I'm not a Jesus Freak, but I am a moron.

Maybe you haven’t figured it by now, but I am not one of those wonderful freaks of nature that’s public about my faith. In person, that is. Ergo, the blog. There were a few Act One classmates of mine that were, and I admired how easily the phrase “How can we pray for you” tripped off their tongue as easy as “Do we have any beer left in the fridge” trips off mine. It never felt fake or false coming from them, it was so naturally ingrained into their character, because they’re such genuine people with beautiful souls, you believe that they WANT to pray for you, honestly, because they care.

None of that is in me, but I realize it’s SUPPOSED to be. I think. Sure, I care, but I’m not rushing to be all verbal about it. If I could find a way to do it where it can be uniquely me, bearing all the characteristics of my Grump personality. Can it be half me, half God? Would that make me a TerminAmy or something? Half chick. Half God. All disaster. Ha ha ha.

I gave blood last Monday, my unique way of helping others and being mean to myself in one fell swoop. Since I have no more job at the Movie Studio where I would give blood at their conveniently scheduled three month blood drives, I picked the closest spot to me, which was the Renaissance Hotel at the Hollywood & Highland complex.

I brought my Bible, since my new kick is to read the thing, as opposed to just the verses that my devotionals touch on. I’ve started in the New Testament, and now I’m somewhere in the beginning of Luke. And as I wait for my name to be called in the Community Room with the carpet that looks like they’ve slaughtered every animal in the African watering hole and stomped it into the fibers, I recognize that reading a Bible in public automatically classifies me as a Jesus freak. Great. Well, who cares really. Means I don’t have to make conversation with strangers, nobody will willingly talk to the chick who’s reading a Bible. Hey, that actually kinda rocks, since I don’t like talking to people much anyway (except you, Gentle Reader, always always except you.)

For a half second it looks like I’m gonna be bounced because my little drop of blood floats to the top of the testing container as opposed to sinking to the bottom like good iron-enriched blood drops do, but after they run it through “the machine.” (Go TerminAmy, Go! Go, TerminAmy, Go!) I get the all clear that yes indeedy, my O positive blood is acceptable, so let’s go see the Red Cross vampires! Yay!

My vampire today is a woman named Olive. I warn her that I don’t like needles. “Nobody does, but everyone gives anyway. Kinda funny.” She says as she tilts my chair back. My head instantly twists to the wall.
I’m holding my Quest Bible in a death grip, the kind of grip that Pentecostal preachers’ll use when they’re smacking the thing into someone’s forehead so they’ll literally be “struck” with the Spirit.

Olive assures me that everything will be fine, and interestingly enough, it’s the least painful needle insertion I’ve experienced since hopping on this Red Cross Fueled Masochistic Kick earlier this year. I try to breathe and turn the Bible Turned Stuffed Animal For Comfort to Luke’s chapter, and that’s when Olive says the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in weeks.

“Do you want me to get you a towel so you don’t have to look your arm?”

Oh, this is an angel. This is an angel sent from God Himself, she is. Thank you GOD, for Olive the Red Cross vampire angel wonderful person that she is.

It’s the least painful needle insertion ever, it’s the quickest blood draw ever, and the quickest needle extraction ever. “No bruises, see?” Olive shows me after it’s over. I can’t believe it. You have to understand, last time I gave blood, I got a lecture from the vampires because it was MY fault that my breathing got too shallow and too rapid and constricted the veins so that the needle hurt going in. MY fault. It’s THEIR needle, in THEIR hands, but it was MY fault.

But today is a glorious day. “It must be God.” I joke. “No, it’s ME.” She shoots back, grinning. “Of course, of course, it’s you, but I’m required to praise Him first.” I say. She smiles, and off I go to the cookie and juice table to get the blood sugar going.

And as I sit there with the Famous Amos cookies and Vienna Fingers, I get a thought in my head that I can’t shake.

You should go ask her how you can pray for her.

Wha-huh? I don’t do that. What’re you, nuts?

You have to. You have to do something for her, because she’s the reason your blood draw was the least painful yet.

Can’t I wash her car or something? Go get her lunch? Some other errand that doesn’t involve talking to her and risk me looking like a Jesus Freak Sunshiny Moron?

She already thinks you’re a Jesus freak, thanks to your Bible clutching and God praising. So go ask her, you twit. Do it now, loser.

This voice isn’t going away. If I walk out of the African Watering Hole Slaughter Room without doing it, the voice will only get louder, and the day will be ruined as I try to drown it out using pillows, music, and tequila. And I have to write.

So I wait until she’s between victims, and go up to her. “Olive, I kinda have to ask this, but I wanted to do something for you since you were so painless about the whole blood thing, but is there anything I can pray about for you?”

Olive’s confused, at first she’s thinking I’m upset about something, and need her to pray WITH me. Then I clarify, and she’s a little taken aback. As anybody would, in the face of a statement like that. She’s just trying to do her job sucking blood, there’s not a church in sight, what’s the Jesus Freak accosting her for?

If she could see the train o' thoughts running through my head. Look, trust me, I'm not thrilled about this either. I don't wanna be thought of as a Jesus Freak. And it's not that I don't like Jesus, because I do, He rocks, He's done everything for me, so when I say the phrase Jesus Freak, I'm not trying to slam Him, just the Freaks that accost people in public and make them feel uncomfortable like I'm really scared I'm doing to you right now.

No, Olive, I don't wanna do this, but I have to, because there's this voice in my head see. The voice is gonna get ugly if I don't, and I've got a rewrite to do today. The voice isn't supposed to be there in the first place, I'm supposed to love Jesus enough to WANT to do this kind of thing willingly with a smile on my face, and if I ever do get to that point, it'll mean I've swallowed the Kool-Aid, and turned into a Sunshiny Moron, but that's not your problem right now, I'm just trying to explain that, that, that, I'm NOT one of THEM, but I HAVE to do this ANYWAY. I'm not a Freak. You have to believe me.

But what Olive is doing is trying to remember what saint you’re supposed to pray to “to take care of things” (is there a saint for that kind of generic request?) She can't remember it, so she asks for prayer “just that I would be happy, and for happiness in my marriage.” Which is easy enough to do, and I tell her I’ll do it.

She gives me a hug, and I exit the African Watering Hole Slaughter Room and pray for her while going down the escalator. Maybe I was supposed to pray WITH her. But I can’t see how that’s a good idea. I don’t want to make them feel uncomfortable, this is their workplace, basically. Hell, I’m feeling skeevy myself just taking the first step.

It’s like a Drive By Praying. “Quick! Tell-me-how-I-can-pray-for-you-thanks!-see-ya-later!” Yeah, that sounds exactly my style.

Enforced Secret Joy #12 – Pink Puppy Paw Pads

We can officially say that my life has gone to the dogs. This adorable furry face and mitt belongs to Lewis, who is Roomie Jeykll’s boyfriend’s dog. As soon as Simon left, Lewis came in, he’s staying here for the weekend. He looks adorable, there’s no doubt, but he can be quite snooty, oh, I’m sorry, I mean particular.

And somtimes, if you catch him in the right mood, he will deign to display his Pink Puppy Paw Pads, which kill me every time. Simon also sported Pink Puppy Paw Pads of his own, but I didn’t get around to taking a picture of them.

Pink Puppy Paw Pads are the funniest thing in the world. You see them all the time on cats, but I rarely see them on dogs. The cocker spaniels I grew up with had Black Rough Paw Pads, they looked like backroads Georgia asphalt. Ginger Puppy and Basil The Dog also sport Black Rough Paw Pads. They’re obviously functional, but aesthetically, they’re missing something. Not that the dogs care. Just me.

Dear God, thank you for Pink Puppy Paw Pads. Thank you for the smile they bring to my face. Thank you for their whimsical color, their strange softness, their particular sectioning that look like Southern biscuits. Thank you for Lewis and Simon. Thank you for Basil the Dog and Ginger Puppy. Thank you for paw pads, no matter what color, because they give a strong foundation to a dog’s foot, and above all else, dogs need to walk like the rest of us.

Thank you for Your amazing attention to detail. There’s no reason in the world that you HAD to create Pink Puppy Paw Pads. They could’ve been black on any dog anywhere at anytime. But You, in Your infinite wisdom, decided to make them…pink. Not brown, not yellow, not purple. Pink. I think it’s awesome. You’ve got a great sense of humor, not to mention wicked ideas when it comes to canine creation. Thank you for the laughs. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

Do You Need Help?

The thing about being recently unemployed, as I told people this week, is that you acutely feel every MINUTE of every HOUR of every DAY because you don’t have the numbing effect of Day Job Busy Work cocooning you. Everywhere I turn, there’s another clock showing me exactly 12 seconds have passed since the last time I looked at a clock. I'm getting all upset if people aren't returning calls or emails, and then I realize um, you called/emailed them yesterday. Give them some room.

So maybe I was trying to get the clock to go faster, but this week was spent helping out a slew of other people. I took out the trash at 11:00 church. I helped nosleeptricia address thank you cards and clean off her patio. I supported the Ark Theatre Company’s fundraiser, and did a box office shift for them the following evening. I killed a cockroach for Roomie Jekyll while she hyperventilated in the corner, and the next day took care of her through a bout of food poisoning (which wasn’t related to the cockroach, I don’t think. Unless she ate the cockroach.) I helped a former co-worker move up from Long Beach. And now I am currently dogsitting nosleeptricia’s dog, Simon. Tomorrow I give blood to the Red Cross.

Do any of you people need anything? Because I’m here. I’ve got time. Just sayin’.

My motivation was pretty selfish. I wanted to get out of the house, to get my mind off stuff, and to procrastinate on writing (directly contrary to the Time Moving Slowly thing, I know.) I’m also a huge dog person, so whenever I can borrow someone else’s dog to get my unconditional love, I’m there. Just look at this guy. He’s the most mellow dog. He endured three minutes of picture taking until I could get just the right shot. (don’t ask about the Phantom of The Opera towel. That’s a long story.)

In the middle of the week, it occurred to me that I could be perceived as a living breathing example of God’s love displayed through my actions in helping other people. But since the beginning motivation was pure selfishness, I don’t know if it counts.

Quick sidebar. When I first started tithing, I didn’t do it because we’re called to do so, I did it because I was f’ing tired of sitting through one more sermon that made me feel guilty for NOT doing it. So I started, and I don’t even think twice about it anymore. I don’t miss a penny that I give away. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that it’s not the right thing to do. But I kinda grew into that right frame of mind.

I wonder about motivation. People this week were helped because of what I did for them. And I got stuff out of it too, as a few people listened to me bitch and moan about my life and offered a fresh perspective that consisted of a very loving “You’re an idiot.” But in God’s eyes, what did I do? Do I get points for inadvertently being an example of His love? Or do I not get points because I got something out of it too? If I decided, “Today I’m going to be a WONDERFUL example of His love, He’s gonna be so f’ing PROUD O’ ME!” Wouldn’t I just be an insufferable bee-yotch?

I know, I know, it’s not about getting points.

God uses broken, miserable, and grumpy people all the time for His purposes. I imagine that He’s muffling his laughter as he’s watching me weigh down the car with a gazillion boxes of someone else’s stuff in Long Beach, look at how she’s trying so hard not to write! It’s fabulous! But do you think that He’s also hoping one day, maybe, that my first impulse when I wake up each day is How Can I Serve Someone Else? ‘Cause it’s not that right now (it’s usually Why Didn’t I Have A Happy Dream As Opposed To An Anxiety Dream?)

I wonder how many people wake up and have that as their first thought in the first place. And whether or not they’re insufferable bee-yotches. Sunshiny morons.

I guess I’m wondering if I can still be Amy The Grump and Help People When I Can, and not have to be a Sunshiny Moron about it. I can’t tell you how petrified I am that God’s ultimate plan for me is not to be a paid screenwriter, but that He’s gonna turn me into a Sunshiny Moron, and I’ll think it’s okay. The thought haunts me all the time if only you gave up your Grump ways, life would get better! God’s just waiting for you to shove off your Eeyore coil so He can reward you with blessings untold!

I don’t think God works like that. But in current eras like this one, it’s pretty hard not to let it creep into your thoughts. You’d have such a better life if you were a Sunshiny Moron. I don’t see myself turning into one of those. The motivation, the inducement, it’s not there. Which makes me wonder if I’m the biggest impediment to myself, if that makes sense. Because if that’s true, then how do I change? How do I get away from myself? I’m always there. I don’t go away.

Time to go help some more people, I think. Grumpily, of course. Ha ha ha.

Enforced Secret Joy #11 - Winifred Inspired Haikus.

My best friend from home, Winifred, called me yesterday to check in and make sure there were no sharp objects near my wrists. Which is silly. I have fashioned all the kitchen knives into quite the fetching mobile over my bed, and I’m not dismantling it for ANYTHING. All it’ll take is one good tremor over 3.0 and I’m good to go, ha ha ha.

Winifred is pregnant with her first child, due in October, a fact that I haven’t necessarily wrapped my head around. Small children are things your siblings produce, not people you went through 12 years of primary schooling with.

Winifred said her escape from life is a booze fueled marathon of old Ab Fab episodes (and I’m assuming she hasn’t done that since the little nugget of joy attached itself to her uterus) and she suggested that I do the same with Muppet Show episodes.

But when I think about it, one of the gazillion things that consistently cracked me up about life with Winifred was her penchant for haikus. Winifred can take any situation and roll out a haiku about it. There was the one about the high school courtyard statue. It was supposed to be a panther, but years of weather and plain bad craftsmanship turned it into a rusty blob, which inspired this Winifred ditty:

The courtyard statue
Is a panther they tell me
But I think it looks like a cow

That the last line flagrantly flaunted the Haiku Syllable Rule made it that much more hysterical to us.

Then there was the one she dreamed up while dieting for her wedding. The only line I can remember was the middle one:

The broccoli, she is raw

(Yes, broccoli would be three syllables in that example.)

So today’s Enforced Secret Joy post is in honor of Winifred and her impending bouncing baby bundle. Because nothing in life is so awful that you can’t make a hopefully witty haiku about it.

I don’t need a job.
God’s my way cool Co-Writer
Rent’s due; sell that script!

Dear Child Of Winnie
I got the goods on your mom
Pay me cash, it’s yours.

Oh dear McDreamy
Meredith is a duck face
I’m a great kisser

Who needs discernment
I dig abject confusion
Makes me feel secure

Does God talk to you?
How do you know that it’s Him?
Time to crack a beer.

Dear God, thank you for Winifred. Thank you for haikus. Thank you for the particular amusement that Winifred Haikus have brought me in the past, even if it’s one of those You Had To Be Seventeen And Be There kind of things. Thank you for laughter, thank you for memory. Thank you for leading me to the haiku exercise, as you can’t help but laugh in trying to do it. And please let Winifred’s bouncing bundle of joy grow up to be an illiterate football player, as I think that will cause her great angst and brilliant future haikus. KIDDING. Thank you for being All Knowing, including when I’m kidding in my prayers to You. Please clear all murderous thoughts from Winifred’s head, and have her deliver a precious baby that will amaze and astound her. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

I encourage everyone to post their own haikus in the comments section. You feel better, you really do. But you gotta be funny.

Overthinking Prayer

Yes, my post is late. Sorry, faithful readers o’ the blog. Sunday I spent mostly in prayer, and when it’s that kind of concentration, you’re not really good for much but falling into bed and hoping for interesting dreams. (Which they did, featuring Hugh Laurie from House in a type of carnival that was put on by my Act One classmates. Needless to say, hilarity definitely ensued.) Yesterday was spent out and about and I didn’t get home until late late. I know most of you don’t care if I stick to my blogging schedule or not, but I hold myself to impossible standards to everything in life and therefore must offer apologies for missing my own deadlines as a matter of accountability. Blah blah blah.

Sunday was a strange day. Between my morning devotionals, 9:00 church, 11:00am church, and a prayer meeting I attended with a new group in the evening, I spent more time trying to communicate with God than I did anything else that day. I wonder if maybe this is the kind of effort you’re supposed to put in towards living your life all the time, and then I think that no, maybe God wants you to spend your time engaging in life, not sequestering yourself to connect to Him, so you can be a shining example of his love and stuff. I think the only thing I am a shining example of lately is how much of a dumbass I am, which is why I prefer to hide out in my house and watch Battlestar Galactica episodes. But you can’t live like that forever. There’s only so many episodes, and I’m rapidly going through them like Pringles. (It’s an awesome show, by the way. I highly recommend it. The bad guys believe in one God, and the good guys are praying to idols. Really whacked out stuff.)

Prayer is such a funky thing for me. I subscribe to the theory that prayer isn’t so much about changing things as it is about changing YOU, so YOU change things. It’s about altering your perception, and seeing with the eyes of God, so that when you go about your day and see the people you prayed for, you react differently to them, rather than God smacking them with the God Wand because you prayed for them to stop annoying you.

I don’t have a lot of enemies, (at least, that I know of.) I guess I don’t know enough people, or I don’t talk as much to piss people off to make them my enemies. All those Psalms where they’re crying out to God to rescue them from their oppressors, nope, nope, nobody’s oppressing me. Sure, my life is hell right now, but that’s not PEOPLE doing it. The last real enemy I had was a boss who fired me because I wasn’t a competent enough mind reader for her. It was the only time in my professional career that I’ve been fired, and it wasn’t fun. Mainly because I knew it wasn’t my fault, I was doing everything in my power to do what my boss wanted, but she was a spazzed out freak who was beyond help (she left the industry a year and a half later.)

I dig praying for people like that, for people I don’t like, just so I can see the change. I can feel the softening of my heart when I put myself in the mindset of God, and look at Annoying Person/Spazzed Out Former Boss the way God would see them. And if I’m lucky, that softening sticks with me when I see them. During the final days of working for the Spazzed Out Former Boss, I felt myself moving away from the mindset of She Is Ruining My Life Because She’s Crazy, towards a mindset of God Please Help Her Because She Is A Genuinely Unhappy Person, And Nothing I Do Helps. I still got let go, but at least I recognized the Broken Woman behind the Spazzed Out Crazy Person.
Sometimes, the softening of my heart doesn’t stick with me, and I’m just as cranky and wanting to get away from Annoying People as fast as possible. It takes concentrated intention. It’s something that you have to work at. But I think everyone should do it. At least try.

But other people subscribe to the theory that Praying CAN change events. Sure, you’re changed in prayer. But, according to these people, you can also change events. And I wonder about that. At the prayer meeting on Sunday, the concept of Retroactive Grace was thrown around. That God is above time, so if you pray to change the outcome of things that have already happened, if it’s something God wants to do, He’ll do it.

So if, say, a certain writing fellowship has already decided to boot me out of the running, and I don’t know it yet, because I’m not gonna get word until December, I can pray to God to please fix that, and, according to the concept of Retroactive Grace, if He wants to, He will, and my previously bounced script is back in the running. Of course, since I don’t know until December, it’s completely possible that it was never bounced in the first place. I’ll never know.

I’m not sure I believe in Retroactive Grace. It’s a nice idea, and makes for interesting movie ideas ( Superman zooming around the earth to turn back time to stop Lois’s car from crashing.) But it butts up against the idea of pre-destination, that everything that happens is unfolding according to God’s plan anyway, so there’s no need to go back with the God Eraser and fix what was previously messed up. Unless God’s plan INCLUDES you becoming acclimated to the idea of Retroactive Grace, and making the choice to believe in it so He CAN go back with the God Eraser.

Now my head hurts.

It seems silly to limit God’s abilities. But it also seems silly to believe in the concept of a God Eraser. It seems silly to pray for certain EVENTS to occur (even if you’re quantifying them with “Only if it’s in Your will, God. Only if You want it to happen.”) Because then it seems like you’re viewing God as the genie in the lamp, rubbing the lamp and making wishes. Or you’re Peter Pan, asking the kiddies at home to clap your hands and if you believe enough, and smack your tiny hands together fast enough, Tinker Bell comes back from the dead. (What did Tinker Bell learn in her brief sojourn to Fairy Death Land? That’s an idea for something someday.)

But you can’t stop that annoying small voice in your head that says it’s not happening because you didn’t go to God to ask Him for help. But, but, but, He’s GOD! He KNOWS already! He wants you to ask Him because He wants you to depend on Him. Unless you ask, you’ll never get it. So fine, I pray for it to happen, it doesn’t happen, and then it falls into the catch all net of It Wasn’t In His Will For You. Sorry. Thanks For Playing.

This is why I prefer to think that prayer is about changing you, rather than events.

The prayer meeting on Sunday was all about changing events. We gave requests out about things we were anxious about, we gave requests about specific people we were concerned for, and then we prayed for the whole kit and caboodle. Maybe it was about connecting to God. Maybe it was about believing that If He Wants To, He Will. Maybe it was about believing in Retroactive Grace. Maybe it’s that these people believed more than me, so it’s my lucky day that I was in the same room praying with them, because God’ll listen to THEM, as opposed to listening to me praying singularly.

I don’t think it’s supposed to be this overthought. Maybe I should’ve prayed to stop me overthinking things.

Enforced Secret Joy #10 – Because I Have To

Trust me people, it’s hard to think of things that I think are joyful right now, but that’s why it’s an ENFORCED Secret Joy post, right?

But here ya go, two separate things that have helped:

Behold, Ginger Puppy, and Basil The Dog. I returned a DVD that I had borrowed from their owners, and then I just HAD to flop down on the floor and roll around with them. Puppy licks on the forehead rock. You can’t tell from the picture, but Basil The Dog’s tail is wagging, he’s not really that mopey looking. Can you believe that these dogs can actually see, and they don’t bump into walls or anything? It’s craziness.

And Pandora spit out a South song over the weekend. I didn’t even know they had a new album out, but they do. My contrary music tastes dictate that I lean towards the less popular songs, but you can listen to it on their music player (it’s number 7) here.

The chorus is especially apt.

Give in to love it’�s the one thing we have
Hold out your life, see the beauty within
I know the way that you won�’t make a fuss
Don’�t mean there’�s no pain

So they say
There must be more to life than this
No mistaking happiness (Never seems like enough)
There is more to life than this (Never seems like enough)
Through the days and nights we drift

Dear God, thank you for dogs. Thank you for music. Thank you for Basil The Dog and Ginger Puppy, for their unconditional love and puppy licks. Thank you for South the band. Thank you for Pandora waking me up in the middle of my sleep with this song floating out of my speakers. Thank you for guitars and drums, for this melody and the chorus. And please help me figure out what exactly there is to life, since, as the song says, there must be more than this. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

Izzat All You Got?

Today’s post will be illustrated by the Josh Charles Vs. Miss Piggy Fight Sequence from Muppets In Space. The movie itself is not that great, and I say that as one of the most devoted Muppet Fans out there. But the Muppets haven’t been the same since Jim Henson passed on. You can still find little gems of things here and there in recent movies, and Pepe The King Prawn is one of my favorite Muppets ever. But it’s pretty bleak for the most part.

(This is the part of the blog where I let my guard down a bit about scripts I’ve written. Normally, I don’t talk about them because I’m paranoid I’ll jinx the chances. But I’m already at rock bottom, so blast the torpedoes. I once wrote a Muppet version of Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was the most fun I ever had writing a script, and I did it in about three weeks of housesitting back in 2003 while Basil The Dog watched from afar.

Through the grace of God and a friend of a friend, the script made its way to Henson Productions. They loved the script, and I took a few meetings with them, got to pitch some Muppet ideas. But they said that kids wouldn’t get Shakespeare, the pitches never went anywhere, and the woman I took the meetings with soon left the company for another major animation studio (no, not that one. The other one,) and so now I plug Muppet Midsummer Night’s Dream here. It’s damn funny, people. Trust me.)

Anyhow, Muppets In Space had a few funny moments, chief among them this fight between Josh Charles, playing a Men In Black type operative who has just kidnapped Gonzo, and Miss Piggy (and allow me to point out that Piggy’s salmon ensemble is a little low cut, and would probably get her firebombed at 11:00 church from certain people.) Josh Charles, very funny and remarkably committed to his character, punches Miss Piggy repeatedly, and she keeps circling back up, slurring ‘Izzat all ya got? (PUNCH) Izzat all ya got? (PUNCH) IZZAT ALL YA GOT?”

So right now, God is Josh Charles, and I am Piggy.

I cried most all weekend long. If you saw me during that time, I probably was crying right before I saw you, or right after. I am an Oscar caliber actress, people. Nobody has any clue. This part of my life is one of the most darkest periods in recent memory. Rejection fast and furious from all sides.

It’s true, my job is gone. I found out today. I am getting severance, thank GOD for that one. But my last day is Wednesday. Ooof. Act One had rejection in different parts (from TV track, from my pitches not getting selected), and has spit me back out into the real world very uncertain of my talent, or what I’m supposed to do with it next.

Izzat all you got? Izzat all you got?

Also got the news that two writing fellowships have rejected me as well, so that points again to the Talent? What Talent? Theory.

Izzat all you got? Izzat all you got?

The whisper of a personal life that I was wistfully hoping would help me face this dark time appears to have imploded as well. It's my fault. These things usually are. I think it's unfixable. Sucks.

It’s a dark day in Amyville. It feels like God is stripping everything away for some reason, but I don’t know what it is. I think it’s something along the lines of Him wanting me to depend solely and utterly on Him, not on the guy, not on my talent. The guy was was real, though. He had real arms to hold me, as opposed to the metaphorical embrace I'm supposed to feel (and have never felt) from God. I liked the way the guy held me. It felt safe. Why couldn’t I have that much? When God doesn’t provide that, and I can’t feel his Holy presence in the first place? Why take away the physical from me when He doesn’t replace it with a sense of calm, peace, Yes Amy Everything Will Be Fine feeling? Oh, whatever, Amy. God didn't take the guy away from you. You botched that one up all by yourself. Knock it off.

What does it mean to be Dependent On God? When I was a kid, I depended on Mom and Dad for a house to grow up in, for food, clothes, and the hope that my sister Agatha wouldn’t smother me in my sleep. These weren’t active thoughts (well, Agatha killing me was), but the dependency was there.

In this current era, God has provided the basics – house, clothes, working car, roommates that don’t put their dishes in the dishwasher. Again, not active desires, but dependency is still there. I’ve never credited myself for getting this far in life. I never thought of myself as One Resourceful Lucky Ass Bitch. It’s always been by the grace of God.

I don’t even consider my writing talent to be mine, just something else He’s given me. I abuse it, sure, and wrongly think I’m better than other people because of it. But He’s the one who gave it to me. I didn’t discover it myself. I know it comes from Him, and repeatedly have given Him credit.

So what, oh what, Josh Charles/God are you trying to tell me? What oh what did you think I was dependent on that You felt You had to take it away? The day job that pays for everything? The hope of a writing future? The embrace of, gasp, an actual MAN?

When I was in high school and a party meant you squashed twenty people in a room with a TV and no alcohol, I was goofing around with a guy, Harold, and as he walked past me on the floor, I stuck my foot out, sure that he saw it and would do something goofy. Instead, he took the hardest fall I’ve ever seen a person take. The type of fall that silences a room in a heartbeat, because you’re sure that bones have been broken. Harold ended up not breaking anything, just looked at me and said something along the lines of “What the F?” “I was trying to get your attention,” I blurted out. “Well, you got it. Now what?” was the simple awful reply.

I am Harold. God is me. What are you trying to tell me God? You’ve got my attention.

Do you guys have any idea how hard it is to stand in church and sing lyrics like “What a wonderful Maker. What a wonderful Savior. How majestic Your whispers. And how humble Your love. With a strength like no other. And the heart of a Father. How majestic Your whispers. What a wonderful God” or “Beautiful one I love you. Beautiful one I adore. Beautiful one my soul must sing.” When you’re screaming YOU’RE NOT BEAUTIFUL! YOU’RE NOT A WONDERFUL SAVIOR! YOU’RE BEATING THE SNOT OUT OF ME! STOP IT! on the inside? You can’t do it. Not without crying. Which I did yesterday.

See, I could understand if I had said those things first and THEN the torrent of shit came down. I don’t understand this way at all.

What does it mean to Depend On God in these circumstances? Practically speaking? I can say that Trusting God means you physically stop yourself from worrying by focusing on other things, whether that’s writing or cleaning the kitchen. What are the practical steps I do now to embody Depending On God, the Almighty Sadist Who Uses Me As A Punching Bag For Reasons Unknown?

Um, let’s see. I can thank Him for beating me up. Did that with the last entry below.

I can thank Him for taking all these things away from me. It feels like Opposites Day, doesn’t it? Six year olds LOVE Opposites Day. Yes means No, No means Yes. Thank you for taking everything I needed away.

I can tell Him how I feel. He knows. He’s the number one reader of this blog.

I can ask Him for help. Dear God, please help me recover from Your blows. Since we know that He doesn’t respond instantly, I guess I have to wait.

And that probably means I have to trust that He will. He will answer me. He will help me. Someday.

And then we’re back to Trusting God, which means I have to go do something else to get my mind off this shit.

Hey, here’s something funny. From my journal, almost exactly a year ago. August 1, 2005, where I was upset that I got rejected from the same writing fellowship:

Rejection is still rejection, regardless, and it made me feel lousy. The thing that was bugging me about it is that I was hoping for another tiny sign of validation that I am in fact an okay writer, and not a sucky one. Because signs of sucky writing are all I’ve been getting lately.

I try to tell myself that God has a better plan for me than this. God has wonderful things in store, and they’ve gotta be better than this. So don’t worry. He’s gonna take care of you. He’s gonna provide. And when you see what He has in store, you’re gonna look back on this and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Yes, I know I’m supposed to be thinking all these things, but the part that blows is that I keep saying WHEN!? WHEN is this brilliant plan gonna show up? WHAT is the plan, honestly? Because right now, it seems pretty dim and hazy. I don’t even know if this the path/plan I’m supposed to be ON! I’m not getting good signs that it is. Am I supposed to give everything up? What else am I supposed to be doing then? WHAT IS THE PLAN AND WHEN’S IT GONNA HAPPEN?

I’m not asking for everything to be dropped in my lap. I’m just asking for a spotlight on the door. I can get the wherewithal to get to the door, the wherewithal to open the door and go through, regardless of the trepidation I feel, but WHERE’S THE DOOR!?

And if I am supposed to be staying on this path, why don’t I feel more like I am supposed to be here?

That was a year ago. Hey God, it’s a year later. I’m not laughing.

Enforced Secret Joy #9 – Audrey Zombie

Audrey Zombie has been my constant companion for most of Act One this month. She’s the screen saver on my classmate’s Emery’s laptop. She looks fine in her Breakfast At Tiffany’s attire if you look at her straight on, but this is the angle I saw her much of the time, so Audrey Zombie she is.

Yes, I sat in the front row for much of the month. Not because I’m a brown noser, but simply to keep at bay the distractions that watching other classmates might have posed. But Audrey, fair Audrey. Fair dead eyed constrasty toned Audrey. Look at the smirk on her. Is it because she knows my pain? Or is it because she’s LAUGHING at my pain? Um, she’s a screensaver. She doesn’t give a shit. Right.
-------------------------------------------------
Dear Act One Classmates who I have just spent the majority of a month with:

I write this as an apology and a plea for forgiveness. I have misjudged you all horribly. Initially, your bright eyed Newbieness made me feel very grouchy and grumpy, since I am a L.A. cynic at the tender age of seven. But it quickly became endearing to hear your tales of how L.A. traffic scares you, how some of you don’t understand the concept of sushi, how some of you went to Universal Studios and it was COOL, (previous personal experience makes me blanch at the word “Citywalk.”)

You all have lives, a lot of you have spouses, families, or serious significant others. I never would’ve guessed that so many of you have had Running From The Cops stories in your past. It’s pretty awesome.

You all are wonderful people, much more Holy and in connection with the Holy Spirit than I am. I even unintentionally insulted one of you by insisting that “Nothing in the Old Testament counts once Jesus showed up!” when in fact, you had just completed a Masters of Arts in Old Testament from a theological seminary. Oopsie. Sorry about that.

But I ask your collective forgiveness. The “I’m just here to learn and connect my spirituality with my craft!” routine was a front and God knew it. God knew that I secretly quietly, internally and loftily considered myself above all of you writing skill wise. Though I tried mightily not to lord that knowledge over you, God knew it was there, and proceeded to kick the snot out of me because of it.

Because you all CAN write. Better than me. I can say that without a hint of jealousy (okay, maybe a drop. Maybe two.) Your pitches were chosen over mine, your homework was exalted over mine, your loglines were better than mine. I thought I was great, I realize that I’m not.

Now we’re leaving the program. I came in secretly lofty, I’m leaving crawling and humbled. I’m not better than than you. I’m in the exact same position – I don’t have a job, I question whether my writing skills are good enough, I question what the next step is, I wonder what the hell God’s plan for me is anyway. Nothing is clear. Except that I’m not alone, because I’ve spent a month with all of you. It’s been fun. Except for God kicking the snot of me part. I could’ve done without that.

Thank you God, for my Act One classmates. Thank you for their talent, for their generosity, for their gracious spirits. Thank you for their Bright Eyed Newbieness, which is a much better place to be than my Crusty Corrodedness. Please shower blessings and gifts and opportunities untold upon them in the form of jobs, places to live, and scripts that will sell for bucketfuls of money. Please show them how awesome spicy tuna sushi is. Show them what the next step is after Act One, and please let them see what Your plan is for them. Let us all keep in touch. And…okay, fine, thank you for kicking the snot out of me. Please keep it up, I love it, I can’t get enough.

And thank you for Audrey Zombie. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

--------------------------------------------

Faithful Readers O’ the Blog, I am dead to the world for the weekend. Sunday’s post will be late on Monday. Thanks for checking in.

God and Oswald Vs. The Bitch

Today's post will be illustrated by those hokey Inspirational Posters that are usually found on Middle Management walls, because I don't think there's enough irony in this particular outing.

It’s the last week of Act One, and the big assignment is our pitches (I tell you my great idea for a script, you agree it’s great and want to theoretically buy it.) It’s a little wonky that everything is apparently riding on this thing, which we were just assigned last week, but that’s what class evaluations are for, I guess.

And for all the talk about how my class is a team, we need to support each other, help each other, lift each other up, la la la, now our final assignment is us competing against each other. And it’s not as though that’s not reality, and I don’t fault them for it, but I do think that kind of Cold Reality should’ve been given a place at the kitchen table next to the Fuzzy Wuzzy Lift Each Other Up from the beginning. Now it feels like a bait and switch. Welcome to the Industry, kids.

The long and short of it is that we’re split up into groups of five, we pitch to two groups of executive students, who in turn pick their favorite pitch to pitch to the faculty. So we have two chances to get picked, and we’re competing against 10 of us, I guess, though it’s unclear what happens if both exec groups pick the same pitch.

None of it matters anyway, because I already know mine isn’t gonna make it. My group is an awesome bunch, and at least two other pitches kick my ass out of the game, and I haven’t even heard the OTHER group of five’s stuff. I asked one of the teachers what the point was of continuing through with the pitch if I already know that my idea isn’t gonna be picked. “For the experience” she said with a straight face. Yay miserable experience. I can’t wait.

I go work out my frustration after class. Jump on the ellipticals at the gym, and puzzle over the pitching thing to God. God’s not currently taking my calls, I think He’s puzzling over the Middle Eastern conflict, so I argue with myself for awhile, speaking for both sides: God and me.

What’s the point? The point is you’re supposed to do the damn assignment and shut the hell up. But what’s the point if I already know I’m not gonna be one of the ones picked? Because it’s not a contest, it’s to sharpen your pitching skills so stop the whining and do the damn assignment. But it IS a contest, what else could the end goal of the assignment be except to be one of the ones picked? You are such a brat. What part of “Shut the hell up” don’t you understand? I understand it perfectly, but what you don’t understand is that my classmates are onto me, and it’s come out that I have more experience than them, so if I don’t get picked, then I seemingly am not as great of a writer as everyone suspects I am. So what. You need a kick in the teeth anyway. You came into this program thinking you knew so much, you deserve to be humbled. MONSTROUSLY humbled. So assume the position, whiny little arrogant brat.

I realize that God probably wouldn’t talk to me like this. What I’m hearing is The Bitch In My Head, who likes to take over when God’s busy with other stuff. Many a non-religious folk like to think God would talk EXACTLY like The Bitch In My Head, because God is the one who’s No Fun At All, and makes you feel awful about yourself. I know God’s not like that, but in absence of His presence to kick The Bitch out, The Bitch is more than happy to move in and piss all over the couch.

In desperately trying to think of anything else to dwell on, I’m reminded of Oswald The Sadistic Devotional For The Day, which says “We have the idea that God is leading us towards a particular end of a desired goal, but He is not. The question of whether or not we arrive at a particular goal is of little importance, and reaching it becomes merely an episode along the way. What we see as only the process of reaching a particular end, God sees as the goal itself.” In other words, it’s the journey, not the destination.

It’s a little disconcerting, because a lot of modern day Christianity espouses the idea that God has a purpose for you, and that purpose is a career, a life, a goal, something that’s tangible. Wherever God has placed you, it’s because He’s got a plan. That’s very comforting to know, that a relationship with Him can be that personal.

Yet Oswald is saying God’s more concerned with the journey. Well, what about His plan? Doesn’t God care a smidgen about the goal? Suppose my goal was to be the Godliest stripper around? Suppose my goal was to be a pious hooker? Would God still care as much about the journey, as opposed to the goal? (What, no Inspirational Poster for a Pious Hooker? DAMN YOU!)

And just as I’m about ready to launch into space, I’m working the elliptical so hard, a sentence jumps into my head.

Let the idea speak for itself.

Ah, there we go. I knew if I threw the phrase “Pious Hooker” out into the ether, God would show up and say Ummmm, no.

Let the idea speak for itself.

This didn’t come from me. I was busy arguing with The Bitch and Oswald. This thought didn’t have a trail, a traceable chain “I thought this, that make me think of that, which made me think of this other thing.” This sentence jumped so clearly and completely into my head from outside myself, that it has to be Him. It’s happened before.

Let the idea speak for itself.

Okay. Seems simple, honest and direct enough. So fine, it’s from God. Let’s concentrate on the journey to let the pitch speak, as opposed to worrying about the goal of whether it’ll get chosen or not, that way Oswald can be happy. Been dead for decades, Oswald has, but what the hey, let's make him smile.

The Bitch isn’t happy, though. But that’s fine. Someone deserves to be miserable around here, and it might as well be her. Since she’ll probably move back in once the idea doesn’t get picked.

Enforced Secret Joy #8 – Twilight Singers' cover of “Hyperballad”

It’s originally a Bjork song, and she spins in a universe that’s a little too odd for me, but Greg Dulli and the Twilight Singers did this one on their covers album She Loves You and made it this beautiful wistful meditation.

And even though the lyrics most likely point to a dissatisfied chick whose boyfriend is clueless about her suicidal tendencies because he likes to sleep in, I prefer to extrapolate and lift it up to describe me and God. Not that God sleeps in, and not that He doesn’t know what’s going on with me (and not that I'm suicidal either. To me, throwing things off a cliff = kicking rocks about the whole God business in general.)

But at the very end, where they sing the phrase “Safe up here” over and over for at least a minute, it becomes such an uplifting prayer to belt in the car as I’m driving to class, and I’m able to convince myself that yes, I am safe with God, no matter what I toss over the cliff.


Thank you God, for this song. Thank you for the Twilight Singers, for Bjork, for the magic and generosity and enthusiasm of the art of covering other artist’s songs. Thank you for the concept of being Safe Up Here With You, thank you for the stubborn blinders I put on myself so that I can twist the song to mean whatever means the most to me. Thank you for music, thank you for uplifting, please give me strength to get through this day, because I am two seconds away from Liquid Eyeball state if I have to stare at this computer screen for another six hours in class. Please keep my eyeballs solid and in their sockets, because I need them to stare at cute boys and other examples of your majesty. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Amen.


We live on a mountain
Right at the top
Beautiful view
From the top of the mountain
Every morning I walk over to the edge
And throw little things off
Like:
Car parts, bottles and cutlery
Or whatever I find lying around

It's become a habit
A way
To start the day

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

It's early morning
No one is awake
I'm back at my cliff
Still throwing things off
I listen to the sounds they make
On their way down
I follow with my eyes 'til they crash
Imagine what my body would sound like
Slamming against those rocks

When it lands
Will my eyes
Be closed or open?

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

Safe up here
Safe up here
Safe up here
Safe up here
Safe up here
Safe up here
Safe up here

Writing On Another Planet

Most of the time, I think I’m writing on another planet. It doesn’t bug me so much, because I’m the only writer on that particular planet, so how would I know what’s considered odd, because hey, it all makes sense to me.

But participating in Act One has brought up the realization that my planet isn’t exactly twirling in a known universe. This may not be a bad thing because as a writer, you want to have a distinctive and original voice. But “distinctive” and “original” have to be words that other people say about you, you can’t say them about yourself. Kind of like how on any reality show, a contestant can’t call themselves “Crazy” it has to be ascribed to them by a competing contestant. Because some adjectives have to be born out of stuff that you DO, not stuff that you say you are. But I think that I can safely say that my Amy planet is a little out of whack in the Act One orbit.

For example, there was this scene exercise last week where we had to write a scene with the elements they provided to us. It’s a romantic comedy where Emily and Donovan meet in an outpatient pre-op room.

Emily’s getting a central line taken out, because her cancer’s in remission, so she’s a happy camper. Donovan is getting a central line put in (alluding that he has cancer), so he’s not. Emily asks Donovan out for Jell-O in the hospital caferia, he turns her down, yet when he hears the nurse talking to Emily about her central line, Donovan changes his tune. He asks Emily about her cancer, “Emily recounts a bit of the cancer battle she’s just come through. Donovan’s interest increases and he questions her about her story. It feels like a real connection to both of them.” But then Emily realizes that Donovan’s getting his central line put in for cancer treatment, she gets weirded out, and turns Donovan down when he wants to take her up on the Jell-O invite. End o’ scene.

And when I get this assignment, I stare at the pages and think oh blegh. It’s a cancer scene. It smacks of Hallmarkian Piece O’ Crapola. It’s exactly what I was worried Act One was gonna teach you how to write, exactly what I DIDN’T wanna write. Because c’mon, seriously. Jell-O? A date for Jell-O? Are we going to a sock hop afterwards?

I should interject and say that this is the only assignment thus far in two weeks that I’ve had a blegh reaction too, lest anyone think I’m not learning a lot and having a reasonably okay time in the whole Act One program. Because I am.

However, this assignment blew big ass chunks. And it’s up to me to take these bleghy elements and turn them into something that I could reasonably stomach, and fulfill the requirements of the assignment.

So what I end up coming up with is turning Emily into a chatterbrained annoying twit, and Donovan into a huge jerk who interrupts her nonstop monologuing to tell her that her eyebrows are crooked. The ones she drew on. Because the radiation made them fall out.

Yes. Yes, I am going to hell.

Oh dear, oh dear me. What kind of worldview do I HAVE!? Ms. Pessimism, Glorious Defender of the Cynic and Obnoxious, C’est Moi. Well, I don’t think anyone else is gonna come up with it. So there’s that. It make sense on my planet. The one on the frozen reaches of Pluto, where nobody human with a compassionate heart dwells.

We turn in our assignment and a few days later are divided into groups, where we take turns reading the scenes out loud, and our moderator gives us notes on them. Needless to say, mine’s the only one with a vicious eyebrow slam. The moderator tells me that the eyebrow joke stopped her cold, but that she also thought it was a brilliant choice. However, “I must give you a backhanded compliment. I hate your characters.” Well good, because I didn’t like them either. Nowhere in the assignment did it say anything like You must love these characters and treasure them as you do your major internal organs.

Moderator goes on to gently remind me that this IS a romantic comedy, and we should care for these people a smidgen, since eventually they are going to end up together. Yes, but see on Amy Planet, Emily the Twit and Donovan the Jerk DO end up together, and she draws crooked eyebrows on him when his eyebrows fall out, and they chuckle ruefully together, and it’s a lovely scene that’s many many scenes from now. But okay. I should write a romantic comedy scene that fits a romantic comedy definition on Planet Earth, since nobody writes paychecks for screenwriting on Amy Planet. There’s no money on Amy Planet, by the way. But there’s a lot of BEER! Kidding, kidding.

Anyhow, when Moderator gives us back our scenes, she has said a lot of very nice things like “I love your strong choices and general style. Very daring choices for characters. They all really live on the page and this cuts through the sappy factor that the cancer issue could have brought.” So it looks like I wasn’t the only one that thought SAPOLA when getting the assignment. Which makes me feel better. But I’m not going for Jell-O anytime soon.

Enforced Secret Joy 7 – Music that Transcends

I don’t know how many of you know about Pandora , the internet jukebox where you create your own radio station and it’ll play songs similar to songs of the artist you initially program, but seriously, it’s God’s gift to the internet.

I swear, I swear, I’m not trying to endorse anything. Nobody pays me to mention this stuff, and Pandora is free anyway, so you’re only depriving yourself should you choose not to muck around with it.

Music is really important to me as a writer. I usually design a soundtrack to whatever script I’m working on, but when I get tired of the same songs, I go to Pandora for variety.

Pandora is awesome, because it’ll throw up all sorts of songs from bands that nobody has ever heard of as well as bands you have heard of (and on my Twilight Singers station, every seventh song is a Twilight Singers song, and that’s ALWAYS good.) It can be a hit and miss affair, you’re allowed to skip forward x amount of songs per hour, but you can always flip back and forth to your other stations. I have a Replacements station , a Garbage Station , and a Smithereens station, so I can usually find something to rock out to.

Musicians may spit their beer all over the computer screen when I say this, but I suspect a band has a better chance of getting their music out to an audience than a writer has to get her script read. With the advent of things like Myspace and Pandora, I’ve discovered the teeniest bands that I never would’ve found otherwise. They all have cult followings, they’ve developed sizable audiences. And yet Purple Monkey script will be lucky if fifty people ever read it in its lifetime.

But music’s got the edge anyway. Nothing sounds like music (duh.) Whereas words can be read, heard, seen. It touches difference sensory whatchamadoodles or something. I know a fine actor Franklin, who pays no attention to me whatsoever, and he once posted on his Myspace page about music. I’m cribbing from him here, because I’m too tired to rephrase in Amyspeak. He can’t spell though, so I’m cleaning a few things up for him.

Music is the purest and most beautiful of art forms. It truly is a wonderful gift from God. No matter what we do, we cannot change it, only experience it. Everything it needs is already contained in itself...A minor chord is sad and a major is happy, no matter how the person playing guitar feels. Love, hate, fear, joy, melancholy and any other describable or indescribable emotion is already there. We have but to listen and we hear it. In actuality, it has no substance, yet it'll hit you like a ton of bricks. It transcends language and dialect, intelligence and belief and is an ethereal bit of that thing that connects all of us.

This week has been better, thank you who have sent well wishes. I can’t even say I’m coming up from the gloom, because the Act One classes have kept me so distracted that I occasionally forget I had one of the worst days in recent memory last week, so I don't remember there there is gloom to come up from.

And in fact, some good news did come through, as I found out I’ve advanced to the next stage of a tiny fellowship I applied for. There’s a few more levels to clear, and I’ve been in this position before, where I made it up one step, only to be smacked out at the next round, but as an old boss of mine used to say, “It’s always time to open the champagne” when it comes to celebrating steps on the screenwriting path, because you never know if this step is your last. I didn’t open champagne (no more job, remember), but a few beers were quaffed as I did my Act One homework for that night.

So as I’m hammering away at the Act One homework for last night (my keyboard has never gotten such a workout before. Or my fingertips. Or my eyeballs. They’re ready to melt out of my head, people,) I’m staring at the computer screen with hardly any breaks for seven hours a day) Pandora spits a song out through my speakers. I’m the type of person where a song really has to grab me in order for me to pay attention, but if it does, I instantly stop everything I’m doing, enthralled to the melody.

The song’s called “Drowned” from a band called Halloween, Alaska. Yeah, I know. Who’s heard of a band called that, right? Well, apparently the folks on The O.C. have, as they’ve used songs on one of their episodes. The O.C. is hipper than me. I am sad.

The song starts off mid tempo, thoughtful, the bass line is carrying most of it. And just when you think that the lyric “All around you is love” is quite lovely, but I don’t need to hear it four times in a row, it TAKES OFF in this amazing sonic rush and roar. And the singer’s just wailing “I’ll show you drowned” in this awesome F YOU kinda way. It dips, and zooms around the room a couple of times and cuts back to nothing but the bass line like it was no big deal at all. What? I do this all the time. No big deal.

And if that WAS all, it’d be fabulous on its own, but it keeps going. Now it’s a chorus of voices joining the bass line and a plinking piano, and they harmonize to this line.

Hope won’t weigh you down.

Which is such a startling clear cut realization into my current conditions that I was left at a loss. Maybe God’s speaking to me through the song. I like thinking that God’s an indie rock kind of Deity. But it’s bigger than that. He uses music because it’s pure, like Franklin says. This song wrecks me, in a way that no script could. It lifts me up, it shoves my face into a pan of Hope and swishes me around in it. And I come out sputtering and blinking and thinking well, maybe they’ve got a point.

Dear God, thank you for this song. Thank you for this band with the strange name and the Myspace page where I could download the song. Thank you for music, for its universal open door into emotion, thank you for the idea that Hope Won’t Weigh Me Down. Thank you for Hope in general, and help me to remember that in the darker moments, it’s not out of my reach, it’s only a click away on my Itunes.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

The Pain, the Silence, the Muppets

Today’s post will be illustrated by Muppets , because nobody expresses abject fear, disgust, despair, or just plain psychotic-ness better than the Muppets. And plus I also finally figured out how to use my DVD Capture program that’s been sitting on my computer for three years now. Yep, that’s me. Amy the Technological Genius.

So walking with my Savior (or as I like to call it “Being the Chickie In The Basket and God’s The Swedish Chef Who Just Dribbled Me Into the Basketball Hoop And Scored Two Points Off My Life.”) has led to a few bumps in the road. I was probably due, things had been far too complacent for far too long. Life wise, I mean. Spirituality, well that’s a constant struggle. “This is the song that never ends! Yes, it goes on and on my friend!” No, wait, that’s Lamb Chop. Whatever.

I have been rejected for the TV Track that Act One offers through its Writing Program. They did say from the beginning that they discriminate on age, and that something like 22 people were applying for something like 11 spots, so I wasn’t the only one rejected. But it smarts something FIERCE when you suspect (I didn’t confirm, it’s kinda pathetic, “Please tell me why I wasn’t good enough? Pretty please?”) that your age overruled your writing skills, your experience in the industry, and your MONSTER sense of discipline. I’m seven, and already over the hill. Blegh. (UPDATE! Apparently, my age had nothing to do with it, but more people were more PASSIONATE about TV than I was. Hmmm. Huh. Okay, I'll give 'em that.)

But no, no, it’s all for the best! It’s God’s will! God doesn’t want you to write for TV! Or if you really think you’re supposed to write for TV, find another opportunity if it kills you so bad! But if not, don’t worry, God’s got something better planned! Yep, He sure does! Don’t you fret your pretty little head. Cheer up, lil’ camper, things’ll get better.

And then I get home and get the email from my boss saying I have lost my job.

YYYYYAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!

It’s not personal. They’re shutting my whole division down. Movie Studio That I Will Still Not Name Because Maybe They’ll Reassign Me doesn’t have much foresight when it comes to the future, and rather than let my division demonstrate its viability since our product hasn’t been released yet, and every single other movie studio has a division like us that’s profitable, but WHATEVER, LET’S SHUT ‘EM DOWN! WHY NOT? IT’S NOT LIKE PEOPLE NEED DAY JOBS OR ANYTHING, has decided to kick us to the curb.

To be honest, it wasn’t like this came out of left field. There had been rumors and murmurs for a good four months now, but I decided that I was NOT going to worry about it, as our good Lord commands us not to (see below post) and if it was indeed true, there wasn’t anything I could do to stop or change it, so I’m just gonna do my thing over here, I’m gonna apply for Act One, Jesus Take The Wheel, blah blah blah.

But it still doesn’t stop the feeling of being sucker punched. Ask any boxer. Being hit still hurts, no matter how many times you get hit, no matter how many times you anticipate it.

So I do what any self-respecting boxer who’s been sucker punched would do. I sink down to the ground and bawl my eyes out. (What? They don’t do that? Oh, they do it on the inside, mister. Trust me.)

I’m SCARED! I yell out to God in the empty house because Roomies Heckle and Jekyll have those things called jobs that I don’t have anymore. I’m SCARED! HELP ME! WHAT DO I DO!? WHAT DO I DO FOR F’S SAKE!?

Knock it off. This is not God talking, this is the Bitchily Pragmatic Side O’Amy, the one who doesn’t put up with anything. Not procrastination, not tears, not abject despair, not refusing to go to the gym, not ignoring phone calls or emails because I just want to sleep. She’s psychotic in a bad way (not like Crazy Harry psychotic in a funny way) and she never goes away. I hate her. I want God to answer me, I get her instead. Get off the floor, Bitchy Prago says, You know exactly what you have to do. Same thing you’ve been doing for a week. You’re enrolled in Act One, and you’ll do that for the next month. You’re much better off being in Act One and not having a job, than not having a job and not being in Act One. So stop with the crying like a damn baby and get off the floor.

But what do I do about severance? Health Insurance? Holy crap, I’m on an unpaid leave of absence. They could technically screw me out of EVERYTHING. Could they? Could they? Crank up the Paranoid Fantasies, crank up the Fluttering From Mom, The 4’11 Phone Harpy Who Anticipates The Worst Of Every Situation And Probably Where Bitchy Prago Got Her Start. I’m HOSED! HOSED, I TELL YOU!

You don’t know jack right now because you haven’t talked to Human Resources, sniffs Bitchy Prago, Things could be fine, there could be an option for reassignment someplace else in the company or something. You’ve got five years there. You just got a stellar performance review. This is HOLLYWOOD we’re talking about! There is no such thing as TENURE! I’m HOSED! Shut the fuck up. (Sorry, you made me say it.) Ahem. As I said, you don’t know anything right now because you haven’t talked to Human Resources. So get up off the fing floor and stop this nonsense. Besides, aren’t you supposed to do something like trust God?

Yes, yes, I’m supposed to trust God. itrustGoditrustGoditrustGod. What DOES THAT LOOK LIKE NOW!? I’m looking through my bedroom doorway down the hall like the Almighty is gonna come strolling down. “You rang?”

God? God? Anybody up there? Out there? Anywhere? Hello? Please silence the Bitch In My Head? Send Mr. Holy Spirit Of Reassurance? Please? Please?

Can you at least just put one foot on the floor, ya big non-trusting baby? Put one foot on the floor. Then push up. You can stand up. You’ve done it all your life, save for the newborn months. Hey! There’s alcohol in the kitchen! BOOZE! Go get the BOOZE!

Now, I get up. Told ya you could stand up, you moron. I drink a few White Russians, which instantly stop the tears, but more importantly Silences The Bitch In My Head. Which God chose not to do, for some reason. Settle back down in front of the computer. I’ve got homework for Act One, after all. I’m a writer. A writer writes.

But this is what I don’t get. I called out to Him in my time of distress. I cast all my cares upon Him, I begged, I cried, there was no reason in the world that He wouldn’t have answered me. I’m not asking for an angel to materialize in the kitchen, and rest a wing on my brow. Just that still small voice in my soul. And when I listen, all I hear is the Bitch.

Unless…unless the Bitch IS God. Oh fuck that. That CAN’T be right, it just CAN’T be. Our God is a loving God, right? Our God wants to give us good things? Our God does not act like a militant uncaring Bitch? Our God does not tell us to go get White Russians in the kitchen, right?

Is it half God, half the Devil (or “the enemy” as modern day Christians like to refer to him)? Why wouldn’t God be louder? When His child needs Him?

That is what this blog is all about. Because I haven’t a clue why He wouldn’t be louder. I did everything allegedly right (the booze was probably not recommended) Why is there still silence?

Oh, I’m fine now. NOW. Life goes on, and the punch fades and there’s more homework to distract me. There might be even be potentially good news from a completely different quadrant tomorrow. But maybe not (now that I've jinxed myself by mentioning it.) And on we go. Because we have to. Because that’s the way life works.

This is the song that never ends. Yes, it goes on and on my friend…

What a bummer. I need something cheerful to end this post with. Um...um...Hey! Here's a shot from my favorite Muppet sketch of all time. "The Cat Came Back." If you all have never seen this sketch (on the Linda Ronstadt episode in season 5) you have no idea what true Muppet hilarity is. This is Gaffer the Cat, and her owner Benny (not in this shot, and not Rowf, who's playing a banjo behind Gaffer) keeps trying to give her away, shoot her out a canon, blow her up, but all to no avail, as the song goes, because "The Cat Came Back. She couldn't stay away. She was sittin' on the porch the very next day. The cat came back, she didn't wanna roam. The very next day she was home sweet home."

Maybe God's Gaffer the Cat. But I'm pretty sure I'd trip over Her, if that was the case.

Enforced Secret Joy #6 – Yay flowers (again)

When I first kicked around the idea of starting a Christian themed blog, I did some research on what kind of Christian themed blogs were already out there. There’s a BUNCH of them, but precious few have any kind of personality. I couldn’t read many of them for longer than five seconds because I’d gag on the pontificating of selected Bible verses, or the theoretical beard stroking while mulling over various theological concepts. In short, they were flat out boring. No wonder nobody likes Christians. They're not that interesting.

But today, I am a Pontificating Bible Spouter. Don’t worry, I’m not turning into a freak, the only reason I know this verse is because I just read the chapter of Matthew from start to finish a few days ago. Plus there’s a bunch of Bible sites online you can do a search for phrases like “lilies of the field” and come up with the one you’re thinking of.

Matthew 6:28-33

28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' 32For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

This flower was one of ones I saw on the retreat last weekend, and I am again amazed at the level of detail and attention that God puts into slapping one of these unnamed flowers together. And how long does it live? Few weeks? A month?

I’m not one of those crazy kids that wants to live forever, never have been. I’m envious at the blazing beauty and short life of this flower.

And after the rock ‘em sock ‘em PUNCH ‘em bad news that I got from multiple quadrants today, I’m desperately trying to believe in what Matthew is saying. God crafts beautiful flowers for a month. He will take care of you. He will take care of you.

Dear God, thank you for this flower. Thank you for ALL flowers, the ones I see and the ones I don’t see. Thank you for your Divine attention to detail, thank you for your promises to take care of your children more than you will this stunning example of blazing beauty (though personally, I think the flower deserves it more.) Please help me to believe it, please help me to feel it. Please smack me on the forehead and lovingly say, “Yo dumbass, I didn’t bring you out to Los Angeles and let you go through everything you have only to rip the rug out from under you. I gots the PLANS, I do! TRUST ME, MORON! Nothing you can think of is gonna top the plans I have for you. ‘CAUSE I’M GOD AND I CAN DO SOME CRAZY SHIT! JUST TRUST ME AND SEE!”

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

Walking the Labyrinth

Dear Act One Classmates Who I Met Over The Weekend.

Hello, my name is Amy The Writer. But I’m also Amy The Bwak Bwak Chicken Coward, because I did not tell you all about this blog yet. It didn’t seem appropriate. On Friday night, when we all individually stood and said our name, where we were from, our favorite movie, and the craziest thing we’ve ever done, it seemed superfluous to drop in “oh, and by the way I have a blog called Godispatientiamnot.blogspot.com, go check it out.” Starting this blog isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever done, what I told you that night still beats it (shooting a guy in Germany last year with a plastic pellet gun because he shot Winifred first. Great story, will tell blog readers about it some other time.)

I did mention to some of you in conversations over the weekend here and there that I have a blog, so I’ll wait until you guys ask me more about it before directing you here.

And I must amend the statements below. I may not be asking a lot of questions in class after all. I think the best course of action for the next month is Shut Up And Listen. To our instructors and to all of you. So that’s what I’ll do. Unless something comes up. As always, I reserve the right to change my mind. Since I do it, oh, about every five minutes.

But I am a Bwak Bwak Chicken Coward. That’s the bottom line.

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We had the retreat at a place called Serra Retreat in Malibu. It wasn’t on the beach, it was a mile up the mountain on the other side of the PCH. The views were very nice, but I think I may have been the only one who realized that what we were looking at was in fact Malibu Colony, where a bunch o’ celebrities have multi-million dollar homes.

Thankfully, there was lots of fun flora and fauna to look at and the other mountains, which were pretty inspiring. It was a weekend chock full o’ stuff, a lot of which I’m still processing in my own somewhat Slow Like Turtle way. But I do think it’ll be interesting to share this one thing with all of you.

In between the classes, we were encouraged to roam the grounds and Reflect On Stuff. This is a Franciscan Retreat, so there was a lot of Catholic statues around, which didn’t resonate as much as it should have for my plebeian Presbyterian taste. But there was this thing. A Labyrinth. There was no minotaur roaming around, nor was David Bowie there trying to turn my baby brother into a goblin.

It’s made out of rocks on the ground, but there’s some literature under glass nearby, and it explains the correct way to walk the labyrinth will be to think ahead of time “Where am I?” and “What do I need to receive?” Then you’re supposed to let the distractions fall away as you walk the labyrinth, then pray in the middle, and finally “take what you gain with you as you leave.”

So off I go. Where am I now? Well, that part’s easy enough. I know exactly where I am. I’m here, in Los Angeles. It’s where I’m supposed to be. I continue to walk the path, it’s really narrow, like a cue line in Disneyland. (Seriously, just try to walk the cue line for the Alice In Wonderland ride . You can tell that the Disney engineers in 1955 did not anticipate the future American obesity problem.)

It occurs to me that there’s only way to go here. Forward. It’s not a maze, where you can make a wrong turn. There’s not divergent paths to steal you away. And I can extrapolate that to my life currently. I know I’m supposed to be pursuing writing, and I can count myself blessed that there aren’t any distractions from that. There’s no doubt, no wiffle waffling, should I be an actress? An accountant? A bank teller? A waitress? I’ve always known. I’m still wrestling with the idea that solid knowledge like that isn’t a bad thing. It doesn’t jinx me. Embracing it will not destroy me. It’s not prideful. Seriously, I thought for the longest time that it was. Longest time meaning up until about a week ago.

The labyrinth is designed in such a way that’s a little sneaky, it twists to the right when you want to go left. You think you should be getting closer to the center when it looks like you’re getting farther away. Just like the faith you’re supposed to have.

I get to the middle and Reflect. I trust God to lead because I’ve got nothing else to do. That sounds really bad, doesn’t it? Let’s try again. I trust God to lead because nothing else gets me anywhere. I trust it’s God leading, rather than my own understanding of my life. Even though it really smells like it’s my own understanding of my life.

If there’s anything I’m starting to learn about myself, it’s that I should go ahead and trust in God, and SAY it’s God, BELIEVE it’s God, even if I can’t understand or explain why it feels like it’s myself INSTEAD of God. And my own understanding (which the Bible says I’m not supposed to lean on anyway) will catch up eventually.

See, I knew I wanted to be a writer ever since I was sixteen. Stole my mother’s typewriter and barricaded myself in my room, only coming out occasionally to ask her for another ream of paper because I had run out. It never occurred to me at sixteen that I should ask God what He wanted me to do with my life, and I went to church every Sunday like a good girl.

As I got older and kept writing, the two ideas still seemed separate. There’s God. There’s my career. I’ll try to be as good of a person as I can and try to make it as a screenwriter. God doesn’t care about my career so much as He cares about me being a good person.

It wasn’t until I got out to Los Angeles and heard a guest speaker at church say something to the effect of whatever your talent is, whatever you’re really good at, that talent comes from God, and He WANTS you to pursue it for His glory. This blew my mind. You mean, everything I’ve been working on is actually something God wanted me to pursue the entire time? This was a career aspiration that God had blessed from the get go, and I never realized it until now? Holy CRAP!

So ye old understanding finally caught up with God. I’ve already talked about how I reluctantly applied for Act One even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it until AFTER I got in. Again, God leading, and my own understanding following several miles behind.

So “What do I need to receive?” A Quicker Amy Understanding? That’d be nice. Or a more fierce Trusting In God?

As I stood in the middle and puzzled it over, I figure that what I really need to remember is that I should go ahead and act, even if I can’t explain why I should. That could lead to some really bad decisions if you wanted to take it towards a sinister turn. Certainly for most people, it’s wise counsel to wait and analyze and compare and think things through before acting. But in my life, I would be missing out on stuff, because I take SO LONG to analyze stuff out. Exhibit A: this blog. So maybe it’s not the right advice for everyone. But it’s good Amy Advice. Act Now. Understanding Will Catch Up Later. It’s Usually God Behind It Anyway.

Then I left the labyrinth. Let’s hope I “take what you gain with you as you leave.”

Enforced Secret Joy #5 – Noxema Microbead Cleanser

Not like I’m trying for freebies here, but if you happen to be thinking about switching facial cleansers, this one by Noxzema is really interesting. It really does leaves your face all tingly in surprising ways. Because it was so surprising, and quite refreshing after the initial surprise, it qualifies as an Enforced Secret Joy, albeit a short one.

Thank you, Lord, for Noxzema (though they’re such a huge multimillion collar conglomerate that they don’t especially need Your blessings.) Thank you for tingly feelings on my face, for the fact I have a bathroom, that I live in an industrialized nation that has running water, and that I have income to spend on facial cleansers. Thank you for surprises of all kinds, big and microbead. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.

Today is it, people. Today I need prayer, prayer, prayer and other assorted good thoughts if prayer is not your thing because today is the day I trudge to a four day retreat in Malibu in which I will potentially piss off a lot of people SKIP WITH HOLY JOY TOWARDS MY FUTURE AND MAKE NEW AND EXCITING FRIENDS!

Act One starts today, and they moved it up to the afternoon, which means I have time to squeeze in an early morning show of
Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest, which I’m REALLY thankful for, because there was no way I was going to be stuck on a canyon retreat for four days while everyone else gets to watch Johnny Depp do his thing. I’ve been watching Johnny Depp for a long time. I have VHS tapes of 21 Jump Street in my closet that I taped off the TV from back in 1988. I SAW HIM FIRST! Ha ha ha.

I don't think there will be S'mores at this retreat. I have to miss BOTH my church services on Sunday because of this retreat. Grrrrrrrr.

I’ve been wrestling with the issue of How Do I Blog About Act One all week (because not blogging about it is not an option.) Here are my choices.

1. Never tell my classmates I have this blog, and blog about whatever I want.

Hmmm. A little cowardly. Not exactly an honest way to live. A little two-faced. A little high schoolish.

2. Never tell my classmates I have this blog until the program is over, and blog about whatever I want.

Now we’re REALLY getting two-faced.

3. Tell my classmates I have this blog and limit my musings to the program only and what we’re learning, not my classmates.

Somewhat better. A judicious balance. Safe. Honest. Polite. But suppose they do something stupid? What’s this “they” bit? You could do something stupid, too. I have no problem blogging about my own stupidity, and I do it all the time. Suppose they piss me off? What in the world do you think they’re gonna do?

Here’s the thing. We all wanna be really really good at something in life, and while I’d like to think it’s writing for me, what I really excel at RIGHT NOW, and need no further training on, is Spinning Paranoid Fantasies. If I’ve come into physical contact with you ever in my life, I guarantee I’ve spun up something about you for why you haven’t done something I wanted you to do, or why you did something I didn’t want you to do. Why did they say that? Why didn’t they say that? Why didn’t they call? Why did they look that way at me? What did they mean when they said that? They hate me. THEY HATE ME.

There’s some famous quote that goes along the lines of, “If everyone knew how little time everyone else spends thinking of them, then” the rest of the quote, which I don’t remember, but I’m sure it’s along the line of the poles reversing, the ocean swallowing the sun, dogs and cats living together and challenging Supreme Court laws about adopting peacocks, la la la. And that quote is made for people like me. I am fully aware of it, AND I CAN’T STOP MYSELF.

So rather than looking into medication for this kind of thing, I think the absolute worst of my future classmates, and all the stupid things they will do that will upset me and I will want to blog about and won’t be able to, if I pick door #3.

See, it’s really hard for me to be positive. About anything. Always has been. I talk to God about it all the time, and I don’t feel like we’ve made progress. If you’re going to be a grump, at least be entertaining about it.

It’s a thing. I look at a situation full of potential like Act One, and all I can see is the fact that I will be assigned a roommate for four days, and what if she turns out to be annoying? What if she turns out to be really interesting and way cooler than you? Yeah but…what if she’s not?

It’s obviously going to be fine and a moot point by next Tuesday, but…we’re not there yet, are we?

4. Tell my classmates I have this blog, and blog about whatever I want, including them, if they do something that makes me think/laugh/mad/fear for the future of our nation.

Ah, the absolute drop dead honest approach. It could be an interesting experiment, to live life boldly and honestly. The idea being, that whatever I blog about, I would have talked to the person ahead of time and told them I was going to blog about it. It would force me out of my anti-social shell. It would not make you a lot of friends. People would not talk to you because they would think you’d post their conversation online. A-HA! That sounds GREAT! Not talking to people! WHOO HOO!

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Dear Act One Classmates Who I Will Be Meeting Later This Afternoon.

Hello. My name is Amy The Writer. I also answer to Amy The Grump. Eeyore is my Disney Spirit Animal. My favorite nightshirt has Oscar The Grouch on it.

I have already spun many paranoid fantasies about how you all are scary in a variety of ways: spiritually, creatively, personally, sartorially. This of course, will mean that you all are nothing but lovely people, full of God’s grace, light, beauty and truth.

That scares me also.

If you’re reading this, I must have told you all in some room on a Malibu retreat (and there better be air conditioning or else I’m breaking out my Forbidden Spaghetti Strap Tank Top) about this blog. You want to get to know me, read this blog. Pick an entry, any entry. You don’t have to read the whole thing, just as far as you want. You’ll get the idea pretty soon.

But most importantly, please act exactly the same as you normally would around anyone else who isn’t a self-proclaimed grump. Don’t be scared. You are most likely automatically right in any situation, because I’m Amy The Grump, and I lose a lot of arguments. I’m wrong about 80% of the time. Just ask God. He has a lot of fun using me as a prime example of What Not To Do. Thank Him that I’m around to be that obvious of an example, it takes the pressure off a LOT of people.

I vow to be as politely honest as possible around you, and I hope that you do the same for me. Politeness is key here. I know how to do it, I was raised in the South.

I hope that we get to be Great Friends. I hope you understand if I don’t talk as much as I type. And I hope you understand that I reserve the right to do a complete 180, and be the happiest Chatty Cathy you ever saw.

The Rules Of This Blog.

Everyone goes by an assumed name here, except for me (and Johnny Depp. Or anybody else on TV or movies.)

I usually post on Sundays and Fridays, except for the days that I don’t (and depending on our Act One workload, this could change too.)

I don’t comment on comments. Nothing personal.

I always ask questions. ALWAYS. This can piss people off. Ooopsie.

Welcome to the blog. Let the Act One era begin.

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Faithful Readers O The Blog, I will still be in Malibu on Sunday, so let’s give me some room and say my Sunday post will again be bumped to Monday (maybe Tuesday.) I think it’s too much to ask that this retreat has wireless. Unless it’s not. We’ll see.