Is it possible that there REALLY ARE so many stupid people in the world, or is it just that I've been singled out as She Who Shall Bear Witness to them all?
Just wondering.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Sunday, March 20, 2005
London Waits for Me
This is really only part of the story, a few pieces of the stained glass that make up the mosaic. I find it on my mind and pushing to spill out onto the page. When I kept a diary, years ago, I'm sure I wrote about it- but without the clarity that hindsight has given me.
When I was 17, I left home in Seattle to move to Los Angeles to attend the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I had been accepted to UCLA after graduation the year before- things were so different then, I'd applied on a whim and gotten in- but late in the game they discovered that having graduated as a junior meant I didn't have enough English or Foreign Language credits for their requirements. Long story short, I decided to attend AADA instead. I spent a fabulous year there, and then came home for the summer. Or so I thought. I didn't get invited back for the 2nd year of the acting program. I was heartbroken and shocked. I should have returned to LA anyway, as planned- working, taking classes, and most importantly, being where it all happens. But the summer break had been kind to me: I'd been working non-stop in theatre, and other theatres were beginning to take notice. I stayed in Seattle, then quite the theatre town, and worked at a young software company called Microsoft at its world headquarters (and therein lies another bittersweet hindsight story). I planned a trip to Europe with a girl I'd met at a Europe Through The Back Door seminar. We would fly to London and spend two months travelling the entire continent- Spain, Germany, France, Italy, Greece. I laugh to myself now, because it was such an ignorantly ambitious plan for two small town girls who had never been outside of the US. The night before we were due to leave, with all of our tickets and Eurail passes and even some currency exchanged, my companion's family scared her into not going. There had been a bombing in a German disco and some other incidents. While at 19 I had been through a devastating romantic breakup and the school rejection, nothing prepared me for how disappointed I was in her cancellation of our plans. I could have gone alone, but knew my social ineptitude would keep me isolated for the entire time I was there and it just wouldn't be as much fun for me. So I stayed home. The day we were to have landed in London was the day the US bombed Libya and killed Quaddafi's daughter. My companion felt justified in not going, since we had planned on spending so much time in Greece, so close to Africa.
We planned a road trip instead, to San Francisco and LA. That decision was the catalyst for why I am still in SF, and I see it now as my divergent path in a snowy wood. Life had other plans. I never made it to London.
Years later, another trip was planned, this time with my jazz pianist as a reconnaissance mission for our combo. We were going to London because he had supper-club contacts there, and a major travel bug. He was also a travel agent, and we had first class non-stop tickets on Virgin for $699 round trip. We had comped rooms at an elegant boutique hotel, and meetings set up with hotel entertainment directors. We may not have been able to book many jobs in SF, but by God we were going to take Europe by storm. I remember reminding my mother that I wouldn't talk to her for several days hence because I would be in London. She caught her breath and said "Oh." and then, "I just got a shiver like someone was walking over my grave." I said, "Thanks a LOT, Mom! Like I'm not already anxious about flying so far for so long!" She apologized and said she shouldn't have said anything. She wished me a wonderful trip. I guess I should have trusted her foreshadowing: our departure date was September 12, 2001.
I've stopped making plans for Europe; they seem to guarantee international incidents. Me and London, we're just not meant to be.
When I was 17, I left home in Seattle to move to Los Angeles to attend the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I had been accepted to UCLA after graduation the year before- things were so different then, I'd applied on a whim and gotten in- but late in the game they discovered that having graduated as a junior meant I didn't have enough English or Foreign Language credits for their requirements. Long story short, I decided to attend AADA instead. I spent a fabulous year there, and then came home for the summer. Or so I thought. I didn't get invited back for the 2nd year of the acting program. I was heartbroken and shocked. I should have returned to LA anyway, as planned- working, taking classes, and most importantly, being where it all happens. But the summer break had been kind to me: I'd been working non-stop in theatre, and other theatres were beginning to take notice. I stayed in Seattle, then quite the theatre town, and worked at a young software company called Microsoft at its world headquarters (and therein lies another bittersweet hindsight story). I planned a trip to Europe with a girl I'd met at a Europe Through The Back Door seminar. We would fly to London and spend two months travelling the entire continent- Spain, Germany, France, Italy, Greece. I laugh to myself now, because it was such an ignorantly ambitious plan for two small town girls who had never been outside of the US. The night before we were due to leave, with all of our tickets and Eurail passes and even some currency exchanged, my companion's family scared her into not going. There had been a bombing in a German disco and some other incidents. While at 19 I had been through a devastating romantic breakup and the school rejection, nothing prepared me for how disappointed I was in her cancellation of our plans. I could have gone alone, but knew my social ineptitude would keep me isolated for the entire time I was there and it just wouldn't be as much fun for me. So I stayed home. The day we were to have landed in London was the day the US bombed Libya and killed Quaddafi's daughter. My companion felt justified in not going, since we had planned on spending so much time in Greece, so close to Africa.
We planned a road trip instead, to San Francisco and LA. That decision was the catalyst for why I am still in SF, and I see it now as my divergent path in a snowy wood. Life had other plans. I never made it to London.
Years later, another trip was planned, this time with my jazz pianist as a reconnaissance mission for our combo. We were going to London because he had supper-club contacts there, and a major travel bug. He was also a travel agent, and we had first class non-stop tickets on Virgin for $699 round trip. We had comped rooms at an elegant boutique hotel, and meetings set up with hotel entertainment directors. We may not have been able to book many jobs in SF, but by God we were going to take Europe by storm. I remember reminding my mother that I wouldn't talk to her for several days hence because I would be in London. She caught her breath and said "Oh." and then, "I just got a shiver like someone was walking over my grave." I said, "Thanks a LOT, Mom! Like I'm not already anxious about flying so far for so long!" She apologized and said she shouldn't have said anything. She wished me a wonderful trip. I guess I should have trusted her foreshadowing: our departure date was September 12, 2001.
I've stopped making plans for Europe; they seem to guarantee international incidents. Me and London, we're just not meant to be.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Bread and No Roses
Someone keeps leaving a loaf of bread at my front door.
The first time it happened, a couple years ago, I thought for sure my marginally retarded next-door-neighbor dropped it. I put it in front of her door. But like all the pretty little flowers she allows to die and dry out, it sat there for a few days before I exasperatedly shit-canned it. (The pretty little flowers, and once a tomato plant, sit there for weeks and then months before I make them disappear. Oh, we share a landing; otherwise I would not care what dead thing she was not tending on her doorstep.)
So 3 months ago, someone did it again. I had all but forgotten the first incident. More puzzling was the fact that it appeared in the 10 minutes I was out with the dog. Then a few weeks later, again with the bread! And today, sometime between my lunch home visit and after work, another loaf. My neighbor never gets any; only me, and the two condos under me. There is no common denominator between us. None of us appear to be underfed. The bread is never the same- sometimes white (bleh), sometimes wheat, sometimes sourdough, always cheap and near last-sale-date. I always throw it away and so do my neighbors.
No one seems to know what it means. I figured it for some kind of ethnic blessing... or curse. But I can't find the answer. I like to think it means that someone sees me living my life, caring for my sick dog, minding my own business, and lays the bread at my doorstep as some sort of respectful symbolic offering. But if it really means that someone is cursing me with the fleas of a thousand camels, I'm gonna be really pissed.
The first time it happened, a couple years ago, I thought for sure my marginally retarded next-door-neighbor dropped it. I put it in front of her door. But like all the pretty little flowers she allows to die and dry out, it sat there for a few days before I exasperatedly shit-canned it. (The pretty little flowers, and once a tomato plant, sit there for weeks and then months before I make them disappear. Oh, we share a landing; otherwise I would not care what dead thing she was not tending on her doorstep.)
So 3 months ago, someone did it again. I had all but forgotten the first incident. More puzzling was the fact that it appeared in the 10 minutes I was out with the dog. Then a few weeks later, again with the bread! And today, sometime between my lunch home visit and after work, another loaf. My neighbor never gets any; only me, and the two condos under me. There is no common denominator between us. None of us appear to be underfed. The bread is never the same- sometimes white (bleh), sometimes wheat, sometimes sourdough, always cheap and near last-sale-date. I always throw it away and so do my neighbors.
No one seems to know what it means. I figured it for some kind of ethnic blessing... or curse. But I can't find the answer. I like to think it means that someone sees me living my life, caring for my sick dog, minding my own business, and lays the bread at my doorstep as some sort of respectful symbolic offering. But if it really means that someone is cursing me with the fleas of a thousand camels, I'm gonna be really pissed.
Monday, March 14, 2005
What's in a name?
TRASHELLA.
Nope, not kidding. As a variation on Michelle, Rachelle, or Nichelle, one might have thought that Mom could have figured out that Trishella would be, oh, maybe a better spelling with the same pronunciation. Or maybe Treshella/Tryshella. But instead, in an attempt to be unique and different, she gives her daughter the gift that never ends: a name that starts with garbage.
This odd phenomenon of handing out crappy names and otherwise bad parenting has another name. I call it Job Security.
Nope, not kidding. As a variation on Michelle, Rachelle, or Nichelle, one might have thought that Mom could have figured out that Trishella would be, oh, maybe a better spelling with the same pronunciation. Or maybe Treshella/Tryshella. But instead, in an attempt to be unique and different, she gives her daughter the gift that never ends: a name that starts with garbage.
This odd phenomenon of handing out crappy names and otherwise bad parenting has another name. I call it Job Security.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Lionheart
All her life I have watched over her, cared for her, worried about her, ensured her needs were met, fed her, bathed her, medicated her when necessary, walked her, played with her, hugged her, kissed her. I have loved her with all my heart. I have not been a perfect guardian. I have left her alone too long, pursuing my dreams or my obligations. I have let time slip away all too quickly. I have been late to the table of gratitude in all things concerning her. I have long known these days would come, indeed worried about them far too prematurely. Yet in my precise and detailed payment of attention, I have let the obvious get past me. I have regrets. In the wee small hours, I wish I could go back and relive every single day with her. So many things I would do differently. The moon is a harsh mistress.
Now, when she needs me the most, I am hapless and helpless. Almost seven months ago, I learned the sun was going down on our horizon and nightfall was fast approaching. No miracle of science would have been as kind to her as my decision to refuse to traumatize her further, to take her home with me and keep her safe and happy for as long as I could. This I know. The universe has been very kind to me- while my heart breaks into tinier pieces every day, it has prolonged her time with me and kept her from suffering. She does not know she is ill. It is her amazing spirit in the face of what must be a confusing adversity that keeps me putting one foot in front of the other. For her. As we walk together, slower now, with me coaxing her instead of her dislocating my arm from my shoulder, I see the shadow of her lionheart enveloping us both. More protective of me now than ever before, she straightens into her full height when she senses danger approach us. She pulls every ounce of her strength into her posture and steady gaze directed at any stranger passing by me. I know that if called upon, even in her present weakness and vulnerable physical state, she would fight to the death for me. The best I could ever give her is as small as the least she gives me every day.
Now, when she needs me the most, I am hapless and helpless. Almost seven months ago, I learned the sun was going down on our horizon and nightfall was fast approaching. No miracle of science would have been as kind to her as my decision to refuse to traumatize her further, to take her home with me and keep her safe and happy for as long as I could. This I know. The universe has been very kind to me- while my heart breaks into tinier pieces every day, it has prolonged her time with me and kept her from suffering. She does not know she is ill. It is her amazing spirit in the face of what must be a confusing adversity that keeps me putting one foot in front of the other. For her. As we walk together, slower now, with me coaxing her instead of her dislocating my arm from my shoulder, I see the shadow of her lionheart enveloping us both. More protective of me now than ever before, she straightens into her full height when she senses danger approach us. She pulls every ounce of her strength into her posture and steady gaze directed at any stranger passing by me. I know that if called upon, even in her present weakness and vulnerable physical state, she would fight to the death for me. The best I could ever give her is as small as the least she gives me every day.
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