Why does the Universe INSIST on reminding me who's boss? Seriously. I'm flowing, things are awesome, I'm going to frickin' Africa and then BOOM: I burn out, my computer crashes and I have to spend my Sunday afternoon chipping a 6-inch tall speed bump of ice so my tenant can get her car out of the parking lot of #426 Slum Street USA.
WTF.
I have this weird innate Doom Reflex that kicks in when things start going too good. When I got the Africa-India Water Project, every time I talked about it out loud, I kept expecting a bolt of lightning to streak down and fry my brains. Since I got home from Paris, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Me = SUCKER.
Because feeding all that energy into the doom-y feeling is like sending a very nice party invitation to Doom itself. Not that losing two files and chipping ice necessarily counts as Doom. It doesn't hold a candle to hurricanes and economic nuclear winter. But still.
That incredible flow I'd had in Paris – the one that turned into an out-of-control Raging Rapids theme park ride when I got home – has caused me to rethink my approach. This week is all about slowing down and tuning in. Turning the Crazyhorse River into a nice, manageable babbling brook.
I need to get this Depression Project finished. Need to. And in order to do that, I need to NOT do 4 million other things. Full stop. So despite the fact that I just signed up for Twitter and am tempted to tweet every passing random and slightly dirty thought that enters my mind...I'll just say, 'See you tomorrow Internet.'
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Day 211: What Too Busy Looks Like
it looks like losing
things you can't afford to lose at the moment you can't afford to waste
you should learn
you should learn
you should learn which you would if you weren't
so bizzy,
frizzy,
overwhelmed,
too hanging-on to see
anything
but that day off-off-off dangling, sun-warmed
off-off-off...if
you hadn't lost those files with those notes from that client
those phone-talk hours distilled
into capital letters
misspelled
and hasty
and now
too tired to remember
two documents to finish
that job
that leaves you drained dry and empty on the friday
when you forget to save
that snapping circle
and you think you're faster
faster more cunning
running
the next thing the next thing the next thing
runs the battery down
in so many ways
things switch off suddenly
and everything is gone
except consequences
things you can't afford to lose at the moment you can't afford to waste
you should learn
you should learn
you should learn which you would if you weren't
so bizzy,
frizzy,
overwhelmed,
too hanging-on to see
anything
but that day off-off-off dangling, sun-warmed
off-off-off...if
you hadn't lost those files with those notes from that client
those phone-talk hours distilled
into capital letters
misspelled
and hasty
and now
too tired to remember
two documents to finish
that job
that leaves you drained dry and empty on the friday
when you forget to save
that snapping circle
and you think you're faster
faster more cunning
running
the next thing the next thing the next thing
runs the battery down
in so many ways
things switch off suddenly
and everything is gone
except consequences
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Day 209: Water Project World Tour UPDATE
Today I took a break from the grind of the Depression Project and spent the whole day on the Water Project. It began with a meeting with the woman from the NGO, where my questions included: Did I just agree to work for free for two years...and will I get shot while I'm doing it?
Yes, I'm working for free – they didn't budget for a writer when they got their massive grant from CIDA – but they are paying for flight/travel, accommodation, food, visas, vaccinations and insurance, including being airlifted by commandos on the off-chance I do get shot. Which I won't because that's not how I'm gonna go down.
Unless it involves a blaze of glory. In which case, I might consider it.
Anyhoo. Working for free. Or...getting to travel the world for free. Which is how I like to think of it. It's all good. I'm already plotting magazine articles and columns to pitch, book proposals, generating massive blog traffic (tell all your friends) and a Top Secret Fundraising Extravaganza you're all invited to if I can pull my wicked idea off. Stay tuned.
I also got some insight as to why NGO Lady decided to send an outside writer and not go herself as originally sort-of planned: she's PREGGO. The Universe works in mysterious ways...and with impeccable timing.
After that meeting, I jumped in my car and headed home for a Skype meeting with the photographer, where we started zeroing in on travel plans and creative concepts. So, the scoop as of today is something like:
Leave Calgary around July 10th and take a couple days to travel to Ndola, Zambia – just in time to celebrate my 33rd birthday. Meet our contact there, whose name is Blessed. For real. Stay in the guest house of the partner agency in Ndola and take satellite trips from there, connecting with families in several townships in the Copperbelt province. Possibly visit an internally displaced persons/refugee camp. Visit the chimp orphanage (I KNOW!) near Ndola.
Then at the end of July, we take off for the Tamil Nadu province of southern India, where we'll spend most of August and where the plans are still vague because we haven't gotten that far yet.
The creative concept is still forming and will be HUGELY shaped by what we see and who we meet when we're there, but we're both drawn to the women and children.
The big statistic for all water-focused development efforts is that of the 4,900 people dying every day from waterborne illnesses, 90% of them are children under 5. When you see a statistic like that, it doesn't tell you the story of how those losses impact the mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. And what being healthy now means to these families.
I want to have some fun with the kids if I can – bring some sketchbooks and crayons, record them singing some songs or telling me stories. I'm hoping, perhaps naively, that being healthy means they actually get to be kids.
Yes, I'm working for free – they didn't budget for a writer when they got their massive grant from CIDA – but they are paying for flight/travel, accommodation, food, visas, vaccinations and insurance, including being airlifted by commandos on the off-chance I do get shot. Which I won't because that's not how I'm gonna go down.
Unless it involves a blaze of glory. In which case, I might consider it.
Anyhoo. Working for free. Or...getting to travel the world for free. Which is how I like to think of it. It's all good. I'm already plotting magazine articles and columns to pitch, book proposals, generating massive blog traffic (tell all your friends) and a Top Secret Fundraising Extravaganza you're all invited to if I can pull my wicked idea off. Stay tuned.
I also got some insight as to why NGO Lady decided to send an outside writer and not go herself as originally sort-of planned: she's PREGGO. The Universe works in mysterious ways...and with impeccable timing.
After that meeting, I jumped in my car and headed home for a Skype meeting with the photographer, where we started zeroing in on travel plans and creative concepts. So, the scoop as of today is something like:
Leave Calgary around July 10th and take a couple days to travel to Ndola, Zambia – just in time to celebrate my 33rd birthday. Meet our contact there, whose name is Blessed. For real. Stay in the guest house of the partner agency in Ndola and take satellite trips from there, connecting with families in several townships in the Copperbelt province. Possibly visit an internally displaced persons/refugee camp. Visit the chimp orphanage (I KNOW!) near Ndola.
Then at the end of July, we take off for the Tamil Nadu province of southern India, where we'll spend most of August and where the plans are still vague because we haven't gotten that far yet.
The creative concept is still forming and will be HUGELY shaped by what we see and who we meet when we're there, but we're both drawn to the women and children.
The big statistic for all water-focused development efforts is that of the 4,900 people dying every day from waterborne illnesses, 90% of them are children under 5. When you see a statistic like that, it doesn't tell you the story of how those losses impact the mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. And what being healthy now means to these families.
I want to have some fun with the kids if I can – bring some sketchbooks and crayons, record them singing some songs or telling me stories. I'm hoping, perhaps naively, that being healthy means they actually get to be kids.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Day 208: And Now...More Depression!
I've had a request for an update on The Depression Project. After the Parisian Panic Attack followed by the Great Boundary Setting of 2009, I haven't said boo. Inquiring minds want to know. So. Here's the scoop:
Two days before I returned from Paris, a meeting was scheduled for five minutes after my plane touched down at home. POUNCE. I, Grade-A Sucker, agreed to it largely because I want this godforsaken project out of my life as quickly as possible and if that means hauling my haggard, jet-lagged ass into a meeting the day after I get home, so freaking be it.
On my way home, I turned my cell phone on for a period of fourteen seconds in the Toronto airport. Just long enough to inform Boyfriend that my plane didn't go Oceanic Flight 815* over the Atlantic. During that microscopic window of time, who should call but...The Depression People.
EEEEEK!
It was good news though: "We've worked ahead on the scripts. All you have to do is tweak them." This means less work and gutwrenching hell for me. This makes me happy.
We get into the meeting and talk timelines and moving forward.
Then, Dr. Guru shows up. The man whose work in spirituality and depression forms the bedrock of this project. The man who cuts right to the effing chase: "Last week in Halifax, nine teenagers were rushed into the emergency room because of a suicide pact. One was dead by the time they arrived. Four are in ICU. The rest were treated and released. This is why we're here."
Oh.
Right.
For the next hour, Dr. Guru spins a mesmerizing web of personal stories, no-BS project management and super-clear communication about what HE needs to get his part of the project done. He, like me, is sick and tired of the zig-zagging, where's-my-mommy progression of this thing and he wants it the eff DONE.
"Tell me what you want," he says to the two ladies in charge of executing this thing.
My thoughts. His mouth.
Dr. Guru turns to me and asks how I'm feeling. I give a bullshit answer like, "Fine thanks, how are you?" But perhaps he sensed from the emanating waves of murderous rage that simply wasn't true.
And so, I started talking (God help us all):
"For two months, I've been shooting in the dark because all I hear is: 'We don't know what we want.' Well, you sure know what you don't want: EVERYTHING I GIVE YOU.
You want my voice and style, but not when it actually comes out in the writing. You want my sense of humour – which was what hauled me OUT of depression in the first place – but not around people who are depressed(?!). You want authentic, personal stories (VERY, VERY PERSONAL STORIES), but then rewrite them as though I am a MAN.
I am frustrated, isolated and defensive. The closer we get to being done, the farther I feel from the truth. If I'm not true and real, the kids are going to see right through me and I AM GOING TO LOSE THEM. In every sense of the word."
There was some silence in the room.
"But...we think you're the right person for the project," Lady #2 said, patting my arm.
As though I needed validation of my existence and not a CLEAR SOLUTION TO THIS PROBLEM. Teenagers are killing themselves...but you're a good person, Melanie. Thanks.
Other Film Guy, in charge of schedules, offered: "I think we had to go through all THAT to get where we are NOW."
YOU didn't go through anything, Mister. I did. Next?
Matt, the Original Film Guy, says it's a Test From The Universe. Personal growth in the form of the writing contract from hell.
Bizarrely, this made me feel better.
Somehow, there's a POINT to this gong show cluster f*ck and somehow I will benefit from it...eventually. I drove home, nursed a massive, full-body tension headache and went to bed early. Then, when I woke up the next morning? BOOM. Clarity.
I wrote an email:
Since then, I've been talking on the phone with The Ladies for an hour every day, going through each segment with a fine tooth comb and rewriting everything for the THIRD (and in the case of Module 1...SEVENTH) time.
(Can you say Contract Renegotiation?)
It's a grind and it's hellacious, but it's happening and we're moving. There's a point to every sentence and every story. And for the first time since the beginning, I feel like I'm not only speaking to depressed kids but actually helping them, too. Yesssss.
*A reference to the TV show Lost for those who don't watch it. Short form for 'Catastrophic Plane Crash Involving Lots Of Blood And Death And A Magic Island With Mysterious Hatches And The Occasional Touch Of Time Travel.'
Two days before I returned from Paris, a meeting was scheduled for five minutes after my plane touched down at home. POUNCE. I, Grade-A Sucker, agreed to it largely because I want this godforsaken project out of my life as quickly as possible and if that means hauling my haggard, jet-lagged ass into a meeting the day after I get home, so freaking be it.
On my way home, I turned my cell phone on for a period of fourteen seconds in the Toronto airport. Just long enough to inform Boyfriend that my plane didn't go Oceanic Flight 815* over the Atlantic. During that microscopic window of time, who should call but...The Depression People.
EEEEEK!
It was good news though: "We've worked ahead on the scripts. All you have to do is tweak them." This means less work and gutwrenching hell for me. This makes me happy.
We get into the meeting and talk timelines and moving forward.
Then, Dr. Guru shows up. The man whose work in spirituality and depression forms the bedrock of this project. The man who cuts right to the effing chase: "Last week in Halifax, nine teenagers were rushed into the emergency room because of a suicide pact. One was dead by the time they arrived. Four are in ICU. The rest were treated and released. This is why we're here."
Oh.
Right.
For the next hour, Dr. Guru spins a mesmerizing web of personal stories, no-BS project management and super-clear communication about what HE needs to get his part of the project done. He, like me, is sick and tired of the zig-zagging, where's-my-mommy progression of this thing and he wants it the eff DONE.
"Tell me what you want," he says to the two ladies in charge of executing this thing.
My thoughts. His mouth.
Dr. Guru turns to me and asks how I'm feeling. I give a bullshit answer like, "Fine thanks, how are you?" But perhaps he sensed from the emanating waves of murderous rage that simply wasn't true.
And so, I started talking (God help us all):
"For two months, I've been shooting in the dark because all I hear is: 'We don't know what we want.' Well, you sure know what you don't want: EVERYTHING I GIVE YOU.
You want my voice and style, but not when it actually comes out in the writing. You want my sense of humour – which was what hauled me OUT of depression in the first place – but not around people who are depressed(?!). You want authentic, personal stories (VERY, VERY PERSONAL STORIES), but then rewrite them as though I am a MAN.
I am frustrated, isolated and defensive. The closer we get to being done, the farther I feel from the truth. If I'm not true and real, the kids are going to see right through me and I AM GOING TO LOSE THEM. In every sense of the word."
There was some silence in the room.
"But...we think you're the right person for the project," Lady #2 said, patting my arm.
As though I needed validation of my existence and not a CLEAR SOLUTION TO THIS PROBLEM. Teenagers are killing themselves...but you're a good person, Melanie. Thanks.
Other Film Guy, in charge of schedules, offered: "I think we had to go through all THAT to get where we are NOW."
YOU didn't go through anything, Mister. I did. Next?
Matt, the Original Film Guy, says it's a Test From The Universe. Personal growth in the form of the writing contract from hell.
Bizarrely, this made me feel better.
Somehow, there's a POINT to this gong show cluster f*ck and somehow I will benefit from it...eventually. I drove home, nursed a massive, full-body tension headache and went to bed early. Then, when I woke up the next morning? BOOM. Clarity.
I wrote an email:
Laughter was my way out of depression, but it's also a defense mechanism for me. It's coming out in my writing because I'm shooting in the dark. I'm GUESSING what you wanted the kids to get out of every section and it's making me (and my writing) tentative and nervous. Now I'm frustrated...so the stabs I take will likely get more wild and off the mark.It's not often I use the words "people-pleasing B.S." with my clients. There's a first time for everything.
It's time to get grounded in the point of all this. On a segment by segment basis.
If I know what you want, I have the confidence to explore a range of emotional voices in order to communicate with the kids. But if I'm on my heels all you'll get is defensive jokes and people-pleasing B.S. Not authentic content written for the people we are trying to help.
Since then, I've been talking on the phone with The Ladies for an hour every day, going through each segment with a fine tooth comb and rewriting everything for the THIRD (and in the case of Module 1...SEVENTH) time.
(Can you say Contract Renegotiation?)
It's a grind and it's hellacious, but it's happening and we're moving. There's a point to every sentence and every story. And for the first time since the beginning, I feel like I'm not only speaking to depressed kids but actually helping them, too. Yesssss.
*A reference to the TV show Lost for those who don't watch it. Short form for 'Catastrophic Plane Crash Involving Lots Of Blood And Death And A Magic Island With Mysterious Hatches And The Occasional Touch Of Time Travel.'
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Day 207: So I Think I Can Dance
I got a 10-pass to a rec centre in hopes of finding the Calgary version of that glorious dance centre in Paris. There was a Monday evening class called Latin on the schedule and it sounded hot: aerobics with salsa moves and sweaty, sexy Latin beats. I could seriously get into that.
So I was more than a little confused when I walked into a roomful of 60-year-old Chinese ladies wearing panty hose and dancing shoes.
And when the chubby white guy teacher strode in, well, let's say Sexy was officially off the menu. "Sorry I'm late everyone," the teacher breathed. "We just got back from Vegas."
Of course we did.
"Let's warm up with rumba," he said, clapping his hands and starting the music. "And 5, 6, 7, 8." I followed along with a basic rumba box step, trying not to laugh at White Guy's flamboyantly swishing hips.
But I wasn't laughing four counts later when he yelled, "And turn. And turn. And switch. And back," while I flailed along in the back row. Apparently "warm up" means "perform this complicated seven-minute choreography."
Oh.
"So," he said, stopping the music to stare at those of us who sucked at rumba. "We have new people." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. And then he listed off all the medals he's won in Latin dance competitions all over the world. I wasn't clear on what I was to do with this information, except for maybe clap.
"Let's move on to the Paso," he called out before turning back to me and the other newbies. "Who has seen Paso Doble danced before?" A few of us put up our hands. "Oh," he said in a withering tone. "On TV, right? Dancing With The Stars?" He sighed and faced the mirror. Clearly, we were a waste of his time.
And so I learned the Paso Doble. There was a lot of stamping and stepping and flinging of nonexistent capes. "Let's try it with music," the teacher said and suddenly the speakers unleashed the most hilariously cheesy bullfighting song of all time. It was like a Disney cartoon bullfighting soundtrack.
"A 5, 6, 7, 8!" the teacher screamed and off we went, stamping and swinging scarves and hankies and sweatshirts over our heads.
Then he stopped the music and pointed at me. Oh God.
"You. What's your name? Melody. Nice cape work. Verrrry nice cape work. Everyone – watch Melody's caping this time." And then the roomful of little old Chinese ladies turned to stare at me...with unconcealed hatred.
We did the same passage over and over again. Then we stared at the teacher who was clearly losing his shit. He crumpled a piece of paper and muttered to himself.
"We can't move on until next week," he said, sighing and rubbing again. "I need to figure things out. I mean, this is Paso – it has to be on the music. IT JUST HAS TO. Or everything falls apart." He paced up and down mumbling while we all looked at our feet.
"I know we'll move into a Sneak Attack followed by a Grand Circle," he said searching the paper for some kind of existential validation or military strategy. "But there's a cymbal crash coming and I NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT."
Clearly, Paso Doble is a huge responsibility. One I couldn't possibly understand.
So I was more than a little confused when I walked into a roomful of 60-year-old Chinese ladies wearing panty hose and dancing shoes.
And when the chubby white guy teacher strode in, well, let's say Sexy was officially off the menu. "Sorry I'm late everyone," the teacher breathed. "We just got back from Vegas."
Of course we did.
"Let's warm up with rumba," he said, clapping his hands and starting the music. "And 5, 6, 7, 8." I followed along with a basic rumba box step, trying not to laugh at White Guy's flamboyantly swishing hips.
But I wasn't laughing four counts later when he yelled, "And turn. And turn. And switch. And back," while I flailed along in the back row. Apparently "warm up" means "perform this complicated seven-minute choreography."
Oh.
"So," he said, stopping the music to stare at those of us who sucked at rumba. "We have new people." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. And then he listed off all the medals he's won in Latin dance competitions all over the world. I wasn't clear on what I was to do with this information, except for maybe clap.
"Let's move on to the Paso," he called out before turning back to me and the other newbies. "Who has seen Paso Doble danced before?" A few of us put up our hands. "Oh," he said in a withering tone. "On TV, right? Dancing With The Stars?" He sighed and faced the mirror. Clearly, we were a waste of his time.
And so I learned the Paso Doble. There was a lot of stamping and stepping and flinging of nonexistent capes. "Let's try it with music," the teacher said and suddenly the speakers unleashed the most hilariously cheesy bullfighting song of all time. It was like a Disney cartoon bullfighting soundtrack.
"A 5, 6, 7, 8!" the teacher screamed and off we went, stamping and swinging scarves and hankies and sweatshirts over our heads.
Then he stopped the music and pointed at me. Oh God.
"You. What's your name? Melody. Nice cape work. Verrrry nice cape work. Everyone – watch Melody's caping this time." And then the roomful of little old Chinese ladies turned to stare at me...with unconcealed hatred.
We did the same passage over and over again. Then we stared at the teacher who was clearly losing his shit. He crumpled a piece of paper and muttered to himself.
"We can't move on until next week," he said, sighing and rubbing again. "I need to figure things out. I mean, this is Paso – it has to be on the music. IT JUST HAS TO. Or everything falls apart." He paced up and down mumbling while we all looked at our feet.
"I know we'll move into a Sneak Attack followed by a Grand Circle," he said searching the paper for some kind of existential validation or military strategy. "But there's a cymbal crash coming and I NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT."
Clearly, Paso Doble is a huge responsibility. One I couldn't possibly understand.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Day 206: First World Problems
As the honeymoon of 'OMG I'M GOING TO AFRICA!' wears off and the reality of 'OMG How Am I Going To Pay My Mortgage While Working For Free?' kicks in, my concerns strike me as a little tacky in light of people who DON'T HAVE HOMES in the first place.
Maybe I could take on some freelance work while I'm over there. Nothing says irony like writing about condo developments while living in a dirt hut in Zambia.
Also? I'm now obsessed with water. I am conscious of how much I use when I brush my teeth. Of taking showers and (God forbid) taking a bath. I look at SNOW differently, for God's sake.
I was flipping through a health magazine the other day and noticed the headline "Drinking Enough?" I snorted with laughter that here we WRITE ARTICLES about getting our 8-10 glasses per day and in the places I'll be traveling, people WALK ALL DAY to find enough to drink.
These are the things you start to think about when you take on a project like this.
I find myself swerving drunkenly between profound gratitude that I was born where I was, weird white-girl guilt for having SO much when others have so little and fear that I'll turn into one of those strident Save-The-World types screaming at passersby, "Yeah?! At least you have LEGS, you selfish bastard!"
Stressing about your summer plans really isn't as fun when people really are dying in Africa...you know?
Maybe I could take on some freelance work while I'm over there. Nothing says irony like writing about condo developments while living in a dirt hut in Zambia.
Also? I'm now obsessed with water. I am conscious of how much I use when I brush my teeth. Of taking showers and (God forbid) taking a bath. I look at SNOW differently, for God's sake.
I was flipping through a health magazine the other day and noticed the headline "Drinking Enough?" I snorted with laughter that here we WRITE ARTICLES about getting our 8-10 glasses per day and in the places I'll be traveling, people WALK ALL DAY to find enough to drink.
These are the things you start to think about when you take on a project like this.
I find myself swerving drunkenly between profound gratitude that I was born where I was, weird white-girl guilt for having SO much when others have so little and fear that I'll turn into one of those strident Save-The-World types screaming at passersby, "Yeah?! At least you have LEGS, you selfish bastard!"
Stressing about your summer plans really isn't as fun when people really are dying in Africa...you know?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Day 205: Until the Aircraft Comes to a Full, Abrupt Stop
To no one's surprise, my plan to hit the ground running here in Calgary led quickly to hitting the WALL running.
The idea was to maintain a sort of momentum upon my return from Paris in hopes of avoiding Suburban Wasteland Culture Shock And Psychic Paralysis. A good idea...in theory.
Of course, I didn't anticipate racking up a spectacular sleep deficit and having to manage the convergence of an emceeing gig/all-day conference, two work deadlines and the sudden beginning of a massive, 2 to 3 year, possibly pro bono project involving leaving for Africa in FIVE MINUTES.
Meanwhile, there's still the idea of theatre school (and its $30 grand price tag) and a boyfriend who keeps saying mean things like, "But...I thought we were going cycling in France this summer."
It's all amazing and spectacular and TOTALLY OVERWHELMING. I feel like I got invited to the Oscars but forgot to wear any pants.
And when I woke up yesterday morning to find the house in complete and utter disarray and a good-looking man (target) walking around in blissful ignorance of my exhausted, jet-lagged, which-effing-way-is-up panic, well...
Any guesses what I chose to freak out about? The dishes, of course. At the very least you'd think I could get some new material.
Luckily, my month of 24-7 creative solitude served me well. Because as soon as Super-Bitch reared her head, I stopped talking (nagging) and got out my paints. And today, when SB stopped in for breakfast, I shut her down by baking banana muffins and listening to Bach.
I don't know much, but I know two things:
FACT #1:
Creativity is the antidote for bitchiness, misery, panic and possibly depression. Let me repeat this: CREATIVITY IS THE KEY. Playing around with paints, cooking, dancing, taking photos, whatever. It's the magic bullet for getting present and into a state of flow. Period.
(Feel free to forward this post to your PMSing wives and girlfriends.)
FACT #2:
Getting into a snit about having to take care of someone else is an excellent indication that I haven't been taking care of myself. This is a new realization for me. Brand new this morning. Late-breaking navel-gazing news. So now my biggest problem is Nap or Bubble Bath? Sigh. Life is hard.
The idea was to maintain a sort of momentum upon my return from Paris in hopes of avoiding Suburban Wasteland Culture Shock And Psychic Paralysis. A good idea...in theory.
Of course, I didn't anticipate racking up a spectacular sleep deficit and having to manage the convergence of an emceeing gig/all-day conference, two work deadlines and the sudden beginning of a massive, 2 to 3 year, possibly pro bono project involving leaving for Africa in FIVE MINUTES.
Meanwhile, there's still the idea of theatre school (and its $30 grand price tag) and a boyfriend who keeps saying mean things like, "But...I thought we were going cycling in France this summer."
It's all amazing and spectacular and TOTALLY OVERWHELMING. I feel like I got invited to the Oscars but forgot to wear any pants.
And when I woke up yesterday morning to find the house in complete and utter disarray and a good-looking man (target) walking around in blissful ignorance of my exhausted, jet-lagged, which-effing-way-is-up panic, well...
Any guesses what I chose to freak out about? The dishes, of course. At the very least you'd think I could get some new material.
Luckily, my month of 24-7 creative solitude served me well. Because as soon as Super-Bitch reared her head, I stopped talking (nagging) and got out my paints. And today, when SB stopped in for breakfast, I shut her down by baking banana muffins and listening to Bach.
I don't know much, but I know two things:
FACT #1:
Creativity is the antidote for bitchiness, misery, panic and possibly depression. Let me repeat this: CREATIVITY IS THE KEY. Playing around with paints, cooking, dancing, taking photos, whatever. It's the magic bullet for getting present and into a state of flow. Period.
(Feel free to forward this post to your PMSing wives and girlfriends.)
FACT #2:
Getting into a snit about having to take care of someone else is an excellent indication that I haven't been taking care of myself. This is a new realization for me. Brand new this morning. Late-breaking navel-gazing news. So now my biggest problem is Nap or Bubble Bath? Sigh. Life is hard.
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