Word from the Wise

I had another dream about my father. It was a vivid one, but free of the sadness (and sobbing) I normally experience. He is at his best, at the lab, surrounded by friends and work. He is in jeans and one of his blue surgical scrubs tops. He is wearing his glasses and his hair is graying but not totally white. That puts him in his fifties (probably) though I realize that while my father's appearance changed over the years (dramatic weight loss, etc) he didn't seem old to me until those last few months before we lost him. Up until the summer before he passed away, he was ageless and seemingly invincible.

I am seeking comfort from him in my dream. My heart broken yet again, I turn to him for advice. He never offered romantic counsel in life...my love life was not something I discussed with my dad. I know he wanted me to be happy, but maybe not married off. I was his little girl, always.

There is a concert being held in the back room of the dental lab. I'm there enjoying the music, singing along and taking photos. I see an ex-boyfriend walk in with a woman. I try to ignore them and focus on the music. She begins to make a fuss about me being there. First of all, what are any of us doing at a concert in a dental lab? Secondly, it's my dad's dental lab so if anybody has a right to be there, it's this girl. I go into the front room to find my dad at his work station. I'm upset, so he hugs me while I explain. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders, looks me in the eye and says one word. "Irrelevant." At least that's what I think he says. He didn't speak much English and I doubt that word featured prominently in his vocabulary, but that's what it sounds like. It makes sense, considering what my mind has been focused on lately (the single lady's lament). But he's right. That stuff is irrelevant, because I've got plans. Big ones. Relevant ones.

Summer Session

This weekend I met Carl Kurlander, a screenwriter, director and producer. He wrote St. Elmo's Fire. Yes, that St. Elmo's Fire. He was in town promoting his documentary, My Tale of Two Cities: A Comeback Story. Nice guy. Good movie. I helped plan the premiere and post-screening discussion at the Criterion Cinemas. We had a small screening room, but it was packed, so I felt good about my role in the whole thing. After living in Hollywood for years, Carl packed up his wife and daughter and left Los Angeles to return to Pittsburgh and live "an authentic life." This is not to say that one cannot live an authentic life in LA (although I've never tried) but it might be a tough thing to do when you are in "the industry." The movie is about his journey home as well as Pittsburgh's journey from industrial giant to punchline to one of the most livable cities in America. Carl is funny, smart, talented, a little neurotic (aren't we all?) and really passionate about the work. Not the work of making movies, although I have no doubt that he is passionate about film making, the work of making a difference, which movies can do on occasion and this movie definitely did on this occasion. Carl's film resonated with everyone in that screening room on Friday night. The discussion lasted an hour and people lingered after that to talk to him about it. They weren't just asking questions, they were sharing their stories. That's pretty great. The Chief and I spent about two days with Carl, showing him around the Have, introducing him to people, talking up the movie, hearing stories about famous people...it was exhausting (but fun) for everyone.

I had a little one on one time with Carl on Saturday night after the final weekend screening. We had beers at Richters and talked about how the screening had gone. He asked me about my story, how I got here, etc. I told him about my family leaving Cuba, what my Dad had gone through to get us here, how I ended up in New Haven, all that stuff. He said I had a great story and asked if I ever considered writing a screenplay. That's right. The guy who wrote St. Elmo's Fire asked me if I had ever thought about writing a screenplay. Um, no, I hadn't considered it. But it's nice to be asked.

Away I Go

I was in Philly this weekend helping the Aaron move into his new house (it’s lovely and he and the little dog are very happy, thanks for asking). When we weren’t doing the semi-heavy lifting, cleaning, discussing furniture placement, laughing at ourselves and each other, eating or napping to catch a second wave of energy, I was reading Amy Bloom’s novel, Away. I picked it up in preparation for a book signing Bloom was doing in town. I haven’t read her work in a while, so I wanted a refresher before I went to the event. I came across a passage that I haven’t been able to shake for days:

"Sometimes it's the case that when you hear the thing you have most wanted to hear, you cannot take it in. Hope is everyone's mirage and everyone who comes upon that green and grassy spot, the swaying date palms and the bubbling blue pool, is temporarily taken in, even people who have been there before and even when, upon closer inspection, the oasis is nothing but a reef of sand; even with grains of sand blowing lightly across our faces, we find ourselves standing on soft grass of a tenacious, unreasonable green."

Wow, right? I know. I’ve read it over and over again. There’s a part of me that doesn’t get it at all and a part of me that goes “yes,” every time. It’s been a long time since something I read had that sort of effect on me. And now I am trying to figure out why. I know, I should just go with my gut and not try to figure out why, but that’s what I do sometimes, think too hard and too long about something because I need to figure something out instead of just running with the feeling. But this many days later, this many hours of mulling it over, I think I know. I read that passage in the afternoon, I experienced it later that night. And that might be what I’ve been really thinking about for days.

Aaron and I were having dinner in his new house on Sunday night. We were sitting in a couple of armchairs in the dining room (we ran out of steam before we could get the dining table together), finishing our drinks and talking. The discussion turned (as it so often does) to relationships. Here’s what my dear friend told me:

“You don’t have any role models for the life you’re leading. You’ve had to carve this life out on your own and figure it out for yourself. And you’ve accomplished a lot.”

Seems obvious doesn’t it? It wasn’t. Not to me. I’ve spent all of this time feeling like a misfit because my two strongest (literally) role models, my mother and sister were/are working married ladies with children. Yes, I’m a lady (I mean a woman…fine, I’m a broad) and I work, but the other two parts…not so much. My mom and sister are from another generation and a whole other culture. By the time she was my age, my mother had gotten married, had two children, moved to another country and had another baby. My sister took a modified approach to my mother’s plan as she so often does: marriage, two children and a house (instead of leaving the country). I spent much of my life breaking away from that lifestyle, setting the apron strings on fire when I left for college, moving away without ever considering going “home.” I’m not saying that any of us Abreu ladies chose the wrong path, just different ones (and sometimes the paths chose us). Now that I’m not some brooding kid who didn’t want to be like them, I’ve begun to realize that I want to be like them in some ways (my sister’s endless positive attitude in the face of anything, my mother’s ability to cut to the chase regardless of who gets sliced by her words), I’m already like them in others (fiercely loyal, tender hearted, eager to please) and may never be like them in others (mom: widow with 3 kids; sister: married with 2 kids; me: late 30s, childless and single) It’s all OK. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

I’ve had to figure a lot of it out on my own and I’ve done alright for myself, right? Right. Sometimes you just need to hear it, even if you can’t take it in right away.

Enough is Enough

I went to Cafe Nine last night to hear Marc Douglas Berardo play. There's something in his songs that always goes right through me. I have yet to attend a show of his without tearing up at a new song. This time it was a song about Havana. Yep, he went there. And there I was, with a lump in my throat and my dad in my heart. My dad, who offered me unconditional love and appreciated me in spite of my quirks, flaws and fuck-ups. This brings me, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post.

I had a chance to catch up with an old friend between sets. We drank beers, chatted and just hung out. It was pretty great. Eventually, the talk turned to my lack of luck in love as of late (heaven forbid I have a conversation with a straight man in a relationship and not ask what's up with the rest of his gender). He said something that struck me enough to post it here (after not posting for how long? Exactly). Apparently, my problem is one of semantics. Instead of saying (and understanding and believing) that something didn't work out with someone because it wasn't the right fit, I automatically say (and believe) that it's because I wasn't "enough". Pretty enough, smart enough, sexy enough, tall enough, enough enough, on and on. This, my friend pointed out, is dumb because "enough" is totally subjective. And, by the way, I am more than enough and I should probably come to terms with that soon. I may, in fact, be the shit. So, we made a deal. I promised (maybe I solemnly swore, I was on my fourth beer at this point) to stop using the word "enough" when talking about all things related to myself in the realm of romance. If I find myself in a situation that's not working, I'll try to say (and understand and believe) that it's bad timing or a bad fit, and not mark it as a personal failure because I think someone else thinks am not "enough." We high-fived on it and ordered another round. Another step in Love's recovery. And that's enough for now.

What the Hell?

Here's what happens: I make a pact with myself that I'm going to write everyday, build up a good month's worth of material and then fall off the wagon. I don't make writing a priority. Well, I do for a while and then I don't for a longer while. I get scared. I wonder if I have it in me to put it all out there. My fear is irrational, but it is there and it has a hold on me. I start to write something and end up questioning and criticizing it before I'm halfway through. Everybody does that, right?

I have a writing assignment. It's a one off I sent over to E, something I needed to get off my chest so I could sleep. The draft is crap, but E is encouraging me to make it better. Part of me wants to never touch it again, but I have to stop doing that. I keep writing "good beginnings," but I never do anything more with them. Maybe because I don't think I know how. How am I going to make two hundred words that sort of suck into eight hundred words that suck less?

Today, instead of writing, I napped, snacked, surfed the interwebs, watched people walk their dogs, did some more spring cleaning, watched the original Yours, Mine and Ours (I have a big crush on young Tim Mathieson) and finished reading Love is a Mixtape. I could have found some time in there to write. I think, read and talk about writing more than I actually write these days. All that thinking, reading and talking is not doing me any good. Dp I really want to be a writer or if I just want to talk and think about being writer? That's what E asked me yesterday. I never really do anything with the stuff I write, so do I really want it? Do I want to be a writer or do I just want to write from time to time and leave it at that? I don't know anymore.