To blog or not to blog

I started this blog February 4th, 2005 when my awesome Mom started hers. She wrote poetically about her daily struggles recovering from cancer, and I wrote about blundering through caregiving, dating, film school, and my own recovery post head injury from a car accident with a drunk driver in 1995. 

You'll notice there are years of daily posts here. Then an attempt at being less confessional. Then a reincarnation as a lifestyle blog that points out impersonal trinkets. Followed by a sprawling capitalist mess shilling for you and the bizarro world of horror-lovers to view my poor misunderstood feature film that very few people grok. Outside of 70s-cinema lovin' Hollywood intellectual bohemians, the actual Masters of Horror, and some really nice fundamental Christians (When I go niche, I go DEEP NICHE baby. Oh wait, you're NOT supposed to go that niche? You're supposed to find 1000 True Fans, not 100 True Fans? Well fuck me with a chainsaw!).

No no, I swear I'm not doing one of those narcissistic posts where I say I'm never going to blog again as a Tinkerbell clap trap to make you all dance like monkeys to bring me back to life (Though *if* I were a Narcissist (which Dr. Olcese says I can't be since I'm capable of asking that question), you all know I came by it naturally through half my designer genes, n'est-ce pas?).

See??? THAT is why I need to start blogging again. The above paragraphs? CRAPTASTIC writing. I was the most productive and gooder at ze ol' clackety ckack when I was putting in my WGA-prescribed Stream of Consciousness Hour a Day right here at my stupid lil blog. And that discipline naturally overflowed into writing the (unproduced) feature screenplay PISTOLERAS that I still think could save thousands of kids from sex slavery. So that cause and effect alone is cause enough to pause and think deep thoughts with Jack Handey on a daily basis.

But the negatives are like whoa. Violent soul-ripping out of your body junk. Some of it from innocuous stuff that exposes your friends' neuroses. Some of it so deserved that I'll be coming back reincarnated as a snail next life (the first year of true confessional blogging has a steep learning curve that will cost you family members and lifetime friends).

Dealing with feeling the petty envy of watching blogging friends get book deals and paying jobs and Hollywood careers and big blog audiences that financially sustained them. Getting to a Taoist point of not caring about not having that and just focusing on the joy of creating. Wondering then if I'm talking to myself, why exactly am I bothering? The tree is still falling. For whom am I recording the fall? Alien ancestors? And why did I have so many pictures of myself up on my own blog? Ewwww. How desperate am I? You guys are right. I hate me, too.

Getting a readership and having that first high of validation and communication with peers. The fall when they turned. Followed by driving most of the readers away when the snarky wannabe screenwriters kept attacking the underdog, exhausted caregivers. Zeus I can't abide bullies.

Then there's the really evil stuff. My close friends would snort at me typing "I try to focus on the positive", but unfortunately guess what? When you open up a vein and publish your fucking diary on the web, your close friends aren't the ones who come daily to lap up the blood. Nope. It's the two stalkers with autoerotomania escalating towards violence. That cunt hiding behind the mask of feminism who actually has Narcissistic Personality Disorder and IS going to die alone and broke.

Meeting heroes in the film industry as colleagues and learning they really think women are only good for putting their dicks in. Not finding a place as a writer in the boys club of the comic world. Losing boyfriends by not writing or writing about them.

Or the biggest kick in the gut: discovering the pervasive Female on Female Violence that is the real reason women don't have equality in Hollywood, and by extension the world. My close friends REALLY want me to make a documentary about my interesting thoughts about mean girls and the Cavewoman inside us all and how we're the problem not the solution. To which I say, fuck you, YOU go make a documentary. I want to get PAID to do the Wild Thing. Grumble. I've got at least $250,000 I've invested in this hobby over the past 25 years. It would be nice to get ONE PAYCHECK. Just one. So my dead grandparents can stop thinking I'm an indulgent asshat.

Have I told you about how I stopped looking at the search words for how strangers found my blog because it made me want to throw up my spirit? Or how friends of mine have had their photos downloaded, then uploaded to the internet with cum on them? Or how my attempt to raise money for my lead actresses' prosthetic hand after a horrible accident turned into thousands of perverts coming HERE to jack off, then stealing her photos and posting them to a porn fetish website? I tried to buy her a hand and I broke her heart.

Like, what can I ever do to make up for any of that? Or forget it? And this is the nonpersonal stuff that's been going on in my life, not even getting into the "how'd I get so old and fat and yeah, I'm really really old and why am I still attracted to twenty-five year olds what's wrong with me" bullshit. No, this is the stuff I brought upon myself by trying to make a difference.

So yeah, I've been in a man-cave minus the man. There's definitely a feeling of "If I never TAKE a step, then I have a small carbon footprint...right??? It's not my childhood ambition of Avengers Assembling to save the world, but it also means I can't accidentally be on the VILLAINS' side, right??? I'm not fucking ULTRON'S pawn, at least. Right, universe? Hello? Universe, are you there...?

I didn't know what to do. So I threw down the gauntlet last week. I yelled at my mom. I'm not proud. The natural course of losing your way spiritually means I haven't been feeling her or talking to her. Ruminating on all the ways I could have been a better daughter. So last Friday I gave her the ol' "HEY. I know you're there. Why aren't you DOING anything? And what the fuck am I supposed to be doing, because I'm so far below the poverty line hitting it is my vision board GOAL for the year. And I don't know what the hell I'M supposed to be doing, and I think the universe is screaming give up and go live in the desert away from humans and stream Netflix movies all day. (Which is ALSO now evil and corporate; What The FUCK, Netflix??? Where's your indie street cred NOW, after you've singlehandedly brought down the film industry???).

So Barbara...Bitch TELL ME SOMETHING!" And she did. I got a Big Fishie. A big juicy undeniable one that involved my sister, my gradeschool best friend Jen, and some closeted activist Deep Throat old school Hollywood insiders. Barbara laid this Fishie in deep. There's personal nods going back twenty-seven years ago with Jen, twenty years ago with Brenda, and twelve years ago with Mom. A trio of ladies I couldn't love more, all of whom share a deep passion for the underdog. Each one of whom I shared memorable affinity moments with while watching the amazing film work by one person. A Hollywood figurehead who is the Fishie and may or may not have even been the fishmonger with the help of his awesome fishwife. Doesn't actually matter if I ever know how it went down or who delivered the fishie. I know there's someone out there trying to do good in this fucked up world who thinks I'm doing some good work and found me and my family because of this blog.

That is good enough for me. I got the message. "BLOG, BITCH." As you wish, mom.

Oh mom? I got your other message, too. The one that meant "Don't accept yesterday's high bid even though it could buy you groceries. You're keeping your last piece of Avengers art."

Today would have been Mom's 70th b-day

Probably would have celebrated at Lawry's Steakhouse or Tokyo Delves. And Gospel Sunday Brunch tomorrow.

Please don't smoke, my friends!! I want more time with you...

A meaningful life is not a popularity contest

"You are not on the earth to be shut up, and you are not on the earth to be shut down."

A great four-minute pep talk about why what other people think of you is none of your business, courtesy of Marianne Williamson.

Marianne and The Course of Miracles was a favorite of Mom's. I can't believe how young the lady looks; I've known her teachings all my life.

"You are not born to be at the effect of lovelessness, in other people or in yourself."

Welcome Courtney Mortimar!

The latest California lottery commercial prominently features our old house...the one Mom lived in happily her last year here in LA. Big bro has a nice blog entry about it, as well as the commercial.

Newest fishie

Haven't heard from Mom since last October. Was just starting to feel pissy about not getting a fishy, when I had lunch with Cindy Baer on Monday. Cindy of this fishy from 2007. We were leaving the restaurant and she said "Look! there's a ladybug on your hand!" Well, of course ladybugs were a special thing with me and mom. Cindy reached into my purse for my camera to try to get proof for y'all but the ladybug flew away.

ladybug logo credit

Lung cancer is the #1 cancer killer

Thanks to all of my friends who came out Sunday to support the Free to Breathe Lung Cancer awareness race. It was amazing! My Sister Brenda did a great job of organizing. It's always hard to start a new fundraiser, and this one was extremely successful. Even made it onto the news! Next year will be even bigger!

It was a very emotional day. Seeing all the caretakers and survivors, hearing the stories, wondering why mom wasn't a survivor there in a green shirt...

And it was very nice to meet those of you who recognized me as Kid Sis. I feel like I know you, too.

The website is accepting donations until November 15th, so forego a Starbucks or two and support medical research for the tragically taboo, #1 cancer killer of men and women...1 in 12 will get it in their lifetimes. :(

http://www.active.com/donate/freetobreathela








Thanks to Team Commune for representing! It meant the world to me.

And a special shout-out to my brave friends who have been caretakers...I'm blessed to have you in my life, as are your loved ones. Valencia, Dave, Dave, Melinda, Melissa, Charlie, Amanda, Joe, Andrew, so many more...

Les Poissons

Tres Fishies in less than 24 hours.

I lamented last night to my good friend Cindy that I hadn't had a Fishy or felt connected to mom in at least 6 months. (not counting the 2 Fishies that told me to have that hot-vacation-sacredsex last month, because, well, mom was kind of a tart in her day so I expect to still hear THAT message from time to time, since she disapproved that I'm such a goodie goodie...)

A couple minutes after telling Cindy I've not heard from Mom and feel disconnected, I asked her about the progress on our "Hollywood Reporter" listing. We go into production on the feature film "The Commune" in less than two weeks, and super-busy Cindy was taking care of that paperwork for Heidi and me. The last change had been to add Mom as the Executive Producer, since we're using my inheritance. Which still makes Heidi and me cry every time.

I said "Did you turn in the paperwork before I asked to make Mom the EP?" and Cindy started to answer, but was cut off by a weird EMF. So I asked again, and as she answered she was cut off AGAIN. And then I realized...We were both in our respective homes, not moving, and that was not a regular cell phone noise AT ALL. Nope. That was this.

Because I can say these things to Cindy, I did my infamous Don't Think I'm Crazy But... "I just got a Fishy from Mom."



And she said "Yes, you did. Because I'm sitting here eating Fishy crackers."


Those cheesy delectables Mom loved.



Awesome. And then we both got all teary and started laughing.


SECOND FISHY:

An hour later, I'm watching "What Not To Wear", which I always watched with Mom. And one of the clients on there (the one with the dog Peanut) says thank you to Clinton and Stacy for helping her to learn to dress as a woman, because her mom died when she was nineteen and wasn't able to teach her. Then she said something about still talking to her mom, and how proud her mom would be, and that she said thank you too. Which totally gave me another frisson.

THEN today I receive an email from Brian that his French publisher asked permission to use a picture from Brian's blog for their blog. He said yes, not knowing which one. Then they published an absolutely lovely modeling photo of Mom, and an even lovelier blurb about how getting to know her through Brian's blog made the book even better.

As Brian said, Mom's finally getting to be a fashion model in France -- half a century too late.

That woman is still full of miracles.


My rough translation of the French article:

August 31, 2007
"Brian's Mother"

In the very beautiful "Mom's Cancer", which we published in March, Brian Fies recounts the illness of his mother who died before it was published in the United States. Brian came across figure photos and put them on his website for her 68th birthday. Those of you who own and appreciate the book, read and look at the post.

(Take that, Madame Sikora!

I can honestly say, if that woman hadn't hated me and made my Sophomore year hell, I'd be fluent in French today. Damn High school teachers.)

Happy Birthday Mom

Today would have been Mom's 68th birthday.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about and miss my best friend and mentor.

Brian has a lovely post and photos of her.

Meanwhile, I spent the day yesterday being tutored one on one by an amazing Polish cinematographer who almost shot Martin Scorcese's daughter's first feature and wants to shoot mine...pretty cool. It was already crazy day, because we just officially went into preproduction on The Commune on Monday, for a start date in September.

Why bring this up on Mom's Birthday?

It's why she busted her ass to get us back down here.

She told Brenda and me that she wanted to live in LA (translation: die in LA), which is the kind of trump card no child can say no to. So we all sold our houses and made a very scary journey down to LA while she was in a tentative remission. Bought her dream of a family compound minimansion and moved in together like the Brady Bunch.

The day we packed up the cars and drove down the I-5, they dropped me off half an hour late for my first screenwriting class in the Professional Program at UCLA.

On her deathbed, I found out Mom didn't want to live in LA. She didn't want to see me rot and die in Santa Rosa.

Thanks Mom. You're the Executive Producer of The Commune. And all my movies.

Tickled pink

I'm so ridiculously blessed. Of course I miss mom and always will, but at the same time I think this may be the happiest time of my life. So far.

I was able to stand by my mom through her death. I've processed my grief. I've had time to be alone, to be with friends, to read, to write. I'm beholden to no one, no thing.

And here I am now, finally beginning to feel accomplished and believing my writing can contribute something to people. I can do it anywhere in the world, choose any path I want. I have true freedom. I just finished a script I love, that mom would have loved, and we're planning to shoot it this fall. Amazing.

I went to "Becoming Jane Austen" tonight with Heidi, and realized it's amazing how lucky I am living in this era as an intelligent woman. My choices and opportunities are almost as great as a man's, and that's really something too many people take for granted. I can say yes or no to anything I want. I don't need anyone's permission to have a life I love living.

I had a beautiful date last Saturday that I appreciated beyond words. He put thought into it, the locations were lovely, the conversation was fantastic, he was generous and warm and open to me, and a spectacular person. Attractive inside and out. I enjoyed the small part of him I got to know. The evening couldn't have been more fun or made me happier. Just incredibly pleased.

It was all unexpected and accidental, and brought into technicolor that I'm ready to date again. I've turned down so many kind men because of mom's illness, and then her death. There have always been men there for me, but I felt like a ghost of myself. They had all this emotion for me, and expectaction, or wanted an instant relationship, and I was so run down and shut down from supporting mom. Just a shell. It hurt them so much. And their kindness and disappointment cut me.

But now, after Saturday, I've rediscovered how much I have to give, and to receive, and that I can just laugh again and enjoy a man's company and connect with his delightful eyes and feel even happier about my life, just sharing the moment with him.

Like a drug, it makes me want to go experience it again. So many opportunities and sweet men who want to take me out and make me happy. The timing couldn't be better, having just come back from Comic-Con where I was a geek goddess amongst 100,000 men. There were some really interesting guys who asked me out (only one marriage proposal this time), and this time I'm going to at least talk to them all. I even went to a single mingle at sushi last night. Didn't meet anyone I was attracted to, but then got asked out at Blockbuster.



It's spectacular. My life is awesome. Mom only ever wanted me to be happy, and here I am at last, doing her proud after all her hard work.

Perfect moment

Mom picked me up from school every day in the grey station wagon. Its motor had a distinctive sound. I could always pick it out before it came into view, rounding the circular driveway and passing the other moms' cars to pull up to the curb alongside me.

I was proud of the car. It was a new Datsun Maxima, and it spoke. A woman's voice would tell you if the door was open, or remind you to fasten your seatbelt. That was cool. Not as cool as Kit, the talking Trans Am on Knight Rider that had full, sentient conversations...but still cool enough to impress my classmates at St. Eugene's. That was good, because there wasn't much else they liked about me.

Every day I would see Mom driving the car around the circle at 2:45, her big Jackie O sunglasses perched on the ethnic nose she hated and tried to hide. If prayers could transform flesh, my Mom would have had a ski nose.

I would jump into the car, greet my mother, and turn to the back where my dog Turbo was waiting to greet me. Soft fur, softer heart, big kind eyes that let me know I was wanted and loved.

We would pull out onto Farmer's Lane after the traffic cleared, and Mom would ask me about my day. Or sometimes we would turn up KZST and just listen to the radio, discussing our favorite music. On the very best days, Billy Vera and the Beaters would be playing.

What would you think...

The sad song from Family Ties when Alex P. Keaton's soulmate Ellen, the liberal girl with the heart gold, left him for being a jerk.

Mom loved that song. It brought out all her drama queen tendencies. She would crank up the volume, something she otherwise hated because of her noise sensitivity, and she would bring her right hand up off the steering wheel, twist it into a fist and shove it to her face to sing. She would rarely make a noise, but she mimed passionately; head lolling, eyes furrowed.

...With tears in your eyes...

I would follow along, giggling, though lip-synching was too hard for me. I'd always end up leaning in next to her microphone hand, singing at half-voice.

...Trying to tell me you've found you another...

Turbo in the backseat would raise his head to sniff the wind, and bark along.

...And you just don't love me no more.

The song would end with a big, dramatic flourish, and we would sigh and turn down the volume, knowing it had been a good trip home.