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My passion for writing stretches back to my early teen years, when I first started keeping a journal and trying to come up with story ideas. My junior high school crush, Zac, and I would write songs and stories together, coming up with plot ideas and fleshing them out in scribbled pencil over cold spaghetti in the school cafeteria or locked in my bedroom after school. Zac was a huge Springsteen fan; it follows that the few songs we wrote together (he provided music; I handled lyrics) sounded like a dreadfully poor imitation of something you might find amongst songs from the Born in the USA reject pile.
Long before there was Beverly Hills 90210, Zac and I conceived our piece de resistance, an angst-laden, cliche-ridden soap opera loosely based on our pubescent friends and sometimes involving teachers (about whose personal lives we speculated wildly and I imagine were far more interesting in our minds than in reality). We titled our youthful masterpiece Fantasy Express.
The ongoing saga of life at a fictionalized version of our junior high school was born in 1984 and scrawled in Zac's boyish handwriting on a sketch pad, which I'm quite sure I still have somewhere amongst my yearbooks and other memorabilia of my teen years. The names were all changed to protect the innocent (namely our close circle of friends and a few well-placed outsiders) and to ensure we didn't anger said friends with negative portrayals. There were the requisite love triangles, low-level in-fighting and back-stabbing, looming doubts over chosen dates for formal dances and conjecture over what our teachers were doing behind closed doors. Our conceived romance between two married Spanish teachers elicited much commotion from fellow students of the alleged lovers, posing a challenge for anyone who'd read the "episode" involving la senora y el senor to keep a straight face in either's class.
The stories were not sexually explicit (who knew from sex in 8th grade, anyway?), nor were they laden with expletives or potty humor. On the contrary--they were fairly sophisticated for a pair of thirteen-year-olds, replete with flowing, witty dialogue and quasi-realistic depictions of suburban teenhood.
Indisputably, our finest episode of Fantasy Express was one that opened with Zac's pencil drawing of ominously dark clouds shadowing a full moon. It was our Halloween episode, unfolding at the invented mansion belonging to the parents of a friend. Zac and I labored to create an elaborate murder mystery, involving our entire group of friends (all clad in intricate costumes, naturally) as well as the manor's taciturn housekeeping staff and one somewhat stereotypical but nevertheless strangely sinister butler.
Yes, folks, the butler did it. Or did he? I honestly don't remember, but when I have time to retrieve the masterwork from whence its stored away I will certainly share the story's ending (and possibly some of its amusing dialogue).
A few years later, in high school, Zac and I worked together again, this time writing public address system announcements promoting our drama department productions. Last I heard, Zac was teaching high school somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. We met up briefly about ten years ago with some other friends but much has changed since then. I wonder if he's still writing?
A friend asked me if I've noticed how similar our climate here is to that of New York (him having lived there for several years). I politely responded, as is my wont, with my own question: "Are you high?"
True, the two regions have humidity and low elevation in common (both within 30 feet of sea level). Yet Arcata's climate is far more temperate, a welcome change in the summer months, when--I assure you--the oppressive mugginess of New York will NOT be missed. The winter months--while far chillier than places like southern California--felt more like late autumn to me, with brisk winds and day temperatures in the range of an unseasonably warm NYC winter day. However, I always loved the snow and find that winter simply is not winter without a heaping helping of the white stuff (best when you don't have to drive in it, naturally).
In case I haven't painted quite a vivid enough picture of life in Humboldt County, I share with you this anecdote: while waiting at a stop sign in Old Town Eureka the other day, I was overcome by a brief fit of sneezing. Looking up, I noticed the pedestrian who'd been unhurriedly crossing the street in front of me had made his way over to the driver's side of my car, leaned in close to me, smiled and kindly blessed me.
After I graciously thanked the gentleman, he returned to the crosswalk and proceeded on his way, wishing me good health and a lovely afternoon.
As I've always said, it's the little things that make life sweet.
The early morning hours are proving far more productive for me these past few weeks than I'd ever expected of myself. I once considered myself a night person--especially living in the "city that never sleeps"--regularly staying up until one or two, thinking myself productive at such late hours. But, honestly, I was skilled in deluding myself into thinking I was productive. True, there was the occasional creative outburst or neat-freakish cleaning frenzy, but typically, my late night hours were spent watching movies, listening to music, reading or talking on the phone with west-coasters for whom the night was still relatively young.
So NPR's Weekend Edition yesterday openly praised Michael Moore's triumph at Cannes and noted that the win would likely mean the film will be shown in U.S. theatres this summer. While I am a tad concerned about the effects watching the movie will have on my mental and physical health (uncontrollable anger = bad), I nevertheless plan to see it.
Oh, and after reading JonMc's hilarious description of a string of "interesting" neighbors, I'm inspired to throw in one of my own. In my very first apartment, I encountered a loud, rather verbally amorous couple sharing my bedroom wall. The wall-pounding rarely began before about 2am and often kept me awake until dawn. Upon closer listening (c'mon, who doesn't attempt a closer listen?), I noticed that the male half of said couple seemed to change almost nightly--sometimes a deep-voiced gentleman, a la Isaac Hayes (complete with "chocolate salty balls," I imagine) and occasionally a timid, squeaky, Jerry Lewis-sounding lad. Most often, it was a Hispanic man with a penchant for what some might call S&M but what I'd call violence (the difference being that S&M can be pleasurable and this woman gave no indication of pleasure being had). Painful smacks, loud utterances of words like "bitch" and rather unwholesome requests were commonly heard at varying levels when he was her overnight guest. My revenge was to leave Howard Stern blaring on my clock radio when I departed for work early each morning, hoping to interrupt their slumber as they'd done mine.
We soon surmised--after meeting one of her "johns" in the hallway one morning--that the woman was simply practicing the world's oldest profession. Upon finally seeing the prostitute wandering the hallway in skin-tight hot pink bicycle shorts and stilettos, we called the landlord. Soon after, the Hispanic guy (presumably her pimp) banged on our door one night and tearfully knelt down, pleading with us not to complain, insisting this was the only way they could make a living and that they'd be quieter from then on. And they were (affording me some much-needed sleep).
Finally, some good news.
I look forward to seeing it (assuming this news means some distributor will step up to the plate).
"Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got..."
So that lyric literally popped into my head just this instant and, like a petulant child, refuses to budge. Strange, too, because I woke up not long ago with the second half of Paul McCartney's "Uncle Albert" playing loud and clear on the ever-eclectic rotation of the MP3 player embedded in my brain. Don't know where that one came from either, trust me. But the Cheers lyric sure does hold up over time, doesn't it?
Well, I must thank everyone for their concern regarding my little brother. He is doing fine, still a bit nervous, taking things slowly and paying close attention to things we typically take for granted, like heart rate and breathing. Oh, and the best thing to come of this? He's drastically cut down on his smoking, not quite explicitly ordered by the doctor, but strongly recommended. Of course, it's been not-so-subtly suggested countless times before (and Amir's no dummy--he knows it's a horrible habit), but I believe fear plays possibly the largest part in supplying motivation for necessary lifestyle changes. So in that respect, I'm glad he was spooked. Last night we had a lovely dinner and watched The Cooler, a nice distraction from the near-chaos of the past few days. That William H. Macy is pretty darned brilliant, I'm discovering more and more.
Freelance projects clutter my plate this morning, one of which is a writing assignment from a potentially lucrative new source. Landing that assignment on a regular basis would be a tremendous stroke of luck. Keep them fingers crossed.
My first chance to write about the events of the past few days and I'm feeling slightly hungover (no alcohol involved, mind you). Well, I suppose I should first say I'm writing from my new apartment, in front of a window with a slightly obscured but otherwise lovely view of Humboldt Bay (a view I'm sure will be much more impressive on a morning not quite so overcast as this). Boxes surround me, begging to be sorted through and unpacked, yet I'm not prepared to begin the process just yet. Last night's initial box emptying and computer set-up took enough out of me.
A minor medical emergency (now there's an oxymoron) with my brother this weekend scared the living hell out of my sister-in-law and me, not to mention freaked Amir out a good deal. Waking up in the back of an ambulance--not certain why you're there--can do that to a person. A terrifying episode (some sort of seizure) at home followed by several hours in the emergency room is enough to ruin anyone's weekend, but we didn't let it put a damper on our evening plans for a wonderful barbecue with friends, all of whom, in their seemingly endless concern for Amir, followed him around throughout the evening, asking how he was doing and making sure he was never alone. Rarely does one meet such a warm, caring and lovely group of people (and damn good barbecue chefs to boot!).
Now, the aftermath of a traumatic event settles in. Because we have few answers for what caused the episode and no clue whether to expect a recurrence, we are all somewhat on edge. And, as any medical or other such emergency is likely to do, the experience has left me appreciating my family just that much more. I talked to a friend Sunday who recently learned his mother is dying of cancer. He is 29; she about the same age as my mother (a very young 56). The thought of losing a parent or any family is upsetting and frightening on so many levels it is difficult to put the feeling into words (though it's a feeling I imagine every human being experiences at some time or another).
The immediate or lingering fear of losing someone you love is universal, sadly, but it's one that does a grand job of putting other aspects of your life into perspective. It forces us to realize what's truly important in life and proves that the junk littering our daily lives is not. If I've learned one important thing in 32 years it's that the fear of losing someone should not be the reason you reach out to that person--expressing your love requires no such specific motivation.
Whatever nagging doubts I have had about leaving New York and starting anew in a place so drastically different are assauged by my remembering that one of my reasons for returning west was to be closer to my family. Whatever challenges or obstacles I've faced since I've been here are worth it--the time spent with my brother and sister-in-law over the past three months has been invaluable. Even if I decide not to stay here, choosing to return to New York or head off to parts unknown, spending time with my immediate family (a rare treat when living in New York) and close friends has made this portion of my life's journey infinitely sweeter.
As the granddaughter of Auschwitz survivors and great-granddaughter and grandniece of several non-survivors, this news is most unwelcome. The U.S. government supposedly received information that Germany planned to execute and eliminate millions of people and yet considered it a "low priority?"
Unfortunately, this is not really news. My grandmother, an Auschwitz survivor, is active in survivor groups and spends a good deal of time giving lectures on the Holocaust, mostly to students and military personnel. When I have questions about what happened, she's the one I turn to, though she only began talking about her experiences over the last 10 years or so. Naturally, Grandma Lida has very strong opinions regarding what President Roosevelt could and should have done during the early years of the war, before Hitler began what's known as The Final Solution. My grandmother, her mother and her siblings were removed from their homes and taken to Auschwitz in 1944, a full two years after the U.S. apparently received word of Hitler's plans. It's incredibly sad and infuriating to think of what could have been (yet was not) done to put an end to the atrocities that occurred between U.S. awareness in 1942 and liberation in 1945.
Adding to that, the U.S. apparently formed covert relationships with Nazi criminals after the war. Hmm... not all that different from the Bush family sharing milk and cookies with the Saudis after September 11, is it now? I suppose some things truly, sadly never change.
Rest in peace, Nick Berg.
On NPR this morning, Bill Moyers likened the Internet to "a great public park." I'm not typically a fan of Moyers, but that little analogy struck me as incredibly appropriate. He also made the rather ironical comment that the media in this country seem to do everything possible to avoid their true function: informing the public. Very bothersome, especially considering what's happening with Michael Moore. I've written about Moore on occasion, being not so much a fan of the man, but admiring of his insatiable veracity and his having the balls to speak his mind despite the obstacle of so many people conspiring to stop him.
The question of who's to blame for September 11 is one I believe will never be answered to anyone's satisfaction. In some ways, no one is to blame. In some ways, we are all to blame. But Moore tackles the monumentally more important question of what the U.S. did after the attacks. Thank heaven and hell someone finally came forward and dragged this out into the light. The Bush family has strong, decades-long ties to Saudi Arabia--including bin Laden's family--and we're busy trying to figure out if the attacks could have been avoided? Are you shitting me?!?
On September 11, one of the first things Bush did was locate the closest friends and family members of the undisputed perpetrator of the crime and then escort them quietly out of the U.S., no questions asked. Forget the fixed 2000 election, forget the prison abuse photos, forget the other follies of our brainless president. Allowing bin Laden's posse safe passage from the U.S. not 24 hours after the worst act of terrorism in centuries is the most heinous, infuriating, disturbing and downright evil thing this administration has done (and somehow, doesn't appear they'll be held accountable for).
What the fuck is wrong with everyone?!? We're so busy blasting Bush for some underinflated Medicare numbers or for draft-dodging or for being functionally illiterate but the truth is, no one will ever pay for the tragedy of September 11 because Bush needs their friendship and support. It sickens me to the point of wanting to flee this country (which I'd strongly consider doing if it didn't mean leaving my family).
I can't wait to see Moore's film, though I'll admit I'm quite concerned I'll blow a fuse within the first ten minutes. I have not given in to my increasing urge to rant and pontificate about various things lately because such foaming at the mouth raises my blood pressure, which is exactly the opposite of what I promised my body I'd do by leaving New York (the fact that I have consistently low blood pressure notwithstanding). Let's just use "high blood pressure" as a metaphor for "inner turmoil" or other such bodily chaos.
A few months back, I mentioned that I couldn't remember a time when I was more upset, disgusted or troubled by news reports. Well, it's gotten worse, hasn't it? My days typically begin on a good note but as soon as I read the daily newspaper, my "blood pressure" goes up, teeth and fists are clenched and heart begins to swell. I've always been an optimistic sort who sees the glass as eternally half full and believes everything will work out for the best. But that's changing. I'm now more of an optimistic pessimist, someone with real concerns over whether the battle zones of the world (including the one right here on American soil) will ever be even remotely peaceful. Gee, thanks, Dubya!
"I have studied foreign relations nearly my entire life, and I have never seen a situation as terrible as this one." -- Madeleine Albright, speaking from experience on what the rest of us can only glean from news reports.
Over breakfast, I read an extremely insightful and well-stated yet off-putting (hey, what isn't these days?) editorial in our local weekly, The North Coast Journal. You can read it here, if you so choose.
Had myself a bit of a Tarantino fest over the weekend, indulging in a double feature of Kill Bill, Volume 1 and 2. For some reason, I couldn't be convinced to see Volume 1 when it came out last year, first expecting it was too violent for my tastes and--once persuaded to see it by a friend who emphasized the intrinsic Quentin-ness of the violence--never found time to catch it while it was still running on the big screen.
Fast forward to last night, when seven bucks bought me admission to the magical world of Quentin, times two. Volume 1 was thoroughly, unabashedly entertaining, an impressive feat considering my general aversion to violence. I was surprised to find myself disappointed that it was over. It was as if Quentin made the film with the awareness that fight scenes lasting longer than a few minutes tend to bore me and, thankfully, he kept them short and sweet (and quite entertaining, at that). Volume 2 was grittier, especially a sequence that--while not nearly as graphic or gory as other violent scenes--was truly disturbing in that "Bring out the Gimp" sort of way that only Quentin can master. And I'll be damned if I'm not suffering from an irrepressible case of Uma Thurman worship. She looked exquisite and made me want to run out and sign up for ass-kicking lessons.
Of course, one can't mention a Tarantino flick without gushing about the music. Even after watching Volume 2--with its own clever soundtrack--my ears were still ringing with the beautifully eerie Zamfir closer from the first movie, not to mention the gritty contributions of former Wu Tang Clan producing wiz RZA, new stuff from Ennio Morricone and that ghostly Sonny Bono tune sang by Nancy Sinatra. Cool.
Tarantino is a rather intriguing young lad, isn't he? With regards to music, he's made some comments that ring incredibly true with a true music geek like myself. Around the time Pulp Fiction was released and people were first introduced to Quentin's eclectic musical tastes, he was asked by a reporter how he chooses the music for his films, to which he replied, "I just use songs I'd put on mix tapes for my friends." Love it, Q. You can make me a mix tape anytime, you prince of strangely attractive geekiness.
Overheard while out and about this morning: "People in other cities gauge the change in seasons based on the weather. Here they go by how the college kids are acting."
True dat. I stumbled upon a conversation between two women complaining about the late-night noise and parties so rampant around here lately. One of them reminded the other that it's finals week.
"Ohhhh..." the newly-enlightened woman replied. "So that's why this town has gone mad these past few days."
I've never lived in an environment so governed and propelled by the local university, which this region thrives upon so much so that the population dips by almost half as soon as the school year ends. People here determine where they want to live based on proximity to campus--students live nearer, non-students try to live as far from it as possible. And yet it's different from areas I've been where the university or local college rules the region in a negative way, spewing noise and strewing trash around town, monopolizing the local job market with dolts barely deserving of their minimum wage salaries.
Of course, HSU has its negatives (for example, the campus newspaper, The Lumberjack, is atrocious). But one of the things I love about living in this area is how socially, politically and environmentally conscious its citizens are, including the majority of students at the university here. Small-town denizens are typically thought of as less informed and intelligent (or at least intellectual) than the more sophisticated residents of cities like New York. However, after having lived in a relatively small town for the past three months, I've found that to be a myth. The residents of Humboldt County are mostly educated, well-read, highly aware people. I'm sure the same cannot be said for many small towns in this country, which for me provided the biggest impetus toward settling in a big city. Still, living in an area like this--where incomes are slightly higher, more people are educated and global awareness is much more widespread--makes the transition from metropolitan living that much easier.
Of course, that doesn't make up for the fact that, since January, I haven't had a bite of great Chinese takeout or cheap, savory Indian food or seen an interesting bit of theatre or walked briskly through Manhattan, weaving amongst throngs of people, inhaling the clamor of city streets, which I deeply miss (along with a myriad other things about NYC). It does mean, however, that my lungs and skin are cleaner, my body is healthier, I'm considerably less tense and my overall sense of well-being is... well, more well. Still, I am completely aware each waking day that the New Yorker in me will never be fully quashed and will eventually re-emerge in all her tightly-wound fervor. Just you wait.
This morning while driving to Eureka, I was channel-surfing the local radio stations and heard (on the Classic Rock Experience, no less) the Cars' big hit "You Might Think," a song I'll admit to digging pretty heavily when it first began heavy radio rotation. And who can forget its way cool accompanying video? I, of course, was one of those freakish girls who thought Ric Ocasek was cute in his own geekish way. But I digress.
So I'm bobbing along to the tune this morning when suddenly it dawns on me that the song (and excellent album from whence it came) is 20 years old. 20 YEARS. Two decades. I was getting ready to start my 8th grade year when I bought the LP, most likely at Licorice Pizza (or Fedco or Gemco or one of those other big ol' SF Valley stores to which I tagged along with my dad, killing time in the music section while he bought power tools or got new frames for his eyeglasses).
The simple enjoyment of an infectious 80s pop song had abruptly turned on me and left me contemplating the distant past, then the not-so-distant past, then the present and -- naturally -- the future. I was 13 years old one day in a far-off decade. Now I'm 20 years older, only a smidgen wiser and steadily approaching an inevitable mid-life crisis. Holy puberty, what the heck happened?
(Thanks to The Posies.)
After a few overcast, drizzly days, I awoke this morning to positively brilliant sunshine pouring through the windows, still maintaining the cool breeze that seems permanent in these parts. I've never been much of a sun worshipper, but it certainly tricks us into believing problems are surmountable when that big ball of gas is shining this brightly.
Oh, and how 'bout that gargantuan full moon these past few nights? It just hangs there, so full and low in the sky I almost felt like I could throw rocks at it. Gorgeous. It never ceases to amaze me how the beauty and wonder surrounding simple things, things we see everyday, can help pull us out of a slump in such a profound way. Right now, I'm going to go enjoy the sunshine. (Slathered in sunscreen, of course. It may be beautiful, but I'll pass on the UV damage, thank you.)
So much has happened in the past two weeks that I couldn't possibly relate it all. Unfortunately, when the urge to write struck I was too busy to devote any time to it and when I finally had the time, the urge just wasn't there. Funny how that tends to happen with most people, regardless of the type of creative outlet they pursue. Every artist I've known suffers from some form of creative block, whether it be in the form of procrastination, fear of failure or genuine lack of ideas. Too bad there's no magic pill or potion to lift the creative fog from the frustrated artist's mind.
First things first, I returned Tuesday after nine days of traveling to find a letter from Humboldt State University. True to the insulting nature of form letters, it read: "We regret to inform you..." blah, blah, blah. In short, I was not "recommended" by the graduate committee as a candidate for their program. And, to add insult to injury, truly putting the "dis" in "disappointment," the letter was addressed to me but read "Dear Ms. Some-Other-Person-Who-Wasn't-Accepted." Naturally, I called the department to confirm whether or not the letter was indeed intended for me. It was, the man on the line assured me, only somewhat apologetically. I expressed my feeling that, in the future, they should take precautions to insure that letters of such an upsetting nature are addressed to the person for whom they are intended. The man, somewhat condescendingly, apologized again. I wished bad things on him. But, as I make a habit of never wishing truly evil things on people, the misfortune I wished on him manifested itself innocuously enough: hoping the DVD he rents tonight is scratched and that he accidentally spills a quart of bleach on his favorite jeans, burns his DiGiorno pizza and gets shampoo in his eyes. Repeatedly.
So, let's see now... how can a person add even more insult to another's injury? Well, after sending a rejected graduate school candidate a form letter addressed to someone else, you could always send her an identical form letter, with a post-script apologizing for the error on the original letter. This way you can reiterate the disappointing news in a way that should leave no doubt in the recipient's mind that the rejection was indeed intended for her. What a lovely thought! Imagine how pleased I was when I opened my mailbox to find yet another letter from HSU, engulfing me with a sense of hope. Perhaps they had made a mistake and were writing to tell me they'd be honored and privileged to have my brilliance grace their program? Wrong. That millisecond of hope turned into disbelief and frustration over the fact that the personnel of a respected institution of higher learning could be so unbelievably stupid and insensitive. They will be eating shit when I publish my first novel (a Pulitzer Prize winner, naturally) and include a tidbit in my bookflap bio about how lucky and grateful I am I never got accepted to HSU.
Yes, that's the bitterness talking. Yes, I'm disappointed and frustrated. But I am also extraordinarily determined. And, after a brief period of regrouping that involved the ripping out of much of my hair, I am boldly moving forward with Plan B. Don't let the fact that I don't exactly have a Plan B concern you. Not having a plan is certainly no deterrent to my putting a non-existing plan into action. Trust me.