I can see my navel from here.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Hot.



More soup!

I wanna make this one, too! Except I would put cream in it.

It's soup season. Yay!

Re: No fat Kiwis.

Good. Especially if I, sometime in the future, choose to emigrate there. Though one of the commenters has a great point: do they allow smokers? I think they must, because I know a hell of a lot of native Kiwi smokers.

Obesity and smoking are two major health problems that can honestly be fairly easily solved in comparison to, say, congenital heart disease. I've always thought that insurance companies should do more to allow preventative measures for complications from these problems, especially in America.

Also via ECB.

Re: Changing names.

When I was six, I found out that women changed their names when they got married. I thought this was tremendously unfair. I asked my mom why boys got to keep their name and infect other people with it.

She didn't give me a historical or sociological answer but told me that, when she got married to my father, it was against the law to keep your maiden name. She said she never would have changed it if she had the option. When I asked her why she didn't change it back now, she sighed and said that it was too much paperwork and hassle.

I still think it's ridiculous. Why should I change my name? I like my name. Why don't you change yours? As for kids, the only person who can definitively prove that it's theirs is the one who drops it from their vagina, buddy. A name isn't going to change that.

Via ECB.

Thank you.

The best part about my relationship is that he's my best friend and I can have any conversation with him I need to. So, yes, Mr. VNRS and I are doing just fine, thank you.

Tomorrow I'm going to my best girlfriend Jessica's house for Thanksgiving. We're going to make vanilla ginger pear soup, as we do every year, and drink ice wine, the sweet, spendy Kool-aid of wines. It's a lovely time for us to catch up, since we rarely get to spend much time together. I miss her.

And I want to make this punkin soup. Remarkably, I have the entire holiday weekend off for the first time in seven years! So perhaps the Rock Star and I will have punkin soup for dinner.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

On third thought...

Yes. It is that I am not taking my herbs. I hate this terrible plague even more than I did before, because it makes me crazy. For reals. It's not that I hate every single person in the world (except for, like, five of you who know who you are), because logically I don't. That's ridiculous. It's that I'm currently incapable of distinguishing actual emotion from anger.

Jaime tells me that anger is not, in itself, an emotion, it's simply a reaction to an emotion. That made so much sense when I heard it that I could have cried. Currently my anger is a reaction to omg my hormones are punching me in the face and I want to die. That's an emotion shared by female sufferers of PMDD and FTM transitioners on an imbalanced prescription of testosterone.

On a related crazy-making note, I can't tell when I'm hungry any more. I blame the lack of gluten: I'm getting all the nutrients that I can from what I'm eating now, so I'm less hungry, but now I don't have the tell-tale blood sugar headaches that I used to get telling me that it's time to eat. So I keep forgetting. My co-worker Shirley Jane told me today that I had lost weight (I can't tell) and that I should eat a bigger breakfast. Perhaps.

Buried alive.

It probably doesn't help my mood that I haven't been taking my regular Chinese herbal constitutional while I've had this stupid, stupid influenza. I'm all cranky and hormonal.

I bet it's all me, in my head. Darn it.

Strangers when we meet.

Men want me, kind of.

All my friends
Now seem so thin and frail
Slinky secrets
Hotter than the sun

No peachy prayers
No trendy rechauffe
I'm with you
So I can't go on

I guess that's my absurd lesson for this winter week, because it's been all about men, boys, whatever. Listen to these shorts:

My Very First Boyfriend Ever contacted me this week. Fine. Good. Complicated. We met when I was a troubled, suicidal teenager and he left me without a word after a year of blissful first teenage love. Or so I thought. What really happened is that he was beginning to develop Crohn's disease and had to move away, and though he kept trying to get in touch with me, my parents told him to stop trying to contact me. So, he gets sick, has to go away anyway, stays sick for years, and eventually finds me on MySpace. This is a gross simplification, of course, but that's basically what happened.

Well, one expects one's first love to fuck one up, of course. However, the initial episode compounded itself with my nascent abandonment issues and began what I would later recognize as the beginnings of my massive intimacy issues. You know the ones:

Don't breathe too deep
Don't think all day

Dive into work

Drive the other way

That drip of hurt

That pint of shame

Goes away

Just play the game


Sing it, Mark. Anyway, flash forward to this week and these events. So I meet the guy at Elliot Bay Bookstore, and he's sweet and charming and apparently still cares deeply for me and is awfully sorry for everything that happened. Which is gratifying but not an end in itself, so now I'm left with looking back on my past relationships thinking, Could I have made this different? How much was me?

I know I could never have changed some things: the one that cheated on me, the one that really and truly did have to move across the country to find himself, the one I rebounded to that I just couldn't love enough even though I wanted to. But for years I've lived with the bitter presentiment that every man (woman are a different case) who has ever loved me has left me, with the notable exception of a violent alcoholic that will neither save himself nor stop asking me to save him. (We'll get to that later.)

All my violence
Raining tears upon the sheet
I'm bewildered
For we're strangers when we meet

So I find out that this isn't true and everything I know is wrong. Fortunately, I had my therapy right after I met up with him, but that just means that my real work is just beginning.

Mr. VNRS told me that I'd start having weird dreams after this, and he's been right. My brain is trying to process this new information and it's being a little too efficient for me to rest properly. So I slept hard last night, but woke up anxious and restless sometime in the middle of the night.

Speaking of whom, the Very Nice Rock Star and myself had an unsettling conversation last night. I was explaining to him about something I had talked to Jaime (my hippie, Buddhist therapist) about: my intimacy issues. I have this problem which is somewhat freeing but ultimately unhealthy, which is my inability to rely on a person that I'm dating -- or, to a much lesser extent, my friends. In other words, I assume that every time I see them will be the last. This might be lovely and Zen if I didn't actually believe it so much, but as it stands it means that I don't really feel that these people are a part of my life so I don't let them affect me either positively or negatively. If they aren't in the room with me, they might as well not exist at all. That's cold. It helps if I don't date around too much after I find someone I like, otherwise that's an excuse for me not to avoid intimacy.

The next thing I know, and I'm not sure how this happened, but Mr. VNRS is saying, "I don't want you to be disappointed, but you know that we're still in the non-exclusive part of our relationship, right? It's just that some women have conveniently forgotten that..."

Which filters to the Angry Woman portion of my brain as: "Oh, it must be very painful for you to not be close to people like that. Well, maybe that's good, because you really shouldn't, anyway. Nobody wants to be close to you, you know, because innately broken women who have spent time in famous insane asylums aren't attractive. Except to that one guy you told me about who was freakily into it."

When what he really meant was: "I really like you, I just like going very slowly and I know you do, too, because we've had really great, open conversations about it."

The Angry Woman wants to reply: "What, you think I don't know the score? I get it. You're talking to the girl who gets regular complaints from actual boyfriends -- you know, people who aren't paralytically afraid of commitment like you and I are -- that she's too distant. Also, you treat me like your girlfriend and you probably treated those other women that way, too, so how much is conveniently forgotten and how much is you not bothering to define a clearly-recognizable boundary? Fuck off, asshole, I do know the score, I've been here with other people and I'm over this kind of bullshit, so I'm leaving you right now. GOODBYE FOREVER!"

When what I should say is: "Your timing was awful and that hurt. A lot. Look, tonight was really great for both of us, so let's not ruin it by talking about our relationship. I feel lonely enough lately, thank you, and I have a lot to deal with emotionally, so please don't. I love you, good night."

I can't remember what I did say, but I over-analyzed it until I fell asleep. Cue the intense dreaming. I woke up pointlessly angry and cold and went to work.

I check my e-mail when I get there. There's something from Mr. Alcoholic Rock Star:

Things have been crazy. I'll wait until you're
entirely better so I can tell you all about it in
person.

Okay. Well. We'll see how that turns out. If it's anything like past I have something I need to tell yous from him, he'll probably tell me he's seeing someone (last time he got back with an ex-girlfriend), at which point I'll tell him that I don't really care because so am I.

Maybe he's getting married.

Blank screen TV
Preening ourselves in the snow
Forget my name
But I'm over you

Blended sunrise
And it's a dying world
Humming Rheingold
We scavenge up our clothes

All my violence
Raining tears upon the sheet
I'm resentful
For we're strangers when we meet

On a final note, Jinny is not, in fact, moving to Portland. I want the best for her, so if she's sure, I'm happy. I want her to be with me right now. I want to go away from the boys and either hide under the covers until they all go away or go out with my girls to the Wild Rose and say fuck 'em if they can't take a joke, break their windows.

I learned that one from a man who left me.

Cold tired fingers
Tapping out your memories
Halfway sadness
Dazzled by the new

Your embrace
Was all that I feared
That whirling room
We trade by vendu

Steely resolve
Is falling from me
My poor soul
All bruised passivity

All your regrets
Ride rough-shod over me
I'm so glad
That we're strangers when we meet
I'm so thankful
That we're strangers when we meet
I'm in clover
For we're strangers when we meet
Heel head over
And we're strangers when we meet

Friday, November 16, 2007

Monday, November 12, 2007

Less sick now.

How exciting!

I'm totally less sick, except for this croup-y (yet productive!) cough. And a sniffle.

No thanks to meth. Or self-referential humor.

Sleep: it's a miracle drug!

Re: Coming Home.

This is the best thing I've read in a while.

Via Gluten-Free Girl.

Re: Meth Labs.

I am issuing a blanket apology for my post regarding meth labs. I should never have linked to a site that tells you what's in crystal meth. I am very, very sorry. Very sorry. In my defense I can only say that I was on Sudafed.

Don't mess with iodine crystals, kids. They're gross.

But this is still fascinating, from a chemistry perspective. These talented young people who run meth labs should make something of themselves, go into something useful, like chemical engineering.

You know, it's a good thing I'm a white woman from an East Coast politico family, otherwise who knows where* my sense of humor would get me?

the tussin, the tussin
put it down like it was nothing

robocop couldn't stop me puking and flushin

no balls to be bustin, no fightin, no cussin

just love for a drug called robitussin**


*Gitmo.
**Technically, that's dextromethorphan, the most ridiculous drug ever.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Did you know?

In that picture from the Kiss show? That's not his hair!

Now you know!

For example, this is how sick I've been:

I messaged the Rock Star and five minutes later forgot that I had done so.

Meth Labs: Ruining Influenza for Sober People Since 1993.


I hate how you can't get pseudoephedrine in Washington State any more without going up to the prescription counter. Stupid meth labs.

I'm still sick. I can't talk and walking four blocks to the store exhausts me. I have no appetite and average about five hours of sleep a night. I can't not work because I'm broke. I can't go to the doctor because crazy fuckwits in this country can't understand why universal health care is a good idea. (I do not have private insurance through my job.)

Bleah.

So, no good blogs from me until I feel less terrible.

Dream girl.

You are Maryiln Monroe

A classic tortured beauty
You're the dream girl of many men
Yet they never seem to treat you right

Monday, November 5, 2007

Why don't you marry a nice shiksa instead?

My last long-term relationship was with an Ashkenazi Jew who never told his Conservative parents about me, although we had been together for a year and had begun pre-marriage talks. Some of these took the form of how we would raise prospective children. I identify as Buddhist, although I don't speak of my faith much. Adam, however, culturally identified as Jewish but spiritually was an atheist. I was not interested in, and would still remain against, conversion, having spent enough of my adult life coming to terms with my personal spirituality.

Adam was, and is, an intelligent, well-spoken man of the sort that I'm typically attracted to. Somehow, I've gotten to date an unusually high percentage of Jews over the years. Maybe it's the tall, dark, and handsome thing (sorry, Rock Star! I also have a track record with red heads!). Seattle has a relatively small Jewish population, especially compared to other parts of the country where I've lived (interestingly, Adam was from St. Paul, MN). I also have plenty of friends (mostly in theater, of course) who are Jewish, and my father's foster family is Jewish. I was raised with some interesting holiday habits, to say the least!

So I'm continually fascinated by Jewish topics and issues and I have frequently been declared an "honorary Jew" by my friends. Well, I ran into this article on Slate today about the probable genetic predisposition of Ashkenazi Jews towards verbal intelligence.

Which makes me think of other racial and ethnic predispositions. I am primarily Celtic (Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, although I'm also some English, German, and African). So, what comes from there? I surmise a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism and a good ear for music, maybe a temper? A free sexuality among women or homosexuality among men? I would guess that we have some of the opposite problem that the Jews have; the trade-off for their wordiness seems to be poor visio-spatial awareness. I bet that the Scots and the Irish, natural warriors that we are, don't have that particular problem.

I have heard that we tend to have problems processing glutens after millenia of eating sheep fresh off the vine. On that note, I'm pleased to say that I am feeling much better, digestively speaking, since going gluten-free.

Does anyone know if or where I could find any more information?

Kill me.

I hate the hiccups enough as it is, but never, ever, if you can help it, get the hiccups when you have a terrible influenza.

I want to die. At least until the hiccups go away.

Kissing disease.

The Kiss show went well, although I wasn't there very long. I stayed through the first set and then Dan drove me home; I'd been feeling under the weather and had to work the next day anyway. But the boys did a great job and I'd love to see the whole set sometime.

Earlier on Halloween, I took my nephew trick-or-treating for the first time. He's three. He was a fire chief! Not just a fireman, a fire chief. We went down to Magnolia Village where all the businesses prep for a big community trick-or-treat. I think we got through about ten places before his eyes started to glaze and Caitlin and I decided that it was dinner time for everyone. On the way home, Roscoe said from the back, "Tired Mama. Tired Auntie." We agreed that, yes, Mama and Auntie were very tired.

The Rock Star promptly got sick the day after Halloween, though, and I came over Saturday to make soup and a pie for him. I'm still working out this recipe for Apple Gruyere Pie. It turned out okay, but it needs more cheese. I did, however, work out a fantastic gluten-free pie crust that tastes like real pie crust and doesn't fall apart if you look at it sideways. Take that, Flying Apron Bakery!

So of course I woke up sick on Sunday after cooking all day Saturday. The Rock Star made me some eggs (I tried to make them myself but he kept me on the couch instead). After he took me home I spent the rest of the day shivering in bed and playing Final Fantasy XII. Fevers always kick my ass; once I'm over them, I'm fine with sniffles and all, but I get awful, hallucinatory fevers. I'm glad I took all kinds of vitamins and supplements this week in preparation of getting sick; things have been so bad that I knew my body would give out at some point. And it did. Hopefully I'll mostly be up and running again by tomorrow or the next day.

Good Morning!

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Boo.

Halloween is "scary".

Women dress as "sexy" and men dress as "women".

Does that then infer:

Sexy = scary?

Women = scary?

Dia de los Muertos.

No sun -- no moon!
No morn -- no noon!
No dawn -- no dusk -- no proper time of day --
...
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member --
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds --
November!

--Thomas Hood

Monday, October 29, 2007

Turn and face the strain.

For a long time I've suspected that I'm celiac, but, having no health insurance, I haven't gotten checked for it. However, I have a number of the symptoms: multiple kinds of anemia, fatigue, unexplained weight losses and gains, occasional gastrointestinal disorders, itchy skin, and depression.

I'm tired of having so many problems, and, although I don't think that avoiding gluten will cure my depression (or anything else, fully), if it's a factor in what is considered by the medical community to be a life-threatening illness then I should reduce my risk factor.

So, as of this week, I'm going gluten-free. I'm giving myself a week to use up all of the gluten-containing products in my household and then I'll be done. It's not going to be as hard as it was before because I basically don't eat things like pasta or pizza anyway, but I cheat all the time. I've just got to get used to this lifestyle again. Plus, unchecked celiac can lead to minor lactose intolerance, and I cannot and will not eliminate cheese from my diet. At least the Rock Star and I will be able to eat all of the sushi we want, as long as I'm careful about soy sauce (which frequently contains wheat as a binding agent).

Did I mention I'm making pies for the Balagan raffle in November? I'm going to test my pie recipes on the Rock Star. Fortunately, there are good gluten alternatives when you're making pie crust that don't suck. I doubt that I'll get very far with certain types of gluten-free baking because that rice/soy/whatever blend that is most common in gluten-free bakeries gives me the stinkiest gas ever.

Speaking of Mr. Very Nice Rock Star, I happily spent most of the weekend with him as we'd been too busy to see each other last week. Part of that time we were working together on his costume for his band Evil Twin's Halloween show. They're playing at the Noc Noc as Kiss circa 1974, which makes my guitar god Space Ace Frehley. After sewing for about 6 hours all told (and since neither of us own a sewing machine my fingers are spotted with tiny pricks where I stabbed myself) we finished late last night. Actually, I had already fallen asleep by the time he came to bed after gluing a bunch of two-inch mirrors to the shiny black yoke I had sewn. It looks amazing; better than this guy's costume for damn sure. I'll try to get some pictures up because I'm really quite proud of us, although I never thought I'd be making a Kiss costume. Live and learn.

Speaking of "us", I find the Rock Star so dreadfully charming when he subtly talks about serious things. We were driving to pick up Evil Twin's lead singer on our way to some party or other that we were going to make an appearance at, when he remarked that he wanted to have a party.

"I want it to be a grown-up party, with wine and cheese and a bunch of people having good conversation. I don't have a lot of intellectual stimulation in my current circle of friends."

I said that I thought that a party was a lovely idea. His Central District condo is smallish but ultra-modern, and I find it cozy and charming. I offered to cook. I love his kitchen.

"I'd like that. I don't know a lot of grown-ups, so I thought you could invite some people. I thought we could have a party." He looked at me sideways while driving. "And I think you know what that means."

What, that you're going to sacrifice me to an elder god? I knew he didn't mean to sound so ominous. I blushed. "...yeah."

This morning I envisioned what it would be like if he proposed to me:

"I put my condo on the market."

"Oh, that's nice! Are you looking for a larger place? Where are you looking?"

"Well, I thought that you might have some input, because I'd like it if you lived there, too. And I think you know what that means."

...but that won't happen after he sacrifices me at a dinner party next month.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
(turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-changes
Oh, look out you rock n rollers
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
(turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-changes
Pretty soon now you're gonna get a little older
Time may change me
But I cant trace time
I said that time may change me
But I cant trace time

Saturday, October 27, 2007

OiNK RIP, long live Balagan.

An interesting link to Shane "Lowdown" Regan's MySpace Blog re: the changing face of music distribution.

And a thoughtful link to Misha Berson's Seattle Times article on my theater company, Balagan, and our new performance space at 12th and Pike.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

No title.

I am officially on a leave of absence as Managing Director of Balagan Theatre.

Jake took me to dinner and asked me to step back for a while and let myself heal. He's not wrong to ask me to do that, either as my colleague or my friend. I know what he's trying to be most of all is a friend right now.

One one hand, I'm relieved. I do need to rest and get better. If I could possibly afford it, I would leave town for a while, but I can hardly pay my bills right now. My anxiety is still high and I could desperately use a real vacation.

On the other hand, now I have less of a reason to get up in the morning. I also have much less reason to care about my company. I'm already feeling disconnected and used, I don't have an artistic stake and I barely have a financial stake. Now I feel like nothing I do matters and I'm expendable and what the hell am I here for anyway?

Now what?

I've been fantasizing about moving away. With Jinny's move coming up, there's less reason for me to stick around. However, I finally have a good support network here, and I shouldn't throw that away. The only places I would care to move to right now are New York, which seems like a bad idea at the moment even if I keep fantasizing about it, or New Zealand, which is better but requires much more money. Not that I have any money for anything, because if I did I'd just go away for a while and the whole thing would be moot.

Also, I seem to still be doing the same amount of work.

I don't know how this is supposed to function, but I'm pretty sure that's not it.

Go away.


My one day off this week it had to be pouring down rain. I wandered around the Market until I got tired, then I sat on a stoop under eaves in Post Alley and felt bitter and depressed. I considered seeing About A Son, but decided to take a nap instead.

And now, a tale from my hometown: the Lemolo TRYathlon.

Kitsap connection, yo.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Forty whacks on amateur night.


I have a few issues about why I no longer derive any fun from Halloween that I feel I should share with you all. It's amateur night. It's for people who have no reason to dress up and not be themselves in their daily life. I have plenty of reason to do that and I get paid for it. When I want to escape, I'd rather take a vacation. It's culturally disgusting when you're in your late twenties or early thirties, in the same way that St. Patrick's Day is: an exhausting excuse for excess created (in modern times) by mealy-mouthed religious kids rebelling against their strict upbringing before going back to the church. I'm over my party years, really, and I don't need to dress up like a slut just a couple times a year. Seriously, I get cast as prostitutes all the time.

It's icky if you look at kids, too, but then I came from a family where my mom made all my costumes. One year I went as a fire lizard and when I was 10 I went as a student from Tiananmen Square.

But, okay, I admit it, I'm dressing up this year. Why? Because Ava will dress me, and she's fun and has good taste. Because I don't have to put any effort into it whatsoever except showing up. I'm fine with that. Really.

She's dressing me as Lizzie Borden. With a rhinestone axe.

Or maybe I should just be a frog.

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
And when she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.

The First Woman President?

Feminist writers and others have debated to death about whether being a woman means supporting Hillary. I don’t think it does. As a woman, however, I support Clinton’s record on gender issues—which is an entirely different thing than supporting a candidate because of her gender.

Erica C. Barnett's article on Slog re: HRC's recent visit to Seattle.

Springtime for Hitler?

The Nazis invented the worst thing ever: the assembly-line death factory. But they also invented something else, perhaps the only legacy of theirs that endures to this very day. During World War II, Hitler's war machine created the world's first sex doll: Borghild.

Sometimes it's no wonder that being a woman is an exercise in putting oneself back together: they keep taking us apart to find perfection.

Via Mike Daisey.

Chemo Therapy.


This morning at one of the intersections a couple blocks from work, it smelled like pancakes, maple syrup, and shrimp. I couldn't decide if it smelled delicious or sickening.

The thing about going back into therapy is that you have to get a lot more sick in order to get better. I can tell I'm getting healthier and I feel like I have more options for my mental and emotional well-being, but man, is this ever exhausting. I feel like my skin is thin and shredding constantly. My stomach is upset and I'm having a hard time eating and sleeping. I'm glad that I already stopped drinking. It would be much harder to get better if I hadn't gone dry.

On top of all that, Jinny is moving back to Portland. I think it's absolutely the right decision for her, but I'm sad. She's one of the women that mean the most in my life, and we've shared so much...but I guess if one of my best friends can live in another state, then it's okay for Jinny, too.

At least I can go down to Portland pretty easily, it's right there. I could use a vacation. In fact, Jinny's 30th birthday is in a couple of weeks and I'd love to get down there to celebrate and get a night away from my life.

I'm going to miss her so much.

The treatment can be physically exhausting for the patient. Current chemotherapeutic techniques have a range of side effects mainly affecting the fast-dividing cells of the body. Important common side-effects include (dependent on the agent):
  • Nausea and vomiting
  • Diarrhea or constipation
  • Anemia
  • Malnutrition
  • Memory loss
  • Depression of the immune system hence (potentially lethal) infections and sepsis
  • Hemorrhage
  • Secondary neoplasms
  • Cardiotoxicity
  • Hepatotoxicity
  • Nephrotoxicity
  • Ototoxicity
  • Death

Monday, October 22, 2007

Coda.


Mr. VNRS got me out of my red dress.

No nasty comments, now. He used a very large pliers on the zipper and broke the pull, too.

I miss you, coffee.


I'm being so good at not drinking alcohol...but I cheat on coffee all the time. My challenge to myself at the moment is to abstain from coffee until the Seconds shoot is over.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

It's my party.

Playin' my records, keep dancin' all night
But leave me alone for a while
'Till Johnny's dancin' with me
I've got no reason to smile

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to, cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you

After I got out of my bath I tried to get dressed. I did the typical girl thing where one tries on a whole bunch of things in an effort to make sure that one looks gorgeous/skinny/appropriately professional/sexy/enviable. I put on my best red dress, the one I save for Big Dates or events, but decided that it was too sexy and not professional enough.

So I tried to take it off and the zipper broke.

I struggled with the zipper for half an hour. TDI called.

"Hey, my friend that I was bringing tonight canceled on me..."

"...oh, I'm sorry."

"...so I'm going to grab happy hour with some folks and try to convince someone to come with me."

"Uh. Okay. Great. Free wine and chocolate. Tell them that."

"Okay."

"I'm stuck in my dress."

"Really?"

"Uh. Yeah. I gotta go, I'm sorry. Zipper."

I hung up and, after a brief struggle, resigned myself to wearing the red dress. At least if I was going to be stuck in something, I was stuck in something fabulous. I accessorized and started walking to the theater in the light rain with sucking dread in my stomach.

When I got there, I tweaked the set-up of the open space of the lobby where the bar and cabaret will eventually be when we finish construction. Unfortunately, there's art there.

As Managing Director, I am responsible for curating what will eventually be a rotating art gallery in the lobby. I'm excited for when we actually have the means to do this, i.e. proper lighting, etc. However, someone (I don't know who, which is probably good) let a company member who shall remain nameless put their work up on the walls without my permission.

Something I left out of my earlier post about my breakdown is how I walked in, saw the art, stopped, decided that I literally couldn't look at it again without losing my shit, then continued walking. Enter Charles, the hug, and losing my shit anyway, as told in my previous entry.

It's all black paint or thick pen on white butcher paper, except for the sketchbooks (sketchbooks!) propped open. As Sylvia said, the pieces look like a fourteen-year-old goth created them. I've been blocking them out of my head as much as possible, since just looking at them made my breath shorter. Not because it's emotionally affecting art, but because having such humiliating art on our walls for our grand opening makes us look so terrible that I can't deal with how people will perceive us because of it. I had invited Krysztof to the gala but I'm glad he couldn't make it because I was so dreadfully embarrassed by the mind-numbingly bad art.

Anyway. I ignored the art and hung around the theater, talking to various cast and crew floating about. Eventually Kaitie pulled me aside and I told her about the previous day. I had planned on coming to opening night (the Benaroyas were to be there and Jake wanted a full house for Donna, plus it's my fucking theater too, even if I felt depressed and empty over it) but Sylvia kindly told everyone that I wasn't feeling well, thank you, and that I would try to be well enough to make it to the gala. Kaitie called me in the morning to ask how I was and I told her that I'd give her the whole deal later that night, if we could find a few minutes.

That afternoon at the theater, I told her what had happened and my good session with Jaime (she referred me; we have the same therapist). I think we might have been interrupted, because the house opened shortly afterwards.

Ava Fiasco was the first of my people there. I told her to get there early since we were oversold. I got a row of seats by the entrance so I could scurry out if I needed to but the others would still have good seats, and she quickly designated one for Mr. VNRS, one for herself, and one for Devon Rocketship (of Junk Mail fame). A few minutes later, the Intellectual arrived with his friend who I had met yet who didn't remember me. The friend had been drunk at the Rendezvous a couple of weeks back and we had a good-natured argument about Charles' theory of masculine versus feminine dramatic structure. I think I won, but I'm not sure, but it was fun.

We eventually sat everyone that was to be sat and the show started.

Halfway through the first act, TDI, who was sitting in a different wing of the theater from me got up in the middle of a scene, peeked into a backstage exit near his seat, got focused on the proper exit, and simply left, taking his friend with him, leaving me distracted and anxious for the rest of the first act.

The second act of Caryl Churchill's Cloud 9 is meant to be acted naturalistically, as opposed to the farce in the first act. Ryan was cast as Betty/Edward and, as I watched the second half of the play, I felt sad and alone in our concrete bunker theater. His dialect was wretched (Long Island Mick plus middle-class Brit just comes out as a speech impediment) and he was feminine and queer but all of his own mannerisms were there, as intimate to me as they had always been, and all I could think of was that I had lost my best friend and my lover and our baby and it was all blood and I wanted to run away and be sick and I wanted to hurt him very badly and I wanted to stop being so angry. I wanted to tell him that every day I wake up and wish that he was dead, or wish that I was dead, or wish that life was different somehow, and that I'm sorry and I had never missed anyone so much in my life but I hated him. I was aching and raw and I wished that I were anywhere else.

And it was over then, and I could skip the curtain call and go out and work and forget what I had just seen on stage in the bar rush.

Kaitie found me after things had calmed down. I let Shannon spell me at the bar and we took a break in the empty theater. She gave me half of her bouquet of white roses and told me that the party was amazing. I cried in her arms and told her that I missed her and that I loved her and that I wanted to die, and then we sang songs until I had to go back to work.

How could a night so frozen
be so scalding hot?
How can a morning this mild
feel so raw?

Without you
The tides change
The boys run
The oceans crash

The crowd roars
The days soar
The babies cry
Without you

The moon glows
The river flows
But I die
Without you

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

The week had been ramping up for Balagan's "gala": the open house after-party on the Friday after the new theater opened, and I was almost done with everything that I needed to do. My weekend had been good and I felt a little better for it, but weight was building on me. I felt if I could just get through opening weekend, get through the gigantic party that all of our most important donors, patrons, and colleagues were invited to, I would be okay. Sam had given me a couple of comps to Twelfe Night for Wednesday, and Mr. VNRS and I went. It was a beautiful production; it's arguably Shakespeare's most complex and troublesome comedy (it was written just before Hamlet) with a spectacular cast of local actors (including my friend Curtis Eastwood!). I had forgotten how bittersweet the denouement to that one is. Mr. VNRS is quickly becoming one of my favorite people to see a play with; he came to Cloud 9 and the gala, too, but that's getting ahead of myself.

The next day, Thursday, I got up and worked on my last-minute plans for the gala with Sylvia. No matter what I did I couldn't feel right that day, and nothing lifted me out of wherever I was going inside. Syl and I eventually parted ways to get various things done and I dropped by the theater to see if Jake was there, since I had a few questions for him. He was out, but Charles, our Artistic Director and the object of much ambivalence on behalf of the company, was gaffing down runners on the walkways around the seats, and he looked up at me and smiled. I hadn't been expecting to see him; for some reason. I hadn't been expecting to see anyone.

"Hello, darling! It's been so long!" He stopped short. "What's the matter? No smiles?"

I mumbled something about how I'd been "going through some things". I've been practicing that on the recommendation of my therapist. Charles put down the gaff tape and stood up.

"Well, you and I have really got terrible chemistry, haven't we? I must have tried five different cocktails of medication before I got it right; once I thought I got it right until something happened and I went suicidal. And I never know when it's hormones or something real."

He didn't say anything more, just walked over to me and and held me for a long time. I breathed. He let go of me.

"Well, Jake went out shopping, he should be back in a half an hour -- less, actually. You can wait here for him."

I thanked him and said I'd come back later. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. October was squalling outside and I didn't know where to go, so I quickly walked home, my breath getting shorter and shorter. I put on huge dark glasses and tried not to be so obvious about openly weeping while walking down Pine Street. That was as far as my caring went. Let them stare, I thought. Who cares.

I got home and threw my jacket off and collapsed, coughing and crying and lost at home and not able to stop my heart from racing. I don't know how much time went by, but I couldn't find any quiet. Although I don't know when or how I made the decision, but I managed to call Sylvia. I'm pretty sure I was incoherant and I know I kept apologizing, but she got to my place as soon as she could and stayed with me until the worst had passed. She called my therapist and my sister and left messages with them both. I can't typically use the phone when I'm that upset. Syl's stage managing Cloud 9 and had to leave to run errands, but neither of us thought I should be alone. I went with her to Vivace so she could use the internet to e-mail Charles. She didn't want to talk to him.

I couldn't look at anyone as we went. I kept my head low and my eyes down and did not look to either side. My breath was still shallow and my muscles felt frozen. I absently drank hot milk and tried not to think about how loud everything was at the cafe.

There was an explosion outside, and then another, small and bright white and red. The power went out, and people stood up from their chairs, chattering and looking out the windows. A transformer outside had blown, leaving everyone with only the weird yellow Northwest October late afternoon light.

"We should have gone to the library in the first place," grumbled Sylvia, packing up her laptop, "It's quiet there anyway." She watched me carefully. I had jumped when the explosions happened, and I was gently hyperventilating again. She slipped me a milligram of lorazepam before we left.

Lights were out on Broadway for five blocks in either direction and all the print shops that Sylvia needed things from were closed now from the power outage. "I need to take you somewhere. Who can we call?"

I thought about this. My sister still hadn't called back, and I was worried about going there anyway because of my nephew, as though I were convinced that my sadness and fear were somehow contagious or something. Almost everyone else I knew was either building a theater or working hard at their own problems and I didn't want to bring them mine. I finally mentioned my friend, the Dashing Intellectual, as the only person I could think of.

I'd been seeing The Dashing Intellectual for a little less than a month and I found him very interesting. He's very stimulating, intelligent, and exciting and always gets me out of my routine, although we don't always see eye to eye. He was nice enough to let me come over and we watched Fishing With John until the tranquilizer really hit me and I fell asleep for a while.

I dreamed about August Wilson, and when I woke up, the numbness of the lorazepam had worn off and I felt sad and quiet again. TDI was watching a collection of films by Kenneth Anger. I watched with him for a while, but the surreality didn't help my mood. I felt calm enough to use the phone again, so I called my sister and Mr. VNRS and let them know that I was safe and not alone.

Caitlin said I could come over any time if I needed to. I told her that I was worried about Roscoe and exposing him to moody scenes like I had gone through earlier.

"I've lost it in front of him before," she said. "I've collapsed on the floor crying, and he's confused, but he does fine. He's very resilient. I think it's good for him to know that it's okay to feel this way. We weren't taught that."

I thought about that for the rest of the night, and eventually I fell asleep again. In the morning I had an emergency session with Jaime, my therapist. He has a long red ponytail and glasses and wears Tommy Bahama shirts. He also works at Seattle Mental Health with in-patients as an addiction specialist and takes sliding-scale clients like me in his office for "relaxation". He's probably the best therapist I've ever had, though this is only my fourth session. My first session, I walked in, signed my paperwork, and immediately burst into tears. When he didn't stare at me as though I were speaking in tongues -- you'd be surprised how many psychologists do when something like that happens -- I knew that I was safe with him.

I had talked with Jaime briefly on the phone the previous day when we set up my appointment. I was still hyperventilating a little but had gotten to TDI's place so I felt safe and calmer. I had a good session, mostly about grief and holding that inside, and I told Jaime that I wanted to go back to the hospital when I had my attack, but I had no health insurance so I didn't. I also told him about the lorazepam. It's terrible that I love benzos and painkillers so much because they're really quite bad for someone like me, but I'm glad that I had the opportunity to not feel anything for a while. Afterward, Sylvia picked me up and we ran a few more errands for the gala then went to our respective homes to wash up and get dressed.

Jaime keeps telling me to take hot baths. I love baths, but I really hadn't wanted to sit still for long enough to take one. When I got home, it was the first time that I'd been alone for more than a day and I was frightened of the silence. I felt tired and cottony and sad, and I ran a bath.

I have a wonderful bathtub. I read for a few minutes, but eventually I put the book down and just sat. I sat I and wept, and I let myself feel that I had lost something, which is different than just feeling pain. I stayed like that for as long as the feeling lasted, like waiting for a fever to break, then I shaved and washed and got out.

For the rain it raineth every day.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I'm here from the internet.


If only this was how I introduced myself.

My favorite movies (according to Jared).

I've stated elsewhere that I hate favorites, so I'll never list them. How convenient that someone else will list my favorites for me!

I had a much-needed lunch today with my friend Jared, whose blog can be found at Because You Care What I Think (Don't You?). My history with him is brief, beautiful, and wistful, and I am very glad that he's my friend. He made this list for me, forgot to bring it to lunch, and then e-mailed it to me. I've written brief notes on each one. I think it's more fun than actually making a list of my own.

12 Monkeys: I love science fiction and crazy people depicted well. Bruce Willis and I have the same birthday.

American Beauty: I am in love with Alan Ball's writing; I finished watching the last episode of Six Feet Under last night. I saw American Beauty for the first time with a friend at the Crest, a local cheap second-run theater. It destroyed me.

Barton Fink: I saw this with my ex-fiance. Yes, I was engaged. It was some years ago now, and it was a bad idea for everyone.

Before Sunrise: I'm a sucker for sad love stories.

Blood Simple: Haven't seen it.

Donnie Darko: Talk about crazy people and films destroying me; this was the last movie I saw with the only man to break my heart (not his fault, it was the timing). We caught the Director's Cut at the Metro on Queen Anne and I couldn't talk for about an hour afterward. It hit a little too close to home.

The Elephant Man: I haven't seen this since I was a kid and I don't have a particularly clear memory of it, but some of the images rise out of my subconscious every so often.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: This was the first movie I was with the aforementioned man-who-broke-my-heart. It was our first date, which lasted two days and occurred over my birthday. The universe has a wonderful sense for foreshadowing, in my opinion.

Fargo: Always good.

Fight Club: At the time, I identified plenty with this movie and wished that someone knew enough to make something with the same feel for women. Later I wrote Space.

The Fisher King: Yes.

Glengarry Glen Ross: My ambivalence towards David Mamet aside, I can't deny that he's a master craftsman.

The Manchurian Candidate (1962): Classic.

The Ice Storm: If I had favorites, Ang Lee might be my favorite film director.

Lost in Translation: If I make plans with someone to see a movie, and then they see it without me, it is 99% likely that I will never see that film. This happened a lot when I was dating Adam. Therefore, I've never seen Lost in Translation, but I've always suspected that I'd love it.

Manhattan (1979): My sister hates Woody Allen, because he reminds her of our mother. I kind of love him, because he reminds me of New York. The further I go, the more I miss New York.

Mulholland Drive: The first movie I ever saw in the theater was David Lynch's Dune. It certainly had a defining effect on my artistic sensibility.

Rear Window: I AD'd a stage version of Rope and made my way through the more significant part so Hitchcock's canon at the time. So, yes.

Ronin: Haven't seen this one. I'm not sure that I'd like it.

Secretary: Loved it. Last year I dated a guy whose blog nickname was Mr. Grey (Jinny gave it to him).

Traffic: Missed this, again, not sure if I care. I really should see it. Didn't it win some awards? I'm clearly paying attention.

Trainspotting: I saw this in the theaters when it came out on an awful, terrible date with my ex-boyfriend's friend. I was seventeen and had just had an abortion about a month before with said ex. I fell in love with Ewan MacGregor, of course, and every time I tell this story Patricia tells the one where she bummed a smoke to Ewan, assuming he was a street person. She wins, I think.

Vertigo: As above, per Hitchcock.

Wonder Boys: Haven't seen it.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Are you the kind of person...?


Lastly:

The best exchange last night happened when I was talking to Johann and Ravenna outside of Derby Salon. A gal comes rushing out and grabs the first woman near the door and asks:

"Are you the kind of person who carries stamps in her purse?"

"Yes, I am!" cries the grabee, and the two scurry inside, ostensibly to mail something in a hurry at 9pm on a Thursday night.

Puff daddy.

Another note or two on the Junk Mail show last night:

When Mr. Very Nice Rock Star showed up, he unzipped his leather jacket and hoody to reveal a hand-made shirt: black with Chelsea Speed Party written on it in reddish-white puffy paint. Ava caught a glimpse at it and pulled me over during Junk Mail's set with an offended hiss, "You let him leave the house in puffy paint?!"

"Hey, I don't dress him! He's a grown-up, he dresses himself. It's probably what he wore to work."

I reported this to Mr. VNRS and he laughed and teased Ava for the rest of the night about his shirt.

Also, Junk Mail rocked.

Pins.

Last night I went to Krysztof Nemeth's art opening at Derby Salon. I don't mind saying that I have a minor (okay, pretty major) crush on him, because he's a gigantic sweetheart and a fantastic artist, and I enjoy his company though I don't know him very well. The show was fun, mellow, with lots of free wine, which is too bad since I've been mostly dry (barely even damp!) for the last few months. When I walked up I heard a scooter fire up and pull away. I went in Krysztof gave me a big hug and said, "Wait, [Mr. VNRS's name redacted] just left! Literally, just now." Oh, well. So I spent some time with the man of the hour and his art, and Ava showed up with her friend Angel, a sultry, voluptuous burlesque girl.

People kept bringing their kids in, and Krysztof and I chatted about children together and with a few other people. Most of the little ones were around the same age, between a year and two years, running around or reaching up to the Halloween lights strung about the salon.

"You okay?"

I had been zoning out on a gorgeous tow-headed 16-month-old boy wearing a shirt with George W. Bush's picture and a caption that said President Poopy.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Fine."

Krysztof asks me if I like kids. I tell him, honestly, that I love them, and that I'm a proud auntie. He tells me a little about his two, but there's a distance in his obvious joy.

"Do they live with you?" I ask, a little cautiously.

He smiles sadly, and tells me they don't. "I don't really want to go into it, I'm tired of talking about it, but you can ask Ava. I don't mind you knowing...just tell her that Krysztof said it was okay."

I smile and thank him, and think about telling him about my miscarriage. I wonder if he read it on me earlier, but decide that it was unlikely. It's just that it's not the first time this week that someone has asked me if I was all right when I was staring at a baby. I hope I'm not too obvious.

Later, I chatted with a sweet guy named Johann (the other mostly sober person) until Ava, Angel, and I booked it out to the Comet to see Devon's band, Junk Mail. Mr. VNRS showed up to that, so I guess I didn't miss him after all.

Controversial, my fanny.

Censorship, via Newspeak.

I love installations.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

I love you more than you know.

I've been on this kick of reading personal essays lately, and last week it was I Love You More Than You Know by Jonathan Ames, which I was finishing at the gallery in order to pass on to my co-worker Ellyn. One of my bosses had propped open the door (we have an annunciator, one of those things that discreetly beepbeeps when someone opens the door) but I was keeping, or trying to keep, vague attention on who was coming in. I must have gotten engrossed since I heard a rap on the glass counter in front of me.

I look up, and there is Mr. Alcoholic Rock Star. I stared at him blankly for a moment with that dreamy, just-waked look and feel one gets when intense reading has been interrupted. I forget that he does this every so often, drop by my work. He always seems smaller and out of place there.

"Oh."

"Hi." He's uncomfortable, unsurprisingly for the way we left things last. He's always a little uncomfortable anyway when he's sober, and since it's the middle of the day and he's presumably on his way back from class he's sober.

"How are things?"

"Things? Fine. Busy. The theater opens in a couple of weeks."

He gets his derisive look when I mention my work, or maybe it's my imagination.

"How's class?"

"Good. Fine. Look, I still want to write music for you. For your plays. I just need to know how long they are. How long it needs to be."

I don't even bother getting into how that doesn't work in live theater. Another battle, another time.

"Yeah, okay."

"I have to go catch a ferry."

He hugs me and is off, like that. I briefly note that he doesn't smell like liquor. A few days later at the gallery I'm still reading the Ames when a small, slight woman in her fifties comes in on a rainy day and wanders around. She mentions that she works across the street in the Pioneer Building.

"Oh, do you work in that antique place?"

"No, I'm lawyer."

I'm embarrassed at having presumed based on her adorable graying presence that she was not some kind of professional woman, but I suppress it, wondering if I should apologize. I don't and she seems not to notice, being perfectly happy to browse. We chat and it comes out that she's a defense attorney.

"One of my friends used to be a pretty well-known musician in the area --" she brightens with interest; everyone loves a celebrity, even a minor one "-- but he's in his third year at the U-Dub now to go into defense. In fact, he used to work in the Public Defender's office."

"Really? What's his name? I worked there a few years ago."

I tell her and she thinks it's familiar. "I can't place a face, though...but he must be pretty good to be at the U."

"He's one of the smartest men I've ever met." I get sad when I admit that.

And then she's gone, and I go back to my book, and I finish it that day.

Alienation.


This caused a spontaneous proposal of marriage from me.

Shuffle off.



Of all the shuffling one can do (i.e. off this mortal coil, off to Buffalo, etc.) the best is through autumn leaves.

I felt a little better this week. I certainly cried less, which is good for everyone. I guess. Anyway, I'm completely broke and starting to wonder if selling my kidneys is a good idea. Probably not. But don't I have two? What's the second one for, if not emergency funds? Or 401k? Social security is a joke, so I better figure something out. I can't sell my eggs because of the hormones involved, so I could think of some even less obvious form of prostitution.

I kid.

I should mention that I'm actually very lucky. I have good friends and a strong support network. It's my fault, I realize, if I don't take advantage of it the way I could. At least I can eat and I have a place to live and I'm not here. I need to learn that there's nothing wrong with relying on people who love you.

I went to the tiniest sushi place in town last night with Sam. I wish I had been hungry; I had finished the leftovers of my earlier brunch with Jessica just before he asked if I wanted to go out. Anyway, it's right across the street from us and it's probably 15' by 6', in less than half of which you can stand or sit at one of three stools at a counter to eat. The one piece of Sam's roll that I had was firm and yummy, and it looked like he got a lot of food for 12 bucks.

Since Mr. VNRS and I go out for sushi with some regularity, I texted him about this tiny place and said that we should make it our mission to try every sushi restaurant in Seattle. He said we should blog about it, which is a brilliant idea and one of the things that really turn me on about him. Food plus geekery: what's not to love?

It's interesting that he and I have both had similar disappointing experiences dating people who don't eat sushi. I used to blame lack of sushi eating to being Terminally White and/or Midwestern (where you can't get good fish so I don't blame them for not eating the raw stuff) but Mr. VNRS is from Minnesota (what is it with me and Minnesotans?). I guess it's just a relief to the both of us that we can go out and get the sushi body high together without feeling guilty or like we're cheating on our foodie dates, the way I felt when I went out with someone for any kind of meat-based deliciousness when I was with any vegetarian I've dated.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Autumn weather.

I started therapy this week after a hiatus of five or six years.

One of the fringe "benefits" of a background in the practical applications of modern American acting theories is the socially questionable ability (or compulsion) to cry at any time.

Times this week I have cried:
  • During therapy (expected).
  • In a meeting with Jake.
  • After sex.
  • During sex, preventing orgasm.
  • Walking down the street.
  • Watching Six Feet Under (also expected).
  • In Mr. Very Nice Rock Star's car (not his fault, never his fault).
  • During a Weakerthans concert.
  • Twice during my two-hour Planned Parenthood appointment.
  • Writing an e-mail.
  • Upon getting my period.
  • At my day job.
It's not usually a huge amount all at once. It's more like a Seattle rain, brief and light, not soaking very deeply into the ground. But a couple of times there have been quick thunderstorms. Today it's chilly and bright with the wicked and surreal yellow Northwest autumn light, but in an hour we could hear thunder.

On the bright side, I want to write again. I'm gestating an idea for a companion piece to Space titled Box. It's going to end up being bloody and violent and a lot less emotionally distant than Space was.