When the Past Becomes Present.

I spent more than two and a half hours last night talking to the Runner. I hadn’t had a real conversation with him for nearly twenty years but he sent me a Christmas Card and I thought Hmm - in guy speak (a language in which I am fluent) a Christmas card after never getting one before is an invitation to be closer friends. So I called him a few days ago to say thank you and he called me back last night. It was a lovely conversation, sometimes quite hard in spots, and yet surprisingly easy all in all. A kind of trust there that you can’t buy and a sweet nostalgic tenderness that you can’t fake.

You’ll laugh when I tell you that he hadn’t read this blog and therefore had no idea that I just wrote about him a few days ago. Serendipity? I talk about him out loud for the first time in years and then the card and the call? I was even brave enough to read the bit I wrote about him over the phone. Hey? Look it me and my courage, eh?

Not that we hadn’t seen each other, we are sort of related so always on each other’s radar a bit. We’ve seen each other about once a year or so at some family thing and said the hey, how are ya’s. But all very superficial kinda stuff. This conversation was very different. It was the who have you turned into conversation and where are we really going anyway with our lives conversation.

We talked up and down the last twenty years and pretty much each and every family member thru triumph and tragedy. We talked a lot about family and who we thought we were. We talked about Mastery – me of the word and him of the flesh. He is one of those people that has maintained a high level of fitness his whole life long which is the envy of all who know him, including me. We talked too much about my younger sister, which made me a bit jealous, and about neither of us having kids, which made us both a bit sad.

In summary we talked about love. The family kind and the friend kind and the marital kind and the self kind and the of life kind. It was a good conversation. I hope we have another one soon.

Am I really going to sleep late EVERY day?

Apparently the answer to that is “yes”. Eleven hours of mostly unconsciousness. With, I think three bathroom trips and a glass of milk, but can’t be sure. Shocking, I guess I needed it. Been thinking soooo many thoughts. Funny though you would think I would have written more of them down. Problem now is that I can’t decide what to write this blog about since I have too many potential hilarious topics lined up in the queue. Not really a queue exactly, more a mossy down spout clogged with leaves.

In a pretty good mood today after my Rip Van Winkling and so I should be, gonna be another perfect one with writing and reading and guitar and a friend and even some heavy housework with loud music (only time I ever crank it).

Hmmm, maybe the topic should be sleep and its importance to a writer’s process. But then that will get me thinking about naps and I haven’t even had one cup of coffee yet, let along breakfast and it is almost noon.

I am also relaxed and happy cause I got a nice email from Hoosie giving me absolution for not getting the feature treatment of the rom com to him yet. I am working on it and it is going well, just never ever goes as fast as you think it will. Unlike blog writing which, while it may offer up reportage of real events, is usually just a scene or two stitched together with the prose of the writer’s internal monologue. Screenwriting demands a different approach since you are both making stuff up and building a structure an listening to the characters and trying to ensure that where you are going is properly built on where you’ve been so you don’t lose anyone especially yourself. So that is my excuse for why fifteen minutes of blog writing produces, well this, and fifteen minutes of screen writing can some time produce no more than, “Elliot: Good morning. Ernesto: It’s not morning. Elliot: Well it is still a beautiful day. Ernesto: That is a matter of opinion.”

Now this is me realizing that I’ve broken the cardinal rule of character naming by having two guys with names that start with E, a rule that should only be broken for a comic reason for which currently I have none. So Ernesto needs a new name. Jorge? Orlando? Giancarlo? Nestor? Luigi? Luigi? Really you think? Hmmm.

I think I'm wearing Hoosie's Socks

It's not really as much of a creepy stalker thing as it sounds, but I'll get to that in a minute. First we have to get through the speaking of the dream.

If you've been following the current events in my head, you'll know that I spent some time last evening ruminating on the qualities of my Perfect Man. Cause it's research don't you know. The co-protagonist of the rom-com that I'm writing is on the hunt for her perfect guy. I've decided though, that a straight up check list of qualities is too dull. If I am concocting my own virtual Frankenstein's Love Monster, I need to be much more engaged in the process than just getting down 1) sense of humour 2) kind eyes, etc. Thus a bunch of guys from my past and present will form the big amorphous lump of qualities from which I will select specific items that appeal and apply. For the record, these are not just past boyfriends, these are just guys I know that have something about them that I like. And if you don't spot yourself on the list, you are quite welcome to remind me why you should be included. I like white roses, Veve Cliquot and diamonds of pretty much any kind. And hand massages - did I mention that before? Between the writing and guitar playing, I need a good hand massage from time to time.

After posting my first batch of qualities I was about to move on to Hoosie's list, but since his listing will be a long one, for many reasons, not the least of which is that I'm writing this bloody script for him so he is in my head a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean almost a creepy a lot so maybe I'm entitled to the damn socks people. Anyhoo, I digress. I decide to wait until tonight to launch into the Hoosie list as it will be a key part of the character development of Elliot, who is meant to be portrayed on screen by the aforementioned Hoosie. Thus I decide to play a bit of guitar and go to bed. Which I did. As I was drifting off, still sorting thru the boys in my head - realizing that most, though not all would be from the My Boys list, who are a select and secret group of guys for whom I would do a Favour - but that is for another post. And so while thinking these thoughts the great ocean that is sleep rises up and gently carries me away.

The dream starts as one of those weird office dreams that is every office you've every been in and yet none of them at the same time it was meant to be my current office at the university I think and I was supposed to be making a short ten minute film about our operations problem was everyone started running around and talking all at the same time about all the things that I absolutely must capture on film and a bunch of folks start roaring around with hand held video cameras and now the whole thing is a big giant Busby Berkley musical number with a big group of graduate students in robes doing an elaborate step dance number I'm chasing around shouting instructions to the very few co-workers I recognize take a left turn down the hall to the accounting offices only to discover that I've walked into an Office version of a Fellini orgy scene and when I tut and shake my head because these people are supposed to be helping me make a movie not getting each other off behind the assistant accountants filing cabinet one of them shocked and embarrassed by my scrutiny asks what I'm doing and i say what am i doing what are you guys doing if you are going to do that one of you should at least have a video camera so we can recoup some money out of this fiasco i shove a video camera into his hand and take off for the main bull pen area shouting instructions to the clueless production assistants trailing in my wake the dancing students have now broken into little gangs of break dancers and I shout for them all to get over by the big giant purple curtain which i pause to note is a very particular pascal purple used by the catholic church to cover statues and crucifixes during lent i can't remember why so the dancers scurry to form a kick line and i move into the kitchen which is much smaller and quieter but messy and we need to shoot in here so I put some hot water and soap in the sink to wash the stack of dirty mugs and my boyfriend is standing right beside me...

... calmly and happily asks what he can do to help and i say you could wash and then i put my hand in the water and it is hot and nice and eases the ache in my hand a bit definitely too much guitar and typing going on and then i say or dry and he says no he'll wash and i say you don't have to and he says no i want to and i say you do and he says yes and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into him a bit and kisses my forehead softly just above my left eyebrow and says sure it will give us a chance to spend some time together just breathing each other in then he does breathe in and hold me a moment steps back just enough for me to see his face his hands holding me loosely by the elbows he is about 6 foot one inch tall and his face is young and sweet and his long thick straight blond hair is a bit too long and hangs in his eyes and his body is lean and cut it recalls a cross between a skateboarder named rabbit i dated in my mid-twenties and Brad Pitt circa Thelma an Louise he smiles at me and deep dimples wink and his eyes twinkle but his eyes are not blue they are dark dark green like forest pools almost black around the edges and the color of new growth and sunlight near the pupils he smells of ocean and fresh sweat and grass hot in the sun and he smiles at me and i say good answer and he kisses me and tastes of berries and the kiss deepens and the alarm goes off.

So I get up and write this. Now I have to go to work. Sigh.

My Perfect Man Wish List. Part I

So the men referenced here, by in large, are referenced by nickname so as to afford them all a modicum of privacy. In case you are asking. Don’t. If you don’t know who I am referring to, then you don’t’ get to know. Deal with it. They are also not in anyway listed in chronological order, nor in order of IMPORTANCE, though of course since they all appear on my list they are, always and ever, cherished.

Skyhammer.
From my acquaintance with Skyhammer, my Perfect Man needs to have that world-class, take-my-breath-away intelligence. In short, he needs to know lots of stuff I don’t. Good luck with that mere mortal boys.
He also needs Skyhammer’s sense of silly. A man who can giggle without then turning around and leaping on the table in the presence of a mouse? That is valuable indeed ladies.

Someone who would be happy to eat cinnamon toast and tea every morning for a week, simply because you announced that it was “cinnamon toast and tea” week.
The way he makes me feel brilliant. Because he IS brilliant when he gets a very considered look and says to me “You’re brilliant” – I actually believe him. Makes me feel cinnamon toasty.

Gosh, so many great men to get to, but I’m not done with Skyhammer. He can Tango. Never seen him Tango. Never Tangoed with me, but when he describes his love of Tango – I believe him.

Last and not in anyway least – he knows the pointy end of the sword from the edge, and the tang and the hilt and pommel and the cross guard and the fuller and the grip and the scabbard. Not to mention his understanding of the bow and the arrow and the shaft and fletching and nock and draw and nevermind – you get my point. If there is a Dragon around this is one guy I would like to be around to slay him for me.

The Cossacks
There are two. Who have never met each other by the way. One an old friend, one of new acquaintance. Big. Blond. Tall. Light of eye and quick of laugh.

Strangely the thing they have in common was they look surprised to see me and always seem to be surprised at how happy they are to see me. Does that make any sense? I like their sense of confidence in their bodies. Tall, strong and fit and they know it. And they know what to do with it. Comfortable in their own skins in a way few men of my acquaintance are. At the same time, no real sense of arrogance over their beauty or physical prowess. They don’t poster, because they don’t need to, they just are. Their ability to be in the moment.

The Runner
Not that he was technically my first kiss, but he was actually my first French kiss. Side by side on a schoolyard swing set, on a cold fall night. What we need from him is the taste of raspberries. He tasted of raspberries. And I kissed him longer and more diligently than perhaps anyone since – that is one of those glorious things about teenage necking sessions, isn’t it? You kiss for hours and days and months. Be honest, making out has never really been as much fun since, has it? Kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. He always tasted of raspberries. Day after day, regardless of food and drink, he tasted of raspberries. I wonder if he still does?

Blue Paper Blues

Okay, so when staring at the screen fails, out must come the pen and the pushing it across the paper making squiggly marks - blue on blue in this case- which can later be translated by the readers’ eyes and brain into some semblance of meaning. So while it may transcribe this fairly faithfully later to the computer, for now it is just me; a girl and a not quite blank page. It is a scrap page in fact. On of those strange sized blue pages packed between each and every copy of the annual report. 500 copies of the report, 532 pieces of pristine blue paper. Couldn’t just recycle it. must use it up some how. It has become dumping ground for my random thoughts. Day job thoughts and night job thoughts and personal thoughts. Have decided to get serious about my perfect man list but think it will be so Gone With The Wind in length it will be in installments.

I’d rather say in my cocoon thanks

Hey. Yah. It is a bit cramped. Certainly dusty. So what if I know the landscape of every freaking inch down to the last micron. It is mine God damn it and no one has dominion in here but me. Not that I have the slightest clue how to be good ruler of the universe. But I am safe and I am warm. Mostly. And when the cold winter wind blows I put on a Canadian Tenors CD and let myself pretend that out there, somewhere my True Love awaits.  Hmmm, there is a song there I think. Never mind. Not creating now. Ranting now.

I mean seriously suddenly I am thinking about romantic love all day every frackin’ day and I am getting really cranky about it. The thing I avoid most is now the frackin’ desktop on my computer. Seriously I haven’t even had a “real” boyfriend since I was in my late twenties. Cause I’m pretty sure you can’t count the married men or the dudes stepping out on their live-in girlfriends, or the gay couple and if any of you guys are reading this. Shame on all of us. But I’m thinking I paid the penance for us now twice over. Enough.

You may wonder whether I gave up on Love or whether it gave up on me. Tough call. Depends on where you sit I think. From where I sit, it gave up on me. Since, at the height of my physical attractiveness and personal joy I was sucked under the  riptide of my first and only “Kill or Die for” love. Yes. I would have killed or died for him.  I wonder if his wife would have? No matter, it was all so tragic and accidental.  I have superior worship from afar skills. Really top notch. Still do as a matter of fact. But when the object of your adoration turns around one day and pulls you into his arms. There is no defence for that. No defence. Only oceans of tears and eight years of therapy.

Fast forward. Today. Me. Tricked into writing a romantic comedy. Okay, not actually tricked. But it sounds good and is truer than you can know. Hey? It’s going to be brilliant and successful beyond all your wildest dreams. But for the four of five of you that actually read this blog? Please be prepared to squeeze me tight on opening night because it will have come out of the darkest places of my despair, and there is still a chance that I will dissolve into a dew before all is said and done. Love, bah humbug.

So fine. I can’t fit back into my cocoon anymore because my new wings are all sticky and awkward and won’t fold up small enough. But I am going to go wash the tears off my face and get a big glass of ice with just a little water. I’ll play the guitar for awhile and go to bed early. Teresa and Elliot and their quest for True Love will be waiting tomorrow. Right now? I’m taking the rest of the night off.

The blog with no title

The snow has turned to rain. I can hear it on the skylight.

As I type, the fingertips of my left hand are reminding me how much I’ve been practicing my new Christmas tune. My brain is reminding me how much I suck at it and I better be prepared to amuse my guitar teacher tomorrow, cause amaze him with my musical talent, probably not so much.

Funny isn’t it? In about seven minutes I turned a barely started crocheted scarf into a drawstring bag for my video camera. Really. I timed it. And yet mastering the first eight bars of a song I ALREADY KNOW on the guitar is like… Fine. We all know that of all my multitude of gifts, a knack for melody, not so much. Ironic to many since I actually have the vocal capacity to stun millions, but memory for melody? Pitch? Sigh. I can actually tell I’m off key, but the ability to do something about it?

Often when I’m practicing the guitar I feel like there are two people present. The meat suit, trying to move the fingers and hit the notes and a ghostly ethereal self that loses patience with the plodding flesh and decamps for God knows where. Where the angels are singing perhaps. Lucky me. I do know what that sounds like.

Interesting tonight. There is not a thing on television or written in a book that is more interesting and consuming than what I am thinking right now. Good. That is as it should be. I am going to go away now and kick some story butt. Because. I can.

But seriously I could use to be well kissed somewhere around now.

Never Send a Writer to do a Programmer’s Job

So okay, Skyhammer, you have to take the blame for manifesting this one. The string of lights that did fall down in the middle of the night scaring the shit out of me were the icicles Po and I hung, not any of the numerous strings hung by the team you spearheaded with Duder and Fast Mike. But since Duder and I helped and we are both writers and you guys are both programmers…Oh, never mind, cancels out I suppose. But that is just the math and my head hurts a bit today. Wonder why.

Did just find three tiny cheese puffs hidden under a couple baguette slices thou. Num. Breakfast. Hah, The Puffs made yet another convert last night. Mandolin Mike was truly skeptical I think. Informed me he wasn’t really a cheese puff kinda guy. Yah. He fell hard and fast like all the rest do. Good man wasn’t too proud to admit it immediately though. Thanks to Squish and Skyhammer for helping me with the heavy lifting on that, you either need some serious guns to do a double batch of choux pastry or a tag team of friends that respond well to my bleating, “Beat it! Beat it hard!” The Mikes were standing bye for the hand off, but Skyhammer pulled it across the finish line, the last great spate of beating motivated by Squish and I screaming cheers in his ears, no doubt. Oh, can’t forget Po’s cubing of the cheese either. Exactly what is it that you did Coco? I supervised of course.

Alright, need some scrambled eggs with the leftover chorizo and some serious coffee. Not fresh-roasted Jamaican Blue Mountain, like Mandolin Mike is no doubt enjoying as I write this. Can’t imagine having the patience to roast my own coffee beans. Hmm. Okay back with some musing on writing from last night that will be infused with caffeine, not red wine. Cripes as I type that I can hear one of the writing Nazi’s in my head whining that coffee is to red wine as caffeine is to alcohol. Shut up. I had too much of one last night and not enough of the other yet today, so if you don’t want me to unleash my supernatural freak collection into your damp little interrogation room, you will SHUT UP! And I will eat scrambled eggs and chorizo, with a little Guinness cheese grated over top.

Why is finishing so hard?

Okay.
So I am in fact in bad, bad, bad mood.
For absolutely no reason I might add.
I had a great day. Work worked, laundry done, nap, guitar, waxing poetic about the perfect man.
But I do have to finish something. Why oh why oh why does this have to be like walking over glass every time? I don’t even want to try and finish. What I want is to have another drink and play Vampire Wars until Glee is on TV.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because it isn’t what I really want. What I really want is to have this movie outline finished. But no, not the least of it. I want it to be finished in grand and pleasing fashion. However ya big schmoop, it can’t even be a bad outline if it ISN’T FINISHED!
Resistance. The knot of phlegm in my head that must be expelled each and every day in order to get writing done.
If you pray, please pray for me.
Cripes, now my glasses are dirty and I must arise and clean them. And get a glass of ice water. Heavy on the ice. And wash my face since I’ve been crying and it feels all sticky.
Then I have to resume the position, tell my self again that writing is joyful, god damn it. And finish.

Just a thought or two before sleep.

 This girl is going to bed early. The subconscious needs to process a rather full day, week, month…yah, year.

I’m a bit stuck with my feature film outline.  I know what happens on page 45 and 60 but am drawing a blank on how to get everyone there. So I do what I do when I’m stuck. Any creative thing I can think of that might walk me sideways into a solution.  So the Canadian Tenors are giving me “What Child is This?” my all time favorite carol, and I am going to turn them off shortly and pick up the guitar and try and figure it out.

My guitar teacher is back. Oh, how I missed him.  I shook his hand and told him so too.  He composed the music for the Sci-Fi Fantasy mini-series “Alice” airing this week already on Showtime. So he took a bit of a break from teaching my slow-to-learn magnificence and made some cash-o-la. Now he is back, I did miss him.  I proclaimed him of Angel blood in previous blog and seeing him again and playing music with him, I stand by my earlier assertion.  Huh. I think he was a bit surprised at being happy to see me too.  But you know, I am a bit of an acquired taste, but once you acquire me…

My lullaby is playing now, Hallelujah which really is my cue to shut down, turn off and pick up the guitar.  So I will kiss you all good night and tackle my story problem tomorrow. Damned Romantic Comedy. I got tricked into writing it and now look at me, asking everyone I know how to recognize True Love. I’m starting to think it really is true, what Dara Marks says about the connection of writer to theme.  It is a question or thought seen very personally thru the lens of the writer.  Which would be me.  Who doesn’t really believe in Romantic Love other than as a sort of temporary glandular condition. Sigh. Okay. Tomorrow I promise to spend my blog time composing the ideal man. Jeepers. I could hardly type that sentence and if you could see my face you would be laughing at the sneer.

Did I already say G’night and G’bless? O well, I guess I have now. Until tomorrow.

Lost Hour, Nanaimo – 4:31am Sunday December 6, 2009

 Lost Hour came late today. Makes sense in that we didn’t shut it down till 1am. And then after a half dozen 5$ martini’s between us in the hotel bar after the Canadian Tenor’s show. Such a great day today, ah, yesterday. So many laughs  large and small. Lots of talk, music, wine and joy. Hard to get the pen moving now though in that it is so much easier to sink into a dreamy reverie.  I do want to write down one thing about the day though. Before Moosie (my new stuffed moose wearing a mini Canadian Tenors t-shirt – Yah, I see your eyes rolling, but you can’t really ever take the teenage girl out of the middle-aged woman you know.) and I return to the land of Nod.

Lil’ Dude asked me today, in and amongst about a billion other assorted questions, what did I think was more important? Memories or Dreams? Tough call, ay? Given that memories form part of the fabric of who we are and give context to our dreams. I’m going to side with dreams as I strive to live joyfully in every moment and I can’t live backward, so faith and hope in my dreams pulls me forward and, quite honestly, keeps me alive. Then again, all of my writing is memory and dream intertwined, so closely knit as for there to be nothing to choose between them.

So maybe I don’t have an answer to that question at all Lil’Dude. I’ll just put it in the big box of things-to-think-about and take it out and mull it over from time to time.  To turn it over in my fingers and feel the cool slick hardness on one side, the gritty powdery bit underneath, the squishy bit round an edge. All the while I breathe in the scent of cheese puffs and lavender, stale beer and creosote, basil and sweet spicy boy. 

Moosie says G’night and G’bless.

Caught Between a Rock and a Harp Place. The Canadian Tenors Christmas Concert.

Nope. Not at typo. There really was a harp on stage I was really caught out. I was vastly embarrassed to find myself in the very front row of the Canadian Tenors and Vancouver Island Symphony Christmas Concert last night. No! I thought I was in row 4, close enough to enjoy all the action and catch the best sound. But instead, they took the first several rows of seats out to accommodate the orchestra. What I thought was row 4 or 5 was row 1. And when I say row 1, I say 2 feet away from the toes of the boy’s shoes.  No, two feet is an exaggeration. It was maybe 1 horizontal foot and 3 vertical. I was mortified.

Not that it is about me people cause it surely isn’t and it was a sold out house and the boys are nothing if not professional. But. Gotta be a little bit like having your third grade teacher breathing down your neck during your doctoral exam. Jeepers. I actually contemplated trying to trade seats with someone further back.  Lil Dude said I was overreacting and reminded me that the guys are professionals.  And they already knew I was there as we ran into them on the ferry. Where I told them we were in row 4.

Okay, of course they are professionals, but jeepers, I don’t want to be the one to prove that Angel Boy can handle distraction.  Cause, not proud of it, but I am a distracting person. All thru I keep thinking okay, good, I got a little smile and a nod but they are doing great and sending it out into the house and so maybe not so distracting as I thought. Then -  post performance he tells me that he was aware he was of me sitting, like right there, and all the things it stirred up in his mind about his past and stuff. Rats. I was hoping my fears were all ego. Oh well. Next time I'll try and sit further back.

Hey, maybe we all learned something new from the unusual juxtaposition of past and present.  I am a fan, after all, so don't expect an unbiased review.  Though come to think of it all reviews are biased, aren't they, otherwise they wouldn't be reviews, they'd be summaries. But I digress, I do plan some vacation time and creative renewal around the expense of seeing these guys for three reasons.

First, they are brilliant musicians and the music makes me feel better about myself and the universe I inhabit. I just does. And given my natural penchant for melancholy, I need that.

Second, their mastery inspires the pursuit of my own. I strive to be as good at what I do as they are. Transforming people’s mood, perceptions, beliefs and maybe actions? Sounds like the goal of an artist’s life to me. 

Three, I met one of these artists when he was a child, a pivotal place in his life where he found himself elevated first and foremost beyond his peers into the rarified and highly demanding life of professional opera. It was also a pivotal place for me. It was the same time I started writing. I remember him from then. He remembers me. We are connected in a strange and entirely inexplicable way. We give context to each other's artistic experience. Okay, that sounds a bit pompous, and is probably punctuated incorrectly, but I still think it's true.

Einstein says time and space are illusion and certainly there are moments when I am watching Angel Boy sing when I can’t tell if he is ten, thirty or sixty. But ever and always, he reminds me of what happens when talent, hard work and a positive mind-set meld.

So okay. Not about me. About the Canadian Tenors - Fraser, Vic, Remi and Clifton. About their music. Which was truly sensational.

Not only do the Canadian Tenors rock, but they attract some fine-ass musicians to the party.  The Vancouver Island Symphony was spot on. On guitar, bass and drums were other fine, fine musicians who may never forgive me for not remembering their names, but I will try to make up with extra chocolate just for them next time I attend a performance. Hard to judge the sound levels from my strange seating placement but hey the group’s manager consulted me on my opinion after the show. And didn’t that do lots for my ego despite not really being able to give him accurate data. It is very important to know that they question, and listen, and strive for perfection. Hey Jeff! Happy to attend future performances as your ears!

Mark Camilleri, the pianist and musical director doesn’t play the piano so much as he dances it. If ever you have the chance to see them live, don’t limit your attention to the eye candy down front, check out the piano player doing his thing. Dancing with the piano. You may have seen and heard a great pianist command his instrument, but I guaran-fracking- tee you that you have never beheld the like of this young man dancing his piano.

“The Perfect Gift” the Canadian Tenors’ Christmas release is so worth buying I don’t even know how to begin to describe it. I own one and have five on order. By the way Clifton, I got hugs and I got smiles, and I even got kisses. But when you saw me you actually capped your pen and hugged me instead of signing my CD.  Shameful professional practice. But I forgive you. I will most certainly give you an opportunity to make it up to me. And I repeat, an unbiased review this ain’t. 

Further, I could be detailed and glowing about each stand-out performance of the night. And perhaps I should since they all delivered moments worthy of mention. 

Yeah, that’s me cold and impartial reviewer. Yet, hah! If you know me at all, you know I wouldn’t and couldn’t cite them without the musical and artistic excellence that is there. Because I can’t. I won’t. I’m funny that way. Cut my perception of artistic excellence on Dame Margo Fonteyn and Mikhail Baryshnikov and the Kirov ballet and Kiri Te Kanawa and Antonio Pappano and Judith Forst and David Pittsinger and Richard Margison. All of whom, with one exception I have met.  Don’t know who they are? That’s what Google was invented for kids.  My fatal flaw is attraction to genius.  Why is it fatal and why a flaw? For another post.

Suffice it to say, for me, stand out moments musically and performance wise at the Canadian Tenors December 5, 2009 performance at the Port Theatre, Nanaimo, BC Canada –

• Because we Believe – I’m a sucker for the lyrics, kinda my theme song
• Adagio – brilliant music, brilliantly interpreted
• Instrument of Peace – extraordinary arrangement of timeless hope and untouchable beauty
• Clifton Murray taking his space with humour and humility as an equal with his peers, his solo of Wintersong was just lovely. Warm, wistful, a bit sexy, well, a lot sexy, and achingly sweet, bye and bye. Gosh, I look forward to hearing you in future.
•  Victor Micallef – Yep. I stood up for his solo. Had too. Unwritten rule in our highly critical and unforgiving world.  When someone delivers all – you get off your butt, even if you stand-alone., not that I did actually stand alone. Now I don’t leap to my feet with the herd. Always been a bit ornery and stubbornly butt-in-chair about that.  It's a big butt, takes a lot to motivate it to move. O Sole Mio. A purple piece, a chestnut as it were in the halls of opera, but with...
•  Mark Camelleri at the piano and Victor at the microphone--I can truly say that the Neapolitan Sun shone upon us all at that moment. And I understood in a wholly new way, the relationship between composer, singer and accompanist. This alchemy, this magic – a perfect moment of live musical performance.  Joins my Pantheon.  The whole of which, if you are oh, so lucky, some day I will reveal. (and laughing at my apparent opera expertise. I think that was the song, but hey I am an opera fan, NOT an opera buff, and with no program and only my middle-aged memory to rely on…)
•  Remigio Pereira – Now, you may not know it, but Remi is a Guitar God. Fine, don’t believe it at your peril. Just remember you heard it from me first. Fine you may have heard it before, whatever, it's my blog.  Took me 6 months to master the way he plays Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah on guitar. When I see him pick up the guitar on stage it makes me extra happy over and above the extra happy I already feel at being in the audience in the first place.  In fact when the lovely handsomeness of Fraser Walters got in the way of me examining a flamenco strumming pattern, I was highly put out.
•  Last in this list, but never least in my heart, Fraser Walters and a song that I have never heard before “Mary Did You Know”. Not an easy song. Not a tried and true universally loved song. But oh my. When Fraser sings it is never just pretty, though it is often sweetly so, it is never just perfectly pitched, though it is always so - the little burr in his voice tonight elevated the depth of the question. The man can phrase a song like no one alive.

Together, as I stood in line to have my CD signed (the stuffed Moose with the Canadian Tenors t-shirt in my purse and out of embarrassment’s way) I listened to the favorite songs and moments of the crowd. I wonder if most critics ever avail themselves of the overheard lobby and bathroom comments? In the end who cares what they said and it’s my blog and no-one is paying me for anything!

Highlights for me:

Because we Believe

Instrument of Peace

O Holy Night

Silent Night

Wintersong

O Sole Mio

Mary Did you Know

O Viens Emmanuel (nice Remi!)

And not fair to mention their rendition of Hallelujah which, bye the bye is my bedtime song. And I will forgive them not doing What Child is This, my all time favorite Christmas song, since it is on the CD “The Perfect Gift”.

And no, i didn't quite describe every song in the program as a HIGHLIGHT. Well, fine, almost. 


So no. I am not am impartial critic, how could I be? But I am a writer to whom truth is important. This is my truth. The concert was a cherished memory. The Canadian Tenors  “The Perfect Gift” – a great holiday CD. Take a chance, download them from iTunes, buy “The Perfect Gift” for your parents and be astonished and captivated by their sound for yourself.

Yah, so I'm a Story Lunatic, so sue me.

Further to yesterday’s blog, I feel it is important to point out that the reason that I was a bit put out with The Producer was a strange and stupid reason and was only a big frackin deal because I’m a Writer. So I’m not going to detail the brou-ha-ha except to say that I was pissed because I have been noodling around this idea that we have in development and in one (or six) of those collective unconscious things, I have included massively pertinent details of his life and upbringing that for some reason he had hitherto not identified.  So I freaked out at him.  You see when I tell him where the story is going and what is happening in my head, he listens.  He listens as deeply and completely as anyone that I have ever met. He thinks, he nods that special Hoosie nod that comes from the shoulders, and I think “Okay, he heard me, he is smart enough not to say “no” yet to anything and he is still in the room, so it’s all good.” 

So when the details arrived after the signing of the contract and broaching of the bottle of Champagne, I felt strangely betrayed.  Which really is funny. First time I barked a man, not for paying attention to another woman, or picking me up 2 hours late, or for being unkind to a waiter, but because he didn’t share something that was pertinent to the Story I was crafting. And crafting for him thank you very much.

See I’m laughing right now as I type this.  An odd couple we are too be sure.  We have known each other for about five minutes and act like its been ten years.  Still a few surprises in store for both of us, Methinks.  I can hardly wait. Great, great week. Superlative friends. All kinds of new thoughts to think about the nature of love and so many stories I had to rent a mental storage locker for the overflow until I can get to them. Let’s hope that the next 54 years will be long enough to get to them all.

Journey safely Hoosie, I look forward to hugging you soon and making you laugh even sooner.

Love. Go figure.

I can’t say that I would give up this past week, if you were to offer. But it certainly hasn’t been comfortable. Not in sleep or waking. Eating or driving. Typing or brushing my hair. Every thing conspiring, asking pushing prodding, tripping and smacking. No, comfortable it was not. Now even, sitting typing. He’s reading. Too late, too much wine, too many things said that can’t be unsaid. Ah there we are. Just when you think that maybe what you thought you were talking about maybe wasn’t at all what you thought it was.  “I’ll go brush my teeth,” I say, “ Then I’ll apologize.” Apologize for what you ask? No frackin idea. Yet it was there somehow.

Anyway, he said I had to ask, so I did. Didn’t want to. I’m nosy enough by the light of day, am I not? Yet it seems he wants me to push, to ask. He answers honestly and passionately and poetically and fully when I do.  But he says I must ask. So I do. Past my line of comfort. Certainly miles past propriety as such things are measured. Such a gift to have him here.  Such a flashpoint for revelations about so many things. So easy. So very joyful in waking and in snoring. Which for the record, we both do, he never more than right now as I type, late into the early morning.  Profoundly uncomfortable and yet so easy and familiar, how can such a friendship be? Well. I suppose all I can offer up, is just when you think life can’t surprise you, it does. And no matter how hard and far you run from loving people and needing them, you really just can’t. I had the strangest week watching someone fall in love. I don’t believe in it you know. Love. Never have, never will. Yet here I am writing a romantic comedy. Here I am watching a man fall in love with a woman 3000 miles away, and yet she is present in every moment, waking and sleeping. I must confess I’ve been watching with an almost morbid fascination. I thought I’d seen this before. No. Not like this.  I’m puzzled and humbled and profoundly befuddled. It makes me really happy and dreadfully lonely all mixed up together.

So I’ll go drop a blanket on my exhausted Knight of Cups, kiss his brow if I think I can get away with it, and take myself to bed. Alone, and yet not. Sad and yet happy. Sleepy and yet buzzing with energy. Love. Interesting. Guess maybe I should give it some thought. It has been a wonderful week. Maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to believe. Just a little bit. I’ll let you know.

GRrrrsplichize

Not quite so shiny happy today. Just trying to hang in till dinner with Bucky and Hoosie and Chef. Must go do mail merge for address labels. Got eight hours sleep but didn't seem to be enough.  Maybe cause Hoosie was acting like the little brother reading comics under the covers till the wee hours. And Not really super annoying except every time I rolled over some part of my brain asked why the light was still on. Also that big sister thought that he was going to screw up his circadian rythmn even more. But you know what? Hoosie's a grownup if he wants to live like a vampire, hey, it's his vacation! Okay, that yawn nearly broke my jaw. Heading back to the office for more coffee.

Who do love?

Okay must write something.  Tired. Long day. Fun.  Trying to keep both self and the Producer awake to a decent hour. Hard . He is on TO time and though could easily sleep 10 or 11 hours , don’t want him to have to be staring at the ceiling from 4 am on if we lights-out too early. 

Crazy script reading day. Gotta admire the Empress, she is one kinda firecracker assembling a really good professional cast to read her feature script. It was interesting. It went well. Lots of good notes for her on giving it a final tuneup.

Big giant bonuses for me abounded too in that not only did I get the shiny happy deep abiding joy of hugging a another couple Sister’s of the Pen, Delicious and Pixie,  but then got to drink, dine and plot with two very hot, and when I mean hot - I mean Caliente, Scotch Bonnet pepper hot-Actor/Producers. Not to mention my  newest Gorgeous Girlfriend – Bucky to all you unwashed. Gosh the life of a screenwriter is glamorous and interesting.  Really quite taken with the New Josh, I was impressed both in my easy to impress areas – yah, he’s cute – and in some of my more discerning impervious to bullshit areas. For those of you who know me, I can see the raised eyebrows.

While it is true that I love all humanity in a general warm fuzzy way, in that I would defend each and everyone of you from invading aliens, the ones I love best and deepest are neither those you see me fuss over in public, nor the ones with whom I have the most volume or consistency of interaction. That is perhaps the source of that tiny patch of sadness way back in my eyes.  You can catch a glimpse of it when the light is right.

What kind of party would that be if I could really and truly gather together all the people I love – the ones that make me sparkly shiny happy.  The ones that hug like nobody’s business. I think some would be deeply surprised to have made the guest list. Maybe be a bit puzzled. Some bit be a bit put out when they recognize others in the room, having had  no idea. Which elicits a slightly evil laugh – gotta say.

That is still something I can change maybe over the next 54 years.  Make sure that those that I love know it. So here I go.  Tell someone I love every day that I do in fact, love them.  One of my better ideas, don’t you agree?

Life Lessons

Tank Girl sent me a list of the life lessons that she has learned so far, so here is mine in reply

1) Always eat the stinky cheese

2) Mistakes are only bad if you don't learn from them

3) Don't step over a dollar to get to a dime

4) Good girls have lots of signatures in their yearbooks, but crap stories to tell in the old folks home

5) Vodka should be kept in the freezer

6) The truth really will set you free if you can face it and kick its ass

7) The secret to eternal youth is 8 hours of sleep at night and the pursuit of inappropriately young men by day

8) A really good friend is someone who designs you a Jolly Roger tattoo, even though she doesn't approve 'cause she wants you to have something elegant and custom

Could Should Will Wont Might Mightent

At least 5 things I should be writing at this very moment. None of which (obviously) I am.  But I just wanted to think some thoughts all over the place and if I write them down and post them to my blog then at least is can be called “writing practice” instead of navel gazing.

I’ve never really understood women very well. I know I’ m not alone. All you guys out their going “Duh” at reading that. But I do try. Like this book that the E-litter-ati are trying to conquer for this month’s book club. Supposed to be a Steel Magnolias set in NY. Sigh. Maybe it is. All I know is I found myself wondering how you would get expelled from book club for making two crappy selections in a row. I fancy it would be like getting the “Black Spot” from the pirate crew in Treasure Island. (Best Book Ever in my opinion) Hmm. Maybe that should be a hint and I should change my next selections to Treasure Island and Princess Bride.

Speaking of pirates though, I think I may have just walked myself off the plank. Lil’Dude and I made a date to get matching tattoos. A gesture of abiding friendship. Thing is, I have no tattoos. And not cause I’m afraid of needles. In the main I am very very fond of sharp things. It’s the commitment. That I ain’t so good at. I am a bit concerned that I just pledged Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum to get a Jolly Roger tattooed on my ass, while stone cold sober. Well, maybe my ankle and not my ass, and a very small one at that. The size of which can be covered by a kiss. Or a large band-aid.

Still, what am I thinking? It is supposed to be a celebration of finally finding my voice. It scares the shit out of me which means I should do it, though perhaps twin tattoos of ravens on either shoulder might be more appropriate. Or a Raven sitting on a rock with the gaelic clan motto Creag an Fhitich – for the Raven and the Rock – which is the clan badge, not to confused with the family Crest which  has the latin motto per mar per terras – by land and by sea. Or the other way around. Neither gaelic nor latin declensions my strong suit.

Okay. All I do know I that I’m gonna run off now and eat something before I check in with Hoosie. He had a big photo shoot today for a magazine cover, I’m looking forward to hearing about his day as a super model.  Shout out too to Lil’ Dude for the props on the writing and the advice, and to Lady M for her cheerleading and simpatico.

Shadows Gather - to date

By popular demand (well, one request to be honest) here is Shadows Gather in order to date.


CHAPTER
So much promise. It really would be a shame if I have to kill him after all. Michael Slotnick is a sort of protégé of mine I suppose you could say. An accidental one to be sure, but a protégé nonetheless. I'm a fixer for the local preternatural community, and of late I've been showing Michael the ropes.
Yah, I know, I haven't figured out how to phrase it on my tax forms yet either. "Supernatural Fixer", "Cleaner to the Undead and Unholy" you begin to see my problem. But there it is, when the things that go bump in the night get scared or screw up, I'm the one as gets the call. The question is, when I'm scared or I screw up, who am I supposed to call? And I might of this time. Really screwed the pooch. Up shit creek without my paddle. Staring down the nickel-plated barrel of the revolver of destiny held in
the shaking hand of a strung out pretty boy who has just learned that the blood in his veins ain't quite as purely human as he thought. That shaking hand belongs to part-time model, part-time construction worker Michael Slotnick, and if I don't say just exactly the right thing right now, I think he's going to shoot me dead.
"You knew, didn't you?" Michael cried," You knew all along what a freak I am, didn't you? Didn't you!" A spray of spittle from the corner of his perfect lips adds marvelously to the whole crazy wild-eyed, hand shaking, psycho out of control thing. "Michael, Mica baby calm down." I'm scrambling for something to say. How did I lose control of this so fast? "Mica, tell me what's wrong, I can't help if I don't know what's wrong." There, ball is in his court - that's the way to handle a crazy person, right? Make him use his words?
"You set me up, from the moment you met me, you knew." His voice has dropped a bit and the hand is steadier on the gun. That's a good sign, right? "From the moment I met you I knew that you were special, if that's what you mean." Wow, I sound a hell of a lot calmer than I feel. "Mica please, you know I want to help, you know I'd do anything for you. Please put the gun down." I push backward slightly on the wheels of my chair and open up a few inches between me and that amazingly sparkly gun barrel. Serves me bloody right for installing crystal chandeliers in every room.  The play of a miniature rainbow off the barrel of a 45 is not the lighting effect I had in mind.
His eyes drop to the chair and the gun barrel droops
accordingly. Damn, I thought I taught him better than that. Oh well, time for remedial gun-handling 101 after I talk him out of shooting me. "Haven't I shown you that already?" My voice falls too, to almost to a whisper. He's the reason I'm in this chair and hell, I'm not proud of rubbing it in his face at a time like this but sometimes a girl has gotta do what a girl has gotta do.
Come on baby, just a little bit more. I nudge my chair back just a smidge. "Quit moving!" Michael says. The gun barrel and his attention snap back to my face. No worries, a beam of light now hits the large aquamarine ring on my right hand, and that's gonna be all I need. "Sorry," which I in fact am. "Being held at gunpoint makes me a bit nervous." which in fact, it does. Not that you could tell from the deep, dulcet tone of my voice. I fiddle with the ring and a bead of blue light flicks across his eyes. "I trusted you. Trusted you with everything." His voice fades away into a yawn and his eyes blink, suddenly sleepy. "I know you did baby. I know. And I've tried to do right by you, didn't I take you in, teach you things, make you safe?" I twitch the ring again and manage to get a slow nod. "You're safe now.  Safe with me. You can put the gun down now. You're safe." More sleepy nodding and the gun-hand does in fact drop to his side.
You know, I had a real sharp twinge in my conscience when I first implanted that hypnotic suggestion, keying it to a ring the color of my eyes. To be specific both ring and eyes are the color of the Adriatic Sea just off Venice. And no, they aren't colored contact lens, thanks for asking. But I digress. I thought the hypnotic implant was maybe a bit too manipulative, even for me.
But given the circumstances of our first meeting and my immediate suspicions about his true nature and of course the whole threatening my life thing just now, kinda glad I stomped that little angel voice into an unpleasant squishy spot on the pavement.
"Mica, baby" I pitch my voice into as warm a caress as I possibly can, "Seems like you've been partying hard with some very nasty people. Who've you been a bad boy with?" "Nobody. Not a bad boy." It's mostly a sleepy slur but still too much push back for me. "Well it sure ain't just booze honey. Someone give you some pills? Some kinda blow? You can tell me baby, you're safe now." Michael shakes his head heavily, "Nope. You'll be mad." Damn straight I will, but you won't have to deal with that till you're stone cold sober and nursing a headache the size of St. Louis. I try again, "Mica, sweetheart, somebody told you some nasty things about me, right? Who was it?" "Like it when you call me sweetheart Reinee. It's nice." Damn, he should not be able to dodge my question like that, I sure did a piss poor psychic hack job on him. Crap, serves me right for going soft on a pretty face.
"Michael. Tell me who has been talking to you about me. Answer me true!" There, I invoked the key obedience phrase, it'll scare him, but I really need to know who's been messing with his head. That's entirely my prerogative thanks very much. "St-tst-tst" he's choking trying to tell me the name but someone, it appears, has put a mind block on him. If I don't do something fast he'll choke to death trying to speak my enemy's name. "Ereshkigal!" I shout out the name of the ancient Sumerian goddess of the underworld and he collapses into a dead faint. "Fuck!" Now I am
mad. I had to burn a perfectly good safe word there. The good news is that he's stopped choking. The rest of the news is bad, bad and bad. Not least of which is the fact that he's slumped half on me, half off, and in trying to lower him to the floor without banging his head on my workbench the shattered bone,scar tissue and ground meat that currently makes up my left leg starts screaming agony like all the smoke alarms in hell.
Scrabbling through the cut herbs and metaphysical apparatus on the workbench I come up with a cell phone and bottle of Percoset. Tough-bitch multi-tasker that I am, I manage to dry swallow two pills and hit the speed dial during the time it takes for three hot tears of pain to splash onto the spill from a tiny vial of dried Dragon's Blood. I deeply inhale the puffs of resulting smoke. Now man, that is some good shit. I can see my reflection in the mirror over the bench and my eyes flash that gorgeous red that promises a world of pain to Stanislav, whenever I catch up to him that piece of Gorgon vomit. I'm pretty sure the St-tsts-stts that Mica was trying to choke out before I pulled the plug on his consciousness was Stanislav's name - he's the only one of my current enemies with that particular consonant configuration.
The interminable ringing in my ear finally ends with Tequila's rasp, "Shadows Gather, watering hole to the Unholy and the Undead. Whatchawant?" "Get up here. Now." Hmm, sounds like my rasp is finally a match for hers. I try and put the phone down but no. Her tirade pulls it back to my ear. "Irene? That you? You got a lotta damn nerve commanding me to your presence. I may run this
den of depravity for you but that don't mean I'm your damn slave!  Your Royal nothingness! Get up yourself!" she pauses for breath and I know from experience that she's working herself up to a full on hissy fit so its dive in now or forget it. Tequila is one long tall tranny that can out-howl any of the local were-pack leaders. Not kidding. Won 2 large on her during the regionals last Halloween. "Tequila! I need your help putting Mica to bed." There. That shut her up. All I can hear now are the sounds of the bar, techno music blaring.  I hate techno night. "I need help undressing him." I add, somewhat unnecessarily. "I'll be right there." She answers. Hah, I bet she will. I'm not sure it's the 22 year-old underwear model side of him or the sometime construction worker from the bad part of town that she likes best, but I guess I shouldn't talk. Hard to know if I'd a taken him in if he were ugly. I'm kinda shallow that way.
And now the phone does go down and a half full bottle of Jack Daniels takes its place. I take a long pull and watch as the rainbows from the chandeliers reflect in the bottle glass. Pretty.  Like baby boy here. Pretty. I can hear my heavy breath and the swish of the bourbon. Not much else, even though the bar that Tequila runs for me - "Shadows Gather" - takes up the first floor of this warehouse. Given the nature of my work and my proclivity for solitude you can bet your ass that a lot of profits have gone into soundproofing over the years. So, I wait in the silence, looking at my pretty things and wondering if there will still be any bourbon in the bottle when Tequila arrives. Cause things aren't so quiet inside my head now as that Techno Music starts up in my
shattered leg and the throb of pain also known as the beat tries to pull me down into its madness. Nope. Another swig of bourbon and a dab of that dried Dragon Blood on my gums and I'm good thanks, go ask someone else to dance. Besides at the very least, I got me a pretty boy to rescue and a bad guy to punish, gotta stay frosty, there's work to be done.
CHAPTER II
I don't really see why I have to say anything at all. Not like I'm the heroine of this piece or nothing.  Not like you people are the boss of me. Fine. I owe Irene something. She did save my ass once and by that I really do mean save my ass from some Trolls thinking to BBQ my magnificence and serve me up with a side of slaw. Still, some serious water under the bridge since then and I paid her back on that more'n twice over. The deal now is strictly business. We're partners in Shadows Gather. Okay fine not partners exactly, she owns it and pays me to run it but I'm buying from her one crappy chrome and leather barstool at a time. At my last tally I now own 12.5% of this den of iniquity and by that I mean den of iniquity.
Well excuse me if you have no interest in our business arrangements, I was just trying to explain how and why I came to be involved in this whole sorted business. She's my boss. She calls "Tequila!", and Tequila comes a runnin'. Besides, I don't as a rule believe in taking advantage of naïve and inexperienced boys but I know Rennie well enough to know that she has no such moral compass. So, I was up there as fast as my Jimmy Choos would take me. Yeah, they both tell me he's 22 but I can smell a lie
for a possum from 500 yards. Michael might be 18 just, but he's claiming 22 and Rennie is claiming to believe it.
Things were pretty rough when I walked in that's true enough. I can see the shine in her eyes and smell that weird coppery apple smell she gets when the pain is bad. Actually she smells kinda nice with the bourbon splashed over top but you tell her that and I'll call you a damn liar. And that pretty boy all draped at her feet like, I don't even know. A Greek statue, an angel fallen to earth? His t-shirt all pulled outta his waistband like that you could see every muscle of that six pack and that smooth white skin. Any way never mind, you get the point. He's a sweet boy and she is, well you know better'n me what she is, not like I have to be explaining.

Goat Fuck

Yes. I said it. In conversation. To a co-worker. Whom I do not know well. At my day job. I said that the upcoming Olympics in terms of us trying to accomplish our time sensitive processes  was  going to be… I apologized immediately and tried to laugh it off, but man, it is certainly going to be “business unusual” as the PC folk around campus are trying to spin it.

A strange day in a strange week. I have to say a couple people I care for a lot have shocked me this week like it is kinda hard to shock me.  I’m not sure really what to do with some of this information. Some of I must go into the vault and get locked away, to be made public in the year 2113, fifty years after my death. Thing with me is, if you tell me it is secret, it is. If you do not tell me, it goes into a story somewhere, somehow. 

Kids, if people know more of your ‘secrets’ rather than less, they are in fact kinder to you. Yes, you’ve been hurt. But facing with world with the assumption that people are out to get you or put you down or prevent you from advancement because they know something about you that you aren’t proud of. Well, that is just a negative, sad way to go through the world. And I’ve not seen so many negative people prosper. And those that do, I still don’t want to be them. I want to be someone who laughs every day. Who is awed by some new knowledge of the universe. I even like people shocking me, cause it is nice to know it can still happen. Like still being able to blush.

I suppose I’m asking you to proceed under the assumption that most people are good. And in truth, I think they are, or want to be anyway. You just need to understand that in order for them to be true to you, you’ve got to give them every opportunity to succeed. Don’t back them into a corner on anything unless you absolutely must. Be sensitive to issues on which they don’t agree with you, and in friendship don’t take silence for assent.

Jeepers, when did this blog post turn into a chapter in self-help book?

Alright. Enough of the navel gazing. Must play more guitar and watch Stephen Fry on Craig Ferguson.

It was a useful day packed with interesting facts and personal revelation. That’s exhausting. I even managed to take out the garbage and recycling.  My hands are a bit stiff with so much guitar, but I crave playing almost as much as I crave potato chips.

More Shadows Gather coming very soon. I needed to examine and reassess. Which means I read back what I have written and laughed out loud several times, deeming it worth the effort of continuing, regardless of the wants or needs of others. The Muse must be served, and write now he is whispering in my ear.

So good night gentle reader.  If I love you, I do, if I do not, forgive me, for in the beginning and in the end, I belong to the voice that whispers of shadows and moonlight and green leaves in the breeze and the sigh of waves upon the strand.

Blog of Blood

Yep. Not kidding. This blog will be about things bloody. And that isn’t fake stage blood or metaphoric blood, it’s the real deal. Red. Viscous. Spurting from the body. Falling like drops of demon rain. I was a bystander to someone else’s trauma yesterday and, being who I am, by the act of witnessing was sucked in to the vortex.  Now spun out the other side am still finding I have  symptoms of sorts to deal with. If hyper-empathy syndrome exists, I certainly have a touch. I’ve always found it near impossible to defend myself from other’s emotions. Valuable for an actor and writer I suppose, but also the reason I live alone and why I am so poor at prioritizing my relationships.  So I figured I’d try blogging it out. See if setting down the images of blood that are exhausting me and keeping me awake by turns will quiet them. Shrink them back down to thumbnails and then slip back down into that black stinky sticky oily oozie sludge puddle at the bottom of my soul.

I won’t detail the event here. It isn’t my story except to say that yesterday someone fell down and hurt themselves just outside our lunch room door. There was blood. Lots and lots of blood like only a head wound can supply. Be assured, the person received timely assistance, never lost consciousness and will recover. But there was a lot more blood than I have seen in many, many years. I helped a bit in that I got my car and drove her to the hospital and stayed with her telling my usual rambling stories till they called her in for treatment and her friend arrived. Not exactly super-hero stuff, an hour and ten minutes and I was back at my desk.  Then things started getting a bit weird.

First I can’t lose the smell. Just found myself a few minutes ago spritzing cologne, which I almost never wear. It seems to have lodged way up in the back of my sinuses. Then everybody kept thanking me. Which seems to be puzzling me to the extreme. When someone bleeds you tell them to put pressure on the wound and get them help as swiftly and safely as you are able. Don’t you? The thanking thing just makes me kind of squirmy. Being praised for my calm and my ability to act.  Hey I just drove and patted her back till the pros took over. The co-workers who picked her off the ground and materialized a chair and ice back and towels they were cool. I was just trying to get my keys and stay calm enough to drive safely.

Since though it is true that all the incidents of blood in my life have re-surfaced and marched through my head with a big brass band accompaniment. The garden shears through my right calf when I was about six. My baby sister getting her front teeth knocked out on the ferry and screaming for hours. A friend cutting her foot on a broken beer bottle on the beach and the arterial blood fountaining out, my Mom picking up a 12 year old girl and sprinting up 150 steps from the beach to the cabin. Luck having it that a plastic surgeon was in residence next door. Cleaning up a puddle of blood from the aged institutional linoleum floor of a retreat centre. Alone in the echoing hall, my parents having gone in the ambulance with the aged victim. I couldn’t believe how hard it was to get it up off the floor, it kept smearing and staining. Then leaning over the edge of the galvanized steel laundry tub, water running for hours and hours trying to get the blood out of the rags and mop and finally off my hands. Stupid that, in retrospect rubber gloves and a bottle of bleach would’ve done the trick faster. But I was alone and it was a lot of blood and all I could think was erasing every spec of the event so that my Mom wouldn’t have to face it on her return. Not all I could think. I didn’t like the guy. I felt guilty that perhaps I had wished him ill, and ill had occurred.

There, surely that is all. Maybe a bit of gargling with mouth wash and a cold glass of water will do the rest. And sleep. Clean, deep, sleep in a cozy bed, gratitude on my lips and angels to guard my dreams.

So what's the deal

I have to say, I don't quite get why tons of my friends can't be bothered to follow me either on Twitter or my Blog, and yet all these strangers do. It's kind of sad and creepy. Also good for the ego but seriously one guy who actually seems to be a real guy and not a Twitter spammer is following more than 20,000 people. Why? Seriously, no, why? Most English speakers only know 10,000 words, so how could you follow 20,000 people? Every time someone types the word "and" you program yourself to follow? What the F? Kind of accords with why Sweet Potato and the Curmudgeon both work on the same frackin campus and yet somehow a 20 minute walk to share a sandwich seems too much? Hmmm, can you sense a weekend of re-prioritizing coming on?

A girl can dream

My Demon Quartet has shown up today big time and in full voice. For those of you not familiar with my familiars, they are Self-Pity, Entitlement, Denial and the Cranky Monster.  Though it is usually difficult to figure out at any one time who of the four is in ascendance, I can tell you that Self-Pity and Entitlement work extremely closely together and the Cranky Monster is who he is cause he is the only one fully in touch with the reality of the dark sludge puddle at the bottom of my soul. 

Right now for example the four have a wonderful evening planned for me beginning with martinis and potato chips that will be served in water glasses and large salad bowl respectively. Hey its all good, they will neither add fat to my ass nor damage my liver – really, Denial says so and she’s the authority.   While I am sipping and munching I will open the magic iPhoto folder on my computer labeled “Pretty Boys”.  Which again for those of you that don’t know me well, contains photos of pretty much every guy of my acquaintance  that is not a blood relation between the ages of 18 and 40, as well as a fine selection of handsome lads I have yet to meet. No scratch that, I’m quite certain that there is a Mark Harmon photo in there so forget that upper age range thing. In any event I will enjoy browsing the folder for a few moments before closing my eyes and making a random selection.

Then I will change into my lavender underwear, refresh my drink and wait , oh, about a half hour for the knock at the door. Why wait at all you ask? It is after all my fantasy, why not fast forward to the knock or even to the moment of the clouds and the rain? Well, because kids anticipation is the most perfect human emotion and I want to picture in my minds eye all sorts of fun activities. Ice cold martinis on the rocks are good lubrication for thoughts like that.  When the knock does come, I will fling the door open and there he will be, Pretty Boy with a bucket of fried chicken, an armful of roses and a big piece of wood hard enough to smash atoms. Since I already have champagne in the fridge and lube in the drawer under the bed, we are all set. 

After a lot of kissing and fusion of body parts, just to take the edge off, you understand, we will peel ourselves off the floor of the entry hall and proceed to the kitchen table where we will have a quick snack of fried chicken, French fries with mayo, loaves of steamy hot white flour bread with pounds of butter, pasta with cheese sauce and bacon and every other white flour, potato sugar animal fat thing I can think of . Of course if you actually ate all that it would make you sick, but it is my fantasy, so it doesn’t. 

Then a quick hot shower for some fun with the sea salt body scrub and exfoliating gloves and cut to between the clean white 600 thread count cotton sheets which we proceed to besmirch, besmirch and besmirch again.  Note that all this time, Pretty Boy has not actually said a word, though his every thought and touch has made me feel both sexy/gorgeous and loved/cherished. The Cranky Monster has made me not in the mood for chat, which, yes, I get the irony people, since the one and only truly sexy thing about me is my talking...

While he attends to cleaning up the kitchen and changing the sheets, I will spend 15, 20 minutes writing an absolutely brilliant 10 page outline for a film (the one in reality due yesterday), before another round of martinis and a foot rub.  Though his eyes, and that super hot bod, beg me to let him stay, Pretty Boy is out the door by 9:45 and I snuggle down in my clean bed with my hot buttered rum at my side (a little too cool cause I let Pretty Boy beg so long) and contemplate my fabulousness before lights out at 10 p.m.

What is really going to happen is that Self-Pity will finish up writing this rant.

Then I will begin preparing this evenings high-protein, low-carb, low-f at chicken tarragon, with an indulgent side dish of one cup of  steamed snap peas. Then 10 minutes Yoga in the gratitude posture where I will repeat mantras of all the fabulous things about my life – I’m beautiful, wicked smart, have a good job, that isn’t  too demanding and makes me feel valued, a car that runs and is so old it makes me feel virtuous, a great place to live that only has one bathroom to clean, millions of stories to write, people that love me an make me feel funny and loved and a genius, sometimes all at once. You get the idea.

As the chicken gently simmers on the back burner I will play scales on my guitar – pause for the seven minute extended dinner break chewing everything 30 times, washed down with exactly 4 ozs of budget chardonnay (unoaked) – then complete another 40 minutes of guitar practice. I will contemplate loading the dishwasher, reject the idea and open my screen writer program and try, one blessed tortured word at a time to make progress on the aforementioned screenplay outline – yah, that one - due yesterday.

Oh, did I mention that before writing I must trick the Cranky Monster into locking himself in a mind closet along with my Tribunal of Judges of Life and Art? If all goes well, 4 glasses of really cold ice water and two hours later I will close down the computer with 2 pages or writing sorta done, head to the head, have a pee, wash my hands and face, floss, brush my teeth, then back to the bedroom. I will listen to a quartet of angels (The Canadian Tenors) sing me a lullaby, as I snuggle between the sheets changed two days ago (another glass of water and my vitamins at the ready) resume counting the all-things-I-have-to-be-grateful-for-sheep, a tiny little thought will drift bye – wouldn’t it be nice to have a strong pair of arms give me a hug, kiss my forehead tenderly and breathe “sweet dreams” into my ear? Yep. A girl can dream.

Guitar Addict

Okay it is truly official. I am now addicted to playing the  guitar. It makes me happy, even when I play badly. In fact, playing badly is incentive to play more since I obviously need the practice. I’ve started playing in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, or have had a bad dream. I was just watching the Angels Yankees game and turned off the sound in order to pick it up again. Even though I’ve already played more than an hour today and nearly two yesterday. Yes, my fingers hurt and I actually found myself contemplating the fingertips of my left hand and asking myself how long would I have to practice until they bleed? Okay so no more guitar for me today.

Now will pause to eat Tarragon chicken and snap peas with a lovely selection from the worlds’ 50 best cheap wines available in Canada – check out the list at wineaccess.ca if you are so inclined.

So many things I should be doing right now. Like sleeping. Reading. Even watching TV though I did just watch a romantic comedy for research purposes. So technically since I spoke with Hoosie about biz stuff from 7:30 to 11:30 that means it was a good days work.

More random and trivial thoughts on the day

Ah, my friend the blank page. Look out, a long post this one. I am trying to capture all the amazing people in my day.  Get yourself a beverage before you sit down to read.

With, in the background one of my favorite movies Desperado, a Robert Rodriguez film with Antonio Banderas and Selma Hayek.  My kinda movie. Sexy. Violent. A gorgeous reinterpretation of Love and Honor. Which in all honestly is really my favorite subject matter. Regardless of genre.

This will be a bit of a collection of random thoughts. It has been a strange day full of hard work and people I care about. They are all lovely and all deserve mention.

In the Faculty executive meeting I was charmed by a highly accomplished and, if I can be permitted to use such a word, a cherished academic. He shared the story of one of our young colleagues, now seconded to the Senate, using modern technology to let him know the very minute a hard fought initiative had passed.  He was charmed, and so were we all by the fact that though she has been absent from our lives for nearly 2 months, she thought of him and sent a message at 9 p.m. that she knew would bring him joy. Thanks Sweet Potato. I miss you. You are a quality human being in a way that all around you sense, but a few of us extra lovelies truly appreciate.  Said academic even took an extra moment at the meeting’s end to compliment my idea – something that the very best of them do by the way -  I love that kind of compliment from them, it always seems to be so pure and delightful. Make a note of that kids – the best of them are excited and delighted when you posit an idea that they had not yet considered.

Sorry, distracted a moment by             Q. Tarantino’s overacting. Well, at least he limits his appearances to cameos. Hope  I can have the wisdom to do the same. Super, now he’s been shot and I can continue.

I had a lunchtime meeting with Princess Z and that was a pleasure. She was rightly cautious about committing to the production of The Lobby, but we had a wonderful chick chat nonetheless, each, I think in awe of the other’s talent.  And though gossip in its truest sense can be harmful (which is the discussing of other people’s business of which you have no part nor direct knowledge), it was nice to hear from her the Empress’s excitement over the work we have been doing on Beauty Boys.  Most importantly we agreed we need to do a weekly phone call, regardless of personal or professional content. Our lives as strong creative women rarely allow us to make real deep and true connections void of competition, but when you find one, trust me, grab it and cherish it.

This doesn’t even begin to laud the folks who have crossed my radar today.  But you know what? Gotta write on something that pays! I’m such a hack.

An Attitude of Gratitude

Part of me is in serious rebellion at the thought of sitting down to write a blog post. I’ve been logging some serious writing hours this weekend and now part of my brain is asking for the night off. But the part that is obviously in control, given that I am in fact writing this is all jazzy bright and sparkly and full of satisfaction at the weekend’s literary accomplishments and excited about tackling the next thing on the towering pile of stories. Besides, this blog is about my life as a writer so since I actually did some writing, it behooves me to share all what went on.

I got my Director’s Notes done for The Lobby and off on time. Also a little email back and forth with the Producer. Though be on notice that as the relationship is quite suddenly a big pile of something unexpected, and as yet undefined, his nickname is in transition.  Haven’t settled on where it is all going and where it will land, and The Producer suddenly sounds  bit grand and formal. From the flow of brief yet energetic emails over a holiday weekend, I’m thinking so far we are on the same page, since we both seemed quite delighted to interrupt our weekend to talk about stuff that is “work” to most people. Might have seemed a bit pretentious to friends and family looking on, but we don’t care. Not currently living in the same city it is crucial to our level of trust to keep communication a priority. We have a phone meeting tomorrow night so it will be a good reality check for both of us.

I also met a self imposed deadline getting my series proposal to my Mentor for her feedback. Don’t think I’m not watching my email icon for the tell-tale bounce as I’m writing this. I’m living in abject terror at her response, not only because Sci-fi is not necessarily her thing but a series proposal is a bit amorphous in structure, they include whatever you include, not like there are tons of examples posted. The thing has been a bit of an albatross and sitting down to work on it was like walking through a field of thistles. But I did it, and I got somewhere with it but man the pain of it.  Even if she hates it I’ve got to move it out the door by month’s end. I’ve got two half baked features on the go, one in the oven and one more that needs to rise fully into an outline by next weekend. Not to mention a new series idea and an original TV spec to crank out.

Oh, and did I mention the long full day today as a story editor? Happy to say we are at the top of the hill and about to take the sleigh ride into Act iii, and I think all the characters are set up nicely to hit their respective crisis’s . But wow are features a lot of work. Started the book “Writing the Action-Adventure Film” by Neill D. Hicks and even though I’ve only read the intro I am already a big fan.  I cranked a lot of words and creative thought this weekend but nothing near as good as this – “Professional screenwriting is not an uninhibited emotional scrawl. It is a disciplined outpouring of the soul, where the writer keeps constant watch over the veins and mortised junctions that turn the puzzle into a flawless array of imagery arousing the audience.”

And so, finally, we come to my title theme – attitude of gratitude. I am so grateful for having learned so much and to be standing at a place where I can view the infinite starfield of so much more to know. Having people I care about to share stories with and craft stories for; grateful for the freedom to discover my voice, at last. Now, to my guitar, grateful at day’s end to turn off the thoughts and words, and just feel the music.

Requiem for Bernard Rodrick Ciceri

Six years since my Dad died. I miss him. One of my friends asked me today what is my favorite memory of him, bless her. "Salmon fishing,"I said. When we had our cabin on Galiano Island he would ask each of us girls, in my memory always only one at a time, if we wanted to go fishing with him in the morning. Of course, as an adult I understand that taking a 6 year old out in a 16 foot motorboat for 3 or 4 hours, one really can only safely handle one at a time. I also know for true that there were plenty of times when my sisters were there with us, but in the very earliest days, this is what I remember.

At the dawn tide, whether 4:30 or 6 or 8 a.m. he would try and shake you awake. If he could wake you, sleepy bear, up you got in your little footie jammies, blue flannel with white lambs whose eyes were closed and little clouds of zzzzs clustered round their heads. Dressed warm you didn’t really wake up until the cold outside air hit your face and the smell of salt and creosote hit your nose. Standing on the dock, finally fully alert your head dips back and your eyes, and mouth and mind fill with the blue-deep green -shimmer and pink-blush of the dawn. If he couldn’t wake you up enough to speak a “Yes, Daddy, I want to go fishing.” Then he would leave us all to sleep. Likely because if he’d tried to wake one of my sisters as replacement, later there would be tears of jealously.

I’d have my coloring books or comic books, or later, my Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys novel. The lines would go out and we would just fish. Sometimes he read the newspaper, sometimes his bible. Sometimes we even played Go Fish or Cribbage. But mostly we didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. We fished. I watched the sun on the water, the trees slowly drifting bye, the other boats and the bob and pull of the lines; focused for hours on the rhythm of the nodding head, watching for the sudden tension that signaled the strike of a 15 lb Coho. The lines zing still in my memory. Dad springing to action, grabbing up the rod and reel, a true knight leaping to battle in his fishing cap caparisoned with hooks and lures and his Cowichan Indian knit sweater, smelling of cigarettes and Old Spice and salt. Sometimes he’d call for me to help him, either wield the net or hold on to the rod with him. Laughing and scared all at once, his arms round me, his big hands over my small ones on the rod jumping and vibrating the reel spinning out with a bright hard whirring. Warning me to watch my fingers. Him guessing by the run and play and fight what kind of fish was on the line and how big it would be when we fought it to exhaustion.

Sometimes a rare moment when the line would snap, and the fish win both the day and a sharp shocked oath from Daddy’s lips, quickly bitten back. Not one for swearing or violent displays of temper my Dad. His own anger was always short-lived and seemed to embarrass him. He thought displays of anger were unseemly and not worthy of a gentleman. He'd get annoyed too when a pack of Orcas would appear, not mad really, we'd just pull the lines in and watch the whales hunt. I'd chew through my peanut butter and banana sandwich and he'd sip the last of his thermos of coffee and light a cigarette.

But mostly, there were fish. Always. I have no memory of day without fish. There were the grilse, as kids our favorites, the young salmon that he would hold up to his chipped and slimy ruler, asking me to read the number out loud as he explained to me the rules about size and the number we could take “Our Limit” he called it. Never, ever in my recall did we take more than Our Limit. Daddy believed in rules. He thought that rules would keep us safe. Maybe sometimes they do.

Those grilse were so delicate and smooth that they were breakfast food in our house, fried and buttered and sprinkled with salt and lots of black pepper. Then the Sockeye, the Red Spring, and the Coho, their scales shimmering like crystals flashing rainbows. The slick slime on their skin fresh from the deep. The texture of which those of you who claim your fish from the fish monger will never know and a slick sticky sensation the like of which I have never found a thing to compare. In the net and over the side and the kick and fight and the sharp quick smack with the heavy stick that in my Dad’s skilled hands quieted them so quickly. Then the sinister and frightening miniature sharks he named Dog Fish that would curl up his lip in disgust and cause me to shrink back into the farthest nook of our little red and white ski boat, with the Mercury out-board engine. Round-eyed and silent I watched as he pried the hook from their tough and gaping mouths with a pair of pliers always at hand. Just the thing for managing fish hooks, a good pair of pliers. Then returned to the deep, or sacrificed to a massive swing of his hard wood stick thru a huge and violent arc – hard to kill those little demons, but bait for the crab trap if he couldn’t free the hook without fatal damage. Then the Rock Cod and Black Cod big and small that came lethargic and docile to meet their fate. Ugly as all get out, but always received with joy because it meant my Mum’s own version of fish and chips for lunch.

Home then and sleepy proud, struggling to bear my share of the bounty up the steep incline of the gangway and onto the picnic table on the cabin’s deck. No time to rest or change or eat, the fish must be cleaned immediately and Mum and my sisters would appear with pans and towels and old newspapers and spoons and sharp knives. Even from very, very young our little fingers on knives learning to scrape scales and gut fish, first with the guidance of Mum and Dad’s hands doing all the real work, then lightly resting on ours as we gained skill and finally only hovering nearby. We would look at the roe or testes and Dad would pronounce it a boy fish or a girl fish before the guts were yanked free, and with our teaspoons scrape the blood from the spine, a rinse in a bucket of seawater and onto a cookie sheet before Mum whisked all away to fridge or sent two of us to the marina for a block of ice for the cooler if the catch was plentiful. After the guts were wrapped in newspaper and the tools rinsed and dried, Daddy would let out a big sigh and settle into a deck chair. I would bring him coffee or beer depending on the angle of the sun. As we waited for Mum to call us for lunch, I would lean against the arm of his chair and receive one of those absent minded one-armed hugs, a quick peck on my cheek and a thank-you for going fishing with him.

Daddy, you are welcome, it really was my pleasure.