And All I Wanted Was Mountain Dew

Don’t you hate it when board meetings run so late you can’t make your Monday deadline posting? I know I do, ho ho ho.

Last week, as I was walking to the gym (#1 of things I try to enjoy while unemployed – walking to my gym and taking classes at 9:45am in the morning, when I’d normally be at work already) I talked with God and said something like “Whatever happens today, please let my actions and reactions be pleasing in your sight.”

Is it just me, or do sometimes we (okay, me, but hoping for a “we” here) fall into the trap where we think if only we can put together the right sentences, we’ll somehow unlock the storehouse of God’s blessings – like a verbal Open Sesame. Like He’s been up there pacing, going, Did she pray for other people first? Did she pray for How To Be instead of Give Me Stuff? Did she say “Please let my actions and reactions be pleasing in your sight.” YES! FINALLY! Now I’ll bless her with a job, a future husband and a script sale! Yaaaaaaa-woooooo!

Later that day, I was in the grocery store, armed with the tools of the Unemployed – coupons and a strict grocery list (caffeine, milk, celery.) I was in a reasonable mood, as I’ve discovered 100.3’s “10 at 10” (#2 of things I try to enjoy while unemployed) and the theme today was songs from 1992, which was hilarious.

And so here I am in the soda aisle, trying to calculate which Mountain Dew is fiscally a better choice when you calculate coupons vs. ounces vs. carbon imprints (is a 2 liter bottle less damaging on the environment than a six pack.) when all of the sudden, an overweight woman dressed in dark layers, a hat, with a cane and her purse in her empty cart, blocks the way out of the aisle.

She asks me if I could spare some money.

This is unusual in the fact that people like her are not so brazen in their begging. They normally stay outside the store, I’m sure there’s a rule against it, you can’t harass people inside the store. If the security guard was walking by, I’m sure he’d tell her to move along. And yet, here she is harassing me.

Not harassing in, “Give me money or I’m not going to get out of your way.” But harassing in, “I’m going to stand here and keep talking to you and guilt you into this.”

She’s talking about how she’s staying at the shelter, and it’s so hard, and all she’s trying to do is buy some chicken and bread, and “God told me to ask you for money” and starts pulling tattered pages of a bible for, for, I don’t know what for.

And I’m furious that this is happening. It’s not like I can claim I don’t have any money, because obviously I do, I’m trying to buy my Mountain Dew. I’m furious that she’s targeted me. I always get targeted like this, because I’m a single woman. Homeless men will target me because I’m cute. Homeless women will target me because I’m a woman. Strange men will target me because I’m cute. Strange women will target me because I’m alone. You know she wouldn’t have picked me had I been walking the aisles with ANYONE, male or female.

My fingers are clenched around this basket. I feel like snarling, “God’s telling me to tell you you need to be going to social services to learn skills to get some kind of job as opposed to harassing people in grocery stores for money,” like the snotty privileged class of which I am a member would say. But even though I have a feral need to make this woman understand just how much she’s pissing me off, to make her feel awful for asking me for money, I don’t do it. I frown as I reach into the wallet and give her all the money I have, which is something like $12 in singles. “Are you sure you have enough to do your shopping?” She asks, as she money swiftly disappears into her pocket. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I snap back, wanting this conversation to be over already. “God bless you,” she says as she shoves on.

And the feral part of me wants to track her, to see if she’s going to harass anyone else, so I can swoop in and stop her, saying I gave her enough money. But I’m so angry I don’t, I just grab my items and try to get out of there as quick as I can.

And I’m pissed off at myself, that my reaction, which I had just prayed to God this morning about, wasn’t more Godlike. This may have been a test. She could’ve been one of those angels you hear about in sappy stories sold in Southern Christian Bookstores. I should have parted with the money gladly. I should have taken her to lunch, heard her whole life story, driven her down to some sort of social services place, taught her how to type, taken all her burdens upon myself to solve. Or at the very least parted with the money gladly.

But I’m not that kind of person. I’m an angry cranky bitch who’s pissed off that you’re using God to guilt me into giving you money. I almost halfway hope I run into someone ELSE who asks me for money, just so I can say, “Oh, I’m sorry, I already gave everything I had to some other homeless person. You’re just too late.” Because I have this anger ball in my stomach, and I must pass it on.

I did see the woman outside the store as I was leaving, munching on the chicken wings that she purchased with the money I gave her. So it’s not as though she went and bought booze with it, as many of us would have thought. She nods at me in acknowledgement and again says, “God bless you.” And all I can think of is Yeah, right.

I’m an angry cranky bitch, but I keep it inside, instead of taking it out on other people. But there’s a part of me that very much wants to take it out on other people, and that’s what’s so dismaying about being me.

Obviously, God still loves me if I’m a angry cranky bitch, because He’s God and He’s required to (and yeah, required is the word that comes to mind when I’m acting as bratty as I was with the homeless woman.) But I’m dismayed that there’s been no softening of my spirit. What’s up with THAT? I can’t imagine that God doesn’t want me to change that part of myself. I’ve asked him for a softer heart, a softer spirit, a more tender and compassionate, um, um, um nature?

And yet if He DID give me those things, it wouldn’t be me. I’m not sure my friends would recognize me with a softer heart, one who gaily befriends homeless women and works in a soup kitchen and tutors underprivileged kids in math or something.

But would it be a better me? And if it would, shouldn’t I be trying hard to change? Shouldn’t God be trying harder to help me change?

Unless I’m supposed to be exactly like this, forever cranky. Which doesn’t make sense either. Ugh.

A Foul Mouthed Prayer For Wella.

My good friends Stella and Wella are going through some really crappy things lately. Wella was first diagnosed with a case of Bell’s Palsy about two weeks ago, then the diagnosis got changed to Ramsey Hunt Syndrome, which is considerably worse.

To cheer them up, I wrote them the following email, addressed to God. I enclose it here, because, well, my head’s still spinning. It would be disingenuous to say that what Stella and Wella are dealing with is not occupying a major amount of my brain space. And since Stella and Wella aren’t their real names, I don’t feel I’m disclosing something they would prefer to keep private. They’ve already sent out a lot of emails calling for prayer, and they need all the prayer they can get. If any of you would like to take two seconds out to pray for people you don’t know, go for it. I sometimes wonder if maybe those prayers count more, as there’s no subconscious agendas attached to them.
_______________________________

Dear God...

Um, okay to be perfectly honest, God, I'm gritting my teeth here. Why hide it, right? It's not like You don't know these things. It's never been hard to be drop dead honest with You.

So through these gritted teeth, I say thanks. A sincere thank through gritted teeth can still be sincere, methinks.

Thank you that Wella does not have a brain tumor. Thank you that the drugs he needed to be taking were exactly the drugs he was taking. Thank you that they have health insurance. Thank you that they have doctors (although I'm still pissed about the misdiagnosis, but at least they got him on the drugs he needed to be on.) Thank you thank you thank you that he has the amazing Stella at his side.

But, um, God, here's the thing, HE STILL NEEDS FIXING! It's like when they lower the paralytic from the roof and Jesus looks up and says "Your sins are forgiven!" and I'm absolutely positive somebody in that house called back, "Great! How 'bout fixing his legs!?"

Ramsey Hunt Syndrome, God? Really? Seriously? I know the uselessness of asking "why" questions, because Your answer is always, "Because." But seriously, God, this sucks. This fucking fucking sucks, and yeah, that's me saying the F word for Wella, he said I could. This fucking fucking sucks, God, and I know You know this, but I still need to express myself or else I'm going to go kick the bed, choke my roommate, or yell at my director for not returning my emails (okay, I might still do that.)

Oh bllllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! I know what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to be the good little Christian who trusts in Your purpose and plan that just happens to involve great big heaping gobs of Scary News and Anxiety and Potential Future Physical Pain for some of my dearest friends. I'm supposed to pray every day, and ask all my small groups to pray, and email The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much in Alabama and get the church there to pray.

And I will absolutely do all of that, God, don't get me wrong. But, seriously, this fucking fucking sucks. I know absolutely that You're in control. I know absolutely that You've got a plan. But I will be DAMMED if I don't express my anger here to You. Don't ask me to be a Happy Chipper Christian about this one.

Because there was a point in my life where I thought that if I expressed the slightly bit of dismay at any bad news in life, I had somehow failed a God test, and that if ONLY I had kept a stiff upper lip and remained kind, gentle, and good in an Attracting Small Animals Who Would Clean My House In A Disney Movie kind of way, the bad news would magically dissipate, or better news would come leaping over the mountains and hills to sweep me away to a better life.

I know better now, God. I know that's a type of superstition that has no place in our relationship. And it's unrealistic.

Just as the walrus looking guy said, "I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees!" I'm Amy The Writer, and I'm speaking for all the Happy Chipper Christians (or not Happy Chipper, or not even Christian) in this situation who really wanna blow it out, but aren't quite as comfortable with the ways you can use the English language to comedic profane effect (I'm sure that's not what The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much had in mind for me to learn when she raised me, but oh well with that one.)

So on behalf of all of us, we're saying THIS FUCKING FUCKING SUCKS! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM!?

In Happy Chipper Christian terms (just so I can prove that I can do it), we're saying "What are You trying to teach us here, God?" We're saying, "What lessons are You, Wonderful You, trying to impart? Could there perhaps be a less painful option?"

Did you really need to have Stella and Wella draw THAT MUCH CLOSER to You? To rely on You MORE!? Because, y'know, given what You've put them through the past twelve months, I think there were already there. Just sayin'.

I think they're due for a windfall of good news, Lord. I really do. They're fucking OVERDUE.

(deep breath.)

Stella and Wella are much better people than I am, Lord. They're more Godly, more devout, and more spiritual, and much more knowledgeable about You than I am, which is why it pains me to see them go through this. Whatever Your plan is from here, it's pretty fucking nuts, God. Unless the plan was to demonstrate a modern day miracle of spectacular healing, in which case...cool beans! Go for it! Thy will be done!

I know I'm a foul mouthed brattykins, and You don't have to listen to one second more of this (and I wouldn't have blamed You if You had left the building at the first round of "this fucking fucking sucks.") I'm just so livid that Your plan is going this way, that I had to let You know.

And now, as I coast on the downside of emotion, I do please please please fucking PLEASE beg You to heal Wella completely and utterly. Erase the virus. Restore his face. Let his pain be manageable. Stop the ringing ears. Stop the drug withdrawals. Give him rest. Give him nice dreams, instead of hallucinogenic ones. Let Wella and Stella be strength and hope to each other. Let them be each other's biggest fans (well second biggest, because You're the first biggest fan of them, and if You are, why are You allowing this to happen...never mind, I'm shutting up now.)

Just please please please fix this quickly. For the better. (I feel I have to clarify that lest You think "Fix this quickly" somehow means "Make it worse." I know You don't. I'm just a spazz right now.)

thank You thank You thank You, in Jesus' name, Amen.

Amy The Writer

It's My Birthday!

Yes, today, March 16th. How fortuitous that it falls on my blogging day!

And sure, there's tons of stuff I could ask for - a well paying job doing something I love for people I like, the man of my dreams, a huge spec sale, or for Striped Tiger to find financing tout suite.

But you know, I ask for those things every day.

And then I was going to be all altruistic and crap, and ask for things for everyone else, as so many of my friends are out of work, dealing with health issues and health scares, stress, family issues and film festivals of their own.

But you know, I ask for those things every day too.

So maybe today, I say to God, "Lead on, Buddy. Where you want me to go is where I'll go. I'm trusting You." And hopefully that'll start a good habit that He'll approve of.

And true, maybe it's not God leading me to the spa today. But I have to use the gift certificate at SOME point, ha ha ha.

I shall close my eyes, and pretend I'm back here, at Trunk Bay. Maybe I already got my birthday present early by going on that cruise. Yeah, I probably did. :)

The Mighty Construction Truck

Behold the mighty construction truck:

When I used to have a job (heh), I would see this truck every day on my way in to work. (I think there’s more than one.) I’m not sure what it was transporting, possibly rocks, cement, small animals, but invariably I’d get stuck behind it on La Brea and Santa Monica Blvd.

You can’t really get around him. As you can see, he’s taking up both lanes, and woe to the driver trying to skinny on up his right side to make a right hand turn onto Santa Monica Blvd. It does not work, you are doomed, you are at the mercy of the Mighty Construction Truck, and you cannot move until he wants to.

It used to be annoying, and I used to take alternate routes to avoid the La Brea / Santa Monica intersection altogether. But as I became more beaten down by the events of the past few months, I just couldn’t care enough to get my brain into Alternate Route mode, and so would just sit behind Mighty Construction Truck. I stopped caring that I was behind him around the start of February, actually.

One morning not so long ago, another driver was caught behind Mighty Construction Truck. And he was FURIOUS. Honking his horn, angry gestures, the whole nine yards. But Mighty Construction Truck did not move. Mighty Construction Truck probably didn’t even see him, Angry Driver was so small, a buzzing gnat upon Mighty Construction Truck’s metal and mud flap haunches. Mighty Construction Truck does what he wants, a mechanical mammal swimming slowly through the seas of Los Angeles streets.

And in that moment, when Angry Driver was so pissed off, and Mighty Construction Truck’s red brake lights calmly blinked at Angry Driver, I had a breakthrough of sorts. I need to be more like Mighty Construction Truck. I need to be slow, methodical, I’m taking my time, I don’t care if I’m in your way, you’re not important enough to me that I stay in one lane to make this turn. I CAN’T make this turn from one lane, and I know that. You do not. I do not have the time to explain it to you. You simply have to trust me that there’s a very good reason that I am taking up both lanes right now. Chill out. Relax. It’s early still. You’ll get it later.

I appreciated Mighty Construction Truck that day in a way that I’ve never appreciated vehicular transport before. And while I’m working on the slowing down bit, the anxiety gnats still constantly gnaw on my brain you need a job, you need to sell a script, you need to get to the gym, you need to organize your desk drawer, you need to clean our your bathroom drawer, go read sixty six chapters of Isaiah, HEY! How about an anxiety dream where you’re still working at that job you hated! BOO YAH, there ya go! Wake up and start working already!

But I flash back to this seemingly idiotic picture of a Mighty Construction Truck. And take a breath.

One breath at a time.

Whiplash

Okay, here I am. Sorry about that. My taxes still aren’t done, but the first whack at them is.

So fair enough to say, the past month and a half have left me with a severe case of whiplash. Some of which I alluded to here on the blog, but didn’t come outright and say because my family reads this, and some things you should tell your parents over the phone.

Like if you’re losing your job.

And if you’ve received that information a week or so before you’re supposed to join the family on a week long cruise at the end of January, you don’t tell them, because the cruise is supposed to be a fun fun relaxing time, and My Mother The Phone Harpy has a habit of worrying endlessly about things, especially if you don’t have neat answers of Don’t Worry, Mom, I’m Doing This Next. I didn’t know what that would be, and that would just make her worry more when we’re supposed to be enjoying tequila and martini tastings and three dollar beers on Trunk Bay in St. John.

So I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell her, or my dad, The Great Stoic Wonder (he probably would’ve been able to handle it, but no fair making him keep a secret from his own wife.) I did tell sister Agatha, who told Mr. Agatha, and thank goodness nobody told niece Bug, because she can’t keep ANY secrets at age six.

And we all traipsed along on the boat as a hip hip happy family, which was great except for the anxiety dreams I had most every night, but at least I got to have them in my own stateroom, with a different towel animal every night (behold, Towel Monkey.)

This is why I was hoping that God would show up amid the waves and stuff. But it was amazing, I’d look at a beautiful beach, or a beautiful sunset, and my mind was a total blank. I couldn’t think about the future, or plans for the future. I couldn’t think up great dreams for my future, I couldn’t think up great new ideas for future scripts involving sea people who could skate on waves or anything (and that’s a little obvious right there.)

Some of you might say that a Blank Mind is exactly a gift from God, that He didn’t want me to do anything but appreciate the beauty of the moment in front of me. But my mind was SO blank, that I could barely do that. It truly was yeah. That’s a sunset. Great. Every time I couldn’t think, I took a picture instead, so at least I could document what I was looking at. Because my mind was SO blank, it could neither fret about the future, nor process the beauty of the present. But at least I have pictures.

So we did all have a great time on the cruise, and I returned back to the hell that is my life had become (even more than usual) in Los Angeles. It was a good three weeks of awkwardness back on the job: I’m firing you because I’m your new boss and I want my own people in your position, but I still need you to be here until the Better Than You replacement can show up. Roomie Heckle and Jekyll had all sorts of suggestions about how I should not so politely tell them to fuck off, but that kind of bitter isn’t in my work ethic, and plus I wanted to amass as many paychecks as possible, which is why, when they called me the day before I was supposed to leave and asked me to stay another week, I said okay. Because I am a doormat, no because I was making some serious bank at that job.

The job had me so beaten down mentally, that I could barely muster up emotion at the turn of events against me. The day I was told I was being let go, I cried for five minutes in the parking garage, and cried with a few wonderful friends who didn’t mind that I was calling the boss all sorts of horrible very Un-Christian names, but then I kinda plunged into this cloudy grey emotion-free zone from which I’m not so sure I’ve emerged from yet.

Because I’ve done this before. See? Getting The Bad News. Crying. Copious Amounts of Alcohol (last time was White Russians. Now I’ve moved to drinking tequila straight as my drink of choice. Thanks Disney Cruise!) Picking Up The Pieces. Moving On.

There’s nothing new to feel here, not even playing up the role of martyr that this is happening AGAIN, how can it be happening AGAIN. And telling myself that this is all for the best, that God is leading me somewhere else, somewhere better, that’s not sticking either, because what does that mean? In 2004, God allegedly led me from one job with a Crazy Boss to another job that folded in 2006. God allegedly led me from that job to this one, where I’ve been fired for not being better than me. Can God not lead me to a job that will pay all my bills and has great benefits, and is a job I love that I will never ever get fired from for the rest of my life!?

I write the all caps, I write the exclamation points, and it does all the exclaiming for me, because I’m just here, sapped of any kind of energy to get upset, get annoyed, shake a fist at the boss, the job, God, my life, whatever. Of course you’re not going to stay in a job forever. My dad did, but it’s a different time now. It doesn’t matter to get upset about it. Because getting upset doesn’t make a difference.

And, because God has a sense of humor, He arranged events so that the day after I left the job, I jumped on a plane to Film Festival C, where Pink Piggy was world premiering in Narrative Competition.

(I realize I have a few new readers, here are the rules of the blog: I post usually on Mondays except when I don’t, I don’t comment on comments, you can send me an email if you want to until I get shy again and turn it off, and with precious few exceptions, everyone goes by an Assumed Name here. That includes my friends, my family, my former jobs, my scripts, and the film festivals they get into.)

It’s my first film! It’s my first film festival! Look at all the exclamation points!!!! They do the excitement for me! Because I’m mentally battered and I can barely focus on what’s going on!!! What’s going on!!!???

Pink Piggy is what’s going on. Interviews about Pink Piggy are what’s going on. This isn’t real, is it? Someone is not shoving a microphone under my nose and asking me how I got the idea for Pink Piggy, are they?

Oh, they are.

This is fuckin’ hilarious. Because I got the idea for Pink Piggy when I was at rock bottom YET had plenty of energy to act out in very masochistic ways. (new people can go here and here for a recap) Now here I am, again at rock bottom for different reasons, and I don’t have any energy to act out in any way, masochistically or not. Do you all know I could’ve taken a waiter back to my room if I had wanted to? He was pretty enough in a generic way, he was young, and strong, and impressed that I was a screenwriter with a film in competition (the fact that he was impressed by a writer indicates he was dumb too, so I most definitely could’ve taken him where ever I wanted to go.)

But I just didn’t care. I’m looking for more than that, I’ve been in the land of Meaningless Sex before (Hi Mom! Hiiiii! Yes, your daughter is talking about inappropriate things again! Wheeeeeeee!), and while I still ache to be touched, to be held, to have someone stroke my damn hair and whisper how everything’s going to be fine just fine, I know that a college waiter is not gonna be the best person to get that from.

And I could go on and on about where the hell is THAT guy anyway, but what’s the point? It’s all things I’ve said before. On this blog before, in private conversations with God before. No answers are forthcoming. Or is it answers are still not forthcoming? Either or, I guess.

(By the way, I get no bonus points for not taking home the waiter. I feel just as blah as I would have if I had taken him home, just for different reasons. You would think if you’re able to withstand a temptation, you should get a reward or something, right? More than the film premiere, since that would’ve happened regardless if I woke up in bed with someone. But couldn’t I have gotten, I dunno, a check in the mail? Inspiration for a new script? An early Easter Basket filled with assorted goodies and Cadbury eggs?)

But what the hell am I bitchin’ for, right? Pink Piggy is about to premiere! Sit your ass down and experience the film with an audience of 200 – 300 people! Cause that’s new, isn’t it?

It is. I spent the entire film pinching my fingers and my palm, a nervous habit I don’t remember picking up, but there it is. My chief fear was would the audience stay with us throughout the film, because the first 30 to 40 minutes do zip by, and then it starts to sag in the middle. But the audience stayed with us. They laughed in places that they were supposed to laugh at, the film moves faster when you have an auditorium of people laughing at it.

And at the Q&A afterwards, as I’m standing up there with the director and the cast, and looking at an auditorium of people and thinking to myself how are you all here if I don’t know who any of you are, and therefore you’re not here to fulfill your duty as a Friend Of Amy, one of the questions asked is “How did you get the idea for the film.”

Sigh. The ideal situation is that this is only our first film festival, not our last. The ideal situation is that this is just one of a million Q&As and a million interviews that we will do and the ideal situation is that I will be asked this very question a million times.

And I will have to talk a million times about a time when I was younger, dumber, and full of emotion that I don’t have anymore.

I’ve got it down to an amusing anecdote length, not too long, not too short, and it gets laughs where its supposed to.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful. I’m thankful we’re here in an auditorium of people. I’m thankful there’s a Q&A that I get to participate in, I’m thankful that there are questions asked of me. I’m thankful we get another screening on Sunday, and the same things happen – people show up to watch the film and I don’t know who they are, the screening goes well, and they ask the same questions at the Q&A afterwards.

And I’m thankful for all of it. I just feel oddly detached. I’m unemployed, I should be destroyed! I should be manic, I should be masochistically brimming with all sorts of Bad Ideas That Will Be Great Scripts Later! I just made it through my first film festival! I should be happy, I should be ecstatic! I should be fulfilled!

And I still have a Blank Mind.

While the whole weekend was pretty surreal, this picture capped it off: at opening night, some guy in the audience took a picture of all our feet and posted it on his flicker stream. He could be a fetisher or not, though I seem to remember him posting a nice review of the film somewhere. So here are my tootsies in a pair of battered stilettos and a crappy pedicure that I did about two hours before the premiere. Nice. Next time I need to wear a skirt.

Soon soon

I know, I know, but it will be a big post, and I have to gear up for it. But my taxes come first. Must prep my taxes.

back later.

Currently experiencing technical difficulties...

Called life.

Electric word, life, it means forever, and that's a mighty long time, but I'm here to tell you...there's something else. The afterworld.

As I try to sort through the assorted wreckage and unpleasant weird stuff that currently makes up my world, please enjoy this picture of Lawrence C. Davenport during a writing session on the Disney boat, with Lilo and Stitch playing on the jumbotron in the background. That was a pretty awesome day.

Back later. Hopefully Friday. No promises.

Peekaboo, I don't see You

People go on cruises looking for different things to do, and there were certainly things on our cruise to do like martini tastings, tequila tastings, movies to see, food to eat, la la la. But I might have been the only person getting on the ship with a specific eye out to see if they would offer any kind of service on Sunday. Because I’m a freak like that.

Turns out they did, a non-denominational service at 9:00am on Sunday. Everyone passed on going with me except my Mother The Phone Harpy, Whom I Love Very Very Much, so off we toddle down to the lounge where normally they have jazz or piano or martinis. But this morning they have church.

We get there maybe two minutes before nine, and it’s reasonably well attended. They’re handing out Bibles (I’ve brought my purple one) and they’re playing a DVD with your typical praise songs on it, showing the lyrics so you can sing along over some generic inspirational scenes, like soaring mountaintops, oceans, rushing rivers, blooming roses, etc. Sometimes it shifts to a choir singing the song, in that cheesy infomercial way.

Currently, they’re singing Open The Eyes Of My Heart. I hate that song, I really do. I don’t like the melody, it’s annoyingly repetitive, and it’s like the McDonald’s of praise songs, you hear it every church you go into. Seriously, the songwriter must be making bank off that song. And the choir they’re showing singing that song is SO earnest, and SO heartfelt, man oh MAN are they FEELING THAT SONG. The eyes of their heart is opened, by golly by gosh.

But I remind myself that I’m not here to critique the service, or the speaker, a guy from Jamaica who pronounces “death” as “Det” and “asks” as “ax.” It’s not immediately clear what his regular position on the ship is, but he explains that he’s not an ordained preacher per se, but someone who feels the call upon his heart to talk about what God puts on his heart to talk about week after week.

I remind myself that I’m not here to snark at people, such as the squirmy five year old sitting in front of us who very loudly asks his Mom, “Is it over” five minutes into the service. The parents haven’t brought a book or anything to keep their child occupied, so the kid continues to squirm and be annoying all throughout the service.

I’m here to see if I can connect with God on a Disney cruise ship. Because that’s the strangest place one would ever find him, so of course I would, wouldn’t I?

The speaker reads the standard passage from Philippians, about how we must take hold of the race in front of us, and la la la. He then reads from Mark, Chapter 5 (I mishear him and turn to Matthew, where the chapter heading is Murder. Well, THIS is going to be an interesting sermon I think to myself, until Mom prompts me to turn to the right gospel book.)

He talks about the bleeding woman touching Jesus’ cloak, and how her faith made her well, which just so happens to be the exact same sermon I heard yesterday at church. That bleeding woman is making the rounds these days. And the speaker exhorts us that no matter what issues we’re facing, we can kneel before Jesus, and He will help us.

It’s a little Pie In The Sky for me. I kneel every damn day before Jesus. Seriously. I have a pillow on the floor for my knees and everything. I’m begging, I’m pleading, I’m at the proverbial end of my rope, the place where in every other conversion story, God comes down and does some pretty amazing shit. BOOM, someone sells a script. BOOM, someone gets an amazing job opportunity. BOOM someone meets a Starbucks barrista and they’re married six months later. As though they got just what they needed the first time they fell on their knees and begged Jesus to help them.

And I get it, to an extent. It’s a Disney cruise, people are on vacation, you’re not necessarily going to get a hard hitting sermon about the persistent widow and the judge (that one I’m still trying to wrap my brain around: nagging God will get you what you want?)

God did not show up in the piano bar with the speaker from Jamaica.

Later in the week, the Phone Harpy and myself went to Trunk Bay on St. John (which we did all by ourselves, as opposed to a ship excursion, meaning I navigated us both from cab to ferry to cab to beach. I am an awesome internet researcher, I am.)

The scenery was jawdropping, even with the storm clouds that peeped up from time to time (the few drops that fell actually took away the heat, which I found refreshing.) I had neglected to take a book, or a notebook, or an Ipod. So it was really just me and the blue ocean, the blue sky, the Phone Harpy and the three dollar cans of beer. And I thought, well, surely, God will show up NOW, won’t he? To me, un-encumbered by technology or distractions, or anything. It’s not like we don’t have stuff to discuss. Please? Pretty please? How about now please?

And yet, nothing. Not even when I deliberately empty my head and wade out into the ocean, and stand in the water, looking at the dazzling shades of blue and just simply think Please. Please talk to me.

God did not show up in the blue blue water at Trunk Bay on St. John.

Oh, I appreciated the surroundings enough. I appreciated the three-dollar beers enough. And I appreciated the circumstances that led me to be able to take a seven day cruise with the fam in a stateroom all to myself with a balcony enough.

I was just super hoping for a breakthrough of sorts. I need one desperately.

Some people would say I’m trying too hard. I should stop looking for God, and THEN he’ll show up. Like a guy.

I dunno. I give up at this point, really. Again. I’ve given up before, then returned to my Falling On My Knees ways. An endless cycle of I’m Walking Away, No I’m Back, I’m Back. I’m Walking Away, No I’m Back, I’m Back. Each time I walked away was a lack of response on God’s part. Each time I came back was also a lack of response on God’s part. Something has got to change here, but I don’t know what it is.

I once cried in Counselor Gladys’ office (once I cried? I cried a lot in that office), begging her to tell me, “God isn’t trying to make me an example is He? That somehow my purpose in life is to tell the world how He never talked to me and I still went through life as a somewhat decent Christian to prove that yes, you too can be a good person without ever hearing from Him?”

Counselor Gladys said no, of course not. But sometimes, like now, I wonder.

Ending on an upnote – here’s my dad on a bike. Pretty good picture of him, I think. No, he’s not wearing Clementine, that’s his own hat.

I'm Back, What Time Is It?

Which coast am I on? Why is the ground still swaying when I'm not on the boat anymore?

There's tons of crap to sort, and tons of crap yet to face, but I did want to toss up a few quick pictures:

I had two constant companions on the cruise and one of them was my straw hat that sister Agatha had bought for me. I named her Clementine.

My second constant companion was a clock. At home, I use my cell as my clock, but I didn't have the cell turned on the entire trip (nor did I use internet, surprisingly not as hard as I thought.) I bought this one at Target, and the whole family ended up consulting him at one point or another. He's LCD, or Lawrence C. Davenport.

The backdrop is Trunk Bay on the island of St. John. One of the most beautiful beaches I've ever been on, and I definitely want to go back to spend much more time there than the three hours we did. Plus beers are only three bucks there.

More later.

It's Just A Storm, It Could Be Worse. It Could Be Quail.

This week has been really stressful to myself and about ten thousand of my friends. There’s job stress, broken hearts, broken people, lost people, lonely people. Seriously, I’ve never been through a week where this much bad news happened to so many people I know. I’m praying for them all, and I know they’re keeping me in their thoughts too.

My personal anxiety (I’m fine, Mom, don’t panic) manifested itself in the form of a very vivid dream Thursday into Friday evening, where I had escaped some house up in the hills, some unknown people were trying to break in, I got out, jumped into a car, and hit Mulholland.

Except I had hit the road with the very clear idea that F*** it, I’m outta here. So I was recklessly driving 100 miles an hour as the road twisted and turned, just waiting for the car to screech out of control and over the side of the hill. Turning this way, turning that way, c’mon, c’mon screech already.

And lo and behold the car and I went over the hill. And all I thought as I was on the way down to my doom was finally. Finally, it’s over.

(Mom, I promise you, I’m fine, I do not want endless nagging conversations about “You’re okay, aren’t you?” Yes, I’m fine. Do NOT ask me. You can be really annoying that way. I promise I love you, but just don’t, mmmkay?)

In my second trip through Reading The Bible Straight Through, I’m now up to the book of Numbers, and good ole’ God Of The Old Testament, who can be rather spiteful and cruel, especially if you happen to be a whiny Israelite who wants something to eat other than manna.

The Israelites were not seeing the miracle of the manna, and how God had delivered them through some pretty spectacular pyrotechnics to get them out of Egypt, and whined to Moses that eating manna 24/7 was a little much. And this is how good ole’ God Of The Old Testament responds:

Numbers 11 verses 18 – 20 – “Tell the people: “Consecrate yourselves in preparation for tomorrow, when you will eat meat. The Lord heard you when you wailed, “If only we had meat to eat! We were better off in Egypt!” Now the Lord will give you meat, and you will eat it. You will not eat it for just one day, or two days, or five, ten or twenty days, but for a whole month – until it comes out of your nostrils and you loathe it – because you have rejected the Lord, who is among you, and have wailed before him, saying, “Why did we ever leave Egypt?”

So they get a bunch of quail. But good ole’ God Of The Old Testament isn’t done, before they can eat the quail, he strikes the whiners with a plague, and kills them.

Needless to say, this isn’t necessarily a comforting passage to read when I’m approaching God with my troubles, which look a lot like troubles I’ve had in the past. I know I’m whiny. Uh-oh.

Yet today in church, Pastor Bernard was going over the miracle of Jesus getting in the boat and calming the storm. Which hit so close to home it was laughable. (Mom, I swear to God, don’t even THINK about asking me.)

But the difference is, even though the disciples were whiny and scared and frightened, even though the disciples had seen some pretty spectacular pyrotechnics in the forms of miracles that Jesus had done up until now, Jesus does NOT throw them all overboard for their whininess, for their doubt and despair. Instead, he gives them what they want (after rebuking them, of course. But it doesn’t involve plagues.)

My train of thought this week was does a weak pulse of faith still count as much as a strong convicted faith? I know that I will survive these stormy circumstances. I have before, and I will again. But rather than a strong YES I CAN drumbeat, it’s more of an exhausted well, yeah, because time only goes forward, and God’s helped me in the past, so obviously I’m not gonna die here. A weak pulse of faith, rather than a triumphant shout.

And I was concerned that because my weak pulse didn’t have a strong conviction, that somehow God wouldn’t honor it, or listen to it, or He’d wait to help me until I could muster up a mighty YOP, like a Who in Whoville.

It bugged me so much that I asked Pastor Bernard about it before the service today. And Pastor Bernard said, um, yeah, your exhausted faith counts, because the apostles had pretty weak pulses of faith too, and Jesus still stopped the storm for them.

So I know I’ll get through this, just like my friends will too. Not just because time goes forward, and people don’t die even though they may find it hard to get out of bed for awhile, but because God doesn’t forget us, and has moved past the Old Testament stuff of force feeding his chosen people quail and then killing them.

And even though I don’t have a Bright Shiny Happy Face o’ Faith, my faith is still uniquely me. And it still counts. Thank God.

I’ll be back in two weeks, as I’m leaving for a vacation with the family (which is why Mom gets all the warnings above, because I’m not spending a seven day cruise with her worrywart questions.) Send Happy Thoughts that there will be no literal storms that we encounter, because I get my own stateroom with a balcony and I have every intention of enjoying myself, and literal storms are just not allowed.

I Wouldn't Give Him An Award For It, But Still...

I finished my first trip all the way through the Bible last year, and decided I would re-read the whole thing all over again, because, I dunno, maybe there was something I missed on the first go around? Heh heh.

I think Reading Your Bible is more of a hobby than a goal to check off. My Dad, the Great Stoic Wonder, plays golf every day, weather permitting, and it’s the same course, but he does it anyway, because he likes it, it’s a hobby, and maybe he gets some sort of zen thing out of it. So if he can do it with golf, I can do it with the Bible. No big deal.

So everybody knows the story about Adam and Eve and the serpent (not snake, a serpent. I prefer to imagine a giant gila monster, and I was gonna post a picture, but those things really creep me out.)

When God catches them after eating from the Tree of The Knowledge Of Good And Evil and quizzes them, everyone plays the blame game. Adam blames Eve. Eve blames the serpent.

But the serpent doesn’t do any buck passing. He certainly could have, it’s not like the serpent doesn’t know how to lie or distort the truth. The serpent easily could’ve booted it back to Adam, saying “Adam knew better, but went along with it anyway, ‘cause he’s a dumbass, or depending on the church you’re attending, believed Eve and that’s why everything is always a woman’s fault.”

Though the Bible doesn’t record the serpent as saying anything else in this story, by not passing the buck, the serpent is essentially saying, ”Oh yeah, it was me. Check me, I duped Eve. Boo-yah on you!”

Whenever you catch the serpent, the devil, the enemy, whatever you wanna call him, whenever you catch him in a lie, he’s pretty honest about it. Yeah, I did it. Yeah, I lied to you. He doesn’t really pass the buck, does he? He’ll lie ten thousand different ways to get you to do something bad, but he’ll always own up to it after you’ve done it. He’ll never own up to it if you DON’T do it, FYI. If you manage to resist the temptation no, don’t sleep with this guy, no don’t say that awful thing you’re thinking, no don’t eat that bag of leftover Christmas M&Ms. The serpent/devil/enemy will never congratulate you for withstanding it. He’ll just kinda slink off going something along the lines of your loss, dumbass.

It’s almost like I admire him that way. How many people would actually admit they lied to you, right? You have to gather a steamer trunk of evidence to confront someone, and even then the most you’re gonna get is a shrug, a half assed “sorry” and damaged lines of trust.

But the serpent/devil/enemy is honest with you about it. Yeah, I lied to you. Because I want you to feel awful about yourself. Because that’s what I’m all about – doing my best to destroy you. How’s that going, by the way?

It’s a weird honesty, but it is honesty. Hmmmmmm.

My Mom Would Not Survive A Zombie Apocalypse.

So this nasty Paranoid Scenario popped up in my head a good six months ago or so. It started when I was re-watching 28 Weeks Later with a buddy. I hope I’m not ruining anything by telling you, Gentle Reader, that there are zombies in this movie. Jackrabbit vicious, snarling, angry, I-must-destroy-you-because-I’m-propelled-by-a-rage-virus zombies (truly the only kinds worth writing zombie stories about.)

In the opening kill-most-of-em sequence, a little band of survivors are hiding out in a farmhouse. The zombies descend, everyone panics, and some of the humans head to the barn, where they can climb up a ladder to a loft in the hopes of evading the zombies.

Except two of the survivors are a kindly senior citizen couple, and they can’t run as fast, can’t get up the ladder as fast, one of them gets halfway up, turns to the other one to try and pull them up, and the zombies take them both down in a very violent, ugly way.

I remember burying my head in my buddy’s shoulder, ‘It’s not nice to kill senior citizens in a zombie movie,” I said. And it’s not. Seriously, it’s uncool. If you’re doing a zombie movie, create soon to be victims that have a fighting chance, and go down swinging, or panicking, but at least let them be able to run a bit. Don’t make them be senior citizens, they’re sitting ducks. It’s the same as if you had the zombie horde attack a kindergarten class. That’s not nice, either, is it? So why is it okay to rip the guts out of the kindly senior citizen couple? Grrrrrrrr.

My buddy didn’t comment (nor did he notice my distress, hmph) and I couldn’t shake that image out of my heads for weeks, and now months. The Paranoid Bitch in my head, who’s been having quite a lovely time shooting a BB gun at my career plans, gunned the throttle, kicked out the jams, and trumped up a steady stream of gosh, you know, when the zombie apocalypse hits for real, your parents wouldn’t stand a fighting chance.

I think I have a reasonably good chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse. For one thing, I have an emergency disaster backpack in my closet. It’s actually a leftover Christmas present (who sends THAT for Christmas!?) that was sent to my boss, and he didn’t want it, so he gave it to me. He will therefore not survive the zombie apocalypse, and I will think of him fondly as I dive and thread my way through the vicious mob.

The emergency backpack has all sorts of things like a battery powered radio, a flashlight, a tiny cooking stove, meal rations, pouched water, first aid kit, capsules you break into filthy water to make it clean, la la laaaaa. So I’m set and will be on my way to either the North or South pole, as everyone knows that’s where you go if a zombie apocalypse hits, because zombies will freeze in place, and you will be snug as a bug in a rug once you find the underground military bunker.

But what about your parents? What about my Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much? What About My Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder? I have my leftover Christmas present emergency backpack. What do they have? Each other? THAT’S not gonna help.

The Paranoid Bitch in my head has been having a GREAT time puffing up all sorts of awful scenarios. Even if my parents barricaded themselves inside the house, they wouldn’t be able to last for long (My mom can’t really cook, and she definitely needs electricity to do it.) They couldn’t climb out onto the roof fast enough. They would probably believe the military convoy that promises to get them to safety, when everyone knows the military is one of the most dangerous places during a zombie apocalypse, it only takes one zombie to get in there and then you’ve got zombies AND weapons, and that’s definitely not good (that’s a later sequence in 28 Weeks Later, FYI)

And if my parents DID manage to barricade themselves long enough to survive the first zombie wave, and if my Dad did refuse to go along with the military convoy, then if any survivor groups came along (which wouldn’t be likely, since my parents live on a dead end road), and if my parents were desperate enough to say, “Please please take us with you,” the survivor group would most likely say “Um, nope, you’re too old, you’ll slow us down. Didn’t you see the first ten minutes of 28 Weeks Later?”

And all of this will go down while I’m miles away and unable to get to them to help them with my leftover Christmas present emergency backpack.

As I’ve been sharing my fears with assorted friends, the responses have been amusing, “Oh, you’re worried about them not being Saved?” “No, I’m worried about the zombie apocalypse (and they’re Saved, as far as I know).” “Is it the economy? Are you worried about the economy?” “No, I’m worried about the zombie apocalypse.”

Finally, one acquaintance looked at me on Christmas Eve and said, “Wow, you must really love your parents if you’re this concerned about them.”

And though it hadn’t occurred to me until then, I think she’s right. I DO really love my parents, if I’m this concerned about trying to think of a scenario where they survive a zombie apocalypse in style.

My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much went to New York City this past weekend. By herself. She was meeting a group up there, they were going to see a friend’s daughter sing at the Met. The group was already there before Mom got there, and Mom would be traveling back before they left. So she had someone to meet up with, it’s the traveling part she had to do on her own.

And for some reason, THAT scenario terrified me as well. I had visions of some gypsy cab shanghaiing my mom out to Brooklyn and leaving her there. I had visions of unscrupulous Super Shuttle Cab drivers overcharging her. I had visions of random annoyed passengers ignoring her if she needed to ask for directions about where to meet Super Shuttle, and she’d be wandering around the terminal like a lost four year old. I asked my prayer groups to pray for traveling mercies for her. (My prayer groups were flabbergasted that I was actually asking for prayer about something, but as I pointed out, it wasn’t for me, it was for my mom.)

It’s now Monday, and I think she’s back safely, or I would’ve gotten The Call by now. And as I sit here and examine why in the world is my head stuck on this, why CAN’T I shake visions of my parents being eaten by zombies, WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH ME, I realize that it boils down to trust.

I have huge trust issues. Perhaps this is obvious? Counselor Gladys used to try all the time to lead me down the therapy road where Everything That’s Wrong With You Is Because Of Something Your Parents Did To You, which I outright refused to believe. My parents did the best they could with me. I’ve actually suffered much bigger Trust Wounds from living here in Los Angeles than anything my parents could’ve done. Cruel bosses, cruel boys, cruel I Thought You Were My Friend not-friends. Los Angeles just sucks when it comes down to Trust, in so many ways. Maybe the Wounds are bigger and deeper when you’re on the path to following your dream, dunno.

Why can’t I trust God to take care of my parents in a zombie apocalypse? Because I don’t trust God? Because I don’t trust my parents? (Mom has a hard time on the internet, for example.)

Because I think it’s a little dumb to pray “Please please take care of my parents in a zombie apocalypse.” I’ve been praying that God work with me on my trust issues, but if these scenarios are still around, then it’s like, um, where’s the PROGRESS, GOD?

God, isn’t it obvious that I need help? Ya wanna help me? Like, anytime soon?

I Got Me Some Plans, ‘Cause I Wanna Make God Laugh

I had a very enjoyable New Year’s Eve, filled with a buttload of champagne, a smokey kitchen, good friends, a firepit, me being drop dead honest when I voiced one of my greatest fears that I can’t do a thing about is that my parents would not survive a zombie apocalypse, and I wouldn’t be able to get to Alabama in time to save them, and they would die a horrible painful death. (Seriously. That paranoid scenario has been bugging me for WEEKS. There’s all sorts of mental shit running in between those lines. Maybe a blog entry for later.) There was also Rock Band. A TON of Rock Band. I mostly drummed, because I dig drumming (my hands cramp up on guitar.) I sang once, Paramore’s “That’s What You Get.” Which was actually my second attempt, as my first was at Small Group earlier in the week. I think I did better the second time around. When you hear a chorus of “whoooooooooo Amy!” in the background, they’re either telling you you’re good, or they’re appreciative of the booty shaking you’re doing.

For as much as I love the Santa Monica Pier and watching sunsets there, I rarely get down there. Even though I know what roads to take. Even though I know where you park for free. I love it down there, but it’s also such a semi dramatic background that I guess I feel like I can’t go down there unless I have some serious thinking to do.

And since it’s a new year, I felt like it was high time to start another ritual, because the OCD people LURVE their rituals, and certainly there’s plenty of deep thoughts I can think of, so off I went on Sunday.

I took my little dream book, which is from the Hollywood Tower Hotel, better known as the Tower Of Terror, my camera, my three layers of coats (it’s really cold these days) and made my way to the restaurant near the end, and ordered some margaritas and proceeded to think really deep thoughts, like What’s My Plan For This Year.

I love the calendar year turning over. It’s very visceral for me, I’m able to look at things without the stupid cloudy shit that was in the way mere days ago. I’m able to see how dumb I’ve been in certain areas, and how I can stop being dumb in those areas again.

And though I went down there with every intention of making a plan as to How I Can Get Where I Want To Go Career Wise, I found myself first scribbling other things in the Tower Of Terror Dream Book like How Can I Connect And Rely On God More, and How Can I Be Genuinely Happy For Other People Instead Of Finding Them Highly Annoying?

The list is highly private because I don’t need to be in a conversation with any of you and have you thinking She seems so genuine! Is this on her list? Is she curling her fist into a ball in her pocket with the strain of trying to be happy for me!?

But I will say that I am throwing myself whole hog into the whole rededicating myself to trying to learn who God is, because I wanna know Him, not know what He can do for me. I still harbor faint doubts about this process, because I can’t shake the scenario of me sobbing, screaming Help me! Help me! Help me! And God’s response is Love me! Love me! Your pain is not important to me so much as I want you to GET TO KNOW ME AND HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU! To which I say, If you love me, you’d HELP ME! And His comeback is If you love me, you’ll go read the book of Isaiah again and again and again and love all 66 chapters of it!

Yeah, it’s probably not gonna come so easy. But I’m gonna try anyway.

And yes, I did also sketch out some career goals, including how would I reach them if my hands got mangled and/or amputated in a disastrous cooking accident (voice recognition software, learning to type with toes, designing oversized keyboard for writing like the keyboard in Big for piano playing so I can hop and skip and lose weight while writing.)

And yes, I did watch the sunset, trying desperately to connect with God Show me your beauty. Show me connection. Let me feel your presence.

But all I felt was mighty damn cold, because the wind chill was killing me. Next year, I’m bringing four layers, scarf, hat and gloves. The works.

Amy’s Advent Commentary #4 – Simeon.

Hey everybody! Happy few days after Christmas!

My church actually didn’t have services on Christmas Eve, leaving me to join up with Tricia and Iain to attend a service in a shall not be named area in the Valley.

The service was less than inspiring in so many ways. It suffers from the malaise plaguing most churches these days, I imagine. Here’s the scripture, here’s the awful drama sketch about the scripture, here’s the carol about the scripture. Moving on to the next section. It was rote, it was standard (when it wasn’t awful, courtesy of the drama sketches. Like, even a children’s pageant of the Christmas story would’ve been fun. This was just badly written modern day vignettes performed by adults. Like, two guys are talking about how one of them just lost their job. Then he gets a call. He got a job! He’s gonna go tell everyone! Just like the shepherds told everyone when the angels told them about the Christ! Yeah, that bad.) It was killing time on what’s supposed to be a night of celebration.

But my church did have services yesterday, though it was 45 degrees in the church (they don’t have the money for central heat or air in such a big space), and sparsely attended.

But the text was on Simeon, never mind the fact that December 25th is over. Once again, this is not new for me, Simeon was one of the monologues I wrote for my Christmas collection last year. I should be giving props that they’re even mentioning Simeon, but I would’ve given them more props had they mentioned Anna the prophetess, who follows Simeon in the second chapter of Luke, and does essentially the same thing – declares that Jesus is the Christ. But nobody mentions Anna in the Christmas story, do they. Nope nope nope.

For those of us who stop reading the Christmas story once Jesus has been born, Simeon’s story is found in Luke 2: 21-35. Basically, Simeon’s been told by the Holy Spirit that he’s not gonna die until he sees the Christ. “Moved by the Spirit” he goes to the temple just as Mary and Joseph are presenting Jesus to the Lord (I THOUGHT that was code for circumcision. It's not, that happens at 8 days old. At 40days old, he's presented and dedicated. "Here's my boy! He's all yours!") He takes baby Jesus in his arms and praises God for being faithful, this is the Christ, now “dismiss your servant in peace.” And then tells Mary to essentially buckle up, your kid’s gonna cause waves, and it’s gonna hurt.

I actually dug Simeon more than I thought I would. I wrote him as a cranky person (maybe THAT’S why I related) who was old, exhausted by life and tired of people continually coming up to him, asking if they’re the Christ, is this great warrior the Christ, is this King the Christ, and Simeon has to say no, no, no.

Because you have to figure that people knew Simeon wouldn’t die until he saw the Christ. Luke knew it. Mary and Joseph marveled at it, instead of dismissing it as the rant of a crazy temple dweller. The word had gotten out about Simeon.

The people of Israel were expecting a king or a warrior to deliver them, not a baby. So who’s to say they weren’t continually shuffling people before Simeon to see if their guy was possibly the Christ?

So in the monologue, Simeon is talking about how tired he is, how cranky is he that the Holy Spirit gave him this revelation, but it’s actually a pain in the ass, and it’s been HOW long now and nothing and why did you do this to me Holy Spirit, this really sucks. Yes I believe in you, but this sucks.

And I’m tired too. It’s the end of the year, that’s always exhausting. This year has been so full of ups and downs, and if I’m honest, the ups have probably outnumbered the downs, and I’m not used to that equation, so I’m wasting energy waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’m very close to finishing the next draft of Striped Tiger. I spent a lot of the Christmas holiday working on it. I was up at the housesitting house, with Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog. They both had just come back from the beauty parlor, and looked very festive in their holiday handkerchiefs. It wasn’t until the second day that I noticed Ginger Puppy’s was Hanukah themed, which cracked me up. This explains why occasionally Basil Diva Dog beats up on her. KIDDING.


But yes, I’m tired of writing, my eyes itch, I think there’s a tumor growing on the right side of my brain, there’s a twitch under my left eye AND another one running under the left side of my butt. I’m not sick, whereas a lot of people left in Los Angeles appear to be under the weather, but the only thing I wanna do is sleep. I don’t even wanna watch movies, or read a book, because those both involve vision. I just wanna sleep, and I can’t because this is the only time of year where I have massive amounts of time TO write, and oh by the way, I’m not sleepy. I’ve discovered a new realm where I’m exhausted and not sleepy. Yay!

God has blessed me mightily with a faboo housesitting house, two lovable dogs (when a certain Diva isn’t trying to kill the other one) a recipe for shrimp scampi and the right combination of how to cook filets on the outdoor grill, and I’m grumpy.

God has blessed me mightily with a full time job with benefits, a film in the can that just got accepted into its first festival, a great start to a play that will most likely be produced next year, and I’m exhausted.

I’m such an ungrateful bitch. I’m not like Simeon, righteous and devout. I’m semi-devout, but not righteous, not really. It’s a wonder God doesn’t throw in the towel on me already.

And yet He doesn’t. And sometimes, that makes it worse, because I can’t handle the fact that He loves me, and continues to do so regardless of what I do.

I’m not depressed, people, I’m exhausted. I’m working on it. And I wonder, as I’m sure Simeon must have, when the Holy Spirit’s gonna show up and save the day. Simeon had to wait until nearly the end of his life. I’ll be so pissed if that’s the case here.

I’m hanging on, I am. With a twitching butt.

Amy’s Advent Commentary #3 – The Shepherds.

Well, there’s no way around this one. They talk about shepherds, and so did I in my Shepherd monologue. I named him Frank. Frank the Shepherd, and his buddies were Harry, Larry and Stewie. In Amyland, the shepherds are telling ghost stories to scare each other when the Angel of The Lord appears (Gabriel making a cameo appearance with his bad jokes again.) so they’re doubly freaked out.

I don’t know, this one’s pretty straightforward. An angel appears to you and tells you that something’s happened, yeah, you’re pretty much gonna drop everything and go check it out.

I’m trying to think of a modern day equivalent. Like, if an Angel Of The Lord showed up and said, um, um, there’s a golden burning bush on top of Runyon Canyon, go check it out because it’s a sign about something I’m gonna do, yeah, I’d probably say I’m sick at work and go check it out.

There’s no doubt about what it is, is the thing. The Angel appears, there is no shadow of a doubt that it’s an Angel of The Lord. But He doesn’t work in those obvious ways these days, does He.

Do you suppose when those Shepherds grew up to be like, 80, their kids would suffer silently at the kitchen table as good ole Grandpa told the story AGAIN of the night the Angel Of The Lord told them about a Savior being born in the town of Bethlehem? Yeah, yeah, Grandpa, we’ve heard this one already.

Well. SOMEBODY’S a Ms. Crankypants today, isn’t she.

I’m not really the type of person who gets into Joy so much, so celebrating Christmas is hard for me.

And of course some well meaning twits would say that’s your whole problem right there, Amy. You need to learn to experience Joy. Then you’ll understand God soooooooo much more. Everything will make soooooooo much more sense.

How, exactly, does one experience Joy? I’m serious. Anyone wanna give me some ideas in the comments?

Amy's Advent Commentary #2 – Mary And The Angel

Everyone loves them some Mary during Advent, don’t they. Ooooh, she’s an unmarried pregnant teenage chick who submitted herself to the will of God! How can we possibly relate!? Heh.

And just like last week, where everyone focuses on Zechariah so I focus on Elizabeth, this time around when everyone focuses on Mary, I focused on Gabriel’s part in the Christmas story for my Christmas monologue collection. Because honestly, enough is enough about Mary. No disrespect intended, but there’s been a million sermons, stories, and painfully earnest shorts and feature films about Mary. How many people stop to think about what it must’ve been like for Gabriel, delivering the message to Mary, huh?

Nobody thinks about things like that. Which is why I do.

I talked about the inspiration for Gabriel’s monologue here (so I guess I’ve written enough in the blog if I’m now officially quoting myself.) The monologue went over amazingly well in the Christmas Monologue show that my theater company did at the end of 2006, and convinced me that I should go on to do a series of monologues about the Christmas story from other peoples’ perspective.

But Gabriel was my favorite. (Second runner up was Eugene, the donkey that Mary sat on when they went to Bethlehem.) It was one of those nifty confluence of events where the right actress and the right director took the piece to a whole new brilliant level that I couldn’t have done on my own.

Basically, I imagined Gabriel as secretly wanting to be a comedian, but doesn’t understand that his jokes are really bad. (Despite the fact that Gabriel is thought of as a boy angel, I wrote it specifically for my actress, who did a whiz bang job of it anyway. I like to think of angels as being gender neutral, but whatever…)

So when Gabriel comes down to break the news to Mary that she’s gonna be pregnant with God’s kid without having sex, he opens with a joke:

Hiya Mary! Wanna hear a joke!? Okay, okay, check it out, God says "Whew! I just created a 24 hour period of alternating light and darkness on Earth." So I say, "What’re you gonna do now?" And God says "I'm tired, let's just call it a day." HA! HA! HA HA!

Whoa, whoa, come back! I’m not gonna hurt ya!

Needless to say, Mary does not take this visitation well at all. And Gabriel is starting to panic, so he calls a sidebar with God. The way I wrote it, Gabriel stands off to the side, and stares up at the heavens. But my director gave Gabriel a cell phone to call God, which was much funnier.

Um, hello? God? Yeah, um, it’s not going so well. I dunno, I opened with a joke just like You said. No, I didn’t use that one, I thought...look, God, she’s really upset, You wanna take over? Please? People listen to You, ‘cause you’re, you know, YOU. I’m just an angel who...tells bad jokes. Okay, okay, I’m going.

(Gabriel comes back to Mary.)

Hey Mary? Why did Noah have to discipline the chickens on the Ark? Because they were using FOWL language! FOWL! Get it? HA HA HA HA!

It’s oddly comforting for me to imagine that angels quarrel with God like kids who want more allowance. I’m sure it’s not true. But it’s funny to think of them that way.

So Gabriel goes on with trying to explain to Mary that her son is actually going to grow up and be a really cool rebel dude who heals the sick, stands up to authority, and when he’s crucified in the Temple, the curtain’s gonna be torn in two, symbolizing that his sacrifice is enough to bring people into God’s presence, and they won’t need priests and la la la.

Mary has stopped listening at the phrase “Crucified in the Temple” and is freaking out again, prompting another cell phone sidebar with God.

God! God it’s NOT GOING WELL! Forget the chicken joke! Huh? Yeah, I told her about the crucifixion! Why not!? What’s the big deal, it’s not like He stays dead!

That got the biggest laugh of the whole piece, every single night. It may be one of my finest one liners ever.

In the sermon on Sunday, they focused on the obedience of Mary when Gabriel tells her the news. “I am the Lord’s servant, Mary answered, May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 1, vs. 38)

You know what? I don’t think Mary was that calm about it at all. No. I refuse to believe that an angel could beam itself into her room, and she’s all Groovykins Cool Hiya, Gabriel and all.

I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m not saying that Mary didn’t eventually say “I am the Lord’s servant, may it be to me as you have said.” I’m saying that it’s much more realistic to believe that the authors of the Gospel, whether it’s Luke, or the many scribes who came after him, did a judicious edit to concentrate on Mary’s good side, and eliminate the part where she screamed, threw things at the angel, and climbed the walls trying to get out, before finally giving up on the idea of escaping and listened to the angel, agreed to the plan, and became a bright shining example to the rest of us modern day dumbasses. Be like Mary. Be humble. Be obedient. Submit yourselves to the will of God without a single peep of dismay.

(I also think there was a moment or two when Joseph was in jail for seventeen years where he harbored lustful thoughts after a servant girl or something. History is written by the winners who want you to believe your heroes don’t struggle at all, and why they think THAT would be helpful for us as potential role models is beyond me. My heroes don’t struggle with doubt. The Bible says so. NOT.)

Gabriel’s monologue wrapped up with him saying this to Mary:

I know you’re confused, and scared and none of this makes sense right now, but it’s just...it’s gonna be okay. Trust me. Nothing is impossible with God. There’s gonna be pain, and tears, and laughter, and your heart is going to break a thousand times, because things are going to be so awful and so beautiful all at once. But ultimately, everything is going to be so much better than you ever imagined.

Everything is going to be wonderful.

I still have hope in that. I really do.

Amy's Advent Commentary #1 - Zechariah

I always wondered when I was going to hit the point where I’d have studied the Bible enough that I’d officially know more about the Biblical history behind the text being preached upon than say, the average person sitting next to me in church (who, if I’m not mistaken was Mr. Rocker from the Communion entry earlier this year. AND it was Communion AGAIN on Sunday! It’s a sign! A sign of…something!)

I hit that point yesterday, and it may potentially continue through the monthlong series of advent sermons. Yesterday’s sermon was about Zechariah’s role in The Christmas story. Which I already know all about, because I researched it for a series of Christmas monologues I did last year. Let me just pull it out, I haven’t read it since an acting class read all of them a year ago. That was a fun night.

Ah yes, okay, here we go. Zechariah is a pivotal point in the birth of Jesus, but I decided I was gonna tell his story from his wife Elizabeth’s point of view, because, well, logically speaking, Zechariah can’t talk, so he can’t really deliver a monologue in a series of Christmas monologues.

Even yesterday, during the sermon, it was all about Zechariah, Zechariah, Zechariah. The dude can’t talk! Why don’t you try thinking about it from the woman’s point of view!? What do you think Elizabeth was going through? You know, the one who COULD talk?

Anyhow, so in the monologue, Elizabeth is talking to her nosy neighbor, Naomi, and explaining how it’s possible that Elizabeth’s pregnant when she’s over sixty years old, because Naomi’s been gossiping about it in the marketplace. And Elizabeth is telling Naomi the part where the Angel Of The Lord has appeared to Zechariah in the temple and saying that Elizabeth is going to get pregnant.


...Zechariah said the wrong thing to
the angel, which was, “How can I be sure.” To which the
angel replied, “Umm, because I’m an angel and I’ve got a
direct line to God. Now you will be silent and not able to
speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe
my words, which will come true at their proper time.” And so
here we are. I’m pregnant and Zachy can’t talk. God surely
is amazing, isn’t He?

(...)

Because if you ever happen to find yourself in the blessed presence
of an angel, you don’t ask “How CAN I be sure.” You ask
“How WILL this happen.” Not “How CAN.” “How WILL?” Because
if you’ve got a messenger of God Himself standing right in
front of you, GET SPECIFICS! You could get day and date of
delivery, for starters. Ask him what the deal is with the
morning sickness, and how to get rid of the swollen ankles,
and why is my eyesight going, and ALL that fun
stuff!

Because, Naomi, when it comes to God’s plan, you don’t ask
How Can. Because the answer is always going to be the same.
“How can this happen?” “How can she be pregnant at 60 plus
years?” “How can Zechariah not speak?” The answer is
simply...because God says so. It’s not that you can’t
question God’s plan. But you don’t doubt it when He’s
telling it to you. Or else you find yourself a mute for nine
months! Ooooh, spooky!

We were talking in my Small Group the other night about God talking to us, always a fun fun NOT topic of mine. But if I’m honest, the last time I think God said anything to me was a few months ago, I don’t remember when, I don’t remember what I was doing, though I think it was probably me bitching and moaning to God about what could’ve been one of a billion things: boys, career, Pink Piggy, Roomie Heckle’s girlfriend staying with us for two months and three people sharing a bathroom just doesn’t work (she just left on Saturday. THANK YOU GOD.)

And in the middle of it, I get this thought, this sentence, and all it says is

Your story’s not over yet.

And while my Small Group oooooohed in appreciation upon the retelling, I distinctly remember my own response to it being something along the lines of

“Yeah, I know, but STILL!”

Which could possibly be a parallel between me and our boy Zechariah, couldn’t it. Zechariah says “How can.” Amy says, “Yeah, I know, but STILL.” Both responses aren’t meant to be disrespectful, but both are the wrong thing to say. Zechariah doubted God’s plan when God was telling it to him. I’m taking God’s plan for granted when He might be trying to tell it to me.

Uhoh. Can I still talk? La la la laaaaaa. Yes. Yes, I can talk. I just sang along to “Decode” from the Twilight soundtrack (I’m truly embarrassed to like that song.)

And I can still type. Some days I type more than I can talk. All fingers currently still working.

But I think God is telling me. He’s just not using words. He’s like every great writer, and using EVENTS as motivation, as evidence, as Look-at-what-I’m-doing-for-YOU. Isn’t it really cracked!? Isn’t it weird and warped and wonderful? Damn, did I just jinx it again? Heh.

My new favorite website

http://upsidedowndogs.com/

Who doesn't love an upside down dog? Nobody, I tell you, nobody!

Upside down dogs are the best things in the world, I'm telling ya!

You can't look at these dogs and not smile. You just can't.

heh.

There Is Always An Option C

When Roomie Jekyll and I watch Survivor (yes, we still watch that show, last week’s episode was AWESOME), and in between us trying to imitate the African tribal music yelped by a vigorously ethnic sounding voice (goes something like “ENNNNNNNG ENNNNNNNGGG AHHHHHHHHHH!”) Roomie Jekyll will ask rhetorical questions of the starving and desperate contestants on TV. “Why are they so stupid!?” is a common one. “Don’t they understand how dumb they look?” “How does he not know how annoying he is?” I continually point out to Roomie Jekyll that they’re in the Survivor Bubble, and it’s very easy to make judgments and personality calls from the safety of your couch, but it’s probably very different inside the Survivor Bubble of the game, where you don’t have a bird’s eye view of the situation.

I don’t have a Survivor Bubble, but I have been getting along very nicely on a Denial Bubble all my own. The Denial Bubble, contrary to the name, is actually an optimistic place to be. In this Bubble, we’ve finished the Pink Piggy film, we’ve submitted it to festivals, and we haven’t heard back if we’ve been accepted or not. So I’m free to occasionally puff up fantasies that we HAVE been accepted, and all the a, b, and c tangents that will naturally evolve from there, which culminate in us doing Striped Tiger, and another unnamed Menangerie film, as well as selling Purple Monkey to a major studio, and finally moving into a place of my own with a comfy chair.

I should’ve been doing a lot more work inside the Denial Bubble, though sometimes I’ll remember that I wrote a first draft of a brand new project for a class at the beginning of this year that I’ve since put away. And then I have to remind myself that I spent all of October on Polka Dotted Platypus, and I’ll most likely see the benefit of that endeavor next year. My short term memory really sucks inside the Denial Bubble. Who are you again? I know you bought me this drink and all, and I’m so embarrassed but, seriously, what was your name again? Didn’t you say you were an architect or something?

But no matter how much the Denial Bubble bounced along the dewy fields of Amy’s Fantasyland, I never forgot that we had submitted to Film Festival A, B, and C, at least for the first round.

And I also knew that the time was stretching pretty close to hear back from these festivals whether we got in or not. And last Friday, I had starting hearing blips and peeps from acquaintances and random strangers whose posts I stumbled over during my internet searches that this short got in, that film got a midnight screening.

And my Denial Bubble abruptly spouted leaks all over the place.

I had pretty much written off Film Festival A. That’s the one you’ve heard of, that’s the one my dad’s heard of, that’s the one every film submits to, regardless of whether the film is good or not. There was no way Pink Piggy was getting into Film Festival A. It’s political, we had no insider advocate, we had no stars in our cast. It wasn’t happening.

But I did hold unabashed hopes for Film Festival B. You probably have heard of Film Festival B, certainly if you live in L.A. Films get bought at Film Festival B. Film Festival B is respectable. They like first time filmmakers, that’s us. They take chances on different films, that’s us too. The festival programmer was posting on her blog a list of indy film clichés, then admitted her favorite film had two of them, just like our film does! (yes, we have a main character staring at herself in a mirror, and yes, there is some photo caressing going on.)

But all the evidence I was pulling off the internet was pointing to the fact that Film Festival B had started calling the lucky films over this past weekend. And no call for us.

I’m no stranger to rejection, HELL NO I’M NOT. Scripts, boys, jobs, yep, I could wallpaper my room with a thousand “nos”, as any writer could. So I was surprised to feel a sting in my heart as my Denial Bubble went POP. Come on, Amy, snap out of it. This is only the start of what will probably be a million nos for Pink Piggy. The least you can do is be a grownup about it. A thousand people can say no, it only takes one person to say yes.

I’ve been talking to God about clarity on a number of fronts. It seems pretty clear that He’s closing this door, this door, and this door on other avenues of my life. Usually, that would upset me. But now, I’m more interested in having Him lead me where He wants me to go. Okay, we’re not going down that road. Great, where to now? I’m ready Freddy! Vroom vroom let’s go! At a blazingly glacial pace.

But after a Saturday talk with God, I was surprised to feel a quicker sense of calm than normal. The inner peace, she don’t come easy to me. But I did feel like I gave a Symbolic Shrug of sorts and was somewhat okay with waiting to see what’s next, and somewhat okay with knowing that What’s Next probably wouldn’t show up for another five years.

When you get to the part of a Survivor episode where they have to kick somebody off, it usually boils down to let’s kick off Person A, or let’s kick off Person B. The smarter contestants are the one that can point to Person C, or Option C, which blindsides everybody and makes for an excellent Tribal Council with lots of snarling and yelling and bitter Last Words, because nobody saw Option C coming, not in a million years.

Today at work, the Pink Piggy crew told me that we got into Film Festival C.

Film Festival C! Option C! The one I totally forgot about! I couldn’t even remember the name of Film Festival C! I had to go look it up!

Now, you, Gentle Reader, have probably not heard of Film Festival C. It’s okay, my parents haven’t either. I didn’t really pay attention to it, I was focused on Film Festival B. (Which is of course why we got into Film Festival C.) I will probably have to explain about ten million times to everyone what it is.

But Film Festival C is a valid one. In the top ten of important U.S. independent film festivals, they tell me. Suddenly, we have merit. Suddenly, we have a resume. It will probably help our chances of getting into other festivals, they tell me.

Even better, they tell me we’re in the Narrative Competition category, as opposed to a showcase category. Do I think we’ll win? Not unless it’s in a rousing game of Rock Band, and I’m singing “Enter Sandman” with the director on guitar, a producer on bass and the costume designer on drums.

But that’s not important right now. Right now, my Denial Bubble is suddenly puffed full again, and will be until next year.

Does God really work like this? Was this really where He was leading me? It seems TOO perfect. I’m actually uncomfortable thinking His hand’s stirring this pot. I prefer to think that things Plinko balled their way into this arrangement on their own and God’s more concerned about my character and how I handle it.

So I’m handling it verrrrrrrrry slowly. ThankyouGodthankyou. At a blazingly glacial pace. ThankyouGodthankyou. One breath at a time. ThankyouGodthankyou.

And I’m back to working on the Purple Monkey outline.

Harvey Wants Me To Write About Him.

Normally I don’t take requests. Because then you get into weird situations where people are acting a specific way because they want you to write about them, or people get resentful because you didn’t write about them, or people get resentful because you DID write about them, but that's not what they said, that's not what they meant, blah blah blah.

But Harvey wants me to write about him, so I shall, but in the context of me. Because it is my blog, after all. Heh.

Because what Harvey doesn’t know is that he’s a signpost. I first met him when he was an actor in one of my plays, I distinctly remember revising his lines in my kitchen while they rehearsed other scenes in the living room. It was me and my script, him sitting next to me going over his lines that I hadn’t revised. We weren’t even talking to each other. He was deep in concentration on learning his lines, and I was deep in concentration observing him. It was there that I realized I really could tailor lines to a specific actor if I spent time with them and got to know how they existed. A basic lesson, sure, but it’s not often you’re going to have that chance, at least, not with features.

I tried to work with him whenever I could. He acted in my 2004 staged reading of ZigZagged Ostrich, where he channeled his inner Peter O’Toole and made an excellent prince.

He shifted into a writing career. I gave him notes on his script that went on to win the Nicholl. He gave me notes on my script that grew up to be Pink Piggy.

We’d get together for dinner and every now and then to catch up. He’d tell me all his problems, because I find the problems of good-looking guys endlessly fascinating (and I mean that in all sincerity.)

And then he winked out of existence. Didn’t hear from him for three years, until he showed up in the reception area of Unnamed TV Network, as one of the producers on a pitch my boss was hearing a few weeks ago.

It was so startling to see him. I had an inkling he’d be there, since his name is pretty unusual. But seeing him, and giving him a hug and trading emails and promises that we’d catch up, there’s so much to talk about, I was surprised at my inner reaction, that Harvey is a signpost.

Where was I in my life when it was me and him sitting at my kitchen table x years ago? And where am I now that our paths have crossed again? Have I done enough, have I accomplished enough? Am I far enough down the Path Of Eventual Success? He knew me when I was a nobody writer. And I’m STILL a nobody writer, but a nobody writer potentially on the cusp of something great (or the desert of failure.)

So we had dinner last week to catch up. I hear everything he’s been up to, he hears everything I’ve been up to. I can look at his life and think wow, he’s definitely on his way. But he can look at my life and think the same thing. Neither one of us would look at our own lives and think, “Yep, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” It takes someone else other than yourself to point that out.

I hiked Runyon Canyon on Saturday, not realizing the air quality was so dismal until I got out of my car. But I was determined to brave the haze, the smoky smell, the few flakes of ash on my car (No, Mom, we’re all fine, please don’t freak.) I had brought my camera, I wanted to take a picture, kinda for Harvey, mostly for me, this is our signpost for our lives at this very moment.

And in my usual bumbling I Can’t Plan This Stuff way, I managed to hike up the stairs part and reach the plateau right as the sun was setting. My camera battery was dying, so I just stuck it towards the sun and ran off a few shots while I could. I didn’t think I was gonna get anything too great because of the smoky Mordor haze creeping in from the east, but when I uploaded the pics to the computer, I was once again stunned.

This is where I’m at right now. This is my signpost. Beautiful in its own twisted weird way. Hazy, probably unhealthy. And yet, I can’t look away from that sun. That’s the biggest sun I’ve ever taken a picture of. Is it lighting the world on fire? Is it gonna get choked out from the smoke? Is it a beginning? Is it an end?

I think it’s just there. Just there, in that signpost moment.




I love color in sunsets. I really really do. It’s one of the few girly things I’ll cop to.