Teamwork

So today I was at Barnes & Noble in Union square looking to pick up some books for the away shoot that I will be on for the next five weeks. I decided to casually browse around for an hour even though I knew that I was eventually just going to pick up some more Eggers or Didion. By the time I got to the third floor I had worked up an appetite. I noticed the cafe with all of its delectable little pastries, and I thought that I would just quickly browse around and then head over to get a sweet treat.

I then noticed that I had stumbled into: THE CRAZY DIET BOOK SECTION!

1. I saw a diet book that swore by maple syrup and lemon water...hello Lindsey, Nichole, Mary Kate and Ashley. Your secret is out!

2. I was no longer hungry but felt guilty for wanting to eat amongst all these "thinner, leaner, lighter, the only way you will find a mate is if you almost look like your starving" books.

3. Who was the moron that put the diet book section right outside the cafe?


For real? Does Barnes & Noble actually want to sell any of its sweet treats? Cause they should really consider putting the diet books in the basement. Then I got to thinking...

Who designed the layout...cause I would put money on it that it was a man.


Let me just preface this by saying: I am not a man-hater.

I gots to thinkin' about teamwork. I bet it wasn't just one man who decided to put the diet books next to the cafe, I bet it was a team of men. It's not there fault that they don't think like women. They can't. It's impossible! But for real lay-out-designery-type-peeps, put a woman on the team! Or put two, I guarantee that if we different sexes can work together we won't have a diet book/cafe adjacent issue again. And then I will be able to enjoy a damn cookie without feeling like a Heffer cow.

Teamwork.

This is why I'm single

Dear boy missing BVD's,

Thank you for depositing your darling underwear in my building hallway. You have a really small butt! I think your underwear is the same size as the underwear that I used to wear circa 1992. I guess that I'm not the best bar of comparison however. But really I bet you are hungry, we do live in Bushwick where all the hungry artists live. Here's some advice; don't skip lunch tomorrow to buy paint. Instead skip lunch to buy some new undies!

Also thank you for reminding me why I am single, because as disgusting as your underwear is in my hallway I might be more traumatized by seeing you in it!

Much love your gladly single, hispter-man-less neighbor in 307.

The New Alternative to Plastic Surgery

Actually I think it just makes you lighter? Less change in the wallet = less LBS.

Nice try West Village coffee shop...you almost had me.

Faaav Graffito of the Week.

These guys have appeared all over the hood lately, and there is a humongous one outside our windows that I just love to death. They make me wax nostalgic about the Sesame Street space aliens that Kermit would interview in his cute khaki "News Caster Kermie" outfit.


"Yup yup yup yup yupyupyupyup...No no no nonono nopenopenopenope nope."

The Living Room

While I was strolling around Union Square on my day off I found myself sauntering up to two adorable old men.

Picture 80-something grandfather types. They had their suspenders, and their dandy Easter Sunday looking straw hats with piped ribbon just above the brim. Their shirts were tucked into their adorable Docker shorts that were pulled far too high. Each of them carried their own lawn chair as they waddled slowly down University towards 14th street.

Besides their adorably un-dapper attire I couldn't help but listen to their rich Long Island accents as these two old fogies strolled into New York's Living room, Union Square.

Taller Old Man: "So you'll never believe this."

Short Old Man: "Whaaaaaaauuuuuttttt?"

T.O.M.: " It was only fouuuuurrrrteeeeen ninety fiiiiiIIIIIvvvvveeee for a year long subscription."

S.O.M.: "You're kidden me! Only fouurrrrrtttteeeennnnn ninety fiiiiIIIIIvvvveee?"

T.O.M.:"Yeah, who knew?"

S.O.M.:"A whole year?(in total disbelief.) Wow! A year subscription to Playboy for only fooouuurrrteeeeen nintey FiiiiIIIIvvvveeeee!"

T.O.M.: " It must be from all the advertisements."

S.O.M.: " Wow. A whole year. I can't imagine."


They strolled on into the park. I smiled, looked around and hoped that someone else had heard this. But I was alone in the moment. Just me and the Grandpa's, talking about Playboy in the living room.

I love New York.

Hey Hey Hey Hey! Guess What?

I'm starting a new site- this (The New Phase) will stay and be all my little New York stories and anecdotes- but I think it's time to launch the new one that I have been mulling over for a while-

Vidjablog!!!!

I am going to put all my film theory and production knowledge to use! I am going to be writin' all about movies - new and old- and I want all the great and awful film suggestions I can get! Throw them at me- and yeah- get pumped- I am- I need to get my analytical mind refreshed and re-edjucated!

RO-SHAM-SPAWKLE?

Lala dropped her new ring on the train tracks yesterday. It's a ring carved from an Agate, it sparkles lots and I love the sparkles.

We were so hungover when she dropped it, and the train was too close to jump down and get it and I was way too fucking scared to get it. I might be the man in our friendship, but I am not that crazy brave to jump down into an electrified death cavern covered in rat urine and trash. Plus, I hear the third rail is a doozey, and which is one is the third rail? Are we talking starboard or port side rail here? I mean God it's so confusing. ( I am very troubled.)

It was sure to be smashed. The little rock that was hatched from volcanic combustion thousands of years ago would be crushed by our modern travel device.

We got on the train and headed into the city. Sad. No more sparkle ring.

When we got home later that night Lauren had a brilliant plan. She is very creative when it comes to DIY innovation.


Lauren's Plan:

1. Get a stick (we used our painting pole since there are no trees in Bushwick.)
2.Put clear plastic J-lar tape sticky side out on the end.
3. Lower WOODEN stick into electrified cavern of train track death.
4. Try and resurrect pieces of sparkle rock ring.
5. Have burial/ceremony for ring carcass.

When we got to the tracks with our tape pole and sad faces we created quite the scene at the train plat form. Everyone wanted to know what we were poking at. One man offered to jump down and retrieve the ring, but when he looked in the direction of the train the lights were already visible in the tunnel as it approached us. He proclaimed loudly:

Loud Man: "The train is too close."

Me in my head: "Um, you are really sweet to offer to jump down and get the ring, and thank you for your help. Did you realize that your statement was awkwardly loud? Were you trying to let every woman on the platform know that you would be hero, but the train is too close? Now I have an uncomfortable expression on my face as I try and hold back my laughter at his ridiculously obvious statement. I just want to be polite...must hold back incredible desire to laugh."

The train came and the loud man got on.

Before the train doors closed another loud man poked his head out at us and said,

Loud Man II: "Do you need to get on the train?"

Me in my head:"Um, really? Did he just ask us that? Ahhhh....Confusion! Had my faces that I made to repress my laughter made me look disoriented? I did a mental bodily functionality check. 1. Are Lauren and I breathing? YES. 2. Do Lauren and I appear to have any physical ailments that would prevent us from getting on the train? NO. 3. Do Lauren and I appear to have any mental handicaps that would prevent us from understanding that when the train is in the station and the doors are open we should get on? Lauren, NO. Me, I don't think so...? "

(Pause)
(Process)

Conclusion: "There are a lot of people making really obvious statements. It's making me feel funny."

The train doors close and it pulls away and Lauren and I laugh and continue to poke the tracks with our tape stick, AKA our STAPE.

A close talking man then comes up to us, assess the situation and then looming over me about half an inch from my face says,

Close Talker Man: "Just when you get really frustrated and you are about to give up. That's when you take a little break, and go back again and that's when it will work."

Me in my head: "Okay that was good advice, really applicable to NEW YORK in EVERY WAY! Thank you, but why you gotta get so freaky close to my face?"

The train came and he got on. We poked around with the Stape. Suddenly, we grabbed it! The PWETTY SPAWKLE WRING! IN ONE PIECE! We jumped up and down hysterically on the platform.

Conclusion:

Thousands of year old sparkle rock could not be crushed by modern man made machine. Thousands of years of evolution show very little improvement of cave man. Thousands of years of evolution show improvement in women who have access to innovative tools like tape and stick. Evolutionary Ro-Sham-Bo winner?

Man beats sparkle rock with invention of machine. Woman beats man plan with invention of Stape. BUT, sparkle rock defies man's machine.

Sparkle rock wins.

Me in my head: " I should learn how to be like the sparkle rock and defy the man."

The Overs

I am over wanting commitment.

It is not longer something that I want, but something that I NEED.

It's like I am racing towards being forty years old so I can have other forty year old friends who will actually commit to doing fun things.

I am in the process of trying to start a writing group, so that we can all help workshop each others work and perhaps make our movies together.

No one can commit.

I know all too well it is not about having time, but making time. So people make some time if you want to really invest,create and direct your future...come on people!

So now I am trying to pick a restaurant from the New York Mag website, so that I can break up with my boyfriend, who can't seem to make time for me, in a place that I won't ever want to go back to.

How does one choose a restaurant they never want to go back to? A place where they can plan to create bad memories?

Knowing my luck I will end up on set there in a few weeks shooting a break-up scene for 14 hours in the restaurant that I really broke up in.

Maybe this is all a product of my own hyper-planning issues. I plan creativity and I am in the process of actively planning my break up.


Does everyone do this? OR do I need to put my "life by the hour" excel spreadsheets away?


I am over no commitment. I am over "no time." I want to be over my planning insanity.
Just really fucking over it.


What would the world be like if I stopped planning my life...and trying to plan everyone else's?

Fire Time Stories

" Few shared my place of origin or the events of my life, but many, it seems, shared my experience. Listening to their stories, I came to understand how women can be isolated by circumstances as well as by distance, and how our experiences, though geographically distinct, often translated into the same feelings. Away from the physical presence of my past, I found it easy to argue that what mattered most was the story, the truth of what we tell ourselves, the versions we pass along to our daughters."

-Judy Blunt excerpt from Breaking Clean



I went to Boston for two hours yesterday. One of my closest childhood friends came home from a year and half long voyage on a tall ship. She sailed the entire Atlantic Ocean. She saw the west coast of Europe and Africa. She saw South America and the Caribbean. I saw her last a year and a half ago right before she left. We never spoke ONCE the entire time that she was away.

In the train station, the T red line, on my way to see her, a man was playing one of our favorite songs.

John Denver, Country Roads.

I had a hard time finding her stupid boat. And she wouldn't answer her stupid Blackberry. Which is really stupid when there are one thousand big boats in Boston and lots of water and lots of harbor. I found her. Her boat was parked on Warren Street.

I should have guessed.

We grew up at summer camp together. Just like our fathers did a generation before us.

It was called Camp Warren.

I was less mad about how hard it was to find her, and realized it was my stupid fault for not looking up her pier on the internet before I made the four hour trek to Boston.

I would have stayed longer than two hours, but I had to work at 5am the next day.

Work trumps time to connect...

We still connected. After a year and a half of zero communication Sarah and I sat on a giant anchor on the corner of Warren and Constitution, smoked cigarettes, and relished the time that we had.

We come from the same story, Sarah and I. It's easy for us to connect. Sarah's mom was always sick growing up. She had a body sickness, MS, that made her unable to walk for as long as I can remember. Eventually it made her unable to move at all, but her mind was always alive. Right until the very end.

My mom had a mind sickness, Manic Depression, that made it hard for her to be level. She was happy, fun, exciting and really crazy. Or she was alone, quiet, sad and vacant. She always meant well. She still does, but the doctors and the pills and the alcohol took some of her away. Even still, she is not who I remember playing ponies with when I was 5.

For a long time I thought that Sarah was the only person who shared this with me.

The "mother sickness."



Sarah talked about sailing, and the politics of the boat. She talked about wanting to quit. She mentioned wanting to leave the boat after three months.She talked about the beauty of morning dips in the Caribbean. She talked about the cut-throat competition from one mate to the next. How hard it is to work together and against each other at the same time. In one moment to feel like a teammate and the enemy.

I talked about "the business." How lucky I had been. How hard it has been. How much of a fight against my peers and friends it has been and still is. How much pressure there is. I talked about the politics and the men. I talked about how working on set feels like being the only woman in a 1940's WWII platoon. I talked about how my femininity is worshiped and resented in the same moment.

In a week Sarah and I will be both be back at camp. We will be at Warren, at home. Where the community works together. Where all competition ends in a "Camp Warren Tie." Where gender is just apart of who you are. We will be back with our self made family. The place that we both went every summer for nearly 18 years, after nine months of coping with childhood, or adolescence or our sick mothers. It is where we would both go after not speaking for nine months to instantly reconnect.

Even though the distance between us was sometimes so great, and the Minnesota winter had been frigid and isolating. The first night at camp we would sit around a fire and tell the stories that we were ready to tell. Sometimes we would tell the stories we never thought we would be able to tell, and sometimes we told stories that we never even knew were in us.


To Sarah, and the other exceptional half dozen people that are in my life.

No matter what port you come from. No matter what mid-western city or northern hide-away you walk out of, or metropolis, or foreign nation you or I come out of next week, I cannot wait to sit around the fire and share stories.


It is your stories that you have passed along to me that have made my life connected, and devoid of a separation from love.

I am so glad that I will be able to share you and our stories with our daughters...

someday.

Witness Protection Program Failure

Last November I decided that I was going into hiding. I was unable to reveal this secret to anyone. It would have defeated the purpose of my clandestine plan. A plan so elaborate and well constructed that it was kept even from my own consciousness until very recently. Now that the plan has unraveled only now can I share it.


I had to start small, and activate the plan slowly. I had to be precise and discreet. No one could know what I was doing and why. So I made things up, things that appeared logical to me and the outside world.

First I needed to blend in. I took a note from Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy and I devised a more natural look so that I could easily fall into the darker back drop of New York City.


Phase one of Operation Witness Protection Plan was underway. No one would notice me now that I had shed all my dashing blond locks. I looked just like another Jewish/Italian/not Scandinavian New York/New Jersey/bridge and tunnel transplant girl.

When everyone asked why I colored my hair I came up with a variety of "non crazy sounding" reasons.

1." I am going to Italy and I don't want to be hounded." This in fact did prove to be beneficial for my trip. My other blond friend was hounded, and I was left alone, in hiding. Just like I had planned.

2. "Men don't like to hire women who look like Britney Spears." I took on the whole "Nanny Theory." The theory being that one should never go to a baby sitting interview looking more attractive than a 30-something recent mother might look. No woman in her right mind would hire someone who might be capable of running off with her husband. In the same vein, why would any man hire a woman who is more attractive than his wife? Being on set with a more attractive woman for 18 hours does not a healthy marriage make.

Looking ugly is in right now anyway, the American Apparel adds tell me so. Gaunt, underage, and weird hair are the trend. So I can deal with looking a little more like Sarah Plain and Tall at least I don't look like the weirdos in my hood.


Next I realized that everyone knew where I lived. An apartment in such a central location of hipness, in the heart of mega-hot Williamsburg, complete with a private garden could not be hidden for long. Everyone I knew/know/and will know someday has practically already been there. My secret layer, even though it was off the street and separated from the outside world by a cavernous little causeway, and sometimes protected by rabid squirrels who had gotten caught in the narrow space has/had/and would be discovered by...well by "the invader." I had to get out. My bodyguard,who shall remain nameless, but she is small, spry and from Minnesota. Don't even attempt to find me or she will have to take action, NOT IN YOUR BEST INTEREST.

Anyway, my bodyguard and I found a new secret abode, higher up and with much better surveillance options so that we can always see who is/what is/or what will be lurking just outside our layer.


The final step was selective community enhancement. I had to maintain only the most exceptional people in my life and casually delete the remainder.

I changed my phone number. Now the phone worked one way in my favor. I had everyone's number and no one had mine!

With a Westchester area code, a Brooklyn zip code and dirty Jersey hair I would never be found.

Or so I thought...

I am not sure that I have the privilege/right/or patience to harp on this any longer. But he found me in the matter of two weeks.

Personal Witness Protection Plan Failure!


In one visit from Los Angles to New York he was able to: work for my biggest client, have dinner with my current boyfriend, party with my best friend, meet up with my bodyguard for drinks, and throw a party with all of "our" friends, "our" old community, "our" old life together.

Rumor has it that he was still the same. Minus the chain smoking.


He is frenetic. Lost. He lives with people and closes the door on them every night . His family is a wreck. He ignored everyone at the party that he threw for all "our" friends and engaged only in business talk with a potential client. I was asked about at the party, my current life events were exchanged like a scrolling ticker tape from one friend to the next. Like Palo's life events have been whispered to me in telephone game format over the last few weeks. I ask. It is my fault. I want to know how he is/has been/will be.

Last messages received from Palo via mutual friend telephone game transfer:

"He would kill to see you."

"His family is a wreck, but we didn't really get into it."



It still breaks my heart. To hear that he is such an island makes me hurt. For him. For me. For anyone else who knows and loves him like I do. It just breaks me up.



I have to find a way to put that into my Personal Witness Protection Plan:

Must find safeguard for previous/current/and future heartbreaks.

Must find way to delete past/present/future

The Children vs. Mad Nik

Why is it all so scary all the time?



Over the last three weeks I have launched myself into actually dating someone.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I AM DOING.

I am doing 120 in a school zone on a motorcycle. WTF? What about the children? The poor innocent children?

Oh- fuck the children- if they get in the way its their own fault.


The Children vs. Mad Nik

For all practical purposes of this blog entry let's just say that the children are the more rational, down to earth and sensible side of my brain. My little kid voices in my head are the ones that tell me to share with others. They tell me to listen carefully; to feel compassion for animals. They tell me to always include everyone. They don't let me worry about tomorrow, or next week or next year. They only let me worry about what I will have for snack, and if there will be some sort of nightgame-like activity at dusk. My innocent little voices in my head are harmonious. Play time is all they are really concerned about.

The innocent voices in my head are also the most cautious and concious side of myself as well. They tell me to love people but don't let them get too close. Too close = too scary. My little voices tell me to be afraid. To take caution, and if I get too scared to sleep with the light on.

The biggest of the tiny voices have been telling me for the last two years to stay away from boys. They tell me that they are gross, slimy and they are only interested in wrestling me to the ground to kiss me and nothing else.

I think the biggest of the tiny voices chant: MEN ARE BULLSHIT in high pitched, airy, whimsicle voices while I sleep at night. It is the only time of day that they can get away with such profanity, in my subconcious REM sleep state.

The tiny voices are fighting Mad Nik.

Mad Nik is still blond.
Mad Nik wears a black cat suit.
Mad Nik rides a motorcycle. BMW- Black-Vintage-Lots-o-Trouble.
Mad Nik doesn't really care what the sweet little voices in her head tell her. She doesn't really care about men, she just wants to love 'em and leave 'em. She doesn't let them get too close. At least she thinks that she never gets attached when really deep down there is a small iota of Mad Nik that knows shehas been loved, been in love and wants to love. But it is easier for her to get on her bike and ride away FAST. Mad Nik is all about the party, and the scene and the people. Mad Nik has been dormant for years but I can here her beating on my doors. She never really went away. She is the lingerie in my underwear drawer. She is the hot pink glitter in my make-up bag. She is Britney Spears in my music collection. She is here, she never left, she went on hiatus when I started dating Palo in 2003.


I feel like my mind is in the middle of a holy war. Both sides of myself are so different, but both seem to agree that men are a bad idea. Like two religious groups that both believe a piece of land is sacred but for different reasons.

The Children believe men are scary.
Mad Nik believes men are material.

Where is the real me? The one who once let herself fall so madly in love that she let it consume ever corner of her life.

I am just a scardy cat to go back there. To be cosumed by emotion.


WHAT ABOUT NATE?
What are his motivations? What is he looking for? He just moved to New York. What kind of clairty can he have? He doesn't even know how to get to W4th Street. He is graduating from college in May. Palo had a massive meltdown when he graduated. It was the beginning of the end for us. Will Nate have a meltdown? Will he soon see that he has way too much going on in his own life to possibly be apart of someone else's? Maybe he is just the biggest liar ever? His kind words are blasphemus...? I am just another conquest for him? He must have some hidden agenda...? What's in it for him? Maybe my parents are paying him?


For now, Nate is safe. I love to be around him. Everything about him makes my skin shiver. I just have to stay on the road. I have to let the real nicole take the wheel, slow down, drive the limit, and wave to the kiddies as I ride through their school zone while simultaneaously turning up the radio to drown out the "MEN ARE BULLSHIT" chant coming from the childen's cherubic faces.

'Cause I am the one that is full of shit. I can do this. Nate is great.



(take deep breath here)

Orbit?

So as I mentioned early I have seriously put life on a rocket ship- or a belnder- or in a black hole and I am not really sure which analogy best exemplifies what they hell has happened in the last couple weeks but I will try to explain- as I sort through the variety of things that have occurred since Feb 27th.

Feb. 27th: Spent 14 hours in transit on my way to Steamboat Colorado. First encounter with the dreaded Mr. Bj since I almost set him on fire on NYC last July. He tried to put some moves on- I shut that down. I think he was a little disapointed. I later learned that he has been with sveral of his "girlfriends" lately. Some things never change.

Feb 28- March 2: Skied blue sky days at Steamboat with the ladies. Much needed time with the gang.

March 3: One commercial gig phone call, and 30 ROCK call to finish the season on their camera team. Quit my job at CSC Arriflex.

March 6: Last day at Arri. Cried and partied really hard. Took a cab home with Jammer- he almost puked in the cab- hysterical situation- had to pull over- really embarassing.

March 7: Lala's sister and her fiance came over with a short bus to help us move all our stuff to our new loft in Bushwick. We did it in four trips. They my hero's. Our lives in the new place are still a total disaster. But the space will be amazing when we finish it.

March 9: Started new job at 30 ROCK. Got my ass handed to me. I have never made so many mistakes in one day. I learned that I almost always do things wrong the first time and will do them right the second time, after I have been repremanded.

March 13: Had drinks with Jammer and Nate after wrap. Needed to see my Arri boys after a long week without them. Nate walked me home, we held hands. I have had a crush on him for a few months now.

March 14: Man team came over to the apt to help us with some projects. Nate spent the night.

March 17: Wrapped 30 ROCK. On this day one year ago I started my job at Arri. Strange.

March 18 to the present: Building walls, installing kitchens, tearing up carpet, lots of painting and good times with Lala and gettting to know Nate better. Lala and I are starting a Vlog. Stayed tuned for Vlog info.

I am in total outer space- and survival mode- and a state of bliss that I have not experienced in YEARS. All such great changes all at once, maybe I finally worked off all of my bad karma from cheating on all those boyfriends of mine. I learned my lesson.

Cheating = really fucking bad Karma for 3 years.

When I mentioned landing in the last blog blurb- of course my wise friend Em says:

"Maybe you don't want to land"

I think that she is right. Maybe my little self space station is finally ready for real inter-galaxy exploration. I think that I am trying to go way more self sustainable than ever before. For now it seems to be working- I am going to take her advice and try to stay in orbit. And maybe I will even leave the orbit of my comfort zone is this galaxy for a little while and see what else the universe has in store for me.

I put my life on a rocket ship...

NEW PHASE like WHOA in the last two weeks of my life. I went to Steamboat, came back, quit my job, moved into a 1,000 sq foot loft, started working on 30 ROCK and making out with a new man...

I feel like I put my life on a rocket ship...and I have no idea where the hell I am going to land.

Glass Filters and Heavy Things

Spaceship Mayday, Focus System Threat

Dedicated to my friend MHR.

At my place of work we have hundreds of blue buckets. We use them to sort out camera gear upon return from a shoot. In one bucket go the focus systems and anything with a screw and a joint. In another bucket go the glass filters. In the last bucket go the heavy things.

My friend Mike once told me that some professor's or great minds of the world view the human brain like a bucket. The mind begins empty, waiting to fulfill its purpose. It waits to be stuffed full of junk. It is vast and endless, like a sink hole that holds bits of knowledge, fun facts and best of all (according to Mike) history. If Mike is right, and my mind is like a blue bin, what are my focus systems and anything with a screw and a joint, my glass filters, and my heavy things?

What does my history bucket look like?


Focus system and anything with a screw or a joint in it:

Most mornings I walk out my front door and board the 7:15am L train feeling like I am getting on a NASA space ship. Myself and the rest of the early morning crew are shuttled off to work like being carted out to the runway to prepare for take off. As I breeze through the doubled paned glass doors at work I get this overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. I am groggy, a little disgruntled, and tired of the tedium. Then suddenly my boss hands me a job that reads like a film nerds technical catastrophe. I feel like I have just been named captain of the space shuttle by some glitch in the system. Taking off in T-minus one hour.

Shit.
I
barely
got
through
the
rocket
science
instruction
manual
on
the
way
to
the
office.
Shit.

My life is like a rocket. Not really like rocket science. How in the hell am I supposed to stay focused? Maybe if I just press the big green button that says 'GO' the take off will be smooth? I kinda did hit that when I moved to New York. I hit the big green 'GO' button back in the summer of 2007 launching myself from Boulder, Colorado into a whole new level of the atmosphere. Needless to say the take off still commences, it is really turbulent, and at least once a day I have to use my left hand to hold my right hand back from hitting the red 'EJECT' button. I am so tousled from all the turbulence that the two halves of my body and hemispheres of my brain are fighting each other.

Over lunch with Mike this week he told me about the brain. He says, and I know he is quoting some smart person's work that I cannot remember, none the less, he says:

"The brain is one entity, but each half operates independently from the other. Different activities satisfy separate parts of the brain. "

He is a historian, and a raft guide. He is most happy when he is using his body to propel a raft down the river, while also dishing out fun facts about the canyons that surround himself and his group. He is using both halves of his brain, and appeasing each side by doing very different things. He is full, he is whole, he is utilizing the best of both hemispheres. He feels complete in those moments.

Meanwhile I am still stuck in an unknown layer of the atmosphere, on a spaceship to somewhere while trying to get both of my hemispheres to work together. Lost much?

FOCUS?

I am trying to focus on my betterment. On my health and well being. On doing what is best for me at this moment. But really I am just feeling jiggly. My head it jiggly wondering if I will ever actually get to freelance full time? Will anyone ever call me to work on a movie? Will the economy ever make a comeback so that people can afford to see movies? Will I ever get to make another movie of my own? Will I ever be able to afford a gym membership so that my ass will be less jiggly? If my ass is jiggly will I ever find a man that will love me even if I have a jiggly ass? NO MORE JIGGLE! I want to throw on a straight jacket and duck tape my ass to the space shuttle cockpit seat so that at least I can be in sync with the jiggle.

Maybe that is what life is all about. Not fighting the turbulence, but rather riding the rhythm. Like riding a horse bareback, if I fight the motion I will fall off, but if I connect and make myself one with the horse we will fly.

I must stop fighting my emotions. I can only take off, and focus, if I let go of hiding from how I really feel. It's hard to get back on the horse again after I have been off the openly emotional wagon since I quit summer camp.

My life is not perfect.
That is okay.
My life is not always happy.
That is okay.
I am not always happy.
It is okay.
I cannot only talk to my blog about how I feel.
Voice on voice action is okay.

maybe i will have to start with a whisper. but i really should start. or else i may not be able to keep myself screwed and jointed together, in which case i will end up in the red bucket at work.

RED BUCKET: IRREPARABLE INVENTORY, PLEASE NOTE: MAKE, MODEL AND SERIAL NUMBER. SEND TO ARRIFLEX CAMERA HEADQUARTERS FOR REPLACEMENT.

just focus on letting it out. and let it go.




thank you for being at lunch mhr, for listening, and being in the right place when I needed it most, you always have great bits of emotional wisdom for my bucket. i am hoping to squeeze out a tear soon for no reason at all accept that i think i need to.

38 Things Technology Has Shown Me

Technology is a really magnificent creation. I recently joined the droves of the technologically plugged in by purchasing my first iPhone. I now live a life of ease. Text messaging has become simple, no more frustrating T9 word to deal with. I can check my email at any moment, and my phone sounds an adorable little ding when I have received a new little note. Best of all I have total access to Facebook.

Technology sucks. Remember when break ups were simple and uncomplicated? That is at least they were somewhat easy to get away from. It used to be so much simpler to cut ties. Remember before the cell phone age when it was pretty damn difficult to get a hold of someone? Before the internet the only way to get a status update was if the ex left a voice message on the old fashioned magnetic tape answering machine. Even back then there was the occasional message that I saved from some guy I would never see again. Back in the day it was always easy for me to delete ex-messages from my answering machine; that may also be because I was 18 the last time that I owned one an answering machine. I don’t think that I had actually fallen in love yet either.

Now with Facebook and Twitter there is a constant feed.

“Palo is moving to Califonia.”

“Palo is working on some great commercial”

“Palo is now friends with some hot ass twenty year old blonde fetus girl who posts videos of him on her Facebook page.”

Okay so maybe I have done a little hunting around since Palo and I were never Facebook friends. (That should have been a red flag after four years). I have established my insanity in previous entries so I take no issue admitting that I am totally nuts. It is complete S&M to secretly check on him.

Last week my boss told me that I need to let go…

I have successfully blocked Palo from the following:

My Gmail
My iPhone
My iChat
My iCal

But I cannot seem to take the next step and block him from my Facebook. And upon my latest search I noticed on the left hand side of the screen a connection that I cannot block:

“You and Palo have 38 friends in common”



iWant my life back.



Yes, as the ultimate includer, sharer and team player I think that I just experience the ultimate torture: Death by 1,000 cuts…or rather 38 common stabs. I managed to suture Palo so deeply into my life and for what? Some bogus learning experience?

iLearned that it is dangerous to get involved.
iLearned that it is hard to share everything with someone.
iLearned that people change.


iWant to ride the train in the morning and not have something remind me of him.
iWant to go to a concert and not pretend that he is standing behind me.
iWant him to come home and lay with me.
iWant it to be like this again:


Email from Palo Summer 2006:

Amor...

Tonight for some reason I've got the urge to be, in your words,
"Lame". I don't do it very often, but now that I've had some time
away from you for the first time in a while certain thoughts have come
to mind that I think maybe I'll share...

I'm a very lucky guy...today on the way home I thought of all of our
little arguments, misunderstandings, all of the 'beef' and
frustrations between us...I thought about the idea of not being with
you, of losing what I've got with you...and well, I really didn't like
it.
You are one of a kind, you're so important to me, and I hope you know
inside in spite of all those times in which you think I don't give a
shit about you, or that youre "not important" to me because I might
not vocalize things enough, that you my dear are the greatest, truly a
fantastic find - "Me gusta"...and that though this time apart is
probably very good, I kinda wish we could put it on hold sometimes for
little bits at a time, like bedtime for instance on a night like this.
A snap of the fingers. CLICK. Oh here you are! (wouldn't that be
nice)...

So there you go, that was my dose of "lameness". I dont' think I can
handle any more than that and well I'm sure you can't either - I hope
I didn't make you "puke in your mouth a little bit". GROSS. Can't we
just say nice things sometimes? I think so, right? No puking. No
lame. Just a little honest and nicely communicated bit of truth.

-ANYWAY -

Consider this a 'check' to see if your e-mail works or not at camp, so
that if it does you might respond promptly and we can continue our
lovely e-memo's throughout the coming weeks.
A couple of reminders:
a) I need your address at camp.
b) You should send me the key to your house when you get a chance.
c) Enjoy yourself at camp, relax, and please for fucks sake be safe
ok...don't do anything stupid, don't go and get yourself struck by
lighting beneath a canoe or some shit or else you'll have serious
consequences on my behalf...oh and say hi to ally and dave for me, and
then also Ben if you see him.

love you much,

-PB


iNever thought it would come to this:

Email from Palo Spring 2007:


PS here are your concert tickets. Forget about the part that said hold one for me, i once wanted to go with you but you should actually do whatever the hell you want with them they’re yours.


Fwd: Your IMOGEN HEAP tickets are attached


iKnew he would be a heart breaker

iHad no idea it would be this hard or take this long to forget him.



Last encounter with Palo was November 2008. Union square subway station.

Next encounter with Palo, tomorrow morning when I wake up, and think about him on the train.


iLove what we were. iWish it could have held steady. iAm glad that we no longer have each other in common, and iHope we stay at 38 things in common. Maybe someday I will find someone who has 100 things in common with me. It might be a better fit.