This is an ode to my dad, David Traversi.
The concept came to me yesterday after I got off of a short phone call with him. I talk to my dad several times a week, usually starting the conversation with “Do you have 2 minutes?” which we both know will turn into 30 minutes to an hour of catching up. But yesterday, I called with the intention to be brief, because I was embarrassed at my fragility and sudden lack of independence in the situation at hand. Let me preface what’s next by saying, I try to handle my own shit for the most part. But sometimes it’s the little things that freak me the hell out. I had just squished a mid-sized spider that was crawling on my bed. I was disgusted; I was disturbed; I was suddenly weakened by what experts across the field call the heebie jeebies. I knew that there was nothing anyone could do to calm my nerves or eradicate spiders from within a half-mile radius of my apartment, especially from 3,000 miles away— but I called my dad anyway. I told him about it, ending with “What do I DO?!” This is, by definition, an impossible question. I’d already killed the spider. I wasn’t expecting an answer. But my dad always has one. Without hesitation, he says, “You know what might make you feel better? Find some white wine vinegar or peppermint oil. Spiders hate— I mean, they HATE strong smells. They will leave the area as soon as possible. Put some on a sponge or in a spray bottle, hit your windows and baseboards, and that should be pretty preventive. Also, I like to look at it like this. One spider means ten less smaller bugs, and that’s a huge plus.” Okay, let’s break this down. He genuinely approached my pathetic complaint with not only a solution, but a rational perspective that incorporated the circle of life??? And, he didn’t make my problem feel small— even though it was miniscule. In a paradoxical sense, this particular instance stood out to me because of how regular it is. Ever since I can remember, my dad just knows the answer to things. He’s a man of the sciences, which is helpful; he actually knows how most things work, and can explain it to you in such a clear and meaningful way that you genuinely think you can explain it to one of your friends. (You try. You trip up. You realize you don’t know what you’re talking about, but it made sense when he said it.) But in a much larger sense, he also understands my nuanced worries or obstacles and can always provide some clarity for me— and through all my lofty goals, he cheers me on and celebrates my work, staking his claim as my biggest fan. He reads everything I write, and wants my scripts on the screen just as much as I do. I can't tell you how many times he's quoted my own dialogue back to me, nor can I properly express how much that means to me. Many of you are probably aware that my dad is also a dad for the people. He is beloved by my friends from high school, all the way to those I’ve made in New York. Last week, I had coffee with my roommate from last year, and I shared some of his insights with her on a current situation in which she's pretty invested. She mulled them over, nodded, and said, “That totally makes sense. Tell Dave to come to me first next time so we can align our messaging.” I think it's pretty rare when the advice of one's dad makes it to the round-table with the girls— and it's even rarer when that token is accepted and heavily discussed. It's no surprise to me that he has an innate way of connecting to people and making them feel seen and heard; he taught eighth graders for thirty years, and has been a dad for twenty-eight. He is a trusted source of laughter, compassion, sarcasm, and support, and always knows how to bring the conversation to life with humor and understanding. I don’t know how hard it is to be a parent. I hear it’s outrageous. I believe it. But my dad is just a natural.
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I don’t think I’ve focused any of my writing on my synesthesia, and that’s going to be resolved right here. My mom and I shared this quality, and we would always revel in it. She’d call me with a song she’d just heard and ask me to listen to it, requesting that I tell her what I saw when I heard certain notes of the melody play. One time it was autumn leaves changing. One time it was ticking clocks. And both times, she had pictured the EXACT same thing. The lyrics had nothing to do with either of these things. It was kind of insane.
It’s not like we were always spot on– we’d visualize different things a fair amount of the time, but we’d let each other in on them nonetheless. And it wasn’t always about music; the synesthesia we shared presented itself in a number of ways that I love thinking about. I know that her favorite pairing of words was “inky black sky” because it made her feel something– and that’s a phenomenon that resonates very closely with me. She knew this. (Why wouldn’t she?!) There’s another sensation that’s much more common than the latter, and something I think everyone relates to in some form or another– the memories or feelings that wash over you when you see, taste, hear, smell, or feel something. I have too many to count, but the most resonant are the following: A warm breeze on a cool day. I close my eyes and I’m back in Italy, and not one soul can tell me otherwise. Put a glass of wine in my hand and honey, we’re in business. Though, full disclosure, the glass of wine is probably already there. The phrase, “See you around the ranch.” It’s not all that common, I know– but my boss’s boss used to say it at the end of every single Teams staff meeting during the pandemic, and I instantly feel as though I’m under duress when I hear it. I’m begging you not to use this against me. SZA’s “Ctrl” album. I was living in Prague for the semester when it reached its height. When I hear the song “Drew Barrymore,” I’m instantly transported to the apartment on Jungmannova where I’d eat grapes and cheese while drinking boxed wine as I wrote my weekly opinion columns for Anglo American University’s student magazine. It was an online forum, but they’d issue a print version at the end of each semester, and the magazines would litter the halls of the campus and the tables at its cafe. I distributed one to all of my friends, and brought a copy home for each member of my family. Mezcal. When I taste it, I want to simultaneously throw up, laugh, and cry. When I worked as a freelance writer after I graduated college, I would go to Bruhäus on Wilshire Blvd in Santa Monica and clack away at my projects there. My favorite bartender, whom I had an immense crush on, would bring me my G&Ts for free even though I was the only patron at 2pm on a Wednesday– but the spot popped off in the evenings, thankfully. With my attendance record, if not for their other faithful regulars, that bar might never have made it into the black in 2019. The bartenders grew tired of my regular order, and began handing me mezcal drinks instead. I hated them. I loved them. I drank them. The smell of angel food cake. In retrospect, I don’t even think my mom baked it all that often. But when she did, the kitchen was enveloped in the aroma of what a sweet-tooth with no patience would imagine as heaven. (If it wasn’t clear, I am the sweet-tooth in question.) When I smell it, I immediately return to that deep red kitchen in our first house, where my parents would sit on the counter and the island opposite each other with their feet propped up on either side, talking about their days. The sunrise. I don’t see this often anymore, as I’ve fallen into a deep and passionate love affair with a full night’s sleep– but when I do get to witness it, I think of my days on the rowing team in college. 4am alarms, and dead silent car rides on our way to Newport harbor, violently juxtaposed by full-on chatter and top-of-our-lungs concerts on the 7am ride back to Chapman after our endorphins had set in. Five days a week, we’d begin our row on the channel in pitch black, only to be welcomed throughout practice with finger paintings on the horizon in real time, all from a bright orange, pink, and purple palette. These occurrences only scratch the surface, as I’m sure would be true for most with only six examples. But the idea of them, the gut feeling of them, cuts deeper than is often discussed. Each of these feelings attached to the senses produce the emotions, the desires, and the chaos of the original events– and inherently, a longing. It’s one of my favorite aspects of life. I treasure the memories and the feelings that are evoked in these circumstances. We are all growing and changing, but something has to root us to the way we once felt and the people we once were. And thankfully, that something can be thousands of things, all around us, all the time. When I stare at the New York City skyline from certain vantage points, it looks like it was painted. The way the buildings all pile on top of each other, it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. What’s in the foreground, what’s tucked in between, and what towers above the rest. You often have to focus, lose focus, regain it, and shift your spatial awareness as you scan across the horizon. It makes your eyes hurt sometimes; a small price to pay for such rich culture.
I have a lot of thoughts that bounce around when I go out walking. Even with so many distractions that glint at me, seduce me, turn my head– I like to take notice of the minutiae as well. The amount of detail and planning that goes into designing a single pizza joint is nothing to sneeze at. The Empire State Building is staggering, obviously. The subway system? If I think about it too long, I’ll short-circuit. There is an apartment building being constructed directly across from mine. My roommate and I have gotten to watch from our kitchen window as the process has unfolded; it’s obviously an incredibly advanced step. The cranes make their moves, the men wield their power tools, the foundation is laid for the next story. And as much as I’ve observed, I don’t have a clue what any of them are actually doing. Even though they are completing a full-on feat of engineering right in front of my very eyes– from my point of view, they’re kind of just walking around, surveying things. Pausing sometimes to inspect the concrete or something. Pulling on a rope here and there, who freakin’ knows. And yet, the building grows taller. It strikes me that this is what New York is for, and it’s why I came. To create story after story, building upon each one. To grow stronger, more resilient, more established, and to plant myself squarely into the city. If my roommate reads this, she’ll laugh, because this is an astoundingly optimistic take on the construction of this building– the noise drives us fucking nuts. I’m trying to parse out this “writing” thing I do that brings me such purpose. It’s astonishing to me that I can sit down and have a million thoughts racing through my head, and yet have nothing to say at times. At certain points, and in this moment for example, I'll try to compel myself to write something— even what I’m looking at, just to get words on paper. Water fountain. Blanket. Skyscraper. But these words do not inspire me.
Now, here’s something. About three yards from me, a squirrel is vigorously chewing on a spork. I think that’s what it is from here. Oh, pardon me, it’s a plastic knife. Needless to say, all this masticating is to no avail. This is like watching someone who has been given non-alcoholic beer pretend to get drunk. He's putting on a real show with those little cheeks munching at light speed, and it's fooling absolutely no one, my friend. I know that not one single morsel of plastic is being bitten off simply from the force of those tiny chompers. That plastic knife is fully intact. Well, in the time it took me to finish typing that sentence, he ran away. I guess my judgment wafted over to him and was particularly pungent. I should say a little bit about where I am. I’m in Central Park in a clearing off 79th Street, if you enter from the east side. I walked up to a hilltop that flattens out for a bit before transitioning into the bike lane that slices and weaves its way through the whole landscape, and the view here is delightful. A French man who looks to be my age just approached me and asked where the Met is. Folks, it’s one block north once you’re streetside again. No bother; he’s not from here, and I usually like chatting with strangers. But in the time between him asking me how to get there and me opening my mouth to reply, he said “can I sit down?” and self-responded by plopping onto my blanket beside me. I normally would have given more to the conversation on account of general politeness and human interest, but I was sort of ankle-deep in this little stream of consciousness. And Frenchmen do not fool me for one second. It’s beginning to look a bit like Fall here. Today particularly so, and the first day I’ve noticed it; perhaps it’s the idleness of this clearing and the tranquility brought on by the large blanket of shade, but the leaves are definitely becoming yellow, and many are already dying and cluttering the grass, aching to be raked into a huge pile for jumping. The sunlight is glittering like pinholes through the huge tree that’s acting as my personal shelter, and that’s one of my favorite natural phenomena. That, and the sunlight that glitters off the sea when the whitecaps begin to roll. There is a table not too far from me, and it’s made entirely out of thin tree trunks, chopped into pieces and clumsily glued together. Its simplicity is beautiful. That said, the benches that match are not calling my name to be sat on. It’s happening: I’m running out of thoughts that my mind deems worthy of writing. But this is the hump I’m trying to overcome with this particular piece, so onward. Um, good god. How long has it been since I climbed a tree? I used to love climbing them when I was a kid. We lived directly across from a giant field with a jungle gym at the far end, and there was a bike path that was lined with trees along the perimeter. They were those big giant pines that must be a hundred feet tall, and have branches that start low enough for any old sixth grader to hoist herself onto. We wouldn’t go too far up; at a certain point, the branches became thinner and thinner (as they do), and our common sense at least served us there. We would also climb the backstop of the baseball field when it wasn’t in use. My brother and I would go when we were kids, and some of my friends and I when I was in high school. It was a great place to dangle your feet and feel like you were on top of the world. I came to the park to work today; due to the supreme technology of personal hotspots, I am able to write and submit my assignments from here. I often have multiple projects due within the day or week, but today has been particularly slow, and thus, I’m streaming my dang consciousness. It’s dawning on me that I haven’t done something like this in a long time; this willy nilly kind of piece, I mean. Writing is such a big part of my life. It’s my job, and also my hobby, and the source of my biggest dreams in life. Most of my personal writing projects are long form, and remain works in progress for weeks or months in pursuit of a larger goal. Apart from my job, it's been a while since I started and finished something in the same sitting like this. It does not always come naturally. Sometimes I’ll sit down to start spilling ideas onto the page, and when my fingers produce nothing, it’s kind of a jump scare. The walkie talkie crackles, and I try to resume contact. “Inspiration, we’ve lost you on the feed. Where did you go? Are you in range? Approximately when— and I don’t mean to pry while you’re on vacation, but a rough estimate will do— will you be returning?” And sometimes, like today, I have to do this thing that I don’t have a word for because it’s inherently contrarian: the thing where I’m forcing it, and I’m letting go simultaneously. It doesn’t really make sense, but since when does that matter? Everything’s about balance, isn’t it? That’s what they say about a healthy diet. You can have the chocolate cake, but just once in a while. It’s the same with working and making time for the things you love to do. You have to find that equilibrium that doesn’t weigh your nose down to the grindstone, or you’ll pretty much turn to dust. I’ve found this same philosophy to be true in dealing with the loss of my mom, Kim. It’s all about balance.
Because life goes on. If life didn’t go on, she would probably charm the gods into making it so. I’m only half-convinced that’s not what actually happened up there, because things did seem to stop when she died— and that’s probably when her divine barter began. Down here, life was moving like molasses. One day felt like three weeks, perpetually, because a person isn’t built to feel that much emotion— especially when the emotion is despair— in a timeframe marked from sunrise to sundown. It doesn’t really compute with the brain. Going to sleep at night isn’t the pause button that it usually resembles; instead, it feels more like a reset button. When you finally drift into those inky yet vivid tableaus that the subconscious whips up for you, you have to rediscover what life is really like when they screech to a halt. And then you remember what happened, each morning, again and again and again. It goes on that way for a long time. In the grand scheme of things, several months might not be very substantial— but when each day feels like three weeks, it is. And deep down, you know this isn’t right. I said I would be okay— I promised. I am not holding up my end, here. But she’s my mom, so remember, she’s pulling some strings up there while I’m sorting myself out. Because if it’s up to her, life will march on with gusto for her loved ones, god dammit. She lived her days to the fullest, and we are expected to do the same, come what may. That’s a pretty little deal we made if you ask me, especially when things are heaviest. Remembering that promise to her is sort of like the first glint on the horizon— it may be dark now, but there WILL be light again. So now to my mom’s magic fairy dust that allowed life to resume at a normal pace. At a certain point, some small, glitter-sized bits of clarity started to rain down fairly consistently. They were light and feathery and always came right when I needed them, even if they got stuck in my frickin’ eyelashes and made me tear up. They were these pieces of wisdom that I’d learned from her for 24 years, and she was reminding me to keep living by them, even though she wasn’t physically discussing them on the other end of the couch with her chardonnay in hand. And it sort of dawned on me that her grandiose presence in my life— in so, so many people’s lives— is never going to go away. That had been my biggest fear when she was in her final weeks, and even after she was gone; I felt like I was trying to catch smoke. But all the things she passed along when she was on this earth— her values, her kindness, her curiosity, her hopefulness and ideals— once those things are imprinted upon others, they can’t die. I know her legacy touched a whole lot more people than just her family. And so it seems, she can’t really die either. I guess I need to get back to the idea of balance at some point if I want this to be a coherent piece of writing, which admittedly, I do. So here’s the wrap-around, which came to me while I was in New York City last week. I went there on vacation, and the plan was to go for 7 days, which turned into 10, because I was having too much fun to leave. It was very much go-go-go, which I was really pleased with myself about, because as noted— life has an annoying way of dragging its feet a tad when you’re grieving. The boots get heavier and the ground gets sludgier. But in New York, even in the cold, it felt like I was running a marathon in my best Nikes each day. And to be clear, those felt like marathons that I was actually trained and prepared for, which is not a thing for me. I was making a point to fill each day to the brim with laughter and merriment, and so appeared a shiny gloss around everything in my view. I found that intoxicating. It was like how things used to be. I’ve been able to find those kinds of moments for many months now, but they were usually running side by side with the sadness, both of them trying to edge the other out of the race. This time, joy was winning by a landslide. One night as I looked across the East River at the Manhattan skyline at sunset, I thought, “Mom would love this.” And then I quickly replaced it with, “Mom loves this.” It was a very nice, almost run-of-the-mill moment I might have shared with her if she were standing right next to me. Now it's like this instead. But life, as they say, goes on. I guess joy can’t remove the feeling of loss, but it can outweigh it at times. If you’re holding onto pain, you can’t just let it go— but you can try to tip the scales. This morning, I clomped into the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between Monterey and Santa Cruz. Clomped is the only appropriate onomatopoeia for what I did. “Ran” would imply speed. “Pranced” would imply gracefulness. No, I clomped. It’s because I didn’t slow down to wade into the water once it reached my thighs, like a normal and aerodynamic person. I knew that if I slowed my velocity, the cold would reach my brain quicker, (I took a few science classes in my day), and there was a chance I’d end up chickening out. And I really, really wanted to dunk my head and freeze time for a few seconds, (this is one of Newton’s laws), and feel that rush of adrenaline. So, much like a duck, I was high-kneeing it into the ocean, feet sometimes even surfacing before plunging back into the sandy depths. I looked ~ridiculous.~ But it got me in, and before long, a wave that I could dive into came along.
It was so shockingly cold, but I felt alive. My hair clung to my cheeks and arms, my cotton running shorts stuck to my legs, and my abdomen was tight and prickly, stinging red. Just prior to this, I had returned from my jog in the light rain— and then had done a tiny bit of yoga on the hard sand, which had sufficiently cooled me down already. So it wasn’t really an ideal moment for this kind of “refresher,” except that it felt right. I thought I was going to high-tail it back to the condo after I’d gone under the waves, but instead, I turned back around to face the ocean, still waist-deep. Maybe I wanted to go again? I wasn’t really sure, but something was keeping me in. And then I thought, Mom’s watching. She’s smiling and watching. And she wants me to give ‘em holy hell today. So I stood there, freezing my tootsies (toes, per my mother) off, and started yelling as loud as I could at the sea. There was no one on the beach yet— though I doubt with the waves crashing, anyone would have heard me anyway. So I really screamed, and it was joyous. I know this sounds a little bit woo woo, but it felt like the words were coming straight from her. I didn’t even know I had anything to say to the universe, until I was reading it the riot act in the midst of my November baptism. And it wasn’t actually an angry lecture whatsoever. It was max volume, yes, and I probably looked a little bit feral while I was doing it— but the message was more to the tune of, “I've got this.” My Mom’s got me, so I’ve got this. I dunked myself fully one more time— one for me, one for her— and then traipsed back toward dry land to collect my keys, and the layers I’d peeled off pre-dip. I’d donned a long-sleeve, pink and maroon, paisley running shirt that morning, which is just one of about 50 with which my mom had graced the race courses. My Dad, Steven, and I, like to picture her running. Full speed, wind in her hair, and a smile on her face— the kind that couldn’t even be helped if she tried— because she is so, freakin’, free. And I think that's what she wanted me to feel today. I’m trying to imagine how my Mom would have begun this blog post, and I know exactly what she would have done, so say it with me— FUCK.
And now we shake it off together, just let it roll off our backs and start fresh. We put on some Bruno Mars and pour chardonnay. We quote Bridget Jones’s Diary and share a little bit of gossip. AKA, I start spilling my own secrets to her, and she listens raptly, and tells me, You need to write that down. She procures a story of her own, we laugh til we’re in tears, and we totally figure out what to do next, because she knows me better than I know myself. And then we clink and drink. When I was a kid, it was the same dynamic— different refreshments. She was always there to listen, to comfort, to advise, to laugh, to rant, to validate, to just talk. I can remember many of those conversations from when I was so small. They’re the kind that stay with you forever. ---- In my experience thus far, grief is like a giant white slab of marble. It looks, feels, and is formidable. It looks like, feels like, and is, nothingness. And yet, it reveals itself as you take your hammer and chisel to the surface and begin to crack it. There is something deep within that impossibly large weight, and the only way to find it is through. You can’t pick it up yourself and smash it— it’s too heavy. It’s much, much, too heavy. Let me just say, I have no idea what I’ll find yet. Acceptance, fine— anyone will tell you— but that’s just a word to me right now. I don’t think I’ll know what it feels like for a long time. And it may be that I never learn the secrets of how to find it, but man... I’m looking for them. This stems from the wisdom of my mom’s MO— the art of curiosity. What’s next? What’s behind that door? What would happen if I opened it myself? Futile question, she’s already burst through it— and has made a room full of new friends behind it. I feel like a baby in a high chair as my family sings happy birthday, talking about grief like this. I’m new here, but I’m surrounded by the village that will always show up for me. I guess it’s not really in my nature to not talk about something. Or at least, to not write about it. Another art form that I absorbed from my mom, who sparkled with such a natural, authentic wit. I’m not sure if it was by osmosis or magic, but the observance of her sheer talent for the trade supplied me with a lifetime of fuel for the fire. We were alike in so many ways, and this one, she told me, made her heart sing. We would go to coffee shops together and blog to our hearts’ content while we sipped cappuccinos, and 86ed any notion that dessert wasn’t lunch. She was such a prolific writer; an ideas woman, through and through. There are over a decade of postings, several times a month sometimes. They are quick, rambling, insightful, intelligent, caring, and funny. They have always read just like she spoke. I’m so grateful she penned even a fraction of her beautiful mind in ink. My mom was always a teacher at heart, but she also led her entire life by example; and so I learned to give and be grateful, to love and accept it in return, to wonder and find out, to listen and write. We wrote a blog together about a trip to Italy a few summers ago, and batted a name back and forth for a while, before landing on Non Parla Italiano. My mom actually did speak Italian. I did not. She was the belle of the ball in every restaurant, as she deserved to be. Italian men swooned at her charm, and how adept she was at conversing with them, despite not always being confident in her abilities. She was always learning. If a word foreign to her vocabulary presented itself in a book, or on the nightly news, she would scamper over to her dictionary with the same glee as if Colin Firth had just rung the doorbell. She did not allow opportunities for growth to escape her. How graceful can you be? Never seeking attention, but being the one everyone gravitates to in a room. Always asking, never assuming. Always teaching, never demanding. The woman who lights up the room with her smile, and brings down the house with her laugh. Every day, it's so hard to believe that it's real. Nearby memories like Christmas, New Year’s Eve, my birthday— she was very sick at this point, but she was still laughing. She was still smiling, even through the pain, because that is what an optimist does. Not because she expected things to turn around at that point, but because she saw the good. She appreciated the joy she’d been given, and had created for herself, in the span of a life too short, that was lived ever-so-fully. Although the end was near, she was surrounded by family, friends, and the biggest love this world has to offer. She tended to those relationships her whole life, and they continue to bloom for her. I really just have to take a moment of pause to give it up for The West Wing.
I started the show in May, right around the time when Netflix put The Social Network back on. I obviously watched that immediately, because (say it with me)… GREAT film. And after that, I thought, alright. Inject me with a little more of that inimitable Sorkin wit, why don’t you. How about the pilot of his magnum opus, I queried to no one but myself as I clicked on it— and here I am, seven seasons of 42-minute-episodes later, saying shit in Latin. The West Wing is indelible in so many ways— from the snarky one-liners, to the sometimes heart-wrenching truths brought to light—but what’s more than that is the impact of watching intelligent people debate difficult and substantial issues until someone’s got a silver bullet, a compromise, or an apology. And although that sounds a hell of a lot like a Sunday morning with my parents post-Meet The Press, there’s just something about watching the nature of politics play out through brilliantly crafted fictionalized scenarios, that proves to be a little easier for me to ingest. And I’m not suggesting that it should replace being aware of what’s actually happening over in Washington—just that it’s way more fun. Because if anyone can speak the words “campaign finance reform” and spark my curiosity, it’s Josh Lyman. Are we talking about Josh Lyman now? Finally. I love him; I really do. I find his acute sparring to be charming and disarming, and quite frankly, I think he’s a dreamboat. I also think this of Chris Cuomo, Barack Obama, and, cards on the table, Anderson Cooper, so this isn’t really out of left field for me. His and Donna’s ongoing flirtation is the main plot line of the show in my own personal opinion—one with which precisely no one would agree— and the president and the rest of his senior staff are just highly compelling subplots. Because I’m such a heathen, I googled “what happens with Josh and Donna” right around season 4, because I actually could no longer withstand the prolonging of their relationship without at least some confirmation of fruition. And once I pressed search, I really went for it. I watched YouTube videos. I read BuzzFeed articles. You cannot make me wait 7 seasons for that shit, I'm just not strong enough. However, did this stop me from absolutely screeching when I reached the episode when they finally kiss? Not a chance! Not! A! Chance! Jumping over to CJ Cregg’s realm. Never have I ever wanted to be the White House Press Secretary (one has to start getting creative with that game), but as what any Tom, Dick, or Harry might quickly describe as “just sad,” today I found myself watching a C-SPAN press briefing from 1994. I would say due to nostalgia, but I was in fact not born yet. It’s because I was perusing a list of speakers who will be paneling for Chapman students and alum in the coming weeks, and I read a blurb on Dee Dee Myers. A few sentences touched on her career as former Press Secretary for Bill Clinton, and the description was so uncanny to CJ that I looked her up—only to find out that she became a consultant for The West Wing. I've been enraptured by CJ’s jocular or sobering briefings, subject depending, and found as I watched Ms. Meyers rally with the press corps that she was just the same. A perfect professional that commands the room. I can’t wait to see what she has to say now. And it makes The West Wing that much more captivating, knowing that there’s surely more conversations based on reality than we could have ever imagined. The thing about Sorkin’s material is that it doesn’t just inspire me to get smart about the topics he chooses to write—it inspires me to get smart about writing in general. The level of research that’s necessary to spin a good story, and the depths of your own psyche you have to reach to create conflict where both sides are fierce and valid—it’s astounding. It’s super-human to me. When it comes to screenwriting, my instinct and great joy has always been to explore my own experiences and leak them onto the page in re-imagined ways, which I think any writer can relate to—but my goal is to expand. I would like to know more so I can write about more, to put it simply. I am humbly Aaron Sorkin’s student in this regard. So what, dare I ask, is next? (Either Sports Night or Newsroom, I’ll tell you that right now). Oh God. It’s been a hot sec since I posted on this thing. How incredibly trite of me to make my comeback during the international quarantine. The tiny Vonnegut that lives inside my brain is screaming at me, and I must oblige him, so… so it goes.
What’s a girl to do without human interaction, or some semblance of spice in my life? I can’t go to the bar where everybody knows my frickin’ name, which is a tragedy in and of itself. I can’t go to my sushi restaurant, or my French patisserie. I can’t even take a dip in my apartment complex’s pool anymore, because that is 'asking for it' defined, enunciated, and used in a sentence. And to add insult to injury, it is with deep regret that I must report that the last of the coffee grounds are now gone after I made this morning’s pot. They told me all throughout my schooling years not to procrastinate, and everything always turned out fine, but tomorrow morning… I’m gonna hate myself with such vigor. I’ve been working from home since Friday, which has gone smoother than expected. Of course, there have been a few cock-ups (feeling sorta Hugh Grant-y for that one) due to the array of mass video conferencing technology, but for the most part, we are all just figuring this out. Isolation isn’t necessarily conducive to the workflow, but thankfully we live in a digital age where we can suddenly be in each other’s living rooms, waving at our co-workers’ dogs and children. It’s a beautiful reminder that work is just the tip of the iceberg, and we all have these completely separate lives behind the scenes. My parents are probably laughing as they read this because I’m mixing my metaphors, and I am so over it. To combat the boredom of this newly reclusive society, I drove to the top of a parking structure a few miles down the road in Santa Monica last night, to watch the sunset over the ocean. Lauren is home in Sacramento right now, and I am conceding to the cold facts that social distancing is absolutely necessary, so I went by myself. Just to clarify, I do things by myself all the time, as I do quite enjoy my own introspective process. But like… this time I didn’t even have a choice. So I kinda craved the company. It was so fucking textbook, it killed me. This virus straight-up paved paradise, and I ended up on top of a parking lot. (Close enough, Joni Mitchell?) While I was up there, staring at the swirl of orange and pink that melded so delicately into the windswept Pacific, I put on an old Taylor Swift album just for some serenity. Oh-ho-ho, baby. No such peace was granted, but not in a bad way. I seemed to have forgotten that any Taylor Swift song that I was imbued with as a teenager will ALWAYS require a performance so passionate that it reverberates my hippocampus back to whatever the fuck I was up to at age fifteen. And yeah, you bet your ass I listened to Fifteen. So I’ll be singing. I’ll be watching sunsets. I’ve been going on runs in the evening, and pounding away at my writing projects. I’ve been drinking wine, and reading, and taking cold showers, and listening to music that takes me back to what feels like another eon. This quarantine, however brief or long, will undoubtedly feel like its own eon. Three weeks ago, I was sliding my drink down the bar for a taste-trade. Not sure I'll be pulling THAT shit ever again. Good morning Congressional Republicans,
I see that your stance on a lack of gun control in this country remains steadfast despite two mass shootings within 24 hours. Not school shootings; this is summer vacation, mind you. Just common places where regular citizens go, like the store, and the bar. What anyone might call two typical weekend activities. The summer months were just so dry with school being out of session; America’s pastime had to find new venues again. I wonder if you ever feel worried for your own safety, or the safety of your children and other family members, the way I do? Or are your day-to-day activities at work, which are conducted in a building with the utmost protection and security probably known to man, not so jarring to you for that very comfort? I probably needn’t say this; it feels silly to bring up, gentlemen and embarrassingly low number of ladies— but that is very unique. What a privilege! What peace of mind it must bring you. I wonder, representatives, if you think you’d be as secure with your stance if your children or you yourselves were a little more vulnerable, lived lives with a little less protection, like, for example, those of your constituents. A word comes to mind but I’m not sure if you’ve heard it— it’s spelled empathy, and it has nothing to do with thoughts and prayers. It’s about feeling, but unfortunately, Congressional Republicans, you are numb under Trump’s knife. I urge you to recognize your immunity. Your constituents are dying en masse— who will you have left to "represent?" With disdain, Olivia |
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