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Lift Off

Ignition, support trusses fall away
Spectacular roar and blaze
The tremendous force to reach escape velocity.

Faces glued to the screen, bated breath
Lift-off the culmination of years of work
Any unnoticed deficiencies will manifest now
Sometimes with calamitous results
Nothing to do now but monitor

I look at the face of my daughter
I feel like I should read her a story and tuck her into bed
Years of research and labor behind us.
Nothing for me to do now but monitor the screen
Keep the communications open

She left with a blaze and a roar
Reaching for escape velocity

                                               ~Ann Fleming

The Peace of Wild Things

The Peace of Wild Things
by
Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of the wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

IMG_7662This morning as I hear the gentle surf in Saint Maarten, I marvel at the events of my life that made this trip possible. I shared morning coffee with my mother-in-law before she headed out to mass. Church bells chime the call of the faithful, but for me, the surf is enough of a sermon today – the aqua-blue sea my holy water.

I will let the peaceful sounds and beautiful sights soothe away my worries about my children and the crossroads they are approaching. I will breathe deeply and push aside thoughts of the troubles of the world that have made me grateful I canceled my newspaper subscription. Any ruminations of past offenses I will bury with my feet in the sand.

Water is my religion’s symbol of divine renewal. Today, I am baptized in the peace of wild things.

Serendipitous Screenwriting Summer

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I have wandered back into my dream of being a writer. Even though I have been writing in various ways throughout my life, I had been busy managing a new business – no time for blogging or pursuing freelance work. As soon as I let go of running a business, writing crawled right back up into my lap and started purring.

This past spring, I left my colonial in the Maryland suburbs, and with the blessing of my extended family and wonderful husband, I accompanied two of my children on a five-month assignment to get them settled in Hollywood until my youngest turned 18. My daughter was pursuing an unexpected opportunity that stoked her Hollywood dreams. My son came along for the adventure. And I went too, to support their dreams – and to have a little adventure of my own. I left behind an overwhelm of obligations, and came to LA with plans that had a lot of open spaces in them.

I volunteered to proofread a screenplay for a project my daughter’s manager was considering, thinking I had volunteered for a few hours work. I had never read a screenplay before; the format and software were new to me. The writer had been an illiterate Bulgarian orphan for the first twelve years of his life. His tale was compelling, although the grammar was garbled. I could see he needed help telling this story, but it was beyond commas and spelling.syd-field-quote

The Bulgarian had solicited help from his roommate, an aspiring screenwriter from Toronto. This writer was grateful for another person on the project, not wanting the massive amount of revisions to harm the relationship with his roommate. Although I didn’t realize it at first, I was the editorial scapegoat.

We were under intense time constraints, with two readings scheduled. We might work together for 12 to even 16 hours a day, resolving issues that arose from the feedback we got at the readings.

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Me waiting to cross Hollywood Blvd, as seen from the writer’s apartment balcony.

Our office was their unairconditioned bachelor apartment on Hollywood Boulevard, 3×5 cards sprawling across the living room wall. I am old enough to be their mothers and had to resist the urge to tidy the place up – just a bit. Not ideal conditions for hot flashes, but I was having fun working this writing puzzle.

We all worked on spec, hoping to get paid when an investor comes on board to set production in motion- working on optimism and good faith. I figured, at worst, I got a free class on screenwriting, and at best?…well those possibilities seem dream-like. I happened to be completely available, and the kids didn’t mind me being busy, so I plunged into the deep end.

At times, in the intricate re-living of the events, the writer whose story we were telling would remember things that happened, and we would want to include those too. And then we would revise again to smooth out the ripple effect each new element created in the rest of the story.

In time, trust grew, the Bulgarian checking-in from time to time while he set up meetings with investors. We trimmed and expanded and trimmed again, coming more easily to consensus, adding layers and connections beneath the different sub-stories.

Now I feel such a connection to these characters. We would discuss backstories that never made it into the script to help us understand their motivations. The scenes we deleted are their secret lives, what they might have done instead.

The story is grim. And despite the heartbreak and the close encounter with evil, it is amazing that Hope and even Joy, survive in those circumstances. That this light-hearted soul swinging in the swivel chair across from me had endured these horrors was inexplicable. Hope wins.

I’m such a newbie to the screenwriter’s scene, but I do feel like this movie has a good chance of going into production. That could be naïve idealism, but I’m hoping it’s Beginner’s Luck. Telling this tale will shine a light in a dark place. Ultimately I hope that it will motivate viewers to act, to help take a stand against that darkness.

So whether it does, or whether is doesn’t go further than the story on the page, I have learned a tremendous amount about the screenwriting, story telling, and the group writing process. None of it would have been possible if I hadn’t acted on this kind of crazy idea of moving to Hollywood with my daughter, who by the way is going to many auditions, and taking classes, and feeling optimistic. She’s even had a few paid gigs too! Her brother is doing well too, taking classes and working part-time. And now in a twist on the typical order of things, it is the mom who is ready to fly away and leave the babies in the nest.

What’s next? Well, a little reality needs attending and I will be working an administrative job to whittle away some of this travel debt. And I have started a second project with the Canadian, seeing what it’s like to build a script from the beginning. And maybe after that I’ll try one of my own ideas. I have learned that the possibilities are move vast than I ever realized.

Talking to Strangers

I had never used Uber before coming to LA, and I have to say, I’m going to miss the kaleidoscope of encounters it creates.

Besides their great app, Uber appeals to me for the randomness of  who their drivers are. Perhaps I should worry more about strangers, but I love talking to them.  Each ride a random conversation with someone you normally would have just walked right by on the sidewalk. Here are a few of my favorite encounters:

Lee, 30ish, a Chinese man in a Corolla, starting his second week as a driver for Uber, and only recently in America. That was my longest ride. He kept making wrong turns. We turned left and faced an incredibly long steep hill near Dodger’s Stadium and he hit the brakes.
“No!” Stunned, he gasps, “I can’t go up there! Do you thing it’s safe?”
“Well, it seems ok for the cars parked up there,” I pointed up the residential street as a pick-up truck sped around us. He just sat, wide-eyed, like he was facing some old fear.
“It’s OK, we can just turn around,” I offered. “Siri will redirect us.”
He nodded, grateful.

Matthew, a classic surfer dude, tanned, tattooed, and playing Led Zeppelin, who must’ve been driving his mother’s Lexus. He pointed out a great beach that we went to the next day, Topanga State Beach.  Beautiful.

Vic, 30-ish, brawny Armenian with very little English. I had been trying to learn how to say Thank You in Armenian as so many shopkeepers around here are Armenian.
Shnorhagenlutoon” I struggled. He glanced over, expressionless. I explained my attempt and asked if I pronounced it correctly. He nodded, still silent. I asked if he could say it for me to hear, and in English he said “Thank You.”

Ivan, maybe 40, recently a citizen after immigrating from Uganda 6 years earlier. He had an interesting take on the upcoming election, which would be his first to vote as an American: pro-Hilary and amazed at Trump. He was very animated and loud, and happy to share his opinions. Awesome accent.

Emily, maybe 30, asked me a few questions about myself.  Once she realized I had been married twice, the ride turned into a therapy session. She asked me about love at first sight, true love, and what role sex plays in loving relationships. I went ahead and just spoke candidly, since we were unlikely to ever encounter each other. But at the end of the ride, I felt like I should charge her for the therapy 😉

Mary, mid twenties, a grad student new to the area told me the reverse is true, that her car often becomes a confessional for the random people who she spends a few private moments with.

I know Uber is riddled with controversy, but my experience has been fascinating, and super convenient.

Sunset in Santa Monica

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The Los Angeles traffic was August sweaty, driving with my lovely teenage daughter to a couple of auditions. The second audition was at Fox Studios, and we enjoyed just walking around the campus, seeing the various production crews taking their lunch breaks. They have whimsical shrubbery there.

IMG_6917I passed a little “Free Library” that was the size of a large mailbox: leave a book, take a book. Of course I peeked in, and selected a magazine, an anniversary issue of Astronomy magazine – not what I expected. We were planning on the beach for sunset after the second audition, so a magazine would be perfect. Now I’m hoping she gets a callback so I can put a book in next time.

I’ve been here for four months and finally, I was going to be at the beach at sunset. At last! The sun so bright on the water it was hard to look!

School had recently started, and it was a Thursday night, so the beach wasn’t nearly as crowded as we had seen it earlier in the summer.  We were about a mile north of the Santa Monica Pier – close enough to see the ferris wheel spinning out its light show, but far enough away not to hear any of the pier sounds. The ocean was calmer than I had seen it too, no surfers out this evening.

My daughter headed over to the cafe to grab us some dinner for the coming sunset show, – salmon burgers, how California.  I was left alone to people watch. People-watching at the beach is one of my favorite things! I missed my lifetime people-watching teammates.

IMG_6921Los Angeles is very international, and the three families closest to me were not speaking English: Spanish, perhaps Arabic, and maybe Armenian? The Spanish-speaking family in front of my had three daughters and all seemed to be peacefully enjoying their evening – clinging to the last of the summer. The little one with her wild curls, and the two older one rolling their eyes at each other.

A man was taking pictures of a woman and baby, sitting right at the edge of the surf.  A nearby family, unaware, kept getting into their picture and the man kept moving to edge them out and still get the watery bright light.

A little boy, maybe three years old, wandered over by our blanket, no swimsuit, just covered  waist down in sand.  “Hey” he shouted, I thought to us, but it was back at his family. He grinned when they saw how far he had wandered and waited for them to call “Yusaf!” before returning.

I had brought some books, one in particular from my uncle that I was using for background research for a screenplay I’m planning. It was way too serious reading for the beach. I pulled out the magazine.  Just a few pages in, I found a tidbit that informed my research better than anything I could have found in the book. How fortunate that I grabbed it!

The photoshoot mom put her baby right in the surf, and he did not like it at all. And now he seemed too sandy to hold tight, so she headed for deeper water to rinse him off.  He did not like this either, being dangled in the cold water, crying as loud as the surf. I watched as she turned her back to the surf, rinsing him with one hand, holding him loosely and not seeing the big wave rising behind, I looked for the photographer dad, readied myself to spring into action and at the last minute she pulled him to her. They both tumbled under the wave, but she came up with him.  I watched with her, waiting for the child to cry again. First a watery cough, then a furious wail. The father looked over, not realizing what had just nearly happened. I thought, that kid is going to grow up hating the ocean, and only his mother and I will really know why. I noticed how judgmental I was feeling and looked away.

A young man in British-seeing swim trunks was laying underneath a woman in a turquoise bikini, their equally tattooed skin blurring together as they kissed.

I looked the other way, feeling I had interrupted a private moment, and say five beautiful young men playing a modified football game. Their skin ranged in shades of brown from cinnamon to chocolate, and they were distractingly beautiful.  I wished my friend Peggy were here to see them.

And then there goes Yusaf again, wandering by, noticing the big strong men playing football and being captivated. Looking over his shoulder every now and then, Yusaf wandered further from his family, their distraction packing up. Wearing only his sand pants, Yusaf walked right to their sidelines, awestruck. His departing family beckoned, and he crossed right through their play, unharmed. Yusaf is going to be a handful.

IMG_6924And my suntanned daughter returned with our sunset supper. They were out of salmon burgers, these were regular. So we saluted Liz Lemon and watched the sun melt out of the sky. The clouds looked like hovering angels, floating fuschia mermaids.