Okay so I didn't make the deadline. Fortunately it wasn't an actual 'dead' line and I'm not going to die (GOD WILLING). Or maybe it's because you crossed your fingers for me. Thank you for that!
The fact is that I could have made it but it wouldn't have been as good as it could be. With a few more days I'll be able to improve on some things that will actually matter in the long run.
Keeping this short so I don't lose focus.
Happy August!
I was in the front part of a ho-hum grocery store, possibly in Chinatown. The ceiling was low, it was clean but not at all fancy and there were lots of regular NYC people shopping, young, schlubby, a mixed group. Before I could even go in to start shopping, someone asked me about The Louise Log. It very quickly turned into something like a Q & A but with people giving testimonials about how much they love the show and identify with the characters.
I'm, naturally, having a total heart attack of joy. I LOVE YOU PEOPLE! You are justifying everything about me and my whole life!
And then someone asks if I have a card, and I'm relieved to discover a handful of business cards in my pocketbook. But it turns out that some of them are only a portion of a card, the wrong shape and with only partial information on them as if they were cut improperly by the printer. I throw those back in my pocketbook and hand out the whole ones to anyone who wants them. I
'm practically dying with happiness but trying to keep cool. I resist shouting, "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME?? DO YOU KNOW THAT THIS IS JUST ABOUT THE HAPPIEST DAY IN MY WHOLE LIFE??? (next to the birth of my kids, you know, that level of stuff which could compete). I resist throwing my arms around every single person looking my way. (Of course some are just shopping and not paying attention. Naturally. As life must go on and this is New York City.)
The manager of the grocery store comes over to me. I know he's the manager cause he's pushing a broom. He's stocky, handsome and looks like he might be East Asian. He smiles at me and mentions that he's already 'sexing' every day and if he watches the show, he'll probably need to even more. He gives me a lecherous smile which, naturally, totally freaks me out so I give him a very bright smile and say, "Well, if you watched the show you'd know that I'm a happily married woman!"
Once upon a time, my total m.o. was in trying to get an 'A' for effort. I hated actually *working* but became somewhat of a specialist in making it look like I was trying really hard. Not that I ever did much besides pretend. Hey, we were a lot of kids very close in age growing up. Maybe I needed the attention.
Our first trip to Europe: Rome. Note I'm the one out in front, looking like the tour guide.
Or maybe, as one of my own children (at the age of five) accused me, I'm "just mean. And LAY - ZEEE."
On the other hand, nobody wants to be normal and that word 'dissociated' sounds so post-modern and existential. Maybe that's what I was.
Whoops. Just looked up 'dissociated personality' in the Oxford Dictionaries which says it's another term for *multiple personalities*. Let's drop this.
What I was trying to get at is that it feels like I'm suffering from a hangover of that childhood behavior today: I like everybody to know how hard I work. It's embarrassing to admit. Some people like to pretend that everything just happens with a wave of the hand. I'm way over on the other end of the scale wanting everybody to ... what? Feel sorry for me? Be in awe of my stamina? Give me a break on any success cause, heck, she's killing herself!
So here I am scrambling to finish this darn HIGHLIGHTS REEL.
I fear you're sick to death of all my yammering on about it but anyway, last night we had the second power failure in three days. The first one was at midday, last night's ended at midnight. Your guess is as good as mine as to the cause because you can do all the twitter searches you want about "power outage upstate NY" to no avail. As Mr. Green shouted to me in the dark (over the generator of the people across the road) I'm probably the only person in a ten mile radius on twitter. If that.
And so today, rather than wringing my hands in bed when I woke at four in a panic, I got up and went over to my studio. (Did you catch that? I got up at four.) It wasn't long before Mother Nature proceeded to unleash the loudest crash BAMM thunder and lightning storm (with torrential downpours) for hours. We didn't lose power but, hello, guess who's still not finished with her bloody highlights reel. My tech support friend called tonight from the plane, on his way to go camping in Yosemite. Our sound editor is leaving Sunday but (I think) holding Saturday open to do the job if I can get done in time.
How are you supposed to record Louise's inner voice over a chorus of crickets that would drown out Times Square? I'm going to bed. Tomorrow is another day.
I spent a very long day bent over my keyboard trying to get Standard Definition files to look high definition. It *may be* possible. Looking at this picture makes me feel hopeful and it makes me feel stronger. It's all about faith.
If I get up very early tomorrow, there's a chance of finishing and getting the reel to Laura Hanna for sound editing. Please cross your fingers.
The way things have been going, it was starting to feel like this darn highlights reel might Never get finished. The job of conforming a high-quality version to the workprint isn't exactly a fun job but, in this case, it was a high-stakes melodrama and not in a good way.
My old imac, the computer on which I cut Seasons 1 and 2, is on its last legs. The last few times I used it, the beach ball of death was my constant companion for even the most simple routine jobs like opening Text Edit, or clicking on Finder. Every little thing took twenty-five minutes. And so my dear old friend had been retired to its box for the past year. I've been dreading that I might not be able to get my hands on any high quality tape at all from Seasons 1 and 2 without forking out a thousand dollars for another version of Final Cut 7 and then going through the arduous job of installing it, all for one day's work.
But the sun was shining on my little studio today. My old computer was as snappy and fast as the day I bought it. (Maybe it was the car ride up from the city? To my horror, Mr. Green had packed it into the car lying on its side...) I think the hard part of the job is over.
As a young artist, I was fixated on improving my mind. To say I'd had an undistinguished academic career would be an understatement. I'd been a jock and a self-styled Miss Popularity and, on these strengths, (to my surprise) barely made it into college. Only the panicky thought of wearing pantyhose under fluorescent lights (as someone's secretary) motivated me to get with the program and try to learn something.
A 'D' on my first paper in Mr. Pearce's 'American Literature 101', accompanied by a comment along the lines of: "You can't write." sent me running to the one strength I knew I had - visual memory. And so I majored in Art History. I loved looking at art, dates and names stuck to images in my brain and I did well. But by senior year it was clear that, not having the math skills for architecture school or the demeanor for a museum job or academic life, my choices were narrowing. The only thing I really loved and was good at was drawing. I remember making the decision then and there in the early Spring of senior year: I'd work at mindless jobs to support myself and devote my whole energy to being an artist.
The fact of being pretty much uneducated was a thorn in my side. I read slowly and with rare exceptions before graduating from college, would fall asleep as soon as I opened a book.
A famous older artist took me under his wing when I was in my mid-20's. He introduced me to the work of European conceptual artists and gave me books: an anthology of modern philosophy ("Very gossipy") and novels by Paul Valéry and Polish authors with unpronounceable names. Somehow I came upon Wittgenstein's Blue and Brown Books and became obsessed with it, reading it over and over, shredding the binding.
This mentor was a bonafide workaholic and bragged about having been in his studio every day all day since his early 20's. Whenever he asked what I was working on, I cringed as my 'work' was generally trying to come up with 'a more brilliant idea' than whatever had occurred to me and so was pretty much always working on 'nothing'.
One time, buoyed by Wittgenstein, I answered his challenge saying I was trying to do only what I was doing. As a telephone receptionist at Cinelab, a 16mm reversal lab in midtown Manhattan, I was mostly answering the phone. There were fluorescent lights and a terrible chemical smell in the air but at least I could wear jeans. Five buttons for five phone lines were the focus of my days and I was trying to be present, to be aware of the mouthpiece, the cord and to the conversation with the messenger service or the filmmaker checking on her job. I didn't have the nerve to say it but I was definitely trying to get to the existential truth of my life. I expected to get a look of disapproval from my famous mentor and still remember my surprise at his hearty approval.
Until reading The Power of Less, I'd forgotten all about this practice. But today, I'm eating and only eating (when I'm eating alone) not scrolling through my phone, reading a paper or eating at my desk as I continue to work. It feels like a life of indescribable luxury to be released from the internal pressure to cram as much activity as humanly possible into every minute. I figured I'd feel resentful, that I have so much to do cause I want to Go BIG. Instead, life feels richer, fuller. And I feel HAPPIER. Clearer. Is it possible this is the result of letting go and simply doing less? Or is it something about my astrology this summer? I suspect both.
Mr. Green isn't showing me any sympathy at all. He has his challenges with the lawn mower and his top-secret-chemistry projects. (Nothing like Breaking Bad, I assure you.) But how I would like to have some 1920 x 1080 files to work with, some consistency and order instead of this chaos. Mr. Green loves to quote Emerson to me: “Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.”
This is what I'm dealing with in assembling the elements for the *highlights reel*. And instead of writing, am going with the old 'picture is worth a thousand words'. Look ... and weep.
This took two days. Note the various, less than ideal sizes of the elements.
Weeding the garden for one hour in the morning is my new meditation. Of course I prefer the no-tools method so I can feel the resistance of the roots giving way and 'win' hundreds of times before 9AM. There's something inexpressibly satisfying about weeding this way but my obsession with it decommissioned my right arm last summer with 'tennis elbow'.
So I was motivated to be open to the advice of a professional gardener: she recommended using a hoe which is not nearly as satisfying but a lot faster. As I whacked the weeds with a hoe the other morning, I pondered why the easier softer way (the hoe) doesn't appeal to me. Words from forty years ago filled my head. A fellow student at the Beaux-Arts weighed in on the subject of my disastrous love life: "Anne, tu aimes les plats épicés?" (trans: "Anne, do you like spicy food?")
I remember being annoyed at her suggestion that my attraction to difficult men was just one manifestation of an integral part of my character. But it's funny that this line has stuck in my craw lo these decades. Maybe it explains my fixation on taking a popular but obscure micro-budget web series from its audience of thousands to global domination. I haven't given up.
That's dirt splattered on my face and hands.
Much as I want to get this highlights reel finished, there's one more way in which I could reasonably procrastinate.
Pegeen told me that for maximum effectiveness your desk should be 80% free of clutter. Since learning this, I've been aware of how much easier everything is with a cleared-off desk. So any logical person might wonder: "What effect could a concentration of chaos in the corner of my office have on my life and work?"
The way I see it A) you spend a great deal of energy pretending it doesn't bother you B) you quote Freud to yourself and everyone who'll listen: “There’s denial, and then there’s insanity.” or C) you go to the local used-office equipment store and score a barely scratched file cabinet for a very good price and proceed, with a Bridget Jones aura of superiority, to P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.
If Patsy Cline were still around, she'd write me that for my theme song.
(Special thanks to Jacqueline Cioffa for the Freud quote which I discovered in her piece on feminine collective.)
A chipmunk got loose in here a few days ago. In other words, anything could happen if I don't immediately take control of this situation.
I feel your shiver of horror.
Victorious, on my way to establish order.
I'm not the most hi-tech person who ever walked the planet and the next job on the agenda is to build the cut of the 'highlights reel' in the most high-quality files possible. I'll say it right out that this would be a a daunting job for anybody: I learned to cut video under deadline pressure on three different softwares, two of which are no longer available. Combine that with my marginal impulse control and you have a mess spread over ten+ hard drives.
So naturally, I've procrastinated to the limit with plugging in the old Lacies, Western Digitals and G-Drives. Here's a shot of me caught in the act with my last delaying tactic: the wall calendar. The three month plan. Until the darn highlights reel is ready, there is no three month plan. Nuff said.
Or so I thought. My roving photographer, Mr. Green, offered to give me a deadline. When I practically bit his head off, he apologized: "I'm sorry I said anything." I don't think he is sorry. I think he just knows which side his bread is buttered on.
I've always marveled at how life comes through with inspiration for how to solve artistic problems. Whether it's snatches of dialogue overheard on the street or plots lifted from life, my experience is that answers are more readily available outside of my head than in it.
After yesterday's little backstory on my early days with Mr. Green, I thought you might be interested in a more recent story which may explain why he's my co-writer and inspiration.
Mr. Green teaches Organic Chemistry to undergraduate and graduate students. He used to also do basic research. I never took science beyond high school biology and am generally less than ignorant about the workings of the natural world. It's very convenient to be married to Mr. Wizard. For the past ten or more years, Mr. Green has written a syndicated (and here) monthly blog which decodes science for non-scientists on subjects likes fracking, the causes of and cures for depression, global warming, etc.
As Mr. Green searches through journals for fresh topics, he tries the ideas out on who ever is in the house. I'm usually in the house and if not, I'm not far. I'm also always under pressure to spend more time on twitter, to make more skit videos, to clean the house, etc.
The other day, Mr. Green was on fire about serotonin, the subject of this month's post. Did I mention that my husband has been a professor for almost fifty years? We were finishing up lunch and I could tell that he was just getting going, that he had absorbed a lot of material and that I might not get anything done for the next half hour if I didn't make my move. At the end of his sentence, I nodded emphatically as I sprang to my feet, practically shouting "Really interesting!" and bolted for the door. I unconsciously used a trick I'm aware of for holding onto myself and not getting sucked into other peoples' agendas: I didn't look my husband in the eye. Or maybe I did but for just a fraction of a second. The image that stays with me is of his face in shock.
Within fifteen minutes, there was a knock on my studio door. Mr. Green looked amused: "You left in the middle of the lecture! I've never had to chase a student down to finish a lecture!"
Years ago, decades ago in fact, I went to see a psychic who lived and worked out of his apartment in Riverdale in the Bronx. He'd been recommended by my psychic friend Julia Wolfe so I knew I was going to get my money's worth.
His name was M.B. Dykshoorn and, having lived for most of his life in The Netherlands, he spoke with an accent. The walls of his office were covered with plaques from police departments around the world in recognition of the crimes he'd helped to solve with his psychic powers. He wore a dark suit and we sat (when he sat) in black leather chairs like at a shrink's office.
I'd recently decided that I wanted to have children and so was intent on getting married. The central problem was that I didn't even have a boyfriend. Mr. Dykshoorn assured me that I would meet my future husband within eighteen months and that he'd be from 'across the water, probably the UK'. He also mentioned that this man would be a film producer.
About a year later, I met Mr. Green. Because he was a scientist/professor and not a film producer, I wrote him off as 'not the guy' and wasn't even sure I wanted to waste time going out with him. My friend Nicki advised me to "Date, don't mate." Have some fun, get out of the pressure-cooker. She convinced me that if I didn't loosen up with the earnest search, I'd blow any chances that came my way.
Within six weeks Mr. Green won my heart over and went on to help produce my feature How To Be Louise, and to co-write The Louise Log. Though Mr. Dykshoorn had predicted that he'd be from 'across the water, probably the UK', Mr. Green was living across the East River in the then obscure enclave of Williamsburg.
In case you missed the closest thing we've ever had to a viral video, here's one (3:10) about my experience of crowdfunding which amassed over 900 views in less than a day and prompted Emily Best to tweet: "Get this man an agent". (She was referring to my co-star Mr. Green.)
Big news. I think we have a highlights reel! (Must sleep on it.)
That incredibly good news released my linear mind to the next burning job - to get this studio clean and organized. And so today was Cleaning Day. In this case it means getting at the walls and ceiling too cause there was a lot of dust in here with pick-axing the floor. For the person with OCD 'tendencies', weeding and cleaning have their charms. But where weeding is contemplative, cleaning is WAR. I'm chomping at the bit to get everything out of boxes. CHOMPING AT THE BIT. (Hey it is a barn.)
Here's my favorite version of Alabama 3's song.
Emily Spray, singer-songwriter, seamstress, shoemaker and writer has been working away under the radar for years. Yes, Laura Cantrell covered Emily's song '14th Street' and Bob Dylan picked it for and introduced it on his radio show, but for an artist of such talent to languish in relative obscurity makes me scratch my head.
So it is with joy that I share the news that another of Emily's songs, WILD RIDE, which she wrote and sings and which Matt Keating produced, recorded and played the instruments on, is going to be featured in the new Bill Murray film ROCK THE KASBAH.
Emily, her husband Matt Keating and their daughter Greta Keating have been extremely generous in letting us use their songs in many episodes. If you want to hear a little bit of WILD RIDE, it's over the end credits in the Louise Log Chair Wrestling episode.
I hope this is just the beginning of a tidal wave of recognition for all of you.
Congratulations Emily! Congratulations Matt!
Emily Spray in the shadows before she hits the limelight. Photo by Matt Keating
I'm afraid you're sick of me talking about this ... but I have to say it. This Louise Log highlights reel we've been *working on* since Christmas and talking about for more than a year is finally getting close.
And so, I'm giving myself a pat on the back, taking a break and having fun with my friend Bonnie in her stick-shift Miata. OH yeah.
For decades I've known that it'd be a really good idea for me to meditate. It would probably help with focusing. It might even help with feeling good enough in my own skin that I'd stop looking 'out there' for everything... answers, affirmation and that elusive *self-confidence*. For something so potentially powerful, of course I wanted to get it right.
And so I read books and even took a course at East West. The most help came from talking with my friend Bernadette who had meditated daily for seventeen years while she lived in an ashram in India. She told me that meditation is more than anything like slipping into an old t-shirt. She also suggested that I read Meditate by Swami Muktananda, a very thin and simple book which I loved.
And so, with this guidance and encouragement, I've actually had some success with meditating. Occasionally. The problem is keeping at it. I forget how beneficial it is and let complacency and real world pressures eventually push it to the back burner and then out the back door. The idea of setting aside ten or fifteen or even five minutes to just, what, sit there?? This has been the hardest part. Who has time for that? Not me. Not usually. Not unless I'm out of my head frantic or otherwise in trouble do I risk just sitting there.
And then the other day, listening to The Power of Less (in audiobook) by our old friend Leo Babauta, I heard and decided to try the suggestion to cool it with the multi-tasking. "Don't read when you're eating. Don't watch television or even listen to the radio when you're eating. Just eat. Pay attention to the act of eating." (quote is approximate)
My efficiency maniac within had a hard time with the first five minutes of this, but to my surprise, I've very quickly come to love 'just eating'. The peace of it seems to expand out beyond the length of a meal. I feel LUXURIOUS. It even makes me feel important. And here's the most amazing thing: it's actually a form of meditation to just focus on tasting and chewing. For someone who loves to eat, this almost feels like cheating. And best of all, it's built into the day! Yes I know you're supposed to Never Eat Alone. But how about one meal a day?
It's easy to overlook powerful simple things all around if you don't have that stillness that comes from meditating.
Special Thanks to Victoria Trestrail for my copy of the audiobook "The Power of Less".
Last year, the first year of having a vegetable garden, I treated it like a sculpture. The orderly weeded rows were so pretty I didn't want to disturb anything by picking it. I knew people visited other friends' gardens and came away with bags of vegetables and it gave me an uncomfortable feeling - that I might actually be a tightwad. But I pushed that thought back down where it came from and reassured myself that I'd effortlessly join the ranks of the generous in August, when we had things to share.
Showing you some sugar snap peas, and there are plenty more behind my head, too.
Weeks turned into months as I weeded the summer away, enjoying the silence and the satisfaction of feeling even dandelion tap roots give up the fight. Every plant in the garden looked gorgeous, thriving, but only the cucumbers demanded that I gather them up. They were numerous and threatening to take over the neighboring rows, growing through the fence and out into the field. These I was happy to share. So you may be surprised to learn that few people want a full grocery bag of cucumbers. I was becoming a public nuisance: "What? Only three? Ever try cucumber gazpacho? And you can purée them for puffy eye masks!"
Late last summer, I graciously offered our neighbors a large bunch of our radishes. Okay so, big deal, they looked more like lumpy red carrots. Your radishes would too if you had rocks and clay for soil. The neighbor bit into a radish and spit it out on the ground: "These are woody! I pick 'em when they're the size of a thumb." I may have sneered at him.
And I began to see that my issue was not just with not wanting to share, but also with forcing things on people. It sounds like I may have a problem with self-will or, more precisely, self will run riot.
This year, we picked the radishes when they were smaller than a thumb. And this year we have a chart for when to pick what, not that the chart is accurate, but it's some kind of a guide.
Funny thing, yes the radishes were ready first, but the bib lettuce, arugula, basil and yellow onions have zoomed ahead of the cauliflower and yellow squash.
Also, I learned a trick. The more you pick the sugar snap peas, the more they produce. It may also be true of the arugula and the other vegetables just getting going. This news makes my tight-fisted cheapskate tendencies evaporate like the morning mist. And I have the whole rest of the summer to work on the other issue.
I don't think you realize how important you, the Louise Log audience, are.
For many of us working on the web, the rewards are strictly emotional. Yes there's huge satisfaction in doing the work but when the tidal wave of self-doubt rises and crashes, it's your comments and encouragement that I fall back on. They spike my adrenaline and they calm my anxious (naturally) heart. In a funny irony, your interest is also what matters to distributors and the other money people. So in fact, you are actually, pretty comprehensively, 'the bomb'.
Over the years some of you have gone to the trouble of sending me beautiful things. I'm hoping that I managed to at least thank you at the time, but because of the (lunatic) upload schedule, I don't feel that I ever properly acknowledged you or your lovely presents.
Today is the first of several fan acknowledgement posts. The others may have to wait for the Fall because I'm away from New York City (where most of my life is) for the summer.
So if you haven't yet met Marie Pope, there's no time like the present. She's been a rock of support for this show for sometime and is a regular fixture commenting on and sharing the LL facebook page.
You can see in that picture that she's got a serious twinkle in her eye, but who knew that Marie was going to come up with this (see below) a whole Valentine project in July. I was and am moved by this fantastic present which now hangs over my desk in the new studio.
A valentine in July from super fan Marie Pope, hangs over my desk in the new studio.
Thank you Marie for being smart and funny and for making the time in your whirlwind busy life to support The Louise Log. GROUP HUG!
I'm afraid that I may have adopted (or inherited) more than a trace of Puritan ethics. Since the age of sixteen, while still a frivolous high school girl (dedicated to becoming the most popular girl in the school), I fell in love with a poet, a 'college man' whose depth and sophistication showed me the error of my ways. I didn't like or get the poetry he wrote and read but, longing to fit in with his crowd, decided to at least not mention how fervently I would have liked to have been a cheerleader.
I started wearing baggy black pants and a black Asian-inspired top. My father remarked that I looked like one of the Viet Cong, not a compliment from him. Naturally I welcomed it as proof of progress. I was discreetly trying to catch-up and there were so many books I hadn't read, records I hadn't listened to and movies I hadn't seen. I smoked non-filter cigarettes. Alas, I still couldn't focus on school work or make sense of the philosophy or poetry books or the Sibelius records I was trying to love but I looked serious. I looked dark. Heck, I looked like 'the enemy'!
Tonight, Mudd and I were talking about this blog. "Have fun with it!" she encouraged. The phrase caught me by surprise, but it didn't (as it once did) put an instant chill on my heart.
A number of years ago whenever my hair cutter Terry would try to encourage me about a new haircut: "Have fun with it!" Fun!? I'd smile, shrug and try to act light-hearted while thinking to myself, FUN!? Are you kidding?? I don't have time for fun! I don't have fun! I'm an artist.
How times have changed.
#tbt
For a self-help junkie who's short on impulse control and frantic to accomplish something BIG, I have manna from heaven.
About a month ago, Victoria Trestrail, a genius singer-songwriter (whose music you've heard over the credits in all three seasons of The Louise Log), sent me an audiobook. Not being from the big techies, it took me until two days ago to overcome my anxiety and follow Victoria's step-by-step instructions on how to download it.
The morning after my post about the Lesson from the Lettuce, I started listening to this audiobook, The Power of Less. And it's total synchronicity! This book is all about doing more by doing less - just like my tiny lettuce which, when given the space, grew from a couple of small leaves to be bigger than my head. For the part of deciding how to spend your time and energy, Leo Babauta, the author, takes my rather thin explanation ("decide what must be done today") and lays out precisely how to determine what is essential and how to work backwards to make up daily actions. It all has to do with what you want, with what your goals are. Or, with recognizing that you don't have goals and figuring out what they might be.
For an anxiety-puncturer, it's as good as a day at the beach.
