This One is About Me (Again) and Change (Again)

I turned down a job offer from Quentin Tarantino's producer today. I've also decided the time has come for a blog-reinvention.

Granted, it was an offer to be his personal assistant (not even his first, his lowly, grocery-shopping second) but still. It took me a long time to come to this decision, and I think I can still feel a phantom leg kicking myself subconsciously. This ties into the renovation of this page because I could've so easily and happily taken this job, because I wanted it. I really did. I could feel my lips forming the vowels out, "yeeeeees," without a breath behind it. I would get a paycheck. I'd work hard, and often, and want to work well. I would do a good job for him, and be proud of it.

But I would change, and become the other Teresa, the one who goes out to bars and shops intensely at Express, and carries clutches. The one who is confident in how the world works: wake, work, play, sleep. Sometimes I wish I was that other girl, the one who sees movies only for fun, and sees manila envelopes without envisioning headshots inside of it. I would tell every person I meet to be that other me, rather than this one, because this Teresa struggles, and lives twelve lives at once, on a good day. I highly suggest living just one, if you can help it.

I never said this blog would be about anything other than me. I've only ever written here for myself, but it's gotten all messy, because I forget what I'm writing about sometimes. Just like I forget what I'm working for sometimes. And, in the case of rent jobs, it's not to afford pretty, pricey things, it's for that paycheck, so I can pay for the other things I really want more than a purse: classes, websites, pictures, networking events, bla bla bla. (Sometimes I really loathe all I know how to write about is myself. BOR-ing.) So. Tdawg4eva is getting a makeover, in the effort, that I too will give myelf one. I've gotten lost in the mess, and have stopped working for what I want, and have gotten caught up in working for...stability.

I think it was St. Augustine who said you should cherish your poverty, and love it, because it keeps the artistic drive alive. Then again, St. Augustine is a saint, and completely dead, and I'm neither of those things. So I'm not being too mean to myself about sometimes cherishing designer handbags over my lofty artistic poverty. This blog will now be about another actor's life, not to write a witty internet sensation that might get me Julie Powell's good luck, but to keep me on track. Because if I'm going to give up a job I could've loved, betrayed my other self once again, then I better make this poor girl's life worthwhile.

Sigh. I really loved Kill Bill 2.

Last Time:

Clearly, I suck at this daily writing thing seeing as I write every other day, if Blogger is lucky.

So. What have you missed out on? EXCITING STUFF, my friend! Ah, yes, exciting stuff, indeed!

- Checked out some bizarre photos on facebook of a guy I went on one date with in New York. He is really buff now. Like, scary buff.

- Lamely agreed to an apartment. Still not very happy. I excuse myself by saying I should be uncomfortable. It'll keep my artistic nature flowing. Or some shit.

- Drank coffee every morning this week. Starting to feel nast.

- Sat for an 8 week old yesterday, and about to go do it again. She hated me. Her parents hated me. I hated me. I'm sure it wasn't that bad, but...you start having really dark insights into your life when an infant is screaming at you and you can't figure out why.

- Became obsessed with Fallenfruit.org. Not sure if I'm ballsy enough to follow through.

- Got drunk at 4 PM. Watched Inglorious Basterds. Ate too many Puffens.

- Panicked, lied, smiled, cried. I didn't mean for that to rhyme. Sometimes life does it anyway.

I See You Have an Oscar Too

I wonder if celebrities, when they go to Starbucks or wherever, when they see other celebrities who they don't know personally, but who they recognize as fellow famous people, will go up and say, "Hey. Looks like we're the only two household names in here." Or whatever.

I think I might just leave quickly. Less awkward.

Letters

"...you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change..."- Rainer Maria Rilke

I read "Letters to a Young Poet" the summer after my freshman year at college. I was reeling from my first year living in New York, working with professional actors who had such cynicism and experience backing up their talent, hazy from the tumultuous end of my first serious relationship, and back under my parents' heavy wings. (Heavy from love and decade-old rulebooks, but mostly love.) Truthfully, I'd been assigned the book at the beginning of the year, bought it, and hadn't read it. When I finally did read it nine months later, it was if the world halted and started rotating in a different direction. It had all been written for me, somehow. I read and reread the letters as I sat outside the district library in my neon-pink summer concert series Staff t-shirt where I worked for minimum wage. I copied whole paragraphs down in my journal in flowing lettering and doodles of stars. I felt really connected to that dead German guy, and very included in the adult world.

The second time "Letters to a Young Poet" crossed my path was two years later. I was in the early days of my second very serious relationship, and living the half-crazed life of the actor-in-training. Everything in my life was about art, except the part about living, which was about stress and panic. Perhaps feeling that same angsty pull all twenty-year olds feel, a dear friend of mine became very, very sick, and couldn't see the next steps in her path. I packed her off one weekend to see her grandmother, and slipped her one of my most cherished snippets from Rainer Maria.

"So you mustn't be frightened, dear Mr. Kappus, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall."

She said it saved her. I don't know if the written word can save anyone, but I suppose it must have for someone at some point, so it very well have done the same for her.

Over the years, I've trucked my copy of "Letters to a Young Poet" all over the country. I don't always open it, but it's a comfort knowing it's there, with my underlinings and highlights in my 18-year old handwriting, stained and bent from years of prayerful readings. I don't particularly love Rilke's poetry, it's a little too pious and rambling for me, but so are his letters. Maybe what touches me is that these are letters to a young person, so familiarly lost and hopeful to please and confused, and it came two hundred years before my own bumblings through my artistic life. Rilke's advice applies to my own plight just as much as it does to Mr. Kappus'. And beyond the similarities of our paths, there is also the extraordinary honor of a correspondence between an amateur and his hero; furthermore, the wholly special joy it must have been to receive life lessons and advice from Rilke, and not just critiques to his work. I would've killed to have had a mentor. I still would. A good one, I mean. No use committing murder for a crappy mentor.

I didn't mean to write a post about a book we've all been assigned to read at some point. It's just, when I'm worried, or unsure of how I've come to a particular crossroads and even more uncertain of where to go next, years of reading and rereading Rilke has ingrained itself in my brain. His words flash through my brain, and I'm reminded I've felt this all before, and so have long-gone Europeans, and words and letters probably can save you.

I could go on, and delve into my cheesier feelings towards Mr. Rilke, but I won't, because he always ended his letters rather abruptly after a long and winding shpeil about life and art and bla bla bla and sometimes it's better just to leave it at that.

Caffeine is the Devil

I really hate the idea of being dependent on anything on a daily basis, but it seems to be a losing battle with caffeine. I've had a true love-hate relationship with diet coke the past few years, especially when it comes down to the fact I just feel better off it. And now I'm leaning towards becoming a coffee drinker, strangely enough. I like the idea of it, just like some people like the idea of living in a dingy Paris apartment overlooking the Seine and smoking for breakfast and feeling depressed about life. People are weird.

I'm thinking about moving to a one bedroom apartment. I worry that I'm not good living alone, that I wouldn't go out and I'd be a hermit, but that's a bullshit response. It might have been true a year ago, but not now. I worry also that if anything goes wrong the only person who pays is me. I also worry some strange man will follow me home and accost me outside my door. I worry too that if I die in the bathroom no one will find me and I'll rot for weeks until someone downstairs complains about the smell. But really, I mostly worry about the strange man.

I've decided to go get a cup of coffee on my way to work today. I'm really, really looking forward to it. Also, I'm not looking forward to work. Sigh. I have to find another job because this one isn't giving me enough hours. Stupid job.

Things will get better. Coffee will fix it all.

Tara

I left my apartment about an hour and a half early tonight, because I was abruptly reminded how much I hate the place. The physical space is not bad, so...you'll have to imagine what it is about the 2 BR+2 B I don't like. I'd like to, but I won't name names. But just now I'm doing it in my head right now. "IT'S BLANK BLANKYBLANK'S FAULT I HATE MY HOME! BLANK BLANKYBLAAAANK!!!"

Moving on...

After ample consideration this past week, here is a rough idea of my ideal home. Sums me up pretty well. As it should.

- Lots of light, lots of windows, lots of windowpanes.
- Older is better, but not so old I fear ghosts after dark.
- Hardwood floors.
- A sunny breakfast nook.
- Built-in shelves.
- A record player next to a comfy rug.
- Basil plants. Heck, a whole damn herb garden. (Rosemary, mint, thyme)
- Plush carpets you can sink your feet into.
- A lemon tree. I'll settle for a lime tree, it's not a deal-breaker.
- A big, private yard with lots of old, big trees. Favorites include weeping willows, ginkgos, dogwoods, cherry trees, elms, oaks.
- Creeping vines that hug the outside of the house. The ideal would be if they were spotted with flowers. But only spotted! I want to SEE the vines.
- Exposed Brick walls. One will do.
- A library! A room full of books! Books, books, books! If I had my way, there'd be two stories, with a rolling ladder and a circular staircase, just like Henry Higgins. (Who also had a record player. Oh, well, a Victrola, if you want to be picky, stickler.)
- Old fixtures a la Anthropologie. But if they were actually old, rather than faux old, that'd be better. No ghosty fixtures though. I don't want any spirits stuck in my doorknobs.
- Good china. Good china I use. Old china. See above.
- Flowers! Magenta flowers!
- Fireplaces. If that can't be arranged, a wood stove will do very nicely. Something to toast the toes that doesn't require batteries or a plug.
- Quilts. Quilts for every room. Handmade and flawed and warm.
- Nooks, nooks, and more nooks. Each painted a different color.
- Big closets. Places for little children to hide and play.
- Walls in every color. Deep burgundies, golds, bright blues, warm greens, happy oranges and reds.

It's amazing, because the things I seem care about in my current apartment search don't even make this list. Who gives a fuck if I have a dishwasher? Or a garbage disposal? I mean, I am actually worrying about ghosts, but that was just the one place, and she'd died, like, yesterday. I don't want to have to call Ghost Hunters. Although, I do want to be on SyFy...no, still don't want to have to call Ghost Hunters. I don't do well with the paranormal.

The important thing here is that my old apartment had none of these things. None. Not one. Except for the quilt I brought with me, and some shit rug. I want so much from the world, I want love and happiness and fulfillment and an agent and national health care, but I want a good home too. If there was ever an American Dream, I think that would be it. A home, a bit of earth, a place to want to be, a place that carries my name. When I get tired of fighting to find a role and/or a film to carry my moniker, I'll remind myself of the home I want just as badly, and maybe that will carry me through, until the day I come home.

Moving Sucks

Moving sucks, from start to finish.

You pack, you heave, you hem, you haw, you haul, you unpack, you sleep, you live, you despair, you pack, etc.

I'm not particularly happy with where I live now. I wasn't when I moved in. I'm currently in that apartment, in the room I never go, the living room, and find the irony embarrassing at this point. I did a bad job of living here.

My first year in LA could be summed up that way. Not that I haven't seen so much of what this city encompasses. I have a rough idea of how to get around Silverlake and Los Feliz. I have climbed the hills, driven Mulholland at Sunset, cursed the 10 and 101 and the 405, cursed the 5, found some beauty in the Valley. I have California plates and a California driver's license. I've gone to a club. Gone to the beach. Driven the PCH. Corrected foreigners on the correct pronunciation of "Wilshire."

Not home yet.

I don't have high hopes for this next apartment either. After a certain point, they all start looking alike. White walls, whitish carpets, oh look another toilet. Great. I always think I don't need very much, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm as high-mai as any other girl, and I just like to pretend I'm not until I realize I'm miserable.

Moving sucks. The only thing is, I can't stay here. I really, really can't stay here.

BTW JWP

By the way, did I mention Joanna Wilson Photography posted my headshot photos on their blog?

Best photographers on two coasts...

Libraries are for Lovers

I rotate between several writing spots in my neighborhood. The community Starbucks, of course, whose many downsides include constant seating limitations and a complicated Wi-Fi process that makes me feel angry. Then there's the hip & funky local coffee shop (owned by the same family who runs the hip & funky local bar next door) which used to have free Wi-Fi until a day ago ($5 minimum now, and of course, the drinks are just sliiiightly underpriced and the food is waaaay overpriced), and often is either too hot or too cold for this fussy chica. And then there's the library. Which is where I am today.

The library is undervalued, I think, except by the blossoming seas of underemployed. I realized the other night, as I lay in bed (because apparently when I lay in bed I think about public book lenders), the problem with the influx of job-seekers is that the library becomes...not a library. The books are forgotten. There aren't even that many of them. There's a good DVD section. Some very useful free computer stations. A printer. Lots of little round tables with midget chairs for children. Three open rooms with once-plush chairs. And an entire center section for all those desperately searching for jobs to spread out their resumes and laptop wiring as they click "Submit," "Submit," "Submit." Don't get me wrong, I AM ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE. I have spent disgusting amounts of time in these miniature chairs. (NOTE: There is not one child in any of the children chairs today. Eleven adults, though...) But, I love a good library for what it represents: available literature to all who crave words. Ready worlds that don't exist but in your hands and your eyes.

Maybe libraries are on the way out. Who reads books anymore? Who read newspapers? Who needs a building when you can spend a couple hundred on a Kindle and take your library with you? No, I refuse to believe it. Nothing is free in this world. Not even, really, libraries, since they are paid for by taxes and by the town. But this is a safe place, in a world of meanies and jerks. This is a place where you are allowed to escape, and it's meant to be quiet, and cell phones are not allowed. (Can you hear my typing, lady in pink shirt and blue shorts?! CELL PHONES ARE NOT ALLOWED. Gah!) It's a vortex in here, like I don't even really exist. Except for the fact that I am here, typing on my laptop, connected to the internet, still hooked into the beeping, charging world outside. Oh poo.

I go to the library to write because it is free. I don't have to buy a coffee I don't want. The bathrooms are clean. The floor is clean. It is (mostly) quiet. I can pick up a DVD for a couple days while I am here. I am reminded that I am constantly looking for a job, but it's okay, because so is everyone else. I am reminded that I love words. I put them together into strings as I sit here surrounded by the strings of others who did the exact same thing I did with many of the same words and the exact same letters, and one day found themselves employed.

Gene Kelly was Right All Along

Every once in a while in an actor's life, (say, every 6 months or so) you develop a weird stuffed-up feeling. It's uncomfortable. It sneaks up on you. It makes you want to use a blow-up butt pillow. The problem, my friends, is creative constipation.

Creative Constipation occurs in the animal world because actors are artists, and to be actors we have to do all kinds of crap just to attempt to get work, things that have nothing at all to do with the actual physical experience of acting. Just like the old pros predicted, once you get out of school...you actually don't get to act THAT much. Now, because actors are artists, there rises a level of non-acting bile in the body, creeping up over time as you go through days and weeks and months of juggling rent jobs and paperwork and everyday crap without the balancing effect of a creative outlet. Oh sure, you can exercise all day long, and go see movies, and watch great tv shows on HBO, and say things like, "I just LOVE Dostoeyevsky," but there's nothing quite like that release of built-up real world sludge, like the expenditure of that glorious creative soup welling up behind your eyeballs.

In the winter of 2008, I found myself writhing with creative blockage, so I started blogging. Lo and behold, I was released, more joyful, eager to awake and write in the mornings. Then, I began to blog more. People were reading it! Soon, I began to get actual jobs blogging, ("People want to pay ME to WRITE?! My life is gloooorious!") and then more jobs, and then bad jobs, and then non-paying awful jobs, and then I became bitter and jealous as I started to receive rejections, and then I stopped. I stopped because the writing had become like the acting: bad work to find good work. Unjoyful. Bad. I found myself getting pissed off that everybody had a blog, and they were so prolific, and funny, and orginal, their writing was just as good, if not much, much better than my own. ("Does that mean I'm not...*sniff*...special?") The appropriate response seemed to be: STOP WRITING.

That's never the answer, by the way. Just stopping. It's never right. Unless we're talking about meth, and, after watching an episode of Law & Order: SVU last night, I have to say...you should really stop taking meth if you're on it. That shit is crazy.

But here I am, again, feeling my creative juices have solidified into that nasty form hot fat takes when it cools into jello-lard. I wrote because it made me happy, and I wrote a lot because it worked the same muscles I used on-camera, or onstage. (It's all tied to the same organs, you see?) And I never did it for anyone but me until I started thinking, as I do all day every day, "Maybe I can make money off this skill!"

I'm still not sure what this blog is about. My career? My goals? My wholly original and ceaselessly interesting thoughts on everything me-related in this world? Yeesh. I sort of want to scrap the whole darn thing and start over...but then, it would only be the same as before, and it would only be paving a giant exit-less rotary for myself. And what this little chickie needs more than anything is a release, and not a loop.

In any case, I'll be back tomorrow...

Why The Heck Am I Dairy Free?

Well, Lauren, that's a good question. And before I start, let me be totally truthful: I was not dairy free on Days 4 & 5 in July. It was a holiday, and I was with the Lopes Family and they made us a carrot cake for our birthdays and I couldn't say no! However! I'm back on the path and feeling great!

It all started with a random comment from Laura Hughes, lovely vegan extraordinaire. She mentioned that she was so happy being dairy free and she really felt a difference, and it was one thing she didn't miss in her no-meat, no-dairy, no-fish diet. Huh. Really? But, doesn't milk do a body good?

Well, yes, when you're a baby. You're supposed to have milk! It's fortifying, full of fat, and delightful! Yet, who ever thought to drink it from another species?! WEIRD. And when you tumble the idea of milk around more, it gets weeeeirder. You're basically sloshing the mucus of another animal down your throat. Eeeew...And not to be TMI, but ever since I damaged my vocal cords in high school, I've had enough problems with my own coating of my throat, and have gone through periods of going dairy free anyway to try to maximize vocal clarity. (IE My voice sounds like poo sometimes because of humidity, seasons, or, yes, dairy intake. What kind of actor am I? Aiiee!)

Beyond the gross factor, I've been reading up on the website Go Dairy Free (www.godairyfree.org) and it seems that the ol' cheese & milk intake does indeed screw some people up. GDF says, "Milk protein allergies and lactose intolerance have been linked to a wide array of physical symptoms. For some, it is as simple as lethargy or weight gain, for others crippling migraines and "autoimmune" type symptoms are a lifestyle complication." Everyone in my family is officially lactose intolerant but me. Yet! I do however get funky 2 day headaches and stomaches sometimes at night. Could it be the dairy? Beats the crap out of me! I may as well try cutting it out for a little while.

Besides, I'm only trying it for a month. And it's been surprisingly easy so far! Sure, I can't eat carrot cake with cream cheese frosting whenever I want, but that's probably not a terrible thing. I figure I only need to do it til July 31st, and then the cow-world is my oyster! Or something...

But, if I like it I can always remain
yours truly,
Dairy Free

DAY ONE OF DAIRY FREE JULY

It went pretty well. I ate a yogurt at breakfast.

My head hurts so much today. Gah! It'll stay around all day long, and possibly into tomorrow. I hate this.

In other news...Episode 2 is up. www.getJLoSHed.com. I'm happy. Despite the headache. And no more yogurts.

I Heart the Alphabet

I've been spending a lot of quality time in rooms with writers lately. I don't know any of them, it's not that sort of room. In fact, I'm with them right now. Tee hee. None of them know I'm typing away about their focused, frozen faces! Ha ha! You all look so funny! Making your serious writer pouts..."I'm writing the next Graham Greene," "I'm like Dave Eggers, sort of!" "I'm a blogger! I'm mocking everybody else!" Haha. Silly.

We're all plugged in, and wearing headphones so we can pretend like none of us actually exist together in this big, fast city. We search out this perfect room, full of other people who wheeze big sighs and drink too much overpriced coffee and store odd wi-fi passwords like baseball cards and won't judge our frizzed, unwashed hair and chunky glasses. Does it make me a hipster, just being here? I do have holes in my jeans. And my bra strap is showing. I don't have an iphone. Crap. No, I'm just regular poor.

This is my warmup, by the way. I think that makes me more writerly. I mean, there had to be a reason they always made us do this in high school, right? Keep a notebook of the five minute warmup exercises, one sentence topics. No one reads them but you.

The reason I post it online, for any old weirdo to read (not that I'm calling you weird, but you could be. I don't really care. I didn't wash my hair.) rather than storing them faithfully in a blue notebook to lodge in a drawer in my closet, is because I'm lazy. It's totally true. My hand will hurt. I'll not care. I'll not use periods. I'll start skipping the bothersome letters, like "s" and "g". At least my imaginary internet audience might have standards. You make me write better. (And if I wasn't such a serious, and diligent author, I'd insert a smiley face right there, just to prove to you that I love writing this shit for you.) (But I won't. Because I'm serious about this shit.)

Oh, fuck it.

: )

Italians

Today, I went to the Beverly Hills Cheese Shop with my quasi-employer, who made me try too many cheeses as she fussed over what kind of cheese plate to make for her friend/quasi-employer's birthday. After complaining of dairy tongue, snacking on Dead Sea Salt crackers, and finally prosciutto, she spotted the Toblerone. If you aren't Italian, you probably won't care about Toblerone. It's a white nougat, cut into squares, soft and doughy, springy, filled with pistachios.

I haven't eaten Toblerone in a long time. (I use the brand as a generalized name, but it's not, btw.) My grandpa gives a box to my sister every year at Christmas. It's a funny gift that we all know is coming, and which he dutifully passes to her with a mischievous laugh, like they share an ancient Italian secret. We all cheer.

We're half Italian, did I mention that? My sister, Erin, is the least so of all of us. With blonde hair and blue eyes, and a heavily Irish name, she is the oldest of the cousins. She gets special gifts because she is.

I tried some of the Toblerone in my car today, after dropping aforementioned faux-boss off. It's made of sugar, honey, vanilla, but I could taste something else. Lemons? It tastes like warmth, of home. I called my sister. I told her why I was thinking of her. She laughed, and cooed over the connection. She told me our grandmother loved Toblerone, she was the one who always had it in the house, and the winter after she died, when Erin was 17, my grandfather presented it to her on Christmas morning. He wanted her to have it, because he wanted to keep doing what my grandmother always had done: give her first grandchild a soft sweet to make her feel loved, to remind her where her blood came from.

I didn't remember that about my grandmother. I remember she had soft and perfect skin, evenly powdered with layers of gentle smells and rose colors. I'm named after her, did I tell you that too? Theresa Saltarelli. She didn't want that, she thought I'd be teased, but my mother promised she'd drop the "h", and I was named Teresa.

It wasn't until I was 17 myself, the first time I went to the beach overnight without my parents, the first time I went to Senior Week, when I learned something else about my heritage. All my best friends had just graduated, a year ahead of me, so I went to Maryland to celebrate with them. A handful of us went to the beach, late at night, and didn't leave til morning. We counted stars, and did flips in the sand, and talked. I curled up with a boy, who later would become a boyfriend, and felt like I was so incredibly awake. He'd been drinking, not beer, I guess it was liquor, and all I could think of was my grandfather. I know, it's very strange, disconcerting to me, being wrapped up with a teenage boy, while all my thoughts were wrapped around my grandpa.

It was because that smell of liquor, of whiskey, was his smell. My grandfather drank, not til he was drunk, but enough so that I knew alcohol was his mark. I associated that breathy heat with him, with being cradled in his arms in a warm, orange kitchen, with Christmas trees, with cookies. My sister had nougat, and I had bourbon.

I wish I could write my grandpa's story. He's writing it himself. A whole memoir, his whole life. I wouldn't know what to say about him anyway.

Maybe, "He loved a woman who loved candy, and he gave little pieces of himself away every Christmas in soft, doughy squares, and he held me tight in his arms, and no boy will ever not be sort of like him." I think he'd hate it.

Just Be Yourself, Stupid

Does it ever occur that you talk to yourself in a way you'd never let anyone else talk to you? I fancy myself to be a generally kind and genuinely caring person, but not in reference to myself. Take for example, this class I've been taking. I think I'm the dumbest person in there. I make the stupidest mistakes. I flub up. I fluster. Meanwhile, the teacher is literally shouting, "JUST BE YOURSELF." And I keep thinking, "Yes, but how can I make myself more interesting?" And then I think of how much I'm spending on aforementioned class and whip myself into more of a frenzy. "JESUS CHRIST BE MORE INTERESTING, LOOSE-POCKETS MCBORING!"

Which is why I love my car. She's my buddy. I spend more time with her than anyone else. If I have nothing else in this town, I have Tawanda Jane. I try to take care of her, but I know I'm not great at it. I feel safe with her. She doesn't judge me. She doesn't think I'm interesting or care. She's a car. So far I haven't damaged her too much, although I worry she'll rebel against me one day and I'll have to call Car Talk, the Click and Clack Brothers, and get their opinion on my feisty and broken Toyota Matrix. And they'll laugh at me, and make fun of my name.

Minus One Point LP McBoring.

Plus One Tawanda J.

Warmup for a New Year

I'm about to work on some writing assignments, and I quickly want to stretch my fingers in the 40 minutes before Whole Foods closes. (I bought a minimum amount to be able to steal a booth guilt free. It's just me and a bag of dried organic cranberries sitting here.)

So it's 2009. It's bound to be an anxious year, fringed with angsty bill payments and group worrying over future security, with a sprig of terror decorating our global landscape as the days warm and the bees keel over. After an intense 2008 in which I flushed everything normal down the toilet and restarted my life in California, I'm hoping 2009 will be nothing but good. I have to believe in a universe that cares, and so I have to believe the energy I put out will one day reciprocate. I'm not asking for the lottery, I just want a guest spot.

Or a paycheck. Or some respect. Or some fulfillment. Or hope.

I guess I already have hope. I couldn't have moved if I didn't. I realized, as I literally tore myself away from my warm childhood home in Pennsylvania in the early morning after Christmas, loneliness is crowding my head right now. Even when I'm with friends, I feel so lonely. I don't know what will change that, other than work that has the potential to fill me up. (Fill, for non-artists, as a verb to describe the feeling that you are using your whole body, mind, and voice, to do something wonderful, useful.) Lonely or not, I, for the first time in a long time, believe happiness is possible. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing as I stumble through blindingly sunny days here, but some part of me has to know that good things exist. It's an epiphany really. I guess I always assumed that wasn't really true.

I have to believe in 2009 I'm not alone. I have to keep putting out the good, and keep hoping it'll come back. It already has, really (hey, Obama won, right?), but it's easy to look down on myself, like Jack and the Giant roaring down the beanstalk, and think, "I'm so insignificant. I'm so small. I'm so easy to crush." I have to remember, Jack wins.