Hollywood & Appa
Last Saturday saw a march of pets that were adorable, handsome—and dressed in tutus.
One Colorado held a pet day in its courtyard and welcomed the Fun & Furry-licious, the Dressed to the Hilt, and Tricksters.
The “celebrant of kitsch pop culture” Charles Phoenix—in is his eye-popping patterned pants and light blue (not suede) shoes—MC’ed the event, and drew a lot of pet attention (see below).
- Hollywood & Appa in their new threads (check out what’s catching Appa’s eye)
- Appa: Hmmm, these shoes look kinda nice…
- The lone bunny contestant who stayed safely in its owner’s embrace
- Bella & Elysee
Bravo!
© 2012 Kat Ward
A post I wrote for Hometown Pasadena, followed by the actual event. Anyone interested, I encourage you to bring it to your city or town—this is very cool.
Wanna play?
For three weeks at 30 locations around Southern California, 30 pianos will be available to interested and eager fingers. Anyone may sit and play (24 hours a day, 7 days a week) as part of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra celebration of music director Jeffrey Kahane’s 15th anniversary.
This free public art installation will launch on Thursday, April 12th with 30 pianists on 30 pianos—playing simultaneously—performing the complete prelude from Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier.
Each piano has been decorated, used as “three dimensional canvases.” Artists range from the well-known muralist Kent Twitchell and Columbian-American artist Frank Cubillos to one painted by Homeboy Industries, one by the Armory Center for the Arts, and one designed by L.A. Chamber Orchestra staff member Caroline Shuhart and painted by children of LACO musicians.
Piano by the L.A. Chamber Orchestra & Their Children
LACO Executive Director Rachel Fine says, “With the pianos serving as blank canvases upon which people can share their own creativity, we look forward to hearing our neighbors, co-workers, and other fellow Angelenos play these instruments. Beyond solo playing, we encourage choirs, bands, other musical ensembles and even dancers to incorporate rehearsals or jam sessions at the piano sites. Some people may seek out all 30 pianos to see the different locations as well as the unique visual aspects of each instrument. The pianos are there to be enjoyed by everyone.”
Pianos can be found—and enjoyed—locally at One Colorado in Old Pasadena, the Pasadena Conservatory of Music, and Vroman’s Bookstore courtyard.
“Play Me, I’m Yours,” originated by British artist Luke Jerram, has already been performed on 500 pianos in 22 cities, involving 22 million people around the world.
“Play Me, I’m Yours”: 30 Pianos, 30 Locations
Launch: Thursday, April 12th, Noon
Locations: One Colorado, Pas. Conservatory of Music & Vroman’s courtyard
Installation up 24/7 through May 3rd
For more info, visit streetpianosLA.com
Artist Gino Gaspara: photo by Armory Center for the Arts
Gino Gaspara; photo by Armory Center for the Arts
Artist Gino Gaspara With His Finished Piano; photo by Armory Center for the Arts
Yesterday at noon, I went to One Colorado in Old Pasadena to see and listen:
Mark Robson, pianist
© 2012 Kat Ward
The Cactus Gallery in Eagle Rock CA is having a doll exhibit.
This isn’t your ordinary doll exhibit.
No porcelain skin with bright red lips and generic features. No period ball gowns with petticoats and bloomers.
These are works of art; creative, imaginative, edgy, out-of-the-box works of art.
This style is not for everyone, but I couldn’t get enough.
What’s your reaction?
Viva La Vida Frida by Lov Struk
Florence the Flapper by Christine Benjamin
Your the One Devil by Ulla Anobile
Dorian Grey by Vega
Princess for a Day & Tristan by Sheri DeBow
Shaman by Carol Reynolds
Trudy by Keeley Benkey Reichman
Visigoth Warrior Woman by Lulu Moonwood Murakami
Maddy Calakita by Lov Struk
St. Rose of Lima (music box) by Christy Kane
Ulla & Faith (music box) by Christy Kane
Cpt Pirate Penelope by Christine Benjamin
Frank's Bride by Lov Struk
In Full Bloom by Ulla Anobile
Thanks to Sandra Mastroianni, owner of Cactus gallery. For info and pricing, visit cactusgallery.blogspot.com.
© “Cactus & Dolls” post and photos by Kat Ward
Pasadena Doo Dah Parade 2011 (Xinhua/Qi Heng)
Do you have a craving, a secret aspiration, or a hidden desire…to be Queen?
This Sunday, April Fools Day—which is very appropriate—are the tryouts for the 35th Occasional Pasadena Doo Dah Parade Queen.
This “caucus” will be held at the American Legion Bar (again, very appropriate…or maybe it’s not, which is entirely appropriate!). Check-in begins at 3 p.m., with tryouts from 4:30-7, and the crowning of this year’s queen will be at 7:30.
Past Queens like Tequila Mockingbird, Naughty Mickie and Skittles will be on hand, and musical entertainment will be provided by Snotty Scotty and the Hankies, Horses on Astroturf, and the Doo Dah House Band. Cheap drinks, a smoking patio, pool, crock pot chili, and dancing all awaits those eager to tryout, support, or even heckle—which is officially endorsed.
2008 Doo Dah Queen Naughty Mickie
Potential Doo Dah Queen’s will have only a few minutes to impress the judges; entrants shouldn’t ignore how much a well-timed beer into the hands of a judge or judges may help garner votes; creativity and humor rule in this arena.
Uncle Fester: photo by Greg Foster
The Doo Dah Parade itself will be held on Saturday, April 28th, beginning at 11 a.m. on the streets of East Pasadena. The great honor of being Grand Marshall is held by retiring Pasadena Public Information Officer Ann Erdman.
“If there’s anyone who walks to the beat of her own drum and appreciates a good laugh, it’s Ann,” said Tom Coston, head of Light Bringer Project, producers of the parade since 1996. Over the years, Erdman has led marchers dressed as a flower child, a motorcycle mama, a baby in a giant high chair, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and Elvis.
So, find your inner goofy, silly and superlatively creative—you never know, you may become Queen for a day.
The 35th Occasional Pasadena Doo Dah Parade Queen Tryouts
American Legion Bar, 179 N. Vinedo St., between Walnut and Colorado Blvds.
Sunday, April 1st. Check-in at 3 p.m.; tryouts are 4:30-7 p.m.
Cost: $5 cover to the Legion’s charity, though 1st 20 Queen hopefuls get in free
Full cash bar
Trying out? Call 626.590.1134
For more info and entry forms, visit Pasadena Doo Dah Parade
It’s been a while. These past months, in addition to shooting headshots and writing for Hometown Pasadena (thank you, Colleen!), I have been immersed in helping organize a book festival for Pasadena, CA.
LitFest Pasadena was scheduled for today, Saturday, March 17th. I have time to sit in front of my computer because even though our winter has been quite dry, a weekend storm decided to dump a lake-full of rain and plunge the temperature into the low 50′s (way too cold for us thin-skinned Southern Californians!). We have postponed the event to May 12th as the Old Farmer’s Almanac states that rain has only fallen once in the last ten years on that day, and it won’t be too close to the massive, size-of-a-little-city event that’s called the L.A. Times Festival of Books, which is in April.
Fingers crossed for date #2.
The upside is that in having a deadline for LitFest, my partners and I at Lovely pubs, our new indie publishing company, have finished our first products.
Lori Bertazzon already has her Where Are You Stuck? self-help workbook that’s selling and going strong. Her husband, Kevin Bertazzon, in addition to ISMS: A Faery Mobster Story, now has his graphic novel Too Bubbly printed which looks amazing and is laugh-out-loud funny; and I have finally finished—and printed—my novel Amy’s Own.
A paperback copy is ready with your name on it!
Amy’s Own is $14 plus shipping, which runs $6. If you have any questions, you can email me at katwardphoto(at)msn(dot)com.
I’d like to make this post longer, but my brain is fried, and not in a tasty grilled cheese kind of way.
I’ve been having the time of my life finishing the book and working on LitFest, but it’s been heaps more work than I thought it would be, and this here almost 1/2 century ol’ body of cells is not what it once was. Time is a creepin’ and a sneekin’ up on meh! So, I’m hunkering down for the rest of the weekend in hopes of recouping some essential vigor. I’ll be in touch…
Photo by Doug Knutson
An interview I conducted this week for Hometown Pasadena.
Not surprisingly, as the son of Guatemalan parents, a L.A. native, a former Los Angeles Times bureau chief in Buenos Aires, and a weekly local columnist, Héctor Tobar’s fiction is infused with the desire to illuminate the complex layers, significance, and consequences of cultural and ethnic differences and conflict.
His latest novel, The Barbarian Nurseries, is an incredibly dense reveal of the city of Los Angeles. Within the details of the varied sections of this metropolis, he has created a story that focuses on Araceli, a Mexican maid, who after four yours of service is suddenly thrust into the additional role of nanny when the parents, Scott and Maureen Torres-Thompson, make the executive decision (independently of one another) to give themselves a “time-out” from their suddenly taxing lives. The ensuing adventure, and clash of class and culture, reveals the abundance of deep-seated issues at play, and a mistrust and misunderstanding that can relegate society to stagnancy.
HP: How did the title Barbarian Nurseries come about, and what were you hoping to convey by this title?
HT: It’s a play on the two meanings of the word “nursery” as a place where plants are cultivated and as a place where children are cared for and raised.
Both of these jobs are performed in the U.S. by Latino immigrants to a large degree. Mostly people from Mexico. And in talk radio and right-wing commentary, Mexico especially is considered a place of barbarism, a place without civilization; people think of it as a place dominated by drug gangs and lacking in culture, a perverse and inaccurate vision of what the country is, to be sure.
HP: How did you start writing this story, was it with this particular theme in mind? Was it a discussion you wanted to start, continue, or contribute to?
HT: I started off more than a decade ago, and wrote a first draft of a novel that was a response to the growing anti-immigration movement in the U.S. and a response to this rhetoric that sees the newly arrived immigrant as the dangerous ‘other.’
The initial inspiration came from the protagonist of Camus’ The Stranger and from the idea of the first image in my novel: a man trying to cut his own lawn without a Mexican to do it for him.
I didn’t really want to start a discussion, as much as I wanted to write an artistic and intellectual response to the moment in which I was living as a native Californian and the son of immigrants.
H-P: Right from the start, you set up the divide and distinction between employer and employee. Could you comment on that?
HT: A big part of the novel is how social class seeps into everyday actions in the home. This is deliberate, of course. It comes from having crossed the class divide myself, or, rather, from having seen my family cross that. We come from Guatemala, a country that’s synonymous these days with service work here in L.A. My father parked cars, worked in hotels. We ascended to the middle class. At one point, I lived abroad as a writer with servants in my home. So I’ve been lucky enough to see that class divide in my own life from both sides.
H-P: Even secondary characters get back stories, even if they’re mini ones, such as the young woman of whom Araceli asks directions in the fashion district. What was the aim in doing this?
HT: I’ve been privileged to be a journalist and writer in L.A. for a long time. I’ve been to many different kinds of neighborhoods, rich and poor and in between. So I figured I had the chance to share with the reader a real tableau of the social differences and gaps and the variety of experience in the metropolis.
H-P: We have to say, we thought the most alarming part of the book started on page 241 and lasted a mere 38 lines.
HT: Yeah, I was a reporter for a major newspaper covering crime many years ago. I saw firsthand the way the media can assemble melodramas from complex, ambiguous human events. It’s become a big industry in the years since, but the basic manipulation of the truth is the same: take complicated lives and boil them down to issues of good and evil.
H-P: Was the ending of the book, the way the three main characters head off in new directions, just the way the story came to you, or was it a conscious decision?
HT: Maureen and Scott at the end are being set up for another fall. They’ve been humiliated, and forced to lower their expectations. As for Araceli, I wanted to leave her in an in-between state, her story leading to either Mexico or to the U.S., because to me that’s what it means to be an immigrant in the U.S. This country changes you, you can’t go back home and be the same, while at the same time living here can be a fraught experience, as Araceli has learned.
H-P: From the very beginning, we were drawn into the story by your wording and the images you create with your words.
HT: Thanks so much for the kind words. Yes, I’ve spent many long years working on my prose style, trying to develop something that’s evocative and accessible. I’ve had a lot of influences, from short story writers such as Nadine Gordimer and Sandra Cisneros, to novelists like Gunter Grass and Don DeLillo. I like to think of it as reaching for a kind of accessible transcendence, if that makes any sense.
Photo by Elena Dorfman
H-P: In reference to being a writer, how do you know when a manuscript is finished?
HT: When your editor pries it from you hands. I think we are perpetual tinkerers. The real question is: when does the writer stop working on his manuscript and show it to his agent/editor? That’s hard to answer. Personally, when I feel nauseous just looking at it, I know I’m done.
H-P: Do you have a particular connection with Pasadena? We know your children attend Sequoyah School, but is there anything else?
HT: One of the final sections of the novel takes place in the Arroyo Seco, in that hazy area near the border between South Pasadena and Pasadena. I use the Craftsman architecture, with its Midwestern influences, as a symbol of Maureen’s desire to return to the values of openness and simplicity of her youth. Also, there are a couple of Sequoyah parents and their kids who served as inspirations for characters.
Héctor Tobar, author of The Barbarian Nurseries
He will be reading at the L.A. Central Library
Thursday, January 26th, 7 p.m.
630 W. 5th Street, L.A., lapl.org/central
I am powering through the last edit of my manuscript before it heads off to the copyeditor, so time is even more sparse than usual (with which I’m sure all of you are quite familiar). Subsequently, this week I am sharing a post I wrote for Hometown Pasadena.
As writers, we must also be business women in order to market and promote our books—and as this may not come naturally to some of us (that would be me), I thought this conference looked intriguing. I like the concept and even the words in which they promote it—very real, down to earth, welcoming and inclusive.
Actualizing Your Dream
In the 1970′s, women burned bras, marched, and raised their voices, pushing their agenda for equality and led by the likes of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug.
Economic and social constraints slowly and eventually loosened, and women (who, let’s be real, have always had to forge their own way) said, watch out world, here we come. The intervening forty years have seen women break through all sorts of glass ceilings, in all sorts of fields (bravo and cue the applause).
Yet, there is still work to be done.
To address this, Nada Jones of ltd365 will host her 2nd annual ltdLIVE: A Conference for Entrepreneurial Women at the Pasadena Convention Center. Their mission, she says, is to “help women actualize their life’s passion through entrepreneurship and make the process inspirational, accessible and achievable.”
Lian Dolan, author of "Helen of Pasadena"
Lian Dolan, author of Helen of Pasadena, prior host of the award-winning talk show Satellite Sisters and current author of the blog and podcast The Chaos Chronicles, will be master of ceremonies.
Keynote speakers will be Kate Somerville of Skin Health Pyramid and Lee Rhodes of glassybaby (product pictured above). Miss Representation, a film by Jennifer Siebel Newsom which premiered in 2011 at the Sundance Film Festival and was broadcast on OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network), will be screened the evening before the conference with Newsom holding a Q&A afterwards. There will also be a meet-up with actress, producer and talk show host Ricki Lake.
Break-out sessions on February 1st and master class seminars on the 2nd will focus on the needs of women in every stage of business, from start-ups needing to know the tools required to begin their own business to existing enterprises that want to grow and expand. One discussion will consider what makes women approach business differently than men, and how they can use that to their advantage.
The Financial Literacy session on Wednesday morning is described as “everything you need to know about money—it’s not evil, just misunderstood,” and at the panel that follows you’ll “hear four women share the good, the bad and the ugly of how they do it.”
Finally, the ProFounder Swap & Meet event is where you can make contact with what Nada Jones believes is “your greatest existing resource—your community.”
ltdLIVE: a Conference for Entrepreneurial Woman
Wednesday and Thursday, February 1st & 2nd, 8 a.m.-6 p.m.
Tickets: $150-$225
For more info, visit ltd365LIVE.com.
© 2012 Kat Ward
A phone call. My third one in this new year 2012. The first one was an inquiry into the opening I have for a new member at my photo studio; the second was a solicitation. So, the first call, if it pans out, would end up putting money in my pocket, while the second call was trying to snatch dollars out of it. I was quite eager to find out what lay behind call #3.
“I’ve got two extra tickets to the Rose Parade. Do you and Bella want to go?”
Hmmm. This opportunity wouldn’t be putting much-needed shekels into my pocket, but neither would it be siphoning them out.
“Absolutely!” I said.
The hour was early—a 5 a.m. alarm and I needed a shower; I needed coffee. The roads were congested; it was the busiest Sunday of auto and pedestrian traffic that I’ve ever seen. Did I say it was early? Like, still dark out?
Once we were dropped off and walking towards Pasadena’s Colorado Boulevard (the main route of the parade), I kept wondering where our seats would be—looking to my left, looking down at my ticket, looking right—until my friend stopped in front of a security checkpoint where tickets were acknowledged, bags rummaged and conformists flagged through. It was like being allowed to walk the red carpet—very exclusive.
We also flagged a little humping our holiday-heavy arses up the subsequent hill, but imagine our early morning, bleary-eyed reaction when we saw that our seats were right on the street—in the front row.
After inundating my friend with much kudos, I paused; I could hear money disappearing from my pocket. I now owed her a steak dinner in return for these rockin’ seats and her generous last-minute invitation (though, if I was the second or third call she’d made, can a $23 steak become a $6 burrito?).
Our two girls went up to their fourth row seats (backrests; thumbs up) while my friend and I set up camp right across from the main grandstand and the t.v. announcers. If you watch the replay of the parade on t.v. and see the big brown Norton Simon Museum in the background; if you use your remote to go frame-by-frame; and if you have a seriously expensive high definition television, you can periodically pick out my daughter’s pink jacket and my blinding white shirt with a black blob up where my eye should be which is my camera. There it is for all to see: My 15 Minutes of Fame (it actually adds up to a total of approximately 4.23 minutes, but who’s counting?).
So, with our feet on the street, the rising sun to our left and the swiftly moving parade to our right, I finally had my first Rose Parade experience. Well, no—all right—my first time was about six years ago when it rained during the parade for the first time in fifty years. We were up off a side street at the very end of the parade route behind masses of early arrivals. Though the floats were incredible, with our rain-soaked shoes, the raw and chilly air, and our distressed (okay, persistently whiny) friend’s child who only wanted to go home, the experience was not one for the books—so nah, I’m not counting that one.
This year’s event was held on a cloudless day, the temperature rising quickly from “pretty damn chilly” to “yes, we’re all getting burned only on the left side our of faces cuz our heads are looking right towards the oncoming floats”. But being so up close and personal was mesmerizing. The choice of Grand Marshall, J.R. Martinez, an Iraqi vet who suffered burns over 40% of his body and that disfigured his face, was inspiring, and I’m sure he rode the tide of our collective emotions for the entire 5 1/2 mile parade route. Two hours flew by. Amazingly, my camera battery held out despite the 712 images I shot; that evening, it took me a second or two to connect the dots when I realized how stiff and sore my shoulders and arms were.
As the official Rose Parade float came towards us and unknown persons announced “That’s all folks! Thanks for coming!” the stands began to quickly empty—about 10,000 people in need of a potty break.
But then, lo and behold, another parade came along. Yes, it was pushed to one side by the uniformed sherriffs and didn’t have fancy floats or a gazillion tubas, but the signage was compelling. “Occupy” had arrived. I thought, Now we’re talking!
Well, the second they could be seen by the grandstand occupants a rain of boos were hurled down upon them and I thought, the 99% is booing the 99%!
So, of course, I climbed up onto my seat and started clapping and hooting and hollering my support (much to my daughter’s chagrin). This parade was not to be dismissed. I forced my now rebellious burning muscles to raise my camera once again and began snapping shots. Sure, some of the marchers looked a tad on the fringe, maybe a meal or three short, a car away from calling a box a home, a week or so away from a hot shower, but as far as I can figure that doesn’t exclude them from being part of the 99%.
The vast majority of the marchers looked like people you see all day as you go around running errands, stopping in shops, asking for assistance, and exchanging pleasantries. They were White, Black, Latino, and Asian. They were Lacoste wearing conservative-types; overweight suburban mom-types; very thin suburban, tight yoga leggings, mother-types; groovy haircut, rockin’ leather jacket creative-types; neatly groomed, button-down shirt tucked in grandfather-types—America’s melting pot—all right there as you please.
I jumped down to walk into the crowd for a few more shots and walked right up on the last “floats” of the parade—riot police riding shotgun on their armored vehicle. Now, they received a HUGE round of applause from the crowd still in the bleachers. Once again, I’d like to point out that the 99% were responding to the 99%—simply another category within the 99%. Because the last I heard, cops (short for constable on patrol; not a slur) aren’t millionaires. I think it’s safe to say that more than a few officers have lost a home to foreclosure in the last five years, are worried about having to declare bankruptcy because of exorbitant health care costs despite having insurance, or saw their savings or pensions wiped out during the financial collapse.
Happily, the officers didn’t look interested in having any sort of a confrontation—their two vehicles simply slogged behind the pack in the background.
It was rather odd, though, to see one segment of the 99% booing another segment of the 99% which was being followed by yet another segment of the 99%.
The last segment was simply ignoring us all, clear in the knowledge that they had a mile to trek to get to their car and they were busy calculating the time it would take to stand in line at the nearest porta-potty versus kicking it into high gear, making it to the car, then sitting in a traffic jam of 1,000′s, all before they could relieve themselves in the comfort of their own commode.
My personal posse (a percentage of the 99% that’s such a speck I can’t even begin to calculate that in my non-mathematical mind) stood patiently by, letting me enjoy the moment—and for that I love them 100%.
* And my friend’s getting the dinner of her choice.
© Kat Ward 2012
Hectic Hollywood
What a difference 24 minutes makes (and 15.46 miles). From procrastination to proliferation; from unfocused to driven; from stuck to inspired—thank you South Pasadena.
After eleven years of living in the Hollywood flats (south of Sunset Boulevard), I felt claustrophobic in the mishmash of my neighborhood. Initially, I loved being in the thick of it. Going through a divorce with an 8-month-old baby in my care, the apartment I found was affordable and in a building with great neighbors (mostly Latinas, every one of them generous and friendly). I like that I was raising my daughter in the “real” world of haves and have-nots, with all colors and cultures. She was also exposed to the world of the homeless who talk with themselves, shout out to the ethos, huddle in doorways, sleep in boxes, or stop to say “Hello” as we sat eating outside at Baja Fresh. She could see that they were different, some even scary, but also that they were people; people without homes, without comfy beds that had sheets, blankets and pillows, without their own bathroom, kitchen and a sofa for lounging (everything that she had).
Initially, this world spurred on my writing. Late at night as I looked out my window, the city lights reflecting off the low clouds creating a yellow-green hue to my world, I wrote diligently. But years and years of police sirens, ambulances, car horns, loud drunks and party-goers were wringing out my last nerve—my hand had to constantly hold the t.v. clicker so I could raise or lower the volume depending on how expressive the neighborhood was feeling. I began to feel bland and uncreative; too many hours spent like dead weight on the couch. Down to a cellular level, I was aching for something else.
Pasadena Garden by Diggers Garden Club
Artist Jennifer Frank introduced me to a woman who had raised her kids in South Pas. They had attended SPHS (after paying tuition for the Sequoyah School for eight years, I was doggedly looking for a free high school). I met her while walking in the Arroyo. That very afternoon, she called me up and told me of an apartment for rent right across the street from her house. I wheedled and charmed the landlords (had to; bad credit) and got just what I needed—a bigger apartment that doesn’t share a single wall—finally a quiet night’s sleep versus my neighbor washing his dishes at midnight, dumpster divers right outside my window, or tenacious helicopters with search lights. Best of all, a tub length shower versus an upright, coffin-sized stall shower and a 10 minute drive to my daughter’s school! I suddenly had an extra two hours on my hands five days a week. Divine.
With my time, I have edited my friend Lori Bertazzon’s self-help workbook Where Are You Stuck? (very little money, but an absolutely thrilling endeavor); have a local professional copyediting my novel Amy’s Own and have started this blog loosely based on my current novel Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations.
The biggest ego-boost has been meeting (again through Jennifer Frank) and being hired by Colleen Bates of Prospect Park Media, a small publishing company in Pasadena. Colleen authored the outstanding guidebook Hometown Pasadena. She created a website of the same name and, after doing a few freebie posts, I was hired to write about local events, kid-focused fun, new shops, charity fundraisers and do monthly interviews. I get to go to businesses, use my photography skills and write up stories. I get to read books, be introduced to someone’s artwork or music, formulate questions and conduct interviews. I am having the time of my life.
I stay up until two in the morning, sleep five hours and awaken with the alarm to get my girl ready for school and don’t miss a beat. One day when she was off on a Sequoyah School camping trip, I stayed up all night, not going to bed until 1 p.m. the next day—I was so amped with ideas, I couldn’t wait to put them all down on paper. I was walking on air. Well actually, I was walking on Oxley Street. My new street lined with California Craftsman bungalows and endless trees—where I can walk in the quiet (even at midnight), and let ideas germinate, words gush and adrenalin pump.
Thank you, Hollywood; you did me well, but I have to let you go.
Now, my spirit is excited, my mind humming, my writing hand aching, and my composition books are filling up. Hello, San Gabriel Valley.
*Thank you to Petrea Burchard and her blog
Pasadena Daily Photo for inviting me to guest blog this piece; she’s a wonderful photographer with an intriguing eye. I recommend checking out her work.
I was up until 1 a.m. on Tuesday night, not following the various vote counts like a socially, politically invested person should. Instead, I was writing posts, researching, reading sites, and taking a walk around the block; writing another scene for my new novel, typing it up, printing it out, and immediately marking it up with pen (I hate to waste paper, by god, but I love holding my work and reading it—I think I edit better that way, for whatever reason. Sorry, tree).
I woke up on Wednesday, the alarm invading my skull precisely at 6:30. Luckily, that morning my daughter was none too communicative, so I could remain in my muy cansada fog and hope that grinding the coffee beans would rattle me alert, ’cause the sound usually really pisses me off (for no rational reason). No. It didn’t wake me up. Yes. It did piss me off.
I barely managed to pack my girl’s lunch—fruit, veggies, sandwich, yogurt. Hmmm…no yogurt. Oh, yes, there’s one far in the back past some sticky stuff on the shelf that I really should clean someday. Greek yogurt with açai and blueberries. Expired three weeks ago. Hmmm…well, it is yogurt. Isn’t it naturally sour and kind of funky on a good day, anyway?
Bowl, spoon, Cap’n Crunch Berries. Glass of milk. All thumped onto the coffee table to await above-mentioned daughter. I keep saying that we need to find something different for breakfast. She says, Nah. Since she started her gluten-free diet because of stomach pains we couldn’t explain, she has hooked on to the Cap’n ’cause she says it’s gluten free. For some reason, “gluten-free” made me think “healthy.” Hmmm. Mom’s learning curve. Behind the curve. I did make gluten-free pancakes last weekend. They were tasty. Rather more crêpe than traditional American pancake, which made me feel that maybe I’d lose a few pounds, as long as I discounted the slab of butter melting in my pool of warm syrup. Yeah, my daughter licked her plate; she promises me that she doesn’t behave like that in public. I said, thank you. Better a Neanderthal at home than a Neanderthal in public. Plus, I was too tired. I licked my plate, too.
Back to Wednesday (see, I’m still tired and rambling). Finally, I have to throw on clothes, make a pass at my face (eye-crud, drool cake, etc.), brush my teeth, give three brush strokes to the hair (sides and back), grab the keys, remember my purse, switch out glasses for sunglasses and go take my daughter to school—officially stepping into the day. Sometimes, my daughter will start to open up, talk a smidgen, I figure out how to put a sentence together and within three minutes we’re laughing and having the a.m. sillies. I like that.
Many times, my morning fog takes a while to lift, which is okay since many mornings, my girl listens to her music with her headphones on and we’re quiet. Sometimes, the start of the engine sets off an assault of left-wing talk radio, which transports me to my happy place; her, not so much. She’ll snap off the button and race through the FM dial (which feels a bit like hearing the coffee grinder). If she stops on a country song or some techno beat, I gauge how far we are from school. If I only have 60-90 seconds to go, I’ll sweat it out. If I have 91 seconds or more, I quite clearly and succinctly say, “Uh-uh.” She may throw me a look, even pop the dial to turn it off, but she won’t fight me (and that’s all that matters in that time and space continuum).
Either way, her school eventually appears. “Goodbye” is thrown both ways, sometimes with spring in the delivery, sometimes as flat, heavy and dull as a cast iron pan. Sometimes I get an “I love you” from ten feet away and I smile that she’s not too self-conscious about letting everyone know it and hear it. Yeah, I may be sluggish, sloppy, groggy bear-mom this morning, but that pretty and bright girl right over there (see, that one there), she loves me, and let you all know it. Ha! Okay, getting loopy. I need more coffee.
Home. Coffee in hand. Warming hand. Yummy, strong and creamy. Click on main page. Whaaa…wait…huh?…whoa…you have got to be…Holy Crap City…really? Really, really? Oh, yes! Thank you, thank you, America, thank you! Adrenalin is spiking, caffeine is coursing, fingers now flying, eyes now consuming, body tilted forward in full engagement mode—bring it! Feed me! This is delicious!
And what was creating this reaction you ask?
Mississippi voted down the “personhood” amendment to their state constitution that would have declared that the millisecond a human egg became fertilized it was to be considered a real person and as such was guaranteed all the rights and protections afforded actual real persons (who actually have brains, heads, limbs, nervous systems, beating hearts, breathing apparatuses—and not just the potential to have them). The amendment would also have banned abortions even in cases of incest and rape. I believe in the right of a woman to have a choice, even though I’m not sure I personally could make the choice to have an abortion. But, I’ll be damned that if my girl gets raped and becomes pregnant as a result, that she’s going to be forced by law to carry it to term and give birth. No effing way. Ain’t happening.
Ohio restored collective bargaining rights for 350,000 of their public employees. Yes, I think we should let the men and women who chase criminals, race to save our lives, race into burning buildings, dedicate themselves to teaching our children—yeah, I think cops, medics, firemen and our school teachers deserve the clout they can achieve as a group to negotiate the best salaries, contracts and pensions they possibly can. When we live in a capitalist society that’s like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to profits, we need something in place to level the playing field. So, thank you, unions. Thank you, Ohio.
Arizona, for the first time in their history, recalled a state senator. Russell Pearce is the “lovely” gentleman who authored S.B. 1070 which was passed in 2010 (prompting a lawsuit from the federal government) and would have allowed the police to stop and ask for someone’s immigration papers even if there was no overt sign of a law being broken. The prerequisite used for this was “Goddammit, I wanna stop every brown person as far as the eye can see and see if we can kick their butts to the other side of our border cuz that will solve all of our problems.” Oh, no, sorry, that wasn’t it. The prerequisite was “reasonable suspicion.”
(Psst, my daughter’s pretty mocha-colored. Thankfully, we’ve seen the Grand Canyon as I’ve been adamant that Arizona will not get on my short list of holiday destinations anytime soon. Hopefully, this recall is a sign of sanity restored because, well, I kind of dig AZ.)
Maine restored same-day registration voting. Ah, good ol’ Maine. Hail, rain, sleet or snow, ya can’t stop them folks from casting their vote. Thank you for coming out.
Faith restored, my adrenalin-caffeine buzz leveling out, my quiet joy and satisfaction held the corners of my mouth in a pleasant place for hours and hours. It was a good day.
© 2011 article by Kat Ward
Drifting Away by Aimi-chuu
An excerpt from the novel I’m currently writing about Samantha Stosur, a 13-year-old American girl living in the 3rd Millennium.
Can she feel the desperation in my eyes? But the annoyance, hurt and anger shooting out of hers immediately absorbs and dismisses whatever’s coming out of mine. She has squashed me without thinking.
Who is this being? She’s talking (I know it’s my mother), but the words are muffled like she’s on the other side of extra thick glass, even when she’s holding me. The rock-hard coating around me prevents me from feeling her. I know her hair is shiny because I can see it, but I can’t feel it under my fingers. This is what an anxiety attack feels like.
My tongue feels so swollen in my mouth that I think I can’t talk; the evening continues in silence.
What do you do when your tummy’s flipping like when Uncle Ross tosses flapjacks three feet into the air and they smack back down into the frying pan, only to be flipped again and again even though they’re crying out, “I’m done. I’m done!”
Is that what Mrs. Doweel feels, her tummy squirmy as she’s walking her fingers along each nub of her rosary beads? Or, does her direct line to Jesus (Hay-soos) bring her inner calm? Where’s my Haysoos when I need one? Uncle Ross ain’t playing that role. Melo may look the part, but he has too many voices in his head already to be able to make room to hear mine. Maybe Nancy could be the female version, be my La Haysoosita. But when she’s stoned, it’s like she’s trekking in some land and I don’t have the proper I.D.
I’m just afraid. I feel like I’m shivering from the inside out. No one can see anything, but I know I’m shaking uncontrollably. Rattling inside, like Mom’s car engine that started to knock around, faster and faster, getting louder and more ominous—until it stopped. Dead. Right in the middle of the highway that stretches from the Guadalupe Mountains to Santa Fe. One of the goddamnedest strips of road you ever saw; no structure of any kind in sight from horizon to horizon—and that includes straining to see any teensy-weensy sign of human life or dwelling while slowly, slowly turning in a complete circle. All this with the sun setting and darkness slamming down like a final curtain. Frosting on the cake: Mom was off her meds and had no scotch. I’m feeling that kind of scared.
This body is a shell I hardly know I’m inhabiting. Sometimes, if I reach really hard, stretch out my leg as far as it will go, my big toe can briefly touch Mother Earth, and momentarily I remember what it feels like to feel grounded, solid within myself, my body a vessel to fuel my brain and feed my mind, intellect, thoughts, emotions and decisions. But when life cracks wide open, what’s left to decide?
My big toe breaks from the earth and I am untethered. Why should I care what I do with this body? It’s now not even a shell, but a dry, brittle husk—and I’m no longer the tenant.
*
© 2011 Excerpt from Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations by Kat Ward
Blogging on my day-to-day experience doing the Where Are You Stuck? workbook by Lori Bertazzon.
(The first part when writing about the word-of-the-day is to just free write; purely an emotional response.)
Michel Keck at michelkeck.com
Day 2 word: Resistance
I’ve always thought of resistance as a good thing. The oppressed resist their oppressors—the American Revolution, Arab Spring, Libya. Blacks and women resist racism and sexism. We have to resist to achieve equality because the world will not just offer it up, especially when “they” consider you outside the norm, a member of the “other.”
And then, there’s resistance to change. Trust and believe in my talents and abilities? Resist! I resist truly believing in myself, which then handcuffs and paralyzes me.
When resistance is a societal reaction, great! When the resistance is within me, to me, FOR me, then I need to address it and change.
Lori says resistance is information. Okaaaay…I’ll take a look at that. Harrumph.
(The questions posed next in the workbook ask us to respond objectively, to be our own observer.)
Did you find any beliefs contrary to what you thought you believed or contrary to what you want? Resisting myself, resisting my belief and trust in my talent is definitely contrary to what I want.
Where did that old belief come from? Society as a whole taking the macro view; my family when looking through the micro-lens. My family was supportive of my art, but I received the strong, silent message that creating art was not a career of. Art is admirable, but it’s not a career. So, when I feel drawn and compelled to create, I feel like a failure from the very start—like I have to drown my joy, dreams and desires just as I’m about to jump gleefully and giddily into the world’s greatest waterhole.
As a teenager, I had rebelled via my depression for so long, but didn’t really get a lot of pleasure from my art. I then put it away for years. Then, when I reconnected to writing and it truly was the time to rebel (not through depression, but through creating art), instead I towed the line.
Are you willing to let your old belief go? Yes! …but, that’s a bit scary; not sure I can.
Claude Monet's "Water Lilies: the Clouds"
How could you positively flip that old belief? What belief would you like to have? I resist the conventional definition of what having a “responsible” career means. I believe that my talent of writing is a gift and an asset to myself and society as a whole since it is unique to me, and no one else has my particular “voice.” I believe that focusing on my writing and helping other people’s quality art works emerge into the public forum and receive attention and recognition is a worthwhile and necessary goal.
Is there anything keeping you from believing it (i.e. fear, block, resistance, negative thought, low vibrating energy)? Hell, yeah! Scared to death of failing. Big talk about following dreams, yet I’m almost half a century old, got 5 cents in my pocket and nothing I’ve created so far has ever been thoroughly realized. Fear, blocks, resistance, the whole lot—they’re hanging on tight!
Take a deep breath. Now, let all that go. Read you new belief.
End of day 2…
© 2011 Article by Kat Ward
Image by Kaensu via Flickr
It’s the first day to pick a word. I go to my pot, wriggle my fingers amongst the slips of paper and pull: ”Fair.”
Fair? Hmmm….that kind of stumps me. Not expecting that. Not sure what to do with that. Okay, just start.
As we are raised, we are taught “to be fair,” and especially “to play fair.” We’re instructed to share our toys, our books, our snacks, our rooms, our parents, our favorite things, our time, our very space.
That’s not easy for a toddler who has been coddled, every need and want addressed and satisfied. We are chucked into a world where there are others (others? Others!) and their needs and wants must be considered—what kind of holy hell is this? We resist, but then we bend, we adapt and we grudgingly learn the lesson to “be fair.”
Then, we grow up. We join teams; soccer and peewee football. We learn about good sportsmanship. “Play fair!” It’s how you play the game, not whether you win or lose. Or, is it? As we then get even older, maybe into competitive high school sports or academic endeavors we are told once again to play fair—though suddenly a hidden clause is revealed: ya gotta win. Strategies are employed, maybe even sneaky ones just on the edge of “right,” to catch the other team off guard, to gain an advantage, so we can ultimately “win.” The priority has shifted: from “fair” to “win.”
Enter the semi-real world of college; now “win” becomes even more of a goal, for there are scholarships on the line, positions and appointments to be snared, regional and national championships in which to compete—all in preparation for making an impact and to impress those people you will need in your post-college career. In the real world of our planet earth, whether you’re capitalist, communist, socialist or anarchist, it is all about the win. (And there’s nothing fair about it.)
Winning is directly linked with success in every society. We must all be winners; fairness be damned. Okay, but wait; when I was little, I was told by my parents, my teachers, and anyone in authority that we had to be fair, we had to play fair. Now you’re saying, fairness be damned. Did you just mind-fuck me? Yes.
Old Belief: Life isn’t fair. You’re naive and will be a failure if you try to be a fair person in your everyday life.
New Belief: I believe in being fair, despite how others may behave, even if they are not fair in return. I believe in being fair in how I act, what I believe, how I work and conduct business, how I help others, and I believe in being fair to myself. I believe in being fair when I’m being judgmental towards myself, my talents, abilities, goals, wants and desires. I believe in being fair and supportive to myself, and when I am not, I will catch myself, address my patterns and reassemble my thoughts to reflect my new belief.
(Okay, that was a surprise.)
© 2011 Article by Kat Ward
For those of you who were interested in my posts about the Where Are You Stuck? A 21-Day Writing Exploration workbook, I have decided to share my experience with you as I do the book again.
Please feel free to comment with any questions, observations, and to purchase a workbook of your own!
The first pages of the workbook are about free-writing. Page 1 simply asks, “Where Are You Stuck?” To which I replied, “Everywhere!”
No, actually, what I came out (as I wasn’t aware of what I was going to say or where it would go) was my worry about my new endeavor—into the publishing world—failing, like all my past efforts into anything. And failure usually means that I make no money, or not enough money. And, I can’t wash off the big loser “L” on my forehead—which I see every time I look in the mirror.
Page 2: What do you want or desire for your life?
Kat: I want to succeed in my new endeavor, while also not forgetting and succeeding in my own writing (editing Amy’s Own and to finish writing Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations). I want to trust my instincts, follow my instincts, while also honing my “be rational and practical” skills that are questionable. I want my new endeavor to be so different and out of the box that it catches fire and I figure out a way to make it sell, getting recognition for the creative parties involved. I want all my creativity to finally generate substantial monies so that I can support my family.
Page 3: Write about any person, place, thing, fear, block, resistance or negative thought you feel is an obstacle to having the life you want.
Kat: Uh, yikes.
I fear that I am ignorant of what I need to know and what I should know before I dive headfirst into my new business. I’m afraid I will fail (again!) and be broke (even more than usual!).
I’m afraid that I’ll become discouraged and feel hopeless if I come upon too many roadblocks, and then I will doom the project.
I’m afraid I won’t see what I need to see to be smart and make the “right” decisions.
I’m afraid that if a crack shows in my enthusiasm, that I will feel like this is all a waste of time (and I’ve wasted so much of my time in years already), and I will fall into depression and doom the whole project, and be broke (even more).
*
Now, I need to go back to these three pages and circle words that jump out at me (for any reason, don’t overthink it). At the back of the workbook are one and a half pages of words with blank spaces where I can write “my” words. Then, I will go and cut out 21 words to cover my twenty-one days of the workbook and put them in a jar. Once that is done, I shall blindly pick a word and that will be the word I write about on Day 1.
See you in a few….
© 2011 Articles on Where Are You Stuck? workbook by Kat Ward
I’ve wanted this for ten years.
For ten years, Hollywood was our home. A 2nd-story apartment where we clicked the pause button as the sirens sped by, couldn’t fall asleep because Amoeba Music on Sunset Boulevard had a live band performing in their parking lot, or were jerked awake as people surfed through the dumpster between 2 and 6 a.m.
My daughter grew up hearing helicopters circling overhead and dogs searching below. Every time an ambulance raced by we plugged our ears and yelled encouragingly “Go save a life!” so that she wouldn’t be scared that something bad was happening somewhere too close.
(For ten years I had to deal with street parking; none-too-happy when my car got towed because the Academy decided the lower class working folk who didn’t have garages should be banned from parking on the streets—to make room for the dozens of limousines idling, emitting exhaust and waiting for their millionaires; the actors, producers, directors, etc., who puffed and primped up at the Kodak Theater on Hollywood Boulevard, crossing their fingers that they would the one soon clasping an Oscar, never knowing I had missed the televised pinnacle of their career because I was walking the fifteen blocks to get my car out of impound to the tune of $325. Phew! Thank you for your patience; I obviously had to get that off my chest.)
My daughter got used to walking up to the Arclight to see a $16-a-ticket movie and passing people who lived in boxes or camped out in dark building corners, trying to keep warm, trying to get some sleep, trying to escape the rain, trying to be private in public. A visiting friend of hers would literally walk on the other side of me and grab for my hand. My girl would lean down and hand the homeless man a dollar.
She grew up hearing different languages, seeing different customs and styles of dress, coming to realize that the world she understood in her own home was not the same as the one next door, or the one below—that each person’s world through language, culture, tradition, profession, experience, and choice could be different, strange, interesting, and delicious!
The Hollywood flats (so-called as not to be confused with the moneyed of the “Hollywood Hills”) were good to me, my first home after my husband left, the first apartment that was truly mine—from having the only name on the lease to the extra security I had to pay for being the only name on the lease. But, I felt safe. I felt in the mix of the city. I felt anything we needed was accessible.
We would walk the two blocks to watch the dated Christmas parade every year. We walked to the fire station to donate to “Toys for Tots” after my daughter had picked out just the right toys. It was to that station that I repeatedly and religiously took her—to show her how to vote—most spectacularly the time I cast a ballot for America’s first black president.
Thank you to Marta, Patricia and Nieves for being such wonderful, friendly, helpful and generous single-mom neighbors. Thanks to Joseph for loaning me a double ladder so I could break into my second story apartment when I locked myself out. Thank you, Jaime for helping me not break my neck. Condolences to our neighbors at the far corner who lost their teenaged son to a bullet, from his friend’s gun. Lovely and tragic, “real world” versus Disney fantasy, surface superficial and deeply profound; that’s our Hollywood. Thank you for being just the home and neighborhood that I needed, when I needed it.
Now it’s South Pas. Instead of looking up into the sky and seeing my site edged by multiple- storied apartment buildings, I look up into the sky and see my site edged by millions of leaves. Instead of apartment buildings with windows covered with sheets or layers of foil, I look into windows and see cozy living rooms with fireplaces.
My girl flanked by her favorite "Hipster" and "Kitty Cat"
I stand outside on the sidewalk with my friend and have a glass of wine, looking over to my new neighbor across the street who’s entertaining guests on her front porch, waiting for the littlest trick or treaters. I look further down and see multiple couples sitting on their porches, chatting, watching the night descend, the traffic of little feet and parental bodies heading our way.
Now, my daughter jumps up excitedly every time she hears rustling little legs, so excited for her first Halloween handing out candy. We quickly run out. I run over to my neighbor and hawk a couple of bags. Within ten minutes we are down to our last four pieces. I speed walk in my sandals, my head happily floating from red wine (I don’t drink much anymore, and as thus am a complete lightweight; it’s rather sad) and get to Rite-Aid before all the shelves are empty. A good thing about buying so late is that the bags are now 2 for $5. I’ll take six! My daughter sighs when I return, relieved, as she was just about to hand out an energy bar and sacrifice an unopened nail polish to the next trick or treater.
The three teenage bellies in my home are full of savories; I hope to diffuse the jolting effects of sugar inhalation in the hours to come. Now’s the time to head out. Into the night.
The streets are a swarm of people. Orange cones have been put up to divert traffic. Kids have to wait in line to get their candy. Wait in line to get candy? Lawns are cordoned off to discourage foot trampling. I step into the street just to get clear of the constantly moving mass of people.
(You have to wait in line? Like for minutes at a time? Like all the way down the front walk? That’s still taking time to compute.)
The costumes are a blast. The house decorations fun, creative and creepy.
Yeah, he’s creepy.
Some costumes are better than others…but, it all makes for a perfect “first” Halloween. Enjoy, especially if you’re one of the people who were so kind as to let me take your picture. Many thanks to you all and I’ll see you next year.
©2011 Halloween, South Pasadena Style by Kat Ward
Aaaah, finally. We had champagne (okay, Kevin had chocolate almond milk). Lori made a toast. I made a toast. Kevin drank a huge goblet of chocolate almond milk. Hugs all around. Lots of smiling. Repeat.
Lori Bertazzon’s self-help workbook Where Are You Stuck? A 21-Day Writing Exploration has finally arrived! The boxes are full, the books are inside; I can actually hold one in my hand.
My first “Edited by” credit. My friend’s year-long journey that began with her questioning her ability to even write a book (sound familiar, writers?). Our hours and hours of face time, home writing and editing, emails back and forth. Her husband Kevin’s impassioned designing, page by page, all thoroughly thought out. It was a great ride—I had a complete and utter blast.
So, here’s the pitch. If you are stuck in your career, in your creativity, in your personal life—then this book is the place for you. The process is to clarify where you are stuck, what you want and desire, and what you believe to be your obstacles. Through a process of mining significant words (for you), you learn to truly understand your beliefs in regard to that particular word, how it affects you and your life, then decide whether or not this belief is a positive or negative influence, and if it’s negative, to flip it to create a new belief that will help you reach your goals and desires.
Having worked with Lori privately (she does individual sessions, either in person or over the phone) and completed the workbook (I still randomly pick words when I’m feeling stuck), I can say that where I was a year ago and where I am now—living in a new, wonderful town in a lovely apartment on a beautiful street; getting my first paid writing gig; starting my blog; starting a brand new novel; and actively getting out my query letters for my completed novel—I am so enthused, focused, determined, motivated and inspired. To Lori and her abilities, to Lori and her workbook, I am forever grateful. And thankful.
Here’s Lori in her own words:
We identify where you are stuck or where you are looking for forward movement in your life and what obstacles are based on old patterns and beliefs. Through our conversation I help you identify how the obstacles can be moved through and/or what is creating them. From there we can see which action steps can be taken to move you forward.
The workbook came from the work I do in the consultation. I believe we all have the information we need within ourselves but past experiences may have created negative thoughts and experiences which cloud our ability to see and trust what we know. The workbook helps you get clear and discover what you truly believe about (your) life so you can make conscious choices to change it.
The 3-hour workshop is an introduction to me and the workbook exercise. I offer a 4-week workshop which meets once a week and works through the workbook together. The workbook is an option for those doing private consultations.
Contact information: Lori Bertazzon
ph. 213.422.7200
Cost of the workbook: $14.95 plus shipping
Testimonials
Thanks again for inviting me to your fabulous workshop! It was really great. And (as it should be) it came along just at the right time. I’ve been really trying to crack a few things to be able to move forward, and today really helped!
L.C.
Since I started working with Lori, my life has transformed. She’s helped me find a way to reduce my stress and anxiety and to focus on what I want in life. Because of the work I have done with her, I feel more confident, more prosperous and definitely more alive. Every day is a new adventure and I credit Lori with helping me move in a positive life-changing direction. I would definitely recommend her to anyone who wants to let go of old negative patterns and embrace a new more empowered life.
D.M.
Lori has a gift. There is no doubt about it. Lori’s work has helped me to get in touch with inner obstacles that I was at times not even aware I had (in life and in my work as an actor) and helped me to find constructive and practical ways to move through them. Lori’s knowledge, intuition, and nurturing state of being allows for an atmosphere of trust and fearless creativity. She has a way of unlocking the truth behind every problem, big or small, and her guidance is invaluable. I leave a session with Lori feeling a sense of lightness and clarity. If I could only carry her around in my pocket, I would be set!
A.L.
THANK YOU for your unbelievable generosity today. Your work blew me away. You were so clear and got right to the point. I really enjoyed watching you work with everyone and I learned a lot today. I was inspired… Your work is very special and you are VERY talented. You really opened my heart, eyes and creative spirit again.
J.F.
*
© 2011 Get Your W.A.Y.S. Workbook – Available Now! by Kat Ward.
I have a friend named Grace. She’s 52-years-old. She’s a professional make-up artist. Then she went back to school and became a licensed aesthetician. Today, she has four more classes until she gets her AA degree. She has ten dollars in her pocket.
Politicians, activists, commentators, and pundits talk about big business, conglomerates, multi-nationals, millionaires, and billionaires. At a drop of a hat, they’ll talk about the gravity of maintaining America’s middle class. One group I never hear discussed—the working poor.
I met Grace eight years ago when she was hired to work for the company I was studio managing. I worked Monday through Friday, 9-5. I was divorced and had a two-year-old daughter. I was hustling my girl to a 9-hour shift at daycare, then going to work, then hustling back before overtime kicked in for the daycare worker, then hustling home to make dinner, bathe my daughter, read her stories, etc. My ex-husband helped out when he wasn’t on a minimum 12-hour commercial shoot. Or, on location.
Grace and I became friends. A year later when I started my own business, I hired her to do make-up and hair for my clients during the week (when I had clients) and we both worked for my old company, and then another company, on the weekends.
Jin Young Yu - Invisible People
Thankfully, I had friends who said, “Oh, yes!” when I asked if they would look after my daughter for eight hours on a Saturday or Sunday, or Saturday and Sunday. I paid them back by looking after their kids when they took an evening out. I didn’t have evenings out. No time. No money. Grace didn’t either—and this is her story.
After some years, Grace and her husband (a teacher, studying to get his degree) decided they wanted to go home. This sounds overly dramatic, but she pined for her city by the bay—with its rain and fog, hills and views of the water everywhere you looked. Her old car wouldn’t make the 6-hour trip on the highway that takes you inside the middle of nowhere, so they towed it on the back of their tiny U-Haul. She was thrilled to be back home. Then, she spent the next six months commuting back down south (and sleeping on my couch) to do a wedding, fashion shoot or work with me because she couldn’t find any work back home. Her husband couldn’t find a teaching post; couldn’t even land a job in a painting-store chain. It was on Grace to earn all of the money, to pay all of the bills.
Her mind was a hive of anxiety, her body granite with tension, her stress level beyond maximum capacity.
She finally landed a job back home as an aesthetician at a salon. Because of their convoluted payment scheme, her hours could not support her and she had to find a second job at another salon. New clients. Happy clients. Still not enough clients.
One of the salons at which she works is part of a huge chain, internationally known and respected; Grace has to bring in her own products. Executives flew in to commend the staff, telling them that their department had the most service sales and was selling the most products nationwide; they fired the woman who washed the towels to save money. Managers don’t know how to manage. Higher-ups don’t bother to listen to the employees down on the ground. Grace keeps on, though she’s increasingly discouraged about the inefficiency, the infighting, the accelerating shabbiness of the salon, and her paltry bi-monthly paycheck.
Grace only has health insurance because her husband has finally landed a teaching job. He also goes to school, though some semesters he can’t because the state college isn’t accepting anymore students due to budget cuts. Grace often talks about giving up her health insurance since it’s costing her $324 a month and she gets so tired of having to—one more time—call their kindly landlord and ask for a week’s extension. Well, maybe ten days. Yes, that would be great. Thank you so much. (Pride trampled; ego obliterated.)
Like so many politicians and economists recommend, Grace went back to school and learned a new trade (at which she is quite talented). Now, she’s four courses away from completing her Associates Degree. She buys textbooks used because she can’t afford them new. Sometimes she attends classes for over a month before any used texts are available to purchase. She has to take two buses to get to the college library to type her papers, signing in for half an hour at a time because she and her husband can’t afford to get their hand-me-down computer fixed.
She declines friends’ invitations because she can’t afford a whole meal out. She can’t go to a club that has a two drink minimum. She and her husband treat themselves to their favorite taco-stand burritos once a month. They haven’t had a vacation in seven years.
Grace is one of the hardest working people I know. She doesn’t know the words “stop,” “slow down,” or “take a breather.” But she has come to know the meaning of exhaustion, anxiety attacks, depression, and despair.
Grace has a lovely face and a brilliant smile. She’s intelligent, reads the paper, is up to date politically, and is socially conscious. She’s interested in, and can hold her own, on almost any topic. She loves good food. She misses traveling.
Grace has two vocations. She works six-day weeks. She has $300 in savings. She has no retirement account. She still rents. The shoes she wears to work make her feet cold as she walks because they have holes in the soles. She hasn’t bought a new bra in a year and a half.
You wouldn’t realize looking at her that the jeans she’s wearing are one of the two pair that she owns. You wouldn’t realize as you’re talking to her that her underwear is slipping off her thighs because they’ve lost the elastic but she can’t afford to buy more. As you’re discussing politics with her, you’d never guess that she watches the news on a small, bunny-eared 15” t.v. As you moan about the bad economy and complain about being broke, you’d never believe that you have no true idea what broke really means.
You’d never guess that at this very moment Grace’s savings account balance is zero, it’s another nine days until her next paycheck, and she has a ten dollar bill in her pocket.
Grace has ten dollars to her name.
So, Mr. President, Senators, Representatives, and Americans: may I please introduce you to Grace. Do you recognize her? Have you seen her before? Have you smiled and had a bit of a chat? Never guessing, never knowing that…
Grace is a member of a substantial but invisible group in this country.
She’s the working poor.
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©2011 Dear America: Do You Know Me? I Am the Working Poor by Kat Ward
This posting is another part of my current novel, though it’s not necessarily the next to come in the final manuscript. This introduces another character in the story of Samantha Stosur, an 11-year-old American girl in the 3rd Millennium.
“It’s the light. You must always take the side of the light. Resist the dark, Samantha, dear. Don’t let it lure you under.”
That’s Mrs. Marcie Doweel. Two down and one apartment over. At a gazillion plus, she isn’t a fraction taller than I am (considered a “good” height at 5′ 4″ in the fifth grade). Mrs. Doweel seems just as wide as she is tall but that may be the illusion of her narrow front door. Her apartment is always ablaze with lights, even during the day. As her body blocks the entranceway, she has a halo-head of light above her that makes it hard to truly see her face, which is fine because now that she’s past the octo-decade she’s kind of covered with what they call skin tags. My Uncle Ross is sprouting dozens of them, even on his neck and at the point of the “V” of all his t-shirts that are more undershirts and no child should be subjected to seeing the dark outline of his—yes, I’m going to say it—nipples, especially when the hair on them pushes against the meagre cotton and puffs it out. It’s enough to turn a girl sideways.
Anyway, shadow works well on Mrs. Doweel’s face, though I know if she realized a part of her was in darkness she would pop a majority of her pulled-too-tight buttons. Once she asked me in I saw that her apartment was a treasure chest of religious icons. Virgin Marys hang, sit, drape, and loom next to pictures, statues, throw blankets and pillows of Mary and her baby Jesus (who always looks like he has the face of a middle-aged man). Oddly, the grown-up Jesus’ that Mrs. Doweel has around—crucified on the cross repeated half a dozen times along the ivy wallpapered living room or carrying his cross or riding the donkey or having his last meal—is quite good looking in a rugged, manual laborer sort of way.
But, the freakiest of the freaky is the life-sized head wearing a crown of thorns with thick red drips of paint running down his face representing his blood (I re-emphasize that this is life-sized) which is kept pristine under a dome of glass. I had to put down my juice cup of V-8 when I first caught him looking at me; my hand shaking as it tried to find space on the side table with the year-round crèche stable scene (minus you know who). I nearly leapt off the couch, the plastic ripping at my thighs (don’t sit on the couch while wearing shorts in the heat of the summer) and made my excuses.
Mrs. Doweel seemed momentarily flustered. “I thought we were having a lovely visit,” she said.
I calmed down a bit when I looked back from the front door and Jesus was still staring; magic like the Mona Lisa—he’s eyeing everyone. Thank you, Jesus, ’cause I don’t need any religious hooji-booj in my life, though Mrs. D would say it’s a sign that I might want to do a little prayer or two, ’cause her savior is obviously eyeing me for a reason. A dark, evil-eye reason.
The thing is, I like the dark. It feels restful to have all of us hyped-up souls take a time out. It seems to me like people speed through their day like they’re in an all-out sprint. Sometimes this life feels like a whole lot of elbow swinging, the shoulder-height kind, the way basketball players swing after a rebound (elbows up and out) holding tight onto the ball, twisting at the waist right and left to clear out any of the opposing team. Mine, mine, mine. “Looking out for number one,” Uncle Ross would say. “Nothing wrong with that.” But, I’m not so sure. How does number two feel? Hell, what about number twenty-two? They’ve gotta feel like crapola.
The night is stillness, it’s down time. Of course, I know the quieted souls are merely re-energizing so they can do it all again once their alarms start kicking up a fuss, but I feel like I’m getting some respite (vocab list #4), so I can be re-energized to meet them head on.
*
© 2011 Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations by Kat Ward
A big Grazie, Danke, Merci & Thanks to Juliet Greenwood for nominating me for a Liebster Award when I’m such a newbie to this blogging thingy. In only a week, I have read multiple wonderful pieces, been delighted by so many designs of people’s blogs and intrigued by everyone’s individual stories. It’s widened my world, and I love that.
I enjoy reading what people think, finding out what issues concern them and getting a taste of their fiction writing. All of it is quite impressive.
As I understand it—and it’s all a bit vague, cuz, like, where did this all start? Germany makes sense—as “liebster” means “dear,” from the verb “lieber” [to love]. The Liebster Foundation? I have no clue, but it’s a great idea—these are the Liebster Award rules:
1. Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.
2. Link back to the blogger who awarded you.
3. Copy & Past the award onto your blog.
4. Nominate 5 blogs to receive the award.
5. Inform them of their nomination by leaving a comment on their blog.
Here Are My Nominees:
1. Emily Kennedy has a great piece titled I Don’t Vote for the Party, I Vote for the Person. Anything political and ya got me. emilykennedyauthor.com. And, yummy recipes, too.
2. Jeff Silvey was the first person to read and comment on my blog and he has an interesting, fun and thoughtful blog called Five Things At Once, the daily ups & downs of a stay-at-home-dad.
3. Amy LeBonte at 3to9travels, because I enjoy her writing and love her playful and arresting header that she created.
4. Michael Ann Riley posted the laugh-out-loud article Watch Your Language! and being someone who can swear like a sailor (in the right company, of course. I was brought up with manners!). And, I love the name of her blog: Thinking In My Head, Ma (!).
5. A woman in Portland, Oregon has a fascinatingly, visually moody blog Reality Space. I loved her piece on “Extreme Ironing.”
Thanks again to Juliet. Everyone who reads this, please check out these other blogs, and remember, subscribe! Cuz we all need the love. Have a great weekend!
I thought since this blog is partly named after the novel I am currently writing, that I’d share a piece of what I have, introducing the narrator and main character.
KEEPING SANE, AND OTHER ASPIRATIONS
by
Samantha Stosur
An American Girl
In the 3rd Millennium
Sanity questions lapping up against the mind of an eleven-year-old; that’s odd, right? Like, what eleven-year-old should be thinking about being sane or insane, or wondering if it runs in the family, along certain bloodlines or simply does a snatch an’ grab for anyone within reach? I’m still working out whether or not my future includes succumbing to it and hitting 911 on my speed dial (I jot that down in the “Not Good” column) or whether my constant alertness and a well-timed right hook will keep lurking loony-tunes way the hell away from me.
But who am I kidding? Questionable sanity is running rampant in my world. I suppose you may be around in the end, and then you can make your own conclusions. If I feel like I’m heading straight for padded walls, I’ll suggest you put the book down and call it a day. There’s no need for you to go with me on that ride. I’m sure you have enough of your own problems; life is hard enough as it is.
“Life is hard.” Didn’t that statement knock the barrettes out of my hair the first time I heard it. Uncle Ross introduced that sound-bite philosophy the afternoon he dragged Mom home from a pre-Wednesday night binge. Uh, it’s Wednesday, guys. Aren’t binges supposed to be for Friday and Saturday? Thursday at the earliest. Jesus, Wednesday; I knew that was a bad sign.
Dad had moved out the month before. I still saw him almost every day, which I think only accelerated Mom’s bingeing. It’s gotta be hard to get over your first love now that you’re twelve years older and got a body chock-full of cellulite, stretch marks and sagging boobies. I think that was the kick in the ass more than anything. Mom no longer feels young and pretty, and now she’s been dumped. She ardently believes that the least Dad could do since he was the other half in creating me (thus the reason she’ll not be buying any bikinis in her future) is to stand by her now and worship her body, no matter what it looks like. The problem is, Dad still looks like a god with six-pack abs, python arms and long girly-lashes that all the ladies envy. Mom’s pissed. It doesn’t help when our new next-door neighbor stops to welcome us, her two young boys wrapped around her toned thighs, her taut abs (extra-obvious below her cropped top) grabbing Mom’s attention, taunting her.
I find Mom sobbing in her bedroom.
“It’s not fair!” she cries. She says more, but it’s rather incoherent, the crook of her elbow receiving the brunt of it.
Uncle Ross overhears her and shouts back, “Life isn’t fair, woman. Life is hard. You know that. Now, get in here and crack a beer with me.”
Mom waves me out of the room and I’m glad to go because I have no idea what to say. I walk past Uncle Ross to get into the kitchen and he whispers to me, “Her ass ain’t never going to draw any guy’s eyes again, so we’s just got to distract her a bit.”
“By getting her fatter?” I say.
“Nah, by keeping her distracted, I said. And maybe a bit tight.”
Ah, Christ, I think, then grab myself a Mountain Dew and make a beeline for my bedroom. When Uncle Ross helps her get drunk he just climbs into his ancient Chevy and swerves home. I’m the one who’s stuck wiping Mom’s head with cold cloths, making sure she doesn’t choke on her vomit and cleaning up the toilet seat after she hasn’t aimed quite as she should. I also get to slog through her hangover pity-party the next morning, when she’s feeling so bad that not only do I have to make my own breakfast and lunch, fake her signature on the permission slip for a class trip to see Taming of the Shrew, but I get to dig out my rain boots and coat, and leave early enough to catch the metro bus—’cause she’s still too drunk to drive me. Yeah, thanks, Uncle Ross. Spot on.
I write his name in the “Not Good” column. In ink.
*
© 2011 Keeping Sane, and Other Aspirations by Kat Ward.
Okay, I will admit it to the world at large—I am a New York Jets fan.
Lifelong, obsessive, rabid, anxious, defeated, hopeful, resigned. It’s a long, long journey to follow my boys in green. After last week’s nail-biter (and it was only the first game of the season), having taken calls throughout from my father, texted with my middle sis in N.H. and exchanging texts with my eldest sis who was at the opening game with her teenage son (my family has had season tickets for 4 decades), we have all decided that being a Jet fan—with the stress it imposes on our bodies every 7 days—is taking years, if not decades, off of our lives. Go Green!
Please subscribe.
Why?
I want followers.
Okay.
I NEED followers!
Again. Why?
Because—oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit— I might fail.
If I faithfully submit my query letter for my manuscript Amy’s Own, include the synopsis and sample chapters when requested, keep track of my email queries—yeah, how many have been “sent” off into the technological cosmos, the ethereal void, never to be heard from again? If I keep tramping to the post office to mail via snail to the last holdouts who still regard something tangible as something of value (until they consider the contents of no value). If I continue with this day-in and day-out, month-after-month and I realize I’m down to my last few 3×5 cards (all the others graffitied in red with permanent marker). If no agent or publishing house, no established, traditional entity wants my novel—then what?
I need to self-publish.
For that to succeed, I need to have an established audience; followers. For that to happen, I need to create an internet presence; Facebook, twitter, email, LinkedIn—deep breath—writer info websites, writers’ groups on the web, writers sharing their work on the web, writers critiquing work on the web. Phew! Jesus! I need to entertain, be witty, intellectual and insightful. Aach! Feeling a little parched here. I need to hold your attention day-after-day, month-after-month, in the hope that on the day I self-publish; the day I offer my “gift” to the world; the day I throw my mind, body & soul onto the railroad tracks and wish for the best—that you, you and YOU! will buy my book.
Won’t you all—all of you who link with me as “friend”—would you please, please go buy my self-published novel?
Excuse me? Oh, $14.95 is too much for a hardcopy that represents the last decade of my creative life and for which I’ve been saving these last 2 years so I could pay a printing house to make a short run of 100 copies?
Still, no? Well, here you go; the e-book’s only $1.99.
What’s that? Well, I was kind of hoping not to have a closing out sale until the spring—you know, thinking maybe my book might catch on by then. But, yeah, I know, the economy still stinks (Obama/Bush, yada, whoever).
Okay, okay. Go ahead, 99 cents. Take it. No, that IS the sale price!
Thank God for grandmother Eli: “Honey, it’s not so bad—somewhere in the world, it’s cocktail hour.”
Image by Jong Soo(Peter) Lee via Flickr
I’m hired!
Whe–
Wha–
Wow.
Yesterday, I submitted my 4th post for review to the Hometown Pasadena publisher/author/boss-woman Colleen Bates. She responded, approving of the piece (“lovely job.”), and indicated that she wanted to speak with me about a “steady freelance gig.”
Heck, yeah!
After swapping emails, I can now scribe in the annals of Kat Ward that this is my first official WRITING job.
I AM BEING PAID TO WRITE!
Yee-ha & hoo!
Between physically holding Lori’s workbook Where Are You Stuck? and seeing my “Editor” credit; experiencing Kevin Bertazzon’s ISMS and being asked to help edit his next espisode; and beginning to write blurbs for the Hometown Pasadena website and within submitting 4 posts, being hired!–this has been the best week in like a decade!
Hallelujah and thank you, Baby Jesus!
Just saw that my 3rd blurb for the website hometown Pasadena has been published.
“Eaton Canyon – Nature Calls”
I’m supposed to present the facts, but the boss says the material for these kinds of blurbs can be dry, so I can add a touch of flourish, humor, etc. I find it hard to be funny on demand–and know I can go overboard–but she hasn’t ripped my pieces to shreds yet–I’m happy!
A huge, all-enveloping THANK YOU! to Jeff of the blog Five Things At Once for his posting today, September 14th (follow the link above to read it).
As I told him, he gets a permanent seat in my soul-nurturing creativity chamber for being the first person to read my site and comment.
Then I come home, all sweaty and hungry after a hike in the Arroyo, to an email leading to his site (he’s a stay-at-home-dad) where he has commented on Kate Gosselin of Kate Plus 8 talking about the cancellation of her reality t.v. show and how she will now support her family brood. I had quite an OH, MY! moment when I read further into his article (I guess I should be calling it “post”–oiy, all the jargon I have to catch up on!), and he goes on to compare Kate with Kat.
Needless to say, I will be flying high all day, so don’t look for me on the terra firma; I’m spending my day walking on clouds.
Thank you, again, Jeff.
*Pssst–everyone, go read his blog–writers unite!
Very soon in my mail I will be receiving Lori Bertazzon’s self-help workbook
WHERE ARE YOU STUCK?
This is a 21-day writing exercise that helps you clarify the areas in which you are stuck, express your wants and desires and identify the obstacles holding you back. Through the daily mining of particular words you will find what a word truly means to you, what beliefs this word has created, whether or not this belief is positively working for you–and if it’s not–flipping that negative belief to a new one. The ultimate goal is to move from stuck to unstuck.
I had the privilege of being one of Lori’s friends who got to volunteer to do the first draft of the workbook. I can’t even begin to express how incredible the experience was for me–but, I can say that the aftereffects are quite stupendous.
Working with her (she offers individual one-on-one sessions as well), with her innate ability to ask the perfect questions and her depth of insight which led me to realize and understand what exactly was creating my stuck, is simply priceless.
I will post an announcement when the workbook is available to the general public. If you want to begin getting unstuck now, you can make an appointment with her. Rates are quite reasonable. I can’t recommend her highly enough.
lori@whereareyoustuckworkshop.com
ISMS is an illustrated storybook by Kevin Bertazzon. If you have an iPad you can download the first chapter for free, then purchase the following 3 chapters for pennies on the dollar (so worth it!). Soon, it will be available on Kindle, to download onto a Mac, etc. I will be posting updates on this because I think Bertazzon’s story is laugh-out-loud funny, intense and with the most unique and intriguing characters. His illustrations are tremendous works of art. Spread the word–ISMS has arrived!
Image by garlandcannon via Flickr
My depression and anxiety is held at bay with a daily dose, but meds are no wonder cure. Most people would never guess that I am a depressive. I like to socialize. I love, love to laugh. I adore my daughter, my family and my friends (even my ex-husband!). But, the depression hovers. It’s tiring. Exhausting. Many days, I feel that all I can manage is to be a good mom. Nothing else. Love my daughter. Accomplish that in a day, stay focused, create quality time and check the “task completed” box. Because, I actually love our life. I love her smile and her laugh and how she expresses her creativity on a daily basis as we make up chapter stories every time we buckle up in the car, how she devises dance routines, plays in three acts and performs cooking experiments in the kitchen (without a recipe) that are actually edible. It’s all a tremendous wonder. I’m still in awe that she is my child, that I was lucky enough to be rewarded this exact being.
I remind myself that I am indeed a good photographer. I’m good at taking kids’ headshots. I can tap into their ability to allow their inhibitions to melt away and bring forth their full personality. So, why can’t I make a decent living? And, every day I vow to not give up on my dream to be a published writer who can actually sell enough books so that I can write full-time. But, is this delusional? Parents aren’t supposed to be delusional, are they? Chasing a pipe dream is not the best example for a child. (Though, it IS if you succeed.)
I can taste success. Some nights, it seems so close. When I finished my second manuscript, I gave it to four very different friends, and completely different readers. I received great constructive criticism and I returned to editing feeling invigorated and re-energized. I finally have a query I like and a synopsis that recaps the story in four pages, reflecting the novel’s voice and style (Oiy!). I drift off to sleep, imagining an agent signing me, a publisher wanting me, believing so much in my work that they give me a good—great, incredible!—advance and I’m strolling the streets of New York City after my first amazingly successful book signing. Then, my adrenalin surges and I’m wide awake. (At least it wasn’t an anxiety attack. Progress, no?)
Well, I’m still here in my sweltering second-story Hollywood apartment (down on the flats, not up in the coveted, moneyed hills). The wall-to-wall carpeting incessantly draws in the heat; the fan blows hot air around. My daughter’s asleep next to me in the bed (she’s going through a bout of fearing the dark—every shadow, every darkened doorway, even the lovely moon outside her window). I stroke her back, happy that she’s calm now, sleeping without fear. She even laughs in her sleep (I hope she never stops doing that!).
I am typing on my laptop. It’s ten to one in the morning. I love the stillness and quiet. The peace. The contentment I am feeling is enough to help me through one more day.
A grown-up? A full-blown adult? I hope to be one some day. It’s a worthwhile goal. A worthwhile dream.
the end
*
© 2011 Will I Ever Be a Grown-Up? Part III by Kat Ward
Image via Wikipedia
My single-employee photography business (me) continues to struggle. I never have enough money. I have allowed my parents to pay for my daughter’s guitar lessons, my health insurance and many other things that were beyond my reach. They, as well as my older sisters, have been there when I have come up short. And, that makes me feel diminished, a not-quite adult. I am blocked about how to make money. I have no problem working hard, giving my all to every job I’ve had—to the point that in her first year, I was often getting up at 4 a.m. to load my work equipment into my 4-Runner, then getting my daughter packed up and ready to drive her to a friends’ nanny, so I could work a 12-to-14 hour day before picking her up in the evening at my friends. Thankfully, I was able to find 9-5 employment (as her father worked long days when he could find work), and she appeared to adapt well to full-time daycare at the age of one and a half (and, so I keep telling myself).
I am stumped. Insufficient income and insolvency creates stress and I am not as good a mother as I want to be. My patience flags; it’s hard to stay in the moment and have quality time with my daughter—my mind is almost always half elsewhere. I look at my friends who married and are now stay-at-home moms and I envy them. Crazy envy. (How gross is that?) I don’t regret my ex-husband because he’s a great dad and the love we experienced was intense, wonderful and it produced our daughter, but I loathe (loathe!) the bone-aching, stomach-bubbling, constant worry about money.
I can’t manage to keep money in my savings account. There is no retirement fund. No college fund. I am at a loss. Everyday, I try to figure out the correct path, to see what I have not been seeing that will lead to financial success. How delicious to have a small house with a yard for the dog my daughter wants so badly (I want a black lab puppy). I would love to take her to Europe where I extensively traveled in my youth or Down Under where I backpacked for a year. I want to feel the thrill of a foreign land again, and, hopefully, infect my girl with the travel bug and the endless wonders of our world. But, I have to steal from Peter to pay Paul, and now Peter’s constantly broke and refuses to have anything to do with me.
So, I fail. Every day. And I work, every day, to rebuild my spirit, my belief in myself, in my talent, and in my ability to succeed and provide for my daughter. Copious amounts of energy is exerted trying not to lose hope, not succumb to the spirit-paralyzing reality that this may be the best I can do. I try to shake it off, but with each passing year and the same financial distress, it’s harder to revive Hope. The road ahead seems truncated, paths of opportunity hidden by granite walls and malicious thorns. Have I got blinders on?
My first black hole of depression began in the 7th grade and lasted until my 17th year and a soul-reviving three months in Europe, exemplified by a Sunday afternoon sitting by the lakeside in Lausanne, Switzerland. I felt content. And, I knew that all was not lost. In subsequent years, I have often tapped into the way I felt in that moment and, somewhere inside (and it can be buried really, really deep), I know that whatever the current struggles, I emerged once, and I can again.
*
Part III, next post
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© 2011 Will I Ever Be a Bona Fide Grown-Up? Part II by Kat Ward.
Image via Wikipedia
written in 2008
I was 37 years old. It was late at night. The usually constant Hollywood sirens and traffic in my neighborhood had silenced. I was lying in my bed in my closet-sized bedroom which is cozy during our L.A. “winter,” but, with its negligible eastern-facing window, stifling in summer. I was experiencing an anxiety attack. Now, I had dropped out of college when I was in the middle of my junior year because my “issues” had so mushroomed and overwhelmed me that I couldn’t concentrate. I felt thoroughly disconnected from simple everyday life. I thought I could be losing my mind. I went to counseling determined to understand and overcome my depression and corral my anxiety. For the most part, I succeeded. Until this night, sixteen years later.
My husband of the time had stated rather matter-of-factly that he was pretty much over me and had moved in with a woman he’d recently met. I heard his words, wasn’t particularly surprised, thought I could handle it, and moved on with my life. Then, I began experiencing loss of focus, hours of inertia, a vacuum of motivation, and increasing moments of panic. The normally lovely ground was shifting beneath me. Hold the bedposts! (I have no bedposts!)
Then, I remembered my baby. A year old. Sleeping just down the hall in her crib. She needed me. She needed me to be her mother. To be a grown-up. To be able to nurture and love her, attend to her every need and raise her to be the best human being she could be. I had to be THE ONE.
I actually spoke aloud. You can’t have an anxiety attack. You can’t become disabled. This is simply not acceptable. And, with that, my symptoms disappeared. What, no wallowing? No falling into disarray and flailing for help? With those few words, that simple command—to myself—I snapped back into shape. In a Guiness-Book-of-Word-Records time. I couldn’t quite believe it, actually. I was impressed. I felt like an adult. I laughed out loud, then fell right to sleep.
It’s eleven years later, and I believe I’m a good mother. I feel confident in my ability to connect with my daughter and still be the parent who draws boundaries. We can get very silly; we feed off of each other’s goofiness and I get to laughing so much that my eyes are watering, I can hardly breathe and previously unheard noises erupt from my mouth so that I have to pull the car to the side of the road. We also get angry with each other, then sit, talk and hug our way back. I can remain silent because she wants to only vent (I visualize a nail through my lips holding them shut), yet when requested or when I feel very strongly, I can offer suggestions (max. 3) on how she might approach and resolve an issue. I tell her what option I would prefer that she choose, but say that she is now of the age where she must reflect and decide for herself. She must think about what type of person she wants to be. Toddlers and babies are reactionary and purely emotional beings; now, she must accept the task of actually thinking before she acts and it is up to her (not me) to start making decisions about how she is going to behave.
*
Part II, next post
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© 2011 Will I Ever Be a Bona Fide Grown-Up? Part I by Kat Ward.
