In case of MENTAL VACATIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.