A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts

Flower in Fog

Lone Flower in Fog, Saddle Mountain, Oregon

“A Big Life” is a structured blog which consists of stories intended to encourage people in the arts and entertainment industry.

Most of the stories contain humorous life lessons meant to take the intimidation factor out of pursuing a career in the arts.  They are illustrated with photos.

Please become a subscriber by choosing “follow” and you will get emails when new stories are posted to A Big Life.  Also feel free to respond with your own comments, funny stories and experiences.  The writer would love to hear what you think.

 

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Forty-five Fifteen

Lonely forbidden Seaside beach

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

At the start of the pandemic, it was grey out, cold and raining.

My shelter in place when things closed down in March of 2020 became an oceanside town in Oregon where we locals were not allowed to walk on the beach for fear of drawing the big city Portland crowd.

For three whole months.

Cannon Beach actually closed their borders.

It made me mad that I was not allowed to do that, because I was now a new-made fulltime local against my will. Usually I rent out my house in summer and travel. To California. Indonesia. Illinois. Mexico.

At least those were some of the past and upcoming plans.

I began to fall into a pattern. Pull weeds, plant seeds, buy dirt.

 

Laborious effort.

Water.

Write.

Repeat.

Walk, though not on the beach.

The biggest thing I discovered in my solitude is how much I’ve sought it out all along. Not that I don’t need “people” breaks; I do. But they are just that. Breaks.  Sometimes long ones, but I also need plenty of alone time.

My world turned upside down.

Here’s another kind of break:

45-15.

What’s that?

It’s the pattern I started to use for everything.

Clean the house for 45. Break for 15.

Read my fun book for 45.

Last fall with old friend Doug at the Berkeley/Stanford game – we won! Go Bears.

Break for 15 to rant at the wall at all the people in my life who have wronged me. Then stop. I only get 15 minutes to do that. But I get to do that.

All of this started with one of my online writing groups with Eric Witchy, a prolific award-winning novelist who lives in Salem. We meet on Zoom, write, take a fifteen minute break and write again. His system is based on science on the idea of flow. It works.

 

When I started using this technique, I got inspired, even in the midst of feeling traumatized and uninspired and sunshine deprived. In three weeks I finished a television pilot I’d been working on for three years. I wrote a screenplay in another four.

Tempting Italian restaurant. So beautiful. I stay outside.

Sometimes I go mad with the longing to travel, walk with someone without thinking about distancing or sit with someone in a restaurant with ambience and share a meal.

But mainly not.

Now I write.

And write and write.

What matters is routine, not just in writing, but in everything.

With fellow writer-actor Brynn at last year’s Fertile Ground Kickoff.

Plenty of people have said that over the years and I’ve resisted.  I’ve resisted because life isn’t just about routine. It’s also about breaking routine, about getting out of the comfort zone, or being pushed out of it, sometimes against a person’s will. That’s uncomfortable but it also makes one grow.  Weirdly, it is breaking routine and getting out of one’s comfort zone even to start a new routine.  A routine which then can become comfortable.

And then once more one has to break it.

The fall results of my spring seeding.

Simply transitioning from one activity to the next means getting out of one’s comfort zone and into another. Even if those activities are part of the regular routine. The actual moment of transition can be quite uncomfortable itself.

It is usually at that moment when I want to call someone for company or eat a bar of chocolate.

A Black-eyed fruition of my hard work.

 

But that is also part of 45-15 when it comes to writing, when it comes to using scientific flow.

Just as I’m getting comfortable writing, I have to break. Even if I’m in the zone. But that’s what makes me want to write again.

What helped me write was 45-15.

And then what helped me live was 45-15.

45-15 is saving my life.

The uncomfortableness of always challenging comfort has become part of my comfort zone.

Some of the time.

Savoring summer solitude with solar butterflies.

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A Lesson from Bob (a sequel)

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

Bob is the alpha cat in my Seaside neighborhood.

He challenges racoons and other cats who like to use my yard as a sandbox.

There is less room now to leave their gifts of fertilizer because this year I dug up the back.

I planted new grass, flowers, rosemary, spearmint, peppermint, lettuce, and beans.

I grew things from seeds, a thing I have never done before in my life.

Except once with radishes when I was a child.

I think I now know what a mother must feel like.

Or maybe a father.

I am in love with the bumblebees.

 

I learned a lot about myself during this time of pandemic.

Most of all I learned I like being alone.

But Bob taught me lessons every step of the way.

 

Poop where you want and don’t let anyone else hog the bathroom.

Take the love the neighbors give you without running away.

Enjoy time alone when the patting on the back stops.

Know that I am the queen of my backyard.

Even when Bob is there, prince of the patio,

Confident the whole neighborhood is  his turf.

 

I feel lucky the white moths like to explore my weeds and sunflowers

And the surprise black-eyed Susans I thought wouldn’t come up!

But they did.

Elegant poppies so gorgeous I wonder if they are illicit

Like the love affair I’m having with myself during this evil plague.

 

Bob doesn’t worry and sometimes I shoo him from resting behind idling cars.

He’s the one cat in my neighborhood who is not afraid.

I have become like Bob.

I know the answer to no fear now.

The answer is that I have enough.

Treats in the fridge, friends on the phone,

Sun on my back.

 

 

I like being

With the crows and the seagulls

The children who chat me up on my deck from the sidewalk

Six feet away.

The garbage man, handy woman, bald eagle in the sky

The whale that I saw and the grey pelicans

The Dungeness crabs who rise from the water to see who I am

As I pass by

The fog and the moon and the shooting stars

And Bob.

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Rubber Bullets and the Cats of Gili Meno

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

“Don’t worry. It is safe.”

This was the voice of my Hong Kong tour guide on the phone last summer giving me advice on whether I should go on a walking tour smack in the middle of the government protests.

The Big Buddha on Lantau

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t book the trip with that in mind. At the time I shelled out my cash for the ticket, there weren’t any citizens in the city square. No government buildings had been stormed. But since that time, the anniversaries of Tiananmen Square, the founding of Communist China and the new Extradition Bill had triggered a strong reaction from the residents. It was a reminder that according to the current governmental agreement,  in 28 years Hong Kong would likely be part of Communist China. Soon life in Hong Kong would never be the same again. Cameras would be installed everywhere. The official language would be changed.

No more Facebook.

“You will be all right,” my tour guide continued on the phone as I hesitated. “The protestors will not hurt Americans. They want the tourists to see what is happening.”

The Streets of Kowloon

His words tempted me. What if I decided to go and witness the mayhem first hand? After all, how many people can say they were in the middle of a historic moment in a strange land? You’ve got to wonder. If the people in Asia don’t fear tear gas, rubber bullets and bodies falling from the sky, what in the world do they fear?

The Night Food Market, Kowloon

In the end I did not have to make a decision. Due to fog in San Francisco, I missed my plane and flew in too late for the walking tour. Even then I had to fight to get my money back. But it did not matter. I loved Hong Kong. I stayed on the peninsula of Kowloon which reminded me of Manhattan with its tangle of streets and the weather. First it would be hot, and then it would pour down rain. At my hotel, staff members always opened the front doors for me as if I were the star of a Broadway show making an entrance.

Light show on Victoria Harbor, Hong Kong

On my last night, I decided to take the Star Ferry sunset cruise on Victoria Harbor to watch the laser light show on the buildings of Hong Kong.  Below deck, I was sitting alone at a big empty table, peacefully nibbling oolong tea cookies and drinking a weird tasting lime soda when an Asian boy of about age 10 approached. He asked if he and his friends could sit with me. When I said “Yes,” his face lit up. He and the three other children he was with pounced on me with delight. They practiced their broken English with enthusiasm and forgave my non-existent Chinese. They brought me extra treats from the concessions, possibly purchased with pure charm.

Us on the Star Ferry

As I tasted the jasmine tea cookies they had brought me and the Coca Cola they placed before me with great reverence, I wondered where on earth their parents were. When I asked, they pointed at a couple of women sitting at another table, one of whom seemed to be an “aunt”. As I waved at the women, they looked up, smiled briefly and went back to their own conversation. I was a little thrown that they did not try to engage me in talk, but odder still, when I got up and the children followed me outside onto the deck, they did not even look up. There was only a rail between us and the dark water. The children and I laughed and took pictures and chatted up the crowd of strangers on deck while I worried about them going overboard. It was a long time before I realized that one of the people in the crowd was the father to one of the children. Then I realized another was father to two of the other ones. The children were safe. It’s just that the parents were being unobtrusive and letting their children have their own experience.  With me. No fear.  What could possibly be next?

Bali dogs

The dogs of Bali. Bali was the next destination on my agenda. It was beautiful and lush. Hindu culture was everywhere, just as Buddhist culture had been in Hong Kong. The traffic was wild. And the dogs. Oh, the dogs. In Indonesia there is no leash law. The dogs of Bali roamed free. They lounged on the sidewalks and didn’t move when I passed. They slept on busy streets and dozens of trucks and cars and motorcycles would pause to wait for them to notice them and slowly amble out of traffic. They made me nervous but you’ve got to wonder: First the protestors were not afraid, then the children, the parents and now the dogs of Bali.

Landing on Gili Trawangan

But it was time to move on. As I walked into the sea and climbed aboard a small speedboat in my bare feet, clutching my suitcase on my way to my next stop on the Gili Islands, I could not imagine what I would find there.

Cats.

The Cats of the Gil Islands

Ever heard the term, “fraidy cat”? Ever met a cat that wasn’t? Every cat in the Gili Islands was like that. Not afraid. Seriously. I met not one cat who ran from me. In fact, they were so flirty that if I made eye contact they would follow me anywhere. The Gilis are so small that there are no motorized vehicles allowed and the islands are Muslim so there were no dogs at all on the Gilis. Only cats. Funny cats. Silly cats. Inbred with funny stumpy tails. Ownerless and casual, these cats are loving, friendly, sweet and amorous. Unfortunately, I had to avoid petting them because rabies is present in Indonesia along with the bad water.

My bike and me on Gili T.

Bali and the Gili Islands are impoverished places. The paradise of the coast is offset by the shacks of the interior island dwellings easy to witness when I went on my bike rides through the center of Gili Meno, my favorite island. Gili Trawangan was so small I could bike around it in 45 minutes but I could walk around Gili Meno in the same amount of time. Yet it is so safe that when I rented my bike on Gili M. ($3 for 24 hours) and asked about a lock, the rental person looked at me with confusion and incredulity. “No one will take your bike on Gili Meno,” he scoffed. “Maybe in Gili T.,” he added with indignation, “but not on Gili M.” He was right.

The Blue Coral Restaurant on Gili M.

Gili Meno was tranquil. It was my favorite place in Indonesia. I spent my morning hours writing a screenplay on an outdoor patio after breakfast and my afternoons snorkeling with sea turtles. Huge ones, almost as big as my body. It was like swimming with dinosaurs. Each evening I would stand on the porch of my beach hut overlooking the ocean and turn slightly to the left to watch the sunset. The next morning I would stand in the same place and turn slightly to the right to watch the sunrise. The island was that small. It was hard to leave. In fact, I extended my stay on Gili Meno three times before reluctantly walking barefoot into the sea again to return on my speedboat to the city. I enjoyed the tourism in the busy town of Ubud which was my next stop, but on Gili Meno I had found peace and freedom.

There on Gili Meno it was I who had no fear.

When I returned to the states it was quite a shock. There was an immediate stark difference which shook me to my core. After all, I had been gone almost a month. That’s long enough to get used to the rhythms of another culture. Here is the first thing I noticed on my return to America:

Everyone and everything is terrified.

Truly.

Sunrise on Gili M.

Once back in Portland, dogs behind fences in opulent neighborhoods growled and barked as I passed. Cats ran from me. Children hid behind their parents’ skirts. Parents stopped me from talking to their children even if the children spoke to me first. And I could not hold onto my peace. After all, fear is infectious. No wonder it is so hard to make friends in America. What is going on here? Are we that isolationist? That afraid? Could America possibly be more dangerous than Asia with its strict laws and swift punishments? It certainly felt like it. After all, the Clackamas Mall, Rogue River Community College and the Sandy Hook shootings were all near misses for me in one way or another. So was 9/11. But these things don’t happen that often. Statistically, most of the time in America we are quite safe.

We just don’t feel safe.

Gili Cat and Sarongs

My thought about that feeling is that maybe it is our freedom in America that makes us so uneasy. We watch a lot of crime shows and think that’s around every corner. We see protestors and worry they will change our world. There is anger and hatred like I have never seen before as people watch programming or join groups which encourage vitriol against one side or another. A side that I believe is invented. Is it the fear of the other which has always kept us in our small groups and our homes? Where we don’t learn and don’t grow. Where we don’t experience the other? And now because we are in the middle of a quarantine due to the Covid-19 pandemic, we are all in middle of a historic moment in a strange land. We can’t visit the other. And I didn’t need to go on a Hong Kong walking tour to get hit by a rubber bullet in order to make history. This time it isn’t even other people who are the adversary. We are trapped alone in the middle of a global war started by an enemy which has no personal malice.

Me in Gili Meno

I wonder, is there a way to have both freedom and freedom from fear?

I don’t know.

But I want to be like the cats of Gili Meno.

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Sharks Under the Floorboards

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

At Newport Aquarium, Oregon

Two dogs knocked me down by the side of the road and started eating my back.

“Surely someone will stop to rescue me,” I thought  as a car went right past me without stopping. I realized I needed to get up or die so I threw off the dogs  and stood up, victorious.

Okay, that didn’t really happen to me.  It is something that I dreamed.  But the symbolism is obvious, isn’t it?

Fend for yourself. Don’t count on anyone. Rescue yourself.

Or is that the message? Maybe the people in the car didn’t see me lying on the road.  But what if they did? Some people are just jerks.

On set candid acting at Hug Point for the film “The Beloved”

Living with the uneasiness of life and having a fistful of friends, relatives and professional connections who might love you and then leave you is hard. It’s a balancing act to trust that there will always be someone there who has your back and doesn’t just want to eat it.

My whole life has been filled with dreams like that. Sharks under my house bumping up against the floorboards and threatening to break through. Dinosaurs wrecking havoc on the lower floor of my hotel. The same potential threats and rewards are all around us all the time in waking life. Sometimes I feel safe and sometimes I do not. Yet whether I feel safe or do not feel safe has little bearing on whether or not I really am.  So what’s the answer?

I am not sure I have one.

There are lots of spiritual and psychological practices that help. There are also practical ones to know, like the number of the fraud line at the Department of Justice and even better, the swift action the Attorney General will take if you just pick up the phone. (If you didn’t know that, write that down. I learned it late in life.)

A performance of my original play “Suicide in the Garden” at Fertile Ground 2020

I am still learning to trust the friends I have, to be compassionate with them and yet be willing to stand up to them if things go wrong between us. I used to think, “If there’s a problem, I caused it.” Those days are gone.

The truth is that everyone has a perspective. In the painful year or so since my mother died–something which has been so much harder than I ever thought possible–I have continued to learn and relearn many things. The biggest one continues to be, “What would it mean if the problem wasn’t me?”

My signature rainboots.

As to what this has to do with being an artist, I don’t know. Except that artists need to have perspective. Both in visual art and when creating characters.

And I have to remind myself of my own.


Note: Thanks, friends for bearing with the long wait for a blog post. It doesn’t mean lots of lovely artsy professional things haven’t been happening. It’s just been a difficult time.

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Hard Words in the Snow

Tillamook Head this morning.

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

Snow Day!

Today is a snow day for schools on the coast!

Checking the district website, I confirmed this at 6:40 a.m. this morning. The information was as clear on the bright blue webpage as the snow which piled up outside my window. On the other hand, Aesop had a different opinion. That website still had me on the roster as a substitute. I flipped back to the district website. It was perfectly clear: No School Today.

Feeling a bit silly, I abandoned all faith in computers and called the people at the school. After all, they adored me. They might laugh at me but they would never stop hiring me, the wonderful writer and actor in their midst who loved working with their children in Special Ed, right? If I couldn’t call them, who could I call?  Besides, I told myself, no one will be there anyway. To my surprise someone picked up the phone. She replied, “Oh, we are required to be here in cause some students show up. There is no school.”

Performing my script “In Season” in Daisy Dukes Shorts Night 2019. From left: Ross Laguzza, Victoria Blake, Cecily Overman.

Hating the idea that anyone would be expecting me, even a computer, I checked Aesop again. By this time I knew I was acting insane but I couldn’t help myself. Suddenly the purple and black pages of the website had become a cold alive entity with a mind all its own. It was clear IT still thought there was a job for me. Wait. The person on the phone said “we”. Did “we” mean “me”? Adults? But why? Knowing I was being ridiculous, I called the school once more to clarify that not only were there no students there, there were no teachers there either. “Right,” the same voice confirmed. “No teachers are here,” she said. There is no reason to come.”

Hanging up, I checked Aesop a third time. To my consternation, I was still on the roster. I did NOT like seeing my name there.  I am a very diligent person. What if I didn’t take the drive through up the ice to the school and somehow IT found out? What if it accused me of being a no show? Maybe it would decide I was a poor risk. Could I exist as a performer and a writer without my day gigs? Would my delicate ego withstand being rejected as a substitute teacher? NEVER. I would not tolerate it. I decided to do BATTLE with Aesop. I would reject IT before it rejected me. “I know!” I cried. “I will hit the CANCEL JOB button.”

As producer of PDX Playwright’s* Crazy Dukes Instant Play Festival last week-end. Deciding the prompts with stage manager Monica Dailey

In triumph, I pulled the trigger and pushed the button. I was met with a stern retaliatory threat from Aesop: “If you cancel this job, you will NOT be allowed to take any other jobs in the district today. Are you SURE you want to cancel this job?” Despite the ludicrous fact that I was being rejected from jobs that WOULDN’T exist and that I was cancelling a job that DIDN’T exist, I found myself backing down and taking my hand off the trigger. In turn, Aesop holstered its guns and I remained a teacher on ITS roster. Refusing to feel pathetic by my lack of muster, I told myself there was no point in engaging in warfare with a computer. Instead, I would wait for the polite phone call which was sure to come from some nice REAL person in the district office.

Instead, two hours later Aesop emailed me with these hard words: “You have been removed as a substitute for this job. Your services are no longer required.”

I felt hurt. Wow. Hurt?

Abandoned ideas from the audience for the playwrights in writing their Instant Shorts. We could not use them all!

Words can hurt under the most bizarre circumstances. It’s important to notice that.  The truth is even when we know the reasons behind them, rejection still can destroy us.  As artists, we can never remind ourselves of this enough. Whether our sitcom gets cancelled or the art show is over or we only make it to the third interview, there is always an ending to everything. My motto these days is that most of the time, it’s not us.

It’s a snow day.

Seaside beach this morning

______

*PDX Playwrights participates every January in Portland, Oregon’s Fertile Ground Theatre Festival of New Works.

This year my short script In Season won a place in the Daisy Dukes Shorts Nights on Jan 25-Feb 1.  I was the producer of their Crazy Dukes Instant Shorts Jan 25-27, 2019.

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Cold Teeth and Overhead Lights

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts – 

Looking toward the sun in Seaside, Oregon

As I rushed down the oceanside promenade, the blowing rain whipped my hair into my mouth. Despite my repeated efforts to push it back under my hood, it seemed to have a life of its own. The shirt under my coat felt rough. My right sock bunched up inside my rain boot. My whole body was buzzing.

Once at home, I threw off my coat but it twisted up in my armpits and I stumbled. I kicked off one boot and tripped over it, by now enraged. All of my clothing seemed to be conspiring to attack me. And I was so hungry I could not think. I reached into the refrigerator for my salad and took a bite.  The coldness of the lettuce hurt my teeth.  I changed into a softer shirt. It bugged me because the material kept getting caught in the dry skin on my fingertips. Lost in thought, I tripped over the other boot as I got myself out the door to give a talk in front of a large group of people. 

With my friend casting director Marie Welsh and other members of the cast of “The Librarians” watching the finale in Oregon City

Though I spoke in what I thought was a reasonable tone of voice, only twenty percent of the people seemed to hear me.  The rest kept chatting with their friends. As I raised my voice to engage them, the whole group looked up in alarm. I now realized that I was too loud.  I fumbled to find a middle range acceptable to all.

Later, I went out to a restaurant with friends who were quite comfortable ordering their drinks in the echoey bar which to my dismay had no carpet on the floor to absorb the sound. It was also too dim and yet somehow too bright due to the all the overhead lighting. I was the only one who was cold. 

Just my tent, my car and me: Last summer in Myrtle Creek, Oregon

Recently I have discovered that I am what is known as a “highly sensitive person”. Everyone has met these people. Well-meaning people call us “over sensitive” and “easily irritated”. Mean-meaning people take delight in bullying us because our reactions are so extreme. When I was a little girl in school I remember crying all the time. Things were too harsh, too smelly, too hot, too cold, too light, too dark or too loud.  The sound of the toilet flush filled me with terror. 

Highly sensitive people (HSPs) pick up on other people’s moods and are more aware of what is going on in the immediate environment.  Sometimes we lower our eyes to shut out the stimuli and as a result are labeled “shy”. We have to go off alone to get away from all the buzzing, wild activity around us, and so I did.  As a child, I read a lot and walked alone in the hills. I still do. We take longer to make decisions because we are deep thinkers. This ruminating drives other personality types crazy. It makes us more perfectionistic and often “touchy”. Yet the wonderful thing is as a result of this processing, we often see things that no one else can see. We are creative in new and unique ways.

Halloween celebrants in masks at the 45th Northwest Filmmaker’s Kickoff party: Portland Museum of Art.

As actors, writers and artists, it is important to understand different personality types because they are “characters” in literature and on the stage. The word “persona” can be traced to the Latin and Greek as the word for a theatrical mask.  A fantastic study of a historical character who fits the bill as a highly sensitive person is Norman Josiffe in a mini-series with 10 nominations this awards season, A Very English Scandal on Amazon. He is portrayed by Ben Whishaw as a classic “HSP” who is taken advantage of by Jeremy Thorpe, played by Hugh Grant, who has a contrasting “warrior-king” personality. Interestingly, the story’s premise is that Ben is the one taking advantage of Jeremy. Yet Jeremy is a devious predator in a high position, while Ben retreats in a corner and cries all the time. Ben is accused of being a leech who can’t hold down a job. But that’s because Jeremy prevents him from getting a work visa. So Ben blackmails him. It was a fascinating comparison of two personality types and wonderfully funny. Neither character is particularly virtuous and yet I could not take my eyes away.

Winning my own award for Best Screenplay “Bird in the Water” in the Northwest Exposure Competition at the 45th NW Filmmaker’s Festival

Twenty percent of the population has the personality trait of the HSP and many are artists. Being attracted to music and the arts is one of the traits which may be an indication. As artists, it is important to understand and accept ourselves whatever our personality traits, and use them for good and not for evil.

Unless we are creating a character in a mini-series.

______________

Note: The “highly sensitive person” is a trait that began to be studied in earnest by the early 1990s by famed psychologist Dr. Elaine Aron. She has a test you can take if you like, which has 27 questions: (Click here)

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Goalie No More

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts

Photo by Deneb Catalan in PDX

I keep meeting people who are all about the no.

I used to be this way too.

Once upon a time I thought I would just live in one place and keep my old friends and stay in the same town and work at the same type of thing. Then everything and almost everyone in my life went south. The truth is, when that happens, we can take care of it or we can die in our own muck.

We are only going to live so long. Then why is it that when we don’t like our lives, we don’t want to keep trying?

Many people think that because they’ve done a lot of work in their early life, they shouldn’t have to repeat that work in the second half of life. They shouldn’t have to start over in marriages or make better friendships.  A lot of people say “it’s too late” once they are out of their 20s or 30s or 40s. They say “I’ll never learn a new language” or “I’ll never become a better driver” or “It’s too late to become a doctor”. (It actually isn’t. People in their 50s and 60s have done it.)

Putting it together…again and again.

For the sake of argument, let’s say it is rather late in life. What does that matter? We are not done with life until we die and that is going to happen when we are right smack dab in the middle of something we are doing. So why shouldn’t it be doing something we love?

The truth is, everything changes. All the time. Friends grow cold and new friends come. Jobs sour and housing situations fall apart. Long-term groups disband. Or they don’t. And that can be even worse. If you don’t keep doing the work of making your life an adventure, you can get stuck alone in your backyard until it turns into a decrepit back alley. (Of course alleyways can be interesting too. But most of us don’t want to live in them.)

A lot of people say the reason people don’t leave their mucky alley is because of fear.

I say it’s because it takes effort.

I don’t mean that one should throw caution to the wind and just walk out that door whenever you have a bad day, but do I say this: It is okay to leave a bad scene. You just have to have a plan.

Tiptoeing through an Oregon forest

Baby steps.

If you are careful and educate yourself, get support and lay the groundwork for new relationships (even if fruition is years out), you can slide out of one bad situation into a better one without a dramatic jolt.

One of the things I am trying these days when I feel stuck or anxious is not to think in terms of goals, but to think in terms of learning something. For example, one day I debated with myself whether it was more of a pain to return an item or keep it, because it meant a tedious drive, a difficult time parking and a conversation with a stranger.

As I worked to decide, I reasoned that I had the time, I wanted to see that part of the city anyway, and I would find out how hard it was to park if I ever wanted to go to that section of town again. I also knew I would meet someone.  After all, psychologists say that even if you have no friends or are having a lonely day, it can really boast your mood to simply talk to strangers.

They also say that going on an uncomfortable trip forges new synapses in our brains.

The Red Baron Never Gave Up…

Remember, the key to all of this is not to have a goal. A plan, yes, but not a goal. Every time I picture in my mind that things are going to go a certain way in life if I do A, B and C, I end up miserable. But if I think of life as a learning situation then I never lose.

By the way, I returned the item and it was a tedious drive. But I found parking, got my money back and saw a new part of the city. Plus the guy at the cashier was cute.

And who knows where that will lead?

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Uninvited

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts

San Diego Zoo Doodle Book

Lately I have been thinking about rape.

A tough subject, I know.

However, sometimes when people talk about the elephant on the table it helps the other baby elephants in the room.

Lots of us have been raped. Or almost raped. Or at least threatened with sexual attention we don’t want, directly or indirectly. Most of us are pretty literal when we say something like “could you give me a ride?” or “I only want to kiss” and yet many people we work with or have dated or are married to will try to put their hand somewhere uninvited and say something that seems really weird along the lines of like “I must have read you wrong”.

Remember, I’m talking about husbands and friends, not strangers.

How has this come to pass? I think the answer is easy. I have been reading a lot of church and theatre history lately, which means I’ve been reading about history, period. History is mostly about war and boundaries. Who the “other” is. Why it’s okay to kill the other. Or rape them.

One thing is not like the other

The “other” is someone who doesn’t think the way we do.  In ancient Greece, the attitude was simple. You were Greek or you were a barbarian. That went for men or women. But in Athenian culture, even a woman of the highest class was thought of as a kind of animal. Women were considered “wild” and in order to control them, they had to be caged up in their houses. They never even went out of the house unless there was a funeral.

They were rape captives.

Think about the fact for one brief second that most of what we have been taught is wonderful about Western Civilization: the philosophy, architecture, ideas that we have about the sexes, theatre, literature and art were created by one group of people.

No, I do not mean men.

If you are a man, chances are you were not among these people. Think of it like this. If you were a man then most likely you would have been a slave.

You would have been rape fodder.

Satyr Loving a Maiden, Hearst Castle, CA

The warrior class, the rich, the scholars, the artists who were savvy or financially supported, they were the ones who had leisure to write all the beautiful literature and design the beautiful buildings and paint all the naked ladies and men. It is true, of course, that they were also men. But the statistic likelihood is you would have not been one of the elite. If you can imagine that being castrated and then having a life as some man’s sexual toy is normal then you can start to put yourself in the shoes of most people of the time.

 Everyone had slaves prior to the Medieval Era. Greece eventually was enslaved by Rome along with much of the known world. The Greeks and everyone else who wasn’t a Roman citizen then became the “other”. That included in particular a new sect of people called Christians who were excessively tortured and butchered and raped. Over time, various emperors stopped the butchering, sanctioned it and then stopped it again. When an emperor named Constantine came along, the murder of Christians stopped for the final time. Then guess who became the “other”?

 Anyone the emperors decided wasn’t a Christian.

Jelly Belly Stained Glass

Bear this in mind, until the 10th century Christianity was a peaceful sect. There were no Christian soldiers. It was forbidden by their faith to shed blood. But when Charlemagne came along, he wanted Germany (aka Saxony) for his own, so he rewrote the Eucharist. A little later, Pope Urban II became sick of all the medieval local people who were killing and raping each other and again rewrote Christianity. That meant that for the next two hundred years his soldiers were conscripted to try to force the apocalypse.

 They called it the Crusades.

 Not long after, a man named Christoforo Columbo came along with a similar vision. When he wandered into the Americas he was so sure of his place in heaven that he believed he had been mentioned in the bible. Yet he and his people raped the native women over and over and eviscerated them along with their husbands and children. They cut off their hands and noses and body parts and laughed.  How could this explorer and his men think there was a place waiting for them in the afterlife which would reward them for such behavior?

 Because, the Native people had become the “other”.

Lots of Little Sallys, Knott’s Berry Farm, CA

We all know who the Nazis thought of as the “other”. We know 11 million people were killed in their Holocaust. But here’s an evil fact you probably did not know about the noble events of D Day. When our Russian allies entered Germany at the end of World War II, they raped two million little girls and their grandmothers and mothers. Some of them over and over.

To death. And the U.S. hushed it up. Why?

Because these little girls and women had now become “the other”.

Are you surprised that the Russians were not hauled up on war crimes along with the Nazis? I was. But then I realized that the Russians weren’t the only ones who did this during the war.

 American GIs raped too.

Fire Burn in the Petrified Forest, Calistoga

Rape camps exist in America. Here and now. They are not officially sanctioned by our government but they are allowed and supported by our rebels within every city and state but especially in Los Angeles, New York and…uh, believe it or not, Oklahoma. They aren’t just something that just existed in wartime Bosnia (50,000 women and little girls in three years) or Rwanda (half a million women and little girls in 100 days). It would be nice to think that the environment which has allowed women’s stories about their sexual abuse in the entertainment world would have a trickle down effect and that the little girls and boys and women being held hostage in our country would be rescued. After all, Charlize Theron and Lady Gaga are the elite among women. When I heard them speak out I felt such a flood of relief. Finally, the stories we performers had told each other, told our agents and friends and boyfriends and the entertainment unions and police officers to no avail were now being heard! We were so tired of the dance, so tired of trying to avoid James Toback (I have three stories about him) and Warren Beatty (three) and Kevin Spacey (one) and Harvey Weinstein (two) and Matt Lauer (several) and the agent Lionel Larner (one) as well as Mary Tyler Moore’s New York agent (two) in order to have careers. By now I have read lots of autobiographies by highly successful and respected actresses of the 60s, 70s and 80s. I am convinced in order to have much of a career during those years, you had to be a party girl.

And if you were, I respect you.

Sally, a prostitute survivor in Steinbeck’s “Sweet Thursday”, Monterey

And we should. We should respect our party girls. Sometimes you can only navigate change in the trenches.  Rape survivors do the same. The dissociate during the act(s), they forgive their rapists or they don’t forgive them, whatever works best. Sometimes they tell their stories. Some of my girlfriends who survived rape or prostitution have told their stories to me. The ones I know that have escaped that life with their sense of self intact have an inner light difficult to explain. They look like movie stars.

Sometimes they are.

However, I must confess that I think the primary reason for this media attention is not because we have become more evolved as a nation. I think it’s because of the bottom line. There used to be more money in hushing up all of this “sex” stuff that movie producers and directors and actors have been doing to us for years. But trafficking is big business. And trying war criminals is expensive. No wonder the women of Bosnia see their rapists in the neighborhood every day and no one does anything. No wonder the Russian solders have not been hauled up on their war crimes. As for our own backyard? Well, some of us love the boy who crossed the line. In America we often protect his life at the expense of the little girl whose life has been destroyed.

Perhaps if there is hope for an egalitarian future, it’s in those men who love women and respect them enough to understand that we ARE “other”, just not “other” in the way which has been determined for us by a history of warmongers.  Those men never asked women what sexuality meant for them. Instead, they took. It is they who defined sexuality long ago as the thing that most men want most: coitus. When we say we don’t want it we are called names. This has given us no chance to fight for what we really want any more than we can fight the idea that “The Hero’s Journey” is the best structure for writing a play.

A contemplative couple at the Sutro Baths, CA

The truth is, the act of coitus has never been the safest or most logical thing to do. Until recently with the advances of birth control and health support for pregnant women (not to mention raising the age of consent), one could argue that it is something that hasn’t made any sense to do except on rare occasions and only if a woman is willing to risk her life. Now it’s safer and things are a little different and yet they are still the same: If you want to know what women want, just ask. We will tell you. The answer is usually something like, “We just want a fellow, warm and snuggly, not presuming.” We’re pretty simple. I think that’s what men want too…no presumption. We are more alike than different. In fact, our primary source of pleasure is almost exactly the same.  We have very similar anatomy to men in that regard. It just gets ignored.

In any case, all avenues of pleasure are fine for lovers who respect each other but “no” means” no”, whether you are single, married, a co-worker or a soldier.

Wait to be invited.


Sources: See Bibliography.

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My One and Only

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts

As I gazed into the face of my true love, my heart began to pound.

It was a crucial moment, yet neither of us spoke.   I glanced down at my chaste glass of cola-and-grenadine and turned longingly toward the bar.  A fire warmed the faces of late evening happy-hourers who flirted with Andrew, the handsome young bartender.  They sipped drinks with alluring names like Smoke on the Beach or Brandy Sea Foam.  Dare I indulge? No, I thought. I must be strong. I must let whatever emotion was there to come and not numb myself even if I was afraid.

As I turned back to face my lover, the anxiety once again overwhelmed me.  I took a deep breath and made myself take in all the rich beauty of this being in front of me to whom I had revealed so much.  It had been healing in so many ways to be in this relationship. So much shame had left me and so much doubt. The process had helped me get to know myself better and to know that I was indeed loved. It had opened me up and brought more people into my life and it had made me a better person. To spend so much time with my beloved had been nothing but joy and bliss.

Yet somehow it had become twisted.

Sometimes I wondered if it was all the counseling which we had received which was the problem. People had given us high praise but they also had given us many suggestions for change. Both fortunately and unfortunately, I had put into practice many of these suggestions.  Is this what had wrecked us? Had I picked this thing apart too much?

Maybe it was all this waiting around for the next step that was the trouble. They say if things don’t move to the next level of commitment after a couple of years, a relationship can start to eat itself into oblivion.  Perhaps I had become too invested without any hope of a return.

Either way, I had to end it.

As my tears began to fall, my lover offered me no comfort so I turned my attention outside. Torrential rain was gliding down the windows in sheets and in the distance the ocean was raging. I wondered, would I find another to love as much as I loved this one?

There was no way of knowing.  I turned back to my sweetheart and reached out for one last caress. We said our goodbyes and I closed the door.

Once alone, I stared at the solitary empty glass before me. After a moment, I called over to Andrew, the cute bartender. He brought me a huge glass of Syrah and I lifted the glass to toast the end of my anxiety. Then I looked around the cafe. All around me there were people I hadn’t even noticed. A hopeful-looking older guy tottered over to me and asked me if I was married to that laptop in front of me. It wasn’t far from the truth so I cocked my head at his grizzled face and teasingly told him yes. He asked me to guess his age and became flustered when my guess turned out to be correct.  He then sat down without any kind of invitation from me and began to tell me all about his life.

Then an even older fellow (I gauged him to be about seventy-two) made his way over to us announcing, “I’m here to rescue you.” He also proceeded to sit down uninvited and begin to talk to me about himself. Wrapped up in his history, I forgot about the first guy until he sidled off in resignation. When my septuagenarian finally realized he was not going to get my number, he ambled off as well.

At this point young Andrew returned and asked me, “Can I get you anything else?” I couldn’t help but laugh, “Yes, more men!” I told him I’d been in this café before many times without anyone hitting on me. He smiled and said, “Then you must not get out very much. You are a beautiful woman.”

I handed him back my check (with a very large tip) and watched him sway gracefully back to the bar.  His compliment raised my hopes and made me feel a bit better. I glanced back down at my computer and thought that it wasn’t the laptop to which I had been married, it was the screenplay which lay inside. For this was the lover to whom I had just said goodbye.   This script was the one I had decided was my greatest work, the beloved one I had worked on for so long, the one which had received so many compliments from colleagues and competitions. This was the one which would have brought me acclaim, the one which would have changed my world forever.

This was my one and only.

In that moment I realized that this was my problem.

When any relationship ends, it is painful.  However, they say the people with the most success at love are the ones who don’t believe in one-and-onlys. They don’t believe in destiny or fate and they don’t believe in soulmates. Believing there is only one person for you means we never grow and it means there will never be another chance at love.

It is the epitome of being stuck.

As I pondered my closed laptop, I had to remind myself that this work of mine over which I had toiled was not my one and only.  There had been a script before it and I had “cheated” on it with three scripts after it. They had all been produced and performed. If this script hadn’t been, maybe it just wasn’t the right time.

Or maybe it was never meant to be.

As I stared out of the window, I let go of my dream of fame and fortune which I had thought Liberty and Grace would bring me and thought, Now what? Maybe I’ll have more time to play the piano now. Maybe I’ll get back to a more rigorous exercise regime.

Instead, as I let go, a new idea hit me. It grew and flowered and the energy from it filled my body. It was huge in scope and story and I had never heard of anyone telling this tale at all, let alone anyone telling it this way. It was a good idea and as I saw it come to life behind my eyes I imagined it on the screen, the story of the century, an international sensation…

and I laughed.

This way I would never begin.

As the dangerous grandiosity washed through me, I watched it carefully until it dissipated.  There would be time enough to open my laptop and begin the research tomorrow. After all, a real relationship doesn’t start in fantasy, but in attraction and then hard work. As I picked up my glass of wine, I relaxed back to watch the waves.

Everybody needs a little time between breakups.

———————————-
Images include the Shiloh Inn in Seaside, Oregon and Ecola Point on the Oregon Coast. All photos by Katie Bennett

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Orphan Rituals

A Big Life: Encouragement for People in the Arts

This morning I woke up out of breath.

It’s a usual thing…maybe it’s allergies, maybe I have emphysema.

Who knows?

These are the kinds of crazy thoughts I have.  Every day.

Thanksgiving and Christmas morning when you are by yourself can be difficult.

When I was a young artist living in New York it was a little different. There were lots of single, displaced career-minded actors without significant others. At Christmastime my Oregon friend Michael and I went out for Chinese food and then we would go to the movies. Sometimes we saw two. One of my favorite Thanksgivings was one I spent with my friend Jed, who is from Germany by way of Denmark. He bought a big chunk of pre-cooked turkey and I made Stovetop and sweet potatoes without any unhealthy toppings. At the party, we strung cranberries and popcorn for his Christmas tree and toasted each other with blackberry Manischewitz.

This is not the same thing as being an orphan at someone else’s party.  Last year at Christmastime in Portland, I realized that I had been attending other people’s rituals for quite some time.  So during the month of December, I began to create my own instead. I went to plays and concerts both by myself and with friends. I dressed the tree in red lights and put imitation birds on them like my mother did when I was small. On Christmas Eve I went to a high holiday candlelight service and when I got home, I made a trail of chocolate kisses and Hershey’s miniatures from my bedroom to the stocking under the tree the way my sister did when her children were young. In the morning I lit candles and put on the Hallmark Station’s Yule Log. I had already stuffed the things I had bought for myself earlier that month (things I needed which I was already using) into gift bags with tissue paper. When I woke up I cut open one of the Christmas cakes I had made the day before and toasted the morning with hot cocoa. Then I stuck the rest of the cake into the freezer.

Thanksgiving is not quite the same as Christmas. It’s a big social event which revolves around food preparation.  Even though I haven’t been feeling very social or brave lately, I determined to seek out a solitary adventure. Ha.  It didn’t take long to find out nothing was open. Not the ice skating rink, the community center or the museum. (Okay, the zoo was open but somehow that sounded cold and wet and lonely.)  What I did find that intrigued me was the West Linn Turkey Trot, a benefit for the local food bank. It’s an annual three mile run through a park filled with trees. By a river. Gorgeous. And very wet. I put on my rain coat and headed down the road to the sloshy parking lot.

As a solitary attendee, I had forgotten that when you go to events like this on your own, other people will talk to you. Especially if you talk to them. My shyness dissipated when I met the congenial Chris and Liz (from Texas), two cute policemen (from Oregon City), several sexy fire fighters (from Tualatin) and a bunch of flirty babies in backpacks. There were also about twenty galloping dogs and dozens of quick small children in running shoes. There were bottles of donated water and satsumas and Costco trail mix, a big digital clock so you could track your time and a little girl who sang the national anthem a capella. There were also lots of strollers and a whole lot of mud.

It was a blast.

Because of my breathiness this morning (the mugginess? ambient cat hair? nerves?), I thought that I would probably just walk and not run. But the exuberant planners had put up many handwritten signs of encouragement along the way including ones hanging overhead from the trees to jump up and “high five” which said things like, “You’re nearly there!”. A photo of a bikinied man from the television show Baywatch declared, “You have worked your Hassel hoff!” and another stated, “You’re doing so well that if you were in a documentary, Morgan Freeman would be narrating it!”  Caution tape kept us all from straying off the proscribed path. I realized suddenly that all of these messages were symbolic of how to live a good life.

Despite my derelict lung capacity, I ran nearly the entire three miles.  Afterward, I went home to get ready to go be a Thanksgiving orphan at someone else’s party. It’s not such a bad thing. After all, this way I don’t have to host the whole event myself. Right now I am now at home making deviled eggs and I’ve already laid out the Bailey’s on the counter.  I’m watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade live on YouTube. It’s a parade with a tradition which has special meaning to me because I used to go to watch it in person when I lived in New York.

The best thing about all of these explorations is that I now have some rituals I can share with friends…or with that special someone else whenever he comes my way.

But it also doesn’t matter. These are things I enjoy which I can do on my own.

And just knowing that is enough to make me breathe easier.

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