WHO WANTS TO MOVE WITH ME TO JOSHUA TREE AND START A THEATER COMPANY THAT PERFORMS ONLY PLAYS ABOUT A THEATER COMPANY IN JOSHUA TREE THAT TRIES TO STAY ACTIVE AND RELEVANT DURING THE APOCALYPSE? EVERYONE I’VE EVER MADE A PLAY WITH? GREAT SEE YOU ALL AT THE FIRST TABLE READ, I’LL GET TO WORK. (See also this is definitely my next play / SERIOUSLY, DIBS.)
Without fully realizing it, I booked us a stay at mindfulness resort where you are only allowed to speak ‘just above a whisper,’ where everyone just sort of sits around staring into the sun asking big questions, where there are free and actual workshops called ‘Raising Consciousness and simply ‘Juicing,’ where there is ice cold cucumber water everywhere, where there are turtles to feed and stones to walk around, just for sport. It is paradise. I don’t know what’s more wonderful and terrifying, the place itself, or HOW VERY GOOD WE ARE AT BEING HERE.
I would call the place by name, but then other people in the world would know about it other than us and every old beautiful french person currently vacationing in Southern California, and we just cannot have that.
Who is Joshua? Is that his tree? Is it the biblical Joshua? Did that Joshua have a tree? Was language that denoted possession not invented yet? Answers to these questions and more when Morrison and I return from our glorious three day desert sojourn, sunburnt and rambling about the healing powers of crystals, having glimpsed our own souls during a sound healing session. I CAN’T WAIT.
I got new glasses for my eyeballs! I may have had the exact pair in first grade, which only makes me like them more. They make me want to read babysitters club, like a thick white one when they all go to the beach together and you get really deep into Stacey’s diabetes. They’re for seeing! I wanted to be more specific about my glasses / eyes, perhaps reference some science, so I took to the great oracle Search Engine to find out what eyeballs are made of. They are made of mostly water and a ‘jelly like substance called vitreous humor,’ which is to say, our eyeballs are filled with laughs and jokes. You learn something new everyday. NO REALLY, IF YOU AGGRESSIVELY SEEK IT, YOU WILL ACTUALLY LEARN SOMETHING NEW. But probably have coffee first.
Not that I believe in time travel / parallel universes / time is a line that can be wrinkled and jumped across theories, but I’m FAIRLY CERTAIN that I was just visited by myself from the future. She was a old woman doubled over in pain. She was beautiful and frail and invisible. GET ON THE FLOOR, she said. STRETCH OUT YOUR BACK, YOU BIG DUMMY. I obliged. GOOD, she said. WHEN YOU’RE DONE, INVEST ALL OF YOUR FUNDS IN TIME TRAVEL MACHINES. I protested from the floor. JUST DO IT, she demanded. For a moment, she just watched. OKAY, GOOD TALK. SEE YOU NEXT WEEK IN YOUR DREAMS / NIGHTMARES / ANYTIME YOU TRY TO LIFT SOMETHING NOT WITH YOUR KNEES. She stood up straight. Corrected. Walked through the wall into tomorrow and was gone.
I’ve been watching a bunch of TV lately in which characters are constantly waging small to epic battles against their own tears. After a few episodes of this, the tears lose their impact, and the characters become wet messes who are moved to tears basically just by saying or hearing words, or sometimes just because they thought of a word, or maybe just because they walked into a room and saw someone they loved folding their underwear, or maybe just because they realized they had hands and / or that the sun had come up, once again. But I don’t fault the writers or the actors. It’s a common mistake. I am 100% guilty of over-using the parenthetical, ‘fighting tears.’ I think it’s because I don’t always trust my own writing. I don’t trust that I’ve done enough of the emotional work that’s necessary to ensure that at that point in the story, clearly the character would be fighting tears while revealing their truth / acknowledging how amazing it is, that we have Hands. It’s a cop-out. It’s a cheat. It’s a cloth over a table covered in dirt and wax. And so, going forward, I hereby vow (fighting tears) to forgo the parenthetical, and to trust my own work, or rather, to let it stand on its own, tears or none.
Blaine got me so crushin on this organization so hard that as soon as I got back from NC, I went online to see if there was an LA chapter. And sure enough, today was the 5k. I grabbed my friend Alexis,
No literally, a few times I accidentally grabbed her when swerving to avoid those having made the sensible choice to walk / meander around the lake. We ran with hundreds of kids in tutus screaming Taylor Swift lyrics, and pretended that we TOO got to go to bed at eight and that our futures were vast and ahead of us and that we too lacked self consciousness and that no boys had burned us yet. But If I’m being real, the actual challenge was TRYING TO REMEMBER HOW TO APPLY A TEMPORARY TATTOO.
You guys, at least three temporary tattoos and many spongefuls of water died in the process.
My mind sees what it wants. I just got this letter from my bank:
Which I first read as ‘Working together to keep your Coconuts protected.’ Call it a mild learning disability, early signs of a stroke, or perhaps call it what it is: my brain says nay to all adult things and ONLY EVER WANTS TO BE INSIDE OF A BOUNCY CASTLE AT A CHILD’S BIRTHDAY PARTY, COVERED IN FROSTING.
Today, on I am on an Email List for an Ice Cream shop: JENI’S ATLANTIC BEACH PIE ICE CREAM:
Description: There is an old Southern legend that warns diners not to eat dessert after a seafood meal, lest they fall ill. Salty-sweet Atlantic Beach Pie was the exception with its cracker crust, lemon custard filling, and whipped cream top. Our version—sweet cream ice cream swirled with homemade lemon pudding and buttery, saltine cracker gravel—is a frozen homage to this Southern staple. Our ice cream hits all the notes of a perfect dessert: sweet, tart, citrusy, salty. If this summer has one IT dessert, it’s Atlantic Beach Pie.
BUTTERY SALTINE CRACKER GRAVEL???? WHAT IS THIS, PORN? ALERT THE MORALITY POLICE
Every month, it seems, a major publication releases an article that basically just says, hey guys guess what! There is going to be a major earthquake in LA REAL. SOON. Every time I read one, I inevitably waste heart and brain space worrying about collapsed roofs and visualizing pillaged Whole Foods, cracked jars of almond butter, and people peeing in gutters and what if I can’t get to my contact lenses. So what if, just hear me out, All of the Newspapers, what if we all just agreed to know the fact that at any moment, California could aggressively shake for two minutes straight and kill us all, either with its shaking, or with the disease and mania to come after? To know it, and forget it, to go about our lives as if we live on something solid and safe and unflappable and NOT ‘locked, loaded, and ready to roll.’ MUST WE CREATE SUCH FEAR ABOUT SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE PREVENTED?