Compass

The view from where I stand is so different, as if I took a long walk absorbed in my thoughts and didn't realize I left the city. Life had been the same for years, maybe a decade, where I was constantly going from one schedule to the next, creating, fighting, always hungry to get to the next thing. It was one half of life lived in the misery of a day job, and one half breathed onto stage, rehearsing and playing, working hard and trying not to blink so I didn't lose a single moment. The only problem was that though I did more and achieved more than anyone, including myself, could ever imagine, I didn't actually get anywhere. I made my mark at work, transformed the stage, but I stood at the same level, staring at the same four walls. I think that's why I quit managing the theater. It wasn't so much the politics and frequent miscommunication. It was the sense of being in a different place than everyone else.

Looking back, that might be where the crack was formed. I lost my job, lost a lot of contact with friends in the process, and arrived at this view, a long journey pared down to one set of footprints and more change on the way. I've had nothing but time and space to think about what I've done and whether or not all of this was worth it. I realize I've been flipping over this same exact theme as if I've been studying the little holes on either side of a pancake, but something always happens that takes me back for a moment...draws my eyes to the horizon behind me and then turn to scan the foggy future. Something always makes me wonder about my hands and the relevance of the things I can do. This is just one the many wonderful things about being 40.

Something always comes up...the other day I was cc'ed on an email from an old friend about the play we'll be in this Saturday. It's going to be her last. It will also probably be the last time I will see her for a long while, as she's moving out of the country to get married. She was my favorite girlfriend on stage, my duet in the musical that took so much out of me. She spent the day with me when I got ready to take that train trip, and took me to the station. I knew she was engaged, and newly so, but I didn't expect her to leave so quickly. In between her acting jobs, she was a great friend, and...okay, I just caught myself because for some reason I'm eulogizing her. Maybe I'm not really talking about her at all. New paragraph. Get off this.

I once wrote that you never see love coming, but when it leaves, you watch it's every step. I guess...I love my friends and sometimes wish things would never change, but they do. Friends in my past have gotten married or moved away, or just faded from one life to another, and they've all become unrecognizable in a way. I know I'll be in the right frame of mind on Saturday to say goodbye to this friend, because emotionally I have to become a little detached when I do this play (it's complicated), but in the back of my mind I know two other friends will soon be married, and I'll isolate a little more. Everything seems to be pointing to the things I've done and will do more so than the people I've been around, so I stand here with this strange, different view, trying to reconcile what I've done and what I'm meant to do at this point.

Make art. That's what Glen Hansard said at the Oscars when he accepted his award for best song. That was the first thing spoken the whole night that had an impact on me. Make art. That, of course, set the table for what his partner had to say after: "Hi everyone. I just want to thank you so much. This is such a big deal, not only for us, but for all other independent musicians and artists that spend most of their time struggling, and this, the fact that we're standing here tonight, the fact that we're able to hold this, it's just to prove no matter how far out your dreams are, it's possible. And, you know, fair play to those who dare to dream and don't give up. And this song was written from a perspective of hope, and hope at the end of the day connects us all, no matter how different we are. And so thank you so much, who helped us along the way. Thank you."

There lies the courage to move on and keep trying, in those words, in the heart of truth and pursuit of a voice in art. People have not always made sense to me on a very personal level, but find me in the middle of writing a play, standing in front of actors with my notebook in hand, or playing guitar and singing with others, and you can see me live in a way that love always failed me. As the new saying goes, "Unlucky in love, damn good at art."

It's time to get moving again.

Our Lives, Our Fortunes, Our Sacred Honor

Now that the Writers Strike is over, any idea of the struggle to be creative in Hollywood quickly fades from the public eye. It gave many idiots the chance to say that the TV shows or movies were poorly written in the first place, and that writers weren't missed. The only good stories were told many, many years ago, or worse, these people expressing opinions over the Internet hardly ever watched TV (which made their opinions about TV in the first place totally invalid). The first thing I can tell you is that the strike isn't really over yet. True, writers, producers, and actors are no longer walking the picket lines, but right now they're going over the latest contract they got from the AMPTP, and consensus is that it's definitely less than what it should be. I won't go into details, but there is still a tricky wording of the contract that needs to be navigated and debated. Do you ever read the small print in things you sign? You might be surprised if you did.

But that's Hollywood, the industry versus itself - the business of Hollywood versus the ideas of Hollywood - and it tends to believe people are expendable. It will exercise this belief from the top down to the smallest corner, many variations on the theme of short term gain for profit. It's practiced in the small theaters and acting schools, in the high profile dealing of organizations representing guilds, and unfortunately, there's more on the way. There is an ongoing debate right now in the Screen Actors Guild over the upcoming contract negotiations, and which of the members should be allowed to vote on the new contract. Obviously, if you pay dues you should be able to vote, but there are some in the guild who don't agree. From the top down, it's an embarrassing overture of narcissism, and the business might be focusing a little too much on "more".

While business looks at the bottom line, it's very easy to lose sight of the sacrifices people make when they choose a creative life, whether it's writing, acting, or whatever it is that requires practice, training, a commitment that takes away from other things in life...other, sometimes important things. The view from where I stand is of people busy doing, constantly creating and looking for opportunities. My friends, many of whom are actors, are perpetually working on films, plays, and auditioning for TV. They will work crew on other friends' films, keep returning to classes they can barely afford if not for the occasional day job or paying acting jobs. These people keep returning to an industry that keeps rejecting them, but despite these crazy priorities, including living a life with low pay and a constant hustle for work, there are still a lot of writers and actors out there, and they need their guilds.

On the other hand...business in general seems to have a similar lack of conscience. A few days ago, I received an email from some former coworkers, the next ones on the chopping block schedule for the extended mix of reduction in force. There's a get-together on their last day at the local restaurant/bar, and they were inviting me. I immediately went right back to the unfairness of the process, of previous layoffs where my friends were sniped from the ranks, where I was asked to dig my own grave and then afterwards endured the enlightenment of seeing who my remaining friends really were. Do I really want to go back there for a visit? I think, maybe, I already said goodbye. Over the years, I was known for writing monthly newsletters, and this was the last one I sent, after I was let go. In hindsight, I guess the most consistent thing about me is that I've always focused on people who struggle, who believe in ideas over profit. Someday I hope to be able to talk to both sides and bring them together. Enough already. Here's what I called "The Final Newsletter":

Greetings former colleagues, close friends, and...well, those of you still at the old Blackjack (the nickname I gave 21st). I didn't want to end my newsletters like...Laverne & Shirley (they had no final episode) or...well, that was a bad example. I didn't really have a whole lot of time to write on my way out, nor did I remember to include my email address, which would have been nice. Nobody could blame me, huh? All of a sudden, I was both Papillon and Neo from the Matrix, and I'm making one quick appearance to finish things off right.

The Tribe Has Spoken
This whole thing has been a surprise to many people, but not to me so much, because I've been through this before. I just wasn't as close to people back then as I was this time around, but I'll tell you two things: 1) I'm sure we'll be BFF, and that we'll keep in touch, and 2) Hey, there IS life after being pooped out by the auto insurance industry, and it's pretty awesome. Sure, John Edwards speaks to the dead, but I can offer the same advice he gives. Those who have crossed over don't really have any ill will over the circumstances that got us here. We're in a good place. We went towards the light and are doing well. We just hope you're surviving and are able to enjoy each other with the time you have together. That is what our bond was when we were amongst you, so I sincerely hope you keep up the tradition. Honestly, there's no resentment towards anyone or anything, only enlightenment in some cases, and relief.

Connectivity
First of all, I have to give you what I didn't give you before. My email address is: sjirel@gmail.com. Use it wisely. Or not. Up to you, entirely. Also, as long as we have the net, we always have a way to keep in touch, don't we? You know I have multiple websites and am busy at this very moment with outplacement and this exciting job search. I want to keep in touch and invite you to do the same. Who knows where we'll be in a year? I hope to send you an update soon to let you know where I land, but I also wish this kind of "upturning of the soil" for you, a chance to really see who you are and what you're truly worth. The main thing that I learned throughout the classes I've taken recently and seeing friends go through the whole adjustment period (Klaus, Yvonne, Hagay) is that I wish I had gotten myself organized much earlier. I had a decent resume. Now my resume is sexy. I had a cover letter and a couple of websites I could submit to, and now I've got a whole networking plan and some solid stuff to work with. It's great to be pushed out of the nest to discover you can fly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So that's it, gang, the last in a short history of long emails sent to you to let you know that I can hear you breathing in those cubicles and offices, and that you're not forgotten. This has been a great experience for me, and I'll do everything I can to avoid flipping burgers. You're all in my thoughts, and I really do wish the best for you. You made my time at the wrong job completely worth the time I spent there, and I won't forget you for it. Okay, honestly, some details will become fuzzy over time and should we meet again, I might use the wrong name. Don't take it personally. My brain is only so big. Take care of yourselves, and be good people.

Your friend always,
Stewart

Here's one last quote for you:
"And that's the world in a nutshell, an appropriate receptacle."
~ Stan Dunn

Science of People

I've been walking more recently, to the local restaurants and coffee places, and this has offered me brief moments of perspective to not think as much as feel the mileage of the past couple of months. I think I've outgrown this "living on severance" lifestyle. I need to be busy again. No, not just busy. Busy with the right things.

Creatively, I am looking at a blank canvas thinking wistfully about the palette of colors I used to paint with. More specifically, I miss the way I used to feel around people. I miss that effect that some had on me, where I rolled around details of our last exchange in my mind. I would search music for the right theme, see colors and textures that reminded me of what they wore, even called on things they said in the things I wrote. Sadly, in my night sky they are the few steady points of light, not the gaudy ones that sparkle and sometimes fade, disappearing with the belief in their own hype. It's too easy, much too easy, to say that this only happens in Los Angeles, but the truth is that narcissism is a global obsession.

Forgive me if I've mentioned all this before. Some things, I guess, don't change. Consider it a fact that few of my friends give me pause to wonder why some things are said or done. Well, let's face it; The simple, whole-hearted people in my life have given me the opportunity to be a friend in return, and there goes the perpetual cycle of reciprocation and understanding that builds good, solid friendships. They make it easy to differentiate what is real, and what isn't.

As I may have mentioned before, the ace in my sleeve is the ability to remove myself, and walk away, if needed. For example, I was supposed to go out with a girl upon my return to L.A. earlier this year, and it should have been easy. We exchanged emails. I called her and left a message. Then I had time to think - while she was busy not returning my call or emails. I remembered that every exchange was difficult, feeling as if she was trying to manipulate the fog of ambiguity around her as if to simulate an old-fashioned idea of mystery. I had to work hard to earn any secrets she guarded (while she, of course, made it very clear she was seeing other guys). All this play, and I could only wonder what exactly the prize would be. The immediate next thought was this: If I have to work that hard on something that isn't even a friendship yet, chances are the pieces don't fit.

My most practiced instinct is to step back and watch all this impartially, in much the same way I directed plays, watching my actors go through a whole range of emotions on stage. I'm so comfortable occupying that margin in reality, where I can exercise my curiosity. There I can ask, without investment, why people would say "love ya" with the same enthusiasm and emphasis they would have reading those words off a mylar balloon. I can ask why people would use pet names in the middle of largely impersonal ideas. That is my right, after all, to ask the questions, because it sometimes becomes necessary to hang those questions off of weird, open-ended words.

I asked someone, once upon a time on a long road trip, what she was thinking. She said "nothing." Nothing on your mind? It was just blank? There was no thought process fed by anything her eyes were looking at? Did she really shut herself off like C3P0? Okay, maybe her mind was blank. I've never really known that. Maybe she was feeling something and didn't want to talk. Maybe, even, she was thinking in abstract and didn't have words for it. "Purple taffy exploding jiggle warm frisbee sharks."

People really do think nothing, and think nothing of the things they say or do. We automate, follow patterns, and repeat borrowed thoughts. Unfortunately, we sometimes build a rationale for being the way we want to be, unique and different than everyone, just like everyone, just like the person across from you and the loud conversation coming from the next table. What truly sets us apart is how we pay attention to each other, or even, if we do amidst a crowd of unconnected names.

It's too easy to stay apart and alone.

What are you thinking?

The Road Not Taken

It's February already: the writer's strike is allegedly about to come to an end, the Lakers have acquired Pau Gasol, and my niece's baby Mia should be born any day now. Oh, and LOST is back. That's pretty huge. There is one thing on my mind, though, and I need to change the setting. Things must be said.

M: Like what?

S: Well, I kind of thought we'd talk again before....

M: Yeah, things have been a little crazy.

S: I would imagine. You don't mind this, do you?

M: No, it's fine. (pause) So how are you?

S: Surviving happily. You know, lots of change. Okay, that was dumb. You know better than I do about change right now.

M: Not as much as you'd think. I have this one major thing, but it's definite. It's all planned out and...it's kind of exhausting to talk about. It's nothing like the year you've had.

S: You leave tomorrow, right?

M: Yeah.

S: Nervous?

M: Maybe. I don't know. So much is happening now. I'm a little numb.

S: Do you ever feel like sometimes like there's no perspective on the past?

M: What do you mean?

S: Maybe it's just a sense of accomplishment, or a milestone, like you should feel like there's a measurable point in your life that you get past and then move on from...but in reality you look back -

M: And it's all a blur. It's like you're trying to find yourself on a map, but the map got wet and all of the ink has run together.

S: Yeah, exactly like that.

M: Nope. Don't know what that feels like.

S: What? Oh.

M: I'm kidding.

S: Is that just a part of getting older? I'm beginning to think I'm going crazy.

M: Well...let's not start that conversation, because what I know about you -

S: What you think you know about me.

M: Okay, true, but still.

Silence. I looked around the place we were sitting in, but she drank her coffee and looked at me a moment before continuing.

M: I think...it's different for everyone, but yeah, I feel that way sometimes.

S: It's so hard for me to rationalize this stuff because there's so much about people I don't understand.

M: People are not as complicated as you think they are. Normal ones, at least. Are some of those weird people still in your life? How about that girl who only wants to talk through texting?

S: What can I say? They're interchangeable parts. Nobody's really consistent. I do hear from some old co-workers every now and then, but I am really out here on my own little island, you know?

M: That's your choice, though.

S: Those are my standards - there's a difference.

M: You and your impossible standards.

S: Do you really think so?

M: I just can't figure out some stuff about you. You've led kind of a...different life.

S: Somewhere behind that I'm suspecting there are thoughts about me being in a relationship.

M: It's been way too long! All right, I need to catch myself because it's not my place to say anything.

S: When are we going to have another chance to talk like this? You know how this conversation has to end.

There's another moment of silence to let this sink in.

M: It doesn't have to end the way you think it will.

S: I usually begin with the end in mind.

M: But that's now how you actually work through things like this.

S: So tell me what's on your mind. You say that it's not your place, but here you are, sitting across from me. Right now, this is your place.

M: Okay. (pause) I don't think LA is good for you. I think you're surrounded by too many fake people, especially doing all of your theater stuff. Finding good friends is hard enough, but settling down and having a family is nearly impossible when you're not meeting the right kind of people.

S: Where should I go, then? China? Miami? Just because my life doesn't add up a way that makes sense to you, it doesn't mean I'm unhappy.

M: I don't think you're unhappy. I just wish you weren't...alone. I know how happy you were in a relationship, and I feel like part of you is being wasted, or lost, if you're not in one. I just hate thinking that you don't want that any more because of something I did.

S: That was a long time ago. A really long time ago. What did we figure it out to? About half a lifetime?

M: Yeah, I think that was it.

S: Didn't you already say that all this was my choice? Give me some credit.

M: You know what I'm trying to say.

S: I know what you're saying, but...listen, many years ago, I stoppped passing everything through the filter of what life would be like with you in it. I accepted what was left and built on that foundation. You still existed, but in a different way.

M: And what way was that?

S: I always hoped that you'd be proud of me if you only knew the things I did.

M: You shouldn't do anything like that for me.

S: I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. The difference is this: with every risk I took, every sacrifice I made, I thought about the one person who knows me better than every other living thing on this planet and whether or not I was betraying that knowledge of me. Once, when I was helping you get over someone, I bought some lottery tickets, those little scratcher things, and I gave one to you. You said "Oh well, unlucky in love..." You meant that it was one or the other, but you deserved to win at something.

M: I said that?

S: Yeah. It kinda hurt my feelings, because there I was, and....

M: I don't even remember saying that.

S: Well, after you, I made a bunch of those kinds of decisions. I was going to win at something, so...it was one thing or the other for me. Look, if I had chosen to just try again at relationships and pave over the experience of you in my life, I think that maybe you and I would still be here right now, talking about that other thing I didn't choose to do.

M: That...ugh...that just kills me. You take all of these little insignificant moments with me and make them epic stories that changed your life. Who else does that? Seriously. Promise me you won't write a bible about me while I'm gone?

S: God forbid. The numbering of each line alone would kill me.

M: I just don't know why it had to be me. I'm not who you think I am. At least, the person you're talking about is not the person I see in the mirror.

S: That's okay. Someday you'll catch up to my way of thinking.

She took this in for a moment, then checked her cell phone.

M: I have to go.

S: Okay.

M: I don't want you to walk me out.

S: Why?

M: I don't know. I don't want to say. Just let me walk out, okay? Please?

S: Do I get...?

M: I don't think it's right.

S: Okay...I think I understand.

M: It's not because I don't -

S: You don't have to say anything. (pause) Good luck, and...have a safe trip.

M: I will. Thanks for the coffee.

She grabbed her things and quickly left. I just sat there for a moment, learning to breathe again, and then took a sip of my latte, now cold. Tossing both cups in the trash on my way out, I took my first breath of night air, and it hurt somewhere deep inside. Two steps towards my car, I heard my name and turned to see her walking towards me. Without a word, we embraced and held each other tightly enough to leave an impression in each other.

Time, wind, passing cars, clouds floating overhead, all stopped. The moon disappeared, along with the city, the earth, the sky, and any other reason for existence.

But there we were.

In my notebook, in an ideal last meeting, inside my iPod and in a little blog lost in the wilderness of the Internet, there we embraced one last time for the ages, and forever more.

Good luck and have a safe trip.