Something’s happening, sounds like thunder, maybe the Lord is on His way, He’s still angry and He’s after me since I cheated on the Spanish Train, Oh yes He’s coming, and He could stop me, but He’d better make it soon, ‘Cause the last time that I won a world, I made it into a moon
Chris de Burgh, The Devil’s Eye
These lyrics have been rumbling around in my head for hours.
Usually that means a story is birthing.
Like how “You Want It Darker” led to Last Call. Or “State of Independence” led to… State of Independence.
I shall be quite out of sorts the next few days while I tune into this frequency.
It’s not my first choice. I’d prefer to write. I worry that I’m too close to the material, that I’d miss opportunities. But I’ve come up with some interesting character suggestions, letting the actors choose to use it. Or not. The nerves are dissipating and I’m seeing results. I’ve earned their trust, which is the biggest get. As I writer, I put all my trust in the actors and director to breathe my scripts into life.
Now I’m learning to trust me as a director to do the same.
Last Call is gonna be a good zoom play.
Can I top Snow Angels?
Fingers crossed.
If only I could find the same image with a female angel, then this would be Phanuel to a tee. But apparently stock photos sexualize the female angels. And that sure as hell ain’t her.
Because I wasted it under the covers when I was a teenager.
Or the bathroom.
I used to have nudie pics. Mostly Playboy.
Which I thought I had hidden well.
In the bathroom.
That the entire family uses.
There never was a talk.
Lots of giggling.
But no talk.
This is a long-about way of saying my left ass cheek hurts.
Couldn’t finish my breakfast this morning.
There’s another shock. I barely eat in the mornings.
Hell, I barely eat on most days.
And yet this portly piper remains corpulent.
(I looked that up on thesaurus.com)
That slow-moving freight train has ventured from the back of my brain and entered my sinuses.
Yeah, that makes no sense.
But it’s true.
Speaking of true things.
My wonderfully talented wife just farted. (She’s gonna kill me but for some reason I think it’s necessary to explain that we can be this open. I was the first one to fart in the relationship. I think that let her know it was okay to pass wind in front of me. Oh isn’t love grand?).
My wonderfully talented wife participated in a storytelling event called True Stories Told Live tonight on Zoom. She recited a thoroughly moving story that involved her year abroad in Israel during university. I couldn’t be prouder of her.
And now I’m listening to the Blue Jays beat the White Sox.
Today’s stressors have been all first-world problems. And I wouldn’t even call ’em stressors. Annoyances.
Alright.
If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I’m dead.
“I see the bad moon a-rising I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin’ I see bad times today”
Creedence Clearwater Revival
That rolling migraine is still on the horizon. Slowly rolling in.
More than just pressure in the back of my head. It’s moving behind my eyes.
This is not how migraines work. Not for me.
They don’t threaten. They strike.
Usually without warning.
The CPAP says I’m getting decent sleep. Less interruptions overnight, averaging out to less than one an hour. Marlo reports my snoring has gotten better with the new pressure setting.
“You want it darker, we killed the flame” = Snow Angels
Leonard Cohen, “You Want It Darker”
“Like holy water to my lips” = State of Independence
Jon & Vangelis, “State of Independence”
Apparently with blog posts, as well.
I’m feeling out of sorts tonight. I feel like there’s a low-grade migraine brewing in the back of my head, but it hasn’t landed yet. Best I can describe, it’s like a storm front moving in. You can feel the change in the air. The barometric pressure is dropping. In slow motion. Almost crawling. But you can see it on the horizon, and it’s big.
When it lands.
All hands on deck.
It’s gonna smash on the rocks hard.
I need an anchor.
I have an anchor.
She’s sitting five feet from me.
.
.
.
.
You’re still here? I thought that was a great break point.
Seriously. Everyone else closed the tab already.
I don’t have anything else to share.
Maybe later.
Maybe.
.
.
.
.
What do you want from me?
That’s not right.
Sorry.
What do I want from me?
What am I trying to prove?
I don’t have to write every. Single. Day.
And don’t let yesterday’s stats confuse you. So someone read through over 160 of your posts.
It doesn’t mean anything.
They had time to kill.
Maybe they enjoyed the posts.
Maybe they empathized.
I’m not writing for them. I’m not writing for you.
Although I am freely sharing everything here.
It makes me feel less alone doing so.
You know, when you were growing up, you swore you were the only person going through whatever existential crisis was brewing, and no one could understand your pain?
I’ve been there.
So have you.
Unfortunately, we can’t assuage our childrens’ anxiety. They have to go Through, Not Around. (Nice plug for Marlo’s book, dude.)
I’ve lost the plot of this.
.
..
.
.
The storm is sure as hell taking it’s fucking time.
I did write one drama. Which really came to life after my crisis/incarceration.
But I write the funny stuff.
Sometimes, it involves angels.
Yet this, this blog, is dealing with my demons.
Of which I have many.
And not only am I publishing it, I’m putting it on Facebook.
Where anyone on my friend’s list can click and read.
I think, in the past two months, I’ve had more cathartic breakthroughs than I have in my years with my psychiatrist.
And yet, I still find my appointments with him, therapeutic.
But this is where I dig deep.
Where the skeletons in the closet jangle and moan.
And I don’t care.
It’s not like I’m running, or planning to run, for political office.
It doesn’t affect my day job.
I don’t think it has.
(Yes. I’ve noticed I write. In clipped sentences.)
I am more like my father than I’d like to admit.
We’re both alcoholics. I’m in recovery. He still drinks.
We’ve both had affairs.
His ended a marriage.
Mine could’ve.
I was in my 20s. First real full-time job, taking improv classes with Theatresports at Harbourfront.
A friend, David, introduces me to Marjorie. He thinks we’d be good friends.
My first thought as I shake her hand:
“I’m gonna have sex with this woman.”
Yes. I was an ass back then.
We hit it off.
The following week, I have free passes to Yuk Yuks Uptown and I ask if she wants to go. Marjorie enthusiastically agrees. After taking a subway ride together, walking up to the venue, she drops a bombshell: “Did I tell you I was married?”
Well that put the brakes on.
Briefly.
I honestly thought in that moment: “I couldn’t have been more wrong. Sucks to be me.”
I think two weeks later, I’m having a house party in the townhouse I was sharing with my father and brothers. Dad was out of town, I’m not sure where Kevin was. I went all out: a friend was DJing, I dressed as a Roman Emperor and joked “didn’t I tell everyone it’s a toga party?”
Marjorie arrived.
She was dressed to thrill.
I remember at one point, I ran an ice cube down her bare back. And we’d snuck downstairs to make out.
And she says to me (it’s burned into my brain). “Why couldn’t I have met you six months ago?”
“What was six months ago?” I asked.
“It’s when I got married.”
My Catholic guilt went out the window.
The next week, we slept together. We spent a great deal of time together.
One time, at improv class, I had a blinding migraine and she rode the subway and bus with me back to Scarborough to make sure I got home safe. We were falling in love.
But my Catholic guilt found its way back, and I think we both knew that it couldn’t go any further.
She dropped out of the improv class after that.
There’s one big difference between my father and me.
After the affair ended his marriage, my dad continued seeing his lover and for years she would: break up with him, he’d obsess incessantly, she would eventually come back, and later break up with him. This cycled for over a decade.
I moved on.
I learned a great deal about who I was, with Marjorie.
But it turns out, that was barely scratching the surface.
The Bloody Doors Off 