Spent the afternoon with Gramps yesterday in his seniors' residence. The one where there's six dudes to probably 200 ladies. Gramps likes those odds. He takes full advantage. Around his granddaughters, he's a proper gent. But get him around Joy, the 60-something blonde firecracker and watch out. He gets his flirt on like nobody's business.
Gramps plays pool with Joy a few times a week. I suggested he teach me to play, thinking maybe Joy would join us and I could watch him in action. But Joy's a busy woman. "I wish I could stay and play," she said brightly, turning on the Enrique Inglesias CD for us before she left. "Oh, I bet you would," Gramps growled back at her, squeezing her arm. Joy giggled and squirmed like a school girl.
This man is NINETY-FIVE.
And even though I'd imagined my first billiards experience to be more Coyote Ugly and less Tuesdays With Morrie, Gramps and I had a lot of fun just the two of us. As long as I had the ambulance on speed-dial, that is.
He may be a walking Viagra commercial, but there were points when I thought it was game over for dear old Douglas. Every once and awhile, he'd lean over and appear to be gasping silently for breath. I'd start lunging for my cell phone, but then he'd straighten up and say, "Yellow. Corner pocket," like nothing was wrong.
The man is a shark.
And mostly blind.
I'm baffled how someone who can't see past his nose can manage to get a 3-inch ball into a tiny hole eight feet away. Does he guess? Is it a fluke? Or it some kind of Obi Wan Kenobi Jedi Master trick?
Don't get me wrong: he wasn't perfect. He's totally colourblind, so half the time he'd call pink and shoot yellow. And he just avoided the dark-coloured balls altogether because he can't decipher green to save his life and refuses to admit it.
And if I was ever searching for the roots of my perfectionism, I think I've found it in Gramps. "That just burns me up," he'd grumble after botching a shot that required him to hoist his bony century-old ass up onto the table and from shoot behind his back. "There's something fundamentally wrong with my aim."
He's lying about his age. I'm sure of it.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Day 154: Breakdown, Breakthrough, Break Dance
I joke about depression a lot, dropping one-liners and innuendos, calling myself a mood swinger, calling myself crazy. I joke about it because a relapse of depression is my greatest fear. It’s with me almost every single day and the jokes help me make it seem smaller than it is.
The really scary thing about depression is there is no bottom. The black hole just keeps on going, so falling back into it is about the worst thing I can imagine. Think about what it would feel like to plunge down a hole that never ended – that constant loose-guts feeling of free-fall. If there’s a hell, that’s what it would be for me.
I was on medication for six years, starting a drug called Celexa one week before my husband left. I started feeling better immediately, and I’ll never know if it was the meds or him leaving that helped me come out of four years of almost-constant horror and pain.
Whatever it was took that free-fall feeling away. I could function. I could feel happy. I could focus and move forward in my life – get a job, get a boyfriend, set goals like marathons and Ironman and actually have the capacity to complete them. But I always that niggling, uncomfortable feeling that I had to take happy pills to get through a day.
In the six years I was on meds, I tried to get off them several times. Each time, I would gradually decrease the dose until I was down to half a pill every few days. If I took one on Monday, by Wednesday, I’d start to feel lightheaded and a little woozy. By Thursday, I’d feel like I was going to pass out and by Friday, I’d be nauseous, dizzy and barely able to stand. This pass-out brain-damaged feeling was not depression. It was withdrawal symptoms from a medication that my body was addicted to. They don’t tell you this when you start antidepressants.
But beyond the withdrawal, there was a more subtle feeling. The feeling of jumping without a parachute. Or tightrope walking without a safety net. The feeling you could fall at any time. That feeling kept me from going off meds for many years.
Finally, last spring after returning from Paris, I weaned myself down to a quarter of a pill every few days. Then one day, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I took the meds and I guessed that meant I was off them.
The funny thing was, as I was going off my meds, I was slipping into a depression. Common sense would say I should have stayed on them. But I was done. I was through not knowing what was actually happening in my body. Through medicating an illness that I now felt was linked to me not living an authentic life.
Because what Paris did is it told me I am an artist. It told me that living this fake parallel life – where ‘creative’ meant writing hardwood floor ads – was not enough. Living a fake version of your life seemed to be a good way to make yourself depressed, so I tried an experiment. I put the pill bottle away and committed to my creative work. I started writing a memoir of my trip to Paris, a book about being authentic and realizing your dreams.
It was tough going. It seemed like every couple of days I had some kind of panic attack or micro-breakdown. I questioned everything in my life, including my boyfriend who I put through the wringer on a daily basis. He was the only person who saw me every day and who knew what was going on – as much as anyone can know another person’s experience – but every day I considered ending our relationship.
People kept telling me it was the writing – that the creative process is tough and tumultuous. Some blamed my boyfriend for stifling my creativity. Some suggested I should do something else, date someone else, move somewhere else. But I ignored everyone and kept going, enduring bad day after bad day after bad day. Sometimes, I’d cry all day. I’d pull out that pill bottle and stare at it for a very long time. But I never took one.
I was operating on faith. I had no rational reason to believe things would work out – I’d never heard of a clinical study saying creative work increases seratonin levels. But deep in my gut, I had this feeling that if I kept going, kept writing, everything would work out.
In December, I started feeling better. I finished the first draft of my book and I celebrated a feeling of possibility for the first time in months. I also realized I had four months of blog posts about my daily mental breakdown and a two-month period where I very publicly debated breaking up with my boyfriend. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I felt terrible for having dragged him through hell for half a year and documenting the whole process on the Internet.
In mid-January, I spent a couple of days in the mountains with a friend of mine. It was there I realized I’d been off my medication for six months. That, for the first time, I was living my real life as my true self. That I’d freed myself from depression and medication, that I was living my dream of being an artist.
And also that I’d been holding myself to a standard of perfection the whole time.
I had struggled like hell for six months and the whole time, I’d beat myself up for not being perfect. For not being instantly cured and instantly happy. For taking five months to write a first draft instead of two. For not calling people back.
I’m not sure what the lesson is here, to be perfectly honest. Whether it’s about the power of living your dreams or some sad fucking parable about the perils of perfectionism. But here I am. And here it is.
Right now I’m working on a course to help teenagers with depression. It’s rewarding work, but it’s bringing up all kinds of feelings I’ve been packing down and hiding from for years. It’s making me see my own denial – I’ve been studiously ignoring my depression since I took that first pill six and a half years ago.
Writing about it makes it all REAL again. It’s scary and it’s hard and I feel like I’m passing through a kind of portal. Like on the other side of this difficult but necessary work, there is a whole new world waiting for me.
I’m removing a huge heavy coat that I’ve been carrying for ten years and I don’t know what to do once this weight is off me. I feel like I’m fumbling with the buttons, not sure if I even want to take it off. That if I take off this weight, anything is possible, and that wide-open Anything is terrifying. I don’t know why I feel this, but I do. I guess I’m operating on faith...again and still. I guess it’s all I know how to do.
The really scary thing about depression is there is no bottom. The black hole just keeps on going, so falling back into it is about the worst thing I can imagine. Think about what it would feel like to plunge down a hole that never ended – that constant loose-guts feeling of free-fall. If there’s a hell, that’s what it would be for me.
I was on medication for six years, starting a drug called Celexa one week before my husband left. I started feeling better immediately, and I’ll never know if it was the meds or him leaving that helped me come out of four years of almost-constant horror and pain.
Whatever it was took that free-fall feeling away. I could function. I could feel happy. I could focus and move forward in my life – get a job, get a boyfriend, set goals like marathons and Ironman and actually have the capacity to complete them. But I always that niggling, uncomfortable feeling that I had to take happy pills to get through a day.
In the six years I was on meds, I tried to get off them several times. Each time, I would gradually decrease the dose until I was down to half a pill every few days. If I took one on Monday, by Wednesday, I’d start to feel lightheaded and a little woozy. By Thursday, I’d feel like I was going to pass out and by Friday, I’d be nauseous, dizzy and barely able to stand. This pass-out brain-damaged feeling was not depression. It was withdrawal symptoms from a medication that my body was addicted to. They don’t tell you this when you start antidepressants.
But beyond the withdrawal, there was a more subtle feeling. The feeling of jumping without a parachute. Or tightrope walking without a safety net. The feeling you could fall at any time. That feeling kept me from going off meds for many years.
Finally, last spring after returning from Paris, I weaned myself down to a quarter of a pill every few days. Then one day, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I took the meds and I guessed that meant I was off them.
The funny thing was, as I was going off my meds, I was slipping into a depression. Common sense would say I should have stayed on them. But I was done. I was through not knowing what was actually happening in my body. Through medicating an illness that I now felt was linked to me not living an authentic life.
Because what Paris did is it told me I am an artist. It told me that living this fake parallel life – where ‘creative’ meant writing hardwood floor ads – was not enough. Living a fake version of your life seemed to be a good way to make yourself depressed, so I tried an experiment. I put the pill bottle away and committed to my creative work. I started writing a memoir of my trip to Paris, a book about being authentic and realizing your dreams.
It was tough going. It seemed like every couple of days I had some kind of panic attack or micro-breakdown. I questioned everything in my life, including my boyfriend who I put through the wringer on a daily basis. He was the only person who saw me every day and who knew what was going on – as much as anyone can know another person’s experience – but every day I considered ending our relationship.
People kept telling me it was the writing – that the creative process is tough and tumultuous. Some blamed my boyfriend for stifling my creativity. Some suggested I should do something else, date someone else, move somewhere else. But I ignored everyone and kept going, enduring bad day after bad day after bad day. Sometimes, I’d cry all day. I’d pull out that pill bottle and stare at it for a very long time. But I never took one.
I was operating on faith. I had no rational reason to believe things would work out – I’d never heard of a clinical study saying creative work increases seratonin levels. But deep in my gut, I had this feeling that if I kept going, kept writing, everything would work out.
In December, I started feeling better. I finished the first draft of my book and I celebrated a feeling of possibility for the first time in months. I also realized I had four months of blog posts about my daily mental breakdown and a two-month period where I very publicly debated breaking up with my boyfriend. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I felt terrible for having dragged him through hell for half a year and documenting the whole process on the Internet.
In mid-January, I spent a couple of days in the mountains with a friend of mine. It was there I realized I’d been off my medication for six months. That, for the first time, I was living my real life as my true self. That I’d freed myself from depression and medication, that I was living my dream of being an artist.
And also that I’d been holding myself to a standard of perfection the whole time.
I had struggled like hell for six months and the whole time, I’d beat myself up for not being perfect. For not being instantly cured and instantly happy. For taking five months to write a first draft instead of two. For not calling people back.
I’m not sure what the lesson is here, to be perfectly honest. Whether it’s about the power of living your dreams or some sad fucking parable about the perils of perfectionism. But here I am. And here it is.
Right now I’m working on a course to help teenagers with depression. It’s rewarding work, but it’s bringing up all kinds of feelings I’ve been packing down and hiding from for years. It’s making me see my own denial – I’ve been studiously ignoring my depression since I took that first pill six and a half years ago.
Writing about it makes it all REAL again. It’s scary and it’s hard and I feel like I’m passing through a kind of portal. Like on the other side of this difficult but necessary work, there is a whole new world waiting for me.
I’m removing a huge heavy coat that I’ve been carrying for ten years and I don’t know what to do once this weight is off me. I feel like I’m fumbling with the buttons, not sure if I even want to take it off. That if I take off this weight, anything is possible, and that wide-open Anything is terrifying. I don’t know why I feel this, but I do. I guess I’m operating on faith...again and still. I guess it’s all I know how to do.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Day 153: TEQUILA!
My friend Crystal is from Saskatchewan and she likes to party. I worked with her at TAG Advertising last year. Every couple of months or so, the TAG crew gets together at the Ship & Anchor for burgers and fries. (Boogers and flies, as I like to call them.) And EVERY TIME, Crystal secretly orders a round of tequila shots. Every. Time.
What also happens every time is that I go into a deep state of tequila denial. Deep down, I reject the notion that she will force me to knock back a shooter at 1 pm on a Wednesday and so, I order a beer. Because burgers and beers go together so nicely. So I've got a pint of beer in me by the time the tequila shows up and I am scuh-REWED for the rest of the day.
You'd think you could Just Say No to Crystal's uncanny manipulative powers. But you're wrong. You're drinking that tequila whether you like it or not. Peer pressure: not just for teenagers any more.
But, part of TAG's mystique is an ethos of dogged hard work and grotesque amounts of overtime. So our lunches barely last an hour. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am – I'm drunk as a lord and they're back at their desks. I don't know how they function. And I can't exactly sit there in a scuzzy pub booth by myself for two hours until I can see straight.
So this time, I went easy on the beer, drinking so slowly, I ended up leaving half the pint on the table. (Some people call this alcohol abuse.) And then I did the sneaky trick I worked out after one too many drunken afternoon naps in the TAG bathroom. This trick is called 'Pour Tequila On My Salad.'
While everyone else's head is tossed back in full shooter glory, I dump half my booze into my salad bowl. Then I make a big show of groaning in tequila-gunshot-wound agony and sucking on the lime. Works every time.
And for those who must know, the answer is YES it's worth paying $5 for a shooter I didn't shoot. Crystal scares me.
What also happens every time is that I go into a deep state of tequila denial. Deep down, I reject the notion that she will force me to knock back a shooter at 1 pm on a Wednesday and so, I order a beer. Because burgers and beers go together so nicely. So I've got a pint of beer in me by the time the tequila shows up and I am scuh-REWED for the rest of the day.
You'd think you could Just Say No to Crystal's uncanny manipulative powers. But you're wrong. You're drinking that tequila whether you like it or not. Peer pressure: not just for teenagers any more.
But, part of TAG's mystique is an ethos of dogged hard work and grotesque amounts of overtime. So our lunches barely last an hour. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am – I'm drunk as a lord and they're back at their desks. I don't know how they function. And I can't exactly sit there in a scuzzy pub booth by myself for two hours until I can see straight.
So this time, I went easy on the beer, drinking so slowly, I ended up leaving half the pint on the table. (Some people call this alcohol abuse.) And then I did the sneaky trick I worked out after one too many drunken afternoon naps in the TAG bathroom. This trick is called 'Pour Tequila On My Salad.'
While everyone else's head is tossed back in full shooter glory, I dump half my booze into my salad bowl. Then I make a big show of groaning in tequila-gunshot-wound agony and sucking on the lime. Works every time.
And for those who must know, the answer is YES it's worth paying $5 for a shooter I didn't shoot. Crystal scares me.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Day 152: Bad Girlfriend Rides Again
Boyfriend hates when I write about him. I don't blame him. Living with someone who may or may not put everything you say and do on the Interweb was SO not what he signed up for. But, I like to think he doesn't mind it if I end up being the villain. This is what I tell myself.
I've been to see three theatre shows in the past few days. Boyfriend was present at none of them. He comes to MY shows and that's about it. He'd rather watch hockey than men in makeup. I get it. Normally, it's no big deal to go out on my own, but Monday's outing led to what I like to call A Fight.
First off, we don't really fight, Boyfriend and me. Well, I fight. He doesn't. He just calmly tells me I have completely fucked up and he moves on. Me? I kick and scream and drag us through hell for reasons that, right at the moment, elude me. Usually, it has something to do with watching too many romantic comedies during my Divorce Recovery phase.
So Monday night, a night where Boyfriend thought we were having a Date Night, I went to the theatre. Why did he think we were having a Date Night? Because I suggested it. Why did I go to the theatre? Because I totally forgot about ever suggesting a date night and I told my friend Chris I'd go see his show in June and I didn't and then I said I'd go see his show in January and oh-shit Monday was the last night.
So I go to the theatre BAFFLED as to why Boyfriend is giving me attitude.
I watch Chris' show and then have a beer with Mark Hopkins (Captain Laid Back & Under 30) and Hopkins says he can get me into ANOTHER show at 9:30 for FREE, so I say HELL YES and we go to that.
Now. In between all these shows and unbridled spontenaeity, I do not call Boyfriend. I do not text him. I do not send him smoke signals. In no way do I communicate what the hell I'm doing or why.
Because I'm a wild and crazy artist and I do what I want. The thing is, my need to do whatever the hell I want doesn't mesh so well with Boyfriend's need for me not to be at the bottom of a seven-car pileup...or a seven-man orgy for that matter. 'Specially on our special night.
You know when you're the partner that's sitting at home? And you think, 'Ok a show at 7, she'll be back by 9...still sort of date night.' And then 10 o'clock happens and you start to imagine horrible things. And 11 o'clock happens and you start to get MAD. And the mad mixes with the worry and the scenarios in your head start to involve red leather handcuffs and then midnight happens and she comes home and you're actually a little DISAPPOINTED she wasn't in a twisted metal serial killer sandwich with the area cordoned off by police tape and the need for dental records?
That was Boyfriend's Monday night. MY Monday night was music, dancing girls, laughing and good conversation. SOMEONE sure got the shaft on that one.
I've been to see three theatre shows in the past few days. Boyfriend was present at none of them. He comes to MY shows and that's about it. He'd rather watch hockey than men in makeup. I get it. Normally, it's no big deal to go out on my own, but Monday's outing led to what I like to call A Fight.
First off, we don't really fight, Boyfriend and me. Well, I fight. He doesn't. He just calmly tells me I have completely fucked up and he moves on. Me? I kick and scream and drag us through hell for reasons that, right at the moment, elude me. Usually, it has something to do with watching too many romantic comedies during my Divorce Recovery phase.
So Monday night, a night where Boyfriend thought we were having a Date Night, I went to the theatre. Why did he think we were having a Date Night? Because I suggested it. Why did I go to the theatre? Because I totally forgot about ever suggesting a date night and I told my friend Chris I'd go see his show in June and I didn't and then I said I'd go see his show in January and oh-shit Monday was the last night.
So I go to the theatre BAFFLED as to why Boyfriend is giving me attitude.
I watch Chris' show and then have a beer with Mark Hopkins (Captain Laid Back & Under 30) and Hopkins says he can get me into ANOTHER show at 9:30 for FREE, so I say HELL YES and we go to that.
Now. In between all these shows and unbridled spontenaeity, I do not call Boyfriend. I do not text him. I do not send him smoke signals. In no way do I communicate what the hell I'm doing or why.
Because I'm a wild and crazy artist and I do what I want. The thing is, my need to do whatever the hell I want doesn't mesh so well with Boyfriend's need for me not to be at the bottom of a seven-car pileup...or a seven-man orgy for that matter. 'Specially on our special night.
You know when you're the partner that's sitting at home? And you think, 'Ok a show at 7, she'll be back by 9...still sort of date night.' And then 10 o'clock happens and you start to imagine horrible things. And 11 o'clock happens and you start to get MAD. And the mad mixes with the worry and the scenarios in your head start to involve red leather handcuffs and then midnight happens and she comes home and you're actually a little DISAPPOINTED she wasn't in a twisted metal serial killer sandwich with the area cordoned off by police tape and the need for dental records?
That was Boyfriend's Monday night. MY Monday night was music, dancing girls, laughing and good conversation. SOMEONE sure got the shaft on that one.
Day 151: I Got Nothing Either
So I sit down this morning, internally freaking out about the seven half-hour video scripts I have to write in the next four days and thinking, "OMG! Does anyone else smell Impending Doom?" And I try to write a blog post because it's been three or four days since I've done that which is lame and....I got nothin'. My brain is so far beyond empty it's frightening.
I cast about for a bit, watching the Internal Freak-Out-O-Meter tip into the red zone and I end up on Shea's blog. Apropos because her blog's called The Daily Freak Out and even MORE apropos because today's post is called: "Sometimes, I Got Nothing."
God love her.
I TOTALLY got nuthin' today. Which is kind of weird because I've seen three really cool theatre shows in the past four days and therefore SHOULD have something interesting to say about them. But all I keep writing is versions of: I saw some really cool theatre. You woulda liked it.
This blank-brain is completely and utterly due to the fact that I've been swallowed by this depression project. So, my apologies. I'm giving all my energy to the depressed kids right now. But, if all goes really well, something HILARIOUS will happen between right now and tomorrow morning.
I cast about for a bit, watching the Internal Freak-Out-O-Meter tip into the red zone and I end up on Shea's blog. Apropos because her blog's called The Daily Freak Out and even MORE apropos because today's post is called: "Sometimes, I Got Nothing."
God love her.
I TOTALLY got nuthin' today. Which is kind of weird because I've seen three really cool theatre shows in the past four days and therefore SHOULD have something interesting to say about them. But all I keep writing is versions of: I saw some really cool theatre. You woulda liked it.
This blank-brain is completely and utterly due to the fact that I've been swallowed by this depression project. So, my apologies. I'm giving all my energy to the depressed kids right now. But, if all goes really well, something HILARIOUS will happen between right now and tomorrow morning.
Monday, January 26, 2009
TGIM #4
Today's TGIM poster child is...me. Mostly because my planned TGIMer, who is seven years old, wanted to play Uno instead and was way too tired anyway and got sent to bed before we could talk.
Name: Melanie Jones
Age: 32
Occupation: Writer, performer, (mood) swinger
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Me (Or By Reading This Blog): Very little. I'm an open book, but not too many people know I own a button-thing that plays a bit of 'Don't Worry Be Happy' by Bobby McFerrin when you press it. That's not really a secret, though. That's a 'you haven't rummaged around in my drawers much, have you?' The real secret is that I DO press it and it DOES make me be happy. Also, I always know where my passport is. And two of my secret dreams are to be a cabaret singer and to learn to draw.
What are you grateful for?
I am grateful for this giant cup of hot tea I'm sipping. I'm grateful for all the people in my life who love and support me. I'm grateful to know there is a path of bread crumbs for me to follow. I'm grateful for creativity, espresso and the truth.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
One awesome thing is that I've realized (once again) that I'm supposed to perform. I may be a writer, but down to my DNA, I'm a performer, too. I don't know why I resist this fact because it's true in the sense that oxygen is true. Or gravity.
But THE most awesomest thing is that I leave for Paris in two weeks and six days. That's 20 sleeps until delicious cheese, super-smelly Metro stations and a city so full of stories it makes my head spin.
Name: Melanie Jones
Age: 32
Occupation: Writer, performer, (mood) swinger
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Me (Or By Reading This Blog): Very little. I'm an open book, but not too many people know I own a button-thing that plays a bit of 'Don't Worry Be Happy' by Bobby McFerrin when you press it. That's not really a secret, though. That's a 'you haven't rummaged around in my drawers much, have you?' The real secret is that I DO press it and it DOES make me be happy. Also, I always know where my passport is. And two of my secret dreams are to be a cabaret singer and to learn to draw.What are you grateful for?
I am grateful for this giant cup of hot tea I'm sipping. I'm grateful for all the people in my life who love and support me. I'm grateful to know there is a path of bread crumbs for me to follow. I'm grateful for creativity, espresso and the truth.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?One awesome thing is that I've realized (once again) that I'm supposed to perform. I may be a writer, but down to my DNA, I'm a performer, too. I don't know why I resist this fact because it's true in the sense that oxygen is true. Or gravity.
But THE most awesomest thing is that I leave for Paris in two weeks and six days. That's 20 sleeps until delicious cheese, super-smelly Metro stations and a city so full of stories it makes my head spin.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Day 147: Oh God, Now I Hafta DO It
It's the morning after agreeing to work my bony butt off for the next three weeks. Annnnnnnd I'm terrified. This is typical of my "process" – the great build up to scoring a fabulous project, the celebration of getting it and now, the abject horror of actually having to follow through.
This is the part where I wonder why the hell I put myself out there in the first place and couldn't have been happy to sit around reading novels and watching my bank balance retreat faster than Bill Zane's hairline.
Why do I always dooooooo this? I ask myself, in a really whiny inner-head voice. Why do I always say yesssssss? [See Freak Show for further details.]
Sometimes I go to Boyfriend, pouting like a three-year-old, and he tells me something like: You do this because you love it and you might be scared right now, but that will fuel you.
Then I say something like: But I don't wannnnnaaaaaa! And then he sends me up to the bath (a.k.a. hydro-psycho-therapy). And later I think how lucky I am to have my very own personal computer programmer psychiatrist nanny.
But today, I did something different. I looked at my newly revised JOY Plan list for January and worked on a delicious portfolio of writing samples for the Haiti/India/Zambia photo documentary project.
In other words, oops, I'm about to do it again.
Pitching a new creative project has become like dating used to be. The thrill! The anticipation! Do they like me? Could they love me? You tell me the difference between a project proposal and the first three dates. Go on. Try.
The only trouble with the proposal (and proposals of any kind, I might add) is that afterwards? You gotta freaking commit.
This is the part where I wonder why the hell I put myself out there in the first place and couldn't have been happy to sit around reading novels and watching my bank balance retreat faster than Bill Zane's hairline.
Why do I always dooooooo this? I ask myself, in a really whiny inner-head voice. Why do I always say yesssssss? [See Freak Show for further details.]
Sometimes I go to Boyfriend, pouting like a three-year-old, and he tells me something like: You do this because you love it and you might be scared right now, but that will fuel you.
Then I say something like: But I don't wannnnnaaaaaa! And then he sends me up to the bath (a.k.a. hydro-psycho-therapy). And later I think how lucky I am to have my very own personal computer programmer psychiatrist nanny.
But today, I did something different. I looked at my newly revised JOY Plan list for January and worked on a delicious portfolio of writing samples for the Haiti/India/Zambia photo documentary project.
In other words, oops, I'm about to do it again.
Pitching a new creative project has become like dating used to be. The thrill! The anticipation! Do they like me? Could they love me? You tell me the difference between a project proposal and the first three dates. Go on. Try.
The only trouble with the proposal (and proposals of any kind, I might add) is that afterwards? You gotta freaking commit.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Day 146: Awkward Professional Moment of the Week
So, I meet with the depression project people and the film dudes they have on board and finally after six weeks of total and utter vagueness, this project begins to take shape. It looks like I've been chosen as the writer...although no one has officially told me as such, which is a tad on the weird side but I'm rolling with it.
Regardless. We go through the structure of each 'course module' which is basically ten or so video segments. We chat through what the host will say and blah blah video stuff blah. And as we talk, I realize two things.
One is that spending all that time (as in THREE DAYS STRAIGHT) writing them a proposal was, in fact, pointless. Because what they actually want is drastically different than what they said they want which was, 'We don't know what we want.'
Moving on.
The other thing I glean is that not only am I the writer of this project, but I am the on-camera host, relating personal stories of my experience with depression and about my own spiritual practice.
In the timeless word of Keanu Reeves: whoa.
Turns out, I'm a three-for-one special on this gig. I have TV hosting experience, I'm a writer and I was once coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs. I knew my mental illness would pay off one day!
So this leaves my to-do-before-leaving-for-Paris list looking like this:
1. Bust out 8 video scripts with 10 segments each, including a total of 30 or 40 personal stories and anecdotes related to depression and spirituality. Because we all have a big pile of those lying around.
2. Get the scripts approved by a committee of researchers who took forever to maybe-possibly hire me and by a not-yet-formed focus group of teenagers
3. Expose myself (emotionally) in front of a camera for three very long shooting days
4. File three years of taxes
5. Pack
It's fine.
What's not so fine is that I left the meeting elated but with no idea how much I'm being paid. So, halfway out the door, I decide to go back in and clarify this important lil' detail. I poke my head around the corner to find my two clients whispering with each other.
One looks up at me. She's clearly mid-rant and is CRYING. She gives me a black look that says something like, "Well, isn't this fucking great."
I apologize profusely and begin to back away, only to be stopped in my tracks by the other client-lady who decides it's a good time for small talk. She tells me that she's only working part-time and blah blah something about her cell phone.
Meanwhile, Crying Client and I are standing there humiliated and wishing we were never born. I decide I'd rather work for free than stand there any longer, but the cell phone thing is still happening and WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS and then finally, finally it's over and I shrink out the door.
Regardless. We go through the structure of each 'course module' which is basically ten or so video segments. We chat through what the host will say and blah blah video stuff blah. And as we talk, I realize two things.
One is that spending all that time (as in THREE DAYS STRAIGHT) writing them a proposal was, in fact, pointless. Because what they actually want is drastically different than what they said they want which was, 'We don't know what we want.'
Moving on.
The other thing I glean is that not only am I the writer of this project, but I am the on-camera host, relating personal stories of my experience with depression and about my own spiritual practice.
In the timeless word of Keanu Reeves: whoa.
Turns out, I'm a three-for-one special on this gig. I have TV hosting experience, I'm a writer and I was once coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs. I knew my mental illness would pay off one day!
So this leaves my to-do-before-leaving-for-Paris list looking like this:
1. Bust out 8 video scripts with 10 segments each, including a total of 30 or 40 personal stories and anecdotes related to depression and spirituality. Because we all have a big pile of those lying around.
2. Get the scripts approved by a committee of researchers who took forever to maybe-possibly hire me and by a not-yet-formed focus group of teenagers
3. Expose myself (emotionally) in front of a camera for three very long shooting days
4. File three years of taxes
5. Pack
It's fine.
What's not so fine is that I left the meeting elated but with no idea how much I'm being paid. So, halfway out the door, I decide to go back in and clarify this important lil' detail. I poke my head around the corner to find my two clients whispering with each other.
One looks up at me. She's clearly mid-rant and is CRYING. She gives me a black look that says something like, "Well, isn't this fucking great."
I apologize profusely and begin to back away, only to be stopped in my tracks by the other client-lady who decides it's a good time for small talk. She tells me that she's only working part-time and blah blah something about her cell phone.
Meanwhile, Crying Client and I are standing there humiliated and wishing we were never born. I decide I'd rather work for free than stand there any longer, but the cell phone thing is still happening and WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS and then finally, finally it's over and I shrink out the door.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Day 145: Writing Your Day
My new internet soulmate, Shea, asked me to be a part of a new feature on her blog, a conversation with a creative person called WHIP (Wonderful. Horrible. Intermittent. Progress). Love it. Love her.
She emailed me the questions and I wrote about my expectations (lofty) vs. my reality (humbling). About my process (spastic), fake nicknames (The Closer) and how my sweater smells (milky).
Near the end was the seemingly innocuous question: What's on your to-do list for tomorrow? At first, I wrote things like 'finishing the depression project proposal' and 'watching the Lost premiere with friends.'
Then Writer Me looked at the list and thought, 'That's a boring story.' So I got a bit creative. I added some sensual details like "while sipping a delicious coffee" and "drinking pregnant Carly's portion of the wine." I added more whooping and high fiving. I balanced out my day and made it a little yummier.
I wrote my day before it happened and this morning, I became a character in a story that began to unfold as soon as I opened my eyes. I'll never look at to-do lists the same again.
Would I have exercised if I hadn't written it in? Nope. Would I have read more of Dan Pink's awesome book about right-brainers ruling the future? Doubt it. Would I have made today even HALF as delicious? Uh uh.
My day probably would have been just a day. A blah, featureless to-do list that I moved through unconsciously. But today was different. Today was a creation.
She emailed me the questions and I wrote about my expectations (lofty) vs. my reality (humbling). About my process (spastic), fake nicknames (The Closer) and how my sweater smells (milky).
Near the end was the seemingly innocuous question: What's on your to-do list for tomorrow? At first, I wrote things like 'finishing the depression project proposal' and 'watching the Lost premiere with friends.'
Then Writer Me looked at the list and thought, 'That's a boring story.' So I got a bit creative. I added some sensual details like "while sipping a delicious coffee" and "drinking pregnant Carly's portion of the wine." I added more whooping and high fiving. I balanced out my day and made it a little yummier.
I wrote my day before it happened and this morning, I became a character in a story that began to unfold as soon as I opened my eyes. I'll never look at to-do lists the same again.
Would I have exercised if I hadn't written it in? Nope. Would I have read more of Dan Pink's awesome book about right-brainers ruling the future? Doubt it. Would I have made today even HALF as delicious? Uh uh.
My day probably would have been just a day. A blah, featureless to-do list that I moved through unconsciously. But today was different. Today was a creation.
Day 144: JOY Plan, the Remix
So, it's been, like, five-ish months since I started my JOY (Just One Year) Plan – 365 days of living the life of an artist. In the original plan, I was to write a book in six weeks and be finished on September 15th. Yeah, didn't happen. And then I was going to get an agent and a contract by, oh, NOW. WTF?
So anyway, it's time for a revised, remixed and realistic re-write of the JOY Plan. Here's how it's gone down so far and where I'm headed for the second half.
AUGUST 2008 (Prologue)
Work on first draft of Paris dreams memoir
Have daily panic attacks about jumping off the creative cliff
SEPTEMBER 2008 (Official start)
Banff Centre residency
Keep working on memoir
Avoid selling car because renting condo was so exhausting
Watch market crash and realize everybody's lost their Subaru-buying money
Kick self, cry a little
OCTOBER 2008
Work on memoir
Begin to go slightly crazy
Decide not to go to Paris (because I'm crazy)
NOVEMBER 2008
Still working on memoir
Still crazy
DECEMBER 2008
Write every day for 30 days
Finish first draft of memoir
Become suddenly less crazy
Wonder how I'll ever make it through this year with the economy in the shitter and no one buying my car/soon-to-be home
JANUARY 2009
Remember this plan was supposed to be about JOY
Decide to get open to possibility, play and fun
Perform at the High Performance Rodeo
Get offered a free month in Paris
Start work on teen depression project
Send in portfolio of writing samples to Haiti, India, Zambia clean water project
FEBRUARY 2009
Leave for Paris
Collect stories and experiences
Wish that I'd started studying French when I said I would (September)
Eat frightening quantities of cheese
Work on second draft of memoir
MARCH 2009
Return from Paris
Finish depression project
Open letter from Canada Council for the Arts telling me I got a big, juicy grant
Pass out near mailbox
Keep working on second draft of memoir
Begin planning for grant-funded essay collection
APRIL/MAY/JUNE/JULY/AUGUST 2009
Work on memoir until, by the grace of God, it's ready to send to agents
Write essays so funny they hurt
Stay open to adventure, possibility and mojitos
Travel to Haiti, India and Zambia if I get the clean water project
SEPTEMBER 1st, 2009
Celebrate living as an artist for one year
Instantly become rich, famous and better-looking
Turn down invitations from celebrities because I can
Bathe in champagne
Keep on writing...
So anyway, it's time for a revised, remixed and realistic re-write of the JOY Plan. Here's how it's gone down so far and where I'm headed for the second half.
AUGUST 2008 (Prologue)
Work on first draft of Paris dreams memoir
Have daily panic attacks about jumping off the creative cliff
SEPTEMBER 2008 (Official start)
Banff Centre residency
Keep working on memoir
Avoid selling car because renting condo was so exhausting
Watch market crash and realize everybody's lost their Subaru-buying money
Kick self, cry a little
OCTOBER 2008
Work on memoir
Begin to go slightly crazy
Decide not to go to Paris (because I'm crazy)
NOVEMBER 2008
Still working on memoir
Still crazy
DECEMBER 2008
Write every day for 30 days
Finish first draft of memoir
Become suddenly less crazy
Wonder how I'll ever make it through this year with the economy in the shitter and no one buying my car/soon-to-be home
JANUARY 2009
Remember this plan was supposed to be about JOY
Decide to get open to possibility, play and fun
Perform at the High Performance Rodeo
Get offered a free month in Paris
Start work on teen depression project
Send in portfolio of writing samples to Haiti, India, Zambia clean water project
FEBRUARY 2009
Leave for Paris
Collect stories and experiences
Wish that I'd started studying French when I said I would (September)
Eat frightening quantities of cheese
Work on second draft of memoir
MARCH 2009
Return from Paris
Finish depression project
Open letter from Canada Council for the Arts telling me I got a big, juicy grant
Pass out near mailbox
Keep working on second draft of memoir
Begin planning for grant-funded essay collection
APRIL/MAY/JUNE/JULY/AUGUST 2009
Work on memoir until, by the grace of God, it's ready to send to agents
Write essays so funny they hurt
Stay open to adventure, possibility and mojitos
Travel to Haiti, India and Zambia if I get the clean water project
SEPTEMBER 1st, 2009
Celebrate living as an artist for one year
Instantly become rich, famous and better-looking
Turn down invitations from celebrities because I can
Bathe in champagne
Keep on writing...
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Day 143: Neuroses A Go-Go
I am neurotic. I think we can all agree on that. I've already settled on my personal product tagline, which is: Making It Harder Since 1976.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
Anyhoo, I booked my ticket to Paris this morning. It's easy to book a ticket. Frighteningly easy, actually. Just plug in a few details on an online form and POOF...you are outta here. Makes you wonder why you stay in any one place.
But, getting to the point where you pull the trigger with your VISA number? That's a different story.
The universe (care of my friend Dana) served up a Parisian studio. The universe (care of my parents and points) served up a plane ticket. I had a month in Paris delivered on a silver platter. I was spectacularly, jaw-droppingly grateful. And then I began to screw things up.
Hey, I said to Boyfriend, maybe you should come.
(Cue doom music.)
Hey, I said to myself, maybe I should stay longer.
(Cue thunder.)
Hey, I said to anyone who would listen, maybe I should now suddenly question everything in my life.
(Cue lightning and the Hand of God.)
Paris makes me nutty. Or maybe it's more like Paris is a catalyst for all my weird beliefs to rally and throw a freak-out party just to remind me they're there.
Here's one fun belief: the people who so-called love me are really out to get me. They don't actually want me to go to Paris or live my dreams – they just want me to quit rocking the boat.
So I go ahead and get my claws out. I get preemptively defensive because, hell yes, this is the hill I'll die on. Meanwhile, the (slightly baffled) people who love me continue to say what they've always said: We're thrilled for you. Do what's best for you. We'll work around whatever comes up.
Hello, Paranoia.
I've spent the last week, not celebrating a month in Paris, but writhing under the pressure of people's imagined expectations. And now, after spinning in circles for several days, I'm right back where I started: with the precious, precious gift of a month to write in Paris.
My ticket is booked. I'm on my way. My neuroses are, thanks to President Obama's inauguration speech, sitting quietly in the corner. Because, seriously, what's important here? Be grateful for what you have. Live the moments of your life. Love well, live your dreams. And, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, get out of your own way.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
Anyhoo, I booked my ticket to Paris this morning. It's easy to book a ticket. Frighteningly easy, actually. Just plug in a few details on an online form and POOF...you are outta here. Makes you wonder why you stay in any one place.
But, getting to the point where you pull the trigger with your VISA number? That's a different story.
The universe (care of my friend Dana) served up a Parisian studio. The universe (care of my parents and points) served up a plane ticket. I had a month in Paris delivered on a silver platter. I was spectacularly, jaw-droppingly grateful. And then I began to screw things up.
Hey, I said to Boyfriend, maybe you should come.
(Cue doom music.)
Hey, I said to myself, maybe I should stay longer.
(Cue thunder.)
Hey, I said to anyone who would listen, maybe I should now suddenly question everything in my life.
(Cue lightning and the Hand of God.)
Paris makes me nutty. Or maybe it's more like Paris is a catalyst for all my weird beliefs to rally and throw a freak-out party just to remind me they're there.
Here's one fun belief: the people who so-called love me are really out to get me. They don't actually want me to go to Paris or live my dreams – they just want me to quit rocking the boat.
So I go ahead and get my claws out. I get preemptively defensive because, hell yes, this is the hill I'll die on. Meanwhile, the (slightly baffled) people who love me continue to say what they've always said: We're thrilled for you. Do what's best for you. We'll work around whatever comes up.
Hello, Paranoia.
I've spent the last week, not celebrating a month in Paris, but writhing under the pressure of people's imagined expectations. And now, after spinning in circles for several days, I'm right back where I started: with the precious, precious gift of a month to write in Paris.
My ticket is booked. I'm on my way. My neuroses are, thanks to President Obama's inauguration speech, sitting quietly in the corner. Because, seriously, what's important here? Be grateful for what you have. Live the moments of your life. Love well, live your dreams. And, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, get out of your own way.
Monday, January 19, 2009
TGIM #3
I have shy friends. Friends who, when you bring out a camera with the friendly suggestion that they pose for a TGIM photo, scream and run away. Clearly, they are not grateful for my digital camera.
Anyhoo, today's TGIM is not just one shy person, but three of them. Four if you count Boyfriend who needs three days to think before answering my questions. These three friends came over on Sunday morning for an hour and a half basement bike ride followed by a delicious brunch. My butt hurts.
Name: Colette Hubner. Also known as Nicole, Michelle or Colleen by the people who can't remember her name.
Age: Old. (Her words, not mine.)
Occupation: Runs Wallace Galleries downtown with her mom.
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Her: Has an earless cat, is a kick-ass climber, is the one person in my life who truly 'works to live' by traveling and adventuring all over the world at every chance she gets.
What are you grateful for?
My friends.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
The fact that I get to plan and organize a fundraising event for Peace Mexico. We're raising money for kids, cats and dogs. (And then she whipped off her sweatshirt to show us a t-shirt which had the words Spay On! on the back.)
Name: Lisa Stirling
Age: 29
Occupation: Post-grad super-smartie exercise scientist doing research for Adidas by making her friends run for long periods on treadmills while covered in electrodes. (We got free shoes!)
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Her: Is the fastest, most bad-ass female cyclist I know, said 'Screw a Masters' and jumped from a BSc straight to a PhD.
What are you grateful for?
I'm grateful for this moment in my life where I feel settled. After my dad and PhD and stuff. I have a job, I got married – I'm in a period where I'm reaping the rewards of all the things I struggled with. (Her father was in a horrific motorcycle accident in 2005. When I say horrific, I mean three years of rehabilitation horrific.)
What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
Feeling like I belong somewhere.
Name: Ross Stirling
Age: I'm 3 times 3 times 3 plus 3 plus 3 plus 3. (Means he's 33.)
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him: Is a four or five time Ironman (I lost count), was my triathlon coach, loves superheroes and is my one non-writer friend who actually DOES have a novel in him...although he many not know it.
What are you grateful for?
Underdogs that beat the odds, high fives and the breakfast special. (Which breakfast special?) THE breakfast special. (Oh.)
What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
That I have the power to put my creative ideas into practice. I'm making it possible for people to invent things I haven't thought of. (Ross works for Garmin and designs crazy athletic testing devices.)
Name: Boyfriend
What are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
What are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
What are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
Sigh.
Anyhoo, today's TGIM is not just one shy person, but three of them. Four if you count Boyfriend who needs three days to think before answering my questions. These three friends came over on Sunday morning for an hour and a half basement bike ride followed by a delicious brunch. My butt hurts.
Name: Colette Hubner. Also known as Nicole, Michelle or Colleen by the people who can't remember her name.Age: Old. (Her words, not mine.)
Occupation: Runs Wallace Galleries downtown with her mom.
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Her: Has an earless cat, is a kick-ass climber, is the one person in my life who truly 'works to live' by traveling and adventuring all over the world at every chance she gets.
What are you grateful for?
My friends.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
The fact that I get to plan and organize a fundraising event for Peace Mexico. We're raising money for kids, cats and dogs. (And then she whipped off her sweatshirt to show us a t-shirt which had the words Spay On! on the back.)
Name: Lisa StirlingAge: 29
Occupation: Post-grad super-smartie exercise scientist doing research for Adidas by making her friends run for long periods on treadmills while covered in electrodes. (We got free shoes!)
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Her: Is the fastest, most bad-ass female cyclist I know, said 'Screw a Masters' and jumped from a BSc straight to a PhD.
What are you grateful for?
I'm grateful for this moment in my life where I feel settled. After my dad and PhD and stuff. I have a job, I got married – I'm in a period where I'm reaping the rewards of all the things I struggled with. (Her father was in a horrific motorcycle accident in 2005. When I say horrific, I mean three years of rehabilitation horrific.)
What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
Feeling like I belong somewhere.
Name: Ross StirlingAge: I'm 3 times 3 times 3 plus 3 plus 3 plus 3. (Means he's 33.)
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him: Is a four or five time Ironman (I lost count), was my triathlon coach, loves superheroes and is my one non-writer friend who actually DOES have a novel in him...although he many not know it.
What are you grateful for?
Underdogs that beat the odds, high fives and the breakfast special. (Which breakfast special?) THE breakfast special. (Oh.)
What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
That I have the power to put my creative ideas into practice. I'm making it possible for people to invent things I haven't thought of. (Ross works for Garmin and designs crazy athletic testing devices.)
Name: BoyfriendWhat are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
What are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
What are you grateful for?
I'll tell you later.
Sigh.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Day 140: Memoirs of a Totally Catastrophic Occurrence
My two favourite sections of the bookstore are Humour and Biography, although both are riddled with literary landmines. If you can call a "bathroom reader" literary, that is. I will admit to some embarrassment standing in front of a shelf that includes 'Porn for Mommies' – a book filled with glossy photos of men changing diapers and smiling.
The Biography section is no less cringe-worthy. Beween the Winston Churchill epics and the rock star rehab sagas, are hundreds and hundreds of triumph over tragedy memoirs. Your choices in this section are: beating cancer, conquering addiction and/or abuse or escaping the Taliban/Hutus/Polygamists.
As a person who writes personal narrative, I used to get down about the fact that I wasn't adopted by wolves or gang raped by nuns like all the other memoirists. Seriously: trauma sells. I mean, my lowest point wasn't selling crack out of my living room; it was grad school.
While I was writing my book, I considered taking up gas huffing to make myself (and my memoir) a little more interesting. I scoured the want ads for polygamists and distributed my resume to several local pimps. And even though I came close, I didn't even actually get cancer. Damn it.
So I wrote my story the way it was: unique in my own non-traumatic, non-carcinogenic way. And in the process, I learned to accept myself just a little bit more.
Now when I browse the My-Life-Without-Legs stories, I don't envy the poor saps who write them. If anything, I'm a bit bored. That kind of story is becoming cliche. We're an ambulance-chasing culture, only we've seen so many splatterific seven car pileups we're desensitized.
It's time for a new kind of story methinks. One that breaks through our obsession with catastrophe and destruction and looks at personal narrative in a new, surprising way. That is less about what happened to us and more about who we've become. And acknowledges that telling the truth is a creative act...which may or may not involve midgets.
The Biography section is no less cringe-worthy. Beween the Winston Churchill epics and the rock star rehab sagas, are hundreds and hundreds of triumph over tragedy memoirs. Your choices in this section are: beating cancer, conquering addiction and/or abuse or escaping the Taliban/Hutus/Polygamists.
As a person who writes personal narrative, I used to get down about the fact that I wasn't adopted by wolves or gang raped by nuns like all the other memoirists. Seriously: trauma sells. I mean, my lowest point wasn't selling crack out of my living room; it was grad school.
While I was writing my book, I considered taking up gas huffing to make myself (and my memoir) a little more interesting. I scoured the want ads for polygamists and distributed my resume to several local pimps. And even though I came close, I didn't even actually get cancer. Damn it.
So I wrote my story the way it was: unique in my own non-traumatic, non-carcinogenic way. And in the process, I learned to accept myself just a little bit more.
Now when I browse the My-Life-Without-Legs stories, I don't envy the poor saps who write them. If anything, I'm a bit bored. That kind of story is becoming cliche. We're an ambulance-chasing culture, only we've seen so many splatterific seven car pileups we're desensitized.
It's time for a new kind of story methinks. One that breaks through our obsession with catastrophe and destruction and looks at personal narrative in a new, surprising way. That is less about what happened to us and more about who we've become. And acknowledges that telling the truth is a creative act...which may or may not involve midgets.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Day 139: Creepy Penis Dream and Other Stories
The other night, I had a dream I was acting in a movie. It wasn't a porn, but for some reason my character had to have sex with three different men. I don't know what kind of low-budget crapfest would make their actors actually have sex on screen, but this was one such crapfest.
Guh-ross.
So, the Dream Me high-tails it to the Associate Producer and tells her that under no circumstances am I cool with boffing three random dudes no matter what my contract says. She doesn't see the problem. I draw her a diagram with a pink felt pen (which could be yet-another phallic symbol, now that I think of it). She goes uh-huh, that's great, YOU'RE FIRED.
I walk off, upset and then wake up to a morning full of Dream Hangover Creep so intense it pretty much ruins my day.
My favourite cheesy dream interpretation site tells me that sex in dreams refers to psychological completion and the integration of contrasting aspects of the Self.
Uh. Wha?
Drea, my go-to dream decoder, says it's something about whoring myself out for my creative work. This kind of resonates because I'm feeling a teeeeeny bit guilty about dropping everything I promised to do between Feb 15 and March 15 and pissing off to Paris.
So there's subconscious integration, there's metaphorical prostitution and then there's the WTF dildo rocking chair scene from Burn After Reading – which I watched night before last. You be the judge.
Guh-ross.
So, the Dream Me high-tails it to the Associate Producer and tells her that under no circumstances am I cool with boffing three random dudes no matter what my contract says. She doesn't see the problem. I draw her a diagram with a pink felt pen (which could be yet-another phallic symbol, now that I think of it). She goes uh-huh, that's great, YOU'RE FIRED.
I walk off, upset and then wake up to a morning full of Dream Hangover Creep so intense it pretty much ruins my day.
My favourite cheesy dream interpretation site tells me that sex in dreams refers to psychological completion and the integration of contrasting aspects of the Self.
Uh. Wha?
Drea, my go-to dream decoder, says it's something about whoring myself out for my creative work. This kind of resonates because I'm feeling a teeeeeny bit guilty about dropping everything I promised to do between Feb 15 and March 15 and pissing off to Paris.
So there's subconscious integration, there's metaphorical prostitution and then there's the WTF dildo rocking chair scene from Burn After Reading – which I watched night before last. You be the judge.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Day 138: Maintenance Required
A little while ago a light went on in my parents' car that read MAINT REQ'D. I was not very happy to see that light. Especially after the window got smashed and one of the tires went completely flat as a pancake on Christmas Day. Two days after I got TWO flats on my Subaru. In minus-30 weather. Late at night.
So that light, the one that reads MAINT REQ'D, is the last thing I need. And the way it stares at me, bright and expectant, every time I turn the car on? It's like a metaphor or something. Maintenance required, man. For everything. Taxes, bills, laundry, dishes, cars, condos, relationships. Everything in life requires maintenance and, right now, it effin' bugs me.
Because right now seems to be one of those bizarre periods of total convergence when everything that could possibly need maintenance needs maintenance RIGHT THIS SECOND. My parents' car is one thing...three things if you count the tire, the window and that godforsaken light. Plus the Subaru.
Then there's the bounced rent cheque I have to chase down from my parents' tenant. The leaking something in my condo, which has led to water damage. The broken fireplace in Canmore that's taken two months (so far) to get fixed. The library books. The fact that I'm three years behind on taxes and really need to renegotiate my cell phone plan. The mountain of laundry that refuses to wash itself. The soap scum in the shower hardening into sedimentary rock as I write. My office that gets scarier and scarier every day with murderous dust bunnies and teetering piles of paper. The sister that's not talking to me. The 95-year-old grandfather waiting for my call.
WTF? Where's the off-switch. The parachute? The escape hatch onto the deserted island?
Look. I know you have all this stuff, too. Except for maybe the taxes. I know that's life. I also know I'm taking care of my parents' life as well as my own so instead of one life's worth of maintenance there's two or three. But maybe this is just foreshadowing. I mean, what about the people with three kids and aging parents? How the hell do they get everything done?
This is the kind of stuff Some People are awesome at. They have their taxes filed on January 2nd and are never late with their Blockbuster videos. Their sweaters never have stains on them and their cars are annoyingly clean. I hate Some People.
And if MAINT REQ'D is a metaphor, maybe this is one of those Big Lessons I have to learn in life, along with my people-pleasing problem and tendency towards negativity. Maybe this will galvanize me to become rich ASAP so I can get a personal assistant and dump all this crap on them. Or maybe I'd like to cancel my Entropy account with the Bank of the Universe. But right now, right at this moment when the phone won't stop ringing and – oh, now I'm in charge of booking doctor's appointments for Gramps, which reminds me I haven't been to the dentist in a dog's age – I just really wish I was Victoria Beckham.
So that light, the one that reads MAINT REQ'D, is the last thing I need. And the way it stares at me, bright and expectant, every time I turn the car on? It's like a metaphor or something. Maintenance required, man. For everything. Taxes, bills, laundry, dishes, cars, condos, relationships. Everything in life requires maintenance and, right now, it effin' bugs me.
Because right now seems to be one of those bizarre periods of total convergence when everything that could possibly need maintenance needs maintenance RIGHT THIS SECOND. My parents' car is one thing...three things if you count the tire, the window and that godforsaken light. Plus the Subaru.
Then there's the bounced rent cheque I have to chase down from my parents' tenant. The leaking something in my condo, which has led to water damage. The broken fireplace in Canmore that's taken two months (so far) to get fixed. The library books. The fact that I'm three years behind on taxes and really need to renegotiate my cell phone plan. The mountain of laundry that refuses to wash itself. The soap scum in the shower hardening into sedimentary rock as I write. My office that gets scarier and scarier every day with murderous dust bunnies and teetering piles of paper. The sister that's not talking to me. The 95-year-old grandfather waiting for my call.
WTF? Where's the off-switch. The parachute? The escape hatch onto the deserted island?
Look. I know you have all this stuff, too. Except for maybe the taxes. I know that's life. I also know I'm taking care of my parents' life as well as my own so instead of one life's worth of maintenance there's two or three. But maybe this is just foreshadowing. I mean, what about the people with three kids and aging parents? How the hell do they get everything done?
This is the kind of stuff Some People are awesome at. They have their taxes filed on January 2nd and are never late with their Blockbuster videos. Their sweaters never have stains on them and their cars are annoyingly clean. I hate Some People.
And if MAINT REQ'D is a metaphor, maybe this is one of those Big Lessons I have to learn in life, along with my people-pleasing problem and tendency towards negativity. Maybe this will galvanize me to become rich ASAP so I can get a personal assistant and dump all this crap on them. Or maybe I'd like to cancel my Entropy account with the Bank of the Universe. But right now, right at this moment when the phone won't stop ringing and – oh, now I'm in charge of booking doctor's appointments for Gramps, which reminds me I haven't been to the dentist in a dog's age – I just really wish I was Victoria Beckham.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Day 136: What's Next?
Dudes. I can't tell you how many emails I've received in the last two days with the subject line 'What's Next.' Clearly, I've hit on something. I like it.
One of the emails included a link to the best job in the world. $150 grand to sit on the beach in Australia and write about it. Sounds dreamy, yes? Although, really, what if you got bored? "Drank another six mai tais today. The lime is giving me mouth sores. More bikini-clad women walked by. Sigh. I'm actually tired of cleavage. Oh well, I guess I'll take a nap." Gawd. Lamest job in the world more like it.
(I don't need to tell you I'm joking, right? We're past that.)
I've been reflecting on the What's Next phenomenon and I realized something. It wasn't ME asking MYSELF what's next. It was other people doing the asking. Maybe someone asking me put me in a state of imagination, openness and possibility. Maybe they asked the question I should have been asking myself. Maybe I forgot that my life is a big, multimedia creative project and I am the artist.
Have you ever noticed that other people have grander images of your life than you have for your own? People will tell you, 'Oh, you're gonna be famous.' Or, 'Your business will be super-successful, don't worry.' And while they say these nice things, you have that little voice that says, 'Don't be so sure about that.'
I know I do it. And people do it to me. If my friends get their way, I'm going to be rich, famous, a New York Times best-seller and on Oprah. Watch for it.
Mid-last week, Boyfriend's mom gave me this cute, little sparkly silver ornament in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On the back she had written: Paris Or Bust! I hung it in my car and as I looked at it, I got this weird feeling in my stomach. It was like, 'Wait a minute. This is possible. It's all possible.' Like I'd forgotten and the ornament reminded me.
It took me ten years to get the balls to go to Paris. I put this big dream on a pedestal and put off going so many times, eventually I forgot it was an actual, tangible option. It became a mythical thing, a metaphor, a unicorn.
But once I'd decided to go – with the help of a friend who showed me it was possible – it was a snowball. Everything came together so perfectly and smoothly, it was like the universe had it planned all along. And now, it's the same thing.
There's something about believing that it's possible – whatever that delicious, dreamy thing is for you. And maybe you don't know it until someone asks you what's next or reminds you that other people make a living directing movies, so why not you. And then you feel that thing in your belly. That YES feeling in your guts that lets you know you're on the right track.
Then maybe you ask it again: what's next? And then an answer comes in some way – some door opens, an email, a phone call, an idea – and then you say yes to that thing, too. And that's maybe how you move through life: inchworming between the What's Nexts and the Yeses. What's next? Yes. What's next? Yes. Like that. All the way to Paris.
One of the emails included a link to the best job in the world. $150 grand to sit on the beach in Australia and write about it. Sounds dreamy, yes? Although, really, what if you got bored? "Drank another six mai tais today. The lime is giving me mouth sores. More bikini-clad women walked by. Sigh. I'm actually tired of cleavage. Oh well, I guess I'll take a nap." Gawd. Lamest job in the world more like it.
(I don't need to tell you I'm joking, right? We're past that.)
I've been reflecting on the What's Next phenomenon and I realized something. It wasn't ME asking MYSELF what's next. It was other people doing the asking. Maybe someone asking me put me in a state of imagination, openness and possibility. Maybe they asked the question I should have been asking myself. Maybe I forgot that my life is a big, multimedia creative project and I am the artist.
Have you ever noticed that other people have grander images of your life than you have for your own? People will tell you, 'Oh, you're gonna be famous.' Or, 'Your business will be super-successful, don't worry.' And while they say these nice things, you have that little voice that says, 'Don't be so sure about that.'
I know I do it. And people do it to me. If my friends get their way, I'm going to be rich, famous, a New York Times best-seller and on Oprah. Watch for it.
Mid-last week, Boyfriend's mom gave me this cute, little sparkly silver ornament in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On the back she had written: Paris Or Bust! I hung it in my car and as I looked at it, I got this weird feeling in my stomach. It was like, 'Wait a minute. This is possible. It's all possible.' Like I'd forgotten and the ornament reminded me.
It took me ten years to get the balls to go to Paris. I put this big dream on a pedestal and put off going so many times, eventually I forgot it was an actual, tangible option. It became a mythical thing, a metaphor, a unicorn.
But once I'd decided to go – with the help of a friend who showed me it was possible – it was a snowball. Everything came together so perfectly and smoothly, it was like the universe had it planned all along. And now, it's the same thing.
There's something about believing that it's possible – whatever that delicious, dreamy thing is for you. And maybe you don't know it until someone asks you what's next or reminds you that other people make a living directing movies, so why not you. And then you feel that thing in your belly. That YES feeling in your guts that lets you know you're on the right track.
Then maybe you ask it again: what's next? And then an answer comes in some way – some door opens, an email, a phone call, an idea – and then you say yes to that thing, too. And that's maybe how you move through life: inchworming between the What's Nexts and the Yeses. What's next? Yes. What's next? Yes. Like that. All the way to Paris.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Day 135: The Most Magical Question of Life
It is entirely possible that when the homeless person smashed in my car window Saturday night, he/she also opened the window to a way for me to get myself to Gay Paree. Because he left a one-way, first-class Lufthansa plane ticket on the seat. No. Not at all. He left a crapload of broken glass on the seat – NOT easy to clean up, by the way.
But the next morning, I got an email from Dana the Artist. She's leaving town for a month and offered me her studio. She leaves soon. Soon soon. Like, in less than a month there is an excellent possibility I could be in Paris. OUI. MERCI.
Before this, I could see no solution to what I'd begun to think of as The Paris Problem. The Paris Problem included having no clue about anything related in any way to how or when or if I was ever getting my ass back to Paris. Absolutely NOTHING was clear to me. Where the money was coming from. When I would go. Whether I should book a ticket now or wait. Where I'd stay. How long I'd stay. If me going back to Paris was just me clinging to some dried crust of a misspent dream. If I should go somewhere else like Haiti or Hamilton, Ontario. I'm telling you: clueless.
Now, I don't want to get too woo-woo on you here, but every time I ask the question, "What's next?" CRAZY stuff happens. What's next? BOOM – I'm acting on a roof. What's next? BOOM – massive studio in Paris. This question packs a serious punch. An exciting punch. A totally-unexpected-yet-not-sucker-punch.
A friend of mine got laid-off last week and he's basking in this weird mix of abject fear and delicious possibility. He told me that he has no idea what he wants to do with his life. May I make a small suggestion? Say the words "What's next" and then WATCH THE F*CK OUT.
But the next morning, I got an email from Dana the Artist. She's leaving town for a month and offered me her studio. She leaves soon. Soon soon. Like, in less than a month there is an excellent possibility I could be in Paris. OUI. MERCI.
Before this, I could see no solution to what I'd begun to think of as The Paris Problem. The Paris Problem included having no clue about anything related in any way to how or when or if I was ever getting my ass back to Paris. Absolutely NOTHING was clear to me. Where the money was coming from. When I would go. Whether I should book a ticket now or wait. Where I'd stay. How long I'd stay. If me going back to Paris was just me clinging to some dried crust of a misspent dream. If I should go somewhere else like Haiti or Hamilton, Ontario. I'm telling you: clueless.
Now, I don't want to get too woo-woo on you here, but every time I ask the question, "What's next?" CRAZY stuff happens. What's next? BOOM – I'm acting on a roof. What's next? BOOM – massive studio in Paris. This question packs a serious punch. An exciting punch. A totally-unexpected-yet-not-sucker-punch.
A friend of mine got laid-off last week and he's basking in this weird mix of abject fear and delicious possibility. He told me that he has no idea what he wants to do with his life. May I make a small suggestion? Say the words "What's next" and then WATCH THE F*CK OUT.
TGIM #2
This week's Thank-Gord-It's-Monday poster hottie is my new friend Shea. Once again, I didn't take the photo. But she lives in SF, so sue me. We met on the internet when she found my blog and I found out that she loves Pilot Fineliners as much as I do. Best. Pens. Ever.
Name: Shea McGuier
Age: 37 (38 in two weeks)
Location: San Francisco Bay Area
Occupation: She makes her dollars in marketing and corporate communications but just started a business where she helps people get their creative work done. She's the person that won't let your creative projects fall to the bottom of the priority pile. And she has a blog called The Daily Freak Out. Me likey.
Things you can't tell by looking at her: Formerly the title-holder for Biggest Tight-Ass On The Planet, she got divorced and bought a Subaru (just like me). Then she took some very good advice from a chain-smoking, sailor-mouthed shaman in an alpaca sweater vest (so NOT like me) and now she's all better.
What are you grateful for?
Cash flow, warm sweaters, scrambled eggs, toast with butter, and time to sit around with my friends, talking about all the cool projects they're working on.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
You know those great moments when everything in your life and your mind starts to gel? When everything you are learning, reading, and doing starts to feel, instead, like ONE thing that is all mysteriously and perfectly related? That's how my life feels right now.
Did you know that one of the most fundamental forces in nature is the move toward order and synchronization? According to Steven Strogatz, mathematician at Harvard, it's right up there with entropy... or nature's natural tendency to move from order to DISorder. The urge to swarm/synchronize exists all the way down at a cellular and sub-atomic level. Basically, it's way deep down in there. In birds and fish, we see them doing this crazy synchronized flight & swimming patterns. And we think, how do they do that? Who is calling the shots? How do they know what do to? Why they hell are they doing it?
It turns out that swarming is a great way to avoid predators (stick with the crowd, follow the leader, don't stick out to far or you'll get eaten by a baracuda). Likewise, in the creative process, you have to be willing to override the fear associated with breaking from the pack, because way deep down, there's a little bit of self protect/fear of certain death mixed in there. We're wired to protect ourselves, and yet, there's the other urge, the urge for disorder, which calls, and calls, and calls. This is awesome.
Name: Shea McGuierAge: 37 (38 in two weeks)
Location: San Francisco Bay Area
Occupation: She makes her dollars in marketing and corporate communications but just started a business where she helps people get their creative work done. She's the person that won't let your creative projects fall to the bottom of the priority pile. And she has a blog called The Daily Freak Out. Me likey.
Things you can't tell by looking at her: Formerly the title-holder for Biggest Tight-Ass On The Planet, she got divorced and bought a Subaru (just like me). Then she took some very good advice from a chain-smoking, sailor-mouthed shaman in an alpaca sweater vest (so NOT like me) and now she's all better.
What are you grateful for?
Cash flow, warm sweaters, scrambled eggs, toast with butter, and time to sit around with my friends, talking about all the cool projects they're working on.
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?You know those great moments when everything in your life and your mind starts to gel? When everything you are learning, reading, and doing starts to feel, instead, like ONE thing that is all mysteriously and perfectly related? That's how my life feels right now.
Did you know that one of the most fundamental forces in nature is the move toward order and synchronization? According to Steven Strogatz, mathematician at Harvard, it's right up there with entropy... or nature's natural tendency to move from order to DISorder. The urge to swarm/synchronize exists all the way down at a cellular and sub-atomic level. Basically, it's way deep down in there. In birds and fish, we see them doing this crazy synchronized flight & swimming patterns. And we think, how do they do that? Who is calling the shots? How do they know what do to? Why they hell are they doing it?
It turns out that swarming is a great way to avoid predators (stick with the crowd, follow the leader, don't stick out to far or you'll get eaten by a baracuda). Likewise, in the creative process, you have to be willing to override the fear associated with breaking from the pack, because way deep down, there's a little bit of self protect/fear of certain death mixed in there. We're wired to protect ourselves, and yet, there's the other urge, the urge for disorder, which calls, and calls, and calls. This is awesome.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Day 134: Highlights and Lowlights
The Freak Show is over. Nine shows, three days. A theatrical whirlwind that has left me with vocal cords resembling ground beef, a dozen bruises and a smashed car window.
The vocal cord burger and bruises are from the show which, as those of you who attended know, involved me ranting and raving at high volumes and then dying spectacularly on the snow-covered rooftop patio of the Epcor Centre.
The shattered car window was from the break-in I experienced late Saturday night. At three in the morning, I left the closing night party to find a gaping hole where my passenger-side window used to be. This is MY PARENTS' CAR. There was glass and car-contents everywhere, but there was no cash in the car, so they didn't take anything. Not even my brand new cross-country skis. Which, I suppose, would have probably been difficult to trade for meth anyway. Whoever broke in left me a couple things, though. One of them was that horrible rotten-jeans-piss smell that homeless folks have. And the other was the frozen-solid water bottle they used to smash my window.
I made $80 off the acting gig and a new window will likely cost me at least $200. Thanks, friend.
However, while my car was being violated, I was hanging out with famous people who wouldn't stop complimenting me. For real. One of my favourite Canadian actresses, Karen Hines, Kristine Nutting from Cowgirl Opera and big-shot writer/director of One Yellow Rabbit, Blake Brooker. They kept saying I was great and hilarious and they loved my physical comedy. "What's next for you?" they kept asking. I sat there stunned, thinking I should be complimenting them for, I don't know, being alive.
Speaking of famous people, Scott Thompson from Kids In The Hall was also in the audience for our last performance. I don't know how much he enjoyed it though because a very drunk person kept sticking a camera in his face and taking his photo.
That's the thing with doing three shows a night: the audiences get progressively more sloshed as the night goes on. Which means the 8 o'clock house is too sober to laugh, the 9 o'clock house is perfectly tipsy and responsive and the 10 o'clock house is full of belligerent f*cks who talk through the entire performance and take pictures of Scott Thompson.
The vocal cord burger and bruises are from the show which, as those of you who attended know, involved me ranting and raving at high volumes and then dying spectacularly on the snow-covered rooftop patio of the Epcor Centre.
The shattered car window was from the break-in I experienced late Saturday night. At three in the morning, I left the closing night party to find a gaping hole where my passenger-side window used to be. This is MY PARENTS' CAR. There was glass and car-contents everywhere, but there was no cash in the car, so they didn't take anything. Not even my brand new cross-country skis. Which, I suppose, would have probably been difficult to trade for meth anyway. Whoever broke in left me a couple things, though. One of them was that horrible rotten-jeans-piss smell that homeless folks have. And the other was the frozen-solid water bottle they used to smash my window.
I made $80 off the acting gig and a new window will likely cost me at least $200. Thanks, friend.
However, while my car was being violated, I was hanging out with famous people who wouldn't stop complimenting me. For real. One of my favourite Canadian actresses, Karen Hines, Kristine Nutting from Cowgirl Opera and big-shot writer/director of One Yellow Rabbit, Blake Brooker. They kept saying I was great and hilarious and they loved my physical comedy. "What's next for you?" they kept asking. I sat there stunned, thinking I should be complimenting them for, I don't know, being alive.
Speaking of famous people, Scott Thompson from Kids In The Hall was also in the audience for our last performance. I don't know how much he enjoyed it though because a very drunk person kept sticking a camera in his face and taking his photo.
That's the thing with doing three shows a night: the audiences get progressively more sloshed as the night goes on. Which means the 8 o'clock house is too sober to laugh, the 9 o'clock house is perfectly tipsy and responsive and the 10 o'clock house is full of belligerent f*cks who talk through the entire performance and take pictures of Scott Thompson.
5 Dolla Date #1
The Concept: A 5 Dolla Date is exactly what it sounds like. Two people. Five bucks. This, like TGIM is part of my New Year's Resolution to spend more time with humans, but unlike the 'We Are The World' feeling of TGIM, 5 Dolla is an exercise in creativity. And I'm sure there's anti-consumerist subtext in there somewhere, but that's a little heavy-handed for a Friday.
The Meeting Place: Caffe Beano, uber-cool coffeeshop off 17th Avenue. Rob is one of The Regulars, a group of intimidating film guys, theatre guys and one dude who sells firecrackers for a living. I arrived before Rob and sat observing this weird young raver-kokapelli guy playing a small flute. Inexplicably, Raver Guy closed his eyes and got a Buddha smile on his face. Seconds, later, a cute blonde ran over and kissed him so deeply, I blushed. I tried the same meditation, but no cute blondes materialized for me.
The Human: Robert Hilton, film producer, logistics wizard and location master. I met Rob during the brief and bizarre period of my life when I was a personal trainer and posture analyst. (What would you do with a Dance degree?!) Rob is 6' 6" and is one of the kindest and most generous people I know. Until yesterday, I hadn't seen him in five years. I can't remember why we lost touch, but he's one of those people when you meet up again, all that time doesn't matter. (*Photo stolen off Rob's Facebook. All the ones I took were crap.)
The Fiver: The inaugural 5 Dollas is from my jeans. It was change from buying the post-dress-rehearsal beers after Wil offered to buy me a beer and then the place only took cash and he looked all sheepish. Only Robert demanded we use his fiver (I'm telling you: generous). He ran next door to the fancy cheese shop and came back with my favourite brie from Quebec, Riopelle. I unwraped it and asked if it was five dollars worth. Rob said, "No. They wouldn't cut five dollars worth." Oh. It's a really fancy cheese shop.
The Date: Our two-hour experience began with us sitting down with coffees and me saying, "Okay. Five years: go." And then Rob told me all about a brutal ski accident that left his tibia shattered into a million pieces and how three weeks later, while he was still on crutches and sleeping in a hospital bed, his fiancee broke up with him. "I hate her," I said. "Don't hate her. She's a beautiful woman. You two would be best friends," Rob said. He's crazy.
But then he told me about his new job with Certain Films and the documentary they made about the Alberta oil sands: Downstream. Check this out: IT'S BEEN SHORTLISTED FOR THE ACADEMY AWARDS. Are you kidding me? And then Rob's boss Randy Bradshaw, the big man from Certain Films, walks by. I see where this 5 Dolla Date is headed...
The film hasn't been released yet, so I can neither confirm nor deny that Rob and I had a cheese picnic in Beano while watching the film. It is unclear whether or not the film rocked my world and left me a blubbering mess before my opening night. I can, however, assure you that the doc is a must-see.
The Meeting Place: Caffe Beano, uber-cool coffeeshop off 17th Avenue. Rob is one of The Regulars, a group of intimidating film guys, theatre guys and one dude who sells firecrackers for a living. I arrived before Rob and sat observing this weird young raver-kokapelli guy playing a small flute. Inexplicably, Raver Guy closed his eyes and got a Buddha smile on his face. Seconds, later, a cute blonde ran over and kissed him so deeply, I blushed. I tried the same meditation, but no cute blondes materialized for me.
The Human: Robert Hilton, film producer, logistics wizard and location master. I met Rob during the brief and bizarre period of my life when I was a personal trainer and posture analyst. (What would you do with a Dance degree?!) Rob is 6' 6" and is one of the kindest and most generous people I know. Until yesterday, I hadn't seen him in five years. I can't remember why we lost touch, but he's one of those people when you meet up again, all that time doesn't matter. (*Photo stolen off Rob's Facebook. All the ones I took were crap.)
The Fiver: The inaugural 5 Dollas is from my jeans. It was change from buying the post-dress-rehearsal beers after Wil offered to buy me a beer and then the place only took cash and he looked all sheepish. Only Robert demanded we use his fiver (I'm telling you: generous). He ran next door to the fancy cheese shop and came back with my favourite brie from Quebec, Riopelle. I unwraped it and asked if it was five dollars worth. Rob said, "No. They wouldn't cut five dollars worth." Oh. It's a really fancy cheese shop.
The Date: Our two-hour experience began with us sitting down with coffees and me saying, "Okay. Five years: go." And then Rob told me all about a brutal ski accident that left his tibia shattered into a million pieces and how three weeks later, while he was still on crutches and sleeping in a hospital bed, his fiancee broke up with him. "I hate her," I said. "Don't hate her. She's a beautiful woman. You two would be best friends," Rob said. He's crazy.But then he told me about his new job with Certain Films and the documentary they made about the Alberta oil sands: Downstream. Check this out: IT'S BEEN SHORTLISTED FOR THE ACADEMY AWARDS. Are you kidding me? And then Rob's boss Randy Bradshaw, the big man from Certain Films, walks by. I see where this 5 Dolla Date is headed...
The film hasn't been released yet, so I can neither confirm nor deny that Rob and I had a cheese picnic in Beano while watching the film. It is unclear whether or not the film rocked my world and left me a blubbering mess before my opening night. I can, however, assure you that the doc is a must-see.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Day 131: Meet You At The Freak Show
M'kay, people are asking for show details beyond the friendly link I posted the other day. Here we go. But I'm warning you, this journey will take some courage and some mental toughness. Are you ready? Let's do it.
First off, the meeting place is in the Epcor Centre for the Arts. The address is: 205 - 8 Avenue SE, Calgary AB. Here is a Google Map:
View Larger Map
THIS MAP WILL NOT HELP YOU.
The Epcor Centre is half a block wide and an entire block long. It contains four million theatres. This is where the mental toughness comes in. The theatre you are looking for is One Yellow Rabbit. You will find it on the North-East portion of the building. I recommend walking east along the 8th Avenue side, where you will pass entrances to the Jack Singer Hall and Alberta Theatre Projects. Keep going. There is a door near the Baraka coffeeshop. Go in that one. If you pass the falafel place, you've gone too far. (However, if you are heading west, that falafel place is your beacon of hope.)
Once inside, you will see a staircase. Go up. Once on the second floor, you will be confronted by a wild carnival atmosphere and weird people galore. Welcome to Midway – the hub of the High Performance Rodeo festival. Do not be distracted by the painted ladies, fortune tellers and fetishists. Stay focused.
Near the staircase you just climbed, on the right, there is a large cut-out of a cartoon guy called Ten-Foot Henry. He's pinkish and has a bulbous head. Next to Henry is the Freak Show box office. There will be a sign that reads 'Freak Show' and a man happy to take your money.
Pull a ten-dollar bill out of your wallet. I'm taking paper money, here. CASH. Give it to the nice man and tell him you want to see TABOO & TITILLATION. That's the name of my tour on the Freak Show. He will give you further instructions from there.
For those who are completely baffled by the concept in general:
Freak Show is a traveling theatre experience. There are two tours, each consisting of 5 pieces in various locations around the Arts Centre. Tour guides will lead you, so the mental toughness ends once you find the box office. One tour departs on the half hour at 7:30, 8:30 and 9:30. It is called Mouth of Madness. The second tour, my tour, departs on the hour at 8, 9 and 10. It is called Taboo & Titillation. (Or Taboo & Tits. Or just Tits, if you prefer.) Each tour takes about 50 minutes. We open tonight and also run Friday and Saturday.
Good luck and I'll see you at the Freak Show.
First off, the meeting place is in the Epcor Centre for the Arts. The address is: 205 - 8 Avenue SE, Calgary AB. Here is a Google Map:
View Larger Map
THIS MAP WILL NOT HELP YOU.
The Epcor Centre is half a block wide and an entire block long. It contains four million theatres. This is where the mental toughness comes in. The theatre you are looking for is One Yellow Rabbit. You will find it on the North-East portion of the building. I recommend walking east along the 8th Avenue side, where you will pass entrances to the Jack Singer Hall and Alberta Theatre Projects. Keep going. There is a door near the Baraka coffeeshop. Go in that one. If you pass the falafel place, you've gone too far. (However, if you are heading west, that falafel place is your beacon of hope.)
Once inside, you will see a staircase. Go up. Once on the second floor, you will be confronted by a wild carnival atmosphere and weird people galore. Welcome to Midway – the hub of the High Performance Rodeo festival. Do not be distracted by the painted ladies, fortune tellers and fetishists. Stay focused.
Near the staircase you just climbed, on the right, there is a large cut-out of a cartoon guy called Ten-Foot Henry. He's pinkish and has a bulbous head. Next to Henry is the Freak Show box office. There will be a sign that reads 'Freak Show' and a man happy to take your money.
Pull a ten-dollar bill out of your wallet. I'm taking paper money, here. CASH. Give it to the nice man and tell him you want to see TABOO & TITILLATION. That's the name of my tour on the Freak Show. He will give you further instructions from there.
For those who are completely baffled by the concept in general:
Freak Show is a traveling theatre experience. There are two tours, each consisting of 5 pieces in various locations around the Arts Centre. Tour guides will lead you, so the mental toughness ends once you find the box office. One tour departs on the half hour at 7:30, 8:30 and 9:30. It is called Mouth of Madness. The second tour, my tour, departs on the hour at 8, 9 and 10. It is called Taboo & Titillation. (Or Taboo & Tits. Or just Tits, if you prefer.) Each tour takes about 50 minutes. We open tonight and also run Friday and Saturday.
Good luck and I'll see you at the Freak Show.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Day 130: Things You Shouldn't Say To An Audience
So it's the tech rehearsal of the Freak Show and we really still only have a sorta-kinda clue about what we're doing and my lines are not cemented into my head but rather poorly Scotch taped and oh, all of a sudden, there's an audience.
The first run goes well. Okay, it goes AWESOME. And then we all sit around for an hour and I think about A) how totally kick-ass I am at acting and at life, and B) how much nicer it is to eat chickpea curry and chitchat than it is to tromp around in the snow, screaming. Which is what I do in the show.
But then it's time for the second run, so we go. Only we can't get the door to the rooftop 'stage' open. "You gotta jimmy it," was what Mark Hopkins told us. But he's a foot taller than both Wil or I and therefore probably has some kind of mad upward leverage us shorties don't. So time's a-ticking and we can't get the door open.
And I run to find Mark through the intricate stairway/hallway/back way system in the arts centre and I do some door banging and SOS miming and eventually he comes. But he can't open the door either. So we take one of the back ways and all this door drama is seriously not in my Actor Preparation Technique handbook and so when BOOM the audience arrives, BOOM all the lines of the play vaporize right out of my head.
When you forget your lines in theatre, you're not supposed to say so. Especially not to an audience. Definitely not an audience of actors who knows you aren't supposed to say so and who also isn't dressed for minus-10 and snow. They would really rather if you hurried the f*ck up with this crap show, lines or no lines, thank you very much.
But honestly, I was at a bit of a loss since the opening monologue is where I, all by myself, alone in the snowy, cold wilderness, explain the overly-complicated concept of this piece. It's like the longest monologue of all time. I swear. So yeah, maybe at one point in going-down-like-a-DC10-desperation, in the grip of my-brain-is-a-sucking-vacuum-of-nothingness, I might have squeaked the words, "I forgot my lines." Twice.
And then that horrible silence happened. The one where the audience people are standing there going, 'Honey, I don't know your line either and even if I did, I'm off the clock. Sorry.'
I stood there, my heart pounding in my ears, the adrenaline poisoning my blood, but still no words came. And then, through the panic, came a miraculous oasis of calm. I realized there was something really human about what was happening. I mean, aren't all of us out here...alone on the stage of our lives...at a bit of a loss?
Oh, I think we are.
But I couldn't linger on the humanity of it for very long because a beacon of light was gradually emerging in my head. Soon my formerly vacant brain was FILLED with words, glorious words, honest, true and right words: "Go take a running jump off this rooftop and end this sweet, sweet hell."
The first run goes well. Okay, it goes AWESOME. And then we all sit around for an hour and I think about A) how totally kick-ass I am at acting and at life, and B) how much nicer it is to eat chickpea curry and chitchat than it is to tromp around in the snow, screaming. Which is what I do in the show.
But then it's time for the second run, so we go. Only we can't get the door to the rooftop 'stage' open. "You gotta jimmy it," was what Mark Hopkins told us. But he's a foot taller than both Wil or I and therefore probably has some kind of mad upward leverage us shorties don't. So time's a-ticking and we can't get the door open.
And I run to find Mark through the intricate stairway/hallway/back way system in the arts centre and I do some door banging and SOS miming and eventually he comes. But he can't open the door either. So we take one of the back ways and all this door drama is seriously not in my Actor Preparation Technique handbook and so when BOOM the audience arrives, BOOM all the lines of the play vaporize right out of my head.
When you forget your lines in theatre, you're not supposed to say so. Especially not to an audience. Definitely not an audience of actors who knows you aren't supposed to say so and who also isn't dressed for minus-10 and snow. They would really rather if you hurried the f*ck up with this crap show, lines or no lines, thank you very much.
But honestly, I was at a bit of a loss since the opening monologue is where I, all by myself, alone in the snowy, cold wilderness, explain the overly-complicated concept of this piece. It's like the longest monologue of all time. I swear. So yeah, maybe at one point in going-down-like-a-DC10-desperation, in the grip of my-brain-is-a-sucking-vacuum-of-nothingness, I might have squeaked the words, "I forgot my lines." Twice.
And then that horrible silence happened. The one where the audience people are standing there going, 'Honey, I don't know your line either and even if I did, I'm off the clock. Sorry.'
I stood there, my heart pounding in my ears, the adrenaline poisoning my blood, but still no words came. And then, through the panic, came a miraculous oasis of calm. I realized there was something really human about what was happening. I mean, aren't all of us out here...alone on the stage of our lives...at a bit of a loss?
Oh, I think we are.
But I couldn't linger on the humanity of it for very long because a beacon of light was gradually emerging in my head. Soon my formerly vacant brain was FILLED with words, glorious words, honest, true and right words: "Go take a running jump off this rooftop and end this sweet, sweet hell."
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Day 129: Welcome to the Freak Show
So, in Monday's post I kind of just casually skimmed over the fact that I'm acting right now, but...I'm acting.
Here's how it went down:
On Friday afternoon, as I was saying goodbye to my New Year's guests, one asked me what I was doing on my week off from writing. I told him I had no idea. Ten seconds later my phone went beep-beep. It was a text message from my friend Mark Hopkins saying something like: OMFG! I need an actor! STAT! And even though my friends had left, I said out loud, "Oh! That's what I'm doing next."
I think we can all agree it's appropriate the production is called Freak Show.
So I say yes and Mark says REALLY?! And I say yes again and then I think about Mark who went all-leather-S&M for Halloween and I started to wonder what I agreed to and if it would involve fishnet stockings and a ball-gag. But it involves me wearing a parka on the roof so that's fine and then we meet and he doesn't have a script. Because he's all laid back and under 30. And on the outside I'm hey-no-problem but on the inside I'm control freaky and crotchety because I'm an old broad who is resistant to change. So we write part of the script and then the next day, yesterday, Mark hires Wil and the three of us finish it.
Did I mention the show opens in two days? Mm hm. True.
And the part of me that made the New Year's Resolution about spending more time with humans is locked in mortal combat with the part of me that believes that people are a serious liability to a fairly satisfying hermetically sealed existence. And then there's the part of me that's saying, "Wow girl, you REALLY know how to screw up a week off."
But now I feel better because I've memorized my lines. So come see the show, m'kay?
Here's how it went down:
On Friday afternoon, as I was saying goodbye to my New Year's guests, one asked me what I was doing on my week off from writing. I told him I had no idea. Ten seconds later my phone went beep-beep. It was a text message from my friend Mark Hopkins saying something like: OMFG! I need an actor! STAT! And even though my friends had left, I said out loud, "Oh! That's what I'm doing next."
I think we can all agree it's appropriate the production is called Freak Show.
So I say yes and Mark says REALLY?! And I say yes again and then I think about Mark who went all-leather-S&M for Halloween and I started to wonder what I agreed to and if it would involve fishnet stockings and a ball-gag. But it involves me wearing a parka on the roof so that's fine and then we meet and he doesn't have a script. Because he's all laid back and under 30. And on the outside I'm hey-no-problem but on the inside I'm control freaky and crotchety because I'm an old broad who is resistant to change. So we write part of the script and then the next day, yesterday, Mark hires Wil and the three of us finish it.
Did I mention the show opens in two days? Mm hm. True.
And the part of me that made the New Year's Resolution about spending more time with humans is locked in mortal combat with the part of me that believes that people are a serious liability to a fairly satisfying hermetically sealed existence. And then there's the part of me that's saying, "Wow girl, you REALLY know how to screw up a week off."
But now I feel better because I've memorized my lines. So come see the show, m'kay?
Top 5 Reasons To Buy My Subaru
This Top 5 is an homage to my new internet friend Sarah Blue, who I met through the new contender for Nicest Guy On The Planet and TGIM Poster Boy, Wil Knoll. And also because Top 5s are in my Top 5.
Why am I selling my Subaru? To fund the second six months of my Just One Year plan, of course.
Top 5 Reasons To Buy My Subaru
5. You look cooler in my Subaru.
4. Your mom looks cooler in my Subaru.
3. There is bike grease on the back of the back seat from my Ironman bike. Which I would totally clean off if you bought it, but the fact that it's there is pretty frickin' hard core.
2. It's the perfect blend of sporty, 4-wheel-drivey, not-so-gas-guzzly, let's-take-the-doggie, Hugo Bossy, easy-to-parky.
1. I will leave my anti-road-rage Morning Meditation CD in it for you. Inner peace! Free with purchase!
Why am I selling my Subaru? To fund the second six months of my Just One Year plan, of course.
Top 5 Reasons To Buy My Subaru
5. You look cooler in my Subaru.
4. Your mom looks cooler in my Subaru.
3. There is bike grease on the back of the back seat from my Ironman bike. Which I would totally clean off if you bought it, but the fact that it's there is pretty frickin' hard core.
2. It's the perfect blend of sporty, 4-wheel-drivey, not-so-gas-guzzly, let's-take-the-doggie, Hugo Bossy, easy-to-parky.
1. I will leave my anti-road-rage Morning Meditation CD in it for you. Inner peace! Free with purchase!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Day 128: T.G.I.M
This is possibly the worst Monday of the year. The Monday after Christmas holidays end and you have to face going back to work in the brutal cold. The kind of cold that inspires you to make those dumb jokes about how you thought it was called global warming. The kind of Monday where you seriously considered wearing your Christmas jammies to the office to prove a point.
THIS is the Monday I've selected to begin a new series of posts called T.G.I.M. (Thank God It's Monday). Don't ask me why I'm doing this...unless you are begging for an earful of beauty pageant answers that will make you gag. I'm just doing it.
Our first T.G.I.M poster boy is very fine young actor/geek called Wil. Wil and I have found ourselves, quite suddenly, thrown together in a short play to be performed as part of the High Performance Rodeo – a festival of theatre, dance and other weirdness. I'm using Wil's head shot for this post because my camera was frozen solid after being left in my car for three weeks. Next time I'll put more effort in. Promise.
T.G.I.M. #1
Name: Wil Knoll
Age: 27
Occupation: Actor, Network Security computer fixer-upper, award-winning Twitter Phenom
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him: Had a yucky breakup in November, lost 30 pounds recently
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
Yesterday, I wrote a twit (Twitter update) about how I was sick of doing nothing. Literally ten minutes later, Mark (Hopkins, theatre producer) called me and asked me to be in this show. My role involves climbing on a roof and using a bullhorn. I'd say that's pretty awesome.
What are you grateful for?
I'm grateful for the people in my life who have been honest with me. The best advice I've ever received was the stuff that hurt the most.
THIS is the Monday I've selected to begin a new series of posts called T.G.I.M. (Thank God It's Monday). Don't ask me why I'm doing this...unless you are begging for an earful of beauty pageant answers that will make you gag. I'm just doing it.
Our first T.G.I.M poster boy is very fine young actor/geek called Wil. Wil and I have found ourselves, quite suddenly, thrown together in a short play to be performed as part of the High Performance Rodeo – a festival of theatre, dance and other weirdness. I'm using Wil's head shot for this post because my camera was frozen solid after being left in my car for three weeks. Next time I'll put more effort in. Promise.
T.G.I.M. #1Name: Wil Knoll
Age: 27
Occupation: Actor, Network Security computer fixer-upper, award-winning Twitter Phenom
Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him: Had a yucky breakup in November, lost 30 pounds recently
What is the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
Yesterday, I wrote a twit (Twitter update) about how I was sick of doing nothing. Literally ten minutes later, Mark (Hopkins, theatre producer) called me and asked me to be in this show. My role involves climbing on a roof and using a bullhorn. I'd say that's pretty awesome.
What are you grateful for?
I'm grateful for the people in my life who have been honest with me. The best advice I've ever received was the stuff that hurt the most.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
2008's Greatest Hits
M'kay. Having been incapacitated by a cheese coma for the past few days, I kind of let 2008 go out with a whimper. And so, I've elected to do a run-down of 2008's finest, funniest and most notorious posts.
The United Harmonica Federation of France
"He is 60-plus, balding with curly grey hair gathered behind him in a ponytail. He wears glasses and some kind of windbreaker. His eyes bug out with emotion or effort, I can't tell which."
Crotch Management
"So there you are, buck naked with a tube of thick white cream, staring at your crotch."
Psycho Midnight Cleaning Lady
"My peaceful bathroom-cleaning mantra was something like: You want a clean effing house you effing sonofabeep, I'll effing show you a clean effing house."
Surgerized
"I was buck naked from the waist down, attached to a giant grey machine that looked suspiciously like a BBQ. It had a 'smoke clearance' sticker on it."
Meet The F*ckers
"I met The F*ckers one winter evening as I was making dinner and they were making something else. As I chopped, they humped, the music of their lovemaking drifting easily through our shared wall."
The Hair
"Some moles, however, are not so beautiful. They come in weird colours. Sometimes they're kind of lumpy. And some moles...well, some moles have The Hair."
Inside The Mind Of A Writer
"Sixty-six words. That's all? God. It's almost eleven. My back hurts. I need a massage. I can't afford a massage. I can't afford anything. What am I thinking trying to be a writer when the world is falling down?"
Dishing It Out
"He does the dishes like he's finishing a marathon, scrubbing with great gusto, breathing heavily, dropping the cutlery, polished and gleaming with a flourish on the countertop, before doing the victory lap of wiping down the counters."
Better Known As Bacon Strip
"We wear our knickers ‘til they unravel from our asses, 'til they look like tattered bandages from WWI trench warfare, we don’t care. Maybe this is our family secret: wearing underpants long past propriety."
Happy Anniversary...I'm Leaving
"Six years ago, on our second anniversary, my husband told me he was leaving. While he worked his way through a poorly rehearsed speech, looking down for dramatic effect, his nose began to bleed."
The United Harmonica Federation of France
"He is 60-plus, balding with curly grey hair gathered behind him in a ponytail. He wears glasses and some kind of windbreaker. His eyes bug out with emotion or effort, I can't tell which."
Crotch Management
"So there you are, buck naked with a tube of thick white cream, staring at your crotch."
Psycho Midnight Cleaning Lady
"My peaceful bathroom-cleaning mantra was something like: You want a clean effing house you effing sonofabeep, I'll effing show you a clean effing house."
Surgerized
"I was buck naked from the waist down, attached to a giant grey machine that looked suspiciously like a BBQ. It had a 'smoke clearance' sticker on it."
Meet The F*ckers
"I met The F*ckers one winter evening as I was making dinner and they were making something else. As I chopped, they humped, the music of their lovemaking drifting easily through our shared wall."
The Hair
"Some moles, however, are not so beautiful. They come in weird colours. Sometimes they're kind of lumpy. And some moles...well, some moles have The Hair."
Inside The Mind Of A Writer
"Sixty-six words. That's all? God. It's almost eleven. My back hurts. I need a massage. I can't afford a massage. I can't afford anything. What am I thinking trying to be a writer when the world is falling down?"
Dishing It Out
"He does the dishes like he's finishing a marathon, scrubbing with great gusto, breathing heavily, dropping the cutlery, polished and gleaming with a flourish on the countertop, before doing the victory lap of wiping down the counters."
Better Known As Bacon Strip
"We wear our knickers ‘til they unravel from our asses, 'til they look like tattered bandages from WWI trench warfare, we don’t care. Maybe this is our family secret: wearing underpants long past propriety."
Happy Anniversary...I'm Leaving
"Six years ago, on our second anniversary, my husband told me he was leaving. While he worked his way through a poorly rehearsed speech, looking down for dramatic effect, his nose began to bleed."
Day 127: Lying Flat On My Face, Drooling
I have reason to believe a diet consisting entirely of cheese – not to mention being on the wrong side of a book-finishing adrenaline high – is a good way to ensure feeling like you've been hit by an avian-flu chicken truck. Perhaps an organic carrot juice followed by a good, old fashioned base jump is the answer.
Irregardless.*
I've decided to take a week off from writing and see how I feel. Today is my fourth day and I feel exhausted. In my overachieving heart of hearts I'm hoping my creative energy makes a miraculous recovery at some point in the next 2.5 days and I wake up on the 7th refreshed and ready to revise.
But, the lesson I learned over the past month (and the lesson several of my artist friends have been trying to tell me forever) is: you can't force it. And why would you want to, really. It's like trying to coerce someone into loving you – even if it works, it feels all wrong.
BUT. I have all sorts of other non-writing ideas I want to play with, many of them specifically for this blog. Stay tuned.
I've also decided to do The Artist's Way again. I write about this book an annoying amount, but until you either go out and get a copy or post a comment saying shut-the-hell-up-or-I'll-stop-reading, I'm going to keep doing it. I credit The Artist's Way (and Facebook, actually) with turning me into a person who has lived as a full-time artist for a year now. For all intensive purposes.**
However, there is still work to be done. My overly serious approach to the artist's life is annoying and counter-productive. I experience crippling artistic jealousy and mood swings on a regular basis. My beliefs about artists and money need a major overhaul or I really will die penniless and alone and it will be all my fault.
So, back to the good book I go, and while I rest my writing brain and refill the creative well, I will cultivate my belief in abundance, possibility and unicorns.***
* Not a real word.
** Not a real phrase.
*** Totally real.
Irregardless.*
I've decided to take a week off from writing and see how I feel. Today is my fourth day and I feel exhausted. In my overachieving heart of hearts I'm hoping my creative energy makes a miraculous recovery at some point in the next 2.5 days and I wake up on the 7th refreshed and ready to revise.
But, the lesson I learned over the past month (and the lesson several of my artist friends have been trying to tell me forever) is: you can't force it. And why would you want to, really. It's like trying to coerce someone into loving you – even if it works, it feels all wrong.
BUT. I have all sorts of other non-writing ideas I want to play with, many of them specifically for this blog. Stay tuned.
I've also decided to do The Artist's Way again. I write about this book an annoying amount, but until you either go out and get a copy or post a comment saying shut-the-hell-up-or-I'll-stop-reading, I'm going to keep doing it. I credit The Artist's Way (and Facebook, actually) with turning me into a person who has lived as a full-time artist for a year now. For all intensive purposes.**
However, there is still work to be done. My overly serious approach to the artist's life is annoying and counter-productive. I experience crippling artistic jealousy and mood swings on a regular basis. My beliefs about artists and money need a major overhaul or I really will die penniless and alone and it will be all my fault.
So, back to the good book I go, and while I rest my writing brain and refill the creative well, I will cultivate my belief in abundance, possibility and unicorns.***
* Not a real word.
** Not a real phrase.
*** Totally real.
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