A smug-looking little Lo and her bunny feet

This is what I’ve learned: while it’s fine for me to live on a trash heap, all it takes is a little company to send me for the pledge and break out the doilies, so to speak. My new roommate is a short, furry two-year old named Lola and since she came on the scene a little over a week ago, I’ve finally settled into the new place.

A cat was on my list of things to get for the new place, but far from the top of the list. In fact, going to look at the cats at the Animal Rescue League of Boston seemed like a favor I was doing for my friend Brian, providing him the perfect excuse to get his own furry friend fix. I was totally up for seeing the kitties, but taking one home to feed it and clean up after it and try not to kill it when it scratches my furniture? Not something I was seriously entertaining.

We walked along the row of cages, their occupants either sleeping or actively lobbying for our attention. Even if you don’t like cats it would be hard not to find at least one or two potential love-matches among those guys. The one I was looking at was white and grey, shorthair, and less than a year old. His nose was scraped up like he had just been in a fight, which he could have been since he was listed as being a stray. He was skinny but spunky, doing his best to keep my attention.

Brian immediately zeroed in on a lounging tortoise shell shorthair who was just taking it all in. She was a beautiful cat and, from the information listed, her people had given her up due to recently developed allergies. (Whether this was true or they just didn’t want her now that she was no longer a kitten, who knows?)

If it had just been me, I don’t know that I would have given her – or any of the cats there – a second look. I was worn out. I had just finished a month-long battle with the banks for the condo I finally owned but seriously regretted whenever I let myself think about the money. The buyers remorse only deepened when I thought of all the things that I’d need to do to update the place. I was living out of boxes still, a month in at that point, with the same horrible pastel painted walls with copious nail holes, the carcass of an ugly shelving system halfway taken down (because I didn’t have the tools to completely yank it out), the stupid, terrible layout and slap-dash bathroom – enough potential to choke on. And I was choking on it. I didn’t need a cat, I needed a time machine to go back and stop myself before making this horrible, seemingly irrevocable mistake. If there was any consolation it was in the fact that I could go home alone, without anyone to answer to, to live my egregious little life in peace.

(Okay – as you can see, if I let myself think about it, it gets melodramatic real quick. Which is not to say I don’t feel melodramatically about the whole thing – I really am of two minds about it. Barring the occasional and anomalous burst satisfaction, I’m either okay (not great, but I can live with it) about it, or am completely, ridiculously regretting that I ever saw this place. I am hoping in the coming months to move the range up so that I am either mildly contented or simply rueful.)

But the cat. Brian kept pushing me to take another look at her. The ARL has the cat cages stacked two high on the outer walls of the adoption room while in the middle of the room there are maybe six or eight enclosures, about three by three feet, cinder block halfway up, chain link the rest of the way, where people can “visit” cats that they might want to adopt. I “visited” with the sleepy tortoise shell cat. I sat on a chair as the volunteer set the cat down on the ground and shut us both in the cage. The cat stretched her long legs and torso and set to exploring the corners of the enclosure, my coat, pant legs and shoes. She would butt her head into my palm if I didn’t pet her fast enough and once the feather toy was introduced the sleepy little one had fully woken up and I was in love.

It was kind of dramatic getting her home. With no car, we walked her from the shelter to CVS to buy litter and food and the pet store next door for the litter pan and food dishes, all with the little tortoise shell trooper in the dark in a cardboard carton on one of the coldest nights of the winter so far.

When we finally got home about twenty minutes later she settled in. She was comfortable wandering around the apartment and even with three of us there – me, Brian and Luis – she seemed fairly relaxed. By the end of the night I’d started to call her Brian’s feline good-will ambassador (Brian was brutalized by an alley cat as a child so needless to say he is more of a dog person).

I didn’t name her for a few nights, wanting to get to know her before calling her something that might not fit. She’s Lola now. Well, Dolores Haze. Me being the book nerd that I am, I couldn’t resist giving her a name from one of my favorite books.

Since she’s moved in I’ve gotten most of the boxes put away, if only to keep her out of them. If it is dark and a small space, she will stick her face in it (in fact, she almost bagged herself the other day – perhaps a sign that my tote is bigger than it needs to be). I’ve also cleared the odds and ends off the floor to keep it open for games of shoelace, in which I throw a shoelace across the room, she tears after it, picks it up and brings it back, dropping it at my feet with a “Raow!” for me to throw it again. I’ve also cleaned up all the sinks and counter tops because, before she got the hang of drinking out of her waterdish, she would use the 1) bathtub faucet or 2) the toilet or 3) the bathroom sink or 4) the kitchen sink (she finally got over that after about four days of me cutting her off from these sources while worrying she would dehydrate before she gave in).

Well, after these minimal improvements she’s feeling more and more at home, and so am I. There is still so much (so much!) to be done but until I can pony up for the first round of renovations, it is feeling – for the first time – liveable. So, pets really do relieve stress.

It's Lola - Miss Haze if you're nasty.

]]> http://leighandhaleystayinboston.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/settling-in/feed/ 3 fikitto Lo and her bunny feet IMAG0251 http://leighandhaleystayinboston.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/transformation-hes-a-she/ http://leighandhaleystayinboston.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/transformation-hes-a-she/#comments Mon, 09 Jan 2012 20:07:46 +0000 smartLeigh http://leighandhaleystayinboston.wordpress.com/?p=208 ]]> Recently, I had a deadline to write two short films and direct/produce one of them.  So I wanted to pick something, short and transformative.  I started writing a voice over (VO) of my own personal experience from when I was a kid, part of my story.   After recording the VO a few times, playing with some vocal effects and subsequently shooting myself as the main character, I grappled with a few different ideas to give it some life.  I created both a deep man’s voice filter and a high-pitched voice box filter.  One version of the piece was to make it about a  woman who’s in a wheelchair and lost her voice box.  Her small nephew comes to visit her and she gives him some words of wisdom through a story of her childhood fantasy of being Jesus Christ.  Great idea.  So many things I could juxtapose poetically revealing other layers of the character.  But I had less than a week to shoot, no time, no actors (especially no child actors, specifically six-year old girls), no one to shoot it, edit it or score it… except for myself.  Oh yeah, and no wheelchair.  I could fake one of those mechanical larynx things with part of a microphone I own… but argh!

Then there was the idea of making an on-camera transformation.  Where the VO was just this girl getting ready in the morning and putting on makeup.  By the end, she’s transgender.  I knew I wanted to be able to direct that character.  I definitely didn’t want to shoot it and be the lead.  So I went to my office mate and writing buddy, Haley.  And she willingly obliged.  I bought props at Target.  Loaded my extremely heavy equipment and headed to Bay Village.  When I got there, I was a bit unsure of how this would play out.  If you asked Haley, I’m sure she’d attest to me being frazzled.  I didn’t bring enough quarters for the meter.  The meter ran out anyway at 5pm.  Yada yada.  But, with some diet coke and a few smokes later for Haley.  I found my rhythm.  I just cleared my head of doubt and trusted myself.  Some ideas I had, flashback cutaways from childhood and adding one of those glue-on hair mustaches at the end, weren’t coming together.   The mustache wasn’t right.  It wasn’t believable enough. But, as the day flew by those ideas quickly resolved and I was editing already on set.  Haley took awesome direction and really jumped in 100%.  I couldn’t have asked for more.  So I wanted to share some pictures because Haley, who played Josephine (Joe) in Transformation, really looks cool.  Check her out.

Joe gets ready in the morning.

Haley Hemen, 2012

Josephine makes a beard, as played by Haley Hemen.

So what have I learned?  Sometimes, you’ve gotta just push through.  And that I’m thankful for having adventurous and supportive friends.

And now, during the holidays, is a great time to be living here – the gas street lamps are bedecked with wreaths, strands of Christmas lights twinkle from most windows, there is even a live Christmas tree lot only blocks away. If I ever get my act together to do a Christmas card, I think the photo would have to be taken in front of their warming trailer. So much holiday cheer.

Season's Greeting...from your friendly local Christmas tree lot

While this time of year usually sees me enduring planes, trains, and automobiles on my way home to the Midwest, Christmas 2011 is going to be spent planning and hopefully executing – with a sledgehammer! – home improvements. The new place is totally liveable as is, but it is in desperate need of an update. And we’re not just talking some paint here and a new shelf there – although it will need that too – we’re talking some fairly serious changes to make use of every one of the 480 square feet.

By Boston standards, 480 square feet is small-to-average size for a condo like mine. The real issue is how that space is being utilized. In my place, it is not.

The worst offender is the bathroom. As you walk in you are confronted with the wraparound wall surrounding the shower which juts out from the right and is directly opposite the sink which is jutting out from the left. It creates a narrow chute that you have to manuever through as if you were lining up a move in Tertris. The toilet is installed too close to the wall so that you have to turn about fifteen degrees to the left when, ahem, seated and there is virtually no storage in the room itself. The only bright spot here, other than the fact that it is clean and in working order, is that the bathtub is slightly oversize so that, once you can get to it, you are in for a great soak.

There are many bathrooms smaller than mine that don’t feel half as difficult and the difference is – if you will excuse the repurposing of the term – intelligent design. My good friend Luis, currently studying interior design, has agreed to have a go at it and I cannot wait to see what he comes up with. Stay tuned for that.

Otherwise, the holiday break is going to be a godsend in getting back on track with my writing projects. I have a short story ready to be submitted to a few year-end fiction contests. It’s an old one and I am hoping I can find it a home in this round of submissions. Drafting continues on the novel/fiction project, which has gotten a little derailed as of late – if I let myself think about it too much, I am ready to throw away everything and just start over. Again. A week away from work is just the thing to allow me to plow forward  before my critical mind can catch up with me.

I am also hoping to start posting about Punch, the short film adaptation of Suckerpunch that Leigh and I want to shoot in the very near future. She’s been to this rodeo before, but I’m still a newbie in the realm of film production and am excited to get into it.

henry is kind of an asshole. he’s the kinda guy you call ‘hen’ with relish, just to cut him down a bit. he’s not a bad person, not really, but he can be obnoxious enough to obscure that point.

however exaggerated in his own mind, his good qualities tend to shine through where is little sister is concerned. it’s the kind of protectiveness born out of adversity (and here’s where i feel a little like the asshole) – their father died when they were barely in their teens, an event that began (or maybe hastened) their mother’s mental decline. when we first meet hen and cecily, their mother’s been living in a group home where she can be better cared for and the two of them have spent their late teens and early twenties living on their own in their parents’ house.

___

The snow looks bruised under purple pre-dawn light while Hen stands on the back porch taking it all in. His naked legs are stuck into his heavy winter boots. The hem of his parka barely grazes the hem of his boxers. It only takes a few seconds in the cold to realize he shouldda put on some clothes, but by then he’s already lit a cigarette and there’s no turning back.

There’s a space heater in the garage, so that’s where he heads, crunching down a path that’s dug like a trench through three feet of snow. It reminds him of being a kid, but he’s not sure if that’s because winters were that bad or if he was that much shorter back then. Walking to the elementary school before the sun could melt the crust off the snow, he could sometimes make three or four steps on the surface before his weight would punch him through to the ground. Cis, only two years younger but but light as a bird, often walked the whole length of the field, faltering only if she tried to run it.

The space heater roars to life and expels a potentially deadly stream of heat that Hen’s careful to keep pointed to the empty center of the room. Over on the work table is Hen’s latest acquisition, the heavy steel hood from a Chrysler pickup that Dirty’d salvaged from his uncle’s soon to be junked junk car collection. There’s potential, but so far Hen’s only been thinking over it. With his cigarette gripped loosely in his jaws, he sets to sanding off a spot of rust. They used to make everything so sturdy, there’s enough metal here for Hen to continue grinding down to get an even, burnished new surface. So maybe that’s what he’ll do with it, carve into the middle of the substantial old thing a sleek, modern, flimsy sports car hood. That’s it. Genius.

Self-satisfaction surges to his head like adrenalin. A drink to celebrate, except for the fact that Cis would fuck him up if she thought he was getting drunk before 8AM. Never mind that it’s only a sip he’s after, she shows no mercy. Better to wait until she’s out of the house.

Hen sucks down that last of his cigarette and throws the butt at the snow drifting under the door. He kicks the space heater off and tucks a corner of the sandpaper into a rusty ulcer on the hood – to remind him of his brilliant idea – then stamps back to the house.

He checks the clock. Maybe it is too early to have a drink today but then maybe it’s late enough for this to be his last drink of last night. There’s still enough time between now and proper morning for this creative accounting to make sense.

He retrieves the vodka from a cabinet, takes a slug right there, then another. Just a shallow tumbler-full ought to be enough to get him back to sleep.

He trips on a rug in the hall and reluctantly surrenders his clunky boots – they keep the place in deep freeze winter nights to save money. As he passes, he hears Cis’s space heater purring behind her closed door. That’s what he forgot. Upstairs his room is stone cold and silent. So, must’ve been the cold that had him up so early. He clicks it on and burrows into bed, drink close at hand.

___

When he wakes up again and ambles back to the kitchen, lukewarm glass of vodka in hand, he finds that Cis cleaned up and turned the heat on. Good. No harm done. He takes a deep, punishing drink, then refills the glass. His days off could be like this, nothing better to do than drink in between naps if the weather was shitty and Cis had the car.

He finds his phone charging near the coffee maker, right were Cis left it for him. It’s blinking an obnoxious green at the top so he dials voice mail and listens. “Hen.” It’s Cis. “They’re gonna call, but they said they’d let me try first. Mom’s dead. She died last night. Well, this morning.” He punches nine to save the message. He figures he better, that he’s missing something.

“Henry? This is Deanna. From your Mom’s group home? I’ve got some bad news for you. I am very sorry. I am so, so sorry. Clare’s passed on. I am so sorry. I’ve talked with your sister and she’ll be picking up your mother’s things on her way home from work. Her will is being handled by a lawyer, Mr. Clark, downtown. He’ll be getting in touch with you about that. I’ll just need you or Cecily to come down and sign some–” There is a tone and the message is cut off.

“Hey, fuckface.” It’s Dirty. “So we got a dead irrigator to pick over. You get your gear and I’ll pick you up around four. Beers after?”

“Henry? This is Deanna from your Mom’s group home again–” Hen ends the call, checks the time. Dirty’ll be on his way soon. He dresses, checks that there are still cigarettes in his coat pocket and heads to the garage. His tools are congregated in a corner, left there from the pickup salvage. Saws, tin snips, sledge, other toothed and clawed tools ready to strip the metal from the bones of the dead irrigator. He spreads a length of canvass on the ground and begins to roll the tools in it, one by one. He accumulates nicks and scratches in his clumsy work, leaving a slippery, bloody sheen on his hands. He wipes rusty streaks on his thighs.

Outside he hears the crunch of tires. “You ready to go?” Dirty yells from the cab of his Suburban at the open door.

Hen hoists the canvass roll and locks up. “Yeah. You got smokes?”

Dirty holds out a fresh pack. Hen grabs it, then places his tools on the floor in the back. Dirty’s backing out before Hen’s got the passenger door shut. “This one’s just a few miles out. They’re selling the land and everything on it and getting out.” He’s all worked up about a tractor he wanted to scrap but that they’re selling to some antique dealer.

Hen lights up and cold air rushes in where he’s cracked the window. It drills into him despite the heavy coat. Pay day is next week and there are bills due, including the mortgage. The group home is generally paid from the check after that but if they need their money now, what would he let slide this week? Cis would know. But then there’s this mention of a lawyer downtown? Hen slides another cigarette from the pack, tucks it into the hem of his stocking hat for later.

He turns on the radio, loud, to a country station that sometimes plays the cowboy tunes he’s recently gotten into. “What the fuck, man?” Dirty says. Evidently he’d been talking.

“Yeah, the irrigator. Whatever.”

“Yeah the irrigator. Fuck you.” Dirty’s in one of his famously short-lived sulks. They ride on, Hank Williams the only one breaking the silence.

it has been a long slog, but not as bad as i thought it would be. the slog continues, though – i don’t close until the end of november – so maybe the real headache is to come. but i doubt it. everything has been straightforward and the people involved pleasant and responsive.

the one thing that has lived up to the big, scary hype? financing. already the hurt is on with little expenses (application fees, inspection, credit check fees) piling up. and i’m assuming it will be a few months after closing before i get over the sticker shock. to be fair, my rent is a pittance at least in terms of the greater boston area, one of the most expensive rental markets in the country. it’s not so much that my expenses are going to soar as i am entering the real world, paying closer to what most of the poor, cash-strapped suckers stand for around here. at least that is the line i’m taking.

so…am i crazy? boston isn’t supposed to be in the long view for me and here i am, not only planting roots but paving over them and caging in the trunk, like the little trees lining the cobblestone sidewalks of my new neighborhood. crazy like a fox, i hope. two more years to finish up my thesis, so i’ll be here anyway. and then there is the idea of having my own space. beyond all the decorating and remodeling ideas that have me excited, scrawling floor plans on whatever is at hand whenever i’m sitting on the train, there is something so calming in knowing that, at least for these square feet in this particular place in the world, i am on my own. it’s the same allure that makes me a city dweller now and probably forever: that gorgeous anonymity afforded by a crush of people just as faceless as i am because there isn’t scrutiny enough for all of us.

(maybe that’s what’s to be expected of someone who grew up in a family of six and had roommates ever since leaving home. if it wasn’t the city it would probably be hermitage. what can i say? blake was right: you never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.)

there is so much possibility in this new place. i have high hopes for what it might mean for my writing – i’ll be too broke to go out and cause as much trouble thereby recouping more than a few hours to spend at the desk. and, now having the domicile, i’ll get to try out being domestic. i may start cooking and, if i can survive the learning curve without poisoning myself, i might even try baking. hmm. this could get out of hand. considering my tendency toward hipster spinsterism, i’ll have to keep an eye on myself. i will be damned if i end up living with four cats celebrating the holidays in a hand-knitted reindeer sweater! (damned, i tell you!)

so that is the state of things (and also my excuse for neglecting the blog for this long). perhaps it is just the effect of pulling on another pair of big-girl pants, but with real estate on the line everything seems to get a shade more serious. the plan – get back into a more regular writing schedule by the time i get into the new place. finish up my classes. finish up the screen plays that are still only drafts. i am putting down roots, but the seeds will be airborne soon enough. time is ticking…

This is my new format for writing, my saving grace, and a way to manifest my reality.  I have shared this with Haley and she too is on board.  Don’t be confused when we start our new Fantasy Writing lives.  We’re still here and there and it’ll be great.

a few weeks ago, it hit me. that feeling, quick as a bird, that i have lived this before. it was intensely sensory as these things always are – this time touched off by the vivid blue of a dress a roommate had left to dry on the showercurtain rod. in that second i could take in all those things that are normally compressed from moment to moment: the claustrophobic feeling of the narrow shower compartment, the steamy heat of the water, the thick velvety feel of suds in my hands, and the colors – transparent black of the showercurtain, bars of blue and white tile and the dull chrome of the fixtures.

the thing that finally snapped me out of it was the recognition of it. is that how it is for you? for me, once i recognize the feeling as deja vu i am thrust back in to the present and filled with regret that the moment can be lost so easily. (imagine if you could keep running with it. if it were a story I was writing – and it might well be – the protag would only have to find a thread of previously lived experience and then just stay in that groove. yep, i’m gonna have to write that one. stay tuned.)

so the question: what is it? the truth is that no one knows. the scientific line is that it is an ‘anomaly of memory.’ perhaps your brain is storing information as a memory instantaneously alongside your experience of it. perhaps it is what happens when another, similar memory is suggested but cannot itself be recalled. another variant, from the matrix (1999), has a repeating black cat as a sign of a glitch in the system.

for a phenomena characterized by the uncanny experience of the expansiveness of time, by the way time seems to be multiple threads twining around us, it’s interesting that these explanations all put deja vu down as something confined to the present moment – your mind confuses memories as you are recalling them in the here and now; the system hicups and in that instant reveals itself to be a system.

well, what if deja vu means something closer to the feeling it brings about? because it does feel more important than the conventional explanations allow. so many interpretive avenues open up if you take deja vu as evidence of experience. depending on your perspective, it could be an encouragement to continue on the right path or a horrible warning to stop before you repeat previous mistakes.

how about you, readers? anybody have a novel take on deja vu? for my part, i decided to take my experience as a positive sign post (’cause really, what else are you gonna do way too early on a monday morning?), one that i’m hoping will give me some mileage as a short story…

Art, creation, time, life, these are themes looping through my mind. Depending on the day, I am in triumph, full of hope.  Only to waken to the reality of my daily existence.  One without awe.  Without inspiration.  But I must will it.  I must believe it.  I must tear my way forward.  To give and to receive.  Last week I was up.  I wrote, “All things needed to move forward are converging like tiny streams to a river. Rushing and pushing me toward the glorious pool that is my destiny”.  My buddy gave me a hard time with a comment on whether it was my idea of being in the “right dimension” or is this something different.  To which I retorted, “All things are pointing to go. Whether it’s described as living in the ultimate dimension, fulfillment of ‘pre-destined’ mission in life, realizing full potential, strength-based leadership, balancing your chakras, mindful living, meditation, visualization… it’s the same message and I am listening”.  And thus, this is where I am today.  Listening, keeping an eye open for a sign, yet moving forward toward my goal.  Writing.  Thinking. Writing about writing. Living. Loving…

So, here it goes folks.  The latest and greatest idea.  To write.  In the here.  In the now.  This is me writing.

Firstly, I am determined to create a television series, worthy of Dexter and Breaking Bad. The characters already live, Rian Pedde and Penny Jones.  Better yet, the feature film already lives, Suckerpunch.  No, not the slickly produced but crappily written 2010 film.  BTW- I came up with that name before they did.  But not before the folks who also penned “Sucker Punch” screenplays in 2003, 2007, 2008, 2009.  Okay, it’s a popular name. INSTEAD, this screenplay is a character driven, vigilante, drama about a new mother and a party girl who take their coworker relationship to new heights when they experiment with the edges of danger (to semi-quote the coverage we received from Slamdance Screenplay Competition 2011.  oh, yeah, we didn’t win).  That’s right, danger.  These girls are mad as hell and they’re not gonna take it anymore.  Plus they look like the average Jane so they can get away with murder… or can they.  This Suckerpunch, was written by myself and one, Haley Hemen, 2010.  And it’s gotten some good coverage, won a table read, and made it to the semi-finals in the Script/Pitch Competition for Nextventertainment.  And undoubtedly needs to be condensed, reworked, and just may fit nicely into the episodic rockin’ television series category… to be shopped to AMC, Showtime, HBO.  So it’s out there.  In the universe.  Now let’s go to it.

This post is actually a long time coming.  It was a response to an earlier post that Haley wrote… and then was saved and almost forgotten.  But not so, dear friends.   Here it is.  Fit to be writing.  And the real meat of what’s been plaguing my self-help, seeking person is to come.  It’s a long strange trip to peaceful and happy, nomatter what self-centered a-hole you run into.  See you in a few. wink.