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.

Random thoughts from life as an Artiste

Random thoughts from life as an Artiste.

I sucked the big one at guitar lesson today. Despite the highs and lows of the last 2 weeks I practiced every day. Every single day. And it was like I took 15 steps back! I SUCKED. The Maestro was as lovely as ever but I could sense his frustration with me. Part of my core skill set, the ability to sense and gauge the level of a man’s frustration. Well, in my defense the entire day was an exercise in trying to focus. When things happen to me I need a lot of alone time to process, and didn’t get that so the fact that my brain went to the Dragon Nebula and back every hour or so…I did actually manage to crank out some product and speak in full sentences to my co-workers upon topics on which they have keen interest.

I got a one line email from Sir Lancelot. Quite frankly surprised I got even that given all the thoughts that we each respectively need to think. About business kids. The business of being creative. About where the lines need to be. About the fact I can make him laugh at will and the fact that he can stay with me for hours. For hours people. How many young men of my experience can do that? Count ‘em on one hand that’s for sure. Yikes.

It was a rare and lovely day.

I feel like I want to say something. Something wonderful and amazing to reflect the energy and conversations and sunshine and good food that I enjoyed today. I should be asleep. But I don’t want to let this day go. It was work and play so intertwined that I neither require nor desire to separate them. Bye God I love stories. That sentence should have an exclamation point but since one of my fans recently sent me advice that claims only 3 exclamation points per 10,000 words is acceptable I am trying to cut back. I am. Am I really taking Elmore Leonard’s writing advice? I guess so. In the end I find that I have nothing more to say than it was a lovely and amazing day. Time very well spent and a new friendship to treasure. Or maybe three. MMMlsssgh. I don’t like that phrase “ a new friendship to treasure” it doesn’t in anyway reflect the intelligence and vitality and simpatico of the liaison. Humph. But that last sentence might come close. So let’s leave it there and I really will get some sleep. Expect great creative things very soon. I promise.

Shadows Gather - Chapter 2, Part 1

Shadows Gather - Chpater 2, Part 1

Copywrite 2009, Carolynne Ciceri

I don’t really see why I have to say anything at all. Not like I’m the heroine of this piece or nothing. 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.