End of Season Wisdom from Six Feet Under...

Nathaniel: "You can do anything, you lucky bastard -- you're alive! What's a little pain compared to that?"
Michael: "It can't be that simple."
Nathaniel: "What if it is?"

Q&A

If we are but objects flying aimless
with wings clipped, with eyes blind
How to divine the reason
for full heart, for creative mind?

If not for the waves of thought that
pass through ether to their goals
How to explain the connection
of bodies, brains and souls?

If there is no power higher than we
who vibrate with fear and love
How to escape, and embrace,
that which we are frightened of?

If the call of passion and light
were heard only by ear
How would the feeling, the seeing,
the knowing be as clear?

There is more to this.
Watch with eyes closed
and heart open.


for BSW
2.11.04

Fresh poetry from my mom...

I have lived an ample life.
From many facets I have wrung
joyous bounties, free and rife,
and memories made when I was young.
Delicious days of childhood -- seen
tender at seven, eight and nine;
primal woodlands, pastures -- green
trees, their timbers as young as mine,
invited me to swing and climb,
prepared to bend; and just as I,
letting go the lissome limb
with sibilants, would slap the sky!

Evelyn Barnes
Sept. 7, 2004

I thought I was too candid, but maybe I'm too candent. Maybe both. You decide; I can't.

candent (KAN-duhnt) adjective 1. Glowing. 2. Impassioned.
[From Latin candent-, stemp of candens, present participle of candere (to shine or glow). Ultimately from Indo-European root kand- (to shine). Other words from the same root are candle, incandescent, incense, candid, candida, and candidate (in reference to white togas worn by Romans seeking office).]

For the record...

At the risk of sounding like I'm recreating the provocative "Crash" Davis speech from Bull Durham -- I believe in second chances. I believe in the magnetism of souls. I believe in the healing powers of open communication, understanding and forgiveness. I believe that our thoughts create, however unwittingly, those situations that best serve to allow our progress. I believe that adversity is the most effective proving ground, because I believe we don't learn the lesson if it isn't hard. I believe that God, or the Higher Power, or the Universe, has wisdom - and, clearly, a wicked sense of humor - far beyond our own severely limited comprehension. And I like to listen when he/she/it speaks. Even when he/she/it says that which I'm not prepared to hear (as is often the case). Even when it brings back to me that which I, for whatever reason, have rejected once and for all. I believe that very little in this world is once and for all.

Do you hold similar beliefs? Do you believe that, when we're given the opportunity to make the necessary corrections, we should choose to make them gratefully and fearlessly?

Do you appreciate irony?

This is one of the many reasons I love my mom. She e-mails me stuff like this.

THINGS YOU'LL NEVER HEAR ON THE BAND BUS

Ladies, I'll need to see some proof of age, please.

Boy, I can't wait 'till we get to Maine.

No, I could hear the monitor just fine -- I screwed up.

I walked her home, kissed her goodnight, and came straight back to the bus.

Go ahead and roll 'em down the aisle -- they're only cymbals.

Should we go back and get the drummer?

Wow! The leader nailed every tempo perfectly again tonight -- and everybody played perfectly in tune all night long -- again!

Boy, it sure is fun playing all those old Glenn Miller arrangements.

Can you believe all the money we're getting?

Man, I wish we could get the guitar player to turn up a bit louder.

Hey, who cleaned up in here, this bus smells like a spring breeze!

I sure hope we reach the next town in time for Mass.

I can't wait to get to my private hotel room so I can have eight hours' uninterrupted sleep, a swim in the pool and a couple of margaritas with my complimentary steak dinner before the gig.

Yeah, I got into music mainly because of the job security, the benefits and the opportunities for advancement...and these great bus trips, of course.

So, are you more heavily invested in balanced or growth funds?

Nice to be back in this cozy bus again, hangin' with my pals.

"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." -James Earl Jones

Damn, ain't that the truth?

"Even a lie is a psychic fact." -Carl Jung

Have you ever caught a close friend in a lie?

I recently did, and I don't quite know how to handle it. It's not a BIG lie; and it was most probably put forth for altruistic reasons. This person cares deeply for me, and would do anything to prevent my feelings from being hurt. But I KNOW this unnamed soul -- who happens to be someone I love with all my heart -- told me a fat one, and my feelings are hurt, anyway. It's a tiny betrayal, but a betrayal, nevertheless.

And my righteous AA sensibilities are nagging at me. See, if I had told this untruth, I know I'd have to make amends at some point, because it would gnaw at me like a dog on a beef knuckle, like a rat on cardboard, like me on my cuticles while thinking about what to do with my beloved's lie.

Not that I'm Miss Perfect Sober Girl. Not that, in my 11.2 years of sobriety I haven't fibbed. White lied. Shifted the truth. But only a little. Just a handful of times. And I've pretty much always cleaned it up, especially when it looked like the other party would slip on my spill.

(Okay, wait: some of you out there know about that one rather sizeable falsehood, originated almost 5 years ago -- yikes -- and are wondering how I could have possibly forgotten -- after all, it changed my life and another's quite dramatically. Well, friends, I didn't forget. I confessed, offered a sincere apology, and moved on, promising myself I'd never do that particular thing again. Which I guess is the best thing one can do with a lie.)

Here's the other thing about today's lie from mon cher ami: I'm now thinking there may have been others, or may be others to come.

So, do I call the perp on the fabrication? Or do I let it slide?

It's after midnight, and I'm having breakfast with dear friend Heij in 9 1/2 hours. She's not Carl Jung (one of her best attributes), but I'm thinking she can help me sort this out.

...which may be why those of us who make it don't actually watch it.

"If you came and you found a strange man...teaching your kids to punch each other, or trying to sell them all kinds of products, you'd kick him right out of the house, but here you are; you come in and the TV is on, and you don't think twice about it."
-Jerome Singer, psychology professor

They come in threes...

First it was the disbanding of Phish; phinally. Now Creed is at last splitsville, as they say in gossip columnese.

Who next? No, not THE Who. In fact, they're actually back; sorta.

Sorry...Reagan doesn't count. But they do all fall under the category of an idea whose time has come.

He's chuckling in his grave.

"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are, watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man's nirvana. And if some poor nasty-minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."
-Raymond Thornton Chandler, writer (1888-1959)

Dream Quote...

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

Poem. 7.6.01

THIS SPORTING LIFE

So here comes another curveball,
curling across the plate at 72 mph,
and I’m catching them all…it just takes practice.
And I’m good at it, now. But I’m tired.
And we’re at the bottom of the ninth,
they’ve got two outs,
the count is 3 and 2 on this guy
and he’s expecting the damn curve,
so let’s surprise him.
Here’s the signal for the low, inside strike:
C’mon, baby, straight into my glove.

I love that plop, that smack of leather-on-leather.
Or the solid whack of driver on golf ball.
Or the whoosh of basketball into nothin’-but-net.
Nail the landing.
Spike the pigskin.
Cross the finish line.
And feel so much satisfaction…
’cause the competition’s a killer.

Look, I’m running the 4-minute mile
in three-point-two;
I think this is my personal best.
And I want to take a victory lap and
have you drape the garland around my neck,
like a hug.
How am I doing this without your high-five
as I round the bases?
I’ll gladly endure the locker room sting of your
snapped wet towel on my bottom.
Go on, douse my head with a bucket of icy Gatorade!
Spray cheap champagne in my eyes!

See, I want to celebrate with you.
And if there’s defeat to be faced,
I want it to be your chest into which I weep,
your shoulder on which I rest my head.
I want your hand to reach down and lift me up.
Your laugh motivates me.
Your smile inspires me.
And you know I will always make
the same effort for you.
We are each other’s coach,
each other’s cheerleader.

I’m not out on the field alone, y’know,
not by any stretch.
This is a team endeavor, and I’m getting
amazing assists from my ‘mates.
But I miss you, nevertheless…
you are not expendable.

And here is the uncontestable final score:
Because it’s challenging, even when it’s easy;
Because it’s fun, even when it’s tough;
Because it’s rewarding in every way,
even though the rules are hard to follow;
I play life so well when I play it with you.

This guy's dead, isn't he?

"It is better to be unhappy in love, to be sickly in love, to be neurotic, diseased, gruesome, sordid, as long it involves the passions of life. It is better to be all that than to be careful."
- Paddy Chayefsky

Rewrite hell.

Or heaven. I'm not going to complain about the process, since it's what I love to do, and want to do for the rest of my life. How many times have I been able to say that before? Um...that'd be none. But it has taken me away from other things I enjoy and need, and wreaked havoc on old routines...my daily yoga practice has fallen off (a 20-story building), I haven't seen my beloved Lulu in what seems like forever (that's changing next week), and my former highly-organized self has left the premises. I don't need her while I'm writing -- in fact, she's detrimental to that process. But I miss her when it's time to go grocery shopping and pay the bills. She makes lists, and takes pride in checking off each item as it's accomplished. I admire her. But I'm in love with the writer. How can I keep both of these women in my life?

I'm on deadline. 9 days to delivery. Read this instead, if it hasn't already found its way into your e-mail. It's very funny, and quite tragic.

Twenty Eight Reasons Why English Teachers Die Young -- Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays

1. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

2. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.


5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

26. Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.

27. She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

28. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

"Suffering is optional." - Maya, The Mistress of Illusion

Yeah, but only when we master the art of balance. Which means crawling from the end of the seesaw to the center, where you can observe each end flying up and bouncing down without taking the ride. This is how I imagine zen children play in their zen playground.

Now, for some of us, it's the ride that keeps us alive and creative -- all those feelings serve a purpose, they're the oils with which we paint, the images we record on film, the dialogue we ascribe to a character. We are not creating something from nothing. We are drawing from our vast external and internal experiences to present a story from which others may derive some education, emotion, entertainment.

Right here, I will interject that my year of Paxil was the calmest and most unproductive of my life. On the other hand, extreme emotional turbulence is like drinking a Slurpee too fast: brain freeze.

I don't want to suffer, 'though I do seem to choose it on occasion. I want only these things: to love/be loved, to understand/be understood, to be fearless -- not reckless -- in my approach to it, to play in it, to laugh in the face of it, to cry only long enough to cleanse and not drown in it. I want to enjoy my successes and learn from my failures.

There is great risk in asking for what you want; the possibility of unmet expectations looms like a cinematic shadow, faceless and foreboding, its source unseen. Ironically, we are the source of the threatening shadow that darkens our dreams. Is there a way to use this self-induced energy as a creative medium without being destroyed by it? Perhaps it's simply a question of being in the flow without clinging to the destination. Change is inevitable; we can participate in it with grace, or be ravaged by its craggy edges.

My body wears a few physical scars, part of my collection of life's souvenirs: the one in the center of my forehead is from a car accident when I was 4 years old, on my way to see Santa Claus; the one on my right breast is from a frightening biopsy with a happy ending; the one on my right index finger is from a Star Wars laser fight I had with my former lover in the La Cienega Toys 'R Us. There are many more invisible scars on my heart. I am learning to wear them with the same kind of respect and honor one attributes to any wound of war.

We hold ultimate responsibility for our part in how it all goes down and plays out. We can make it an adventure or a disaster. If our needs are not met by someone else, we must learn that our care was not in their hands. We are afraid to claim such power, because it could blow up in our faces. Then again, maybe it won't. You never know.

Balance is available to us, even if we're challenged by gravity. It's just about choice.