1) Getting access to the world at large via Grimley. I climbed a little
hill all by myself, mentored by Des and nurtured by a little theatre
community who said to me, without words, you have a good work here and
it is worth producing, We believe in it. By extension, I started to
believe in myself again, as being capable (if not, good) writer, at
least. I started to Believe again, and started to Hope anew- things
considered for too long as whimsical and nonsensical to rely on or pay
much mind to. Things painfully put upon a sad little shelf, where they
left a missing-an-appendage ghost type of feelings. Something felt amiss yet I could not put my finger on what.
Grimley
was the dark rose that would blossom for me. Paradoxically, through it I
found such light and joy again, 'pleasantly surprising' people, receiving support and accolades from
friends and kind strangers. This high would carry me for weeks after the
work had passed...the song of Grimley and the happy residue of its ghost
danced upon my heart and dared me to cut a rug with a little gleam in
my eye again. A spark was lit anew!
2) Getting access to the
Green Room - and the innards of the Theatre Actor life again... Ah!
treading the boards again! What joy. I missed the old costumes, the
smells, the powders and wigs, and the private little jokes that are
posted and hanging all over the room like a mad scavenger hunt... I was
playing in the sandbox again, something I had once done so well, the way
children 'play' with abandon. I had to push myself into discomfort in
order to be bold and fearless, and not be afraid of visibility. I had to
leave all fears aside as I focused on the Work. The Work would also
translate into relying on instinct more than intellect again and
learning to trust that there was 'something' there to not only catch me,
but also propel me up and keep me standing. I lost a lot in "the 5 year
war" (CFS)...Trust in my talent and physicality being chief among them.
3) "Deciding
to Get An Agent"- something I had not seriously contemplated for want
of 'being in a better'... position financially, life-wise, career-wise,
weight-wise, etc.. until finally I looked at myself and the way I was
actually living my life. I was, and had been for some time now, living
it as though I was making room for Acting and writing in some manner,
leaving flexibility and access to return to it. Realizing this, I
figured I might as well go all the way in, and try to earn some money
at doing something I enjoyed and had loved all of my life. It would no longer be a closeted "want" that ould never manifest. I would give this Manifestation thing a decent turn! This meant,
changing up The Plan re: career chasing and job structuring, perspective on work vs. career, etc. and some
turmoil was had by that... sigh. In the end, I have not given this
Artist part of my life such front and centre precedence before, until
now. I was to Seize the Day before I get too old, or sad, or settled, forgetful or wayward off the path of who I really am: an artist with
a social working heart, but an Artist, first and foremost. My brother
was right.
4) Getting, procuring, almost begging for a laptop, or
notepad on which to take my scribblings out of the house and away from
the four walls! It will cost me $125 for an old laptop from a friend,
but that is a modest price for my sanity and for nurturing my writing
without it feeling self-punitive, by virtue of trapping me inside a tiny
room in order to do it! The world, both inner and outer felt expansive
again and so I breathed. I went to a coffee shop, where I opened my new
(used) tool and...began to write.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
provervial Country Song in pocket
so I found this in the Notes archive about an unusually inconvenient, incredibly pain-in-the-assy move that I had to do. (it was worth a chuckle NOW from a detached place, devoid of the pain.):P
Dec. 27, 2010
Someday I'll write a country song, about the shiteous day I've had (make that a series of conjoined shiteous daze), which will include my shoulders and back screaming, "HOLY F*N MURDEROUS HELL!! My shoulders are like ROCK! a massage therapist NOW and I'm going to need the once-over!!"
This *country song* would also include a musical sampling of a Benny Hill sequence (that becomes funny if played very quickly and, even better backwards). That bit would represent how due to pathetically poor communication (PPC) I wound up packing and hoisting heavy, awkwardly packed stuff, dragging it along a dolly with a broken leg, effectively a 3 legged dolly (country song material, I tell you..), holding doors open with my chin, elbows, t*ts and ass, crouching to lift the dolly's broken leg side, as I simultaneously attempted to roll loaded dolly over uneven door frames and lumpy floors...only to have the contents (precariously perched) slide off and tumble to the ground. Numerous Times. ("count to 10...one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...I shall not kill another human being today...three-one thousand..."). I would include these elements in the song. Yessir, I believe I would.
Well, due to ensuing PPC I can no longer get into garage of old apt without remote control thingy..to get in old apt, pick up stuff..and finish cleaning. Worse, since there is no phone at old (& mostly empty) apt, I cannot call or "buzz" the other person to come and let me into said garage. WELL!
I finally manage to get INTO garage, and INTO building, only to discover I have a wrong set of keys which do not open apt door (locked changed after break-ins. Ahh..how could I forget). Well, reader I will spare you the dirty curses I shared with no one in particular. (Note: I ultimately entered apt..but it cost me a couple of new gray hairs!).
After loading up and transporting a new load of shite from old to new apt (note: new apt= only 1/2 size of old one!). At the new place, it gets terribly fun when I have to roll the fully loaded, hobbling dolly up a whole parking lot level because there is no elevator at HELL LEVEL (2 down from the street level...way, way, downtown...this is what Tom Waits sang about). So I have to push hobbling dolly up unreasonably steep hill to next floor where there IS elevator (using t*ts and elbows again to hold doors open & roll ole Hobbly Legs). I have to enter into a concrete mini-maze (I am not exaggerating) to FIND elevator. If mini=maze was a pain in the ass, the elevator is the boil developing ON that ass! Neither I nor Hobbling Legs care for these elevators too much with their narrow doors and uneven floors, which jiggle and jolt everything to where shit falls off dolly again. ("five-one-thousand...peace and love...thou shalt not kill whoever constructed faulty elevators and constricted entries and walls..oh Happy Place, Happy Place..")
Onto other things! So I bring stuff down to new storage area. I get to storage (also at Hell Level) and realize I do not have new storage room keys (yet another key??). I"m going to need a grid soon of all the keys and trinkets I need to keep track of for both apts!
Keys are not at new apt as agreed upon (yep, PPC again). *Oh happy day*. So I go on hunt for grounds-keeper and upon semi-pleading and offering to buy him a Coke, he nicely lets me into storage. I shove my shit into a nearby empty locker in the interim (since I do not have a LOCK and KEY with which to lock our LOCKER. (..."six one-thousand, seven one-thousand...All you need is love...la laa laaa".)
Fast-fwd: slap peanut butter on orphaned piece of bread, chug two glasses of water, dribble on shirt, then off on another long drive to get 'nuther load. (Note: we DID use a van for moving, but there was SO much shit left over - none of it mine- that several car trips were subsequent!)
So now I'm driving back to my Vancouver, hell, I'm even productively singing songs (Note: car radio suddenly incapable of FM reception or of playing CD's - excellent country song elements too)! I get to old apt garage, then by the luck of the gods, someone is going into the garage, so without a remote control for garage door, I 'piggy back' and sneak in. I go upstairs, with now *correct set* of apt keys...but...ok, where is the other person now? left the bldg? No note..very mysterious. Said person so hell bent on "finishing up today!" is nowhere to be found, and was apparently not counting on my return to continue loading. My phone which sat so charmingly on a chair being charged, has also been taken. So how can I CALL to see wtf is going on? Alone. Again. Naturally. That could be the title of my country song perhaps. or maybe "The Cheese Stands Alone".
In the end, I would up packing the rest of the *stuff* (ladylike expression for "shit that's not mine") alone, unscrewing the last of the annoying shelves, dragging 3 legged dolly down halls - and as before, holding doors open with limbs, t*ts and ass, contortioning body into unnatural positions to leverage ole Hobbly Legs over lumpy frames, uneven elevator entrances, all that good shit! Things tumble, and fall. And fall. And fall. Deja-friggity-vu.
Two more trips like this: ENDLESS doors and entrances. nooks and crannies, twisty, narrow hallways, KEY SETS for everything!, pushing hobbling dollies uphill, swipe-y cards to enter, missing elevators, pinching my fingers, making new bruises in strange places. The drive-through Timmie's effect is wearing off, I'm getting tired. Some help? Anybody? ("Bueller...? Bueller..?").
Then it gets dark. Starts to rain (yes, just like in the movies to heighten the Drama). And it IS getting dramatic. I can no longer see what I have in the car, so have to load dolly in the dark, mumbling various dark thoughts under my breath. The lack of sleep now wearing my patience transparent, so tired, bloody achy, and in a general state of grumpiness at the major inconvenience of...fuckity EVERYTHING for days on end! "Gaaahh!!" I curse the skies in dramatic Charlton Heston manner.
Now my country song is nearly at an end. Don't worry, reader. I know the world is already polluted from mass musical mediocrity so I shant contribute to this murky pool. If I wrote a country song, it would be too depressing to be played on the country stations anyway.
But good to rant about. haha well, keeps me from causing injury to others. (I guess that is a good thing.)
Dec. 27, 2010
Someday I'll write a country song, about the shiteous day I've had (make that a series of conjoined shiteous daze), which will include my shoulders and back screaming, "HOLY F*N MURDEROUS HELL!! My shoulders are like ROCK! a massage therapist NOW and I'm going to need the once-over!!"
This *country song* would also include a musical sampling of a Benny Hill sequence (that becomes funny if played very quickly and, even better backwards). That bit would represent how due to pathetically poor communication (PPC) I wound up packing and hoisting heavy, awkwardly packed stuff, dragging it along a dolly with a broken leg, effectively a 3 legged dolly (country song material, I tell you..), holding doors open with my chin, elbows, t*ts and ass, crouching to lift the dolly's broken leg side, as I simultaneously attempted to roll loaded dolly over uneven door frames and lumpy floors...only to have the contents (precariously perched) slide off and tumble to the ground. Numerous Times. ("count to 10...one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...I shall not kill another human being today...three-one thousand..."). I would include these elements in the song. Yessir, I believe I would.
Well, due to ensuing PPC I can no longer get into garage of old apt without remote control thingy..to get in old apt, pick up stuff..and finish cleaning. Worse, since there is no phone at old (& mostly empty) apt, I cannot call or "buzz" the other person to come and let me into said garage. WELL!
I finally manage to get INTO garage, and INTO building, only to discover I have a wrong set of keys which do not open apt door (locked changed after break-ins. Ahh..how could I forget). Well, reader I will spare you the dirty curses I shared with no one in particular. (Note: I ultimately entered apt..but it cost me a couple of new gray hairs!).
After loading up and transporting a new load of shite from old to new apt (note: new apt= only 1/2 size of old one!). At the new place, it gets terribly fun when I have to roll the fully loaded, hobbling dolly up a whole parking lot level because there is no elevator at HELL LEVEL (2 down from the street level...way, way, downtown...this is what Tom Waits sang about). So I have to push hobbling dolly up unreasonably steep hill to next floor where there IS elevator (using t*ts and elbows again to hold doors open & roll ole Hobbly Legs). I have to enter into a concrete mini-maze (I am not exaggerating) to FIND elevator. If mini=maze was a pain in the ass, the elevator is the boil developing ON that ass! Neither I nor Hobbling Legs care for these elevators too much with their narrow doors and uneven floors, which jiggle and jolt everything to where shit falls off dolly again. ("five-one-thousand...peace and love...thou shalt not kill whoever constructed faulty elevators and constricted entries and walls..oh Happy Place, Happy Place..")
Onto other things! So I bring stuff down to new storage area. I get to storage (also at Hell Level) and realize I do not have new storage room keys (yet another key??). I"m going to need a grid soon of all the keys and trinkets I need to keep track of for both apts!
Keys are not at new apt as agreed upon (yep, PPC again). *Oh happy day*. So I go on hunt for grounds-keeper and upon semi-pleading and offering to buy him a Coke, he nicely lets me into storage. I shove my shit into a nearby empty locker in the interim (since I do not have a LOCK and KEY with which to lock our LOCKER. (..."six one-thousand, seven one-thousand...All you need is love...la laa laaa".)
Fast-fwd: slap peanut butter on orphaned piece of bread, chug two glasses of water, dribble on shirt, then off on another long drive to get 'nuther load. (Note: we DID use a van for moving, but there was SO much shit left over - none of it mine- that several car trips were subsequent!)
So now I'm driving back to my Vancouver, hell, I'm even productively singing songs (Note: car radio suddenly incapable of FM reception or of playing CD's - excellent country song elements too)! I get to old apt garage, then by the luck of the gods, someone is going into the garage, so without a remote control for garage door, I 'piggy back' and sneak in. I go upstairs, with now *correct set* of apt keys...but...ok, where is the other person now? left the bldg? No note..very mysterious. Said person so hell bent on "finishing up today!" is nowhere to be found, and was apparently not counting on my return to continue loading. My phone which sat so charmingly on a chair being charged, has also been taken. So how can I CALL to see wtf is going on? Alone. Again. Naturally. That could be the title of my country song perhaps. or maybe "The Cheese Stands Alone".
In the end, I would up packing the rest of the *stuff* (ladylike expression for "shit that's not mine") alone, unscrewing the last of the annoying shelves, dragging 3 legged dolly down halls - and as before, holding doors open with limbs, t*ts and ass, contortioning body into unnatural positions to leverage ole Hobbly Legs over lumpy frames, uneven elevator entrances, all that good shit! Things tumble, and fall. And fall. And fall. Deja-friggity-vu.
Two more trips like this: ENDLESS doors and entrances. nooks and crannies, twisty, narrow hallways, KEY SETS for everything!, pushing hobbling dollies uphill, swipe-y cards to enter, missing elevators, pinching my fingers, making new bruises in strange places. The drive-through Timmie's effect is wearing off, I'm getting tired. Some help? Anybody? ("Bueller...? Bueller..?").
Then it gets dark. Starts to rain (yes, just like in the movies to heighten the Drama). And it IS getting dramatic. I can no longer see what I have in the car, so have to load dolly in the dark, mumbling various dark thoughts under my breath. The lack of sleep now wearing my patience transparent, so tired, bloody achy, and in a general state of grumpiness at the major inconvenience of...fuckity EVERYTHING for days on end! "Gaaahh!!" I curse the skies in dramatic Charlton Heston manner.
Now my country song is nearly at an end. Don't worry, reader. I know the world is already polluted from mass musical mediocrity so I shant contribute to this murky pool. If I wrote a country song, it would be too depressing to be played on the country stations anyway.
But good to rant about. haha well, keeps me from causing injury to others. (I guess that is a good thing.)
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Nothing is going on right now!
I’m excited at this time, because nothing is going on right now! That's right: Nothing.
Which means only one thing! In the absence of current Stuff…new Stuff is bound to happen (only one way to go there)! In colloquial terms: this shit is gonna happen, yo.
It feels like I’m peering over the precipice of a valley of promising things. Yes, I’m sober, I slept a decent night, I am not under medications (discounting the usual friendly toxins like coffee, etc.), no, I’m not in love, nor I have won any lottery. In fact, I’m a bit sore from a slightly over zealous work-out, but otherwise in my right frame of mind. I have not one cool thing going on - at all! And I’m happy.
Bizarre, I know!! What a wonderful strangeness.:)
I feel like the young year offers promises: to be outrageous, to take chances, to be uncomfortable (a little) again, to find out what other stuff can make me happy, and retain & enjoy what DOES make me happy.
Having a clean slate is great because you can let your imagination wander and envision ‘possibilities’. It may be a little “Billy Liar” of me in easily losing myself in daydreaming, but the trick is to not get sucked into the escapism of these wonderful worlds of make-believe, but to connect the dream with the dream of reality and manifest something that comes awfully close to that ‘thing’. I love having a clean slate.
“Keep it in the show!” as I’m fond of saying. Those who don’t know me well, will wonder if they’ve met with a crazy woman when I throw this out there (they may be *partly* right..). The joke is that, no matter what kind of fuck up occurs along the way, no matter what Unexpected Things rear their ugly heads, and no matter how inappropriate or deviated from the original intent or ‘plan’, find a way to work it in to the existing content. Like in improv when a new scenario occurs; it didn’t go where you were thinking it was going to, where you were prepared for it to go to. “Um, I didn’t know THAT was going to happen. What a giant fuck up. Totally didn’t expect that. Oops! Fuck it: Keep It in the Show!” I feel like a triumphant circus master, amusing a surprised audience, when the lion jumps off the pedestal and begins instead to do cartwheels. Grin like you’re winning, “Oh, yeah. That was MEANT to be in there all, along. Yeah…that’s right.” Keep it in the show! "We'll be here all week!" ;)
Maybe it’s the honeymoon phase between your beloved author and the appealing youth of 2012, or the endorphins coursing through my tattered little body from my booty-licious work-outs lately, or feel-goody chemicals from the mass quantities of chocolates consumed over the holidays. Who knows! I dunno why I feel this way. It doesn't "make sense" on paper...and yet...it feels correct.
It is strange to feel happy for 'no apparent reason', but I am content. I know that feelings are fleeting, so I am embracing this moment, this fuzzy little feeling of trust in the world and the world within myself…and hope that it is opening a door from which more such moments will come fluttering out through the course of the year.
The writer in me thinks: "Maybe I’m losing my 'edge'?". It was miniscule to begin with, but served me well where it needed to. (pause here for effect.) Naaah, Little Irish will be back in another scathing, pseudo-comedic rant but all in good time, all in good time.
For now, I feel good, I feel clear, I feel strong, and brave. I’m ready to play and am thus calling to the tides which ebb and flow, "Merry Meet and Merry Part, and Merry Meet again!"
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