Sunday, September 25, 2005

haikus from recent experience

work this week was bad
the weekend glowed with promise
far too far away

in our cabinet-
a forgotten bottle of
my favorite scotch

fashion alley trip
three purses for twelve dollars
how can you beat that?

maron's party fun-
falling down on sawdust floor
spilling small red cups

quiet drive north once more
up the coast with Ed and Max
hate those oil rigs

came home to find a
giant monarch butterfly
half dead on the floor

Sunday, September 18, 2005

The Little Town Club

Yes, yes. The first lunch with the Board President, some 30+ years my senior. She used to play tennis all the time but she currently plays golf. Do I play? Oh, there is a wonderful ladies golf club I could join, she said, if I could find the time, but, no, of course I probably could not find it now. The time, that is.

This is the Little Town club at 12:15. Never noticed this place before, set along the fairly busy street. A private club dating back to about a century ago, for elite Santa Barbarian females. A nice place to stop for lunch in between shopping, on thier visits from Montecito. Not much has changed.

Heavy wood beams on the ceiling, beautifully hand painted, as are the panels in the great room. Palm fronds and such, carefully restored. The glass panes in the windows wave, as old glass is wont to do. Now this is a special room, she tells me reverently, the ladies' room, replete with fainting couches. I'd give my left breast to just be alone there for a nap. I wonder what they call the restroom? I hope it is the Powder Room, of course.

A thousand withered society ghosts observe me curiously. Whatever is she doing here?

The lunch conversation is perfectly controlled, as is the service. Until a few years ago, I'm told, the waitresses wore little blue and white uniforms, you know. Too many godamned utensils to choose from. The first plate is a fried tomato salad, with three perfect slices; one orange, one red, one green. So so. The entree is too small, but lovely. We exchange rigid conversation and perfect posture in the garden, at a table with a placard bearig her husband's name. The fingerbowls are brought out before dessert. You don't have to use them, of course. Oh, aren't we having some fun now?

I do believe I committed a faux pas by thanking our server. It is all about the tradition in this place. The sun beamed down on the crystal. Lanky women in neutral power suits floated betwixt the formal rooms. So very nice, we'll have to do this again soon. If only I could fill this place with my fantastic girlfriends, and copious glasses of red wine. Sigh.

I've never been happier to breathe car exhaust, upon my exit. Or to get out of my stockings that night. Now I understand why men tear off their neckties at the end of the day.

Such amusing monkeys, are we not?

Friday, September 09, 2005

Hocseega

was her Winnebago name. She was absolutely fierce, incredibly gifted, and one of the funniest women I have ever known. I met her about five years ago. We sold jewelry together, at a place she liked to call "ABI", for "Absolute Bitch Incorporated", a reference to either the owner or manager, depending on the day. Together with Amanda P., we cracked wise about everything we possibly could. We sometimes went to her beautiful home and had dinner and wine together, and those are some of the most illuminating evenings I have ever spent. She gave us, a couple of white chicks, actual Winnebago names, which is a beautiful thing. My name means, "She Who Dances on the Wood", in tribute to my time on the stage. And she was such a dancer, and an artist! Such a fantastic painter. I gave her my oils immediately, because she would put them to far better use. She even came to our haunted house and performed a verified smudging ceremony. and she scared the hell out of some of those ghosts. Just look at her...
So beautiful, so strong. She made me a talisman to keep me safe in New York, and that worked, too. The last time I saw her was in San Francisco, when she was on her way home to Arizona from the Pacific Northwest, after having visited her daughter. We only had an hour or two, so we went to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park and had a really nice talk. I remember being so stunned that she found our apartment with virtually no directions and even found a parking place only 2 blocks away. It turned out that she had blocked someone's garage to do it, who had left her a nasty note that said "How Dare you Block My Garage?". Eileen laughed as she crumpled the note and threw it in the street. I watched her drive away and wondered when I would ever see her again. Tonight I found out she has died. I don't know the details. I will try to reach her family tomorrow. She had battled and beaten breast cancer over 10 years ago. It was only a few years back, just after I saw her in SF, that the pernicious shit returned, this time higher up. She would never really say how bad she felt. I'm so sorry you never got to meet her. I'm so sorry I didn't get more time with her, that she didn't get more time with her loved ones, and her art, and her animals, and...everything.

I love you, Eileen, wherever you are.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

I just worked a 13 hour day

I don't think I've done that since I used to hold down a 40 hour a week job and try to run a theatre in my "spare" time.

Yesterday, in addition to 3 staff meetings, I wrote up contracts and set up payroll for twelve artists, cut checks, attended first rehearsal, and generated a mountain of associated paperwork for and gathered program materials from said artists. Total hours-12.

Today I completed the materials for the playbill of our upcoming show, attended a three hour budget meeting during which we got through the first 2 pages of my 18 page budget, and helped write a last-minute grant for a play reading series that showcases local and underrepresented voices. That lasted until 20 minutes ago.

Tomorrow, after various and sundry other meetings, the board votes on whether to promote me to top banana. Exciting, yes, but if this turns out, as trends would indicate, to be a 14 hour day...I will not pass go, I will go directly and immediately to the fetal position and remain there through the weekend.

Oh, except for that damned meeting on Friday...

Per the advice of my Editor, I may attend it with blankie in tow. I've never had a blankie, but now just might be the perfect time to procure one.

Monday, September 05, 2005

William Blake rides again...

Those of you who know my past know that for a number of years, I was morbidly fascinated with pre-millenial anxiety, the Book of Revelations, and all things apocalyptic. So much so that I created plays about them, which served as demon-exorcism for me in many ways. I grew up gradually, or so I thought, and began to think less of things like this. By the time terrorism became a househoId word, I had no energy to be paranoid about it. Hell, I knew so much about emerging killer diseases and environmental dangers that I had to actually stop thinking about them, and terrorism just seemed another thing to add to the list of bad things I'd had to lock away. It finally sunk in that worry would do no good, there was nothing to be done but to live life as best I could. It was freeing, in the long run.

I even moved to places that were likely terrorist targets, and places that were ripe for natural disasters. With my adventurous husband, I court alot more danger than I would have ever though myself willing to court. And I'm not going to stop. But what has happened in the Gulf states has activated that latent part of my brain that makes conspiracy theories, that makes predictions, that spins the goddamned web again. And I can't help but think that this is the true beginning of the end of America as we know it, and maybe the world. Nothing can be the same now. We are clearly all just one disaster away from anarchy, from kill-or-be-killed, from inept martial law enforcement, from the pale horse and rider rearing their ugly heads. We are helpless babies, crying in the dark, waiting to suckle the great teat of America, who is already half starved. I read a Christian website that said God has removed his great protective hand from this country. I don't believe in that God, really, but can feel a hole growing up there, somewhere. And it ain't just ozone, my friends.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

My Last Blog has a Very Unfortunate Title

Sorry about that. Coincidence abounds.

It seems there is no one I know who doesn't have a dislocated loved one in the great expanse of the watery waste that was once several of our southern states. Some amount of heart can be taken in that many are "merely" refugees without access to the means to communicate with those who worry about them. But what about people like my co-worker's mother with Alzheimers, who was living in a nursing home? If there was ever an opportunity for a person like that to become truly lost, this is it. How many more aged and/or disabled people are floating from overcrowded camp to overcrowded camp, complicating the trail further with each move? Their caretakers may remember their names, if they can keep track of them all, but family records? So much has washed away.

Double fuck this nation for not defending our people against something they knew would eventually come. New Orleans has been a disaster waiting to happen for a long time. Once again, the poor get screwed. The rich move to higher ground, as ever.

My heart bleeds for everyone there- the people stranded without cars to evacuate, the invincible ones who refused to go, the rescuers, the looters, and the drowned.