Moment of silence for Sarah Jones, on set of SHOWTIME'S HAPPYish

Spent two days as an extra for the upcoming Showtime series, HAPPYish. 

Sunny frozen day, in Woodstock, NY, everyone in their positions, poised to move--and all action stopped. 

For ten minutes or more, the whole cast and crew were gathered together, as a key cameraperson offered the most beautiful and personal memorial for Sarah Jones, who was killed during the shooting of Midnight Rider, one year ago today.

 A bright, young camera assistant--she had a natural exuberance, passion for her work--and a delightful presence on the set. She was struck by a train in Georgia, while filming. The tragedy influenced increased awareness of on-set safety throughout the world. It turns out that while we were silenced in pray and unity,  production crews throughout the world today, also took a moment of silence  for Sarah,  as part of a memorial campaign launched  by the International Cinematographers Guild (Local 600) and Local 479 (Studio Mechanics).

On the set in Woodstock, the HAPPYIsh cameraperson paid a true homage--evoking Sarah's personality, making her presence quite vivid, and many wiped tears when he spoke of the devastation of her family, who asked --(in this video request)--only that people be made aware of safety issues, so others would not lose lives. He called for all to be aware of each other, caring for each other--and to never be afraid to speak up if they witness any safety issues or unsafe behaviors, anything that might jeopardize a cast or crew member, in the spirit of  supporting precious human life above all other concerns.

When one community stands up for its members and calls, not just in lip-service, but in heartfelt prayer, for unity and kinship--this paves the way for others to operate with more humanity, and awareness of 

the well-being of others.  The film industry, for all its sheen and wheeling-dealing, is often in the forefront

of human rights advocacy, using the power of the few to call for the freedom and the rights of the many.

This was the spirit of our Woodstock community decades--and even 100 years ago, 

when artists, famous musicians, single moms and all of us basically ate together, worked together, lived together, played together and and the real heroes watched each other's back.

You could feel this unity of hearts and minds on the set, and witness it in the care of the crew and the thoughtfulness, in dealing respectfully and successfully with so many humans, all with different needs and agendas--in the long days and nights of shooting, in the activities ranging from the mundane to the main shots. It is easy to be aware, on set, how it is all a series of small events and choices, and complete interdependence of the elements,  which leads up to the seemingly effortless whole. 

Production also halted once more when a random fire alarm went off and legions of  flashing rescue vehicles arrived into the middle of a scene. No one was hurt. Order quickly restored. Back on track. No tragedy this time,  of this day, just a few moments delay.

HAPPYish was originally set with
Philip Seymour Hoffman
as lead.

HAPPYish was originally set with Philip Seymour Hoffman as lead. His death, just one year and a few weeks ago, was a tragedy of a different type, but one wonders if the same spirit of safety, unity and awareness of others in the same industry, might not have helped to save a life--every action matters, and every person matters, whether their death is like an arterial gash to the arts, like Hoffman's or whether a young woman whose smile and presence is the sole reason Christmas makes sense. When they don't come home again, there is a missing spot that can not be replaced.

The future of the HAPPYish project was uncertain after Hoffman's death. The comedy was re-cast, re-piloted and re-ordered with  Steve Coogan  in the lead role. 

 plays a middle-aged man in a chronically meh state. His on-screen love is quirky/beautiful and there are cute kids involved, and I wish I could watch it tonight. Because Woodstock in winter can make anyone chronically MEh .

It is not a bad thing at all to have your little programs to watch--in moderation and the occasional marathon. Even the monks up at the Tibetan Buddhist monastery, on the top of the highest Woodstock mountain have their favorite programs. We all watch something now and then, and someone's making it for us.

For any production, the behind-the-scenes care put into every shot usually remains invisible to the audience; it's a treat, and an awakening to witness firsthand the hours of labor, preparation, timing--the patience required by all, the amount of cold and tedium tolerated--all so one perfect piece of magic might be captured, so someone in the future-as invisible to us as the crew will be to them--might click  on a screen and be taken away somewhere--to forget the hard parts of life for a moment, and be lifted up fast, like on a ride--

It might not seem like it was all about love --but it is.

Pray Your Own Way!

This would be the number one shift in my life. I had faith, then lost it, and I too became lost.

I came to understand the song amazing grace--when I began to pray from my heart again, in my own simple way.

There has been nothing more painful in my life than being estranged from my faith. I abandoned my own understanding. There is no one to blame, and it may be a scientific principle of a committed spiritual life, that one goes through a period of wandering lost, only to find the home that was always within.

it sounds a cliche, but when you live through it, and find that spark in your heart again--and without words know again what you once knew, life itself begins to flow. That's how it's been with me,
one moment and one day at a time.

Addiction to a TV/ NETFLIX SERIES can SAVE YOUR LIFE!

My friend Serena just txted me to watch a new show about alcohol and drug addiction interventions. She's been looking for something to hook her since she completed all the madmen episodes.

my friend's friends

about half way through she was telling me how inspired she was by "those people." and how she had to get home from work to be with "her people" and "see how they were doing." This winter has sucked the serotonin right out of the best of us, and I don't actually know anyone in the northeast who hasn't succumb to some form of tv or netflix addiction. i consider the lucky ones to be those who have both a daily fix (say ellen) and a show of many seasons and episodes they can access at will.

This is what ellen would look
like if she were my normal friend
and we just each bought some manila envelopes

SOME are proud of their addictions, but many have a sort of sneaky-fun guilty pleasure thing about it, or downright fear and shame.










 i was surprised and pleased when watching

this makes me want to join them right now

orange is the new black  was charging me up like a drug. boom, finish one, punch in next episode. at first listen to the theme music because it added to the charge. then skip over. instant fix. then over. piper kerman, thanks for what you did for me.

i used to miss eating at the tibetan buddhist monastery--but this makes me feel even more homesick. more homesick than eating at grandma's house. my stomach hurts i want so much to be back at this table, eating the food red cooked for me.

but that was last year.

this year i've been a little jealous of my addicted pals, as i haven't formed a deep friendship with anyone not of the flesh--yet. Has anyone ever explored the idea that these friendships are important, and even life-sustaining? Only a decade ago, I used to think TV addictions were for kids (sat morn cartoons and ninja turtles) and for old people. I knew a few old people who would stop talking to you when you came to visit. put on their favorite show, and get more out of those people. Next thing you know, it's happening to all of us.

This is how amazing it seemed to
have louis c.k. appear in my living room
(livingroom??) thanks a lot forever!

Louis C.K. made my life worth living, back in 2010. If he had hourly episodes of his show, I would have mainlined them.

he does have this, and it's worth five bucks.

he was the one thing that came into the livingroom that was welcome, since i basically was housebound and isolated, and the only thing in that livingroom was my own body and brain and carton of ice cream. and painkillers. when louis arrived, some piece of me was ignited with hope. i am positive i would not have been more inspired and soothed if an actual angel perched at the edge of my couch. hence, in some kind of greek or roman logic, louis c.k. is my angel.


 I know that when I was 15 and living on my own in San Francisco, it was the belief that Robert Blake (of the detective show, Baretta)would pluck me off the streets and save me, was the fantasy that kept me alive for a while. (in retrospect, it's probably a good thing he did not do that.) I know that when i had a jobette episode in life, (hurricane, deaths, broken limbs, lyme, homeless and SHELLSHOCKED)--i marathoned on episodes of America's Next Top Model. I am sure I did not crack a smile,

this is not me at all

or settle down to watch with lifted and inspired heart--but the predictable format, the process of challenge, judging and elimination somehow soothed and reassured my brain when watched repeatedly. this is totally normal for americans. is anyone exempt. i think ellen--the madmen--louis c.k.--and all the friends in the friend-like shows, these people really ARE our friends. downton abbey, parenthood,  modern family

fans of this show will get excited to see this picture

or jersey housewives, or new girl, or even the golden girls or lucy and ethel.


it doesn't even matter if they're dead now.

sometimes it's BETTER when they're dead or
the show is over. forever. will never come back again with the same people at that age the way you loved them. a lot. (i didn't like this show, but it is an example, to illustrate how the macabre and joy can co-exist.)

i spent more time in mary tyler moore's living room than most of my childhood livingrooms.

 we are lucky to know them! when all is said and done, the characters in books

and movies and shows may not have been able to hug me or sit down to dinner with me (although i often eat while spending time with THEM)---but they have been as comforting, inspiring and entertaining at times as the flesh friends. why not, if not done to the exclusion of the whole world? if i am honest about when i feel most connected with my family,

needs no caption

it is first at meals or the rare times we might pray together, then walking or hiking together, or on the beach, and the one time we biked together in martha's vineyard, that was so fun, we should do it again--or playing some sort of game--whether board game or miniature golf--(we've done each of those once in the past ten years)--holidays, of course-- (last christmas, with two new grandsons, opening presents in mass., and then going to mass in fla. was pretty epic)--driving in cars, one on one talking (this happened more before college graduation)--and almost always when watching something funny on tv together while eating something good.  why would anyone feel guilty about this--and if it's good enough for family it's good! btw the hotlink to "We biked together" is not about me. but it could be someday!

Miracle birds

miracles are overlooked every day—not because they are so subtle or ephemeral, but due to the fact that they are so tangible. how can a hidden wish, barely whispered, to an unseen force result in a bird in one’s living room—in a flying girl—in  an image that  appears beneath the plastic lid of almond butter in a health food store—that is first a duck and then morphs before ones eyes into a dove and grows an olive branch in its beak—it is oft incomprehensible to the human mind that these manifestations, within moments after one asks for a sign, can have a direct linkage to the request barely spoken.

this is why i have become fond of filming miracles.

when i came home one christmas eve, depressed, lonely, with a bag of groceries—and pulled up in front of my house, where i had raised my chidlren who were now gone. a cold relentless rain had been falling gracelessly like a sheer wall for a full day, it was dark, it was late—i stepped out into the rain and my bag abruptly shredded, groveries in the mud at my feet. no big deal to me now—now, after i have no house, no car, and often no groceries—but then, it was the alst straw. on my knees already, kneeling to gater up the bag of whole cranberries, the cans of pumpkin for pies, hugging the goods that would become my family’s dinner, to my hest, feeling so strangely bereft, i began to pray—i began to cry—crying and praying  and kneelng i said—give me a sign, please god give me a sign.

i went into the house—

and instantly i saw the bird on the tip of the christmas tree. i grabbed my camera.

My first Woodstock crush

i was seven when i had my first woodstock crush --my mother’s young lover charles.

my father had long since run off with the baby-sitter, but i did not seek a new dad. i hoped to steal charles away from my mom.

i had a romantic’s heart, but a careful and calculating brain.

i’d figure charles out and make him mine.

first i’d have to get him away from the pottery wheel.

.

charles would smell up the house with thick joints then  make these intricate drawings. he’d set them spinning on the wheel. i braved the sweet stink to be near him.

he had hair to his shoulders, soft dark eyes of goodness.

one day i got him alone on the couch. he was wrapped in a tye-dyed rag, and looked like a gentle king. he had white white teeth and was laughing so easily.

the radio played a hendrix song,and i fel tliek there were angels all around us.

so...if you cuold have anything in the world, i asked him—what would it be?

i was sure he’d say a matchbox harley, and even though it was my favorite toy i was prepared to give it up.

charles said: i only want.. world peace.

no, no, a THING i said, something real, like if  i could give you soemthing, like for your brithday or soemthing,  what would it be?

now charles was singing along to do you beleive in MAGIC--, eyes closed, tracing the meoldoy of the song in the air.  after a while, he opened his eyes and watched his own hand, fascinatied, wanting to know if i too could see the electric colored trails. he had sensitive hands, long brown fingers. neither of us could take our eyes off hsi hands.

then he admitted there WAS

something else he wanted-- a german shepherd puppy.

by the time i got the dog, charles was gone. the dog was -- skinny, full of worms, needing to be walked.
 

i walked right into sean, who was 12.

he had that bad-boy allure; kicked out of school for breaking  a kid’s arm.

he would tickle me--so hard i thoguht the guy with the broken arm got off easy.

he took me in the shed behind our house and closed the door. he pulled the latch on the bulb. still enough daylight to see a flash of something white through his pants. he touched his mouth to mine, cold, quick.

one morning, he lead me to the woods. he said: do you know what rape means?  fear seemed to feed my love.

i ‘d sneak to his house in the purple twilight. if i walked barefoot  through a tangle of thorns he promised me a gift.

i got nothing but torn feet.

once when it rained we ran to shelter beneath a willow....there was no tickling, no talk of rape, no painful test.  thunder broke the sky. i waited for the kiss...and when it didn’t come i loved him even more.

looking back i wonder—who set the mold—the stoner who left before i could give him his gift, or the boy who left without a final kiss?

in 40 years of woodstock loves, i can only remember the small of jack daniels, the ghosts, chased through any fire, til you fall in a snowbank and write the name of longing  with the toe of your doc marten boot.   the  graveside you sit by and whisper to,  so many loves outlived, or buried beneath the mounds of secrecy.

may i find that path, walking with angels, bare feet only tickled by the grass, a path to realms where love is the only rule.

this love will surely be a puppy, i don’t care what breed.

Why writers burn pots

This is my daily meditation ritual, perhaps it will work for you.

Western practitioners affectionately call it "MAKING TEA."



Each time you "MAKE TEA" you will be surprised by the result, no matter how many times you conduct this ritual.



1. Put water in pot.

2. Select tea. Feel twinge of guilt. Will the KAVA tea become addictive?

3. Flirt on the edge of over -scrupulosity. Doubt your faith, your guidance, your sanity.


4.  Place teabag in cup.  Read the teabag. It says: Think and speak kindly today.

5. Put heat under pot. Make a mental note: DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES FORGET THE WATER THIS TIME YOU KNOW YOU WILL BUT NOT THIS TIME. OK I WON'T.
YES YOU WILL IDIOT.

6. Have 100 thoughts as you move from kitchen to your writing place.

7. Face the computer. Choose a weighty topic. TAKING A VOW OF REFUGE.
 Plan to make it short, delightful and simple. Write something ponderous for 6 minutes. Delete it all, start again. This time choose a simple topic: strange sightings of animals. Become absorbed.

8. You set out to write about the animals, but it becomes about a certain obsession. That's why it is an obsession, it sneaks into everything. But should you write about the obsession--or keep your focus on the animals?

9. KEEP GOING! If you keep going, you will make it work!

9. You are now in a scene, writing a scene. There is an obsession. There is a possibly rabid animal.
It's creeping along behind a snowbank, and you can only see its humped back.

10. You are ready to unmask this obsession. After decades, you have become aware that it is time to take action.

10.  The animal becomes visible--AHA, it's a raccoon! It's going somewhere,  the story is flowing, --you are hooked--fingers flying--action, drama--

8. Smell something weird.

9. Cry out: SHIT, not again! (as if you are truly surprised.)

10. Run to kitchen.

11. Apologize--to what?

12. Run scorched pot under cold water.

13. Repeat as necessary, until house burns down or you have a decent cup of tea.

14. If you happen to wind up with a steamy cup of tea, do not become attached.
Instead, move on to the completion stage of the practice.

15. Allow tea to grow cold.

16. Spill tea onto keyboard.

If the computer is not entirely destroyed,  do not be disappointed! Simply engage in your practice tomorrow, with a fresh mind, and one-pointed determination. BLACKEN THAT POT! BURN THE HOUSE DOWN! DIP YOUR FINGER INTO THE SMOLDERING COALS AND WRITE YOUR STORY IN THE SNOW!

Aliens and Facebook

Those, Baby, Friend, Eyes, Days, Take, Charles, Love, People, Mother,Father, Daughter, Year, Being, Around, Others, Best, Every, World, Woodstock, Moment, Soon, Thing, Time, Talk, Walked, Very, Through, Dog, Babytalk, Happened, Each, Next, Never, Babies, Care, Something, Tears, Historic, Mine, Looked, Show, Really, Heart, White, Path, Dark, Happy, Give, Human, Three, Think, Near, House, Own, Angels, Thought, Movie, Later, Alone, City, Stories, Long, Joy, Everyone, Smile, High, Began, Life, Remember, Night, Sure, Tiny, Anyone, Abel, Feed, While, Seen, Yourself, Jsut, Seemed, Years, Knowing, Panic, Ever, Say, Willingness, Sweet, Brown, Storm, Tell, Wrapped. 

That's my wordcloud. Go to Facebook Most Used Words if you want to see yours.


 I like that one of my words is Jsut. (sic.)


 They used to have an app. on amazon that let you see the main words any author used. i checked out the books i had written (this is what authors do when not writing) and cute and magical won by far. can those words win you a national book award?


at least for the moms i know, our facebook cloud  does not accurately reflect our true selves.

ON FB  i put my best forward. with bursts of  intense truth. recipes. and lately, those little stories i was afraid to share. because the whole time i was having that jobette experience, i kept thinking my sole purpose in life was to study it, get out of it, and share the way with others. it's a lot of pressure. i don't think helen keller learned the word water and then sprinted out grabbing other people's hands and teaching them how to do it--ALL IN ONE DAY!!!! why am i comparing myself to helen keller.


 every so often ON FB you see a normally positive person scream out something so true. like they can't stand living in such a boring town.  or they miss dancing to slamming bass, and brown people, and not knowing the next day how they got to where they woke up. that was from an actual reverend today, and i could relate. but would not share it...on FB. i'm trying to be grateful. i used to be much mroe grateful. you can become afraid to be grateful. i had a therapist once who said--wow, it's like you are afraid if you just pop out and smile for a second, your real self, that BAM, someone's gonna smash you down with a hammer. he also said another time: wouldn't wanna be ya.



on FB
 i have shared a welling up of gratitude that was true and pure, while huddled under a blanket withdrawing from the drugs i was prescribed for pain. and the person reading my post would picture me galavanting around. well you don't really picture people at all when you are reading their posts. they are just hunched over like you with their faces squinched or glaring. it is so weird that you don't smile when you are sharing a picture that is designed to make someone else smile.



 perhaps this IS the real me--the one that wants to offer the fruits of suffering, and not the pain and details of suffering, the way out to freedom, and not the details of how i got trapped--but then--you are a walking meme. meem? me---me--me--


you are like those channeled beings who have the exact same personality. once when i channeled a book (it freaked me out at first but then it was fun, the easiest and most satisfying thing ever)--i asked the entity or whatver that i was speaking to WHY channeled beings had such a sameness to their voice--that's another story.


 sometimes i imagine they have no voice box, just amorphous color and light, or else warthoggish aliens, who transmit through a universal translator into your mind. in the wrong hands, the above two paragraphs could have me commtited. in the right hands--a blockbuster movie.

not the sort of thing i would post on FB unless i could make it short and funny and not offend my kids, and my new grandsons, when they grow up. i somehow think i will not ever offend my grandsons! wow! wouldn't that be amazing to never offend someone you know and love forever? i put a bunch of stories on fb during the last snowstorm, because--what the hell. i had been saving them up for a collection, but had become so crippled about my writing, so precious, so editing--even-before-i-wrote. this is natural if one goes through a major transformation. seriously doubt it could be more epic if i got a sex change. still changing, but i think the period where the entire rotten house is blown apart and you land in oz--is over. so i don't know my main words yet. but it was great, no AMAZING, to get such unexpected feedback from random FB friends and fans--every writer wants to hear: tell me another story! it's good to have real, meaningful relationships with people, and these are different from the relationship you have with the person who will read the words you haven't written yet. that person is you. are you there yet?

trapped in nyc blizzard

here is my blizzard story. i lived 17th st. between third and irving. my boyfriend was abel ferrara, and he was working on his first movie, the driller killer! i had a crazy dog named zelda and she was dying to go out. the streets were completely shut down, just canyons of white. abel said he would take the dog out but he didn't want to use a leash, so i said go ahead. an hour later i went looking for them. i waded through alleys of whiteness, no footprints, no cars no people. tears were freezing on my cheeks and panic in my heart, sure i would never see my beloved zelda and abel again! (not really.) near grammercy park there was a man and a dog in the distance, and i called out: excuse me sir--have you seen-- it was them--he had his scarf tied around her neck-- she had bolted-- so surrealistic to have had ny turned into such a rural type winterscape that the only beings i encountered on that walk belonged to me.

One minute vacation: Deer in Snow

the music is by matthew dear which i hope i got from a non-commercial use site. Thick snow was falling on a deer; the deer was furry and cute like a burro. Some people are sick of deer, I love them. it can be a painful and restless feeling, to never feel at home in a town so familiar you have a memory associated with almost every house, every tree and every road. maybe because the deer are temporary--and for the most part silent--and because they are the only actors on the stage as i gaze into my yard today--maybe this is why i like them. the doe who appeared in front of the garage, lying down, for a long time, gazing at me. then frozen, staring, paused in the snow. when you study them you begin to know they each have a different face.