Having the sense to write the thing.

Recently finished reading one of Elizabeth Gilbert's book, now I've actually forgotten the title....but anyway it's the one she wrote about the whole "great minds think alike" theory. She'd had this great idea for a book, and somehow, when she didn't act on the idea herself, the idea leaped into someone else's brain and that person wrote a best seller with her idea. She was cool with it. She realized that the universe wants to get its shit done, you know? Not wait around for the procrastinator to get around to executing the idea. In light of that I had to wonder why my seven stories haven't leaped to other minds? I still have charge of these stories, for some absolutely insane reason since I can't manage to execute any darn thing I set my mind to. It could be that my ideas are really stupid. Maybe I'm the poor schmuck with too much life happening while I outline the stories, hardly managing to get past my index cards. Maybe I surround myself with distractions. But, and you won't believe this....and only ONE PERSON ON THIS EARTH can verify this to be the truth....and isn't it a shame to have to verify statesments....but about ten years ago I had an idea for a book I started writing. About the things that have distracted me since I was 24 years old, things which have gotten in the way of all my goals....yep, that book is still sitting in my computer, never to see the light of day, because that book is called "Food, Money and Men." Seriously. In the midst of writing this genius piece, Carl ran into the house one day..... with a book. "oh my God, Ang. You gotta stop writing. LOOK!" And he showed me the book. THE BOOK. And that is how I met Elizabeth Gilbert, whose idea was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO good that it also jumped into my brain and probably a million others, but she had sense to believe in herself and write the thing. Full circle. Read her new book. Felt like the universe was speaking to me. Just do it.

I saw the Moon and the Moon saw me......

Recently on one hot night in Cuba, I was walking in Havana down a cobblestone street that led to the ocean. On that night the Super Moon was hovering what seemed like only inches above the water. I felt small in such a backdrop, the tiniest of creations on the planet. Feeling small and unimportant gave me a sense of freedom. I felt safe, but knew that the water could rise and take me away in a second, that I would be powerless against a rising tide. I got an earworm, too- the song from the musical "Carousel"- you know the one, that Billy Bigelow sang to Julie- "we're two little people, you and I, and we don't count at all." I heard that song first when I was small, and now, in Havana, small again, it came to me under the Super Moon that night. And maybe the song didn't really mean what I thought about next, but....nevertheless.... Accepting what "is"- when we're small it's easier. There is only so much we can affect. What I cannot change, what I cannot influence, what I have no control over, should not be on my mind at all. Worrying about what I cannot control or change is an earworm of another kind, a thief in the dark night, carving pathways in my brain that are driving to defeat me daily. If the waters rise, if the sun bears down, I'd better just get out of the way.

Letting go of everything negative that defined us in the past

Last summer my bigger-than-life dad, my very physically strong, tireless father, was bitten by a brown recluse spider on his way to a vacation weekend with my mother and their best friends.  He knew he'd been bitten, but he didn't stop driving.   Upon reaching the destination, my parents checked into their hotel and soon it was clear that my father had suffered the potential event that would change his life forever.

He couldn't move for one thing.  Once in the Emergency Room, it became clear he had been seriously injured by the spider.  Over a period of a few weeks, my dad suffered at least four surgeries on his arm to stop the flesh eating effects of the spider bite.  At one point it was reported to me that he might have his right arm amputated.

The daughter and grandson of the best friends stepped in for me- they were advocates for my parents in the hospital, errand-runners, listeners, and liaisons between family, doctors and everyone else involved.  Naturally my father insisted that I stay home, not to worry.

Now let me just say....I suspect my presence could cause a wee bit of stress which prompted his INSISTENCE that I not come.  I am rather high strung.  I'm certain my parents appreciated having someone else's children step up in their time of need.  Their own children can be rather trying.

The crisis passed but it set me on an emotional search for how to deal with my parents as they age.  They are going to age.  These powerful spirits who have had so much impact on my life will grow frail and vulnerable someday.  How can I be a better daughter?  As they age it will not be a time to harbor regrets from the past, not a time to blame.  It will become a time to release anything negative that defined us as a family in the past.  It will be a time for maturity, for forgiveness, for compassion.  It will be a time to encourage them to live well, enjoy life, enjoy each other, and not be afraid that their daughter would thoughtlessly plant them somewhere they don't want to be.  I want their trust.  How do I earn that now?

BUT they, and I, are going to remain the people we have always been.  Their personalities, their interests are not really going to change.   Changing a family dynamic is challenging.  If you listen to counselors or friends, they will say, "you can only change you."  But I believe a family can become new.  All of life is a transition of one kind or another.  But you have to let go of everything negative that defined your family in the past.  Everything.

The healing process was tough for dad, taking months.  My father exhibited a strength I didn't know he had.  My bigger-than-life, physically strong, tireless father was a bigger dad to me then than he ever was in the past. 

A spider sent him on a path of decline and gave him the opportunity to show what he is made of.  On the one hand he aged, on the other he grew as a man and made me proud. 

My challenge remains letting go of the regrets that I did not appreciate them enough in the past....the past....the past.  

Three little boys and their hats

All three men remembered the old soldier in the same way.  When they were five, he was young, virile, someone to look up to.  Look up to him they did.  In 1952 he had fought a war that most everyone was behind- he'd killed Nazi's and that was a good thing in their young minds.  A hero. 

The soldier's son, born after the war, watched his dad leave for Korea.  Another war- more heroism- his pride overwhelming his impulse to cry and beg his father to stay.  His father left for that war on a night when all three boys were together- his son in his little twin bed- the Daniel Boone coonskin cap on his bedpost- the other two boys bunking- the boy on top, army helmet on his bedpost- the boy below, cowboy hat on his.  Little men.

It was the middle of the night when his dad woke him to say goodbye.  "Don't cry, son.  Your father will be back."  "Yessir."  "You three boys take care of each while I am gone, and take care of your mother."

Saw the old soldier again in 2006, this time he was 78 years old.  His son had been missing in action for at least forty years- MIA, Viet Nam.  Surely he's dead, but could never be sure- his body was never recovered.  The Army kept coming up with remains- DNA testing from the maternal remains- only proving that, while several GI Joe's had made their way back to American graves and long-suffering families, none of them had managed to be this old soldier's son. 

He didn't mind so much for himself.

It was the boy's mother who suffered so.  She descended into some kind of grief-induced dementia and finally died. 

She'd run around naked and start fires everywhere. 

Towards the end he had to put her on a dog leash to keep her safe.

Powering Through Fear

A group of my friends and I watched a DVD doc called "Finding Joe" about the hero's journey by Joseph Campbell.  I bought the DVD and Carl and I watched it last week.  It really inspired us both to get off ours duffs this week, but…anyway, enough about that!   I know I am inspired to go on my own journey finally doing some things I really  want to do.  I know I often resist doing the one thing I most want to do.  So here's what I read today…..

If you resist the call, you are right on course. Resisting the call to the adventure is part of the journey.

It's natural to resist that which not only fills a deep need, but can also reveal where you might have fear or self doubt.

When I went to the vertigo doctor this week, he kept using the terms "empower" and "power through".  I believe spiritually my vertigo is a symptom of an imbalance in my real life versus my creative life.  He diagnosed me with the most common kind of vertigo and he treated it with physical therapy right there on the spot.  It was so scary because he placed my head and neck and body in positions that cause great fear and distress to me- he could see how scared I was to be placed in those positions which HAVE ALWAYS caused me to have extreme vertigo, but he held me down and "empowered" me to "power through".    He gave me exercises to power through a four day vertigo episode that may come in the future in only four minutes. 

I can't help but think that powering through our fears might be empowering after all.

When I was small Santa made fun of me. I wanted a typewriter. And on Christmas morning it seemed I had a typewriter under the tree! I unwrapped the gift and it was a typewriter box- just the box and nothing inside -no typewriter. Well, I cried. No, I think I threw a tantrum. Santa was a big jerk.

I just kinda thought Santa was the one thing that wouldn't make fun of your dreams. But my tantrum had already colored the day. As I recall my parents were unsympathetic.

Alas....My parents had the typewriter hidden - they (mistakenly) thought it would be a funny surprise to tease me, then give me the typewriter, ....but even then, there were times I could be quite humorless.

So much for asking for what I want....what I really want.

Santa, Mentor, prayers

The one thing I never had sense enough to ask for, to wish for, and the most important thing I never had- is a mentor.

This is my own fault. I don't ask or pray for anything I really want. I think I pray like I sometimes audition- tentatively, lacking confidence-- and we all know you never get the part if you aren't bursting with confidence, if you aren't "owning the room." Well, suffice to say I don't think I own the room when I pray.

I tentatively pray and wish for dreams to come true and for luck to be bestowed, tentatively, in the way (I am afraid) I believe in God- a little scared to pray for the wrong thing, afraid to seem selfish, ridiculous, to want a break when God must have so many things to do that are so much more important than what stupid little request I have that has to do with accomplishment, earning a living, getting my work out there, paying off my debts quicker than the way I am doing them now. I fear I am childlike when I pray, thinking of God as a kind of Santa Claus, with only one night to deliver all the goods to all the children of the world--a busy Santa, only with everyone asking for everything, not just a few toys.

And so the most important thing I never asked for is a mentor. But putting my work out there for judgement and interpretation did bring me a much needed mentor experience at the beginning.

I was writing about George and Scheherazade yesterday. And that my Helen was married to George and the first actress who played her...well, in rehearsals I could tell she was all wrong, that she was just playing crazy and mean. I told the actress that Helen LOVED George, she LOVES him. I told the actress that she was just playing someone horrible and mean. She loved him. "Play it like you love him", I directed this professional actress.

The actress (surprisingly) didn't sock me in the mouth, but instead asked "where in the script did you hide the fact that she loves George? If you want me to play her that way, then leave me a damn clue in the script to play her that way, why don't you?"

She was right. I had hidden the LOVE for George underneath the hateful and angry words I'd written for Helen to say. There was not a clue anywhere in the script. I knew what made Helen tick, but nobody else did.

Then she added, "well, it's your job to tell me what makes Helen tick IN THE SCRIPT."

It was exactly what I needed as a playwright and as a human being.

George and Scheherazade, sad, sad, sad

Helen had a fascination for Audrey Hepburn. Helen, at fifty years old and past her prime, dressed in pearls, a turban and dark sunglasses, dressed this way just to sit on her patio chair, drink her beer, eat her twinkies and Doritos, and smoke endless cigarettes- the ashes dangling precariously from a black cigarette holder.

Her husband George would come home from work every night, sit on the patio with her, and hope for the best. Why did he bother? She was fragile, yes, but despicable.

There had to be a moment when he would decide to leave her.

They were so Albee. It had to go badly.

Who knew (not me) that when I wrote a play about my George and Helen I really believed deep down that all men leave- that there was no way George would stay (and I fought for him to stay in the play, I really, really, really fought for him).

And that one of the actors who played George in this play would be the man in my life who never left me.

Not a sad, sad, sad ending at all.

Santa left me a book I already have

Strangely enough after I picked up all the Christmas trash I found something Santa must have left for me- a trade copy of the book "Friday Night Lights." In all seriousness, I have no idea where this trade copy came from. I already have a paperback copy of the book. It's author, Buzz Bissinger, is one of my favorite non-fiction writers. I blogged about him for the Dallas Morning News, actually.

And I have no idea where this trade copy came from. Someone threw it in a bag for me and I just didn't notice? Who knows? Surely Santa wouldn't bring me a book I already have.

Maybe he means for me to share it with someone. At any rate, here's a link to the blog about Buzz Bissinger. Paste it in your browser.

http://artsblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2009/11/more-on-friday-night-lights--a.html

And how timely since Texas football politics is all the news right now, Texas Tech and Coach Leach and Adam James and all that ruckus.....

Makes for a great story.

The 9 a.m. movie adventure

I can start a movie at 9 a.m.- something maybe 80 minutes long. On Demand is a wonderful thing. I watch the credits, but soon after I put it on pause. Then I put it on pause a hundred more times so that it takes me eight hours to watch that movie.

I make coffee, then make breakfast, then shower, than make the bed, then put joint compound on a wall, then do a paraffin melt for my hands, then look for the heating pad for my seventeen year old cat, then throw out the cream cheese I feel guilty about having in my fridge, then retrieve the cream cheese and wonder whether I could put it outside for an animal to eat, then get online to see if there is an animal that actually eats cream cheese, go back to the movie for awhile, then paint the wall after the compound dries, remove the door knob from the door that needs painting, accidentally close the door without the doorknob and realize that all my coats are in there and I can't get the door open again, paint the door because to heck with it- maybe when my S.O. gets back home he can open the door- talk on the phone a dozen times, go back and watch some more movie, get on the treadmill, organize the trash for trash day, load the dishwasher, finish the movie.

And sometimes I actually entertain the idea of going out to a movie.

Who am I fooling? I have some kind of attention deficit thingie.

Working my way out of the hole

Sometimes it's just how far I go down into the rabbit hole, but sometimes it's debt that cripples me from acting on my dreams. Pure and simple. My kneejerk reaction to the spectre of debt is to get mad because I have to have a day job. And who's fault is that? All mine. And I am certainly not alone.

Nobody loves the day job unless it happens to be the profession they have carefully chosen out of a very short list of passions.

For the most part I work as hard as I can to at least be grateful for my job, to care about my job. I owe the job so much. It provides for me because I screwed up and didn't figure out how to provide for myself without it.

My job was NOT chosen, it just happened and I have NO passion for it. But it's a perfectly lovely place to work, not a thing wrong with it.

The hole I got myself into was debt. Forget about any other dream, the fear of debt, the reality of debt kept all my good dreams at bay.

Getting out of debt is freedom which can lead to my being able to live exactly the way I want to.

Debt is a relative thing, too. I really don't have alot of debt by comparison. Nothing is late. Nothing is in crisis.

For today all I know to do is not spend, never charge, pay off debt as quickly as possible, and keep a job. By all means, keep a job. And then maybe I can pursue my dreams more fully, more confidently.

I live in a house of cards. I'd be lost without the job.

Christmas Day is cold and white here in Texas, can you believe that? It does not happen often. So of course I can use that as a distraction for the whole day.

The wonder of it is that it gives me joy to be distracted by cold and white and I gotta grab onto that feeling because it doesn't come often!

These cold, white days can go either way, too. Dark, dreary depression or "wow, I feel so great today!" I'm grabbing for how great this day has been. A true Christmas gift- that I'm not depressed, that I am alone on Christmas Day and feeling joy!

The Unbearable Lightness- I won't go there today- thank you, thank you, brain, for not going there today.

I wear shirt sleeves and walk back and forth to the laundry room in my complex for eight loads of laundry, and the icy feel on my bare skin is sublime. Have to wash curtains, sheets, clothes, everything. I love every second of it. Everything will be clean and crisp.

It's too cold for the dryers to work properly so have to hang the clothes on the patio in the icy cold.

I toss Christmas trash, put out my new stuff- comforter and cannisters, and I drink tea, hot tea. (I never ever drink hot tea.) An event, to fill the new cannisters with tea and then to make the tea and drink the tea.....And I do get on the treadmill because I want to..... but then I eat enough pasta with cream cheese and butter sauce to knock me out cold. So I nap. Then I watch an old black and white movie-- "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir" with Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney.

And I do not give a thought (until now) to my plight, to my promise to myself and certainly not to the promise I made to my folks- what to do with my stories. And I don't even look at my bank account online, not once. Why go there?

I surf the cable. For fun. The year end stuff is going on, though, and all those lists- the best, the worst, the most important- right now there is a report (again) on Susan Boyle- that she was really the only overnight success ever, that older folks who still buy CD's have made her a wealthy woman (hooray!) and that we all loved her "story". We all love that Cinderella "story." They said it on the news. We all love the Cinderella stories. I (somehow) am an exception to that rule.

The word "success" jolts me back to reality, though.

The real story as I remember it- a couple of thousand people rolled their eyes and laughed as Susan Boyle got out there to give her dream a shot. It could have gone so badly for her- that stupid audience wanted it to.

It's the YouTube I saw. Full disclaimer. I don't like those talent shows. They're mean shows. I do not watch them. I don't get the enjoyment of watching people make fun of people who put it all out there. Audiences sitting there laughing, sitting on their fat tails laughing at people who are really out there trying to do something.

(Everyone is potential heartache if we watch how terrible they are treated....all Jean Florette's.)

It would be the scenario I would imagine the day before the show, though, being laughed at.

What I can learn from Susan Boyle is this:

If the imagination is just too vivid, maybe it's best to just be "simple", have a dream, go for it, and not visualize anything in advance, or put anything on a vision board, or any of that--- because an imaginative person who visualizes things, ends up visualizing things like........."oh look everyone is laughing at me trying to pursue my dream."

I don't know if anyone has asked Susan Boyle what the day before her appearance was like. But I would bet if she was creating visualizations or vision boards, she would have gone on that show with her "after" eyebrows. I'm betting she simply believed in her talent and her dream and she just went for it. Simple.

She's a great story because of the journey she must have taken, from the day before, to the day of, to the day after and on. I don't know that story, though. I can only imagine it. And it is scary to imagine. But she was fearless. So maybe she just kept it simple, kept it very, very simple.

Sometimes that takes alot of effort.

The first day of the story

The stories are there, and actually I've already told them in other forms- plays, and even one screenplay, to say nothing of the countless times I've told the stories to my friends, my co-workers, shown them to audiences at my little theater.

And the support I've gotten is humbling. In fact, my significant other wonders why I think I only have seven stories to tell for my whole artistic life- he wonders why I don't just make up more to tell? He says I'm just that odd writer who doesn't quite want to be a writer. And he wonders why I don't sell them? (Doesn't that take a really long time?)

What's the point of just going from one story to another to another? Isn't seven enough? Seven that have taken a luxurious amount of time to write, not one after another after another, taking minutes or hours to write?

and selling them......something is wrong with my creative self- it has some kind of deficit, losing focus when I feel I've done all I can do to write the story down. I feel guilty because it's a hobby.

After I write them, I move on. And my family wants me to "succeed", they want me to say........."this happened to this work and that happened to that work"......It's Christmas Eve and I'm going to move my stories forward over the next 365 days, I promised them. This is not a New Year's resolution- I mean, who would I be fooling? THIS is spirit. This is BELIEVING. This is FOLLOwinG MY BLISS.

And then after promising them I drive through a blinding rain, 20 miles an hour on freeways, and I get home, turn up the heat, feed the cat and say.....Who am I fooling? I can only promise myself that I can check out HOW people do this every single day for the next year- how they live their dreams, how they get their work out there. I may not act on any of it, but I'm going to find out how they do it. I know, I know, it's territory that has already been covered a billion times.......but this is another distraction, I suppose, to keep me from truly following my bliss. But it's the promise I made to myself and not the bloated one I promised my family.

And as I write this, I just feel inadequate that.... on this silent night, I understand that the words to describe my Christmas Eves have already been written by someone else, so much better than I could write them.....silent night, holy night. sleep in heavenly peace.

Waiting now for Santa. Gonna eat cookies. Night night. Who am I fooling?