The 2015 Birthday Blog: The Constant, The Baymax, Amanda F'in Palmer, and Home

This entry started as a birthday blog, but since my birthday was Dec. 5 and it's now Dec. 30, I'll go ahead and make it a year-ender instead.

Let me tell you about the birthday blogs.

For several years in my mid-twenties I wrote detailed recaps of my year. They were often centered around key lyrics from a song. I posted them to MySpace, and I'm not sure of their intended audience. Though the entries are long gone from that sphere, I'm happy to report I saved all of my original ramblings as word documents. At least, I suppose I'm happy I did that. Reading back through them is almost like scanning through the meanderings of another person -- a lost soul in a parallel life. I wrote in codes, and found strange life details to be of great importance. But then, there was some wisdom mixed in, and it's in those moments I know the person who wrote them is me.

She said things like: 

"I've decided 27 should start off some place new; some place happier; some place not riddled with unfinished tasks, but with a sense of completion, closure and contentment. This longing for happiness is no longer a fancy, but a NEED. My hope is that with 27 will come a long-anticipated win for team Jamey, a long-lived goal finally within reach, and a long-awaited triumph will be what you'll be reading about this time next year."

and

"The difference between sitting next to someone you love and cuddling close to someone you don't is that with someone you love, you feel their love through that theatre seat, through a secret hand bump, an e-mail, a nose joust or a quick squeeze, and with someone you don't, well…it doesn't matter how tightly you hold on – it'll never be the same."

My first memory of 2015 was toasting, and then writing Star Wars in black Sharpie on the calendar for December. Star Wars: The Force Awakens, the constant (okay, except the date changed at some point, but whatever). It's everything in the middle of the year that was a grab bag of variables, a whirlwind of straw grasping and WTF. I think there's a part of me that's still coming to a conclusion in my mind, even though I know the results are absolutely correct.




Let me try to tie the 2015 procedure into a nice bow.

My goals for 2015, as written in late December of 2014:

1. I'm Going Home
2. Make You May Clap Productions an LLC
3. Finish "Clippings"
4. Submit "Clippings" to festivals
5. Write feature script, and hunt for grants/funding
6. Create short stop-motion art piece
7. Watch 15 past Oscar nominees
8. Celebrate 4 random holidays a month
9. Pay off a loan or a bill
10. Read 35 books

Also...

Draw more
Eat Organic
Work on collages
Blog more
Save money for a vacation in a savings jar

Of these, I completed 3, 4, 9, and got a pretty good start on 5. I managed to check off all of the "Also" items as well, which makes me wonder why the "Also" items weren't higher on the goal list. I only watched 7 past Oscar nominees, and finished reading a mere 10 books (11 if I can wrap up Trigger Warning in the next day).

Then again, I wrote a good number of webisodes for the I Didn't See That Coming web series, which may or may not see the light of day (we'll see) and knocked three (almost four) items off of my master list of "100 things to do in my life." Plus, there are a lot of awesome things that happened that weren't on any list.

Okay, let's face it, there is no nice bow. There's only this:

On Nov. 4 of 2015, I landed in Paducah, Kentucky, a place where two rivers meet and artist's come from all over the world to work. Who knew? It's full of antique shops, historic brick buildings, and around ever corner, another quirky object you may have missed the day before appears in the form of painted fire hydrants, giant Minions, bullfrogs, labyrinths. I felt like Alice wandering about in a funky Kentucky Wonderland. How did I get here? What am I doing? Who do I think I am? This is what crossed my mind as I explored this place, and watched my film screen in front of audiences full of strangers.



I pondered my own timeline, and knew that despite all of the changes in 2015, I would have been here, in Paducah, Kentucky regardless. Paducah, another constant. This trip was set in motion in June when I submitted my film "Clippings" to the River's Edge International Film Festival, and even before that when I made a master list of places to send it. I'd made a plan to follow it wherever it went this time. I squirreled away as much money as I could, and I waited to see where I would go.

Paducah, Kentucky -- halfway between a possum trot and a monkey's eyebrow. At least, that's what the postcards say.

Rewind. 

Shortly after finishing the final edit of "Clippings," Travis Duncan recommended a book to me, The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer, and I savored it. This book recommendation is one of the best gifts any one has ever given to me. I read, and re-read passages, I shut it when a story about her and Neil rocked my heart. By the time I finished it, I had a great new perspective on people, on asking, on collaboration, on art, on following your own path, on being true to yourself. It did something else too. It made me believe again in the one thing I'd let slide -- love. Not just the kind of semi-love and acceptance you settle for, because on paper it looks fine, and it'll do, but the kind people write about. The kind that had been staring me in the face, waiting for me to just jump... for too long.

The book changed my life, and a few months later, I was walking around Paducah, Kentucky like I was Amanda Fucking Palmer in Travis' coat talking to the ticket man on the American Queen Riverboat about his Shark Tank invention idea, and a balloon artist on my plane about her creations.

After I finished the book. I simply couldn't see anything the same way as I did before. Life cracked wide open, and for a month or so it felt like some weird mania, in which the universe kept sending signals involving Werner Herzog, the moon, Neil Gaiman, and rats. The rats! The rats!

I stood in the middle of a tornado, and hugged my Baymax plush, a gift from my boyfriend at the time, and Baymax asked me, "On a scale from 1 - 10 how would you rate your pain?" "It's pretty close to ten," I thought to myself. The Amanda Palmer story ran through my brain about the dog sitting on nails, unwilling to move. I was frozen like that dog, hugging Baymax, and unsure of my next play. "It doesn't hurt enough yet," I thought.

Then, one day, I went down to the monkey bars. I'd been swinging across them for weeks, training myself for something. I did a lap more than normal, and my blistered skin cracked wide open. I won't post the gory photo, but it hurt enough. I listened to the Blitzen Trapper song, "Love the Way You Walk Away," at least 30 times sitting at my kitchen table, my hands stinging and covered in bandages. I had no clue what to do or what would happen next -- only that, it hurt enough.

Rewind.

Earlier in the year, I did many things. My film, "Ten Past Two" screened at Denver Comic Con, and got a rave review from the programmer. I spoke on a disastrous panel, and heard the voice actors from Animaniacs sing some of my favorite tunes from the show. I also posed with a cosplayer in a Baymax suit, a highlight of the day. It was even enough to make me forget about yet another "normal" argument with said boyfriend at the time in a Larkburger.

Rewind.

A month earlier I finished editing my short film "Clippings." I didn't think I'd make my May 15 festival deadlines, but I worked my ass off, and believed I could do it, and then I did. I submitted it with a few minutes to spare. When I finished, I was elated, thrilled. I'd managed the impossible. I wanted to celebrate, but there was no celebration. There was a person in the other room who wouldn't speak to me, because I'd asked him kindly to wait twenty minutes so that I could submit my film in time. Exhausted, I went to bed, hugged Baymax close to me, and fell asleep. I'd celebrate with someone else in the morning.

Rewind to one of the greatest celebrations of the year.

In February, we sat in a hospital in Loveland waiting for the arrival of my beautiful niece, Riley. When I held her, my heart split wide open. Before she was born, she was just the idea of a niece. I didn't know what being an aunt would mean. As she cried her face out at me, though, that first day in the hospital, I knew we had many years of Riley telling her Aunt Jamey all about it. "I'll always listen to you, kid," I thought.

I always will.

Fast Forward. 

A few weeks ago, I danced with my nearly 10 month old niece to Christmas music. I brag about how adorable and brilliant she is to everyone who asks (or doesn't ask). I still don't know what I'm doing half the time as an aunt, but on Christmas Day, she crawled over to me with a big smile, and climbed onto my lap, and gave me a hug, and my day was complete.

Who knew?

Rewind. 

In late November, in a truck stop in New Mexico where Travis and I stopped for gas, my all-time favorite love song "I Cross my Heart," by George Strait started playing. I laughed as I told him how bizarre it was that the song was on, but he took my hand, and we danced in the hallway under a photo of a buffalo. Sounds from the game room mixed with George's crooning, and I tried not to cry. It was a ridiculously beautiful moment, and the funny thing is these ridiculously beautiful moments have become the norm.


Rewind to a countless number of these moments... in just a few months. 

Last year, as 33 approached, I was leery of it. I didn't know what it would bring. I was distrusting of the double 3's. At Thanksgiving dinner, though, it was brought to my attention that it was Larry Bird's jersey number. Maybe if I'd know that, I would have known that 33 was going to be great after all. But then, there's no way I could have ever seen any of this coming...

I went skiing  and sledding for the first time, and have a piece of art in a gallery show. What?

In 2015, I also celebrated first birthdays for two of my best friends beautiful kiddos, and feel honored to be called Aunt Jamey not just to Riley, but to Ethan as well. This birthday/New Year's blog wouldn't be complete without celebrating my friends who have always been there to catch and accept me. I tip my hat to you guys, always.

Let me tell you about item number one on my list of goals for 2015.

Ever since I can remember, I've been obsessed with this idea of "Home." Where is it? What is it? Who is it? Is it mountains? Is it Seattle? Is it the town where I grew up? Is it my friends? My family?

 "I'm going home," is a lyric in the song "Home" by Daughtry, and it's resonated with me since I first heard it something like 10 years ago. Home, despite any other inklings I have, has always meant Denver. I hear the song in the car, and my eyes well with tears. For 10 years, all I wanted in the world was to just... go home.

Life swerved around a bit, and I'm still not there. I thought this would be the year, but it hit me a few months ago that the goal would not be met. "Home" is going to have to wait a bit longer... and that's okay. Here's why:

On a short plane ride from Chicago to Paducah, Kentucky the song came across my iPod. I was staring out at the lights of Chicago thinking about how they go on and on and on, and suddenly it hit me that "the place where I belong" meant something new. I realized I'd met my goal after all. Home was never home, because I always needed something more...

On Christmas night after a great day with my family, I went to my "sort of family", and by request we watched Big Hero 6. I saw Baymax ask, "On a scale of 1-10 how would you rate your pain?" and I knew it didn't register very high, because to my left and right, I saw home. And then, we fired Nerf darts at walls and wrapping paper.

Star Wars: The Force Awakens. I've now seen it twice, and love it. I love it despite my original trepidation about it's potential to disappoint. It makes perfect sense that it's the constant.

In 2009, I wrote this:

"What you don’t know is where I’ll go next and what I’ll do there. But then, I don’t know that either. What we don’t know happens in 28. And the jury seems to think 28 will be great. I have to at least believe they’re right. I hope that you’ll do the same."

Two months into the year that was 28, I was offered a job at Pikes Peak Library District. My entire life changed for the better. I barely recognize the girl who wrote those old birthday blogs. Some people think I changed this year -- that I became a different person. They don't understand why I made the decisions I made. They think I screwed everything up. That's false. I'll agree about the change, though, but my argument (which, let's face it, is the only one that maters) is that all I did, was became the person I always was. I won't tie a bow around it, and tell you I did anything the best possible way, but I chose love, happiness, laughter, and adventure. That's the right thing to do. My heart opened back up to the world, in a whirlwind of intense joy and pain, and that's where we begin 34, and 2016.

Bring it!

A Moon to Moon Experience

somewhere,
between the
Blue Moon and the
Super Moon,
life exploded

a game of chance

in one wild revolution,
the phases voiced a challenge,
"Listen humans, to my signs,
for I am moon"

cards, once close to the chest
flew tornadic into the air
with gusto, fury,
diamonds, hearts, spades,
clubs, all in a swirl,
gaining momentum, hitting their mark,
making a play,
or,
landing silently on the Summer grass,
love notes lost to an egg timer's heavy hand

a fools game

well before her queenship
disappeared behind the sun,
eclipsing for 72 reddened minutes,
her smile extending
into an incandescent grin,
a sign, doomsayers claimed
to mark the end

she, whispered,
"hush, you're okay,
look up,
the sky, it's still there,
punctuated by
black and mauve, gold and sapphire,
all colors at once,
and clouds, so many clouds,"

the game closed

players shifted,
whirlwinds settled,
cards landed where
they're going to lie,

and as poker faces brush lips
with the moon,
the orb absorbs their power,
new love,
strong, poetic,
ripe and tomato red,
there's no question,
no answer,

in one wild moon to moon experience,
the game changed,
and not by chance

This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing: Of Autumn, gratitude, elephants, and webisodes

This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing.

I've given myself an hour to write this morning, and this isn't on the list. I'm supposed to be focusing on a new episode in the web series to bridge the gap between "old Emily" and "new Emily," when she meets "character name to be determined." I suppose this episode will fall somewhere among the "bad date" episodes, of which I could still use a few more good tales of "WTF?" (I'm going to start prodding a few of you). I suspect the meeting of "character name to be determined" will fall in line right before the "Two Punch," of which I need a better... "Punch Line," and by punch line, I don't mean a Kermit the Frog (It's Muppet Day) punchline. I mean, a line that will give reason for a "two punch." Yep. It's a thing. In any case, I'm not doing any of that, but now we're all clear on what I should do tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow, the first day of Autumn. It's the start of one of the best seasons. I don't need to list the ways -- we know. I'll probably ring it in with Trader Joe's Pumpkin O's on the balcony. What? I couldn't find them last year, but this year there they were, readily available and sending me a sign... to eat them. I read something the other day about the Equinox bringing not only balanced days and nights, but balance back to our lives as well. Before I knew any of this, I made the aforementioned list and morning writing plan (which, I'm cleverly avoiding right now) to bring back my own balance of sorts (not that it was that far off, mind you). This is all a little bit coincidental, but it doesn't surprise me. Autumnal balance. That's kind of poetic, and nice. I'll buy it.

On the subject of balance, yesterday was "World Gratitude Day." I didn't actually write down any gratitudes, because, to be honest, I'm just grateful for it all right now. The universe guided me into this perfect place, which I never could've imagined. It's a wonderful time. I'm just grateful that when I close my eyes, and open them again it's all still real.

Today, I opened my eyes to "Elephant Appreciation Day," which doesn't seem to have much to do with either gratitude or balance, except for now I'm seeing this weird image that I imagine I've seen before of an elephant on a scale outweighing whatever is on the other end. Something like this, I suppose.

I don't think this is really an appreciative image, but it really ties this blog entry together, doesn't it?

So... My coffee cup is empty. I probably need to make another pot. It's time for work. I probably need to water the tomatoes, and put on my jeans - probably, in reverse order. In other words, we're going to jump to the moral.

What's the moral? There's always a moral with me, isn't there? There's always an "ah-ha!" look what she thought up today memo... So here it is:

Go appreciate an elephant, you fools! :)

My Sophomore Yearbook, Waffles, Rum, and Syrup, or Why I Won't Edit My Life

A little over a week ago, I stopped at King Soopers on my way home. I was on a mission for Free Friday Izze Sparkling Water. (It was a thing). My friend Sandra was there. She gave me her free Izze, because she Izze awesome (mmhmm). Izze count, 2.

Now, here's where it gets weird. She also handed me my yearbook from sophomore year of High School. We don't know why she had it. We don't know how long she's had it. When I opened it, though, I knew I had something wonderful, because, there's this:

I don't know why I was dubbed "Waffle." I don't even remember Chad Whitefield. Who was he to me? We found his photo. He looks familiar, but we can't say exactly why. Isn't that strange? It's strange how certain memories get completely lost in time. It's strange that it would say waffle, because I love waffles now, but, I didn't love waffles then. I mean, I liked them, but the waffle love came later. Hey Chad Whitefield are you a time traveler? How did you know? Do you know about that Ed episode with the waffles too? Hey, Chad Whitefield if you ever read this, maybe you can explain yourself. 

Speaking of foodstuff:

Cheese Whiz? Huh.

That evening, I planned to go home, eat my eggs, pop open one of the aforementioned Izze drinks, and start writing something (anything), but once I cracked open this yearbook, I just had to read it through to the end. Okay, I mean, I didn't take in every word or examine all the photos, but I read everything everyone wrote to me. There was actually a scavenger hunt with notes like this:

It was completely fascinating, but I won't tell you how the hunt ends. I'm not even sure the ending justified the search, and if we're being honest, I actually saw the ending on accident before I was supposed to, which made the whole experience even more...

Perfect!

This yearbook felt like a grand finale to a strange quest through my past. I'm not sure what I was looking for there, but I spent a decent amount of time reading old journal entries -- scratching my head at, and nodding along with a former self. Who was this strange waffle lover, and how did she end up here, following a trail of Herzog, rats, moons, and monkey bars?

I found responses to Facebook games like the one below from April of 2009. Apparently, the goal was to complete the sentence prompts, and pass it on.

------------------------------------------

1. I am...about to watch "Chuck." :)
2. I wish...for that part-time library gig! 15 hours extra a week is a small price to pay for another paycheck!
3. I can't...sit still.
4. I know...where I belong.
5. I sense...a lucky streak.
6. I hate...holes in otherwise decent jeans.
7. I love...too much.
8. I feel...like waffles.
9. I wonder...why I always want a drink when I'm on call and can't have one?
10. I think...all the flippin' time.
11. I want...a magic wand and a never-ending bottle of syrup.
12. I hope...it's not too late.
13. I should...plug in my computer, the battery's low and I have A LOT of googling to do.
14. I have...a mystery to solve.
15. I see...Bella crawling into her over-sized giftbag to hide.

-----------------------------------------

2009 Jamey was a riot (or so I've heard), and 2009 Jamey was clearly obsessed with waffles. A never-ending bottle of syrup? That's really what I wanted more than anything in the world? I hope it's not too late to change that one.

Skip ahead.

In 2011, the world crashed down temporarily. To be honest, I'm not sure why it crashed down for the person it crashed down for, but it did. I can't change the story. It's what happened. The journal entries from this era went something like this: 

"Found the 4 a.m. miracle episode of Studio 60, drank a LOT of rum. Yuck! Sort of worked. I almost slept on the floor with the kittens, but it was too hard." 

"This was my lunch hour -- no that was yesterday. Today, I won a director's award at work for "Behind the Scenes." It felt amazing. I can't believe it. My heart rolled down hill about 2:30 p.m., but it was very positive until then. Wow!"

"I don't know what will happen now, but I'm trying out faith."

The five-year one line a day journal is a bit of a page-turner in the summer of 2011 (now known as the lost summer), that is, if you like reading about a 32-car pile-up that starts anew every other day. This, is where the head shake comes into play. I wish I could've stopped my past self, but I can't. I couldn't. I won't. I wouldn't.

There's a line from the T.V. show Lost that's hung around with me for years, "Whatever happened, happened."

That time is so integral to this time. The person I am now, the relationships that held up, and the development of this web series all go back to that. It sort of doesn't even matter why it happened. It's what happened next... 

Not too long ago, a friend brought up the idea of deleting all of the photos of a deceased relationship from Facebook, which is, as you know, where all things come into and out of existence. Without a second thought I said quite frankly, "No. I won't edit my life."

Whatever happened, happened. There's a beginning, a middle, sometimes a false ending, or a false start, and an end, but it all happened. If the middle had an advertisement, it would go something like this: "Come to this place, where the stuff and the things happen. Where the cookie is gooey, and the meat is medium well. Come see the middle of the journal, the middle of the yearbook with the scavenger hunt, the middle of the museum where the giant elephant stares out at you, and you wonder how it lived and how it died. Look at all this stuff in the middle.You there, don't skip over the middle."

"I won't edit my life."

But, after a bit more thought, I did edit my life. I deleted a great deal of photos. They're just pictures, after all, and I don't need them. Anyway, photos sort of lie sometimes, don't they? These did. The important part, the middle, is that I still went to the places I went, and did the things I did. That doesn't go away. I didn't delete that. I wouldn't. I won't. I couldn't. I can't. Whatever happened, happened.

For some reason I was called "Waffle." It happened. I don't know why it happened. I don't know if it was just a passing comment, or if there was a story behind it. It's lost (but not like the show).

Maybe the waffle legend doesn't matter, nor the incomprehensible cheese whiz, yet, they're sitting in a yearbook on my table in nearly 20-year-old handwriting, and they're glorious! At 33, I have no idea what they mean. I love that I have no idea what they mean. I love that I can't comprehend my 16-year-old self, or my 25-year-old self, or even my 29-year-old-self. I love that I shake my head, or laugh in agreement at this person who was me; this person who was "trying out faith."

Izze count, 1. Eggs, cooked and devoured. Writing, accomplished. Yearbook, read, and, you know what?

I do want a never-ending bottle of syrup, and the reason I won't edit my life is because all of that back there -- the good, the bad, the ugly, the sticky, the rum -- is what got me right here, when I donned a pink bandanna scarf to match the ones that dinged through in a photo on my phone on Friday night. Right here? Right here... Is everything.

Sit, or Stand, and Don't Hit the Snooze Button

We make a decision every single moment. Send/Delete. Ask/Don't ask. Walk/Don't walk. Speak/Remain silent. Eat the cake/Don't eat the cake. Taste test arugula/Don't taste test arugula. Go for one more monkey lap/Wimp out. Sit, or stand, but don't wobble.

Here's my general morning rundown: "Should I hit snooze? What will I risk if I do, or don't? I'm too tired to think about this."

*Button press

"Oh crap, I shouldn't have hit snooze!"

"What should I wear? Is it Wednesday? Do I have something happening today, in which I should look fancy... fancier... some what more presentable than a day in which I sit in a room by myself? Is it Friday? Sure, this'll do."

"Should I feed the animals, or make my coffee first? Should I drink this coffee, or wait a few minutes so it doesn't sear my tongue? Should I water the plants? Is it going to rain? Do I have time to check the weather? I shouldn't be checking Facebook now. I opened this stupid device to check the weather. Okay, great it's going to rain. Should I close the window? Should I have picked a long sleeve shirt? What if the forecast is wrong? Crap! This outfit doesn't match at all now. Hair up? Hair down? I have to go. Keys? Check."

"Wait, I forgot to feed the cats. Did I lock the door? Also, my coffee is still on the counter, so... I guess I have time to turn around. Plus, this long sleeve shirt is really hot, and I should probably change. What will happen if I'm late? Forget it."

*Turn around.

These decisions are small, menial, insignificant, and as long as in some randomized order coffee is made, cats are fed, snooze is averted (enough), clothes are on, plants are moisturized, and at some point resembling "on time" I'm on the road, all is well -- easy peasy.

In this case, there's time to sit, stand, and even wobble.

Generally, we find more of a gray space in decision making, though, don't we? It's a bit blurrier when something is actually at stake; it's tougher. The order matters. The results differ. The cause and effect can quickly spiral into something unintentional. Signals may get picked up by the wrong pigeon, and misdelivered. Fear of choosing the doom door freezes us to our seat, and we can't stand. When we do, we start to pace. It's really weird in the gray area.

I imagine it looks something like neurons firing in every direction at once, madly scouring for that perfect moment from the past where the answer sits, waiting. There has to be something back there -- a red alert, a breaking news light, a talking raven, an episode of Ed, a shred of evidence, a regretful misstep, or a success story --  to glean information from, interpret, and send back in the form of an action plan. This,"Ah-ha," this "voila!" is what, in the end flips the switch from black to white, so that with confidence you can say, "Because of this or that, this is the solution... or that."

It turns out the gray area is not gray at all. It's actually wild with color. It's every color all at once. It's paint splatter, and alphabet soup, and gasoline, and sparklers, and sprinklers hitting you in the face. That's why you can only stay in it for so long, right? It's too wacky in there; it's too intense. It's like a rave (or so, I imagine). It's like Animaniacs dancing in your brain wacking you with TNT hammers.

Don't linger in the gray area. Sit, or stand. Don't wobble.

The thing about making a decision is you actually don't know if you made the right one until it's already done. You just have to make the best call you can at the time; pull the cord, jump, cross your fingers, and hope. If you have to ask the question, you already know the answer. The answer is already there. The question, is the answer. Pick a path, any path. Choose your own adventure. Catch a train. Pop the bubble wrap. Do something... anything!

In 1999 I had a big mental drama about where to go to college -- stay close, or go far away. Study film? Study zoology? I pro/conned. I wrote an entire essay about "change" for a class assignment. (I'd like to dig that up). I asked everyone what I should do. Then, I left it to fate. I applied wherever I felt like, and I waited. In retrospect, I should've applied to more film schools. That's hindsight for you, sneaking up and poking you for being so dense. I digress.That's a completely different story.

Ultimately, I went to DU. I stayed close, and I studied film. The first couple of months were awful. I was certain it was a mistake. I'm a stickler for sticking it out, though, so I sat. I sat, and then one night I stood up and went out with some kids from class, and at the end of that quarter, I had two new friends. Two new friends, who still stand at my side 15 years later. (Okay, okay... so I already knew John from week one, but that's my Katy story, and I'm sticking to it). We met a soon-to-be college student a few weeks ago, who upon hearing how long we've been friends said, "Wow! I hope that happens to me." I hope it does.

I hope you all sit, until you can stand. I hope you pick a path, any path, and walk down it. Run, if you want. Do whatever you want really. Reach up and touch the leaves on the trees, look up at the clouds, jump over the sidewalk cracks, blast Paul Oakenfold's "Starry Eyed Surprise," and bob your head. No one is watching you. No one else is there. This is your path.

In the year 2000 I didn't know if I'd made the right decision, but I'd made one. I pulled the cord, and jumped, and in 2015, I wouldn't trade that decision for anything in the world. If Northwestern had said, "Okay!" I would've boarded a plane for Chicago. I would probably be sitting in an L.A. diner with one of my NHSI buddies, or maybe we would have lost touch during year one. There would be no Katy. There would be no John. There would be no Cindy. There would be no Ben. There would be no... Holy crap! I can't even go on with this, because it starts to get all Twilight Zone-esque.

*Exit the wormhole

The point is, we don't know. We don't know, and it doesn't matter. Whatever happened, happened. Whatever didn't happen, didn't. That's the way it works. You make a choice. You take the path. You listen to the universe if it talks to you. You listen to yourself if it doesn't.

There's not much time to waste in the gray area. There's no wobble. It's black and white. You make the best choice you can possibly make at the time, and then you jump. Type/Delete. Ask/Don't ask. Walk/Don't walk. Speak/Remain silent. Eat the cake/Don't eat the cake. Taste test arugula/Don't taste test arugula. Go for one more monkey lap/Wimp out. Sit, or stand.

Seriously, though... I shouldn't have hit snooze!

I'm sorry, but there's an ice cream truck coming, and...

It's 3:44 p.m. on a Friday. I have exactly 16 minutes before the free Friday frozen yogurt truck arrives at the apartment. (It's a thing!) It's been a really weird week you guys, and I've been stuck trying to decide what to write about for days.

I have a longer blog idea that may find it's way out next week, and a music essay that needs to be edited very soon. Music has been really important again lately, so it seems appropriate. That essay has been hiding for way too long. But, that's not today...

Today, I have some notes on my phone about monkey bars and nets and ropes and such. The notes go something like this:

"When falling: Reach for the strongest rope, swing, cross the monkey bars, and don't look for the net. The net is there. It's always there. Don't even worry about it, though, because you know it will always catch you. Reach for the rope."

So there's that, and now there are only three minutes until ice cream, and then... hopefully a new monkey bar monkey lap record, so...

Stay tuned.

Follow Up: Enter the Heron

Enter the heron. 

I forgot about the heron.

Yesterday, I was in the general (but not quite) vicinity of my park, so I stopped by for a loop, and there he was. He looked right at me several times, and I thought, "What are you trying to tell me you beautiful heron, you?" and he said... nothing, because heron's can't talk. (I know, I know, bad joke). Still, I heard him perfectly. 

 

My quick Googling (Binging, really, because it pays to Bing) tells me that the heron is a good omen -- a symbol of wisdom, patience, strength, prosperity. In summary: All that is right.

 

This blog link has some wonderful heron folklore. I may have to look these up in pretty picture book form soon. When you work at a library, this can be interpreted simply as, "Go downstairs."

 

After the heron (my next spy novel), I communed with this grasshopper.

 

 

He's a giant. King of the park grasshoppers, I assume. 

 

The grasshopper, as it so happens, symbolizes a leap of faith, moving forward, and also good luck. (Of frickin' course it does).

 

Incidentally, and as an aside, Ozma is temporarily transformed into an emerald grasshopper in L. Frank Baum's Ozma of Oz. This won't mean much to most people, but to me it seems relevant.

 

I don't think I imagine the grasshopper to look quite like this. But, here it is, the gospel truth, so...

 

I sort of thought that if I kept writing, I might make a point. Now I see that the point may be that there is no point. There is beauty to look at everywhere if you search for it, and I did, so it presented itself. Maybe the heron sent me his wisdom. Maybe the grasshopper told me to leap. Maybe they are all part of this grand serendipitous scheme that has been unwinding before me, or maybe they were just there to say, "Hi! Yo! Sup Jamey?" Connect the dots as you will. The symbols are amazing, and I love them, but they're also driving me mad. It's time for something solid.

Holy cow! Why are the grasshopper's boots on backwards? This is going on the wall next to my Herzog printout and my Scrubs poster.

Once Upon a Pond: Geese, Romanticism, and Go! Go!

This park is one of my favorite places in Colorado Springs. It's my Pooh Bear style thinking spot, and it has all sorts of beautifully strange memories attached to it.

I smile as I recall trips with my family to feed the ducks, a common outing when we were small. The pond seemed more immense then, the island more mysterious. The willows, though, are exactly the same. We always hoped the swan would be there. If we were really lucky it might be the black one. You know, I still keep bags of bread crusts in my freezer for just this water fowl purpose. I suppose I should go, huh? The last time I tried to feed them, though, there were only geese and... Well, we'll get to that.

I remember sitting on the grass many years later to study for the GRE. Then, when I had to shoot my first weather video, while working for KKTV (that's all they let me do for a while), I came here and watched the willows weep with the rain. (What? It's true!)

I've wandered here. I've searched for answers here. I shot a poetry film here for Price Strobridge's poem, "Prism." It went all the way to Vancouver. This place, that is my place went to Canada, and I stayed right here.

I didn't discover the sundial until a few years ago. I frickin' love this sundial. It reads: "Time Makes Love Go. Love Makes Time Go."

If you read it this way, though, it just says, "Go. Go." or, "Goog." 

The sundial isn't relevant to anything actually, except for I love it, and think it's enchanting, and I kind of want to visit it immediately. It's part of this poetic place, which I also love, and.... Goog!

Right so... The whole reason I'm writing this (sort of, maybe, I guess) is that a few years back, and well after I already knew about the sundial, I asked someone to meet me here. Raise your hand if you know this story? It's one right out of a movie. In fact it's the catalyst for this entire I Didn't See that Coming web series, and perhaps, my life as I know it... but, I digress.

I truly thought he would show. He had to, right? When you devise a grand scheme for a hopeless romantic, he always shows. 

Nope. Not this time.

In my line-a-day journal I wrote: "I went out on a crazy limb and told ______ to meet me at the park. I had coffee, cake, crappy poetry, and a lot of humility. He didn't show..." 

*Insert Collective "Awwwww."

No you guys. It's fine. Really. This was a long time ago. This was once upon a time. This is just the story about the pond. I don't think he was ever supposed to show. I'm glad he didn't. I'm actually really glad he didn't, because everything that came after is 500 times better than what may have happened had he walked around that bend. Sometimes I don't even think I should be writing this one, which is dumb, because as noted, I was the only one there, which makes it my story to tell or not tell if I want to. There's a bit more to the end, but I'll save that for the episode. 

I will say that I got chased by some geese, and the willow wept. Never feed geese. Just don't.

The webisode's been really hard to edit into a second draft. It's not that it's painful to go back there. In fact, I have no problem going to this place, or describing it, or even writing about it now. It's really the monologue in my main character's head that I keep writing and re-writing, and writing again, and then deleting. It'll come... Maybe it just did.

I think I left something behind that day at the pond -- a little bit of romanticism, perhaps. Maybe I need to go and get it, or maybe it found me again on its own. I don't know, but I bet my sundial does.

So... I wonder what the aforementioned crappy poetry was? I don't think I want to know, but am simultaneously curious. I'd forgotten that part until I read the journal entry again today.

Goog!

#Hashtag Does Exist: #ShesLikeACourtReporter - A Poem of Hashtags, Because... The Moon

So...  I wrote this based on a Friday evening of bar conversation hashtags created while watching my friends Travis Duncan & Jeremiah Walter (The Rogue Spirits) perform.

While writing, I questioned whether it was the best use of my time, but then decided, "Oh, it's all a crazy process anyway! What the heck!" So... Enjoy! (or something)

#ShesLikeACourtReporter

#YoJoe,
#YouCanOnlyYOLOOnce,
the #BlueMoonIsALie and #ThatsWhereWereAt,
#ThereIsNoSadface #SiriSaidSo, so,
#BackToTheCats

#HowDidIHashtagAirport?
#CanSuperheroesDanceInCapes?
#OutCrazyDonaldTrump?
#OutCrazyCharlieSheen?

This is all #Nonsense,
it doesn't belong on Facebook,
it should be on Twitter.

It is on Twitter. #ShowMeTheThankYouFace

#YoJoe,
#NowIHaveGarlicBreath, so #NoVamps,
Hey, #YouNeverBringTheSaw
#ThisIsntTheSongIThoughtItWas

Please, #KeepSayingWeirdShit

#GoogleUnicorn #Outstriment #Unstriment #Outty #Inny #Unny?
#PianoWhisk #WhiskItGood #TheresSoMuchCake #FingerFoodRestaurauntReviews

#Hashtag does exist

#TheShrugWasTrue

#YoJoe, #TwittersYourWingman,
#CauseItsABird but,
#TheMoonLies and
#ThisIsntTheSongIThoughtItWas,
#SadCymbal

#DefineMyEmotion #OnTheHouse #:) #:( #ThereIsNoSadface,
#SiriSaidSo

Oh, #SloppyJoe, #HaveYouHadEnoughYet? #YouOnlyYOLOOnce

Please, just #KeepSayingWeirdShit

#SoItWasntJustJeremiahDancing!
#JazzHands! #AndWeFoundedAGleeClub,
#WhatSongIsThisOne?
#WhatOne?
#ThisOne

YoJoe,
#TheBlueMoonIsALie and #ImNotFeelingCleverImFeelingMad,
#JameyAaaaaa,
#IAmFirstInThePhonebook,
#TheLadyWithTheChair,
#WorthIt

#AndTheCakeHasBeenStolen

Please, #KeepSayingWeirdShit

#WhatSongIsThisOne?
It #NeedsAWhistleChorus and
#ConcertinaEnFuego,
but #UkuleleMusicMakesABadDayGood,
it's a #FleaJumper

#TheMoonLies #ThereIsNoSadface,
#SiriSaysSo,
#SadFaceIsConfusedFace so,
#IDontThinkICanComeToOneOfTheseAgain,
#WhatOne?
#ThisOne
#IsThatOneWord?

#YoJoe,
#TravisIsGoingToSwitchUnstrimments and #WereGonnaFillTheInternetWithAllTheNonsense, so please, #KeepSayingWeirdShit #ItsGarlicyGood

#AsManyCatsAsICanWear
#FrownyPoop
#ItsAlwaysGoingToBeABigManInALittleJacket
#Unny? #Inny? #Outty?
and #ThatsWhereWereAt

#DefineMyEmotion #ThereIsNoSadface,
#JameyAaaaa,
#WhiskItGood,
#TheBlueMoonIsALie,

#AndPrint.
#AndPrince?

#AndPrince.

Please, #KeepSayingWeirdShit
#ButIAlreadyAndPrincedIt!

#FUMoon
#NeedsAWhistleChorus,
and #ThatsWhereWereAt

#AndPrince.

----------------

I finished another poem yesterday too -- a throat bubbly one. Its really beautiful, but it doesn't belong here. It belongs in someone's pocket. I'll share it one day maybe, or I may hand it over for the correct password. (Ha!)

The Rats! The Rats! How Mac & Meyer Took to the Hallway

This week I conducted an experiment with rats. It's fine. They're plastic.

I acquired them through a random act of curiosity connected to a running gag related to this video, part of a longer documentary, Frozen to Death on Pikes Peak, which I helped produce several moons ago. "The Rats! The Rats!"



Having only a vague notion of what would happen, I set one plastic rat in the hallway, and later two -- to spice up the day, you know.

They were ignored, laughed at, questioned, and stepped on like guitar pedals (nice one Sean). Did I mention they squeak? At the end of day one, my co-worker friend Danny named them Mac and Meyer. It was also noted they would look more like real rats if I sprayed them gray. I considered giving one pink spots at this point, but it almost seemed like plastic animal cruelty.

This is Mac. I forgot to take a picture of him in the hallway, so now he's posing on my table. Surprisingly, no cat has attacked him yet -- maybe if he was gray?

Meyer has wandered off. He sat in the hallway for a couple of days with Mac before going into hiding. I'm kind of happy that when Meyer disappeared people noticed. "Where's the other rat?" "Did someone wander off with the second rat?" "Oh that's sad. Someone took the rat." "Where'd he go?"

Don't worry, I know exactly where he crawled off to (unless he moves *shudder).

As the week scurried along, the rats caused a lot of laughs from passersby, many questions of "Why is there a rat in the hallway?" (always directed at me like I knew *shrug), one giant "WHOA!" one "I thought that was real for a second!" a small gasp that I missed, one "I love the rats!" one kick, and an ongoing step on the rat to make it squeak game.

I consider this a successful experiment. I accidentally made a lot of people smile this week through a couple goofy red-eyed rats, and that's kind of cool.

I think the best part, though, is there was no planning -- no forethought or hindsight. I just picked up the rat, and set it in the hall to see what would happen, and then I did it again the next day, and the next, and the next. Maybe it was a rebellion against my own mind's tendency to think everything through thoroughly. Should I do this? Should I not? Should I just sit on this idea for a bit until it tastes a bit more like stew? There was none of that. There were only rats. My shrugs were true. I have no idea why the rats were in the hallway.

I didn't really think I'd write an entire entry about rats when this week began. I wasn't even sure I could when I first said I would. There are many more pressing issues bubbling down in my throat, words that aren't forming into sentences very well. Items that don't fit nicely onto a checklist. Questions, whose answers I know, but keep asking, because they aren't like hallway rats, and you can't just throw them out there and see what happens. Well, I mean, you can... but...

On a side note: I made a Blue Moon playlist on Spotify (like you do) and songs with the word "moon" in the title are all generally good -- no rats among them yet. Maybe I'll share my favorites (new and old) in my next entry, or maybe I'll just write about plastic rats again. It's really hard to say.

#TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter

Today, I logged in for my bi-daily tweet. I've been trying really hard to embrace the Twitter Twattle, and well.. some days are better than others.

Today, as it happens, was a good day. I was excited to see a trend of ACTUAL interest. Apparently, writers of all sort were bonding over the topic #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter

It was actually the number one trend before #CecilTheLion stepped in. Here's a non-explanatory explanatory article on the topic.

http://time.com/3975448/things-not-to-say-to-writers-hashtag/?xid=tcoshare

Despite the voices in my head screaming, "You're not a writer. You're a fraud!" I decided to make my own list of #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter Yes, @amandapalmer the Fraud Police are after me too! I think they hide under my fingernails or something.

#HeresMyList

1. Are you working on anything?
2. Next, you should write a script with a female lead.
3. How do you find the time?
4. I have a great idea for you.
5. No offense, we thought you were a man.
6. I don't read.
7. Remember me when you get famous.
8. What were you on when you wrote that?
9. So, like are you going to try to sell that script? Or what will you do with it?
10. Good Job!

Voila! #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter

What are yours?

Next Time: Hear about an impromptu plastic rat experiment created to "spice up the day."

A Series Reborn: Door Number Three, Dwight, and the Symbols

It's a funny thing -- writing fictional tales based on truths. It's a blurry line, shaky ground. It's door number three.

The true stories oftentimes are funny enough, but the truth in writing, on film, online, has to be just a little bit funnier. It has to have a punchline. In some cases, a two punchline. (Don't worry, that'll make sense later, but not later today. Unless, you already get it, then it's probably hilarious). The truth starts to bend as you make it funnier, and you kind of ask yourself why the heck you're doing this anyway. I mean, what's the point Dink? (see what I did there). Why am I doing this? Why play around with real stories, when I'd do just as well letting sleeping memories lie?

Lies. It's all lies anyway. I mean, I'm editing what will likely be episode three in the web series, I Didn't See That Coming, and there's a story about a river rock. The conversation happened. It was real. In the series, the conversation is with a made up character, though. She doesn't exist, She's just Tracy, friend (I guess) of Emily, the main character and a made up and probably cooler version of me. The whole time as I'm writing this, though, I'm thinking, "I know who I had this real conversation with, and that's kind of weird."

It's weird, right? I mean I know comedy writers do this all the time. That's what makes their shticks funny. It's funny when we know that this crazy character or that one could be our friend, our spouse, our ex, our imaginary hot coffee shop guy, or the loon next door. It's only funny, because we all have a Dwight Schrute in our own office, and he too may accept faxes from the future (I doubt there'll be faxing the future). I guess the answer to my great big why, is because life is funny, really funny. I mean, look around, it's frickin' hilarious. I make a note in my phone or my notepad about an idea for an episode in this series almost everyday. "That's going in the notes," I proclaim! (truth).

Anyway, back to the river rock. I only remember a sliver of the conversation. It was four years ago. I don't know anything, but the premise. There's a good chance I've partially imagined in my head who was there listening. I have no idea what the real response was, but I think he found it funny. He may not remember the interaction at all. That makes the memory mine and mine alone, and leaves me free to write about it. See, all that matters is that there was a conversation about a rock, and it was funny, and more importantly has the ability to be funnier.

The past is weird. Our brains are weird. Symbols are weird. Cymbals are weird. I need more coffee.



Attention!

Do you believe in time travel?

So about the aforementioned time travel...



and also...



furthermore...



but, seriously...



That is all.

A Series Reborn: The Ukulele, Maya Angelou, and That Poor Dummy

Hello and welcome back to this blog's original purpose. I've used and abused it for many missions in the last few years -- a poetry dropbox, a shameless self-promotional hub, a keeper of random monthly goals (met and unmet). However, I originally developed it as a partner piece for a web series. You know, that webisode link on the blog that doesn't go anywhere? Someday soon you might find out what that's about.

Someday soon is now.

Today, I began the great task of setting about adding, deleting, rearranging, and all-around re-examining the first several episodes of the series, which I drafted out earlier this year. Who are the major players? Who is made up, and who is real? Who gets to stay and who gets the boot? Are there two people who are really only one? Who gets to keep their real name (Office-style) and who gets a stage persona?

Then, there's that nagging question... How do I deal with the pilot having such a different tone then the rest of the series? I decided to go back to the origin of it. Where did the phrase, "I didn't see that coming," come from? Why did I say it that very first time? What was the joke? Why was it the punchline? Quickly, I realized it's something I said long before it seemed like a good title for a blog or a series. Maybe it doesn't matter at what point it became a tagline.... a title... a life mission... But, everything matters, right?

So, I entered my time-travel machine (aka the loo), and tried to recall those first few running gags that launched the gears into motion...



Yep.

Now (until otherwise corrected) I'm pretty sure it actually began in what is currently labeled "Episode 4: The Theme Song." This episode is inspired by a strange day when my friend Travis Duncan started playing "Don't Stop Believin'" on a ukulele he whipped out from under (or to the side of) his desk. I don't know if it was before or after the song that I exclaimed, "I didn't see that coming!" (though, I know I said it after). All I know is that has to be the moment when the light bulb blinked wildly and I shouted -- too loudly for an office setting -- "That's it! That's the title! That's it by Jove!" Well... Maybe I never said, "By Jove!" I'm putting the rest in print, though.

So, that said, Episode 4 is now going to be episode 1, because starting on the downer scene has, from the start, felt like the wrong thing, and who wants to do the wrong thing.

Now about Maya Angelou...

As soon as I knew episode one would be episode two, I also knew its monologue would need another re-write. I instantly got that quote in my head that goes something like: "You've got to know where you come from in order to know where you're going." I looked up it's source, and got quite a few dead ends. I love the phrase, "Cannot be attributed to any one person." Okay... So, I tried another search with only part of the quote, and turned up this one:

"I have great respect for the past. If you don't know where you've come from, you don't know where you're going. I have respect for the past, but I'm a person of the moment. I'm here, and I do my best to be completely centered at the place I'm at, then I go forward to the next place." - Maya Angelou

Then, I went about verifying that it was really Maya Angelou who said this, and not Abraham Lincoln, Yogi Berra, or the Irish Proverbs. Along the way I found this lovely list of her quotes, some of which may not be verified, but that doesn't make them any less lovely. This is one of my favorites. Also, I read the story that contains it, so I know it's real.

Next, I found this interview with Maya from the Arizona Republic, in which, the aforementioned quote is included. Good news!

But wait... 

Here's the "I didn't see that coming" part of the story. The part that really gives you insight into my life and process... 

Shortly after I posted the list of Maya Angelou quotes to my Facebook page, my pal Michael T. Scott (look at his animations on YouTube) shared a Maya Angelou video with me.

http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/maya-angelou-for-froot-loops/n10940

Okay, so it's not exactly Maya, is it? If I had been eating Fruit Loops, while watching it, though, they may have shot out of my nose, into my coffee, and Michael would have gotten a virtual two punch. Close call. Incidentally, there are also too others just like this only for Pennzoil and Butterfinger. Which is your favorite?

Oh, and about that Dummy...

Go ahead and ask Michael about this. I told him I was going to steal it from his page to add to my blog, and he shot back with, "You can't steal something no one wants." 

Happy Sunday everyone! Be sure to follow the blog, because I plan to frequent it quite a bit more often! :)

Cheers,

Jamey