Letter

I waited all day and night for this glass of wine.  Now that I finally have it, the plans to write, whatever, have drifted from me.  I had several thoughts in my head — I meant to write them down — but two out of four kids are sick, three out of five, if I count my daughter way over Thar in Ohio.  I had to herd the cats, medicate another, tidy up the lair a bit and by the time I  finished, the glass of wine nearly felt like a chore itself.  Time to unwind, to dream, to relax turned very quickly into anxiousness.

 The Olympics are on.

Assad is still killing his people.

Hollywood is on its crescendo toward The Big Night — the capper of award season.

Folks at home still can’t get work, can’t get enough work, and yet — fuck you folks —  bills are creeping higher.

the snow is deep and lofty outside my door.  and it’s lovely.  It smells so wonderful.

I can’t wait until spring.

But.  I must wait. And wait.

Oh My God, there are nights that I feel like I’m not going to survive this.  I wake up better, generally willing to fight another day.  I recite my phrases — like trying to tie my head back on straight.  Say the words.  Speak the affirmations.  Declare victory.  Move on in faith.  Deny the circumstance.  Never ever, ever give up.

But my God — and seriously, I am talking to Him and not you when I say that — My God — when will there be some relief?  Some joy?  Some moment that I feel as though… there was a reason for this?

I watched CAPTAIN PHILLIPS  tonight along with my 8-year-old (who has a cold) and my 11-year-old, who couldn’t help but tell spoilers to relieve me of anxiety.  It’s a stressful film.  (He saw the film before). Before tonight, we also watched 12 YEARS A SLAVE, THE BUTLER,  DALLAS BUYERS CLUB  — all of which, interestingly enough, are based on true stories.  Those stories — for the suffering they endured, I can’t help but wonder if they felt sickened by the meaningless of it all?  Who would care about their stories until it was heard, rewritten into a tightly woven drama, filmed, edited, packaged and sold as a PRODUCT — was it only then that their stories mattered?  Did they matter as the events unfolded?  If they had died — would it have been a non-starter and not worth telling?  I suppose the answer is yes.  Dead men tell no tales.  (Who coined that phrase?  Black Beard or Disney?) And for the people who die along the way — are they just the spoils of a Hollywood block buster?  Did they matter to anyone at all?  For the people who loved the dead — does that love do anything but cause deep, deep sorrow?

I will be better in the a.m.  I always am.  I have such good intentions at night, most emotional hours of the day — the hours I should write and find my way with what I purport to do — but no — I am here writing a letter.  The desire to connect with another human being on some level beyond basic, “responsible” functionality.  And that connection eludes me completely.  No talks like that.  no.  No friendships like that, not ever.  I suppose it is why I am drawn to theater and drama and religion — I crave the mysticism. And it’s not meant for this earth, only on stage or in a Theater Near You.

I watched a couple of YOUTUBE videos before stopping over to write here.  One was a panel discussion about the filming of THE DALLAS BUYERS CLUB.  I don’t have the exact quote, but the moderator asked Jared Leto (who, by the way, I am in love with), what his process included as he interviewed other transgender individuals to prepare for the part of Rayon.  Anyway — he said (in part) that he saw a particular bravery within the transgender community.  People who chose to live the life they dream for themselves rather than taking “as is” the one they were given.  His words gave me chills.  He uses that observation in the film, too.  Near the end of the film, he says one line that provoked in me a similar reaction. Rayon knows that she/he is dying and she looks in the mirror and says as a prayer to God that when she meets Him in heaven she hopes to finally be beautiful — And there —  oh My God, yes. There, God — that’s where some of us are.  Is there a point in our life that we finally become the vision we hold in our minds? But until then, we can only fake it, work it, paint it, write it, inebriate it or construct it out of leftover scraps and second-hand shit that no else wants.

I should go to bed.  My cat is bugging me.  She sits on my desk, near my keyboard and won’t quit cleaning. My mobile just alerted me that more SNOW is on the way.  yay.  15 inches hasn’t been enough I suppose.

I need some prayers said — ’cause the ones I say are not apparently LOUD ENOUGH.

I want a cure for my son’s autism.

I want a cure for my life.

I want to find my way out of this box.

I want my children not to follow my footsteps.

I want God to fix me, cure me, change me. Make me better than this.

I want God to make me fearless, brave.

I want to not be an idiot.

I want to throw every fucking object out of my house and start over.  Hold on. Wait.  That thought does not include my children, or my camera, or the photographs and videos. See?  SEE how incredibly strong the 12 disciples were?  They left everything — even their wives.  Oh wait — That sort of sucks, doesn’t it?

I will try to ignore that last little fact….^

God saved my dad.  He saved my mother, too.  He saved my son 20 years ago when the Doc gave him and 11% chance of pulling through ( but then the surgeries, the autism).  God saved My friend, many times, (though her afflictions have not ceased, she is a constant inspiration).  God gave my brother new love…  Dear God — when will you save me? …   …   …   Fine.  I am willing to wait — but please help my son. Only say the word and he will be healed… Say the word. Heal him.

Then me.

Amen.

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About Fringe Details

I write spec screenplays. Mum of five awesome people and caretaker of 6 chickens, five cats and one smelly dog. View all posts by Fringe Details

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