Day at the Beach

This grieving process is no day at the beach (har, har).  Or is it?

My Dad used to take us to the beach a lot when we were kids.  It's a place he always found comfort in.  It's because he grew up in Hawaii, as a surfer island boy.  When I was young, my Dad loved to compare tans to see who was darker.  Being dark and tan was seen as a sign of being like him, I suppose. 

I love the beach too.  I love the sound of the waves.  I love the calmness I feel by being at the beach.  But when I go to the beach, when I take my shirt off, I want to be somewhere I feel comfortable.  So I've taken to going to West Beach in Laguna because it's "the gay beach."  And I just feel more comfortable being nearly naked around my own people.  It's just the way it is. 

And I find the parade of speedos and other questionable swimwear entertaining. 

I went to West Beach yesterday, which felt like a world away from my life is Los Angeles, even though it's only an hour away.  I got there and I could park easily, which for me is a deciding factor on whether or not I'm venturing an hour away.  When I got there no body was there.  A few homely looking gays.  But within 20 minutes, everyone descended.  I guess 12 PM is the magic hour.  And then it got a little busy.  But it was a lot of fun.  Lots of walks, lots of checking dudes out and lots of body surfing. 

That's what Dad loved to do.  Not the checking dudes out.  But the body surfing.  He taught me and my brother to body surf.  IT was a lot of fun to get washed up in the waves and to remember all of the simple laughter I had growing up just going to the beach.

Simpler times.  I looked totally ridiculous out there, but that was part of the fun.

Another Goodbye

I got a phone call yesterday that my good friend, Mary Hanes, had passed away from ovarian cancer.  Mary and her husband Ken were my bosses on a pilot they wrote for USA called "Eden."  I was their right-hand person, you could say.  They were the best bosses ever because they appreciated everything I did and had no problem telling me.  This was a vast difference from my previous job.

I have to say that both Ken and Mary had a lot to do with me feeling better about myself post break up.  I realized that I do have valuable qualities I bring to the table, both in business and in life.  We were a little family for the five months we worked together.  They valued my opinions, asked me to help them out in breaking some stories and always came to me whenever a writer was submitted to us to see what I felt.  Our tastes matched and our values matched.  It was a perfect match in terms of jobs.

I knew she was sick for a while.  But she always forged ahead.  In these two weeks since my Dad died, it's been a challenge to keep moving forward.  But Mary always did.  I knew things were bad when I got an email from Ken offering me condolences regarding my Dad that was signed from the two of them.  Whenever we worked together, they would send me separate responses.  Since I only heard from Ken, I knew she was too sick to even email me back. 

I always admired how affectionate they were together and I assume that was true even before her illness.  That was just the type of people they are.  I will always think of Mary and her encouragement and generosity.  Ken sent me an email today reminding me of how much Mary loved me and was looking forward to us working together again and having a long partnership.  Even through his grieving, he's still as giving and generous as ever.  That's just yet another way that they continue to inspire me.

What I'm Crying Over (other than my Father's recent death)

I had a therapy session yesterday with this new therapist.  This is the second time I've seen him.  We had this whole conversation about my need for control.  It started out when I asked if he could formalize our sessions by asking a question.  And he kind of challenged me on it, which I didn't appreciate it.  I discussed my need for control in a time where there isn't control.  And he said I was asking him to take care of me.  Okay.  I accept that.  I would have appreciated it if he would have just done it and then used that as a jumping off point to discuss why I feel I need to speak up for my needs.

I do have a sincere need to take care of myself right now.  I think that's perfectly okay and acceptable.  I was obviously put off by the conversation.

But in that need I have for control, I've been crying over a lot of things lately.  I cried about my grandmother in therapy yesterday.  I told my coming out story to her and about how she (as a devout Catholic) told me that God doesn't make mistakes and that he made me gay for a reason.  I've cried over episodes of Designing Women that I've been You Tubing.  I watched The Help, which I hadn't seen before, and I cried over that.  I've cried over Hugh Jackman's opening number from the 2009 Oscars.

I think I'm crying over those things to let some emotion out.  It's like I'm trying to let out a little bit of emotion at a time.   I don't know if this need for control is such a bad thing right now.  I need structure and discipline and something I can count on right now.  I don't need everything in my life to be a mystery to me.  Honestly, I know that the sadness will come at some point.  I don't know where or when or how.  But I know it's coming.  And I'm open to it.  But I also want things around me that help me stay busy and active.  It's not a distraction.  But it's a vessel for me to focus my energy. 

I felt like I was being criticized for that and I didn't like it.  I know the tears about my Dad will come and I know they'll be at some point.  But I'm not trying to force anything.  I'm taking this experience moment to moment.

Writing is Fundamental

One of the things my Dad would be proud of during this whole year of his illness and then his death would be that I managed to stay busy and productive.  I had a 3 week play workshop when he first got sick and went to the hospital.  That kept me going.  I've also written another full length play, a sample of GLEE, and I'm finishing a new pilot this week, starting a one act musical which I have to write in three weeks and then I'm on to the next pilot.  That should take me to the Fall.    This is turning out to be the most productive year I've had ever.  But it fills me with purpose, not only to be productive but to survive.

I'm heading straight on into the next phase of my life with full speed. 

I have always tried to write with some intention.  I have a hard time working out just for the sake of vanity and I have the same problem with writing just for the sake of career advancement.  I think both are necessary when they are combined with some sense of greater purpose.  I write because it's how I make sense of the world.  It's what I did when I was 12 and it's what I've been doing ever since.  My writing is truer to my authentic self when that's the case.

I'm writing this pilot about women in the later stages of their lives because I'm concerned and interested in how my Mother is going to handle this next stage of her life after my Dad died.  And I'm inspired by another woman in my life, my best friend Alanna's mom.  She's been like a second mother to me most of my life.  And she's kind of at the other spectrum of things.  My mother is overly maternal and Sid is the bold, authoritative, intelligent woman who's the opposite of that.  Sid's still maternal and my mother is incredibly intuitive, but the combination for me has represented a certain kind of completeness.

The play I wrote was about open marriage and the nature of fidelity and honesty.  I relate to that because of my relationship with the Drummer.  When we decided to be more open in our relationship at the beginning, I had a bunch of questions.  And I got to explore those questions in my play. 

The GLEE sample was about trying to get a job, but it was essentially about artistic integrity, which is of great concern to me.  And it was a Prince tribute, so it was also about sexual expression.  Both two things which I'm absolutely in love with.

I have no idea what this musical is going to be about.  I get three songs back tomorrow so I can start thinking about what the play's going to be about.

And the other pilot, will be inspired by some other piece of great literature.  Something I relate to, I suppose.

It all has to relate in some way.  It all has to teach me something about myself.  It all has to have an engine that makes me want to sit down and write and write and write even though it's gorgeous outside.

Decisions, Decisions

I'm a theatre boy, through and through.  I'm housesitting for my friends in Santa Monica and I've been using their place as a bit of a writer's retreat.  So far I have 20 pages of a new pilot done that I'm supposed to have finished by Tuesday.  I think that can happen.

Well, I decided that I was going to see this play last night that I had been hearing about.  I also knew that a bunch of theatre folks I need to be in touch with were going to be there as well.  So at 6 PM I decided that I'd better go.  But then I also figured I should get some work done.  Then I wasn't feeling it.  I was tired.  I was trying to save money.  I made a bunch of excuses why I shouldn't go.  Then I started writing the pages that had been eluding me all day.  This is a sign, I thought.  Then around 7:15 I figured I wasn't going to go because I had been on a roll.  At around 7:28, with no juice left and five pages written in the past 45 minutes, I decided that I might as well head out the door and get distracted.  It wasn't far away and if there weren't tickets left, I would just go back to Santa Monica.

I show up at the Box Office at 7:45 and order a ticket.  Then I look behind me and see my high school buddy, Jeff, who I last saw at our reunion.  Kismet!  So we decide to sit together.  And then I walk into the lobby and see a bunch of theatre pals, some of whom I knew I'd see and others who were a surprise.  And some new faces as well.  It felt like community, which I love.

The show was good.  It was a lot of fun and good energy.  But the best part was just catching up with old pals.  Jeff and I made plans to see a play the following week.  My friend Kelly and I made plans to grab lunch when I'm in her neck of the woods.  She also invited me to a workshop they're doing at her theatre.  All in all good stuff.  And five pages, which became six when I got home is good for a whole day's work.  I got that done, in total, in about 90 minutes. 

Plus, all of that socializing left me motivated for today.  So I'm happy about that as well.  Let's see what happens today.

Cousin Douchebag

Throughout all of these enlightened reflections of my Father's death, I almost forgot about Cousin Douchebag.  I was reminded when I read this Facebook post earlier:

If my dad remains in the condition he was this weekend, slow and tired all of the time, he'll die by the end of the year and I'll be back in New Mexico.

Really?  Really, Cousin Douchebag?  It happens that his father is also very sick.  How do I know this?  Because he constantly posts pictures of his sick father drooling on himself on Facebook.  This is the guy who called my Dad up and said:

Hey, Cousin!  I heard you were dying.

Those were the last words he said to my Father.  Cousin Douchebag has a lifetime history of being an idiot.  I had no choice but to reach out to Cousin Douchebag and send this little gem:

Thanks for calling my Dad?

I guess I should be grateful that you called my Dad to wish him well.  And I am.  What I'm not happy about is that you called him to tell him you heard he was dying.

Tactless.  And tacky.


While we know that as a family and are preparing for it, it is not helpful to us to have you blurt it out so carelessly.  I would like to delicately address my displeasure, but I'm afraid you won't get it.


You are a jackass.  


See, I'm nice like my Mother.  But I'm also a little mean like my Grandmother.  I'm protective of my family and especially right now of my Father.


Please don't reach out to apologize.  I don't need it.  I've said my peace.  And frankly, I don't have time to give this another thought.  My energy needs to be directed towards helping my Dad.


I was being so Zen like until I remembered what he said to my Dad a month ago.  It makes me angry because he clearly doesn't understand how sensitive he should be.  He can't even be sensitive enough to refrain from sending pictures to all of his FB friends of his father who is suffering with dementia.  It's sad.

My Uncle took my Dad in after his mother kicked him out of the house at 14.  That's the whole reason he moved out from Hawaii to California, where my Uncle was living at the time.  My Uncle really took my Dad under his wing and helped him out a lot. My Uncle's a great man who deserves so much more than his idiot son.  He deserves dignity and care.  This jackass gives him neither.

I've debated on whether or not I should reach out to my Cousin to tell him what a douchebag he's being.  But I don't really want much to do with him and I don't think he'll get it.  It's horrible what he's doing.  And it makes me feel so bad for my Uncle. 

 

I'm Back to Therapy

I've been seeing a bereavement counselor through my Father's hospice care program.  In general, it has been helpful to have someone to talk to.  But as I've been speaking to Thomas my bereavement counselor, I have realized that I really need a bit more help on a deeper level.  So I'm back in therapy.  And this guy is interesting.  A bit passive maybe for my tastes.  I want to give it three or four sessions to suss it out before I make a decision to change.  But I didn't feel like it was quite clicking yet.

He seemed a bit put off by the fact that I seemed like I was holding it together.  Well, my Dad just died and I was the one who held it together and I'm still probably in that mode.  Besides, I don't know him that well yet and maybe I'm saving the waterworks until I've got a better feel for this guy.  He's not encouraging me to open up necessarily.  When I was going to therapy before, my former counselor made me feel comfortable.  I cried for the first four sessions. 

But this guy did say something very interesting at the end of the session after I had done all of the talking.  He interjected selectively, but I felt very much like he was observing me and not engaging enough.  I had talked about my anger towards my Dad, which I feel like I've worked through.  He said that I almost seemed to be smiling when I talked about my anger.  And it's not like I didn't have plenty of anger and expressed it.  But I also got this image of the smiling Buddha.  And I like that image.

But I told him that I came to therapy exactly so I could get below the surface.  I acknowledged that there was a veneer, but that I came to therapy because I needed help with getting underneath my grief.  I didn't like that he just thought I was putting on some sort of act or that I was just trying to hold it together.  If I thought everything was hunky dory I wouldn't be sitting across from him!  I'm ready to do some work.  All of his questions seemed very rudimentary and very by the book.  I don't respond to that.  I don't respond to generic questions or a lack of imagination.  I'm a writer!  I want you to get there and to go deep.

Well, I will have to see how things go next week.  The jury is still out.