Attempts to communicate with the Universe. Lettres à l’Univers et autres destinataires.

So it’s been a few weeks since I’ve written to anyone. Actually, it feels like it’s been a few weeks since I’ve even spoken to anyone. Now of course, that’s not true. I have been communicating. Sorta. Over the phone. Via Skype. It occurrred to me the other day that my social interaction/voluntary isolation ratio has totally shifted in just a few years. The good news is, when I actually do interact with people, I’m charming and open-minded and interested.

Truth be told, even though I actually feel way more at peace that I used to, I sometimes wonder if I’m flirting with peace inside or with plain old depression. The answer is, I think, that I’m actually getting to know myself, and still beating around the bush a bit. I think. I’m on the second or third date with myself. Should I suggest we go upstairs for a drink, or play hard to get?

And by beating around the bush, I refer, among other things, to beating myself up for not doing enough, not being enough, not creating enough. The paradox, in these phases I go through, is that suddenly I enter what I might call my “Nothing” mode. Remember this song by Radiohead, the one in which Thom Yorke sings “I’m not there” and you’re not sure whether he wants to dig a hole and hide, or melt into a billion stars before merging with the Universe? That’s what my “Nothing” modes feel like (yes, I know, I’m in love with Radiohead). The problem with the Nothing is that I just stop doing, well, pretty much anything. That’s of course, uh, when I’m not entertaining and feeding and nurturing my four-year-old punk rocker, but since she now goes to school, my parenting duties begin at 7:25am, stop at 8:40am, resume at 4:25pm, and end with the grand story-telling finale at 8:15pm. In between, I feel like I’m doing nothing. Or trying to. Or trying not to not.

During those hours, I’ll fall in love with Hugh Laurie, Tim Roth, wonder how many writers work on TV shows, and if they have time to even watch TV shows, I’ll read, I’ll make food, I’ll write for 5 minutes, I’ll read, I’ll forget to answer mail, I’ll wonder about whether I should be writing, scheduling my life, meeting people, or not, and if not, why, and if so, why. I’ll also nap, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, find excuses not to see anyone except my shrink, and I’ll just, again, wonder why, how, if, when, who, but and all that. Oh, and occasionally I’ll feel really good about everything being about nothing and nobody (which reminds me, I’m also in love with this recurring character in Neil Gaiman’s books, called Nobody).

So mostly, it’s a mixed feelings mode, because it usually implies I’m not working on a project that should be getting all my attention. *Or am I?* For example, right now, I mean this month, I need to be rewriting this romantic comedy I’ve been given by this great production company I really like. I worked ten days in a decent/manic mode on it. And for the last week, I’ve been in the nothing, toying with the screenplay in my head, taking notes every now and then, rewriting one scene at a time, in between Tim Roth and Hugh Laurie. Don’t ask. Needless to say, I have a lot of work ahead. Needless to say, there’s something pathological about being in the Nothing feeling like you’ve accomplished nothing, when you’ve got so many things to do.

Then, suddenly, I snap out of the Nothing. Usually, I figure this out when I get the urge to wash my hair at midnight and take my freakin’ Bach flowers and actually put on skin creme and make lists of what needs to be done. The funny thing, really, is that during my last few days of Nothing, three projects I’ve been a part of recently, have come out. Magma’s DVD I subtitled, Yodelice’s video FREE I danced in, and From Style Writing to Art, a street art anthology I worked on. So I guess my Nothing is my own way of finding directions to my Everything. And that in the shadow, lies my inner growling beast, waiting to leap out. Speaking of, here’s the really cool video for Free. I’m Mrs It. I dance, carelessly, happily, hiding under my fur. Damn, I love my life.

Mad Love, everyone and nobody, here, there, and everywhere.
MND