Weekend triumph with the Gond.

Sundays, when I'm not making sweet, sweet lovin' to SK donuts, I'll be at the Santa Monica farmer's market. It's so amazing. Everyone's munching on fruit samples, and corn on the cob doused in butter and spices, and plates of tamales or crepes, and carrying around bags of fresh, aromatic fruits. And there's the beat of the drum circle, and a guitar floating above it, and voices singing like fine-tuned instruments, weaving the melody together. Children, and couples and friends sitting on the grass, eating and laughing and chatting, like a community. My god there are communities here in LA.

Gondola (formerly known as Angela) came to visit for the weekend. Friday night we went to Real Food Daily, the best nachos ever (it's all about the jalapeno cashew cheese, it sounds weird, i know, but you can't beat it). Then passed out in a food coma.

Saturday, we hiked in Malibu and took in the green and the air and lizards. I feel like I could be anywhere in the world there. And like to pretend I am. Learned something new. It's hard to tell the head from the arse on a lizard without a tail. Thought I might share that with you.

Then we made dinner. A strange, random assortment of food, but such is the Gond's taste. A cheese plate, oh relish the Stilton and fig jam spread forever, and baguette. Then green curry--also fantastic, coconut creamy with a little heat and lots of veggies and tofu. And the carmelized pineapple dessert over vanilla gelato (which never happened, we were too stuffed so I'm going to have to make that tonight). And then the next day, the farmer's market. Which I LOVED, if that wasn't already obvious.

Oh boy, I'm such a foodie. This blog is turning into a food blog. Hey, not that that's a bad thing. Not at all. I just keep making myself hungry...There are some SK donuts left. Hmmm.

SK Donuts! Go there! Now! And bring me back one!

I never loved donuts before I met SK. Our relationship was tumultuous. Fond memories revolved around the old fashioned maple donuts my dad and I used to fetch weekend mornings from time to time. But still, they were the kind of food that seemed like a good idea until the dramatic blood sugar drop off, resulting in what I like to deem, a donut hangover. Also, a downfall for me is my sensitive stomach and all that grease would make it an acidic wasteland and give me heartburn (who has these issues and is under the age of fifty?)

But then there was SK. I hadn't had a donut in years. Donuty things, certainly, croissants, cinnamon rolls, but not an actual donut. It just never seemed worth the inevitable discomfort or all the calories. Upon recommendation, I visited SK. Perusing the counters. Forming a brief, spontaneous relationship with the sights. They were familiar. Crullers, apple fritters, old fashioneds, everything very ordinary. But what would happen next was anything but typical.

I ordered an apple fritter. And melted into the light, airy donut, the fresh gooey apples, the sweet, but not disgustingly sweet, glaze. Slight hints of cinnamon and spice. It was perfection. Beauty! Art! Who was its creator? Surely I must make out with him a little, if only to taste the remnants of the last perfect donut he consumed.

Another favorite, the crullers. Like consuming a sweet cloud from heaven. And the maple bars. Ambrosia on ambrosia. Zeus food.

SK Donuts. You're delicious and don't make me feel like I'm going to have a heart attack (with a smile on my face) or wake up the next morning as a 2 ton heifer (with a smile on my snout). I'm in love with you. I'm ready to take our relationship to the next level. I'm moving in. I won't need closet space. I'm only bringing napkins and a toothbrush.

Quote of my life

"Artists are too passionate for every day life."

Happy things, a list in the making:

Cooking a scrumptious meal.
Consequently eating the scrumptious meal.
Practicing the guitar.
Yoga.
Acting.
Free writing.
Screenwriting.
Writing writing.
Reading a good book.
Hiking.
Baking goodies.
Receiving personal mail. (Oh my gosh I love it! Email is good too, but nothing beats a handwritten letter).
Meandering through, and perusing, book stores.
Playing with animals.
Painting. (Note to self: Need more canvases, brushes and paint)
Discovering an awesome band/musician and playing their music on loop.
An inspiring film that you can discuss.
Catching up with a friend (in person, I hate the phone).
Art.
A kindred spirit.
Traveling anywhere, even if it's to, like, Malibu.
Venturing somewhere I've never been before...which leads me to...
Road trip. I want to do a long ass, crazy, across the US road trip type of ordeal this summer. Anyone interested? Now taking interested folks.
I'm about 70% committed to it myself. So you could also just pretend like you want to go and tell me you're only 10% committed, which would mean it's something you like to think about but would never actually embark on. So far I've got a 10%er, one person who wants to come for a leg of the trip, and a 50%er (not bad)...

The things we tell ourselves

Everyone has the voice that tells them they are not worthy, aren't good enough. Some have better control over it than others. Mine has reared its ugly head after some dormancy because I'm getting rejected from grad school.

I will starve it with awareness until it disappears.
Let it go.
The negative thoughts don't have power unless you give it to them.

I had a good cry out last night. One I've been procrastinating against for a couple of weeks. The script was a great distraction. Going home, a comforting, joyous one. But yesterday I found myself in the middle of the darkness and couldn't get out.

Now that I have a solid sobbing hangover--not a pretty sight--and explored the depths of those feelings, I'm ready to unbury. To come back to life. There is a fight in me. Passion maybe. That forces me up, tells me they are wrong to doubt me, that I am wrong to doubt me.

I come back with more strength than before. A more solid existence with purpose and heart. I look forward to the future and garner strength from the past. But I will live in the present. Try desperately to live here and now. It is difficult to be a witness to your thoughts. To shoo them away, the good and the bad alike, to be where you are in the moment. That is the place I wish to live.

Learn me music.

Wow my blog is depressing. It's kind of a therapeutic cleansing maybe? I felt better after writing that last blog post this morning, so maybe so. But after reading itagain I'm posting a second, less sad, post the same day. So I guess more reading for you, but at least I'm trying to leave you on a good note.

Anyway, I brought my guitar home on the plane. My dad bought it 35 years ago to take a guitar class in hopes of meeting some hot chicks. It didn't work. But not too soon after, he did happen to meet my mom at their condo complex and hassled her until she went out with him.

Anyway, since my dad doesn't have a musical bone in his body, and hasn't touched the guitar since he attempted the class, it's now mine! I found out last night that it's a classical guitar from a friend who knows guitarey things...Now if only I knew how to play it. Anyone know anything about the guitar?

Also, I'm lusting after a ukulele. Damn Desiree for teaching me how to play that song this weekend! It's such a sweet sound.

If I had infinte amounts of time and money, I would have a music room. It would contain a cello, a guitar, a ukulele, a piano (i miss my piano!), and drums. Oh and one of those huge standing basses. Those are the instruments I wish to learn. Maybe the harmonica too. That's a cheap one. And an easy one...maybe?

Home

Leaving was very difficult.

During the flight, I picked up a book I've been reading. I have a new habit of reading a novel in 2-3 days, which can get costly. Maybe it's a bad habit. I just fall in love and have to, have to keep giong. I fall in love too easily.

So I'm reading Disgrace, and it's so beautiful, painfully beautiful in one passage that I have to contain myself in the little vessel. I had even forgotten I was flying for a moment, which is a very rare thing for me to do. As often happens to me in the face of miraculous art, my eyes burned with tears in marvel and awe and wonderment. Then I looked around at all of the college kids chattering and studying for finals, their excited voices at times piercing through the jet engine. And recomposed myself.

I read the passage again. It was truth that I was reading. Simply and plainly put by Coetzee. And I wanted it for myself. To write those artful words of honest elegance of the plight of human beings. Of the simultaneous depth and simplicity of human emotion.

I didn't want to come back to LA. Waiting to be picked up at the airport found me in a sullen mood of what was to come.

In a way it is like starting again. It is a good, but it is a scary thing, N says.

Especially because those people who dwell in my heart even when I am not with them will be so far away when I begin again.

There are many decision to make, each one depending on the next. But it is the first one that is heartbreaking. It is the first one that I must make again and again every moment. And tell myself, It is for the best. Space and perspective. Wait and see what comes of it. Let time handle it. You do not have control of anything.

Control and I struggle. Me, trying to control my life. As if I had a say in all things. An obsession with the idea that everything is in my power. Not controlling other people or friends. I'm happy for them just to be who they are and do as they like. But for myself. If only I could apply the same tolerance I have for them to myself. It is a torture. It is the perfectionism. Relinquishing control and power is freedom. Perfectionism and trying to control everything, controls me.

I woke up at 4 30 in the morning and panicked. A panic attack. It had been so long, but the next thing I knew I had popped out of bed, pacing, my heart pounding, sick. It is the drastic change. The pain of the break beginning to unfold. N, in his infinite patience, helped me back to bed, helped me calm down.

It soothed me. But then I was reminded that it would not always be like this. That it would not always be this simple anymore, and it is not a simple thing. And soon it would be only me. And then I did not sleep for quite some time. Uneasy.

It is necessary, I say. It is a good, but scary thing, I agree.
I am afraid.

a breath

i need a moment to breathe. to figure things out. i don't know what i'm doing. this is what it feels like to be lost. this is what it feels like to lose. i'm going to just let things come to me. the power of attraction.

a dollar cut in half is a laugh. its paper, a gum wrapper. i will believe in the power of optimism. of dreams. of making nothing into something. of illusion. that everyone says they're alright because they want to be and they don't even know what it means to be just alright.

i want to believe in the tea bag soaking, the panting dog, aching arch of sex, in good morning goodbyes, the first day of nothing matters much but it all signifies unfathomable.

save it for your recess. the recesses of your memories that give in to it all. give it in the cartoon lunch box, the note, the sweet, honeyed note, beneath the warm thermos.

it's alive, even now. it didn't happen for me. but i feel it coming in the clouds. you are my next plight.
it never meant much but it said Everything.

Rejection

I'm getting rejected by 12 schools. So far it's been 9. But I feel more rejection coming.

Today, I found out I was rejected from my very toppest of schools.

Yay me.

Yay self-loathing.

How do you continue on in the face of everyone telling you your writing sucks?

"Everyone" some of the most important writers in academia?
Imagining them trying to gouge out their eyeballs with their red ink pens instead of finishing my manuscript.
How do you not believe that perhaps this is some kind of hint?

Sure friends like it, say it's page-turning. But come on, none of them are actually brutal enough to be say, This sucks, get off it!

I'm going to have to tell my 3 recommenders I was rejected. That's humiliating.
My family. Brutal.
Friends. Crushing.
And if I continue writing, I'm thinking they might believe I have sad case of denial.

I've caught a bad case of self-loathing. This much rejection makes me want to apply it to the whole mess of me. I just suck across the board. Unpretty, unsmart, untalented, un-everything. Bah!
I want to dig a hole, live in the damp little hovel, and fester.
I'll come out once a week to stretch.

New Creations!

So, I'm in the process of co-writing my first screenplay. It's very new and exciting and actually easy. Maybe it's because I'm co-writing it. The organization it takes to write a screenplay is something I lack. I'm just a jumble, a mess, most of the time, and I like things like that. I don't usually like to sort it all out and put it together in neat little puzzle pieces. So I spray ideas, N organizes them on the page, and we take turns typing it.

I'm ready to finish a new novel. I'm going back to about 20 or so pages I abandoned earlier, and turn it into 200 plus. Like making water into ice. It is the nature of it. Then I will make some use of the mountain of rejections I'm receiving, simply by proving to myself I can do it. Maybe pass it on to the lit agent I work for. Make some use of the connection. Even just for a few suggestions.

How do you write a novel without organization?

Ha! If I've already got it all figured out, what's the point of writing it? I love the discovery, the shock of creating it. Beauty in each word, that becomes each sentence, a paragraph, a page, an entire novel. It's amazing in process and in completion. I see life better when I'm the midst of it. Because I actually pause to see it. Inspiration and life in the smallest of things. I miss that. Out of the grad school rejection funk. Enough. What will be, will be. And right now, that's none of my business.

Pooling Feeling

It seems like we spend most of life avoiding uncomfortable sensations.

As a person who suffer from OCD and anxiety, I understand this desire all too well. When the anxiety grips me, my chest tightening, stomach straining, head pounding. I'll do anything to stop feeling it. For years I tried to distract myself, making up excuses, "stories" of why I was feeling the way I was feeling.

One of my dearest, oldest, wisest friends directed me on her last visit to a way of coping with the negative emotions.

All feelings are fleeting, if let them exist and accept them.

So I stopped avoiding the pain, hurt, anxiety, sadness, anger, hate that inevitably comes up in both the every day and extraordinary moments of life. I stopped telling myself why I felt that way and just allowed myself to feel it.

In the seconds before I truly faced the emotion, terror gripped me.

But as soon as I allowed myself to peer over the cliff, and into the pool of emotion. It began to dissipate.

And that's how I face my anxiety now. Head on.

That doesn't mean I don't ever feel it anymore. It just leaves on it's own after I buckle down and face it.

Perhaps in order to feel the greatest of joys, love, beauty, we must allow ourselves to feel the greatest hurt, horror, grief. Without one extreme, how can we recognize and appreciate the other.

And perhaps the dark would be just as fleeting as the light, if we'd only welcome it in our lives as part of our existence. See the beauty in the dark. It is what makes us human.

The highest form of self abuse is...

Perfectionism.
One of my biggest vices.
It doesn't paralyze my life. Only commentates on the things I do and who I am.
Nothing's good enough, meaning I'm not good enough.

Perfection is like infinity. You can try to approach it, but never touch it.
Perfectionism is the sick attempt to get there. To taste the end of the universe.

Then there's the search for recognition. Seeking approval and acceptance outside of yourself. As if someone else may say, "Yes, you are perfect. A wonder. A beautiful marvel." And then all will be well in your life.

All can be well, but only if I can say those things to myself. And believe them.

It is a process. Every day, a challenge. The end and beginning of the universe is in everyone. Seeing it in yourself, and the mirror of it in others is true wisdom.

Happy Birthday, Blog. You are Born.

i love ee cummings and so i will bless my first blog post with one of my favorite poems and will write in all lower case letters:

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
ee cummings

and here's a quote a friend delivered to me this afternoon. it's a gem.

"to be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night and day to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting." -- e.e cummings


Grad school's a bitch. I need to think of a neat project for all of my rejection letters. Ideas? That's what I get for applying to only the top ten schools. A healthy dose of reality and humility I'll take down like a vitamin. It's good for me, I just don't know how. There's no immediate benefits.

Four more schools to hear from. I'm thinking they'll agree with the others.

Can't compete with the other writers who've actually already published, most of which are older than me and more experienced. I need to live more. an adventure to inform my work. an adventure to make me thicker, denser, richer.

Another decision I've made.
A writer. An actor. An artist. A label. It doesn't mean anything really. It's an assignment of importance. I'm just going to be for a while and see what comes of it.