Spring Break Book Break
It’s a snowy spring break day here, with a cold wind and intermittent sunlight that isn’t doing any kind of job warming things up. The house was full of kids this morning, all of ours and Sarnia too. The girls were on a futon mattress on the living room floor and on the couch. I had to make two pans of scrambles eggs along with raisin toast and blueberry muffins to make everyone happy.
I just dropped the littles off with Christina and the older girls at the movies and Eddie is visiting with Adam, and so I snuck off to the used book store that is across the street from our old place in Clawson for a little alone time. Honestly, I was surprised to see the open sign lit up. Back in the day we always assumed it MUST be on the verge of failing. If Barnes & Noble couldn’t hack it, how did this dark little shop lined with dusty paperback (mostly romance) novels stay in business??
Not only is it open, but it has changed owners and ‘rebranded’ and is now called The Grey Wolfe Scriptorium. They accept credit cards (that was always a hurdle before) and there was music playing, and the whole vibe was friendly and open and youthful. Call me sentimental, but I almost started crying. To smell a good book store was FABULOUS.
They host all kinds of writing and reading events, book signings, writing contests and the like. I had assumed that this great little place was just going to disappear like so many CD shops and video stores. Instead, it has evolved into something more modern but just as wonderful and filled with hidden treasure.
They even still had my trade-in card, in the same old wooden drawer. But they put me ‘in the system’ so no one has to dig through the old notecards when Rosie and I bring in a batch of books we no longer want, and they honored the trade-in discount price. And they gave me a punch card where I can work my way up to a free paperback.
I’m making this place a regular stop now, just to stay a part of the community and to support the biz. Maybe I will even try one of their hosted writing nights.
Recovery
Well, I 100% chickened out. I memorized my monologue and recorded myself performing it, and it wasn’t even bad. I mean, not TOO bad. But the thought of having to go in front of people to perform it was paralyzing. I made it about halfway to Royal Oak and just kept driving north instead.
I’m at the bar, after a strong pep talk about how if I want to be a writer instead I need to buckle down and actually write regularly. So here I am. Writing. Drinking light beer. Thinking about how I have been unraveling.
I’m exhausted all the time, seeing everything through a fog, changing my clothes five times a day but not washing my hair. I compulsively clean the house, like inner peace is right under that layer of smashed crackers. I barely see my friends or anyone else. I can feel my furrow lines cementing between my brows. Clay skin hardening.
Instead of visiting potential daycares for Ari, I went to IKEA to buy silverware for Stephanie today. Steve is moving out and apparently he’s taking the flatware with him. I also picked up candles and plastic dishes for the kids, and some cable you stretch across the wall to hang pictures on. You know how that place is. It took up most of the usable day, until I had to do school pick ups.
But I’ve been putting off setting up daycare for a couple of weeks. Probably longer, actually. I don’t mean to. I just can’t focus. So everything is weirdly stagnant.
I feel haunted. Jordan is everywhere. He comments on everything I do, mopes around the house when we should be sleeping, laughs when the kids laugh. Teases Rosie when she acts silly. Maybe my grip on reality was never great and this assault on it is too jarring right now. I feel like I need help but I don’t know how to ask for it, or what it would be. The only thing that sounds comforting is quiet, time to reflect and focus. Consider things. Realign. My circumstances do not, unfortunately, allow for peace and quiet. Ha! Not right now. JD used to blend right into our hyperactive household so seamlessly. I miss my brother, man.
But I’m fairly certain I won’t see him again. I mean, I saw him there, contorted, so uncomfortable looking, I couldn’t wait for the ME’s to get there and just MOVE him already, lay the poor kid flat. How many hours was he stuck there like that? In that stink? Was he hoping someone would show up and help him at the end? Why didn’t he call me? Could he call? Did he realize this time was different?
It’s a loop, starting with that sleepless night. Hearing noises on the baby monitor, hearing a little boy talking down the hall. Rolling around in bed with stomach cramping like something was eating me from the inside. Right up to laying my hand on his stomach and feeling a room temperature body through that thin white t-shirt. I might forget everything else, but I will never forget how he felt under my hand.
How long is it before that loop quits? Or if it won’t, when will I be able to pull it together and focus regardless? Functioning at 60% will only keep life support going; this ship will never reach its destination point unless we repair the broken machinery.
CAPTAIN! FIGURE THIS SHIT OUT! WE ARE AIMLESSLY STAGGERING INTO THE NETHER REGIONS OF AN UNCHARTED UNIVERSE AND THE CREW IS TERRIFIED.
Charlie – The Start
The heat enhanced every feeling, but reduced clarity. And it was hot. The bare mattress, a surprising and wonderful find, was damp with sweat. At 15 floors up, a sympathetic breeze from the windows brushed her cheek now and then, but it was more of a tease than anything. She slowed her breathing and tried to focus.
Every other quarter inch of fabric in the mattress was silky. She ran her fingers back and forth over it, rough to silk, rough to silk, and repeated her name like a mantra in her head: Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
– and then a break to listen. After floor 10 the building was empty, from what she could tell. There were rats or something around that size on 11 or 12. Their primal, hungry urges were tickles at the edge of her mind. If she listened hard enough, she could hear even insects. But that took unnecessary effort.
A person was a substantial feeling. Especially Henry. He was 6’2” and meaty, and more importantly, almost always on the verge of rage. When Henry got close, it was like a fist gripping her whole body. He could be in the next room and her jaw would clench in anticipation of his arrival. But he didn’t feel things like she did, and so she had to antennae out her name so he could find her. Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
– and listen. The distant itching of the rats. The swaying and creaking of the building itself. Old (maybe 100 years?) Brick, cement, soaked full of the vitriol and heartache of hundreds of people. Also their happiness, and passion, but people were mostly shit. Take away those social mores and plastic smiles, and you’re left with raw human. Pretty much different colors of raw shit.
They had met in this same building before. It was cooler, and more full of people. Up the stairs she’d gone, floor after floor, each heavy brown door with its heavy steel handle at each landing an invitation to another set of misery. She’d gone up to 17. The swaying of the building was unmistakable. Through their entire conversation she was distracted, trying to figure out how the building would fall. Would it crumble beneath them in a heap so that they were only halfway buried? Would it topple sideways like dominoes?
– and then Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
And listen. Under her fingers, rough to silk, rough to silk, resist the urge to pinch them together, rough to silk. What a good find, this mattress. It wasn’t too gross. The nibbling & itching of the rats below. The maudlin, bitter feeling of the mattress and the walls around her if she listened too hard. This time would be the last time. She shifted to be more comfortable but only moved into a slightly cooler pools of sweat, which made it worse.
– Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
And there he was. Right into the front door, far below. She felt his hand grip the door frame, his foot stamp into dust and dirt on the first step of the stairway. For a moment she just listened and felt. He wasn’t alone, but that was ok. He had another man with him, about his size, but walking behind him. She could feel their silence. They walked quietly one floor up and she felt Henry’s hesitation as he listened for her.
– CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE 15
It felt like screaming at a child, but they started walking up again. She kept it up (CHARLIE 15 CHARLIE 15 CHARLIE 15) and waited, sprawled out on the mattress. It would take them a minute to get to her. She didn’t want Henry to doubt where to go, so best be loud. His buddy didn’t have any touch at all and didn’t hear a thing. Wasn’t there a way to improve your skills? There had to be a way to become more sensitive, exorcises for your brain to get at least a bit better at listening. What kind of person were you to not hear a thing when someone so close was screaming inside their head? Or was he blocking like a champ?
As they rounded the last corner on her floor she felt a bump, a jarring, brilliant bit of life, maybe two floors down. But right beneath her! Immediately beneath her!
She jumped from the mattress and took a squatting stance, one knee toward the pebbly floor. What was that?
And the door opened – that heavy brown door. Henry was 15 feet away from her, near what must have been the kitchenette when running water was still a thing, but she sank like he was pushing her down at her shoulders. For someone with such dark hair he had such light eyes, she thought, just like every time she saw him. She could see the silhouette of his friend in the hall behind him.
Charlie Charlie Charlie
Was he listening?
CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE
What was downstairs? Who was that?
She sank until her haunches were flat on the cheap linoleum and grit.
And Henry spoke.
My Brother
Nothing is as loud as grief. In your ears, in your mind’s eye, when you try to settle.
I love you. I miss you.
Rosie made this for you, because you asked her to, and you forgot to bring it home. Every second I look at it I just want you to hold it and have it. It is the kind of thing you would deeply treasure, it would never be just paper and wax.
You were more loved than you will ever get to know.
I love you.
Mia
She could see why Baby preferred Mia. It didn’t matter that Charlie wad the one that had found her, didn’t matter that without Charlie, Baby would undoubtedly be dead on Shuck Street, or, best case scenario be wandering the giant building’s halls living on food scraps and sleeping with feral dogs. It didn’t matter that Charlie had introduced her to Mia, cautiously, to protect her.
Within hours of meeting, Baby was trying to sit in Mia’s lap, curling tiny fingers around Mia’s thick black tendrils of hair with curiosity. Mia was instantly and without hesitation warm and motherly. Charlie was mesmerized by her transition into a cooing, baby-talking mommy, all smiles and shushes, delicately pulling Baby’s fine hairs out of her face. She could have sworn Mia’s breasts even grew into more voluptuous, and more comforting, as she snuggled Baby into them.
Drawing in a breath of cool air, she watched them sleep. The orange glow of the dying fire made both of their faces look flushed and young. Mia looked almost as sweet and tender as Baby. Maybe that was the kinship they had. Maybe Mia seemed so young that she felt like a sister.
Baby’s face puckered as she sucked her thumb in her sleep. A bead of drool collected under her protruded lip. Mia’s dark curls fell around both of their peaceful, sleeping faces. Charlie pulled the surplus jacket she had kept for herself tighter around her shoulders.
Had it been a month? The weather hadn’t changed much from hot days and warm nights, but the light hours were shrinking. In a month she had become almost an outsider from the two people she felt responsible for.
It would be getting cold soon. Unless they were further south than she thought. The landscape had turned from a dirty city scape into a trash strewn, barren landscape. They were following an old highway, but in some act of nonsensical vandalism, every sign had been removed. A few had been moved to the wrong location (thankfully it was obvious in each instance.)
And some days, particularly when Baby was cranky, they only made it what she guessed were a few miles. Other days it felt like they covered five times that, alternating carrying Baby every few hours. But as every day became more similar they all started to blur together. It was impossible to gauge how much ground they were covering, and at this point, she wasn’t even sure how much time had passed.
But they were headed in the right direction. The pull of The Compound was stronger every day. Mia swore she couldn’t feel it. But Charlie felt it like a swelling in her chest and throat, sometimes it made it hard to catch her breath. And she thought Baby could sense it too, in ways Mia didn’t notice. It seemed likely that Baby was modified like Charlie. She didn’t want to bring it up, but that would be an issue they would have to deal with as they drew closer to the border.
But for now, she was wrapped safely in Mia’s warm arms. Turning to the sky, she drifted into a restless sleep.
Better Parenting Through Humiliation
Well, I almost didn’t go tonight. Anxiety has been at an all time high this last week, for a few reasons, and I spent every moment today talking myself in and then out of dragging my chicken shit butt to this workshop. The roads have been terrible, I was tired, none of my clothes fit, my PMS is welling up like volcano erupting… And of course, did I really want to spend three waking hours drenched in adrenaline pumped, nervewracking, looking like an idiot in front of a bunch of strangers?
Ed and Rose were painfully encouraging, Eddie actually sitting on my bed and giving me a stern pep talk about how it was important to be around those more talented then we are because it urges us to challenge ourselves to do our best and get better. Rosie even gave me a ‘You’ll be great, mom. Here, take my fedora and sparkly scarf.’
In the end what I realized was simple: I have been forcing those two to confront uncomfortable situations and challenge themselves for years. If I didn’t go, they would know I was full of shit. They’d never let me live it down. And more importantly, they might take a cue from me and feel just slightly more comfortable bowing out of opportunities that weren’t easy or familiar.
At least when they flake out later in life, I can feel *slightly* less responsible. I’ll shake my head at them, clicking my tongue, reminding them of how brave I was when facing difficult situations. I’ll wipe away a year of pity and mutter that they must be lazy chickens because of their father. Not me. Such a shame.
Anyway, I went, and it was just as bad as I expected. For such a bold and boisterous lady, I turn into a trembling, red-faced, blubbering bag of incoherent mumbles when I’m in front of a crowd. If you took an awkward looking baby giraffe and taught it how to talk but also gave it a drinking problem/anxiety disorder, it would probably still remain more composed and coherent in front of a crowd. I was shaking so badly that I could barely take a sip of my water after I sat back down after doing an exercise.
Hugh is unfailingly supportive, so I have zero idea of how bad I actually am. My imagination promises me that I am painfully awful.
I’ve decided that this week I’m going to make the kids watch me perform improv skits and record me so I at least have some experience and a better idea of what I must look like whilst making a fool of myself. This should also enforce the idea that personal growth requires stepping out of one’s comfort zone. And I think I will be sufficiently uncomfortable in front of even a phone camera enough to emulate the workshop experience. And this is what they get for encouraging me. Now we ALL have to suffer.
Y’all need to pray for me. I have six more weeks of this.
The Chicken Within
Tonight was the Open House at The Actor’s Loft. I got to meet Hugh and hear about all of the workshops they offer, including the one Nick signed me up for as my Christmas gift, The Fundamentals of Acting.
All of the workshops sound amazing, and I’m so excited to start next week, but it quickly became apparent sitting there that I am going to be the biggest fish out of the most water. A whale in a desert.
The screenwriting workshop instructor (Charles) nearly had me salivating as he described the protagonist’s necessary journey through conflict and to glorious resolution that he would be helping the writers to understand. I was literally on the edge of my seat considering sinking my teeth into a good screenplay idea. It felt so natural to consider! My constant state is running storylines through my head for believability and appeal.
The improv workshop sounded fun and interesting and attainable. I know it was a million years ago, but as I described in a previous episode of aubreii.com, I took improv classes in my youth. And they were great. I like to think on my toes and bounce ideas off of a partner.
The actual Acting class sounds so foreign. It became obvious that it’s going to be all new to me. And I realized sitting there that I have an some major insecurities I’m going to have to deal with moving forward. Shall we list the things? We all know I like to list the things:
- I have the grace of a corpse when I am nervous. My mouth will keep doing the moving and spitting out of words. But my body will take on jerky movements not unlike those of a zombie from literally any zombie movie. You know what I’m describing.
- I like to think I’m not horribly unattractive. On film, this disillusionment becomes obvious. Whatever beauty or grace I *may* possess is due to skilled chin angling and proper hair swingimg during conversation. This illusion disappears the instant I’m on film. (Whenever I doubt this I let someone try to take a good picture of me. Their increasing frustration as they ‘adjust the angle’ and eventually angrily direct me to do smoky eyes and pout at the lens until they sigh, defeated, and say ‘look how white your teeth are, so… pretty’ is all I need to remind me to avoid the camera.) This class is all about working the camera, my old foe.
- I know nothing about ‘The Craft’
- There is A Craft
- I had no idea
- Guess I will be doing some homework
- I have no future in this stuff, at least not in the immediate. I have almost zero time to do anything. I know what a time requirement something like this is. My working availability is at ’20 seconds per bathroom break every six hour’s level right now.
So I guess the biggest actual fears are that I am wasting everyone’s time, and in doing so, I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.
Acknowledging this actually makes it seem far less scary than it did earlier.
I regularly look like and idiot AND waste people’s time. And the sun still rises every morning. So what is the worst that can happen ?
It’s Called ACTING
I have kind of been dreading coming here. Ugh ugh ugh to the feeling that I’m just waxing philosophical, mommy blogging myself into boring, pointless oblivion. But I guess that means my life is just boring. And I don’t post enough for this to be a ‘mommy blog’. Either way, this so far hasn’t been a ‘Lit’ (as Rosie would say) bit of the internet. OH WELL. Go away then.
June is finally walking with some confidence, and it’s great. She had a play date today with her friend Sydney and they played really well together. Unless he touched her water bottle. Gents be warned, this lady doesn’t share her water. She displayed the same pterodactyl-like screeching abilities as Ari as she defended it. Poor Sydney.
For Christmas, Nick got me Acting Lessons at the Actor’s Loft in Royal Oak. The last acting lessons I had were at the Civic Theater in Grand Rapids when I was still young enough to be dropped off by my mom. I honestly have no idea if I was 8 or 15. What I do remember is the rawness of being a fool in front of strangers, the freedom of needing confidence and finding it by being more brash, more loud than everyone else. The absolute glory of realizing I was maybe good.
And maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was having my Florence Foster Jenkins moment that surely we ALL must have at some point. Maybe the rest of my group was cringing and holding their breath until we separated so they could congratulate each other on their natural talent while that silly blond girl floundered like a fish out of water. That part is irrelevant.
What was important was how amazing it all FELT. Playing silly improv games and discovering ‘animal essence’ in this dusty, magical back room buried in the guts of the nearly 100-year-old theater, glowing ochre sunlight flooding the room, life had never felt more perfect.
I went on to get as involved in theater as I could in high school, and until the worst of what I can now easily call at least mild depression hit during my Junior year, I lived for those moments spent on stage. What a wonderful thing, for people to just enjoy watching you do something you absolutely loved. (Though now that I have lived on the other side of school performances, it is possible that very few of the people in the audience were enjoying anything.)
Life after school was a quick and hefty whirlwind of early marriage, babies, lots of work, moving, staying afloat, and for me, lots and lots of daydreaming and trying to write (my more accessible but questionably second passion). But I haven’t ever forgotten the draw of the damn theater.
The very last ‘acting’ anything I was involved in was the 48 Hour Film Project, and that was as a writer. It wasn’t nearly as fulfilling or interesting as any of my (very limited) acting experiences.
So we will see how this goes. I’m nervous and distracted with the rest of my crazy life. I can’t imagine trying to do anything like this for myself now. This is probably just an exercise in making myself look ridiculous.
But hey, I’ll have something to write about. So you can all quit complaining. 🙂
Spiders
I think spiders have been this year’s theme. We had our giant monster spider living on one entire half of the back deck for part of the summer, porch spiders that we watched torture like-sized bugs, and more than a few times I was called into the shower (by Eddie AND Rosie) to kill shower spiders. Yesterday I woke up at 3 a.m. to five swollen, itchy bites along my exposed thigh. If I hadn’t woke up and freaked out in the apropriate manner I would most likely have been eaten alive.
And that little bastard is still roaming around the house. Probably my bedroom. My live and let live philosophy is being tested. A. F.
Not that I have much choice in the matter. We’re talking about something the size of a quarter, at best. And we all know how well I keep track of money.
I want to vow to kill all of the little bastards mercilessly upon sight. But today in the bathroom there was a pale, unsuspecting and small specimen crawling underneath the vanity.
And I couldnt kill him. He just looked so innocent, doing his own thing.
He will probably attack again tonight. I hate being a sucker.
