There are just some words that zip through a crowd and into your mind. I didn’t know who Evan was, or why he felt the urge to spit in someone’s ear, or if it was an intentionally spitting. There are some days when I get so very bored that all I can do is sit and listen to the world. I don’t really know what my problem is. I spend so much time working on my brain. That sometimes I can’t harness it. It sounds odd, because it is. It’s something akin to working out so much that your body animates without bothering to consult the rest of you, but instead of doing anything useful, like laundry or cleaning the house, it just wanders around and around until it bumps into the wall like a penguin in a maze. (If you have played Penguin Pursuit on Lumosity.com, you know what I’m talking about.) I think I should spend a day trying to write something without using the words “just” or “ really”. I use these words a lot. I can’t seem to make myself do anything productive. Or , at least, lucrative.
So I was hanging out with my friend Amanda and we became rowdy. This is not unusual and our rowdiness usually emerges when we are attempting to conduct ourselves as adults. (Trust me, the adult think is overrated) We were at half-price books to take advantage of the Memorial Day sale and so I could get rid of a pile of books that was taking up some valuable real estate. While we were milling about waiting for my worth to be determined, we started chatting about a few of my works-in-progress. My new business plan is big on me pulling myself the hell together and to actually get back to the writing schedule that I had a few months ago.
I was breaking down the plot line for a fantasy romance story that I have mostly discarded because I lost interest in it and it’s not really my genre anyway. Well, we got to giggling about the inciting incident which involves a succubus, a changeling boy and a handsome lusty warrior (really, what’s NOT to laugh about?) That was when the book seller/judge/jury called me to collect my buy offer. I was waiting to get the final bid and I swear a hand reached out of a wormhole, whispered something absurd into my ear and the shoved me back out at the buy counter because for a split second I could have sworn the book seller was going to hand me the receipt and a pen and tell me to put my James Hitchcock on the paper.
I have no idea who James Hitchcock is, but apparently he is of some importance in the worm hole.
The worm hole idea sure would explain a lot about me and personality and, possibly, my penchant for extra comfy clothes. After all, who can wear a dress and heels when they’re constantly being dragged in and out of wormholes?
My voyage of self discovery has taken a few odd detours over the last few days. My spirit/soul/psyche is tired so I have decided to avail myself of the finest dreck Netflix has to offer.
Of course, the first thing that sprang to mind and to queue is Valley Of The Dolls. I am shocked and amazed to discover that I actually recognize the theme song. I am mildly pleased to discover that Andre Previn wrote said theme song.
I have no idea why I this delights me so much.
I don’t think I’ve seen the movie before, although I have read the book an embarrassing number of times. I also read the Jacqueline Sussann novel that is clearly the story of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. If I wanted to make an evening of it, I could also watch the biopic that features Bette Midler as Sussann. And then I could watch Katie Holmes play Jackie and then watch Patrick Dempsey play the young Jack.
But then my head just might explode.
So I guess it’s Valley of the Dolls.
There are a lot of things I want to do and many things I want to write. I have a small business plan in play that centers around my ability and inclination to write, so it would just make sense that I sit down and do it.
Okay, I’m not exactly in Hamletesque peril and consternation (Wait, I thought that nation was Denmark?) But at the mid-day mark today, right now the universe seems to be conspiring to crumb up my day.
I am substitute teaching today. This is by no means a difficult job, mainly because I’m kind of surly and nothing really scares me anymore. I had a two hour break between classes so I took advantage of this time to go over to Stage West and read the script for the upcoming auditions. (Long story-Highlights- There is an open audition for a touring children’s show, I haven’t auditioned for anything in years and the director is the only person I don’t know that works at this particular theatre, but I’m not really doing any kind of structured activity this summer and I think Katboy is concerned that I’m going to start making felt hand puppets out of loose hair, so I’m auditioning in about a week)
I teach my students to respect their prospective directors by looking well groomed, so the plan to go and read the script fit right in to my schedule.
Then it rained.
I know, rain. Big deal, crazy lady, right?
It is when you are teaching on a campus that is made up of several gorgeous small buildings that are nowhere near the parking lot.
I got soaked and wound up reading the script at the theatre. Fortunately, this is a play for children, so maybe looking like a seal who has dry contact lenses might actually work in my favor.
I have no idea what I am doing. I want to be perfectly clear. I usually flail about willy-nilly, but that’s by accident. Today I am intentionally just winging it. It has nothing to do with my sudden chaos in plain sight day. I am subbing today, but at this point in the year, it’s mostly just riding herd on students and making sure no gets too loud and is at least pretending to do something. I am not the kind of person who can just put their brain on cruise. In an effort to sharpen skills and possibly right something medium good, because I got inspired/wild hared by Change Me into Zeuss’s Daughter, which won the Faulkner Competition for Creative Non-Fiction, and thus decided that I was going to enter, if possible. It’s possible, except that the deadline is in eight days. Okay, can I write a personal memoir essay of 3500 words in eight days? Possibly. Will it be good? Who knows?
In addition to my obsessive need for constant reassurance, I also have the fear that someone is going to say, “Yeah, she’s a good writer, but who gives a S###?”
Okay, I am the person most likely to say that.
I don’t know where I should start.
So I am experiment with streaming the conscious while things happen around me. I am trying not to look down. The last time I did this I did it in longhand and came up with a character that told me the story of the novel that I am currently poking along with a stick.
Ah, it’s another glamour filled Saturday night! I’ve been asking myself some existential questions. I haven’t had much of a response except to say, “What do you expect? Your brain is sitting next to you on a recycled sofa cushion?”
As I may have mentioned I am geographically where I want to be and I am still trying to figure out what it is that I want to do, specifically. Katboy and I discussed this, actually he listened to me prattle at him and he nodded at me benignly. So, I guess I have a few more weeks before he says, “Would you please do something productive, and maybe make some money?” Anyone who knows him realizes that would never happen.
I do kind of wonder why he’s not more of a hard ass, but then I remember that he has invested about a quarter of a million dollars into the repair of my brain, so he doesn’t really have the desire to send me out into the world to earn my keep and possibly, ok, probably break my brain.
So, I am trying to reinforce said brain. I am spending my Saturday night sitting writing a bit, reading a bit, watching CSNBC and working my processing speed and problem solving skills.
I do have some goals I want to achieve this week, but I don’t want to jinx myself. That’s how I wound up exploding my brain in the first place