Posted January 18th, 2004 by Michelle

January 18th, 2004

I mean, is it the 18th? Sometimes it’s hard to know.

I’ve heard that a lot of people get sick when they move to this valley. Something in the air, the pollen or somesuch, or perhaps the lack of pollutants that cause an immune system to completely abandon ship. The thing is, I don’t really care that this happens to “everyone”, I care that it’s happening to me. I’m sick, AGAIN, and I’m totally baffled. How is it possible, this third illness in less that two months. How is it possible that I woke up in the middle of the night, with that all-too-familiar thing in my throat and congestion in my head that is the start of something big and awful?

It seems pretty clear to me. I’m doing something wrong. I don’t mean that as a judgment or even a specifically negative thing. I mean it as simple truth. It’s not like things are hard here. It’s not like I can’t get enough sleep or don’t have access to great fresh vegetables or can’t afford a personal trainer. I can do all three of these things, but I’m clearly not doing them all well enough. I’m not taking full advantage of this wonderful chance I’ve been given. Oh, no, instead I’m complaining about how boring my job is and how early it gets dark and blah, blah, blah.

Well, now, since I’m at work, I prolly ought to stop this diatribe right now. I’m just really tired of this, and since it seems largely self-imposed, I ought to do something about it.

Posted January 14th, 2004 by Michelle

January 11th, 2004

I am supposed to be working on a piece right now but I can’t concentrate. I have three framed photographs on the windowsill right in front of my desk. One is two sided, with a young Kent playing cello on the left, and an even younger Steve playing piano on the right. Next to that is a framed picture Sean just sent me, of he and I, and we are probably 6 and 4 years old, respectively. The picture is strangely sepia-toned, and the expression on Sean’s face is priceless. He’s smiling, but his mouth is shut and his chin is all screwed up, like he’s happy, but there is something deeper, too. My hair is in pigtails, and my mouth is spread in a characteristically broad, contented smile. Sean has one arm around my back, the other in front touching my shoulder like a prom picture. More than that, though, he looks so proud, his face contorted with joy and, seemingly, a job well done. He’s telling me, in that picture, that he is a great big brother, and that I am the best thing since spice racks.

Below both these larger pictures is a small metal frame with chipped gold paint and a broken pane. There are two trimmed pictures. The right is Ian, on a bike, holding a flower, basking in Iowa sunshine. He’s not smiling, not exactly. He’s looking at the camera as if to say, “Yep, this is my bike. My flower. It’s a good day. I’ve got stuff to do.” He looks like he’s on his way somewhere, and the flower is an integral part of his mission. Next to that is another picture of Sean and me. He’s on my right side this time, but again, one arm around, other arm this time on my lap. I am wearing a beautiful green dress and matching scarf, which my mom made for me. We are a year younger, maybe more, and my smile is exactly the same. Sean’s mouth is still closed, but this time his smile is a little more confident. “You can take our picture,” it says. “We are cute, and you can record that, but as soon as you are done, we’re outta here. We’re back to our world, where only we speak the language.”

My smile is the same in every picture. I was so, so, so loved. I never doubted love. There was not existence without love. My parents loved me, yes, but my brothers’ love was palpable, ever-present, everywhere. I grew up with four brilliant men, and they loved me. They still do.

You see why I’m having trouble concentrating. I was given so much, and as a result, I feel that I should have done better by myself. I should have done better.

Posted January 14th, 2004 by Michelle

January 10th, 2004

I have so many stories to tell and I’m too tired to do it. Which is no excuse, really, but I do have to be up in a few hours to return to my workplace where for eight hours I’ll stare at a wall. No, make that six hours. The other two hours I’ll be in the kitchen stealing bites of cheese and nuts.

I bought (with more than a little help) a car yesterday. It’s an ’84 Volvo Turbo sedan. It’s nifty, but I hadn’t driven it for twenty minutes when I tried to clean the windshield and the wipers stopped working. A few desperate phone calls later I figured out I probably blew a fuse. How did I get to be 31 without know that there are fuses in cars? And that they might potentially be changed? I have to admit that I felt pretty manly when I popped a new fuse into my fuse box (cars have fuse boxes?!?) and suddenly I had wipers again. Of course the whole debacle took about five hours, and I had to go to a party wearing Duckwear (our affectionate name for the clothes we wear to work) but at least I have a car. I’m spoiled by my dad’s BMW, but now he gets it back, and things start to settle in my world.

Elizabeth called my car “Easter Egg Blue”. Heh heh.

When’s the last time anyone actually kept gloves in a glove compartment?

My brother Steve drove up for the evening, and we had the unfortunate experience of choosing “Mona Lisa Smile” as the night’s entertainment. I think he enjoyed it more than I did, but I think he also gets a little bit more pleasure from the casting choices. Although there is something about Julia Roberts laughing out loud on screen that is worth the price of almost any admission. Pretty sure she didn’t laugh once in “Mary Reiley”. Oh, god, what a piece of yurk that was.

And why do networks now have to bleep out “god” when people say it in movies? “The Breakfast Club” was on the other day and I only made it through to the scene where my favorite stoner ever, Judd Nelson, calmly looks at the principal and says, “Eat…. my…. shorts.” They blipped out “shorts” and substituted “socks”. I threw my sandwich at the screen and had to take a walk.

Posted January 12th, 2004 by Michelle

I’m at work, unable to post the last couple of blogs I’ve written. Soon enough, fair readers, soon enough, or at least as soon as I can get my hands on a functioning land line. Stolen airport internet usually doesn’t let me send email or post stuff.

What’s up with the spelling of “Healdsburg”? There are a lot of unnecessary letters in that word.

Posted January 8th, 2004 by Michelle

I finished a piece today that isn’t utter trash. Which worries me, because the stuff I don’t like is usually the stuff that gets kudos from others. It’s hard to know if waht I’ve written is any good; it’s mostly whether or not it scans. This piece scans, so I feel that I can let it go. It’s fascinating to me how my mind resists focus. It would rather multi-task than take a breather. I was working on this piece today, and my mind kept on a) turning my attention to the people in my coffee shop and, more importantly, b) kept reminding me that I have a novel to write. It was like the little icon that bounces at the bottom of my computer when it wants my attention.

There is a pose in yoga called Shivasana, or “corpse pose”, that many say is the most important. It concludes every practice, and allows your mind and your body to integrate what it has discovered, if anything. It’s really hard to stay focused during that pose. Well, I should say that it’s really hard to drift in the appropriate manner. You’ve just pushed your body to it’s outer limits, and rather than relaxing, my mind has a tendency to obsess. I have cried like a baby more often during Shivasana than I did as an infant. But what I learned to do was accept each bizzare thought that entered my mind, and then invite it to leave. I think about lying on a grassy Iowa field, but there is a white door nearby, and as these demons and ill-wishers, or even thougths of lunch, present themselves during Shivasana, I accept them, and then invite them to exit through the door. I have to do the same things sometimes when I’m working on more than one thing, or else I’ll spend my life looking through the boxes that I was supposed to organize and ultimately throw away.

I’m trying to figure out what I want. Do I want a full-time, 9 to 5 writing job? Do I want to be a staff writer? Do I want to be a journalist? Do I want to hole up and write my novel with no outside contact for a year? Do I really want to only be a freelance writer?

I don’t know.

I mean, duh, obviously this is the problem. But it remains. I just don’t know.

Posted January 7th, 2004 by Michelle

If you want to get to the heart of a town, spend some time in a local coffee shop. I do my writing in a little spot called the “Coffee Roastery” or something like that; looking around I can’t seem to find the name. (Unlike Starbucks, where I wouldn’t be surprised seeing the trademark on the coffee when it comes out the other end.) There are few other” writers in this town who take advantage of this perfect spot. A large part of my “writing is people-watching-the perfect distraction- and only once have I seen other laptops clacking away as I sat here pretending to write. Right now there is exactly two other folks taking part in this caffeine ritual, and they are a strange pair. One is about my age, tall and dashing in a long black coat and shiny, patent-leather shoes. The other could be his dad, and both of them are busy reading, not speaking a word. Ahh, we’ve just been joined by another- an aged cowboy with work boots and gallon hat. He’s just sat down to a bunch of paper files and a pencil. A pencil. When was the last time you saw someone with a pencil?

It’s the perfect place for writing, though. I always sit at the end of a long wooden table that easily sits 10, maybe because it reminds me of dinners at the farmhouse. Even when the place is full, which is rare, no one joins me here even though the table is big enough to suggest that it is not one person’s domain. The walls are almost entirely green corrugated steel windows, and the ceiling is high and sloped. The lights can’t compete with the sun, even on a cloudy day, and some cute teenager is almost always grinding coffee at the “bulk purchase” bar. There is a map of Africa by the women’s bathroom, with all of the great coffee regions labeled by name, and I have a habit of tracing Niger (just north of Nigeria, landlocked in the middle) and thinking about the fact that I could be there, right now. I will not stop thinking about that, not ever.

I’ve been struggling this week with my life. I know that seems banal and silly, since this is the struggle I’m constantly writing of, but it’s been pronounced lately. It feels as though I’m here for some grand reason, something beyond the charity and good will of my dad and Carole, beyond the spot I was in back in New York, but the reason is simply not clear. I’m not really happy, here, but to fair, I wasn’t happy back in New York. Yes, I pine for weekends at the farmhouse, for eggs in the morning with Sean, for time spent with Jordi as she dances and wiggles her hands in time to the music in her own head, for tea with Tessa, for pool with Ian, for time spent. It hurts me, drags at my heart to be separated from them, even if I didn’t see them that often. I pine for my friends, for Kellie and Hayley, for Allen, even for Christopher. But I do not pine for a job that will keep me down, for a life of fear, of constant worrying about money, of not being able to afford to take time off to see these people that I love. When I was there, all that mattered to me was space, and I sacrificed the better part of my life so I could live alone. I realize now what a mistake that was, for a number of reasons. I will isolate, given the opportunity, and I spent more time alone that last year in New York than any single thirtysomething girl ought to. I didn’t have enough money to take a weekend off to go up to the farm. I was in a rut that only got deeper and deeper.

I’m not entirely out of the rut, but the sides of the ditch have stopped rising. I feel that I might be close to starting to climb out. I have no money in the bank, but I’m not worried about rent. I’m not doing a job that is important to me, but neither does it sap my life force. I’m no closer to choosing a clear path for my life, but I sit down to do this every day, and that makes it better. I’m eating better, sleeping better, taking care of myself even though I’ve been sick as a dog. My battery is recharging, my heart is healing, and I’m getting ready. But for what?

Posted January 5th, 2004 by Michelle

Monday, January 5, 2004

Driving home tonight, after a successful sojourn to my local Trader Joe’s (the only thing California has on New York, by the by) I surprised a pair of deer and a bouncing jackrabbit as they trekked up my hill. It was Wild Kingdom Lite. I then came home to Dolce who busied herself barking at shadows.

I could never live in a house this size unless I had about five other people there at all times. It’s too big, too roomy, too many closets where the boogeyman might be hiding. It fits when the rightful owners are home, but right now it seems to be expanding, giving me House of Leaves-like jitters. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in studio apartments, but at least when you live in a box, there are no dark corners. I’m tempted to bring Dolce up to the den to sleep next to me, but I’m afraid that if the boogeyman keeps yogurt on hand, she will forsake me for a lick of acidophilus goodness.

It’s odd to be 31 years old and afraid of the dark, I guess, but my overactive imagination rarely misses a chance to freak me out. I think I started reading Stephen King at a very young age and it’s done little good in my later life. My first book was Pet Cemetery, back when I was in the 6th grade, and I remember staying up all night reading it while visiting my best friend Anastasia in Cedar Rapids, IA. I would get too scared to put the book down, to put the lights out, and certainly way too scared to shut my eyes. I know better now, but the intro to an “X-Flies” episode was enough to set me off tonight.

I think I’ll shut (and maybe bar) the door to the den and throw an extra blanket on the pullout bed. After all, the boogeyman’s knife has a hard time cutting through covers. And maybe I’ll put on the extended “Two Towers” DVD, because only that will last longer than I will.

I’m pretty sure I locked all the doors…

Posted January 4th, 2004 by Michelle

Sunday morning in Napa Valley, and the world sleeps. There was not one car on the Silverado Trail this morning, except a truck with horse trailer. I was tempted to follow it, as there was only a driver in the truck. Surely he would need a companion to ride the second horse.

I’m reading “The Artist’s Way”. It’s basically a self-help book for would-be artists, but it’s not nearly as kind of awful as that sounds. However, in the introduction, the writer spends a lot of time telling the reader why it’s okay to be an artist. She describes parents who told their children to “get their heads out of the clouds” and “buckle down” and “get a real job” when their kids said they wanted to be a painter, a writer, a dancer. She says that many people think art is only an expression of ego, and that living life as an artist is simply not viable, not possible, not even real as a concept.

I haven’t gotten past the first chapter. “The Artsit’s Way” is a course in creativity, a twelve-week commitment to living a more creative life. I bought it without knowing this exactly- I thought it was just a book about living as an artist. However, I never had a parent telling me that life as an artist was not an option. On the contrary, I got in trouble if I didn’t practice my cello for the full hour. In the sixth grade, I was writing a poem to honor the principal of my grade school during English class, and when my teacher called on me to answer a question I snapped,”Don’t bother me. I’m on a roll”. Better yet, my teacher smiled at me and let me keep writing. (I still have the poem. It rhymes.) If art is an expression of my ego, well, fine. That doesn’t bother me at all. My ego must be a common ground for a lot of people, because my experiences and therefore writing are appealing outside of my own need for validation. I don’t know why I sound defensive; art as life is the only thing that has ever made sense to me. I’ve never believed anyone who told me I would not “make it” as an artist, but that is largely because “making it” has a different definition to me. If I can write things that don’t make me cringe, if I can affect people by singing to them, if I can find truth in a character, and that character has meaning to the audience, then I’ve made it.

I’m not done yet, either. I know I haven’t been on stage for almost two years. If all goes well, I have another sixty or so years left in my life. There is time.

Posted January 3rd, 2004 by Michelle

Allright, okay, call off the dogs, obviously my life isn’t miserable. As I’ve said before, a blog is a snapshot of a moment, and that moment passed quickly. And I got a good story idea from my boring New Year’s, so ultimately it was for the best.

I’m back at work, and on the mend, and it’s a beautiful day. It’s strangely quiet here in the valley, which is why I have time to post this. We had a freeze last night, and frost on bare vines is even more beautiful than summer’s full glory. There is not an ugly season in this valley.

I want to be a better tennis player.

That’s all I have to say today.

Posted January 1st, 2004 by Michelle

January 1, 2004

When writers sit down to write about their own sadness, what is it they wish to accomplish? I’ve been wondering this about myself today as I composed the first line of tonight’s blog: “I’d write about the rather sad and uneventful New Year’s that I had last night, but let’s gloss on to bigger and better things.” This is the line I’ve been thinking all day, but as I crept down the steps, lit a candle, and sat down to write, I seem unable not to write about the last twenty-four hours. I’m not sure why. I’ve written of so many embarrassing moments, so many unsightly ailments and ugly disappointments and I’m just wondering exactly why. Or is it many things? “A lot of things” like my old friend Russ used to say? I know that by writing them down I also work through them. I also admit to them, call these evils by their name, even put a spotlight on them. Do I do this so publicly because that is the only way I’ll own up to what I’ve done? And if so, isn’t that rather false? Isn’t that marching down the street and blowing horns to show my faith?

Or, by writing them down, do I hope to create change? I think there is a part of me that would admit to this. It’s an odd hope, because nothing has ever changed as a result of posting my issues in this tiny slice of cyber-space. And yet, if I write about going to bed alone at 10:30 PM last night for want of anything better to do, do I at the same time make a grand wish that this will never happen again? Is that what is written between the lines? Or is it a more subtle despair, a quiet “maybe” that I won’t have to go through that particular trial again? I don’t know.

My dad once said that when he stepped off an airplane into Anywhere, California, he could suddenly breathe more easily. This state, be it southern or northern, is his home. This state is quite clearly not mine, and so I have to find a way to make it okay for the duration of my time here. I didn’t go to that party last night because 1) some of the people have disappointed me and 2) I didn’t actually want to talk to anyone who was going to show up. I spoke this past summer about wanting to meet people outside of the restaurant and theatre world. What I didn’t realize is that some of the best people I’ll ever know were seated at the kitchen table where I spoke those very words. I came out here to escape my life and am still stuck with myself. (Good company, I mean, I’m not complaining, but still.)

Honestly, the only real problem here is my incapacitating level of self-absorption. But that is one of the dangers of spending New Year’s Eve with only the company of a bad cold.

It seems as though I’m almost proud of my misery. I’m not. Ultimately I guess this is the way I deal.

I dated a man for over five years who thought sadness was weakness. At least, that is how he saw it in others. For him to be sad was poetry, in his eyes. “I never cry. I haven’t cried in years,” he sobbed in my arms, easily the third or fourth time that month. Naturally he was drunk and probably had already bruised me somehow that evening- never with a direct hit, but I bet you I could find the print of his hand somewhere on my body. But if I was feeling blue, or even if he walked in the room and I was staring off into space, he’d call me on it and say, “What is with you today?” with a half-smile reeking of malice and disappointment.

Man, oh man, FUCK YOU, icky dude from my past.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe because I spent my twenties with a man so utterly full of shit, a man who approved only when I was sunshine and light and butterflies. Lucky for both of us that I often was that happy. But he didn’t want a rounded human being, he wanted a reasonably attractive fuck doll who would laugh at his jokes and hold him when he was drunk and sad.

There I go again, detailing my failures. But I know I’m not the only one, so by god, I’m going to keep writing.