Thursday, June 30, 2005

Digital Love (via Daft Punk)

"Last Night I Had A Dream About You; In This Dream I Was Dancing Beside You"

And a catchy beat. . . (one, two, one, two).

Last night I pictured myself driving down the 405 at 85 mph. Zipping the night away, beneath the starlit heavens, I heard the jingle of the Star Wars theme from my cell. After a most delicious phone call with you, I headed over to your two-story victorian, with white picket fence. The cat sat on the stoop cleaning her paws, making diabolical plans for the next door neighbor's parakeet.

As I slid into first gear, coasting through a well-lit driveway, I smiled privately, eyeing the bottle of Pinot in the passenger seat. In only a matter of time, your script would be consummated. The last day of filming always gave me the jitters.

Not that I'm an in-demand actress, but I must say I have flair for an Unknown. (That's what they call us Hollywood types that are expectated to make this movie their breakthrough role.) Maybe that's why I had the jitters; I'd only worked on two other films, and a TV drama that won't ever see the light of day as the pilot never got picked up by any networks.

However, I'd never worked with This Director, (you) before. You're calm, cool, dashing, yet detached. While filming, I never knew if you were quite satisfied with the scene. Was that enough emotion? Tone it down? Look less Porn Star, more Wayward Runaway?

The day I auditioned for the role, I was fucked-up. I'd dropped a couple shooters, whose names are lost forever, and probably a Kamikaze or two. I think I offered to sleep with you (though I can't remember clearly); and scarily enough, I probably would have. After all, not every actor gets to work with you, as you only make a few elite movies that you feel drawn to.

With that in mind, I think I did Okay. After all, I did get a callback. So scene after heroic scene, I played my part. And tonight, we wrap up.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

97 Miles Away

So I was watching Average Joe. (Sorry, not a lot of good TV left out there; closed for summer and all). And I really hadn't intended to watch. I actually flipped on my machine, watched the lights flicker into existence, and David Daskall's saying something.

For those of you that don't know it already, I used to work for a major entertainment Internet company (aka E-Universe or InterMix Media). David Daskall also worked there. As a "character" (?) "performer" (?) on the show last year, I had watched. And had gotten a little hooked.

So this summer, that wasn't really on my list of top ten shows to wach on a Tuesday night. However, I stayed on the channel. Some sort of ex-company loyalty, perhaps. And I noticed that one of the "joes" was anything, BUT average. I knew hot-ass flighty Anna wasn't his type come ON! He's smart and witty. She's a "romantic" -- how does sarcastic survive in a romantic room? It doesn't, I tell you. It suffocates. (oh yes i would know)

His name is Matt *hands off sisters; i found him first*. He's a web developer (what I aspire to be). He's in a band?! Yeah. Apparently, everyone can be found on myspace. And of course I know myspace (it's a subsidiary of eUniverse/Intermix). So I hooked up an email via their service. We'll see if he responds. If nothing else, he can give me the latest dish on what's hot in Chicago, my hometown. Having been absent from Chi-town for the past 10 years (not including the 1 or 2 times I visit a year), I know I've missed out. Chicago is the BEST city in the world. It does not, however, have the BEST weather in the world. So I stay glued to Los Angeles.

Anyway, his music's pretty impressive. And that will be all the endorsement needed for Matt. YAY MATT!

Moving on, my last day commuting to Topanga. My job finally moved to Santa Monica. Tuesday morning will be my first day with a five minute commute again. I do look forward to it. Of course, the gods of PCH made it so I was early this morning (amazingly no traffic) and that I got home in 42 minutes. UNHEARD of clocked times. Thanks to the ever so kind gods of PCH. The view was wonderful. I loved it while it lasted.

Anyway, no real deep instrospective thoughts that have started to blossom forth. Just a progress report, if you will. And Soul Writer I thank you again. Keep writing; I miss reading.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Day Six: I Feel Alive

I know that you want me I can
See it in your eyes
You might as well be honest ’cause the
Body never lies


Why not? Why not feel the crush of two hearts beating alike, and yet differently? Why not cry yourself to sleep, and enjoy every moment for what it is? Reality.

And only terror keeps you running. Be a gunslinger. Take your decisions in stride, realizing there are consequences, and also a greater good. Aim true.

Never lie, because you'll start believing them. Become what you were destined to be. And if that's not good enough, then change.

Deny nothing. Accept everything. Your heart can hold it all; I promise.


Whew! Walking/Jogging is good for your head and your heart.

Must. Keep. That. In mind.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Dance Dance Revolution

Have you ever gotten to the point where you just desire to exercise. Exercise the demons away. Exercise the desires away. Exercise, dare i say, the fat away?

Well dance dance revolution is one way to accomplish that. (Use with caution under the influence of alcohol, drugs, etc.) Daresay, I'm avoiding the gym. At least for a few more hours. I feel like really working things out. My mind, body, and spirit.

Times have changed. Go with the ~flow~ . . . I wish I had a copy of L.A. Story. I kinda love that movie.. maybe I'll get it from Hollywood Video tonight. Ahh, there's an idea.

When you can't think of anything colorful to say, find something colorful to read, or view.

Here's a quote from L.A. Story -- one of the stereotypes that's true. Actually, I'm a Chicagoan living here, and even I have succumbed.

The party ordering:
Guy with neck-support: "I'll have a decaf coffee"
Trudi: "I'll have a decaf espresso"
Movie critic: "I'll have a double decaf cappuccino"
Policeman: "Give me decaffeinated coffee ice cream"
Harris: "I'll have a half double decaffeinated half-caf, with a twist of lemon"
Trudi: "I'll have a twist of lemon"
Guy with neck-support: "I'll have a twist of lemon"
Movie critic: "I'll have a twist of lemon"
Cynthia: "I'll have a twist of lemon"

That just makes me laugh. *sigh* I can't really think of anything too important to say at the moment (i almost typed atm). Other than, sleep well, eat well, but enjoy life while you do.

SAME DAY, 11:45 pm

Ok, now that I've exercised all demons, walked about four miles round-trip, and watched L.A. Story, I believe I can be more thought-provoking. "Let your mind go, and your body will follow."

Do not doubt that.

Los Angeles is uniquely happy, so happy in fact, that more people in L.A. are in therapy than in most other states, metropolitan included. What does that say about our culture? That we're all so insanely happy being unhappy? That the only way to meet anyone new is to crash into them? This is the second movie in the past two months with that "theme" -- that Los Angelians don't touch. That's why the crash into each other.

I think I understand though. It's like we're all just struggling to find happiness, as if someone whispered in our ears, smile on stage, wave your hand, and happiness will follow. And like stupid sheep, we all listen. However, has anyone noticed that doing so hasn't made them any happier?

We hate traffic, and yet most of us drive in it. It's unheard of to even look for a job near our homes. We use the excuse that there aren't any jobs nearby. But I don't know if that's always true... We also like to drive our own cars; yet we hate traffic. Everyone driving in their own cars, abandonning public transportation, equals traffic. Think about it. If even 1/6 of the population took a bus or a train to work. On the dark side, more SUVs would just get on the road, with their extra 8-20" lengths taking up what little space was gained. Ahh, it's a lost cause. Enjoy your traffic jam with some whole-grain toast tomorrow morning.

But yeah, happiness and traffic. Just walking four miles blasting my mp3 player made me think about things; maybe that's what we're all running away from. Our naked thoughts haunting us, forcing us to be real, for just once in our lives. Dare I think so boldly!

We're all in therapy hoping to be real, when all we really needed to do was get out of our Ford Explorers and walk around a bit. Notice the sun setting behind the mountains from Lincoln Blvd. Watch the traffic lights, blink from red to green to yellow, cyclically, all day and all night. Peer into a window of a closed shop, its items neatly put away and organized, looking forward to a new day when a customer might purchase something.

ahhh.... Take a deep breath, and let your mind go; your body will follow. Trust me.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Day Two: Lost & Exhausted

I made it through the week. Not an accomplishment, but a benchmark.

In an all-consuming embrace yourself action, the world moved. (again) I fear this won't be the last time it moves. However, it's safe to say, I moved with it this time and I don't feel left behind. Or somehow distanced from the "who i was" to the "who i am." In any event, time will tell. Time will tell all. So caws the raven.

Dashing down the road, without stoplights, is definitely one of my favorite pasttimes. I'm not sure if it's the power, the control, or the liberation, but I have to say it is so "choice." (Ferris Bueheller)
A part of it resounds from the passionate relationship I have with my vehicular machine. You see, simply said, I love my car. My little baby boy (he's a stick folks). I was looking to adopt a new machine in May 2004. So I started looking for the car I wanted, a new Scion xA, Indigo Ink Pearl. For all you non-Toyota/Scion afficianados that means Blue. So I was getting ripped by the dealer in the South Bay who was holding my 1k deposit. On the way to pickup my friend's computer, we decided to stop at the Longo dealership. Now we were under the impression they only had those awful maroon ones and white ones. Neither color was acceptable to me. But I thought I might go to test drive the manual transmission since I was going to buy one and I had only test driven the automatic.

So we walked onto the lot. And I spied from the very corner of my eye to the left a whole lotta xAs...! Not just that, but BLUE ONES!! I approached suspiciously, because they wouldn't be manual, or base model ( i only wanted an alarm system and the blue interior lights). But it was exactly what I wanted and I firmly grasped my arms around the car. I knew I wanted to adopt him, but how? My deposit was sitting in the SouthBay and my trade-in was a forty minute drive away.

Obviously, I was exactly what any good dealer salesman was looking for. And he saw me. He said, "You take home!" and I shook my head sadly, but truthfully. "No, I don't have any money here. It's at the dealership in SouthBay." He shook his head. "You drive home today."

And I did. I later gave them my downpayment and loan money and trade-in. All was good. And I brought home a 2005 Scion xA, Indigo Ink Pearl. He's one year old this month -- he was manufactured in Japan on June 04, 2004. And he's the most adorable vehicle you've ever seen. (Except, perhaps, the Pontiac Solstice or the Ford Thunderbird Convertibles.) Shhh.. don't tell Scion about that.. strictly on the DL.

Anyway, my sister flies in tonight.. No silly on a plane. So any or all readers, please have a great weekend. See ya next week!

1:01 AM Saturday, June 25, 2005

And yet the world moves once again. I must keep up with it. Secrets held in dark places have seen sunlight and started to die. Their power melting, melting, melting. And somehow I stand there, a fool, as always. Nodding in shock and awe. Maybe THAT's what this week should be called. shock and awe week 2005.

Why do guys lie? If I could just get to the bottom of it, I would like to know. Why? Maybe I could understand and appreciate the reasoning behind it; perhaps I'll disapprove, but what can it hurt. Let a lady understand! Please!

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Day One: Blurred

"The Reason Why Kisses Don't Dream" is the name of a sonnet I wrote several years ago for a creative writing class. I think I fell in love again, with myself, rereading it recently and then naming my blog here after it. That may sound odd, but it's not to me. No regrets and que sera que sera. Always live for the present. That's all you're guaranteed anyway. "Someone once said, 'don't take life too seriously, you'll never get out alive.' Write that down." --Van Wilder

I have some work to do since I had to leave work before I could finish. And thus I'm here, procrastinating. The perfect way to do so, thanks to the Soul Writer for inspiring me. He is one incredible guy in so many ways.

I believe he was born to inspire others; of course, that's all gut feeling and I barely know him. But somehow I get a sense. He's somewhat a paradox, but I think he knew that already. Guarded truth spilling from his raised glass of lite beer -- there's always a reason bro. A hopeless romantic who plays love like an old beatup cassette, re-strung, so the crisp sound intermittently crackles. Not that I'm anyone to talk. On the edge of being a love junkie myself, I find my pleasures in the twinkling beacons in the sky, guiding UFO's to their homeplanet. Or the delighted moon, smiling down on young lovers entwined in holy ecstasy. Or desire blanketed near a warm hearth, smoke curling towards those beacons and the endless tides washing in, washing out, as they always have for billions of years before and always will billions of years after.

I used to imagine what my life would be like "if." Now, my life is driving down a highway, the windows down, and the radio blasting Switchfoot or U2, singing as I go to no particular place at no particular time. Just going. Moving. Forward.

Being lost is more the focus than the fear; and for that I am thankful to God. Because the more lost I get, the happier I become. Why did it take so much effort to let go?

Lines from the Script of Episode
#414 "A Winter's Tale" Dawson's Creek:
DAWSON: At a certain point, the whole thing just becomes too much to process, and your brain gets taken out of the loop, and all you have to rely on is your heart, your natural human instincts. It's liberating... not at first of course, at first it's terrifying, like falling... but that's the point, isn't it?
JOEY: What's that?
DAWSON: If we weren't so afraid to let go, we wouldn't feel so free when we finally did.
That line has always been special to me. And I hocked it on streetcorners, held signs up to the passerby, but I don't think I ever lived it.

And then the world moved on. And as a gunslinger, I knew I couldn't forget the face of my father. So I aimed true. (Stephen King, Dark Tower Series-inspired)


I'm going to have to think about things. But Wow.
Wow cubed.
Wow, infinity to the infinite power.

Wow. Wowsaz. Wowwy. Just wow.

Speechless, I am. Other than wow.

wow me wow you wow it wow please wow yes wow ooh la la.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

How I Met Cynicism

I started thinking about my ex from a long time ago. Probably because I've really started to work on un-numbing my emotions.

I met him in 1996 via a neon green piece of paper. That was a time when I not only didn't know myself, I disliked myself on that basis. It was August, new student orientation. I was working in the HAWC (rec center of my alma mater). My friend "Rico" walked in with this guy. (sidenote: i was born a hardcore flirter. it's just my nature, for good or bad.)

Even with that being my nature -- due to my inner struggle to really dislike myself, I couldn't believe that this guy, TC, was flirting with me. That was the beginning of the newest ride at Six Flags.

Before he left, he handed me that neon piece of paper, which I believe I have saved somewhere, hopeless closet romantic I am. I fell. Hard. But in that co-dependent what did he like kinda way. Not the way everyday people struggle into and out of relationships. He was an 18-year-old struggling to keep his dick in his pants (or out), something I was naive about and didn't understand. (Ahh the joys of the female peak.)

I really loved him; something I've struggled to understand and to conquer for years. Even though he lied (lots) and cheated (lots) and helped me cheat and met most of my sensual "firsts," I truly madly deeply -- loved him. The details are lurid and pointless to re- re- re- re-hash. That was done in the 90s. I'm five years into the new milennium and I thought I had really put everything behind me. Not that I'm not "over" him. And I finally worked through getting "over" me. That was the hard part.

Most people think they miss the guy when they break up. I know I missed the "me" I had been. The relationship changed me; made me change who I was; and I had to reconcile all the things I had promised myself I would never become, that I had become.

And all that added up to six years of cursing love, denying its existence, and finding every "safe" person to befriend. "Safe" are the people you peg at a distance as nevers. The "I'd never ever date that guy, he's just my friend."

Yup those guys.

And then the year of change came; 2004/2005. I let people start coming in. Slowly at first, and then moreso. And I moonlighted some ideas of what it would be like to fly again. And some kind of romantic was reborn, or dusted off, or taken off the shelf. I've missed it -- even the desire to feel again angst or joy. Joyagony.

Ok, you're wondering what happened to make the past year or so "the year of change."

It was a dark and stormy night... (ok, not stormy, definitely dark). I had started to really like this guy from work. We'll call him "Maverick" as he's an avid poker player. Maverick, one of my good friends *now ex friend*, my sister, and I were hanging out. Dousing our inhibitions with Skyy Vanilla, my ex friend, the photographer was taking random pictures (her favorite pasttime). And so I'm tryin to get this guy to just cozy up a little. You could tell he liked me in some way shape or form. His eyes lit up around me, and he totally cruised my physique in every conversation we had.

So I get to thinking. A dangerous thing to do anytime, but especially under the influence. We're at my friend's house, my house has a sundeck. Of course the sun isn't out, but the moon is.. hmmm... (I sense a teen primetime drama brewing). I ask him to take me there so I could take my contacts out. (I actually did need to do that.)

In his beautiful convertible, black mustang, we cruise along. And I get this crucial question. Now it's not crucial as in an emergency, but in every and all near-future planning, alcohol reasoning aside, it was crucial. "How many partners have you had?"

Why would he ask that question? The only reason, anyone could figure, is that he was Interested. And very. Needless to say, my script was being read, the director was pleased and the producers saw big money in the works.

I introduce him to the small Los Angeles domicile, two-bedroom, roommate missing. And thereafter encourage him up the stairs to the moonlight, cozy deck. I lean in close, just as the director waves his hand, closer closer still. And Maverick has his arm around my shoulder, but we're still standing sideways, necks craned at the hollow moon. The marine layer is blowing in, its gentle breeze brushing our cheeks, cherry red and flushed, and I look up into his eyes, and he

(Now, this really does sound like Hollywood. If I really had this in a script, I'd be absolutely rich. But I don't and this is real life.)

and he looks away saying "it really is pretty, do you think we should get going?" And I feel awkward icky spikes of terror creeping up my legs, through my spinal cord, and I am nauseous. I wish this were an alcohol-inspired nauseous, but no such luck. It was the omigosh-i'm-not-wearing-pants-and-i'm-giving-a-speech-to-my-ceo awkward. It was how's-your-wife-oh-she's-dead awful, i've-farted-really-loudly-at-an-interview-and-it-smells-rancid bad.

So we left. He drove home. And a pretty fun and interesting evening gave way to false hopes and bitter dreams.