Re-bloom

I had a really nice surprise today at work. My supervisor apologized to me. It's not something I'm used to, so the occasion really stood out.

Here's the scenario: we had to reorder some record boxes from storage. My job was to search for the box numbers in our database, E-mail them to my supervisor, and she would take it from there. So I did, and I checked it twice, sort of like Santa, but not.

Today, I was informed that I'd ordered the wrong boxes, a big faux pas, because to reorder boxes costs about $50 per box. Though confused, I was sure I had made the mistake out of sheer laziness and prepared to enter the classic area of self-punishment. Still, my supervisor wanted me to re-verify in the database, which I did. Much to our mutual surprise, the numbers were wrong in the database, hence the apology. Much to my greater surprise, the error was not my own.

Over the years, I've grown accustomed to accepting blame for a lot of things, whether or not I'm actually responsible for them. Since my memory of each step of a monotonous process isn't fantastic, I err on the side of criticism because I simply do not have the instant recollection to say with 100% conviction that the error was not my own. At that point, I jump on the criticism bandwagon and start berating my work, my work ethic, my memory, how I'll never really be a good employee, etc. It's basically a frenzy to assure myself that I'm not stupid, just lazy, but not lazy, just tired, but not tired, too stressed, which leads to a whole new surge of criticism and compounds the latter problem.

In the past year, these trains of thought have begun occurring less frequently, but when I do jump on one of them, it does start down a lot of the same tracks. I'm obsessed with assuring people that I'm not stupid, that I'm not lazy, that I'm not mean, that I'm not emotionally invested, that I'm not a writer, that I don't take part in the USC-UCLA rivalry, that I'm not attracted to anyone, that I'm not religious, that I'm not an atheist, that I'm not like a Californian, that I'm not like a Utahn, that I'm not like an American, that I'm not like an Earthling... Toot toot!

And so today, this simple sentence, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blame you," knocked me right off the train. The strange revelation that I did the job right reminded me of one thing that I am: thorough. To me, it was greater than a compliment, because it wasn't intended to be such and was thus devoid of all insincerity or social compulsion, just good manners. It boosted my confidence, and I'm ready to keep doing good work. I mean, hell, they've already extended my assignment by a month and a half, so I can't be that awful, right?

I came home at the end of the day, and found that all three buds on my orchid had bloomed. Most people throw away their orchids after the flowers wither, but I kept this one for a year, and now, it is beautiful again. There's one more thing I can do. I wonder what else is out there.

Easter Sunday

I can't remember what I did last Easter. I think I was staring at the screen, growling over my thesis and wishing I could be frolicking about like a bunny hopped up on chocolate creme eggs. Pun intended. Not being raised religious, Easter has pretty much been another time for presents and goodies, basically like Christmas and Halloween all in one (after all, the Easter Bunny scared the crap out of me). Fast forward a decade or so, and it's taken on new meanings, not the least of which being the end of my Lenten experiment.

I'll start with that first. How did my Lent go? Did I make it all forty days without processed sugar? No. What, Kyle? You caved? Not exactly. I had crazy nightmares about being duped into indulging in sugar, and I have a six-inch pile of deferred confections on my desk at work to prove it. Nonetheless, it is absolutely astonishing how sugary the American diet is. These were my three downfalls: salmon sprinkled with brown sugar, a chicken sausage flavored with maple syrup, and finally, and most diabolically, a piece of kettle corn deposited into my hand by a vendor at the Poppy Festival, and instinctively put into my mouth and chewed before I even realized what it was. Yikes, yikes, yikes.

Nonetheless, I learned a valuable lesson from this experience: that there is no pleasure in life that cannot be replaced by something better. Despite the onslaught of "I'm sorry," "You poor thing," "I could never do that," et cetera (notwithstanding the fact that this was my decision and not some punishment thrust upon me), I upped my fruit consumption, focused on improving the variety of my diet overall, and even starting to lose some of my sweet tooth. My gums have even stopped bleeding when I floss! TMI? Whatever! This is freaking awesome, and I have to call the bluff of anyone who says "I need my ___."

But aside from the physical aspect of things, the Easter holiday is based on the resurrection of Jesus and thus is a time for great celebration and hope for new life. This is an aspect I'd never associated with the holiday, so I decided I would go to a service today. Combining goals, I arranged to visit the Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine for a group meditation and service. Unfortunately, the website did not mention that the service would be canceled for the holiday and replaced by a much bigger, much earlier event. C'est la vie. Not to be daunted on this day of new life, I kept searching.

The temple garden, dedicated to religions of the world, is rightly hailed as one of the most beautiful in the state of California. Straight away, I found a lovely tiled bench on the lake shore, sat, and watched the fountain bubble, the turtles courting each other in the water, the ripples, the callas, and suddenly, the most miraculous thing happened: I was calm. The chaos that had filled my mind for the past few weeks was gone, replaced by that pair of turtles caressing each other's faces.

As I moved from the bench to the Windmill Chapel, I became aware of a new mentality. I felt free from the rush; I didn't have to go anywhere. I could just sit and listen. I could feel the air of bodies coming and going. I could hear their breathing. A woman entered behind me and began to talk but cut herself off. Normally, this sort of action in a quiet space would have irritated me disproportionally, but this time, I had only one question: What did she just discover that made her cut herself off? It's the sort of idea I'd entertained a few times before, but I'd never really felt before now that people can still discover, still wonder, if not about the same things that I wonder. It was the effect of the silence, stripping away the misanthropic cloud to remind me that I am among people, that I am one of them... that I belong with them.

As I left the chapel, feeling renewed, I reflected on that which truly fills me with wonder. Mist. Sunsets. Stars. Tears. And on thinking of them, the realization occurred to me that all the stress I'd put myself through, all the sacrifices I thought I was making for good, all the self-denial I'd made for the wrong reasons, did not matter. I did not have to do anything; the way I live my life is my choice. Then I came to understand the name of the place, and I left in peace on a bright Easter Sunday.

A Thousand Feet in the Air

Whew! Okay, I'm back after quite the hiatus. Where have I been, you ask? I've been face-down in the pages of a script. I received a follow-up E-mail from one of the Script List folks, basically asking me, "Dude, where's your script?" I decided it was time to stop putzing around and get the thing done.

And now, it's done! I sent in all 120 pages, rewritten to death and resurrection, this morning, and now, there is so much potential ahead. With this weight taken from my shoulders, I have leaped a thousand feet into the air, but it is important, on my way down, to find a place to land.

Writing a really great script requires a firm grasp on human emotion, something I struggle to understand on a daily basis. The way to reach the intense anger, joy, and sadness depicted in movies is foreign to me, owing to spending so much time isolated in my head. I can handle complex systems; I can create cultures down to the assistant to the middle shaman in charge of sprinkling shaved rodent hair over the heads of ceremonial dancers, but for the life of me, I cannot be satisfied with my characters' reactions. I can write "She YELLS" or "He breaks down," but I can never tell if the situations surrounding those short statements would, in the real world, elicit such responses. I have no gauge, and it's made writing an incredibly frustrating process.

Emotional people fascinate me. When I see someone cry or laugh out loud or really lay into someone, I'm almost paralyzed with wonder and sometimes end up having to give account for my staring. When friends are emotional, I struggle to relate, but being unable to do so, I resort to intellectualism. "Interesting" is a favorite, non-committal word. The roots of this are many, but the fact of the matter is, while I can feel emotion inwardly, my inability to express it outwardly, like those fascinating people I observe, is inhibiting me from getting my work to reach beyond the system and touch the heart of the reader.

I used to write scenes that made me want to cry, but I believe they were in prose. When I can get inside the character's head (my realm), it works, but in the screenplay format, where all is visual and audible, without scent, touch, or thought (which must be depicted visually on film), I'm stuck. I cannot convey the emotion as I want, nor can I get my readers to understand the emotional depth that I had envisioned. So, sticking with New Year's Resolutions, I've got to figure out how to open the bottle of tears and let the words flow out. This next script had better make someone react, or so help me, I will figure out how to express my annoyance off the page.