My brother Sean is constantly writing great blogs about the theater world. He gets in trouble every now and then, but he also totally stands behind his words. I would love to write about the non-profit arts world, but I can’t, not as much as I’d like. And yet, every day brings a new, bizzare event, and as my job is now largely my life, it’s hard to sit down and write about anything else.

One thing we do in my company is a “Lessons Learned” session after any significant proposal or meeting. It’s one of the best tools we have to give each other constructive criticism and really take apart what worked and what didn’t. I do that with myself, on my own, a little every day, because my learning curve is so steep and sharp right now that sometimes it’s hard to even see the top of the mountain, let alone manage to make it there. And the mountain is nothing like I thought it would be.

I didn’t enjoy my work very much the last couple of days. That comes on the heels of weeks of feeling joy in the workplace. But my job has taken a subtle shift, and unless it shifts back… well, I don’t know. I can’t bear to be around people who are so resistant to change. I know they are out there, I know that they are hard to avoid, but I’m just not interested. And it is a thorn in my side.

The woman who had my job before me was accused of withholding information from the board, and I’m beginning to see why. When you have a dysfunctional board that micromanages the executive director, the director will never get anything done. And most of this week, my focus has been catching people up on the minute details of my job, rather than acutally accomplishing anything. Even though I know this is part of what I’m doing as an ED in an organization in a turn-around phase, even though I know it is necessary to train people to be functional, I’m not enjoying it. For the first time today, I thought about giving up. Not on my job, really, but on the organization. If I’m going to bust my ass, doing all this work to undo the damage of years of mismanagement, neglect, and exclusionism, and then get beat up over it… not interested. I’m not remotely worried about finding another great job. But I am worried about how I felt this week.

And the thing is, I absolutely love my job. I love it more than I’ve loved anything I’ve ever done, maybe even theater. It’s the first time I’ve felt that all of my talents have been really challenged and used, in a situation where success is possible. I believe so deeply in what I do, and I look forward to my job every day. It is deeply satisfying, deeply meaningful. But if these fart-knockers want to get in my way because they feel they have to control everything, then they can look elsewhere for a director. I’m going to remind them what I’ve brought to the table, what my father has brought to the table, Where in god’s name would they be without the team that brought me in? Well. They’d be long gone, and not missed. They know this better than I do.

I’m sure next week will be better. I’m sure that this too, will pass, and that it feels so bad because I’m now accustomed to feeling so good. But what do you do when your hard work and success are questioned not because of your performance but because change is scary? There will always be conflict, on every board, in every group, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I got hit by a truck and then kicked while I was down yesterday, so what did I do? The only mature thing: drank myself into a stupor and fell asleep at the movies. Perfect.

I have some issues with my board. Or my board has some issues with me. There has been an undercurrent of divisiveness of late and it bloomed in the past few days like a joy-eating carnivorous spiky evil wood plant. I spent hours, hours on the phone yesterday, head on my desk, free arm dangling to the ground, trying to teach old, old dogs not just new tricks, but basic stuff like not peeing on the carpet or eating off the dinner table. These dogs don’t want to hear it. At one point yesterday, my boss and I reminded each other that we are but consultants, and can cut and run if these people are so determined to be dysfunctional. It was rough stuff.

But I’m back, a little late this morning, with a foggy head and blurry eyes and wondering how it was that I was shooting pool with strangers at some point last night. Hangovers are so specific, so detailed in their perfect fuzz and dull pain. I’m not sure if it was the booze, the lack of sleep, or the beating I took yesterday that is slowing me down today, but this morning I’m having a little trouble figuring out what it is I do for a living. Strange, how soft everything looks, like I can’t believe that my coffee cup isn’t folding gently into the panels of the desk. Or, wait, I’m just wishing my desk was a pillow.

Do you think that love hits you over the head, or do you think it eventually develops? Do you think it’s possible that the physical will almost always get in the way of the emotional? I just don’t know the answers anymore. I’ve seen people fall in love when it seemed impossible; I’ve thought I felt love but then a month later couldn’t remember why. I suppose, at a certain point, you have to be careful, methodical, and slow, but I’ve never been those things in this context. But doing it wrong differently seems so much more appealing now.

There is always time, if you want there to be. Yes, I’m wrapped up in work, yes, it’s the middle of harvest and everyone around the valley is working sixteen hour days. But there is always time. Speaking of which, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ELIZABETH!!!! All you single men out there, you have totally missed the boat because one of the coolest, most elegant, funny, silly, HOT HOT HOT women in the world is madly in love already. Ya’ll should have jumped when ya had the chance. Many big wishes for a wonderful year, my good friend. Awfully glad you moved here.

And now back to my desk, the cool, cool, inviting plywood, the smooth, soft pages of the notepad, how I long to lay my head and end this day…

Just in case you’ve all been desperately checking my blog, wondering the fate of my dear, sweet, kitty cat, well, have I got news for you. The incision where they drained the hematoma did not heal. Ever. So after the sutures came out, good ‘ol Fezzik got another fresh set, this time only at the incision point. So he had to keep the cone on his head for another two weeks. That was a week ago. Last night my dear, sweet human friend Elizabeth came over for a glass of wine and some tasty salmon and Fezzik would not leave us alone. I reached into the cone to pet him, and lo! There it was. A brand-new hematoma, in the very same ear, in the very same space, all delightfully swollen with blood that lost its way. I couldn’t fucking believe it.

I finally got my vet on the phone, and so after work, I trudged my way through horrendous harvest traffic, picked up my not-so-willing animal, and trudged ALL THE WAY back down-valley to go back to the way-too-familiar vet’s office. This time, I forked out another bablillon dollars to do a blood work-up. There is some reason that he’s not healing, but it is truly baffling. Worst possible scenario is he has kitty AIDS or some other rotten disease. Regardless, his ear will be super ugly for the rest of his life. By the time all is said and done, he will have been in the cone for at least three solid months. His ego will be forever bruised.

In better news, I had yet another terrific day at work. There are so many damn good people in this valley, who want great things to happen, and who actually believe that I might be able to do something here. Letting them down is not an option.

To that end, why don’t all of you in cyber-space help me out? I need grant money, private donations, children’s piggy bank contents the nation over. Everyone wants to fund our Arts in Educaton programs, but no-one wants to fund the organization that can bring those programs to the classrooms. We need to have lights and power and a desk and a staff in order to create the programming that brings arts ed into the schools. But that is a difficult correlation for the public to make. It’s like the Red Cross. The Red Cross wanted to divert 9/11 donation funds to help themselves become a more effective and viable organization, and the public cried “FOUL!”. Why? Because the Joe America wanted his $20 to go directly to a child who lost his parents. Joe American didn’t understand that the Red Cross has been helping millions of people while just barely skimming by. As a Red Cross Emergency Service Responder, I made a whopping $70 a day before taxes- more like about $50 a day- and had to keep my full-time job just to be able to be of service. With a fraction of that 9/11 money, the Red Cross could have updated a computer system, repaired broken toilets, hell, paid their ESRs a living wage, but instead, they were forced to keep eeking by, and therefore unable to grow and serve even more people.

It’s the same damn thing. Everyone wants to fund the programs I want to create, but they don’t want to support my staff or pay my utility bill so I am ABLE to create the funding. Paying for light bulbs and staples is a lot less sexy than paying for a cute 6-year-old to slop clay all over an (also) underpaid art teacher. There is a disconnect, and I don’t know how to remedy it. Everyone is slapping me on the back, exclaiming, “FINALLY, someone like you is here!!!” They are also saying, “oooh, that program is right up my foundation’s alley!” I need one just one of them, one big fat donor to say, “I believe in what you are doing. I see where you are going, and I understand what it takes to get there. Here’s $50,000.” God, do you know what could happen with just 50 grand? That would be what it took to do all this groundwork, hire my program manager full-time, and get swinging! But until then, I’m stuck borrowing a toilet, rubbing my sore back that has been slapped a thousand times. If had a dollar for every time…

If you or someone you know just happens to be a) loaded and b) an arts supporter, well then hell. I’ve got a great write-off for you. I hope you think light bulbs and staples are sexy, cuz at this point, they are terribly attractive to me.

I live in the Napa Valley, and harvest is happening all around me, so I’m certainly not the only one working overtime. It’s been weeks since my friend Jon saw the sun when he wasn’t working. And maybe it’s sad that I have the time to work twelve hour days right now- it means I don’t have much of a life, right? But it also means that I have the energy, drive, and belief in this project to work long hours with little pay. I was sitting in the foyer of a restaurant tonight, picking up a piece of fish for my dinner, when I had a flashback of restaurant work. In that flashback I was working at Keller’s new restaurant in NYC, making mad money and having four days off each week. But after this I don’t think I can ever work at anything again that is not meaningful to me. I’ve made plenty more money in a lot less time, but things have changed. I can’t do that now.

I’ve begun, and possibly also already ended, a relationship this week. Think what you will, but two elements in any relationship are simply necessary: you must think your mate is funny, and you must have some agreement on political issues. It’s sometimes as simple as that. This guy is funny, sweet, smart, and kind, artistic and practical, loving and affectionate. But we can’t seem to get over a political argument we had on our third date. The thing is, the content of the argument is a little disturbing, but ever since it seems we’ve been speaking greek to each other. We can’t communicate. We’ve now discussed it for a total of several hours and we only met a week ago tonight. It’s unfortunate, but I guess at least we are getting this stuff out in the open quickly. We may recover and bounce back and become all the closer for it, but at this point I think we are both thinking the same thing: we should be in the salad days, not the knots-in-stomach days. I don’t know if there is a future for us. But it’s actually a really positive reminder that I do want to foster and encourage a little more lovin’ in my life. Of the emotional kind.

It’s 9:18, and there must be Sirens in my bed, singing the sweet song of cool sheets and soft pillows. I can’t think about anything else. Sometimes going to bed before 10 PM is absolutely delicious. Better than ice cream.

That’s about all I can say about yesterday right now.

Greek and Roman gods and goddesses showed up for the birthday celebration yesterday…

And here is Adonis himself, puzzling over the little metal box that has tiny people inside

When it is over 100 degrees many days in a row, and you don’t have air conditioning, things start to get weird. Which is one of the many reasons why my weekend away from Napa Valley was so terrific! Unfortunately, I didn’t miss the whole heat wave, and it’s really creepy when my cat starts panting.

I spent a simply wonderful weekend in New York up at the farmhouse. I didn’t know I was going until two days before my flight, and I waffled tremendously over whether almost thirty hours of travel were worth forty-eight hours of fun, but I am so darn glad I went. I just love my brothers’ friends, and my brothers’ wives, and I’ll take any chance I can get to share a room with them. Highlights were pool with Ehren, and Block playing his music for us, and a constant supply of cookie batter in the fridge. There were two ugly hours near the end when I thought my cell phone was gone forever, and I was distraught enough to cry in the shower over the $200 it would have cost me for a new one, but then a drunken memory came back to me. I found my phone in a pocket in a jacket that didn’t remotely belong to me. Ahh, blessed day. Everything that was ruined was suddenly addled with sunlight.

Friday night, before my plane flight early Saturday, my organization hosted a major event that was a wild success. Hundreds of people showed up, drank wine, looked at cool art, and some of them whipped out their wallets and bought a few pieces. My friends showed up en masse, and it was such a wonderful thing to be there, with them, with my organization, and with a couple hundred artists and art patrons. I’ll admit to hurting something fierce when I got up at 6 AM for my flight, but I was still able to rally 17 hours later at the pool hall in Great Barrington, MA.

I’m still loving my job, but my optimism is far more guarded than it’s been the last couple of months. We have less than three weeks to raise a substantial amount of money and if we are unsuccessful, everything I’ve done has been largely pointless. We don’t need to raise the whole blahde-blah amount by the end of this month, not by any stretch, but we do need to raise about twenty grand to keep doing all the groundwork so we can work towards the event or the major donors that will bring in the big cash. I know we can do this, I just still don’t know if I know the right people to ask. It’s a little scary, too.

And then there’s my cat. His sutures have healed perfectly, but the incision never closed, so while he was able to get the sutures removed, he now has fresh ones and is STILL in the cone. I’d attach another picture but he looks the same kind of pathetic. Nothing new there.

Ten years ago, and then again five years ago, I said I wanted to marry a carpenter who writes poetry by the midnight oil. Someone who works with his hands but who also is passionate about his art.

I’m just sayin’.