Eye of the Beheld

A few months ago I had the opportunity to travel with Greg on a business trip to San Francisco. Neither of us had been. We fantasized about making out on a trolley car.


Day One, Greg had to work. I walked half the city. There is a reason you don't see folks walking alongside trolley cars in photos of San Fran.  You see them attached to the thing as if a giant picked it up, rolled it in caramel and dipped it in a bowl of people. Then it goes horizontal to vertical and the caramel people are holding on for dear life. Like Rose on the top of the Titanic. Standing next to this, I was climbing the sidewalk at such an angle I swear I could have puckered my lips and kissed the sidewalk without moving my neck.


I found my way across the city to a giant, phallic Rook called the Coit Tower.  Inside its walls are colorful murals once painted by local artists of the day. Each pictorial told a story. You could focus on different faces and wonder about the 'scene'.  


I'm still trying to figure out why Frida Kahlo is so disgusted with Mr. Bean's Dad's lunch order.

It's the little things...

As I left the office today a friend asked how I was because I looked a little tired. I told her I had a little headache. She asked if I had a little time before I got on the elevator and handed me a little packet of aspirin. I went into the kitchen and got a little cup of water. When I got in the way of the office matron, I said in a little voice that I was sorry. She said not to worry, relax and take a little time. I gulped, then sipped the little bit of water and left. My friend asked if I was a little better and I thanked her for taking such good care of little 'ol me. I got home in little time and had little to no pain. I sat with my husband and little dog. We enjoyed a little meal, a little TV and a little reading and writing. 

Penny for Your Thoughts

In the middle of the work week, I wandered into a local thrift shop. A pretty handsome, Manhattan store-front that looked like it had once been a large restaurant. I got the impression the owners lived in the building as well. Ah, the life. If someone paid me to visit thrift stores, I'd be one of those folks who says they love their job. Having my own? Now that is just fancy talk.  Especially since it would have to have a pub, a coffee bar and room for my band to play.  The Duran Duran cover band where I play tambourine and shoot portraits of famous people on the side.  


As I chatted with the woman behind the counter, I decided, "yep, this is gonna be a good one." Every thrift store visit is an archaeological dig. I've been known to leave a store with everything from silk, couture evening gowns for a dollar to like-new living room furniture at a 95% discount. I don't consider myself a shopper. I'm an adventurer.  


I didn't spend a cent this visit but left with something more valuable than anything I'd ever come across. 


I found a life. In a box. 


There was a section of old photos. Not the turn-of-the-twenty-first-century photos you giggle over at a flea market, but lots of regular photos circa 1980.  None of them were particularly interesting except as I dug, I started to notice the same face in each photo.  I sifted forward and backward. Hundreds of photos all cast with the same woman in each scene. I realized they were in order and started at the back.  


It looked like the late fifties or sixties. She was a little girl.  She was an athlete. A dancer. She was in a religious ceremony. She had a new dress? A birthday girl. A cheerleader. Then she was a young actress. Arms around cast members. Posters outside of theaters. She's holding a brush.  She's a painter. Still life. Landscapes. Then the pictures of landscapes and still lives. A photographer. Pictures of the inside of an apartment. Another. Her plants. Her cat. She's at a party. She's visiting her parents? More paintings and photography. She's looking thinner. She looks sadder. She's in a bed. She's in another one. She's in a hospital. She's got family sitting around her on pillows. She's got bandages on her head. More landscapes. They stop.


I enjoy visiting cemeteries.  I like to think about the brief, scarce clues I read on a headstone and imagine the life of the decayed body under the ground just below my feet. I like stories. The stories of the objects in every thrift store I venture into. History is full of stories of the dead. I didn't know I would find such a complete, simple and beautiful one in a box at a store. Life is in everything isn't it? 


I left the shop loving my every breath.

Thanksgiving 2010 in more than 3000 words...

Money Makes The World Go Round

When you are a temp you've been called in for one of two reasons:

1. The Executive needs to maintain a certain appearance within the culture - "I cannot function without assistance.  I'm too busy for little things, I have a spa appointment at 2p."  On these assignments I usually answer the phone a few times and spend most of my day writing blogs as there is literally nothing for me to tangibly do.  I am set dressing.  I wonder how many novels have been written at certain Executive Admins' desks... or should be. 

OR

2. The Executive is a highly skilled, highly experienced, highly respected individual with savant dedication and talent.  Without help, he/she would drown - "I have an overseas conference call at 8am, a power-point presentation to dispense at 8:30a and somewhere in between I have to get a memo out to The Board about next year's predictions.  I don't have time to eat much-less figure out how to plug in my laptop."  As a temp, I love these experiences.  I feel valued and love the challenge of walking into the chaos with a cool hand.  On these assignments, I'm the bomb squad.

Last Monday, when I walked into the cubicle of where I was assigned I thought, "This looks like triage."  Excellent!  Executive Number 2!  No one had time to explain protocol.  My help, any help was welcome.  Every single person I came in contact with was vibrating with a mission.  It was obvious they not only had a lot to do, but they enjoyed doing it - the way you enjoy painting a room... before the in-laws show up, tomorrow.  

I am 37.  Three years ago I decided to leave the acting business.  I still don't know what to tell people at parties when they ask me what I do.  "Freelance... Human?"  Most of my NYC 'day jobs' have been in offices and since I quit seeking a real acting career, most of my resume shows me sitting behind a desk... many times.  A Career Placement Councilor once told me I was a "Job Hopper".  I explained I was an actor.  She didn't even blink, "Same thing." 

Earlier this year, I happily, ecstatically got married to the yin to my yang.  We plan to start a family in two years after he figures out what he wants to tell people he does for money.  He's an artist.  We are attempting to define our own realities including the future of our family.  We're trying not to feel latent.  We need more Vitamin B.

I think everyone wants to love their job.  But earning money is often... unhappy work.  I'm lucky to have experienced so many kinds of jobs while searching for a meaningful existence.  Whenever my 'day job' spilled into my 'life', my close friends, who observed my tendencies towards total collaborative emersion, would remind me that for artists, earning money is just a 'means to an end.'  

This notion has always intensely bothered me.  I can meditate.  I can find hobbies.  I can find reasons to sacrifice.  I can try to be awake and aware and enjoy my daily tasks regardless of what I'm doing.  I'm alive aren't I?  But honestly, if I have the choice, why would I spend 8 to 12 to 16 hours of every day doing something I don't enjoy?  Why do we take this Revolutionary Road?  Is our system for organizing life prioritized so deadly we've forgotten the mystery?  We don't know why we are here, why be here in dread?  Are we just collecting paychecks for the future?  What if we don't make it to the future?

Temping is a good way for me to make decent cash and not have to label myself.  I change my mind too much and I like costumes.  I'm lucky that one of my best friends works for a staffing company.

My step mother told me to tell people I'm an artist.  I told her I didn't feel like one yet.  She said to tell people I was a photographer.  I told her that was a big, fat, giant lie.  And besides I don't want anyone to pay me for my hobby.  Then I have to act like I know what I'm doing.  She said to say I'm a "1099er".  I'll use it.

Until I have the guts to say I'm a writer.

You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be all right
all right, all right 
-The Beatles

Freaky Friday

6:33PM


"Julian got a job!"


"That's great mom!  I was offered a job too!"


"Do you want it?"


"It's not everyday a great company just asks you to work for them.  I can't make up my mind.  I want to work part-time but we could use the money.  I just don't want to get stuck in the cycle again.  I want to have time to write."


"What are you going to do?"


"Wait."

Thursday Thoughts

4:58PM


"Hey."


"Hey. How are you?"


"Tired. Doing another errand."


"Did you have lunch?"


"No, it's crazy. I ate at my desk."


"Sweetheart, you have to take lunch."


"But I lose money anyway. I don't mind. They really like me. Someone asked to see my resume. I do like it here."


"I'm sure they did and I'm sure you do. Are you going to work late?"


"No, I told them I had to get home."


"You did? I'm impressed."


"Gotta walk the dog."


"He's been in there all day poor little guy."


"Poor Bootle. How'd it go today?"


"Well you know, I'm tired but it went well. Tomorrow is the big presentation and we HAVE to get to bed early tonight. I have to be up at five."


"I know sweetheart. We will. We'll get on schedule. It's hard when we go to bed late. It's tough with full time work. I'm sorry about the house."


"Yeah. We've gotta take care of that this weekend."


"I'll do it."


"I'll help."


"I better get back to things. I't nuts here. We'll talk tonight. I love you."


"I miss you. I love you."