Lifetime's short now.

Well played, 2010. Well played.

2010-06-27T21:24:00.000-07:00

This year so far has been a doozy, and it's barely more than halfway over. Two of my neighbors at Cooper Artist Housing have passed away (one of them I was fairly close to) and a...colleague at Pike Place Market.

Today one I found out that a friend from the Market, Graham Callan, is in an induced coma so that he can recover from a staph infection. Okay, tough. That sucks, it made me tear up, and I'm keeping him in my heart and thoughts. Graham is close to my own age (early-mid thirties) has a big heart and is an incredible artist -- I'm lucky enough to have not just a few of his prints, but an original of his that his now-wife, Pixie, sold to me for a song. It's beautiful: he's a gifted, dark, and nuanced poet and visual artist.

My sister called about an hour or so ago to tell me that my mother's lung cancer, which she had beat and was in remission, has metastasized to her brain. There is nothing to do but make her comfortable. She's got about three to six months.

My relationship to my mother is troubled at best: there are times when I'm fairly sure that my parents, though they have a good marriage and are great partners to one another, really should never have had children. She and I haven't spoken since 2006, almost exactly four years ago. I just don't know what to feel or do.

My heart is pounding, hard.

(Online) dating and mental illness.

2010-06-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

I really should preface this with all my updates, since it's been a while, but for now, the only significant one is that James and I are no longer together, and haven't been for the better part of a year. You may have known that already. If not, c'est la vie, now you know.

Things have been pretty good, on the whole, though I feel like 2010 has been a big one-two punch of goodness and badness. I've had several friends and acquaintances pass away this year, which has been hard, but my first film, "Coffee", is in the New York Independent Film Festival, which is super awesome and exciting.

Anyway, after messing around in my personal life and being generally apathetic about dating, I'm starting to get back into it a bit. For those that don't already know, my preferred platform is to date online. Why? Well, I meet a lot of people on a daily basis. A lot. I work my day gig at a major tourist destination where hundreds of people from the local area converge for work on a daily basis, plus I work in art fields that are, by nature, social. So, in essence, nearly everyone I meet IRL is someone I work with. Dating those people is usually a bad idea, at least for me. It's just too much to worry about. Also, online dating, at least in tech-savvy Seattle, is basically a mainstream thing these days.

So, online. How else am I going to specifically target people of the appropriate age with similar interests in my area when I'm so busy? Well, that's where I met James and Mr. VNRS, as well as my friends Ian and Miguel and Jared and the man Jinny and I call Mr. Grey and lots and lots of other men and women who fall into every part of the Awesome-Sucks Spectrum. Seattle is a small town, some of those people were and are friends of friends, or someone that I almost knew through so-and-so...you get the idea.

I have a system. Want to hear about my system? When I was first starting to figure out what I wanted in a partner, I went out with every person who asked at least once, unless I got a "stranger danger feeling" or they flaked. (Note: stranger danger feeling happened twice in 3-4 years, and I have met a lot of people. Seriously. Them's good odds.) Of those first blind dates, I would say 75% of them I never saw again. Well, that might be an hour of my life over coffee or happy hour, and I never regretted it, because they were always interesting in some way and I was still learning what I wanted from a partner.

Specific lesson I learned number one: meet, in person, as soon as you can. Don't email a whole bunch, don't talk on the phone a whole bunch. You will create unrealistic expectations and preconceptions. Plus, there is no way you can fake the real, in-person, look-into-someone's-eyes chemistry feeling.

Back to the system: of the remaining 25%, perhaps only 25% of those made it past the first or third date. You can pretty much see where it's going now, so on and so on, until love and crap happens or doesn't. I've had a couple short relationships, one live-in relationship, and a lot of fun doing it this way.

Now the system is different, because I know exactly what I want in a partner. To boil it down, I want my best friend that I have amazing sex with. It's more complex than that and I have a lot of specific points (though, hopefully not too many!), but, yeah, that's it.

This brings me back to the title of my post. Having a love life concomitant* with your mental illness is hard enough when you factor in all the stigma surrounding being a "crazy" girl, even (or especially) a high-functioning one. There are potentially a lot of smoke and mirrors when it comes to meeting people romantically and getting to know them, but if you're serious about a relationship you have to be honest. Unfortunately, sometimes dating online makes the honesty thing much more challenging because we are required to not only show our best face as we do when meeting at a bar or suchlike IRL, we can take essentially as much time as we like crafting that face.

Therein lies the danger.

It's tempting. I can be, in my online life, whoever I want to be. I've chosen to be "out" about my mental illness both online and IRL because I believe that the net benefit -- in the quality of friendships I cultivate and the inherent activism of it -- is good for my life and the lives of others. So that brings us to: when to disclose?

Hm. Tough one. If I had a physical disability, like CP or being in a wheelchair, it would probably be pretty obvious. I have considered this myself and discussed with a similarly-tempered male friend who dates online the ramifications of putting "By the way, I'm mentally ill!" in my profile(s). His argument is, essentially, that I will scare some people off, people who might stick around otherwise, simply from the sheer shock factor and cultural stigma. However, he claims that I may also get the rare guy who is impressed by my honesty and likes the fact that I have disclosed early and often and he knows what he would be getting into.

My argument against is that I will get the "OMG I WILL SAVE HER WIF MY LUV" codependent guy with that strategy. That guy already loves me. I do not love that guy. Then there's that other guy, Mr. Grey, who literally fetishized my illness. *shudder* Gross.

Surprisingly, my friend usually has far less faith in in the general goodness of humanity than I do. He is just very into honesty because many people who date online suck at being transparent, and I don't blame him.

I have come to the conclusion that it's better to disclose at around the 3rd to 5th date. I will not continue something under false pretenses, but I also would like them to at least begin to see that I am functional on my own and I'm not seeking a partner in order to be my caretaker.

Being mentally ill is not quite the same as having a physical ailment, but there are some parallels we can draw. For instance, I have a chronic, life-threatening illness, much like, say, diabetes. Just like diabetes, I need to take care of my body (sleep/eat properly, get enough exercise), monitor my symptoms, and manage them with drugs and therapy if needed. If I don't do those things, I could die. It's pretty much that simple when it comes right down to it. The hard part is that my symptoms, unlike the symptoms of someone with diabetes, are not objectively measurable. They are subjective: how am I feeling today? Is it really good idea for me to have a drink, take that job, or choose not to go for a run? Am I going easy on myself because I am worried about my health, or am I depressed? Am I really excited and happy and full of energy, or is this the beginning of a hypomanic episode? Does it matter when they both feel the same way anyway?

And how do you communicate all that to a new romantic friend with hopefulness, compassion, and honesty, while still being open to and okay with the possibility of a core part of who you are being a dealbreaker?

I think the very fact that I'm considering these things, when and how to be completely honest, is a good sign of just how far I've come in recovery.

*LOOK A PSYCHIATRY JOKE ABOUT DATING. I am sooooooo funny.

An opening, a big move, and life goes on.

2009-09-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

Oi. What a summer! Okay, the quick lowdown:

I'm in a show! Come see it, please.

I'm makin' a movie! Well, a short, with Gina Robertson, who is a former teacher of mine and also a lovely friend. A whole bunch of folks from the old Northwest Actors Studio days are involved (Tim Brandt*, for one, who is like family), so it feels like a reunion. We are planning a fundraiser during October with a screening, hopefully, this December. More details on both to come.

I moved into Cooper Artist Housing! I live by myself (James and I are still together, but not living together for the moment) in a live/work artist studio above the Youngstown Cultural Arts Center. I'm a Delridge Girl once again. My cat loves it, I loves it...what a beautiful decision. It was one of the other things that fell together for me this year. Not living in the basement of a Capitol Hill tenement can only be a good for my health.

I also have some (theater, feminist, experimental) stuff in the works with some girlfriends...watch this space. I'm so excited about it that I can barely breathe when I think on it.

I'm pregnant with a play. I can feel it kicking.

30 is a good year so far.

*Tim has become a really lovely actor. He was before, but he is coming into his own now.

And even more #theaterfail.

2009-04-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

The Producing AD of American Stage Theater Company, Todd Olson, has issued a challenge to Mike Daisey: we broke it? You fix it.

How did he issue this challenge? In the most recent American Theatre.

Olson: You say the “dream” of theatre “is not quantifiable on any spreadsheet.” I say, “the hell it isn’t.” Artistic Directors have to do it every year.
Daisey: I know it is hard to hear, but if an artistic director has quantified the dream of theatre on a spreadsheet, they are dead already. I am sorry to tell you this, but it is true.

I've written about this a bit before. I've been on both sides here: Administrator and Artist. Olson really is brutal in this letter; according to his bio on the website he directs. Can you imagine being in a show with him? Ew. Well, I'm looking forward to Olson's response, if any is forthcoming. I doubt he expected Daisey to take the bait.

I'd like to point out that American Stage's website and promotional images are, in my professional opinion, terrible. The season's "posters" smack of the awful stereotype of tech-blind theater artists: they look as though someone gave a cheap (free) copy of a Photoshop-like program to an unpaid volunteer* who took a few pictures of actors that may or may not appear in the play (or, more likely, found open-source digital images) and made what any respectable marketing person would call a mock-up but in a "poor theater" is actually a real poster. God, I hope those aren't what go to the printers. And I could go on about the site itself. I want to throw Web Design for Dummies at it. It's ugly, inefficient, and boring: the Trifecta of Suck. One could theoretically find an intern that you don't pay in anything but theater tickets and beer who could do a better job, but I think that's not the point.

Everyone's got an idea on how to make theater better these days and no one agrees with anyone else. Right now I'm thinking of a conversation I had this week of one of the only friends I retained from the Stupid Theater Incident of my life. I told her about getting cast in a show** and her response was excited for me, but also boiled down to, "I'm not knocking it but I'm way too burnt out to even think about theater because theater is right now full of suck for me". And this was from a tough, smart woman who started her own darn theater because she was tired of how it was done. Ironically, the institution that we both survived -- were summarily drummed out of because we did not conform -- suffers from a radical case of just about everything Daisey claims is wrong with theater. The lovely lady in question has since moved to L.A. She is not the only refugee who left the state. Trust me, I've considered it.

For more fun, check out some of the responses on Daisey's blog and elsewhere:

I am becoming increasingly convinced that people in the theatre are not only completely lacking in critical thinking skills, but are barely literate at all.

That's completely true for me as well; said Stupid Theater currently features an AD who, literally, does not read the scripts he directs more than once. In fact, he doesn't always read them before including them in his seasons. The disrespect of that took my breath away. But I think this is an extreme example, though it's indicative of the kind of lazy behavior that certain theater professionals exhibit: to some, even when they work in theater, it's still seen as an "easy A", just like back in high school.*** The cognitive dissonance that this produces in the rest of us is mind-blowing and is the reason why I've been not working, not writing, not producing anything of artistic value for a year. I admit it: I can't handle working so hard as to literally break my health only to see ignorant asshats breezily producing 15-year-old plays that are already startlingly out-of-date to anyone paying attention (and therefore in my mind -- YMMV -- not currently worthy of reviving) because their wealthy, white, septuagenarian benefactors are comfortable with them. And will give them money if sufficiently impressed. And the cycle continues.

And this from a company that made its initial reputation not so long ago as an edgy, fringe-y, fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants company plop in the middle of a major gay/counterculture-ish community. Three years to cultural irrelevance. I don't want to die that way.

I'm going to bed and pulling the covers over my head. Tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day.

(Via.)

*Yes, Olson says that his admin staff are paid and I believe him. But obviously he needs to pay them less (or more) if this is the quality he's getting. You can have simple and inexpensive that looks classy, not cheap.

**Oh, yeah, and I'll be in that weird Macbeth. I'm a witch and I sing. Yeah. Don't ask.

***But not, right? Because they spend long hours building stuff and making money! They are above Reading for Comprehension, no matter how much time we spent studying for it in the WASL.

I don't know yet if this qualifies as FAIL or not...

2009-04-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

So, there is a knit-centric superhero comic book now. I haven't read it yet.

I'm...not sure yet how I feel about this concept. There's a certain knitting sub-community that is heavy into, shall we say, classic geekery: sci-fi, comics, gaming, and the ilk. This makes sense to me: there is a substantial overlap in personality types and interests in both groups, characterized in particular by an interest in maths, upon which knitting relies heavily. Yet, unlike at least the surface of the geek community, the knit community is populated primarily by women.

I have, shall we say, a history with the geek community that's not always positive, although that's a story for another time. So it's safe to say that I'm ambivalent when I run across the ubiquitous knit and crochet patterns for dice bags and Cthulhu amigurumi. But knitting (and crochet, and spinning, and other "distaff arts") and the reclaimation thereof are a significant component of the Third Wave feminist movement*, so even if I don't flip over your felted 20-sider I'm glad that something that's still mostly for us girls is getting it's own geeky life independant of the boy's club that is geekdom.

Yet...knitting, as a comic?

From the website's FAQ:

There isn’t enough knitting!
There will be. Not everything gets into every issue of a comic book. Jen owns a yarn shop. Ana and Alex both knit.

But...see...one of the first thing you learn as a writer is that, to make a good story, you need some kind of conflict. And there's just not really conflict in knitting. Okay, yeah, Continental vs. English**, the drama of the dropped stitch, wool allergies...wait, no, still no conflict. I cheer when I see people on TV shows that I like knitting, but if they were just knitting that wouldn't be so fun to watch. Hell, James complains if I knit too much and don't spend time with him. And yarn shops? Some of them rival libraries for their quiet, contemplative atmosphere.

So I'm wondering how there could be "not enough knitting"? When I'm not sure that it's even going to work as an active force in a comic in the first place?

Well, when I can afford it, I think I have to check this out just to see how tricky these writers are. It's an interesting experiment, and I need to experience this Handknit Heroes*** thing before I can decide how I feel about it.

*This a subject that we're looking to explore on the podcast as part of geekery and women.

**My Pennsylvania Dutch granny knit Continental, and that floated down in our family to my mother and me, but not my un-ambidextrous, poorly-socialized, math-loving programmer sister who didn't learn as a kid and now knits English. Cause I know you were wondering.
***I am pretty sure already that I hate that name.

More on How Theater Failed America.

2009-04-05T00:03:00.001-07:00

Remember this post?

Check this shit out.

Via.

Um...

2009-04-04T23:56:00.001-07:00

...yeah, so, super-viruses. We has them.

Looking at my blog, I just realized that I was sick for over a month.

#healthfail

Long time no blog.

2009-04-04T23:06:00.000-07:00

I know, I've been derelict: mea culpa.

First of all, James is fine. We were both pretty shook by the whole ordeal, but no one is dead, only two parts fell off the bike (which we retrieved, one from a nice homeless guy that James gave all his money* to) which starts. James himself had a badly-sprained hand and some scrapes and a rude** awakening. I had awful anxiety for the next few days and James had his first-ever panic attack. I should bake him a cake or something.

I actually got so anxious that my neck, shoulders, and upper back broke out in hives. No shit. They're fading now. Also, I've been fighting an eye infection. I'm not too worried; I used to get them all the time (stress! graduation!), so I can deal fine.

Since then, I have had a streak of good luck. Who knew?

Go Team Me:

I felt able to audition for the first time since That Whole Thing Where I Got Screwed Over by My Theater***. It was for a Macbeth and I have a callback tomorrow.

I got a commission through Etsy. The client is awesome and will give me dollars. In return I will give her hours of my time spent poring over yarn and button samples. Oh, and knitting. Can't forget the knitting.

I got blogged about re: Etsy and how awesome I am and why haven't you bought something from me? Just kidding. I know that only dudes read my blog. Not that I couldn't make you something nice too, you know.

Kidding!

I actually got a freakin' interview for a day gig. An e-mail interview, but "there's a good chance for a fit". And they wanted writing samples (copy and client communication stuff). This was my first interview, literally, since the last time that I needed to interview for a job that I got, which was...oh...three years ago? And since December I've sent out my resume out dozens of times. Lordy, lordy.

In other creative news that may or may not happen:

I'm thinking of writing a novel. Hm.

[Male friend's name redacted] and I are seriously considering a podcast. Hey, we're both smart, we're both wonks/geeks, we're both kind of cranks (him more than me), and we both think that we could do it better. Some of the topics we're considering: geekery& women (so...much...material...), geekery and knitters (I'm also forming a blog on this!), Israel and the Middle East in general (yeah, we'll narrow that down for you), and fact that BSG is clearly a product of the Bush era while Babylon 5 is clearly a product of the Clinton era****. Oh, and [redacted]'s name is redacted because he doesn't want to use his real name, for various reasons. If you know me well, you probably know him, too, or could at least hazard a guess. He does not, for some reason, read my blog (and/or keeps forgetting that it exists), so it's probably not you.

*A dollar.

**Read: terrifying.

***There may be an satisfying coda to this in the next year or so. That's all I can really say right now. No, I am not going to blow up the theater, even though I have thought about it. Repeatedly.

****This is a real coversation that [redacted] and I have had, which may, in fact, count as the nerdiest thing I have ever in my life considered in this here my brain. Additionally, please do not talk to me about the series finale of BSG. I have not yet seen it for reasons and reasons and don't want it ruined for me any more than it already has been by virtue of spoiler-ish posting on Facebook. Curse you all.

"A man is like a deck of cards..."

2009-03-27T02:01:00.000-07:00

"...sometimes you get a King, but most of the time they're all Jacks."

James crashed his bike about two hours ago.

Let's start with this: he's fine. Mostly. There's probably nothing broken.

It's his own fault, but that doesn't make me feel any better. He was drinking at his usual, the Twilight, and he rode home, not following the adage "two wheels, two drinks". At some point on Westlake (not far from our place, about a five minute drive away) he got confused by a car driving too close to him, took a turn wrong, and hit a road divider going about 40-50 mph. He flew about 25 feet, so we're lucky that he just had a sprained wrist and a few scrapes. And then he rode home. I got out of a late-night bath to find him wandering around our kitchen with fat, bleeding lips, so I cleaned him up and put him to bed, over his protests that he wasn't good enough for me -- which are usual when he's drunk, now even more so. He's just in a lot of pain* (and minor shock) now but resting.

I'm surprised by how freaked out I am. Also tired and hungry.

Probably more later.

*And he's in bed moaning, so I'm trying to decide if I go to bed or sleep out here on the couch. Both have tactical advantages.

Fun with dressing warmly.

2009-02-28T17:34:00.000-08:00

So, James' bike (casually called Motopsychobaik, a name coined by my lisping toddler nephew) is up and running again, so we took it to Ballard to grab pho at Than Bros. Wheeee! ...it's still pretty cold out.

Also, my plans to get more items up on Etsy have failed, possibly for this weekend. I forgot to turn off James' camera last time I uploaded anything, so the battery ran down. Poop. And I have so much to do!

Death Virus 2009 (Spring Edition)

2009-02-27T12:34:00.000-08:00

So...I still suffer from the death virus, which means nothing much has been happening. I'm stuck at home and I'm even beginning to be bored by the internet. It palls after, say, two weeks. Or less.

In good, non-sicky related news, I made some more stuff for Etsy and I'm hoping to get out and do a photo shoot this weekend, if the lovely, lovely sun holds and doesn't turn back into the freak snow we got night before last. Seriously, Winter, what the crap? Anyway, it's not knitted. And I love it so much that I wanna keep one or two pieces for me! Which I think is a good sign. :) Oh, and I wanna get my men's vintage pieces up, too.

James is wanting to get in on the Etsy action with his art pics now. I think we're going to put our heads together over that tomorrow. Oh! And I bought seeds (40% off Lilly Miller Organic seed packets at Fred Meyer yesterday!) and starters so that we can start our garden! I love spending time with this man. Plus he's getting me back into playing music, which has been really good for me since I'm so disgusted with Seattle theater politics anymore.

I may also be doing this awesome project. It looks pretty exciting, and I can see how it will be good preparation for the extended version of Hungry Ghosts (which I've given myself a two-year timeline on). I think it'll be a great way for me to stretch my wings and stuff. And I miss collaborating.

Oh, and...

2009-02-24T12:05:00.000-08:00

...James takes all my Etsy pictures. It's handy having an art photographer in the house!

Sicky.

2009-02-24T11:55:00.000-08:00

All quiet on my front...because James gave me some flu-like disease. Possibly the flu.

I have major cabin fever to go with my high-temperature-type fever, so I've been on the internetz a bunch, pimping my Etsy page. In the last two days I've been featured in two "Treasuries", which are a big way that you get noticed by other sellers and buyers on Etsy.

The links only stay up for a few days, but the first one is about natural, green items and the second is because I'm a good writer (no, really!). Anyway, that's been the highlight of my week on the couch.

Stupid Courage Campaign made me smear my eyeliner.

2009-02-06T17:50:00.000-08:00

This made me cry, just like Kate Harding and all the other trendy feminist bloggers.

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

Out of pills!

2009-02-05T08:34:00.000-08:00

Well, I ran out of bupropion and don't immediately have the cash dollars to refill it my prescription...so if I'm not so communicative over the next few days, or refuse to get out of bed no matter what...well, it's just the faulty neurotransmitters talking.

CPSIA Update: someone out there paid attention!

2009-02-04T16:21:00.000-08:00

So! A little while ago I posted about the CPSIA. Just thought that you'd all like to know what's the what on that one:

As you may be aware, beginning next month many of America’s small and home businesses will be forced to radically alter their practices and products as prescribed by the burdensome Consumer Products Safety Improvement Act of 2008 (CPSIA). This bill mandates stringent and overreaching federal standards, under the guise of safety requirements that will unfortunately threaten the well-being and further livelihood of thousands of America’s workers and their families. It was my position when the bill was being debated on the Senate floor, as it remains today, that this bill could have -- and should have -- better balanced the need for safety with a common-sense business approach.

You can read the rest on Senator DeMint's blog.

Via The Storque.

My tummy feels funny.

2009-02-04T11:53:00.000-08:00

So I joined Facebook after meaning to for pretty much ever. I mean, MySpace's code is awful, it's ugly and distracting, and all my "grown-up friends" are on FB. Anyway, Jinny "invited" me so I did.

Now it's setting off some disturbing social anxiety. Usually the only people who know where I am and what's up with me are James, Ian, and maybe my sister. Those are the only people that I've been communicating with on a regular basis.

Now I have coffee dates with a few dear friends who I haven't seen in a long time, so, no regrets. Just tummy rumblins and adrenal surges.

Much better!

2009-02-03T17:59:00.001-08:00

The heat is back on now. I am warm except for my feet.

I. Hate. Being. Cold.

2009-02-03T15:55:00.000-08:00

There is no heat at our house right now.

I want to go take a walk, but I can't, because I'm waiting for the guy to come make heat happen again. Meanwhile, I'm sitting on a heating pad and my fingers are seizing up from the cold and trying to knit, embroider, or write in the cold.

Me = miserable.

Oh, the cognitive dissonance of it all.

2009-02-03T15:23:00.000-08:00

Anyway, I've been trying to lose weight lately. It seems that I've been successful: I've lost about 6 pounds in a month (plus a little more before I actually decided to start losing weight), which is a healthy rate. Now, I knew that BMI (Body Mass Index) was dumb: I have been in my life very muscular (though less so now), so it's never applied to me. I've mostly ignored it. I'm at just over BMI 27 at the moment (5'4"+ and about 158 lbs) ; the cutoff for women going from "normal" to "overweight" is 24 or 25, I think. So, I'm overweight.

The current thinking in the health community has more to do with hip-to-waist ratio for health. Mine is 0.73, as my waist is 30" and my hips are (dear me, it sounds awful, but I know that it's just my bone structure, I've never been less than 39"-40") is 41". Normal for women is under 0.86. So, I'm quite healthy. Um...

My hips (41") measure an American size* 12/14, my waist (30") a size 8/10, and my bust (36") a size 6/8. Huh?

I'm taller than average (though just barely) but "petite" dresses fit me better, because they're short in the waist, like me. Hmm.

And now I just read that the average American woman is something like 163 lbs. (more than me? but just barely...) with a waist of over 33" (also more than me? by kind of a bit!). What?

Add to all this my extreme body dysmorphia: to myself, I look exactly the same when I'm 115 lbs and 190 lbs. I can only tell when I gain/lose weight by how my clothing fits, but I always look chubby to me, whether I am or not. Sigh.

I have no idea what's going on anymore.

*Or more, or less, depending on the designer/brand.

Kntting stuff.

2009-02-01T13:22:00.001-08:00

I kind of hate knitting blogs. There are so many of them and those who follow them, while typically very nice people, can be utterly rabid about collecting each and every one of them. That being said, I do sometimes post stuff about knitting here.

...aaaaand if anyone wants to get me a birthday present, try this.

Dept. of Inconvenience.

2009-01-31T14:47:00.000-08:00

My hard drive died a horrible death yesterday morning, making a sound no hard drive should ever make. I woke up, tried to boot up my machine, and waited. And waited. And finally got an error message: one of the .sys files (which turned out to be a HD driver) was "damaged" and needed to be repaired with the XP setup disc. Fine, except my computer is a custom box that Devon built me for a Christmas present a year ago or so, which means that I don't have a copy of XP. My brother-in-law does, and Ian has a ghetto hacked XP disc (for instance, one can install Windows sans IE if one so chooses...), so my sister and Ian came over and we (mostly Ian) fiddled with the machine for a bit.

After several hours of inspection by Ian, my sister, and myself, we pronounced it DOA. I had feared that James, mystifyed by techmology, had accidentally given my computer the flu...but, actually, my hard drive is just dead of a hardware issue. Kaput. Oh well.

So now I'm on a backup machine; being my father's daughter (and the only one in the family besides my mom that doesn't code) I have three other working computers in the house. This is the one that my bro-in-law gave me that I was going to set up as James' school computer...for now, it will have to be the house CPU.

What this ultimately means is that I may have lost ALL of my notes for the new project for which I am writing a grant. Shit. Ian is going to perform some rudimentary forensics to attempt to recover the files, but they are very likely lost.

Again, blerg.

At least this time it's not about me.

2009-01-28T16:49:00.000-08:00

Today I didn't leave the house because:

Climate change is irreversible.

Jobs are dying.

Arts funding is dying.*

...and I think I might have caught a cold from James' mom.

*Sorry; I'm too depressed to link anything. You can use Google. Do it yourself.

My work space.

2009-01-27T18:04:00.000-08:00

James pointed out that the area surrounding my computer contained, at some point the other night, rice cakes, Midol, and Hennessy VSOP.

This is a fairly accurate assessment of my current mental state.

Update: for the record, it is a (nearly) full bottle of Hennessy and the rice cakes are caramel flavored.

Speaking of arts funding...

2009-01-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

...I'm applying for a grant.

I've been a collaborator on grant proposals and non-profit business plans before, but never one for just me. And I've never written a budget all by myself before. I'm feeling a little conflicted about it.

On the one hand, I need just this kind of kick in the pants to get me rolling again, so I see this is an excellent opportunity, even if I do not get awarded.

On the other hand, if I were on a grant panel and I read my biography and resume, I'm not sure that I would think that I could be trusted with the on-average award of 6,000+ American dollars*. But that's probably the currently less-than-stellar self-esteem talking.

Blerg.

*At the moment, this seems like a legendary and unheard of sum to be in my possession. Do these people run a credit check or something? After all, I might foollishly spend it on overdue hospital bills. And it still would not be enough to cover them all.

Depts. of Awesome, Arts.

2009-01-23T12:59:00.000-08:00

Two notes here.

First, lets play with dolls!

Second, Quincy Jones and others are lobbying (apparently Mr. Jones is "begging") for the instatement of a cabinet position for the arts. There's a petition that you can sign here.

*drags over soapbox, stands upon it*

Ahem.

Arts funding is good for the economy, period. It reflects and improves upon the fields of education and health, and the arts are the ultimate expression of any culture. The majority of other developed, first-world nations (EU, I'm lookin' in your direction...) have Ministers of Culture, etc. to advise their leaders. Therefore, it stands to reason that if we want, as a nation, to be taken seriously as having anything other than a culture of warmongering and conspicuous consumption, this is a critical post.

Art is not a luxury. It is an imperitive. In the deadliest of wars, the most oppressive of regimes, during times of the greatest peril, there is art. If we are truly a world leader, how could we ignore this very human need, perhaps the most basic non-biological imperitive we endure?

*decend, remove soapbox*

Via Slog.

PS: In other Obama news, check out the new link: Obameter! Not so shabby for your first couple days, Sir...

Mood.

2009-01-21T18:01:00.000-08:00

This post pretty much summed up my feelings re: the Obama Administration:

Things will piss me off about Obama, I'm sure, and some things will elate me: but the baseline is changed from pissed off to happy, and that's a huge shift.

Via Slog.

"Pop".

2009-01-20T17:19:00.000-08:00

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.

By Barack Obama, age 19.

*****

Oh, but he's not really the president.

Who the hell is Barry Soetoro anyway?

Oh, well.

Via Slog, HuffPost.

Obama is beautiful world.

2009-01-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

That was satisfying. I wish Lowery could have given the invocation as well...but, no matter. It's done. Let's all hug and get along.

In that spirit, I now present the yellow getting mellow:

Most relaxing game ever.

2009-01-16T16:53:00.000-08:00

Wow. This has gotten about a million good reviews. And I could listen to the soundtrack for pretty much ever.

You should download it. If I had the money, I would buy the full version right now.

Enjoy the video. Check out the blog for a Wall-E solution!

Update: Take a look at the other games this guy does, too. The names alone are worth it.

Tomorrow belongs to them.

2009-01-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm a bleeding heart. Everyone should love one another. So I was on the hand-holding bandwagon of Inaugural speakers until this:

The sun on the meadow is summery warm
The stag in the forest runs free
But gathered together to greet the storm
Tomorrow belongs to me

The branch on the linden is leafy and green
The Rhine gives its gold to the sea (Gold to the sea)
But somewhere a glory awaits unseen
Tomorrow belongs to me

Now Fatherland, Fatherland, show us the sign
Your children have waited to see
The morning will come
When the world is mine
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

The babe in his cradle is closing his eyes
The blossom embraces the bee
But soon says the whisper, arise, arise
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me

Via Huffington Post.

January is Personal Insomnia Month.

2009-01-15T11:35:00.000-08:00

Although I find that I can't get enough sleep in December no matter what I do, as soon as it hits January (or perhaps the solstice? do I register the light change that much?) I become nearly incapable of sleep. I haven't been able to fall asleep before 4am for a few days, even when I get lots of exercise.

Speaking of which, I'm on a diet. Not just the thing where I avoid gluten and soy because I have to, but an actual count-yer-calories diet. I have gained 30+ pounds since spring. Sometime in fall I lost maybe 5 or so...but since I can't fit into most of my clothes, it is high time I did something about it!

Counting things brings out my lighter OCD tendancies anyway. James told me that I was being "manic", writing down every single thing. Whatever. He's gained weight, too, but since he's more of a gym guy, he doesn't quite get it.

I don't understand why one would need a gym in Seattle when we have all these incredibly steep hills. That's been my exercise: walking up and down the backside of Queen Anne hill, which hits aerobic and anaerobic exercise. The image above is one of the conservative grades up to QA. I live on the back side from downtown, which is really steep.

I'm a little too tired to report much else, maybe later in the day.

Drunk James and the tree.

2009-01-09T12:56:00.000-08:00

Here's the "after" picture of the ritually-sacrificed Xmas tree.

Yeah, but still.

2009-01-08T22:37:00.000-08:00

Not much going on today. I am too lazy or too depressed or too unfocused to upload the picture of the gloves, although I did discover the difficulty inherent in a right-hand-dominant person taking a picture of a glove that in on one's own right hand.

My insomnia seems to peak during one of two times of the year. I think we're in that time now. Twice this week I have laid down to sleep and gotten up 45 minutes or so later. Last night I got to sleep on my second try, around 4:30am.

I have been writing some during these times, though. I've barely been able to put a sentence together in the last year but I've written a few pages of dialogue and notes and such. I have a couple things gestating; it's been too full of a year to be able to process much until now.

I think that I also, for the most part, hate theater people. This might be (probably is) nasty emotional detritus left over from this spring, but still*. Mr. ARS once told me that, in his opinion, I wasn't an actor at all, but a writer. Keep in mind that he never saw me act, although he had a great deal of respect for me as a writer if not as an actor (or a person). Anyway, I have an awful fear that, ultimately, this will prove true, and I am sick with the notion that I will never perform again. However, I have been toying with the idea that, maybe, I'm a solo artist, and that's all it is. I don't play well with others**. Not that I'm an utter social maladroit. Merely a partial one.

Or I could just be in a complete funk (read: depressed) on account of the recent bout with not leaving the house, which in turn is on account of the high winds and flooding rains of the past two days. It's dark all the time.

But I did get paid! I did a nice custom order for a lady in Chicago: an over-elbow pair of fingerless gauntlets (hand-dyed, fair-trade Suri alpaca, vintage buttons and ribbon) for her 22-year-old daughter's Hanukkah and received her check and thank-you note today. She purposefully overpaid me, as well. That made me feel a hell of a lot better; apparently I am not yet completely worthless in the eyes of American capitalism!

Man, I gotta ease up on myself.

*James maintains that "yeah, but still" is the ultimate end to an unwinnable argument, the final, desperate gambit when you know you have been proved wrong but are just too contrary to admit it. It is a common phrase in our household.

**This is an awful pun. I'm sorry. Completely unintentional.

Oh, fiddlesticks.

2009-01-08T00:42:00.000-08:00

I have no idea what some of the links on this blog go to.

Has it been so long?

Can't remember a thing.

I need some...ginkgo...or something...

Arson, gussets, and my boyfriend, the Luddite.

2009-01-07T23:39:00.000-08:00

James and I had our first Xmas tree. Naturally, since it was our first Xmas together! Yay team us!

We got it at the Market; tiny, tiny tree! About 4 ft. tall, and we carried it home on the bus.

And, in what is sure to be an annual tradition, we burnt it after New Year's Day.

I wish that I had been less panicked when it went up because I would have loved to capture on film the twelve-foot flames that shot up when James lit a Lysol plume into the dry branches. However, panic we both did; I screamed, "Put it out! Use this!"

Fifteen minutes before the ceremonial burning commenced James had found an old fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. I assumed that it wasn't good any more (they go bad, right?) and discounted it. But James, investigating it for the (missing, as we will discover presently) safety pin, accidentally shot the extinguisher off straight at the window. Our kitchen suddenly exploded in sweet and slightly carcinogenic-smelling white powder.

I mentioned he was drunk, yes? No?

So it was the (now confirmed) fire extinguisher that I rushed out the kitchen door to James, which he used with drunken gusto. Darby, our next-door neighbor, walked by on the street, twenty feet away.

"You guys need some help there?"

"Uh, no...we're good. We're fine."

Humans fear fire. I don't know if he and his girlfriend will come over to drink with us again.

Anticipating calamity (and rightly so), James and I had prepared a couple pots of water on the kitchen counter. We doused the remaining flames and vowed to do this stupid, not smart, very bad thing again next year. A new tradition born!

James cleaned the kitchen, too, apologizing profusely. He then told me that the same thing had happened years ago with his father (who looks and sounds like Fat Elvis), right in front of him. But with a gun.

I told him that I didn't want guns in my house. Funny, I never had a problem with them before.

So that was my Monday.

In less flammable news, today (Wednesday!) I taught myself how to knit thumb gussets! For non-sartorialists, that's the fancy term for the widening of a glove in preparation for the thumb part. It was so easy that I don't know why I never did it before. Anyway, I now can make actual fingerless gloves instead of just tubes with holes in them for your thumbs, which are dumb and don't keep you warm. For some reason when I wear "gloves" like that, it seems like 99% of the heat I lose through my hands is through my thumbs. Anyways, this first pair is blocking right now; I'll post a picture of them tomorrow as long as I remember to.

Finally, this evening (while sitting on the couch finishing the gloves) I taught James what the Refresh button on a web browser is used for.

"It's that thing with the two circling arrows*. Next to the red X, that's the Stop button. No, where the browser buttons are. Where the back arrow is. It's between the Home, the picture of the house, and the red X. Okay, you got it. Good."

I've never had to be the techie one before.

*On IE. I'm having download problems and can't get Firefox on my laptop. Probably because the laptop is so old that it predates the written language.

Had myself a merry little X-mas.

2009-01-05T15:10:00.000-08:00

The Great Storm of 2008 has now passed, as has 2008. The snow is gone and we've emerged from our holes, blinking in the sunlight, to return to work.

Most of us.

I'm taking some time off. From working, from my day gig, which has been at the Pike Place Market since April. I've really enjoyed it, but the first day that the snow came the buses from my house stopped running I was overwhelmed by relief that I didn't have to go in.

So I never went back. I didn't burn any bridges, I have a lovely mom-like boss who is very understanding (and saw it coming), so I'm okay.

This has been a long time coming. I'm tired, I need the breathing room, and I think I finally learned this year just how bad the SAD componant of my health is. Being outside when things are getting dark, not enough light...yuck. I was coming home in tears since October. I actually really enjoyed the snow: it reflected light into our windows and made everything seem so much more cheerful. I miss it...but I don't miss the fact that the entire city stopped working for two weeks.

However, the reason that I can do this is because of my amazing partner, James. We're living together in Fremont. It's not exactly the neighborhood that we want to be in, but we both love the place itself. Neither of us has ever really been homebodies, but it's easy to enjoy our house now. I feel safe to balance my medication and get my life back together now.

Also, we're online now! So being in contact with life will be a little easier for me.

More later...now that I can!

Save small businesses!

2008-12-10T16:01:00.000-08:00

Sorry that I haven't posted for a while. We'll have to save the updates for a while.

In the meantime, here is something important that I got from a dear friend today. I will try to have more links about this up soon.

*****

Hello everyone...

I've never ever sent a wide reaching email to everyone who's on my personal email list before, and I apologize if this is the first email you've received from me in a very long time (or if you don't even remember who I am?)...but this is very important to everyone - as the impact will be great for everyone - business owners and customers alike. Please pass this information along to everyone you know!

As you may or may not know, the CPSIA (Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act) is coming into effect on February 10, 2009. Our soon-to-be-EX-President, GWB already passed it into law and we are now facing an epic battle to save our small businesses!

In a very small nutshell, the CPSIA mandates third-party testing and certification for all toys and goods marketed to children 12 and under. The manufacturer must permanently label each item with a date and batch number. Failure to do so would result in hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of fines for each occurance. (You can read a very good summary of the law at http://www.handmadetoyalliance.org/Home)

Sounds good on the surface, right? Of course! I totally believe in the assurance of safety in the marketplace! However, the wording of the CPSIA is too far-reaching and would result in the removal and destruction of ALL handmade children's goods on market shelves today. You see, when this law takes effect, it will be illegal to sell or even donate inventory manufactured before Feb. 10th without the proper certification in place. It would even be illegal for you to try to sell your used kids clothing on Ebay! As a result, all of these items will be tossed out to fill our landfills - never reaching the hands of even a needy child.

But wait, testing is good, right? Yes! Of course! But consider the impact on your small/micro-business friends who already make handmade toys and kid's clothes responsibly out of known safe materials with standard safety in mind. They are already bound by current laws to create safe products. But, the CPSIA does not distinguish between small/micro businesses and big business. As written, the law encompases each SKU made by the company and requires that each size be tested as well as each color. Add that up and testing will cost hundreds of thousands of dollars - within the reach for huge corporations, but far beyond the capabilities of most small businesses.

As a result of this law, it is speculated that small business funding will be cut, banks will retract loans and businesses will shut their doors since there is no way anyone could run those numbers and come up with a profit! In the Wall Street Journal, Rick Woldenberg was quoted as describing February 10, 2009 as "National Bankruptcy Day" (source: http://www.fashion-incubator.com/archive/national-bankruptcy-day/).

All in all, this will GREATLY impact ALL small companies who make anything for kids under 12 including all handmade clothing, costumes, toys, blankets, diapers and even baby carriers. It will impact parents, grandparents, relatives and friends with kids by, at minimum, ensuring the removal of all unique, handmade items from the shelves of shops, boutiques and stores all across the country.

While I completely believe in product safety and testing to ensure the protection of our children, this act as written will surely force many, if not the majority of small/micro business owners to close their doors and cease the production of the products and further push our economy downward as hundreds of thousands of people flood the already dried-up job market.

We need to ask our Congressmen and Senators to rewrite the CPSIA to support our country's small businesses and exclude all items made in batches of less than 5,000 units per year or manufactured within the USA and trusted countries with established toy safety regimes such as Canada and the European Union and that they all be held exempt from third party testing requirements. If they still feel that testing should be required, then we should ask them to provide free testing services for USA manufacturers and importers from Europe or Canada with revenues less than one million dollars.

I encourage you to read the links below and do your own research before writing to your Congressmen and Senators. After I fully comprehended the impact of such a law, I signed the petitions and emailed my Congressman and Senators right away (using a modified version of the Handmade Toy Alliance letter).

By taking a stand, we can save our country's small businesses. Thank you in advance for your action and support of the handmade community.

Sincerely,

Marlo Miyashiro
Jeweler / Teacher / Mentor
Organizer, EtsyRAIN.com meetupSeattle, WA

marlom.com (jewelry website - day job)
tote2go.com (recycled fabric bags - new line)
imakecutestuff.com (personal blog)
imakecutestuff.etsy.com (etsy shop - crafts)
marlom.etsy.com (etsy shop - jewelry)

James.

2008-08-02T11:50:00.000-07:00

James is sitting right next to me, watching me write this. He's refused to read my blog until I write about him.

Look, here he is:

See him? He's right there.

He says to mention that he's really good at "doin' it". Doing what, I'm not sure, but he's great at it. Or so I'm told.

Now he's just told me to go to hell and that we're breaking up.

Anyway, I am deeply in love with this guy and now we're living together.

And that's the short update. Long update comes later. Everything is fabulous* for a change.

Mmkay, must dash.

*His choice of words. Over "fantastic".

3 to 1.

2008-06-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

I thought that I'd follow up my over-medication of women with anti-depressants with this:

And what do parents with hyperactive young boys do? They stuff them with Ritalin. They drug them so they’ll sit still and behave. The last time I read a number, Ritalin prescriptions were at least 3 to 1, boys to girls. But I don’t like to look at the numbers because it makes me too sad. It appalls me that parents would feed their kids pharmaceuticals. People managed rambunctious kids for centuries—just take them out to do stuff.

I'm looking forward to reading Kiley's article, even though I don't particularly care for his journalism.

Having just spent the past weekend with Matt's kids and Jinny's son: four young boys, ages 9 to 13, and one girl aged 6. Yep, boys sure do get nutty and bothersome when you keep them inside for hours on a nice -- or not so nice -- day. Enough to drive you mad.

We took them out and let them run around the park for an hour.

Problem solved! Went back, ate lunch, chilled out. It was a great time.

Parents are dumb.

HRC and the end of a campaign.

2008-06-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

Check out the comments as well.

I know that I'm getting a skosh too sensitive to some of my male colleagues' attitudes towards sexism. I know that a couple of ECB's quotations were undoubtably "reverse sexism".

But the comments made me sick.

I don't like talking about the fact that I call myself a feminist for much the same reason that I prefer not to discuss my faith overmuch: labeling oneself anything tends to create a certain amount of censure in some percentage of other people and I am combative enough to have to know how to pick my battles. As Becky says, feminist is the other f-word. But it's exhausting that many people around me (mostly men but often enough women) just don't see anything wrong with our deeply misogynistic society. Regardless of HRC's campaign strategy, that should have been apparent to all. Course, maybe that's just me and my bitter, bitter reaction to life in the (also deeply-misogynistic) theater.

Gah. Keeping up a fight is exhausting.

I'm a-go to bed now.

Oh, and via, of course, Slog.

I'd like to share...

2008-06-05T10:49:00.000-07:00

...this.

It accurately sums up my feelings on Obama's recent primary win over HRC.

I'm certainly not voting for McCain, BTW. DO NOT WANTZ four more years.

If McCain wins, I will likely expatriate.

"...not like we thought it was!"

2008-05-17T16:20:00.000-07:00

Jinny and I went to American Apparel yesterday.

I sort of hate contemporary fashion. I mean, I love fashion and the expression oneself through what one wears, the sociology of fashion, if you will, but...wow. Gold disco leggings.

It's not that AA (ha!) doesn't have quality basics, but their most fashionable pret-a-porter lines are just atrocious. I do see a few people wearing such things around Capitol Hill, men and women, and they are ugly. And tasteless. Blech.

It was amazingly beautiful out yesterday and it still is today. There is unseasonably warm May weather lately, leading to a "Severe Weather Warning" -- use sunblock! drink water! -- and other tips for the perpetually sun-deprived.

It's 88 out right now. And sticky. Unusual heat even for August, let alone May.

The oppressive heat seems appropriate: Big Love closes tonight, and I feel oppressed, heavy. Otherwise, I've had such a spectacular week.

This week I went to a fundraiser for a show that a friend is involved in and barely got in the door before I saw one of my former castmates inside, clearly involved in the same piece. I dashed away in a panic, quickly walking to the nearest bus stop and trying to get my heart rate back down. On my way through Fremont in the warm dusk, I stopped inside a small bookstore. Books are comfy; I understand them and feel at home with them. If I have an attack in public, frequently I manage to get around books to calm down.

I didn't do much besides skim spines as I walked around until I reached the poetry section, where, on impulse, I grabbed a fat, comprehensive Rumi translation and opened the book at random, reading the first lines that I came upon.

I thought, Yes! It isn't like I thought it was!

And I went back to find old friends, make new ones, and network. I felt powerful for the first time in a month.

When you eventually see through the veils to
how things really are, you will keep saying
again and again, "This is certainly not like
we thought it was!"

Talk to most men about male entitlement and they'll look at you like you're crazy.

2008-05-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

I thought of a female friend of mine who once complained that sharing a room with a man took effort. "It's as though," she said, "his being there, his existence, demanded some of my attention." Talk to most men about male entitlement and they'll look at you like you're crazy. But it's real and it's more than just being able to walk around the city after dark without the fear of being raped. It's the way strangers look at you on the street, or the way they relate to you on the phone, or the way their bodies in space interact with your personal space. Think of the inconsiderate seven-foot-tall oaf who sometimes winds up in front of you at a concert and then imagine that man appearing everywhere in your life, stepping on your toes and stumbling back into you and all the while not so much as acknowledging your existence. Many MTFs experience these losses of privilege—the abstract privilege that's concomitant with masculinity—as a series of surprising, disheartening blows. Their gender transformation is going to take a bit longer than they thought, it turns out.

This week's The Stranger.

Stop being weird, Salt Lake City.

2008-05-03T16:51:00.000-07:00

And all the other cities.

Although the Insect Man in Naples sounds sort of adorable, with his broken English.

Via Slog.

A second adjunct: 1 in 8.

2008-05-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

Re: women's mental health.

1 in 8 women are diagnosed with major depression, which is twice the rate of diagnosis in men.

Ugh. Too much I could say about this: women not being taken seriously by mental health care providers, improper diagnosis and treatment of illness, differing cultural stigmas for men (not encouraged to step forward) and women (over-encouraged) regarding diagnosis and treatment.

Via NAMI.org.

And now, because I owe the rest of you all one:

2008-05-03T10:45:00.000-07:00

I just wrote about 3/4 of a great blog about how much my really good male friends rule, as an adjunct to my "men can fuck themselves" blog. It all got accidentally deleted. Poop. I don't want to re-write it. I'm going to give you the truncated version now, in which I give some specific shout-outs to a few of the wonderful men in my life:

My brother-in-law, Kenneth, whose long-suffering patience with my sister and I does not go unnoticed, and my nephew, Roscoe, aged 3 and 1/2. Little boy hugs for a magical auntie are a good reason to get up in the morning.

My uncle Tim and cousin Dave, who would very much like it if I came to visit for a long, long time in New Zealand.

Jared, the first man after I got outside the hospital to make me feel like a normal person, not a fragile thing in need of being saved. He once told me You'll be fucked up forever, but you won't always be fucked up. Which makes perfect sense.

My friend Devon in DC, who takes the time to respectfully pray for me and check in on me in a concerned (but not smothering!) manner even though he's about to go on the biggest adventure of his life: fatherhood. I'll be an auntie again!

E***, the lovely man in Paris who I miss so much. Plane tickets out there are not too expensive...unlike Wellington...

J-romy, the best ex-boyfriend ever. I'm sure glad that hurricane didn't kill him.

My mentor, Tony Curry, the gayest straight man in Seattle and a wonderful friend and artist.

And, finally, the man who indirectly inspired my tirade: Anthony.

Normally, I give the men I date cute little nicknames like "Mr. Grey" or "Very Nice Rock Star". I don't particularly like to be known for the men I have sex with, because I like sex and, while many of these men (and women, when that happens) are interesting, fun people, I wouldn't describe myself as serious about any of them. None of them are interested in being serious with anyone and are rarely warm people. Fun is different than loving.

Anthony is the first one who deserves to have a name. He is the first man that I've had a sexual relationship with in a long time who treats me simply as human. A female human, to be sure, because there is a difference, but still. He was a happy accident, as I haven't been in the mood to date around lately. I haven't felt like I had anything to offer anyone, and besides, how do you bring up mental illness casually in a date setting?

Them: ...and so I got the Belltown condo after I got back from Oslo where I was honored with the Nobel in Literature -- don't you just love Norway? -- but I still mostly live in the New York townhouse. And then I got shortlisted for the Booker while I was volunteering at an AIDS clinic in South Africa, but that was before I rescued those orphans from that downed prop plane in Bolivia...and what about you? What do you do? Would you like another martini? My treat.

Me: ...uh...I make stuff...and noise...you don't happen to have a Xanax, do you?

Right? What do you say?

When Anthony and I met neither of us were looking for anything, so we kept upping the ante trying to scare the other off.

Me: You should know that I'm mentally ill and I refuse to lie about it.

Anthony: Okay. I've been arrested seven times. No convictions, but once was for inciting a riot.

Me: Whatever. I was hospitalized twice for suicidal ideation.

Anthony: You know, I was in rehab for that once. Well, that and heroin. I mean, I tried to overdose...it was thing whole thing, see, I was nineteen...

Me: Well, I was in this December...

It went on like that all night the first time we met. I guess you're not supposed to tell the other person all your faults up front, but I find it pays off in the long run.

I find him utterly remarkable: sensate, strong, masculine, loving, and brutally honest, Anthony is very much a man who lets me be true to myself, does not try to control me, and would not allow me to control him. His laugh, I think, is how I knew that I could trust him: I'm so tired of dating or being friends with men who can't laugh. They give you a tight-lipped smile and chuckle every so often, but hardly ever do they let loose with a giant belly laugh. I find that if a person can't laugh and feel that limitless joy, he or she can't grieve, either, and are either shallow or always slightly sad yet frightened of their own tears. And if they can't face their own pain, maybe they can't face the pain of others. When you love a person, you have to love their sorrow as much as you love their joy.

The fact is, meeting Anthony gave me a new perspective. He's the first person besides my sister and my therapist to tell me that I'm handling my illness well, and that he admires me and is proud of me for it. He's one of the only men to treat me like a regular person instead of an invalid, not like I have --SHHHH -- CANCER. My girlfriends* like Patricia and Jinny and Becky get where I'm coming from, because they've been where I've been, and it's no big deal. But these men in my life? Forget them for the clueless fucks they are...until I had this good person who happened to be a man treat me as the strong woman that I knew I was and not the sickly girl that the rest of them saw.

So...yes, Virginia, there are spectacular and true men who can be concerned and caring for women without being condescending, patriarchal assholes with oedipal complexes. And I know the difference between the two when I encounter them. It has nothing to do with owning a dick, just being a dick. We're all people, just trying to make it in the world, but I want to make it on my own with no one trying to live my life for me. So if you were a man who felt wrongly targeted by my last blog...well, for a start, you probably didn't read it very carefully. I'm sorry if you took the wrong message away from it. Yet this is my personal forum, where I am allowed to have strong feelings on many subjects and this one has a context that I have yet to include here. If you knew me well then you'd know that I'm far too soft-hearted to stay very angry for long unless you personally hurt me very badly. So I'm not sorry that I wrote it, and I'm not sorry that I advocate for women's rights, and I urge you to wait until I write about the context to judge my anger.

Or, call or write me yourself.

*This is not to say that I haven't met discrimination -- because what I was talking about, ultimately, is discrimination -- from women, but it tends to be of a much different type. Perhaps I'll blog about that next.

And I want this one.

2008-04-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

Cheeses save.

Attitude adjustment in a cup.

2008-04-28T15:49:00.001-07:00

I want one. It will make me less cranky. Good news for all, then.

Go. Away.

2008-04-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

I don't know how it happened, but I've started to hate men.

And by men I mean you, over there, with the Y chromosome. All of you, save for maybe 5 or 6 of you. You're probably also white and have never been diagnosed as mentally ill. But you might have; what do I know?

I'm sick of all of you "worrying" about me. I'm sick of you thinking that you know what's best for me. I'm sick of you trying to control me. Sick of the snide remarks about my choices in life: sexual, chemical, financial, or emotional. These things are not your business.

I'm tired of hearing that I need to do this, that, or the other. I can no longer stand having to listen to your dramatic sighs and proselytizing. I don't want you to keep tabs on me. I'm an adult and I am capable of taking care of myself. I've probably been doing it longer than you have. If I need something, anything, from you, I'm completely capable of asking for it. Don't assume.

I don't care if you haven't realized that you're acting this way or not. Just go away until you know how to stop. I'm that tired of it. I have been listening to all of this for years and I bought into it until recently. Now I can't believe that I ever tolerated it in the first place.

Get a life.

Stop judging me.

I'm not singling anyone out: it's all of you unless you know otherwise or I haven't seen you in so long that it doesn't matter.

Because it bears repeating, stop judging me.

Yes, you are.

Few of the women in my life are doing this because they have (surprise, surprise) almost universally been where I have been. So they don't judge. They don't patronize. Most importantly, they don't treat me as fragile or a freak, the way you do. They get it. It should come as no shock that the majority of diagnoses for personality disorders are for women. That statistics says something important about the state of health care in this and other countries.

I wouldn't have believed this gender split if I weren't living it.

You know, I've really tried not to feel this way. But the overwhelming evidence that you all feel that you can run around deciding who and what I am -- again, all of you: how can it be all of you? -- is astounding. I mean, really, how did you get such a feeling of entitlement? You have no qualifications in regards to any medical diagnosis that I might have and the rest is simply none of your concern. Yet you are over-concerned with my life and well-being, to a disturbing, codependent level.

Your "help" is making things worse. Trust me. If you feel the need to talk about how much I should be listening to you and your ideas about how I run my life, call a professional. It's their job, not mine. My life is none of your business unless I make it such.

I'm not currently interested in apologies, either. Later on, when I've cooled off, sure. For right now, just go away.

Did I mention?

2008-04-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

I'm adjusting to new meds, too. But I think they're going to put me on lithium along with the citalopram...oy...

Empty rings around your heart.

2008-04-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

I was fired.

I'm not in the show.

It was hard.

It is hard.

Very, very hard.

And I don't know how to talk about it.

And I'm not far enough away from it not to be angry.

But I think it was wrong.

And now we ride the circus wheel
With your dark brother wrapped in white
Says it was good to be alive
But now he rides a comet's flame
And won't be coming back again
The Earth looks better from a star
That's right above from where you are
He didn't mean to make you cry
With sparks that ring and bullets fly
On empty rings around your heart
The world just screams and falls apart

But now we must pick up every piece
Of the life we used to love
Just to keep ourselves
At least enough to carry on

Why does my latte taste like the ocean?

2008-04-17T16:46:00.000-07:00

I have wept in more coffee shops in the last year than the rest of my life combined.

Jake and I met at a Starbucks during lunch and talked about the possibility of me leaving the show. Today, a week before Big Love opens.

There isn't anyone to blame: I can barely function in rehearsal and Jake doesn't know how to tell me what I need to do to perform well. We're both at a loss.

It was strange to think, when I got cast, Oh, well, now I have to live until at least halfway through May. I can't let anyone down. But I'm still letting people down. I've never felt like I was doing a bad job before in a show, but I can't seem to get a handle on this character. And not just any character, the pivotal character of the show, the one on whom the entire spine of the play gently balances. I had a moment last night when I just cried out, sobbing in the stairwell of my theater, What am I doing? I must be such an idiot for thinking I could do this at all! Why am I here? Why don't I function properly inside, like other people? Why can't it make sense? Why, why, why?

It's exhausting, this constant crisis.

I'm meeting with Jake and Lou to work on whatever needs to be worked tonight. If I have to, I'll do it every night until we open.

I think I'd like to sleep a little now.

All this talk of love.

2008-04-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry that I haven't posted more lately.

I'm in a show right now. Big Love.

I'm finding that this is the most difficult rehearsal process I've ever been through. My meds have been adjusted -- a higher dose -- and, after three months, I'm still anxious and rage-filled over nothing, shadows. If it doesn't work, I think they're putting me on Lithium, which scares me.

All I do is argue in rehearsal. Mostly with Jake, who is directing. Arguing with your director is one of the most unprofessional things an actor can do and I would have been fired by now if he wasn't my friend and didn't know what I was going through. Still, I have no answers to make it better and neither does he. Last night I cried because I got so frightened of getting hurt during a physical scene that I help things up for ten minutes. Then Jake and I went in the hall and argued more and I suddenly decided that I should never act again. Finally, Lou, our stage manager came back and held me for a bit and said that she understood everything that I was going through.

And then I got my face on and did a run-through for promo photos.

In the middle of all this, I met someone. I'll tell that story in another installment...

I'm feeling mighty lonesome
Haven't slept a wink
I walk the floor and watch that door
And in between I drink
Black coffee
Love's a hand me down brew
I've never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

I'm talking to the shadows
from 1 o'clock til 4
And lord, how slow the moments go
When all I do is pour
Black coffee
Since the blues caught my eye
I'm hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dreams to dry

Now a man is born to go a lovin'
A woman's born to weep and fret
To stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes

I'm moaning all the morning
and mourning all the night
And in between it's nicotine
And not much heart to fight
Black coffee
Feelin' low as the ground
It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby
To maybe come around... around
I'm waiting for my baby
To maybe come around

My nerves have gone to pieces
My hair is turning gray
All I do is drink black coffee
Since my man's gone away

Chicks before dicks.

2008-02-24T13:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, so what I really have to do is spend more time with my girls.

I worked at the theater all this weekend helping Jake get stuff ready for tech week and then I went and hung out with Jinny and her son Storm Saturday night. Jinny and I had drinks in the kitchen and in the morning I came back and made brunch for the three of us. I'm still there right now, just chilling out, Sunday-style.

Life is so much better after having a good long vent with your lady friends. I needed this: I needed to get out of my head, forget about boys, and loosen up a bit. I guess I'm not breaking up with Balagan right now, either. I think we just had a weekend of make-up sex: I made curtains, moved flats, cleaned the Cabaret, put lamps and lumber in storage, stripped wires wearing a hand-knit angora sweater, and got down and dirty and covered in theater filth. And then I had a wonderful night.

The sun has come out today.

I love a good Sunday afternoon.

Simple things less simple.

2008-02-21T16:30:00.000-08:00

The day after my interaction with Mr. VNRS I received the loveliest e-mail from a dear friend, who I hope will not mind me publishing an excerpt and will forgive me for not asking first. (I will take it down if you ask me to!) I find his writing -- English is a second language to him -- beautiful and poetic in its simplicity and speaks to me of another time when writing a letter was an art.

I don't even know how to start... Good morning?!

Hopefully you are doing alright. Apologies in advance for the probably messed-up shape or order of thoughts and things in this e-mail... Complete with a few months of intensive English forgetting-by-not-speaking-anymore. I think I just basically want to hear from you... And of course, offer some news also...

I believe that last time we saw each other was very, very brief. ...I must have appeared very rude...because I had to leave as C*** was starting to feel sick.

So I didn't stay...[a]nd I couldn't even have a little chat with you. It was all too short... And then... Time flew.

I have read your post, earlier tonight, about how you (sorry if I'm betraying the idea by re-expressing it) are basically envisaging how seeing someone is seeing them for the last time. It's really insane, it brought (still does bring) tears to my eyes, because when I hugged you goodbye on that night that I described above, I had exactly the same idea in my mind...

...with a different mindset, though. I was probably trying to anticipate for the reverse-culture-clash that I knew was ahead. But basically this kind of self-cynical sadness that lays behind the idea seems to be exactly the same.

I do not really know how or why we initially became (good) acquintances... Besides the fact that we have a connection of geekiness, and maybe art sensitivity (which you're so amazingly good at expressing)... It seems like a great and precious thing, though. Therefore I do not really know or understand why we never developed a stronger bond either... Meaning, we rarely hung out, if at all. It's even more impressive now that some time has passed. Can you believe that we met in 2004? That was more than three years ago. You forever are part of the very significant people of my life in Seattle. Even though I am capable of having the same kind of thoughts about people coming, going, gravitating, I still mean it.

And I have no idea why I am telling you all that in that order. I am starting to wonder if it is making any sense, and if it's not becoming too boring!

...Your health. I wish I could help. I really, really do. I feel terrible that I've missed a few seemingly crucial episodes. And to punctuate this short summary of unsummarizable feelings, I am also really, really glad that you are seemingly in good hands at the right time.

...For months I have had archived e-mails from you that "I really need to reply to". Until it's so far, distance and time-wise, that the words are just rushing out and no matter the order, they are just too many to make all the sense they should.

But hey... I wanted to say hello. Simple things. I hope that you are healing. I really wish I could easily spend some time sharing some physical space with you. I wish I could have seen Space. I wish we'll perform some karaoke together some more time. I miss my roommate of only three months. All that.

Context just makes these simple things less simple to say. For example, I am fearing that they might not appear sincere. But they are.

Have a nice day,

Random, distant E***

How wonderful, and such good timing.

This is what I mean about my life: in my own way, I am mind-blowingly fortunate. I do have people who love me; a long list of them. I understand that I haven't always been deserving of their esteem and that, at times, I know have been a frustratingly absent friend. I've been trying to change, but, of course, not fast enough for my own tastes.

I find that the moments of the greatest craving for my own death are characterized by a longing, an overwhelming feeling of love for my people accompanied by a feeling of insurmountable distance. It's almost a sweet feeling, and I feel unafraid of whatever may come next. It's a high, and infinitely preferable to a deep and miserable depression.

But I remember what it's like to be happy, too, happy all the time and so much so that you think you'll burn away from the feeling. Clean, simple, uncomplicated.

I think, from now on, I must search for these times of an unburdened heart.

I expect to be very bad at it. Maybe I'll get better in time.

Re: "Gender Stereotypes Trump Racial Stereotypes in Every Social Science Test."

2008-02-21T13:44:00.000-08:00

I'm too sick to comment except, as a professional woman, DUH.

Because he thinks he should be consistant.

2008-02-20T19:16:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to figure out how to value a human life.

And not just how one values a human life, in theory, but how I and the people I want close to me value life though action, word and deed.

But first, a selection from bobrauchenbergamerica by Chuck Mee:

19 Dessert

Bob's Mom brings out a cake and
sets it down on the picnic table.
As this next scene goes along,
Susan starts to eat compulsively,
taking pieces of cake or cupcakes from the table--
at first absentmindedly, at a normal cake-eating pace,
and then more and more compulsively,
until she is stuffing it into her mouth.

BECKER
I think I know how he feels myself.
I thought you cared for me, too.

SUSAN
I did care for you.
There was something about you
I don't even know what it was that just hit me
I couldn't help myself
but then it turns out
it was like a summer storm
it passed as quickly as it came
and then it was over.

BECKER
Maybe it wasn't over for me.

SUSAN
I'm sorry.

BECKER
I don't think you can just drop someone like that
and just say I'm sorry.

SUSAN
I didn't just say I'm sorry
I am sorry.

BECKER
This is why some people call women fickle.

SUSAN
I don't think it has anything to do with being fickle.
How it is for women:
Women feel what they feel when they feel it
and then when they don't feel it any more they don't feel it.
Unlike a man
who won't know what he feels when he feels it
and then later on
he'll realize how he felt
and so he'll talk himself into feeling it again
when he doesn't feel it
because he thinks he should be consistent about the positions he takes
and stick to them
so a man always thinks he feels things he doesn't feel
and so he never really knows how he feels at all.

BECKER
That could be true.

SUSAN
Of course it's true.
Pretty soon
you're going to thank god you had such a narrow escape
you're going to feel lucky I dumped you

BECKER
I'm never going to feel that.

SUSAN
Maybe not.

BECKER
I think you must be a sort of a tease
or worse
some kind of seducer and dumper kind of person
who is just a loose cannon
cutting a swath through men
leaving them wrecked all around you
what is that all about?

[She speaks, with a mouth full of cake,
eating as she speaks,
with greater and greater animation as she goes on,
till she is yelling through a mouth full of cake.]

SUSAN
Maybe that would be about something
if it were in any way true
but it is not in any way true
I'm a person who is looking for true love
like anyone else
except the difference is
I am trying not to be afraid of my feelings
and censor things
and lie and lie and lie all the time
pretending I feel like this or that
going with some guy because I couldn't be sure any more
how I felt about him
because he had some things I liked and other things I didn't
and trying to talk myself into not caring about the things I cared about
and caring about the things I didn't care about
because I've done that a lot in the past
so I am trying to let my feelings lead me through life
And
feelings are feelings
they come and go.
So probably I'm just as disoriented as you are
and left in the lurch
suddenly dropped
or thrown down the stairs
it's not as though this is not a struggle for me too
but the one thing you can be sure of is
if ever I am sure of how I feel
in a way that is the kind of feeling that I know will last
then when that time comes
if it so happens that I do tell you I love you
then you can be sure of it.

Not all of this applies, some of it is here out of pure love for the writing.

Long story short, I ran out of meds and went into crisis this weekend. I had to leave work early Monday to go to the ER to get a script written for me. I called Mr. VNRS from my sister's car and very nearly begged for company later that night. I was scared for my life and I finally felt like I could trust this person enough to ask.

"I don't know," he said, cagey. "I'm going roller skating. I've been planning it for a week. Don't you have any other friends you can see?"

I had spent the previous night first being a near-fight-starting wet blanket at our friend Becky's birthday and then sitting in my bathtub trying to calm down enough to sleep and not murder myself.

"Um. No. Whatever. I'll...call you."

We didn't get out of the ER until 10, at which point I was so overwhelmed that I went home and passed out and slept until noon the next day. My old friend Dan came over and helped me get functional enough to get the script filled, later reporting that I seemed "1000% better" post-drug. It's true, I am not currently harboring a desire for my own death, which, all in all, I am going to consider a bonus -- even if it means a return to the hypomania and nausea of re-adjusting to citalopram. (Blogger doesn't recognize that word and suggests I replace it with recitalists or extramarital. See? Hypomanic! Normally I would neither have cared nor shared. Modern pharmaceuticals' gift to you.)

Later, the Rock Star and I spoke briefly about his comment. I asked him not to do it again if I came to him for help since that might cost me my life. He said that scared him. A lot.

I'm trying to understand this exchange, which confuses and upsets me. I also have a cold and audited for Balagan at the TPS generals (more on that front later), so everything is kinda weird, body-wise, and that also limits my critical thinking.

However, and more importantly, I have a personal issue where I minimize disrespect done to me and maximize disrespect done to other people. So, if someone hurts me and my friend the same way, I will usually be more angry on their behalf than my own. Make of that what you will in reference to my character and history.

So, I feel that the Rock Star's behavior is unethical and, more to the point, calls my basic notion of his good character into question. I look at this and think: This is a person who does not make friends. He does not love people: he sees the potentially-dangerous consequences of his actions and behaves discompassionately. This is not love, and, if not, what really are the people he calls friends?

Speaking with him a little did not help, and, instead, the only excuses I can see for his behavior -- fear, or lack of emotional preparedness -- were not there. As far as I could tell, he simply...didn't choose to care. It wasn't important enough to him.

It's extremely challenging for me to ask for help with this, my disease, this irrational chronic existential crisis that I can't help but feel is mind-numbingly cliche and embarrassing. Even my closest friends, my sister, people who, like the Rock Star, were there every day for me in the hospital, I can hardly bring myself to interrupt their lives to save my own out of sheer guilt. I must have felt very ill and a danger to myself to know that I had to ask for help.

But now I feel I don't know this person. I feel nothing less than revulsion for his choice. For my friends, even if it is a person who has boundary issues, I would save their life first, and then have the longer conversation of why this is inappropriate behavior. This is triage: stabilize the acute and then treat the chronic.

But I have a disease, I realize, an illness, wherein I cannot always see my emotions for what they are. When I hear this from my lover, I hear, "Oh, what are you doing tonight? Slitting your throat? Yeah...not feeling that so much. I'm going to spend time with virtual strangers who call themselves our friends, and you can come if you want. No? I guess no one will miss you. You have fun, though. With the throat slitting and all. It's cool that you're into stuff, you know, keeping busy. Bye."

No, really, that's how it sounds. Hell, when people tell me they worry for me I hear, "How unfortunate that your life is hard! If it's convenient then I'll maybe be around. If I'm there. You know." Which, rationally, I know is not what they are saying, they're saying, "I love you! Please, please don't go." It's symptomatic of the disease that I have a different translation.

So, all this beggars the question, how do I react to this? Should I take it at face value, has this person been misrepresenting his nice-guy front? Should I feel dirty that I trusted someone who has no ethics, should I feel suckered? Should I feel sorry for them? Should I forgive them, try to be friends if nothing else? Should I avoid a toxic situation all together? Would I feel more or less upset if I were a spectator and not a participant?

I truly, desperately want this to be a fluke, that Mr. Very Nice Rock Star is as nice as he seems to be. I have for some time been wondering why he has few, if any, close friends or confidants. Maybe it's not that he's uncomfortable with intimate friendships, perhaps he's incapable of it for other reasons: he may be unable, for whatever reason, to give that level of respect that I expect from my other intimates. I don't want that to be the case. But I'm afraid it it may be, and that I will have lost most or all of my respect for him literally over night. Yet at the moment, how do I know what is real? If I don't know my own reality, do my feelings even have a place?

I'm frightened. This makes me feel sick: shunned by someone I love, for the first time since getting out. I want my friend back. I don't know what will happen. I feel like I am clinically unlovable.

Last night I hung out with Jake and told him all this. All he said was, "Well! That's when you call me. Why didn't you call me? Hello, best friend! You should have just come over. I miss you! And don't think about it too much. Everything's going to be okay. I promise."

That's the best lie I've ever heard.

I want to hear it again.

I went home and did just what he said I'd do.

2008-02-09T13:17:00.000-08:00

I now have three all-time favorite unforgettable best pieces of theater art and a second most timely for me as a person work.

Single-moment-in-time-stretching-away-into-the-distance performances, in chronological order of my seeing them:

My hero Mary Zimmerman's The Secret In The Wings (Seattle Rep). Simply, it was a bridge between two parts of my life and had everything my girl's heart could dream and everything my woman's soul could need.
Elevator Repair Service's 6+ hour word-for-word performance of F. Scott Fitzgerald's grim tragedy of undying love, The Great Gatsby: Gatz. Set in a banal office, there is silence, then chaos, then silence again and I was fully entranced for the entire length.
How Theater Failed America by Mike Daisey.

Most Heartbreaking Reflection Of My Life performances:

Rent by Jonathan Larson. I was 20, has just had my first psychiatric hospitalization, and was an acting student living in Manhattan.
How Theater Failed America by Mike Daisey.

Last night I saw Mike Daisey perform his newest show, How Theater Failed America. If you don't know about him you may still have heard or read him, as he is not only an actor, writer, and fat man who sits at a table, he is also a commentator for NPR and writes for several magazines. I had seen him previously in his break-out 21 Dog Years At Amazon.com ten years ago so I knew what to expect: a sweaty fat man sitting at a table that you cannot take your eyes off of. Talking. Just...talking. And drinking water.

The basic premise of the show is the imminent economic failure of regional theater, which is largely uninteresting to anyone outside of theater and a terrifying white elephant to anyone inside of it. It tells nothing new. Most art does not tell a new story.

However, it struck me, and I had, at the end, one of those tunnel vision moments at the end, where he is speaking only to me, looking only at me, as though hundreds of other people were not present and we were alone together in the dark. He had spoken about his suicide attempts and being saved by work, nothing but work. Art, starvation, nothing but ramen for months, but it gave him life. And then he said, Go. Go do this work. Be as luminous as I know you are, as you know you are, because this is not political commentary or a failing industry but the only thing that will give you life. Go, work, and Godspeed.

I have no money. I have ten dollars to live on until the 15th and I have 2/3 of a large container of plain non-fat yoghurt in my fridge, uncooked soba in my cupboard, two large containers of salt, and a jar of honey. No produce, no fruits or veggies or anything unless my wonderful big sister buys me apples and carrots tomorrow at the farmer's market. I barely work and don't know if I can manage more hours. But I can't, literally, live another day like this.

The part of my brain that understands money is fatally broken. Things appear, or they do not. This simply is and is not connected to any other function. (I am not this way when I run a business, however.) I do understand that I am dying, right now, and if do not do something right this very fucking moment that very soon it may be too late for me. I cannot wait, it is an imperative.

So. So I guess that I am going to quit Balagan. They are doing nothing that I want to do; they are the Boston Pops performing an over-produced Copeland and I am Jimi Hendrix. The current season is full of large, ensemble casts of solid, proven works with moderate production values and not enough rehearsal time lead by an already-bloated, squabbling administrative team that I could come back and save (I would be very good at that) but, since it already sent me to the hospital, I feel that would be inadvisable. I want to see a man hang upside down in leather and spikes playing Moliere by candlelight for nine people. I want to have five people in panda suits eat sushi in a five-star sushi restaurant. I want to produce Hamlet in Space and cast rock stars who wear body glitter. I want to make punk rock theater. I want to be happy, not broken-hearted; free, not bound; alive, not dead. I feel cheated and tired and I have only thiiiiiis much left to live for.

So. To work, then.

Gōngxǐ fācái, hóngbāo nálái*.

2008-02-07T17:06:00.001-08:00

Oh, and Happy Chinese New Year.

Mr. Very Nice Rock Star is a Rat.

*Mandarin: "Congratulations and be prosperous, now give me a red envelope"**.

**In China, red envelopes with cash money inside are given at the New Year as symbolic wishes for prosperity to the recipient. Personally, I have always felt that giving me money was a very lucky thing to do. Now give me a red envelope.

Radio Silence, or Eleven Days and Twelve Nights In A Stone-White Room.

2008-02-07T16:30:00.001-08:00

I'm back.

I feel...

...I don't know. I don't know what I feel.

I read yesterday in this book, a book on why people who commit suicide do so, that two conditions must exist for a person who can and will commit suicide (as opposed to the equally-dangerous if less premeditated accidental suicide by suicidal gesture): they must perceive themselves both as a burden on their loved ones and lacking a community, involvement and belonging, to something, anything.

I guess that's where I am. I do feel a burden, I do feel removed from meaning, from belonging.

On November 30th, 2007, I checked myself into Harborview Medical Center for severe depression and anxiety with suicidal ideation.

It was good for me. Right after I got out, I was feeling a little (okay, a lot) better. But now, almost two months out, my meds have stopped working and all of the wonderful people who came out of the woodwork to support me have gone back to their lives. For the which I can place no blame; they have their own lives which I do not want to interfere with. I haven't been able to see anyone to get my medication adjusted. I can barely go to my day job, I rarely leave the house, I see almost no one. A few months ago I couldn't sleep past 9am; now, when I sleep, I sleep until 1pm, sometimes waking only to stay in bed, quietly and warmly, and wondering what would happen if I didn't leave.

The sole bright point, the only thing to look forward to without the guilt of my own absurd existence marring it, is a writing project that I seem to have fallen into with Mr. ARS. A rock opera. We're writing a rock opera. Which, since that's the most absurd thing I could possibly think of to do, seems right somehow. Good. He saved my life, too: he was the one who talked me down at the crucial moment when I am almost certain few, if any, others could have. He knew what to say. He did not cry, or beg, or coddle, or tell me that I had so much to live for. Rather, he calmly stated that, although not a sin, it would be a waste. He knew he could not stop me; he could only ask.

I understand that what I have is a disease. I do not hold myself to blame. I hold my parents somewhat responsible due to their abhorrent parenting, though not entirely because of the overwhelmingly vast mental illness streaking through my family, running wild like a sophomore on Spring Break in Tijuana.

Neither do I hold anyone else to blame. How could I? I only wish that I were a healthier person in order to be a better friend or family member to them.

I feel? Grateful that I have such a beautiful life, angry at my ungrateful self that I do not or cannot appreciate it in all its beauty. Utterly alone at times, although I know in my head that is a lie I tell myself, like the lie that I feel empty.

I know that I'm going to get up tomorrow, eventually eat, knit for a while, and try to breathe and stay calm.

But I do, oh I do, wish that I had a reason to get up tomorrow.

Hot.

2007-11-21T17:15:00.001-08:00

More soup!

2007-11-21T13:03:00.000-08:00

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

It's soup season. Yay!

Re: No fat Kiwis.

2007-11-21T12:46:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-21T12:05:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-21T11:05:00.000-08:00

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.

On third thought...

2007-11-17T16:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-17T15:47:00.001-08:00

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.

2007-11-17T10:55:00.000-08:00

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

Just a picture today.

2007-11-16T13:29:00.001-08:00

Via Slog, thanks to the Blue Scholars.

Less sick now.

2007-11-12T12:40:00.001-08:00

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.

2007-11-12T11:29:00.000-08:00

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

Via Gluten-Free Girl.

Re: Meth Labs.

2007-11-12T10:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Did you know?

2007-11-10T15:36:00.000-08:00

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

Now you know!

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

2007-11-10T14:22:00.001-08:00

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

Meth Labs: Ruining Influenza for Sober People Since 1993.

2007-11-10T13:58:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-10T11:40:00.001-08:00

You are Maryiln Monroe

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

What Famous Pinup Are You?

Why don't you marry a nice shiksa instead?

2007-11-05T16:29:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-11-05T13:33:00.001-08:00

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.

2007-11-05T12:33:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-11-05T11:25:00.000-08:00

Boo.

2007-11-01T14:33:00.001-07:00

Halloween is "scary".

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

Does that then infer:

Sexy = scary?

Women = scary?

Dia de los Muertos.

2007-11-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

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

Turn and face the strain.

2007-10-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

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

OiNK RIP, long live Balagan.

2007-10-27T12:58:00.000-07:00

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.

No title.

2007-10-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-25T10:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Forty whacks on amateur night.

2007-10-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-10-23T13:29:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-10-23T11:08:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

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

Coda.

2007-10-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-22T16:57:00.001-07:00

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.

It's my party.

2007-10-20T14:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-20T10:38:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm here from the internet.

2007-10-16T17:42:00.001-07:00

If only this was how I introduced myself.

My favorite movies (according to Jared).

2007-10-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Are you the kind of person...?

2007-10-12T14:51:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-12T14:44:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-12T13:22:00.000-07:00

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.