A few months ago, BSW (director) and I (writer/producer) were having a spirited philosophical conversation about the oil & water of art & commerce. That night, I dreamed this quote; I swear, it unspooled in my head just like this, and I grabbed my journal to scribble it down before it got lost in the ether:
"There may be room for compromise in commerce, but there can be no compromise when it comes to art. Artists accomplish the impossible: through words and images and sounds, we make dreams come true. We need to be left to our various processes -- they can't be manipulated or even understood -- they simply need a safe place for the miracle to manifest."
And, I might add, a commensurate cash flow.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Friday, May 21, 2004
"You take your life into your own hands, and what happens? A terrible thing: no one to blame." -Erica Jong
This weekend, I ate in a way designed to allow me to swallow my feelings: about Mom's current health condition, about the profoundly challenging health conditions of two of my closest friends, and about my selfish behavior on Friday with someone I love. Thus, in the past four days, I've consumed a whole Trader Joe's Four-Cheese Pizza and a Tab, Indian tea and Danish biscuits (courtesy the lovely Marianne), my favorite muffin (Patticakes' Lemon Zest) washed down with several cups of coffee, an incredible couscous dish by dearest Kate, followed by luscious leftover Huntington Gardens tea scones and the attendant yerba mate tea...oh, the list is longer than that, but I daren't continue, lest I shame myself further.
That's right, friends -- I have immersed my aching soul in carbs and caffeine, the perfect culinary antidote to worry and guilt. For 11 years, that kind of eating has been the most destructive indulgence I allow myself, the thing I do instead of drink alcohol or smoke nicotine and marijuana or take Ecstasy. Which reminds me: I had lunch last week with a friend who recently returned from a Mexican resort, where she took X with her husband. She glowed as she told me about her incredibly enlightening experience. I was only a little envious; recreational drugs are no longer available to me, and there have been times in the past decade-plus I've thought it would be fun to indulge. But there is not a reason in the world -- not today, as they say in AA -- that I would give one day, one hour, one moment, to any artificially-induced high. I am too grateful to be awake and aware to make such a sacrifice. Even when the consciousness is rife with pain. "Pain," said Paramahansa Yogananda, "is a prod to remembrance." Precisely.
To reinforce my precious sobriety, I took my five extra carb-induced pounds to my Sunday AA meeting in the back room of Silver Lake's Cafe Tropical. This is my new home meeting, and I was able to share comfortably and openly about Mom in a safe, compassionate environment -- without snatching a Cuban confection from the tray of sweets that passed under my nose as I spoke! It was immeasurably helpful that sisterfriend Stacie was there to give me a good, long hug. So comforting; and it kept me from reaching for the macaroon.
By the way, you mustn't think I've been holed up in front of the tube with a bucket of buttered popcorn in one hand and a Big Gulp in the other. With the aid of Lulu, The Best Dog Ever Made, I have not been sedentary in my scarfing. We walked every inch of the Venice canals on Friday, we hiked in Eaton Canyon Saturday morning, we've walked miles around my own hilly 'hood. This is a limited and conscious wallow.
I apologized almost immediately to the beloved friend who bore the brunt of my Friday frustration; he assured me I had no amends to make. His forgiveness was a gift, one I don't always give myself right away. Which can dovetail into gimme that cookie.
Mom's positive attitude in the face of a possible cancer diagnosis is breathtakingly admirable. She is my inspiration. And, as proud as she is of me, I know she'd be completely pissed off if I regained the 50+ pounds I lost 5 years ago when I stopped the carbs (before it was all the rage). Don't fret, Mom; it ain't gonna happen. I promise.
Pass the protein, please.
That's right, friends -- I have immersed my aching soul in carbs and caffeine, the perfect culinary antidote to worry and guilt. For 11 years, that kind of eating has been the most destructive indulgence I allow myself, the thing I do instead of drink alcohol or smoke nicotine and marijuana or take Ecstasy. Which reminds me: I had lunch last week with a friend who recently returned from a Mexican resort, where she took X with her husband. She glowed as she told me about her incredibly enlightening experience. I was only a little envious; recreational drugs are no longer available to me, and there have been times in the past decade-plus I've thought it would be fun to indulge. But there is not a reason in the world -- not today, as they say in AA -- that I would give one day, one hour, one moment, to any artificially-induced high. I am too grateful to be awake and aware to make such a sacrifice. Even when the consciousness is rife with pain. "Pain," said Paramahansa Yogananda, "is a prod to remembrance." Precisely.
To reinforce my precious sobriety, I took my five extra carb-induced pounds to my Sunday AA meeting in the back room of Silver Lake's Cafe Tropical. This is my new home meeting, and I was able to share comfortably and openly about Mom in a safe, compassionate environment -- without snatching a Cuban confection from the tray of sweets that passed under my nose as I spoke! It was immeasurably helpful that sisterfriend Stacie was there to give me a good, long hug. So comforting; and it kept me from reaching for the macaroon.
By the way, you mustn't think I've been holed up in front of the tube with a bucket of buttered popcorn in one hand and a Big Gulp in the other. With the aid of Lulu, The Best Dog Ever Made, I have not been sedentary in my scarfing. We walked every inch of the Venice canals on Friday, we hiked in Eaton Canyon Saturday morning, we've walked miles around my own hilly 'hood. This is a limited and conscious wallow.
I apologized almost immediately to the beloved friend who bore the brunt of my Friday frustration; he assured me I had no amends to make. His forgiveness was a gift, one I don't always give myself right away. Which can dovetail into gimme that cookie.
Mom's positive attitude in the face of a possible cancer diagnosis is breathtakingly admirable. She is my inspiration. And, as proud as she is of me, I know she'd be completely pissed off if I regained the 50+ pounds I lost 5 years ago when I stopped the carbs (before it was all the rage). Don't fret, Mom; it ain't gonna happen. I promise.
Pass the protein, please.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
"The light which experience gives is a lantern on the stern, which shines only on the waves behind us." -Samuel Taylor Coleridge
My most recent experiences have been a clear illumination: that I have lived, am living, and will likely always live, a labyrinthine life, snaking through passages that twist and turn and blindside and lead me insanely away -- and to -- everything and nothing I expect.
I guess the Universe is giving me exactly what I need, fulfilling some unconscious request; after all, the boredom of a linear life would probably kill me.
I guess the Universe is giving me exactly what I need, fulfilling some unconscious request; after all, the boredom of a linear life would probably kill me.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
"Everybody's very happy / 'Cause the sun is shinin' all the time / Looks like another perfect day..." -Randy Newman
So, I had a procedure done yesterday morning at the new Cedars-Sinai outpatient facility across from the Hard Rock Cafe on Beverly Boulevard. (Never you mind what kind of procedure. Suffice to say, all is well.) I was in the curtained recovery area, emerging from my Valium-induced snooze, when the nurse -- an adorable gay man named Carter -- asked me my occupation. "Uhhh...I'm a writer and producer," I responded, trying not to slur. A beat; then, from the cubicle next to me, I heard a similarly drugged male voice: "Yeah? You are? Hey, I'm an actor! What are you working on now? I was in the last three episodes of "Dawson's Creek!"
There was more to his verbal resume, which continued while he dressed, and after he seated his undeniably cute and tousled self across from my gurney. I tore the heart monitor from my chest, hoping the flatline would deter him. Notsomuch.
Flattery followed ("Wow, you're a redhead!"), laced with small talk about how he got his hernia. I feigned a seizure.
As he took his next breath, undoubtedly in preparation for the inevitable Hamlet soliloquy, Nurse Carter scooped up the can of worms he'd opened and came to my rescue, swiftly closing the curtains before Hot Actor Boy could take a bow.
...I love LA.
There was more to his verbal resume, which continued while he dressed, and after he seated his undeniably cute and tousled self across from my gurney. I tore the heart monitor from my chest, hoping the flatline would deter him. Notsomuch.
Flattery followed ("Wow, you're a redhead!"), laced with small talk about how he got his hernia. I feigned a seizure.
As he took his next breath, undoubtedly in preparation for the inevitable Hamlet soliloquy, Nurse Carter scooped up the can of worms he'd opened and came to my rescue, swiftly closing the curtains before Hot Actor Boy could take a bow.
...I love LA.
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