(or maybe just me)
We fooled ourselves
right out of a friendship.
Looked right at each other
and pretended we didn’t see what was there
and left it all behind.
And now
there’s nothing left
except
uncomfortable silences
awkward greetings
and empty spaces
between us.
And it makes me sorry
for what we had
what we lost
what we may never
find again.
And it makes me
miss you
miss me
miss us
together
because
you still have my heart
despite not wanting it,
you haven’t given it back yet.
So we continue
to be fools,
moving on,
moving past,
moving through,
without ever acknowledging
what made us fools
in the first place.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
My favorite still life
I did this a week or two ago and just got around to scanning it in. I'm so proud of this one. It's one of those milestones we have in training, where you see everyone doing this and when you get there, it's another level you've achieved. I love this one, did I mention that? It makes me feel like an artist, like I know what I'm doing. If nothing else, this job has given me that gift, the gift of opening up my artistic potential.
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Every breath I take...
Just got back from the LA Free Clinic (god bless them). Been struggling lately with my quarterly bronchial infection.
Well, the good news is all my drugs and the visit was free. I'll have enough stuff to keep me breathing for probably 3-4 months.
The frightening news was that I am currently breathing at 60% of my lung capacity. The biggest change in my life over the past year (asked the doctor), my mother and her cigarette smoking. Big surprise, she's not supposed to smoke in the house or around me but she's in denial and blaming my lack of air on Twyla.
Oh, well, such is life. I guess she'll stop when they put me on oxygen.
Until then, I guess I can stick my head out of the window at home and lock her out of the car when she smokes.
Well, the good news is all my drugs and the visit was free. I'll have enough stuff to keep me breathing for probably 3-4 months.
The frightening news was that I am currently breathing at 60% of my lung capacity. The biggest change in my life over the past year (asked the doctor), my mother and her cigarette smoking. Big surprise, she's not supposed to smoke in the house or around me but she's in denial and blaming my lack of air on Twyla.
Oh, well, such is life. I guess she'll stop when they put me on oxygen.
Until then, I guess I can stick my head out of the window at home and lock her out of the car when she smokes.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Don't box me in.
These are the days when I feel like I don’t need therapy, I don’t need this blog, I don’t need any advice on finding myself because I have found myself. It is the kind of day where I know I am multi-faceted and hard to define and someone who cannot be summed up in a single sentence and I’m fine with that. After all, the people I love in my life cannot be defined in a single sentence. I can try: Chairman – generous, charming, funny, sweet, talented, gifted – but that doesn’t really describe the person who is Chairman; Monica – silly, twisted, dark yet not, smart, funny, clever – but that doesn’t get to the soul of Monica. I could go on but you get it.
The times I struggle the most and am the most depressed are the times I feel like I have to fit myself into a box. Not just a box but a box whose size I don’t know, whose shape I don’t know, that is too small and too cramped and too limiting to actually cram myself in there. Most of the time, the box is created by someone else and I figure I have to stuff myself into it to be loved by them. Sometimes, it’s a box I create myself with that person’s name on it, maybe figuring I’ll mail myself to them when I finally manage to cram myself into it, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s the size of a shoebox, sometimes it’s a refrigerator carton. Doesn’t matter, the box is still too small.
It may come from never having that box defined when I was younger. Being the youngest in the family of over-achievers, there were no restrictions put on me, no definitions put on me, which seems like it’s amazing. But it’s crippling because there never seemed to be any real value to what I was doing because no one was invested enough in it to make me feel that it was as exceptional as what my other siblings were doing. Everything was “fine” so I went through most of my life being “fine.” Nothing bad, nothing good, just “fine.”
So when I met my first husband and married him, I tried to figure out what box that meant I should put myself in. He wanted to be a chef and run an elegant restaurant and be the host with me at his side. That sounded great. He’d run the place, I’d be at his side, beaming like the trophy wife I think I expected to be. I’d be Mrs. TSS and that was “fine.” Maybe eventually I’d have my own dance studio because I loved dancing and teaching and I was very good at it. But, in my head, I was just “fine.” I’d be better putting myself into the role of Mrs. TSS and making sure he excelled. That was the box I gave myself. But he escaped out of his own box before I could even see what size mine was and maybe that was a good thing.
I got trapped in a very tiny box at the end of my second marriage. It started out quite huge and seemed to be a box that fit. Mrs. RMJ. That was me. We were a team, if one of us succeeded, the other one would. I think maybe we stuffed both of ourselves into the same box and then ran out of air. I fought to break the top off the box and see what was outside, he wanted to duct tape the box closed with both of us inside. It took me a long time but I broke through that top and found myself falling a very long way to the table outside of that box.
I constantly want to be what you want me to be. And yet, confining myself makes me lose myself. The more I am free to explore and escape and climb and search and tunnel and swing and dig, the more I am me. Some people are comfortable in that box, some people crave that box. Some people aren’t even aware they’re in a box yet I can see it surrounding them, even though they can’t. Those are the ones I want to tear the top off of their boxes and reach down and pull them out. But I digress. I can only deal with my own box, not yours. Sorry if you’re stuck, you gotta want to get out before I can help.
The hardest thing is avoiding climbing into that box. I want to do it because it makes it easier sometimes. I think, “If I’m this, then this is what will happen.” And it doesn’t. Then I’m angry and depressed and frustrated because then I don’t know what box I should be in.
Some of us defy boxes. Some of us cannot be confined in such a finite way. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be happy if you’ve found a box that fits and is comfortable and you can do laps in. Those are good boxes. But some of us just want to float free and avoid being sealed in. We are too big for boxes, we are too restless to be locked in, we are too big to put a top on. You’ve got to let us be free. I have to let myself be free.
It sounds easy. Just be. Be who you are. Be what you are. But without letting myself accept that I cannot be one thing, I can never just be. Until I can feel like this every day, where I know my need to be unfettered is not flakiness but what makes me stable, my avoidance of boxes is not an aberration but an embracing of my nature, my complexity is the truth and simplicity can come from it, until I can feel like that always, just being is impossible.
So for today, I’ll just be. I’ll be complex. I’ll be artistic. I’ll be a teacher and a director and a writer and a woman and a girl and a dame and a producer and a daughter and a divorcee (twice over) and a glamour girl and a tom boy and a difficult woman and a nurturing woman and a… you fill in the blanks because I’m done trying to.
The times I struggle the most and am the most depressed are the times I feel like I have to fit myself into a box. Not just a box but a box whose size I don’t know, whose shape I don’t know, that is too small and too cramped and too limiting to actually cram myself in there. Most of the time, the box is created by someone else and I figure I have to stuff myself into it to be loved by them. Sometimes, it’s a box I create myself with that person’s name on it, maybe figuring I’ll mail myself to them when I finally manage to cram myself into it, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s the size of a shoebox, sometimes it’s a refrigerator carton. Doesn’t matter, the box is still too small.
It may come from never having that box defined when I was younger. Being the youngest in the family of over-achievers, there were no restrictions put on me, no definitions put on me, which seems like it’s amazing. But it’s crippling because there never seemed to be any real value to what I was doing because no one was invested enough in it to make me feel that it was as exceptional as what my other siblings were doing. Everything was “fine” so I went through most of my life being “fine.” Nothing bad, nothing good, just “fine.”
So when I met my first husband and married him, I tried to figure out what box that meant I should put myself in. He wanted to be a chef and run an elegant restaurant and be the host with me at his side. That sounded great. He’d run the place, I’d be at his side, beaming like the trophy wife I think I expected to be. I’d be Mrs. TSS and that was “fine.” Maybe eventually I’d have my own dance studio because I loved dancing and teaching and I was very good at it. But, in my head, I was just “fine.” I’d be better putting myself into the role of Mrs. TSS and making sure he excelled. That was the box I gave myself. But he escaped out of his own box before I could even see what size mine was and maybe that was a good thing.
I got trapped in a very tiny box at the end of my second marriage. It started out quite huge and seemed to be a box that fit. Mrs. RMJ. That was me. We were a team, if one of us succeeded, the other one would. I think maybe we stuffed both of ourselves into the same box and then ran out of air. I fought to break the top off the box and see what was outside, he wanted to duct tape the box closed with both of us inside. It took me a long time but I broke through that top and found myself falling a very long way to the table outside of that box.
I constantly want to be what you want me to be. And yet, confining myself makes me lose myself. The more I am free to explore and escape and climb and search and tunnel and swing and dig, the more I am me. Some people are comfortable in that box, some people crave that box. Some people aren’t even aware they’re in a box yet I can see it surrounding them, even though they can’t. Those are the ones I want to tear the top off of their boxes and reach down and pull them out. But I digress. I can only deal with my own box, not yours. Sorry if you’re stuck, you gotta want to get out before I can help.
The hardest thing is avoiding climbing into that box. I want to do it because it makes it easier sometimes. I think, “If I’m this, then this is what will happen.” And it doesn’t. Then I’m angry and depressed and frustrated because then I don’t know what box I should be in.
Some of us defy boxes. Some of us cannot be confined in such a finite way. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be happy if you’ve found a box that fits and is comfortable and you can do laps in. Those are good boxes. But some of us just want to float free and avoid being sealed in. We are too big for boxes, we are too restless to be locked in, we are too big to put a top on. You’ve got to let us be free. I have to let myself be free.
It sounds easy. Just be. Be who you are. Be what you are. But without letting myself accept that I cannot be one thing, I can never just be. Until I can feel like this every day, where I know my need to be unfettered is not flakiness but what makes me stable, my avoidance of boxes is not an aberration but an embracing of my nature, my complexity is the truth and simplicity can come from it, until I can feel like that always, just being is impossible.
So for today, I’ll just be. I’ll be complex. I’ll be artistic. I’ll be a teacher and a director and a writer and a woman and a girl and a dame and a producer and a daughter and a divorcee (twice over) and a glamour girl and a tom boy and a difficult woman and a nurturing woman and a… you fill in the blanks because I’m done trying to.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Anatomy of a new life
08/14/07
Anatomy of a new life
Two years ago, I ventured into this new life. I blew into it, screaming “yippee” at the top of my lungs. No more controlling husband. No more anger and bitterness and fighting and just pure moments of hatred between us. I was free. Yee-ha.
And I leapt into my new life with both feet, never looking back. Okay, maybe peeking back occasionally. I had a new roomie, I had a new home, I had a new life. What’s not to love? I went to Vegas with someone I adore, had the best time I’ve ever had in Sin City. Jumped into my first 48 Hour Film and “Cinderella.” I thought I owned the world. I had found and embraced my destiny – even had it tattooed on my left wrist. Fuck you, ex-hubbie, and the control freak horse you rode in it! I rule! I lost my heart to someone, hopeful that he would find it and bring it back to me, making me realize I could let that organ out again to play. It was an amazing year. I thought the rest of my life would be this fun-filled, slightly disorienting ride.
Then, about a year ago, reality crashed in. Moved into a temporary place, my father’s health took a nosedive, my heart was not returned to me but left lying on the floor, ignored and abandoned. The loss of my marriage began to hit me, crippling me, making me doubt that I had made the right choice. I had the same amazing friends surrounding me but I began to realize the friends that had chosen to be left behind, that simply dropped out of my life, whether by design, by choice or simply by life, it was not important. That they weren’t there was. I began to wonder what the hell I had done. Yeah, sure, living this insane, unconventional, creative life has its benefits but it also has its detriments. There is no footing, there is no surety, there is no balance sometimes. And the person I had hoped would be there – who had been there at the start – was not there anymore and I felt abandoned and alone again, grieving for something that should have been, could have been, would have been, but never was.
I have sleepwalked through the last year of my life. Sure, on the surface, I was there, I was moving, I was present. But my soul and my spirit were not. They were off somewhere, trying to regroup and reform. I was in a haze, moving forward because there was no other choice but to do so. But I couldn’t see the path anymore. I became slowly but surely sucked into the abyss, being pulled down by those stupid clowns, convinced that I was going to be alone, moderately successful but never to the level I wanted to be, and always left standing by the side of the road, waiting, wanting, craving, but never having.
I hadn’t dealt with my feelings about my marriage or its end. I hadn’t dealt with things left over from my childhood that led me to choosing both of my ex’s. I hadn’t dealt with a lot of things and now they were kicking my ass. Once again, I found myself ready to give in and give up. RMJ was right. I was a failure. I would be nothing without him. I had made the biggest mistake of my life. And my friends knew it. It wouldn’t be long before they left, too.
A very dark night a few months ago – as well as a very angry email from someone who loves me – made me stop. I had come very close to once again throwing in the literal towel and this time, instead of a bottle of pills, it was going to be the freeway divider at midnight at 80 mph. Seemed somehow poetic to die by freeway at midnight near downtown LA. I’d make the news.
But I made it home. Barely. I read this email from my friend and it really sunk in. I was in serious trouble and it wasn’t going to get better by avoiding it. I had worked too hard for my life to throw it away. I thought I had put my marriage behind me but I hadn’t. I had just put it in a box and hid it away, hoping to never look at it again. That’s what my family does. Put things away, don’t ever look at them again.
I have returned to my therapist. I have finally begun to really deal with why I chose both my ex’s, why I feel alone and abandoned, why I feel like I don’t deserve anything in my life. I thought that by now, I would be past him and me and us and 18 years and asking why. But I’m not. I think I’ve only begun to ask the really important questions. The answers are not easy and the questions are terrifying. But at least there are answers and I think finally, after two years, the healing has begun.
Anatomy of a new life
Two years ago, I ventured into this new life. I blew into it, screaming “yippee” at the top of my lungs. No more controlling husband. No more anger and bitterness and fighting and just pure moments of hatred between us. I was free. Yee-ha.
And I leapt into my new life with both feet, never looking back. Okay, maybe peeking back occasionally. I had a new roomie, I had a new home, I had a new life. What’s not to love? I went to Vegas with someone I adore, had the best time I’ve ever had in Sin City. Jumped into my first 48 Hour Film and “Cinderella.” I thought I owned the world. I had found and embraced my destiny – even had it tattooed on my left wrist. Fuck you, ex-hubbie, and the control freak horse you rode in it! I rule! I lost my heart to someone, hopeful that he would find it and bring it back to me, making me realize I could let that organ out again to play. It was an amazing year. I thought the rest of my life would be this fun-filled, slightly disorienting ride.
Then, about a year ago, reality crashed in. Moved into a temporary place, my father’s health took a nosedive, my heart was not returned to me but left lying on the floor, ignored and abandoned. The loss of my marriage began to hit me, crippling me, making me doubt that I had made the right choice. I had the same amazing friends surrounding me but I began to realize the friends that had chosen to be left behind, that simply dropped out of my life, whether by design, by choice or simply by life, it was not important. That they weren’t there was. I began to wonder what the hell I had done. Yeah, sure, living this insane, unconventional, creative life has its benefits but it also has its detriments. There is no footing, there is no surety, there is no balance sometimes. And the person I had hoped would be there – who had been there at the start – was not there anymore and I felt abandoned and alone again, grieving for something that should have been, could have been, would have been, but never was.
I have sleepwalked through the last year of my life. Sure, on the surface, I was there, I was moving, I was present. But my soul and my spirit were not. They were off somewhere, trying to regroup and reform. I was in a haze, moving forward because there was no other choice but to do so. But I couldn’t see the path anymore. I became slowly but surely sucked into the abyss, being pulled down by those stupid clowns, convinced that I was going to be alone, moderately successful but never to the level I wanted to be, and always left standing by the side of the road, waiting, wanting, craving, but never having.
I hadn’t dealt with my feelings about my marriage or its end. I hadn’t dealt with things left over from my childhood that led me to choosing both of my ex’s. I hadn’t dealt with a lot of things and now they were kicking my ass. Once again, I found myself ready to give in and give up. RMJ was right. I was a failure. I would be nothing without him. I had made the biggest mistake of my life. And my friends knew it. It wouldn’t be long before they left, too.
A very dark night a few months ago – as well as a very angry email from someone who loves me – made me stop. I had come very close to once again throwing in the literal towel and this time, instead of a bottle of pills, it was going to be the freeway divider at midnight at 80 mph. Seemed somehow poetic to die by freeway at midnight near downtown LA. I’d make the news.
But I made it home. Barely. I read this email from my friend and it really sunk in. I was in serious trouble and it wasn’t going to get better by avoiding it. I had worked too hard for my life to throw it away. I thought I had put my marriage behind me but I hadn’t. I had just put it in a box and hid it away, hoping to never look at it again. That’s what my family does. Put things away, don’t ever look at them again.
I have returned to my therapist. I have finally begun to really deal with why I chose both my ex’s, why I feel alone and abandoned, why I feel like I don’t deserve anything in my life. I thought that by now, I would be past him and me and us and 18 years and asking why. But I’m not. I think I’ve only begun to ask the really important questions. The answers are not easy and the questions are terrifying. But at least there are answers and I think finally, after two years, the healing has begun.
Hard to beat...
Coming home tonight from the Ark, driving over the Sepulveda pass, no traffic (miracle!), Bob Seger's "Hollywood Nights" blasting out of my brand spanking new black Ipod on my decent stereo in my POS Hyundai, followed shortly by Keith Urban's "Slow Turnin'." It's about 70 outside, lovely breeze blowing through my back windows. Clear sky, the Valley glittering below me as I crest the 405.
Nope, doesn't get better than this.
Nope, doesn't get better than this.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
My first check
Behold, my first check for directing:
I can't stop smiling, even though this has been a challenging experience.
I am now a paid director.
About f***ing time.
I can't stop smiling, even though this has been a challenging experience.
I am now a paid director.
About f***ing time.
Summary of August 3, 2007.
Summary of today
Okay, yesterday, really.
Woke up realizing it’s my ex’s birthday. Great way to start the day.
Typed my ass off in the morning.
Couldn’t find anything cute to wear to the “preview” tonight of my new show. God, I need to lose a ton of weight.
Got to MR to corrupt the creative souls of children. My regular partner in crime is off this weekend. Her substitute got the time wrong for the first class. I have no keys. Kids started showing up. Got in to the studio almost 45 minutes late. Couldn’t leave at 5, like I was supposed to in order to get to the preview early.
Oh, and the air conditioning broke down – again.
Found out the MR guy who repairs the air had the keys all along, lives very close, could have let us in earlier and could have locked up so I wouldn’t have had to hang around.
Fought traffic at 6:45 to get to Santa Monica by 7:30-7:45. Arrived at 7:30.
Don’t really want to discuss tonight. The show went fine and all. Other things, behind the scenes, that I’ll blog about some day. Sum it up with the fact that I’m listed in the program as “Susan (director).” No last name with my bio. Apparently, I have become like Madonna and only go by my first name. The answer to my query as to why this is was simply, “Oh, I guess I missed that. I guess we should change that before we print up new ones.” Nice to know my time and talent are appreciated.
Blew out of there, as apparently did everyone else. Very tired. Should have gone home since I’m getting up before dawn to go help my dearest Chairman with his yard sale at 6 AM. But, nooooo.
Stopped by Molly Malone’s (bar in Hollywood) to listen to the Piper Downs, one of my favorite bands and a group of my favorite people. Am very, very glad I did. They blew away my blues with their simple joy in playing. I love these guys. They are some of the finest musicians on earth and if you want some killer, kick-ass, straight out rock and roll, check them out. They rocked so hard tonight. Greeted me with such friendship and love that the rest of the day faded away to the strains of “Stutter”.
Drove home, avoiding the swerving and the drunken and the just simply LA-ian drivers.
Now, I’m wide awake, it’s 1:21 AM and I have to get to bed. I’m not going to say get to sleep because I don’t know if actual sleep will actually happen. But at least lay down, close my eyes and breathe for the first time in days.
Here’s to a better tomorrow. Looking forward to Sunday, writing with my “team” – the fabulous David S. and the amazing Monica H. Trying to make the comedy part of the Ark film an actual comedy. Sorry, Erik, I know now that pairing you with the other writer was not a good blend and I hope to get another chance to work with you on something else. Focus on your kids, give them much love, and everything else will figure itself out.
Okay, rambling now. Must stop typing…..
Okay, yesterday, really.
Woke up realizing it’s my ex’s birthday. Great way to start the day.
Typed my ass off in the morning.
Couldn’t find anything cute to wear to the “preview” tonight of my new show. God, I need to lose a ton of weight.
Got to MR to corrupt the creative souls of children. My regular partner in crime is off this weekend. Her substitute got the time wrong for the first class. I have no keys. Kids started showing up. Got in to the studio almost 45 minutes late. Couldn’t leave at 5, like I was supposed to in order to get to the preview early.
Oh, and the air conditioning broke down – again.
Found out the MR guy who repairs the air had the keys all along, lives very close, could have let us in earlier and could have locked up so I wouldn’t have had to hang around.
Fought traffic at 6:45 to get to Santa Monica by 7:30-7:45. Arrived at 7:30.
Don’t really want to discuss tonight. The show went fine and all. Other things, behind the scenes, that I’ll blog about some day. Sum it up with the fact that I’m listed in the program as “Susan (director).” No last name with my bio. Apparently, I have become like Madonna and only go by my first name. The answer to my query as to why this is was simply, “Oh, I guess I missed that. I guess we should change that before we print up new ones.” Nice to know my time and talent are appreciated.
Blew out of there, as apparently did everyone else. Very tired. Should have gone home since I’m getting up before dawn to go help my dearest Chairman with his yard sale at 6 AM. But, nooooo.
Stopped by Molly Malone’s (bar in Hollywood) to listen to the Piper Downs, one of my favorite bands and a group of my favorite people. Am very, very glad I did. They blew away my blues with their simple joy in playing. I love these guys. They are some of the finest musicians on earth and if you want some killer, kick-ass, straight out rock and roll, check them out. They rocked so hard tonight. Greeted me with such friendship and love that the rest of the day faded away to the strains of “Stutter”.
Drove home, avoiding the swerving and the drunken and the just simply LA-ian drivers.
Now, I’m wide awake, it’s 1:21 AM and I have to get to bed. I’m not going to say get to sleep because I don’t know if actual sleep will actually happen. But at least lay down, close my eyes and breathe for the first time in days.
Here’s to a better tomorrow. Looking forward to Sunday, writing with my “team” – the fabulous David S. and the amazing Monica H. Trying to make the comedy part of the Ark film an actual comedy. Sorry, Erik, I know now that pairing you with the other writer was not a good blend and I hope to get another chance to work with you on something else. Focus on your kids, give them much love, and everything else will figure itself out.
Okay, rambling now. Must stop typing…..
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Things I've given up...
My mother today actually suggested in passing that the clutter in the living room of our apartment is my fault. I will give her that – the boxes that are lined up against the wall are mine. The clutter, however, is composed of the four tables and multitude of vases and plants and Beanie Babies, etc., that she could not give up when they moved up here. I realize she left a lot of stuff behind, including a patio filled with beautiful plants and flowers. I know this move was hard on her as she is the unmovable block – easier to bring the mountain to Muhammad rather than the other way around.
However, I found myself almost in tears as I reminded her that I have pretty much nothing left of my old life. I had a beautiful, glorious 1,500 sq. ft. apartment that had a loft that I adored. I had furniture. I had chairs and couches and places to put things. I had drawers and a chest of drawers and a beautiful antique armoire. I had closets for my clothes and an office filled with, okay, his stuff but still. I had a life, complete with all the accoutrements.
What do I have now? A single bedroom. The living room, dining room and kitchen are all filled with my parents’ life. The pictures on the walls in the hallway? My parents’. The books on the shelves and the photographs throughout are my parents’. Everything I own, everything that I am, has been winnowed down to a single, tiny bedroom. I have stuff in boxes because there simply isn’t anywhere left to put things. And, at this point, I cannot bring myself to throw one more tiny piece of paper away.
I guess I never realized that when I walked away from him, I walked away from my life. |A life we had spent almost 18 years building. A familiar life, a comfortable life. Although, in that life, I had very little as well. Pictures were put up where he wanted them, despite my many arguments. The bookcases filled with books were his. I had about 10 little shelves on the dozen bookcases we had. I had a desk in the loft to work at, he had the whole office.
But now that life has been cut down even more to this tiny room with way too much stuff. And I can’t find half the stuff I want because it’s either jammed into a corner somewhere or buried in a box where I haven’t found it yet.
I thought my new life would include room for me. But I’m still living in someone else’s space, with someone else’s rules. I have to shoehorn my life into the space I’m allowed because that’s all I get.
And for now, there’s not much I can do about that. But it makes me very sad to think about all the things I left behind and all the things I’ve given up over these two years and all the things I’ll never get back. I’m still trying to build my new life within the confines I am offered and it’s a struggle some days, like today.
Maybe that’s why my vision of the future is so appealing and I have to keep that in front of me. That beautiful house/condo/whatever it is with the 20 foot ceilings and the piano that I know is mine and the furniture that I know WE picked out together and knowing that there is a room somewhere in that building that is just mine, with my stuff in it, where I want my stuff to be. And the person singing in the other room doesn’t care if he has exactly as many photos out of his family as of mine. That comes naturally. The space is ours, with room for both of us to have our own space and room for us to have our space together. And there is room to breathe and to grow and to have the life that I had hoped to create when I left that other confining, suffocating life behind. I hope in five years I am there, because I’m not sure I can hold my breath that long.
However, I found myself almost in tears as I reminded her that I have pretty much nothing left of my old life. I had a beautiful, glorious 1,500 sq. ft. apartment that had a loft that I adored. I had furniture. I had chairs and couches and places to put things. I had drawers and a chest of drawers and a beautiful antique armoire. I had closets for my clothes and an office filled with, okay, his stuff but still. I had a life, complete with all the accoutrements.
What do I have now? A single bedroom. The living room, dining room and kitchen are all filled with my parents’ life. The pictures on the walls in the hallway? My parents’. The books on the shelves and the photographs throughout are my parents’. Everything I own, everything that I am, has been winnowed down to a single, tiny bedroom. I have stuff in boxes because there simply isn’t anywhere left to put things. And, at this point, I cannot bring myself to throw one more tiny piece of paper away.
I guess I never realized that when I walked away from him, I walked away from my life. |A life we had spent almost 18 years building. A familiar life, a comfortable life. Although, in that life, I had very little as well. Pictures were put up where he wanted them, despite my many arguments. The bookcases filled with books were his. I had about 10 little shelves on the dozen bookcases we had. I had a desk in the loft to work at, he had the whole office.
But now that life has been cut down even more to this tiny room with way too much stuff. And I can’t find half the stuff I want because it’s either jammed into a corner somewhere or buried in a box where I haven’t found it yet.
I thought my new life would include room for me. But I’m still living in someone else’s space, with someone else’s rules. I have to shoehorn my life into the space I’m allowed because that’s all I get.
And for now, there’s not much I can do about that. But it makes me very sad to think about all the things I left behind and all the things I’ve given up over these two years and all the things I’ll never get back. I’m still trying to build my new life within the confines I am offered and it’s a struggle some days, like today.
Maybe that’s why my vision of the future is so appealing and I have to keep that in front of me. That beautiful house/condo/whatever it is with the 20 foot ceilings and the piano that I know is mine and the furniture that I know WE picked out together and knowing that there is a room somewhere in that building that is just mine, with my stuff in it, where I want my stuff to be. And the person singing in the other room doesn’t care if he has exactly as many photos out of his family as of mine. That comes naturally. The space is ours, with room for both of us to have our own space and room for us to have our space together. And there is room to breathe and to grow and to have the life that I had hoped to create when I left that other confining, suffocating life behind. I hope in five years I am there, because I’m not sure I can hold my breath that long.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
My dear friend
I’ve missed you. And I think, in that brief moment before your guard came up, I could see that you missed me.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Cuz I haven't posted any artwork for a while.
I've been so busy, I haven't had time to draw or paint. But I had to get my butt back into the Academy this week to continue m training. So this is what I did today:
It's called "tone drawing" where you create still life objects using only a dark, light and middle tone. Very minimal shading. It got kind of splattered by the fixative to keep it from smearing. I'm actually quite proud of how this one came out.
Not terribly exciting but it means I am one step closer to oil painting. In fact, if I can keep myself together and go in once a week, I should be doing oil painting within a month or so.
So, there's your art fix. Thanks for tuning in.
It's called "tone drawing" where you create still life objects using only a dark, light and middle tone. Very minimal shading. It got kind of splattered by the fixative to keep it from smearing. I'm actually quite proud of how this one came out.
Not terribly exciting but it means I am one step closer to oil painting. In fact, if I can keep myself together and go in once a week, I should be doing oil painting within a month or so.
So, there's your art fix. Thanks for tuning in.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Mirror, Mirror
So who do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you really see you or do you see what you think others see? Do you like what you see? Do you want to change it?
I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking for the past two years about who I am. I’ve been trying to find the Susan that is at the base of everything – not the Susan everyone sees but the Susan I see (or want to see) when I look in the mirror.
I was thinking about how I would describe myself should I decide to submit myself to the ridiculousness of online dating (sorry, not sure I can do that). Some people have great success. But I saw my personal profile as something like this:
SWF, 45, slightly emotionally damaged, twice divorced (hence the damage), carrying about 45 lbs too many and only occasionally bipolar, mostly around the full moon. “Weirdly driven,” obsessed with her creative life but moderately obsessive when it comes to her heart as well. Oh, and she lives with her parents.
I can see the line forming to the left of perspective dates.
I guess none of us can define ourselves that simply, which is the main reason internet dating doesn’t appeal to me. I’m much more complicated than that. Yes, I’ve been divorced twice. Yes, I’m prone to depression. But I can also experience and share joy of the like you have never seen. Yes, my heart is battered but I hope that I am not terribly bitter because of it. I’m still a romantic yet I’m still cautious. Yes, I am independent and a towering pillar of strength but I can also crumble with a word or a look and sometimes I want someone to tell me what to do, or at least help me figure out what to do.
Interestingly, I’m listening to Trace Adkins sing “I Wanna Feel Something.”
It may be as simple as that. I want to feel something. Something that feels uniquely me. Something that is not dismissed, that is not pandered to. I want to feel something and know that that feeling is valid because it’s mine, because I know who I am and I no longer require someone to validate that feeling and validate that person.
I have spent the last 45 years of my life trying to figure out who I am. I was never defined as a young child. My brother and my sister had very clear definitions – athletes, award winners, accolades galore. The expectations were there and they were defined. Now, I’m sure that comes with its own set of issues and problems that they can deal with by working with their own therapists. But for me, the damage was in not being defined. I didn’t know who to be. I couldn’t compete with them as athletes because the bar was set into the stratosphere. So I tried many things, trying to find Susan. The resounding lack of response made me think that nothing I could do would ever equal what my siblings had accomplished and that what I was doing was not valid.
Luckily, I fell in love with theater. Discovering my creativity began to help me see the blurry image in front of me, that maybe there was a Susan there that might be worth something.
But after two challenging relationships with two men who did not help the cause of defining Susan, I am now back to one, beginning again, trying put together the pieces I have gathered over 45 years. The toughest part is not allowing myself to be defined by those around me. I have to find my own definition, my own version of Susan.
Bit by bit, that person is coming into focus. I can see maybe 10% of the Susan that I want to be, that Susan in my vision five years from now, curled up in an armchair, clean, fresh breeze blowing in through my open window, sitting in peace and serenity, knowing I am exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing, the sound of the one I love singing from the next room, singing something silly and lovely and tender that means nothing to anyone but us. That Susan, that peaceful, content person is the one I strive for. I’m sure she has problems and issues and temper tantrums and deep, dark depressions. But I am hoping those are the rarities and the peace and comfort are the norm for this Susan.
Maybe in five years, the ad that Susan would write would read something like this:
CWF (committed white female), 50, emotionally healed, in a caring, committed relationship with (he who can’t be named), still probably carrying around a few pounds too many but doesn’t give a shit about that, still likes to howl at the moon but with pleasure, not with pain. Still “weirdly driven” with her creative life but learning to love without losing herself. Lives with her parents – who live in the guest house of her beautiful wooded estate.
That sounds pretty good to me.
I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking for the past two years about who I am. I’ve been trying to find the Susan that is at the base of everything – not the Susan everyone sees but the Susan I see (or want to see) when I look in the mirror.
I was thinking about how I would describe myself should I decide to submit myself to the ridiculousness of online dating (sorry, not sure I can do that). Some people have great success. But I saw my personal profile as something like this:
SWF, 45, slightly emotionally damaged, twice divorced (hence the damage), carrying about 45 lbs too many and only occasionally bipolar, mostly around the full moon. “Weirdly driven,” obsessed with her creative life but moderately obsessive when it comes to her heart as well. Oh, and she lives with her parents.
I can see the line forming to the left of perspective dates.
I guess none of us can define ourselves that simply, which is the main reason internet dating doesn’t appeal to me. I’m much more complicated than that. Yes, I’ve been divorced twice. Yes, I’m prone to depression. But I can also experience and share joy of the like you have never seen. Yes, my heart is battered but I hope that I am not terribly bitter because of it. I’m still a romantic yet I’m still cautious. Yes, I am independent and a towering pillar of strength but I can also crumble with a word or a look and sometimes I want someone to tell me what to do, or at least help me figure out what to do.
Interestingly, I’m listening to Trace Adkins sing “I Wanna Feel Something.”
It may be as simple as that. I want to feel something. Something that feels uniquely me. Something that is not dismissed, that is not pandered to. I want to feel something and know that that feeling is valid because it’s mine, because I know who I am and I no longer require someone to validate that feeling and validate that person.
I have spent the last 45 years of my life trying to figure out who I am. I was never defined as a young child. My brother and my sister had very clear definitions – athletes, award winners, accolades galore. The expectations were there and they were defined. Now, I’m sure that comes with its own set of issues and problems that they can deal with by working with their own therapists. But for me, the damage was in not being defined. I didn’t know who to be. I couldn’t compete with them as athletes because the bar was set into the stratosphere. So I tried many things, trying to find Susan. The resounding lack of response made me think that nothing I could do would ever equal what my siblings had accomplished and that what I was doing was not valid.
Luckily, I fell in love with theater. Discovering my creativity began to help me see the blurry image in front of me, that maybe there was a Susan there that might be worth something.
But after two challenging relationships with two men who did not help the cause of defining Susan, I am now back to one, beginning again, trying put together the pieces I have gathered over 45 years. The toughest part is not allowing myself to be defined by those around me. I have to find my own definition, my own version of Susan.
Bit by bit, that person is coming into focus. I can see maybe 10% of the Susan that I want to be, that Susan in my vision five years from now, curled up in an armchair, clean, fresh breeze blowing in through my open window, sitting in peace and serenity, knowing I am exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing, the sound of the one I love singing from the next room, singing something silly and lovely and tender that means nothing to anyone but us. That Susan, that peaceful, content person is the one I strive for. I’m sure she has problems and issues and temper tantrums and deep, dark depressions. But I am hoping those are the rarities and the peace and comfort are the norm for this Susan.
Maybe in five years, the ad that Susan would write would read something like this:
CWF (committed white female), 50, emotionally healed, in a caring, committed relationship with (he who can’t be named), still probably carrying around a few pounds too many but doesn’t give a shit about that, still likes to howl at the moon but with pleasure, not with pain. Still “weirdly driven” with her creative life but learning to love without losing herself. Lives with her parents – who live in the guest house of her beautiful wooded estate.
That sounds pretty good to me.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Question of passion and other musings...
First of all, for no particular reason other than I just got stuck behind a bunch of these, God save me from the faux-shinistas. You know the ones I mean. The high maintenance girls (don’t care if they’re 23, 34, or 42, they’ll always be girls) with the annoying, nasal voices they think sound sophisticated and their faux designer knock-off everythings – big, huge plastic faux Chanel sunglasses that worked on Audrey Hepburn but not you, sweetie; the enormous, obviously vinyl D&G over-studded and over-ugly bag and, my favorite, the gi-normous raincoat yellow, uglier than sin purse that looks like you could fit a Volkswagen in it on the few days that it rains in LA. And god forbid you should get behind this bunch of chickies when you’re trying to order a simple Coke and a cookie while they each order some kind of stupid soy milk vegan low fat decaf espresso frothy drink with tons of whipped cream – and then they all pay individually while they dig through they’re obviously fake, horribly cheesy knock-off purses for their just as fugly knock-off wallets. And then tip the guy a quarter.
Okay, glad I got that off my chest.
I made an interesting observation while my brother was here on vacation. He and his wife have been married probably 17 years, I guess. Their son is 15 – and, boy, is he 15. But that’s for another blog. What I noticed with my brother and his wife is what I’ve noticed with a lot of long term relationships – they’re more like roommates than lovers. There was no passion between them, no affection, no comfortable hand-holding or sweet kisses exchanged. Just day-to-day, get through the day, what do you want to do now kind of conversation.
It got me wondering about a lot of things, mainly about when and why does the passion die in a relationship and does it need to. And it got me wondering about whether I ever really felt that passion for my ex. And if I did, when did that die?
I was trying to think of that moment when I feel in love with my ex. I can kind of remember when I fell for my first husband, although it’s more just a warm, fuzzy memory than anything exact. There was a moment when he smiled at me with his off-kilter, slightly dangerous smile and that was it. I was maybe 18 and I had lost a good piece of my heart in that moment. I don’t remember where we were or what we were doing, I just remember that look. Even the OOMA, I can remember when I thought, wow, I think I might actually be in love with him. It was a very late night, very innocuous situation, just sitting and talking and eating and laughing and I thought, I could do this for a very long time.
But I don’t remember falling in love with my current ex. It just seemed like I floated along, moving in with him, letting him propose to me, marrying him because it just seemed like the thing to do. My memories might be colored by the hurt and anger and pain surrounding the thought of him lately but it makes me very sad that I can’t point to a moment and say, that’s when I fell in love with him. I think I went with him because he seemed to love me, he felt familiar (now I know why, thanks to my therapist) and there didn’t seem to be anybody else breaking down my door. I hate to think I spent 18 years with someone I wasn’t passionate about.
I think I was more passionate about his talent and his drive than he himself. I saw us as this power couple who could take Hollywood by storm. He also had the capacity to be incredibly romantic but, for the most part, so much of it felt like he was being romantic because he decided he needed to be in order to keep our relationship going rather than to be romantic because his heart moved him to be. There were very few of those moments that felt really motivated from his heart, not his head.
The last few years we were together, I really didn’t even want to have sex with him. While I’m sure some of that was because of my depression, a lot of it was just that I was starting to fall out of love with him. There had been so much damage done to me that I certainly didn’t want to expose myself to him anymore than I had to. And it had become pretty textbook by then. I could map out the one of three options that he would probably take depending on how things started. I won’t bore you with details because I spent enough time being bored as it was. But it started me thinking about passion in a long term relationship, even then. Shouldn’t I want to make love to my husband, no matter whether we’ve been married five years or 15 years? Shouldn’t you always want to make love to your spouse or significant other? Aren’t they supposed to turn you on?
I had become a secretary and a roommate and a housekeeper (although not a very good one) and somewhere along the line, we had stopped being in love. He said the words but I think it was gone on his side as well. Neither of us understood it in the moment, neither of us knew what to do about it. Hard to say whether starting couples counseling earlier would have saved our marriage. I think it had been dead for a very long time by the time we recognized that it was a corpse.
What does all this have to do with anything right now? I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to be roommates with someone again. I want to be with someone who stirs my heart just as much in 15 years as it does when we first meet. I want to be with someone who’s going to stay passionate - truly, honestly passionate – and not become a rout participant in our relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever have another relationship that lasts long enough to test this, maybe because I’m afraid no relationship can stand up to that bar. But does that mean I should lower that bar? I don’t think so. If I’m going to give up my heart again, it has to be something magical and special and the thing I have been searching for my whole life. I haven’t been able to find it yet obviously and I may never be able to find it. That may mean I’ll spend the rest of my life standing by the side, watching relationships come and go while I wait for my perfect passion. But after seeing relationship after relationship chug along in mediocrity just because both people are too afraid of being alone, I think I’d rather spend my time holding out for something that comes close to that perfect passion rather than waste my heart on something that is just settling for something at this moment in time.
In the meantime, I’ll wave as the rest of the world goes by.
Okay, glad I got that off my chest.
I made an interesting observation while my brother was here on vacation. He and his wife have been married probably 17 years, I guess. Their son is 15 – and, boy, is he 15. But that’s for another blog. What I noticed with my brother and his wife is what I’ve noticed with a lot of long term relationships – they’re more like roommates than lovers. There was no passion between them, no affection, no comfortable hand-holding or sweet kisses exchanged. Just day-to-day, get through the day, what do you want to do now kind of conversation.
It got me wondering about a lot of things, mainly about when and why does the passion die in a relationship and does it need to. And it got me wondering about whether I ever really felt that passion for my ex. And if I did, when did that die?
I was trying to think of that moment when I feel in love with my ex. I can kind of remember when I fell for my first husband, although it’s more just a warm, fuzzy memory than anything exact. There was a moment when he smiled at me with his off-kilter, slightly dangerous smile and that was it. I was maybe 18 and I had lost a good piece of my heart in that moment. I don’t remember where we were or what we were doing, I just remember that look. Even the OOMA, I can remember when I thought, wow, I think I might actually be in love with him. It was a very late night, very innocuous situation, just sitting and talking and eating and laughing and I thought, I could do this for a very long time.
But I don’t remember falling in love with my current ex. It just seemed like I floated along, moving in with him, letting him propose to me, marrying him because it just seemed like the thing to do. My memories might be colored by the hurt and anger and pain surrounding the thought of him lately but it makes me very sad that I can’t point to a moment and say, that’s when I fell in love with him. I think I went with him because he seemed to love me, he felt familiar (now I know why, thanks to my therapist) and there didn’t seem to be anybody else breaking down my door. I hate to think I spent 18 years with someone I wasn’t passionate about.
I think I was more passionate about his talent and his drive than he himself. I saw us as this power couple who could take Hollywood by storm. He also had the capacity to be incredibly romantic but, for the most part, so much of it felt like he was being romantic because he decided he needed to be in order to keep our relationship going rather than to be romantic because his heart moved him to be. There were very few of those moments that felt really motivated from his heart, not his head.
The last few years we were together, I really didn’t even want to have sex with him. While I’m sure some of that was because of my depression, a lot of it was just that I was starting to fall out of love with him. There had been so much damage done to me that I certainly didn’t want to expose myself to him anymore than I had to. And it had become pretty textbook by then. I could map out the one of three options that he would probably take depending on how things started. I won’t bore you with details because I spent enough time being bored as it was. But it started me thinking about passion in a long term relationship, even then. Shouldn’t I want to make love to my husband, no matter whether we’ve been married five years or 15 years? Shouldn’t you always want to make love to your spouse or significant other? Aren’t they supposed to turn you on?
I had become a secretary and a roommate and a housekeeper (although not a very good one) and somewhere along the line, we had stopped being in love. He said the words but I think it was gone on his side as well. Neither of us understood it in the moment, neither of us knew what to do about it. Hard to say whether starting couples counseling earlier would have saved our marriage. I think it had been dead for a very long time by the time we recognized that it was a corpse.
What does all this have to do with anything right now? I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to be roommates with someone again. I want to be with someone who stirs my heart just as much in 15 years as it does when we first meet. I want to be with someone who’s going to stay passionate - truly, honestly passionate – and not become a rout participant in our relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever have another relationship that lasts long enough to test this, maybe because I’m afraid no relationship can stand up to that bar. But does that mean I should lower that bar? I don’t think so. If I’m going to give up my heart again, it has to be something magical and special and the thing I have been searching for my whole life. I haven’t been able to find it yet obviously and I may never be able to find it. That may mean I’ll spend the rest of my life standing by the side, watching relationships come and go while I wait for my perfect passion. But after seeing relationship after relationship chug along in mediocrity just because both people are too afraid of being alone, I think I’d rather spend my time holding out for something that comes close to that perfect passion rather than waste my heart on something that is just settling for something at this moment in time.
In the meantime, I’ll wave as the rest of the world goes by.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
My I Ching for today
(I bolded the stuff I like. Makes me think of the email Dave sent me after the 48 hour film project and his reference to the "dedicated bunch of psychopaths" I use.)
16 - Yu - Enthusiasm
-- --
-- --
------
-- --
-- --
-- --
The Judgment
Enthusiasm. It furthers one to install helpers
And to set armies marching.
The Image
Thunder comes resounding out of the earth:
The image of Enthusiasm.
Thus the ancient kings made music
In order to honor merit,
And offered it with splendor
To the Supreme Deity,
Inviting their ancestors to be present.
Six at the beginning means:
Enthusiasm that expresses itself
Brings misfortune.
Six in second place means:
Firm as a rock. Not a whole day.
Perseverance brings good fortune.
Six in third place means:
Enthusiasm that looks upward creates remorse.
Hesitation brings remorse.
Nine in fourth place means:
* The source of enthusiasm.
He achieves great things.
Doubt not.
You gather friends around you
As a hair clasp gathers the hair.
Six in fifth place means:
Persistently ill, and still does not die. (my favorite part!)
Six at the top means:
Deluded enthusiasm. (my other favorite part)
But if after completion one changes,
There is no blame.
____________________________________
Kinda cool. Both my I Ching and my horoscope are predicting great things to come right now. I can only hope.
16 - Yu - Enthusiasm
-- --
-- --
------
-- --
-- --
-- --
The Judgment
Enthusiasm. It furthers one to install helpers
And to set armies marching.
The Image
Thunder comes resounding out of the earth:
The image of Enthusiasm.
Thus the ancient kings made music
In order to honor merit,
And offered it with splendor
To the Supreme Deity,
Inviting their ancestors to be present.
Six at the beginning means:
Enthusiasm that expresses itself
Brings misfortune.
Six in second place means:
Firm as a rock. Not a whole day.
Perseverance brings good fortune.
Six in third place means:
Enthusiasm that looks upward creates remorse.
Hesitation brings remorse.
Nine in fourth place means:
* The source of enthusiasm.
He achieves great things.
Doubt not.
You gather friends around you
As a hair clasp gathers the hair.
Six in fifth place means:
Persistently ill, and still does not die. (my favorite part!)
Six at the top means:
Deluded enthusiasm. (my other favorite part)
But if after completion one changes,
There is no blame.
____________________________________
Kinda cool. Both my I Ching and my horoscope are predicting great things to come right now. I can only hope.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Wondering, Wishing, Wanting
Wondering if it’s possible to find love again at 45. I know I can crush – have a wicked one on Cute Boy that is fun and silly and totally harmless. After all, he’s got a girlfriend and is moving in with her so nothing’s gonna happen there but it’s fun. Lost my heart to my dearest and I don’t think I’ll ever get all of it back. Talking to my friend, Anna, the other day who said she’s not sure if she wants to get into a relationship with someone because it’s just going to end. And I think she’s right. I’ve had two great loves in my life and they both ended. Is it possible to find it yet again, that love that makes you breathless and giddy and woozy all at the same time, that love that makes your heart pound and fills it with so much that you can’t possibly fit anything else in there? That love that we’re only supposed to have once in our lives. Can it happen a third time? My sister claims her third marriage is the best thing there is and her husband is truly the best man I have ever known her to be with. However, there have been many drunken phone calls – when we were still speaking – where she admitted that her life wasn’t what she wanted it to be and she wasn’t sure about even this incredible man who obviously loves her very much. Can I expect to find that love, that one, that person, who can fill me and reach me and touch me without me losing too much of myself? Or can I let myself be that vulnerable again to even try to find out?
Wishing for that love. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Aching with wishing while flirting via email with Cute Guy, realizing the futility of it. Wishing for that hand, those arms, those lips, something to make me feel 25 again, loved within an inch of my life again.
Wanting to start all over, to be able to let someone else in. Wanting to stop hurting and aching and wishing and wanting. Wanting (a little less every day) the one I can’t have – the ones I can’t have, maybe. Wanting to be wanted. Just wanting.
Wishing for that love. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Aching with wishing while flirting via email with Cute Guy, realizing the futility of it. Wishing for that hand, those arms, those lips, something to make me feel 25 again, loved within an inch of my life again.
Wanting to start all over, to be able to let someone else in. Wanting to stop hurting and aching and wishing and wanting. Wanting (a little less every day) the one I can’t have – the ones I can’t have, maybe. Wanting to be wanted. Just wanting.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
10 Reasons why I shouldn’t watch “The Gilmore Girls.”
1. No one talks like that.
2. No one lives like that.
3. No mother/daughter has a relationship like that.
4. I love my friends and their advice but it’s not the pithy, quippy, get to the point quickly kind of advice that Lorelei’s friends give her.
5. I will never live in a house like that making a wage like that.
6. No guy ever took me bungee jumping when I was 19.
7. LA doesn’t do clever, quirky town festivals where everyone gets together and does something cute and silly.
8. Norman Mailer has never just wandered into my life.
9. I wouldn’t be Lorelei if I lived in that world – I would be one of the funny, fat neighbors who seem to be slightly slow and not nearly as clever as our lead girls.
10. My “Luke” is never going to just some day realize he’s in love with me and grab me and kiss me that way, whether I wait eight years or 80 years. But, like Lorelei, I can't let him go.
2. No one lives like that.
3. No mother/daughter has a relationship like that.
4. I love my friends and their advice but it’s not the pithy, quippy, get to the point quickly kind of advice that Lorelei’s friends give her.
5. I will never live in a house like that making a wage like that.
6. No guy ever took me bungee jumping when I was 19.
7. LA doesn’t do clever, quirky town festivals where everyone gets together and does something cute and silly.
8. Norman Mailer has never just wandered into my life.
9. I wouldn’t be Lorelei if I lived in that world – I would be one of the funny, fat neighbors who seem to be slightly slow and not nearly as clever as our lead girls.
10. My “Luke” is never going to just some day realize he’s in love with me and grab me and kiss me that way, whether I wait eight years or 80 years. But, like Lorelei, I can't let him go.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Truth Be Told...
I don’t know who I am.
The first year after I escaped and found my freedom, I announced to the world, “Here I am! This is me! This is who I am without someone telling me who I have to be.” And I tried so hard to be that person I saw in my mind’s eye – that woman who was strong and independent and creative and amazing. Dorothy Parker but with better shoes. I thought I knew what I wanted and who I wanted to be. I thought it would be easy to embrace that Susan I always wanted to be but never felt that I was allowed to be.
But deep inside, I had no idea who that person was. I lived what I thought was expected of me, who I thought others saw me as. OOMA saw me as strong, creative, brilliant (maybe). My new friends saw me as strong, creative, powerful. I still saw myself as a little girl, hiding behind a door, peeking out on the life that I wanted but no idea how to get the door open. But I faked it pretty well. There were glimpses of who I thought I wanted to be but never a clear vision.
I became SUSAN, in all caps, because that’s what I thought I should be. Dynamic. Strong. Powerful. Didn’t need anyone. Didn’t need anything. But the many nights crying into my pillow and fighting panic attacks told me that maybe I was wrong. I tried to let myself (whoever that may be) come out and be expressed but, in the process, I think I drove some pretty amazing people away because, once I let myself out, I found I couldn’t pull myself back.
I spent the next year spinning the wheel, trying on different things, different selves. Be more open, be more emotional. Be stronger, be more creative. Be the director you are, don’t need anything else. You’re strong, you are SUSAN, hear you roar. But the little voice inside me kept saying, “But who are you?” I ignored that voice. I decided I didn’t want to be single anymore and to try to figure out who I had to be in order to make the OOMA want and adore me. Silly me. Maybe if I hadn’t tried so hard to be… something… maybe I wouldn’t have made him run for the hills. I’ll never know because he’ll never tell me. But I knew down inside that I wasn’t who I wanted to be yet because I still didn’t know who that was.
I had moments in that year where I wanted to go back to being with him, just so I wouldn’t have to find out who I was without him. Because that would mean that the person I was for 18 years with him was a fraud. I know, I wouldn’t be who I am without that time with him but it seemed that, by leaving him, I left myself behind, with no bread crumbs to lead me back to where I was. I kept thinking, “What the hell did I do? Who am I to think I deserve to find myself, find my bliss, find what makes me happy? Nobody’s happy, why should I be?” Luckily, that didn’t last long and usually went away quickly. But it was there.
A while ago, I was meditating on where I wanted to be in five years and I got a very clear vision of that. Beautiful oceanside home, filled with peace and contentment, warm, beautiful, the voice of the man I love in the other room, singing softly to something that was making me smile as I sat curled up, looking out the window at the gorgeous view, knowing we were going to be doing something perfect that night. Knowing that I was exactly where I wanted to be, with the person I wanted to be with, and being the person I wanted to be. There were no doubts, no worries, no fears. This was my life, and it was exactly what I wanted.
I now realize that the past six to eight months have been me, waiting. Waiting for some revelation of who I am and who I am to be. Director, yes, but good director? I thought so. But how could I know without that significant other to confirm it to me. I know I have spouted off on not needing that approval but, you know what? I am full of shit. I want someone there to discuss the screening last weekend and play the “what did you think” game with. But even that is dependent on who I am. How can I know who I am looking for if I don’t know who the person is that is doing the looking.
So I arrive at today, ironically Independence Day, when I realize that I haven’t a clue who I am. There is a blurry impression deep inside that makes me think I can see something hazy on the horizon that might take the shape of the person I want to be. I know I feel it occasionally, particularly when I am directing and there is no doubt in my mind that I know what I am doing. I see that vision of me in five years, happy, content, at peace, and I want to figure out how to get there. I know I am taking baby steps and sometimes I think I am making huge, gargantuan leaps. But then I look down and see I’m only a tiny step or two from where I was.
I do realize that, to get the life I see in five years, I need to spend the time figuring out who I am. How can I expect to be with someone in my life in a significant way if I don’t know who I am? How do I know even what to look for? Without a road map of my own self, I cannot expect anyone to follow me along and meet me at the rest stop. I’ve got my Thomas Guide, they’re working with Mapquest. We’re not going to end up at the same place because we’re seeing two different paths.
I hope that going to my therapist again will help me decipher my Thomas Guide and figure out which way is north. I hope to find that peaceful place in the distance, with the ocean and the peace and the sound of his voice singing softly in the next room. I hope to be able to say, “Hi, I’m Susan (no caps)” and know what that introduction means. In the meantime, bear with me as I seek and struggle and peek into the crannies. I hope in five years, we’ll toast to the me that was and put her to bed. And I hope to be complete all by myself.
The first year after I escaped and found my freedom, I announced to the world, “Here I am! This is me! This is who I am without someone telling me who I have to be.” And I tried so hard to be that person I saw in my mind’s eye – that woman who was strong and independent and creative and amazing. Dorothy Parker but with better shoes. I thought I knew what I wanted and who I wanted to be. I thought it would be easy to embrace that Susan I always wanted to be but never felt that I was allowed to be.
But deep inside, I had no idea who that person was. I lived what I thought was expected of me, who I thought others saw me as. OOMA saw me as strong, creative, brilliant (maybe). My new friends saw me as strong, creative, powerful. I still saw myself as a little girl, hiding behind a door, peeking out on the life that I wanted but no idea how to get the door open. But I faked it pretty well. There were glimpses of who I thought I wanted to be but never a clear vision.
I became SUSAN, in all caps, because that’s what I thought I should be. Dynamic. Strong. Powerful. Didn’t need anyone. Didn’t need anything. But the many nights crying into my pillow and fighting panic attacks told me that maybe I was wrong. I tried to let myself (whoever that may be) come out and be expressed but, in the process, I think I drove some pretty amazing people away because, once I let myself out, I found I couldn’t pull myself back.
I spent the next year spinning the wheel, trying on different things, different selves. Be more open, be more emotional. Be stronger, be more creative. Be the director you are, don’t need anything else. You’re strong, you are SUSAN, hear you roar. But the little voice inside me kept saying, “But who are you?” I ignored that voice. I decided I didn’t want to be single anymore and to try to figure out who I had to be in order to make the OOMA want and adore me. Silly me. Maybe if I hadn’t tried so hard to be… something… maybe I wouldn’t have made him run for the hills. I’ll never know because he’ll never tell me. But I knew down inside that I wasn’t who I wanted to be yet because I still didn’t know who that was.
I had moments in that year where I wanted to go back to being with him, just so I wouldn’t have to find out who I was without him. Because that would mean that the person I was for 18 years with him was a fraud. I know, I wouldn’t be who I am without that time with him but it seemed that, by leaving him, I left myself behind, with no bread crumbs to lead me back to where I was. I kept thinking, “What the hell did I do? Who am I to think I deserve to find myself, find my bliss, find what makes me happy? Nobody’s happy, why should I be?” Luckily, that didn’t last long and usually went away quickly. But it was there.
A while ago, I was meditating on where I wanted to be in five years and I got a very clear vision of that. Beautiful oceanside home, filled with peace and contentment, warm, beautiful, the voice of the man I love in the other room, singing softly to something that was making me smile as I sat curled up, looking out the window at the gorgeous view, knowing we were going to be doing something perfect that night. Knowing that I was exactly where I wanted to be, with the person I wanted to be with, and being the person I wanted to be. There were no doubts, no worries, no fears. This was my life, and it was exactly what I wanted.
I now realize that the past six to eight months have been me, waiting. Waiting for some revelation of who I am and who I am to be. Director, yes, but good director? I thought so. But how could I know without that significant other to confirm it to me. I know I have spouted off on not needing that approval but, you know what? I am full of shit. I want someone there to discuss the screening last weekend and play the “what did you think” game with. But even that is dependent on who I am. How can I know who I am looking for if I don’t know who the person is that is doing the looking.
So I arrive at today, ironically Independence Day, when I realize that I haven’t a clue who I am. There is a blurry impression deep inside that makes me think I can see something hazy on the horizon that might take the shape of the person I want to be. I know I feel it occasionally, particularly when I am directing and there is no doubt in my mind that I know what I am doing. I see that vision of me in five years, happy, content, at peace, and I want to figure out how to get there. I know I am taking baby steps and sometimes I think I am making huge, gargantuan leaps. But then I look down and see I’m only a tiny step or two from where I was.
I do realize that, to get the life I see in five years, I need to spend the time figuring out who I am. How can I expect to be with someone in my life in a significant way if I don’t know who I am? How do I know even what to look for? Without a road map of my own self, I cannot expect anyone to follow me along and meet me at the rest stop. I’ve got my Thomas Guide, they’re working with Mapquest. We’re not going to end up at the same place because we’re seeing two different paths.
I hope that going to my therapist again will help me decipher my Thomas Guide and figure out which way is north. I hope to find that peaceful place in the distance, with the ocean and the peace and the sound of his voice singing softly in the next room. I hope to be able to say, “Hi, I’m Susan (no caps)” and know what that introduction means. In the meantime, bear with me as I seek and struggle and peek into the crannies. I hope in five years, we’ll toast to the me that was and put her to bed. And I hope to be complete all by myself.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Nerves of...
... mush.
Didn't sleep much last night. Not that I'm worried about tonight. Maybe anxious and anticipatory. I know "The Change-Up" is great. It was nice to have an actual crew this year and not force the actors into holding the boom, etc. But still, it's always nerve-wracking to me to have something screened. Maybe I'll get jaded enough one day to not care. In a way, I hope not.
The screenings last night were... interesting. "Buddy System" by Genesis Films was by far the best. They are the best filmmakers there. My friend, Perry's, was the best I've seen him do. The rest, with a few exceptions, were kind of average. Nothing frightfully bad, very few stand-outs.
I hope we're a stand out tonight.
In case you haven't seen the info enough, here it is again:
Fine Arts Theatre
8556 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90211
phone: (310) 360-0455
$10
Please come and join me if you can.
Didn't sleep much last night. Not that I'm worried about tonight. Maybe anxious and anticipatory. I know "The Change-Up" is great. It was nice to have an actual crew this year and not force the actors into holding the boom, etc. But still, it's always nerve-wracking to me to have something screened. Maybe I'll get jaded enough one day to not care. In a way, I hope not.
The screenings last night were... interesting. "Buddy System" by Genesis Films was by far the best. They are the best filmmakers there. My friend, Perry's, was the best I've seen him do. The rest, with a few exceptions, were kind of average. Nothing frightfully bad, very few stand-outs.
I hope we're a stand out tonight.
In case you haven't seen the info enough, here it is again:
Fine Arts Theatre
8556 Wilshire Blvd.
Beverly Hills, CA 90211
phone: (310) 360-0455
$10
Please come and join me if you can.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
More 48 Hour Madness
So, a couple of days later, I'm still trying to recover from the 48 Hour Film Project. It was a tough year, with only a few hours sleep between Friday morning and 2 AM Sunday night. I’ll write a longer blog with details as soon as I can find the time. Here are pics from the weekend, including our ill-fated journey into the park.
In the meantime, the end of the race concluded with thinking we had technical problems with our DVD submission and almost not submitting it on time because of this. Peter Fox, the organizer, insisted I turn in whatever we had and turn in a “late” entry later that night just in case. Dave very kindly let me utilize all his technology at his office, helped me get a good DVD burned and I dropped that off at midnight as a “late” entry. Long story short, the first DVD appears to be fine so we made the deadline and qualify for awards.
I screened both the “48 Hour” cut (just about 7 minutes) and the director’s cut (around 9 minutes) last night for select folks at the Ark and the overall response was very good to both of them. I think this is probably the best of the three 48 Hour films I’ve shot, if not the best thing I’ve shot. The beauty of working with professionals, both as writers and as cast/crew, is that things just get done. No one bitches and moans, egos are checked at the door, the cast does their homework, and we can get everything done in a timely manner. We really shot only about 5 ½ hours after all the chaos of losing our location. The actors jumped right in to the rewrite and got the very delicate tone of the piece. Think Tarrantino meets Soderbergh. Could have easily slipped into over-done but they found the perfect balance of zany but grounded.
Beth, as always, was a shot or two ahead so I didn’t have to think about much. She has to sign a contract in blood with me to not move back to Alaska and to never work for anyone else when I need her. I cannot wait to do “The Wraith” with her.
And my writing team was exquisite. Dave and Monica are possibly two of the most clever people I have ever worked with. The dynamic and the respect amongst us allowed us to disagree on points of view and yet continue to work productively. I LOVE this script. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE IT. And, consequently, I LOVE this film. “The Change-Up” is what it’s called, by the way.
The official screening is this Saturday, June 30 at 6:30 PM. If you want to join us, please go to www.48hourfilm.com/la to buy tickets online. Buy ‘em quick, they will sell out.
What this weekend did do for me is make me once again realize that there is no Plan B. I will never be a program director for Mission: Renaissance, as much as I love the job and the work. I am not even going to begin the training for that because I don’t want to waste their time or mine. I am a director. I am “weirdly driven”, as Dave described me nearing midnight on Sunday as we tried to finish the DVD. This is what I want to do, this is what I’m destined to do, and that’s all there is. I am so grateful to be reminded of this often so I don’t get distracted.
Whew. So, I take a breath and tonight start rehearsal for a new play I’m directing. I should have taken a few days off but, oh, well.
Here we go!
In the meantime, the end of the race concluded with thinking we had technical problems with our DVD submission and almost not submitting it on time because of this. Peter Fox, the organizer, insisted I turn in whatever we had and turn in a “late” entry later that night just in case. Dave very kindly let me utilize all his technology at his office, helped me get a good DVD burned and I dropped that off at midnight as a “late” entry. Long story short, the first DVD appears to be fine so we made the deadline and qualify for awards.
I screened both the “48 Hour” cut (just about 7 minutes) and the director’s cut (around 9 minutes) last night for select folks at the Ark and the overall response was very good to both of them. I think this is probably the best of the three 48 Hour films I’ve shot, if not the best thing I’ve shot. The beauty of working with professionals, both as writers and as cast/crew, is that things just get done. No one bitches and moans, egos are checked at the door, the cast does their homework, and we can get everything done in a timely manner. We really shot only about 5 ½ hours after all the chaos of losing our location. The actors jumped right in to the rewrite and got the very delicate tone of the piece. Think Tarrantino meets Soderbergh. Could have easily slipped into over-done but they found the perfect balance of zany but grounded.
Beth, as always, was a shot or two ahead so I didn’t have to think about much. She has to sign a contract in blood with me to not move back to Alaska and to never work for anyone else when I need her. I cannot wait to do “The Wraith” with her.
And my writing team was exquisite. Dave and Monica are possibly two of the most clever people I have ever worked with. The dynamic and the respect amongst us allowed us to disagree on points of view and yet continue to work productively. I LOVE this script. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE IT. And, consequently, I LOVE this film. “The Change-Up” is what it’s called, by the way.
The official screening is this Saturday, June 30 at 6:30 PM. If you want to join us, please go to www.48hourfilm.com/la to buy tickets online. Buy ‘em quick, they will sell out.
What this weekend did do for me is make me once again realize that there is no Plan B. I will never be a program director for Mission: Renaissance, as much as I love the job and the work. I am not even going to begin the training for that because I don’t want to waste their time or mine. I am a director. I am “weirdly driven”, as Dave described me nearing midnight on Sunday as we tried to finish the DVD. This is what I want to do, this is what I’m destined to do, and that’s all there is. I am so grateful to be reminded of this often so I don’t get distracted.
Whew. So, I take a breath and tonight start rehearsal for a new play I’m directing. I should have taken a few days off but, oh, well.
Here we go!
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