j'adore pirates

I've started to look forward to injuring myself because of the mass quantities of pirate band-aids I have acquired. I think these are from my friend Jessie. On Monday, I was galavanting around in heels like a decapatated chicken, and last night I high-tailed it to Denver for several hours of trotting around LoDO looking for meter maids with Sarah, who lives in a great apartment with a big black Afghan dog named Smokey who looks a looot like a muppet (ala Henson's the Dark Crystal years). PS- if you call Denver's Public Works parking division and politely inquire what the current term for "meter maid" is, they will coldly inform you that they are VEHICLE CONTROL OFFICERS. Um, that's the best thing ever. I digress.

Sarah came out of my old I'd-prefer-to-forget-that-year People Production days extremely sweetly (and conveniently) on my birthday-- we went out to the Mercury Cafe for an Argus Fest documentary, and we met two great filmmakers (who, by the by, let me oogle the new SonyHD prosumer camera, and homina-homina-homina, schwiiiing! I have found my new camera of my dreams). We giggled through the worst vegan cheesecake in the world (that's not chocolate! it's sand!) and me trying to pour red wine 3-glasses to the wind (Jane... it has a cap on it). To make things even better, she introduced me to her awesome friends Noah & Patrick, and the lot of us boogied down at an Irish Pub to Thriller, Jane Says, and a slew of other great songs that are delightful to drink wine & port to. Ever since, it's been so refreshing to start exploring Denver again, and have my filmmaker chica in crime to talk about movies, job opportunities, the glowing SinCities of cinema, life, woes, the works. I'm really grateful to have re-discovered the city with kindred spirits while I'm still here.

Yesterday I sent Thad a musing, heart-sick email from a very deeply introspective place, and he sent back the sweetest note today-- the kind where your heart melts and you remind yourself to put that dialogue in a place where you won't forget it, because it's the kind of thing that makes your life feel connected and meaningful.
Here's a snippet of the conversation:
J> ...so emboldened by the new day and light coming in my window and my new warm sweater, i sent another message... and then resounding hours of silence with nothing but the sounds of my fingers typing the keys, my bic writing proofs on a stack of 8.5x11 paper (glossy finish), and a few false alarms of returning to find my phone skewed across the dates: 2/6, 2/7 from vibrating after I had let it rest between 2/13, 2/14.

so here i am, with an hours-old cup of coffee next to my screen, rjd2 on my speakers, looking without trying to look at my silver plastic phone, which is again lined up perfectly on the vertical border of my desk calendar in hopes that someone will send me a message and it will skitter across the dates. i'm missing you. i'm aching to be elsewhere. i'm punished by the guilt of procrastination.
i'm riding the bus to denver later for documentary soul-searching to rid the knot in my stomach that will be more temporary than the knots that nest in my heart. i'm slowly driving myself crazy. i'll talk to you soon.
love miss ponder tuck a strand of hair behind my ear sideways glance once more toward the phone
janekathryn

T> Darling,
You were feeling so poetic yesterday! : ) This is beautiful.
I'm sorry that we haven't been able to connect much this week. I am, of
course, eager to talk to you soon.
I hope that aside from all of this madness, that you are well and
finding a reservoir of strength and peace at your aid.
I miss you. I love you.
Pistachio

There are so many things in my life that I cherish-- my family, nature (and the incredible feeling of experiencing it for the first time every day; each winter, spring, summer and fall day feels proustian in it's "remembered firsts" category), worlds of books, documentaries, cello nights, mp3s playing in my apartment, photographs, deeply happy memories, new opportunities to explore, better myself & learn every day. As materialistic as my secret crappy t.v. shows are, the feeling of putting on the new vintage sweater with the new blister-causing shoes, as mundane as my favorite cereal with a cup of just-right coffee and the morning headlines. But above the materialistic, the mundane, the guilty pleasures and even the artsy-fartsy things that make me feel like who I am... friends, kindred spirits, people I admire and love and want to reach out and hug every time I see them... my friends and my family are the biggest, most important part of my life. As cheesy as it sounds, I love loving people.

Someone accused me a few months ago of being "probably just another psycho b*tch..." his definition of women is that we are progressively more and more psychotic, depending on how far out on the spectrum we are of having someone to nurture. He blamed it on our maternal instinct, and not having someone to nurture causes our estrogen to just head straight for "crazy". The accuser was not deep, or capable of compassion, but he made me remember something-- I really do feel happier when I have kindred spirits around. It helped me realize why the last two years have been so difficult... I feel it emotionally and physically when many of my closest friends are so far away. Even realizing that helped, and it's made me appreciate my arm's-length kindred spirits even more.

I'm unbelievably wordy right now. Man, it feels good to stretch out and type when you're tired and full of thoughts. This is also my favorite thing.
Tomorrow at 8am, Robin & Sarah L. and I are embarking on an international documentary competition. Several hundred people in 94 teams and 9 countries are waking up at 8am to discover the "genre" and "theme" of the project, and begin shooting... we don't know what we're filming yet, but a completely edited DVD must be off in the mail by Monday at 5pm. Music, cross dissolves, rack focuses, bars, tone, credits, voice-overs, lower-thirds, release forms, shooting permits, mini dv cam tapes, new batteries for the mics, boom drops, timelines, external hard drives... we're mentally practicing all these things, and have no idea what we'll be filming.
I'm nervous. It feels like the old days when I'd put on my Clinton Softball shirt and my low-tops and get on stage in front of 250 people waiting to laugh, and not have any farking clue what we were going to be saying. Would Alex pick me up while re-enacting the Titanic? Would Zach be a ranting Jehovah's Witness demanding a magazine subscription for me? Would I soon be singing about Altoids in a Swedish accent while holding hands with the PBX sorority leader?
It's weird to go to bed not knowing.
And wake up knowing.

Here's to waking up to opportunities... *Slainte*
(and a perfect example photo-- tom, beth, sarah l, janek & pete before Bella Karoli/Bluebook. rawk.)

good intentions

alarm went off at 7:04
generic alarm clock noises scare the crap out of me
lightest sleeper alive
i'm under two blankets and a quilt, dreaming hard
still manage to hit it before the 3rd beep
i wonder where my $8 radio alarm is from college
that one that channeled "thriller" through the static
to wake me up on my 21st birthday
the same day i found an old love note in a library book
the day i put on jessie's skis at 10am and slid around the dorm hallways

alarm off, cold morning waiting
put on a pair of sweats
look under my bed for my shoes
spent all of yesterday cleaning the apartment
and the grubby sneakers disappeared with the tile grime
start to peel a clementine
weekend was warm enough that some of the sidewalks are clear
still just dark enough to have some privacy
from early bird workers at the tea factory

open the balcony door a crack to see how cold it is
put my half-peeled clementine down
stretch my quads, make a few puffs of breath in the cold
my sinuses hurt so much that my eyes squint
by the time i finish the clementine my throat is raw
take the sneakers off, laces resist being unknotted
jogging delayed, extra sleep lost
watch the news without paying attention

get to work early, face hurting
sludgy coffee brewing in the kitchen
first time in months someone made it before me
wistfully remembering silver canyon-- our free trade tastes like feet
pour a cup, sit down to 100 pages of proofing
call from upstairs: the man, and a meeting
the kind with lots of xeroxed copies
my monday shoot is cancelled, re-scheduled, cancelled again
"your editor doesn't need...company priorities..."
hell bulges against the dam
i remind myself that crying in front of the boss is not an option
speak quietly, use eye contact, put my new reading glasses on
"ultimately, it's your call..."
my sinuses are screaming
the shoot is salvaged
as long as i work this weekend and late all next week
part deux
until the project is done
before his vacation begins

drive for 45 minutes in rush hour traffic on 36
a thick gray fog meanders over four lanes of traffic
bronwyn sitting in the passenger seat
we talk about family members,life changes
she explains what it's like to have a sister
the waiter at the restaurant has oval glasses
he brings me a 2nd glass of wine that i didn't order
i almost kiss him for the mistake
rings glinting on left fingers in 7 of 10 seats around me
"tea length bridesmaid dresses..."
food piled into all corners of the table
chairs empty for smoke breaks
phones checked
women return with ice flakes clinging to their jackets
checks paid, scarf re-arranged
give coryn a big hug, we laugh a little,
i turn to leave but it doesn't feel right
second hug, no laugh this time
"remember to tell england to be kind to you, crazy vegetarian girl"
her friend's eyes fill with tears
i briefly wonder if they could freeze

my car looks like a tylenol capsule
completely iced over, all tiny beads
like that one photoshop tool
my scraper makes one thin pencil line down the window
it hardly makes a sound
turn the heat on high blast, curl up in the seat and wait
check voice mail, punching buttons awkwardly with gloves
friend's voice laughing over mac 'n cheese
at the downstairs bar
"happy birthday!"
i smile. feel guilty.
it's really hard to remember birthdays exactly right
punch in her number, tell her she's a few days shy
the ice cloud picks up in intensity
her voice shorts out
i start the drive home- no music
ice building on the blades as fast as they swipe
mirrors glaze over
SUV whips around me

the lightbulb in my porch light has burst again
three times in two months
black ice covers the porch with cat prints embedded in it
get to the top of my stairs, put the key in the door
think i hear his voice
blood runs a little cold
close the door hard
neighbor's voice is surprisingly similar
stand in the doorway of my bedroom
sinuses red hot
hard to swallow
seven weeks- strange- should get that checked out
desert living at its best
but it feels good to be home

pull back two blankets and the quilt
set the alarm
maybe tomorrow i'll get up at 7:15
stand in my running shoes
look out at the ice...

terror, erebus and sinus pain

the social etiquette of the western hemisphere requires that we are and associate ourselves with the most successful, beautiful, desirable, intelligent and talented people in the universe. but even more importantly, this same unspoken emily-post-like umbrella of good conduct reminds us to never boast more than a twinkle in our eye-- maybe secretly stashing away photos of our children in our wallets, but never publishing their juvenile detention art class honors on the bumpers of our cars.

but sometimes it's important to break convention and just say it...we're american, we're proud of our snot-nosed punk-ass kids, our run down beater cars, our dishes-in-the-sink houses. we're a proud country, and sometimes pride is our strongest emotion. well, today i'm willing to slap a cheap sticker on the back of my car that says: "my dad can kick your honor student's ass on the new york times extended best seller list".

dad called me a few days ago from his book tour to pass along the entertaining information that he was about to be in a documentary on my favorite author, the biggest eccentric, brilliant mind and raging asshole of all time, harlan ellison. even better, as if that could *get* any better, is that the production company was the same that made "grizzly man" with werner herzog (please see future blogs: "werny herzy's producer might give me a job interview this spring"). so dad did the interview, finished his book tour, flew home today mid-tour, and showed tom and me the 'rough' (but mostly polished) cut of the harlan ellison documentary produced by "creative differences" in los angeles.

i have been reading "the terror" since bumming a copy last week, and all day at work i've been finding myself thinking about how much i'd rather be in bed with ships, ice, seafaring adventures and failed expeditions. mom and i have dutifully been compiling various reviews-- a big splash in the washington post and nyt, people magazine, men's journal, amazon, barnes& noble, all the local papers, publishers weekly starred review, the kirkus starred review. my friend steven called me laughing from the subway in new york where he had just seen a big poster on his way to dodgeball practice, and an hour later my friend meredith called to say that she was happy to see something so nostalgic in an entertainment weekly during her lunch break.

saturday i sat through the horror flick "the descent" to help dad decide if he wanted to turn down the director's hefty movie offer, and as we spoke, jealous representatives at paramount sent two producers on a lear jet at 7:30pm to try to counter-offer at a meeting in los angeles. unrattled, dad's film agent stayed late at the office with a strong cup of coffee, casually text messaging all three men on his blackberry trying to buy a few more days of time so the author could get a few hours of sleep before he had to decide.

i don't know. i'm proud of my dad, and tonight, watching him pinch his nose the way he always does when he's laughing hard as Harlan Ellison peered out of our television doing an impression of a yiddish ant, i remembered why it's important to pause and remember who inspires us, and why. i've never had a moment of talking about, talking to or hearing from harlan ellison without thinking very deeply (or at least very quickly). the man is a catalyst for thought, for creative energy, for intelligent conversation, for deep introspection. he's a life-changing man, and i'm so grateful to have heard his crazy life anecdotes and experienced his unbelievably talented writing. but i'm a thousand times more grateful to have met my dad, a silver-haired glasses-wearing man who sits down and writes 1300 page books in a year, who has been such a good parent and mentor to me, and who also moves me almost every time we talk. i've known him for 25 years, and i still barely understand what he has left to teach me-- everything from science, politics, growing up poor to being successful in a business, how to identify animal tracks, sociobiology, ancient and modern history, art, architecture, filmmaking, sociology, how to smash a toilet with a sledgehammer and the hardest-to-remember rules of writing. my mom has taught me thousands of things, but it was dad who taught me how to ride a bike, how to be brave when i fell off of it, how to wind paper into a typewriter, how to stand up for myself, when to be compassionate and when to stop giving wretched people a chance, where the best coffee milkshakes are and why it's important to hike without listening to music. dad and i have our differences, a history of butting heads, and seemingly impossible- to-endure confrontations, but in the end, no one could ever be closer to me than the person who wears a sport coat in a dark room, writing epic stories by the light of a bankers lamp at 4am.

everything that harlan says is quotable to some extent. i happen to like these:

There is a collective unconscious working in me that is absolutely true; I trust it absolutely; I give myself up to it; I will go anywhere it takes me.

There are these wonderful, doomed, blessed few who have come our way through the ages who are able to tie up the universe in words and present them to us and say: if you will but immerse yourself, you will be washed clean and come forth anew.

Everyone whines "but I'm entitled to an opinion"-- bullshit. You're entitled to an *informed* opinion.

whether or not i like the internet does not make me a hypocrite for having a webpage

(that's an old picture of harlan, because he doesn't look old and SUPER CRANKY)
harlan's documentary is coming soon to a discovery channel near you

dan simmons is coming soon to a tattered cover near you

jane simmons's sinuses are coming soon to a pit of hell near you-- they are such a battle field lately that i had to stop copywriting twice at work to smoosh my face in the middle of our sales catalog. the cold paper felt good, but the pages left ink on my cheeks and then i looked like a tool.

tool is coming soon to a superdome near you.