Monday, September 16, 2019

Hope for the Hopeless (And/Or Those Who Feel Overwhelmed By Society's Seeming Downward Spiral)


The Amazon is being burned. People with PhD’s are being paid poverty wages. Brett Kavanaugh is still a Supreme Court Justice. And I don’t know about you, but I continue to have a visceral negative reaction at any mention of the current President.

The world feels terrible and like nothing is ever going to be okay and it’s effing EXHAUSTING.

And sometimes I need to write about it or talk about it or post about it. But today I’m going to share the things that give me hope when I feel like there isn’t much to be had.

I heard once that the people who fight against justice and progress, who keep trying to prevent society from moving forward to equity, are like toddlers in the backseat of a car that’s being driven to Disneyland. There are times when they are screaming and kicking the back of your seat, even though you keep trying to tell them that you’re going to DISNEYLAND and it will be AWESOME.

And sometimes the screaming and the kicking gets to be too much. It’s exhausting and sometimes even painful. But the thing is that the car’s still f*cking going to Disneyland. Toddlers can be loud and obnoxious but they’re still toddlers who are basically powerless against adults. And adults are the ones driving the car.

So how do you be the adult who’s moving the car moving forward, even when the toddlers are screaming?

I have no definitive answers, but here’s what helps me. All of them are feel-good-y and partly stolen from various self-help books/tumblr posts/Brene Brown/Mr Rogers, and I strongly and shamelessly believe in them.

1. “Physician, heal thyself.”

A lot of the time, my reactions to the screaming toddlers have less to do with the screaming toddlers and more to do with my own un-healed trauma. Because APPARENTLY, almost all of us have experienced trauma. It seems like that’s just part of being human. Ain’t no shame in it. (About a year ago, my therapist asked “Could it be that your parents’ divorce actually had a significant effect on you?” and I replied “NO. Because I’m not a CLICHÉ.” But it turns out I am a cliché and it also turns out that’s actually fine because now I can heal.)

It doesn’t matter if you were physically abused or sexually assaulted or teased a lot as a child. The result is the same. [EDIT: A friend pointed out that it would be good to clarify that being sexually assaulted is not the same as being teased a lot. She used the metaphor of different rooms on a boat. In her words, "Some people get first class trauma like teasing or minor emotional neglect. Others get boiler room trauma where their life is literally hell. But it is all the same trauma boat. We all sailing on the same ship." Which is a way more accurate way to say what I was trying to say. That we all experience trauma in varying levels, and that all of us experience the consequences of trauma.] Your needs weren’t met in some way and your brain decided you were in danger and now it goes overboard in trying to protect you from future danger.

So even though it sounds dumb and counter-intuitive and woo-woo and kumbaya, I actually really believe that healing your own trauma is an enormous empowering step to making the world a better place. It will improve your relationships with yourself and with others, and strengthen your ability to make choices that benefit everyone.

Healing your own trauma won’t stop the toddlers from screaming. But it will help you deal with it. It will help you feel not so helpless. If you can develop coping skills that allow you to acknowledge your needs and fears and also allow you to feel self-worth and self-compassion, you can keep driving that car.

2. Do what you can, and not what you can’t.

I do not have the emotional bandwidth or the financial means to storm ICE detention centers, to picket the capital every day, to never use plastic ever, or to send feminine hygiene supplies to every woman in need. I sometimes feel this need to do ALL THE THINGS.

But I can’t. So instead, I do what I can. I have the emotional bandwidth and financial means to call my representatives now and then, to support Planned Parenthood, and to use public transportation now and then.

And I can create art that teaches empathy. I can write and act and paint and cross stitch the things I believe will bring healing and joy and goodness. Even if it’s just some improv comedy on a Friday night that allows people to take a break from their own emotional exhaustion and trauma.

I’m a big believer that all of us have unique gifts that can make the world better. So figure out what yours are, and do those things.

3. Support those who do what you can’t.

I can’t reform immigration laws or help those in ICE detention centers. But organizations like the ACLU and RAICES can. I can post about them and donate to them. For every problem I see in the world around me, there’s an organization working to solve it. There are people out there doing work that they are passionate about and good at. They don’t need you to do that work, too. They just need your support while THEY do it. Don’t feel the need to do something you are not qualified to do.

4. Remember that things are actually getting better. Objectively.

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

Human beings are healthier and less violent than we ever have been in recorded history. Our life expectancy keeps getting higher. Child mortality rates are lower. More people have access to education, and literacy rates are higher. Despite the efforts of some well-intentioned but ill-informed parents in the U.S., more kids are getting vaccinated throughout the world. Fewer and fewer people live in extreme poverty. (For more awesome and hopeful statistics, go here.)

I don’t say all these things to minimize the very real struggles and challenges that face our species. There’s a lot we’ve got to work on. But in moments of discouragement, it’s helpful for me to remember that despite the occasional dip into terrible-ness, humans have done some incredible things.

So while we may experience those dips, and while we may mourn the casualties we fight to avoid, the metaphorical car is actually getting closer and closer to metaphorical Disneyland.

We just gotta keep driving it.

Monday, August 19, 2019

Of lake and parks and creeks


When I was very small, I thought Lake Elizabeth was named after me. It’s a man-made lake in Fremont, a city to the southeast of San Francisco Bay, where I grew up. It’s surrounded by a large park, several playgrounds, and a couple of community buildings. 450 acres, and a lake that’s around 80 acres and maybe 8 feet deep. I sat in my grandparents’ sailboat on Lake Elizabeth’s waters. We rented paddleboats and bought ice cream cones. I fed ducks on its shores. A few times, we went swimming in the roped off area that demanded payment for use. I remember once we found a tiny orange kitten in the reeds on the south side of the lake, his little eyes glued shut with sickness. We named him Moses and took him to the nearby animal shelter.

There was one summer when my sister and I went to a day camp there. My sister and I were separated and the teenagers working there never gave us the color of marker we requested. If I could have figured out how to wander off, I would have. Maybe I did. As a child, I much preferred the company of nature to the company of my peers.

So many of my memories of Lake Elizabeth are of the small creek that meandered from the lake, through the playground, and into a wilderness refuge. To a dreamy girl like me, it was paradise. I was a small peasant girl, fetching water from the river to bring back to my family in our hut. I was a witch, gathering herbs and performing spells in the grass on the edges of the water. I was a pioneer, lifting my petticoats to ford a river on my way across the Oregon Trail.

There are strange, unspoken rules among children in public spaces. There are two ways to stake a claim on a particular area: be the first, or be the loudest. I was rarely the loudest, so I usually tried to be first. If I wasn’t, I had to settle for some other, smaller patch of shore to call my own.

I moved back home to Fremont for one semester during college. In the afternoons before my closing shift at the bookstore, I would take my grandmother’s old bike and ride out to Lake Elizabeth. As a twenty-two-year-old, the walk around Lake Elizabeth was short and manageable, an easy two miles. I would bring a book, or my journal, or a picnic lunch. Sometimes all of the above. I would watch as kids played by the same unspoken rules of territory by the creek. The grass was kept short (and often soiled) by flocks of Canadian geese.

There was less imagination in my use of the park as an adult. I went there for a change of scenery while doing the things I would be doing at home—reading, writing, walking, eating. But I could still feel the green of the park seep into my spine. It made me feel calm and quiet in the same way that it did when I was a child. Like a fish returning to water. Or more like breathing when you’ve been underwater.

I still visit Lake Elizabeth now and then. Everything at the lake is a little smaller to me now. The creek that was a wilderness to 6-year-old me doesn’t have the same untamed nature that it did then. I’ve embraced the fact that it was not, in fact, named after me, but rather after Fremont’s sister city, Elizabeth, South Australia. There’s a tunnel for BART, the public train, that runs right under the lake now. There’s a tree there planted for my late uncle, who died when I was too little to understand what that meant.

We adults still follow the same unspoken rules about territory—whoever’s first or loudest claims a spot. We’re more civilized about our claims, but we make them nonetheless. A picnic blanket here marks the border between my space and yours. Stay away from my picnic table, strangers. I didn’t come here to connect with people. I came to connect with the trees.

I wonder how long Lake Elizabeth will remain. If I’ll wheel a stroller with my own daughter around its perimeter. If I’ll watch her wade in the creek. If she’ll have a daughter that will do the same. I wonder if Lake Elizabeth will be a precious sanctuary to them, as it was to me. I hope it is. I believe it will be.

Monday, August 5, 2019

Life, Reviewed

Trip to Leigh Lake
4.5 stars
The view is so ridiculously majestic that my brain keeps trying to tell me that it’s not real. This is a backdrop, painted or projected. My heart hums with campfires and clear starry skies alternated with thunderstorms and sunny afternoons. I am filled with good conversations, naps, and reading in hammocks. Had to come home early because of sickness, which was terrible, but not Leigh Lake’s fault.

Dog-sitting for Penny
3.5 stars so far
Penny is excitable for about 45 seconds when you first meet her, and her claws are dangerously strong and sharp. But once you are sufficiently greeted, she settles down and is one of the sweetest puppies ever. Powerful jumping skills, including the ability to leap unassisted from the floor onto the kitchen counter or dining room table. Leaps joyously in the grass when you let her into the backyard, with celebratory bays and barks. Stubborn about eating on her schedule. The house is pleasant and just the right size, and all of the furniture is somewhere between mid-century modern and industrial chic, and it would be perfect if there was any art on the walls anywhere. A good selection of books scattered throughout the home. I only feel bad for not being home with Penny as often as she would probably like.

Great Salt Lake Fringe Festival
4 stars so far
I love Fringe so much. I love summer and theatre and Fringe and people creating brave art and people supporting each other, and Fringe is all of that and more. I tech 2 shows, then catch others, and occasionally run home to feed and take care of Penny. I wish I didn’t have to do that. My social anxiety sometimes causes me to become auto-pilot Liz, and she’s real awkward, so I spend my time between shows being happy to see so many people I love and admire and feeling like a goober for my awkwardness. (Thank you for being patient with me, fellow Fringers.)

The gas mileage on my 2002 Toyota Sienna minivan
1 star
Between dog-sitting and rehearsing and working and Fringe-ing, the 15 miles per gallon I get on this thing is painful. I take public transportation when I can, although I’ve been having trouble with my U of U card, so fingers crossed that works out. Because I can’t afford to fill this car up more than once a week.

Laryngitis
1 star
The fact that it was short-lived is cause for celebration. I spent one day not being able to talk at all and my brain just decided that this was forever. I resigned myself to the fact that I was now mute for the rest of my life. I mouthed things, I wrote things out, I mimed, I used a text-to-speech app. The next day, I was almost completely fine. I’m still a little scratchy, but you never realize how grateful you are for your voice until it’s taken away.

Air Conditioning
3.5 stars
When it’s very very hot, all I want is air conditioning. I want swamp coolers blasting, I want window units whirring, I want central air whooshing through the vents. They are not always energy-efficient, and I am aware of the resources being used unnecessarily or to excess. And about 1/3 of the time, room temperature is way too cold, having been set arbitrarily by middle-aged men wearing business suits. I shiver in the crisp indoor air at my desk job. But by goddess, I love walking into a pleasantly cool room in the middle of summer.

“The Post-Birthday World” by Lionel Shriver
3.5 stars
Dense and poetic writing, and a brilliant exploration of desire and choices and the paths we take. A British novel born of literarily Russian parents, it took me a while to get through, because it was so dense, but I loved it.

“Three Women” by Lisa Taddeo
4.5 stars so far
I started this the day before yesterday and I’m more than halfway through, because I cannot put it down. I’m borrowing it from one of my roommates and she’s underlined all of the same things I would. I listened to her gasp and exclaim as she read (she reads books the same way other people watch scary movies), and I find myself doing the same thing.

Blogging Every Two Weeks
4 stars
I am tired and overwhelmed and have a lot to do and today’s entry feels trite and somewhat uninspired. But I’m really grateful for something that forces me to maintain a writing habit. Even the things you love can get set aside for longer than you intend. In the hurly burly of groceries and laundry and commuting and maintaining and Etsy shop and theater, I have this small goal every 14 days that pushes me just enough to keep the embers burning.

Monday, July 22, 2019

Rockaway Beach, Oregon


We stayed in a small apartment, decorated predictably with a “seaside retreat” theme. Jars of shells. Paintings of ocean waves. Disturbing and brightly colored salt and pepper shakers in the shape of fish, their lips puckered obscenely. There’s even a framed copy of “Footprints in the Sand.”

When I was young, I had a bookmark with the familiar allegory printed on it. I remember being fourteen, a poet at heart already, and astounded by the unexpected beauty of the last line. “It was then that I carried you.” Standing in a Hallmark gift shop, I showed it to my father in awe, and used it to mark my place in my scriptures for years.

Now it feels cloying. Trite to the point of absurdity. There’s a Gideon’s Bible in one of the drawers here, alongside playing cards and a selection of puzzles. Hints that maybe we’ll all get saved on this trip.

Beckah and I share a pullout sofa bed that somehow gets absurdly smaller every night we sleep in it. I have no physical explanation for this phenomenon and conclude that it must be either metaphysical or metaphorical. A symbol of having outgrown something, maybe.

That week, I spend every morning walking on the beach. A brief 15-minute communion with my first love. The Pacific Ocean is creator and destroyer, nourishing and violent. It is genderless and powerful and bigger than I can fathom. My love for it feels the same way.

I felt quiet on the last morning, sitting in the car as we drove away from Rockaway Beach. That morning was an efficient flurry of packing and cleaning, carrying things down the stairs. Quiet cooperation. We drove through forests of dense pine and ferns and I listened to my parents talk in the front seat. I’m sad to be leaving my family behind here. I’m going to miss them.

The melancholy of already missing them feels like my heart has been dipped in warm honey. I’ve spent the last few months digging through all of my miniature childhood traumas, stumbling over anger and hurt from the past like driftwood after a storm. We’d all been broken at some point, for some reason or another, and there were times when our home was a hospital with no doctors or nurses. We were all doing the best we could with what we had. All of our volatile hearts reading abandonment in every choice everyone else made. I remember times when we were all of us so hurt and angry with each other that the air seethed with it.

But it all feels so long ago now. Not something to ignore, but something that doesn’t really matter anymore.

There are still hints of what was, in small moments, spread apart. There are moments when we are impatient with each other. When wounds barely healed break open at the slightest word. Some olive branches are dropped into the sand. There are table settings that are empty. And yet look at us, all these years later, passing marshmallows around the campfire. Talking about whether or not the morality of the artist affects the art as we drive to a restaurant in Manzanita. Smiling, sharing frozen yogurt samples. Taking turns at the dishes, at taking out and putting away bedding. Walking through brambles and weeds on that hill in Tillamook, where in five or six years, there will be a garden and a porch and a house with a giant kitchen.

It may sound trite, but it feels like the ocean no longer dashes us against the rocks. Sometimes a rogue wave knocks us off balance. Or the water rises above our knees with the kind of freezing shock that paralyzes us for a moment. But the ebb and flow of the tide doesn’t threaten to drown us anymore. Our heads are above water now.

We’re laying a foundation above the tsunami zone, at the very least.





photo credit: Dad Whittaker

Monday, July 8, 2019

Lessons In Luxury


I spent the last 10 days dog/apartment-sitting at a “luxury apartment complex” in north Salt Lake. And while this blog entry will probably be an insufferable examination of privilege, I learned some things about living luxuriously that I want to share.

The hallways smell like Disneyland
Or like a combination of Disneyland and a new car and a house that a realtor is showing. I can’t quite describe the smell. Maybe there’s some vanilla in there? Some kind of citrus? It’s bright and clean and sort of cloying. Even when I knew to expect it, it surprised me every time I walked in.

Everyone is really friendly
Smiling inquiries about your day are common in the elevator. There’s a casual “Hey how’s it going” every time you pass someone in the hallway, or out on the sidewalk outside. I attribute the phenomenon to people not really having much to worry about? I KNOW that there are plenty of things to worry about, regardless of income or address, but everyone I met seemed either really okay with their circumstances, or they were really good actors.

Everyone is really attractive
And not because it’s a requirement on the lease. But because if you can afford to pay thousands of dollars per month to live in an apartment with a rooftop pool, a gym, a private dog park, a spa, and a private sports club with 16 screens, you can also probably afford to pay for braces. And tanning. And Proactiv. And high-end face creams. And regular salon trips. And you also probably have time for regular exercise, cooking with fresh produce, and regular sleep.

Food delivery is complicated in what’s basically a gated community
Every evening, there was usually a crowd of five to ten people standing outside, waiting for Dominos and GrubHub and Jimmy John’s. Because you need a key to get into the building, and to use the elevator, and the lobby closed at 5, so it was impossible to get anything delivered to your door.

All the grass is watered at night
I know this should seem obvious. But I haven’t lived in a place with professionally watered lawns for…actually maybe never? I discovered this one night when I took the dog I was sitting to the private dog park to run around at a time when it wasn’t crowded or 150 degrees. I threw the frisbee exactly one time and then took two steps forward and fell right into a huge mud puddle. My sandals, my knees, and my right hand were caked in slimy wet dog park mud. (I have decided that it was mud and only mud and there were no other substances in that mud.)

A rooftop pool is where I’m supposed to spend my afternoons
Technically, I also had access to the gym, but why would I spend time in a gym on a hot summer afternoon, when I could be cooling off IN A POOL? A pool with a view of the Capitol building and Temple Square to the east, and a valley stretching out to the west. A pool with “wet deck seating” (AKA lounge chairs all along one shallow end of the pool) and fountains and private cabanas and very soft fake grass? ON THE ROOF? The first day here, I took a book and a towel up and spent a blissful two hours basking in my new, albeit temporary, life. It also provided a helluva view for fireworks. I’m a big fan of living small, but if I could have a rooftop pool for the rest of my life, that would be acceptable.

My standard of living IMMEDIATELY adjusted, regardless of the fact that my income stayed basically the same
I spent maybe three hours at the apartment before being like, “Yeah, I WILL order an extra side from Noodles and Company!” “I’ll get premium gasoline!” “This toilet paper isn’t soft enough!” That didn’t last long, because even though I did get paid for this dog/house-sitting gig, it was not enough to cover the costs of extra sides, premium gasoline, AND top-notch toilet paper.

I had to check my racist assumptions at the door
At the beginning of this experience, I rolled my eyes at the indulgence of what was sure to be a rich, white kid playground. It’s Salt Lake City, Utah. And they’re luxury apartments. How much whiter can you get?
And then I got there and realized that there was actually a lot of diversity and I should give Salt Lake and the people who live there some credit. I was coming from this liberal “class is a racial issue!” perspective, and while I do still think that class and race are deeply entwined in this country, seeing the diversity at the apartment complex was a good reminder to me to check my own racism. Because I realized that I was assuming that only white people could be rich in conservative Salt Lake City. Yikes. YIKES, RIGHT?! It’s like I was trying to be SO AWARE of my WHITE PRIVILEGE that it didn’t immediately occur to me that I might be making some hasty generalizations.

East, west, home is best
While a rooftop pool is heavenly, and lightly scented hallways are pleasant, and it’s nice to exchange pleasantries with attractive people in the elevator, I don’t think I’d be happy living in a luxury apartment. I love sitting on a slightly cluttered porch with a book and a popsicle. I love a backyard and a big living room and nerdy feminist roommates and doorknobs that are almost 100 years old. There’s something sort of beautiful and comforting in things that are imperfect.

Thursday, June 27, 2019

Being Background


A few years ago, I wrote a posted a big blog entry about how to get involved in acting in Utah. You can check it out here, but I've had a few people ask me lately about doing background/extra work and/or getting more involved in film. So I thought I'd share a few more details!

Speaking Roles:
In order to audition for speaking roles in Utah, you need to have an agent. The 2 most reputable agencies in Utah are TMG (Talent Management Group) and McCarty. TMG only takes referrals, and McCarty has an open call every fall...keep an eye on their website and Facebook page for exact dates. I've also heard of Stars Talent Studio, Urban Talent Management, and Elevate Talent Agency, but I can’t vouch for them.

But the best and easiest way to get involved (especially if you don't have much experience) is by doing Background/Extra work! It's usually pretty fun, not too challenging, and it's a perfect way to learn how film sets work.

Background/Extra work: What It Is/How It Works
In every film/TV show/commercial, sometimes you need people to create a crowd…in a restaurant, at a high school assembly, on a busy street. The people who do this are actors called extras, or background.

If a film/TV show/commercial needs extras, they’ll send out an “extras call.” If you fit the description of what they need, you can send them your info—usually a current photo and maybe clothing sizes. If you fit what they’re looking for, they’ll contact you and tell you where and when to show up, what to wear, and anything else you need to know.

Usually this is on a day-by-day basis, and you’ll spend that day on set, then go home and relax.

Background/Extra work: What To Expect
PAY: Standard pay for background work is $101.50 per “day.” (In film, a “day” means anything under 12 hours. Most of the time, if you’re there for longer, they have to pay you extra.) Sometimes pay is more or less, depending on the project.

MEALS: Depending on when in the day the shoot is, many sets will provide lunch. There are also often snacks/water, but be sure to bring your own just in case.

HOURS: Background/extra work is usually an all-day commitment. But it varies hugely from project to project. I’ve been background where I showed up at 6 am and was done by 9 am. And I’ve also been background where I was on set from 6 am to midnight. And you just gotta kinda be prepared for either scenario.

NOTES ON THE DAY OF: Here’s how your day as an extra/background actor will typically work, as well as some on set jargon it’s good to know.

You’ll show up “on set” (the location where filming is happening) by “call time” (the time you have been asked to arrive). You’ll find a “PA” (production assistant) and tell them you’re an extra. If you’re not sure who the PA is, you can just walk up to anyone who looks like they’re involved in filming and they can point you in the right direction.

The PA will usually have you fill out some paperwork and then send you to “wardrobe” and/or “hair/makeup.” These are the folks who choose what you’ll be wearing and make sure you look good on camera. Most projects will have extras bring their own clothes, so it’s usually easiest to just bring a suitcase with options—they’ll tell you beforehand what kinds of things to bring.

Then you’ll probably hang out in “holding” (an area set aside for background actors to hang out until they’re needed). And you will probably hang out here for hours. So bring a book, your phone charger, an iPad, other work, etc. Grab some snacks from “craft services” (food provided by the film/TV show/commercial makers) and prepare to wait forever.

When it’s time to actually get to work, a PA will tell you where to go. Then someone, (the “1st AD”/assistant director, another PA, or the background “wrangler”) will tell you what to do. For example, “Start by this table, then walk down towards the bathroom.”

Here’s a typical run down of a shot. Various people will call out these things, and here’s what each of them mean.
1. “Rehearsal!” = Practice. Do exactly what you were told to do as if it was the real deal.
2. “Picture’s Up!” = Rehearsal is done and we’re ready to shoot!
3. “Last looks!” = Make sure everything’s ready—hair, makeup, props, etc.
4. “Slate!” = Someone will hold a slate up to the camera so the editors know what scene it is.
5. “Camera!” = Is the camera recording?
6. “Camera speeding!” = Yes, the camera is recording.
7. “Sound!” = Is sound recording?
8. “Sound speeding!” = Yes, sound is recording.
9. “Background!” = Background/extra actors begin their work.
10. “Action!” = Main actors in the scene begin their work.
11. “Cut!” = Stop, both the acting and the cameras and sound.
12. “Hold!” = Pause, but don’t stop recording.
13. “Back to one!” = Return to the first place you were at the beginning of the shot. (If your job was to start at the table and walk towards the bathroom, go back to the table.)
14. Repeat.

In between shots, you may be told to go back to holding, or you may just stand around while they move cameras/lights/other equipment.

At the end of the day, you’ll return any wardrobe items that aren’t yours and have a PA sign you out. You’ll get your check in the mail a few weeks later!

RULES/EXPECTATIONS: Be professional. Be quiet. Follow directions. Don’t ask for autographs or photos with any of the other actors. (You will not be asked back if you do.) Filming costs tens of thousands of dollars BY THE MINUTE, so don’t waste anyone’s time.

Anything else, you’ll learn as you go! It’s usually pretty fun to make friends with the other background actors, talk shop, and hang out.

Background/Extra work: Where to Find Background Calls
There are 2 main sources for getting info about background work in Utah. Signing up for emails is the best way to get notified about extras calls.

G&G Casting
These guys are almost always working on something. Gayle and Gumby have worked everything from High School Musicals I, II, and III to "127 Hours." You can join their email list on their website and follow their Facebook page.

Utah Actors NING
This page is maintained by Jeff Johnson, who is Utah's main casting director. You'll need to register to use this page, but it's definitely worth it. Once you've registered, go to the settings tab, and then click "Email" on the left side. Make sure you're set up to receive emails from Utah ACTORS. Calls for background/extras happen almost every day during busy times.

Good luck, and happy filming! 

Monday, June 24, 2019

Hiatus


Beckah is in Europe on a choir tour. I'm not, but I'm extending the terms of her blogging hiatus so that it also applies to me.

We do HAVE to write regularly because otherwise what is the point, but choir tour in Europe is a valid excuse to be excused.

See ya in two weeks, lovers.

Monday, June 10, 2019

A short play, based on a true story

Fulfillment
A short play by Liz Whittaker

CHARACTERS:
JOANNA. Manager for the Rocky Mountain region of Manifestation Fulfillment, Material Desires Department. Extremely capable.

PHILLIPPA. An employee of the Material Desires, Convenient Disposal Department. A little quiet and reserved, but creative and compassionate.

HARLEY. An employee of Joanna’s. Ambitious, rough around the edges, efficient as hell.

SCENE:
Lights up on the bustling “Center for Manifestation Fulfillment.” Phones are ringing, people are walking back and forth between cubicles. White boards filled with complicated graphs, tickers and countdowns, etc. Think the New York City stock exchange meets the offices of The Washington Post. A sign reads “Manifestation Fulfillment: Material Desires, Rocky Mountain region.” Joanna sits at her desk, writing notes while she takes a phone call.

JOANNA
(on the phone) Uh huh…uh huh… no, sorry, apartments are handled by the Living Situations Department…even if they want a furnished place, it still falls under that department…okay, no problem. (Joanna presses a button) Manifestation Fulfillment, Material Desires, this is Joanna speaking…yes, of course…(she snaps her fingers, and a post it note pad zooms into her hand, and she writes something down) Uh huh…yes…is there a timeline on this one? All right, I’ll see what I can do. (she hangs up)

(HARLEY enters, holding a stack of papers)

HARLEY
Afternoon, Joanna. I’ve completed the reports for last week’s unfulfilled manifestations.

JOANNA
Thank you, Harley. Have a seat. (Flipping through the stack briefly) Hey, we’re doing a little better nowadays. Your numbers are looking good.

HARLEY
Thanks. I think coordinating with the other departments has been helping.

JOANNA
Agreed. We’ve got a new manifestation to work on, just got the call. Are you interested?

HARLEY
I’d love to take it. What are the details?

JOANNA
Let me grab you the client’s file. (she snaps her fingers and a file folder zooms into her hands)

HARLEY
God, that’s convenient.

JOANNA
God’s in a different department. But yes, having telekinetic privileges is one of the best perks of being a manager. (opens the file) Liz Whittaker, Salt Lake City.

HARLEY
Didn’t she do an informal manifestation request for an apartment a few months ago?

JOANNA
That’s the one. We were able to pass it on to the Living Situations Department, and they found her the perfect place. This most recent manifestation is for a bed frame.

HARLEY
That shouldn’t be too hard. What are the details of the request? Was it formalized?

JOANNA
No ritual attached to the request. We got this one through the “Thoughts Sent Out Into the Universe” line. She’s looking for something full sized, not too far away from her home, for under $50.

HARLEY
That last one’s gonna be tough. Does she need it soon?

JOANNA
She wasn’t specific, but it sounds like she’s hoping to have it within the next month or so.

HARLEY
That helps. Any leads?

JOANNA
Let me have you work with someone from Convenient Disposal. (picks up phone and dials) Yes, Miss Thomas? Could you please send one of your agents down here? I’ve got a case that could use someone from your department. Thanks.

(A few moments of awkward silence. Finally, Harley speaks up)

HARLEY
So, Joanna…

JOANNA
Yes?

HARLEY
Have you thought any more about my uh…my promotion to management?

JOANNA
I have. And I’m definitely open to the idea. How about this? You nail this job and I’ll promote you to team lead. No telekinetic privileges yet, but your metaphysical clearance on earth will expand slightly, and you’d be in charge of six agents, coordinating efforts to fulfill manifestation desires.

HARLEY
Thank you, Joanna! This is fantastic.

JOANNA
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Get Liz a bed frame for under $50 and we’ll talk.

(Phillippa enters, looking slightly lost. She’s wearing a pair of feathery angel wings.)

PHILLIPPA
Excuse me? Can you tell me what floor this is?

JOANNA
This is Fourteen—Material Desires. Are you looking for Heavenly Messages?

PHILLIPPA
What? (Joanna gestures to the angel wings) Oh! I’m sorry. (Phillippa snaps her fingers and the wings disappear) I was just transferred out of the Divine Intervention Department, and I keep forgetting to—well, anyway, I’m looking for a Joanna?

JOANNA
That’s me. Listen, I’ve got a case that I think you could help us with. This is Harley. You’ll be working together. Let me know if you have any questions.

(Joanna exits)

PHILLIPPA
I’m Phillippa. It’s nice to meet you.

HARLEY
Likewise. (hands over the folder) We’ve got a Liz Whittaker looking for a full-size bed frame in Salt Lake City, preferably under $50. Do you have any leads?

PHILLIPPA
(glances at the folder, then peers up and out, scanning a series of invisible scenes that only she can see) Let’s see. I’ve got quite a few people looking to get rid of bed frames. Have you tried sending her to KSL classifieds?

HARLEY
I haven’t tried anything yet.

PHILLIPPA
Let’s have her start there and—

(Phillippa stops, noticing something on that horizon that only she can see. She squints, then returns back to reality)

PHILLIPPA
Do you think a queen size bed frame would work?

HARLEY
(glancing at the file) Yeah, probably.

PHILLIPPA
Have her get on Facebook Marketplace.

HARLEY
Well, her file says she’s not ready to buy today—

PHILLIPPA
Now! Hurry!

(HARLEY gets out a handheld device, something like an iPad. She presses a few buttons, and we hear a swoosh as the message gets sent to Liz down on earth.)

HARLEY
Should I be directing her anywhere in particular?

PHILLIPPA
She’ll find it. Someone just posted. I got the alert ten minutes ago but didn’t realize they would pursue fulfillment so quickly—

(HARLEY’S “iPad” makes a “ding!” noise and the two women look down at it)

HARLEY
Dayum, girl! IKEA Brimnes bed frame with storage?! Slats for foam mattress included? FOR FREE?!

PHILLIPPA
This is an old client of mine—I’ve done work for her and her husband before. It looks like they just want to get this out of their basement.

HARLEY
(looking down at the device) They’re texting.

(Both women gaze intently at the device, following some drama. It’s like they’re watching a sports game… “oh no!” “Yes, made it!” “Wait…almost?” “Score!”)

HARLEY
Boom! Fulfilled! Nice work!

PHILLIPPA
(smiling and shrugging modestly) One of those times when the job was easy.

HARLEY
Well, I’m getting a promotion because of you, so thanks.

PHILLIPPA
Of course. (she starts to leave, then turns back) Oh, one more thing. May I?

(Harley hands the iPad-ish device over to Phillippa, who takes it and enters a few things, then hands it back)

HARLEY
What did you do?

PHILLIPPA
I opened the door for her. For Liz.

HARLEY
Literally or figuratively?

PHILLIPPA
(smiling) Both.

END OF PLAY


Monday, May 13, 2019

Pornography was not the problem. Ted Bundy was the problem.


Hi, this is my standard response whenever anyone posts anything linking Ted Bundy to pornography use.

There’s this infuriating thing that gets perpetuated by well-meaning folks who are concerned about pornography. The serial killer Ted Bundy gave a final interview in the 24 hours before he was executed. He was interviewed by Rev. Dr. James Dobson, a Christian psychologist and the founder of the organization Focus on the Family.

Among saying many other things, Bundy made the claim that he was a good, normal, happy, healthy boy from a good Christian home, and that pornography snatched him away from that life at a young age, and that he became so addicted to violent sexual media that he ended up murdering 30+ women. You can read his full final interview here, or watch a spliced version of these claims on YouTube here (although I'd recommend reading the full final interview for better context and because I don't want to give that YouTube video more views).

And let’s break it down, shall we?

Bundy was probably a clinical sociopath
Ted Bundy meets just about all of the DSM-5 criteria for Antisocial Personality Disorder (APD). Like, ALL OF THEM. I’m not a doctor, but I think we can pretty confidently conclude that he was a clinical sociopath. From what we know about this disorder, genetics play a part, but children who are abused or neglected are also far more likely to develop this disorder. Consuming violent sexual media is something that many people with Antisocial Personality Disorder do (like the folks in prison that Bundy mentioned), but pornography DOES NOT AND CANNOT CAUSE the disorder. It’s better to think of consuming violent pornography as one possible "symptom" of sociopathy, rather than the cause of it.

Bundy had a traumatic childhood (not a "good Christian home" as claimed)
Not much is known about Bundy’s childhood, but here’s what we do know. He was born to Eleanor Louise Cowell at the Elizabeth Lund Home for Unwed Mothers. His father’s identity has never been determined, but some family members believe that he was fathered by Eleanor’s own abusive father, and is the child of incest. Bundy was raised by his grandparents in early childhood, and was told that they were his parents. His grandfather(/possible father) was bigoted and violent. He beat his wife and abused animals, both their own and neighborhood pets. He once threw one of his daughters down the stairs for oversleeping. Bundy’s mother later remarried and he was adopted by her new husband. Bundy disliked his stepfather, was distant with his half-siblings, and worshipped his violent grandfather. (See note above about how children who are abused/neglected are more likely to develop Antisocial Personality Disorder.)

Bundy was probably trying to get a stay on his execution
Multiple reporters asked to interview Bundy before his execution. Bundy specifically requested Dobson to come from California and conduct this final interview in prison in Florida, and he was blatant about his desire to spread a message about the harms of pornography. Bundy, as someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder, was extremely manipulative, and it’s highly likely that he was appealing to Dobson’s beliefs to try and get a stay on his execution.

Pornography addiction is not a thing
At the very least, it’s not an accepted thing within the psychological community. It was not included in the most recent revision of the DSM because there is not enough peer-reviewed scientific evidence to support it. People may have sexual compulsions, but these are often a part of other diagnoses/different psychological challenges.

Sometimes people who consume pornography may feel like they can’t control their porn use, but it’s more likely that they are caught in a shame cycle than that they have an actual addiction.

(Negative emotion like shame → self-medicating by viewing pornography → shame about viewing pornography → self-medicating that shame by viewing pornography again, etc.)

I don’t want to downplay the very real and very painful feelings of many many people who struggle with pornography. But I don’t think treating it like an addiction is helpful. Check it: BYU did a study in 2017 that found that seeing oneself as a pornography addict did more harm in relationships than actual pornography use. The porn isn’t the problem. The shame is the problem.

Pornography does not create serial killers
If pornography made the men who consumed it into serial killers, there would be a lot more serial killers.

I do think violent pornography is a PROBLEM. I think it perpetuates misogyny and provides damaging and inaccurate sex education. I think it normalizes violence against women, and women experience violence at a rate that is unacceptable. I would guess that each of you reading this is maybe two or three degrees of separation from a woman who was murdered by a partner, whether you know it or not.

But violence against women is most often committed by someone known to the victim, and the murder is usually an escalation of a pattern of violence—violence that’s normalized by lots of influences, including violent sexual media.

Ted Bundy is different. Ted Bundy abducted strangers*, raped and murdered them, and sometimes sexually penetrated their dead bodies until decomposition made that impossible.

So like, not the kind of thing most men are watching in pornography.

This narrative linking pornography to serial killers is harmful
Using Ted Bundy as an example of “what can happen if young men watch pornography” is not only totally inaccurate, it’s harmful. It sends the message to anyone who watches pornography: “You are a monster.” Which perpetuates the shame cycle that pornography use may already be a part of. It fosters secrecy, which is what shame needs to grow. It’s weaponizing shame to fight a “problem” that is caused by shame in the first place. If someone wants to change their relationship with pornography, or develop healthier romantic/sexual relationships in life, telling them that watching pornography is always harmful, no matter what, and is part of the path to becoming a serial murderer/necrophiliac WILL NOT HELP.


I know how tempting it is to find and blame a single thing for a monstrosity like Ted Bundy's behavior. It's convenient and powerful. But it's not based in reality. The reality is that Ted Bundy was the perfect storm of genetics and upbringing and looks and intelligence and timing. And we do a disservice to ourselves to try and blame anything else.



*Ted Bundy confessed to or is suspected in at least the following abductions/murders:
Anne Marie Burr
Lonnie Trumbell
Lisa Wick
Joni Lenz (AKA Karen Sparks, or Mary Adams, or Terri Caldwell)(survived with permanent disabilities)
Lynda Ann Healy
Donna Gail Manson
Susan Elaine Rancourt
Brenda Baker
Roberta Kathleen Parks
Brenda Carol Ball
Georgann Hawkins
Janice Ann Ott
Denise Marie Naslund
Nancy Wilcox
Melissa Smith
Laura Aime
Carol DaRonch
Deborah Kent
Unknown hitchhiker
Carol Valenzuela
Unidentified female found in Washington
Caryn Eileen Campbell
Julie Cunningham
Denise Lynn Oliverson
Lynette Culver
Susan Curtis
Melanie Cooley
Lisa Levy
Margaret Bowman
Karen Chandler
Kathy Kleiner
Cheryl Thomas
Kimberly Leach
Shelly Robertson
Nancy Baird
Debbie Smith
Rita Lorraine Jolly
Vicki Lynn Hollar
Rita Curran

Monday, April 29, 2019

Check up


I’ve been meaning to change the oil in my car for months. For so many months, in fact, that I’ve now reached the point in the calendar when I should be getting the NEXT oil change. The check engine light came during the evening, so I drove exactly ten miles under the speed limit for the whole drive home. I wake up an hour and a half early the next day to stop by Jiffy Lube on my way to work.

I’m groggier than usual as I stumble out of the shower. I lift my arms to apply deodorant and notice a dark spot on the bottom of my right breast. I lift my skin to look closer. Slightly rough. Irregular shape. A mole? A dry patch? It’s small, a scaly spot of brown. How long has that been there? I don’t often notice the underside of my breasts.

I rub sunscreen onto my face, brush on mascara. If I have breast cancer, maybe I’ll just have one breast cut off. An Amazon woman. I’ll learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. I’ll wear bikinis that show off my survival and pose for empowering nude photos, a clean thick scar across my chest.

It’s probably nothing.

I blow dry my hair. Glance at the moles and freckles that dot my skin. What if this is the time that it’s not nothing?

I don’t have time for this.

At Jiffy Lube, they remind me that I’m overdue for a transmission service, a radiator flush, and an air filter replacement. They also recommend a headlight cleaning and new wiper blades. I tell the woman at the counter that I’ll get new wiper blades if she gives me $10 off. She agrees.

Yes, I know I have an oil leak. Yes, I know about the check engine light.

In the lobby, I open my phone and Google “dry scaly patch on breast.” The results are what I expected. A mixed bag of internet diagnostic horror and benign skin conditions. Planned Parenthood does breast exams, right? Friday. It will have to be Friday.

Maybe I should go to the University of Utah. A full mammogram, instead of just an exam. Huntsman Cancer Center is right there.

Just in case. I make a mental note to check if they take my insurance.

I feel an oppressive sense of calm about my mortality this week. I was almost hit by a car on Monday. Not that my car was almost hit by another car. My person, scurrying through the crosswalk after hearing the crunch of metal and shatter of tail lights, a white Suburban hurtling towards me. Sitting on a curb and filling out paperwork, a plastic clipboard that a police officer handed me resting on my knees. Date. Time. Cross streets.

I imagine my breasts being pressed between two plates, flashes of light in an office. Waiting.

* * * * *

My check engine light is still on. So it wasn’t the oil. Somewhere else in this complex system, something is wrong. I feel like I should know what it is. But it takes years of training to make a diagnosis. You have to rely on the expertise of others. Maybe it’s a $15 filter, a $50 repair, a benign anomaly.

And maybe this is it. The transmission shot, the radiator cracked, some piston beyond repair. Days in the shop, thousands of dollars sunk into this goddamn thing that’s absolutely necessary for me to navigate my life.

Either way, it will have to wait until next week.

* * * * *

University of Utah only does mammograms if a doctor requests it. Planned Parenthood can’t fit me in until the week after next. By this time, the check engine light has turned off in my car, and I’m hoping it’s a sign that all is well elsewhere. I sit in the exam room of the clinic for forty-five minutes, wearing a pink paper vest, and reading a book, telling myself that everything is fine.

The nurse practitioner makes polite conversation as she presses and wiggles into each breast, up, down, around. Her gloved hand takes a moment to examine the dry scaly patch that brought me here.

Everything looks perfectly fine.

She tells me to visit a dermatologist if it gets bigger or darker, and answers my questions about long-term Zoloft use and fertility, and I put on my shirt and walk back to my car.

* * * * *

After the car accident on Monday, I sat on the curb and watched the tow truck pull up. The woman from the vehicle at fault stood watching next to me, answered her phone when it rang. A short, polite conversation. Thank you. Have a nice day. She sighed. “Well, the good news is that I don’t have cancer.” We all laughed. “At least that’s one good thing today.”

When I finally got to the theatre that night, two hours after the accident, I sat down and was suddenly flooded with what had just happened. It was so close. I’m only 33. It feels wildly unfair, beyond acceptance that my life would end at 33. I sat, shaking, breathing.

Feeling the weight of my chest rise and fall.

Monday, April 15, 2019

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight


There are few who know that emotions are tangible.

I know because I am filled with them. Humans have breathed life into my paint and foundation and flooring. I wasn’t born from a womb. All of humanity is my mother, and I become a mother to them, a womb to shelter them.

Within a few short millennia, humans have leapt into the skies and plunged into the oceans, photographed particles, measured the speed of light, split atoms, cured diseases. It will only be a few more years until their instruments are fine-tuned enough to measure the matter of feeling that permeates everything around us. A fine mist of pollen, an ethereal smoke, that floats through the air and settles into the walls and carpets. Here, feel the hum of fear in these walls. Here, the golden orange light of joy courses through the glass of the windows. It will straighten your spine if you sit near. Here, your feet will drag in the concrete sludge of sorrow left in the floorboards. I am what you make me.

I have heard whispers of houses where men re-arranged the insides in fury, drove nails into them as if their wooden flesh were a threat. The crash of porcelain echoed within those places, and the whip and crack of punishment, and the roar of disdain. The unshed tears of women and children seeped into the floorboards, a continuous, incomplete baptism. A sea that would not part.

In houses like that, after the terror is over, the weight of everything left becomes a grindstone. A house cannot help but let out some of what it carries. It bleeds from the walls, gathering in unseen beads that slowly drip towards the carpet and make the family dog whimper. It slips out in little ways…a creak on the stairs, a door that closes on its own. Sometimes it comes in gusts, bursts of wrath that topple books from shelves, send pictures flying from the walls, and make lights flicker and pop. Sometimes the memory of a man’s voice, his agony and fury, flies from the rafters, his words ricocheting from floor to ceiling. The neighborhood children would speak of it in whispers.

Perhaps I could have been a theatre. Never quiet places, where feelings upon feelings upon feelings bump and tumble and multiply, knocking props off from shelves and popping lights in the rafters. If I were a theatre, they would leave a light on within me, to appease the ghosts.

Or else maybe I could have been a museum, where every stroke of paint is buzzing with feeling, where stone and wood and metal and cloth are alive with it, and the air vibrates with what is left behind after people stand in awe and clutch their hearts.

But I am not a museum, or a theatre, or a house. I am a church. For some, God is just a word, but within my walls, reverence is tangible. There is a beauty to that uniquely human emotion. Other animals do not seem to worship. Humans look upwards and ache with hope. It fills the stained glass windows. Every beam of wood and every stone is weighted with meaning. “This is important,” each of them says. “I am made beautiful by your hope.”

In older places, the hope and sorrow and joy and fear of centuries make each room feel bigger than it looks. Feelings compound upon themselves, multiplying over time. At first, there is reverence and wonder and awe at the way the light shifts, at the coolness of stones, at the bend of wood. But that wonder seeps back into the light and stones and wood, until even people who believe only in what they can measure sense the weight of that wonder.

The stones do not matter only because they are carved. The wood does not matter only because it’s old. The glass does not matter only because it bends the light. Their power is in what they contain, in the fine matter of what was felt there. The word God alone does not make this place sacred. It is sacred because a woman came to that place and mourned the loss of a child. Because a man came to that place and thanked Something Bigger to be alive. Because a child came to that place and hoped for something they could not name.

Come, walk among my ruins. There is wonder here, a looking upwards and upwards. The acidic burn of hatred hissing in corners. Hope against hope. Whispered prayers, whispered sins. Tonight, the memories of these feelings taste of ashes.