The Memory Of

"Take this sorrow to thy heart, and make it a part of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong again."
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I woke up this morning with a profound sadness. I have no idea where it comes from. I could attribute it to the legacy of depression that comes down to me from my family - two of my uncles on my father's side ended their lives abruptly - but that would be a copout. I don't have to own anyone else's depression. As much as it might be chemical, it is also my choice, just as it was my choice (and has been for 10 years) to go home after a play rather than hanging out with castmates at a bar. I usually come home, wind down, and begin to empty my mind through whatever means I can find: writing, playing guitar, sending out a few emails, maybe some Photoshop work. Whether I'm on stage or directing, doing a show takes a lot out of me, so I need to empty that before I go to bed or else that insomnia comes around again and I'm up all night thinking...feeling.

Wow...it sounds like I'm a big mess, doesn't it?

C: You think you're the only one who feels these things? A lot of people feel sad, they just don't write about it.

S: You think? I can't always tell what other people are feeling. I just see what they do....

C: So you label that and move on. Have you ever heard of the "benefit of the doubt"?

S: Yes, I have, smartass. Sometimes it's just easier to consider the worst case scenario and be nicely surprised.

C: Or maybe, Eeyore, it's easier to think that people, for the most part, have good intentions and when they do something wrong, they just might be human.

S: How did this turn into a conversation about other people letting me down?

C: How did you forget that this is a conversation between your conscious and subconscious? Do you think I don't know what's going on with you? (pause) Listen, I know that this is a big year of change ahead of you. I can feel the anxiety connected to that.

S: Damn, I keep forgetting I can't hide anything when I write these conversations between us.

C: I think you're leaving Playhouse for the right reasons. I think you're doing the right things for your career by starting to network your way towards Warner Bros.

S: Thank you.

C: But I also know what a leap of faith these things are. You're solid in both places right now.

S: It just can't keep going the way it's going.

C: Right.

S: And I can't become what I want to be by remaining what I am. What I do at Playhouse gets lost in the competitive atmosphere controlled by two people. What I do at work is rewarded and counted on, but it's so wrong. It's not what I'm meant to do.

C: So take that leap of faith. Change your life this year. Know that there will be mornings when you'll wake up a little sad -

S: I wrote that I had a profound sadness. Look at the top of this entry.

C: There will be mornings when you wake up a little sad, and that's just the aftermath of having done something you love doing the previous night knowing that it's going to end soon. You forget how great it is when you're not doing it, and you forget how much you're going to miss it when you're in the middle of it. This is about right for you, you know....

S: You think?

C: With every show you've ever done - I'm talking about beyond college - you're experiencing things a few weeks ahead of time. You know what that sadness of the final performance is going to be like. And then...what? What's beyond that? It's completely unknown.

S: Ohhhh that's scary. New school, new theater company, new roles.

C: But do you know what's great? You don't have any concept of failure with that. You don't see yourself returning to Playhouse to direct or produce -

S: That would be the failure.

C: So this bold move to walk away from ten years could be the thing that breaks life open for you. Think of all of the weekends you've spent there, the late nights rehearsing and all of the people you've worked with. You came to every cast having to prove yourself all over again because your reputation at that school has been smothered time and time again, but you did it and now you have all of this experience behind you.

S: I sacrificed a lot to get here.

C: And you're wondering if it was worth it.

S: Yeah.

C: You have one thing that many people don't have when it comes to the creative world, and that takes sacrifice.

S: What...? What do I have?

C: Instinct. You know how you react whenever something creative is broken down into structure, laying things out into a formula for everyone to follow? It's against everything artistic, isn't it?

S: Yeah, I guess I don't understand it.

C: That instinct will always be there for you. The sacrifice - while others have gotten married, had children, moved into big houses and indulged in their lives - helped refine the thing you love to do. The sadness in the morning is part of the artist that goes to bed at night. You don't put any of it on, it's part of your DNA now. DeoxyriboNucleicArtist.

S: Cute.

C: And before you begin to think about what it is you're not, and what you don't have in your life, show that depression the fact that you're sitting here working through this having a conversation in a virtual world.

Okay, so maybe that actually qualifies me for psychiatric help, but truthfully, I feel a little better now. When the credits start rolling, all it means is that this particular movie is over. There's always room for a new one, and if I'm standing alone at the end of the next one, all I can do is keep looking forward and try a new leap of faith.

"There is no future
There is no past
I live this moment as my last
There's only us
There's only this
Forget regret
Or life is yours to miss
No other road
No other way
No day but today"
~ Jonathan Larson

Creation Took Eight Days

With the heaviness of that last entry, you might wonder what direction I'd have to go in to recover. The obvious answer is that I wrestled with the same question years ago. That's also a non-answer, bred out of avoidance and clever misdirection. The truthful answer is that the direction always changes. I had started writing a follow-up a few times, even considered deleting that story, but I can't. It's part of me. It explains a lot, I think.

So here I am, dealing with the issues of today: Work is a little difficult to maintain, my father is in the hospital recovering slowly from knee surgery, and of course, I'm watching the health of the rest of my family. Add all the change with my creative life, and that's more than enough to handle. Somewhere in the margin, my niece is finally getting her wish; She has collected enough friends to replace my family, and seems to be on her way North with her two sons, a distance that might still feel too close to any of the three families she seems to hate. Her philosophy is "Love me for what I am, not for what you want me to be", but that has to contractually involve the rule that she's not built like us. I remember someone who used to be in my life telling me that she's not "thoughtful and sensitive like you are. I can't be like you."

Yes, there are people who are not built like you, who can't appreciate what it is you're feeling at any given moment, nor are they interested in bridging that gap. They don't "get" you, they don't see the best in you, they don't, in the end, have anything in common with you beyond sharing the same space for a limited amount of time. I've said that I'm different many times in my own blog, so I have to give them the benefit of the doubt. I just tend to focus on the many people who will always be strangers to me rather than fully appreciating those precious few who actually fit in my world.

The direction at the moment is towards tomorrow, with a healthy balanced stand in the present. Who is with me? Who wishes I could be different, maybe someone I used to be? The sometimes unacceptable reality is that goldfish grow to the size of the bowl. My niece will leave and put us behind her. My sister will heal and grow without her and the boys. My parents will adjust to life as they get older. I, like them, can't ever go back to who I used to be, because I, too, have grown to the size of my bowl.

The people around me will just have to get used to that.

Naked History

On a very special episode...of the blog: Things are explained and math is applied to abstraction. A brief retelling of the past explains the frustrating complication of the present, and whatever you do, you won't want to miss the final five lines. (This episode rated PG-13 for strong language.)

This is the story you don't know. You might understand human behavior, you might have met a hundred people who fit exactly the same description as me, but you don't know how I work. Some people may be predictable, there may be only about 700,000 words in the English language, but I utter one word and chances are good that I mean something different than the person next to me saying the same thing. I don't have all of the answers, but I am looking for them.

A little over a decade ago...holy shit...about a decade and a half ago, I fell in love. I found the singular answer to everything, the name and the face I wanted to see every single day of my life until the last sun set in my world and I slipped away to that perpetually moonlit sky. She was omnipresent, threading herself through every pore and every blood cell that went through my veins. In other words, it was absolutely crazy how important she was to me for the few years I knew her. She fit. I have to add at this point that I was a virgin before I met her - I didn't see any value in just wanting to get laid before or since - and as easy as it would be for you to assume that her role in that part of my life increased her importance to me, just wait before you snap a judgement.

I wanted to marry her, started talking about plans and knew in my bones that a life spent being a good husband and father from that point on would be the very thing I wanted. I was, at the same time, just starting to seriously study theatre acting and directing, so - Libra that I am - I started balancing. Her mind wasn't so made up. She wasn't exactly ready to settle down, nor was she convinced that I was the one. When I found out that she immediately wanted to be with someone else, I suddenly found myself on the floor of my bedroom on a New Year's Eve, seriously considering making it my last. I prayed with every cubic inch of my breath for a new answer to fill the void left by the old answer. Before I acted on anything, I had what my friend Eric Edwards called "a moment of clarity". I heard my family turning Dick Clark up in the living room and my thoughts switched to my annual tradition of dancing with my mom at the stroke of midnight. My soul was patched, my face was washed, and I went out to be with my family.

Sometime later, my answer once again rejected me for another, and I was suddenly staring at an empty bottle of sleeping pills, The doorbell rang, I answered, and two police officers stepped inside to check on me and offer me some sound advice. Something changed inside me. It was that instant of fear, the fear of letting down my parents, of suddenly falling into a downward spiral that I could not come back from. I had to face the friends who called because they were worried about me. I had to see her again.

Slowly things mended between her and I, but it was never the same. There were glimpses of hope, but late that year, the behavior returned and I found myself staring from the outside in again. What replaced the feelings of loss and fatality was fear. It was in that last conversation where I thought to myself, "Holy fuck, I can't keep doing this. I'm addicted, I'm hurt, and I'm lost, but I can't keep looking to her for an answer to who I am." It may have sounded like I was angry at the moment I told her I was done - she, by the way, laughed at that reaction - but I was scared to death. I knew a part of me was gone, and that I would have to completely rediscover myself. I hung up and did what I'm doing now. I pulled my notebook and started writing. When I was done with that, I had nothing but pieces around me and I wasn't wearing a single facade. I was starting at zero.

For the following three years or so, I didn't answer the phone. It wasn't just her. I didn't answer phone calls from anyone. I floated like a ghost to my college theater, left that place, went to another college to finish off my degree, and though I had sworn off of anything romantic, I got caught in TWO romantic triangles. Both ended with me running in the opposite direction as if I was on the downward slope of an avalanche. I left college without the degree and went to work.

What I couldn't deny was my love for acting and theater. I was a hard worker, too, sacrificing my creative life for the sake of the daily routine of working, going home, doing nothing, going to sleep early, and then repeating the same thing on the following day. As much as I denied that I ever wanted to go to that world of entertainment again, it was always right there. It was just outside my door, in my peripheral vision, in the back of my mind when I went to sleep, in all of the scribbles on the wall of my shower. They were snippets of stories, ideas for the next journal entry. Oh yeah, this very thing you're reading was my life support.

I enrolled at Playhouse West without any intention of being a working actor. I just needed to do it. I needed to study, to act, to read plays and see what it did for me. After only a short time, I was asked to work on productions, and that led to directing. That led to writing and producing. That led me to today, where I'm considering the next move of leaving Playhouse and starting up completely new somewhere else, ready to write, direct, and...teaching.

To this very moment, this very beat of writing this - oh Lord - very long story that I needed to write because I've never quite told the story, I still have that fear inside me. I still have a connection to that person on the floor with the knife and bottle of pills in front of him (wait - did I mention the knife?), like a string tied to a thumbtack and fixed to a moving point. I survived this long because I've always tried to stay singular of purpose, always conscious of being direct with the people I talk to, honest with my feelings, and not wasting my time being superfluous because with every wasted breath, I feel a little tug on that string. Sex clouded my judgement; I chose to be celibate and have kept it up since then without reservation. You might have wondered why I work so hard, sometimes coming home from a long day of work and immediately working on a project before I go to rehearsal. I'm running, my friend, filling my life with color and music, keeping every possible form of expression close to me and doing my best to reassure myself and everyone around me that it's great to be alive.

I am George Bailey running through Bedford Falls. I am the blip of the heart meter, pinging and giving signs of life. I can make a connection and then turn to the next thing because I've kept myself alive all these years. Whether people understand that I'm trying to be genuine and not throwing out words to be anything to anyone...well, that's on them. I only know how to give. I don't know how to ask. I have the life I never knew I wanted. How could I fault myself for that?

The girl resurfaces every few years or so, and I see her as the best friend I can never have. She's not the answer any more, even when I heard her voice again, because in the void she left behind, words, music, shapes and colors all fell in and became part of me. There are beautifully mismatched patches on my heart, and the scars left behind are all forgiven and drawn into the pattern of my experiences. Within the brief encounters I have with her - she always disappears suddenly, like my own little Brigadoon - I fall short of convincing her that my life is good. It is, simply, just me making the best of wherever I'm standing, with that hunger to live and keep moving towards the things and people who inspire me.

I'm not looking for the answer any more, because there are so many all around you, if you would only stop to take a look. The answer, as I've recently come to understand, is just being in the present, and suddenly I don't feel that tug on the string any more. This is how my life works, and I'm here to tell you that I love you, even though I don't know exactly who is reading this right now. You might be listening to your own soundtrack and none of this makes any sense to you, but the way I see it, I said what I came here to say.

I'm still alive.

But Not For Me

Bubbles are fun little space to live in. They refract light, hold a little environment unto themselves, and when they burst, they shed little tears of joy everywhere and leave a perfect circle where they land. How many things do you know of that leave a perfect impression when they come to an end? I suppose that depends on your particular definition of the word "perfect". It might depend on your reaction to endings.

I don't know if this will make sense, but I crave those endings. I have an addiction, a longing for that lingering final look when your eyes drink in an image for the very last time. There are a few things I wish would never end or change, for the most part, but everything else seems to have a blinking expiration date on it. I think...this comes from the fact that I've had so little closure with important things in my past. There has perpetuall been so little awareness of this thing we share together that I carry with me a collection of things and memories I alone put value in. Everyone else does their own thing - work hard, go home, fall in love somewhere along the line - but I feel like I fly beyond the radar across a quiet, ever-changing landscape. I see what I see, go where I go, and I exist in this little bubble of the blogosphere like a comet cutting through the solar system, only occasionally changing course.

This might be a mild, slightly bitter helping of insanity. Of course, I can't define this as insanity, because...well, what am I basing it on? What's normal outside of my life that I can compare this to? This is normal for me. No, I think that insanity only comes with hour after hour of frustrating therapy, and I haven't even invited that into my life yet. Isn't this supposed to be therapeutic? Yes - reality check - I'm writing this for me to sort out things in my mind and heart. It's a selfish act of lacerating self-exposure, hopefully walking the line of brutal honesty and entertaining literature ("Ohhh thank God that's not my life.").

I actually started this entry in a California Pizza Kitchen, which I didn't think would be crowded, but there I was having a white pizza and a Sam Adams in the midst of a Valentines Day crowd completely at ease with my singularity. I wrote the following few lines in my directing comp book before diving into this, which I'm finishing at a Starbucks:

In a little diversion...art stops for life and life stops for art, both turning to mirror each other. The air I breathe is filtered through pen & keyboard, so I validate myself by stating "I feel, therefore I am, and if you think this isn't normal, don't look."

This is me attaching myself to the moment, refusing to go home where I have work awaiting away from the work that I run away from. This is me treating myself to the road less traveled, towards doing what I want to do rather than what is easy to do. This is me practicing detachment and independence from the world, as seen through the walls of a bubble. The light is refracted, the world distorted, and I wonder sometimes if this is exactly what it really is, and not just the way I see it. I have that gift, of taking these moments to stop and look, but still I wonder. What is it that other people do? Do they simply work hard, go home, and fall in love somewhere along the way, never asking why or how?

If I change my life and only work on what I love to do, what would fill the void? What would I leave behind, once it's all over? I hope I leave something close to the shape of a perfect circle.

Stepping Out of Line

I learned something about myself today. Okay, wait...let me backtrack for one second and preface that by saying that I've always said this about myself, and have tried to manipulate this into being true, but...wait, actually, I started seeing this on Saturday but today this little habit suddenly flicked me on the head and said, "No, this is actually the way you are."

If I find out that someone is doing exactly the same thing I'm doing, within the same circle of influence - be it something they do with a person or just something that would merely duplicate an effort - I immediately turn off of that thing and focus my attention somewhere else. It's instantaneous, once I acknowledge the dupe, and then the previous thing (what was it?) doesn't really exist any more. Ewwww it's kind of an L.A. thing, I think. It's that living in the moment reality .

It's okay. No, it's okay. It's kind of funny, actually. I figured it out at work, in that aquarium of uncertainty where the population is unhappy at the moment as the budget cloud looms above, threatening to poke holes in the ground with layoff lightning. That's the perception, anyway. The sky has yet to begin falling. Nevertheless, I enjoy the little distractions, and the people sometimes indulge in quirkiness that I can only assume comes from living most of the week inside an 8x8 box. These people have their own rules, but just the same, you try to have unique relationships with the people you work with. It doesn't always work out that way.
People are different at work. It's actually time for me to affect a change in my work situation. Maybe I'm getting cabin fever at the old twin buildings over in Woodland Hills. I roam the building like a caged animal sometimes.

I am beginning to see a few people for their patterns, and one clicked in today, suddenly changing my instinctive behavior around her. It has been a kind of domino effect over the past week or so, brought on by what I can only describe as a white hot focus on my own survival and the things I absolutely have to do. It's a little fireball of prioritizing things, so I found that my mind tends to switch things off.

Mi vida loca. I don't settle, apparently. It's my fear of mediocrity wreaking havoc on the things I do. It's also my practice of noticing patterns in everything, so...is it really weird that I can make abrupt turns and focus my attention in a completely different direction? Maybe not. I just thought it was funny.

Okay, maybe this didn't merit a whole blog entry. I just felt like writing.

Other People Do

I had written the perfect blog entry, the one that encapsulated the moment and mood, and in the end it pulled together all of the points and painted a simple lesson for me, colored in with a palette of perspective. It was a bite-sized blog economically written, complete with a bathroom break and a deceptive beginning, and then....

You know, sometimes as in life, you click on "submit" or "complete", or in this case you click on "preview & post", and you end up somewhere completely unexpected. "Preview & post" took me to a page of advertising. Going back one page took me to blankness. What was fed to the MySpace blogosphere as an intricate meal of ideas and feelings came out as a silly litle fart. Funny, how these little things remind me of the larger things I've done with my life. I especially go through this at work - all preparation and no fanfare - but the paycheck seems to make things easier.

Anyway, I started this entry in my notebook, the 5x8 ruled book, of which I have a large stack from over a decade and a half of journal writing. I could take that anywhere and often needed it with me as an escape. That's where writing scripts and poetry were born, the kind of lingering gaseous cloud that occasionally gives birth to a few starry ideas. This little book combined with frequent "Ctrl + A / Ctrl + C" keystrokes will hopefully prevent another lost entry. I couldn't recreate it; It was late at night and had spent myself writing it. It's time to move on. I guess that was one of the central themes to that lost entry. It's the whole moving on thing that I keep talking about, with constant reminders to live in the moment.

I opened a play last weekend, the last one I intend to fully produce and direct at Playhouse West. We had a standing ovation on opening night and a full house the following night. It felt right. If I'm going to work on a statement play, I want it to be received well, and I want people to see my actors loving what they do. All professionalism aside, I want people to hear what I'm saying as an artist, that apathy is unforgivable. I, like everyone else will tell you about themselves, like speaking my mind, and I try my best to word things as carefully as I can so that people know exactly what I'm saying. I've been called blunt. I've also been called tactful, but this is all good in everyday conversation. As an artist - and I almost hate using that term, but I wake up every day with the need to be creative - I see things that need to be commented on, or I feel stories that need to be told. That's why I could never walk away from this life. This is who I am.

Last night I found myself in front of a truly inspiring girl, a goddess with a magnetic smile, telling her exactly what I saw in her in the most poetic terms, without reservation or doubt. I had only one thing in mind, that I had to tell her who she was to me. I couldn't lose the opportunity. I know we live in a world that instigates comparison and fear. I know we work in an industry (entertainment) that constantly tells you that you're not good enough, or that we already have people like you. The people who succeed are either those who persevere or those who are the current flavor. Now, it would be too easy for me to say that I'm going to champion those who persevere, but that would be taking something away from what I do, and especially, from this girl. No, I will speak up because that's what I have to do with a gift of communication. If I can express ideas, if I can translate, then I simply have to say something.

First of all, my job as a director is to make a play common. I want everyone to recognize what's happening, to relate to what's happening in whatever medium I'm working in. A statement is pointless if I'm the only one who believes it. I have to make sure my actors understand what we're trying to say. I have to make sure that every aspect of what I create contributes to the idea. I'm not sloppy that way.

Okay, enough about the technical stuff.

The girl is amazing. She's sweet, smart, beautiful, and especially unique. She's talented, and there's something about her...that's completely enchanting. I equate her with that elusive idea of something romantic, as if she's always shot with that soft lens that blurs your vision slightly. I made a connection last night as the full moon rose above the roofline outside the theater before I went on stage last night. There it was, perfect and mysterious, rising above everything with a glow that makes it bright enough to make your eyes adjust, but still, you had to look. Every time I see the moon - I've always looked for it - it's hypnotic. So is the girl. When I see the moon, I'll think of her.

Have you ever seen someone like that? Open your eyes...and don't let the moment go by. I may have lost a journal entry, I may have created or worked on things in the past that only had meaning for me and nobody else, but the girl knew for at least a moment that someone was inspired by her, and loved her completely for it.

I don't know how other people go through life sticking to a schedule, filling the hours with work, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and distractions scattered throughout the weeks that slip by unnoticed. I don't know how people maintain. That's not me. I have a different way of doing things, and it has everything to do with recognizing the world around me. That's the life I've chosen.

Ahhh wait...select all...copy...now, preview and post.

The Christmas Miracle, Chapter Three

Sometimes the lessons are in the out of focus periphery, the things that solve themselves without our intervention. Well, really, that's the lesson itself. We're not superheroes. Not every miracle is a thing that requires our full attention and involvement.

The miracle lies in the moment. This moment. No, not the moment ago when I started saying "The miracle lies in the moment...". It's not even in the moment when I wrote this thought. It's this...right now...with you reading this very word, you taking breath right now, your eyes blinking as you scan this very sentence. It's the instant we share when we have the power of choice, where we are at this point in our lives.

I walked through a cold theater tonight, not cold because of our strange weather lately, but cold in the impersonal, forgetful way. There were actors in there - not my actors. They were old friends, but somehow strangers now. They are the victims of a theater company built on the scraps of peoples' hopes and aspirations, a huge monster breathing in angst and greed and exhaling competition and short-sighted loyalties.

I go to work every day with the feeling that I'm always catching up, and I'm still sitting with the struggle of knowing the difference between co-workers and friends. I get mixed messages sometimes, but ultimately, what everyone is most concerned with is self-preservation. Some people place that on the success of the whole company and others have a tough enough time with their square putty-colored living space. One wonders if that's the reason why I roam the hallways talking to as many people as I can and our temp was let go today. We all have different needs.

What gets me through these places, these strange situations I find myself in with people, is that moment after. I keep refreshing my mind and my vision...I kept looking for that miracle and kept getting distracted. That's when I found it. It was the moment I blinked and looked at my good life, and the past began to blur. I remember the weird trip through the theater I spent 10 years in now, only because I'm writing about it. Once I click on Preview & Post, it's gone. I write about the work stuff because it's a part of my daily life, but before I even leave the parking lot at work, these days I'm thinking about the play I'm opening in one week.

The miracle is, I'm lucky. Because I keep myself busy, my life constantly reinvents itself and keeps turning the topsoil over. I have my reactions and see the undeniable behavior - that's my training - but at the same time I stay focused. That's why it was so hard to see the miracle during my Christmas in Miami. It kept happening over and over again, and in the end, when I found myself back in Los Angeles, the whole thing was like dream, a month spent in Miami over the course of two weeks. Would that be the miracle, that life outlasts the little problems that sometimes slow us down and make us stop being a part of living it?

For all these moments, the big questions I keep throwing out there and my need to write about it all, here we are, sharing this thought together, this very breath. That, my friend, is a miracle.

The Christmas Miracle, Chapter Two

I should have known. Stories in every form are never told without conflict. A writer just doesn't write about everything going well, and beyond that, miracles can't be recognized without a contrasting background. Did I really expect to find a series of small micracles scattered across boredome like stars in a black sky? No, I think every true miracle must be earned. The little ones and the big ones. It's part of our brilliantly flawed system of thinking and feeling. If it's not told to us in a relevant and blunt tone inside of 20 seconds, we might miss the point....

So I never really stopped to write over the holidays. Truth to tell, I was having too much fun. Maybe that in itself is a miracle (how did I spend a month in Miami while only two weeks actually ticked away?), or maybe I just put myself in the right frame of mind from the very start. It was pretty close to perfect, to begin with: I spent the first three days in Walt Disney World with my sister having fun going on every ride and then suddenly diving off into REM sleep the very second we got to our room at the resort. After that, it was stress-free Christmas shopping done quickly with a lot of time to spend with my parents and my niece's boys. Of course, this is family I'm talking about here, so believe me, I was already thankful for the little miracle that most everyone was on good behavior.

I knew that going in. Reality isn't defined by me living in Miami, nor does it assume that everyone I was visiting was going to remain the way I saw them. For one thing, life in L.A. was such that I first thought of looking for the Christmas Miracle before I left here. Life constantly moves here, and I run into so many business-minded people that it's hard to know where you stand sometimes. It's hard to feel things in L.A., so you become aggressive about feeling positive rather than slowing down to be happy.

The other part of reality that we have to see is that once the holiday season is over, the rest of the family goes back to normal, too. I won't even get into that at this point, but some people, it seems, will never change.

So what we have right now is that contrast. We have the beginnings of a backdrop for a miracle, and regardless of the timing, the miracle is still on my Christmas list. Yeah, I got nearly everything else I wanted, but I've got my eyes open for the things to come.

The Christmas Miracle, Chapter One

I am admittedly an agnostic about a great many things: I would not presume to know a lot of things, from the will of the person next to me to any higher reason behind orange/blue sunsets. I do believe that there are a lot of things we don't know, can't explain, and aren't expected to understand. We haven't quite figured out how to be consistently good to each other; Why would we complicate things by focusing on concepts beyond that?

I do my best to abandon a lot of prejudices and keep looking for truth, but sometimes that's hard because of how fast life is and how commitment is such the hot thing here in L.A.. There are a lot of people focusing on careers. Wait - scratch that - there are a lot of people focusing on themselves. I'm not so different from them. My schedule has been crazy and I've forgotten to stop and look. That brings me here, to this.

I'm taking it upon myself to look during these last few weeks of 2006. I want to find the little miracles I haven't slowed down to notice and appreciate, and beyond that, when I get to the threshhold of 2007, I want to look back and see if I can string them together for a little perspective. This is more than just listing things I appreciate, or counting my blessings. I'm looking for small miracles. Who knows? I may only be successful in finding blessings that together form one grand miracle.

Have I already started? Did I experience magic in the smile of a breathtakingly beautiful girl I recently did a play with? (I often make the mistake of not censoring myself around people, her included. Maybe the miracle there was being able to speak in her presence.) Am I following a path of small miracles as I roam the building at work talking with everyone and expanding the scope of my new job? Was the miracle of the past few weeks sitting next to 9 month old Luisa and feeling as if I was talking with an old friend?

I don't know. I already told you I'm a practicing agnostic. I'm a curious one, but I would never tell you that I know more about fate, faith, or the universe than you do. I just know at this point that I'm open to the very next moment. I know - and maybe this is testament to the truth being inside me from the start - that there's a good chance that just looking for miracles will allow them to happen.

This is the story of one Christmas Miracle. It's just chapter one, and tomorrow is a new day.

The Habit of Change

It's time for a new entry. It would all too easy for a novel reader to look at that last entry and asume that I've been stuck on that beach, when the opposite is actually true. That entry was the emptying of the cup, the burning of feelings onto the nearest medium so that I could free my mind and heart up for the next thing...

...and the next thing came as it did years before with the same subject, the habit that has fueled healing within my life: more hard work. As always, the hard work pays off immediately, either as an affirmation of who I am and what I can do or just the distraction I need to be open to what's immediately going on around me. What's happened since then? I got a promotion and a nice raise, and I got involved and immediately overwhelmed with multiple creative projects at work on a company-wide scale that resulted in crazy recognition and mad overtime pay. I still have the play I'm directing and at each rehearsal my actors are reaching new plateaus that make me even more proud of who they were when they came to me and who they are as actors right now. Best of all, I'm dating now. I never quite made the time before, but you know, baby steps are important.

All this change aside, you know I'm the same person, just a little more involved, maybe a little more responsible because I have that much more to do. I still hear the voices from my past, I know I protect myself and still get those tingly spidey sense feelings when I go into certain situations. I still do things that have a huge potential of making me look like an idiot, but at the same time, I do them with the knowledge that other people won't even try. Yes, I'm becoming even better at taking in some things, discarding others, and not even giving the rest a second thought. It makes my load lighter.

In this crazy new world that keeps turning itself inside out and finds me constantly moving, I have an abundance of things to look forward to. Ohhh optimistic blog entries are boring to read and nowhere near as entertaining as the painful ones, but as I see it, the pieces define the whole. I have a pretty clear vision of where I stand now.

Where I'm going is another story...the habit will decide that.

Osmosis

I've been trying to blog for a little while now, and I have pages and notes and...well, much unfinished business. Something happened recently, and - wait, let me retract that - a lot of things have been happening lately, and I think it's all good. It's the one thing that's a little confusing to me, so indulge me for a moment here. I'm putting myself out on the beach to ask the ocean a few questions.

The sea quietly hisses and churns, performing it's little chore on the sand, smoothing it out here and there but otherwise remaining quiet and reflective. Not knowing what to ask, I look down and pick up a little black rock.

C: Want to talk about it?

S: Okay, when I said sea, I meant sea and not "c".

C: Women are weird like that, aren't we? We hear what you say but understand what it is you really mean.

S: This is a beautiful little rock, isn't it?

C: Yeah it is...I like how it sparkles. Look at the little lines that go around it. Nature has the whole world for a canvas.

S: I know this rock.

C: What, intimately? Do you...want to be left alone to catch up? Wait - were you in a band together? A rock -

S: I know it. I recognize it. It's a little older than it used to be, but...it's beautiful. Those lines you like....

C: Yeah...

S: They're carved in there by experience, by being rolled around against things, into things. It doesn't look the way I remember it, but it's the same one. I know this little rock from all the others.

C: She's gone again, isn't she?

S: Yeah. It's almost as if I just imagined the conversation.

C: It's weird. I'm with you - I don't understand it.

S: It's because you're with me on this that you don't understand it. I think I'm...well, I keep saying I'm different, but I'm assuming it's true. This conversation is taking place, so right there you have an argument for....

C: And you know what I really don't get? It's always an abrupt departure, right in the middle of a conversation.

S: You're looking at it the wrong way. It's all one long conversation with three year gaps for every two topics of conversation. I thought that was obvious.

C: No, it's not.

S: It's a matter of perception. I think that after we talk about it here, I'll feel good enough to leave it alone for a while.

C: Do you know what your problem is? (pause) You have a great memory.

S: That's really interesting, Christy! Some people would say that's a good thing to have. How is having a good memory bad for things like wisdom and experience?

C: Tell me five things you remember about her.

S: Easy. Her favorite movie is Sound of Music. She loves Lucky Charms. The song that was playing the first night we kissed was "Space Oddity", by David Bowie. We once slow danced in a parking lot to "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes". I once stood on a balcony with her overlooking Hollywood, and I heard her think "I love you".

C: How many times do you think about those things?

S: Every time I see the Sound of Music...whenever I see Lucky Charms in the store...every time I hear "Space Oddity". I just identify those things with her, though. Are you trying to say that I hold those memories too close to the surface?

C: I'm not saying anything, really...

S: I can tell you five things about anyone who has seriously influenced my life. I have a million things that I identify with people and experiences.

C: But there's one thing you don't have.

S: Don't pick up where she left off. It's not important.

C: I'm playing Devil's advocate here!

S: Look at this rock.

C: The one you know?

S: Look at it!

C: Okay! I'm looking at it.

S: This is what she wants me to do with her!

I throw it out into the ocean and it disappears in the night sky before it even has a chance to fall in.

S: Here's something you're not seeing. Out of all these rocks, I picked that one. I held it in my hand, admired it, and loved its beauty. We had a moment in time together because I was meant to pick that rock and it showed me its beautiful flaws.

C: You're sounding...idealistic, I think.

S: But I threw it out there, respecting her wishes and abandoning anything I wanted. I threw it out into the unknown, losing it to the ocean. Do you think it worries me?

C: Honestly, no.

S: Right - because I know that I'll keep walking, and I'll see things that remind me of it...the lines, the shape, the feeling in my hand. That's something...private...something I put away in a quiet place in my mind...and the most unusual thing happens.

C: What thing is that?

S: The ocean keeps bringing the rock back. It's not something I ask for, not even something I expect. It just happens.

C: ...and then in mid-conversation, she disappears. (pause) I know it's hard to place, or to understand...and I honestly don't think you're putting more importance on it than you should. This is just a part of who you are.

S: That's easy for you to say.

C: Well, you typed it.

S: Yeah. Well, on to the next thing. This is why I love being busy. It's time to go play again.

C: The play is the thing, isn't it?

The ocean cleans up after us, erasing our footsteps and leaving pristine, flat sand. I don't even need to turn around to see the rock rolling back onshore, but I always...

...I always feel her there, somewhere, with those brown eyes looking out at the ocean when I'm not there. Are both of us looking for answers neither of us can find? I think so. It's part of what my life is made of.

I'm a Frayed Knot

The day is held in check. In the wake of a difficult stretch of time, I sit in pause taking a break from everything and watch the people go by. For a brief moment in time, I am merely using this wall as the saddle for the planet I'm riding. Sometimes you just have to go for the ride.

It's a strange equation, the additions and subtractions, the divisions in all of the ambiguous intentions of the people who parade by. What are they fighting for? Why can't they talk to one another? What would they say if they tried? Most people, I'm afraid, are just unprepared for the feelings they might discover. What would happen if...

...you really told people how you feel...
...you reached for the things you want rather than wait for them to come to you...
...you found the strength and clarity to stop doing things that harm you...
...you allowed one ray of light in...
...one sight to touch you...
...one leap of faith to fling you into the unknown?

What if? Can you afford to never find out?

Inner conflict is like a knotted rope. It's thick, tight, and heavy, and you have to untie it to see its simplicity. The very reason that it becomes so knotted is because the rope itself is a blend of many smaller parts, and yes, even in there you can find simplicity. We just see the whole knot for what it is, and most of the time, we accept the whole mess because we feel it defines us...but the opposite is actually true. The fact that we hold it defines us. We can ask the questions. We can unravel the mess and lighten our load. We just choose not to.

Last Sunday, I began the process of resigning as the managing director at Playhouse West. I am walking away from my home of ten years because I want to see what it is I'm meant to do next. I'm taking responsibility for myself and myself alone, and I'm putting a stop to the selfless support of other peoples ideas, projects where they intend on keeping full credit, and the act of filling in the cracks only because I'm able to. I'm making a push towards self-fulfillment, and that includes partnerships, unique situations where people will meet me halfway. That's where my creativity needs to live from here on.

My resignation was received with surprising understanding, healthy encouragement, and a pledge for Playhouse West to remain a part of my life. The offer was re-extended to teach, and endless support and resources when I'm ready to evolve into filmmaking.

Sometimes, in order to go where you want to go, you merely have to believe you are already there. Is it really that simple?

The Cycle of Rebirth

Sitting outside still navigating the path of my heart, an old friend reappears in my mind, right when I'm trying to write but failing miserably:

C: What are you trying to do?

S: I'm...well, I had an answer for you, but I caught it. That was weird.

C: Want to know what I think?

S: Of course.

C: I think you're still trying to spin the experience. You want to recover a loss by creating something from it.

S: Maybe.

C: You can't force it, though. I feel like you're trying to force things right now.

S: I don't know about that. It's a little different. What you just said sounds...mental...cerebral....

C: Heady.

S: Yeah, I think that's better. There's stuff inside me right now and it almost feels like it needs to be cut out.

C: Or maybe...

S: What?

C: Have you considered the possibility that you don't feel anything about this latest change?

Pause. The fountain trickles and people silently exist in the distance.

S: Do you think...it's possible for me to feel nothing about it? I was debating with co-workers over our stupid advertising campaign yesterday. What do I really care about our ads? I think I was just choosing an obvious side for the sake of argument. I think I just feel too much sometimes.

C: Maybe you just feel...differently about this one thing than you expected to. I know you're very sensitive about transitions.

S: So how do I feel about this? You, as a direct connection about my subconscious, should know.

C: You know I hate it when you tag me like that. This works so much better when we can just talk without defining our roles in your brain.

S: Right. Sorry.

Pause. Thought.

C: You really want to know what I think?

S: Sure.

C: I think you're a searcher. Most artists are.

S: Meaning?

C: It would be too easy for me to say that you feel let down by people, especially people whom you're invested in. You tend to search for moments of truth, like looking for food with a specific flavor, and when you come across something surprisingly bland or predictable, it actually leaves a bitter taste in your mind. You're left wondering if it's an acquired taste or it just tastes like shit, after which you get frustrated with the honesty of the whole situation and whether or not you wasted your time. As you let that linger, you start searching for whatever you think is now missing as a result.

S: That's an interesting theory.

C: You asked....

S: It's a bit of a bohemian approach to relating to people, isn't it? I starve myself to filter out the things that are false? Is that how that works?

C: No, not at all. I think you're perfectly normal to sit out here and seek advice from an imaginary person.

S: That's convenient, how you can point this stuff out and I can't.

C: It's about context, my friend. So what do you do with all this now?

S: Just walk away. Rise above. Grow again.

People come into your lives because there is something in us that is ready for them at that time, ready for the lessons they have to teach us. Sometimes they're a test for the mistakes we've made in the past, and sometimes they're a warning about the future. Either way, each person is priceless, like the raindrops that reflect the world around us for the few seconds before they fall on our shoulders.

Just walk away. Rise above. Grow again.

Like Any Other Day

I sat in the courtyard today, too distracted to read, staring at the reflection of my building in the twin adjacent to it, with my sunglasses on and my iPod isolating me from the people around me. I looked at the reflection, recognizing it, but thinking about things thousands of miles away. With thoughts the size and consistency of clouds hovering over me, I sat for fifteen minutes not really putting anything together. I just looked at images in my mind.

Of course, I did spend the whole day with a perpetual TV broadcast at my desk, the bells constantly tolling in my mind at ground zero. I was here, alone, when the attacks happened five years ago, and two months after that I lost my job with thousands of others in the massive layoffs that followed. I did a lot of writing and rehearsing in the year that followed, but the thing that came back to me today was the numbness of that whole period of time. I looked at the people at today, and I wonder if they've changed since that time. I wondered if they actually experienced more emotion when the company started laying off people in huge waves. Specifically, I'm talking about the people who say the same things every single day at pretty much the same time: "Howdy howdy" in the morning. "How are you?" repeated five or six times in mid-morning. "See you tomorrow / Have a good night" connected as one thought at 4:45pm. Are those the same people who want to put this particular anniversary behind them?

If there's one thing I can't stand, and this climbs under my skin like that little creature from "Alien", it's indifference. I'm not just talking about the big things, either. I'm talking about the little details, like the store clerk who feels largely ignored, the unlucky person who spills change or a stack of papers, even the person walking towards a door they're going to have difficulty opening on their own. These people slip through the cracks, and on a daily basis I see people complete a transaction, walk past a person in need, or glance back and allow the door to close anyway. I work with a few hundred people who, if they can't figure out how to do something, will walk away leaving something undone. They'll ask me to do something I can complete in front of them and watch me do heavy work without offering to help.

What happened to the people who suddenly awoke in September 2001? What happened to the community that stood up, lit candles, and had to console each other through months of flooding reality?

I think, maybe, people find comfort in the recurring pattern of indifference. It could be that people find safety in isolation. It could be true, that people are afraid to connect, afraid to make the commitment to a stranger, because life is unpredictable, and we're all so damned sensitive.

As I looked up at the reflection of the building behind me, I realized that yes, I've chosen to break off contact with some people in my life. Yes, I'm sitting there with music in my ears, hiding behind sunglasses while I sit in the shade. It's also very true that I'm learning not to make such a commitment to people I could know better, because in many ways I've been let down in the past. It's all so very unavoidable if you want to experience life...

...and today might be just another day to some people, but because I remember what it was like back then, I can consider myself pretty lucky that I'm still here to remember it. With all that in perspective, I shouldn't be afraid to try again.

Never Looking Back

I'm sitting in the middle of multiple projects, some dominating the schedule, others taking a moment to breathe, and a couple more sitting to either side of me, with notes and tasks waiting for me...just waiting for attention like a hungry child. I'm ultra aware of all of them, and here I am, a full six months after I promised myself I wouldn't drive my schedule to an insane level of drowning in schizophrenia. I only had two shows to support and worry about in the last quarter of 2005. I now have four.

When this kind of thing happens - and if you know me well, you know that it's unavoidable - the urge to reach back to my past for support is distracting. The load I carry with me becomes an object of examination.

So I stop...for one weekend. I think about where I'm spending my energy. I think about how I'm spending my time. I take slow, deliberate steps towards things I have to do rather than things I'm expected to do. Where there's waste of effort on my part, I cut off excess. That resulted in breaking off contact with one person tonight, a decision that wouldn't be obvious if not for the deletion of one friend on MySpace. (When did this website become a social resume?) It becomes a measurement of who and what is part of my future, versus what only exists in my past. If you're a friend here, you're obviously not merely a part of my past.
Look around you. Who is real, and who is a ghost of your past? Who will exchange with you, and who has already moved on?

If this kind of sounds like a sequel to previous blog postings, or maybe a recurring theme, rest assured that this is one of the only side effects of chasing this manic creative life. It's a cycle of re-evaluation and awareness that can, on one hand, make me a little cold and blunt, but on the other hand, where I conserve energy, I give more of myself to the parts of my life that remain. It's hard to let go sometimes, but I find comfort in the fact that my life is full of change. As I just wrote in a play, the holes and cracks that sometimes form in my life will often be filled with surprising things. That cycle keeps moving forward, churning the ground after the harvest and always waiting for seeds to be planted and fresh roots to dig deep. I pull out the weeds, the dead plants, and I keep the soil fresh. I think that makes me an optimistic gardener.

To the people who truly exist in the present, I feel you here with me. You are a part of the safe feeling I create from, part of what makes me hungry to try something new. You help justify the life I've chosen, and in my constant re-evaluation, I never lose sight of you.

A Translation Through You

I saw this in a friend's blog and feel compelled to share it. Actually, this friend has a lot to teach me about the creative process, but even more so, she's a validation of the support that artists have for one another.

This is an excerpt of a letter, a piece of advice from the great Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille.

"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it.

It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. you have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.

No artist is pleased...there is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others."

The Do-ality of Man

A long time ago, I made a choice to lead a certain kind of life with little actual knowledge of where it would lead me. I literally reacted to a life that was and ran into the closest door of opportunity I could find, distracted from failure and self-doubt by raw emotion and fear. I was at the back door of a failed relationship and a reputation that did a spectacular supernova in the wake of it. It took me three years to wander, to wade, to slowly shed a skin before I could start again. In July of 1996, I joined Playhouse West.

For the next ten years, I functioned without any knowledge of that alternate life, the one I had failed at and could have chosen to attempt again. Everyone does, but my fear was that everyone compromises somehow so that they wouldn't be alone, and I, on the other hand, would much rather resign myself to being alone and being comfortable with that. I hold all the cards. Nobody gambles with me. Everything I get, I earn. I work, I create, and when I'm done, I walk away.

Of course, there is that other side. There's that dark side of the moon that I never revisited. Well, no, that's not entirely true. I shared the moon on brief occasions (brief, when you look at the 13 years from the supernova that changed my programming). That dark side...or is it on the dark side that I live? That other side haunts me sometimes. I've noticed it more lately. Sure, I've mentioned eHarmony (which still scares the living shit out of me sometimes - I'm compatible with her? 29 dimensions my ass!), but that's more the product of good intentions from my family.

So enough about me.

It seems that whatever decision you make, when it's a bold one you always find a moment to wonder what your life would be like to swing back in the other direction. Or maybe you just wonder what it would be like to swing away from this particular place, to wander off the path you've been travelling for so long. I've said goodbye to so many friends at Playhouse and at work, some with a heartfelt goodbye and a kiss on the cheek, others with silence. It's those people who make you think about alternatives, about all the options you have and never exercise. There is a little death in a goodbye....

Somehow this is different. By "this", I'm talking about the departure of my conscience and greatest champion - Andrea - from Playhouse. I'm using the word departure prematurely, because what she's actually doing is trailblazing a path that others will follow, and...here's the difference...I'm going to follow her. I have walked through the Playhouse theaters many times with a lump in my throat, because I knew someday it would all come to an end. I haven't exactly given an indication that I would leave, or that I'd slow down my involvement, but at the same time, I haven't seen many reasons to stay. For now, I'm planning on straddling the boundary line. I'm not making this change because I'm disgruntled, or just for the loyalty I have for Andrea; This makes sense for the evolution of my artistic life. I can do more than I'm doing now. I should start moving towards places that will support me more than expect me to fulfill imaginary responsibilities.

Did that sound disgruntled? Can I flip it and make it sound gruntled?

So all this goes towards an indication that I'm restless again. I can foresee at least five more drafts of my adoption/foster play, then there's the production of "the Shape of Things", a one-act festival, and the return of the musical possibly hanging somewhere in the balance there. Next year...more productions, more self-imposed challenges will come, but I have a feeling that they might not be lost in the blur of other priorities this time.

I am, after all, always thinking of alternatives, about the things I can create or help create, with inspiration from the trailblazers and the people who I think chose the harder route of making relationships work on the way to creating a family. How my friends have made that work is beyond me. It's amazing. The life I chose for myself has a completely different set of rules.

Where the Heart Is

There are many things that a study of acting will teach you, both good and bad. I wrote a play once - actually, a collection of ten plays - about all of the bad qualities that appear in an actor, and that includes forgetting the good ones. Among them were: Only being human and responsive in the temporary reality of a play, forgetting the simple joy of playing for want of business, and the jealousy between actors. I've seen a lot of the worst, most of which has thankfully been forgotten and packed away with old pictures, clothes, and ideas.

The art of acting, something I still believe in and promote with unyielding faith, is nothing short of miraculous to be around. I've been very fortunate, with all of my opportunities to direct and write; I love the actor and absolutely respect the honesty which they work towards. The earnest actor in our society shows the average person that no, they're not alone. Other people feel the same things, have been through the same experiences, and will, as Jane Martin once wrote, "lacerate self-exposure" to get closer to the truth of any given moment on stage or in front of the camera. It's a testament to the idea that we're all the same in many ways, that we understand basic concepts, and that our dedication to the piece is really a dedication to the viewer...to reach them...to tell a story. It's a charge to defend the truth - as serious as that sounds - but that's what the rehearsals are all about. It makes you think, doesn't it? The next time you see a play, think about this battle, whether or not the actors can demonstrate it on stage.

There is my love for actors. There is my love for the viewer. There's my love for the process. In the end, our part in a production changes us a little, alters the course of our lives, and it makes a unique connection to the moment between all of us. That's why it's so hard to walk away from productions that we get emotionally connected to. You know, as you approach the beginning of the next one, that it's going to affect you and change you in small ways, and that eventually you'll get to that closing night with a lump in your throat and many quick goodbyes. What follows is usually an unbearable silence, and then the next production picks you up. You still do it. There are more stories to tell.

It bodes well for me that the title for my latest play came to me in a lucid moment, and sat in me for a day before it became the title for the subject for this entry as well. As I feel this play begin to take its final shape, I have that emotional connection for having given birth to it. Even today, as I started explaining to a friend what it was about, I had to turn away for a moment and feign a quick distraction, and in that breath I knew I had given my heart to it. The question in the play is about defining "home" and where the people who mean the most to you truly live. It's not a place, it's not a phone number, it's not even email address. You can find that idea of home...right here, where I have my love for actors, for the process, for the story, my family, and the people who have influenced me the most in my life...

...and there lies the truth I defend, from the periods of chaos where everything is spinning around me to the quiet moments when I'm alone with my decisions and something to write with.

The Tragic Line of Cars

If you were to ask me how I can describe Los Angeles, I think that tonight I'd give you an unexpected answer. Today, I thought of the perception of my city from my friends in different countries, and they're pretty much right in line with what people here think; This city has no soul. You look around at the forced and borrowed culture, at all of the traffic and especially the dark corners everywhere, and there's proof positive.

As I was walking through the supermarket today, seeing all of the other people like me with their iPods on, filling their lonely carts with food for one, and the very next track in my ears connected it all in the innocence of a song. This city's soul is concerned with housing people who have nowhere else to go.

The next time you're in traffic, look at the person next to you. Chances are, they're emotionally not in their cars and mentally miles away. They're in a rush, or they're resigned to the wait. They're thinking about what they have waiting at home, whether it's a house full of responsibilities that leave them no room to breathe, or maybe it's just a quiet home with a dormant answering machine, and ramen noodles in the cupboard.

Look at stolen moments when you think a whole group of people is having fun, there's always someone who looks away, puts themselves miles away, looking off in the distance to see if their heart is intact. Look at how nobody in line at Starbucks talks to each other, and how people in a movie theater will almost always put a seat between themselves and somebody they don't know.

You have to ask; Does it hurt to make a connection to another person in this city? I think it just might. There are enough people, if you just pay attention, who ache for someone to bridge the gap, but then once the connection is made, there's no knowledge or experience...no intuition...that tells them how to keep it alive. I think it hurts somehow, but beyond that, I believe that it's just more obvious in Los Angeles. If it only happened here, people would stop coming. The wound runs deeper and farther than the city goes.

People look for something familiar, something that validates who they are. If it's not immediate, there's an abandonment and a continuing search to match the wound in the heart to the shape of the next person. It's sad, but I think it's true, and there lies the soul of a city whose name has been shortened to two letters for convenience. The angels...the city of angels...has a wounded soul that breathes in the lonely shopping carts, the little bubbles of existence on the 101 freeway in the morning, and in quiet little blogs for the reader and writer to make a connection and feel, if only for a moment, that they're not alone.

Irrelevant Distances

I weighed myself yesterday, in the middle of the day, and discovered to my surprise that I have lost ten pounds. A little later, I weighed my life and discovered I've lost a lot more. It's both amazing and heartbreaking how life changes sometimes. As you grow, you connect with people, and somewhere in their existence you see another clue to the definition of you. You understand yourself better in the reflection of a friend, a family member, someone you loved but somehow you feel differently about them now.

A friend of over a decade was altogether more recognizable thousands of miles away than she was in the same city. We tried to squint when we looked at each other, tried to see our old selves in context, but after a few years I realized we couldn't. The long goodbye I dreaded never came, and in one misunderstanding I didn't recognize her any more. We let go at the same time. I never saw her again.

I had the opposite problem with another friend (whom I found here on MySpace but haven't contacted). She sees me and immediately defines me with a past she doesn't want to be a part of. Who we were to each other is a huge smear, a blurry drawing of good intentions and love. She's completely different now, and the funny thing is that I never knew how bad she was back then, nor do I know how good she is now. I sort of knew the girl in the middle.
In a breath of unexpected change, another friend recently redefined himself, going from a familiar face to a shattered picture. He left a trail of debris behind him, and that, too, I'm afraid, will become an unbridgeable gap.

These are people in the long parade of souls who I find myself missing, wondering if they were healthy for me in the first place. Does this make my life lighter? Am I stronger with a dark, cloudy belief that everyone I know will soon become a stranger? I don't know. I just keep moving, and sometimes that results in creating space between me and people whose paths aren't quite parallel to mine.

It is pointless to wonder if they remember the reflection of themselves in me, or their affect on me and my life. I think...I've learned how to keep my eyes forward. I did just lose ten pounds, after all. I think it means that I'm carrying less baggage.

Conflicted

Trying to manage a schizophrenic schedule is a manic dance of manipulation, constantly feeding the fire of creativity and somehow powering the passion to get past obstacles of self-doubt and the unexpected. Have I already mentioned why I write? Did I already threaten to quit this blog? Okay, forget it. I quit.

No, no...I write because I have to. I play music because it's another language I'm forced to speak. I work on plays because that's the world I can see clearly in. I write blogs...keep a journal...because it's my only chance to drill a hole and drain the mind. When I'm creative, I'm totally mindless. I guess everything else I do is a waiting game while thoughts and feelings cook and simmer...come out in colors or shapes...and the residue is what happens here. It's obsessive.

This play I'm writing right now is not only intimidating the hell out of me, it's also pulling me into the chaotic center of emotions it's naturally wrestling with. I've tried to explain this to my sister and my niece: I can't write secondary characters, or people with singular intentions and dimensions. Especially with a play like this, where the whole point is the involvement of everyone in the story, I have to map out where everyone stands and trust my emotional attachment to them. I have to embrace the hurt and confusion, and push through for the hope I'm going after. To be completely honest, I know what it can be and I know I'm the person to create it...but the difficulty lies in controlling the palette of feelings that can easily bleed through to real life.

Such is this demented world of imaginary circumstances, where I can't hide, or repress, or deflect. It's all there. If there's one thing I learned from working for the actress (who shall remain nameless for those who don't know), I have to lend myself to it, not give. There needs to be, after all, something to come back to when I'm done.

So I write because I have to. And I'll tell the story because it needs to be heard. I'll keep my commitments, and try to stay sane, and somewhere in the distance I'll have a moment to see what I've done.

(deep breath) Wish me luck. Light a candle. I'll see you on the other side.

SPF 500 in the SFV

...and life moves past, especially when you take a moment to breathe and see who's been running with you, standing with you, quietly waiting for you to simply turn around to say "hi".
Hi. It's been weird. I've been good.

Truth to tell, I've been really good. It's funny; Last night I had a dream where I was in a tall hotel with no curtains on the windows, and outside there was a freak storm with high winds making some windows bow in and out, and the ground was repeatedly getting struck by lightning. When I went back to my room, I saw my reflection and was shocked to discover that I had long hair again. Not just long hair, mind you, but really long hair. I thought: "That's going to be hard to maintain." Somewhere off in the distance I could hear my computer calling, and I went to respond, knowing that distances mean nothing on the Internet...or in dreams....

That's when I woke up to encounter an apartment slowly baking in the sun like an adobe oven. Immediately, my thoughts were six thousand miles away, two thousand miles away, and ground zero. There I watch - in my waking dream - a girl seeking love and family, a family battling storms but waiting for a hurricane that may never come, and a whole city of individuals moving past, especially when you take a moment to breathe...and watch...and consider them.

Is it possible to miss people whom I've never met? Do people who have moved on still help us? There are no answers. There is only work to do, things to learn, and new people to meet. It is all about evolution, about constantly moving past the scenery, admiring it all along, and when you see someone stopping to catch their breath, know that they are learning something from your movement and direction.

Here's to considering them as well:
Happy birthday, Maxine

Safe journey, Robert

Godspeed, Bear

Blog in a Bottle

I have a brief pause right now to write this - since they deemed at work that MySpace is not good for business - so I need to just get this down and then race off to work.

Well, if you know the freeway at this time of day...it's not actually racing. It's more like racing to the onramp and then parking my car on the freeway for the next hour. Yes, I should be taking the bus, but I digress.

There is so much going on right now. After just having finished the best film festival we've had in ten years (at least on the organizational side, even though half the crew were never around), I'm now standing on the hilltop of my next projects, and believe me, I'm not just talking about theatre any more. Yes, we're ramping up the rehearsals for "Shape of Things", but real life is now beginning to color the landscape.

Last night, as I sit in bed to catch up on notes for the adoption play I'm writing, I'm watching the shows I recorded and the play begins to happen. I can feel it forming, hurting in my stomach, with the loss, the confusion, the pain, and hope. I can feel it taking shape, and my obligation to it begins to grow. And then I get the email from my friend Michelle.

Years ago, when I was writing the musical, I was doing research on cancer and then I met Michelle. We knew each other before, but I caught her in a weak moment, and after spending a little time to listen to her, I found out that her brother had a severe case of colon cancer. Stage Four. We talked about what is being done medically, and then when we got past that, we talked about validating the existence of his life. She was determined to beat the cancer, and I, having just lost two friends to cancer at that time, was as supportive as I could be. We became very close friends while we worked together. The news came after she left that he had beat the cancer, and that was just...an unbelievable feeling. They had parties. I felt like we were beginning a brand new time, one in which we could finally fight it, and that if there was a chance for me to raise awareness, raise funds, now is especially the time to do it.

Last night, her email came after a long time of not hearing from her. On Monday night, the 17th of July, he lost the battle after two months of a resurgence, and I hated that cancer for fading and giving us hope again. The only great thing is that his life after beating it the first time was like a second life, when he got all the love and support that he would, in the end, need for his transition to wherever we go when we die. As much as I damn the cancer, I would love a second chance to reconnect with my family before I go.

In the end, he wins because of that second chance, and cancer can't reach him any more. It can't wither him away, it can't hurt him, it can't change the way he looks, making his family and friends suffer.

This Friday is Maxine Carnegie's birthday. She died of breast cancer shortly before I premiered my musical two years ago. I'm going to take her some flowers and ask her to watch over my friend's brother, and then I'm going to call my father and not talk about our argument a few weeks ago. It's been two weeks since I lost another friend to an auto accident, so I'm going to continue to validate my own life and not necessarily make work the main priority in my life. How will I be remembered if I only have a resume and a list of plays to leave behind?

That is the question. I'm an artist for very specific reasons, but the main reason has to be the celebration of life as we have it. There are so many distractions in this world, in this city, and it's hard to recognize where the fertile ground is. I'm going to try to pay attention, and give time to people who ask for it.

We are here for each other, not for ourselves. That's what I'm going to go on.

Scaling Back

What a strange week.

I'm sitting here, leaning against commitments, ready to take on a weekend of creative work and relieved I have the past ten days or so behind me. I'm exercising the usual mind dump into this blog so I can use that extra space and energy to brainstorm, but for the sake of posterity....

I've been to the gym 3 times a week for two weeks now, levelling off exactly where I am right now at 195 pounds. My mission, through exercise and continued attention to the food I eat, will be to reach 175, which is crazy but not impossible. I can feel my body changing, but I can't see myself going to the extreme of holding a magnifying glass to the kinds of food I eat and when I eat them. I just want to make sure they're healthy for now. I'm not going to be fanatic, especially to the point where I preach to someone else that the food they're eating is bad for them. I don't get the heavily cheesed nachos and condiment violated fries I saw before the fireworks on the 4th of July, but that's their business...and their belt notchers...their blood pressure...you get the idea.

As for me, I'm happy about the fact that despite things that are completely out of my control, I've been able to weave past distractions and manage...I use that word carefully...manage my schedule. Of course, I have help. Oh, and of course, I have some good friends.

The end of this difficult, strangely shaped week, has come to this: a crossroad from where I can look at my three major projects in relation to all of the changes in my life. Wait! FOUR major projects. (pause for awareness) I don't know if I can really do any one of those things, but what I'm banking on is that I really have my doubts that I can't do any of them, so I believe - as always - that the odds are with me.

To think, all of this, this struggle and journey towards my future will in the end add up to fewer lines than any name in the Spoon River Anthology. That's why the journey matters. That's why the failures and mistakes always flake off and fall to the side for want of the gilded successes and triumphs. Whether or not anyone else can immediately see the world from my perspective is kind of moot; That's why I believe I'm an artist.

So enough about me. Where are you standing right now?

Transformations

How long has it been since my last entry? What? Has it been that long? Certain habits surfaced and disrupted the pattern of self-awareness, but thank God...life always has a way of holding up a mirror when you least expect it. This time, it was one insensitive comment from a new friend.

You might know how private I am. I don't hang out with a lot of people, make lifelong friends at work any more (not since Kristin left), and when I go out, I usually love to do it alone. I also hardly ever - okay, ignore the picture to the left - allow myself to be photographed or filmed. So much for a career in acting. At the request of a friend, I forwarded a picture of myself while in Vegas a week ago. That's what she wanted. Just yesterday, in a public chat room, she said I was chubby.

Chubby. Chubby? Is that how everyone sees me? Is she the only one honest enough to say something like that? In response to my shock, she said that I shouldn't flatter myself. What? Or, as we like to say in chat, wtf? I was speechless. Maybe she was kidding...or maybe...ohhh shit.

And then guilt set in.

It's been a year since I had a membership to the gym. A few months ago, I was determined to start building one here at home, so I started looking into equipment. Then my boss chimed in and offered to give me her treadmill. I gave away a sofa chair, went through a massive spring cleaning project at my house, and made space. I bought dumbbells. I knew I was on the road back to health, especially once I had that treadmill. I changed my diet. I took elevators less. The treadmill never came. There's an empty spot in the second bedroom.

So my stagnation was fed by waiting for others to have a hand in my transformation, and in a difficult week punctuated by ignorance of people at work and coming off a sickness, this came from nowhere. The denoument was that stupid word - chubby.

In an instant, I popped over to my gym's website and renewed my membership. I called over there to see if I could come over right away. I spent two hours there bouncing from the comments, replaying their cruelty so I could build in the opposite direction. I came home after the gym, showered, then treated myself to a movie. Today, I was back at the gym, and then, while doing two of my largest loads of laundry, I went on a little photo safari.

The great thing is that I'm losing the ability to dwell, to crawl around in the mud of self-loathing. I'm recognizing the unhealthy nature of indulging in harsh criticism, and moving in the opposite direction. Does it bother me that this friend hurt my feelings? Sure. I sent her an email about it. But as I sit here, on a Sunday night before work and my meeting with Maria (a local new friend, whom I'm working on a project with), I feel pretty good about myself. I see potential. I think about my control over my own happiness.

It was a good day.

You know something else? I don't feel the need to celebrate Independence Day in a huge way any more. I always needed to celebrate it with huge fireworks because that was my anniversary with the one true love of my life, but the real truth is, it's been years since I've heard from her, it's been about that long since I last looked at a picture of her, and my heart, I think, has finally been healed by good people who have come and gone in my life. I don't need to distract myself on that holiday any more. I've got a clean slate. The mistakes of my distant and recent past are still with me, but I don't carry them. I hold no grudges and no ill feelings towards anyone.

Of course, it's still Sunday. Monday could be a completely different story.

Rear View Smear

What can you do when people just don't like you? Is there a reason why I take that in as an opportunity to re-examine myself and how I'm represented around people? It's worth a thought, and blogs are a catch-all piece of mental adhesive, but on the other hand....

I've had a few really good days. I've had some good weeks, actually. And when I let that dark light in, it's hard for anything to catch on or point me in a direction, but those are just brief flashes right now. What - am I getting older, therefore I'm able to see these things in perspective? When I pay attention to the right things, it's really shocking to see the powerful effect that has on the reflection I see in the mirror. I forget sometimes that my creativity is a wildfire. I forget sometimes that for every person left behind, there are more ahead of me. I forget sometimes, that I take the world as a whole too seriously, and that it's totally okay to play and let go of the math. Math? How things add up? Did I lose you on that one? I'm not sure I totally understand it, either. Math. That was weird.

But life is pretty exciting right now. It's juicy. It's full of these little surprises that pop like soap bubbles everywhere. It's really weird - and I won't question it - but lately it seems that every move I make puts me in undiscovered territory. I go through my periods where I stay in place and work in a cloud of dust, and then there are times when I emerge, curious about the world beyond. That's where I'm at.

So what can you do when people just don't like you? Step out of the cloud and go where they do. And take a camera, because who knows what you'll find on the way?

Fahrenheit 101

Am I slacking off already? Why haven't I written since...okay, never mind. Maybe it's been too hot to write. Maybe I haven't had anything new to report. Ahh, wait! That's not true! Now that season two of Lost has come to a close, I can return to writing on a Wednesday night.

Work is both spectacularly optimistic and tragically petty. I have been researching a new opportunity that sounds fascinating, and that exists everywhere but where I'm sitting. Unfortunately, the space I'm occupying is sometimes a parade of the short-sighted, self-centered, and disillusioned. Don't misunderstand me; Most of the people I work with are fascinating, loving, and tolerant people. There is always a handful and...oh, why am I wasting words on them? The point of this is, more of the things that made my job fun and worthwhile have now become stale, poisonous, even annoying to acknowledge. They make this new opportunity even more exciting as both a better use of my time and an escape from all of the negative things I have to deal with.

But that's work. Do you really want to read about work? You might in a few months....

Playhouse West is still a great playground that confuses me sometimes, but thank God I'm busy now. I have the film festival to work on, I'm rehearsing a play, and I'm getting good feedback on my redesign of the website. I am starting to see a pattern, though, that applies to people in charge of both the school and...hey...work!

There is a tree line...or a snow line...perhaps a wealth line that is drawn with a political point of view. That point of view makes it virtually impossible for the people in charge to understand and communicate to the rest of the people. It's a huge issue at work (though not so much at Playhouse), but I figured this out with one conversation. I always knew there was a separation between what the two sides understood, but I didn't know what the space was made of. Apparently, it's truth and logic. That's why I fall somewhere in the middle; I love to question things and not automatically accept what I'm told.

What was the conversation? I mentioned to someone that I saw the new Al Gore movie, "An Inconvenient Truth". I was inspired by the film, and really took a good look at my contribution to the world immediately around me. I just got a bus pass. I started a bottle and can recycling program at work. Well, when I barely mentioned the movie to this person (who will remain nameless), they gave me that look and played the whole thing off, saying that for every (completely absurd) truth in that movie, there is another opposite fact in existence. My immediate thought was "Sure, there are two sides to every story. The Nazis felt they were doing the right thing. That doesn't justify the Holocaust at all." Of course, what I said was "Sure, tell that to the idiots who are protesting the Da Vinci Code. They're advertising it!"

That really makes me think, though. The people in charge and the people who follow are mostly very far apart. The people who are in charge make decisions based on what they want, and when the people who follow start losing their trust and lag behind, both are completely in the dark about why they can't get along. I'm too restless to follow and not interested enough in pointless competition to become one of those in charge. Like I said, I question everything...

...and that might explain why I hardly ever associate myself with people or groups of people. I just don't want to cloud my mind with issues of blind loyalty, especially when I've been let down by enough people to keep me at a distance. That does, of course, make me more outgoing on the whole but at the same time it pulls me back to watch people more.

For a little time, I'm going to abandon control over some things so I can take more control over others. I'm hopping on the bus tomorrow to go to work - thus avoiding the horrendous traffic and heat on the Ventura freeway - but at the same time I'm hoping it'll free up some energy to get things done. I'm going to abandon hope that some people will change and regain hope that I can improve. I'll remind myself yet again that the world I live in does not define me, it is entirely the other way around. Stay tuned for my world, version 3.0. We are now in Beta.

The Symbol of Chaos

It would be a terrible cliche, I think, to quote John Lennon here: "Life is what happens...". Well, no shit. We all make plans, make life changing decisions, and then we discover that life has it's own music to follow and, for the most part, unless the event is drastic, changes come gradually.

Okay...SO. Adventure number one, cut down in its prime. Here's a piece of advice for future bus pass owners. You absolutely cannot wash them. You can't forget them in a shirt pocket, run them through a warm wash load, then a cycle in the dryer. I did get one bus trip in, and that was interesting to say the least, but obviously I'm going to have to try this thing again, with what gas prices are nowadays. On the way to work, the bus was really easy, but I discovered that my iPod is the only thing I can do, especially if I get a window seat. I had a play in my hand, but I was too distracted, and since I was sitting facing the middle ot the bus, I eventually had someone's crotch in my face so...note to myself: Get a window seat and listen to my podcasts. If I can't do that, then just listen to music and read.

The trip back was also interesting. I sat with a friend, but with the motion of the bus and the lack of conversation around me (my friend tried to point out interesting sights along the way), I started nodding off. Sitting in an aisle seat, I tilted my head back and began to "rest my eyes"...until I caught a man across from me doing the same thing, only he didn't...well, he wasn't too concerned about staying in his seat and as he started falling asleep, his body started leaning into the aisle, about to take a header into my lap. It was entertaining for everyone and I felt the need to poke him with a stick, but he always managed to catch himself just before gravity won the war.

Shortly after that I did a load of laundry and beat the crap out of the bus pass.

Adventure number two - eHarmony. It is still very interesting to see what matches they send me, and sometimes they're still way off, but so far I'm not seeing "The One" that the service alleges they can find me. I'm not even seeing "The Two" or "The Three". Listen, whomever that one is has a tough act to follow. My life-changing loves are few and years between (but not for a few years now), but my mind always sees potential in change. I just have to be patient, and I can afford to be because I'm so used to not depending on anyone.

So stay tuned for updates at work - some new developments there - and maybe I will actually get to do some travelling this year. I have a few destinations that come to mind, Indiana being the first, but we'll see how busy my schedule is. I'm going to start rehearsing one play soon, I have to follow up on another, and I have the upcoming film festival. I'm going to manage the chaos much better this year so I don't revisit the madness of last year.

Off I go, to spend the day in a photo safari somewhere - I have no idea where at this point - with my new digital camera. Keep an eye open for my webshots page to see where my mind is at (http://community.webshots.com/user/sjirel), and absolutely, while I'm "busy making plans", lots of unexpected things will happen. I guess that's why I'm considering getting a tattoo with a different symbol of chaos.

Of course, all this is assuming that I don't quit writing this blog, which is, of course, a little hard to stop now because - no, you know what? I quit.