Amadaes/Amadaes

Backed Up Bloggies

Well, I have been on the road again.



And, I have not forgotten to post my adventures - it’s just that I’ve had the damnedest darnedest time getting properly connected to the internet! I have several handwritten blog entries for you, but that doesn’t do either one of us a lot of good, does it?

I admit to feeling a bit backed up, constipated with these handwritten bloggies.  They are filling up precious pages in my black notebooks.  And, these scribbled words are about past adventures. Now that I am home,  my eye is turned toward the future, toward the next adventure and neurotic insight. 

But, I do feel it is my duty to report tales from the greener than green hills of Tennessee (although my Knoxville friend said they were less than the usual green!) and the hub that is Harvard Square.



I am going to do my best to plant one foot in the past, one foot in the future, which will hopefully anchor me in the present moment - with enough wherewithal to type out the words from my travels, and send them out into the aether.

 Stay tuned and thanks for your patience!

NO LAG JET LAG (BUT BLOG LAG)

As some of you may know, I have been zipping around the globe a bit. Not as glamorous as it sounds, but I’m not complaining.

This zipping began about a month ago – in Knoxville Tennessee, location of my last blog   . . . and then continued on to Spain: Barcelona and nearby Cardedeu . . . and 


London.      

And . . . I had big plans. Plans to blog from my semi-exotic locales, adding flavor to my usual neurotic ramblings and historical musings . . .

And those plans bit the dust when the internet was cut off in Barcelona and the corner internet cafe was “having a problem” with their connections  . . . and when my lovely resting place in London was not quite IN London, but IN Wimbledon . . . and the few hours I spent in that lovely postcard place were too few to tap out a blog, let alone sleep more than a few hours. I mean, I was in London!!!   For work, but . . . still . . . not every minute is a work minute . . . and when you hear of my “almost nearly not ever getting there London story" (in another blog!), well then you will understand why I needed to maximize my time in London.

And so, yes, I admit, I have been home a few days and now I am a few days, truly tardy, in getting this thing out into the aether. Apologies to those of you who read this (and I’ve recently learned there are several of you out there! Thank you!).

The reason I am speaking of my zipping around the globe is not to incite jealousy or create more questions regarding “just exactly what DO you DO?!?!?” but to share an interesting phenomenon with you.

I have spent a good deal of the past decade perfecting “self-induced jet lag.” I am known around town for my ALL-NIGHTERS that go into the next morning and into the next day until . . . the afternoon crash . . . and then AWAKE! into the next evening and early morning and still WIDE-EYED with the sun coming up, streaming in the windows and then SLAP HAPPY with over-fatigue, dazed into a kind of self-induced high without drugs. Just the high of SLEEP DEPRIVATION.

(Wow! Did you follow the above paragraph? It makes me feel blurry around the edges, kind of like not sleeping for thirty-five hours!)
 
This self-induced jet lag is something I have been doing for most of my time here in LA. And, while good for creativity and “unplugging from the grid,” this lifestyle does not always foster easy relations with my more responsible, plugged in friends. Morning rendezvous’ are either too early or are at the end of my “day," putting me into a different head-space. Afternoon meetings are also difficult since this is the time I am known to eventually crash down. I am often asked what time of day I would sleep if I had the choice, and the time I would pick would be between 4 and 6 PM. I can give up those two dragging-in-between hours, but that’s all.  I love experiencing all times of the twenty-four.

Being an ALL-NIGHTER, I am frequently accused of not being a “morning person,” but I beg to differ. I think I am the ultimate “morning person” because once I see the hint of light in the sky, I cannot go to bed, no matter how late, no matter how many hours I have been awake. That glimmer of red-orange in a black sky - it invigorates me, fills my soul with hope and the possibility of any dream coming true . . . but I digress . . .

So, here’s the thing. I got home last week. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before I left London, and I didn’t sleep a peep on the plane. I arrived in the city of angels in the mid-afternoon, kissed my kitties,  played a few games of “string” with Lila,  let Mocha jump on my back – and then I headed out into the big vast world that is Los Angeles, California. I had a lovely re-entry, spent some time with friends, and came home and was in bed by midnight.

I woke up the next morning at 8 AM, having slept well, and then same thing: kissed my kitties, went out into the world, did some work, in bed by midnight. Like clockwork. Up at 8 AM. No lag, no tiredness, no moodiness.

And all week people have been excusing me from various activities and basic human functioning because of the jet lag I must be experiencing. Well, folks, dear friends, people who think I am insane! I am here to tell you: if you ever EVER! want to cure me of my ALL-NIGHTER hazed dazed self-induced blur of Los Angeles bred jet lag  . . . buy me an international airline ticket and send me zipping around the globe! I guarantee that if you do this, I will return from Bilboa or Padua or Sheffield in fine form, ready to go to bed at a “normal hour” and awaken refreshed and ready to be a part of human society. I will meet you for breakfast at the farmer’s market and meet for a mid-afternoon tea or even something un-caffeinated for I will not need that drug to keep me awake because I will be perfectly alert from my jet setting globetrotting adventures. All it takes is ONE INTERNATIONAL AIRLINE TICKET!!! If only I had figured this out earlier! 


My circadian rhythms are positively effected by long distance international travel!

I will close with assurances that I am not suffering from jet lag, but with big apologies for my blog lag. Til' next we speak . . . adéu, adiós, good day! (And I am writing this during the day! PRAISE BE!).

Slow Down . . . I Move Too Fast . . .

I've been a bit absent. I'm on the road. East Tennessee - which is NOT Nashville.  

East Tennessee is KNOXVILLE  and the THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS and THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS . . . the birthplace of country music. Again, no, NOT Nashville. 

I am here doing research for my Civil War project. Good thing too -- and not just for the research, not just for the cold (40 degrees today! Brrrr . . . okay, not Boston, but still . . . my fingers got so numb I couldn't feel them this morning -- out filming an ole Southern graveyard - Old Grey Cemetery to be exact).

It's a good thing I got out of town - got out of my hood, out of my space, which right now feels more like a RUT, a stuck place - a place where my feet sink into the mud, and get all muddy . . . and . . . STUCK.

No, it's not LA that does this to me. The City of Angels is as good as any place - only as good as the space you are in - and I've been in a certain space in my head for too long.

Of course, I sensed this, but to really feel it? I had to jerk myself out of my Directed Motivated Reality. 

When I got here, I was organized: lists in hand, phone numbers, addresses - in a rush to GET IT ALL DONE. So Little Time. So Little Time - like a General - pull the corps together and mount the mountain! Forward March! You can see I am working on a Civil War film. Right at home with the theme: Civil War graveyards and monuments and placards and markers mentioning battles and praise to soldiers and generals (One died here during the Civil War - General William P. Sanders - the victim of a Confederate sharpshooter. Ten days after his death, north and south fought at the Battle of Fort Sanders - named after the poor bachelor general.) Tales of yore surround every strip mall fast food blight on the Knoxvillian landscape.

(At this point, I must add that I am writing this in a bar, a very dark bar, too dark to see what the hell I am writing, but then . . . this seems kind of appropriate.)  

But I digress and then digress  . . .

You see, I spent my first two days here zipping around, shooting off emails, and odd to my own ears, talking way too fast. Every time I opened my mouth to explain something (that most likely did not need explaining), to sort out a detail (one that probably didn't matter), I felt like I was being met with patient but decidedly confused faces. The sound of my voice in my ears sounded like an old cassette tape on FF. Disturbing . . . and obviously disconcerting to my new Knoxville friends.

But, I just couldn't slow down. And why would I? So much to do. TO DO! Before I go. So much to accomplish. 

But then, on the second night here in Knoxville, a strange thing happened. My body just collapsed. Fatigue hit me hard and heavy - so heavy that I could barely talk, let alone hold my body upright. I fell asleep in the car, mouth wide open gulping for air (allergies!), fell asleep in the parking lot outside Starbuck's -

(For all of you anti-Starbucks folk -  be thankful for this bastion of culture, as in gays, artsy-fartsies, free spirits, and of course, the New York Times, in a place like Knoxville. Be thankful.)

I couldn't converse or hang with the lovely people providing my housing here. I crashed out at midnight without brushing my teeth, without a memory . . . 

And this morning, I woke up -- slowed down. Refreshed. I ditched my list and went to the smoke shack out on Washington Pike.   Didn't worry when I couldn't find a clearly marked parking spot. I just pulled the rental car next to the big metal smoker and watched a guy in a junker car from the 70's pull up to a payphone - YES! a REAL metal stand-alone PAYPHONE - and do a drive thru phone call. I chilled and watched. And then I went into the barbecue shack and I took my time ordering. Pulled pork sandwiches, brisket, ribs, fried catfish, collard greens, beans, mac and cheese . . . mmm . . . and finally, I placed my order. And when the big handsome man running the joint told me it would be at least ten minutes because of a large order ahead of me, I said that was fine. I would wait. No problem. Take Your Time.

And I waited. I sat on the plastic fold out chair and watched court tv with the too good looking African American guy at the counter. And the smoke swirled round me and my clothes began to smell like barbecue and then my hair and even my hands . . . and I waited . . . and I felt good.    Calm.    Like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. Getting impossibly smoky smelling while waiting for slabs, yes slabs of brisket and the fried catfish and collard greens and slaw . . . mmmm     

And then, after getting my order and eating it slowly in the Starbucks's parking lot, I called a woman I met the other evening, when I was still talking fast. Now, according to plans, I only had five minutes to talk. I had a list of "things to do" and "places to go", but after that smoke shack and the beautiful souls working there - the grey of the city, the green poking through, spring coming and yellow daffodils patiently popping up - my heart said, "aw, fuck it." This woman had been so kind to me the other night. Sharing her history, sharing herself -  it just felt plain WRONG to cut her off so I could go do my things and visit my places. 

What for? I am here to feel the place. To place my characters properly, give them space to .... breathe ... to be ... authentic. Here I was, engaged in a real meandering heart-felt conversation with someone from Knoxville, someone giving me the time of day, hearing me and my thing. Now why would I cut off something real like that? To drive to a historical marker and film it? To film the grounds of a famous house? Aw . . . the hell with that. This is the real stuff right here. Talking with this woman from Knoxville, rambling and philosophizing and shooting the shit. This is living it, breathing it. Slowing down and taking the time to . . . recognize it.

When I finally hung up, an hour and more later - again - I felt the calm. The beingness of just Being. And, I remembered something I'd lost - temporarily - misplaced.   Space   giving myself time . . . to . . . be . . . authentically. And that's a state of mind. A state of place - within. And I found my state of place - again - here in Knoxville. There is time for everything when you are operating from this space. I slowed down . . . and just in time . . . to take it all in.  

Ready (or not) . . .

I’m not ready. I’m not ready. In order to be ready, I need to get more prepared. More . . .ready.

I was reading some esoteric astrology on-line today. Okay. It’s not that esoteric if you are into astrology, but if you are not, it goes a bit beyond the daily horoscope in the paper.

It seems I have a predisposition toward a certain kind of trauma, the trauma of not feeling ready in work type situations. Apparently, this is because of the location of Uranus in my astrological chart. (Why does "Uranus" always elicit, "your anus, your anus" comments in my mind . . . infantile, I know .... .)  

I don't know if I agree with everything this blurb said, but what I cannot deny   is that I do have an issue with this "readiness thing." Partners, both personal and business (and being the good Libra I am, this usually means one and the same person . . . usually, I didn't say always)  will concur. In fact, if any of you are reading this, I can only hope you are smiling from the recognition, not frowning in frustration!

I don’t have a fear of success as some incorrectly assume. And, I don’t freak out about finishing . . . it’s just that there is always something more I can do. Something to make it more ready, to make it better. And, if I can think of this something (9 times out of 10 I can!) then, well, I think it’s my duty to do it and make it more ready.

Isn’t everyone like this? If you knew you could do something to make it more ready, more available, more understandable – some skill you could learn to make yourself more ready, more knowledgeable . . . wouldn’t you do it? Wouldn't you?
 

Uhm . . . not really some of you might say. Maybe folks like me, with Uranus in the sixth house, (astro term), but not everyone thinks about readiness 24 hours a day. Some people shoot out of the gate without a hat, without pants, hell without underwear! And some people plot out a strategy for readiness and plod along . . . until they meet that mark and then, they are ready. And some people are never ready and get others to be ready for them, and still others could give a shit about being ready. They are never ready and make no apologies for it.

The thing that clued me into a certain predisposition on my part, an inclination toward readying and readying and readying . . . was pondering how it would feel if I did put something out there and then was told, “it’s not ready.” FREAKOUT!!!! FREAK OUT!!!! Ding Ding!!! Sirens, red lights, warning signs going off . . . . .

      

…. Because that would just about knock me off the planet, out into the aether, spinning . . . spinning . . .

So, in order to keep both feet on terra firma, I keep readying myself to be ready.

  

(above image: Uranus with Terra . . . kind of appropriate)

The beauty of writing a blog is that it is so immediate, so not ready. Now, of course, I could write and write and re-write and research and research, and then post something every . . . . month, but then this wouldn't really be a blog. This blog is a dare, a challenge to my sense of preparedness. It is fresh, but uncooked, un-chopped, unedited . . . it's an ill-prepared stream of blog consciousness. Poor thing. I kind of feel sorry for my blog when I think of it that way.

Right now, I can think of about ten things I need to do, add, look up, and learn in order for this post to be READY . . . to make it better. I have a few angles: about the U.S. Constitution, another victim of a sixth house Uranus, about Zachary Taylor and Sergio Leone and e.e. cummings . . . and even poor racist, butt of bad jokes and jokes about bad preparation, George Armstrong Custer, (fellow Uranus 6th housers) but then . . . I’ll just be readying and readying and readying . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

My First (and last) Doll

I grew up without a lot of toys. In fact, I don’t remember toys (except at Sarah’s house). Maybe a few my older brother had picked up here and there, but my family wasn’t much into the latest childhood crap. And, my father wouldn’t open his wallet to save his ass, well, he would save his ass, but not ours, and there certainly wasn’t money for a music lesson or concert or camp . . . or my braces . . . but that’s for another post.

What I did have were teddy bears: Thomas Jeffrey “Pooh” (named after Thomas Jefferson) and Leroy Phillip (named after Jim Croce’s song “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,”
 
and my uncle Phil, oddly enough) 

and Omar (he just looked like an Omar) and Quincy (after John Quincy Adams). Quincy is a stuffed fox who still rides in the trunk of my mom’s car, with a fake diamond earring stud I put in his ear, in the hole left by his price tag.

How I got that idea  . . . . . . . . .

Nine years old. My brother takes me to the cool pizza house, Cottage Inn Pizza, the one with the thick Chicago-style crust, the kind that fills you up after about three bites!! It’s so exciting to be out and about with my older brother. He’s cool, he’s in the know, and he loves  pizza.     

We are ordering to go – I imagine my parents don’t know about this culinary excursion – dad would disapprove of spending money, and mom, well mom is frustrated with all the cooking and cleaning she does on the no budget my dad gives her ... and, my brother’s propensity for ordering take-out pizzas, instead of eating the nourishing food my mom has prepared.

Older bro places our order and we sit on the swivel stools at the bar. This is when I notice the most handsome man I have ever seen. He is tan, with short dark hair, an easy smile, and . . . a diamond earring in his left ear ! I have never seen a guy with an earring. I love it! I am fascinated; cannot take my eyes off of him. I am having a major crush. Shades of a one day gay . . .?

So, I go home and put the fake diamond stud I somehow acquired from best friend Sarah into Quincy’s ear. Voila! A homo fox! Truly!

But .......... there are more stuffed animals. There is my stuffed elephant named Mendel, after the composer Felix Mendelssohn (Sarah had a matching Wendel), and twin stuffed hamsters: Franz (after Papa Haydn) and Whitney (after Eli Whitney and the cotton gin).

And I could go on . . . and I will, in another post, but what about dolls?

I don’t remember dolls in my house. There wasn’t a barbie to be seen – I think I would have lost my mom’s respect for good if I had even intimated that I wanted a barbie.

                                          

Therefore, I didn’t want one. My mom’s respect is something her kids always wanted. We still do. She doesn’t have to tell us she disapproves of something. We know and we do what we must. (It’s true mom! It’s true! And, it is a compliment.)

I cannot blame my parents for my lack of dolls. I don’t think I would have wanted a doll if I had been given one. And no, I really don’t think this has anything to do with my current lifestyle choices (these choices, I hear, are why part of my family is not speaking to me). Think what you will, but I don’t. I really don’t. I like to cook and clean and do the laundry for my man or er, girl.

But, I do remember one doll. My first (and last) doll came my way one sunny afternoon when I was four years old. Someone, someone I never met and who obviously did not know my mom or my family very well, gave my mother a doll to give to me.

I remember it very clearly. My mom and I were sitting on the edge of her bed, with the afternoon sun streaming through the red plastic window shades, the ones my dad made out in the garage, the garage he was in from the time he came home from work until bed (except for the painful dinner hour in which he did not speak to his children, despite my mom warning him he would lose touch with us – and she was right . . .)

But, how I loved those window shades! They turned the entire bedroom a gentle shade of ruby. Not too surprising that red (purple too) is my favorite color. That wash of red on the walls, the sun streaming in warm during the afternoons -  this was my special time with my mom. Just me and her. Without my gregarious older brother, the favorite (at least that’s how I saw it), without my father who didn’t seem to notice I existed. Not that he noticed my brother either . . .

Those afternoons in my mom’s bedroom, lying on the bed with the ruby red sun streaming in - I felt safe, away from harm. Away from the arguments of my parents, away from the taunting of my brother, too much older than I to really be a support. I walked wide circles around him – and my father walked wide circles around all of us, stuck in his head, in his math problems, in his algorithms . . . . in his garage.

Well, that sunny afternoon, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, my mom took this hard plastic doll out of a paper bag and hesitantly, she handed it to me. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to like the thing. I was very aware that I did not have a doll, that I was a girl and I was supposed to have a doll, I was supposed to like dolls.  But the way my mom handed the thing to me, barely touching it, the grim look on her face, it seemed like something distasteful, something icky and tainted.
         
Was this a test? Should I act as if I liked this cold inanimate object, with the horrible unmoving too blue eyes? You could hurt someone with the thing, if you wanted to. It was so hard and unfeeling, so unlike my soft sweet smelling Thomas Jeffrey and Quincy.

I took the thing from my mom, held it in my hands, tried to hold it in my arms like I had seen mothers do with babies. I felt foolish. It didn’t feel right. It was nothing like holding my warm kitties or my stuffed animals. I remember looking at my mom, a bit afraid that I was going to get in trouble for something, something I could feel but was too young to put a word to, something wrong about me, inappropriate  . . . but my mom didn’t look angry. We sat for a few moments. I don’t think we really said anything. There was just an understanding. This doll didn’t belong in our house. It was too cold and unfeeling, too plastic.

I gave it back to her and I never saw the thing again. Never had another doll. We were a house of teddy bears, of Thomas Jeffrey and Leroy Phillip, and other wonderful snugly stuffed animals: elephants and lions and blue fuzzy bears. And, it was okay. It was okay to have only stuffed animals. It was okay when we were on the bed in the ruby red sun, Thomas Jeffrey “Pooh” on one side, my mom on the other. It was warm . . . and safe . . . and okay.     

Colonial Hipsters and Hotties

While searching for an image for one of my posts, I came across a startling portrait of Martha Washington.
Seems that forensic anthropologists have age-regressed Martha to turn out a “hot portrait” of the First First Lady. Usually depicted as a dowdy old granny,

the new Martha seems hot enough to garner several comparisons to Angelina Jolie. I’ve looked at the portrait, scrutinized, blown up the image, turned my computer sideways – I admit, I don’t see it. But, I do see a future for age-regressing historic figures, especially those of whom we only have Gilbert Stuart paintings.

Don’t get me wrong; I love my Gilbert Stuart. I stood in front of his portrait of Washington, in a museum at Williamsburg, for far too long – long enough to get in trouble with the security guard. I don’t know if it’s the way I had turned up my jeans to the knee, the three-cornered hat, or because I was leaning on my new cherry walking stick (*note - in this photo, I had just removed the tricorn, so as not to attract as much attention). I guess I looked a bit too old to be turning my levi’s up to the knee and to be wearing a tricorn – and a bit too young to be leaning on my cherry walking stick, at least the way I was leaning. I think I was playing several historical characters at once: an old Ben Franklin mixed with a young Meriwether Lewis, maybe even a bit of Ethan Allen (no, not referring to the furniture company that‘s named after him! – Green Mountain Boys!)

Honestly, I don’t know why I attracted attention. The place is swarming with middle-aged men and women decked out in various forms of 18th century garb. But, I don’t recall seeing too many females with obvious breasts wearing tricorns and rolling their jeans to affect a pair of breeches. Oh, the life of a human plagued by her past lives!!! To be understood, to be understood!!!

Well, the end of that story  . . . I was asked to move along to another part of the gallery. And then, I ended up standing too long in front of the wall that showed the height of various presidents. I stood against the yellow painted ruler and got very excited to see that I was the same height as James Madison!!! Oh, the thrill of it! Still can feel the joy . ..  the resonance . . .  but I am digressing . . . . . .

There was a time when churning out portraits of grey-haired dowdy looking individuals gave this young nation a sense of history, of seriousness. Seeing old Martha with her double-chin, George with the stern patriarchal look, the sexless constipated looks of various statesmen .  . . seeing these images gave Americans the feeling that we came from somewhere, we had a solid tangible history, progenitors.  And, not a history made across the ocean.

Well, now we have a history. We are old enough to be tainted twenty times over. Hell, we are old enough that the demise of our country is predicted on a daily basis -- comparisons to the Roman Empire ad infinitum . . . .

And, we are old enough to make an attempt to “correct” our wayward ways. We have a hip new president. His election made history. His youthful visage has become the hottest selling pop image. He’s on every other car, window, t-shirt, trashcan . . .  I cannot imagine a stern, sexless Gilbert Stuart portrait of the thoughtful hipster that is Barack Obama. More likely, a portrait of him making a slam dunk!

So, if our sense of history is intact:  we are old enough to have fucked up repeatedly, old enough to have destroyed enough people and places in the process, well then . . . it seems we are finally old enough to want to turn our past leaders into Colonial hipsters and hotties. We don’t need to prove to ourselves that we exist. We know we do. We don’t need to trace our lineage, to feel as if we have progenitors. We are Americans. We are all over the place, with our destruction and promotion, propaganda and good time entertainment. We are US. We are in the Now . . . And we are youth-orientated as all hell. So, good for Martha. I’m happy to see her face take a turn for the better. Pleased she is able to drop the dowdy First First Lady image and enter into hottiedom.

Now, I’m waiting for a hunky Ben Franklin to hit the newsstands, er . . . google image search . . . .

Washington Instead of Oscar (sorry!)

Okay, I know. Yesterday, I skipped the Oscars - entirely. I focused on Washington's Birthday. Is it any wonder I dropped out of grad school, walked away from directing at USC? Is it so hard to understand why friends call me "interesting?" And one last wonder, is it a mystery why I cannot host an Oscar viewing party because my shitty tv is obscured by hundreds (seriously) of history books and guitars?           

I did go watch the second half of the show with some friends who were kind enough to invite me. I think I enjoyed what I saw, but then, I spent most of the half I did see talking to a fellow Libra about . . . history!  - asking her questions about the town she is from in Massachusetts, the synagogue her great-grandfather started in a town famous for making shoes. And then, I told her about my Civil War research, for a project I am working on, a film project.

Lord! What is wrong with me? Here I am, back in film after a slight detour into a music duo . . . (well, not so slight . . . ate up a bit of my life force, but I am coming back, coming back . . . music too!) --- and ------

I am not paying any attention to the Oscars. In fact, I haven't seen but one of the nominated films. Again, what the hell is wrong with me? Have I lost my passion for film? I know I did have it, once. I got an undergrad degree in it - was a film TA for two years. Sacrificed everything to pursue it at USC . . . sans trust fund or the support of family and friends. (okay mom, I don't mean you, but you know who and everyone else!!!!)

And yet, here I was talking during the most moving section of the show, the segment where they honor those who have passed on. I actually had to be "shushed" because I was so excited that my new Libra friend knew where Colby College was located, out in the middle of nowhere in Maine. She went there!!!

And I was blabbing and blabbing about the Professor at Colby who is an expert on Mary Walker, a female doctor who saved many lives during the Civil War. A woman who believed in clothing reform and was denied a commission by Lincoln, despite the fact that she was a practicing doctor and had volunteered her                                     services on many a battlefield. 

Oh damn. There I go again. Taking the topic from film and the Oscars back to a history anecdote. Is it any wonder that the vehicle that has brought me back into film is a scrawny mule with two springfields and some hardtack on board? 

The thing is, I really am driven to get my Civil War project up on the big screen. Two steps forward, two back, three forward, one back . . .  I keep going and going, creatively financing when I have to. This project won't die, nor will my passion for it. And maybe there is something to being so in your head, in your created world, at least for awhile, that allows you to actually get a story up on the screen. I admit, I do feel a certain guilt for not having more interest in the Oscars or in the nominated films, in current films in general. But, maybe there is an element of self-absorption, dare I say, selfishness one must have in order to realize something as big as a feature film - to take it from a pinprick of an idea that wakes you in the night, to a single strong cell, that multiplies and multiplies, fueled by an obsession that has you buying hundreds of books from Amazon, and sending them overnight, camping out in your car in Tennessee, meeting professors in dark smoke-filled bars, and then . . . doing it again and again and again . . .

till you find yourself, half-way through the Oscars, talking too loud during a moving moment, because you are so juiced up on your story that it has overtaken your life and your good manners. Hell, your interest in the very thing you are endeavoring to do!

I apologize to the friends I disturbed last night. And, I sincerely apologize to the filmmakers represented last night who spent many feverish obsessed nights, pulling out their hair, trying to realize their stories and make it to the big screen, and hopefully, onto the Oscars. I salute all of them for having the courage to DO IT! to walk their talk, make sacrifices, and to dedicate their lives to putting something meaningful out there! I hope I have the courage, talent, and tenacity to get as far as they did. And if I do, I hope some of you will watch and honor me, and for those of you who chatter during the ceremony, I hope your chatter comes from the fuel of your creative fire. Go for it!!!

Washington, The First First Lady, and Silent Cal

Today is George Washington’s birthday. The father of our country. And who exactly is the mother of our country? Martha Washington? Funny, I don’t remember hearing that in school. I don’t remember ever hearing about a mother of the United States. Maybe George did it all on his own, some kind of virgin birth. Some kind of "agamogenesis" -- male patriotic budding.

I became a history buff at an early age. I don’t remember how it happened. I suspect it was when I saw the hardcover children’s biography series in our school library, “Childhood of Famous Americans.” I loved to read and I loved the sheer amount of volumes in the series.
                   
 By the time I hit the third grade, I had read every biography in the series, something like 300 little bios of famous Americans. I learned about famous explorers like Zeb Pike and Kit Carson, and I learned about famous inventors like George Washington Carver and Eli Whitney. I learned new words, like “persimmon,” from reading the Tom Jefferson bio. I learned about bowie knives and muskets and breeches and haversacks. I learned about the founding of our nation, the Boston Tea Party and Crispus Attucks.

And still, I don’t remember hearing about a mother of the nation. I remember reading about Molly Pitcher; famous for bringing thirsty soldiers cool water during the Revolutionary War, and for manning the gun when her husband fell wounded.

 I remember reading about Phyllis Wheatley, "Slave Poet during Colonial Times." And then, there was “Martha Washington, America’s First First Lady.” Now, there’s a title for you. First first lady. But no, "Mother of The Nation."   Mid-way through the second grade, my Teacher gave our class the most exciting assignment. We were given the task of writing our first “term paper” on a famous American in history. Teacher hinted that an American president would be an appropriate topic. Oh boy was I excited!!! I had been playing Thomas Jefferson (and making best friend Sarah play Abe Lincoln) every day after school. Every afternoon, I would go to Sarah’s house, rush up the stairs to her brother Daniel’s room, and put on his old brown three-piece suit. I would roll the pants to the knee for breeches and if I had an oxford on, I would turn the collar inside to make it seem more, well, revolutionary. I lived for Daniel’s brown suit and for Tom Jefferson. This was my life. Who cared about school or home or homework? Being Thomas Jefferson in that 3 piece suit and plowing the carpet with the vacuum cleaner – this was the stuff my childhood was made of. (Sarah might beg to differ. Her memories might revolve more around watching the Brady Bunch – but that’s for another day).

Well, I nursed and nursed and pondered and mused upon my term paper topic. Just thinking about it was half the fun. Even though I loved TJ, that was too obvious a topic. Come on. Everybody in class was going to write about Thomas Jefferson or George Washington, maybe Lincoln.

In my mind, with great care, I turned over every character in American history. I thought I might be rebellious and go outside of the Presidential box, but thought better of it. No, I would stick to the U.S Presidents, but which one? I loved William Henry Harrison’s name, but he had such a short presidency -  what was there to talk about except the fact that he got a cold. Well, that and Tippecanoe and Tyler too. But, that wasn’t enough. I thought of Grover Cleveland. He was a strong contender, the only man to be president twice. But, I don’t know. I wasn’t really enamored with him as a person. I considered John Quincy Adams, but he looked so mean in the photo in our American Heritage Encyclopedia series at home. He seemed to resent being President, or being the son of John, or something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. 
 

And that’s when I got it! I knew! I was going to do my term paper on Calvin Coolidge. What a cool idea! No one else was going to do a paper on “Silent Cal.” There was a hard nut to crack, and I was going to crack it.

Teacher had arranged for us to announce our term paper topic out loud in class. She would call each student by name, and when your name was called, you would stand up and state your topic.

I was so excited the night before this event I could hardly sleep! School projects did not usually elicit this kind of response from me, but this was different. I was going to show my Teacher how much I knew about history. And, I was going to broaden the minds of my classmates.

Term paper topic day came. And, as expected, every kid stood up and said “George Washington, Father of our Country.” A few kids said “Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of Independence.” Maybe one kid said "Abe Lincoln, Hero Who Freed the Slaves" or something like that.

And then, it was my turn. I remember it like today. I took my time getting out of my seat. Wiped my sweaty palms on my corduroys. Took a deep breath and said, “I am going to do my paper on Calvin Coolidge.” I was so sure that Teacher would smile at me, with great respect, for my unusual and demanding choice.

But, Teacher’s ready-made smile turned into a frown. Her face lost color. The kids around me noticed and there were a few snickers. Then, Teacher muffled a laugh in her throat and said, “You can’t do your paper on Calvin Coolidge. How about Thomas Jefferson?” And I was confused. The room began to spin a bit. What was happening? This was not the way it was supposed to go. Teacher liked me and thought I had potential. She knew that I had read all of those biographies. Why would I waste my time on a paper about Thomas Jefferson? I knew TJ like the back of my hand. I practically was Tom Jefferson.

I stuttered, and tried to protest, but Teacher’s ready-made smile came back on. “Yes, you do your paper on Thomas Jefferson,” she said. “He’s a wonderful person to study.” And, I didn’t know what to say. I collapsed into my chair and felt the red sting of humiliation on my face. A few of the boys made faces at me. “Calvin Coooooolidge. That’s stupid. Who’s that?” blah blah blah . . . . . . .

And that, right there, is the day any direct interest in school vanished from my system. I did well, but I wasn’t there ever again. Yep, that’s right. Calvin Coolidge

probably killed any aspiration for a PhD. Silent Cal turned out to be my Silent Scholastic Killer.

And so, when I think of Presidents Day, or President’s Day, or Washington’s Birthday – I think of Calvin Coolidge and the end of my interest in school term papers, in school in general.

Now, who is the mother of this country again?   

Sandbags

I have put sandbags at my front door. To keep out the rain. The flood. To protect the equipment. It’s a good thing, right? To do it – to keep out the rain. It’s a responsible thing, to protect your home, your hearth, your guitars. Or is it? What if it’s sunny outside? What if the clouds have gone all billowy and beckoning, the rainbow has appeared – and most likely – there is a pot of gold at the end of the driveway?

What then of the sandbags? What is their purpose, if skies are clear, the forecast is brilliant? I have a sneaking suspicion; they are there to keep things in. To buckle it up. Keep out the sun, keep the warmth from shining in. To keep the water within – yes! That’s it. The sandbags are there to keep the waters from overflowing outside of the home, the hearth. They are there to protect, keep the hurt contained.

Hmmm . . . maybe my sandbags are useless protective measures, a homeland security package that traps what needs to come out … and blocks what needs to come in. Today I remove the sandbags and post.

How To Reconcile A Hurt

How do you reconcile a hurt?  Do you shout it out loud, scream it into your pillow, ignore it, turn off the alarm and go back to bed . . .

According to my weekly astrology report    I am supposed to reconcile a hurt this week. An old hurt.

Okay. If I am honest, there are a few . . . lingering hurts.

I spent Monday trying to figure out which "hurt" was the hurt in question. I spent Tuesday having a sneaking suspicion. I spent Wednesday hoping I was wrong. And now, it's Thursday and  I know the hurt in question. And I am acknowledging. I am facing my hurt. And . . .  I'm hurting. Ouch!!!!

And it stinks.

The hurt in question is one I tried to ignore, stash away, put in the garbage, hoping it would compost on its own. Grow into something new. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to burn it up and start a fire. I didn’t want to scrub away at it, get out the disinfectant. I wanted it to go away, back to ash and mulch all on its own. Clean itself up. Grow into something new and beautiful. And, I was patient. Patient with the process.

And, now I am finding that my patience has cornered me. I am caught.  My hurt is not gone, transformed, but it has wedged itself into my side; it's crawling up my walls. I am having trouble catching my breath. You see, instead of getting all organic and beautiful, my hurt grew into something putrid and burning. The smell of it, the sting of it burns my insides and I can no longer deny its presence.

Ouch!! This stinks!

How to reconcile a hurt? A hurt so big it ate up half my life? Stained my foundation?

Writing it that way, how could I be so deluded as to think I could bury it in the backyard, hoping it would transform into a bed of sweet smelling roses? I thought shit could turn into something beautiful, but shit also stinks. Remains putrid. I know this because my cat Mocha has taken it upon herself to shit all over the bathroom tile. I am not sure why. Nothing has changed in the house. She has always had her pooping issues; she has an aberrant form of ibs, but she usually reserves her pancake batter poops to the other bathroom, the one with newspaper all over the floor (yes, the three bathroom house I live in has been reduced to two human bathrooms, one feline toilet. )

Trying to clean up her mushy putrid piles is quite an endeavor. This week, huddled on all fours, careful to keep toes out of the scattered piles of poo, I started to see my hurt in new terms. 

My hurt is a big spot.  It burns and it stinks. And it sticks. Just like Mocha's poo, the longer you leave it, the harder it is to clean up. The longer you leave it, the more it . . . stinks.  I need to get on all fours, take a sponge with some scouring power, and get to work cleaning up the mess that was left on my floor. It’s a fantasy to think the shit magically picks itself up, walks out the door, and puts itself in the garden - turns itself into big white roses. I wanted this to be true. I wanted my patience to bring peace, to bring new things without the stink of my past. I didn’t want my hurt to grow and stain my foundation. But . . .  this week I have learned, that when there is shit on your floor - the best thing to do is roll up your sleeves and deal with it before it turns into a putrid hard to clean up mess.

I leave you with a brillo pad and some pine-sol.