smashed on the rocks. And this new vessel we’re crafting from the pieces is different. Lighter, more fragile. Water-stained.

I don’t know.

I’ve seen so much pain recently. I’ve seen so much history. It seems like everyone I know is walking around with these scars from past voyages, dragging shards and remnants. Anchors and chains of seaweed. Ghosts in billowed canvas. And we’re all just trying to move on.

But can we do that? Should we even do that, fully?

Look at the sheer number of memorials we’ve built in this country. We have a memorial for every painful thing. The Vietnam War. The Holocaust. We try to get past it, try to get past the crimes and the tragedies, but at the same time we want to remember. We have to remember. We move on. But we never really sail away.

And I don’t think it’s bad.

I don’t think memorial is bad.

Because every now and then, no matter where we’ve gone since the wreck, we need to look, really look, at the storm. We need to say, “This is the wave that capsized us. This was the night we lost sight of the beacon.”

So maybe, I guess, we can also say, "Never again."

Never again. That's what I hope.

In case of VERY IMPORTANT DECISIONS

2008-11-03T21:55:00.001-08:00

“Don’t try to talk politics with me. I hold very few political opinions and none that I’m willing to discuss. I don’t care and I care even less for people who think I should.”

The above speech probably sounds familiar to most of you. It’s mine, an old staple, that I like to pull out and give to strangers in bars, relatives at dinner parties, and unfortunate friends stuck with me on long car trips. It’s the silver bullet I use to slay the political werewolf inside everyone when I see a full moon rising.

Political ignorance is bliss. This is been my policy for years.

But tonight I’m drinking coffee and trying, like everyone else, to get through my Voter Information Guide in anticipation of tomorrow’s “election.” I say “election” because I’ve heard that there’s one going on. It’s supposedly pretty important. Go figure.

My problem is that I live and breathe for art. Art, religion, and love. And while I know, yes, on some cerebral level, that political movements and decisions will affect EVERY part of life – including art – I simply have a hard time believing that. How? Okay, this is important, I get it. But HOW?!?

Art will thrive, no matter who is in office. Art is story, it’s the heart of humanity, it’s the food of the soul. Art isn’t even restricted by national borders or language barriers. Art is and was and will be. Art transcends. So does religion. So does love.
I’m glad for America, yes, I am glad. I’ve enjoyed my life here very much; I hope America continues to prosper and that she passes into the hands of a wise and caring leader. But my role in this country has so little do with this wall-building, heartless monster called politics that makes us all grow fur and fangs. I’m not interested; I’m not.

But more power to you if you are.

I just don’t have the rage. I don’t have the burning need to fix this system. I think it’s broken; I think those that have the gift of understanding the mess should sort it out. Please do. But that person isn’t me. It’s like reading an electrical map of the circuitry of a New York City block. I can’t read that. But I’m glad there are electricians who can.

I can, however, read other maps. Maps of story. Maps of the heart and soul. And those are the maps to which I’ll devote my time and study.

So will I vote tomorrow? Probably. I’ll vote on everything I’m inclined to vote on. If I arrive at the polls and nothing seems right to me…well, then, I guess I’ll go home.

I'll leave it to others to howl at the moon.

In case of THE BODY SNATCHERS

2008-10-29T09:52:00.000-07:00

I’m a different person.

I’m not the person I was last year. I’m not even the person I was last week. I’m new.

The girl who wanted so much to date Andrew (Andrew!), the girl so capricious and impulsive she had to enforce a Prohibition, the girl that went angry and embittered to a wedding on October 11^th? Who WAS that?!?

I admit, I do bear a resemblance to her. But our similarities are fleeting and shallow; they’re expressions we simply wear the same way. It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, except she’s the emotionless pod person and I am Becky. I woke up and I’m Becky! Alive and scared and in love! I’ve been reverse body snatched!

(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimatably earth)

And here in this new world there’s Michael.

And yes! I know everything of all the reasons there “shouldn’t” be Michael! I know of the complications – how neither one of us has a certain future or any money, how difficult long distance is, etc. I know, too well, the width and depth of the Pacific. And maybe down the road, in a month or two months from now, I will rue those complications and groan with how frustrating and difficult they make it all.

But today? I just can’t.

Today I don’t care. Today I couldn’t care less. Today those things make me laugh, in a vague and amused way.

Today I want to run the road, banging on car hoods and screaming, “You’re next!”

(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

In case of LOVE

2008-10-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimatably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-- e.e. cummings

In case of MATERNAL INSTINCTS

2008-10-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

I had a job interview on Saturday.

They told me I got the job on Sunday.

I started on Monday.

It has been a crazy week. The job I took is part-time at an after school program for primarily Chinese elementary school kids. I’m the “teacher” in the 1^st and 2^nd grade room, which basically means that I baby-sit. It’s my job to get a bunch of munchkins to do their homework, to stay quiet, and to not seriously injure each other. And there are 17 of these miniature human beings in my charge. SEVENTEEN!

So here’s a fun story from my week.

Yesterday, I was alerted to trouble by the sound of crying near the back of the room. Upon investigation, I discovered that Alan had decided it would be fun to use a pencil sharpener to, I shit you not, SHARPEN MATTHEW’S FINGER. Matthew, as anyone would be, was sobbing. I got Miss Christine to watch the kids and took Matthew to the bathroom. Half his fingernail was missing! He was bleeding so much that I had to put pressure on his little baby finger for a few minutes to get it to stop.

So I’m standing there, holding Matthew’s pinky, tears just streaming down his face, and all I can think is, THIS IS NOT MY CHILD. Excuse me! I don’t remember getting knocked up and carrying anybody around in my womb for nine months, thanks very much. I never pushed another human being into the world and agreed to take responsibility for it. No way. I’m not Matthew’s mother. I’m not anybody’s mother!

But Matthew needs me to hold his finger.

And more than that, Matthew needs me to hold HIM.

So I take him in my arms and rub his back and tell him to just breathe. In. Out. Breathe with me, Matthew. Like this. In. Out. And I tell him that he’s so brave. You’re so brave, honey.

And eventually he stops bleeding. And eventually he stops crying.

So I take him to the principal and she puts a band-aid on his finger and sends him back with me to the room.

But the whole thing made me realize that you must not know ANYTHING about yourself until you become a parent. How could you? Parenthood requires a selflessness most of us can’t even comprehend. I held onto Matthew, his entire heart completely in my hands, for about five minutes. My existence during those five minutes? Insignificant.

AND I had the luxury of knowing that if Matthew didn’t stop crying, we could call his parents. His real parents. And they could come take care of it. Imagine not knowing that! Imagine sitting there in a bathroom with a child on your lap and you’re it! You are the only resource you have! And what if Matthew doesn’t stop crying? Dear God!

I don’t know.

So this is going to be my life?

Maternal instincts, don't fail me now.

In case of DRAMIRONY

2008-10-18T19:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, Ohio. I’m yours. Yours. Yours forever.

I really am SO Midwestern – which is boggling, if you think about it, considering I didn’t even grow up in Ohio. Not really, anyway. I wasn’t born there. And I didn’t have any sense of “Ohio” when we lived in Toledo. So my life in Columbus was really only two years long. Aaaaaaannnndddd…they were the worst two years ever.

But Ohio is planted deep in my heart. It’s as deep and old as the roots of my family. And we’re still growing there, still at home in the Ohio earth, spreading and changing and becoming new with each passing year. There’s no feeling on earth like coming around that last bend in the gravel driveway and glimpsing The Burrow through the pines. There’s no color on earth like the oak and maple trees in spring, the cattails by the pond in the late summer. There’s no view so pretty as the view out that big front window when the world is covered in snow.

BUT.

The crazy thing?

I can’t live there.

I wish I could. I honestly wish that I could. But I’m a writer and it seems that Ohio doesn’t want me to write when I’m there. It’s like the worst dramatic irony ever. DRAMIRONY! I’ve really never written anything good in Ohio. It dries me up and when I sit down with my computer or a pen? No words come. For some reason…no words come.

Maybe someday they will. That’s what I keep hoping. Maybe after years of life in the tumultuous spiral galaxy of Los Angeles, maybe I’ll go home. And maybe my hands or my heart will unclench and release and I won’t be plagued by writer’s block and I can sit in a rocking chair on a porch in a sweater and write write write in the richness of life in Ohio. Maybe.

Ah, Ohio! I’m yours! Yours forever!

But not yet.

In case of OCTOBER

2008-10-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Thanks for seasons.

It’s pretty cool how every four months the weather changes and different stuff starts happening. Deciding to make the earth revolve around the sun? Superb idea. Really good work there.

And let me just say that Autumn is an especially neat time of year. I like how the air starts to get colder and the smog over Los Angeles thins out. The weather makes it nice to walk outdoors in the mornings and at sunset. Plus, we get to start eating soup and drinking hot cider and coffee. And sweaters? Come on, who doesn’t love to cozy up in a nice sweater? Sweaters are like hugs you get to wear on your body all day.

Autumn brings all kinds of fun events and holidays too! Halloween, for example, which makes us all bust out colorful costumes and feed each other candy. Halloween sends little kids to my door. Seriously! Tiny people come to visit me! That’s so cool! And then there’s Thanksgiving, which is full of Harvest Parties and family and friends you haven’t seen in years. And time off work. And trips to San Francisco. I mean, the creation of this stuff is pure genius. Football season? Who would have thought of that one? But it’s great, God, just really great thinking.

Then there’s hay rides, bonfires, turkey, granny smith apples, fields turned golden, leaves turned red, pumpkins turned bright orange and sitting in front of every front door on my street, music played on the mandolin and fiddle, homecomings, reunions, long sleeves, boots, scarves, hats, gloves, plaid blankets, pumpkin ale, rosy cheeks, rakes, cold toes shoved into slippers, and a million other inventions we would never have imagined without seasons!

So thank you, Creator. As the days get shorter and brighter, and as the weather gets colder and cozier, and as my life gets sweeter and spicier, thank you. Thank you.

Just writing to let you know that I’ve noticed and that I'm quite a fan.

All my love,

Trixie Jean

In case of NED KELLY

2008-10-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

Argue all you like, but I maintain that there is nothing not to like about weddings. Free food, awkward relatives, and love love love. Even having to wear high heels can’t ruin a day like that.

PLUS.

There are Groomsmen.

Where else would a girl like me ever get the chance to dance with a charming, tuxedo-clad Australian? Go ahead and picture it. The last dance of the night. A slow dance. And there I sit, single, wistful, a glass of gold sparkling cider in my hand. Then a Groomsman begins to walk toward me through the glow of the twinkle lights and I’m in his arms almost before the invitation is even out of his mouth. It was magical.

And did he turn out to be a Bootlegger (or, in his case, a Bushranger)?

No.

He turned out to be a wonderfully sincere gentleman. And you don’t meet many of them these days.

But if you’re looking, I recommend going to weddings.

My point is this. There is no better place to celebrate life than a wedding. There’s no better place to rejoice in a God who restores, who heals, who brings people together. If you go to a wedding bitter, determined to hurt or feel resentment, you’ll only be met with love. A wedding means that there’s hope in this world. There’s hope. A wedding is a lighthouse on an angry sea, a hand to hold, a shooting star.

So raise your glasses to Darren and Maureen. This (!) has been a long time coming. See, he’s a Star Wars Geek and she’s a Chronicles of Narnia Fanatic and they’ve now promised to take care of each other in sickness and in health and in all the nerdiness that will surely follow them for the rest of their lives. I mean, they are just bound to have dozens of book-reading, cloak-wearing, light-saber-wielding Jedi children. Seriously.

AND.

Don’t be afraid to stand alone out there. Because people are still getting married in this world. Because you never know when you’ll get asked to dance.

Weddings should make us all a little braver.

In case of TEN NEW COMMANDMENTS

2008-10-10T16:04:00.001-07:00

Self-Imposed Rules for the Unemployed

1. Go to bed at a decent hour and get up every day before ten. There’s just no reason not to.

2. Regular mealtimes. Three squares a day. You owe it to your mom.

3. As much TV as you want. It passes the time, it’s free, and it’s a great study of character and story structure. (How's that for spin?)

4. No more than two cups of coffee per day even if you’re brewing it at home. If you have to buy, only one cup. Pay for it with spare change if you can.

5. Walk somewhere at some point. A morning constitutional with Rachel is a good idea.

6. Wear clothes. For the sake of the neighborhood children if for no one else.

7. Take a trip during the afternoon. It’s a fun game! If you leave before anybody gets home from work, you win!

8. Get drunk as infrequently as possible.

9. No false pretensions of dignity. You haven’t had any “promising interviews” and you’re not “taking a break.” You’re just unemployed. It’s okay. And as long as you’re young and you shower regularly, it's kind of romantic.

10. WRITE EVERY DAY. You don't have to work on the same thing all the time and you don't have to keep what you write. But you do have to write.

In case of INSOMNIA

2008-10-08T14:27:00.000-07:00

This is El Tigre. He is one of my best friends ever.

I met him in High School, junior year. I thought he was one of Sean’s Brainless Flunkies. I didn’t think he had a personality. I didn’t even hate him all that much. He was that insignificant to my life.

Then, when things got better, I started hanging out with him by default. You know, “Hey, everyone’s coming over. Invite people.” And someone would invite Tyger and he would just show up! Like magic!

I still didn’t know much about him.

Then, one night, for reasons I have yet to understand, we got to talking. We sat in my living room and talked for hours and hours. We talked all night and into the morning. My parents were like, “Who is this guy?” And I’m like, “Yeah. I have no idea.” I don’t even know what we talked so long about. But when he finally went home I decided to myself, “Tyger’s alright.”

That was senior year.

This is the part of the story where you think that Tyger and I are about to become best friends. That we start to see each other all the time and then we’re inseparable. That he makes everything about high school a little less sucky and I would start to have an ally out there in the world. Or, at least, that he and I would start falling in love.

But no. None of that happened. The talking night? Isolated incident. Not to be repeated for years.

The truth is that I have no idea how Tyger and I became friends. It wasn’t high school. And it certainly wasn’t college. I don’t remember the first day I invited him to a family party. I don’t remember our first time hitting the town together alone. I don’t know when it was that I called him, just him, to come out with me. But I do know that he still just shows up! And it’s still like magic every single time.

Tyger walks into my house without knocking. Tyger goes out to movies with my brother and cousins. Tyger gave my Grandad a present in the last week of my Grandad’s life. If we’re out together, Tyger always gets me home safely. He watches me sleep. He fills my life up with things to laugh about.

The helping hand on the sets of my movies? Tyger. The person I called when my Grandad died? Tyger. My Valentine's Day date? Tyger.

And when I moved to California, Tyger said he would drive across the country with me. Because there isn't 2,000 miles of road anywhere that I want to travel without him.

Tyger is all-in-all one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met. He’s incredibly giving, good natured, and easy to get along with. He’s also freaking hilarious and talented. If you know him, you’re so much luckier than you can even understand. The man is unstoppable. Be amazed.

So here’s to Tyger, my Tyger. I’ve never in my life been so happy to be so wrong about someone.

Happy Birthday. Sorry it's late.

Cheers.

In case of YUPPIES

2008-10-07T09:58:00.000-07:00

Coffee used to be coffee. You could get it anywhere, anyone could make it, and you pretty much drank it black. It was either the drink of refined foreigners or some bastardized American working class necessity. It wasn’t a big deal. There was no “concept” to it. Just look at old paintings. Watch old movies. Ask your grandparents what coffee “meant” when they were growing up and they will have no idea what the hell you’re asking.

But here were are in 2008 and suddenly I feel like we’ve stepped in some strange land of Oz. These days, every city is an Emerald City. And the man behind the curtain? The man who invented Starbucks.

Now, I’m not noble. I like Starbucks as much as the next white, young, urban professional. I like their big comfy armchairs and their vintagey music. Hell, I know a few Starbucks employees and I like them too. They are some cool cats. I even like Starbucks, dare I say it, coffee. Yes! I like it! But how DO they stay in business when they charge two dollars for a cup of black coffee and I could brew my own coffee for a week for that?

It’s because, hear me out, they are NOT SELLING COFFEE.

They’re selling STARBUCKS.

They’re selling an idea. A concept. A brand name. They’re selling the type of person you think you are, or think you want to be, the types of friends you want to have. See this girl who comes in on her way to pick up her expensive suit at the drycleaners? See how she can afford to spend five bucks on a grande raspberry soy mocha? You want to be her. Or see this guy in his hand-knitted scarf and Sinatra hat? See how he knows coffee so well that he gets into a conversation with the “barista” behind the counter about how they grind their beans? Oh yeah. You definitely need to be friends with him.

But what truly floors me about Starbucks is that they’ve managed not just to attract those of us who fit the profile, but by sheer ubiquitousness, they’ve gotten everyone.

Big tattooed Hispanics? Check. 12-year-old girl Bible study groups? Check. Homeless/crazy people? Check.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

Starbucks has single-handedly transformed my generation into coffee snobs. Because even if you never set foot in a Starbucks, you’ve developed some kind of principle about it. Even if you’re all about “supporting local businesses” and standing up against “the man,” the man has already won. Hello! He’s The Man for a reason! You’ve still got coffeehouse culture in your blood. Your life is still not complete without the occasional trip to wherever YOUR place is with comfy chairs and vintagey music. Maybe it doesn’t have those big corporate letters on the sign, but you still believe in the concept of coffee. Coffee still “means” something to you.

So my advice?

Hell. Keep on keeping on. There’s nothing we can do here. Starbucks is inevitable. Don’t fight it. You’d have better luck fighting global warming or world hunger, and, hey, Starbucks will help you with that.

As for me, I try to drink my coffee at home. We buy it cheap and brew it strong, at a one-to-one ratio. And I’ll swallow it even if it pretty much tastes like shit.

But every Saturday morning, I scrounge up my money, pull on my ruby slippers, get my roommates together, and yep.

We're off to see the wizard. Just like everyone else.

In case of PROHIBITION

2008-10-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I am a virgin.

I either credit or blame this (depending on the day) on my upbringing. Thanks to so many years of Sunday School and, later, Youth Group, I fully believed that sex before marriage was WRONG. And this didn’t cramp my style at all. I was a “late bloomer.” Until very recently, sex never even sounded like that great of an idea. Yes, I am a very successful product of Christian Subcultural Brainwashing.

But then I met Bobby. And I discovered kissing. And the bastion of my sexual prudery began to crumble.

And why not? We were in love. Making out with someone you love is GREAT. We always had so much fun finding new and interesting places to suck face. We made out in closets, in bathrooms, in cars, on staircases, on rides at Disneyland, on cliff tops, on beaches, in the ocean, in my parents’ house, in his parents’ house, in mission bell towers, in the woods, in the parking lot, in every dark corner of every building we could think of, and a in million other places I’m sure I’m forgetting.

And when Bobby and I broke up, I was angry and hurt and vulnerable and there was no way I was going to wait too long to see what it was like to kiss someone else.

Now, that was two years ago.

And I haven’t been all as promiscuous as I could have been. But I can still count my boyfriends on one hand, and, at this point, I’ve got to take off my shoes to count the number of mouths I’ve stuck my tongue into. Thank God for toes.

But I miss being in love.

I miss getting to kiss the SAME person every day. I miss the ease of a relationship, of making out with someone who KNOWS you, who you are, and how to treat you. I miss getting turned on by my emotions, not just my body.

As Beth says, maybe making out for the sake of making out isn’t WRONG. Maybe it’s just not as good as it could be. And even if you’re kissing someone you care about, someone you like, someone you really respect and admire and maybe even love in some way, if you’re not IN love, it’s still not as good as it could be. It’s not ideal. Not the way that it should be.

And why do I want to settle for that? Loneliness? Curiosity? Sexual frustration? Even to express comfort or affection, is that a good enough reason? I want to be a part of something as good as it could be!

So this (!) is my official decision. The next guy that gets to kiss me has to already be dating me. The next guy is going to be THE guy, for a while. This virgin is hereby laying off the sex. I’m getting on the wagon. I’m quitting, cold turkey.

Bootleggers be damned.

If there's room on the train...

2008-10-05T19:09:00.000-07:00

...I'll hop aboard. No problem.
So this is my foray into the world of corporate blogging. I don't have high hopes that I'll be more consistent on here than I was on Pitas, but I know that at least the change will keep me excited for a while. I really do like to blog. Really.

The title of this new little corner of the internet comes, originally, from a legendary advertisment by a man named Earnest Shackleton, who was looking for recruits to join his Antarctic expedition.
Supposedly, the ad read:

Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages. Bitter cold.

Long months of complete darkness. Constant danger. Safe return doubtful.

Honor and recognition in case of success.

But that's all just a story.

Anyway, I chose the title not to draw parallels between my life and an Antarctic adventure (although I DO see more than my fair share of penguins), but because I don't think I would even begin to know what to do if my dreams here in California should pan out.

So, really, the full title of this blog isn't "honor and recognition in case of success."

It's more like "IN CASE OF SUCCESS, BREAK GLASS."