Emergency Hiatus

"What do you mean my show is going into emergency hiatus?" I say angrily at my Supervising Producer who's been trying to oust me off my show for the last two months so his dickhead friend can have my job.

"It is." he says coldly. We glare at each other in the editing suite. I officially hate him. The Editor sitting between us fakes receiving a phone call and hightails it out of there.

Silence ensues.

"So, just what exactly am I suppose to do for money?" I ask him. I'm not the type to just wither away when some asshole is trying to financially sabotage me. If I'm going down in flames -- you better believe that I'm making you answer for it.

"Can't you get another job?" he snarls back at me...like I'm suppose to find some miraculous gig that lasts a few days and won't interfere with this one -- whenever it comes back on.

He's hoping I'll jump ship to another show and open up the space for his friend to take over for me. I don't know why I've dug in my heels so much. This asshole has made my life a living hell ~ making the president of the company second-guess my credentials; and my qualifications -- all so his dickhead friend can have a job.

My industry is filled with sociopaths.

"You're a prick," I mutter under my breath and storm out of the edit suite. I beeline towards my desk and google flights to Australia. If I'm not getting paid for four weeks ~ I'm gonna do it on a beach.

I send an email to my sister:

Hey! My show just went into emergency hiatus and I have four weeks off. Spruce up your couch, I'll be there in three days, ok? Hope it's ok! Can't wait to see you!!! xo

I shoot off another email to my editor with marching orders for how I want the third act of the show cut together, and with that -- I grab my bag and head out the door.

"See you in four weeks," I say to the dickhead as I push the elevator button and wait in the hall.

"Great! Glad you see it my way." he says as fake as can be. We've each murdered each other in our minds about 50 times in the last two months. I'm burnt out. I could use a little vacation, far far far away from here.

Three days later, after catching up on 12 movies on the Qantas flight, and taking a shuttle bus from Brisbane two hours south down the coast, I hop off in my sister's beach town. Immediately I smell the saltwater air. It instantly removes some of the tension that has been mounting in my upper back. I stand on the sidewalk and take in the view. White sand beach that stretches as far as the eye can see...palm trees that line the boulevard...and sun. Blissful sun. Something I haven't seen since shooting in San Fransisco two months prior. Winters are tough where I'm from: bleak, grey, depressing. I maniacally chuckle to myself as I flop down on my backpack and wait for my sister to meet me.

Ten minutes later I see her flip flopping down the street. Big smile, hair piled high in a pony tail on top of her head. She's dark -- like someone who spends most of their time in the sun.

"This is exciting!" she chants as she gets within earshot.

"Tough life," I tell her and waive towards the view. We give each other a big hug and then shuffle towards a nearby cafe so I can grab a bite to eat.

"I know," she says, and insists on grabbing my backpack -- which I appreciate, because I'm exhausted.

We settle at a table, and I begin to download how shitty the show I'm working on is; and how much of an asshole the supervising producer is being. We laugh. It doesn't seem so important now. It's amazing what flying to the other side of the world can do for your troubles.

All of a sudden I'm grateful for my excellent line of credit, and that I had enough space left on it to fly over here. I make a mental note to always leave a little cushion (if I can) for "get the hell outa here" money.

I'm loving the Gold Coast so far. People walk slower. They smile more. Being in the warm weather 24/7 has a definite advantage to your state of mind. I notice as I meet with some of her friends that I'm slower in speech than they are. My body has gone into some sort of half-hibernation mode to help tolerate the -20c winter we were having. It might take me a day or so to reach their boisterous energy level.

Later that night we plan to go out to dinner with my sister's boyfriend. It was going to be my treat (although I hadn't announced it); as a way of saying "hey, sorry I showed up unannounced -- and here's a free meal to make it all better!"

They had just moved to this new town and my sister was waiting to start a new job. I guess her funds had run a bit low. As I walked from the kitchen towards the front door I noticed her boyfriend handing her some money. It happened in the blink of an eye -- but it spoke to me. Rather than just offering to pay for her when we were out, he instead handed her money when he thought I wasn't looking. I think he did this so she could save face in front of me when it came time to pay. It was sweet. Endearing. Considerate.

And I remember thinking as I waited for them by the front door that this was a quality guy. A rare gem of an individual. It was good to know that they're out there. And for the moment, I was glad. Glad to be here. Glad to see this part of her life. Glad to get to know him a little better.

The asshole back home all of a sudden played a catalystic role for my being here; and for a brief moment I was slightly grateful for everything that went down -- but then I remembered what a prick he was, and was even more grateful that I mitigated the attack with a trip to Australia.

And so, I made a mental note to send the office lots of happy photos of me sunning on a beach between now and the time I return.

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This is your life

"THIS!"

"IS!"

"YOUR!"

"LIFE!"

The audience bursts into applause.

I'm standing on the white stage facing three doors. "Oh great," I sigh quietly to myself as I roll my eyes. Just what I needed...

The host bounces on stage and the audience roars even louder. The annoying music begins to dingle in the air...

How long is this going to take?

"Welcome! Welcome EVERYBODY!" the host yells from his perma-smile. He's a handsome man in his late 60s, but he has the energy of a teenager. His hair is immaculate, and his suit is crisp and deep blue. Very retro; but it works. I squint as he heads towards me. The studio lights are reflecting off his white teeth.

"Today's contestant is a 32 year old Television Producer, Director, and Writer. Some of you may be familiar with her work!"

The audience applauds.

"But, enough of that. Let's get started. Welcome KAAAARRRREN!" he sings.

"Hi," I say. I half-turn to face the studio audience and give a meek waive. I'm hoping this will be quick and painless. Don't these people have anything better to do today? Really? A daytime game show when the weather is nice and they could be laying on a beach -- and yet, they choose to come hear and voyeur some unknown like myself?

"NOW!" says our host through his glaringly white smile, "Tell the audience a little about your accomplishments to date!"

I stall. My accomplishments to date? Uh...what accomplishments?

I look back over my shoulder. The nannies, out-of-towners, and retirees all stare back stoically.

"Well..." I droll. "Funny, you should mention it -- because, well, I haven't really accomplished anything." I say matter-of-fact.

"Nonsense!" yells the host and raises his arm for Door #1 to open.

The audience roars.

Sigh.

Behind it I see scenes from my childhood; hide n' seek with the neighborhood kids, riding my bicycle to the corner store for popsicles, dancing in my dress-up clothes, taking my oath at brownies, baseball games, and family birthday parties. It finally stops on me making snow angels.

"Awww..." the audience coos.

The scene plays out a bit more; so I watch. My mother struggles through the snow banks in the schoolyard in her retro-seventies burgundy pleather coat, bell bottom jeans, and and platform boots. She's out of breath and holding my baby sister.

"Karen!" she yells, "what are you doooing?" She struggles a bit more through the snow to get to me.

"I'm making Angels mummy!" I say, as I pay no attention to her and stare straight ahead towards the sky. The clouds roll past rather swiftly.

"You were suppose to be home from school 20 minutes ago!" she yells, "I had to bundle up your sister and trek all the way out here. I've been calling your name all the way down the block!"

"I know," I say.

She plunks down beside me, and looks me straight in the eye. She's too exhausted and overwhelmed to discipline me at this point.

"Karen," she says quietly, "why would you worry mummy like that? You know you were suppose to come home straight after school."

I start to feel bad as I watch the scene play out. I have a vague recollection of that day.

"C'mon," my mother says and stands to head back home.

"No!" I say.

The audience laughs.

"What do you mean 'no'? GET UP!" my mother snaps.

"No, mummy. I don't want to!" I yell back with my stubborn little 5 year old voice. I continue to make snow angels and ignore her.

"Karen -- get up right now!"

"No, mummy! I won't! I won't! Go away and leave me alone!"

"You little..." my mother begins then quickly edits herself. Left with no other choice she begins to struggle with me -- which is no easy feat. My jaw drops as I watch the scene play out -- but I was only 5 years old. Between the baby, the snowbanks, and my full-blown resistance; my mother has her work cut out for her.

The wrestling continues for quite some time -- and eventually, I cave.

"You're a mean mummy!" I yell at her and walk ahead. I have the advantage. I'm lighter than her and not wearing platform boots so I can maneuver through the snow banks faster than her. I race all the way home with my mother skidding 100 yards behind me, and yelling at me to slow down.

"No! I won't! You CAN'T MAKE MEEEEE!" I scream back and run even faster.

The audience is silent. I'm mortified.

"Well! A precocious little monkey weren't we?" chimes the host and raises his arm again for Door #2 to open.

I wince. I run through the rolodex in my mind of other bad behaviours and accept that all my dirty laundry is going to be spilled out before a live studio audience.

The second door opens and it's scenes from the present; me working on set, hanging with my friends, typing away at my computer, a bridesmaid costume, another bridesmaid costume, and another one, backpacking through Italy, break ups, first kisses, regrets, heartaches and failures. Eventually it stops on a scene of me crying in my bed surrounded by mounds of crumpled tissues.

A woman in the back row sniffles.

"Now," says the host "how does an intelligent, precocious, and vivacious young woman such as yourself end up loosing sight of herself?" he asks.

I pause for a moment.

"I guess, I forgot who I really was?" I say. I think about it a bit more. I guess we all feel invincible during childhood, but circumstances being what they may -- eventually the world will beat it out of you. But only if you let it.

"I stopped believing in myself," I whisper quietly.

The bells go off as soon as I say this; ding! ding! ding!

"Bravo! Bravo, my dear!" says the host, and the audience roars into applause. I ask him what's behind Door #3, and without missing a beat, he simply says:

"That's for you to decide."




Red Hot Chili Peppers - Scar Tissue Video

Dave | MySpace Video

The Left Left...

bbbbbrrrrriiiiing!

"Woo hoo!" the annoying kids start to cheer. I slam my math text book and shut and race towards the end of the hallway. I slam through the doors at the top of the stairs and gallop down like everyone else. There's a herd of us. And we're all headed towards the same destination.

I reach my locker out of breath and flop my book bag and textbook on the floor. My heart is racing. I've been waiting for this all day!

I fiddle with my lock a bit. My hands are shaky cuz I'm nervous. OK. Calm down. Deep breath. 5....45....30... and with that my locker flings open. I throw my bag into the bottom on top of my boots, and fling my textbook on the top shelf. I look in the mirror and check my hair. It's gross. I'm gross. And I have a big zit on the end of my nose.

I need lip gloss!

I dig around in my coat pocket before I'm able to retrieve it. It smells like strawberries. I like it. I put it on, then grab a compact and try to powder my nose. Does that make my zit any less noticeable? Maybe I should have put toothpaste on it last night before I went to bed?

"Come on!" someone yells, and I slam my locker door shut and triple-check my lock. I rub my penny loafers with my sweater and try to clean them up a bit. I readjust the pennies to make sure they are sticking in there properly...and with that...we race to the cafeteria doors.

The line up is huge -- but it's moving fast. The French teacher with the squeaky voice is stamping everyone's hand as they enter. I look up at the clock; it reads 4:05. I'm so excited...and nervous...but more excited.

This is my very first school dance.

We get in and all the big kids are dancing in circles. My next door neighbor is one of the cool girls, but we don't really talk at school. It's ok. I understand that I'm only a nobody grade 7 -- and at least we still hang out after school and stuff.

I walk over to where the big kids are to see what they are doing. Most of the girls have boobies, but I don't. I readjust my training bra and slip quietly behind some of the other kids. They're all doing the Running Man. I try quietly to copy them -- but I can't seem to get the rhythm.

My friends are all dancing on the other side of the room; and when I look over to see what they are doing, they waive me to come over to them. After a few more minutes of quietly trying to learn how to dance the Running Man -- I walk back to my friends. It's hopeless. When the big girls start doing the Roger Rabbit, I know I'm in over my head.

"Why are you over there? They won't let you in their circle," scolds one of my friends as she dances care free.

"I was trying to learn how to do the Running Man," I tell her. I don't think it was such a stupid thing to do...and besides, I know deep deep down, my neighbor would never ever let anyone be mean to me.

"Well, forget about it. If you can't do it -- there's no point!" my friend snaps back and continues to swing her hips side to side. There's a big group of us; and it's dark in here. They've turned the lights off and blocked off the windows with garbage bags -- so, even though it is still light outside -- we have the look of a real 'nighttime' dance.

I sulk for a little and try to do the Running Man when I think no one is looking, but one of the other girls across from me in the circle just rolls her eyes at me...so I stop.

I try to get my rhythm going -- but it's hard. The music is really really fast; and my legs just grew a bit this summer. Everything is just so awkward.

I hope no one can see my zit.

I start to sway back and forth -- copying my friend. She doesn't mind. A moment later she grabs my arms and swings me around. It's fun. I'm having fun.

So what if we nerdy little grade 7s have to dance on the other side of cafeteria in our own little circle away from the big girls? It's not really that big of a deal...

"Oh no!" one of my friends says. The cafeteria splits in half...and the music slows down. I follow what everyone else is doing. I really don't get what is going on, but if I follow along -- I'll look like I know. I shuffle to the side of the room where all the girls are moving to. The boys shift to the other side.

The dance floor is empty.

Sigh. Great. It's a slow song. I hope no one asks me to dance. I'm just gonna hide behind my friends here at the back. I don't want anyone to see my zit.

Slowly, one by one, the grade 8s start to move onto the dance floor. The boys cross back over from their side of the room, grab the hand of the girl -- and they dance. The ones who are 'going out' dance a little closer. I watch for a few moments. Most of the grade 7 boys are still standing on the other side of the room.

This is good. It means that none of them are going to cross over and ask any of us to dance -- and then none of them will notice my zit.

The rubber from my training bra is digging in a little too tight. I thought that if I hooked it on a tighter setting it would make my boobies look bigger -- but it doesn't. My cousin found my training bra once and laughed so hard. It was really funny -- but kinda embarrassing. She calls my boobies mosquito bites.

"Uh oh!" my friends says. It's a good 'uh oh'. She's excited. One of the grade 8 boys is crossing the dance floor and headed right towards her. I hide behind her a little bit; but then he takes her hand and they begin to dance. He has his hands on her waist, she has her hands on his shoulders. They both look in opposite directions. This is how most of the kids who are not 'going out' are dancing.

I cross my legs and fidget with my fingers. There's hardly any girls standing on this side of the room now. No one is in front of me. If a boy crosses the dance floor and sees me, he could ask me to dance.

A minute later I see one of my classmates walking towards me. He gives me a big smile and asks me if I want to dance. I want to say "no", but that would be mean. Besides, we're not 'going out' so it won't be so embarrassing. I walk towards the middle of the dance floor. I think we both want to hide from everyone.

"I have a zit on my nose," I tell him, just in case he already noticed it. He looks at me weird, then puts his hands on my waist, and I put my hands on my shoulders and we both look in opposite directions. I stare at the clock because as we turn I'm facing that wall. It reads 4:57. We only have another 15 or 20 minutes until we have to go home. I really hope this song ends soon.

We turn a bit more and I look at the stage and think about maybe trying out for the school play this year. I like performing.

We turn some more and I stare over the tops of the garbage bags and see the daylight poking through. I wonder how long it took them to put up all those garbage bags? They would have needed a really large ladder to --

And then the fast music starts again. We all break formation and I gravitate towards my circle of friends. I try the Running Man one more time. I think I got it. I got it! I'm doing the Running Man! I'm gonna show my neighbor today after dinner -- I think she'll think I'm cooler now.

I can't believe I'm doing the Running Man! Thank god I put on my training bra really tight this morning. It's keeping my boobies in place.

Wicca Wicca Whack

I'm sitting cross-legged in front of my window and focusing all my attention on the wine bottle in front of me. The Wicca website that I googled said that you have to focus your thoughts on the candle -- but I want to make sure the candle holder is in the loop as well.

Career Success. Money flows easily towards me. My phone rings constantly with job offers and business opportunities. I am a success. I am a success. I am a success.

Career Success. Money flows effortlessly towards me. It likes me. I attract it. My phone will not stop ringing with money-making opportunities. I am successful beyond my wildest dreams. I am successful beyond my wildest dreams. I am successful beyond my --

"Iz dis one ok, Mia?" Consuela nudges me and I open my eyes. She's holding a green candle that I asked her to go find.

"Yes. That's good. Maybe a little too light green -- but good! So, where's the Tiger's Eye?"

I've found a spell on google and I intend to use it. I'm not going down without a fight. Sure, bankruptcy is on the horizon; but if magic worked for the emancipated business women of the 1600s, then it's gotta throw my ass a bone at the very least.

"Iz you sure we should do dis?" Consuela asks surreptitiously. She's afraid of magic. Back home in Panama something horrible happened to one of the neighboring villagers after they had their tarot cards read; and as a result, she's been hesitant to help me with this.

"Yes!" I snap back at her. I have no patience for neigh-sayers or pussys. "We have to do this. Back in the 1600s, single women were branded as witches. They were burned at the stake for being successful -- you know, land owners and what not. In any case, they were branded witches because they didn't marry; either by choice or not -- and their land was...surprise surprise...absorbed by the men who labelled them as such. In any case, they knew the power of words -- came up with a few good tried and true mental exercises, and 400 years later I intend to use them. Alright?"

Consuela squints her eyes at me. She can hate me all she wants. A little money spell never hurt anyone.

"OK," I say, "put the green candle in the holder, but make sure you first focus on all the good intentions you want to come out of it. Think of something material you would like to see happen as a result of the money that is about to come in."

Consuela wraps her chubby fingers around the candle, and I wrap my hands around hers.

"Now," I instruct, "close your eyes and think really hard about what you want to happen, ok?"

"Mia," she whines with her eyes closed, "I don't sink dis iz a good idear. Da magic iz dangerous."

My blood starts to boil from her lack of co-operation. Is it too much to ask for a little support when the going gets tough? Am I really hurting anyone by burning a candle and hoping it will bring me a little money?

"Shut the hell up!" I tell her. "If you don't co-operate it won't work. And, do you really want that? Do you really want to see me file for bankruptcy and move into the box beside you? You've seen how hard I've been working, writing and crying my friggen ass off -- and now when we're almost near the finish line and the going is getting a little rough, now you want to bail on me? Are you fucking kidding me?"

I hear her whimper, but I don't care. She should know better. Fear is for pussys!

"Now," I tell her, "have you thought of something in your mind that you would like to enjoy once the money starts coming in?"

Consuela nods, "OK, good, now...just focus on that for a little bit. I need to create mental pictures too. Whatever you do -- don't let your mind wander, alright?"

She nods again, and I then close my eyes and start to imagine the bank manager that denied me an emergency line of credit crying solemnly at their desk when she realizes they've lost out on millions because I'm going with another bank. Then I start to see myself being wined and dined by people who are happy to do business with me. Big players. We're laughing on a nice rooftop patio before we get into one of our helicopters and fly to the coast for the weekend.

Sigh.

"OK," I said to her. "Now, put the candle in the holder."

Consuela fidgets with the candle until she manages to secure it into the empty wine bottle. I chose that bottle because it was one that I had saved -- from a nice dinner once; but that was another lifetime ago.

We place the Tiger's eye beside the wine bottle and prop it near the window. Then I sit on the floor again, cross legged and tell Consuela to go away. As I reach for the lighter, I think of all the possibilities that I can accomplish. I focus on what I'm capable of; not what the world is currently telling me I'm worth.

Screw the world. It's fear based and pessimistic. I'm digging into the deepest part inside of me and hoping that it will ring a little butler bell that the Universe has left for me; one that says, "Hey! She's ready! Throw her a bone!"

I've started sending some of my scripts out. For now, it's a waiting game. But, in the meantime I need money fast -- and so, I'm hoping this little bit of Wicca will help.

I start to chant, and in doing so, I wonder how many single women in the 1600s did the same thing when they contemplated the fate of their life? Did they trek out to the backwoods to be alone with their thoughts? Or did they simply need to commune with nature? Or maybe, being a social outcast and stuck alone in their homes drove them a little bit mad. Poor things. Ostracizing, on any level, isn't fun.

I start to think of being burned at the stake metaphorically. Sure, they physically had to endure it...but on some level, I'm that crazy witch -- breaking from societal norms because of a series of unforeseen circumstances. It's 2009, and my burning has begun.

All the luxuries of a two person union; emotional security, financial support, encouragement -- they are absent in my life. I'm that crazy woman dancing around a fire in the back woods; and it sucks.

But I can't think of that right now. I have to concentrate on my little spell -- and hope to God that it works.

And so I chant,

"I'm successful. People yearn to work with me. Money comes easily to me. I have financial freedom to do what I want. I am successful. People love working with me. I make more money than I ever could have possibly imagined. I love my life. I am a greater success than I ever thought possible."

And with that, I light my candle.

The Penny Picker Upper

"Isn't it a nice day?" I say exuberantly to Consuela. We're linked arm in arm and walking through a parkette near my place.

"Iz ok," she says half-distracted. I've told her she can watch an episode of Juan Y Julia while we're walking; but since I wanted someone to talk to, she's only allowed to use one ear bud to listen to it.

Since putting Consuela on a strict Telenovella diet; she's lost a few inches around her mid-line. Her ass no longer sags like a droopy "W", but rather, a big round plumb.

"You're looking good!" I say to Consuela in an effort to bring her back to the conversation; but she continues to ignore me.

"Consuela!" I yell. Her ignoring me wasn't part of the deal. "Pay attention!!"

She looks up, rolls her eyes and says in her whiny voice, "Whaaaaat, Mia? You iz walking and looking at de birdz, and Juan iz telling hiz sister dat her huzband iz really a woman...iz important!" and with that, she goes back to her iPod.

Sigh. Fine. I guess she can watch her stupid drama. I have nature. We've been walking for a while now. The plan is to work up a sweat and increase Consuela's heart rate. I wonder how much plaque she has on her arteries? Poor thing. A diet simply of empanadas and twinkies is not going to cut it.

The trees sway under the blue sky. It's nice here, in this parkette. I like it.

The walk is nice. I needed to get away from my computer and the million voices swirling around in my head. They were beginning to scream at me -- each trying to top the next one in order to monopolize the dialogue that I'm currently working on. It was getting to be a bit much.

So, I told Consuela to grab her iPod, fix her banana clip, and I tossed her some Reebok high tops that I found in her gym bag. We were going for a stroll.

Now I see why this was so popular in the 1800s. Distinguished women strolling along as they gossip and contemplate the extremities of life -- or were they simply doing what I was doing? Clearing their head? I wonder what the stressors would have been back then? Too much soot in the fireplace? Not enough water in the well for a bath? Who knows...

Sometimes I think we're all a little spoiled.

Did they even have toothpaste back then? No wonder they all died in their 3os. Bad oral hygiene is the leading cause of heart disease -- or so I read recently. Which makes sense, because anyone who can't take care of their mouth is certainly gonna have mucky insides. God! Could you imagine how gross it would be to kiss someone back then? I remember a Carny smiled at me once while I was waiting to go on a ride and I was completely grossed out by the amount of plaque in his teeth. So gross. I bet that's what all their teeth looked like back then. Maybe a good looking chick was one that didn't have black cavities on any of her front teeth -- but that's if they didn't pull out her teeth because of the cavities. So maybe, just having teeth (gunky or not) was a sign of beauty? Who knows...

I like walking. There's movement; and it is the antithesis of the stagnancy that staring at a blank page can create sometimes. I read somewhere once a quote that I liked, it simply said: "I love being a writer. It's the paperwork I can't stand."

Anyhow, I thought that was funny.

A writer...why did I choose this again? I couldn't be a gymnast? Or a banker? I had to be a writer. The most neurotic of all professions -- besides Jewish mother-in-law. Sigh.

Speaking of Jewish, I've been doing this really strange...well, strange for me, thing lately. I've been picking up pennies. I like to think that it's God's way of telling me that more money is on it's way. In any case, maybe there's some sort of karmic relevance to respecting money. It shouldn't be on the ground; it should be in your pocket. But I remember hearing jokes as a kid about how you know if someone is Jewish if they pick pennies up off the street...

I don't understand why everyone is such a hater sometimes when it comes to differences. Why can't we all just get along? I mean, wouldn't this world be a much better place if we all --

"MIA! Stop!" Consuela yells at me.

Just then she pulls me back to the curb as a car whizzes by.

"That was close, thanks" I say to her. I guess there are hazards to daydreaming when you go for a stroll.

"You iz should be more careful! Der iz lots of traffic in dis area, ok?" Consuela scolds. She's pretty good at stating the obvious. I look down at the pavement just off the side of the curb and begin to imagine my bloody sprawled body lying there. My dream man would race out of the car -- fall head over heels in love with me as soon as our eyes lock; and then -- then I would die. The most romantic of all deaths. And he would visit my grave every day for the rest of his life; and name his first born daughter Karen.

"Mia, iz you ok?" Consuela looks at me like I'm a crazy person. I'm always sceptical when this happens; because, let's face it: Consuela is missing a few tacos in her Bolivian picnic if you know what I mean.

"Yes!" I snap back at her. "I'm Fiiiiiiii-yeen!"

And with that she goes back to watching her stupid program. This time I look both ways before crossing the road, and in doing so, see a penny. It's a shiny one. You don't see too many of those. I kick it away from the gob of gum that it's beside, and pick it up for good luck.

Sure, it's only a penny. But, if you can't respect one cent -- then how can the universe ever trust you with more?

And with that, we cross the street safely.




Jenifer lopez Jenny From The Block
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Ministry Exams

"Aren't you going to start your test?" my grade 3 teacher asks me. She looks annoyed. I stare at her mustache; it's grey. She's a nice lady. I like her skirt. When I'm a big girl I want to have a skirt just like that.

"I'm finished," I tell her.

She makes a funny face; it's the same face my mom makes when I tell her that someone else ate the cookies -- even though it was me.

My teacher squints her eyes and stares at me. Why do grown-ups do this? I don't understand what squinted eyes mean.

"I don't appreciate your silly games, Karen." she says and reaches down to flip my workbook over. She points angrily at it and gestures me to open the front cover. Some of the other kids in the class look at me.

I shrug my shoulders and flip open the pages for her to see that I wasn't lying. I really was finished.

"That's impossible!" she says and grabs the workbook from me. "Did you even check your answers?"

I tell her 'no', and that seems to make her feel better. She smiles and puts the book down. "Karen, you can't just fill out anything. This is an important exam from the ministry. Please do it properly."

I nod yes, and open my workbook again. Maybe I should check my answers? I was pretty sure that the first ones I did were right; but since everyone else is taking soooo long to finish, I guess it won't hurt.

I start to go over the pages and think about my answers. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Uh...Yep.

They all seem to make sense. I wonder if we're going to read "James and the Giant Peach" again today? I love that book. I love when my teacher reads it to us. I get to sit on the carpet and close my eyes and pretend that I too am James.

I look at the clock. Everyone else is still answering the questions. I don't know why it's taking them soooo long. Are they stupid?

The girl beside me keeps erasing her answers and re-doing them. I think she made a hole in her workbook with her eraser. She's using the school eraser -- the big pink one that isn't very good and only makes big grey smudges on the paper. I have a nice eraser in my pencil box that mummy gave me -- it has Rainbow Brite on it; and it's white -- so it keeps my paper clean when I make a mistake.

I pull out my pencil box. There's nothing else to do while everyone is finishing the test. I open the lid and begin to organize my pencil's and erasers. I look at all my erasers; I love them. There's the Cabbage Patch Kid eraser; and there's the eraser that I got at Nancy's birthday party in the goody bag -- it smells like grapes. There's the eraser that's bright green; and another eraser that has Grover on it from Sesame Street. My pencil box also has a note in it from the boy that sits beside me. He wants to play kissing tag at recess. I have to check the box, "yes" or "no"...I think I want to play British Bulldog instead -- or tether ball; so I will check "no" and give it back to him when the teacher is writing on the black board.

"PUT THAT AWAY RIGHT NOW!" my teacher yells. I look up and she's yelling at me. She's always yelling at me cuz I finish my tests early. I don't know why she hates me so much. But sometimes, when she's reading the books at story time, I think she doesn't hate me then.

I put my pencil box back in my desk. And pretend to write in my workbook. I have to pretend to work like the other kids in the class so my teacher won't get angry at me. I do this a lot.

Uh 0h. She's walking over to me again.

"I hope you realize that you are going to ruin your life if you never take anything seriously." she says and rips the book away from me. I try not to cry. She always yells at me and I always cry. The other kids call me a cry baby.

Mummy says I'm not a cry baby...that I'm just sensitive. And boisterous -- but I don't know what that means.

My teacher is flipping through my workbook at her desk. She seems happy that I've answered all the questions. I think she thinks that I didn't take any time to think of the answers -- but I did. It's not my fault that everyone else in this class is stupid. Why does she get angry at me cuz all the other kids are stupid? I always have to pretend I'm slow like them so she doesn't get angry.

"Pencils down." she says. The boy two seats over starts to freak out and flip through the pages writing anything he can. I think he is so stupid; but he's nice. And he draws really good when we have Art.

The teacher starts to collect everyone's workbook. The girls beside me start to talk about how hard the test was. I don't understand what was so difficult about it...why did they put me in the stupid class anyways?

"QUIET!!" the teacher yells.

The girls stop talking.

I lean back to stare at my pencil box that I had to put in my desk. Only 8 more minutes until recess. When she's not looking I will have to check "no" on the note and pass it back. I think I'll play British Bulldog today.




Nena - 99 Luftballons

Chris | MySpace Video

The Nightmare

Something's off...but maybe it's just my imagination. I call down to my little dog in the backyard; I'm 7 or 8 storey's high in my bedroom. The window is missing its glass, and so, I poke my head through the cavity and look below. I think it's strange that the window has no glass; or curtains, but I'm more concerned with calling my dog. I look down the looming 7 or 8 storeys. The house is on an angle; and wobbles. The backyard slopes adjacent to the house, and the grass moves up and down as if it's breathing. My little dog bounces along towards me. It defies gravity by leaping 5 or so storeys in the air. Its little pink tongue hangs excitedly out the right side of its mouth. I call his name and he takes another gravity defying leap towards me. I can't wait to have him jump up to my window. I want to hug him and tell him how much I love him. It's been years since he's died...

...and then I awake. It's pitch black. Sweat drips down my neck and collects between my shoulder blades. My sheets are wet. I was having a nightmare. I look to my right. The clock reads 3:08, in the morning. I hate it when I awake in the middle of the night.

The air is cold, yet I sweat. I want to get a glass of water, but I can't move. A tightness encroaches around my neck, and my breath becomes shallow. My passageway begins to tighten, and my heart races from the strain. I feel light headed.

I look down at my left hand and see a black cord begin to wrap around it. It's sinewy and transparent -- like a ghost; but strong. It keeps my hand bound to the mattress while another black cord emerges from underneath the bed. I look to my right to see the crescent moon. Its light offers some visibility in the darkness of my room -- but I'm groggy from the nightmare; and my eyes are becoming faint from the lack of oxygen.

Slowly the panic turns to grief. Shallow air slips through my mouth and into my lungs; it's faint. I'm not suffocating; I'm being constricted.

The lack of air causes my thoughts to deflate and my mind to focus on my sorrows. I'm now pre-occupied with survival instincts, rather than having the emotional space to fantasize or dream. The third black sinew begins to wrap around my right arm, and when it's done -- negativity begins to drip through the cords into my soul.

Hell is seeking vengeance.

Only moments remain before the negativity distracts me from my worldly purpose. Bleakness begins to pour across my pupils and paints the world grey and dreary. I'm being drugged; by a demon.

I open my mouth to gasp for help; but my breath is too weak to create sound. I mouth silent words.

Another black sinew falls from the sky and begins to wrap around my left leg. I'm paralyzed. Catatonic. Helpless.

As more sinews fall from the sky and weave around my body; I slowly become an insect caught in a web. The sinews begin to spin around me; and I know that my death is certain. A moment later I see a demon fly out from behind the moon. His wings span meters in each direction, and from his torso a thousand sinews spew -- each headed towards me at lightening speed.

My eyes widen with fear; and I open my mouth to scream -- but the words have no breath. I can not speak. No one knows I am in danger.

A moment later the demon crashes through my bedroom window. Glass shatters and falls around me. I close my eyes. I'm too entwined to be able to react. A small shard manages to graze my cheek. When I open my eyes again, the demon is leering above me. For a brief moment we make eye contact. It's eyes burn with fury; fueled by the angst of broken hearts, and the tears of a thousand lost souls.

The demon screams a loud shrill Jurassic-like roar, and in doing so, it reveals two large, sharp yellow fangs stained orange with blood. I open my mouth to try to scream -- but the last of the black sinews slaps my mouth shut. The fangs move towards me. The demon's breath is foul -- like burning garbage mixed with sulfur. I close my eyes to brace for the jarring pain of the fangs ripping two gaping holes into my torso...

...when my alarm clock goes off.

I roll over. The sun is out. It's time to start a new day.

I slap my hand on the snooze button; and roll back for nine more minutes of sleep. I'm exhausted. I don't know why. I think I was having a bad dream...but then again; I can't remember.

Bush - Machinehead
Uploaded by Nate_Perro. - See the latest featured music videos.

Peter and George are bored shitless

"Go Fish."

"What's she doing now?"

"What does she ever do? She's sitting at her computer writing...and crying..."

"I'm so bored,"

"I don't understand why she wastes so much time feeling sorry for herself?"

"We've been with her now, for...how long? Do you have any Queens?"

"32 years. Go Fish"

"Right. 32 years, and not once has she thought to ask us for anything!"

"Well, that's the job. Any threes?"

"I know. I'm just bored. I hate sitting here watching her type and cry all the time. Go Fish."

"Well, George. She hasn't discovered that we can't help her until she starts asking for it. Any Fives?"

"I know. It's just...you'd think with the level of financial desperation she's in...she'd be pleading to the heavens just a little. Go Fish. Eights?"

"Well, until she does. We're stuck here. Watching over her. And playing cards. Go Fish. Do you have any fours?"

"Go Fish."

"If I see you throw down a four, I'm forfeiting the game."

"I don't have any fours!!!"

"Alright...I'm just saying..."

"What's that? What's she doing now?"

"It looks like...she's crumpled on the floor...I think that's her self-pity sprawl."

"Nah...that's her I hate my life sprawl. The self pity usually has her shoving food in her face. Any sevens?"

"Here you go. Yeah...but it could just be sheer agony. Her bank account is depleted. The economy sucks. The phone isn't ringing. Any Kings?"

"Sometimes I get so annoyed with her. We could help her...if she just asked. Go Fish."

"How can you not have any Kings???"

"I don't have any Kings!!"

"Swear on your wings?"

"I swear. GO FIIIIISH!"

"You think she'll be ok?"

"She's fine. I've hid all the razors. Any threes?"

"Here you go. Good. The razors...yes. They do get a little desperate when things aren't going their way, don't they?"

"Yep..."

"Any Aces?"

"Here you go. Oh wait...she's turning around. This is new. I haven't seen her convulse on her back before. Hold on a second...."

"Maybe this could be it...."

"Don't jinx it..."

*********************************************************************

How did this happen to me? How did I become so forgotten, alone, and worthless....why won't anyone help me?

*********************************************************************

"She looks like she wants help..."

"Say it! Say it out loud!"

"Say it!"

"Speak what your heart wants OUT LOUD!"

"Shouting at her won't do anything."

*********************************************************************

I can't do this anymore. I'm only one person. I need some sort of divine intervention.

"Puh-leeeze, somebody HELP ME!"

*********************************************************************

"Bingo!"

"Here we go."

"Finally!!! I was getting so sick of playing this stupid game with you."

"The feeling's mutual."

"Let's DO it!"

The Social Hermit

Sigh.

I look at my coffee table; the pile of trade mags - manuscripts, and mandatory readings has become mountainous.

When am I ever going to have the time to get through this all?

I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed. My inbox receives more emails in a day than I can possibly get to...prioritizing has become almost impossible. Despite my best efforts to stay on target; between phone calls, the mundane admin, and going to the gym; it feels like there are never enough hours in the day.

I've bitten off more than I can chew. But since I have no choice but to move forward; I try my best to cut through the mess and masticate whatever I can.

One day at a time...

The problem with writing; besides the procrastination; the isolation, and the lack of concentration -- is that it requires a lot of time to accomplish. Time that non-writers usually allocate to cleaning their house, paying their bills, or socializing.

The very act of writing forces me to neglect the other aspects of my life; like my house, my hobbies, and even friends.

I am a social hermit.

There is little vacancy in my head. I can't possibly write fast enough to get all the scripts, plot points, and stories out on paper. And for now, while they permeate in the folds of my mind -- patiently waiting to be told; the other folds in my mind go unnoticed. Mostly the folds that manage the parts of my life that are tangible.

Even as I sit here and write this little blurb; an idea for a Christmas movie begins to pour out of my left ear. I watch it trickle down my arm; but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm only one person.

God only gave me two hands.

It scares me to think that I may never have enough time to tell all the stories I want to. That they may forever be trapped in the folds of my mind; wasted and withered -- and unappreciated.

So I loathe my talent at the moment. Because I haven't quite grasped the ability to function properly with it. I haven't found that happy medium that allows me to be productive without exhaustion; or removed without negligent. I teeter-totter between the writing and the void of writing. The productive and the absent. The good and the not-so-good.

My past and my future are currently mixed. The dualities are tangled together -- and until I can sort the mess out; I will forever be taking one step forward, two steps back.

So, I take a deep breath; and focus on some of the tasks at hand for the day. I know that it will never be as hard as it is right now; when I'm the only one believing in me -- and the only one willing to roll up their sleeves and help me with the grunt work.

One day I'll have an office, with eager interns and happy creative types willing to help me see my dreams come to fruition.

But today, unfortunately, is not that day.

So, I type. Because, for the moment, that's all that I can do. And I hope that at some point; I will have the infrastructure to see all my dreams come to fruition -- to find the balance that I hunger for; and the peace of mind that I so desperately deserve.

A blissful afternoon in the sun

The water laps up against the tire; it's cool, but refreshing at the same time. The sun burns into the black rubber and heats up the underside of my knees, as I lay there, outstretched on the dingy; floating in the lake.

It's just after lunchtime, so my stomach is heavy with hamburgers. The heat bounces off my shoulders and runs down my back. I cup one of my hands and dip it into the lake to pour some water on my shoulder blades and, hopefully, delay a burn.

I look up. Not a cloud in the sky. Most of the other cottagers have gone home, so, it's just us. Hanging by the water's edge -- soaking up the sun and allowing the beer and burgers to settle.

I readjust my hat, and pour some more lake water onto the tire, before I lay back. The water temporarily nullifies the heat that the tire collects. I bob along and listen to the sound of the lake slowly lapping up against the rocks. Through the tiny pours in my straw hat I can see the sky -- blue and perfect. There are minimal clouds.

From time to time, I hear the sound of a bird calling in the distance. And every so often, my tire bounces more furiously as the wake from a motorboat rolls underneath me. But, otherwise, it's peaceful. Quiet. Still.

You wade over to me with another beer. I reach out my lazy arm and grab it -- while simultaneously passing back the empty can that was resting on my belly. There's not a care in the world on this particular afternoon. No agenda. No concern. Only the sound of the water lapping up against the shore; and the odd bird.

I take a moment to inspect the landscape around the perimeter of the lake. Cottages dot the shoreline every few hundred meters. Tall coniferous trees stand at attention; guarding the properties and waiting for their weekend occupants to return.

I rest the cold beer can against my leg to feel the juxtaposition of the ice cold metal against my hot skin. It's jarring - but nice.

And as I dip my toes in the clear water and use them to propel me back towards you, I crack open my beer -- and enjoy the moment for what it is; a blissful afternoon in the sun. One without promises or expectations. Zen in every way imaginable. And completely void of the cruelties of reality.

Hello, Karen.

I'm standing on a hill in a meadow. Little purple flowers decorate the landscape. The sky is blue and only wisps of clouds stream along. It's a gorgeous day.

Except, I have no idea how I got here...

"Hello, Karen" his voice says, softly. I feel warm and welcome. I turn around to take in the view. There he sits. His long white robe flows just below his knees. His legs are strong. He's reclining on the hill. His sandals are made with a sinewy material; leather-like. I'm fascinated by the way they wrap themselves around his feet.

I let my gaze stroll upwards towards his face; handsome - with kind eyes. And long brown flowing hair...

"No! No! No! No!" I yell at him, "You are NOT doing THIS to ME!" The tears start to stream down my face. I'm furious.

He picks up a long blade of grass and puts it in his mouth. The only thing he's missing are sunglasses. Cool as a cucumber this one is.

"Come, sit beside me" he says. I cross my arms in complete defiance and stand there -- not taking a step. He ignores me for a good half-hour; enjoying the sun. Eventually he turns to me and says, "This will go a lot quicker if you actually allow the conversation to happen."

I march over to him, finger pointing; face flushed with anger "WHY are YOU doing THIS to me? Don't you know I have ENOUGH problems???"

But, instead of empathy, I get mockery. He lifts his head back and lets out a loud roaring laughter.

I stop. And stare. He continues to laugh before making eye contact with me. "What's so funny?" I ask quietly. I'm starting to feel self-conscious.

"Ahhh," he says as he catches his breath, "I forgot how self-centred one can be in human form. It's funny."

When he sees my genuine confusion, he extends an arm and motions for me to sit beside him on the hill. "I'm sorry - forgive me" he says, "I don't mean to offend you."

And so, begrudgingly, I sit beside him.

We both stare forwards into the distance for a while. I can feel his presence. Warm, encompassing, and strong. Like a real man...

The single lonely girl in me half-wishes all men were like this when you sat beside them. But then I shake my head, and mentally slap myself across my face --twice. What was I thinking?

"I'm really angry with you," I say finally -- breaking the silence.

He turns to listen, so I continue, "I was doing just fine until you showed up. I had this nice little blog going -- sharing some of my thoughts and insight. But now...now you turn up and I'm second guessing EVERYTHING. Up until now, I was good. I had some viewpoints on the world -- non-secular. Maybe people could actually swallow that; but now that you're popping up...I'M SCREWED!! The Christians and all the other bible thumpers are going to hate me because I've pretty much offended EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. And, anyone who's not Christian is going to be turned off too. You've JUST LABELLED my blog by showing up here -- AND IT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED!!!"

While he processes what I've just said, I take a look into his eyes. Kind, caring. I know he's actually listening. For a moment I let my thoughts trail back to whether or not he would date; because I've never really felt like this before. Somehow, he gets me.

While he takes his sweet time chewing his grass and deciding what he wants to say -- I start to contemplate what my life will be like committed to a mental institution for the rest of my life. Isn't that the deal? I mentally run through the checklist: See Jesus? Check! Schizophrenic break? Check! Life in a padded cell...

"I see," he says with a smile. Again, I feel like he's mocking me. I look down at the grass lightly blowing in the wind. I take a moment and feel the warm breeze on my face. Despite the consequences, I like it here. It's comforting.

"Am I having a schizophrenic break?" I whisper to him. I'm pretty sure I am.

His head falls backwards again, and this time -- he laughs even harder. When he's done, he wipes a tear from his eye.

"Karen," he says matter-of-fact, "you're funny."

Sigh. Great. Comedy night at the mental institution will never be better...

A few moments later, we begin to talk. I start to tell him all my worldly frustrations -- because it seems that he really wants to hear them. He had a pretty bad run on earth as well, so there's a bit of genuine empathy happening. He validates me. Reminds me what I signed up for -- and confirms that it's tough; and may in fact, get even tougher.

Eventually my self-deprecation turns to pity, then tears. And I weep. I weep for all the things my heart longs for; and all the things that the world has denied me.

He puts his arm around me, and despite my initial resistance -- I let him. Because, it seems, he wants to be there for me. And so, I weep some more. For all the times I've said things I didn't mean, and all the times I've done things I've regretted. And when I start to think about all the things I haven't done yet, I cry even harder.

"You're not suppose to be here," I say in between sobs, "people think you're a joke -- and besides, I'm not religious."

He kisses my forehead gently and tells me, "Neither am I," and for a moment I'm confused; but then -- I think about it. I really think about it. Ownership and labels are material, earthly things. And maybe religion is too.

I sit and enjoy the peace and camaraderie. I'm no longer angry that he visited me -- despite the consequences. And, in many ways, I feel bad for him. Maybe -- he really is misunderstood.

In any case, all I have to go on is this moment. And right here, right now, he's a friend. A kind spirit full of love and grace. And as I weep, I am grateful that he's here.

And as I sit here, contemplative, relaxed and healing -- I wonder how many other people walk this earth and feel misunderstood as well?

Maybe that's the key...to really see each other for what we are -- the good, the bad, the unaccomplished, and the endless possibilities contained in our hopes and dreams.

Theme Song

"I can't take this anymore!" I yell over the music as I race towards the stereo. Consuela drops her swiffer and starts charging towards it at the same time. I've had it. We've been listening to Enrique for the past three days and I'm about to lose my friggen mind.

"Staaaahp, Mia!!" Consuela yells.

We lock eyes. I bolt around one of the chairs and hop over the coffee table so that I can reach it first. Before she has a chance to stop me, I've managed to pull out the CD and fling it on top of one of the bookshelves.

"Enough!" I tell her.

She begins to sulk. First I've robbed her of her precious telenovellas (for her own good) and now I've taken away the only thing that seems to keep her going; that she may one day be rescued by Enrique.

"MIA!" she wails, and falls to the floor. "Iz no fair! You iz take away my Esmerelda con Amore and now I iz have nossing!"

I ignore her as I flip the stereo over to my favourite Easy Rock station. "There!" I say. Sure enough, they are playing my favourite song. Perfection!

Consuela begins to cry. I look down at her and say, "Why does everything have to be from South America? Don't you want to listen to some of my music?"

Her silence is my response, I suppose. Truth be told, if I have to listen to my crazy housekeeper blasting music 24/7, it might as well be some stuff that I like too. So, I have a plan.

"Come on!" I say and extend my hand. The half-empty living room makes for a perfect dance floor. Sure, at one point, I had lots of hopes and dreams for it. The bar was suppose to go over there, and the Karaoke machine was suppose to fit right over here -- but the finances of a struggling writer being what they are, have dictated another outcome: empty floor -- henceforth known as.....the dance floor.

Consuela ignores my hand and stands up on her own. She's a marvel that defies gravity. I watch as she carefully balances half her weight on her chubby little hands and leverages herself up from the floor. I can almost hear the strain on her knees. She dusts herself off; and re-adjusts her banana clip.

For a second I wonder if she's had her clip since the 80s, but since the music is playing; I soon lose that train of thought.

"Come on, grumpy!" I say to her as I begin to dance around on my newly christened dance floor. Maybe I'll send her to the dollar store later and get a disco ball...

Consuela begrudgingly stands there with a pout on her face as I dance around her. "Come on!" I yell. I think it's funny that she's having such a negative reaction to one of my all-time favourite songs.

"Consuela, you have to dance to this song because it's my theme song....just think how much writing I'll do today because we heard it!"

She begins to side step slowly, like an awkward 12 year old girl at a school dance. One foot lightly taps the other off rhythm.

"Consueeelaaaah" I tease as I grab her limp arms and begin to dance with her. She moves slowly at first, but then begins to shake her booty; and for an instant I think I even see a faint smile.

The music plays, and the song climaxes. I make eye contact with Consuela and, thinking that she understands what that means, proceed to raise my hands and turn around to spin -- but Consuela, being from Nicaragua, has no idea that this is the northern hemisphere's non-verbal cue for "let's spin right this second!". And so, I inadvertently fling her into the bookcase.

"Aaaarghha!" she wails as one of the pictures falls on her head. I laugh, and continue to dance because the song isn't over yet -- and besides, she'll live.

"Mia, I iz too tired to dance, ok?" she says, slumped on the floor. I ignore her, because for the first time in three days I'm actually enjoying the music blasting from the stereo. It's cheering me on. Telling me I can go the distance.

Anything is possible.

For a brief second I wonder if this is what frustrated women did in the middle ages? Did they resign themselves to the blasphemous titles of "spinster" and "witch" and say; to heck with it, I'm gonna go dance in the woods. Did they find a clearing in the middle of the night under the moon, and dance around a fire when no one was looking; just to soothe their own lonely souls?

It was an interesting thought...

I skip around Consuela's outstretched legs. She's picking at her cuticles while I hopscotch around her, and the fallen picture frame. I like this dance floor -- it has possibilities.

And come, hell or high water, Consuela will start to like my music. After all, my house -- my rules.

She can sulk all she wants. I've accomplished what I wanted to. The tide is shifting. Things are starting to go my way.

Earth, Wind & Fire - September from joseyyo on Vimeo.

The Wait

It's getting harder to breathe. The air is stagnant; stale and smelly. And it's dark. My arms are pressed up against my body and a slick mucous-like membrane bounds them together. The walls around me skim the surface of my skin. It's tight. I can't move.

I hate it in here.

I try to turn my head, but I can't. I'm hoping that by doing so, I can create a tear in the white film that surrounds me; and maybe gain a better perspective on the situation. But I can't. The resistance from the membrane is too strong. For now, I am left staring at the milky sinews that are the only layer between myself and the crusty dark wall.

Since I have nothing else to occupy me, I'm left alone with my thoughts. The darkness doesn't help with the creative process; but somehow -- left with no other alternative; it's all that I can do. I wonder how much better I'll be once I get out of here? When my wings are fully formed and I can take flight.

My back aches from the metamorphosis. For the last few days, my shoulders have been expanding to accommodate new joints that are forming along my spine; where my wings will eventually grow. They hunch forward, trying to maximize what little space I have in this cocoon. The awkwardness causes my head to tilt on one angle, and I'm able to create a small tear in the wall of the sticky membrane that surrounds me. I can see the inside wall a bit more clearly. It's brown; crustaceous, and moldy.

I want out.

I try my best to rock back and forth. This transformation is taking too long. It's too uncomfortable. I don't like it. I maneuver one of my hips as best I can to allow for more momentum; but I don't have enough strength in my torso to complete the task.

I'm not ready yet.

It's probably just as well. Who knows what bird might be sitting on a perch, waiting for me to poke my head through the wall. Without wings; I have no chance of survival.

So, as stinky and awkward as this feels at the moment; I have no choice but to endure this temporary confinement. And, no matter how painful or lonely or tedious it becomes; I must wait. To launch too soon is certain death. And, since I've come this far; I might as well wait until I can spread my wings and soar.

That is, if I ever do get out of here...

The Perseids

"What the hell was that?" someone at the table says, and looks up from their beer. We've dragged a table that seats about 12, closer to the water's edge. It's better to get drunk next to the waves. The night is dark. On this particular island off the east coast of Malaysia there's not a cloud in the sky ~ or a light in the cabins. Electricity is sparse.

We drink the beer fast before the ice in the buckets melt.

"It's the Perseids" says some guy from Denmark. There's always a brainiac in the group that seems to know a little bit of everything. Every drinking circle needs their Cliff Claven.

Before anyone has a chance to ask him to explain; it begins. A meteor shower pours through the atmosphere. It's the most majestic display of lights that I've ever seen.

"Are we safe?" says one girl from Holland. The brainiac tells her that they will all be burned by the Earth's atmosphere miles before reaching us.

So we watch, in awe. The most magnificent display of shooting stars one will ever see. They chase towards earth with brilliant tails that are miles long -- almost spermlike. There must be hundreds; but they look like millions streaking across the black sky. It happens during the second week of August every year, but those on the northern edge of the equator seem to have the best view.

From time to time, the bigger ones would "pop". We'd all jump from our seats, then raise our sweaty beer bottles and 'cheers' to the meteors. It lasted for over 20 minutes; streams and streams of hundreds of shooting stars burning up the sky above us.

"Make a wish!" Martha says to me, as we giggle a bit more from the whole experience. She links her arm in mine and I close my eyes; the first thing that comes to my head is the notion of crazy romantic love -- burning like something from a Tolstoy novel; but without the suicidal plunge at the end.

"You make one too!" I say to her. She's one of my best friends, and after my tenure in Japan she flew half-way around the world to travel with me before school started again in September.

"OK," she says. I watch as the brilliance of the meteors hundreds of miles above us, light up her face with streaks of pink, purple, white, blue and green. I hope, as I watch and sip from my beer that I never forget this moment. God, in all his brilliance, illuminating our little beach party. And as a drinking game ensues from the "pops" of the larger meteors colliding with Earth, we laugh.

Because, despite all the oppression and anger in the world -- its natural wonders always aim to warm our hearts and delight our souls.

Daft-Punk-One-more-time-*R*
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Sleeping In

"Mia! Wake up. Iz almoss 1 o'clock!!"

Consuela is knocking on my door. "Mia! What yer doing in dere? Yer iz time to wake up!"

I roll over and put the pillow over my head. I still can taste the wine on my tongue from last night. "Go away!" I yell at her. "I'm sleeping in today -- it's rainy. I don't care!"

She opens my bedroom door and storms in. "Iz NOT RAINY! Yer iz suppose to write, Mia! Don't yer want to be dat butterfly or somesing?", and with that she sits on the bed beside me. I think I hear one of the springs snap from the weight of her.

"Not today!" I moan from underneath my pillow. My head really hurts. The last thing I feel like doing is actually writing anything. The industry can wait.

"But Mia," she says as she goes over to the curtains and begins to open them, "Yer iz no good if yer iz no writing. Cuz den yer is all weepy and yer iz not happy." And with that she rips open the curtains and lets the sun pour in. Like a vampire, I creep further under my covers...not wanting to turn to dust like they do in those old black and white movies I used to watch at my Nana's when I was a kid.

"Noooooo!" I whine from under the covers. This isn't happening. Isn't the point of being a writer to slack off once in a while and no one is the wiser? I don't have anything due today. I deserve to be lazy, don't I?

"Iz good fer yer, Mia. Yer iz not happy if yer iz not writing" she says as she waddles out the door. Two seconds later I hear her blasting Enrique Iglesias. She's humming off-tune to his otherwise catchy song. I take a deep breath, and decide to embrace the day, the sunlight, and Enrique. Maybe I should write...

I turn the corner and slowly shuffle my way into the living room. Enrique is making me nauseous. I can't even breathe without feeling an ache somewhere in my body. I slowly make my way over to the couch and flop onto it like a limp rag doll.

I close my eyes and start to rub my temples. "I need Advil," I whisper, "and a glass of water". Consuela can't hear me over the music, so I try again. "I neeeed Advil and a glass of water!" but she still doesn't turn around. I grab one of the picture frames on the window sill and whip it at her head, "Consuela!" I yell. My ugly hungover side is slowly coming out. The frame misses her by about three feet, but it does get her attention. She turns around, and smiles -- clueless.

"Consuela! I need ADVIL and some WATER..." I snap with all the energy I have. She looks at me and begins to sulk. I've obviously hurt her feelings. "Please," I say as I flop back on the pillow. She goes into the kitchen and comes out a moment later with a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. I pop them back and hope that they start to work.

"Consuela," I say to her before she turns around, "can you please turn down the music. I have a headache."

"No!" she says defiantly and returns to her swiffering. She's dancing back and forth to Enrique. I think she's in love.

As I lay there, in pain, I start to sort out a backstory for one of the characters I'm trying to write. It's been bothering me for a while. Maybe now, in extreme agony, it will come to me. I stare at the ceiling hoping that the words will begin to stream down from heaven and magically appear on my page. 'Hope' being the operative word.

As I muddle around in my hungover mind about how the next few episodes are going to hammer themselves out, I watch Consuela getting her groove on to her Latin/American heartthrob. And when the Advil finally kicks in, I head to my laptop to write.

Hatred

It's nearly midnight and I'm walking through the park to get home. It's quiet. Not so warm. I don't notice the hairs standing up on the back of my neck as I walk; because I'm a little distracted. I'm daydreaming. I'm already half-asleep.

And then I hear a click.

"Give me all your money!" he says. I feel the metal pressed against my head. He hates me. But not because I've done anything. Because society has failed him, and he's angry. The gun to my head is an outward projection of the anger he feels.

And so I turn. Because I know this man. It's the same homeless man that I passed the ten dollars to months earlier. He's my neighbor. And he's broken.

Somehow, the serenity in me disables his fear. He allows me to turn, because, more than anything else -- he wants someone to care. And he's willing to kill for it.

"I've helped you before," I say, as I slowly motion to him that I'm going into my purse. I think he half-believes me. He definitely recognizes me. We see each other on a weekly basis. He probably has built up some grande fantasy of how great my life is; and how I'm undeserving of it.

I smile. I'm not afraid of him; only that the gun will go off accidentally at this point. I make a signal with my eyes and ask him to pull the gun back a bit. He takes a moment to assess, and then does.

"Look," I tell him. "I don't really have a lot of money," I say as I pull out my wallet. "But, I do have some gift cards -- and you're more than welcome to them if you like. I rifle through and find an H & M card, and hand it to him. "There's not much on it," I say "but you might be able to buy a shirt or something."

He takes the card, and puts the gun away.

I try to make a joke as I dig for my change purse; "Bad day?"

He nods.

I don't know why I wasn't afraid. Maybe it was the recognition of a universal truth; that he was fighting hard to survive -- like the lions in Africa; or the Khmer Rouge. I often think that people don't want to be broken. No one chooses to hurt -- or be hurt. It's just an ugly byproduct of life. This man wasn't born sullen, or angry. I'm sure as a child he ran around and played. I've never really seen a child that doesn't laugh when they're an infant.

Something broke him. And no one wants to help him out of it. At this point, he doesn't have the strength to help himself. He's at a loss.

As I pull out my change purse to dig out a few more coins for him, he turns and says to me in a whisper; "Why couldn't I hurt you?"

I reach out my hand, and let the coins drop into his; and say the only thing that makes sense to me, "Because you believe that I am not hurting you."

I could have gotten more philosophical -- but I really didn't think he was in the mood. He needed money. No one was helping him. And, he got desperate. As I walked away, I could tell that his hatred had subsided for the moment. He disappeared back into the shadows.

I wasn't angry. More sad. I think it's shameful that we let people get so desperate. And even more shameful, when we react piously to their desperate attempts for help.

Circling the Drain

I'm staring at the blank page. My mind is racing between all that I want to do, and all that I need to do. And I'm overwhelmed.

Too many ideas are coming to me -- and not enough hours in the day to birth them. At least, not yet. Not to mention; I'm only human, and I do get exhausted.

Trying to find the happy medium between writing productively, and not becoming a social hermit is tough. Very tough.

The creative process is very isolating. Unless you are a writer, you probably don't understand.

Sure, there are perks; I can go to the gym whenever I want, I can sleep in, I can write on my balcony, in my pyjamas. I have no one to answer to.

And that's the problem.

I'm not accountable to anyone. Not yet. Deadlines aren't set in stone because until I get a broadcast license or have a film optioned -- I'm on my own timeline. And every minute I waste becomes an exercise in managing the anxiety that tells me "I'm not being productive enough".

Or, I'm not good enough.

Or, I'll never become what I want to be, and I'm just wasting my time.

Or...I'm crazy...

Trying to explain how painful it is to write from inside a cocoon is difficult. There is little motivation as you stare blindly into the darkness at the shell that surrounds you. You know there is a sunny, bright, and wonderful outside world -- but until your wings are formed you lack the ability to break through the shell which you are in.

And, as suffocating as it may be sometimes, you wait. Because, until the wings are there -- you're stuck. The metamorphosis isn't complete.

I stare at the blank page and allow myself a moment's reprieve from the self-doubt, the pity, and the panic. My wings aren't formed yet; and so, by default - I can not take flight.

So I type. Because the only thing that will help me grow my wings is to transition into the creature I know I'm about to become. And only then, will I have the strength to break free and take flight...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


"What do you think?" I say to Consuela, when I finish reading the above passage out loud. She looks up from dusting the stereo and says, "So, yer sink yer iz some sort of butterfly, Mia?"

"Something like that..." I say. I guess she didn't really get the part about self-doubt. "Do you like it?" I ask. I want her honest opinion.

"I likes it, Mia. It's good. Evrysing yer write iz good, but I don't sink de people dey will get da butterfly, ya no?"

"Really?" I say and quickly skim over the passage again. I kinda like it. It connotes strength and determination -- two things I feel are important when it comes to tenacity. But who am I kidding? I'm asking a woman whose first language isn't English, if she likes my little blurb.

"Iz goooood, Mia. Iz good. Yer good. But next time, maybe yer should write about dat you iz like you. Not like some stoopid butterfly in some stoopid...what's dat called again?" she pauses.

"A cocoon" I say.

"Si," she says, "A cakooon".

And with that, she turns back to pledging the electronics.

Khmer Rouge

The back wheels clunk ever few seconds into the potholes on the road. We've been driving slowly for hours through the dark night, from the Thai/Cambodian border, towards the city of Siem Reap.

It's September 10th 2001.

The road, like the country, has been gutted. Left to decay from the fatigue of a massive genocide that happened two decades prior. Pol Pot has left his ugly mark.

Most of us are sitting on our knapsacks. Some of us are in agony. There have been no washroom stops -- for two reasons: 1. We are trying to not stir the attention of the Khmer Rouge, and so, for most of the journey we have been driving slowly without headlights; and 2. The road is narrow, the vehicle barely fits the width of it. To step off the road and onto the fields is like playing Russian roulette. There are just too many landmines.

So we all squirm, and keep quiet like we are instructed. We only have another hour or so to go, before we reach the city.

Crossing the border was agonizing. We did it on foot. The wait was endless. I poured over my guidebook and tried my best to commit to memory some safety instructions; including the most important: Never start your journey to Siem Reap after dusk. It's too dangerous.

At 11am, it seemed probable that we would be admitted through the gates just after lunch hour. So we sat, on the red clay -- baking in the sun. The border guards stared at us. I believe they were waiting for the drivers to return from taking people the day before. A 6 to 8 hour journey at best -- along unmaintained mud-trodden roads; riddled with landmines and guarded by the rebel army.

Some tourists did not make it to Siem Reap -- but those were the ones who were unwilling to co-operate. Unwilling to give up their valuables.

Those tourists were shot dead.

Just after 2pm we were allowed through the gate. Immediately we were rounded up by men who were collecting people to take to Siem Reap. We took a brief break to grab some food before hopping on a wagon hitched to a motorbike that would take us to our driver.

10 minutes later we were being rounded into a vehicle. It sat 8 to 10, but there were at least 16 of us. So, most of us had to sit in the aisle, and on the floor between the seats. It was our only option.

We left three hours before dusk. That would give us a 5 hour head start before the dark of night would fall on our road -- and by then we should be closer to the outskirts of Siem Reap. Drivers know better than to take their chances and risk antagonizing the Khmer Rouge, that may or may not be patrolling the roads. We trusted that our driver had calculated the time accordingly.

6 hours later the vehicle began to slow down. It had done this a few times before when approaching larger holes in the road. At the time, I assumed that we were re-evaluating a strategy.

I looked up and peered through the windshield. There were armed gunmen blocking the road in front of us. Both had baseball hats and red kerchiefs tied around their face.

We had made a pact at the start of the journey to hand over whatever they wanted. The only advantage we had is that they were still relatively isolated from the rest of the world -- so a lot of money to them would be relatively little to us. The strategy was to pour out what 'seemed' like all we had -- in hopes that it would satisfy them. They weren't there to kill any tourists. Just scare us and make a quick buck.

Our driver passed us his hat, and we placed whatever extra cash and expendable jewellery we had into the hat, and passed it back. My hope was that they would be happy with the richer currencies of Thai Baht, and American dollars.

They were.

The driver continued a conversation with them. For all we knew, it could be a scheme and they were his cousins. But it didn't matter. The country was poor enough, that if throwing some extra money their way would ease our safe passage -- then so be it.

A moment later the driver asks if anyone would like to use the washroom. The Khmer tell him to tell us that the area just off this road is safe from landmines. Some of us get out, including myself. I maneuver past one of the guards and walk to the back of the vehicle. Another woman walks behind me. One of the men walks into the field to pee; but I am not leaving the road. I'm not that brave.

We cop a squat and have a bit of a chat while the two of us pee on the road behind the vehicle. I sit there for a moment to let the wind drip me dry; and think how odd it is that I'm relatively calm despite being robbed at gunpoint by a rebel army.

We get back into the car. The Khmer Rouge ask the driver for some t-shirts -- which some of the men pass to the front; and with that the vehicle starts up again - this time with headlights. We are safe for the rest of the journey to Siem Reap.

And as the back wheels clunk along melodically along the unfinished bumpy road, I lay back on the floor and close my eyes.

And try and get some sleep.