Okay, so now for a light bit of sharing (aka gossip). The Drummer and the Ex just met each other a few weeks ago at LA Gay Pride. Being completely honest, I have thought about how this meeting would go SEVERAL times over the past two years. When I say several, I probably really mean hundreds.
I had gotten an invite to a friend's annual Pride Brunch. This was a brunch that I went to every year when I was with The Ex. We had a blast. Lots of vodka. Then we would all head to the parade and eventually all lose each other and have stories of our "lost Pride Sunday" to share the next time that we would find ourselves in the same room together. Obviously, I hadn't been invited back since the Ex and I broke up. This was his friend and I totally get it.
But this year, I got an invite. And I thought, "Why the hell not?" Enough time had passed and honestly, I thought that it was high time these two met. I wasn't going to be fearful about how it was going to go down. So The Drummer and I went with another friend of ours. He wasn't there when we arrived. So I just headed straight to the vodka and we all had drinks. I saw some old friends I haven't seen in almost three years. It was a great catch up. There was one person in particular who definitely seemed a little scared to see me. He looked at me like he was going to get in trouble when my Ex found out that we had talked. Actually, he looked as if my Ex had a mini bomb implanted in his skull that was about to go off.
So we came and went from the party without seeing him. We went to go watch the parade and as he headed down the street towards the parade I saw a mutual friend of ours and then I saw the Ex and his boyfriend. I had enough vodka in me that I didn't skip a beat. I went and talked to the friend first.
While we were chatting, I caught the eye of my Ex. Also, I should mention at this point that The Drummer has no idea who I'm taking to. It could be any gay friend of mine. So after we caught each other's eye and I waved, I marched up to my Ex. I gave him a hug and probably a kiss on the cheek. Maybe. Then I looked down at his shorts. My Ex is quite the dresser and I saw these shorts with embroidered spiders on them. It was a classic moment. My heart got a little warm and I smiled because OF COURSE he had shorts with embroidered spiders. Just like I would always picture him: a great pair of Prada loafers or a jaunty chapeau or embroidered shorts.
The first thing I said to him was, "It's good to see you." We chatted for a second. But then I felt I needed to introduce the Drummer. So I said, "This is my boyfriend, _____." Then I turned to The Drummer, who still had no idea who I was about to introduce him to and I said, "_____, this is ___." It was after the fact, that The Drummer said, "Holy shit, I didn't realize that was ____." They said hello to one another and then the Ex introduced me to his guy.
And this is the thing that struck me then and still sticks with me. He never introduced him as his boyfriend, just by his name. It felt dismissive. And I have no right to say how this guy should be treated because as another friend mentioned to me a couple of weeks later, it's really up to the boyfriend how he wants to be treated. Agreed. So that was over and the last thing I said to my ex was also, "It was good to see you." And we were off.
Admittedly, I was a little freaked out. But it happened. The Drummer was awesome in his surprise at the meeting that finally happened. And he never said a discouraging thing about him. Come to think about it, neither did I. And frankly, that's a little surprising.
I've told friends recently that in my fantasy life, my Ex and I have lunch together. We sit at some great outdoor table, share a bottle of Soave and say, "Wasn't that a wild ride? Wow, we were young then." Then we clink glasses.
Wouldn't it be nice if we could be that civilized? It would actually be very Noel Coward, which I know would probably tickle us both.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Am I Going to Be Lazy For Life?
DISCLAIMER: I have been working pretty consistently since I was 16.
HOWEVER...
I have been out of work for a while. First, I did take time off to help my Dad deal with his illness and to help the family out. Okay that bought me a year.
Then I had the mourning period. I told myself that I was going to allow myself the time to experience every bit of the mourning process. I had spent my life covering things up by keeping busy with work and with other aspects of life. Then we went to Hawaii to spread his ashes and it was going to be hard to tell an employer that I needed two weeks off for a family vacation.
But we came back four months ago. And this month, in about three weeks, is the year anniversary of my Dad's death. I can't believe it.
Sometimes I hear it in my boyfriend's voice, "What are you doing today?"
I heard traces of it in a friend's Facebook post the other day, "I'm jealous that you went to the spa for six hours while I was in meetings all day." NOTE: The six hour spa trip was to decompress from a pretty heated (verbally violent) I had with a contractor that had swindled my Mom.
But I even hear it in my own head. I haven't worked (with the exception of a three month teaching gig) since my Dad got sick. As documented in this blog, I knew that once he got sick I wasn't going to work. I knew it was the end. No one wanted to admit it, but I honestly think I might have been the first person in my family to acknowledge that my Dad was going to die in short order. It was just over a year. If I hadn't been so certain, I wouldn't have decided that I was taking time off. I had decided to take the rest of that year (2011) off.
Then I got the teaching job, and that turned out to be great because I discovered something new I loved to do and I could commute to Northern CA and get away from the stress of dealing with my Dad. It was early enough that he didn't need constant care yet. I decided not to apply for teaching jobs that year because I didn't know where my Dad would be and I didn't want to be away. I knew I would never get the time back and at the time earning money seemed like a silly excuse to be away from my dying father.
And to be fair, I had a teaching job that I was up for and that felt really right for me. I had applied and it was at Santa Clara, where I had taught before. I remember thinking, "Oh, am I putting all of my eggs in one basket." And I knew I was. I knew that I was banking on this. But it just felt like the Universe had sent me this opportunity and it was the right thing. Even though I knew that they would have to fire the guy who had been there for years teaching in order to take me on. I knew from Day One that it would be an uphill battle. But I had written six syllabi for courses I thought I would be qualified to teach back in November of 2012 (after a visit there). So it had MANIFESTATION written all over it.
And in some ways, I do still think that that opportunity was manifested. But it might not have been manifested for me to have that particular job at that particular time.
I compare it to this:
When I met The Drummer, I felt a strong draw to him. He was handsome, smart and charming. He brought me my favorite wine on our first date. You can go back and check that out...it was on July 11, 2011--the blog entry is probably around then. Once we started dating (eight months after I broke up with The Ex) everyone started asking: Is he the ONE?
Seriously, I was nauseous from people asking me that question. Is he the one? Is he the guy? Is he it?
I had stopped believing in "the One" after I broke up with my Ex. I thought that dude was the One. And we lasted five years and nine days. But even after the break up, and after the revelations and discoveries about myself that surfaced (again documented here) I knew that my Ex was exactly the person who I was destined to be with from October 22, 2005 until November 1, 2010. And I also knew that The Drummer was the person I was destined to be with then and I know that now two years later. We always have said that we were lucky to find each other and have each other...as long as we're lucky to be together. Either separated by life's circumstances or by death's. I didn't know how long I would be lucky to be with him, but I knew that through him I had hope that there was life after my Ex.
So...I feel the same way about that job opportunity. It wasn't the one. But going through the process of sending in the application and standing firm in the solid ground of who I am as a person, an artist, a human being and a professor/teacher/mentor/guide, I have grown. I am learning to stand in the truth of my experience and my expertise. I would have made a garden grow there, no doubt. But since I no longer have access to that patch of grass, I will make a beautiful garden somewhere else.
Yet, I'm having these feelings lately that I love my life and my schedule. I love the freedom. I'm having a great time taking in life. Taking in knowledge. Taking in movies and conversations with friends and Netflix and Facebook and Bravo. I just wrote a poem on this blog the other day. My first poem in almost twenty years. The rewards are big and small and the financial benefits are not to be found. I'm experiencing life and that does have its rewards. But I'm also barely forging an existence financially. I have answered the first part of a question. How do I want to live life?
I know I want to live a life that feels true and authentic. I know I want to live a life with purpose. I want to live a life with art in it. I want to not only be surrounded by it, I want to be making it.
So the second part of that is: How will I live responsibly and sustain myself? How will I make a living?
That question I don't have an answer to. I think it has been important thus far to leave that question open ended. But now I'm starting to feel antsy. The thing I have to be care of for my self is to not be hasty or desperate or rush to the first thing. That is hard to do when there are bills to pay.
So when I ask my self the question: Am I going to be lazy for life? I am being a bit flippant. Because lazy isn't without direction or purpose or living on someone else's dime. Lazy can also mean relaxed, not to focused that I ignore the Universe's clues for how I should live my life or the people in my life.
I was watching "Oprah's Next Chapter" with Alfre Woodard, Phylicia Rashad, Viola Davis and Gabrielle Union the other day. And Ms. Woodard said something great. She said that you have to know the difference between what you do and who you are. People get the business life and the personal life confused. Life is about who you love, how you love them and the love you get in return. But when you confuse the two, you seek that out in your job -- in this case, Hollywood. And it's a lie. She said that even when you're winning, it's a lie because it's not real. And I had been living a life where I thought it was real. I needed validation. I needed to be spiritually looked after. And in God's name, why would anyone in their right mind ask a Pimp to be their spiritual guide. Because that is what Hollywood is. It's a pimp. It gets what it needs from you and then you're thrown out when you're used up, worn out, stretched, spiritually empty and old. It's a business relationship. You are only looked after as long as you are useful and put money in its pocket.
I wanted my Pimp to love me! That was my problem. See, if I wasn't available to hear that and understand that I wouldn't have. Yes, I could have watched that on my weekend if I was working. But if I was still on the "hamster wheel", trying to get my place secured in the hierarchy, I wouldn't have heard it. I would have not been available to it.
But my desire--at this point in the journey--to answer that question is an indicator that I am ready to define the next stage of my life for my self. My "next chapter."
So just in an effort to tell myself that I'm not being lazy, I know that I have been doing things. I'm trying to get two plays ready for workshops. After I didn't get the teaching gig, I reached out to my best friend to start pitching ideas that we can take out during the next development season for television. I also just told my boyfriend, The Drummer, that I will take over producing duties on the internet radio show that he started almost four months ago. This is a job that doesn't pay. Yet.
I want the rest of my life to be on my terms. That's all I have right now. I don't have a job I'm tied down to. I don't have the expectations of a boyfriend who wants me to get a higher paying job so we can get a bigger house and a better car and so that we can go on vacations. I don't have any more excuses, either.
So I hope I will be relaxed and open for life. I hope I will not be tied down to everyone else's idea for how I should live. I hope I will continue to experience things full on and that I won't be distracted. But I also know that in order to live that way I will need to be determined, focused, relentless, detailed, demanding and driven.
In other words, I will be lazy in the ways that serve me and not in the ways that don't.
HOWEVER...
I have been out of work for a while. First, I did take time off to help my Dad deal with his illness and to help the family out. Okay that bought me a year.
Then I had the mourning period. I told myself that I was going to allow myself the time to experience every bit of the mourning process. I had spent my life covering things up by keeping busy with work and with other aspects of life. Then we went to Hawaii to spread his ashes and it was going to be hard to tell an employer that I needed two weeks off for a family vacation.
But we came back four months ago. And this month, in about three weeks, is the year anniversary of my Dad's death. I can't believe it.
Sometimes I hear it in my boyfriend's voice, "What are you doing today?"
I heard traces of it in a friend's Facebook post the other day, "I'm jealous that you went to the spa for six hours while I was in meetings all day." NOTE: The six hour spa trip was to decompress from a pretty heated (verbally violent) I had with a contractor that had swindled my Mom.
But I even hear it in my own head. I haven't worked (with the exception of a three month teaching gig) since my Dad got sick. As documented in this blog, I knew that once he got sick I wasn't going to work. I knew it was the end. No one wanted to admit it, but I honestly think I might have been the first person in my family to acknowledge that my Dad was going to die in short order. It was just over a year. If I hadn't been so certain, I wouldn't have decided that I was taking time off. I had decided to take the rest of that year (2011) off.
Then I got the teaching job, and that turned out to be great because I discovered something new I loved to do and I could commute to Northern CA and get away from the stress of dealing with my Dad. It was early enough that he didn't need constant care yet. I decided not to apply for teaching jobs that year because I didn't know where my Dad would be and I didn't want to be away. I knew I would never get the time back and at the time earning money seemed like a silly excuse to be away from my dying father.
And to be fair, I had a teaching job that I was up for and that felt really right for me. I had applied and it was at Santa Clara, where I had taught before. I remember thinking, "Oh, am I putting all of my eggs in one basket." And I knew I was. I knew that I was banking on this. But it just felt like the Universe had sent me this opportunity and it was the right thing. Even though I knew that they would have to fire the guy who had been there for years teaching in order to take me on. I knew from Day One that it would be an uphill battle. But I had written six syllabi for courses I thought I would be qualified to teach back in November of 2012 (after a visit there). So it had MANIFESTATION written all over it.
And in some ways, I do still think that that opportunity was manifested. But it might not have been manifested for me to have that particular job at that particular time.
I compare it to this:
When I met The Drummer, I felt a strong draw to him. He was handsome, smart and charming. He brought me my favorite wine on our first date. You can go back and check that out...it was on July 11, 2011--the blog entry is probably around then. Once we started dating (eight months after I broke up with The Ex) everyone started asking: Is he the ONE?
Seriously, I was nauseous from people asking me that question. Is he the one? Is he the guy? Is he it?
I had stopped believing in "the One" after I broke up with my Ex. I thought that dude was the One. And we lasted five years and nine days. But even after the break up, and after the revelations and discoveries about myself that surfaced (again documented here) I knew that my Ex was exactly the person who I was destined to be with from October 22, 2005 until November 1, 2010. And I also knew that The Drummer was the person I was destined to be with then and I know that now two years later. We always have said that we were lucky to find each other and have each other...as long as we're lucky to be together. Either separated by life's circumstances or by death's. I didn't know how long I would be lucky to be with him, but I knew that through him I had hope that there was life after my Ex.
So...I feel the same way about that job opportunity. It wasn't the one. But going through the process of sending in the application and standing firm in the solid ground of who I am as a person, an artist, a human being and a professor/teacher/mentor/guide, I have grown. I am learning to stand in the truth of my experience and my expertise. I would have made a garden grow there, no doubt. But since I no longer have access to that patch of grass, I will make a beautiful garden somewhere else.
Yet, I'm having these feelings lately that I love my life and my schedule. I love the freedom. I'm having a great time taking in life. Taking in knowledge. Taking in movies and conversations with friends and Netflix and Facebook and Bravo. I just wrote a poem on this blog the other day. My first poem in almost twenty years. The rewards are big and small and the financial benefits are not to be found. I'm experiencing life and that does have its rewards. But I'm also barely forging an existence financially. I have answered the first part of a question. How do I want to live life?
I know I want to live a life that feels true and authentic. I know I want to live a life with purpose. I want to live a life with art in it. I want to not only be surrounded by it, I want to be making it.
So the second part of that is: How will I live responsibly and sustain myself? How will I make a living?
That question I don't have an answer to. I think it has been important thus far to leave that question open ended. But now I'm starting to feel antsy. The thing I have to be care of for my self is to not be hasty or desperate or rush to the first thing. That is hard to do when there are bills to pay.
So when I ask my self the question: Am I going to be lazy for life? I am being a bit flippant. Because lazy isn't without direction or purpose or living on someone else's dime. Lazy can also mean relaxed, not to focused that I ignore the Universe's clues for how I should live my life or the people in my life.
I was watching "Oprah's Next Chapter" with Alfre Woodard, Phylicia Rashad, Viola Davis and Gabrielle Union the other day. And Ms. Woodard said something great. She said that you have to know the difference between what you do and who you are. People get the business life and the personal life confused. Life is about who you love, how you love them and the love you get in return. But when you confuse the two, you seek that out in your job -- in this case, Hollywood. And it's a lie. She said that even when you're winning, it's a lie because it's not real. And I had been living a life where I thought it was real. I needed validation. I needed to be spiritually looked after. And in God's name, why would anyone in their right mind ask a Pimp to be their spiritual guide. Because that is what Hollywood is. It's a pimp. It gets what it needs from you and then you're thrown out when you're used up, worn out, stretched, spiritually empty and old. It's a business relationship. You are only looked after as long as you are useful and put money in its pocket.
I wanted my Pimp to love me! That was my problem. See, if I wasn't available to hear that and understand that I wouldn't have. Yes, I could have watched that on my weekend if I was working. But if I was still on the "hamster wheel", trying to get my place secured in the hierarchy, I wouldn't have heard it. I would have not been available to it.
But my desire--at this point in the journey--to answer that question is an indicator that I am ready to define the next stage of my life for my self. My "next chapter."
So just in an effort to tell myself that I'm not being lazy, I know that I have been doing things. I'm trying to get two plays ready for workshops. After I didn't get the teaching gig, I reached out to my best friend to start pitching ideas that we can take out during the next development season for television. I also just told my boyfriend, The Drummer, that I will take over producing duties on the internet radio show that he started almost four months ago. This is a job that doesn't pay. Yet.
I want the rest of my life to be on my terms. That's all I have right now. I don't have a job I'm tied down to. I don't have the expectations of a boyfriend who wants me to get a higher paying job so we can get a bigger house and a better car and so that we can go on vacations. I don't have any more excuses, either.
So I hope I will be relaxed and open for life. I hope I will not be tied down to everyone else's idea for how I should live. I hope I will continue to experience things full on and that I won't be distracted. But I also know that in order to live that way I will need to be determined, focused, relentless, detailed, demanding and driven.
In other words, I will be lazy in the ways that serve me and not in the ways that don't.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Fame, Recognition, Money: No Longer the Destination
Subtitle: However, it would be a welcome byproduct.
Let me explain.
From the time I was a child, I wanted to write for television. I didn't know what that meant. But I know that I watched TV shows and I wanted to tell the characters what to do. I wanted to be in charge of what they did. I was probably around 8 or 10 when I realized that.
I was also made fun of every single day from that time all the way through high school, although around my Junior or Senior year it either dissipated or it didn't matter any more. But every day at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Downey, I heard the word "sissy" and when I got older and kids got more sophisticated, I heard the word "faggot." So how did that affect me?
I smiled every day. And I cried most days.
I kept a brave face because that's what I was told to do. My father would say to me: "I'll give you something to cry about." He was trying to toughen me up because he probably realized very early on if he didn't try to build a tough exterior for me people would take advantage of me. But that optimistic persona started to build even then. I think if you asked my grade school and high school friends what their impression of me was they would say that I always rose above it all. But I was hurting deeply inside. And I kept most of that pain down deep inside because I didn't want to create trouble for anyone. You see, I grew up in a house where there was a lot of fighting. A lot of verbal arguments. I used to say that I wasn't abused physically, just verbally. Like that was somehow better. But even that was a lie. I was whipped with a belt as a child and probably until I was about twelve. And that's where the lies started. I lied about how the belt whippings affected me. I believed they only made me tougher.
So I was verbally torn down at home. And at school. Every day. But it made me better. That's what I told myself. It made me tougher. It certainly gave me an aggression and it gave me this sense that I had to fight.
So I fought my way out of Downey. First to a prestigious high school in LA. One of the most prestigious, actually. Then to Santa Clara University. Then to Portland. And then to the city of my dreams, New York. I made it to NYU on scholarship. The whole time I kept saying to myself, "When I'm rich and famous and someone people know and respect and look up to, then it will all have been worth it. I'll show them!"
And I did all of those things. Then I came back to LA to "make it." And by that standard, I failed. I haven't "made it." But something incredibly interesting happened to me. I worked my ass off at my goal. I worked hard. But I always wondered if I had worked hard enough because the Fame, the Recognition and the Money continued to be elusive. It still is elusive. I've been working at it for a long time.
Most of my life, I had held on to those values. I whole heartedly invested in the idea that those three things would make me happy. And then there were those three words that I needed to hear from my Father that would make me complete. My father died last year and I never heard those words. And I still haven't earned those three things.
So where does that leave me? Am I a failure at everything I ever wanted?
As has been well documented in this blog (hell, it's the whole reason I started the blog), I went through a break up of a relationship that lasted for five years. I walked away. And when I walked away from that relationship, what I was doing was walking away from the way I had seen the world. I didn't fully realize it then, but that was the start of a whole new journey. I left the job I had held for seven years. I walked into a new life: single hood and new bosses who gave me every opportunity to be great and who trusted my greatness. And I succeeded.
Then my Father got sick. I knew I had to take care of him. And my new perfect job had ended: the pilot we worked on didn't get picked up. So I listened to the Universe when it told me where my place was for the foreseeable future. I offered my Dad compassion, a compassion he never offered me. And I protected him, in exactly the same way he protected me. I yelled at every doctor, hospice worker, nurse, staff member and person who stood in the way of my father having the dignity he deserved in his final year. In doing so, I finally understood what he was doing all of those years. I had to take on the role of protector and take it seriously to finally understand. I was completely up everyone's asses when it came to my Dad.
I continued to write that whole time and actually wrote a lot. I also taught University during his illness. I learned I have a passion for teaching. It was that passion that kept me engaged with my students long after I had stopped teaching them. And it was that passion that kept my hopes up when I was told a job was available at Santa Clara for the 2013-14 school year. After everything I had been through, I thought that this was the answer to all of my prayers. It seemed like the right opportunity. I had done a lot of things leading up to finding out about the job that led me to believe I had manifested the opportunity. Then I didn't get it due to forces out side of my control. But just the process of doing through the application opened me up in new ways.
I realized that I could leave LA. I realized that I have to do something that gives me purpose. I also realize that working in Television won't give me purpose. It will give me a pay check, which I desperately need. It will give me a place in the hierarchy of the entertainment industry. It can still offer Fame, Recognition and Money. But what it won't due is give me a purpose or a vocation. And I'm a vocation kind of guy. I'm driven my something bigger than material wealth or accolades.
It sounds like I'm making a choice here, drawing a line in the sand. I'm really not. But the big revelation in all of this is that all of those things (Fame, Money, Recognition) should be a byproduct of my work and dedication, but not the end goal. Because I can't control that. I can't control my currency to an industry that rewards bad behavior and is basically like winning the lottery. I can't count on winning the lottery.
I can't even count on a teaching job that seems so altruistic because that world is full of bullshit too. It's got the same amount of bureaucracy, but with shittier pay. I can't count on the fact that people get how special I am. I can't count on them acting based on knowing how special I am.
But what I can do is write. I can write from a depth that was only achieved through all of the experiences I've mentioned. And I have the training. You can't take that away from me, either. So those two things, as long as I'm tapped in, should continue to serve me well. And I'm still in pursuit of that pay day, but I no longer see that pay day as a reflection of how good, how honest or how talented I am. I can hit that pay day because of the shittiest script I wrote that took the least amount of effort. I can also put my blood, sweat, tears, emotions, history and mother's milk into script after script after script that will never see the light of day.
The important thing for me to do is to still be here doing what I'm doing. And in the meantime, I have a message for the Universe. My friend Susan always says that when something doesn't work out or isn't the right opportunity you have to say:
"Universe, you have to do better than that."
And that's where I am at today. I'm not freaking out. I wish some of these scripts would come along faster. But I'm full of ideas, good ideas. I know the next five projects I want to work on or finish work on. Or rewrite. Or redraft. I don't have a shortage of good, solid ideas. I'm not creatively impotent. Thank God.
So I want most of the same things I've always wanted. But I also know what's important. Attaining those accolades and that recognition is not life and death. Television is not life and death. Theatre is not life and death. Life and Death is life and death. My Dad died and I was there to help escort him out. If that doesn't put things into perspective, you're not experiencing what's happening around you. And I intend to be present for everything that comes my way.
Let me explain.
From the time I was a child, I wanted to write for television. I didn't know what that meant. But I know that I watched TV shows and I wanted to tell the characters what to do. I wanted to be in charge of what they did. I was probably around 8 or 10 when I realized that.
I was also made fun of every single day from that time all the way through high school, although around my Junior or Senior year it either dissipated or it didn't matter any more. But every day at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Downey, I heard the word "sissy" and when I got older and kids got more sophisticated, I heard the word "faggot." So how did that affect me?
I smiled every day. And I cried most days.
I kept a brave face because that's what I was told to do. My father would say to me: "I'll give you something to cry about." He was trying to toughen me up because he probably realized very early on if he didn't try to build a tough exterior for me people would take advantage of me. But that optimistic persona started to build even then. I think if you asked my grade school and high school friends what their impression of me was they would say that I always rose above it all. But I was hurting deeply inside. And I kept most of that pain down deep inside because I didn't want to create trouble for anyone. You see, I grew up in a house where there was a lot of fighting. A lot of verbal arguments. I used to say that I wasn't abused physically, just verbally. Like that was somehow better. But even that was a lie. I was whipped with a belt as a child and probably until I was about twelve. And that's where the lies started. I lied about how the belt whippings affected me. I believed they only made me tougher.
So I was verbally torn down at home. And at school. Every day. But it made me better. That's what I told myself. It made me tougher. It certainly gave me an aggression and it gave me this sense that I had to fight.
So I fought my way out of Downey. First to a prestigious high school in LA. One of the most prestigious, actually. Then to Santa Clara University. Then to Portland. And then to the city of my dreams, New York. I made it to NYU on scholarship. The whole time I kept saying to myself, "When I'm rich and famous and someone people know and respect and look up to, then it will all have been worth it. I'll show them!"
And I did all of those things. Then I came back to LA to "make it." And by that standard, I failed. I haven't "made it." But something incredibly interesting happened to me. I worked my ass off at my goal. I worked hard. But I always wondered if I had worked hard enough because the Fame, the Recognition and the Money continued to be elusive. It still is elusive. I've been working at it for a long time.
Most of my life, I had held on to those values. I whole heartedly invested in the idea that those three things would make me happy. And then there were those three words that I needed to hear from my Father that would make me complete. My father died last year and I never heard those words. And I still haven't earned those three things.
So where does that leave me? Am I a failure at everything I ever wanted?
As has been well documented in this blog (hell, it's the whole reason I started the blog), I went through a break up of a relationship that lasted for five years. I walked away. And when I walked away from that relationship, what I was doing was walking away from the way I had seen the world. I didn't fully realize it then, but that was the start of a whole new journey. I left the job I had held for seven years. I walked into a new life: single hood and new bosses who gave me every opportunity to be great and who trusted my greatness. And I succeeded.
Then my Father got sick. I knew I had to take care of him. And my new perfect job had ended: the pilot we worked on didn't get picked up. So I listened to the Universe when it told me where my place was for the foreseeable future. I offered my Dad compassion, a compassion he never offered me. And I protected him, in exactly the same way he protected me. I yelled at every doctor, hospice worker, nurse, staff member and person who stood in the way of my father having the dignity he deserved in his final year. In doing so, I finally understood what he was doing all of those years. I had to take on the role of protector and take it seriously to finally understand. I was completely up everyone's asses when it came to my Dad.
I continued to write that whole time and actually wrote a lot. I also taught University during his illness. I learned I have a passion for teaching. It was that passion that kept me engaged with my students long after I had stopped teaching them. And it was that passion that kept my hopes up when I was told a job was available at Santa Clara for the 2013-14 school year. After everything I had been through, I thought that this was the answer to all of my prayers. It seemed like the right opportunity. I had done a lot of things leading up to finding out about the job that led me to believe I had manifested the opportunity. Then I didn't get it due to forces out side of my control. But just the process of doing through the application opened me up in new ways.
I realized that I could leave LA. I realized that I have to do something that gives me purpose. I also realize that working in Television won't give me purpose. It will give me a pay check, which I desperately need. It will give me a place in the hierarchy of the entertainment industry. It can still offer Fame, Recognition and Money. But what it won't due is give me a purpose or a vocation. And I'm a vocation kind of guy. I'm driven my something bigger than material wealth or accolades.
It sounds like I'm making a choice here, drawing a line in the sand. I'm really not. But the big revelation in all of this is that all of those things (Fame, Money, Recognition) should be a byproduct of my work and dedication, but not the end goal. Because I can't control that. I can't control my currency to an industry that rewards bad behavior and is basically like winning the lottery. I can't count on winning the lottery.
I can't even count on a teaching job that seems so altruistic because that world is full of bullshit too. It's got the same amount of bureaucracy, but with shittier pay. I can't count on the fact that people get how special I am. I can't count on them acting based on knowing how special I am.
But what I can do is write. I can write from a depth that was only achieved through all of the experiences I've mentioned. And I have the training. You can't take that away from me, either. So those two things, as long as I'm tapped in, should continue to serve me well. And I'm still in pursuit of that pay day, but I no longer see that pay day as a reflection of how good, how honest or how talented I am. I can hit that pay day because of the shittiest script I wrote that took the least amount of effort. I can also put my blood, sweat, tears, emotions, history and mother's milk into script after script after script that will never see the light of day.
The important thing for me to do is to still be here doing what I'm doing. And in the meantime, I have a message for the Universe. My friend Susan always says that when something doesn't work out or isn't the right opportunity you have to say:
"Universe, you have to do better than that."
And that's where I am at today. I'm not freaking out. I wish some of these scripts would come along faster. But I'm full of ideas, good ideas. I know the next five projects I want to work on or finish work on. Or rewrite. Or redraft. I don't have a shortage of good, solid ideas. I'm not creatively impotent. Thank God.
So I want most of the same things I've always wanted. But I also know what's important. Attaining those accolades and that recognition is not life and death. Television is not life and death. Theatre is not life and death. Life and Death is life and death. My Dad died and I was there to help escort him out. If that doesn't put things into perspective, you're not experiencing what's happening around you. And I intend to be present for everything that comes my way.
Things We Do in Korean Spas to Pass Time
That list doesn't begin with
stroke
suck
lick
We watch old men.
We listen to the sounds of children running around, like this is a playground.
Sometimes it seems like a pedophile's playground.
But I try not to think about that.
The cute Persian guy's penis distracts me.
You know, the one that flops back and forth.
The one attached to the body with the tattoo that runs the entire right side of his body.
Over his lats.
I didn't see that when he had his laptop open and seemed to be engrossed in
some sort of interesting email exchange or porn or personal anecdote
that looking at someone pass by reminded him of that had nothing to do
with what was on the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like the bank of laptops that flanked the window of the Starbucks on
16th and Eighth
years ago in the New York of my Twenties.
But these guys were in khaki shorts and t-shirts that allows them
a reprieve upstairs in the co-ed room.
These seriously minded adult men seemed to be using the Korean Spa
as their mobile office.
I suppose it's just as expensive as Starbucks after
three coffees
and a sandwich.
Maybe even cheaper.
I can still hear the children.
Aren't their parents around?
I saw a white father and his white children--
maybe European, maybe Not--
giving them the benefit of the doubt. And they
were all marching around the men's area:
the father or father figure
and his two sons or wards and their sister or young female friend.
They went through the showers in soaked bathrobes
that were meant to protect them from the gaze of
the naked men who all of a sudden felt like they needed to
cover themselves up in the bathroom
or in the grooming area
or the wet area and the steam room
because now they were aware something was inappropriate
because a young girl was in their presence. In the men's area.
The men's area for men.
This normal foreigner or clueless American
paraded these young children around for
at least ten minutes
through the bathroom and the grooming area,
the wet area and the steam room.
Innocent maybe and maybe not. Men should be allowed to
enjoy themselves and not censor themselves
even if it means enjoying the company of other men for
lascivious and platonic purposes.
I come here to be in the company of men,
alone in my thoughts, as I contemplate what it means to be in the company
of men. Of myself. This man who I have grown to be.
Just me and my laptop and them and their laptops
and all of us with what lies beneath our robes
and towels or shorts,
what's behind the partition,
behind the candelabra,
behind the flip screen covering our genitals
and our true intentions.
As I sit here and tip tap--
clip clap--
the keys, I find myself
writing again to the soundtrack of a language
I don't understand.
stroke
suck
lick
We watch old men.
We listen to the sounds of children running around, like this is a playground.
Sometimes it seems like a pedophile's playground.
But I try not to think about that.
The cute Persian guy's penis distracts me.
You know, the one that flops back and forth.
The one attached to the body with the tattoo that runs the entire right side of his body.
Over his lats.
I didn't see that when he had his laptop open and seemed to be engrossed in
some sort of interesting email exchange or porn or personal anecdote
that looking at someone pass by reminded him of that had nothing to do
with what was on the glowing screen in front of him.
It's like the bank of laptops that flanked the window of the Starbucks on
16th and Eighth
years ago in the New York of my Twenties.
But these guys were in khaki shorts and t-shirts that allows them
a reprieve upstairs in the co-ed room.
These seriously minded adult men seemed to be using the Korean Spa
as their mobile office.
I suppose it's just as expensive as Starbucks after
three coffees
and a sandwich.
Maybe even cheaper.
I can still hear the children.
Aren't their parents around?
I saw a white father and his white children--
maybe European, maybe Not--
giving them the benefit of the doubt. And they
were all marching around the men's area:
the father or father figure
and his two sons or wards and their sister or young female friend.
They went through the showers in soaked bathrobes
that were meant to protect them from the gaze of
the naked men who all of a sudden felt like they needed to
cover themselves up in the bathroom
or in the grooming area
or the wet area and the steam room
because now they were aware something was inappropriate
because a young girl was in their presence. In the men's area.
The men's area for men.
This normal foreigner or clueless American
paraded these young children around for
at least ten minutes
through the bathroom and the grooming area,
the wet area and the steam room.
Innocent maybe and maybe not. Men should be allowed to
enjoy themselves and not censor themselves
even if it means enjoying the company of other men for
lascivious and platonic purposes.
I come here to be in the company of men,
alone in my thoughts, as I contemplate what it means to be in the company
of men. Of myself. This man who I have grown to be.
Just me and my laptop and them and their laptops
and all of us with what lies beneath our robes
and towels or shorts,
what's behind the partition,
behind the candelabra,
behind the flip screen covering our genitals
and our true intentions.
As I sit here and tip tap--
clip clap--
the keys, I find myself
writing again to the soundtrack of a language
I don't understand.
Being Boring
The Pet Shop Boys said in their 1990 song "Being Boring" that they were never being boring.
Lucky them.
I feel like I've been boring a lot lately. Most of these blog posts, except the one that no one's supposed to read, are boring.
Maybe if I look at the lyrics to "Being Boring" I'll be a little less boring. I love this song.
I came across a cache of old photos
And invitations to teenage parties
"Dress in white" one said, with quotations
From someone's wife, a famous writer
In the nineteen-twenties
When you're young you find inspiration
In anyone who's ever gone
And opened up a closing door
She said: "We were never feeling bored
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
When I went I left from the station
With a haversack and some trepidation
Someone said: "If you're not careful
You'll have nothing left and nothing to care for
In the nineteen-seventies"
But I sat back and looking forward
My shoes were high and I had spots
I'd bolted through a closing door
I would never find myself feeling bored
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
Now I sit with different faces
In rented rooms and foreign places
All the people I was kissing
Some are here and some are missing
In the nineteen-nineties
I never dreamt that I would get to be
The creature that I always meant to be
But I thought in spite of dreams
You'd be sitting somewhere here with me
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
And we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never being boring
We were never being bored
Lucky them.
I feel like I've been boring a lot lately. Most of these blog posts, except the one that no one's supposed to read, are boring.
Maybe if I look at the lyrics to "Being Boring" I'll be a little less boring. I love this song.
I came across a cache of old photos
And invitations to teenage parties
"Dress in white" one said, with quotations
From someone's wife, a famous writer
In the nineteen-twenties
When you're young you find inspiration
In anyone who's ever gone
And opened up a closing door
She said: "We were never feeling bored
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
When I went I left from the station
With a haversack and some trepidation
Someone said: "If you're not careful
You'll have nothing left and nothing to care for
In the nineteen-seventies"
But I sat back and looking forward
My shoes were high and I had spots
I'd bolted through a closing door
I would never find myself feeling bored
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
Now I sit with different faces
In rented rooms and foreign places
All the people I was kissing
Some are here and some are missing
In the nineteen-nineties
I never dreamt that I would get to be
The creature that I always meant to be
But I thought in spite of dreams
You'd be sitting somewhere here with me
'Cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
And we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: "Make amends"
And we were never being boring
We were never being bored
The Blog Entry Hopefully No One Will Read
This is the one where I talk about wanting to throw in the towel.
Maybe that's because I haven't eaten in six hours.
Maybe that's because I need a nap.
Maybe it's because my boyfriend's out of town and I had to sleep alone last night.
And I got up at 5:30 AM.
And was up for four hours until I was able to nap until 11 AM.
Maybe it's because I'm broke.
Maybe it's because my mother's drama is overtaking my life.
Maybe it's because I have a play I need to edit and I can't bring myself to do it.
Maybe it's because I yelled at an unlicensed contractor on Monday and had an irrational fear that he was going to come after me and gay bash me.
Maybe it's because my Dad's dead.
Maybe it's because I've been at this for ten years.
Maybe it's because I'm seeing the success other people are having around me and I'm jealous.
Maybe it's because I'm tired.
Of trying.
Maybe it's because so many things are out of my control.
Maybe it's because this blog is the only thing I seem to be able to write these days.
And that's after five other attempts to do a blog entry this month.
Maybe I need to cry more.
Maybe I've cried too much and I need to toughen up.
Maybe I need to eat.
Maybe I need to get fucked again like I was the other night before my boyfriend left down.
Maybe other huge gay victory needs to happen so my boyfriend and I can fuck again to celebrate.
(NOTE: We had sex after the Supreme Court struck down DOMA and Prop 8)
Maybe I just need to relax.
And call friends.
And just remember that this will pass like all of the other times.
Maybe I should just trust myself and remember that when I am able to write again, it will be great.
I'm not Fran Liebowitz.
Maybe that's because I haven't eaten in six hours.
Maybe that's because I need a nap.
Maybe it's because my boyfriend's out of town and I had to sleep alone last night.
And I got up at 5:30 AM.
And was up for four hours until I was able to nap until 11 AM.
Maybe it's because I'm broke.
Maybe it's because my mother's drama is overtaking my life.
Maybe it's because I have a play I need to edit and I can't bring myself to do it.
Maybe it's because I yelled at an unlicensed contractor on Monday and had an irrational fear that he was going to come after me and gay bash me.
Maybe it's because my Dad's dead.
Maybe it's because I've been at this for ten years.
Maybe it's because I'm seeing the success other people are having around me and I'm jealous.
Maybe it's because I'm tired.
Of trying.
Maybe it's because so many things are out of my control.
Maybe it's because this blog is the only thing I seem to be able to write these days.
And that's after five other attempts to do a blog entry this month.
Maybe I need to cry more.
Maybe I've cried too much and I need to toughen up.
Maybe I need to eat.
Maybe I need to get fucked again like I was the other night before my boyfriend left down.
Maybe other huge gay victory needs to happen so my boyfriend and I can fuck again to celebrate.
(NOTE: We had sex after the Supreme Court struck down DOMA and Prop 8)
Maybe I just need to relax.
And call friends.
And just remember that this will pass like all of the other times.
Maybe I should just trust myself and remember that when I am able to write again, it will be great.
I'm not Fran Liebowitz.
Monday, June 3, 2013
This is the Voice
What kind of plays do you write?
Plays of desire.
(from the imaginary interview that constantly continues inside my head)
I was waking up this morning and standing at the toilet peeing. That's when I figured out that the plays I write are plays of desire. Twenty years of writing plays and I finally figure that out. I used to think that the plays I write are plays of identity. And that is fine. I believe that identity fits into some of my plays, but not all of them. But I just looked at all of my plays and I realized that desire is in all of them. Sexual desire. The desire to belong or succeed. Objectification. The desire to be more. The desire to have what everyone else has. It's in every single one of my plays. And I'm about to embark on a seven play series that's all about desire. It's about coveting. It's about wanting what someone else has. So desire is consistent in my work. It's also consistent in my life. The feeling of desire, of wanting, of longing. There's something seductive about that. There's also a lot that's destructive about it as well. But the feeling of desire is very much an aphrodisiac to me.
The origin of this epiphany came from an article I read announcing a TV project from a writer I know. And I thought, "Wow, that's something I could write. That's something I am writing about, but what I'm writing about takes it one step further." There's a lot in the zeitgeist about sex and sexuality from an intellectual point of view. I need to finish this play that I'm rewriting! But something is definitely in the air. So I was thinking about this writer and this project and I thought about how what I'm writing could be a great TV show (which coincidentally was an idea I had over a year ago and a brilliant friend of mine convinced me to write it as a play). Then I thought about what that play is about and the word DESIRE popped out. It also felt sexy. My plays are about desire. You can just see the smoke from the cigarette I'm smoking as I'm telling you that. You can feel the charge that's created when someone hears that.
And I don't know anyone who's writing those plays. I don't know anyone who's writing the way I'm writing. With an air of every day conversation and intimacy. For me, besides theatricality, plays are there to talk about the things that people aren't talking about in ways they aren't talking about them. Theatre is the forerunner. It's the risk taker. It's the pioneer. You can do that in terms of form. But you can also do that in terms of content.
So that's what I'm doing. I always tell my students that writing is an exercise in finding their own voice. It turns out that the task of finding your voice doesn't just end because you start using that voice. It's the action of using your voice that helps you discover and experience your voice on a deeper level the more that you use it.
Plays of desire.
(from the imaginary interview that constantly continues inside my head)
I was waking up this morning and standing at the toilet peeing. That's when I figured out that the plays I write are plays of desire. Twenty years of writing plays and I finally figure that out. I used to think that the plays I write are plays of identity. And that is fine. I believe that identity fits into some of my plays, but not all of them. But I just looked at all of my plays and I realized that desire is in all of them. Sexual desire. The desire to belong or succeed. Objectification. The desire to be more. The desire to have what everyone else has. It's in every single one of my plays. And I'm about to embark on a seven play series that's all about desire. It's about coveting. It's about wanting what someone else has. So desire is consistent in my work. It's also consistent in my life. The feeling of desire, of wanting, of longing. There's something seductive about that. There's also a lot that's destructive about it as well. But the feeling of desire is very much an aphrodisiac to me.
The origin of this epiphany came from an article I read announcing a TV project from a writer I know. And I thought, "Wow, that's something I could write. That's something I am writing about, but what I'm writing about takes it one step further." There's a lot in the zeitgeist about sex and sexuality from an intellectual point of view. I need to finish this play that I'm rewriting! But something is definitely in the air. So I was thinking about this writer and this project and I thought about how what I'm writing could be a great TV show (which coincidentally was an idea I had over a year ago and a brilliant friend of mine convinced me to write it as a play). Then I thought about what that play is about and the word DESIRE popped out. It also felt sexy. My plays are about desire. You can just see the smoke from the cigarette I'm smoking as I'm telling you that. You can feel the charge that's created when someone hears that.
And I don't know anyone who's writing those plays. I don't know anyone who's writing the way I'm writing. With an air of every day conversation and intimacy. For me, besides theatricality, plays are there to talk about the things that people aren't talking about in ways they aren't talking about them. Theatre is the forerunner. It's the risk taker. It's the pioneer. You can do that in terms of form. But you can also do that in terms of content.
So that's what I'm doing. I always tell my students that writing is an exercise in finding their own voice. It turns out that the task of finding your voice doesn't just end because you start using that voice. It's the action of using your voice that helps you discover and experience your voice on a deeper level the more that you use it.
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