Day 310: Day of Unrest.

Hard Headed - 2006

Day 308: Day of Rest.

The Honor System - 2006

Day 307: Reefer Madness.

I'm the last person who would try and convince anyone that marijuana is good for you. And, like most things people tend to find pleasurable - alcohol, sweets, coffee, etc. - too much is a guaranteed bad idea.

That's the primary reason I decided to give up pot for the year. I was smoking way too much of it, and I knew it wasn't healthy. It wasn't good for me physically (regularly inhaling any type of smoke into your lungs isn't wise) and it wasn't good for me emotionally.

That doesn't mean I don't like it, and it doesn't mean I don't miss it. That's all yesterday's post was about - me missing something I'd always enjoyed.

That said, I was surprised at the number and tenor of the comments generated. I respect and appreciate the views of everyone who reads this blog - a seemingly diverse collection of people from various countries and backgrounds, to say the least - but I do want to respond to a couple of ideas that were raised.

First of all, with regards to pot, I've never said what I will or won't do when this experiment ends for one basic reason: I don't know. In an ideal world, I'd be able to smoke once in a while. Why? Because I enjoy it. Then again, that might be a slippery slope, and the last thing I want to do is go back to being a daily (let alone multi-daily) pot smoker.

Second, it was mentioned as an aside that pot kills brain cells. Well, no matter how widely this is believed - thanks to years of propaganda - it's simply not true. There is no credible, scientific study, nor has there ever been, that proves marijuana kills brain cells. Consider this 2004 article published by none other than M.I.T.:

Government experts now admit that pot doesn't kill brain cells. This myth came from a handful of animal experiments in which structural changes (not actual cell death, as is often alleged) were observed in brain cells of animals exposed to high doses of pot. Many critics still cite the notorious monkey studies of Dr. Robert G. Heath, which purported to find brain damage in three monkeys that had been heavily dosed with cannabis. This work was never replicated and has since been discredited by a pair of better controlled, much larger monkey studies, one by Dr. William Slikker of the National Center for Toxicological Research and the other by Charles Rebert and Gordon Pryor of SRI International. Neither found any evidence of physical alteration in the brains of monkeys exposed to daily doses of pot for up to a year. Human studies of heavy users in Jamaica and Costa Rica found no evidence of abnormalities in brain physiology. Even though there is no evidence that pot causes permanent brain damage, users should be aware that persistent deficits in short-term memory have been noted in chronic, heavy marijuana smokers after 6 to 12 weeks of abstinence. It is also worth noting that other drugs, including alcohol, are known to cause brain damage.

Again, I'm not saying pot is good for you, and I would never suggest that getting stoned in my off-time makes me a better writer, teacher, or thinker. I also respect a person's right to believe what they choose about pot and the effects of pot ... I just think it's important to remember that a belief isn't necessarily a fact.

I'm grateful to every single person who reads this blog. I hope that in the end, I don't disappoint you.

I hope I don't disappoint me.

Day 306: Weeding Out Desire.

The bounty from my single plant. I still haven't tried it, but those who have tell me it's pretty damn good. In case you're wondering, the pieces of orange peel keep things from drying out.

For the past few weeks, I've been totally missing weed. You know ... bud. Ganja. Smoke. Machinery. Grass. The Kind. Pot. Cheeba. The Green Goddess. (I could go on, but I won't.)

I have no idea why I'm talking writing like this. Maybe because babbling like a dumbass makes me feel that much closer to being stoned?

Sometimes I really can't believe I haven't smoked in 306 days. I mean, I'm truly shocked I haven't caved even once (uhm, Radiohead at the Greek Theater, anyone??) It's actually kind of weird.

I have total confidence, however, that I'll hold out for as it long as it takes me to reach my goal weight. For whatever reason, I'm just ... solid. I won't cheat, and I won't break.

That doesn't mean I don't think about it. I think about preparing the clear glass bong with cranberry juice (adds a sweet flavor and keeps the glass from getting dirty), crumbling off a small bud, firing it up, inhaling, holding, exhaling ... and then, almost instantaneously, catching the emotional equivalent of a magic carpet ride. Certain things will be skewed as I float through my altered space, but not in a negative way. They'll just be slightly different. A little bit funnier. I'll notice moments from off-center perspectives. My thoughts will go places they don't normally go, and all of a sudden, I'll find myself laughing at some silly thought I can't believe I just had. That will in turn lead me to another thought, one which I will think might actually constitute a stroke of brilliance. (Unfortunately, out of 100 such thoughts, 96 will be later revealed as somewhat retarded. The other four, however, will indeed be good ideas.)

After maybe 45 minutes of these pleasant driftings, the reality of whatever moment I happen to be in will slowly start creeping back to the forefront, and eventually, life will return to its normal, everyday state.

That's just one scenario - I could have written about getting stoned with someone else, being stoned in public places, being stoned in movies, being stoned at ...

You get the idea.

I do miss it, but like I said, I don't worry about slipping. You would think, though - given my nostalgic waxing - that if nothing else, the desire to smoke again would push me to lose weight faster.

Then again, maybe that's exactly why I'm not losing weight faster.

Hmmm ...

Day 304: Shopgirl.

When I looked through my mail yesterday and saw a flyer welcoming me to a new L.A. clothing store called "H&M," I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

Back in 1985 it was "H&M Hennes" (except on my nametag), but those of us who worked at London's Oxford Circus branch always referred to it as "Hennes." (I was the only American employee but never remembered that to them, I had an accent. I'd call another department, they'd say "Hi Karen," and I'd inevitably answer with, "How'd you know it was me?")

I decided to move to London after graduating from college, mostly because I had no idea what I wanted to do for a living. I thought being a waitress or clerk in London while I figured things out beat being one in Upstate New York. I entered a worker exchange program and landed in London on June 4, 1985, with no job and nowhere to live.

I kept a journal from the very beginning, and this afternoon, I read through it. All I can say is, there's a reason people keep journals. I'd forgotten so many details about my life there, but the journal brought them all back. It also brought back how quickly I slipped into "British Mode" - I can't help wincing at how pretentious I sound. (Did I really write, after only three weeks in London, that I'd had a "quite dreadful day at work" but didn't want to "get on about it" in my journal? Yes. I'm sorry to say I did.)

Oh well. I'm going to take myself with a grain of salt and let my journals help tell my story anyway.

I learned quickly that when it came to working for a living, I was a huge baby. (This has not changed.) I also realized I wanted jobs in life that would make me happy.

I made friends at work (and felt the need to both draw them and then rate my doodles) ...

And when we went out after work, I learned interesting things about myself that I wouldn't remember if I hadn't kept a journal (this entry in particular just kills me).

I spent much of my time in London pining for Garp, who eventually came to visit.

We had a wonderful time at first ...

But it ended badly.


Yeah ... right. We later resumed a romantic relationship of sorts, but deep down, I guess I always knew it wouldn't work out.

Eventually, it was time to say goodbye to Hennes so I could spend six weeks traveling through Europe.


Of all the entries in my London journal, though, two really stand out. First, I'm always amazed at A) how easy it is for me to get lonely, B) how I've never been happy with my appearance, and C) how I've never truly tackled B despite all that angst.

Second, I never realized it was in London that I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I may not have known the details (and I never went to Fleet Street), but for the first time, I knew.


I'm glad H&M has finally come to the States. I guess I'll have to go over to the Pasadena store and take a look around. Maybe I'll even fold a misplaced sweater jumper or tidy up the panties knickers ... you know, just for old time's sake.

Day 302: The Summer of Soda Pop.

The rec center and central area in the complex where I lived in the summer of '77.

When I'm waiting in limbo - as I am right now with regards to the future of The Falling Joys - I have a tendency to sit on my thumbs and obsess. The concept of letting go and starting a new project isn't exactly a kneejerk response.

However, with a little convincing, that's exactly what I've started to do.

As I did with The Falling Joys, I've decided to revisit a script of mine and turn it into a book. And, like The Falling Joys, it's young adult fiction ... I think. By that I mean it's a whole lot grittier.

The story is somewhat autobiographical, inspired by the summer of 1977. I was 13 years old, living in a small town in Upstate New York. My parents were still in academia at the time (Mom was working on her second PhD and my then-stepfather was getting his first), and the university they taught and studied at was only 20 minutes away.

Unfortunately, there's not a lot for kids to do in small towns, so they wind up getting into trouble out of sheer boredom. If you've seen the movie Over the Edge (and if you haven't, you should), you know what I'm talking about. Smoking pot, drinking, sex ... they were all commonplace by the 7th grade.

There are two experiences that define that summer for me. One was my infatuation with Carrie, a 19-year old girl who worked at the drugstore across the county highway from my housing complex. I used to spend hours upon hours sitting on the soda pop chest that sat next to the register area. I was awkward and insecure, and I thought Carrie was the shit - beautiful and wise and nurturing and utterly feminine. She in turn thought I was a smart, funny, innocent little kid. To be honest, I can't really remember what we I talked about, but I know I hung on every word.

The other experience that summer was much darker. I'd gotten in over my head with pot, alcohol and boys, looking for validation and acceptance in all the wrong places. The bad path I was on culminated in an ugly incident in which a few older boys caught me fooling around with a boy my own age in an empty apartment. We weren't really doing much, but the older boys threatened to tell everyone at school I'd been doing far more if I didn't agree to do them a few favors. They didn't make me "do it" (as kids would say), but what did happen wasn't pleasant.

I never told Carrie what was really going on in my other life. I was still a child when I was hanging out on the soda pop cooler; I pretended to be - wanted to be - the sweet, innocent kid she naturally assumed I was. I guess you could say it was my first experience with compartmentalization. (It should also be noted that I was a terrific little actress. There's no way in hell anyone - even my parents - could have possibly known what was going on.)

When I wrote The Summer of Soda Pop ten years ago, it was a cathartic experience. I put a few demons to rest, and it didn't hurt that in the script, the girl winds up making good choices in the end and gets to unleash her anger on the boys who'd damaged her. There's also a fictional resolution in which the girl and the Carrie character realize the inherent danger that comes from seeing people as we want them to be and not as they really are. The script remains the best and most personal thing I've ever written.

I've only written a few chapters of the book, and it surprises me how intensely it takes me back to that time. Sure, some of it is painful, but more than you'd expect - particularly my relationship with Carrie - is actually quite sweet.

It feels good to be writing again.

Day 301: Day of Rest.

The Long Road Home - 2006

Day 297: Sunday Reflections.

I Live in a Turd World Neighborhood - 9/16/2006

Three Things I Did Right Today:

1. Read a good book for two hours (Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro).

2. Worked out on my own (as instructed by the Lovely Sally Nash).

3. Ate a salad for dinner (with marinated flank steak left over from Randy's phenomenal dinner last night).

Three Things I Did Wrong Today:

1. Watched too much stupid television (Will I ever grow out of Real World/Road Rules challenges?)

2. Interrupted my workout to take a phone call (if it's someone you might go on a date with you're allowed, right?)

3. Ate a croissant for breakfast (it was ridiculously good and almost worth it).

Turd World Neighborhood II - 9/16/06

********


The Spider Denny Tried to Eat - 9/16/06

***

A Good View of Salvation - 9/17/2006

***

Carcasses Line the Hawk's Fence of Shame - 9/14/06

***

Day 295: Day of Rest.

Watching it All Wash Away - 2006

Day 288: Day of Rest.

Cute Bear, Weird Doll - Yard Sale, 2006

Day 283: The Hike From Hell, Part II.

Bill tries to figure out our next step at what became The Point of Absolute Return.

It started off as a short hike. An easy hike. One that would take an hour or so.

That's not exactly how it turned out.

It probably comes as no surprise that I didn't want to go. Another hike with the Marshall clan? After the way the last one turned out? But hey - if a family from New York City (that would be Rob, Annie and their 11-year-old daughter Elise) and the Marshall kids (Tina, 7, Josephine, 9, and Napoleon, 12) are game, I kind of have no choice. Besides, despite all my whining, the Hawaii hike was pretty much the greatest thing ever.

In the beginning, our biggest worry was that our shoes were going to get wet. Usually (I'm told), the High Tour hike goes up the middle of a mostly dry creekbed, but thanks to recent rains, the creek had swollen to something of a small river. We decided to give it a shot anyway, since there was both a beautiful view at the top and an easy hike down the other side. My biggest personal concern was for my camera and cell phone, both of which were in a small (and very non-waterproof) case around my shoulder.

Within about 30 seconds, our feet were wet. Complaining remained at a minimum, though - we were on an adventure! The first time we had to cross the creek, we took it in stride. Okay, so the rocks were a bit slippery and the water was rushing by at a pretty decent pace. We were on an adventure! Then came the part where we had to edge our way along a ledge, cross the creek in water up to our waist (I held my camera bag in my teeth), and use a rope to pull ourselves up a gnarly wall of rock. Bill was there to pick the little kids up and haul them over the difficult spots. He's like Superman. He'd keep us all safe.

Besides ... we were on an adventure!


Napoleon and Josephine clamber up the rocks.


Elise braves a river crossing as Napoleon and Josephine forge ahead.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment in which the general mood started to go downhill, but it was somewhere between the time Rob's cell phone became submerged, our feet froze into little blocks of ice, and Annie almost slid into the water. Oh - and did I mention that we'd brought Walter (the dog), that Walter has a gimpy leg, and that Samantha had to carry him the entire time? Or that Josephine's shoe fell off and was lost downriver? There were a few tears (no, not mine) as everyone began to realize that conditions were getting more dangerous the higher we got. Turning back, however, didn't seem like a good idea either - none of us relished the idea of facing some of the hairier moments we'd already been through all over again. Among the adults, an unspoken feeling of concern began to creep into the picture. This was only confirmed (for me, ayway) by the fact that Samantha, other than reassuring the kids, pretty much stopped talking altogether. It's not that Samantha is a big talker (she's actually fairly judicious with her words), but when she goes completely silent, something is very wrong indeed.

Then we reached what I like to call "The Point of Absolute Return," a fairly sheer wall of rock that rose out of a raging corridor of water. There was a rope (more like a clothesline) tied to a tree near the top, but when Bill made a dangerous climb up to grab it and test it for strength, it broke. Now what would we do? The kids wanted to call 911 (my phone was, remarkably, still dry). Even Napoleon, an adrenaline junkie who fears nothing, began to request 911. I have to admit, I was thinking the same thing. I couldn't quite figure out how they'd save us (Where would the helicopter land? Would they drop rope ladders from a hovering helicopter? Wait ... was I too heavy for a rope ladder?), but I was ready to find out.

That's when a moment I will never forget occured. Tina was scared, crying and shivering, and a justifiable meltdown was in sight. Bill came over to her, knelt down, and looked into her eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll get you out of this. I promise." They stared at each other for a moment, she nodded, and then her tears stopped. It was really quite something to see.

The funny thing was, I suddenly felt better, too.

We decided there was no choice but to go back the way we came, and it was not an easy trek. But every single person on that hike stepped up, and we took it moment by moment. Bill led the way, ferrying the little girls when necessary and talking us through the dicier challenges. All I can say is there's no one on this earth I'd rather be with in a situation like that, and Rob made for an excellent wingman.


Annie navigates her way down a tricky stretch.

When the last person had made it safely through the last dangerous part, a feeling of triumphant relief set in. By the time we finally reached the car (a mere three hours after starting), we were talking as if we were army buddies who'd just survived a treacherous battle. We yakked about it the entire way home, reliving the worst moments as we reveled in our safety.

What really killed me, though, were Josephine's words once we were all back at the lake house, warming up in the hot tub.

"That was fun," she said, displaying the resilience kids have that never fails to floor me.

Fun? In a way - a slim way - it sort of was, but still, that's just not the right word for it.

It was, however, most definitely an adventure.

Day 281: Day of Rest.

Tomb with a View - 2006