I am thankful that a year ago, my entire family rallied behind me and supported me when I up and moved to the other side of the country. Every member of my family held my hand, or laced their own hands together to give me a leg up into a better life.

I am thankful for my friends, who love me, who see me as I actually am and they celebrate me and they let me love them like crazy.

I am thankful for clarity, for realizing how dreadfully unhappy I was in my job in New York, and the effect that unhappiness had on my entire life. I am thankful that I can drain the moat, put the fire-breathing dragon to rest, lower the drawbridge, and creak open the iron gates surrounding my heart and realize that I know and love a hell of a lot of good people.

I am thankful for a job that allows me to be successful every single day. I don’t have it in me every single day, but the possibility is always there.

I am thankful to be writing again.

I am thankful for direction.

I am thankful that I was born of great artists, and I am thankful for how that altered me from day one.

Most of all, I am thankful for my family. I know exactly how lucky I am to belong to this tribe.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a waste of lipstick, but nor was it the one and only. I soldier on.

I seem to be incapable of giving up. Every time I say I have, every time I do something that indicates I have, something sad and silly endures and somehow I still believe I’m going to find that life partner who eludes me so thoroughly. I was talking to Sean today, and he was telling me how much he’s learned from the people with whom he’s been in relationships, and I so completely cannot relate. I haven’t been in a serious relationship in almost four years- FOUR YEARS!- and my relationship before that one taught me only what is bad between two people. Before that, well, that goes back to spring of 1995. Doesn’t even count. So I have only learned from my friends and family. I lucked out there, clearly, but I have no frame of reference as to how to relate to a man on a day-to-day basis, who is not family, but more than a friend, who could be smarter, cooler, wiser, and funnier than I am. I mean, wouldn’t that just be lovely? Someone to tell me I’m being ridiculous, or terrific. What’s that?

Back in the day, my ex used to call me, loaded and sad, crying because I wasn’t there to tell him he was okay. This is when we were together but living in separate states because, well, he was an awful addict and a ridiculous man but I couldn’t purge myself of him. He would cry and cry and tell me how he had to be the one to tell himself that he was okay. The problem was, he wasn’t okay, not nearly, and yet I can see him, looking at his red, bloated, drunken (and still very handsome) face in the mirror, telling himself that all was well, that he was a good guy, that he deserved more in life than the sad lot before him. I really doubt he ever decided to tell himself that he was a mess.

Anyway, I haven’t given up hope, because I brushed my hair and put on pink lipstick and I wait for the call to go on yet another first date. My life is filled with first dates. You could say that’s better than no dates, but meeting more men is not the boost giving me faith that the right one is out there. Meeting more men is making me wonder if I simply come from another planet and that’s why I can’t find someone who fits. But… still… I go. I don’t go with much hope, but I do go with as open a heart I can muster.

This is one of the few times these days that I take a break from my work life to blog. You can call a blog a diary, a narrative, anything you want, but a blog is merely a snapshot that covers the most compelling three or four minutes of that blogger’s day. And “compelling” clearly often applies only the blogger as opposed to the reader.

I am having a tremendous few days at work, filled with hope and good work and long, fruitful hours. My new office has a lovely view of treetops towering above my second-floor window. The closest tree is slowly turning, and is right now dominated by my mom’s favorite yellow. Three grand evergreens, twice as tall as my building, are perfectly framed in the window from where I sit and write. There is a little traffic noise, but just enough to remind me that the world is whirling by as I sit and write about the arts.

But I don’t know how long I can last here. It’s been the topic of debate with my friends and colleagues of late: how can we bear to continue to live in this valley when there is no reason for thirtysomethings to be here. There is no physical structure dedicated to us, no coffee shop with comfy sofas and modest prices and a high-speed internet connection. There is no dark wine bar where we might sip Cabernet and meet one another. There is no arts center where we might buy paints or see a show. The only thing to “do” here is go out to very expensive dinners, or have a very expensive glass of wine at the bar of a very expensive restaurant, or go see a movie in a terrible theatre with all of the drug-dealing, bored teenagers in downtown Napa. (Lord, I think it’s bad for us thirtysomethings, I can only imagine how dreadful it is for high schoolers.)

San Francisco is over an hour away, and I have to say, it utterly pales in comparison to New York. I love my little cottage, but I long to live within walking distance of a coffee shop, newsstand, thrift store, grocery. I long to see people my age. We take road trips to San Fran and we stare out the windows of the car at the young people as if the world outside is a zoo, filled with strange creatures who will never know us. I go back to New York and walk down the street and see so much possibility in the teeming hordes of my generation.

I love my job, I love my employer, I love my friends. But my friends are slowly leaving. I have only one left who still lives in the valley full-time, and he is thinking of moving across the country, or into the city…and there isn’t that much difference between the two, in my mind. The community we built so quickly is stretching, sprawling, and eventually I’m going to have to make some decisions about what is most important in my life.

But for now, I continue to work hard, and continue to try to deepen my connection to this community. I’m running off right now to meet with the local Red Cross chapter to see if there is any good work to be done. But unless a couple thousand forward-thinking young ones decide to move to this valley, I’m ultimately going to have to look elsewhere to create the life I want.

My father is a symphony conductor. He stands on the podium, absolutely still, waiting for his orchestra to finish scooting their seats and arranging their music, only a few short seconds allowed. When he raises his arms, every instrument flies into position, every back is straight, every muscle posed and ready… even in the audience. We, too, respond to the lift of my father’s baton, to his call to action. I have watched him, both as child and adult, create greatness out of what was simply average. His talent is so obvious, and so sublime, all at once.

My brother Steve makes sense out of any kind of chaos. He’d have to, considering the madness that he calls his living room, but he can make anything work. He also knows how just about everything works before he’s even looked at it. I can call him with any idea or problem and he either provides the solution or the knowledge that there is no solution. His knowledge of computers, in particular, is staggering. Make that his knowledge of anything electronic. I see these beasts made of metal and cords and plastic and hard drives and ram and THEY MAKE NO SENSE outside of simple operations. I can barely wrap my mind around the idea of flight, and yet Steve owns and repairs and flies his own airplane. There are things he knows, and knows about, that will never be clear to me.

Kent is the gentle giant who reminds me who I’d like to be when I grow up. Kent’s talents, from childrearing to music to pancakes, are too many to list, other than to say that he’s one of the few true artists I know. I remember thumbing through a book of his poetry and drawings when I was eight years old and wondering if I would ever be capable of doing what he did. It seems so strange to find such grace in a man so tall. And if his kids are any indication, Kent is one of the best fathers on the planet.

Ian’s writing haunts me. Phrases he wrote ten or more years ago find their way to the front of my brain on a daily basis. Sometimes I’m angry because I wish I had his education; there were years in my young life that I knew that I was exceptionally smart, but as my schooling got worse (and my focus on my own appearance got stronger) I became decidedly less. Sometimes I think that if I had had his education, maybe I could do what he does. But I’m wrong. Ian writes from a place unknown to me, and unknown to most of the literary world. I don’t know how he does it, how he puts a string of ordinary words together and creates something otherworldly. I wish I knew, but all I can do is sit back in awe. Sometimes it’s just a blog, sometimes it’s an article, sometimes it’s a screenplay, but it is pretty much always brilliant.

Sean is a storyteller. He is so much more than an actor. He is what actors would be if only the tiny percent of the population capable of transportive greatness were allowed the title. His talent is so utterly clear, so bright, so gorgeous and terrifying, so truthful that it hurts. Again, I don’t entirely understand how he does it. Even though I was taught the method, I don’t understand it like Sean does. He, too, has access to that pool where only true artists are allowed to dip their cup.

My mom. My mom need only play you one of her songs, any one of them, and you’ll understand that she is not like the rest of the world. Her music reached me when she could not, when I was young and furious and hateful. Her music makes me think that the Phates wanted her to be one of them, and so gave her a gift that made her more than mortal. Tell my mom to write a song about a zucchini or a hubcap, and she’ll do it, and it will be great. Give her time to write her own music, and it will be extraordinary. Her melodies are never what you expected, but always what you wanted without knowing it. She swims in that pool of artistry. She giggles as the other artists come to the shore with their meager cups; she does the backstroke and spurts the sacred water out of her mouth like a fountain. It’s all she knows.

Tonight, at the concert, as the Brahms washed over my friends and me, I wondered where I fit. I know all the things I am, but suddenly I was terrified, because I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to act again. I just don’t know that I should do it if I’m not truly great. I wasn’t sure if I should keep writing; I wondered if I should have never given up the cello; I wondered if I should have gone to school to be a vet: I wondered if, surrounded by greatness that all came before me, if there was anything left in the pool.

Ten minutes after I returned to work after presenting in front of the granting board, I got a call from their President telling me that not only do they want to fund my program, they want to partner with my organization to make the program as successful as possible. It’s incredibly good news. My board is elated, my boss is elated, and I am proud to have been the liason that made this happen. But also, this program makes sense. It is not just vital, necessary, and important, it makes sense. It has been wonderful to have affirmation towards something based on solid facts, on good research, on truths and needs. It feels like the world at large, here in the USA, things aren’t moving in a linear fashion; truth and research are completely irrelevant. To sit in front of a board, a board where basic good ethics prevent my father from speaking up too much in support of his daughter’s program, and to have that board listen, and ask questions, and get solid answers, and decide to get involved… for a few minutes there, I found peace and order in this world.

I can’t believe how bent out of shape the crazies are getting right now. It’s really disturbring, and I’m realizing that since the election, reality has shifted. It’s almost like the days after 9/11, but only in a very narrow sense that what once was is no longer. We couldn’t really wrap our heads around what happened, and I’m there again. I’m there again, and I’ve been sleeping with the phone next to my bed because I’m scared that some guy is going to break in here and hurt me. I’m scared walking the dark, foggy ten feet from my car to my door. I’m scared of the zealots in this country, I’m scared of the hate and anger flying around, I’m scared of my own hate and anger.

I was telling some friends about that person, the one that really chaffs my hide, so to speak, and I was doing a vitriolic song and dance about that person’s many evils, and one of my friends shook her head and said, “Man, what do you see in her that you hate in yourself so much?” I mean, it’s boring and obvious, isn’t it, that we hate in others what we are loathe to see in ourselves. This person challenges and by doing so thinks she’s being smart and controversial. She questions things that make sense because she feels that makes her clever. The volume of her voice raises as her knowledge of the subject diminishes. She wastes time- she wastes my time, everyone’s time. She is in the wrong company, in way over her head, and she postures to try to remind herself why she is there. She is exactly who I don’t want to be.

But I called her dumb and mean. “Mean” can be defined and proven quite easily; “dumb” is slightly harder to justify. Regardless, who the hell am I to call anyone dumb? But I’m so damn angry, so furious, and so terrified, that I lash out sometimes when I least expect to, and too quickly to check myself. I am helping no one by spouting hate. I do not believe that giving in to your anger makes it go away; I do not believe in “letting it out”. Every time I’ve “let it out” in my life, I’ve not just lived to regret it as my hurtful words make their way through the universe; I’ve also just gotten angrier.

Things aren’t making sense. I’m sleeping too much, and wanting even more sleep. Great things happen, and I see them in a fog. I’m forgetting to do some of the things I need to do, basic things like dropping stuff off at my dad’s in time for the movers, or calling a friend when I’m supposed to spend the evening with her. I dream that I’m punching my way through invisible marshmallow, like the very air around me is sticky and endless and doesn’t want me to connect with anything solid.

So to sit in front of that board yesterday, and know on a very deep level that people were listening as I was speaking, and understanding my clear and simple goal to support artists, was the most satisfying experience I’ve had in weeks. I’m so thankful that something, finally, made sense.

How is it possible that I woke up a full hour early this morning? Where is the logic in that? I have to be somewhere, somewhere close by, in an hour, to do a presentation for a grant. I am fully dressed, completely ready to walk out the door, I’m as prepared as possible, but I have an hour to go. I should just now be opening my eyes, the deer nudging my face, the bluebirds lifting and flying my hair, soft Disney music in the background, a brilliant spring day dawning out the window.

Instead, I opted against a shower, my soy milk curdled in my flavored coffee, and the day is bleak and gray with promises of the winter ahead. Even my cat is hiding under the bed.

And yet, I have hope. The weeks before the election, and then the week of election, I lost hope in my job as I lost hope in our country to elect the better guy. All weekend I was reconciling myself to moving to a different position, leaving my arts job, abandoning that which I could no longer help. But this week, I have hope. The support is out there, I just need to keep on diggin to find it. We’ve cancelled our fundraiser because not enough people wanted to show, but after making hundreds of calls, I’ve at least found a handful that were interested. They are who I’ll turn to now. If that fails, well, yeah, I’ll have to deal with that then, which actually may be sooner than later, but at least I no longer feel like there are no options. There are still options, and as long as there are options, there is hope.

I got back to my car tonight after a fascinating dinner with my friend Jon (more on that later) and saw a note on my windshield under my wiper. It read “My name is Katherine I think I scratched your car but it’s dark please call me”. I got out of the car and had Jon shine his lights on the driver’s side and sure enough, there is my paint, her paint, a bunch of mud (?) and nice long but shallow dents on the door and the body. I called her, and she was very gracious. but the really sad part is that the repairs are going to cost at least what the car is worth. They’ll have to paint both the door and the body. A real shame… but I’m glad I won’t be paying for it.

Jon and I had dinner at La Boucane. I have a hard time believing that even a google search will come up with any good info on this place; they aren’t even listed in directory service. But what a totally surreal night. We got there 45 minutes after they were supposedly open but found a deadlocked door; we tried to call, but couldn’t find a number, and so we knocked. An older man answered the door and ushered us in to a “lover’s table” (about which Jon and I, essential brother and sister, couldn’t stop giggling) and then he went to the back and reappeared in a chef’s coat. This man brought us bread and water, opened our wine, cooked and delivered our food, and entertained us with stories about Napa 25 years ago. Three other tables trickled in, at which point Jon and I were left to our own devices for half hours at a time as our host opened their wine, cooked their meals, and told them stories. He was as fascinating as the old craftsman house that housed this restaurant; the wallpaper was floral and faded, just like grandma’s, the ceiling and trim a blue that may once have matched the floral pattern but was now far too bright. The woodwork was probably gorgeous once upon a time but was now shellacked with layers of green-brown baby-poo paint. The most terrifying detail, however, were the etched mirrors that hung on the walls between the pocket doors. More floral motifs, this time with wee bluebirds, reflecting the poo-brown and florals from the facing walls. We sneaked a peek under the white rayon tablecloth to find a plastic-covered 1970’s table stolen straight from Denny’s. It was truly wonderful. The wine list was an old crusty book that had ten or eleven selections, designated by one label from a bottle of wine on each page. More often than not, though, the vintage had changed, so there was a little corrective sticky over the year. But, my god, the lobster bisque and the creamed spinach were ridiculous… almost as good as the raspberry souffle. Holy god, good stuff.

And we didn’t really talk about the election, or politics, even, other than a little ranting before dinner. Instead, we talked about our friends, and our trip to the city tomorrow, wine, women, and song. I don’t know if I can stay true to the media blackout I promised myself, not while Bush holds a press conference holding out one generous hand to the Democrats while hiding a dagger behind his back. But what I can do is give myself a little time and breathing room to recover and rebuild.

I ate more at dinner tonight than I ate all of yesterday and the day before. I’m reminded that I hate being this full.

The heavens are weeping here in Napa Valley for the first time this season. We’ve had a couple of late-night showers, but today was the first day that the sun was blocked by soaked rain clouds. It was sprinkling when I woke up this morning, and the rain still falls heavily.

I’m done weeping, for now. I’m ready for a week-long media blackout, and a four-year long Bush blackout. Don’t get me wrong- I will pay attention, I will be informed, but there is no good reason for me to look at his stupid ass-face.

What I am ready to do is act. Tell me where to go, what to do, where to look, who to join, and I’ll consider it. Tell me how I personally can start the work towards election 2008, and I’ll do it. Tell me how I personally can do something to make sure that women have a right to choose, that the polar ice caps stop melting, and I will do it. Tell me how to change one mind a month for the next 48 months and I will gladly do the work. Tell me how to find a candidate that actually comes close to my own politics, but who can speak to middle America, and I will start his campaign NOW, in my little studio, in the little hamlet of Rutherford. I will do it. But I don’t know how.

I am dead serious. If anyone out there has any bright ideas, reasonable ideas, directions, or thoughts, I beg you to send them to me. I can’t find anything on the internet, can’t quite narrow down the Google search (my last try was “what do I do now?”) I will claim utter ignorance, and complete cloudiness- I haven’t the foggiest idea where to begin. But I want to begin, so if someone out there has any concrete ideas, I want ’em. And I tell you this: put me to work on the next Democratic campaign for President. Do it. We’ll win. He will be brilliant and funny and articulate, but southern or midwestern and appealing. We need to find him, and then he needs me to work on his campaign.

We can have a quiet revolution as the Republicans sit back on their haunches and rest on their majority. We can be worms that slowly devour the Republican stronghold on the center and south of this country. We will invite the Christian Right to stay in the houses of the lord, and draw out the younger voters who just couldn’t get excited by Kerry. We will be moles, infiltrating middle American. And the Republicans will do most of the work for us- things are going to get so incredibly awful that it will finally become undeniable and unbearable and American will lust for someone SMART and CAPABLE rather than someone who seems like he’d be fun in a hot tub. The war will drag, our health care costs will skyrocket, our teenagers will not be able to go to college, and finally, finally, something is going to break. We just have to be prepared and have done the groundwork to catch the country when it falls.

Someday, the rest of the world will try to forgive us for being such assholes. But first we have to stop being assholes on an international scale, and that’s not going to stop for four more years. We’ve got work to do.

I might be the last family member awake. It’s 1 AM in California, way past my bedtime, and only now did I finally get up off the couch and turn off the TV. When Kerry hit 242 electoral votes, I had spasms of hope, but they are gone. There is still a chance, I know, but the fact that Bush is 5 million ahead in the popular vote, and that he has led this race from the minute the polls opened is telling.

In 2000, I hardly took the election seriously because I thought it laughable that Bush would get elected. I predicted a minor landslide this year in favor of Kerry. And while I know that there are a thousand things more important, I can’t help but think about the opinions of people in every other country in the world- what must they think of us, we who had a chance to right a horrible wrong and instead stuck our heads in the sand.

I will try not to despair, I will try to take Sean’s advice and be incredibly artistically productive tomorrow. I’m sad, ashamed, demoralized… but mostly I am really, really pissed off that the madman is around for another four years. I’m really pissed off that he’s frightened over half of my fellow Americans into voting for him. And now, I’m going to finally go throw up and go to bed, and then wake up and try to figure out what to do.

I mean, seriously, what exactly went wrong?