LaDonnaWitmer

The Optimistic Pessimist

Mood: Wake and Ache
Drinking: Tea Time

I have no idea, really, whether the glass is half full or half empty. Seems to me that it’s changing all the time, so it’s difficult to accurately gauge that sorta thing.

Boy would probably say that my glass is half empty. And he’d be right, half the time.

I do tend to see the darker side of Sears. The monsters in the closet, beneath the bed, outside the window. But I have a soft spot for fluffy bunnies, too, so I don’t fit in the box quite so easily.

I have this thing, a superstition, really, that if I can imagine the worst possible outcome, then it won’t happen. When I drop Boy off at the airport, I imagine his plane will crash. When I leave the LeeLoo at home in the morning, I imagine she’ll be dognapped. When I’m riding my motorcycle, Shirley, I imagine a semi will blow a red light and smash us to pieces. Set me up with any situation, and I’ll take all of two seconds to think of the worst that could happen.

In this way, I’m protecting us all. Because if I think it, I’ll jinx it, and it won’t come true. Twisted logic, I know, but it works for me.

My superstitions don’t run the usual course of black cats and broken mirrors and listing ladders. Mine are much more violent than seven years of bad luck. But so far, my imagination has kept me and mine out of trouble.

So it’s not really a half-finished glass. I imagine the nightmare because I want the dream. And usually reality lands safely somewhere in between. I guess I’ve learned, over the years, that if you own up to all the terrible things that could happen to you, every single day, then you’re happier in the end because they *don’t* happen. So you’re grateful. You’re aware of what you have.

You don’t take your life for granted.

You don’t believe me? Here’s a recent example…When I broke my wrist in February, out in the sand dunes at Pismo Beach, I spent much of the agonizingly bumpy ride to the hospital imagining horrible things. Amputation. A shrivelly, withered appendage. Floppy, useless fingers. I covered them all.

So here we are, 6 months later, freshly discharged from therapy, and my wrist is decidedly not what it used to be. It works, but it’s not quite right. When I make a fist, it looks a little funny. My flailing hand gestures are much less eloquent, a little more robotic. I can’t get enough extension to ride a bicycle painlessly or pump out a pushup. And compared to my fully-functional right wrist, my left looks like a gimp. BUT. It’s not withered or useless or amputated. So! Bonus for me! It’s no dream, but it’s not a nightmare, either. So I’m celebrating in the middle ground somewhere in between.

Whatever works, right?

-Lo, who always thought a lucky rabbit foot wasn’t really so lucky for the rabbit.

Can’t Rain All the Time

Mood: Persistently Wobbly
Drinking: Diet 7Up

Do dark clouds need a reason to descend? Do they require flames or wind? Do they have their own secret almanac, their own private entrance? Do they listen to a mad-hatted psychic who tells them that now would be a fortuitous time to bring the rain down on me?

I’ll never know.

But I am far too heavy for my little world. Not just today, but for the past several. I cannot point a finger and make it land on a rational excuse. I am just here, and glowering.

Yesterday on the street, a strange man walking toward me bent and said, “Very beautiful woman.”

And I said, “That’s easy to say when you don’t really know me.”

But he cheered me up, anyway. Yes, I am that superficial.

Then I wandered on home and watched Howl’s Moving Castle. And when Howl bursts into tears because his hair is all the wrong color and throws a mighty wizardly tantrum (complete with oozing green goo) because he no longer feels beautiful, I allowed myself three minutes of self-righteous hypocrisy.

“Stupid ass.” I thought. “Blubbering because he thinks his hair looks stupid. What a pussy!”

Meanwhile, bombs are heedlessly obliterating Beirut and I am a silly American girl, letting the mirror dictate my day. Who’s the ass now?

Boy said he’s worried because I’ve been sad for weeks.

But the clouds are familiar, and I’m not afraid. I’ve been happy for so long now. A little rain never hurt anything.

Right?

-Lo, who has drawn maps of the doldrums.

Power to the Peaceful

Mood: Nodding Off
Drinking: Bedtime Water

Short update for all my PC-lovin’ friends: The Windows versions of “Pretty.Good.Girl.” and “Alter Ego” are up on the cinepoems page, thanks to EO and CB, my computer genius boys.

I’m currently in Mendocino with M, M-squared, and L, filming “Die Pretty”, which will bring our cinepoem total to an even dozen. (“Yin” was number eleven, but you haven’t met her yet.) Anyway, It’s gorgeous here, and we’ve had a full day shooting on beaches, in wheat fields and cemeteries, and skulking about a burned-out, tumbledown house. Then L #2 cooked us dinner (freshly caught ocean creatures), and us girls went hot-tubbing, and now it’s time to crash.

Goodnight, sweet Internet. More when we meet again…

-Lo, who does her best to avoid leaves of three (let them be!)

Seeing Red

Mood: 100% Concentrated
Drinking: Iced Tea with 12 Sugars

I find it strange and slightly amusing that when I have the most going on in my life, I have the least to say about it. Could be a factor of time — more specifically, the lack thereof.

Or it could just be that I’m lazy and I prefer to write when I have absolutely nothing else to do.

What’s all the fuss about, you ask? Well, it’s been a busy pair of weeks since I last sent word to the Internet. There was the 4th of July, of course, with all the attendant banging hullabaloo. Boy and I took advantage of the long weekend to visit his family (including his 101-year-old Grandma!) in the Valley, and then we foolishly made our way into the mountains to Yosemite to hang out with my sister and her SO.

And I say “foolishly” not because of the sister hang-time, which is always too short, but because of my aversion to crowds and to other people in general, and the corresponding record-breaking number of people swarming the Yosemite Valley on that fine holiday weekend.

Nothing like hiking to a waterfall with 1200 babbling strangers.

And then there was the heat. I don’t do well in heat. That’s why I live in Fog City. Put me in the sun with the mercury rising over 91, and I’m a melty puddle of whiny incompetence. I’m absolutely worthless. LeeLoo is, too. So that’s why in the middle of the afternoon at Boy’s parent’s house, the Loon and I were laying helplessly on the living room floor, tongues hanging out, while the rest of the family went about their business like actual human beings.

You’d think I’d have a higher tolerance for such things, having grown up in 100-degrees-plus-humidity, but apparently I left my heat-endurance-ability (HEA) packed up in a box with my plaid school uniform, pennyloafers and Trapper Keepers, somewhere in my mom’s attic.

The one happy ending to the heat index…when Boy and I were driving back home into the city across the Bay Bridge, I looked over to the west to check on the fog status and nearly teared up when I saw the familiar opaque haze hanging over my neck of the woods. Fog! Bless the Inner Sunset!

But lest you think I’m a complete baby bitch, whining about hot holidays (which I am, but that’s beside the point), there have been many other contributions to the calendar to keep me on my toes lately…

I now have a much-needed volunteer agent, who’s keeping me busy with requests for publicity materials and potential reading dates and all kinds of ambitious plans.

I have continuing wrist therapy, twice a week, with the fabulous K. The end is in sight, now that I’m back on my motorcycle and squeezing the clutch with comparative ease. (Yes, back on the horse! Celebrations were had.) But I still have some bendy issues, so the therapy continues…

I went south to Mountain View this past weekend to catch the last stop on the 2006 Nine Inch Nails tour. Trent was in fine form (although honestly? I prefer him pale and pasty instead of buff and beefy.) tearing up the stage, and the ever-glamorous Peter Murphy opened the show with Bauhaus. Oh, goth glory days! Actually, Peaches opened the show, but I find her ridiculous and paid no attention until she and her crotch-high boots exited stage right.

My favorite quote of the evening came courtesy of Mr. Murphy and was instantly texted to a few choice friends — (this only works if you say it in a British accent whilst wearing a cape): “It’s exhausting being marvelous!”

Speaking of choice friends, our dear G (which stands for Genius) is flying out from Chi-town to visit us this weekend. We are extremely excited to see him and I’m busy trying to figure out which are the *best* sites to show him in SF and which are the sorta cool, but not really all that awesome things that should wait for another time. I must make sure my city makes the best impression, after all — it’s his first visit to San Francisco!

July is turning out to be a big month for visitors…I get to see my sister again in a few weeks when she and the other J drive up from LA for a short stay. They’re bringing along my nephew-hound, Yoda, and I’m eagerly anticipating all the Yoda-LeeLoo antics that shall ensue.

In less happy news, I also have a friend who is very ill and nearly died just this past weekend. Which is a situation that doesn’t really make me any busier, but does occupy a large space of my brain with the worrying.

How to keep from worrying? Stay busy… This week I’m editing cinepoem #11. Yes! Eleven. Her name is “Yin”, and she’s very sweet (and shows off a great deal of that magical fog I’m so taken with). And then we’re shooting #12 (“Die Pretty”) up in Mendocino in two weeks with the Lovely L.

Which brings me to the big news about cinepoem #10, Alter Ego, she of the multiple personalities and the infamous “death star”. Alter Ego is ready to see you now.

We shot #10 just before Memorial Day at The Hotel Utah Saloon, with the help of a few fine ladies who deserve a little mention here: My usual partners in cinematic crime, Michelle Brown and Misha Hutchings, were there. Kathy Azada was there too, minus the White Rabbit costume this time. And Angela Primavera, Katie Motta, and Amanda Henderson joined in the fun and smoked up a storm. Well, Angela didn’t smoke…she was running our second camera. But they all were smokin’ in the fabulous sense of the word.

Anyway. Alter Ego. Go. Watch. Learn.

-Lo, who does not believe wearing in short shorts.

Absolutely Nothing

Mood: Hazy
Drinking: Tea

Sometimes a girl runs out of words.

Sometimes there’s nothing to say. Nothing of any great weight or consequence, anyway. But here I am, fingers to the letters. Spelling out nothing with the most diligent attention.

I suppose it’s better than filling up space with one of those inane surveys that litter the myspace sites, spilling pointless secrets to perfect strangers, like the color of my current underwear (black) or whether or not I have a crush on someone in my Top 8. (not)

Or I could pass the time by making a laundry list of what I did on my weekend (chopped off my hair, smeared paint on my toes–or, more accurately, paid people to do both of those things for me–walked the dog, washed Boy’s jeans).

Usually I refuse to post a word unless I actually have Something to say. Today I’m just writing to see if there’s anything in there, anything that will rise to the surface and surprise me.

…I’ve got nothing.

Yesterday at 5:30 a.m. I was feeling incredibly inspired. The two Ms and I had crawled out of bed while it was still dark outside so we could shoot a cinepoem out in the bay and catch the sunrise. It was a good plan, but the fog rolled in overnight and there was no sunrise to be seen…just a faint pinkish haze as the fog went from greyish-black to greyish-blue.

But it was inspiring, nonetheless. Nobody out but the fishermen and the birds. Beadlets of fog collecting on our eyelashes and pushing our hair to new puffy extremes. Waves splashing like a heartbeat against algae-covered green rocks. Little red crab-creatures scuttling sideways from crevice to crevice. It was all so perfectly peaceful and, although it didn’t look exactly the way we hoped it would with the lack of brightening sunrise and all, it was just as magnificent in its own way, with muted foggy colors and a wet morning silence lying heavy over our whole little world.

Yes, I could have written a novel, yesterday.

But today there is no fog (which means there was probably a glorious sunny show at 6 a.m.). There are no crabs, save the office variety, and no wakeful birdsongs. Just me. The computer. A stack of work. A lack of inspiration. And a whole lot of nothing coming out the ends of my fingers.

-Lo, who has come back to the bob thing again.

Pretty.Good.Girl.

Mood: Pretty Good
Drinking: Sugared Tea

She’ll be a pretty good girl, and you get to watch.

That’s right. There’s a new cinepoem in town, and she’s just waiting for you to start the staredown.

Pretty.Good.Girl. was shot at The Archbishop’s Mansion here in San Francisco last month, and not only is she the first cinepoem to be shot since my broken wrist episode back in February (if you look closely, you can see my super-stiff left appendage lurking about trying not to be obvious), but Pretty also features the in-front-of-the-camera debut of our favorite photographer, Patti Monaghen.

Patti’s photos have been featured in a cinepoem before (Slow Roast), and they’re also splashed all over this web site, but this is the first time that the lady actually lets herself be seen (although she doesn’t completely come out from behind the camera). Of course, she did a fabulous job, as you’ll soon see.

Isn’t all that tantalizing enough for you? Go see the Pretty.Good.Girl. She’s waiting on the Cinepoems page. Big thanks to my web guru, Chris, for being so persistent about getting her uploaded (no thanks to AT&T, the bitches!). PC people: There will eventually be a Windows version, you’ll just have to wait a teeny bit.

And coming up next?Alter Ego. Our tenth (!!) cinepoem is already in the can, as they say, but we’ve just started editing. She’ll be along shortly.

-Lo, who tells her stories to the Dark.

On Your Mark

Mood: Apocalyptic
Drinking: Wormwood Water

Okay. So. I don’t really have anything exciting to say today. M and I are knee-deep in the editing process of Pretty.Good.Girl., and as soon as that’s up and running, we’re starting on Alter Ego. And K and I are neck-deep in stuff for Book #2, sorting through piles of fabulous photos from PM and trying to decide between our three finalists for a title. (I can’t tell you yet–it’s a secret.) But really, that’s not what I wanted to say.

The truth is, I just couldn’t stop myself from logging an inane post on 6.6.06, just so I could say, “DAMIAN!” and giggle to myself as if I have done something very clever. Which, really, I haven’t.

So. Yeah. Uh. That will be all for now.

Or will it?

-Lo, whose neighbor could very well have her baby today and how cool would THAT be?

Auld Lang Syne

Mood: Curious
Drinking: Only Liquids

When you move six states away from your hometown, your alma mater, and your post-college haunts, you never really have to worry that you’ll unexpectedly run into that uppity bitch who went to your high school. Or that you’ll turn down the cracker aisle in Whole Foods while wearing nubby sweat pants and lopsided pigtails and suddenly find yourself face-to-face with that certain old boyfriend. In fact, when you move so far from home, you never have to worry about running into anybody at all.

When I left Chicago six years ago, I thought that would be a really good thing. Boy and I had a huge circle of friends, acquaintances, hangers-on, and one or two arch enemies, and except for a chosen few, I wasn’t really worried about missing anybody. I was excited to start all over, to make a few less mistakes.

I’ve made some incredibly spectacular friends here on the left coast, and although my circle of people is much smaller than it was back in Illinois, it’s a wider, deeper, cozier circle. And of course I have all my extra-special long-distance lovelies from back in the days in Dixon, in Sterling, in Crystal Lake and Geneva and beyond who still ring the phone and rattle the keyboard with juicy tidbits and the latest what-have-you. Sometimes one of us even packs up bags and makes the cross-country trek to see the other and get all caught up on the kind of stuff that works best eyeball to eyeball. Some of us are still working on making the trip (Hallooo, Yearlick sisters!).

But lately it’s all those other people I’ve been wondering about. The ones who’ve dropped off the map. The ones who are un-stalkable on myspace and non-existent on google. Where are they now?

Once upon a time, some of us were thick as thieves, rollerblading around the Loop at 2 a.m. and hunting for boys and bargains at Clark & Belmont and getting into all kinds of mischief at a neverending series of suburban chain restaurants. But then we grew up, grew apart, got married, moved away, lost our cellphones, changed our email, quit our jobs, and just gradually went AWOL.

And what I want to know now is what ever happened to Bryan with a y who disappeared somewhere in rural Ohio, or his sidekick Jon and his volleyball superstars? Where is Beth, who was working on her own brand of stardom last time I saw her? What ever happened to Kevin and his courthouse beat or Corina and her long black hair? What about Michelle who used to meet me at Big Bowl for noodles, and Gayle who always dyed her hair Feria Red? What about Christina the flight attendant who got married off into Montana or Jeff who moved down south somewhere? What ever happened to Monica and Richelle, Oscar and Mike, Kelly and Steve, Janet and Christy, Brandi and Julie. What ever happened to the rest of you? Are you happy, are you healthy, are you better off now than the last time I saw you?

Where are you now?

-Lo, who probably would have gone to her 10-year reunion, if they had one.

I can help the next in line.

Mood: Coma White
Drinking: Dry as a Bone

And that’s how it goes. Months of muteness. Complete creative silence. And then a one-two punch and your voice is back and louder than ever.

The ball was given a good shove and set off rolling the weekend before last when Patti the Photographer stepped off the plane from Chicago, cameras in hand. We launched a three-day marathon photo shoot with a cinepoem shoot sandwiched right there in the middle (in the Gypsy Baron room at the Archbishop’s Mansion).

Patti worked her ass off and got a lot of really, really great shots (thank you!!!), which have now been handed off to K so we can get Book Two moving, already.

And before we lost any steam or momentum or caffeine-fueled hyperactivity, we squeezed in one more cinepoem shoot this past weekend at The Hotel Utah Saloon here in SF. Thanks to all my gorgeous volunteers, you know who you are, and the rest of the world will, too, as soon as we roll credits.

I had lots of fun at both shoots–got to wear fancy dresses and wig out in a china doll bob of flamboyant red. It’s always liberating to play the vamp.

M and I start editing the first cinepoem (Pretty.Good.Girl.) next week, after Mem Day is behind us. And as soon as Pretty is in the can, we’ll start working on the Utah cinepoem (Alter Ego). I’m really excited about both of them, and I’ll introduce them to the Internet as soon as humanly possible.

Meanwhile, S has been location scouting up Mendocino way, so I think the crew and I will head up there this summer before M has to leave us for San Diego.

So. All is not silent on the western front. You watch. You wait. You’ll see.

-Lo, who loves her surgery scar.

I’d Give My Wrist a Little Twist

Mood: Mild with a chance of showers
Drinking: Black tea, with ice and sugar

You know how you go through life, oblivious to everything unless it means something to you? Like you never noticed how many sky blue Celicas there were in the world until you, yourself, owned a sky blue Celica. You never noticed how cute brown Boxer dogs were until you, yourself, knew a brown Boxer. You never noticed insert your own example here.

The same is true, I am discovering, of injuries. I never really noticed my fellow un-whole humans on the train or sidewalk or checkout line until I was sporting a broken wrist, a surgery scar, and a nifty fiberglass cast. Now I see the injured everywhere. The guy on the skateboard last night who had no legs. The man across the train with the crippled hand. The blind girl waiting at the bus stop. So many of us who are obviously, externally, “not right”.

I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m getting better. I have the potential and the power to be well. And I hope that getting well doesn’t mean losing this newfound sight. This more compassionate way of moving through the world. This realization of how much pain a person can carry around while the world walks on by, unaware.

My cast is long gone, and I gave away the wrist brace. I’m walking around with a naked wrist because it’s the best way to get better. I have a therapist who sees me twice a week to talk skulls (we both have collections) and massage my tired tendons and fit me with new “torture devices” that force my pinky finger to bend and my fist to clench and my wrist to leeeean just a little further each time. I’m learning new words like “pronation” and “supination” and I’ve found that 58 degrees of flexion is better, but not as good as 80.

My broken bones are healed, but my scars have memory, and they slow me down. I am so much better than I was a few weeks ago, and a few weeks from now I’ll bend even further. But it’s slow. It’s progress measured by small pressures and incremental degrees.

I can’t ride my motorcycle yet, but I can open a pickle jar. I can’t twist a doorknob, but I can button my own jeans again. I can’t hold my left hand out for change at the cash register, but I can hold Boy’s hand without wincing. Progress.

This whole unexpected interlude has been wonderfully and awfully strange. I’ve been amazed a thousand times over at the complexity of the body, at the domino effect of this injury. And though I’d never willingly choose to go through all this again, I’ve discovered things I never would have otherwise. No real surprise there–that’s how life always seems to work, yes?

And even though I feel like I lost a few months since February, even though I’m barely getting back to normal, I have high hopes and big plans of catching up.

So in the spirit of catching up, we’ve got two new cinepoems on the calendar. We’re shooting one this weekend and another the next, both in really cool new locations. And I’ve been buried in details for a photo shoot for Book #2, also this weekend. The talented and lovely Patti Monaghen is flying out from Chicago with her camera, just for me. The blank pages are filling up. Stay tuned…

-Lo, who always looks forward to the hot wax part of therapy.